She pulled up at my front gate exactly two minutes after nine. When I let her in, I tried to act surprised that she had in her hand a jar of her apple butter. It didn’t take much of an effort to look shocked, because I had had a case of heartburn like after you eat Mexican for three days in a row. Every time I took a deep breath, I had to grab my heart. Looking surprised and having gas kind of look the same.
I sort of figured Fryzeen would bring apple butter, since she always enters that contest, too. But Pearl Quinlan never loses that one. Landsakes, I won’t even think about entering the apple butter competition. I don’t have the energy to try to knock two old birds out of their nests. Besides, Pearl is one of the nicest women I know. Her and her sister Spiva, who belongs to that Cherubs Are Chubby club, do such good work with the sick and elderly.
I hadn’t really spent enough time in Fryzeen’s presence to know the first thing about her. All I knew was what I’d heard from gossip. You can only trust gossip so far. Taking time to add or subtract so much from the truth just to get close to the facts, it’s hardly worth listening to.
In a small town like Mossy Creek, gossip got to almost everyone in about two hours. The girls down at Goldilocks spread the news to Rosie at Mama’s All You Can Eat Café. Rosie tells Sandy Crane, who dispatches the news to her brother Mutt. Mutt then tells Father Mike at O’Day’s. From there, the news travels by phone like a prayer chain. Only thing was, no one ever breathes a word to the one who is being gossiped about—even if it is family.
Fryzeen probably already heard what everybody else in town was murmuring about her. Maybe that’s why she kept to herself. To tell you the truth, no one I knew had really spoken with her since her husband died in eighty-five. Even then, only ten people showed up at the funeral. The whole Sneerly family kept to themselves. Carlos was from Honduras, and though we all tried to understand him at Fourth of July picnics, no one really could make heads or tails out of what he said. In fact, I heard that Fryzeen and her kids kept her maiden name to keep the kids from being picked on for being foreign. Carlos and the kids would always come to those functions without Fryzeen. He was a nice man, from what I remembered of him. He worked with my Lorn over at Brewers’ Coffins in Gainesville.
Lorn said that the guys at work used to ask Carlos questions, but besides tending to the interior coffin designs, the fabrics and such, no one much knew what he was chattering about.
Lorn did tell me that more than once Carlos came into work with bruises or a broken finger. Once he even had a cast on his leg. The guys would ask him what was wrong, but he just shook his head and mumbled something about Fryzeen having fits.
Well, I planned on getting the truth right from the horse’s mouth. No better way existed to find out what I needed to know than to get that woman smeared from the face of pickled beet competitions forever.
“MORNING.” A RASPY whisper floated toward me from beneath the hand Fryzeen held directly in front of her mouth. In that moment, I realized that I really had never heard the woman speak. She would listen and nod a lot, but almost never utter a thing.
“Come on in, dear. I’ve been expecting you.” She leaned her bike against the fence and hobbled toward me.
I swear, when she looked at the little breakfast I made, tears came to her eyes. “Thank you for inviting me.”
“Well, welcome to Lorn’s and my humble abode.” Without thinking, I took her by the arm and led her to the Adirondack chairs in the center of my pseudo-English garden just beyond the verandah. My dahlias and asters and marigolds looked like small sets of multicolored eyes witnessing our little tea party.
Believe me, they stared when they saw Fryzeen.
Fryzeen’s flowery, orange-and-yellow dress looked like frayed drapes someone had forgotten to mend over the years. Her rough hands reflected about seven decades of toil in the hardest of conditions.
I thought about my own cushy life, with never much more than a day’s menu to worry about. We Spivys never went hungry, always had clothes, pretty outfits right from Hamilton’s and the little shops in town.
“How are your kids doing?” I asked.
Her eyes averted. “Jimmy’s overseas, and Melba and her three kids just moved again.”
I’d heard about her son being in the armed forces, but I didn’t know a thing about her daughter. “Where is she moving this time?” I offered Fryzeen a biscuit.
She looked at the biscuit like it was made of gold. Her eyes opened wide, and I could see she was imagining what it would taste like before she even bit into it. “They’re up in Niagara Falls now. Her husband, Milo, has to stay close to the water, seeing he’s a fisherman and all.”
“Oh, that’s right.” I pretended to know.
“And your kids, Lila?” she asked.
“We sent Missy up to Tennessee State to study physical therapy so she’d be close to her brother, Travis, who is trying desperately to break into the music business in Nashville. He’s a drummer, you know. Lord forgive me, I spent half my life listening to him pound on those darned noise traps. He’d sure as hell better do something with it.”
Fryzeen held her hand over her mouth again and actually laughed. I think, because I let out a teeniny swear word. Her laugh wasn’t hardy. More like a chortle. But I could see the sides of her mouth turning up, bordering each side of her hand.
“Kids,” I said, holding my heart again. I felt like I couldn’t take a good breath. “How old are yours now?”
“Jimmy’s pertinear forty and Melba is a year younger.”
“Do you get to see your grandkids much?”
Now Fryzeen’s single moment of happiness turned to severity. Tears collected in her eyes, and she reverted back to her inner silence, shaking her head in dismay.
I put my coffee down and touched her leathery hand. For the first time in a long time, I didn’t know what to say. I don’t know what I would do if I couldn’t see my children. And if my kids had kids, I’d sell my home to go see them. But I don’t suppose Fryzeen’s old trailer would bring in enough to get her to Lexington, Kentucky, let alone across the continent.
She started to cry real hard, now.
“What’s wrong, dear?” I asked, patting her back.
After a moment, she stared up at me. Heavy silence fell on the both of us. She looked into my eyes, her chin quivering so bad her teeth chattered.
“No one has touched me in ten years,” she said, folding her hands over mine like the last bit of dough in a nut roll, trying to seal off the inner filling.
I did something I never thought I would do in a million years. I reached for her and hugged her. I held her so tight I thought she was going to have to ask me to loosen it up so she could breathe. She was as fragile as a little baby bird. The only thing on the woman that had any body was her hair. Because I’m allergic to Aqua Net, my own eyes got a little teary.
Suddenly I thought about what the neighbors would think if they saw me hugging the Elmira Gulch of Mossy Creek, and I kind of backed away. But she held on tight.
I finally pulled away a bit to hand her my grandmother’s embroidered handkerchief. Fryzeen didn’t know it, and I didn’t realize it until it left my hand, but that was the first time I ever let anyone else in the world touch that handkerchief. It was the last thing Grandmother gave to me, and I’ve cherished it and kept it with me daily.
Fryzeen looked at me like she didn’t know what to do with it.
“Here, dear. Use this to wipe your eyes.” I helped her hand up to her face and dabbed the tears from her sagging cheeks. “My grandmother told me once that this handkerchief was part of a prize she won for being Woman of the Year at First Baptist Church in Yonder.”
“It’s so pretty, Lila,” she said. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, yes,” I assured her, “it’s just an old thing. Don’t you worry about a thing.” I closed her ha
nd around it, feeling a little shaky the entire time, like the first day I left my infant daughter with a babysitter.
Again, she wept.
Well, my investigation had gone awry in the first fifteen minutes. How could I bring up pickled beets now? The woman was a sobbing mess, and I had no idea what to say to make her feel any better.
Ply her with food, I thought. Food always, without a shadow of a doubt, makes me feel better. The last time Lorn and me got into a fight, I ate my way through an entire box of double-fudge Oreos and a half-gallon of that Purity vanilla bean ice cream. It was just the perfect amount of chocolate with just the right amount of vanilla to make it go down like Drano. So, when Lorn came back from his mother’s house, I was already sleeping it off. I don’t think I woke up till an hour after he left for work the next morning. Now that’s food doing its job.
I gathered Fryzeen’s half-eaten biscuit and put a spoon of strawberry preserves on it and handed it back to her. “Have a little of this. It’ll make you feel better. I promise.”
I had to steady her hand around the napkin. She broke off a little piece with her left hand and put it in her mouth.
What do you ask a woman who hasn’t really spoken to or touched anyone in ten years? I felt like I just needed to be sitting there and keep rubbing her back or something, but I was too uncomfortable for that.
As much as Lorn and I barely speak to each other, let alone touch anymore, I still couldn’t get through the week without that peck on the cheek each morning, or that big lug hugging me tight just before we get up in the morning. If he weren’t there, I’d be lost. I know it.
What I didn’t understand is why Fryzeen didn’t ever move on with her life after Carlos died. Why she didn’t go to women’s groups or volunteer at Magnolia Manor, or something to get out and be around people. Then it occurred to me when she made a frail attempt at a smile. This time with her hand occupied, she couldn’t hide her mouth. She had no teeth left. Not one.
The poor thing was probably embarrassed to be out and about without any teeth. I know I would be.
No wonder the biscuits looked like the perfect feast.
I tried not to stare.
“So, how do you like your coffee?”
“Three sugars, please, and light.”
For company I like to use sugar cubes and my sterling silver tongs. I felt almost like I was flaunting my wealth in her face now. Everything I touched, I wanted to give to her, just to appease the feelings of guilt for having too much, too easily.
I handed her the coffee cup and saucer. “So, your garden looks to be the best in the neighborhood.”
“If we don’t get some rain soon, everything will die.”
I tried to remember if I’d ever seen Fryzeen water her garden, or if there was even a hose in her yard. My goodness, I don’t believe there was one.
“You know,” I said, “I was just going through some of my old clothes before you came over. I was going to take them to the church. If I’m not mistaken, I remember a couple of dresses in there I’ve never even worn, that I think would fit you perfect. I’m too fat to get in them now. I swear, if I don’t stop with this gaining weight, I’m going to have to get rid of every shred of clothes I have and start over again. This time with all moo moos.”
“No thank you, dear. You give them to the church like you planned. I’m sure many folks are lot worse off than me.”
“No, really,” I said, “after we’re finished with our coffee, come in and just take a look. I’m trying to remember, but I think the one dress kind of looks similar to the one you have on now, real flowery and pretty. I’m sure Preacher Hickman won’t miss a thing. It’s not like he’s ever been in my closet, to know the difference.”
“We’ll see,” she said, with calm resign. She held Grandmother’s handkerchief tight and tucked it in the pocket at the front of her dress. “Thank you for this.”
I just about choked on the gulp of coffee I had in my throat. Fryzeen actually thought I had given her grandmother’s heirloom handkerchief. I didn’t know what to do or say. My blood pressure shot up faster than a dog trying to tree a squirrel. “But . . . I . . .” Nothing that made sense came out of my mouth. All those years of being Southern and saying only what was proper and right put a noose around my tongue so tight, I could hardly breathe.
Fryzeen gulped down half a cup of coffee, then held the warm cup to her heart. “You think that I might have just a little more to heat this up?” she asked.
When I tried to pick up the urn, pain shot down my left arm. I looked at Fryzeen, and there were two of her—really—both faces staring at me with grave concern.
Before I could utter a word, the coffee urn crashed to the glass table and smashed it into a hundred pieces. Hot coffee splashed all over me. Only I didn’t feel it.
I watched myself, like in a movie, as I dropped to one knee. Then my head hit the table. After that, I don’t remember a thing.
WHEN MY EYES popped open, my first real look at the world seemed vague and blurry. I heard heart monitors like on those television doctor shows. I smelled something like isopropyl alcohol. The white sheets were tucked so tight around me I felt like a bound baby.
Then I saw Fryzeen, her purse in her lap, staring at me with such concern it hurt. How quickly I’d judged her and how much I wanted to steal the only glory she probably had ever had in her life. Now, she was the one who had saved my life. Imagine that. How ironic.
She touched my hand and patted it. “How you feeling, honey?”
I tried to talk, but the words didn’t seem to want to come out. Though I felt Fryzeen’s hand on mine, I couldn’t rightly move it, at least not without a struggle. I didn’t have the energy for any fight. Not then.
“Where’s Lorn?” I finally eked out.
“He’s down in the cafeteria getting us both some coffee,” she said, fluffing my pillow and easing the tension in the sheets, like she’d heard my thoughts.
“I’m going to go call the nurse. They said to tell them when you wake.”
When Fryzeen left the room, I noticed that there was a mirror on the top of the bed frame, like the kind you see over the cooking area of a chef’s demonstration. I could see my body, my face. My permanent was still intact, thank gosh, but I looked as though a child had gone wild with pastels and a smudge tool.
I had a black eye and a nasty headache that made my skull feel like someone used a jackhammer on it. What on God’s green earth happened to me?
Lorn came in just before two nurses. He rushed to the bed, setting the coffee down before he grabbed my hand. “Honey, I was so worried.”
“What happened to me?” I whispered.
The nurse answered from behind him. “Mrs. Spivy, you had a heart attack. You’re on heart monitors now and as soon as we can get a doctor in here to talk with you, we’ll give you the rest of the test result.”
Lorn asked the nurse, “So, how long is she going to have to stay here?”
“It depends,” she said, opening the drapes for some much-needed sunlight, “on whether the doctors think that surgery is necessary.”
Surgery, I thought. How could I need heart surgery? I’m only fifty-one. I’ve never smoked. The only habit I have is eating too much.
I reached for Lorn’s hand and tried to hold it tightly, but I was too weak. I felt a tear roll across my face to the pillow.
Fryzeen handed Lorn a handkerchief. I’m sure he didn’t even recognize that it was Grandmother’s. He wiped my eyes. “Shhh, now. It’ll be okay.” He kissed my forehead. “We’re gonna get you all well and perfect, like new. Okay?”
The nurse left the room. I overheard Fryzeen ask her, “If Mrs. Spivy needs surgery, do you think she’ll be well enough in three or four weeks to do anything strenuous?”
Suddenly, a cold rush of anger rolled down my bac
k. That mean old woman. How could she? Wishing me to be out of commission, just so I wouldn’t be ready for the pickled beets contest at the county fair.
Well, I was going to show her. I’ve never been one to stay sick for long. If it took every bit of three weeks to get back on my feet, I’d be picking and pickling and beeting the tarnation out of her, this year and every year we’re both still alive.
Lorn yelped. I must have been digging my nails into his hand. “I think Lila’s coming back already.” He laughed, then kissed my hand. “Everything’s going to be all right, honey. I’ll be here. And Mrs. Sneerly said she could come over to help with housekeeping when I’m at work.” I held onto Grandmother’s handkerchief for dear life.
If I had the energy to yell, I would have screamed at the top of my lungs, that woman will never tend to me. I’m going to do some tending to her skinny butt when I get my strength back.
Imagine.
Oh, the pickled humanity.
THE FIRST WEEK home I couldn’t do much of anything for myself, which meant having to let go of more control than I was willing to. I looked green around the gills and felt more depressed than I’d ever had before, like a U-Haul truck backed over me.
Despite my reluctance for Fryzeen to help, neither of my kids could come home, Lorn could only take off three sick days before we’d start losing money, and every person in the ladies’ auxiliary at Mossy Creek Methodist was in bed with the flu. Fryzeen was not only my sole choice, she was the only one willing to help.
Lord knows, I tried to be nice and appreciative, but every part of my body ached to beat the band, and I wanted to take the dinner knife and slit my wrists from boredom. I swear, I was that low. Nothing anyone could say made me feel better. All I could think about that even remotely made me feel better was getting well enough to beat the pants off of Fryzeen in the pickling contest.
Fortunately for me, she wasn’t a big talker. In fact, she never even tried to initiate a conversation. She simply came in when Lorn left for work, cleaned up a bit while I slept, then she would try to feed me some soup or crackers or something salt-free and tasteless for lunch. I’d fall back to sleep from all the medication while she knitted on the couch. I’d wake up just in time to see Lorn walk her to the front gate.
Summer in Mossy Creek Page 19
