by Rita Kano
Rufus whined and flopped down on the porch boards near a bone.
The young girl’s fingers felt more fragile inside Shirley’s than she imagined they would. “Thank you, Lizzie. I like your red hair, too.”
“Come with me,” said Lizzie, tugging on Shirley’s hand.
“Sweetheart, I just need directions. Maybe you can tell me where to find…”
“Come on,” said Lizzie again, pulling harder. “Mama just mopped the living room linoleum. We sure ain’t going in by the front way. If we tromp across her nice clean floor, she’ll take a fresh, green switch to our skinny naked legs.”
“I see,” said Shirley, stumbling twice as Lizzie pulled her along. “We certainly wouldn’t want that.”
“I know you wouldn’t. Mama says redheaded girls get more switching than any other colors, because we’re so hardheaded. Don’t worry, Miss Shirley. I’ll take good care of you.”
On the worn bare dirt at the foot of the back steps, Lizzie let go of Shirley’s hand, ran across the screened in porch and into the kitchen, flinging the door wide open. The woman inside with her back to the entrance stirring something in a pot, almost jumped out of her skin as the screen frame slammed shut so hard it bounced twice. The spoon in her hand dropped to the floor.
“Mama, guess what!” Lizzie gasped in breaths between words, as she stared up with eyes as round as the pot lid in her mama’s hand.
“Lizzie. What in this world? You almost scared me to death. And look at you. You’re a mess. Where have you been? You been roaming around like a mangy stray dog, again? I told you to stay out of those woods. Didn’t I?”
“I ain’t been in the woods, Mama. I only been to grandpa’s house.”
“It don’t look that way.” Her mama rinsed off the dropped spoon.
Lizzie pulled on her dress. “Mama, do you know what grandpa says? Grandpa says…”
“Your grandpa,” she tapped the spoon on the side of a pan, “says a lot of things I don’t care to hear about. Did you run through that dusty cornfield again? I told you not to do that, too, didn’t I?”
“Yes but…”
“No buts.”
“But, Mama…”
“No buts,” she said louder. “Get yourself cleaned up. It’s almost suppertime.”
“But grandpa saw an angel, Mama.” Lizzie spilled out. “And there’s a lady here.”
“What?”
“An angel,” repeated Lizzie.
“No. Not that. A lady’s here? Where?”
“Right there,” Lizzie pointed behind her toward the back door.
“Oh, my goodness,” Lizzie’s mama’s face went pale as new corn silk and then flushed pinker than a wild, spring rose as she turned and saw Shirley. “Goodness gracious, child.”
The lady of the house wiped her hands on a towel and walked out onto the back porch, introducing herself as Arlene Lovett. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” Arlene Lovett’s eyes squeezed around her words. “How can I help you?” She frowned and glanced down at Lizzie who stood close by her side. “Seems my Lizzie here, got a bit distracted.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Lovett, I’m Shirley Foster. I do apologize for the intrusion. I only stopped by to ask directions, but as it turns out I may have come to the right place quite by accident. You said your last name is Lovett. Are you by any chance related to Martha Ann Lovett?”
Arlene wiped her hands on a ruffled apron, the old fashioned kind with a bib that slipped over her head. “Yes, as a matter of fact I am, although I ain’t proud to say it. Martha Ann is my older sister’s girl. Her and me married brothers. But if you’re looking for that wayward child it’s a waste of sweet and precious time. She’s run off again and just like the other times, she won’t be found until she’s good and ready to be.”
“Well, actually, I’m looking for her grandpa.”
“You’re lookin’ for my grandpa?” Lizzie jumped up and down. “I can take you to him,” she jumped again with a clap of her hands. “I can take you to grandpa’s house.”
“No, you won’t, young lady. And stop bouncing.” Arlene placed a firm hand on Lizzie’s head. “You won’t be taking any body anywhere. You go and get cleaned up like I told you. Go on.” With a hand on each shoulder, she pointed Lizzie in the direction of the kitchen door. “Miss Shirley, could I bother you to come inside for a minute? I left supper cooking on the stove.”
As Arlene attended to the family’s evening meal, Shirley said hello to another, younger child sitting on the floor near the kitchen table. The girl, no more than five years of age, scribbled diligently on an old newspaper with a piece of waxy crayon. When Shirley spoke to her, the little girl reached out, pulled a blue mason jar closer to her side and looked up at Shirley, but didn’t say anything.
“Please have a seat at the table, Miss Foster. I just need to stir this lumpy gravy a bit more. Sue Bell,” she said, “put those loose crayons you’re scattering all over the place in that jar before somebody slips on one.” Arlene stirred the gravy and then reached into a coffee cup sitting on the counter. She pulled out several bobby pins and twisted her hair up off her neck, “A lot of good that snow last week done. It’s just way too hot for this time of year, especially standing over a cookin’ stove; which is just about all I ever do.”
Lizzie came skipping back into the kitchen with a wet washcloth and sat down at the table across from Shirley. After she swiped the cloth once across her face, she placed her hands on the tabletop with her fingers clasped together. “Mama, I ain’t sure you heard what I told you before.”
“Hush, Lizzie. Whatever you’ve got to say can wait until I’m not so busy. Sue Bell, did you hear me? What did I tell you about those scattered crayons? Put the ones you ain’t using in the jar right this minute.” The spoon in Arlene’s hand scraped the bottom of the cast iron frying pan as she stirred the gravy.
Sue Bell kept on coloring as if she hadn’t heard her mama say anything.
“That blue jar ain’t for crayons,” said Lizzie. “Sue Bell keeps other stuff in it.”
Arlene looked over her shoulder and examined the jar. “I can plainly see there ain’t anything in the jar, Lizzie.”
“I’m just tellin’ you what Sue Bell told me, Mama. She keeps stuff in there,” Lizzie’s eyes widened, “and it’s a secret.”
“What kind of stuff?” Arlene continued to stir the gravy. “Sue Bell, what’s in that jar?”
“She ain’t goin’ to tell you, Mama. I told you, it’s a secret.”
“Do you know what’s in the jar, Lizzie?” Arlene placed the gravy spoon on a saucer and turned around. “Did Sue Bell tell you?”
Lizzie glanced over at Sue Bell, who still appeared not to be listening to the conversation between her mama and her sister. “Yeah, she told me.”
“Yes Ma’am to you, young lady,” Arlene scolded.
“Yes, Ma’am, she told me.”
“Then you tell me.”
“I can’t, Mama. Sue Bell will be real mad at me if I tell. She made me promise not to tell.”
“Young lady, you’re mama’s the one fixin’ to be real mad if you don’t tell me what I asked you.”
Lizzie frowned and pooched her lips out, “Bees, ants, lady bugs and snails.” Lizzie answered so rapidly all the words jammed together like the humps of a tobacco hornworm.
“For heaven’s sake. You kids.” Arlene tapped the stirring spoon on the edge of the frying pan. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Miss Foster, I won’t be much longer.”
“No problem,” replied Shirley, thoroughly entertained as she watched Sue Bell draw a pretty good resemblance to an elephant.
“Mama,” said Lizzie. “I answered your question. When are you goin’ to answer mine?”
“Which one in particular are you talking about? You ask me a lot of things.” Arlene shook her head from side to side. “I swear, girl, it ain’t a wonder why you’re so bad at minding me and your daddy. There ain’t anything in that head of yours but a bucket full of
questions.”
“I know, Mama. I’m talking about the one…” Lizzie swallowed hard, “the one about grandpa seeing an angel.”
“Oh, yes, that one. That’s a good one, all right.” Arlene wet a red, green and white striped dishcloth and wiped down the top of the stove.
“A good one, Mama? Does that mean you believe grandpa and … and it’s really, really true?” Lizzie’s bare heels thumped repeatedly against the footrest of the straw bottom chair.
“Everything your grandpa says is true.” Arlene turned three gas burners down to a short blue flame.
Lizzie scratched the wrinkle above one eyebrow and an unspoken question in her eyes.
“Stop that. You know better than to scratch at the table,” Arlene twisted around at the waist. “What’s Miss Foster going to think?” She wrung out the wiping cloth and hung it on a nail hammered into the wall. “Are you good and finished embarrassing me?”
Lizzie stiffened. Her eyes moved slowly from her mama to Shirley and back.
“Oh my Lord, girl. Go find your daddy and tell him supper’s close to being done. And one other thing, sweetheart. Tell him we’re having his most favorite meal tonight,” she paused and patted her hands dry on a towel, “pig wing soup.”
“Pig wing soup?” Lizzie echoed, with puzzlement falling out of her gaping mouth.
“Ain’t that what I said?” Arlene put her hands on her hips and tilted her head to one side. “I guess if your grandpa’s seen an angel, then pigs can fly. And if pigs can fly, they gotta have wings and I’m cooking pig wing soup in that pot right there.”
“For real, Mama?” gulped Lizzie.
“Heaven help me, girl. Why do you believe every word of nonsense that comes out of your grandpa’s mouth, but only half, if that, of what me and your daddy tells you?”
Lizzie didn’t seem to know the answer to her mama’s question, but her rapid blinks made it clear she wanted to figure it out and intended on thinking about it real hard.
Arlene picked up the wooden spoon and waved it in front of her daughter. “Wipe those crinkles off your face and go do like I told you to.”
Lizzie giggled, reached out and tried to snatch the spoon from her mama’s hand.
“I’m not playing with you. Go on. Right now. Find you daddy and tell him what I said.”
“About the pig wing soup?” said Lizzie.
The look on her mama’s face told Lizzie not to dare say another word. She slid off the chair and staring straight down at her bare, dust freckled feet, shuffled across the linoleum covered kitchen floor toward the back door.
“Stop that. How many times do I have to tell you? Don’t drag your feet. And don’t pout. Lord, have mercy. Go on. Scoot.” Arlene stopped the waving motion of her arm all of a sudden and looked out the kitchen window. “No. Wait.” she called out to Lizzie. After a second more, Arlene’s eyes lit up like she’d seen a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow.
Lizzie rushed back and from her tippy toes looked out the window, too, as did Shirley. But all they saw was a plowed under cornfield. Sue Bell didn’t look. She just kept on scribbling bright patches of red and orange on the newspaper spread across the floor.
“You know what, Lizzie,” her mama said, “I think it’d be a real fine idea if you asked your grandpa to come over and eat supper with us tonight.”
“It would?” A look of surprise melted over Lizzie’s face. The two words that jumped out of her mouth weren’t the words she really intended to say. She quickly added, “I mean… I mean… it sure is a fine idea, Mama. I’ll tell daddy to go get him.”
“No, sweetheart, that’s not what I want you to do. Come here.” Arlene put her hands on Lizzie’s shoulders and bent down at the waist. “I have a better idea. I’ve changed my mind from what I told you before. I want you to show Miss Shirley the way to your grandpa’s house. I had planned to put a few special words into this fine lady’s ears so she wouldn’t waste any more of her valuable time searching for things she ain’t going to find, but on second thought, I think it might be better if she sees for herself what’s going on.” Arlene brushed a strand of limp, blonde hair away from her pale blue eyes. “That is, if it’s okay with you, Miss Foster. You are from the welfare, ain’t you?”
Shirley nodded to both accounts, wondering why her profession continued to stick out like a sore thumb. Since becoming acquainted with the Cox family, she no longer wrapped her hair up in a bun, only put on her glasses when absolutely necessary and today wore a casual flower print dress; the one Eunice Cox had given her, complimented by stylish leather strap sandals instead of patent leather pumps. “Yes,” said Shirley, “but I’m actually not here in that capacity. I…”
Arlene Lovett hopped into the space Shirley left open. “That’s always you folks capacity.” She enunciated capacity almost to the point of spitting. “It ain’t a secret to nobody. You just got to stick your nose where it don’t need to be. Just because we’re country folk don’t make us stupid.”
“I assure you that prying isn’t my intention.” Shirley stood up. “I apologize for any inconvenience. Thank you for inviting me in.”
“I assure you…” Arlene made a flipping gesture with one hand, “it was the least I could do. Next time you drop by, I’ll make up a pitcher of extra sweet lemonade and we can sit for a spell and gossip about the neighbors.”
Lizzie dashed out the back door ahead of Shirley. Shirley found her waiting by the car.
“Mama’s in a real bad mood today, Miss Shirley. She ain’t always like that. I’m never in a bad mood. Is that okay with you? Mama says giddiness gets all over her nerves. Does it get on your nerves?” Lizzie didn’t wait for an answer, “I’ll take you to grandpa’s house if you want me to.”
“Well, pretty girl,” Shirley stroked Lizzie’s tousled hair and pulled a bush twig out of it. “Your mama did say it was okay. Now, didn’t she?”
“I like you, Miss Shirley.”
“I like you too, little miss redhead.” Shirley opened the passenger side door and Lizzie hopped in.
“It ain’t far in a car,” said Lizzie as they pulled away. “But walking’s more fun. I bet I can’t even count to twenty before we’ll be at grandpa’s house.” Lizzie started counting. “One… two…” She wiggled her toes with each number. When she reached twenty, another thin lipped smile stretched across her face. She continued her counting. At twenty-nine she shouted, “There it is. That’s my grandpa’s house.”
Lizzie jumped out of the car, her two feet thumping soundly against the hard packed dirt driveway winding around the house to the side porch door. Stretching her arms out sideways, she ran up the steps and disappeared inside. Shirley wondered if Lizzie might be thinking about angels and flying pigs.
Before Shirley reached the door, Lizzie came running back out. “He ain’t here, Miss Shirley. But I know where he most likely is. Come on. It ain’t too far.”
“I don’t know, Lizzie.” Shirley tightened the sash of her dress. “I don’t know if I should. Some people don’t like the feeling they’re being tracked down. Do you think your grandpa will mind?”
“Grandpa? Grandpa won’t mind. He don’t mind nothin’. He’ll be happy to have somebody to talk to besides me. Come on. It’s too early to go frog gigging, so if he ain’t gone fishin’ down at the pond, either, he’ll most likely be at the barn scattering fresh hay. Or maybe,” for a moment Lizzie’s eyes seemed to fall under the spell of a daydream, “the sun sets real pretty down on the Weeping Willows ledge. He likes to go there to remember.” Lizzie took Shirley by the hand. “We’ll check the barn first. Don’t be scared, though. We got to pass by the graveyard to get to that old barn. Do you like frog legs, Miss Shirley? They’re real good. I like the way they hop around in the pan when grandpa fries them up. Guaranteed fresh, that’s what grandpa says. Are you afraid of graveyards, Miss Shirley?”
“No, Lizzie. Not a bit,” answered Shirley.
“I ain’t afraid in the day light. But I don’t like it much
at sun down when those fat ‘ol bull frogs in the swamp start croaking and the tree owls hoot and I can’t see what’s sneaking around in the shadows between them tall, creaky pines. It’s what’s in the shadow that scares me. But I can run real fast. Want to see?”
Lizzie ran ahead of Shirley kicking up dust and then ran back, huffing and puffing.
“The graves are right around that curve, Miss Shirley. I’ll hold your hand. I think it’s a good idea not to talk when we pass by. The graveyard always starts grandpa talkin’ about the past and how things used to be. It’s the kind of talkin’ that gets on my mama’s nerves because of what happened to my brother, Tommy. My deddy don’t like the talk either. But he don’t get all twisted up like mama does when she hears it. Daddy just stops listening. I don’t know why, but I like hearing my grandpa talk about the past. Every time I listen I hear somethin’ new.”
“What happened to your brother, sugar?”
“Tommy’s gone. He didn’t run away like Martha Ann does. He’s in the graveyard. I ain’t supposed to talk about it. Even grandpa don’t talk about that.”
Lizzie squeezed Shirley’s hand.
“See that old Magnolia tree, Miss Shirley. The graveyard is right past there. First thing you’ll see is the black, pointy gate. Do you see it?”
“Yes. I see it.” Shirley tightened her grip on Lizzie’s hand.
“Okay. We better be quiet now. Shhh-h-h, real quiet,” Lizzie whispered. She stared down at her feet, as she often did. “Don’t look, Miss Shirley, keep your eyes away from the graveyard so the ghosts won’t see us passing by. Okay? Just look down and think how soft the road sand is.”
“Lizzie. Lizzie, baby. Come here.” The gravelly voice shot out from a back corner of the graveyard. Shirley turned to see a man sitting on one of the broad stone fence pillars.
“Grandpa!” Lizzie let go of Shirley’s hand and rushed around the outside of the wrought iron fence. “Grandpa. Grandpa. Mama said to come and get you for supper. You better come on. Hurry. If we’re late, supper’s going to be ice cold and mama won’t say a word all the rest of the night long.”
