Queen Bee Goes Home Again

by Haywood Smith

  Tommy probably knocked before he came in, but we didn’t hear him. He just appeared, a grim expression on his face that caused Mama and me to freeze.

  “Whassa matter?” I heard myself ask.

  Uh-oh. If I’d had enough brandy to mess up my speech, heaven only knew how many calories of ice cream I must have consumed.

  Tommy scowled. “Nothing.”

  Maybe we’d offended him. “Oh, Tommy, I’m sooo sorry. I didn’ mean to offend you by gettin’ tipsy. We were both jus so releeeved that we—”

  Tommy lifted his left hand, his right behind his back. “Your choices are not my business. Unless you make a habit of it.”

  “Well, if thaas true,” our lady-mother enunciated, pointing the almighty finger of judgment at him, “why are you so mad?”

  Tommy broke up laughing. “I’m not mad. I’m jus’ so releeved,” he imitated, then smiled.

  “Okay, then,” the Mame said. “Whass the verdict?”

  “My lawyer friend said Mama could gift us each fourteen thousand a year, tax-free to us, or we could divide the proceeds three ways and pay the capital gain up front. He also recommended that we ask for cash when we sold anything, and deposit no more than nine thousand, nine hundred, and ninety-nine dollars on any given day. Then he gave me the number for the most respected coin appraiser in Atlanta.”

  He really was good at this.

  “When I told the appraiser we’d pay him one of the Krugerrands for an official appraisal, he dropped everything and came. After he checked out the coins and said they were genuine, he showed me comparable sales from the international coin dealers’ official Web site, then conservatively valued the collection at one million, four hundred fifty thousand. Wholesale, which is what we’d get for selling the collection.”

  Wow. I might end up one third of a millionaire. But the money was really Miss Mamie’s, so the ownership didn’t count.

  Ownership doesn’t count for anything, Daddy used to say, it’s control that matters.

  Tommy went on. “He did the written appraisal on the spot from his laptop, then printed it out on a black gizmo the size of a box of tinfoil.”

  He paused a minute to let that sink in, but we were so amazed (and swacked), Mama and I just stared at him, agape. Miss Mamie plopped down abruptly onto my sofa behind her.

  My brother peered at both of us, waving a hand before our eyes. “Earth to Lin and Miss Mamie. Did you hear what I just said?”

  We nodded in unison, struck dumb.

  Tommy brought his right hand from behind his back and showed us the thick, well-worn stack of fifty-dollar bills he was holding. “Look. The appraiser bought six of the coins for himself. Cash.”

  Whoa! I grabbed his hand and riffled the bills. Nonsequential. “Holy crow! How much?”

  “Nine thousand, nine hundred, and fifty dollars.”

  Just under the ten thousand a day that had to be reported to the feds.

  Lord, please strengthen our hearts to do this legally. Meanwhile, my inner hedonist was seeing dollar signs and scheming to go black market with every single cent. But that still, small voice silenced her with, It’s all right. Even after tithe and taxes, you’ll all be fine.

  How soon we forget the miracle. God had given Miss Mamie this treasure when she needed it, yet there I was, dishonoring the gift by wanting to evade the taxes. I gave myself a mental head-slap worthy of Leroy Jethro Gibbs.

  “Tommy,” I asked with a mixture of dread and anticipation, “what did your lawyer friend say about the taxes?”

  “He said to call him with the appraisal, and we’d figure things out with Miss Mamie from there,” Tommy said. “We have an appointment tomorrow at one. You’re welcome to come.”

  “Any idea how you’d like to handle this?” I asked them both.

  The Mame answered immediately. “Frankly, I’d rather split it up and get everything settled right away. Unless it’s too costly. But it sure would be nice to have everything all settled.”

  “My instincts are the same,” Tommy confessed. “But we’ll have to see what the tax lawyer says.” He focused on my worried frown. “Don’t worry, Sissie-ma-noo-noo. We’ll do this right. I have no intention of risking my serenity over money.”

  Thank You, Lord.

  Then I realized we’d get to tithe the money, and a brilliant idea came to me. “Can we tithe to Connor’s church?” I asked them.

  Tommy laughed. “If we split this up, I’d like to donate my ten percent to AA.”

  Mama arched a brow. “And my tithe will go to our Methodist missionaries.”

  “Sounds like a plan to me,” I said. I’d forgotten how good it felt to be able to give again.

  Tommy handed Miss Mamie the stack of fifties. “Come on, Miss Mamie. Let’s get this deposited into your account before the bank closes.”

  I glanced at the clock. It was already after five, but the branch in the Walmart was open till six.

  My mother extracted three of the fifty-dollar bills from the stack, then handed them to me, folding my fingers over the money with a quick squeeze. “Here. Get a mani-pedi. Have your hair done. Go to a show with one of your friends. Anything that’s just for you.”

  Things I used to take for granted when I was married to Phil, but never would again. “Thanks, Mama. I will.”

  Tommy put his arm around our mother’s shoulders and shepherded her toward the door. “After we deposit the money, we can go by the Home and pay the bill so you won’t have that hanging over you anymore.”

  The Mame hesitated, clearly still phobic about seeing Daddy locked in the Home. “I’ll let you take it in, if you don’t mind.”

  “Fine with me.” Tommy opened the door for her. “Did I ever tell you how proud I am of how you’ve handled all of this with Daddy?”

  She looked at him with bare-naked gratitude. “Only all the time. But I never get tired of hearing it.”

  Tommy shot me a wink, then closed the door behind them.

  A day of miracles.

  Content for the first time in a long time, I made sure the freezer door of my ancient fridge was closed tight so the remaining peach ice cream wouldn’t melt, then brushed my teeth and went straight to bed.

  The last thing I remember before falling into oblivion was the image of Connor in my mind, and how pleased he’d be when he got the news of my anonymous donation.

  Happy. It made me very, very happy to think of it.

  If only I could have stayed that way.

  Thirty-five

  Once we had all the facts, Miss Mamie decided to split everything three ways, pay the taxes up front, and go on with our lives. When Tommy and I told her that all the money was really hers, she hugged us and said she’d only use our shares if she must, to take care of Daddy.

  Then we all agreed to order a new roof for the garage and house, and have the house insulated with formaldehyde-free foam. Thank goodness Daddy had replaced the plumbing with new cast iron and copper years ago, and redone the electrical with premium copper wiring and ample circuit breakers before he lost his marbles and the business, so at least those issues were addressed. Tommy planned to have the ductwork cleaned, then fitted with remote-controlled duct routers when we replaced the furnace and AC with high-efficiency models, so our childhood home would finally be comfortable and up-to-date.

  Except for the windows. Those would have to wait. For all we knew, Daddy could live another decade, especially since we’d hired a strong, pretty young LPN to take care of him and Uncle B, much to their delight.

  Before we knew it, the second Tuesday in October (our local election day) was only a few days away. Miss Mamie and I joined the volunteers calling voters and asking them to turn out for the election. We also asked who needed a ride, then made a list of those who did, to pass on to the volunteer drivers. Then we set up the victory party at our house, enlisting cakes and casseroles from Miss Mamie’s prayer chain friends.

  I got out the cloth buntings Daddy used to put up for the Fourth, then tac
ked them just below the railings of the verandah. Inside, I finished everything off with flags and red, white, and blue crepe paper streamers. And if I do say so myself, the place looked great.

  Even if Tommy lost to that transplant woman, we’d still have a great party. Five guys from the Bluegrass Barn in Suwanee had volunteered to provide the music (on the porch).

  When election day dawned cool and clear, Tommy and I both got to the kitchen early and made the coffee.

  “So,” I asked my brother after the caffeine had had time to soak in. “How do you feel?”

  Tommy stretched, yawning, then said, “Actually, I feel fine. Either way it goes, I’m good.”

  I couldn’t resist, “So what about this new woman in your life? Judging from the overnighters, you two must be getting serious. When are you going to tell us about her?”

  Tommy’s expression congealed. “In good time. I’ve had my plate full, and so has she. So we’ve agreed to keep our private business to ourselves.”

  I groaned in frustration. “Can’t you just give me a little hint?”

  Tommy smiled. “Telegraph, telephone, tell a Lin.”

  I frowned. “That is not true. I have kept all your confidences, even when you didn’t keep mine.”

  Typically male, Tommy avoided answering by doing something totally unrelated. He got up and retrieved a carton of eggs from the fridge. “Scrambled or fried?”

  Could he cook? I had no idea, because Miss Mamie always cooked for us.

  Speaking of Miss Mamie … “Mama’s never this late getting up,” I said, a tingle of worry in my fingertips. “I think I’ll go up and check on her.”

  Tommy nodded with a frown. “Good idea.”

  I took the back stairs, then approached Mama’s bedroom door. Placing my ear against its oaken panel, I didn’t hear a sound.

  Nobody lives forever, an insidious inner voice hissed. She’s over ninety.

  Oh, shut up and leave me alone! I shot back.

  Gently, I turned the handle, not wanting to wake her if she was still sleeping. Then I slowly cracked the door open.

  My mother was lying propped up against the pillows, her mouth wide open and a book across her chest.

  I didn’t see her breathing. Alarmed, I hurried over and touched her, which sent her bolt upright in alarm. “What? What happened?”

  “Oh, Mama, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

  She shook her head side to side to clear it, then patted my forearm. “I couldn’t get to sleep till four this morning,” she said, her voice hoarse, “praying for you and Tommy and the election.”

  I hugged her. “I’m sorry we worried you, but everything’s going to be okay, I promise.”

  She narrowed her eyes at me. “Now how in the world can you be so sure of that?”

  “Because no matter what happens, Tommy and I will be okay.”

  Her arched eyebrow betrayed her skepticism. “Um-hmm.”

  She started to get up, but I stopped her. “Why don’t you stay in bed and rest. Tommy’s making breakfast, and we’ll bring you a tray.”

  Mama’s eyes went wide. “Tommy, cooking?” She swung her legs off the bed. “Quick, hand me my slippers before he sets off the fire alarm.”

  She grabbed her robe from the foot of her bed and launched herself into action. “Go downstairs and stop him, whatever he’s doing. I’ll be there directly.”

  “Okay,” I muttered, heading for the hall, where I detected the unpleasant smell of burned egg whites. That was enough to hitch up my get-along.

  I arrived to a faint miasma by the stove. Tommy made a face, then turned over the frying pan he’d been using. The eggs didn’t fall out. “Oops.”

  “That is so male,” I scolded, taking the pan to the sink and running cold water in it. “Offer to do something, then do it so badly, somebody comes along and does it for you.”

  He smiled. “It worked, didn’t it?”

  Grrr. “In case you’d like to know, Mama didn’t get to sleep till four, worrying about both of us. That’s why she didn’t wake at six.”

  We heard her coming down the back stairs.

  “I can smell it,” she announced. “Burned the eggs again, didn’t you?”

  She bustled in and gave each of us a peck. “At least you didn’t set off the fire alarms,” she told Tommy. “They’d have sent three companies, if you had. The fire inspector told me this place was a tinderbox just waiting for a spark.”

  Tommy showed genuine remorse. “Sorry, Miss Mamie. I just had it in my mind that I could at least make some eggs.”

  “Darlin’,” she responded, “you have me for that. And if you don’t have me, you have Lin. She’s a great cook.”

  Consigned to the kitchen to cook for my brother? That was not my idea of a plan. “There’s always the diner,” I reminded him.

  I heard the local paper hit the porch floor. “I’ll get it.”

  Tommy’s Gwinnett paper was there beside Miss Mamie’s and my copies of the Gainesville Times. Maybe they’d put mine up front in honor of the election. I pulled it from its blue plastic sleeve, then opened it to see Tommy’s photo beside Carla Simmons’s taking up the top half of the page, and a condensed version of their platforms underneath. To my relief, Tommy’s was accurate and compelling. And his opponent’s, bless her heart, was rather fuzzy.

  Still reading, I took them back to the kitchen and found breakfast well on its way, Mama humming happily at the stove and sipping on a cup of coffee in her left hand.

  “You made the front page.” I handed Tommy the first section and the sports, then his Gwinnett paper. Then I settled with my coffee to do the Jumble and the crossword in the Our Region section.

  “Must have been a slow news day.” Tommy read the front page, then turned to the end of the articles on the editorial page. “Miracle of miracles, they got most of it right.”

  Miss Mamie looked over. “What did they get wrong?”

  “Just a few minor points. They mixed a few of the details from my platform with my opponent’s, but at least it wasn’t anything major.” He picked up the Gwinnett paper. “It’s a law, you know, that the media have to get something wrong in every story.”

  He turned the pages, then opened the slim second section. “We didn’t even make the front page of the B section in Gwinnett. We’re on page four. And they really scrambled the facts. But there’s no time to do corrections, so there you are.”

  I would have been livid, but Tommy took it in stride. “No sense complaining. It’ll only make them mad. If I’m meant to win, I will. Then, I’ll need their support.”

  He had a point. Definitely not the hothead he used to be.

  After we finished breakfast, we all put on our Sunday best to go to the polls. We voted nearby in the fire station by the elementary school, so we decided to walk and enjoy the cool morning.

  People who knew us honked and waved as they passed, some shouting well wishes, which sent Miss Mamie and me out of our skins the first few times, but we got used to it well before halfway.

  The rustle of dried-out poplars combined with the cool breeze to make it feel like fall, which usually lasted only a few weeks before the first Canadian Clipper brought raw weather ahead of it.

  Enjoying the smooth new sidewalks, I took my time and didn’t rush Miss Mamie, who seemed to be savoring every drop of Tommy’s fame.

  By the time we reached the campaign limit at the firehouse, the two of us sat down on the new metal bench on the sidewalk while Tommy shook some hands and greeted folks. I wondered if he knew them from AA, or something else. By the time Tommy came over to escort us inside, Mama and I were beginning to squirm on the cold, curved metal slats of the bench.

  “This is it,” he said.

  “Will you be awfully disappointed if you don’t win?” I asked, then realized how negative that sounded.

  Tommy shook his head with a wry smile. “Frankly, I’d be relieved. But if this is the job for me,
then I’ll do it.”

  With that, the three of us went into the garage where the fire trucks usually resided. On election days, they were parked outside, and tables and voting booths took their places.

  Once I showed my driver’s license and filled out the form to get my plastic voting card, I took the first open booth and shoved the card into the machine, then selected my way to the mayor’s race on the screen, the only choice besides a referendum about trash collection days.

  There it was. Mayor’s race. Thomas Breedlove on the left, Carla Simmons on the right, both independents.

  I touched the screen beside Tommy’s name, then went on to the referendum, which sounded reasonable to me, so I voted for that, too. Then I touched “completed,” and the card popped back out.

  Who in a million years would have guessed that my wayward brother, the drunk, would end up on a ballot, and I would gladly vote for him? I stood there, contemplating how momentous that was and how far he’d come, till someone came close behind me.

  “Excuse me, please,” she said nicely. “Are you having trouble with the machine?”

  The polls worker. I snapped out of it, embarrassed. “No. It’s just that I voted for my brother.”

  She nodded, leaning close to whisper. “So did I.”

  Then she pointed to the basket by one of Miss Mamie’s friends from Women’s Club who was handing out flag stickers with I VOTED on them. “You can put the card in that basket, then get your sticker.”

  If everything went the way it usually did, the results would be available well before the eleven o’clock news.

  I dropped my card into the basket and proudly stuck on my sticker as I headed outside.

  Miss Mamie came up behind me and took my arm just as I stepped into the sunlight. “What a glorious day,” she said proudly. “I just voted for my son. How about that?”

  I closed my hand over hers. “Tommy says he’s fine whatever happens, but I want him to win.”

  Mama smiled. “Me, too.”

  Tommy caught up with us. “Okay, ladies. Let’s get back home and have us a party.”