Estelle sighed real hard. I completely understood. Clara was getting on my nerves too. I took a few short shallow breaths and mentally took my pulse, ‘cause my hands were pinned to my sides. Still tickin’. “Estelle, when I do finally go, sue those Presbyterian Bigelowans for every nickel they worth. When you get the money, honey, come and dance on my grave. Pin a few dollars to your bra strap for savings, though.” I winked even though she was sitting behind me and couldn’t see anything but the back of my head. I heard her laugh, though.
“Go around to the other side of the square here,” I told Clara. “There’s a coffee shop that got the word nekked in it. I like that Jayne. Can’t have her coffee, though. Old womens like me don’t need to be up past eight o’clock.”
“Grandmama, it’s barely three o’clock,” Clara chided. “Why don’t I take you to your house so you can watch the TV I bought you.”
“Clara, that’s another thing. I know you brought that thing all the way from New Jersey, but I think that’s why it don’t work right down here in Mossy Creek.” I ignored the fact that she rolled her eyes. “Something’s wrong with it. My boyfriend doesn’t come on anymore.”
Clara snorted. “Grandmama, you know you don’t have any boyfriend.”
But Estelle clapped her hands. “Great Gran, you have a boyfriend?”
“Sure do,” I said firmly. They both sounded like an old woman like me couldn’t have some men friends. They just didn’t know the power a one-hundred-year-old great-great-grandmama used to have and still had. I was some doll.
“People used to compare me to Lena Horne,” I told Estelle. “’Cept I was darker. Thicker, too. She didn’t eat much, I think. My hair was kinkier than hers, and I couldn’t sing. My smile was brighter. And I was taller. All in all, I think I was cuter than her!” I smiled real big at this realization. Because Lena Horne was a real lady. Me, too.
Estelle leaned over the seat again and looked at me, smiling. “So who’s your boyfriend?”
“George Jefferson. You know, on the TV show. He caught my eye, even though your great-great-granddaddy will always have my heart.”
Clara huffed. “George Jefferson.”
Estelle covered her nose again and sat back. I heard her chuckling, though.
I bared my teeth in my biggest denture-bright smile. “Drive up that side street yonder.”
Clara did. I was silent for a few minutes as the newer houses gave way to old ones.
“Clara! Stop!” I shouted.
She hit the brakes, and for once I was glad to be strapped in by a seatbelt. Else I would have flown straight out the windshield, and my dress would have poofed up, and then I would have been a sight for Jesus. I closed my eyes and took a few short shallow breaths.
Then I opened them, and the memories returned. My eyes teared.
I pointed to a wide oak tree covered in green moss. A one-room house leaned to one side in front of it, protected by the tree. The one-lane dirt drive that led to the house had been overgrown with weeds, but I was close enough to see. “Roll down my window. Can you see all the folks? Can you smell the good smells of this place?”
Clara didn’t fuss like she usually did. My window slowly went down, and I could see myself and Chicken, Mama and Daddy, and Uncle Albert, and everybody.
“Smell what?”
“Dinner. Breakfast. Work. Love. Boy, do I miss that smell.” I sighed. “All our houses were real close by, and the kids used to run between them to play or work. There were more trees, but I guess they went the same way as the houses and the people. Back to the earth. But the big oak is still here. My birthday tree.” I wiped my eyes. “Little baby has surely grown up.”
Estelle said softly, “Tell me what you see, Great Gran.”
Clara said nothing but made a sniffling sound.
I looked at her. “Remember that tree, Clara?”
Clara left Mossy Creek when her daddy died and her mama, Alma, found work up North. I begged her mama to stay here—school teachers was needed everywhere, and our baby cousin Carmel had already proved that we Whits had a calling to teach in Bigelow County. But Alma packed up and took her precious baby, my granddaughter, Clara, with her. Clara had been ten at the time. And how she’d loved Mossy Creek.
I brought my shaking hand to my lap. “Clara, that house right there is your birth place.”
“I thought I was born in the hospital down in Bigelow.” Clara sounded disappointed, but facts was facts.
“You were born into the hospital of love. You was fine.”
We sat real quiet for a while.
“Whose house is that now?”
“That’s my house.”
“Grandmama, I think you’re confused. Your house is on the other end of town. You have a nice garden that you get your tomatoes from, and you have a pear tree.”
“Well.” I don’t know what to say. For a minute, I’m confused. That house looked like my house. But yesterday I dreamed I was listening to James Baldwin recite a poem at the Golden Palace. I was tired. It’d been a long day.
But I’d wanted Clara to see her home, my home. “This was my home with my mama and daddy. But you’re right. My home is across town. Take me, Clara. And watch your speed. Thirty-four is a mite fast for Mossy Creek.”
As we headed along, we passed a brand spankin’ new sign welcoming folks to Mossy Creek for the reunion. “That’s right nice of you,” I said to it. “Thanks for having me.”
Estelle read the whole thing from the back, even though Clara acted like they were selling dinners at the church for a quarter, the way she was speeding.
“Ain’t goin’ nowhere . . . and don’t want to?”
I took short shallow breaths, waiting for Estelle to say something else about the town’s snazzy sign. Estelle didn’t grow up here either, so I had to make allowances.
“It’s charming,” she said softly. “I like it.”
Clara groaned, and I peered out the window, smiling. Estelle was my favorite for a reason. “Pretty soon I’m not goin’ see these leaves change again. Guess I’d better get one last good look.”
I watched my town go by for a while, but the speedometer was tipping thirty-nine, and I started to get dizzy, so I turned to look at Clara, instead. “Clara, don’t you have any good memories of Mossy Creek?”
Her mouth worked for a minute, and she took in a big breath.
“It’s not the same, Grandmama. I left when I was a little girl.”
“But you was happy when you was here. Have you been happy since?”
“Of course. I had Ella, and she had Estelle. What couldn’t I be happy about?”
I looked at my time-worked hands. “You got married, had a baby, your husband ran out, your baby grew up and had a baby, and now you’re here driving me extra fast to my freezing-cold grave up North. Besides Ella and Estelle, I don’t see much for you to hurry home about.”
“Aren’t you getting sleepy, yet?” Clara said. “Isn’t it time for your nap?”
I fixed her with the old-lady eye that used to send her mama runnin’ for cover. “Clara, sixty-five ain’t too old to take one right across the mouth. I’m still your elder.”
Estelle snorted and rolled down the window.
I watched her from the rearview. Her face was stuck out like how dogs do. Hair flappin’, eyes closed, a smile on her face. I wasn’t gonna say nothin’ else, but I decided I didn’t want to see Jesus yet and couldn’t hug him right then, anyway, because my shoulder had a touch of arthritis.
“Estelle, baby, can you roll the window up? My shoulder ain’t ever gonna be right for Jesus.”
I figured she caught a bug, ‘cause she started coughing.
I turned to Clara, again. “Clara, you remind me of the Bigelowans. Black, white, and every other kind of Bigelowan.”
“Grandmama, please. Can we ride in quiet?”
“I suppose we can, but when you a hundred and it’s your special day, you should be allowed to speak your piece.”
Her spe
ed picked up to forty-one. The trees a-whizzing by as we zoomed past Beechum’s Bakery, and I swear I saw Bob the Chihuahua lift off in our wind. I decided I was just remembering when the hawk grabbed him last year, and I closed my eye that had the cataract. Much better. Bob had all fours on the sidewalk.
“You always wanted more,” I told Clara. “You ain’t never satisfied, never was. Them Bigelowans are the same. They wanted a big city, and now Ham Bigelow is running for President. Do you really think the country is ready for his big-headed self? If I was going to be here in a year, I’d run for President just to give him a scare. I’d call all the AARP’s around the country and have that flabby Bigelowan outvoted in no time flat!”
Clara clamped her mouth tight and said nothing.
I sat there picturing myself in an Abe Lincoln hat holding a Eula Mae for President sign. The hat would need a little dressing up for my taste. Some fruit and flowers and maybe a ribbon made a nice pick-me-up for any hat.
“Your mother had that same wanderlust,” I went on, “and I suppose she was happy, but only you know the truth. Was she, Clara?”
“My mother was very happy, Grandmama.” But Clara looked sad. ‘Cause she knew if that was happiness, she should give it a good knock with her straw broom. As we approached my house, the house my husband Daniel and his family built, but which folks now call the Whit Place in my honor, calmness settled over me. There were cars parked on the grass, and the door stood wide open.
Estelle gasped. “Great Gran, somebody’s in your house without your permission!”
City folk. Estelle can’t help herself.
“I know. They come to see me. Clara, get close to the door. Estelle, hand me my purse. Check my hair. Yessiree, I got visitors.”
I flipped down the fancy lighted mirror on the sun visor and checked my face. I showed myself my teeth.
“Grandmama? What are you doing?”
“Clara, when a woman sees that she’s got company, she’s got to be prepared. Estelle, let me out this car door. I’ve got people to see before I go and meet Jesus.”
Inside my house were many friends I’d made over the years. Old and young. Black and white. And even some foes. The governor himself, Ham Bigelow, was there, probably sucking up to any excuse to campaign early, but still. I noticed Mayor Ida giving him looks that would have killed a gopher at twenty feet, and I said to myself, She’s onto the scent, and that reunion is going to be mighty interesting next month. But I kept my mouth shut.
Everybody applauded when I walked through. I scooted to the bathroom and changed my Depends. Then Estelle got me settled in my chair so I could receive my guests.
The first one over was Ida and her granddaughter, Little Ida. Ida sat next to me and took my hand. “General,” she called me.
“Colonel,” I said back.
“I’m glad you’re still here.”
“For just a little while longer,” I assured her.
I pointed to Clara, who was over in the dining room trying to tell country women how to lay food out on a table. Ida and I shared a resigned look.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “You can’t hurt city folks’ feelings. They gonna kick her out in a minute. I miss your grandmama, Colonel. Was thinking of her today when I went by the old voting hall. She loaned me something that day. I guess I’ll return it to you.”
I looked for Estelle. “Estelle, reach inside that drawer and give me that package wrapped in white.”
She did my bidding as the Colonel looked on. Little Ida’s eyes were as smart as her grandma’s.
I winked at Little Ida, and she winked back at me. I liked that.
Estelle gingerly handed me the item. I leaned into Ida because Bigelowans are present. “Your grandmama gave this to me so many years ago I can’t remember how many. It’s time it found its way home.” I stopped her from unwrapping it. “At home. Just you. You’ll know what to do with it.”
The Colonel pressed a kiss to my cheek. “I love you, Miss Eula Mae Whit.”
“I love you too, Miss Ida Hamilton Walker.”
“Kiss my grandmama for me,” she added, her eyes bright.
“I surely will.”
“But not this year.” She rose, and her grandbaby slid beside me. Little Ida looked me in the eye. “May I have a kiss on the cheek, too?”
I leaned over and kissed her, then touched both her shoulders. “From this day on, you’ll be Captain Ida.”
“Thank you very much, General.”
“You’re surely welcome, Captain.”
The Colonel and Ham passed without a word, and Ida gave me a look I’ll remember forever. We both remember the past, and now there’s no doubt in my mind she’s caught a certain secret by its elephant’s tail. I smiled to let her know all would be well.
At eight o’clock, I tucked myself in my bed, my pulse still racing along as it had been for the past one hundred years.
God only had four hours left in my birthday, and frankly I didn’t know why he was waiting. Estelle shooed Clara out of my room, and I felt relieved. As much as I loved her, sixty-five-year-olds have energy like small children. Clara was so hyper, she caused my heart to race one extra beat a minute. She was lonely. I could tell that’s why she wanted me to come live in New Jersey with her.
But talking to a headstone wasn’t gonna cure her troubles. I lay there thinking I might have to stick around. The longer I stayed alive, the longer she’d stay in Mossy Creek, and the longer Whit land would stay with Whits.
I’d never considered what I’d do if I didn’t go home to glory on my hundredth birthday. Whit women have always been timely.
I thought about if there was anything God needed for me to do that I hadn’t. I’d been a good citizen. Gone to church on Sundays. Married. Raised my daughter the right way. Shot a man—oops—violation of that Commandment.
I needed to talk to God in person about that. He’d understand my side . . . once I explained.
So I lay in my bed, listening to my heartbeat.
Estelle peeked in my door. “Great Gran, you still awake?”
“Yes, baby. Come on in. What can I do for you?”
She cut on the light, and I was struck by how much she favored my daughter Alma, God rest her soul.
Estelle sat on the side of my bed. “Great Gran, I like Mossy Creek. I feel connected here.”
Joy ran through me as if my legs were ten years old.
“Me too. That’s what our town sign means. ‘Ain’t goin’ nowhere . . . and don’t want to.’”
“I was wondering . . . if you were thinking about delaying your trip into eternity, I’d like to stay with you. Get to know Cousin Carmel and the other relatives around here.”
My heart was racing now. I realized I was not ready to die.
“What does your grandmama have to say about that?”
“I was thinking of coming home, too.”
Clara stood in the doorway. This had me stunned and a little dizzy. “Why, Clara?”
“Because you’re here. My roots are here.”
“So no selling of my land?”
“No, ma’am.”
“And no burying me up North?”
“No burying you up North.”
“Ain’t goin’ nowhere . . . and don’t want to?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I ran my tongue over my last real tooth and smiled. “Then welcome back to Mossy Creek, baby.”
It was a good day to be alive.
RAINEY
Sometimes, losing a symbol of the community is like losing pieces of our own hearts. Can we ever fill that empty spot?
RAINEY
Homecoming Day, 1981, Part Two: The Fire
“Hey, Rainey Ann, did you hear about the fortune-teller?”
I turned from tossing softballs at wooden cutouts of ducks. “What fortune-teller?”
Smug Amy Champion stood there outside the carnival booth, lugging her blond toddler-cousin, Casey, in her arms. “The gypsy fortune-teller that’s predictin
g bad things about tonight’s football game.”
“What gypsy?”
Now Hank and Robbie were close beside me, staring at Amy. Amy fluffed her hair and hoisted Casey, higher on her hip. The toddler gazed at Hank with wide blue eyes. Hank, who could never resist petting any critter smaller than himself, brushed Casey’s pink nose with the tip of his finger. She watched him like a kitten hoping to catch a junebug. Then she smiled. Casey Champion fell in love with Hank Blackshear that day. I was there. I saw it.
Amy sighed at our ignorance. “The gypsy’s a machine.”
“Like a computer?” Computers were like elephants, to me. I had to see one in person, so I’d believe they existed.
Amy rolled her eyes. “No, it’s like a wind-up doll, or something. It’s over next to the spin-the-wheel booth.” She pointed. “You put in a dime, and you get a card with your fortune on it. Only instead of real fortunes, it’s handing out cards that say bad stuff. Look. I got one.” She dug a little card from her jeans’ pocket. We scrutinized it. In big, black typewriter type it said:
TONIGHT THE RAM SAYS GOOD-BAH.
I frowned. “What’s that mean?”
“I dunno. But Jewel Abercrombie got a card that says, WE’RE GOING TO COOK THE RAM’S GOOSE. And Dr. Thorogood’s wife got one that says, SAMSON GOES UP IN FLAMES TONIGHT.”
Samson. The Pep Club was in charge of washing Samson and brushing him and tying a big, green-and-white MOSSY CREEK RAMS sash around his middle. During half-time, the cheerleaders would lead Samson onto the field. Every year, he escorted the Homecoming Court down to the fifty-yard line then stood there, chewing his cud, while everybody cheered.
“I bet the Fang and Claw Society is going to try to kidnap Samson,” Robbie said grimly.
I shook my head. “I thought that club didn’t exist anymore.”
“So people say. I think it still does. And I think the Fang and Clawers are going to get Samson tonight.”
“And kill him and roast him,” Amy added helpfully.
Hank screeched, then took off at a run. Casey started crying.
I rapped Amy on the side of the head. “Troublemaker. Did your mama raise you to be a lank-haired doofus?”
Reunion at Mossy Creek Page 29
