by Ashton Lee
Somehow Miss Voncille managed a careful, polite smile. “Why, of course you had to.”
“I didn’t know if you knew that two more of us had died last month,” Mamie added, while Locke took the ladies’ coats and hung them up in the hall closet. Then he gestured toward the long green sofa as both Crumpton sisters took their seats and settled in.
Miss Voncille sighed wearily, remaining standing beside Locke. “Who bought the farm this time?”
Mamie puffed herself up as usual and rattled off all the pertinent information. “It was Dexter Thomas Warrick, Jr. He and his family moved away a long time ago. I believe he was a basketball player back then. But a few weeks ago, he succumbed to a heart attack. I think some of these tall people have trouble with their hearts.”
“I vaguely remember him,” Miss Voncille said. “It continually amazes me how you keep up with all this. You must have runners all over the country.”
Mamie was clearly proud of herself, completely missing the humor. “Oh, I do have my methods.”
“So who was the second person to leave us?” Miss Voncille continued. “And then Locke will take your drink orders.”
“Well, it was Katherine Anna Wilson. I think she went by Katie, or was it Kathy? I forget which. Anyway, she won Miss Home Ec her senior year. The obit didn’t say what did her in—just that she passed away among family and friends. She wasn’t in our crowd, though.”
Miss Voncille was scowling in a genuine attempt to conjure her up. “Heavy girl?”
“Very much so. She wore dresses that looked like she’d wrapped a fabric bolt around herself. I wouldn’t be surprised in the least if she won Miss Home Ec because she ate everything she cooked in class. That always made the teacher look good, you know.”
Then it was time for the ritual. Mamie opened the yearbook and gestured to her classmate while locating the senior pictures of the dear departed. Both Locke and Miss Voncille moved around behind the sofa to take them in. “There they are. Both on the same page in the W’s. Don’t they look young as spring deer? Weren’t we all back then? Ah, for the good ole days!”
Miss Voncille couldn’t resist. “Yes, indeed! When we were all alive, each and every one of us!”
Locke gave Miss Voncille a playful nudge. “Let’s see you, Voncille. Come on, Mamie, find her for me.”
Mamie flipped a few pages and zeroed in on the picture with her index finger. “There you have her. Miss Voncille Deloris Nettles. I’ve always said you were a looker, Voncille.”
Locke leaned down for a closer look and wagged his brows. “That you were, my dear. Of course, you still are in my book. Is Deloris a family name with that unusual spelling?”
“I doubt it. My parents just liked to be different. He was Walker Nettles, and she was Annis Favarel, and I have no idea where their first names came from.” Miss Voncille finally exhaled dramatically, having survived the ordeal of Morbid Mamie and the yearbook yet another time. “Well, we’ve paid our proper respects now. Locke, why don’t you see what the ladies will have, I’ll get out the card table, and we’ll play some bridge.”
For the first time in their fledgling relationship, Miss Voncille and Locke were having a disagreement over something other than picking through the party nuts or which wine to have with dinner. A somewhat trying two hours of bidding, finessing, and drawing trumps had crawled by, but from Miss Voncille’s point of view it had all been worth it. She’d gotten the freshly departed Crumpton sisters to agree to attend the Mockingbird meeting and even check out a few books in the interim for lagniappe. Mission more than accomplished.
“You were as obvious as they were clueless,” Locke kept insisting. “It’s true that I’ve never been your bridge partner, so I have no point of comparison. But I find it hard to believe that someone could renege, mismanage trumps, and overbid so many times in the same rubber. I wonder if they were wise to you but let you play on like that anyway. A win is a win is a win.”
He began imitating her voice and gestures. “ ‘Oh, my goodness, I thought I had completely drawn trumps. Where did that come from, Mamie, you clever rascal!’ And, ‘Did I double your contract, Mamie? I wonder what I could have been thinking of with the hand I had?’ And my absolute favorite, ‘I shouldn’t have bid a slam in no-trump without a stopper in spades.’ Mamie ran the entire spade suit against us in that one. The only good thing about it was that I was dummy and didn’t have to stay in the room to watch all the carnage.”
“I had no idea you were such a sore loser,” Miss Voncille said, watching him fold her card table and put it away in the hall closet.
He had an impish grin on his face when he emerged from his task. “And I had no idea you would go to such lengths to stay on the good side of your Morbid Mamie and her mousy little sister who only opened her mouth to bid. At least come clean and admit you played like a college student on a drinking binge.”
She put her hands on her hips and turned her nose up. “I never drank when I was in college. Besides, what happened here this afternoon was only a game.”
“Which you won, despite appearances to the contrary.”
She finally gave in. “Very well, then, Locke Linwood. That was indeed the most atrocious rubber of bridge I’ve ever played in my life. But it got results, didn’t it? I know Mamie Crumpton like the back of my hand. She loves nothing more than feeling like she’s on top of the world, alive and kicking, while the rest of us are dropping like flies and playing beginner’s bridge. This was the perfect afternoon for her—two senior pictures to shed crocodile tears over and two bridge opponents to trounce—with a little help, of course. Besides, it’s all just part of my ongoing transformation from semi-curmudgeon to sweet little old lady.”
Locke put his hand around Miss Voncille’s tidy waist and gently pulled her toward him. “So, do you think they’ll keep their word on everything?”
“Oh, I expect so. Even if you and I have to lose another rubber or two of bridge to keep them happy and on track. And I also think explaining to them why they might be without a library soon didn’t hurt one bit.”
When Maura Beth walked into Connie’s seafood extravaganza at her lake house the following Sunday, there was already a respectable crowd milling around, some with drinks, others with plates of grilled catfish and shrimp scampi in hand. In fact, the decibel level of the chatter was so high that Diana Krall’s velvety recording of “It Could Happen to You” could barely be recognized.
“What a warm, rustic atmosphere!” Maura Beth exclaimed, as Connie welcomed her into what could only be described as the greatest of great rooms. It occupied the core of the house and sported rustic beams across a shed roof ceiling that was at least twenty feet high. The focal point of one wall was an enormous Tennessee sandstone fireplace, complete with crackling flames on this chilly autumn evening, while the other wall featured at least twenty framed snapshots of the most impressive fish Douglas had caught on Lake Cherico or in the Tennessee River itself. There was no denying that this was the lodge of a sportsman, definitely lacking a woman’s touch, and Douglas quickly spirited Maura Beth away for a guided tour of his trophies.
“Now this one here is a thirty-one-pound striped bass I caught on a white spinner,” he explained. “White does it for me every time. I just haven’t had much luck with the yellow or the blue baits.”
“That certainly is a huge fish,” Maura Beth said, trying her best to sound interested.
“And this one next to it I caught on a pig ’n’ jig,” he continued. “Bet you’ve never heard of a lure like that.”
“It sounds like a canapé.”
Douglas snickered. “It does, doesn’t it? Actually, there is a piece of pork rind on the hook.”
“Now, Douglas,” Connie said, stepping up to rescue her friend, “let’s give Maura Beth a chance at the real canapés, shall we? She can come back and gawk at your fish collection later on. It’s not going to swim away. You’ve seen to that.” On the way over to the buffet table, Connie continued her rant. “
Believe me, he would have told you how much every single one of those fish weighed and what bait he used to catch them all, if I had let him.”
But Maura Beth was in no mood for criticism. “He’s just proud of his pastime, that’s all. Your husband is a sweetie, and you know it.”
“Well, I have to admit, I always know where he is—out on The Verdict or at The Marina Bar and Grill every day. Meanwhile, you’ll be pleased to hear that we have some of Douglas’s family down from Brentwood joining the neighbors. Matter of fact, here comes someone now I’m sure you’ll remember.”
From across the room, Susan McShay ambled over with a smile and her cocktail in hand. “Surprise!” she exclaimed, giving Maura Beth a quick hug. “Paul and I decided we couldn’t miss this. Connie’s been talking it up so much.”
They were all joined immediately by a robust young man who was in the midst of treating one of the shrimp on his plate as finger food. “You just have to be Maura Beth with that red hair and those blue eyes,” he said. “Excuse me while I clean up my act.”
She laughed while he found a spot on a nearby coffee table for his plate and wiped his hands on a napkin.
Then Susan made the introductions. “Maura Beth, this is my ravenous son and Connie’s nephew, Jeremy. He teaches English at New Gallatin Academy in Nashville, and he’s been dying to meet you.”
Jeremy extended his hand and said: “I just missed you when you were up in Brentwood before. I was chaperoning a field trip to the Grand Ole Opry, believe it or not. Nothing ties you up like a busload of eleventh-grade boys ogling rhinestones, big hair, and big—”
Maura Beth grinned at his widening eyes, while she stepped in to rescue him. “Voices?”
He laughed good-naturedly. “Did I mention I teach English and am awfully good at choosing my words carefully?”
“Well, if you’ll excuse us, Susan and I will keep on circulating,” Connie put in, giving them both a naughty little wink. “Please, you two eat and drink as much as you want.”
Once Maura Beth had helped herself to a plate and a drink, and Jeremy had refreshed both of his, they found a couple of seats near the fire and settled in.
“Mom told me what you’re trying to do with the book club down here, and I just couldn’t pass up the opportunity to meet you. To Kill a Mockingbird is my all-time favorite Southern novel,” he was saying after a swig of his beer. “I don’t think it can ever be reviewed enough, and I make all my students do a term paper on it. It’s a rite of passage in my classroom. Sometimes I describe it as a rite of passage for all true Southerners.”
Maura Beth was content to let him do most of the talking while she took him in from head to toe. He was tall and dark haired like his father but had more of his mother’s softer features, and she liked the fact that he enjoyed his food so much. However, he was no Stout Fella. Her assessment was that he was just about the right size—someone who might have leapt off one of the pages of her cherished journal of wishes.
“. . . and it’s so unusual for a novel to become an instant classic,” Jeremy continued. “But Mockingbird was the rare exception. The problem now in teaching it is that we’re so far away from that era of turmoil, and so much is taken for granted that was once a great struggle. There are still issues to resolve, of course, and I try to point them out. Getting my students to understand the novel in the context of its time is a tremendous challenge, but it’s one I’m determined to meet.”
Maura Beth finally put in a word. “Yes, I know what you mean. I think I’d like to make that the focal point of our big meeting in a couple of weeks. I want people to reflect upon the changes in the South since Harper Lee wrote the book. Of course, I wasn’t around during all that civil rights turbulence.”
“Same here, and I’m afraid my students are far more interested in technology than political history.”
Maura Beth rolled her eyes and tilted her head. “Oh, yes. The cell phone thing, etcetera. It’s all we can do to keep patrons from talking up a storm in the library. They hide back in the stacks and think we won’t hear them gossiping and carrying on with their friends. It’s so distracting. We have signs up everywhere, but they might as well be runes.”
“Yep, those ringtones still go off now and then in my classroom despite the threat of detention. I’m afraid it’s an addiction for some people.”
“Sometimes I wonder what the future of communicating through books will be with all this electronic instant gratification,” Maura Beth added. “There are those who feel that some readers will always want to hold a bound copy in their hands—something that they can put on a shelf and hand down to their children as part of our cultural heritage. And then there’s the doomsday scenario which always favors books.”
“Tell me about it.”
“It’s the one where if civilization falls apart and there’s no technology left, you can still read a book lying in the grass munching berries or sitting up in a tree eating a banana.”
“Never heard that one before,” he said, tossing his head back as he laughed.
“That’s because I just made it up. I have some other scenarios, too.”
Now it was his turn to listen to her meanderings, and there was nothing but admiration on his face when she finished. “You really are a dyed-in-the-wool librarian, aren’t you?”
“Guilty. I give my mother full credit for encouraging my love affair with books. She took me to the Covington Library when I was six and made me think summer reading was the only way a kid could have fun. That, licking cherry Popsicles to get a red tongue, and playing in the sprinkler to cool off.”
The two of them kept probing, tackling various pop culture issues of the day and finding that they were in agreement for the most part. They would have preferred to be left alone entirely, but no matter where they moved throughout the great room, there was someone to hug or a hand to shake and always an introduction to be made.
“Jeremy, I’d like you to meet my friend, Periwinkle Lattimore,” Maura Beth began, just as they had grown slightly uncomfortable from the warmth of the fireplace and claimed a couple of chairs farther away. “She runs the most successful restaurant in town, and if you haven’t already, you must try her tomato aspic next time you go to the buffet table. They’re those round red things that jiggle when you put them on your plate. But believe me, they’re beyond delicious.”
After a firm handshake, Periwinkle said, “Your Aunt Connie was thoughtful enough to throw this shindig on a Sunday. That’s my only day off from The Twinkle.” Then she leaned in to Maura Beth. “Oh, by the way, I’ve come up with the catchiest new slogan for my advertising, and I’m having it printed on the next batch of flyers, along with announcing Mr. Place as my pastry chef. How does, ‘Eat at The Twinkle—The Restaurant of the Stars,’ sound to you?”
“Love it. Ties everything up neatly!” Maura Beth exclaimed. “Your decorations, the star quality of your food. It’s a winner!”
“Next time I’m down, I’ll have to give your restaurant a try,” Jeremy added. “Maybe the weekend of the Mockingbird review.”
Maura Beth’s delight was unrestrained. “You’d come all the way from Nashville for that? Of course, I’m sure you’d be a wonderful addition to the discussion with your teaching skills and knowledge of literature.”
“Wouldn’t miss it, especially now that I’ve met the moderator.”
Periwinkle gave him a thumbs-up and Maura Beth a wink on the sly. “Well, if you kids will excuse me, I’m starving. So I’m headed over to that seafood spread to see what kind of damage I can do.”
No sooner had she left, however, than Connie began ushering over some of her neighbors for an introductory chat. Predictably, Maura Beth put the opportunities to good use.
“You and your husband must come and visit me at the library sometime, Mrs. Milner,” she advised one couple, mustering every ounce of her charm. “I’m sure we can find you something of interest to put on your card. You do have one, don’t you?”
The stylish
matron hemmed and hawed. “You know, I—well, I believe I let mine expire. I’ll have to check.”
Maura Beth continued to press. “No problem, if it did. We’ll get you a new one, and you’ll show it next time you go to The Twinkle—oh, you do enjoy The Twinkle, don’t you?”
“Why, yes, I think it’s marvelous. I especially like all those stars spinning around and dangling from the ceiling. And the food is delicious.”
“Those mobiles are creative, aren’t they? You know, the owner, Periwinkle Lattimore, is here tonight,” Maura Beth continued. “Anyway, next time you go there, you can present your library card and get two-for-one drinks or half off your dessert. And with the new pastry chef Periwinkle just hired, you’ll have at least a dozen new scrumptious selections to choose from.”
Mrs. Milner’s eyes widened as she turned to her husband and smiled. “What a clever idea, George. We must take advantage of it!”
When the next couple confessed that they had seen To Kill a Mockingbird at the theater many years ago but had never bothered to read the book, Maura Beth was prepared. “Mr. Brimley, I don’t know if I’d say that the movie was just as good as Harper Lee’s novel, but it did take top honors in Hollywood. And I have several posters of Gregory Peck as Atticus Finch to remind myself of that illustrious fact. Meanwhile, I’d love to have you and your wife attend our review at the library, have something delicious to eat, and give us your opinions on the subject in general. Connie’s left a stack of flyers over by the buffet table with all the information.”
During the lull that followed, Jeremy excused himself when he spotted his mother energetically motioning to join her across the way. Meanwhile, Miss Voncille and Locke Linwood showed up, spilling the good news about the Crumpton sisters and the bumbling bridge game that had won them over.
“As Locke has been reminding me constantly,” Miss Voncille explained, “I was completely, but I trust not transparently, incompetent in my play. I’ve never had such a good time losing.”
