Secondhand Sister

by Rhett DeVane

  “Not just any chocolate cookies, LaJune. Those are my famous double chocolate mocha chip cookies.”

  The old woman clutched the plastic bag. “I’ll not be sharing these, mind you. If I don’t get too carried away and eat them all at once, they might last me a good while.”

  “I can make you more, now that I have a decent stove.”

  LaJune slid the wrapped cookies back into the gift bag and tucked it beside her chair. “You’ve moved into your little house, then?”

  “Not totally. But I hope to, by the first of the year. There’s a lot of cleaning out to do, and I’m doing some painting and refreshing.”

  “Making a nest. Good for you.”

  “What are you doing for Christmas? I could come pick you up.”

  LaJune’s smile transformed her face. The wrinkles shifted to joy crinkles and the sagging skin disappeared. “Mighty sweet of you, dear. I’ll be at Sheila’s. I won’t spend the night. I’d much rather be back here in my own bed by dark, but I’ll be over at her house for Christmas Eve and Day. What about you?”

  “I’ve been invited out to The Hill with Hattie and Bobby.”

  “You’re getting used to your family, as it should be.” When Mary-Esther didn’t reply, LaJune said, “I don’t like the shade of that look. What’s the matter?”

  “I don’t know, LaJune. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but I feel so . . . out of place.”

  “Only natural, with what all you’ve been through. Life is wacky. We’ll go along a particular way for so long that we know it’s the only way to be. Then, bang and whoop-de-doo, things shift and we’re in a different life altogether.”

  The old woman pointed to one of the black and white photos, a young version of her and her husband posing by a white house with a wrap-around porch. “I stayed in my home for over sixty-three years. Lived with a man I loved dearly, but sometimes wanted to choke senseless. Then, in the blink of an eye, he was gone and I was alone. Had to get used to that new life. Then, I started to fall and forget—the two old age foibles—and ended up here. I went from taking care of myself and a five-room house to this, one room and a bathroom I can barely turn around in without running into myself.” LaJune swished her hands through the air to take in her space. “Some mornings, I still wake up and wonder where I am.”

  LaJune wagged her finger toward Mary-Esther. “What I learned is this: you only have right now. The past—all those memories of fun and love and hardship—makes you what you are. But you can’t go back and crawl into your old skin. It won’t fit.”

  “How did you get so wise?”

  LaJune chuckled. “When you get past seventy or so, life stacks up.”

  The old woman leaned forward. “I’m not one to tell a person what she ought to do, but I’m going to make an exception. Mary Eve, you think long and hard before you go pushing those folks aside. You and I haven’t been acquainted ’cept for a few months, though I feel we’ve known each other for a long, long time, somehow . . .

  “I see folks here who don’t have anyone, or the people who should care about them don’t. They would give anything to have family come around.” LaJune paused and looked up toward the left. “What was the old saying about feeling out of place? Ah yes. ‘It’s like being a fly in the ointment.’ You ever hear that one?”

  Mary-Esther shrugged. “Maybe, but I don’t know what it means.”

  “Folks used to make medicines—back in the day before all this modern hoo-hah—tinctures and plasters and creams for any ailment. You’d be going along okay, being so careful about stirring and adding herbs and such, and a fly would settle into your mixture, making it seem like it had spoiled the whole batch you’d worked so hard to make.”

  Mary-Esther nestled into a chair. The moral to LaJune’s stories often took a couple of detours. At least they weren’t discussing tomatoes today.

  “In reality, that fly didn’t spoil a dang thing,” LaJune said. “Just made it different. Maybe had no impact to amount to much, except to be a little unsettling.”

  The senior took a deep breath and continued, “Just because you came along and stirred things up in your family, don’t feel like you’re the fly that fell into their ointment.”

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Mary-Esther passed through the threshold of the Davis farmhouse. Cooking aromas filled her nose: the scent of warm sugar and vanilla, the tinge of stewing tomatoes, and the yeasty smell of fresh bread. She paused, slammed by an intense wave of bittersweet longing.

  Jerry stepped in behind her, carrying the pot of her gumbo. “Don’t stall in front of me, woman. These pot-holders aren’t that thick!”

  She mentally shook herself and stepped aside. “Sorry.”

  Hattie appeared, wearing a Mrs. Santa apron wrapped over a crimson T-shirt and jeans. Topping off the outfit, a furry camo-printed Santa hat. “Set it down on the stove, Jerry. I’ll turn the element on low to keep it warm.”

  Hattie hugged her sister, then drew back. “You okay? You look a little pale.”

  “Fine.” Mary-Esther took a shaky breath. “I’m fine.” The farmhouse enveloped her like a long-lost lover home from the Great War. The feeling wasn’t totally unwelcome. The sound of a piano and laughter came from another room.

  Hattie waved them into the kitchen. “We’re waiting on Jake and Shug. Everyone else is here. Y’all want something to drink?”

  “Lite beer, if you’ve got one,” Jerry answered. He carried the heavy stockpot to the stove.

  “Maybe, a glass of red wine?” Mary-Esther shucked her raincoat. A soggy warm front had pushed aside the recent cold spell. While other parts of the country enjoyed a white Christmas, the South experienced a steady, pissy drizzle.

  “Isn’t this weather something? One true thing about this part of the South,” Hattie said, “if you don’t like the weather, wait a few hours. By morning, as much as four inches of rain could fall across the Florida Panhandle.”

  Bobby walked into the kitchen. “Don’t mind her, Mary-Esther. She watches the Weather Channel too much. Hattie has the hots for that one dude who always shows up when there’s a hurricane bearing down. What’s his name—”

  “Rick Santorum?” Hattie’s left eyebrow shot up.

  Bobby looked from Hattie to Mary-Esther. “Rest my case.” He lifted the lids of the simmering pots, one by one. “Dadgum, this all smells so good.”

  Hattie rapped her brother’s knuckles with a wooden spoon. “Quit huffing the soup.”

  “Hattie, I surely appreciate being included on the invitation,” Jerry commented. “Beats a heavy meal. I’ll have one of those at Mama’s tomorrow. Seems like all I’ve done since Thanksgiving is eat, eat, eat.”

  “Glad you could come, Jerry.” Hattie patted him on the arm.

  “The Annual Davis Soup Competition has been going on for years,” Bobby said. “Wouldn’t seem like Christmas without it.”

  “Competition?” Mary-Esther glanced from Bobby to Hattie.

  “My mom . . . our mom . . . came up with this as a way for us to get together on Christmas Eve without anyone slaving over a stove for hours,” Hattie said. “Everyone makes some kind of soup or stew, and the hostess provides the bread and beverages. We’ve had as many as six or seven pots here at once. We turned it into a contest, a few years back. We vote by secret ballot after we eat to determine who wins the Soup-Wiz title for the year.”

  “Hattie makes this wicked-good cheesy potato soup,” Bobby said. “It kept winning, so we had to switch up the rules. Now the winner can bring the same kind of soup back the next year, but not to contend for the title.”

  “I can still beat you all, hands down.” Hattie turned her attention back to Mary-Esther. “You’ll probably smoke us this year with your gumbo. Everyone who’s eaten it knows how wonderful it is.”

  Mary-Esther offered a slight smile and nod. “Thanks. It was my Nana’s recipe. I really can’t take credit.”

  “Sure you can,” Bobby said. “Hattie takes credit for Mama
’s old recipes.”

  Hattie wagged the spoon in her brother’s direction. “And you pilfer recipes off the Internet and swear on a stack of Bibles you made them up, right off the top of your pointy little balding head.”

  Bobby sniffed. “I merely use those as a guide, my dear sister. I add secret ingredients to enhance the flavor.”

  “Sticks his finger in it, more than likely,” Hattie fired back, with a wink toward Mary-Esther.

  Was this how it went between siblings, this friendly childlike banter?

  Elvina stood at the threshold of the kitchen. “Did Leigh fix her widow-maker chili?”

  “Tradition calls for it,” Bobby answered. “Christmas Eve wouldn’t be complete without the wild fits of cover-flapping at my house when the beans take effect later on.”

  Hattie winced. “Thanks for sharing that.”

  “Hey, Elvina. No cast!” Mary-Esther motioned when the old woman stepped into the kitchen.

  Elvina’s gaze dropped to her legs. “I wondered if and when someone would notice. Been here going on half an hour and nobody has so much as commented on it.”

  “Does it still hurt?” Hattie said.

  Elvina dismissed the question with a wave. “It swells a bit if I don’t remember to prop it up every now and then. I am proud to trade that cast for this boot. I can assure you.”

  Hattie stirred the contents of the stockpots and lowered the heat settings. “I can’t believe Jake isn’t here yet. Actually, I can believe it.”

  “Joe wants you to give his tortilla soup a stir, Hattie,” Evelyn yelled from the next room.

  “Keeping an eye on it,” Hattie called back. “Despite what my loving brother says,” she gave Bobby the slit-eye, then directed attention to Mary-Esther, “I won’t sabotage anyone’s entry.”

  Leigh popped her head around the threshold. “Y’all come on into the living room. Tank really wants to sing Christmas carols.”

  “For that, I need a glass of wine,” Mary-Esther said. “Makes me sing better, or at least I don’t care.”

  Holston stepped into the kitchen carrying Sarah, who was resplendent in a red and green nightgown. “This little one’s getting pretty sleepy. How about her little cousin?”

  “Tank’s still going full tilt,” Leigh said. “I doubt he’ll wind down for at least another hour. I have a pallet of quilts on the floor next to the tree if you want to lay her down.”

  Holston delivered a quick kiss to his wife as he carried the child through the kitchen. Mary-Esther hung back from the conversation, absorbing the easy banter of people who clearly cared for each other.

  Had she ever experienced this? Nana would talk to her while she cooked. They might discuss a few things about what she did at school, but it wasn’t a guarantee every day. The business of living got in the way of idle chit-chat. Certainly, Loretta never made the effort. When her mother talked, it was to scold Mary-Esther for some real or imagined infraction.

  Not until certain death loomed over her left shoulder did Loretta Boudreau begin to open up, as if a cork had popped off and a lifetime spewed out. A lot. Too late. But at least Mary-Esther had something she could hang onto. She took a gulp of wine.

  Mary-Esther surveyed the country kitchen, noting more details than she had before. Nothing fancy, but welcoming. Plain oak cabinets. Overhanging pot rack. Lines of Fiestaware dishes in a rainbow row.

  In the living room, Leigh played “Jingle Bells” for the fifth time. No problem. That was generic. Did this family sing certain Baptist hymns? Surely, the Catholics shared that part of the season in the same way, though the only tune she thought about immediately was Ava Maria. And she didn’t know the words to that.

  The wine made the edges of her vision fuzzy. How had it been when Tillie Davis ruled this room? Did she kid with her children? With every smile and gesture, did she tell them they were her most precious possessions, that Christmas meant family to her? Did Hattie and Bobby learn to cook by her side, tasting and stirring? The questions rose and popped in her head like champagne bubbles.

  Hattie’s voice broke her reverie. “Mary-Esther? Earth to Mary-Esther?”

  Mary-Esther jerked. “Oh . . . what?”

  “I wanted to know if you like eggnog. I make the real deal from fresh eggs. Then, I kick it up a little with the nog, whiskey. Old family recipe, for the adults after the kiddies trip off to dream of sugar plums.”

  “You drink raw eggs?” Funny question since she sucked the heads of boiled crawfish. And once, in Vegas with Ricky, she’d slurped down the Tequila worm.

  Hattie washed her hands and dried them on a snowman-printed towel. “Been doing it for years. Hasn’t killed us yet. Mama said the whiskey drowns any harmful bugs.”

  “Living dangerously takes on a new meaning,” Jerry commented. “Think I’ll stick to beer.”

  “You really think I would slaughter my guests, not to mention my only sister?” Hattie said. “No confidence in me. No confidence at all.”

  The yap of a small dog stopped the conversation, and they all turned toward the door. Jake Witherspoon, dapper in a red cashmere sweater, stepped inside and put Shug’s Pomeranian on the floor. The little blonde fur ball twirled around in circles before dashing into the forest of human legs. Spackle pushed through the door in the Pom’s wake.

  “Festive little outfit, Elvis.” Hattie leaned down to accept a few hand-kisses. She reached into a ceramic hound jar and handed out two treats. The dogs gobbled them down, then dashed from the room in search of more humans to enchant. “Feel kind of bad for Spackle. All he has is a strip of red and green cloth I made into a bandana.”

  “I thought the sequins a bit overdone,” Shug said. He slid a cake carrier onto the island. “Evelyn designed it. She deserves all the glory.”

  “Elvis has a new chenille lounge jacket that is absolutely sweet,” Jake added.

  “That dog dresses better than I do,” Hattie said.

  “Sister-girl, not hard since your idea of high fashion is a sweatshirt, or in tonight’s case, a shirt with, I’m sure, some quippy holiday saying plastered across the front.” He stood back and eyed her. “And where ever did you find that attractive Santa’s spare-outfit apron and Billy-Bob cap?”

  “For you, I’ll whip up some special salmonella eggnog. And my T-shirt is this year’s official Grinch print, so there.” Hattie boxed her lifelong friend on the arm. She held out one hand. “This, from the man with a spiffy new cane that looks like Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer on crack.”

  Evelyn breezed into the kitchen amid the laughter. “Good! We’re all here.” She motioned over her shoulder. “Doesn’t Elvis look smart in his little doggie ELF-wear outfit?”

  “You’ve hit your stride, Ev.” Jake unloaded a six-pack of soft drinks into the refrigerator.

  “I’m planning a complete pet-lovers’ line, and not just for the holidays either. Bandanas, little rainwear. The possibilities are limitless.” Evelyn’s hands flitted with her words.

  Shug nodded. “You’ll probably make as much—if not more—than you do on people clothing, Evelyn. Folks go hog wild on their animals. Excuse the obvious pig reference.”

  Evelyn agreed. “I wish cats would lend themselves to accessories. They positively resist any effort on that behalf.” She eyed Shammie. As if the cat understood her intentions, he perked his ears and stared.

  Joe Fletcher stepped up behind his wife and hugged her around the waist. He nodded greeting to the rest of the group. “If there’s a way to do it, I’m sure you’ll figure it out, hon.” Mary-Esther noticed his appreciative glance at the stove filled with stew and soup pots. Probably thrilled his wife was so involved in sewing, even if it was for dogs.

  Hattie pulled a cookie sheet filled with rolls from the oven. “Proof, once more, of the mental superiority of felines. If you tried to get Shammie into an outfit, you’d more than likely end up in the E.R.” She tonged the hot rolls into a bread warmer and covered it with a linen cloth.

  “Speaking of cats, ho
w’s Boudreau adapting to the new digs?” Jake directed toward Mary-Esther. Then, to the group, “We’ve been redoing the Herring house.”

  “My cat is a lot like me. He can live most anywhere.”

  *

  They gathered at the long wooden kitchen table for the informal meal. Conversation flowed. People scribbled notes on score cards. Tank and Sarah wore most of their soup, but some made it inside. When the watery dregs of five kinds of soup rested in their empty bowls, Bobby tallied the results.

  Bobby bowed to Mary-Esther. “Congrats to our new Soup-Wiz champion. Your gumbo takes this year’s title! Don’t pay any attention to Hattie. She pouts.”

  “Not true, Bobby Davis. I’m an extremely gracious loser!” Hattie balled up her napkin and pitched it in his direction.

  “I thought your soup was excellent, Hattie,” Mary-Esther said.

  “Last year, when Joe’s catfish chowder took top honors, she went into mourning for a week,” Holston said.

  Hattie slapped her hands on the edge of the table. “I did no such thing!”

  Leigh laughed. “Fess up, Hattie. You gained five pounds eating every piece of chocolate in sight. If that’s not depression—”

  “Okay. I’ll admit. I do get a bit overzealous when it comes to the soup competition.” Hattie stood and stacked the dirty dishes, her lips pinched together.

  “A bit?” Joe smiled. “She’ll start tomorrow, looking over recipes for next year.”

  Hattie carried the bowls to the kitchen sink. “Why don’t we open gifts?”

  “That’ll work,” Bobby said. “The kids will be asleep in a few minutes. Time for some adults’ playtime.”

  After Tank and Sarah were settled into a crib, the group moved into the living room. Bobby hustled to the tree. He read the tags and handed out wrapped presents.

  “He always does that.” Hattie poked out her bottom lip. “I wear the Santa hat on purpose, and every year, my loving brother gets to sort out gifts. So not fair.”