Queen Bee Goes Home Again

by Haywood Smith

No liquor would be served, but that wouldn’t matter. We would have good friends and good food and music.

  Thirty-six

  By the time the polls closed at seven, the house was packed with a generous cross-section of our town.

  Tommy held court out on the front porch, while Mama and I helped keep the food and iced tea coming.

  Her friends had done themselves proud, bringing everything from fried corn to pole beans to chicken legs, barbecue, and pot roast. Plus desserts by the raft, from sugar-free to decadent.

  I brought Tommy a fresh Diet Coke on the porch. “Where are Carla’s people gathering?” I asked him between constituents.

  “At the Presbyterian fellowship hall,” he said.

  “So what happens when the results come in?”

  His brows lifted. “Either I’ll go congratulate her, or she’ll come congratulate me.”

  No nerves for this boy.

  “Can I bring you a plate?” I offered.

  He shook his head.

  Well, maybe a little hint of nerves. Tommy rarely turned down food.

  Then another of his friends came out to sit beside him, so I left them in peace.

  I stood just inside the front door, listening to the bluegrass band tune up outside.

  Four hours from closing till the results. I sure wished I had something more than food to distract me.

  Be careful what you wish for.

  Connor Allen walked up the front stairs, and I hightailed it for the kitchen.

  Thirty-seven

  I managed to avoid Connor till the news van arrived at ten and set up their lights on the verandah to tape Tommy’s reaction to the final results.

  Everyone gravitated toward the lights, crowding around to find out the results. Fortunately, Connor kept his distance.

  Then a car drove in and parked behind the news trucks, and out came the election supervisor with a sealed envelope in his hand.

  I watched him work his way through the crowd, then approach Tommy. All the TV lights flashed on, briefly blinding my brother. Everybody fell silent as the elections supervisor handed the envelope to Tommy. Then he saluted and wished my brother well before stepping out of camera range.

  Tommy looked at the envelope, his lips rolled in, then looked to me. “Lin, would you please do the honors?”

  Suddenly dry-mouthed, I hustled over and took the envelope. Blinking rapidly from the glaring lights, I turned to the crowd and opened the envelope. Then I unfolded the letter to see two names and two totals in the center. Somebody handed me a cordless mike and I read, “‘For the office of mayor of Mimosa Branch, Thomas Breedlove, fifteen thousand, seven hundred, and eight. Carla Simmons, twelve thousand, three hundred, and fifty-two.’”

  The crowd exploded after they heard twelve thousand. Everybody hugged everybody else, the bluegrass band struck up a lively number, and I shared a proud look with my brother, the mayor, then handed him the mike.

  Geneva came up and put her arm around me. “Told ya. God does some good picking, doesn’t He?”

  “With your help as his campaign manager,” I said.

  “I just put the icing on the cake.” She beamed. “This was meant to be.”

  She turned so the cameras couldn’t see her yell, “Speech! Speech!”

  The little red lights atop the cameras lit up again.

  My brother stood with a humble smile, then said, “I am so grateful to all of you who helped me get elected, vote by vote. Citizen by citizen, every one of you in Mimosa Branch deserves a fair administration—”

  Applause and cheers erupted.

  “A fiscally responsible administration,” he said over the din, which just escalated the noise.

  He ate the mike for a firm, “And an open, honest administration.”

  More cheers.

  “Like we had with my beloved predecessor, Donnie West. So thank you all for entrusting our city to my care for the next five years. With God’s help, I promise to live up to your trust.” He dropped the mike and waved to the cheering crowd.

  Then who should walk up but Carla Simmons, looking like a million bucks. A path cleared between her and Tommy, and we all watched in anticipation as she approached the victor.

  With a genuine grin, she put out her hand, and Tommy took it. A chorus of “Shhhh!” and “Quiet!” calmed the crowd.

  Carla Simmons didn’t need a microphone. Her cultured voice projected to the back of the onlookers when she turned toward the camera lights and said, “Please accept my congratulations. And I’d hereby like to pledge my support for what I know will be a wonderful administration under Tommy Breedlove’s leadership.”

  Then, to everyone’s shock, she pulled Tommy over and kissed the daylights out of him just the way Connor had kissed me.

  Laughter exploded, and it was all caught on camera.

  His cheeks flaming, Tommy raised the microphone and said, “Well, I’ve always considered my business life and my personal life to be separate, and I’d thought we’d wait a while to announce this. But after what she just did, I think I’d better introduce y’all to my fiancée, Carla Simmons, who has agreed to marry me next June. Why she said yes, I couldn’t begin to tell you, but I sure am glad.”

  The mystery girlfriend was his opponent? A CPA and lawyer?

  Mama and I looked at each other with a mixture of happiness, worry, and shock.

  The crowd went wild.

  Loosely hugging Carla, Tommy tried not to blink when half the crowd lifted their cell phones for photos as a battery of media flash cameras went off.

  “Isn’t that illegal?” somebody hollered.

  Carla fielded that one. “No, sir, it is not. We have thoroughly checked the statutes and regulations. Our personal lives never affected our political lives, and we both plan to keep it that way.”

  Tommy drew her toward the house, waving. “And with that, we’ll bid you all good night.”

  Framed by the lights inside the screen door, Tommy kissed Carla back with steaming intensity, then they both laughed and headed for the den of iniquity to hide.

  Abruptly, the lights went out and the camera crews loaded up their vans.

  The party went on, but my mother and I headed for the relative quiet of the kitchen. Once there, she sank to a chair and started bawling.

  “Mama?” I sat beside her, my hand on her back. “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing,” she wailed. “I’m just so happy. Tommy finally fell in love for real, and she’s a wonderful woman.” She wiped her nose with her lace-trimmed hanky. “I know, because I talked to her after several of the debates.”

  “That’s one prayer answered,” I soothed, fighting my own sense of emptiness that threatened to shadow my happiness for my brother.

  The door from the back hall swung open, and Tommy brought a grinning Carla in. “Mama, we have something to ask you,” he said gently, “if you don’t mind.”

  Miss Mamie dried her tears with her sodden hanky, then straightened like a queen. “Of course I don’t mind. And congratulations, Tommy.”

  Carla held back, suddenly shy, while Tommy seated her next to Miss Mamie, then joined her. He didn’t mince words. “I was wondering if you would be okay with our moving in here after the wedding.”

  Mama’s eyes widened, her mouth dropping open, but not in shock. “Okay? I’d be delighted.” She beamed. “Thank you both so much. Thank you.”

  I gave myself a mental head slap. Of course! She’d thought Tommy would leave her when he married.

  “Tell Miss Mamie what happened,” Tommy urged his bride-to-be.

  Carla leaned over. “I first saw this house when I was riding Amtrak on my way from D.C. to Atlanta for a meeting, and y’all waved to us from your verandah. It was magic, love at first sight, your house and your hospitality. Everything that my driven, workaholic life was not. So I found out about the town and started dreaming. And when I finally faced how miserable I was as a corporate financial lawyer, I sold my town house in D.C. and moved here.”
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  Tommy hugged her shoulders, a proud smile on his face. “Tell them the rest.”

  “Every time I passed by, I wished I could live in this house. Then I ran into Tommy at an AA meeting and realized he’d been the one who’d waved to me.”

  Tommy regarded her with admiration. “Seventeen years, clean and sober. I fell for the way she worked her program before I fell for her.” He smiled our way. “We have a lot more in common than you’d think.”

  Both in AA. That could be great or awful, depending. But for now, it was great.

  Carla grinned. “I flirted with him all the time, but he never asked me out.”

  His plate was full taking care of our parents, but Tommy never complained.

  “We really, truly love each other,” he said. “I know our time together seems short, but there are no secrets between us, and we still love each other.”

  Carla nodded. “And like each other.”

  “What are your plans after the wedding?” I asked her.

  “I’m going to do bookkeeping and a few tax returns part-time from home,” she said.

  Glory be! An in-house accountant. And an honest one.

  Mama shook her head, opening her arms and gathering Carla to her. “Welcome to the family, precious girl.”

  After they’d hugged, Carla drew back. “I hear you’re a fabulous cook. I can’t even boil water; I’ve always been too busy to learn to cook. Tommy said you could teach me, if that’s okay.”

  Perfect. It was perfect.

  Mama could pass on the family recipes to an eager student, so she wouldn’t be alone while I went to class and Tommy went to City Hall.

  Miss Mamie leaned close to Carla to whisper, “Why don’t you two go to the justice of the peace in Gainesville and get hitched right away? You don’t have to tell anybody, so you can still have a church wedding. That way, you could move right in.”

  Carla’s expression lit with a sparkle of mischief. “Couldn’t I just come anyway?”

  Uh-oh. Tommy’s expression looked like he’d just stepped on a rattlesnake.

  Miss Mamie didn’t miss a beat. “Oh, no, precious girl. I refuse to let my son’s bride sell herself so cheaply. You need a ring on that finger before you cohabit with my son in this house.”

  Carla looked to Tommy, her face asking what he thought.

  He shrugged. “We could get the blood tests up there, I guess.” He looked into Carla’s eyes. “What do you think?”

  “I think it makes perfect sense,” she told him.

  “But what about the big wedding?” he prodded.

  Carla scanned the room, her expression clearing. “Obviously, your mother feels very strongly about this. So, as a gift to her, I have just decided that the most important thing is being married, not how we get there.”

  Bald lust limned my brother’s face. “Tomorrow it is.”

  “Would y’all like to come?” Carla asked.

  Perfect, perfect, perfect. “Yes!” Miss Mamie and I answered.

  There’s no such thing as perfect in this world, my still, small voice reminded me.

  Okay, okay. But it’s great enough.

  So the next day, Miss Mamie and I stood witness as my brother married his true love. Halleluiah, amen.

  Thirty-eight

  Tommy and Carla pulled a fast one to complete the final item on our immediate plan for the house: while Carla took Miss Mamie down to Atlanta to the museum, then to the Swan Coach House for lunch, Tommy supervised a highly recommended cleaning service that gave the whole house a thorough going-over, right down to the grout and the refrigerator. In five hours, the place looked and smelled as good as it had after our big clean.

  When the Mame and Carla got back that evening, my mother inhaled one breath after stepping inside, shot me a knowing glance, shifted a candy dish in the foyer a half inch, back into its original place, then proceeded as if nothing had happened.

  So the four of us went back to our regular routines, me with my studies (I CLEPed out of seven English, lit, and history courses, but still struggled with the algebra textbook). Carla and Mama cleaned the kitchen and bathrooms every Wednesday, she and Tommy went to their meetings, and he and I visited Uncle B and Daddy at the Home.

  You’d think I’d feel displaced by Carla, but I didn’t. I was grateful, grateful, grateful for how she studied cooking with Miss Mamie and made my mother feel she had a purpose again.

  Tommy told me later that he hadn’t said anything about the nest egg to Carla, in case Miss Mamie needed our shares. When I asked him if that was wise, he shrugged.

  “Do you think she’s a gold digger?” I challenged.

  “Of course not,” he blustered. “She has more money than I’ll earn in a lifetime. She retired at thirty-seven to come here. Showed me her entire portfolio and bank statements.”

  My brows lifted. “And you’ve kept this from her? Not a good start, Tommy. I’m just saying.”

  He nodded, clearly seeing how he’d messed up. “So what now?”

  I couldn’t believe he had to ask.

  “Tell her the truth,” I advised. “All of it. If you don’t, it means you don’t trust her.”

  He nodded. “You’re right.” He threw his arm around my neck and gave me a noogie. “I hereby appoint you my consultant on women. If you see me making a mistake, or getting ready to, please pull me aside in private and help me out.”

  Carte blanche? Surely he couldn’t be serious.

  But then again, he was a frog, not a prince. “You’ve got yourself a good woman,” I told him. “Don’t screw it up.”

  He sent me an ironic glance. “I could say the same to you.”

  I sighed. “I can’t be a minister’s wife. End of story.”

  Tommy grinned. “Talk to me about that in six months.”

  Then he went upstairs to join his wife in assassinating the headboard for yet another night.

  Miss Mamie said it made her giggle every time, because they just might be making a grandchild—a possibility, since Carla was so much younger than Tommy.

  But Mama already had a grandchild! What was my David, chopped liver? And the Mame’s two great-grands.

  Grumpy, I left the house for the apartment.

  Maybe I ought to get a dildo, after all.

  Thirty-nine

  My newfound wealth made me ineligible for the Pell Grant, so I prepaid my tuition, bought my books (talk about expensive, even for used!), and worked out my Tuesday–Thursday class schedule with Cathy at the disabilities office. Then I started studying algebra in earnest.

  But even with that as a distraction—and quite a distraction it was—I still obsessed about Connor. Instead of rejoicing that an amazing man like him wanted me, I whined at God over and over: Why did he have to be a Baptist minister?

  The more I whined, the more I admitted to myself that I did not want to be a Baptist minister’s wife, any more than Connor’s deacons wanted me to.

  Not funny, God.

  Yet I still looked forward to Christmas—and to Connor.

  Unless he’d found someone else.

  Blast! Blast, blast, blast.

  Maybe going back to school would help me concentrate on something besides him. I’ve always loved learning and done well in class, but I’d been away from it for so long, my anticipation was laced with fear. Did I have enough gray cells left to pass?

  Forget IQ. Could I still memorize and study?

  If algebra was any indication, the answer was no. But I refused to give up and slogged my way through, page by page, even though it gave me headaches.

  Christmas and Connor were coming. I longed for the day, yet dreaded it with equal intensity.

  The next Sunday afternoon, my phone rang at precisely three o’clock. David, right on schedule, after more than a month without explanation.

  “Hello?” I resolved not to bring it up. Focus on the present.

  “Hi, Mama.” He seemed chipper. “How about that, Uncle Tommy winning the election and getting married?�
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  “Things have been pretty exciting here, lately.”

  “Isn’t Aunt Carla great? We talked for a really long time when they called to tell us.”

  Oh, great. He’d talked to Carla for a really long time. What about his mother?

  “Mama? Are you there?”

  “Yep. How are the kids?”

  “Kids. You know. Runny noses, vaccinations, and plenty of energy. How are you?”

  Tired. Conflicted about Connor. Feeling like a moron in algebra. Scared about school. But I knew better than to tell him the truth. He’d clam up emotionally and hang up.

  “Mama?” This time, his voice was tinged with concern.

  “Sorry. I’m just a little tired and down.”

  “You’re not supposed to be the one who’s down,” he said. “You’re the one who cheers everybody up.”

  “Not today, sweetie.”

  Now it was his turn to fall silent, but I let the silence be.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t call you for a while,” he finally said. “We’ve been taking the kids to fall soccer and football games on Sundays.”

  So he was aware. “I figured no news was good news.”

  Never mind that I was afraid something had happened to one of you. Or how forsaken I felt when you didn’t call. But I didn’t give my self-pity a voice.

  He was my son, my only child, and I loved him. Expectations are premeditated resentments.

  So I took responsibility for my own happiness. “That’s okay, honey, but I really miss hearing your voice and finding out what y’all are doing. Is there a more convenient time for you to call?”

  I heard surprise in his voice when he said, “Actually, yes. How about Monday at nine, after we get the kids to bed?”

  “Sure.” I could do that. “I don’t want to interfere with your life. I just want to be in the loop.”

  “Fair enough.” He paused. “And Mama…”

  No expectations, I reminded myself. “What, honey?”

  “I’m proud of you.”

  My smile returned in earnest. “Thank you, sweetie. I love you.”

  “Love you. Talk to you at nine tomorrow.”

  “Great. Bye.” I was still smiling when we hung up. I’d been honest (well, partially), but he hadn’t run screaming into the woods. It was a start.