by KD McCrite
Anyway, the more I thought about Mr. Rance being up to no good, the more it all made sense. The way the old man eyeballed the TV and VCR, he probably thought she was loaded. I’d heard about men who sweet-talk nice ladies into giving them everything they own, but Grandma don’t have much— just her home furnishings and her Social Security checks.
Well, he better not try to sponge off my grandma. He better not be a crook. Or an old lady’s purse snatcher. Or a wife murderer.
“Boy, oh boy,” I said as I started walking again. “You don’t want to mess with the grandma of April Grace Reilly. If I find out he’s up to mischief, I’m going to fix him good.”
I sort of felt like John Wayne or Clint Eastwood. If either one of them had been a girl, I mean.
EIGHT
The St. Jameses
Are Coming,
Hurrah, Hurrah
That night I set the table for company supper. Myra Sue came into the dining room. She stared at the table, then squawked like a strangled goose.
“You dumb little kid! Don’t you know anything?” she said to me. She began stacking up the plates I’d just laid out.
“Mama told me to set the table, and you’re messing it up. Stop it!” I reached out to take the plates back from her.
“Stop it yourself, you toad!” said Myra Sue.
She yanked backward. The top two plates slid from the stack and crashed to the floor.
“What in the world?” Mama came out of the kitchen, looking from the plates on the floor to us. Her face was pink and damp from the hot stove.
“Mama, she unset the table—” I began.
“Mama, she was using these old dishes—” Myra Sue butted in.
“Quiet!” Mama hardly ever raised her voice, so when she hollered we both hushed. She glared at us, then said, “I told you to set the table, April Grace, and you, Myra Sue, are supposed to call Grandma and tell her to bring ice.”
Usually, Mama never gets flustered, but I had a feeling she was all nervous and jumpy because those snotty St. Jameses were coming. She rubbed a spot above her eyebrows.
“What happened, April?” she asked in a voice that sounded as if she were tired enough to lay right down.
I shot a triumphant look at my sister.
“I set the table, eight places, just like you told me to. Then Myra Sue sticks her stupid head in here—”
“April Grace.” Mama’s voice held a warning.
I cleared my throat. “Myra Sue sticks her head in here and starts hollering and unsets it all, then she goes and dumps them plates on the floor.”
“You are such a big fat liar. Mama, your youngest daughter used our old dishes instead of our good ones, and Mr. and Mrs. St. James are extra special guests.”
“Oh brother,” I muttered.
“They deserve the very best,” she added.
Suddenly we’re the Hallmark card people. I was afraid I might upchuck, but from the expression on Mama’s face, I decided standing there and gagging probably wasn’t the smartest thing I could do.
“They are from California,” Myra Sue continued, as if that were the cherry on top of her sundae.
“So what?” I said.
“What about these broken plates on the floor?” Mama pronounced each word real slow and precise, and her voice got louder with each word.
“I guess I picked up too many,” Myra said. “They slid off.”
Mama stared at her real hard, then at the plates, then at me. She took in a breath so deep, both sides of her nose pinched in.
“All right, Miss Myra. You want to set the table so much, set it. Use the good dishes, not because the St. Jameses are from California, but because they are our guests. And you.” She turned to me, and I shrunk a little inside my skin. “Get the broom and sweep up these broken plates. I’m sure your sister would not deliberately dump them on the floor. Then”—
she turned back to the sister—“you quit stalling and call your grandmother.”
Myra Sue’s expression said she was dying by bits and pieces.
“Why does Grandma have to come?” Myra Sue said. “She is so . . . uncouth. She has no class.”
Mama’s mouth flew open, but before she could respond, I said, “You are mean, Myra Sue Reilly! Grandma is the best grandma is the whole entire world!”
“But, Mama, she’ll show up in one of those awful homemade dresses and her Dr. Scholl’s shoes and use bad grammar and tell some stupid story about when she was a girl during the Great Depression. It will be absolutely humiliating.”
Mama unclenched her jaw. “For shame, Myra Sue Reilly! What’s got into you, anyway? She’s coming. That’s that.”
Another sigh from the dark depths of Myra Sue’s soul.
“And you better be nice to her,” Mama added.
“I’m always nice to her. But face it, Mama, Grandma is a hillbilly. A hick. She’ll disgrace us all.”
I wanted to smack that girl square on the head, but Mama would’ve come unglued. She closed her eyes again and clamped her mouth real tight.
Mama took a deep breath, willing her patience. “Tonight, after our guests are gone, you and I, Myra Sue, are going to have a talk. And you will see the light. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”
Then Mama looked at me, and I lost my grin right quick.
“Why are you still standing there, April? Get the broom and sweep up these broken plates like I told you to.”
I shot off to the broom closet without pausing to blink.
Now, I’m just a kid, so supposedly I don’t know anything, but here’s what I think: if you’re invited to supper at 5:30, you got a lot of nerve to show up at 6:57 without calling to say you’ll be late. But those St. Jameses. I tell you what. They must never have learned good manners out there in California. Grandma got here at 5:15, and she dragged old Mr. Rance right along with her, but at least they were here on time.
I just happened to be standing at the front door when Ian and Isabel drove up. I guess Ian saw me through the screen because he rolled down his window and hollered, “Is that vicious dog tied up?”
I didn’t know where Daisy was, but she’s never been tied up in her whole life. Probably she was asleep next to her food dish in the backyard. But I said “yep” and watched him stop the car near the front steps.
Ole Isabel took her sweet time getting out of the car all by herself because her mister didn’t give her any assistance. He was flapping his handkerchief across the windshield of their car, like that was going to do something about the dust from Rough Creek Road. He held a little purse in one hand. I assume it belonged to his wife, but I wasn’t too sure. Maybe men in their social circle carried purses. Isabel wobbled to the front porch steps on crutches.
Mama, who’d been keeping supper warm, saw Isabel through the screen. “Oh my goodness!” Mama said, and she went running outside. She was down the front steps before the screen door shut behind her.
I followed more slowly and hung around near the edge of the porch to watch what promised to be a real circus. Myra Sue was in the kitchen washing the pots and pans for the second time, since she didn’t do it right the first go-round. She didn’t know that the Emperor and Empress of the Isle of Rude had arrived.
“My stars!” Mama said to Isabel. “You injured it that badly?”
“Those quacks at that hick clinic are a bunch of fools. They told me I had barely twisted my ankle.”
“And they put you on crutches?” Mama said.
“Isabel insisted,” said Ian. His lips hardly moved. Well, how could they? His jaws looked clenched tight enough to crack walnuts. So much for darling and lambkins and snookums and whatever other names they came up with while Isabel was dying on the way to town.
“Of course I insisted,” Isabel snarled. “They were just going to wrap it, give me an aspirin, and send me on my merry way.”
“They took X-rays,” Ian said.
Isabel snorted. “That contraption was ancient. I’m sure I have radiation poisoning now
.”
“Well, if you start to glow in the dark, I’ll let you know,” Ian snapped.
Mama interrupted this precious gem of a conversation. “It can’t be comfortable for you, standing here,” she said. Isabel whimpered and looked pitiful. “So you come on inside where you can sit down. I have supper ready.”
“How am I supposed to get to the door?” Isabel asked.
Mama shot a glance at Ian. “Why, your husband looks strong, and you’re just a little mite. He can carry you. Here, I’ll take your crutches.”
“Ian can’t lift me, let alone carry me,” Isabel said.
“Of course he can,” Mama smiled. “I bet you don’t weigh more than a hundred pounds.”
I looked at Ian. I bet the preschoolers in T-ball could beat him up.
“Well,” Ian said, staring at Isabel. He took in a deep breath and blew it out. “Let’s get you inside.”
Pulling a face that involved squinching his eyes and dragging down the corners of his mouth, Ian picked up his lambkins and staggered around like it was midnight in an ice storm. Isabel shrieked the whole entire time.
Mama followed with the crutches, and I stood where I was, disgusted to the very bone. Inside the house, Mr. Rance— who had invited himself to come along with Grandma—told a long-winded horse story, and he was telling it so loud that I walked clear to the end of our long driveway to see if I could still hear him. I could. Honest.
I stayed outside until my sister came out on the porch.
“Oh, April,” she sang out. I looked at her standing on the edge of the porch, all prissy and sweet. “Mama says it’s time to eat!” She bounced every word as if reciting a poem about a basket of kittens.
I stared at her, wondering if her sweetie-pie smiling-ness was supposed to fool me into getting close enough so she could whomp me upside my head. She’s been known to pull that trick before. But I guess she didn’t plan to do it right then, because she whirled on one foot and went back into the house.
Myra Sue might have planned to be all sweetness and light, and maybe she thought that evening was going to be something out of an old black-and-white Fred Astaire movie, but it wasn’t. It turned out to be something closer to A Nightmare on Elm Street.
NINE
Home-cookin’
and the St. Jameses
Everyone was seated at the supper table by the time I washed my hands and went into the dining room.
Isabel sat in a chair at one end of the table, her foot propped up in another chair nearby with every pillow and cushion in the house under it. Boy, I hoped her skinny, stinky foot wasn’t on the pillow where I lay my own personal head.
Isabel’s crutches leaned against the wall behind her. Ian sat on her right, and next to him sat Grandma and Mr. Rance. Daddy sat at the head of the table with Mama on his right. Myra Sue came next. Lucky for her, she got to sit on Isabel’s left. She patted the empty chair between her and Mama.
“Here, sis,” she said happily.
“What’s wrong with you?” I asked her as I sat down.
She smiled as if I’d given her a compliment; then she turned that dopey grin to Isabel, dazzling the woman with all her braces-covered teeth, including the lower ones.
“Time to give thanks,” Daddy said. “Mr. St. James, as our guest tonight, would you?”
Ian looked at him. “Would I what?”
“Ask the blessing?”
The man’s eyes bugged, then settled back in his head.
“Oh, well, I—”
“We are not religious,” Isabel piped up in a tone of voice that said they weren’t cannibals, either. Then she plucked up a fork and looked at it as if she’d never seen one before.
“Almighty God!” yelled Mr. Rance, and everyone but him jumped about three feet. Isabel’s fork clattered to the table. I saw the old man had his eyes closed and realized he was hollering a prayer, not swearing. He thanked the Lord for everything from summer rain and good food to paved roads and high-steppin’ horses. Then he asked for a blessing on the world, the United States, Texas, the “group gathered here today to eat of the bounty which looked fit,” and “Miz Grace, who is one of yer own dear angels, dear Lord.” I thought he was done, but he kept rambling, and I like to have passed out from starvation.
As Mr. Rance droned on, I breathed in the wonderful smell of Mama’s crispy fried chicken. I opened my eyes while the old man prayed without ceasing and eyeballed the platter of corn on the cob in front of me. Butter dripped off every piece. I imagined biting into it, how it would taste all sweet and smooth and salty. Next to the roasting ears, a bowl of fluffy mashed potatoes sat like a snowy mountain, and there was thick, creamy gravy right next to it. There was big salad with everything taken from our garden that day and a bowl of seasoned, fresh green beans with pieces of bacon and onion. The fried okra came next, then a platter of red tomatoes, sliced thick and fresh, with long slabs of cucumbers and little green onions around them.
I heartily wished God would tell Mr. Rance, “Enough, already.”
I cut a glance from the food to see if anyone else were dying of hunger and over-blessedness, but they all had their eyes closed—except Isabel. She was staring at the fried chicken like she thought it might roost on her plate at any minute. Then her eyes darted nervously from the bowl of gravy to the fried okra to the heaping basket of Grandma’s hot, homemade yeast rolls, for which she is famous.
I looked at Mr. Rance to see if he were about finished, and what do you think I saw? He was talking all that big prayer to God, but he was looking around the dining room to beat the band. He even picked up the serving fork next to the chicken, flipped it over and studied the writing on the back, all without taking a pause in all that thanksgiving. He never did see me looking at him ’cause I closed my eyes again before he had the chance.
When he finally yelled, “Amen!” there was silence. Nobody moved for a minute. I wanted to say something about the total inappropriateness of looking around during prayers, but I supposed I was a bit guilty myself. Anyway, I was too hungry to get sent from the table for speaking out of turn.
“Well, dig in, folks,” Daddy said. “If you don’t see it on the table, just ask for it. Lily, my sweet, it all looks mighty fine, as usual.”
“Apple cobbler for dessert,” Mama told him. They gave each other that gooey look, which I dearly hoped didn’t lead to a kiss. Mr. Rance might think kissing at the table was a habit in our house, and he might decide to lay one on Grandma again.
My daddy looked tired. He had rushed his chores when he could probably have taken his time. As you might know, summer is the busiest time of year for dairy farmers. But do you think the St. Jameses thought of that? In California, they probably never ate their supper until eight or nine.
Before anyone could pass him the fried chicken, Mr. Rance reached out and stuck his fork in the biggest piece. He commenced to whoop and holler about how good it looked. Pretty soon, the food made the rounds with folks serving themselves. Except for Isabel, who took nothing. Myra Sue held out the bowl of potatoes to her, and the woman curled back as if it was full of worms. Ian finally reached across the table, grabbed the bowl, and served himself a little.
I thought Isabel would scream when the gravy reached her. Ian took it from Myra Sue and dabbed a bit on his potatoes.
“Isabel,” Mama said, looking concerned, “you don’t have a thing on your plate. Aren’t you hungry? Are you feeling poorly?”
Isabel’s long blade of a nose curled as her skinny lips puckered into a tiny, wrinkled circle. Boy, could she make herself any uglier?
“I cannot eat this,” she said.
All of us looked at the big bunch of food Mama had worked all afternoon to prepare.
“We eat very little fat,” Ian said.
“And everything here is swimming in grease,” added his lovely wife.
“Swimming in grease?” Mama repeated weakly.
“Butter, gravy, fried,” Isabel said. “In California, we don’t eat any of
it.”
Ian shook his head. “Never.”
I figured there were plenty of folks out there who ate fatty foods—they have McDonald’s out there, don’t they?—so I didn’t believe them. Mama looked as if someone had slapped her. I glared at Isabel and wanted to hit her in the head with one of her crutches, then smack Ian with the other one. Not that I’m violent, but boy, oh boy. Being nice doesn’t seem to work with some people.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Mama said. “I never even thought . . . I’m so used to my way of cooking . . .”
“Your way of cooking is the best in the whole world,” I declared. Daddy patted her hand. Grandma had pulled in the corners of her mouth, aiming a sour expression at some of our company.
“Well, I meant no offense,” Isabel sniffed. She blinked rapidly about twelve times. “I just don’t want to develop that corn-fed look you country people have. I guess you can’t help it, Lucy, if you always eat like this. I simply refuse to put on the extra pounds. Sorry.”
“I understand,” Mama said quietly. “Here’s a nice salad.”
“Her name is Lily,” I told that nasty woman. But she acted like I wasn’t at the table. She brightened as the salad reached her. I guess she’d rather look like a hollowed-out scarecrow than soft and pretty like Mama.
Mr. Rance had been wolfing down his supper like he was the only one in the room. He looked up and saw that everyone watched Isabel put salad on her plate.
“Try some of this here chicken,” he yelled, shoving it her direction. “It’s larrupin’.”
Boy, do I hate that word. It sounds like a disease. Couldn’t he just have said the chicken was tasty?
