A Broom With a View

by Rebecca Patrick-Howard

  Whistle’s wife, then, Liza knew.

  “I’m Honey,” the woman offered brightly. “I’d offer you my hand but it’s full. You got someplace I could put these?” She used her head to nod towards the containers she carried.

  “Um, in the kitchen?”

  Honey followed Liza into the kitchen. Liza wasn’t embarrassed to have anyone in the kitchen with her. It was clean enough, especially since Liza wasn’t cooking much, although it was still a little bare since she hadn’t gone on any recent supply runs.

  “I’ll just stick these in the fridge,” Honey said, making herself at home. “Now the top one here is chicken noodle soup. It’s homemade, my mommy’s recipe. The bottom one is banana pudding. I made it this morning. It’s Whistle’s favorite. You’re lucky there’s any left. The one in the middle, the little ‘un, it’s some cat head biscuits. I’ll leave them here on the counter.”

  “I thought they were all Cool Whip,” Liza said, still confused by Honey’s presence. And by what a “cat head” biscuit was.

  “Oh Lordy, no,” Honey laughed. “Just hillbilly Tupperware is all. When Whistle said you was sickly I knew I couldn’t let you be up here by your little self, without nobody to take care of you. I said, ‘Whistle, that poor little thing ain’t got nobody in the whole wide world right now to love on her. I’m not gonna sit by and let that happen!’ Now let’s me and you go have us a good sit down.”

  Liza dutifully allowed Honey to lead her back to the living room where both women settled onto the couch.

  “Lawd, it’s good to be back here and see this old place lived in,” Honey sighed as she began kicking off her boots and peeling off her gloves. She might have carried chicken noodle soup in Cool Whip containers but she carried a Dooney & Burke purse and her perfume was Chanel No. 5. “Sad to see a house not being a home, isn’t it? Especially when it’s meant to be. Lots of fond memories here.”

  “You knew my grandmother?”

  “Oh darlin’, everyone knew Rosebud. She was one of our most treasured members of the community. And oh, the dances she used to have here ever Christmas? Pushed that rug and couch back and Paine would bring out the fiddle. You never saw a place so alive with…magic.”

  Honey smiled at the memory and Liza herself almost teared up. She had never seen that herself. She’d missed so much. So much.

  Honey, perhaps with a sixth sense of her own, changed the subject. “You ever seen that fairy house she made for the Garden Club?”

  Liza shook her head no.

  “It was downright magical. Jumped to life every time you looked at it, it did. Made it out of a tree stump with little mushroom chairs and fairy dolls. Go down to the Court House. It’s still there. Your granny was a true artist.” Honey smiled at the memory.

  “I miss her,” Liza said vehemently and was no longer surprised to feel the tears stinging her eyes and her nose swelling with pressure.

  “Well of course you do, of course,” Honey cried. She leaned over and took Liza’s hand in her own and squeezed so hard Liza felt Honey’s own spirit flow through her. She might not have known it herself, but Honey also had the magic inside. It was comforting. “Her and Paine? They was some of the best people I knew. We all thought the world of them. That’s why we’re all so glad you come here to take her place.”

  “Take her place? Oh, I couldn’t do that,” Liza said.

  She’d never be her grandmother. Rosebud was a spitfire, full of life. She’d loved everyone without taking any crap from anybody, had been full of energy until the day she died. She’d been involved in every club and organization in the county, from the Women’s Club to den mother for the Boy Scouts. She’d held dances right there in her own living room and had waltzed with her husband, right up until they were eighty.

  Liza sometimes wasn’t even sure she liked being around people all that much. Not all the time anyway, not like her grandmother had. “I’ll never be like my grandmother.”

  Honey beamed, a secret smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “You felt a call to come here, didn’t you? A pull that was more than just trying to get away from your unfortunate situation?”

  Liza had to laugh at Mode, her ex-husband, referred to as her “unfortunate situation.” But Honey was right; she had felt a “pull.” “I guess I did,” she replied, remembering the exhilaration shed felt at seeing the mountains as they’d grown nearer and nearer on her drive down. “But how–“

  “You were meant to come, to take her place,” Honey insisted.

  “Oh but I–“

  “You really don’t understand, do you?” Honey slapped her hand on her knee in glee, her little ringlets swinging with her laughter. “We know what you did to Cotton Hashagen–“

  “But I–“ Liza protested.

  “And we’ve heard about how you cured Taffy. We know you’ve come to take over from Rosebud, dear. You’re our granny witch. And we’re real glad to have you.”

  ***

  Liza stood on her ridge, she’d decided to name it “Mistletoe Ridge” thanks to the abundance of mistletoe clumps that hung precariously from all the treetops. She didn’t think her grandparents would mind, though Bryar had laughed like a hyena.

  “You’re getting weird,” she’d scoffed.

  She didn’t mind being weird. It beat some of the other things she’d been called over the years.

  In the hazy fog she shivered, sneezed, and scrutinized at the basin with wonder. It was freezing and she could no longer feel her toes but something had woken her up from a deep, cold medicine-induced sleep and called her out there.

  Since Liza never ignored those orders she’d slipped on heavy barn boots and a thick flannel jacket that had belonged to her grandfather and made her way to the ridge that overlooked the valley.

  The sun wasn’t even out yet. The sky, lost in a hazy silver, couldn’t decide if it was day or night. The ground, covered in thick frost, looked unnatural–like someone had rolled a sheet of wax paper out over it.

  It hadn’t snowed yet, despite being close to Christmas. Liza hoped it would. She’d never not had a white Christmas. Each day the sky looked and smelled like it wanted to, but nothing happened, other than rain and sleet.

  “You’ll be sorry when it does,” her mailman had warned her. “You’ll be stuck here for days.”

  But Liza liked the snow. She enjoyed watching the puffs of cotton balls fall from the sky, the intricacies of the crystals, the sweetness of gathering it in a bowl and mixing it with milk and sugar…

  Now, though, Liza hugged her arms in front of her chest and recalled another time she’d stood there, in that same place, although she’d been much younger then and the world had felt much farther away.

  She hadn’t been alone that time, either; that time she’d been with her grandmother. Even now she wasn’t completely sure what had happened, but whatever it was made her feel safe–like maybe there was something bigger than her mother and Bryar Rose and maybe even bigger than her grandmother out there in the universe.

  And now, standing in the silvery light watching the valley and remembering the feel of her grandmother’s frail, yet powerful, body beside her Liza thought of the conversation she’d had with Mabel before returning to Kudzu Valley.

  “I don’t know why you’d want to throw your life away and move to that old place out in the middle of nowhere,” Mabel had complained. “And right here before Thanksgiving, too! Are you out of your damned mind?”

  Even now, as Liza immersed herself in the tobacco scent of her grandfather’s jacket and stood mesmerized by the fog rolling over the ground in giant cotton candy puffs, she could still hear her mother’s plaintive voice.

  That was one of Liza’s other gifts: everything that had ever been said to her was forever imprinted in her mind like the grooves of a record, something she could pull up and listen to whenever she wished–and more often than not, when she didn’t wish.

  She could see her now: Mabel Merriweather Corrado, glorious jet-black hair fanning
her youthful face, cheeks flushed with annoyance, stomping around Liza’s tiny rental unit in Beverly, complaining.

  “Gawd Liza Jane, we moved out of that joke of a place to give you and your sister a better opportunity,” she’d wailed. “A better life for the two of you!”

  Actually, her mother had moved from Kudzu Valley because she’d met husband #2 at a Rite Aid convention in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. She was also there for the convention and they’d fallen in love (or something) over cold, rubbery banquet chicken at dinner on the first night. It hadn’t taken him much to sweet talk her into marrying him and moving to the Boston suburb where he owned a townhome. Mabel had always been a bit of an opportunist and wasn’t enjoying living back at her parents’ house with two young children. She’d been looking for a way out of it and the town for awhile so the handsome stranger who appeared to be financially stable must have looked like a prince to her. And Mabel, with her movie-star looks, charming and witty personality, and sob story must have been a dream to him. He wasn’t exactly putting notches on his bedpost at the time.

  Liza’s father had passed away in a freak lawnmower accident when she was a toddler. He hadn’t been run over by the lawnmower or anything; it had fallen on his head. Why George McIntosh, owner of Johnson’s Home Improvements and Hot Tubs, had thought hanging Cub Cadets from the ceiling was a good idea was beyond her. Freeman Merriweather had literally been in the wrong place at the wrong time. He’d had no idea that the Maytag dryer, priced at a Black Friday special of $199, would be the last thing he’d see.

  Gene Corrado was a tolerable man. When she was a teenager and going through her mean and vindictive stage, which she referred to as her “gaining independence” period, she’d told anyone who would listen that he had the personality of a slab of margarine.

  Mabel had not found that amusing.

  As an adult, Liza could grudgingly admit that he’d done his best to be a stepfather to two wild, obstinate mountain children he didn’t understand and, in spite of the fact Mabel’s parents were sure that with a surname like "Corrado" he must be mafia, he was a gentle soul.

  Mabel was happy, too. (Maybe not as happy as Liza’s grandparents had been when their daughter had moved out–there’d been a collective sigh of relief all around when that happened, but still...)

  Mabel might not be living in the lap of luxury, but she was better off than most. She had a nice split-level home in an affluent neighborhood outside of Boston, a timeshare in a coveted Las Vegas condo community, and a cappuccino machine she’d paid full price for (not one grabbed at 4:00 am as a Black Friday door buster as she liked to point out to her neighbors).

  Mabel Merriweather Corrado had no love for her old hometown or the people who lived there and spoke of her former classmates back in Kudzu Valley with disdain.

  “I got out,” she’d brag to Liza Jane and Bryar Rose, jabbing her perfectly manicured finger in their chests. “Believe you me, you’ll thank me one day that I got you girls out too. You’ll be glad.”

  To be fair, Bryar Rose was glad. Bryar didn’t remember her father or living in the town at all so she had no sentimentality for it. As a child she’d returned with Liza four times and only once as an adult and then again for their grandparents’ funerals.

  She’d driven down with Liza for Paine’s funeral and at that time, Bryar had recoiled in disgust as they’d driven down Main Street and Broadway and regarded the tiny town like tourists, staring at the empty windows, quiet sidewalks, 10 Commandant signs stuck stoically in some of the yards (sometimes next to Confederate flags), and what appeared to be more than a dozen yellow-signed Dollar General Stores.

  Bryar Rose didn’t shop discount.

  “Who would live here,” she’d whispered during the graveside service as the attendees broke out in “The Old Rugged Cross” and the two women had pretended to mouth the words since they didn’t know the lyrics. “Did you know you can’t even drink?”

  Liza had “shushed” her and rolled her eyes.

  Bryar had stayed on for one more day, but that had been enough for her. Even though Liza was planning on remaining for a week to help her grandmother, Bryar had marched into the kitchen and announced with glee that she’d changed her plane ticket and would be leaving with their mother.

  Mabel had looked visibly relieved that she’d had some influence on at least one daughter.

  “Sorry LJ,” she’d said and Liza thought she probably meant it. “I just can’t. We’re working on an album right now and I’m in the studio. And honestly, if I eat fast food or Pizza Hut one more time I’m gonna barf.”

  Their grandmother, sitting quietly in one of the old wooden chairs in the corner of the kitchen, her hands folded in her lap, had winced. She’d always prided herself on the “good country cookin’” she’d provided her family when they came to stay with her: the fried chicken, the mashed potatoes, the corn on the cob and macaroni and tomato juice…the apple stack cake.

  But she hadn’t been able to cook in weeks, not since her husband went to the hospital for the last time. Rosebud hadn’t left his side, sleeping curled up next to his body on the thin, hard hospital bed.

  Both girls had seen the guilt and sadness in her eyes at Bryar’s words.

  “Aw Gran.” Bryar had rushed over to her then and, in a rare show of affection for the no-nonsense pop music producer, she’d taken her much smaller grandmother in her arms and held onto her while they both cried.

  Bryar’s bark had always been worse than her bite. And her gift was empathy. If she didn’t block some of it out, she got it all.

  Liza stopped remembering now and let her mind refocus. She knew she should’ve just stayed on then and not returned to Massachusetts. At that point she and Mode had only been married for a few years but they were already having problems that Liza knew were warning signs she shouldn’t ignore.

  Even Bryar, who only possessed a little glimmer of the sight, had known. “You can stay if you want,” she offered hesitantly from the driver’s seat of their rental, waiting for their mother to join her. “You don’t have to go back at all. I’ll go to your place and pack your stuff. Just leave his ass.”

  “Why would I do that?” Liza had asked in bewilderment. But she found the idea more tantalizing than she should have that early on and a spark was lit at that moment that would never truly extinguish.

  “Whatever,” Bryar had grumbled. “But seriously. At least promise me that while you’re here you’ll find better music. You can’t join the locals and listen to this country crap. It’s terrible!”

  Now slightly offended, Liza eased back from the car and crossed her arms. “I like country.”

  “You don’t even know what it is! You’d never listened to it until this week.”

  “I knew who some of them were,” Liza insisted stubbornly. “I knew Garth Brooks. And I like this guy, Jason Aldean? And Blake Shelton? They’re good songs.”

  “They’re not good songs,” Bryar had muttered under her breath but to Liza she’d rolled her eyes and cried, “Good Lord you’re turning into one of them. The next thing I know you’re going to be driving a big truck, wearing shorty shorts with your hiney sticking out, and tying your shirt at your bellybutton.”

  The image of a truck flashed behind her eyes and Liza had smiled at the idea, not finding it a bad one at all. Still, she had no idea what her sister was talking about. She hadn’t seen a single person in Kudzu Valley who looked like that, although the truck part was certainly true.

  But, she hadn’t stayed. She’d left eight days later, leaving her grandmother to live alone in a house full of memories and maybe even ghosts. On her last night they’d walked outside at midnight and stood in the same place Liza stood now.

  Together, they’d knelt on the ground and studied the moon. Then, together, they’d clasped hands, young and old, and lifted them high in the air and spoke to the faraway shimmering object as though it were a friend who could respond.

  And maybe it had because, seconds later,
the moon had grown twice as bright and a falling star had bolted through the sky almost right towards them and then disappeared over the mountain the people in Kudzu Valley called “Big Hill.”

  Liza had never seen another one since.

  Chapter Fourteen

  AT THE beginning of the day, Liza’s soft gray, wool dress had been comfortable and warm. Her black leather boots had felt like butter on her feet, the spiked heels giving her an extra inch or two that made her preen. Her makeup, all her favorite shades from Clinique, was impeccable. Her hair was smartly straightened with the best straightener she could (okay, her ex-husband could) afford for Christmas, and her silky underwear felt heavenly against her skin.

  By closing time she was a hot, tired, itchy mess with sweat stains under her arms and frazzled hair. Her mascara was clumping on the top and running on the bottom and her plumb-colored lipstick stained her top row of teeth. She had a wedgie from hell and her bra straps kept sliding down her arms.

  And her feet were killing her.

  “I will not wear tennis shoes. I will not wear orthopedic shoes,” she swore as she leaned back on the settee, one of the few things that hadn’t been destroyed, and rubbed a balm onto her toes and then sighed with audible relief.

  She didn’t care how ridiculous she might look or how uncomfortable it might get; she would not give her up her favorite clothes. She still loved her jeans, but only when paired with the right accessories: a great necklace, a scarf, some fabulous cowboy boots, bangles…

  She was vain; she couldn’t help it.

  When the door chimed, the two women who entered were met by a scene that made both of them snicker. Liza, skirt hiked up to her thighs; bare leg stuck out in front of her while she rubbed bright blue cream on her toes, moaned in relief.

  “Oh my God,” Liza cried when the women closed the door behind them and walked towards her. “I am sooo sorry. Usually, I hear someone before they come in and…”