Without warning, Lis grasped Evelyn’s right hand with both of hers. She leaned in to her, blocking out the sun, the branches of the oak tree, the headstones around them. “Evelyn, it’s time for us to do the Lord’s work now. Mama needs us. Not you or me laying prayer cloths on her or dousing her with oil like Ruthena. But us.
“Mama never asked us for anything. I never even heard her ask God for something. We just made the best of what He gave us because it took all of us to survive. Evelyn, I want my mama to stop looking to heaven to end all her pain. I want her to find peace and joy now, on Earth, ‘in the land of the living,’ like the psalm says. And she can do it if we help her.”
Evelyn tried to tug her hand from that inexorable, painful grip.
“She needs a constant presence in her life, someone she can depend on even when she doesn’t want to depend on anybody. She’s had that in God, but He works through our hands and feet, too. What Mama doesn’t need is someone feeling sorry for her, somebody whose main purpose is to clear a guilty conscience . . .” Lis glanced down for a second before again interlocking their eyes. “However well-deserved that guilt may be.”
Evelyn didn’t curl her fingers around the ones clutching hers, but she stopped pulling away. “I know you feel this need to protect Granny B from me . . . but you need my support just as much as she does. It makes no sense for the two of us to fight like this.”
Then Evelyn finally did intertwine their fingers. This time she wouldn’t let her go. In a lowered voice she importuned, “Please. Just tell me what you need me to do. I can talk to the doctor, run errands for you—anything you need while you’re taking care of Granny B. I can pick up prescriptions—”
“I need you to see your Granny B.”
Evelyn nodded vigorously. “Oh, of course! I’ll extend my trip. I was thinking that next week, once you’ve had the chance to talk—”
“To-mor-row.” Lis peeled away her fingers. Then her two soft, sweetly scented hands gently, yet firmly, cupped her daughter’s face. “Tomorrow.” With that she stood. “Now, let’s get out of this heat and give your daddy some rest.”
Chapter Seven
“ARE YOU AWAKE? I assumed you wanted to get a good start on the day. It’s getting late.”
“Yes, Mama,” Evelyn called out wearily to the voice on the other side of her door. But she only squeezed shut her eyes and rolled away from the sunlight. Cocoa greeted her with a slurp. Evelyn wiped her nose and mouth. “Ugh. Down, girl.”
Lis poked her head in. “Well, all right then. You’ll have to drive my car because Jackson drove yours to work. You know you shouldn’t park behind me. And keep that dog out the bed.”
Her mama’s promise—or threat—of “tomorrow” had played ping-pong with memories of yesterday all night. Groggy, Evelyn swung her feet to the floor as her mama’s carpeted footsteps whispered their retreat. When the room remained in its rightful place, she stumbled to the bathroom and studied her reflection in the mirror. She shook her head slightly at her spiky hair and the dark circles marring the pecan tan under her eyes. “Oh, Aunt Mary would have a fit!”
Evelyn could picture her aunt’s flaming lips, arched brows, and bejeweled hands. But it wasn’t always that way. Years earlier, as a new divorcée with a young son, Mary had been forced to move back home to Granny B’s, an arrangement that had lasted a mere three weeks. “Once in a lifetime was enough for anyone, and I had the nerve to try it twice!” she’d whispered to her niece one day, shucking corn on Granny B’s porch. When her son got his football contract with the Seahawks, Mary dropped everything and moved to Seattle, grasping her newfound wealth with both hands.
Evelyn turned away from the mirror and her memories to focus on the battle at hand. She nudged the faucet all the way over to cold, hoping that dose of icy reality would help her get all her ducks in a row, as she mentally rejected one outfit after another. What do you wear to a war?
Finally Evelyn decided on a loose, sleeveless sun-splashed shift that provided some maneuvering room. She lacked an iron breastplate, helmet, or protective mask, but the dress fit nicely over her full armor of God to help her brave the trip to Spring Hope.
——————
The sun lit the way to Granny B’s. Trees were a green blur as Evelyn watched her speedometer creep from sixty-seven . . . to seventy-one . . . to seventy-five miles per hour. Her desire to be on the other side of the trip surpassed her dread.
What will I find once I arrive? It’d be just like Granny B to pretend Evelyn wasn’t there, sweeping over her feet—taking away all her good luck, her aunt Sissy once warned—and go about her usual business. Oh, Aunt Sissy, how I wish you were here now. I could use some reinforcements!
Thoughts of Granny B’s son Thomas and Sissy, his common-law wife, made her smile. They lived with their four children in Chesterfield, Virginia, where he was a founding partner of a family law firm and she managed the office. When the childless Ruthena first heard about their living situation, she went to her “sisters” for prayer—Sister Smith, Sister Jackson, and Sister Williams—at the Palmer Tabernacle Church of the Living Waters. Evelyn knew they might as well get up from their knees because Sissy wasn’t going anywhere, if her twenty-five year-long relationship with Uncle Thomas proved anything. But she also knew Ruthena wouldn’t stop driving over from Charlotte to lay oiled, prayerful hands on her sinning brother’s head, for according to her, “God don’t recognize sin.”
No, Evelyn wasn’t hoping her aunts and uncles would drive over to Granny B’s, at least not today. Who she most wanted—needed—to see was a continent away. Kevin. She’d scooped him out of every thought and feeling, ignored all his texts, and condemned him for not daring to call. She’d tucked him away in the heart-shaped box where she’d stowed Granny B. He was hidden there alone now, for she’d plucked up Granny B upon hearing her mother’s announcement. Even now Evelyn curled her fingers into a fist, fighting the urge to call him.
On autopilot, Evelyn signaled a right turn and exited the highway. She veered right at the top of the ramp and headed west toward Spring Hope. Traffic was unusually heavy, so she slowed, but her thoughts traveled at the speed of light. Lord, why is Granny B sick? Why did I come home now, right when Granny B and Mama need me? I know You wouldn’t have allowed this mess with Kevin and Miss Samantha Jane just to put me on this particular road. How can this be for our good? I need a burning bush!
Passing newer houses and a couple of stray dogs, Evelyn pulled up just past the mailbox and parked. She stared at the place where Granny B had lived for more than sixty years. Carrot Lane. Not much had really changed since Granny B had raised all her children there. Refreshed but consistent. Same shade of bright white. Same green shutters and porch rails.
“Who’s sweeping the yard these days?” Evelyn murmured. Her eyes strained for any sign of life: the movement of a curtain, a shadow, a noise. Part of her hoped that Granny B was downtown somewhere, getting a prescription filled or buying croakers and hush puppies at the fish market. Nope, she thought, today is Thursday. Granny B only gets fish on Mondays when the truck brings them in fresh.
After ten minutes Evelyn grabbed the bag of Granny Smith apples Mama had sent along, stepped from the car, and strode up the walkway to the front door. She tried to muster an air of confidence in case Granny B was peeping out from some unknown vantage point, but she felt like the rosebushes gasping for their last breath by the curb. I think I can . . . I think I can . . . I think I can, she chanted as she chugged up her mental hill. By the time she pulled back the screen door and knocked, she was primed for her Moment of Truth, and she craned to hear those firm, no-nonsense footsteps. But after standing there longer than it would take Granny B to walk around her house three times, she realized she wouldn’t hear Granny B’s footsteps because the woman wasn’t home. She would have left the front door open behind the locked screen. Evelyn sighed and flopped into the wrought iron porch chair. She rubbed an apple on her sleeve, took a bite, and chewed on her option
s.
Should I take this as a sign? Regroup and come back later or better yet tomorrow? But . . . hey! Granny B’s absence is my burning bush! God is telling me to haul butt out of here while I can and let Mama handle things until Granny B and I can iron out our Situation! Clutching her epiphany as she had the apple, Evelyn skipped down the three steps from the porch—
“Where you goin’ in such an all-fired hurry?”
—and almost jumped clean out of her skin. Whirling around, she caught sight of her burning bush.
Granny B’s eyes seared a hole in Evelyn’s forehead. “So, chile, why you standin’ there like a possum in the road? Didn’t you hear what I said?” She put a hand to her hip.
Evelyn dredged up a husky “Well . . .”
For a minute Evelyn studied Granny B, her eyes hungry for a good look at the woman she’d worried she wouldn’t see alive again. As always, she’d donned a simple housedress, with a belt that she could cinch twice around her tiny waist, and pulled back her steel-colored hair severely from her thin face into a braid that curled across one shoulder. Her bare legs ended in familiar, sensible black leather lace-ups.
When Evelyn’s eyes crept back up to Granny B’s face, past her crossed arms and bony elbows, they locked with her gray ones. Still. Defiant. Fiery. Triumphant?
“Since you was leavin’ so quick, I guess you came all this way just to sit on my front porch and eat a apple?”
Maybe I did hear those footsteps after all.
“Gal, if you just gon’ stand there like a darn statue, you might as well keep on runnin’ and git in your car and drive on home. I ain’t got time to stand here all day.” Granny B spun on her heel and walked around the back of the house.
Evelyn didn’t know what Granny B expected, but she followed her, albeit tripping over her two left feet rather than striding confidently as she had before. Gone was the happy little engine that could. By the time she reached the backyard, Granny B had picked up an empty laundry basket and was heading inside through the back door. Wet linen hanging on the clothesline flapped in the morning breeze.
Getting in gear, Evelyn ran to catch the screen door before it slapped her grandmother on her backside. It clapped shut once, twice before she could follow her into the house. Evelyn stood there and stared through the mesh as Granny B set her basket on the washing machine to the left of the door.
On the drive over, Evelyn had worked out how her visit with Granny B would go. She ran through the scenario in her mind as she watched Granny B walk to the right to wash her hands in the kitchen sink. It started with a “Hello, chile. What brang you here?” and ended with fried chicken and pound cake. In between they agreed to put the past behind them. So far, however, the only thing Evelyn had gotten right was the word chile.
Abruptly her grandmother wheeled away from the sink and caught her staring. Out of words and running out of time, Evelyn stammered, “G-granny B . . .” She swallowed and finished lamely, “. . . you’re home.”
Granny B pursed her lips. “I reckon I am. But that don’t mean I ain’t busy. As usual, I got plenty a thangs to do and no time to be wastin’.”
No time to be wastin’ on me, Evelyn amended silently. “Well, my time is pretty precious, too, but I did set aside some to spend with you. Inside, preferably.”
Granny B peered at her granddaughter for a few moments more through half-closed eyes. Just when Evelyn was beginning to think she’d have to say whatever she’d come to say outside, in God’s front room, Granny B tsked. “Well, as long as you don’t plan on startin’ none of yo’ mess, and you stay outta my way, I reckon a few precious minutes won’t kill me.” She walked to the door and pushed it ajar.
But they might kill me, Evelyn thought as, relieved, she quickly shimmied through the barely open door, not giving Granny B the opportunity to change her mind. She glanced around the kitchen and reacquainted herself with the surroundings. An oak table and four chairs hugged the far right wall. The water heater and washing machine shared a space on the left, by the back door. The narrow refrigerator faced the door and abutted a wall of cabinets. A set of canisters, a dish towel, and a long-handled spoon were the only items visible on the pristine countertop. The kitchen walls were painted off-white, and the hardwood floor was bare, other than the garbage can squatting near the mat that lay just inside the door, its Welcome long since faded from the passage of time instead of use. Evelyn noticed what must have been her mother’s handiwork: yellow curtains and a yellow- and white-striped vinyl tablecloth.
“I see you noticed them there curtains and table coverin’ yo’ mama put in here.”
Evelyn jumped guiltily.
“I told that gal I didn’t want or need those thangs, but you know how yo’ mama is. She just do what she wont to do, even though this my house.” Granny B cut her eyes Evelyn’s way. “Like somebody else I know.”
Already she was peeling off the gloves, finger by gnarly finger. Evelyn murmured something that wasn’t agreement or disagreement. She glanced back at the flapping sheets and towels to dispel the niggle of irritation and the flutter in her stomach. What is wrong with me? Whenever she visited Carrot Lane, she didn’t stand around wondering what to do next. She just jumped right in and did what Granny B was doing or something else that always needed doing.
At last, at a loss, she positioned herself by her grandmother at the sink. “What are you working on?”
“Tender greens.” Granny B’s hands, ever in motion, dunked the green leaves of what Elisabeth called mustard greens in a sink filled almost to the brim.
“What do you need me to do?”
“Nuthin’. I like to do my own greens—”
“I know, Granny B.”
Evelyn recalled her grandmother’s long-ago pronouncement: “Nobody gon’ break a tooth on no rock or get choked tryin’ to chew up no en-tire leaf in my house.”
“So how about I work on the meat? You haven’t done that yet, have you?” At the curt shake of Granny B’s head, she continued, “And I can separate the bad leaves from the good while you wash them and cut them up.” Evelyn knew that this plan was foolproof. At one time, these were her assigned tasks whenever she worked on her greens.
Granny B still seemed to think it over for a minute. Then she instructed her how to season the ham hock with salt, black pepper, and sliced onions and green peppers, her way of granting permission. Those were her last words for a while; they worked without conversation. Granny B kept filling the sink with greens, washing and sifting through them, throwing away the brown leaves that Evelyn missed as she sifted through her own pile of tender greens.
Evelyn was dabbing away sweat from her forehead by the time Granny B had cleaned and cut up all the greens, yet the older woman looked as crisp as a December morning working at the sink. Evelyn didn’t complain about the heat—she had learned her lesson about doing that a long time ago—but she took quick sips from a tall glass of ice water from time to time.
Almost two hours later, the ham hock was tender enough to slice with her fork, the way Granny B liked it. She herself had softened up quite a bit, too, as they settled into their old routine of getting the greens ready. Without asking, Evelyn poured the meat and all its juice into the pot with the greens and put the pot lid about three-quarters of the way on top of it. This prevented too much heat from collecting in the pot and causing the greens to boil over. In her peripheral vision she noticed Granny B nod slightly, approving.
But “Coffee?” was all she asked.
Granny B could drink hot coffee even if she was sitting down to lunch with the devil. Determined to meet her halfway, Evelyn accepted her offer. “Does—?”
“It ain’t got no caffeine in it.”
Evelyn retrieved two cups while her grandma set the ancient percolator on one of the back burners. Granny B never owned any saucers. As Evelyn watched her spoon grounds into the stainless steel pot, she considered how to broach her main reason for coming down today. She also used the time to weigh the pros and
cons of bringing up their Situation. Bring It up or let sleeping dogs lie?
By the time they sat down at the kitchen table and Evelyn had creamed and sugared her coffee, Granny B’s sleeping dogs were stirring. “So you decided to come back.” Always matter-of-fact.
Not sure how to phrase her response, Evelyn sipped her coffee and nodded. “Yep.”
“Why you come back? I thought we’d said ’bout all they was to say.”
“Not quite.”
Granny B braced a weathered arm on the table. The other hand cradled her coffee cup. “So that’s all you got to say, Ev’lyn Beatrice? ‘Yep’ and ‘not quite’? That’s all you come to say?”
Evelyn stood, thinking she would buy another minute or two pouring a second cup of coffee, but Granny B stopped her with a hand on her arm. “I wouldn’t get mo’ coffee. They say they ain’t no caffeine in it, but you cain’t always believe the TV. And I know how you young folks set such store by these doctors.”
Evelyn barely heard Granny B’s warning about the coffee. Weeks had passed since she had seen, smelled, listened to, argued with, or been frustrated by this woman. Until she’d placed a warning hand on her arm, Evelyn hadn’t realized just how much she’d missed having Granny B’s steady, guiding touch in her life. And she was faced with the likelihood of losing this thing forever if that acute myeloid leukemia had its way. Tears splashed into Evelyn’s half-empty cup before she could snort them up. Why did I ever want to change my name? It’s her name. Oh, Granny B, how long will I get to hear you say it?
“I know them tears ain’t for me. From where I sit, you the one with a lot goin’ on.” Granny B sat back in her chair. “What? You finally get up the nerve to apologize? Okay, I accept. Now let me get back to work—I cain’t let my greens cook too long on the stove.”
A Long Time Comin' Page 6