It was just after three o’clock when I drove my car off the ferry. I went home to get ready for dinner at Mamma and Daddy’s. At Mamma’s request, we were gathering earlier than usual, at four. Apparently, we were going to spend quality family time with one another.
Mack’s team was hard at work. I petted and reassured Rhett, then spoke briefly to the team leader, who told me they’d leave the codes and instructions on my desk. I logged into my network, and he walked me through setting up the interface. After getting the techs a pitcher of iced tea, I headed upstairs.
It was three-forty already. I moved into high gear. I changed into my Ann Taylor dark blue and white polka dot shirt and a pair of white jeans. Mamma did not sanction wearing white after Labor Day, but it was in style according to a recent article I’d read in the newspaper. Besides, the jeans went with the shirt and were my most comfortable pair.
I arrived right at four as instructed. Apparently, an updated memo had gone out and I’d missed it, because everyone else was already there. Blake’s Tahoe sat in our parents’ driveway along with a late model green Subaru Forrester which I assumed belonged to Joe Eaddy. I took a quick photo of the tag. It’s a habit. As soon I had time, I’d expand on Blake’s research.
I climbed the front porch steps. Mamma and Daddy’s house was built in the style of a Lowcountry Cottage, but the size—five thousand square feet, give or take—made use of the word “cottage” absurd. When I opened the front door, the hall and adjacent rooms showed no signs of life. “Hey, y’all?” I called as I walked down the wide hall. “Where is everybody?”
“In here,” Merry answered from the kitchen.
I followed her voice. Mamma and Merry stood in front of the door leading to the screened porch, their backs to me. They had their heads together, Mamma’s auburn bob a contrast to Merry’s multi-toned blonde, shoulder-length style which was virtually identical to mine. Chumley, Daddy’s basset hound, sat at their feet, an extra yard of skin hanging off him in folds. All three were glued to something going down in the backyard. I slid into the group beside Mamma. Daddy, Blake, and a tall sandy-haired man were in the backyard. Daddy was gesturing.
“Is that Joe?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Merry said.
“My, my. He’s a looker,” I said.
“He gets even better up close,” Merry said.
“And this one has a legitimate occupation,” said Mamma.
Merry rolled her eyes dramatically.
Mamma turned and gave me a quick hug. “Hey, sugar. Where’s Nate?”
“He’s working.”
“On a Saturday?” Her look held me accountable for this outrage. Then she took in my wardrobe choice. “Maybe if you took a little more care with your appearance he wouldn’t be working on Saturday afternoons.”
“Really, Mamma? You think Nate isn’t here because I’m wearing white after Labor Day? Do you think men even know there’s a rule against that? I have on lipstick.” I might have sounded the teensiest bit cranky.
Mamma tilted her head, scrutinized me. I felt like I was being scanned by a superior race who could read my thoughts and take my blood pressure simultaneously. “What’s wrong?” she asked, concern in her voice.
“Nothing. Everything’s fine.” I gave her my sunniest smile and rubbed her arm.
She raised her left eyebrow and shot me a look that put me on notice we’d discuss this later.
I nodded towards the backyard. “What’s going on?”
“Rats are burrowing tunnels in Chumley’s front yard,” said Mamma.
Chumley spent most of his time indoors near Daddy’s chair. For times when Mamma and Daddy were away for a few hours, or the weather was nice and the hound needed fresh air, Chumley had his own quarters out back. Because he paid no mind whatsoever to electronic collars, Daddy and Blake had built a large fenced-in area—no one ever referred to this as a pen or kennel—around Chumley’s house, which had its own covered front porch.
“Rats?” I scrunched my face.
“Big ones,” said Merry. “They’ve been eating Chumley’s food.”
“What’s Daddy up to?” Dread blossomed deep within my chest.
“He said he was going to take care of business.” Amusement bubbled up in Mamma’s voice. “He took a shotgun out there.”
“And you didn’t try to stop him?” I asked.
Mamma and Merry both looked at me like I was a simpleton. My daddy did whatever he damn well pleased. Any attempt to control him was a fool’s errand.
And yet, knowing this full well, I reached for the doorknob. “I’ll be right back.”
“You’d better stay in here with us,” Mamma said.
“I don’t even know what manner of crazy is on his program, but I have an idea somebody needs to put a stop to it.”
Merry snorted. “And you think you can do that? Blake made a similar pronouncement before he went out there fifteen minutes ago.”
“I’m just going to get a closer look.”
Mamma and Merry stepped back to let me out. Chumley woofed a warning.
I crossed the screened porch, went out the side door, and walked across the backyard to join the menfolk by the dog compound. They didn’t notice my approach. Blake and Joe Eaddy were listening to whatever Daddy was saying that went along with all the dramatic gesturing.
“Daddy, what’s going on?” I asked.
He turned and looked at me, his face all twisted up with indignation. “These damn rats are eating the hunting dog’s food.”
I parsed that, unsure if Chumley had ever actually been hunting. Daddy had a pack of hunting dogs when I was little. But as far as I knew, he hadn’t hunted anything aside from his reading glasses in years.
Daddy continued. “Chumley likes it outside this time of year. He’s been having his lunch out here. But he doesn’t eat all of it. Been leaving a little taste. Damn rats figure they’ve got a good deal. Dug themselves all these holes and tunnels. Just look at this.” He gestured at a group of eight holes in Chumley’s front yard.
“So…isn’t there something you can buy over at Steven’s Hardware to take care of the problem?” I asked.
“No need to do that. I’m gonna take care of it,” Daddy said, like I’d recommended extreme measures, and he had a more sensible plan.
Blake said, “Dad—”
“Go on in the house if you want to. I can handle this. Then we’ll get us a drink.”
I noted the five-gallon gas can at Daddy’s feet. One of his shotguns was propped against a nearby live oak. This was going nowhere good.
The tall, sandy-haired man extended a hand. “Joe Eaddy.”
“It’s so nice to meet you,” I said, wishing I’d brought my purse out with me so I could discreetly reach for the hand sanitizer. “I’m Liz, Merry’s sister. Merry’s told us all about you.”
He grinned wide. “Nice to meet you, too.” I wasn’t sure if he was grinning because of something Merry had told him about me, because of what maybe she’d told us about him, or because he was just a friendly sort.
For Merry’s sake, I had a conviction we needed to get Joe Eaddy inside. I was shocked she’d let him stay out here this long. “Blake, let’s you and me and Joe go inside and fix a round of drinks. Daddy can finish up out here and join us in a few minutes.”
Blake gave me a worried look.
Joe Eaddy said, “I want to watch.”
“Really?” I smiled. “Oh, there’s not much to see out here.” I took his arm. “What would you like to drink?”
“Anything’s fine. Y’all go ahead. I’ll be in with FT,” said Joe Eaddy.
FT? Daddy’s initials—Franklin Talbot. Apparently Daddy and Joe were fast friends and Daddy had a nickname already. Usually he was on the giving end of nicknames.
Blake and I looked at each other. We couldn’t leave Joe out here
alone with Daddy, five gallons of gas, and a shotgun.
“Y’all do whatever you want to.” Daddy picked up the can of gas and strode purposefully into the dog fence. Blake, Joe, and I watched as Daddy crouched and poured gas into each hole, muttering all the while.
“Hand me my gun,” Daddy said.
Blake said, “Dad, there’s an ordinance against discharging a firearm inside the city limits. I have to cite Zeke Lyerly once a month for shooting squirrels.”
“So cite me,” Daddy said.
Joe Eaddy reached for the gun, walked inside the fence, and handed it to Daddy.
I schooled myself to stop thinking of him as “Joe Eddie.” I said, “Joe, come on back here and tell me all about yourself. We’ve just met, my goodness.”
“We’ll talk later.” He smiled over his shoulder. “I’ve never seen a rat kill.” He looked real excited, like maybe he was on safari in Africa, about to see big game.
“A rat kill?” I’d never seen one either, and was happy for it.
Daddy pulled out a box of matches. He propped his gun against a post, struck a match and dropped it in the closest hole.
Flames shot out of the hole.
“Daddy!” I yelled.
Daddy grabbed his gun and Joe’s arm and jumped backwards. “Get ready!”
Clack-snap. Daddy chambered a shell and pulled the gun to his shoulder.
“Oh my God,” I said.
An ominous pouf came from the battleground.
“Dad, get back,” Blake hollered.
Countless rats flew out of the remaining seven holes. Several were on fire.
I covered my ears just in time.
Boom! Dad started taking out the enemy.
Blake and I retreated another few yards.
Clack-snap boom! More of the rats went down.
After another round, all seemed quiet.
“FT, over there,” Joe pointed at an escaping rodent.
Daddy chambered, aimed, and fired. “Got ’em!” He chambered another round, swept the corner of the yard once more with his eyes, shotgun at his shoulder. “I think we got ’em all.” He lowered the gun. He stepped back and surveyed the area once more, then discharged the gun overhead.
Joe said, “That was awesome, FT.”
“Tutie, bring me a trash bag,” Daddy said. Tutie was the latest in a long line of odd nicknames he’d given me. Its origin eluded me, though once or twice he’d called me Fruity Tutie, which made me think he was making fun of my fondness for good sanitary habits.
“I’ll get it.” Blake jerked his head at me to follow him.
Together we headed back to the house.
“So much for acting normal,” Blake said.
“Well, if that didn’t scare him off, nothing will,” I said.
My mamma’s fried chicken is legendary. She stands over an enormous cast iron skillet and painstakingly turns each piece until it’s golden on all sides and tender in the middle, just like her mamma did, and her mamma before her, et cetera. And just like all the Southern cooks before her, she serves it with mashed potatoes and pan gravy, and at least a half dozen other side dishes that vary depending on what’s in season and her mood.
The spread she put out that afternoon included fried okra, squash casserole, collard greens, butter peas, tomato pie, and green beans. And biscuits. Because all that food would not fit on her antique mahogany dining room table and still allow room for plates, cutlery, and glasses, she served dinner buffet style.
When we were all seated in the dining room, she held out her hands to Blake on her left, and Merry on her right. When we’d all joined hands and bowed our heads, Mamma returned thanks. “Father, thank you for this glorious day and the gift of family and friends. Thank you for delivering Franklin and our precious children from harm’s way as he was shooting up the backyard a short while ago. Bless this food to our use and us to thy service. Amen.”
Daddy looked at Mamma indignantly. “I did not shoot up the backyard.”
“That’s what it looked like from where I was standing,” she said.
“I got rid of the rats, didn’t I?” he asked.
Mamma smiled a warning at Daddy. “Frank, let’s enjoy our dinner. Our guest must be starving from all this commotion.”
Joe’s grin spread across his handsome face. His blue eyes lit with excitement. “I’ve never seen anything like that.”
“Neither have I,” I said.
We all dug into our plates. After a few minutes, Joe said, “This is the best fried chicken I have ever tasted.”
Mamma beamed. “I’m so glad you like it. There’s plenty more in the kitchen.”
“Oh, I’ll be going back for more,” said Joe. And he did—several times.
He wasn’t the only one. We all went back for more of something. The second time Joe went back to the kitchen, I looked at Merry. “I think Mamma’s chicken canceled out Daddy’s crazy.”
Merry said, “I think he enjoyed the crazy as much as the chicken.”
I squinted at her. “Does that concern you at all?”
“Not really. His family isn’t all that close. I think he thinks we’re normal.”
“God help him,” Blake said.
“Didn’t you say he was a banker?” I asked.
Merry said, “An investment banker. He puts together bond deals for municipalities.”
“I picture him wearing a suit and tie to work,” I said.
“Yeah.” Merry smiled. “He cleans up real good.”
I forked a bite of okra. “See, I’m thinking folks like that are more often entertained by something a little more highbrow than a rat kill.”
Merry shrugged. “Daddy wore a suit and tie to work for years.”
She had me there. “Hey.” I looked at Blake. “You ever have any trouble out of Ansley Johnson?”
“Ansley? Nah. Her mother’s nuttier than a box of Goobers. Poor Hank. Ansley’s a good kid. Why?”
I shook my head. “Just tying up loose ends.”
“Nobody here has anything to do with your Charleston case,” Blake said. “You and Sonny and Nate keep your business on the other side of the Arthur Ravenel Junior Bridge.” The latest version of the Cooper River Bridge was named in honor of a former congressman. I had a flash back to Thursday morning’s near miss.
Merry looked at Blake. “I’ve been meaning to ask you. I know you and Sonny Ravenel go way back.”
“Yeah?” Blake said.
Joe and Daddy returned to the table with full plates.
Merry said, “Is he related to those Ravenels on that reality TV show?”
Joe’s eyes lit up. “Southern Charm?”
Blake gave Merry a Big Brother stare down. “Don’t ever mention that show around Sonny.”
“What’s wrong with Southern Charm?” Joe asked. “Everybody knows it’s not real.”
My gaze collided with my sister’s. She smothered a laugh.
Daddy said, “Got ’em a sweet young girlfriend, don’t he? She looks real enough to me. And a poor little baby to prove it.” Daddy pressed his lips together and shook his head.
Daddy had a peculiar fascination with reality TV. Swamp People was his favorite. Apparently he’d been watching South Carolina’s contribution to the genre. Our former state treasurer, Thomas Ravenel, had resigned a few years back after being arrested and later incarcerated on cocaine charges. He now had a so-called reality TV show, which I had never seen, and a love child with a young woman reportedly thirty years his junior who was a descendant of John Calhoun. Oh, and Thomas was running for the U.S. senate.
Blake rubbed his forehead.
“Is that a ‘yes’ or a ‘no?’” asked Merry.
Blake closed his eyes. “Distantly.”
“Do I need to remind everyone that we do not discuss politi
cs at the dinner table in this house?” asked Mamma.
“Politics?” I scrunched up my face at her.
“Wrinkles, darlin’,” she said.
I consciously smoothed my face. “No one mentioned politics.”
“Political families and their…unfortunate situations crosses that line in my book.” Mamma smiled firmly, putting us all on notice that her book was the one we went by. “Merry, bring the biscuits and gravy from the kitchen. There’s room on the table. Y’all save room for chocolate cake, now.”
Joe said, “Oh, man. You made chocolate cake, too? I haven’t eaten like this in…I don’t think I ever have.” He bit into a chicken leg.
Moments later, Merry returned with the biscuits and more gravy. She set both directly in front of Joe, smiled at me, and sat back down. I knew exactly what she was thinking. My sister doesn’t cook. But if she brought Joe over for Mamma’s fried chicken often enough, he might not care.
Thirteen
Sunday morning, Nate and I met for breakfast at The Cracked Pot. We snagged the back booth, and Moon Unit swooped in with coffee, juice, and menus.
“Good mornin’, y’all!” Moon’s perky nature bubbled out all over us. “Nate, it’s so good to see you. When are you gonna stop hopping back and forth and settle down here where you belong?” She put her hand on his shoulder and gave him an inquiring look.
I felt like I’d been punched in the gut. Moon Unit had no idea her words would hurt me. She was just being friendly.
“Good to see you too, Moon Unit,” Nate said. “I declare, I have dreams about your grits and red eye gravy.”
Moon blushed. Nate had that effect on women, especially when he poured on the Southern drawl and flashed his baby blues. “Awww, aren’t you the sweetest thing?”
I’d run an extra mile so I could enjoy my breakfast without guilt, then remembered the fried chicken et cetera from the night before. I would be having the fruit plate for breakfast.
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