Mama's Comfort Food

by Rhett DeVane

  “Nope. I’m not hiding for anyone. Not anymore. Actually, this has made me realize that I’ve made the right decision about allowing the station to film the documentary about my treatment. If anyone’s going to tell my story, it will, by God, be me!”

  Jake threw one hand into the air. “Well, amen Sister!”

  Wanda leaned toward the white wicker chair where the guest of honor rested.

  “I asked Pinky to play this first song especially for you, Karen. He loves James Taylor—knows just about all his songs by heart. This is the one that got me into trouble my first visit to the farm.”

  “Aw, Wanda.” Pinky unlatched the leather case and removed a well-seasoned Martin six-string acoustic guitar.

  “He has dozens of guitars,” Wanda volunteered. “I think it’s so he can reach one from anyplace he decides to sit down, including the bathroom!”

  “I only have eight total, thank you.” He smiled in Karen’s direction. “Collecting guitars is my passion. I started buying them after my sister died. It was awfully lonely out there. The music kept me going.”

  Pinky fought his shyness and raised his voice loud enough to carry over the din of conversation. “Okay, folks. I’m going to play this first tune by myself. Bobby and Hattie are going to pitch in afterwards for some songs we can all sing along with, if you’ve a mind to.

  “Most of y’all didn’t get to know my sister, Alice Jo. She left home right after high school and wandered the planet. When she did return, she didn’t get to town much.

  “Anyway, this was her favorite song from the master, James Taylor. It’s called ‘Shower the People.’” His resonant voice enveloped the small audience. A few joined in for the chorus.

  Pinky’s cheeks burned fiery red as applause echoed under the sprawling arms of the old magnolia.

  “Lord have mercy, Pinky. None of us knew you could sing, much less as good as all that,” Rich Burns commented. “Maybe you ought to work up a couple of numbers for the Madhatter’s Festival this fall.”

  “I’ll have to think about that one.”

  Wanda patted him affectionately on the arm. “He’s awfully shy.”

  “Just say the word,” Jake said. “I’m starting to put together the entertainment now, so I can add you in, for sure.”

  Pinky nodded. “All righty! The three of us have practiced some old folk songs most of you probably know by heart. Be sure to join in. Ain’t nobody going to fault you if you can’t sing very good.”

  Jake cut his eyes toward Hattie. Holston, a late arrival, stood behind her chair with a tall glass of iced tea in hand.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” she mouthed silently. “Don’t even start.”

  Jake wore an evil smile. As handsome and good-hearted as her husband was, anyone within earshot would soon know what Jake held out as her husband’s single fault: Holston Lewis could not carry a tune in a bucket.

  “Chicken and rice. Mom cooked it whenever there was a crisis. Someone died? Chicken and rice. Bad day at the office, Dad? Chicken and rice. Lost the baseball game, Son? You got it—chicken and rice. Of course, they call it chicken pilau here in the Deep South. Guess it was soothing, all that starch. Every now and then, when one of the little country churches around Atlanta has a chicken pilau dinner, I go. I’ve driven over fifty miles to eat chicken and rice. Suppose that says something about me?”

  D. J. Peterson

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Other than once in early childhood when he lost a favorite canine to old age, D. J. Peterson could not recall a time when he felt so desperately depressed. Even the loss of his parents had not affected him as profoundly. At the office, he toiled long after normal hours on projects slated far into the future. Everyone noticed his flat-line demeanor. Will popped by on a regular basis, and Janice from accounting plied him with homemade cakes and cookies. He took little note of his immediate surroundings. The entire female cast of Baywatch could have paraded by his desk in butt-floss bikinis, and D. J. would have offered the same bland expression.

  His neighbors in upscale Buckhead, had they taken the time and effort to care, might have noted his absence. Since his return from Florida, he had lived at Mary Elizabeth Kensington’s condominium: the only place he felt any respite. Getting in touch with his feelings was not a guy-thing, and he struggled to dig deep enough to reach the core of emotions that most females seemed to effortlessly access.

  Who was this woman with whom he had been intimately involved for the past five years? In much the same way he had searched for clues to her identity, D. J. wandered from room to room, touching knickknacks and pieces of art. He stood in her walk-in closet and brushed his hand along the rows of expensive outfits, trying somehow to unearth the person behind the façade.

  The sought-after answers came in memories—brief snippets of everyday life. A line from Shakespeare repeated like an old LP record with a skip, over and over: What’s in a name? That which we call a rose would by any other name smell as sweet. What was a person other than the collective actions of daily existence? D. J. recalled the time Karen had asked him to stop while she purchased a hot meal in a Styrofoam take-out container, handing it to a prisoner-of-war thin vagrant who huddled against the wind in a downtown door jamb.

  He remembered the way she cocked her head when she considered anything of beauty. Her gentleness when a child, animal, or elderly person came into her line of focus. The times when she had patiently nursed him back to health when he had been anything but loveable.

  Weren’t these the indications of a human’s worth, rather than a name or place of origin? D. J. sleep-walked through daily routines as he tried to tease the irregular puzzle pieces into place to create a semblance of the woman he loved.

  The doorbell rang three times before he reluctantly rose from the couch and stumbled to the front entrance. Though the peep hole, he recognized the distorted image of Trisha Truman.

  D. J. swung the door open. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Trisha brushed past him and strode into the living room. She spun around and smiled seductively. “I’ve come to rescue you, D. J. I figured I’d find you here, wallowing in the remains of your shattered romance.”

  “I have nothing to say to you.”

  Trisha tilted her head to one side. “I’m sure you feel some vestige of emotion for Mary, Karen, whoever—but I can help you.”

  “How’s that?” Being enclosed in a small space with the woman had the feel of lunching with a poisonous asp. Misstep and you wouldn’t make it to the phone to dial 911.

  “You need someone who appreciates you.” She oozed closer and reached a taloned hand to brush an unkempt hank of hair from his forehead. “Poor baby, you look so untidy. That she-devil has soured your heart with her lies.”

  D. J. pulled back sharply. “Thanks to you, Karen has to not only fight for her life, but deal with the bullshit media, too.”

  “That’s so sweet of you—defending someone who has clearly ruined your life.”

  “Why don’t you leave, Trisha?”

  “Is that any way to treat the woman who only has your best interests at heart?”

  D. J. scowled. “My best interests?”

  Trisha tilted her head and studied him. “Can’t you see? I’m in a position to help you distance yourself from the mess she’s created and dumped at your feet.”

  “I don’t require your help. Besides, you’re an unemployed secretary. Who’s going to give you any credence about anything?”

  Her heel tapped a staccato rhythm. “Really, D. J.! Nastiness doesn’t become you at all. I’m not unemployed, as of yesterday.”

  “You land a hostess job at some backwoods truck stop?”

  Trisha laughed. “No, silly. You’re looking at the newest investigative reporter for the National Informant.”

  “That suits you. Now you can swim with the rest of the bottom-feeders. I’ll eagerly await your exposé on aliens raising baby chimps in the wild.”

  Trisha studied hi
m for a moment, one fingernail tapping idly on her lower lip. “It’s beginning to dawn on me now. Why didn’t I see this before?”

  D. J.’s temples pulsed as he clenched his teeth.

  “You and Will. You were in on Karen’s sham, all along. You knew she was deceiving the American public, didn’t you?”

  “I’m not answering a single one of your inane questions, Trisha. Leave my house!”

  “Your house? Aren’t we a bit presumptuous?”

  D.J. took in a deep breath and tried to staunch his desire to grab and squeeze Trisha Truman’s neck.

  “I was the talent at Georgia Metro. If not for your slut girlfriend, I would’ve been in front of the cameras. Clearly, I have the face and body for it.” She drew back slightly from the white-hot anger that flashed from his eyes. “Don’t say I never offered to save you, D. J. Peterson. You and that lying bitch will rue the day you shunned Trisha Truman.”

  She whirled around and stomped from the room, slamming the front door in her wake. Tequila appeared from her hiding place beneath the couch and curled around his feet. D. J. picked up the rotund Persian and buried his nose in her fur.

  “You okay, honey?” The unmasked concern in Evelyn’s voice tore at Karen’s heart.

  “Yeah, Mama. I just couldn’t sleep.”

  “I knew that party was a bad idea. I tried to tell Jon, but no! He was dead set on making a big hoo-hah right before your surgery. I—”

  “It’s okay, Mom. Really. The party was fantastic. It served to take my mind off things for a little while.”

  “Dr. Keegan prescribed you some light sleeping pills. I’ll go get one for you.”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Some warm milk, then? It won’t take me a minute to—”

  “No. I don’t need anything. Please.”

  “You have to get your rest, baby doll. Tomorrow’s a big day.”

  “I’ll be out of it from about seven in the morning on, and then, drugged up for the next twenty-four hours or so. Right now, right this very moment, I want to sit out here and enjoy the moonlight. Will you join me?”

  Evelyn clutched the thin cotton summer robe to her chest. “I reckon I could. The breeze seems to be keeping the mosquitoes away.”

  She settled into a lawn chair. “It is beautiful, isn’t it? Your father has worked so hard on this yard. I never understood why he was so obsessed with planting so many flowering trees and shrubs. When I walk out here and get a whiff of the magnolias, gardenias, and mimosas, I appreciate him for it. I surely do.”

  The expansive yard was lined with evergreen hedges. Tall Southern magnolia and live oak trees loomed overhead, surrounded with moats of flowering annuals and perennials. Brushed by the glow of the full moon, grapefruit-sized magnolia blossoms bobbed like ethereal birthday balloons in the gentle evening breeze. Tiny dots of flickering green light swirled at the edge of the thicket beyond the manicured grounds.

  “Mama! Look!”

  Karen’s voice, innocent and childlike, caused her mother to smile.

  “Don’t y’all have fireflies in Atlanta?”

  “I guess. I haven’t taken notice.”

  “This is the best time of year to see them, when spring’s easing toward summer. The males are the ones you see flitting around. The females stay close to the ground.”

  “You amaze me, Mama. Do you know everything?”

  “Saw it on the Discovery Channel. Law, I remember you and Byron loved to catch fireflies in mason jars with holes punched in the lid. You would always insist on letting them go free as you couldn’t abide the notion of anything dying all cooped up.”

  Her mother pivoted and pointed. “Remember what you used to call that tree right there?”

  “No.”

  “The magic praying tree.”

  “The mimosa?”

  Her mother nodded. “You held out it was magic on account of the way the little bitty leaves folded up at night like it was in prayer, and then opened back up, come the light of morning.”

  Karen hopped up and walked over to study a low-hanging branch. Feathery clumps of hot pink powder-puff flowers adorned the fern-like foliage.

  “I remember now. Look how the little leaves tucked together to touch each other. Amazing.”

  “Your daddy threatened to cut that one down. It makes a heck of a mess on the patio when the blooms start dropping. I wouldn’t hear of him killing it—on account of it was your magic tree. I reckon it’s not such a bad thing, having a tree so full of prayers in your back yard.”

  Karen stared at the headset for a moment before dialing the cell phone number written on the back of a Dragonfly Florist business card.

  Jake Witherspoon’s voice answered after the second ring. “Hi, doll. What’s wrong? Can’t sleep?”

  No matter how much she accepted technological advances such as caller ID, it still unnerved Karen when someone on the opposite end of the line knew her name before hello. “This a bad time?”

  Jake chuckled. “You kidding? Two a.m. is never a bad time for a call from a friend. I told you I was available at all hours, and I meant it.”

  “Don’t you ever sleep?”

  “On my feet, I guess. Insomnia was the one gift of my unfortunate run-in with homo-hate that has kept on giving in the form of stabbing leg pain when I lay down. I rarely touch the sheets on my side of the bed.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. You didn’t do it. Besides, I get a lot done in the wee hours when it’s quiet enough to think. Does Evelyn know you’re awake? If she does, I bet she’s fit to be tied.”

  “I went to bed at the same time she turned in. It was useless to toss and turn, so I got up and read on the loveseat in the garden room. I dozed off for a little while.”

  “I’m familiar with that concept. Heaven forbid I should actually try to sleep on a mattress. I have to sneak up on slumber. Honestly, in the past three years, I’ve slept more on the recliner than in my own bed.” He paused. “So, what’s up? Want to sneak over and play some cards or something? I’m positively deadly at spades.”

  “No, just wanted to hear a friendly voice.”

  “You sound strange. Did you have that dream again?”

  Karen released a long sigh. “Yeah.”

  “Why don’t you tell Dr. Jake about it? Hell, it’ll beat having to watch reruns and infomercials.”

  “It was different this time.”

  “Different how?”

  Karen struggled to pull the dreamscape into focus. “It started the same. I was on the path climbing steadily upward. Except this time, someone was following me. Not like an ominous presence, more like I was hiking with a companion. Someone I liked.”

  “That’s an improvement, at least.”

  “Soon, the path was so full of boulders; I had to get down on all fours to continue moving. I knew I couldn’t help the person behind me. I was barely able to pull myself along.”

  “Freud would have a field day with this one.”

  “Then, I was at the same clearing—the one with the dark cave. I was paralyzed with fear. Even felt my chest was constricting so that my breathing was labored. It felt so incredibly real!” Karen took several deep breaths. “The thing was in the cave—only I got the feeling it was waiting right at the entrance, just beyond a bend in the rock wall. Then, I was so angry my body shook with a rage so deep it was boiling up inside. Whatever was inside the cave—it needed to come out!”

  “Sounds like a B-rated science fiction flick: Godzilla and the Cave of Doom. What happened next?”

  “I started to scream. I yelled and yelled for it to come out and let me see what it was!”

  “Did it?”

  “No. I woke up in a cold sweat.”

  “I hate to-be-continued episodes, Karen.”

  “You? What about me? It’s getting to the point I dread falling asleep!”

  “Let’s look at this. You’re doing something you enjoy, maybe, with a person, unknown, whom you like. Then, all of
a sudden, the going gets rough, and you have to pull the hill on your own without any consideration for the other hiker. You are confronted with a scary monster, whatever, in the dark cave. You can’t see it, but you know it’s there. And it makes you mad that it won’t come out and play.”

  “Sounds pretty simplistic when you say it.”

  “I don’t have all the emotions to go along with the storyline. You do.”

  “So, what are you saying? The cancer is the dark thing in the cave?”

  “Is it?”

  “I’m asking you, Jake.”

  “It’s your dream, for God’s sake.”

  “Who is the person behind me? Donald? My former self?”

  “I’m a florist. What do I know from dream analysis? You want my opinion on the proper fertilizer for African violets, or how to achieve balance and harmony in an asymmetrical arrangement, I’m your guy.”

  “No wonder you and Hattie are such tight friends. Neither of you will ever give me a straight answer.”

  “Ain’t nothing straight about me, Karen. Or haven’t you noticed?”

  “Funny.”

  “It is good to have someone who can be funny at this hour, don’t you agree?”

  Karen laughed in spite of herself. The deep burn of anger at the dream monster eased a notch. “Know what’s weird?”

  “Besides the fact that we’re chatting when most sane folks are peacefully dreaming of tropical islands and naked Nubians serving drinks with flowers and little umbrellas balanced on top?”

  “When I lighten up, I don’t feel so dismal.”

  Jake laughed. “You just broke my code, honey pot. I’ll send you my bill.”

  “Everyone in this little town of mine knows my mama makes the best banana pudding. She brings it to all of the church socials, and the bowl empties like magic. She takes no shortcuts. Not my mama! Makes the egg custard from scratch instead of that instant stuff out of a box. She loads it up with layers of vanilla wafers and sliced bananas, topped off by a good three or four inches of tall, stiff, browned meringue. I can close my eyes and near about taste it!”