“Word. That won’t be too hard,” Dorinda says, slumping her tiny little shoulders and putting a funny scowl on her face.
“Now just make up any words you want, so you can get the melody to match the plucking.”
“Um, okay—um, let’s see:
“I’m sitting on the porch
just minding my bizness
trying to light a torch
For my big ole’ horse
But my dern little cat
keeps coming back.
I can’t get no slack
for my wack attack blues!!
I said, I can’t get no slack
for m-y-y-y wack-attack blluuues!”
A tourist stops to listen, and puts another dollar in Fish ’N’ Chips’ banjo case! We all start howling at Dorinda.
“Well now, that’s interesting how you got the rap mixing up with the blues,” Mr. Fred Fish says, tickled.
We are laughing so hard that we don’t see Mrs. Fenilworth motioning for us to come in for rehearsal. Ma taps us on the shoulder and points to where Mrs. Fenilworth is standing quietly, waiting for us to finish.
Mr. Fred Fish seems a little embarrassed by the money in his banjo case, and he shovels it quickly into a pouch he takes out of his pocket.
Suddenly a light goes off in my head—this is probably how they make money to live—by singing on the streets!
Two little girls with pigtails and freckles come inside behind us, and sit down at one of the tables. “Hi, we’re Miggy and Mo’!” the more freckly one says. I wonder if they’re fraternal twins. They must be sisters, and they look really young.
“Hi, we’re the Cheetah Girls,” Chanel says, real friendly.
“Mr. Paddlewheel, is everybody here?” Mrs. Fenilworth asks.
“No—we’re missing the Moody Gardens.”
All of a sudden, three boys wearing plaid shirts and jeans barge into the Crabcake Lounge. “Uh, sorry we’re late.”
“Just take a seat,” Mr. Paddlewheel says nicely. “Tomorrow night,” he tells us all, “we are throwing a very special benefit concert, to help raise money for Houston’s homeless population. The benefit, we are happy to report, is completely sold out, and we are expecting an estimated five thousand people to fill the Turtle Dome Arena out in back. You have been selected to sing one song each—sort of a tribute to Houston’s burgeoning undiscovered talent, and the possibilities that lie ahead of all of us.”
Five thousand people! I swallow hard just thinking about it. We’ve never performed for that many folks at once!
“What’s the game plan now?” Galleria asks excitedly, as we head back to Ma’s car.
“Well, I made some crawfish and potatoes stew for dinner, if anyone is interested,” Ma chuckles.
“Yes, bring on Mr. Crawdaddy!” Galleria shouts.
“Gentlemen, that invitation still holds.” Ma is talking to Fish ’N’ Chips, who are about to walk out of the parking lot. I’ll bet you they walk all the way back to Montgomery Shelter, since they don’t have a car!
“We’ll be there, Ms. Junifred, don’t you worry,” Mr. Chips Carter says. Lifting his sunglasses, he gives her a wink. “Yes, indeed. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“Wow, this is la dopa!” Chanel exclaims, “It looks like right out of a magazine.”
I guess we forget how pretty Ma’s house is. It’s so country and flowery—the exact opposite of Daddy’s apartment in New York.
“Don’t mind the mess,” Ma says, moving some mail off the table. As she does, she looks at one of the envelopes. “I’ve got to mail this census form in,” she says, putting it aside.
“The ones who don’t get counted are usually the really poor people,” Angie explains to Dorinda.
“So what?” Dorinda asks.
“Well, see, how much money the government gives Houston depends on how many people say they live here. So when poor people don’t fill out their census forms, the government gives less money to help the poor.”
“Oh,” Dorinda says, and you can tell it makes her feel sad.
We sit down in the living room while Ma starts getting ready to cook dinner. Fish ’N’ Chips will be coming over later, and she wants everything to be perfect, so there’s a lot for her to do.
Meanwhile, Galleria wants to hear about the whole Skeeter business. I tell her about his red Cadillac being spotted on Sycamore Road.
Ma hears us talking about him, and she reminds us of his last words to her: “He said he was tired of everything, and just wanted to ‘rest in peace.’ That’s why we are so frightened at what he might do.”
“Don’t forget what India said, about Uncle Skeeter’s girlfriend having a name that’s softer than mink,” Angie adds, trying to be helpful. “And what Big Momma said about her last name being Wilkerson.”
“Don’t snooze on the clues!” Galleria exclaims, and we can see the lightbulb going off in her head. “Get me a phone book—you’d be surprised by who has a listed number.”
Angie and I just look at Galleria like, “What on earth are you talking about?”
“Your mother says her last name is Wilkerson, right?”
“Yeah … so?”
“So, let’s see if she’s in the phone book.”
“Galleria, do you know how many Wilkersons there are in the Houston phone book? That’s a typical Southern last name!” I’m starting to get exasperated by Galleria’s over-eagerness. Of course, I should have known she would have a plan.
“Yeah, but how many of those Wilkersons have a first name that’s softer than mink?”
Now we all look at Galleria in awe. Why didn’t we think of that?
“Let’s look at every Wilkerson in the phone book!” Chanel says excitedly.
We huddle around, going down the names of Wilkersons carefully and reading them out loud—“Annabel, Karen, Katie, Sandy, Sable, Twanda, Toinette—”
“Wait a minute,” Dorinda says. “Go back—Sable! Remember what India said? ‘Soft as mink.’ Well, sable is a kind of fur, and so is mink.”
“Omigod,” gasps Angie. “Look. She lives on Hummingbird—that’s right around the corner from Sycamore!”
“We’ve gotta think of a plan,” Ma muses.
“I’ve got an idea,” Galleria says with a satisfied smirk. “We go over there, and say we’re from the Census Bureau, and that we need her to fill out a form, because people aren’t handing them in on time. Your Mom could be the census lady—and we’ll be her kids. She can say she’s working late to earn extra money or something.”
“Oh, I get it—get her sympathy and wheedle our way in. Then, when Ma wins her confidence, they can do girl talk—about their boyfriends, right?” It sounds like a good plan to me.
“Yeah!” Galleria says.
“But what if she recognizes Ma?” Angie asks, concerned, even though Ma has obviously never met Sable.
“She’s not going to recognize your mother,” Chanel says.
“Why?” we ask in unison.
“Because we’re gonna put her in a Cheetah Girl disguise, just in case, mamacitas!”
“I haven’t had so much fun playing dress-up since I was a kid,” Ma says while we fuss with her. We wrap her hair in a cheetah turban and try on a pair of cheetah sunglasses.
“Well,” Ma says, looking in the mirror. “It sure doesn’t look like me—I guess it’s worth a shot. But I don’t have too long—I’ve got to get dinner together, remember.”
“Don’t forget the form,” Dorinda says, handing Ma the envelope with the census form inside.
“Oh, right—and I should take my clipboard from work, and my briefcase,” she adds.
I can tell Ma is feeling much better—at least we’re doing something about finding Uncle Skeeter, instead of sitting around thinking the worst.
“I think it’s best if Dorinda and I pretend to be your ma’s daughters,” Galleria says. “Just in case Skeeter already told Sable that he has twin nieces.”
Even though I feel disappo
inted, I know Bubbles is right about that. Uncle Skeeter does love bragging about us to everybody, just like Big Momma.
“Why can’t I be one of the daughters?” Chanel asks, feeling left out, too.
“’Cuz, Chuchie, you have a Spanish accent—maybe Sable won’t buy that you’re Ms. Walker’s daughter.”
“Oh—I’ve got to change my name,” Ma says. “I’ll say my name is Mrs. Cobbler—that way I won’t forget, ’cuz I was planning on making y’all a cobbler for Thanksgiving Day.” Ma seems amused by her own cleverness.
“Okay, ‘Mom,’ let’s go,” Galleria says, taking Ma by the arm. Suddenly I feel jealous—but then I catch myself for being so selfish.
When we drive past Sycamore Road, we see that Uncle Skeeter’s car is still parked there. I get a bad case of the spookies again, and take a deep breath. Ma keeps driving until we get to Hummingbird Road, and Sable Wilkerson’s house. There, she pulls over and cuts the engine.
“Someone’s home,” Angie says quietly.
“Good luck,” I whisper as Ma, Galleria, and Dorinda get out the car.
There are kids playing on the sidewalk, and they check out the three of them as they walk up to Sable’s front porch.
Angie, Chanel, and I sit in the car on lookout. The plan is that if we see Uncle Skeeter going into the house, or sneaking out the back, we honk the horn.
It seems like hours before Ma, Galleria, and Dorinda come out. I can tell by the way they’re walking that they’ve had no luck with their census charade.
“She’s more clueless than we are,” Ma says, visibly upset as she gets into the driver’s seat. “She hasn’t seen Skeeter in five days.” Ma’s hands are shaking as she tries to put the keys in the ignition. She stops, then puts her head down on the steering wheel, and starts bawling like a baby.
Galleria puts her arms around Ma’s shoulders, and we just sit and wait until she pulls herself together. I bite my lower lip. I don’t want to start crying too.
“What are we going to do?” Angie says, feeling as helpless as I do.
“Exactly what we were doing before—wait,” Ma says, pulling herself together and taking a deep breath. She’s all right for the moment, ready to concentrate on driving home.
The sadness looms over all of us. All of sudden, it doesn’t matter that we are going to sing a song in front of five thousand people tomorrow night. All that matters is that we find Uncle Skeeter—and that he’s all right.
Chapter
10
The next morning, the gloomy cloud is still hanging over our heads even though we had a great dinner the night before with Fish ’N’ Chips. They ate everything but the tablecloth! We got ready to go see Granddaddy Walker at his funeral parlor. (He’s seventy-two years old, and has never missed a day of work!) Granddaddy Walker has been chomping at the bit, because we have been four whole days in Houston and still haven’t come to see him.
“Let’s go wake up the dead!” Galleria says, when we tell her about his hurt feelings.
Dorinda is excited about going, too. “We might as well take a ‘coffin break’ before the show,” she smirks.
“Now remember girls, we can’t stay too long,” Ma preps us.
I don’t know why she says that, because we have plenty of time. We have ironed our costumes, bought the cheetah umbrellas we’re gonna hold, and the play money we’re going to throw onstage for our performance, and we’ve practiced “It’s Raining Benjamins” till we could sing it backward.
But I guess Ma feels bad about the dee-vorce and all, even though Granddaddy Walker still treats her like family, and we know he loves us, well, “to death.”
Rest in Peace is the biggest funeral parlor in Houston, and it’s housed in the landmark district, in a beautiful building with a white marble front, and white pillars on the porch. When we get inside, Granddaddy Walker gives Ma a real long hug and doesn’t let go.
“We’ll get through this, Junifred. We sure will,” he tells her. Obviously, Ma has already told him about Uncle Skeeter.
“Should we call the police?” Ma asks him, distraught.
“No—not yet. The Lord will tell you what to do—just wait and see,” Granddaddy Walker says, laying down words of wisdom like he always does.
“Good morning,” says Grandma Selma, greeting us all cheerfully. She is Granddaddy Walker’s second wife, and also his secretary. He married her after Grandma Winnie passed (which raised a few eyebrows—since Selma is twenty-four years younger than he is!).
Granddaddy Walker peers over his bifocals to look at me and my friends. “How y’all doing?” he says, grinning and extending his hand to shake Galleria’s.
Bubbles seems a little nervous, acting very polite and looking down at the floor. I guess Granddaddy Walker can seem a little intimidating. He is a great big man, and he always wears a black suit with a white shirt, and a red handkerchief in the jacket pocket. You can tell how important he is just by the way he looks.
“You know, that boy hasn’t been himself since his daddy died,” Granddaddy says, shaking his head.
All of a sudden, Galleria is looking straight at Granddaddy Walker, and watching him real closely. “Skeeter’s father died?” she asks, her eyes narrowing.
“Oh, yes, seven years ago. I buried him myself. Skeeter loved his daddy something awful,” Granddaddy goes on.
Galleria looks at the literature laying on the table, then mutters, “‘Rest in Peace …’ that’s what Skeeter said….”
“What?” I ask Galleria, confused.
“Your ma said Skeeter was acting strange the last time she saw him, and he told her, ‘I’m tired of everything. I just want to rest in peace.”’
“Yeah,” Ma says, wondering what Galleria is getting at.
“So Skeeter’s father had a funeral service here at Rest in Peace Funeral Home,” Galleria continues, talking out loud. “Where did you bury him?”
“Where I bury everybody—at the Creekmore Cemetery, about ten miles from here,” Granddaddy Walker says, his big voice booming. “Of course, Selby Jasper’s coffin is buried in his own mausoleum—the biggest one in the cemetery.”
“I think we should go over there and take a look,” Galleria says, like she’s onto something.
“Go to the cemetery? Now?” Angie asks, surprised.
“I think we’d better,” I say, sticking up for Galleria. I know she’s like a dog with a bone. When Miss Galleria is onto something, she won’t leave it alone. Let her sniff around Granddaddy Selby’s grave—maybe she will come up with something.
“At this point, I’m willing to try anything that will help us find my brother,” Ma blurts out. “The worst that could happen is I get to visit my Daddy’s grave, and y’all get to do some sightseeing at a cemetery!”
“Take a bunch of magnolias with you,” Grandma Selma says, pointing to some beautiful purple flowers in a vase on the table.
Granddaddy Walker picks up the phone and calls Willie, who drives the hearses for all the funeral processions to the cemetery. “Willie, we’re gonna need a hearse—bring out the best one we have.”
Then he puts his arms around Angie and me. “Willie will drive y’all to Creekmore,” he says, his eyes twinkling. He knows how much Angie and I love riding in his big, black hearses, with their cushioned seats and draped windows.
“You sure about that, Granddaddy Walker?” Ma asks. Now that she and Daddy are dee-vorced, I don’t think she likes asking Granddaddy Walker for anything.
“Yes, Junifred, I’m sure,” Granddaddy Walker says, his eyes twinkling. “No ‘body’ is in a hurry this week.”
After burying half the dead people in Houston, Granddaddy Walker has quite a sense of humor about corpses. That’s just one more reason why we love him. Angie smiles, then looks down, trying to be respectful.
“Wow, this is supa dupa cushy,” Dorinda says as we climb into the hearse.
“This is the biggest one I’ve been in!” Chanel coos.
“Chuchie, you’ve never
been in one,” Galleria says, shaking her head.
“I know,” Chanel responds, grinning sheepishly. “That’s what I meant.”
“Just sit back and relax, girls. Willie’s gonna take good care of ya,” the driver says, looking at us in the rearview mirror. Willie looks spiffy in his black uniform with matching black chauffeur’s hat and white gloves. We tell him all about our singing group, as he takes the long, scenic route to Creekmore Cemetery.
“I used to play the keyboards when I was younger—with a group of my boys,” Willie chuckles. “Nothing serious like you Cheetah Girls are doing. ‘Cheetah Girls’—that sounds catchy, all right.”
“Catch the rising stars while you can!” Galleria giggles.
“You know, Skeeter used to play the keyboards when we were kids,” Ma says. “He was always beating or strumming on something. But Daddy was always telling him to get a serious job—be somebody. So Skeeter gave it up, and went to work for the sanitation department.”
“I remember Uncle Skeeter always pounding out beats on cans and things,” I say, “when Granddaddy was playing his blues music. Uncle Skeeter liked the blues a whole lot.”
“Oh, yeah—that’s his favorite music,” Ma says, getting tearful again.
“You girls should keep singing—keep following your dreams, even when it seems people are trying to take them from you,” Willie the driver says, like he knows what he’s talking about.
I look at Chanel, who is sitting next to me, and smile at her. I wonder if Willie’s dreams have come true. I sure don’t think Uncle Skeeter’s dreams have …
Tears well in my eyes. I stare out of the window as we drive past the big wrought-iron gates into the cemetery.
Chanel grabs my hand tighter. “Look at all the tombstones—all those people who can’t have fun anymore, like we do,” she says wistfully.
“The most famous people in Houston are buried here. Yes, indeed,” Willie says, driving real slow so he can show us some of the tombstones as we pass. “That mausoleum right there is the permanent home of the Great Abra Cadabra—one of the greatest magicians that ever lived. And there’s where General Sam Houston rests. This city is named after him. And here … is your mausoleum.” He pulls over and we get out of the hearse.
Growl Power! (The Cheetah Girls Book 8) Page 7
