by Kitty Margo
Chapter Eleven
Irene
The bus driver actually pulled into a convenience store parking lot because he knew some type of altercation was about to ensue.
“What did you use for flour?” choking lady bellowed. “Cement mix?”
In that instant I witnessed an occurrence as rare as a blood moon. Maggie Moore was speechless.
“That’s the first cupcake I ever tried to eat that was so damn dry I almost choked to death on it!”
Maggie still had her hands on the munchkin’s shoulders, gazing down at her, dumbfounded.
Then the devious little cretin actually shoved Maggie with all her feeble might causing her to fall back against the bathroom door.
“Why are you just standing there with your mouth hanging open and catching flies? You better be on the phone calling your lawyer, because I intend to sue you for every penny you are worth for tying to murder me with your vile cupcakes.”
“I… I… I…” Maggie stuttered.
By this time, I’d had enough. For crying out loud, the woman would be dead if not for Maggie’s quick thinking and CPR training. “You just hold on a minute…” I started to say.
“You just sit back down blondie, or whatever your natural color is!” She turned on me, red as a pickled beet in the face and breathing heavily. “Nobody pulled your chain.”
“No, but I am going to pull yours if you don’t sit down and shut the hell up!” The nerve of the old biddy! “You would be on your way to the morgue right now if Maggie hadn’t saved your worthless life. And this is the thanks she gets?”
“Save it?” she spluttered, gesturing wildly with her hands as spit flew in all directions. Her false teeth were clearly not a good fit. “She tried to kill me!”
“She did no such thing and you know it.” I waved my hand up toward the front of the bus. “I don’t see anybody else on the verge of death by cupcake, do you?” For emphasis, I leaned across the seat in front of me and asked the audience at large, “How were the cupcakes, y’all?” and was rewarded with a chorus of:
“Delicious!”
“Best cupcake I ever tasted.”
“The icing was decadent.”
“Yummy.”
“Do you have any more?”
I thought for sure smoke would come rolling out of the hussy’s ears when she heard the accolades for her nemesis. “The lot of you are nothing more than a bunch of suck up fools for agreeing with her when you know those cupcakes were drier than a powder keg.” By then, she was so mad she was hopping from one foot to the other. I could tell she was a vengeful little thing, set on having her way. “You just mark my words,” she growled, continuing to spew her verbal diarrhea. “You will pay for trying to kill me.”
“Whatever.” I laughed. “Your silly words don’t scare me. Poof! Be gone Wicked Witch of the South before someone drops a house on you.”
She bristled for a few minutes, clenching and unclenching her fists before she went traipsing up to the front of the bus and we could easily hear her spouting off that she was not sitting in the back with an attempted murderess.
The tour director was in the front seat with her clipboard, and brochures and all her director paraphernalia stacked neatly in the seat beside her. The nervous girl obligingly shoved her belongings to the cramped floor in front of her and propped her feet on them so the evil leprechaun could sit beside her. Good riddance!
Maggie was still leaning against the bathroom door looking like she was in a daze, so I took her hand and led her to her seat. “Can you believe the nerve of that diabolical troll?” she mumbled. “I was so shocked by her reaction that I didn’t know whether to try to calm her down or slap the shit out of her, so I did neither.”
“Just forget about her,” I replied soothingly. “She has to be chemically imbalanced and obviously didn’t remember to take her meds this morning.”
Within ten minutes of us taking our seats and the bus proceeding to speed down the interstate, Maggie was already chattering away with her version of The Life and Times of Raising Three Boys with the lady across the aisle in the window seat, the incident with the cupcake seemingly forgotten.
Turning sideways in her seat so she could face the woman across the aisle, Maggie said, “When my youngest son Noah was about two years old he was talking in complete sentences. Well, that’s not entirely true. The child was talking in complete paragraphs. Everywhere we went folks would comment on his ability to carry on a conversation with grown folks.”
The woman across from her seemed to be spellbound.
“Well, when he was about two and a half years old he just stopped talking one day. Cold turkey. Not a single word would fall from his lips. I was convinced my baby had a brain tumor so I took him to doctors, specialists, and ENT’s for two solid weeks, but nobody could tell me why my toddler wouldn’t talk. He communicated with a series of grunts when he wanted something.”
“Now, my other two sons Trip and Cyrus were nine and ten at the time and were forever trying to make their baby brother talk. Cyrus was convinced that if he could ever get Noah riled up enough, he would start spluttering away like he used to.”
“One evening I had been to the garden and was coming down the hill with a gallon of cucumbers to make dill pickles. As I came around the back of the house, I heard my precious little baby say, ‘Get up, sumbitch.’”
“What? I stopped dead in my tracks and turned fifty shades of red when I noticed my elderly next door neighbor gawking. She would have to choose that particular moment to go to the freaking mailbox.
“A little louder this time, Noah repeated, ‘stand up muh fucka.’”
“On the verge of either a stroke or minor coronary episode, I thought what on earth is happening to my baby? Then I dropped that bucket of cucumbers and raced around the side of the house so fast it would make your head spin. There sat Cyrus and Noah on the car porch. From what I could gather Noah wanted the cat to ride in his wagon, but the cat would hiss every time he tried to pick him up. And there stood Cyrus withholding Hershey kisses from the baby until he said what he told him too.”
“Noah didn’t have a shirt on and his chest was smeared with chocolate from one end to the other, so evidently he had been coerced into cussing up a blue streak. Cyrus would lean over and whisper in his ear and my baby would say, ‘Move sumbitch.’”
“Cyrus was killing his fool self laughing.”
“When they saw me, Noah looked me straight in the eyes and said, ‘Hey, muh fucka.’ Cyrus bent over double laughing, expecting me to heap praise on his head for making my baby talk again. I heaped it on him all right, but it surely wasn’t praise.”
“Cyrus Moore, where in the world did you hear language like that?” I stormed.
“Chill out, Mom,” he answered rather casually. “Ricky Water’s dad says it all the time.”
“Don’t you ever tell me to chill out again, and don’t you dare ever ask to spend the night at Ricky’s house again. I don’t care if his father is the coach of your football team.”
“Now, the next day was Sunday, and I was as nervous as a long tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs worrying about Noah’s colorful new vocabulary. I knew all the parishioners would be thrilled to see that our prayers had been answered and the baby was talking again. But glory be! What if he said one of his new favorite phrases while every head was bowed and every eye closed in prayer.”
“I knew I had to keep Cyrus and Noah separated since Cyrus’s devious little self had a tendency to pinch his little brother, or pull his hair, or do whatever was necessary to aggravate that baby enough to make him spittin’ mad.”
“Well, just as we entered the church, here comes Sherita Goins, otherwise known as the hugger. Well, don’t you know she latched her arms around my neck like a vise and that left Cyrus to scoop up Noah and move down to the end of the pew. Trip went next, then Earl, and by the time Sherita released me I was at the aisle end of the pew. I looked down the row and pointed my finge
r at Cyrus. My heartbeat sped up to triple time when he rewarded me with his most angelic smile. I remember thinking, oh, shit. I know that look.”
“Now, rest assured that every person in that church knew how Cyrus loved to harass his baby brother, especially the preacher who had eaten Sunday dinner with us on several occasions and witnessed it first hand. It was the highlight of Cyrus’s life. He lived for moments just such as this.”
“Well, sure enough, as if on cue, Noah screamed, ‘Ouch, you muh…’”
“Before he could finish, he was interrupted by the preacher’s booming voice as it reached every corner and crevice of that church. ‘Noah!’”
“Noah looked up with tears in his eyes thinking the preacher was calling him down and jumped down from the pew to run to where I was sitting and cuddle in my arms.”
“The preacher breathed a relieved sigh that a catastrophe had been diverted, and said, “Noah found favor in God’s eyes.”
“Now I don’t know if that was the preacher’s chosen sermon for the week, or he was only doing what any good Christian would do to prevent an entire family of his congregation from becoming outcasts. Whichever it was, I gazed up at him with gratitude shining in my eyes and mouthed, ‘Thank you.’”
“After a barely perceptible nod of his head he continued with his sermon. I looked down the aisle again at Cyrus, but he was not about to look my way. I sent up a quick prayer that one day my child would realize that every action has consequences and that the majority of his actions normally resulted in a sore tail.”
Finished with her story, Maggie spun back around to face the front trying to decide which story she should regale the lady with next.
Let it be known that Maggie Moore has never met a stranger and is one of those people who will tell you stories about something that happened to her aunt, or sister in law, or second cousin three times removed in a hot minute. Somehow they got on the subject of having a catfish fry on the riverbank. Catfish is a Southern staple, you know.
Maggie was quick to inform her, “I don’t eat catfish.”
“Why ever not?” the woman asked, obviously shocked by such a ridiculous statement coming from a person with a Southern accent.
“Well, I’ll tell you,” Maggie replied. “When I was in Junior Lifesavers a man in our town drowned in the lake. When they finally found his body, catfish had eaten his face off. Ever since that day, knowing what catfish eat, there is no way I could eat one. So, as much as I love catfish nuggets rolled in cornmeal and fried to a golden brown, I had to give them up.”
Every time I heard her tell that story I wondered how they knew it was a catfish as opposed to a turtle or some other river monster.
Of course, Maggie is forever giving up things. She gave up sweet tea for lent one year, the next year she gave up gossiping, the next bacon and so on. And causes! Lord knows the girl has more causes than you can shake a stick at. At present it’s GMO’s that are giving her the most concern. And to be honest, I couldn’t even tell you what GMO stands for without researching it on Google.
Chapter Twelve
Maggie
The first night of the bus trip we stayed in a small town between Daytona Beach and Cocoa Beach named Ocean City. I fell in love at first sight with the quaint houses and village atmosphere. The branches of huge oak trees dripping with Spanish moss met each other across the road, so the entire little town was a haven of cool shade. Well kept gingerbread houses surrounded by vibrant flowers, neatly trimmed shrubs, and manicured lawns lined the street like a Norman Rockwell painting. I imagined it to be a town where everybody knows your name and the ladies run next door to borrow a cup of sugar for the blackberry pies they are baking for supper.
At the end of the street the trees parted ways abruptly and I noticed a gas station, a Sleepy Inn, and the residence of a psychic. She had a big sign out front that read:
Psychic Lucinda
A chance to spend one last hour with your loved ones.
Lord, honey, that was a scary thought. I had already had three visitations from my dead husband Earl since his untimely demise and I had no desire for a fourth. All three times before when he appeared he was struggling to tell me something, but he never could quite get it out.
Now it goes without saying that I have the most wonderful grandchildren in the world. It’s an added blessing to a sports fanatic like myself that they also happen to excel at sports. I try to never miss one of their games.
Back when I was still working as a nurse, I had left work one evening and rushed to the next town over to watch a football game. I got there late, so I grabbed my pocketbook out of little red, locked the doors, and hurried across the parking lot. I thought it was odd that I couldn’t hear the announcer talking, or the crowd cheering their loved ones on. Nothing. All was quiet.
I happened to glance up and there stood a man. Not just any man mind you, my man. My dead man. I knew it was Earl Bernard Moore the second I saw him. Earl had this way of hitching up his pants and tucking his shirt in the waistband of his underwear in a way that was customary for him. I had probably seen him do it a couple thousand times during the course of our marriage.
My heart started racing to the point that I knew I was having palpitations. I couldn’t catch my breath and he just stood there, not offering to pound me on the back or anything. When I could finally draw a decent breath and started toward him, my dearly departed began walking to the entrance of the ball field, but he disappeared through the turnstile before I could reach him. I held out my money to pay the woman and she said, “Are you alright?”
“Yes.” I attempted a small laugh. “I just got a little spooked because there was no one else in the parking lot.”
She looked behind me curiously. When I turned to follow her gaze there were at least 10 other people coming in from the parking lot. In a daze, I found my family and sat down, but to this day I can’t tell you who won that game.
It was late at night the second time I saw him. It was winter and I had worked second shift. It was as cold as a witch’s tit in a brass brassiere that night and I had come home and rooted down under several of my mama’s handmade quilts, ready to hibernate for a while. Then I felt something staring at me. You know that feeling. It made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Trying to ignore it, I lay there for several minutes dreading having to get out of my warm bed.
Finally, I tossed the cover back and raised up and there stood Earl at the foot of my bed just as plain as day. His lips were moving, but if any words were coming out I couldn’t hear them. When I put my feet on the floor, he turned and walked out of the bedroom door. I searched that house for over an hour, but I didn’t see another trace of him that day.
The third time, I was on my way to the grocery store. The stoplight caught me and I waited for five pedestrians to cross. One of them was Earl. He stopped right in front of my car and held his hands toward me. Again, his lips were moving but nothing was coming out. I glanced down to put the car in park, intending to go to him, but when I looked up the light was green and he was gone.
My nerves were so tore up I knew I would need something stronger than chamomile tea to calm me down that night, so I poured lemon flavored vodka over two chamomile tea bags and waited 4 minutes. Then I poured boiling water over it to make me a cup of stiff tea, and after blowing on it to cool it, drank it down in one gulp. I went to bed and lay there for the longest time waiting in vain for Earl to show up.
Why does he keep coming back? What is he trying to tell me? I wonder if Psychic Lucinda could clue me in?
Irene was busy fumbling in her bag for a pill to lower her blood sugar. Any fool of mediocre intelligence could see that she had eaten enough candy on this trip to send her straight into a diabetic coma. I poked an elbow into her ribs and pointed out the window. “Look! There is a psychic right across from our hotel.”
Irene looked at me suspiciously, pursing her lips as she does when she is about to get aggravated. “Don’t even think about it.”
“Why?” I pushed out my bottom lip for effect. “You know Earl keeps coming back to tell me something. Maybe a psychic can tell me why he won’t leave me alone.”
She thought about it for a minute and evidently saw the rationale in what I was saying. “Do you really think she could? Lord knows you worry me with all this talk about waking up to find Earl standing at the foot of your bed, especially now that I will be sharing close sleeping quarters with you for the next ten days.”
“There is only one way to find out.”
“Why do I always let you talk me in to this foolishness?” Irene grumbled, gathering her bags and standing, all the while knowing we would be the last ones off the bus and we hadn’t even parked yet. Why do people always do that on trains, planes and buses?
An hour later, after we had gotten settled in our room, I could tell that Irene clearly intended to take a nap, but of course there wasn’t time for such frivolity We had important business to attend to. “Come on,” I badgered. “Get your shoes on and let’s walk across the street.”
“What about supper?” she whined. “You act like we don’t even need to eat.”
“The others are going to Cracker Barrel. But that’s just home cooking, the same thing we eat at our houses every day. What’s so special about that? If we miss it, we can just grab something from the vending machine.”
She looked at me like I had suddenly sprouted a third lip. “The vending machine? Have you lost your ever loving mind?” Irene was off that bed in a New York minute, standing over me with her arms crossed over her chest and her eyes blared. “You know my sugar will drop if I don’t eat soon.”
She had to be joking. “Honey, I doubt your sugar will drop back down to normal for at least 48 hours the way you inhaled sweets today.”
I could tell by the way she stood with her legs braced about two feet apart that she was going to be bullheaded. “Well, regardless, I am not eating pretzels or cheese twists for supper and washing it down with a canned soda. You can forget that.”
