by Rhett DeVane
She left Patsy Pickles sitting in stunned silence, probably trying her best to visualize the debauchery in Mary-Esther’s home city.
“One less Disaster Debbie to worry about,” Mary-Esther muttered under her breath.
The line-up of walkers along the walls—assisted living’s version of valet parking—funneled her to the dining room entrance. She spotted a familiar smiling face across the room and wove through the tables toward LaJune.
“I usually dine with Martha Jean and Louise.” LaJune motioned to a nearby table. “But they set us up special at this separate table. So glad you could come.”
“Me too.” Mary-Esther settled into an upholstered chair and scrolled utensils from her napkin.
LaJune handed her a printed slip of paper and a pencil. “These are today’s lunch offerings. You circle what you want, and how big ’a portion. They come around with the drinks, then a cart of desserts later.”
The old woman studied the menu. “Chicken ’n’ dumplings.” She glanced up. “They make some delicious dumplings. I’m here to testify. The lima beans are fitting to eat. Or if you like ham, theirs is passable. Not dried out.” She drew circles around her selections. “You can’t go wrong here. The cooks make food the old-fashioned way.”
Which meant, full of salt and fat, but oh so good. “I’ll trust your recommendations, LaJune.”
In a few minutes, an apron-clad server appeared with a glass of iced water for LaJune and took Mary-Esther’s drink order.
“Tell me what you’ve been up to,” LaJune prompted. She freed her utensils from their napkin corset.
“I had to take a trip back to New Orleans.”
“Is that so? How did you find everything?” LaJune’s questions sounded with genuine concern.
Mary-Esther pushed the mental image of Nana’s devastated house from her mind. “Things are beginning to recover. Very slowly. My old neighborhood, pretty much, no longer exists.”
“I am so sorry to hear that. I don’t own my little house here in town anymore, but I take comfort in knowing it still stands.” LaJune’s expression grew wistful. “Houses are a lot like people. They need love and kindness, and they get lonely if they’re left bereft.”
The server deposited their lunch plates and Mary-Esther’s tea. “Anything else for you?” She plunked down a stack of extra napkins.
“No, dear. We’re fine. Thank you.” LaJune flipped one napkin into her lap and fashioned a second into a bib.
Mary-Esther took a tentative bite of the dumplings. As long as she had lived in the South, she had not sampled the signature dish. “This is seriously good.”
“You should’ve tasted mine. I was quite the cook in my day.”
They ate in companionable silence before LaJune asked, “So, Mary Lou, did you work things out with your people?”
Mary-Esther caught herself before she corrected LaJune. What did a name matter, really? “There’ve been some interesting developments.”
“I’d like to hear all the details, but could you wait until we have our coffee and dessert? I have a time chewing and listening at once.”
Mary-Esther took in the old woman’s attire. Must be one of LaJune’s good days. Everything matched, her hair brushed and the clothing right side out. Advanced age had a way of causing some people to flicker like faulty light bulbs. One day, things clicked, memory served, and conversations flowed in a logical line. The next, you ended up discussing hothouse tomatoes.
As they finished, a second server pushed a silver, linen-draped cart next to their table. LaJune leaned over and inspected the double tier of saucers and bowls. “I’ll have the egg custard.”
“What’s that one?” Mary-Esther pointed to a slice of cake.
“Chocolate Sin.” The server held it up. “Some kind of torte, I think.”
“I’ll take it,” Mary-Esther said. Any dessert made from chocolate, and with sin in the name, had to be worth every calorie.
“Bring us a couple of cups of decaf, if you please,” LaJune said. Then, to Mary-Esther. “Forgive me for ordering for you, dear, but you’re way too hyper for the high test coffee. And if you eat that mound of chocolate, you’ll end up bouncing off the walls.”
“Suppose you’re right, but who cares?” She forked a piece of cake and slipped it into her mouth.
“Good choice?”
Mary-Esther moaned. “I may have to go to confession after this, it’s so good.”
“Confession. That’s Catholic, right? Baptist myself, though I never quite understood the quibbling about how one church is better than the other. Seems we curtsy to the same boss. I always thought confession a fine idea, to be able to blather about what all you’d done wrong and get to say some stuff to ease you off the hook.” LaJune flipped her hand. “We Baptists prefer to corral our guilt and wallow in it.”
Mary-Esther laughed. “LaJune, you’re a card.”
Religion. Yet another difference between her and Hattie’s group. What if they disliked Catholics? Not like she regularly attended mass since Nana died, but still . . .
LaJune winked and dabbed her mouth with the tip of one napkin-wrapped finger. “Tell me your story. Don’t leave off anything. God knows, I could use the excitement.”
For the next few minutes, Mary-Esther recounted the experiences of the past few days.
“So, you settled into the little house that lady left to you?” LaJune asked.
“Not yet. I moved back into the apartment over the garage.”
“What are you waiting on?”
“I don’t know.” Mary-Esther took a sip of coffee. “I know Rose would be aggravated at me. She left me a letter.”
LaJune leaned forward. “What’d it say?”
“That she and her husband thought of me as family. How she appreciated me bringing home food from the restaurant. And the times I cleaned and washed for them. How I saved her after Eustis died.”
“Goodness is its own reward,” LaJune said. “You did what you did with no thought of repayment.”
“Some folks in Chattahoochee see it differently.”
“There will always be people who look for something to gab about. Don’t pay them a bit of mind. They’ll move onto something new in no time flat.” LaJune studied Mary-Esther. “Suppose that’s the reason you’ve hesitated to move into that house?”
Mary-Esther considered. “Could be.”
LaJune slapped the table. A few white-haired heads turned their way. “Then you must do it as soon as possible.”
They savored their coffee in silence before LaJune asked, “What are you doing for Thanksgiving? I’ll be at my niece Sheila’s house. I know she’d be happy to set one more place at the table.”
“Jerry invited me to come to his mother’s house, but I don’t think I’m ready for that. The Davis family wants me to join them out at Hattie’s, at that big house on The Hill where my real mother and father used to live.”
“Sounds fitting. You’re planning on attending, I hope.”
Mary-Esther polished off the last bite of chocolate torte and licked the fork. “I haven’t decided.”
Around them, residents vacated their assigned tables. Nap time. Bingo didn’t start until two, Mary-Esther recalled.
“You beat all I’ve ever seen,” LaJune said. “First time I met you, you were hot on the trail of your people. Now that you’ve found them, you’ve frosted up over spending time with ’em. How are you ever going to know if they are worth your while, if you don’t make an effort?”
“My feelings are all mixed together. I like Hattie a lot, but Bobby . . . Who knows if we can get past our first impressions.”
LaJune skewered Mary-Esther with her gaze. “You have plenty of time to sort them out, now that you’re back to stay. You are back to stay . . . ?”
When Mary-Esther failed to reply, LaJune took a delicate spoonful of egg custard and chased it with a sip of coffee. “One of the best times to get a handle on people is during the holidays. Brings out the best and wor
st in folks. If I was you, I’d cook up my finest dish and show up with a smile pasted on my face.”
*
Hattie worked with last-minute preparations. The good silverware appeared from its velvet-lined mahogany chest; the table linens were laundered, starched, and ironed; and the heirloom Limoges china and crystal had been hand-washed and dried.
Hattie wasn’t certain Bobby shared the same appreciation for holiday decor. When her parents were alive, a special responsibility fell to the Davis children at Thanksgiving: the construction of the table centerpieces. Armed with a pair of scissors and a paper sack, Hattie and Bobby set out for the edge of the woods to collect branches from sweetgum, hickory, and dogwood trees, depending on which leaves had turned the deepest shades that year. They added pinecones in assorted sizes and sprigs of evergreen. Tillie supervised, but only to check for insects and to veto inappropriate items, such as the sun-dried skull of some small animal Bobby found appealing.
Some years, the weather proved mild enough to eat outside on the two long, pine picnic tables. Clean, pressed white bed sheets took the place of the fine linens, and the kitchen stoneware trumped the china and crystal.
Not this year. Hattie was determined to go full out, regardless of the temperature. Especially if her sister might show. She filled the Mr. and Mrs. Pilgrim salt and pepper shakers and set them on the table. No homemade woodsy sprigs this year. Hattie sort of missed that. Just as well. Nothing spoiled a formal dinner like a pine beetle stumbling across the lacework.
Jake Witherspoon carried one of two fall-themed low arrangements into the dining room. “I assume you will have multiple seating areas, Sister-girl?”
“Yep.” Hattie wiped her hands on her mother’s faded apron, an heirloom she used every day. “The big table will seat eight. There will be, let’s see . . .” She pulled a quick mental tally. “Twelve of us, right? No, thirteen. Fourteen, if Mary-Esther comes.”
“I’d think the poor woman’s been a bit overwhelmed. Don’t go getting yourself in a funk if she doesn’t show, Sister-girl.”
“I’m not, Jakey.” Liar, liar. Pants on fire. Hattie crossed her fingers behind her back.
Jake set the floral arrangement down and dusted his hands on his pants. “I came out early on purpose. Put me to work.”
Hattie walked to the stove and held up a spoon clotted with flour and turkey-drippings fat. “I could use help with the gravy. I got lumps.”
*
By late-morning, most of the family boiled underfoot. Leigh provided several side dishes and gallon jugs of tea. Evelyn and Joe picked up Elvina and drove out from town, the trunk of the Lincoln Towncar weighted with food containers. Wanda and Pinky Green provided the rolls and a tossed green salad, and the neighbors walked up the lane carrying a coconut, layered cake and a pot of turnips. Shug bustled in with a red velvet cake and pecan and pumpkin pies. Holston’s offerings, two deep-dish apple pies from his mother’s recipe, cooled on the side table. Bobby appeared with a roasting pan heavy with the turkey and a pork roast he had prepared in a smoker.
In the oven, Parker house rolls browned. Hattie flitted between the kitchen and dining area with last-minute additions. Finally, everyone stood around the kitchen island, eyeing the food.
“It’s high noon.” Bobby tapped his watch. “Let’s get this show on the road. I’m so hungry, my stomach is scratching my backbone.”
Hattie glanced again from the front window.
“No use to keep checking.” Bobby patted his sister on the back. “She’s not coming.”
Hattie’s good humor crumbled, but she forced a smile. “You want to say the blessing, bro?”
They formed a circle and held hands for Bobby’s Thanksgiving prayer—a hasty jumble of words tagged with an amen —then the group descended on the food table. Leigh and Hattie were the last to sit down after the children were strapped into their highchairs, with their plates and drop cloths.
One spot remained vacant. Hattie sighed. So much for wishful thinking.
Outside, the doggie doorbell rang. “Did you feed Spackle?” Hattie asked Holston. “He gets like this when he feels left out.”
“Last time I saw him, he was lying on the front porch, contentedly chewing on the bone from the roast.”
Hattie pushed away from the table. “I’ll see what’s up.” She heard a rap at the kitchen door. When she opened it, Mary-Esther stood on the other side.
“Too late to crash the party?”
Hattie held the door open. “Absolutely not!”
“I would’ve been here on time, but I had a little trouble with the oyster dressing. I haven’t made it in a while.” Mary-Esther carried the baking dish inside and managed to find a clear spot on the island.
“Looks delicious! I’ll have to make room on my plate.”
“It’s my Nana’s recipe.”
“Come on into the dining room after you grab a plate.” Hattie’s lips felt like they would split from grinning. “We saved a place at the big people’s table for you.”
*
“Never had dressing quite like that, Mary-Esther,” Bobby commented after the meal. He handed her a cup of coffee and sat in the porch rocker next to hers.
“Glad you liked it. A little different from the cornbread style that’s popular here.”
“It’s good for us to try different things.” His gaze captured hers. “I’m glad to catch you alone. I want to apologize.”
“Bobby, I—”
He stopped her with his upheld hand. “I’m not good at admitting when I’ve been a complete horse’s ass. Just ask Hattie or my wife. Still, let me try.”
In spite of his calm tone, Mary-Esther braced herself.
“First of all, I’m sorry for jumping you like I did. I had no right. Second, I owe you big.”
“Oh?”
Bobby drank his coffee and rocked. “I’ve been pretty doggone pissed off for a long time. You’ve probably heard I used to hit the sauce . . . a lot. I quit drinking before I married Leigh, but there was always this thing waiting, ready to send me into a rage. Like I was possessed, or something, best way I can describe it.”
Mary-Esther listened.
“After I found out you really were our sister, I got knee-walking drunk, stinking hammered. Ended up in the hospital.”
“Hospital! What—?”
“A story I’m sure Hattie will tell on me, later. Important part is what came of it all. I remembered begging God for you—my baby sister—to die. Reckon I didn’t want anyone stealing my thunder. When Sarah got sick and died, I knew it was my fault.”
Mary-Esther’s feelings thawed. A little. Weren’t they all just hurt children wrapped in grown-up skin? “You couldn’t have been that old, Bobby. Kids can have cruel thoughts.”
“Leigh said the same thing, nearly word for word.” He gave one short nod. “Suppose I stuffed that muck down all of these years. The guilt gnawed away at my insides. Small wonder I don’t have a hole in my gut,” he motioned over his shoulder, toward the house, “if you go by that mind and body connection crap Hattie carries on about.”
A slight land breeze swept the aroma of evergreens across the porch. Mary-Esther took a deep breath. Not the scent of Louisiana, but growing on her.
“Hattie told me about what happened to the baby. You aren’t responsible for Sarah’s death.” Any more than she was responsible for Loretta’s death.
“I know that. Now.” The corner of his lips lifted. “Better, I really believe it. The miracle in all of this, other than you being here: I don’t feel pissed off anymore. It vanished.”
“Brought to the surface.”
“Exactly. And I owe it all to you.”
“By my being alive, you mean?” Mary-Esther said.
“That and it forcing me to shake my demons loose, once and for all.”
“All of us have things in our pasts, Bobby. Things we’d rather not claim.” God knows, she had a boatload. And he surely wasn’t the only one who’d turned more than once t
o alcohol.
“True enough.” He rocked back and forth. “Hope you’ll give me a second chance. I may not be the brother you bargained for. Shoot, Hattie had to put up with the worst I could dish out for years, and she still speaks to me.”
Could she ever forget those horrible accusations he had flung at her, not that long ago? No. They would stay with her, the way harsh words do. Trust might come, in time.
Bobby turned to face her. “I’d like to get to know my other sister, if she’ll have me.” Spackle barreled onto the porch, licked Bobby’s hand, then sniffed Mary-Esther’s and shared a little slobber with her too.
Mary-Esther patted the dog’s muzzle. Animals were easy.
Chapter Thirty-six
“Wowsa. Two days past Thanksgiving, and Christmas has shoved fall to the curb.” Hattie stood next to Jon Shug Presley, regarding the front porch of Aunt Piddie’s house.
Lighted wreathes swathed in red ribbon hung from the center of the two front windows, with a third smaller wreath centered on the door. The ivy-printed rocking chair cushions had been replaced with candy-cane striped pillows. Two animated standing figurines—Santa and his equally rotund wife—stood to one side of the door, their arms holding flickering electric candles.
Hattie looked toward the yard. A life-sized nativity scene dominated the lawn, nestled amongst a forest of white, illuminated Christmas trees. The trunks of the pines dotting the side yard wore blue lights, and white lights intertwined the moats of dormant azalea bushes. Glowing four-foot candy canes stuck from the ground at intervals. The crowning electrical exhibit occupied the driveway in front of Hattie’s car: three inflated globes, each containing a different snow-littered scene.
Jake pushed through the front door with two cups of coffee and handed one to Shug and one to Hattie. The life-sized Grinch seated in one rocker regarded the three of them with a curly, evil grin. How she loved the Grinch. Hattie made a mental note: check the TV listings. They always showed How the Grinch Stole Christmas early in December. Heaven help she missed it. Only seen it every year of her life.
“I don’t know,” Shug muttered. “It still needs something.”
