by KD McCrite
I buttered a biscuit.
“Coffee, Mama Grace?” Mama asked. She got out the special cup with #1 Grandma printed on it in big, red letters. She filled it before Grandma had a chance to answer.
“Thankee kindly, Lily.” She took a noisy sip.
“Grandma?” I said.
“Woo?” Grandma always says “Woo?” like that. She says it in a high-pitched kind of way, kinda like she’s making a train whistle. Everybody else’s grandma just says “What?” or “Huh?” or “Don’t bother me now.”
“How do you drink your coffee that way, right out of the coffee pot without even blowing on it?” I asked. “Don’t it burn your guzzle?”
Guzzle is another Grandma word I like to borrow. Aside from its real dictionary definition, I think it means anything inside you, from your lips all the way to your belly.
“Aw, April, I been drinking hot coffee since I was a squirt, littler ’n you. My guzzle is calloused.”
Even on a day as hot as that one, steam rose from her mug. I watched her drink.
“I guess it is,” I agreed. “Plumb calloused.”
“Some eggs and toast, Mama Grace?” my mama asked.
“Had me some oats earlier, Lily, but thanks anyway.”
Grandma put down her mug and tapped the rim for a minute, as if she was gathering her thoughts. Then she announced right out loud, “I do believe old man Rance has got designs on me.”
Mama had just poured herself a cup of coffee, and now she turned around so fast it sloshed over her fingers and onto the floor.
“Ouch!” She sucked in a breath, shaking the drops from her hand while she gave Grandma a big-eyed look. “Jeffrey Rance?”
“The very one.”
Grandma swigged another drink, eyeballing my mama with her eyebrows raised.
“Well, don’t look so stunned, Lily. I won’t win no Miss Universe contest, but I ain’t that ugly, am I?”
Mama kept staring at her. “You mean Mr. Rance from Texas? The man who bought the Fielding place this spring? The one who told us his wife died just last Christmas?”
“Yep.”
“Designs? Like tattoos?” I asked, all agog. Which was the wrong thing to do because it drew Mama’s attention.
“April Grace, go take a shower and get dressed.”
“But, Mama, if Grandma is—”
“Right now.”
She had that don’t-give-me-any-sass look on her face, so I had to leave the room just when things were getting good. Believe me, my grandma getting a tattoo just about topped my list of Interesting Things. I left the kitchen, but I hung around out of sight in the dining room, straightening the knickknacks and stuff on the shelves. I kept real quiet, but I want to tell you something: I had met that Mr. Rance, and there was something about that man I didn’t care for. Not that I knew him personally at that point, but I’d seen him at the store a time or two, and he came to church a couple of times. There was just something about the way he looked at people when they weren’t looking at him, kinda like he was sizing them up or looking for their secrets or something. Then when they’d look at him, he’d smile real big and get all friendly. I wondered if anybody else had noticed these things.
“What makes you think Mr. Rance is after you?” I heard Mama ask.
After her? I stopped breathing and straightening. After her, like a stalker?
“Oh, he’s been calling, bringing me things.”
Grandma said this real casual. Too casual, if you ask me.
Mama must have thought so, too, because she said suspiciously, “What things?”
“Oh, some tomatoes he bought from a vendor at the farmer’s market.”
“We have plenty of early eating tomatoes in our own garden. You’re welcome to as many as you want. Goodness knows you’ve done enough work taking care of them.”
“And he brought me some peaches.”
Mama didn’t say anything for a second or two, then answered, “Well, that was nice. Peaches are kinda expensive this year since that late freeze.”
“Yes. And he gave me a book on horses, and a little glass horse too.”
“Well, Mama Grace, that doesn’t mean . . . Well, that is, has he said, well, you know . . .”
I heard Grandma take a noisy slurp of coffee and set the mug back on the table. She sucked in a big loud breath and heaved it out.
“It’s like this, Lily. He kissed me last night.”
Well, I almost fainted right there on the dining room floor and nearly dropped the little ceramic elf I was holding. I love my grandma, so don’t get me wrong, but . . . it kinda makes the tiny little hairs on my arms stand up when I think about her and some man kissing.
There was no sound at all from the kitchen for a minute. Then Mama said in a very odd voice that sounded as if she was choking, “Mama Grace, did you kiss him back?”
Well, this had gone way past my interest. I plunked down the ceramic elf and fled upstairs so I wouldn’t hear the answer to that.
FOUR
Calling on
Ian and Isabel
You have probably guessed that since our new neighbors impressed ole Myra Sue so all-fired much, she pitched a fit when she found out Mama was gonna drag me to their house without her.
“Myra Sue could go instead of me,” I offered real generously. “She could apologize for me, like a lawyer or preacher or something, and she’d do a better job ’cause she’s older and stuff.”
“Yeah,” my sister agreed, smiling all over herself. “I could—”
“No.”
The word fell out of Mama’s mouth like a rock.
Myra Sue pooched out her lower lip and frowned and looked as aggravated as I felt. One of the few times we were actually willing to cooperate, and you’d think it would’ve thrilled Mama. I had even complimented my sister. Sort of.
“How about if I don’t read any books for a whole week?” I said. “That could be my punishment.”
And if you know me at all, you know taking away my books is about the worst thing you could do to me. Mama gave me a look.
“Absolutely not.”
Boy, oh boy, Mama sure could be unreasonable sometimes.
We went to the St. Jameses in the Taurus, our good car, which is usually saved just for going to church or Special Occasions. I guess since Mama’d put on a pretty summer dress and made up her face, and poufed her hair and mine— and forced me to change out of my loose scruffies—paying a visit to the St. Jameses was a Special Occasion. I hoped she wouldn’t care if I threw up on the new shorts and shirt she’d got me for school next month, because I had a feeling that by the time I finished apologizing for something I wasn’t sorry for, I’d ’urp up my breakfast. I toted along my book, just in case I had a chance to read.
Let me tell you something. Rough Creek Road is real pretty. Tall trees grow on both sides, so most of the road is shady and cool all day. If you drive on our road in the autumn with the car windows down, the spicy smell of fallen leaves as they rot into the earth is better than any perfume you’ll smell at the counter in Macy’s. But here’s the thing: Rough Creek Road abused our Taurus, which was why we drove the car only on Special Occasions. The road mistreated any vehicle except maybe a tractor or a farm truck or the road grader—or maybe a mule. Mama drove about five miles an hour, doing her best to miss the worst of the tricky bumps, gaping holes, and pointy rocks. I tried to read as we trekked to the St. Jameses, but it was impossible.
“Do you think the St. Jameses live in Sam White’s old house?” I asked.
“Well, they bought the place, so I assume they plan to live in it.”
I thought about that abandoned old house for a minute or two.
“You reckon that roof leaks?”
“I’m sure it does.” Mama bit her lower lip and eased over a particularly nasty boulder-type rock in the road.
“It’s an awful small house. Do you think—”
“April Grace, honey, can you give me a minute, please? I need to foc
us on getting this car down the road.” That was Mama’s way of saying, “Be quiet and leave me alone.”
So I kept quiet, but I tried to imagine Ian St. James parking that big, shiny black car in front of Sam White’s run-down old house. My imagination just wasn’t that strong, I guess, and that’s saying something.
Mama turned off the road and onto the driveway leading to the St. Jameses. Weeds grew so thick you could hardly see the tracks of the driveway or much of the house. Even the front yard looked like a tangled jungle of chicory and sticker weeds and toe-jerkers. Last year, our fifth grade science teacher, Mr. McCoach, said those weeds are called plantain, not toe-jerkers. Well, I’ll tell you, when they get to a certain age and size, they start growing long stems with an ugly little flower at the end. And if you’re walking barefoot and one gets between your toes, it’s so strong it’ll like to jerk your toe off. Grandma calls them toe-jerkers, and that’s good enough for me.
Right away, when I saw that black car wasn’t there, a great swell of joy nearly swallowed me alive. Then I saw that scrawny Isabel St. James sitting on the top porch step, looking like a reject from a Saturday morning cartoon. Her short, dark hair was slicked back, and she was dressed all in black— skinny black pants and a sleeveless black shirt and black high heels. Like I’m so sure that’s what people should wear out here in the country. Good grief.
When we stopped the car, she stared at us as if she’d like to throw us both in a black hole. She had big dark smudges around her eyes, and I wondered if the mister had hauled off and given her a couple of socks in the eyes. If he had, I figured we’d better haul his sorry self to the Zachary County sheriff and be right quick about it before he hurt her worse. But then I realized those smudges were nothing but smeared mascara.
“Poor thing,” Mama said softly. “She’s been crying.” Trust Mama to feel sorry for that sharp-tongued ole gal who practically called me a louse-bound hillbilly just the day before.
Mama got out of the car and, with my book in my hand, I followed like molasses in January. By the time I reached the porch, Mama had settled on the step next to Isabel St. James, with her arm around those bony shoulders. “There, there,” Mama said.
Isabel sniffled and blinked. When she saw me, she drew up her shoulders and backbone until she was as straight and wide as a crowbar.
“Does that child have something contagious?”
Her voice sounded nose-pinched, and her mouth was all smushed up into a pucker.
I gave Mama an I-told-you-so look, hoping she’d finally understand that Isabel was Rude to the Max so that we could go home. But you know what Mama did? She took out a little pack of Kleenex from her purse, shook out a tissue, and handed it to Isabel, who grabbed it without saying “bless you,” “thank you,” or anything.
“This is my daughter, April Grace Reilly. She got into some poison ivy, but it isn’t contagious, so please don’t worry.” She patted the woman’s arm. Isabel eyeballed my rash and nodded ever so slightly—I guess that was her way of apologizing. “I’m your neighbor, Lily Reilly. The girls said you stopped by our house yesterday.”
Luckily, Myra Sue had already told Mama the woman’s name because Isabel didn’t bother to introduce herself before she started blubbering again.
Through her sniffling, wiping, and hiccupping, she managed to say, “When I saw your house yesterday, I was horrified.”
Mama’s eyes widened. “Why?” She handed over a fresh tissue.
Isabel dabbed her eyelashes, smearing the raccoon effect. She blew her considerable nose.
“Because it’s so old and . . . so . . . country.”
Mama cleared her throat, glancing at me long enough to finally see my educated expression. She turned to Isabel.
“Well, Mrs. St. James, we’re in the country. My husband’s grandfather built that wonderful old house in the 1920s. It might be old, but it’s clean and neat and solid. And it’s our home.”
So there.
“But I loathe old houses! And look at this!” She gestured behind her as she shrieked the final word. Sam White’s old falling-down house was way worse than I realized. I’d never seen it up close and personal ’cause Myra Sue said it was haunted. I didn’t believe her, of course, but the place sure looked like a rat haven to me. Gaps in the red shingle siding showed the tar paper beneath. The front windows that remained in place were cracked or broken, and no front door hung where one should be. The best thing about the whole house was the front porch, but most of its remaining boards had seen better days.
“I despise it,” Isabel continued to rant. “And that ghastly, dusty road, and these weeds, and whatever wild animal is scratching around under this shack. I hate it all, I tell you, and I want to go back to California where I had a life!”
Mama glanced at the house and winced. I guess she hadn’t realized it was so run-down, either.
“Well,” she said, turning back to Isabel, “you certainly can’t stay here until some work’s been done. It isn’t safe.”
“Oh no!” Isabel screeched. “Not on your life. I will never live in this hovel, not if my very life depends on it!”
Mama and I looked at each other. To tell you the truth, I didn’t blame poor ole Isabel for how she felt. I wouldn’t want to live there, either. For a long time, nobody said anything, and the only sounds were the jar flies shrilling in the trees and Isabel snuffling into her soggy Kleenex.
Mama handed her the whole pack of tissues and said, “Well, what are you going to do? Where’s your husband?”
Isabel stiffened as if she had been poked in the backside with a sharp stick. Her tears stopped like a spigot being turned off, and her mouth thinned until you couldn’t see her lips. Boy, oh boy, you could tell she was itching for a fight.
“I don’t know where he went, that wretch, but I hope some banjo-picking, cross-eyed hillbilly gets hold of him and drags him into the woods.”
“Surely he didn’t just leave you here!” said Mama.
Isabel blinked about a hundred times in five seconds.
“I should say he did! He forced me to get up at the crack of dawn this morning, practically yanking me out of bed in that Starshine Motel in town. He refused—refused, mind you—to let me stay there for the day, even when I begged. Not that I harbor affection for dinky, low-class hostels, of course, but I certainly did not want to come back out to this backwoods shack again. Ian literally hauled me to this toxic dump. And then he had the unmitigated gall to ask which room we should start cleaning first.” She shuddered. “Well, I told him what I thought of him, this hovel, and his bright idea to drag us out into the back of nowhere, where no one in their right mind would ever want to live.”
By this time, she seemed to have forgotten about bawling her head off and was ready to knock her husband into the middle of next week.
I’ll tell you one thing: Isabel St. James was no prize to look at the day before, when she had her makeup on. But after she’d been bellowing like a newborn calf for half the morning, it hurt my eyes to look at her. She’d do the rest of us a world of good if she’d wear a bag over her head.
I sat down on the bottom step, and before I opened my book, I looked out over the weedy yard. Two gigantic oak trees shaded the house. The lawn would look real pretty if someone would cut the grass and plant some flowers. A nice, gentle breeze blew against my face as I stared up at the trees, at the long-armed limbs stretching out and reaching up like they were so glad to be alive. The green, green leaves against the blue of the sky made my heart tremble. I bet those trees had been there a hundred years.
“Look at the oak trees, Isabel St. James,” I said. “They ought to make you feel better.”
Isabel’s expression said I was something stinky on the bottom of her long, narrow shoe. Then, without saying a word to me, she turned to my mother.
“That miserable cur bought this dump without ever having seen it. Can you believe it? After we . . . well, after we . . . after we had to sell our house . . . then he . . . a
nd the only place we could afford was here in this wilderness. Then he had the nerve to say, ‘Maybe it’s for the best, lambkins. Maybe we can find our dream.’ And then this morning, he abandoned me.”
“Abandoned?” Mama asked, startled. “Surely not!”
“Well, he went somewhere without saying a word and left me completely alone in this wilderness!”
She squalled into her Kleenex and waterlogged about three more before taking a deep breath. “If he longs for nature, what’s wrong with the San Fernando Valley, I’d like to know?!” she said, looking at Mama as if she blamed her for everything wrong in her life. “And you people here are so out of touch with the world. How can you stand being a hillbilly?”
I stared at her, amazed by her nastiness when Mama had been so nice. And let me tell you something right now: I couldn’t just sit there and be quiet.
When I jumped to my feet, I guess Mama realized I was all wound up because she gave me a look, but by then I was so mad I didn’t care. I refused to listen to that ole Isabel St. James one more second. But I never got a chance to say a word because right then, that slick, black Cadillac came skulking down the weedy driveway like an egg-suckin’ dog.
“There!” Mama said in a cheerful voice. “Isn’t that your husband? See? He didn’t plan to leave you here for long!”
Isabel’s tears dried instantly. She narrowed her eyes, pinched in her lips, and threw down all those soggy tissues.
“He’s going to wish he had,” she announced as she stood. “Because I am going to tear out his black heart with my bare hands.”
Well, this I had to see.
FIVE
Isabel’s Mortal Injuries
As I watched Isabel in her high heels and fancy designer pants go charging through the weeds toward her husband, I got to thinking, and here’s what I thought: what would happen when the St. Jameses met their next-door neighbors, the Freebirds? They are about as opposite as Ecuador and Iceland. To tell you the truth, I’d dearly love to be there when they finally got a load of one another.
