Cliques, Hicks, and Ugly Sticks

by KD McCrite

  “Mama,” I said in an undertone, “what about Reverend Jordan from the Methodist church?”

  “What about him, April?” she asked, still giggling.

  I sighed. “You know he’s been calling her. And I don’t think he’s inviting her to church twenty times a week, either. All I know is that, after last summer and all that mess with that ole goofball Jeffrey Rance, the last thing my grandma needs is three boyfriends.” I held up my hand and extended my fingers one at a time as I counted. “One. Two. Three.”

  Mama shook her head and bit into that candy. She chewed it all slow and dreamy-like, then she said, “Honey, I think you’re worrying needlessly.”

  I changed the subject before it got sticky and I’d say something I shouldn’t.

  “Mama?”

  “Yes, honey?”

  “Are you getting enough rest?” I asked her.

  “More than plenty.”

  “You want me to read to you?”

  “I’d like that, April Grace.”

  “I read part of Head into the Wind to Myra Sue the other day.”

  “Oh?” said Mama, smiling wide. “That was my favorite book when I was about your age. I read it more times than I can count. Go get it, and let’s read it to each other.”

  So that’s what we did until Grandma came to the door with Mama’s supper on a tray.

  “Supper’s on the table, April Grace,” Grandma told me.

  Mama glared at that tray for a minute.

  “No!” she said unexpectedly and pretty loudly. “I am not eating supper in this bed again tonight. I’ll sit at the table like a civilized person.”

  Boy, oh boy, Mama doesn’t often get all fired up, but she did right then.

  “Now, Lily, you know—” Grandma began, but Mama shook her head.

  “Mama Grace, I’ve been in the bed almost all day for two days. It won’t hurt me to sit at the supper table.”

  “The doctor said—” Grandma said.

  “The doctor said a lot of bed rest,” Mama said, raising her voice slightly, “not complete bed rest.”

  “But still . . .”

  “Now, Mama,” I said. I crossed my arms, hoping I looked and sounded as stern as Mrs. Patsy Farber.

  “Get off the bed, honey. We’ll read more later. I’m going to enjoy Grandma’s good supper with friends and family tonight and every night until the doctor tells me to do otherwise.”

  With the St. Jameses living in Grandma’s house, it was good not hearing so much of Isabel’s fussing and complaints. School was bad enough, what with the homework and the Lotties and the smell of that rotten ole hallway, but at least home was more peaceful.

  Two bright spots outshone everything else. Number one: Mama and I spent quite a bit of time sitting on her bed, reading aloud to each other, and number two: Myra Sue was still at the St. Jameses’.

  Every single day, Grandma went over there to check on them and take them food for breakfast and lunch, and to spend time with Queenie. Every single day, I half expected her to come back to our house with that silly cat because I just couldn’t understand how Isabel, Myra Sue, and Queenie could live together—which is funny when you think about it, because the three of them were so much alike in so many ways.

  Every morning after the chores were done, Daddy and Ian went over to the St. Jameses’ house and worked on it while Mr. Brett made sure everything on the farm was still going smoothly. Most every day, some of the men from the church came to help. Every afternoon, those two men came home all dusty and dirty and tired, but grinning like monkeys.

  “We finally got the last of the drywall put up today,” Daddy would say. Or Ian would tell us, “I hope I never see another tub of spackle.”

  All in all, it seemed to me like fixing that old house was going pretty well.

  On Saturday, the first weekend in October, the preacher called Mama on the telephone while I was dusting her room. I listened to every single word she said, and it was plain as day they were discussing that Christmas program.

  Mama apologized for being unable to follow through, and she and Pastor Ross talked for longer than you can imagine about how they could possibly salvage the program that year.

  Well, I’m not called April Grace Reilly the Queen of Brilliant Ideas for nothing. Something began to flicker in my brain, and by the time Mama hung up the telephone, I had cooked up the best idea I’d had in a long time.

  With her hand still on the telephone receiver, Mama stared down at it with worry on her face. One of the things the doctor said she was not supposed to do was worry.

  “Don’t fret about that Christmas play, Mama.”

  She looked up as though surprised I was in the room.

  I gave her a big hug and a whopping huge kiss, smack-dab on the cheek.

  “Leave it to me.” I dashed to the door, paused, and looked over my shoulder. “I’m gonna go see how Isabel is doing today. See ya later!”

  And I took off faster than you can blink, happy as a bear with a honey pot.

  I got a little chilly running across the hayfield to Grandma’s place. The days were usually mild in October, but you could feel a change in the air. The sky was bluer than any blue you can imagine. Beneath my feet, the field grass had begun to tuck itself back into the earth. In a couple of months, the ground would be firm and brown and cold to the touch, but in spring, it would be soft and tender again with new grass.

  I could smell the scent of the pine trees that grew near Grandma’s house, and I slowed my steps to a walk just so I could suck in that beautiful fragrance. Boy, oh boy, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: there is nothing as good as living in the country.

  I shivered a little as I stepped into the shade of the big old oak tree in Grandma’s front yard and wished I’d grabbed my denim jacket.

  “Hey, Isabel!” I hollered as I bounded up the porch steps and opened the door.

  She was lying on the sofa, and Myra Sue was sitting cross-legged on the floor, facing the television. Isabel’s crutches were leaning against the wall near them. She wasn’t gonna need those things much longer, but I think she’ll probably have to use a cane for a week or two. I hope she doesn’t gripe about it.

  “April Grace Reilly, don’t you know enough to knock before you come bursting into someone’s home?” Myra Sue said, as snippy and uppity as you can possibly imagine.

  To prove there are some things I have learned in algebra, I gave her back a look that was equal to, or greater than, the one she gave me.

  “When Ian and Isabel move into their very own home, I will knock on their door when I go for a visit. But I have never, in my whole entire life, knocked on my grandma’s door, and I don’t intend to start now, Miss Smarty-Pants Myra Sue.”

  I crossed my eyes then, dismissing my sister.

  “Hey, Isabel!” I said again. “I have a great—”

  My words dried up on my tongue because I saw something like I have never seen in my whole entire life. You know what it was? I’ll tell you. Queenie lay all stretched out and comfy on Isabel’s scrawny chest while Isabel stroked that dumb cat’s fur like she thought it was a mink coat. Grandma’s cat doesn’t even like Grandma to pet her, for crying out loud! And Grandma has been trying for years.

  I do here and now declare that if the TV had been turned off, I would have heard Queenie purr, which is something I have not heard before except once when she had caught a poor ole robin. That Queenie is not the sweet widdle puddy tat Grandma says she is.

  “How in the world . . . how did you . . . ? Isabel, I have never seen Queenie do that!”

  Isabel looked at that cat and got a dumb smile on her face.

  “She’s a dear little kitty.”

  Oh, good grief.

  “But how’d you get her to like you? She doesn’t like anyone!”

  Isabel sniffed. “She hissed at me, and I hissed back,” she said with a little flip of her hand.

  That was the craziest thing I’d ever heard.

  But I p
ut that thought out of my mind when I remembered what I’d come over for. Now, here’s what I think. I think ole Isabel would probably feel a lot better if she didn’t have so much sympathy and hand-patting and catering-to. She’s the type of person who needs something she can sink her teeth into, something she can get all carried away with, even though she was a big fat pain when she did it. And I knew just the thing for her.

  “I have one of the best ideas you’ve ever heard of.”

  The look she gave me was only mildly interested. “You always have ideas, child,” she said with a small smile. “What is it this time?”

  “You must come to supper tonight. It’s going to be a Special Occasion. This idea concerns you.”

  One eyebrow went up. “Oh?” she said. “I was thinking I would just stay here this evening.”

  “Please?” I asked, putting on my best face.

  She regarded me solemnly, then said, “All right, since it seems to mean so much to you.”

  “Good!” I clapped my hands.

  “But your idea better be a good one.”

  “Oh, it is!” I said to Isabel. “See you at supper.”

  I hightailed it back across the field. I told Grandma, and only Grandma, about my plan and asked if she could make an extra-special supper for Isabel, which she did with a lot of help from yours very truly.

  For supper we had baked salmon with herbs, spinach salad, a fresh fruit salad, steamed green beans with almonds, and rice pilaf. Now, I’ll be the first to say I’d rather have fried catfish and hush puppies, but in the interest of having certain kinds of meals for Mama’s sake, and because Isabel likes a healthier kind of diet, I dove in with as much gusto as I could muster for something that did not crunch when I bit into it.

  After supper, Isabel looked at me. “All right, April Grace,” she said. “What’s this idea of yours?”

  All the grown-ups and ole Myra Sue looked at me in curiosity.

  I sat up straight and put on the most adult expression I could. “Isabel, how would you like a project where you can use your stage experience?”

  A flicker of interest shot across her face, but she masked it with caution the way adults do when kids have interesting ideas. “What kind of project, pray tell?” Isabel asked.

  “Yes,” Myra Sue put in, “pray tell what?”

  “Well, the thing is, our church always puts on a play every Christmas.”

  She blinked at me a couple of times.

  “Mama has always been responsible for it,” I went on.

  Isabel glanced at Mama, then back at me. She lifted one eyebrow, so I continued.

  “Well, this year she can’t. She isn’t supposed to do anything that is stressful, you know.”

  “Yes, I know. You are taking care of yourself, aren’t you, Lily?”

  “Of course,” Mama said, smiling. “I’m going to have a happy, healthy baby, even if I have to sit around and do nothing but get plumper and plumper.”

  “Well, this year,” I said, “Pastor Ross has chosen this big play, with scenes and costumes and actors from the youth group and everything.”

  Aha! At last I saw real interest flare in her eyes.

  “I saw that script for that play, and believe me, it will be a lot of work. And Mama can’t do it, not this year,” I added.

  “However,” Grandma said, looking right in Isabel’s brown eyes, “someone with your talent and experience can handle it.

  In fact,” she added, leaning forward, “I’m sure you are the only person in this area who can do the job right.”

  Isabel looked at me, then at Grandma, and then she drew in a deep, deep breath.

  “My dears,” she said, all serious and dramatic as you can imagine, “I am completely flattered that you feel I should do this, but truly, directing a church play is, well, it’s not something I believe I can do.”

  Now, that surprised me. I thought ole Isabel would have jumped up and danced around on her one good leg at the mere thought of producing a play.

  “Sure you can!” Daddy said.

  “Of course you can, lamb,” Ian said with an encouraging smile.

  She glanced at the men and shook her head.

  “Why not?” I demanded.

  Her mouth dropped open as if she thought I was nuts. “Because, my dear child, I have been seriously injured.”

  “You can’t be serious!” I hollered before I could stop myself. This was no way to win her over.

  Isabel blinked three dozen times.

  “I’m sorry, Isabel. That’s not what I mean. Yes, you’ve been injured, and we’re all real glad you’re getting better every single day. You’ve done such a good job of healing that you’re gonna get your cast off next week, and all you’ll need is that cane instead of those ole crutches! And pretty soon you won’t need that, either.”

  She sniffed. “Well. You do have a point, I suppose. But kindly remember, I am not a church person.”

  “You don’t have to be a church person to help out,” Daddy told her.

  “That’s right, Isabel,” Mama said.

  “But I know nothing about church people.”

  “Church people are like everyone else,” Grandma said.

  Isabel shmooshed up her lips, but at least she did not blink, and that was a good sign.

  “What if they don’t like me and they refuse to listen to a thing I say? I’ve noticed you Ozarkers tend to go your own way, even when someone who knows more tells you you’re doing it wrong.”

  I sighed and all but rolled my eyes. That attitude right there was exactly why no one around here wants to listen to newcomers. But we weren’t there to debate Isabel’s misguided logic. If there was one thing I had learned about ole Isabel, it was this: if you want to get through to her, you have better luck when you appeal to her vanity, of which she has plenty, believe me. I’m pretty sure Grandma knew this.

  “Isabel, you’re an expert in drama and dance,” she said. “You got the experience. Folks’ll listen to you. And they’ll take real kindly to you helping Lily, because they all love Lily Reilly.”

  Isabel’s eyes took on a new, thoughtful expression, a flicker of hope and interest. I could almost see the gears finally starting to turn in her brain.

  And I topped off the whole shebang by adding, “If you really want to pay Mama back for all that she has done for you, this is your chance. One good turn deserves another. That’s my motto. And, Isabel, you’ve had a lot of good turns.”

  At this point, along with Grandma’s help, my job was done, and I was happy to let the adults take over. Besides, a goodly portion of my supper was still on my plate, and I was hungry.

  By the time we’d finished our orange sherbet, Isabel had almost agreed to my idea. But wouldn’t you know, she just had to be an Isabel St. James about it and throw a monkey wrench into the whole thing.

  “April Grace,” she said in that precise voice she has, “I will agree to direct the play on one condition.”

  I eyeballed her suspiciously, not liking this bit at all. What if she wanted to—oh, I don’t know—have me move into their house when it was ready as a live-in maid and cook, or something like that?

  “What’s your condition?” I shot pleading looks at Mama and Daddy, but they just sat there, curious and waiting.

  “You and dearest Myra must be my assistants through the entire process.”

  “Are you kiddin’?” I hollered at the same time ole Myra Sue gushed, “Oh, that would be dee-vine!”

  Help Isabel with the Christmas program, when I knew she’d be all bossy and dramatic and with Myra Sue right there, cheering her on? Right about then I almost wished I had no imagination and no way of cooking up good ideas.

  EIGHTEEN

  The Preacher Comes to Our House

  The next afternoon, Pastor Ross came to our house. He was in a pair of jeans and a plain white T-shirt and denim jacket.

  Mama had put on a brand-new maternity outfit of dark green with a pattern of lavender violets on the collar. Gr
andma had bought it for her, and it looked real pretty. She and Daddy greeted Pastor Ross at the door, invited him to sit down, and then Mama sat in the recliner and put her feet up. Daddy settled on the sofa while Pastor Ross took Grandma’s rocking chair, which was a little too short and small and girlie for him, but he didn’t seem to notice. Grandma wasn’t there to help because she was out for a drive with Rob Estes, looking at the fall colors. Boy howdy, if she wasn’t with one boyfriend, she was with another.

  “Would you like some sweet tea, Pastor?” I asked.

  “That would be real nice, April Grace. Thank you.”

  As I fetched his drink, I could hear him and Mama talking. They talked about how she was feeling, how much she was missed at church, and how much she missed being there. When I returned, they were discussing the weather.

  “I hope we have a mild winter again this year,” he said, taking the glass from me. “Thank you, April Grace.” He took a sip, then said, “Now, Lily, when you called last evening, you said you wanted to talk to me about Isabel St. James directing the church play. Would you give me some details about that?”

  I didn’t know Mama had called him last night, but that did not diminish my interest in this conversation, not one little bitty bit.

  So Mama explained Isabel’s background and experience and concluded with, “They’ve hired her to teach at the school, and I think she’ll be a real asset to the Cedar Ridge school system.”

  “That’s fine, that’s fine.” He nodded and sipped, and I thought he looked a little nervous.

  “Mike. Lily,” he said, clearing his throat. He glanced at me. “This is a rather . . . delicate subject, isn’t it?”

  “Delicate?” I echoed. “I bet you think ole Isabel might be a great big pain in the patootie, don’t you?”

  “April Grace!” Mama and Daddy both scolded at the same time.

  I winced. “Well.”

  Pastor coughed softly and rolled the glass between his hands, watching the motion.

  “Folks, my concern is not so much about Mrs. St. James directing the play, per se. I’m more than willing to give her a chance. Do I wish she attended our church? Of course I do. Is it absolutely necessary that she do so to work on the program? No.” He shifted in the rocker, put the glass on the little table next to it, and looked at Daddy, then Mama. “Please understand when I say I don’t want to pass judgment on Mrs. St. James, but I’m afraid her abrasive personality presents a problem.”