Not too dressy, not too casual. Wouldn’t want to put the new people off.
Then I sat in one of my new flame-stitched wingback chairs by one of the full-length windows in the living room to wait and watch for the movers. I’d finished the current issues of Good Housekeeping and Southern Living, cover to cover, before I heard the rumble of a truck and looked across the cul-de-sac to see a battered U-Haul pull into the opposite driveway, followed by a Volkswagen Vanagon with dealer tags and a big peace sign on the bumper. To my dismay, a herd of hippies erupted with a halfhearted cheer in a cloud of smoke from the van, then set about unloading the sorriest collection of garage-sale rejects I’d ever seen (and believe me, I’d seen plenty growing up).
But hope springs eternal, so I told myself they were probably just a bunch of Gypsy movers, and the real neighbors would arrive eventually. Then a frizzy-headed, petite, skinny redheaded girl in bell-bottom hip-riders and a halter top started directing the men where to take the furniture, so I had to wonder. A man’s paisley necktie circled her forehead à la Jimi Hendrix, and her commands easily reached me across the cul-de-sac, her cracker accent as broad as the Chattahoochee, and just as red.
The princess phone beside me rang, causing me to jump. “Hello?”
“Did they come yet?” Mama demanded.
“I’m not sure.” I had no intention of telling her that hippies had invaded the neighborhood. She’d get too much satisfaction from it. “The movers are unloading now.”
“And?” Mama insisted. Never mind that she hadn’t set foot outside her house since Daddy left when I was five. She lived vicariously through me. “What kind of furniture do they have? You can tell a lot about people by their furniture, you know.”
Why I couldn’t just lie to my mother, I have no idea, but she had an uncanny ability to see right through me, so half-truth was the best I could ever get away with. “It looks … ordinary,” I reported. And old. And battered.
“That doesn’t tell me anything,” she fussed, picking up on my hesitation. “What kind of ordinary? Williamsburg? Mediterranean? Traditional? French provincial?” Mama might be crazy, but she was still intelligent and reveled vicariously in the minor mysteries of my life. “Don’t tell me it’s contemporary,” she said. “I can’t stand contemporary people.”
“It’s eclectic,” I offered. “A mix. Not everybody decorates in a particular style.” God knew Mama didn’t, but she was the first to criticize the rooms in the decorating magazines she insisted I pass on to her. She was always telling me about recipes from Southern Living too, but she hadn’t been able to get to the stove since I thank-God-and-hallelujah married up, moved out, and gave her the extra microwave we’d gotten from one of the partners at Greg’s firm.
“You’re no help,” Mama grumbled. “Take pictures, so I can see for myself.”
“Mama, I have no intention of sneaking pictures of my new neighbors’ furniture from behind my drapes to satisfy your curiosity.” Maybe it was the threat of hippies, but I got so annoyed, I blurted out the unspeakable. “If you want to see what they have, come over and look for yourself.”
She could, if she would just take her meds like she was supposed to. But no. She said they made her feel “flat,” whatever that was. To me, it sounded like her paralyzing phobias had become her friends, better friends to her than she would ever let me be.
After a wounded pause, Mama accused, “That was cruel, Betsy. I was just being curious. You had no cause to be so cruel. I didn’t bring you up to be so mean to your mother.”
She didn’t bring me up, period. I’d had to take care of her.
“I’m sorry,” I apologized, as I always, always did, no matter who was wrong. “I just think it would be very rude to take pictures of their stuff. They’re the only neighbors we have. I want to start out on the right foot.”
“I still don’t see why you and Greg bought the very first house in that subdivision,” Mama harped. “That was very risky, you know.”
“Which was why we got such a good deal,” I responded on cue. The only thing my husband hated worse than taking chances was spending more than he had to.
Across the street, the redhead continued to direct the movers, then planted a peck on the cheek of a particularly scruffy man wearing shirtless overalls that exposed a huge tattoo on his upper arm (!), his dark hair pulled back into a ponytail that was almost as long as his scraggly brown beard. Please, no.
“Mama, I think I see them driving up now,” I lied, surprised that I sounded so convincing. “Gotta go take them the meal I made and introduce myself.”
“What’d you fix?” Mama demanded. No matter how often we talked, she never let me go when I asked her to.
“Fried chicken, pole beans, stewed corn, and a devil’s food cake with seven-minute icing,” I rattled off, glad for the diversion.
“Sounds yummy.” A pregnant pause followed.
I rolled my eyes. “I made enough for all of us. I’ll be over by four to bring you some.” It would take me half an hour to get down to Mama’s ratty little house on Rhomboid Avenue, off Defoors Ferry near Howell Mill, and I needed to be home with supper ready and Greg’s martini made when he walked in at six.
Mama’s mood lightened. “Good. That’s a good girl.” I’d always done the cooking, even when I was little. “And don’t forget my magazines.”
“Okay,” I said. We had a deal: she got my old magazines as long as I could take out the ones she’d read, along with one other thing. “Go ahead and pick something out for me, but remember, jewelry doesn’t count. It has to be at least as big as a shoe box.” Last time, she’d tried to get away with a broken plastic necklace and earrings, which didn’t qualify.
“I don’t know why I ever let you badger me into this arrangement,” she muttered.
Because I’d threatened to quit coming to see her if she didn’t, and meant it. Frankly, though, it only gave me the illusion that I was making a difference. The truth was, as long as she had a phone, Mama kept right on squandering her disability check on “treasures” from catalogues and the want ads, so the stuff that clogged all but the narrow pathways through her house never really diminished, no matter what she gave me to throw away.
“It’s my life, not yours,” she whined for the jillionth time. “My things. What harm does it do you? Or anybody?” she went on, according to script. “I don’t know why you insist on torturing me this way, but I’ll pick something out.” I heard what sounded like a minor avalanche beside her chair as she hung up with a parting, “Torture.”
I closed my eyes, holding the phone to my chest in exasperation, then heard a commotion outside. The movers were pulling away, crammed into the cab of the truck, leaving the ZZ Top guy with his tattooed arm around the skinny redhead as they waved their helpers off with thanks.
There goes the neighborhood.
Greg would die when he found out. He’d been hoping for another Young Republican to play tennis with, as soon as the club was available.
Oh, well. Might as well make the best of it. I headed for the kitchen to load up the tray with food, topping the containers off with red plastic plates and cups, and a bread basket filled with red and white checkered paper napkins wrapped around sets of plastic cutlery and tied with white curling ribbon. The effect was festive and perfect.
Even hippies had to eat, and I certainly didn’t want to get on their bad side.
By the time I reached their front door with the heavy tray, they’d gone inside, but the Vanagon was still there. I rang the bell several times and waited before I finally heard some muffled cursing from inside, then laughter, followed by approaching footsteps and the redhead’s hollered, “Git decent. We’ve got company.”
The door flew open to reveal her flushed and tying her halter top. “Sorry,” she said, “my old man’s an animal.” She caught the aroma of the food and zeroed in on it, wide-eyed. A harsh, sweetish, acrid odor wafted out from behind her. “Wow. You a caterer, or somethin’?”
�
��No.” I did my best to look friendly, which wasn’t easy in light of the smell from the house, one I recognized as the stink of burning hemp twine. I was so naïve, I didn’t even know what it was. “Actually, I’m your new neighbor Betsy Callison from across the street. I figured you wouldn’t be set up to cook today, so I brought y’all some food to welcome you to the neighborhood.”
“Wow. Great.” She studied me with intense, light brown eyes, as if I were some kind of alien. “I’m Kat Gober. My old man’s Zach.” She grinned, her pale red lashes visible for an instant. “We been together five years now, since I was sixteen. Met at a love-in at Piedmont Park.”
Together? Oh, Lord. This was supposed to be a respectable neighborhood.
This woman needed a marriage license almost as much as she needed some mascara.
I was so nonplussed, I forgot to hand her the tray.
“Come on in.” Kat motioned me inside, hungrily eyeing the tray. “What a feast.”
I felt myself blush and extended the food her way. “Just plain old Southern country cooking.”
Kat shoved aside some boxes on the scarred dining room table. “Here. You can just set it down here.” She glanced, frowning, toward the kitchen. “God knows where the dishes are.”
I smiled and pointed to the eating supplies. “Oh, I brought everything.” As I set the pitcher of tea on the table, a loud belch behind me drew my attention to the bearded man, who stopped short in the hallway and stared at me in amazement.
“Damn,” he breathed out, sending those acrid, sweetish fumes my way as he rubbed his eyes. “Am I trippin’, or is Betty freakin’ Crocker in our dining room?” His cultured Southern accent didn’t fit his coarse comment.
“Mind your manners, Zach,” Kat scolded. “This is our new neighbor, Betsy … sorry, I didn’t catch—”
“Betsy Freakin’ Callison,” I said, smooth as my smile, “of Greg and Betsy Callison, your only freakin’ neighbors in the subdivision. So far.”
Zach grinned with a definite spark of intelligence. “I like you,” he said, extending a callused hand with grease under its nails. “Glad to meet ya.” He followed the flick of my eyes to his nails, then hastily withdrew his hand. “Sorry. I’m a plumber. It’s hard to get ’em clean.”
Embarrassed that he’d noticed my reaction, I shifted to the food. “I hope y’all like fried chicken and stewed corn and pole beans.”
“Do we ever.” Zach eyed the cake keeper with alacrity. “And cake.”
“It’s devil’s food with seven-minute icing,” I couldn’t resist bragging. “My specialty.”
Zach plopped down into a chair, untying a set of utensils. “Man, oh man.” He grabbed a paper plate, then pulled back the checkered dishtowel and helped himself to a chicken leg. “Maybe you could teach Kat to cook,” he said as he heaped on a pile of pole beans with the slotted spoon. “She doesn’t even make coffee.”
“I kin make vegetable soup,” Kat defended, clearly feeling at a disadvantage.
Zach guffawed through a mouthful of chicken. “Only if somebody dies or seriously screws up.” He waggled the half-consumed chicken leg my way. “You ever see her making vegetable soup, head for the hills, ’cause there’s a funeral or a tongue-lashin’ in it for somebody.”
Kat shifted uncomfortably. “Hush up, Zach. We just met this woman. She don’t care why I make soup.”
I felt sorry for the girl, married to such a mannerless man who looked like a hobo and told their secrets to strangers. Or not married to him. Or whatever.
“Well, I guess I’ll just head home,” I told them. “I have to go visit my mother and take her some supper.”
Kat brightened with interest. “Your mama live nearby?”
I knotted up inside the way I always did when anyone asked about Mama, but didn’t let my expression show it. “Down in town.”
Kat eyed my clothes. “Buckhead, I bet.”
I just smiled, a master at avoiding awkward questions. “Y’all use the tray and the dishes as long as you need, but the dishtowel is a housewarming present.” I started edging toward the door. “Don’t get up,” I said with more than a hint of sarcasm as Zach shoveled in the food I’d made. “I know you must be tired. I’ll just let myself out.”
Kat followed me, suddenly shy. “Thanks so much for the food and all. Maybe we’ll see each other around on the weekends.”
“I’m sure we will,” I said with a warm smile and a wave good-bye, silently dismissing the couple as potential friends.
The other four houses on the cul-de-sac were almost finished. Surely somebody with whom Greg and I had more in common would move in soon. Kat and Zach just weren’t our kind of people.
But God, as He so often does, had other plans.
Two
Thanks to Atlanta’s ever-present road construction and traffic, I was almost an hour late getting to Mama’s that afternoon. If I didn’t do a fast turnaround, I’d end up stuck in rush hour. I parked on the crumbling pavement in front of Mama’s tiny house and unloaded the food. When I got to the chain-link gate to her tiny yard, her next-door neighbor appeared on the other side to let me in, hoe in hand.
“Afternoon.” He went back to weeding the tomatoes Mama let him plant all the way around the inside of her fence.
The guy hardly ever spoke. Mama said that gardening was his only escape from taking care of his wife, who was dying long and hard of Alzheimer’s. But Mama’s motives weren’t completely altruistic: she loved home-grown tomatoes, and his were prizewinners. His own little yard was crammed with gorgeous vegetables, which he also shared with her.
I noted that some of the tomatoes were almost ripe. “How do you get them to ripen so early?” I asked him.
He beamed. “Plant ’em early, in March,” he said. “I cut the bottoms out of gallon jugs and cover them. On warm days, I take off the jug tops. Only way to get tomatoes in June this far north.”
It was the most he’d ever said to me in fifteen years. “You’re a real wonder-worker in the garden.”
He hesitated, frowning, as if he owed me a compliment in response. “Your mama’s lucky to have you lookin’ out after her.” His face flushed with embarrassment.
“Thanks.”
He went back to his hoeing, so I headed inside with the food.
I didn’t bring up our brief conversation because Mama would analyze it to death, and I didn’t want to talk about the man behind his back.
“Hey, Mama!” I called over the blare of The Match Game, carrying the food down the narrow path to her TV tray.
“Hey, yourself.” She didn’t turn down the TV. She never did. “What’d you bring?”
“Fried chicken, pole beans, stewed corn, and devil’s food cake.” I set the containers on her tray. “What did you pick out for me to take?”
“For heaven’s sake, Betsy, you just got here,” she deflected. “Can’t that wait? I haven’t even eaten.”
I stood in the small space in front of her recliner, my nose twitching at ancient dust and decaying paper. “Mama, pick something. Now,” I said over the TV, “or I’m taking this food home with me and not coming back for a week.” We both knew it wasn’t an empty threat.
Mama went canny. “How did I raise such a cruel child?” she repeated in cultured Southern tones. Despite her arthritis, she rose gracefully from her recliner and pulled a middle-sized box from atop the heap of stuff beside the TV. It was a miracle she could move at all, since her only exercise was going from the bathroom to the refrigerator and the sink and the microwave, then back to her chair. How she kept her figure was beyond me.
Still, Mama was a striking older woman—beautiful even, if she’d just take some care with her hairstyle or makeup, but she refused to let me make her over with just as much vehemence as she refused to let me clean her house. Ironically, she kept herself squeaky clean.
She thrust the box at me. “You want this so bad? Take it. It’s pieces of me.”
It wasn’t pieces of Mama; it was pieces of soa
p—five pounds of the dying slivers of a jillion colors and textures—and they hadn’t been there when I moved out to get married two years before. Right after I left, she’d piled the one shower-bath full of junk, so she must have been washing from the sink, which couldn’t account for all that soap. Lord knows where it had come from. I shuddered to think.
“Good job, Mama. Good job,” I encouraged, still grasping at the illusion that behavior modification might work with total insanity.
I leaned over and gave her a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “I can’t stay, or I won’t get home in time to have Greg’s martini ready.” I gripped the box of slivers hard against me, in case she tried to take it back. “I’ll see you Friday.”
“Go on, then,” she grumbled, waving me away. “Leave me alone here. See if I care.”
Why that kind of talk still got under my skin, I couldn’t tell you, but it did. Was it too much to hope for at least a little gratitude?
Mentally ill. She’s sick, not deliberately trying to drive me crazy too. “See you Friday, Mama.”
Thanks to her delays, I barely had time to get home and set the table, warm up dinner, and have Greg’s martini made before he drove into the garage. Glass in hand, I exhaled a cleansing breath, then put on my best Total Woman smile.
The door from the garage opened and Greg shot me a smug look. “That’s my girl.” Kissing me on the cheek, he took the martini. After a hefty slug, he headed for the den with his New York Times (expensive, but deductible).
“Hard day at work?” I asked lightly.
He paused just inside the den, but didn’t turn around. “Crazy.”
Normally, I gave him time alone to detox from work, but I’d learned to read the nuances of his posture and inflection, and there was definitely something wrong. So I broke with protocol and followed him into the den, where I found him behind the financial section in his tasteful wingback leather recliner. “Want to talk about it?” I asked.
“Not till after dinner,” he said through the paper. “I need to unwind first. With another martini.” His eyes never leaving the news, he shifted the paper to his left hand, then slugged what was left of the first drink and extended the glass my way.
Wife-in-Law Page 2
