The Shoes Come First: A Jennifer Cloud Novel
Page 51
Chapter 19
July 2004
As spring turned into summer, Texas began her early ascent into triple-digit temperatures. It was ninety degrees in the shade when we received the invitation to Cousin Trish’s fourth wedding. I overheard Mom telling Dad she couldn’t believe Trish was having an outdoor wedding in the month of July.
“July Fourth, can you believe it?” echoed Mom’s shrill voice. “She wants to have fireworks at the wedding. What’s going to be next, an elephant parade?”
“I’m sure whatever happens will be fine, dear,” Dad replied from behind his newspaper. “I heard the lucky groom is a wealthy businessman from New York. Maybe he is from your neck of the woods.”
Mom rolled her eyes. “Unlikely,” she replied.
“I think it’s nice Trish has found love,” I said, coming into the den. “I think Gertie needs a father figure. She doesn’t see her dad very often.”
“Mmmm,” was Mom’s only response.
When Aint Elma passed away, she gave me an outhouse and gave Cousin Trish her little white house in Mount Vernon. Gertie’s family moved out of the trailer house and into the small white frame house with the beautiful garden.
Cousin Trish decided to marry her wealthy New York businessman in the hundred-degree heat in the backyard of the Mount Vernon home. Knowing her family, and more importantly her friends, could not afford to fly to New York, Cousin Trish had made the decision to have the wedding in Texas. The decision was based more on the fact that she wanted her nosy friends to be green with envy, not that she cared a hoot about them being present at her wedding. We piled in the car once again to drive the two hours to the country. Since Melody was away at college, Eli and I each got the privilege of a window seat. Everyone had on his Sunday best. Eli kept trying to loosen the tie around his neck.
“I swear, when I get a job, I am not wearing a stinkin’ tie,” Eli said with a moan.
“Your tie looks nice, dear,” Mom said.
“But, Mom, it’s friggin’ one hundred degrees outside.”
“Eli, please do not say frigging; it’s not polite,” she said.
“Well, it sucks,” he said under his breath.
“We could play slug bug,” I suggested.
“Oh, no you don’t!” Mom scolded again. “The last time you played that game, Jen ended up with bruises all down her arm. She is wearing a sundress, for crying out loud.”
“But, Mom, that’s the whole point of the game—when you see a Volkswagen Beetle, you are supposed to slug the other person.”
“No, and that’s final.”
No more words were spoken except the mumble of “that sucks” from Eli.
We traveled the rest of the way in peace. Eli and I were listening to music on our CD players. Mom was talking to herself as she edited Paula Dean’s latest cookbook, and Dad was humming along to George Jones. Thank God for headphones.