Violet reached over and gave my shoulder a big squeeze. “Of course! Ashley will be so happy to see you and you won't believe little Mikey. He’s almost walking.” Violet beamed with pride.
I envied Violet. Always the pretty one, she was blessed with blonde hair and blue eyes while I inherited boring brown hair and murky hazel eyes. Violet had experienced so much more of life even though she was only two years older. She married her high school sweetheart right after graduation and started having babies several years later. She and Mike, her husband, seemed happy. I couldn't help but wonder if that was because Violet had very little to do with Momma.
A little later, four-year-old Ashley woke up from her nap. We played tea party until thirteen-month-old Mikey got up and showed me his tottery walk. I glanced up at the clock and realized it was after five.
“Oh, I have to go,” I said.
“Do you have to, Aunt Rose?” Ashley asked, her big blue eyes begging in an earnest plea. She looked so much like a younger Violet that my breath caught in my throat.
“I’m sorry Ashley, but I do. Grandma needs me.”
Violet made an ugly face, but to her credit, she didn't say a word. I gave her a big hug after I picked up my purse. “Tell Mike I said hey.”
I left her house and cute little neighborhood, working my way past the DMV and to the older part of town where Momma and I lived. Traffic wasn’t bad in our town of eleven thousand, but a little after five o’clock on a Friday and a holiday weekend to boot, I had to stop at the lights longer than usual.
When I pulled onto our street of older bungalows, I knew I was late. The rustle of curtains in the front window as I parked in the gravel driveway confirmed it. Momma had been watching for me.
The over-grown landscape encroached on the broken concrete sidewalk. I had to sidestep the bushes to walk to the side of the house. Daddy had taken great pride in his house and would be upset to see the state of things. He’d always kept the hedges neatly trimmed, the yard meticulously cut, and a multitude of flowers blooming along the edge of the walk. Daddy had loved his flowers. I often wondered if that was how Violet and I had gotten our names. Momma would never say. I did the best I could with the yard, but it was a big lot and Momma refused to hire anyone to help maintain it. I was lucky to get the lawn mowed and tend to my rose garden in the back.
I walked in the side door and set my purse on the kitchen table. The sounds of the television filtered in from the living room. I knew Momma would be watching the national news on the Shreveport channels we used to get with our giant antenna outside. Now the news came through a little black box that sat on top of the TV. Momma resisted the box and pronounced it a government attempt to spy on us, but the alternative meant no television since Momma refused to get cable. Momma declared cable full of pornography, though what I’d seen at Violet and Mike’s house looked perfectly respectable. Even if I could have convinced her otherwise, she would never have stood for paying to watch television.
“Hello, Momma. Did you have a good day?”
I heard her harrumph. “I most certainly did not. Ya left the air conditionin’ on. It cooled off so I had to go through the entire house and open all them winders.”
“I’m sorry, Momma. They said it might rain so I worried you would have to close the windows if I left them open.”
“I ain’t made of money, Rose Anne.”
“Yes, Momma.” I let the detail that I paid the electric bill slide right on by.
I opened the refrigerator and pulled out the meatloaf I’d made in the morning before work. I would’ve asked Momma to put it in the oven so it would be ready when I came home, but she claimed she couldn’t bend over anymore. She was only sixty-two years old, but you couldn’t tell by the way she behaved. Our eighty-two year old neighbor, Mildred, often acted younger than Momma did.
“Why’re you so late?” she called from the other room.
I ignored the so late comment. I was only ten minutes later than usual. “It’s the Friday before Memorial Day, Momma. Everybody’s trying to get out of town and head to the lake. The intersections downtown were plum crazy.”
There was a moment of silence as I pulled a bag of potatoes from the cupboard.
“I heard about your faintin’ spell.”
I sighed and grabbed the peeler from the drawer. It didn't surprise me she’d heard already. Gossip in Henryetta spread faster than a smallpox plague in an internment camp.
“I heard ya had a fit right there at your desk, thrashin’ and foamin’ at the mouth and flingin’ your arms everywhere. I must say it didn't surprise me one bit, what with your demon and all.”
“That’s not what happened, Momma. I just got a bit dizzy after lunch is all. I lost my balance and hit my head on my desk.”
“Hmm…that’s not what I heard from Mildred.”
“Momma, Mildred wasn’t even there. I promise you, it was nothin’.”
“Hmm…”
Her voice faded into the national news anchor’s monologue. Momma loved the nightly news. Nothing made her happier than watching carnage and pestilence sweeping through the world so she could mutter, “I told you so” to the television. Momma said the world was the devil’s playground and the people in it weren’t nothing but the devil’s Barbie dolls, dressed up in floozy clothes and lettin’ loose in fancy cars, God bless their souls. The fact that a good portion of the world lived in poverty remained lost on her.
I finished peeling the potatoes and started them boiling on the stove. Cleaning the scraps out of the sink, I peered out the little window. A soft breeze fluttered the gauzy curtain while I studied my next-door neighbor pulling a lawn mower out of the dilapidated, rusted shed behind his house.
He wasn’t from around here which made him an outsider, kind of like me. I’d never talked to him. I was too shy to approach a man, especially an attractive man close to my own age. He had moved into the old Williams house a couple of months earlier. The neighbors suspected he was single since they never saw a woman come and go. Trust me, if a woman had shown up, it would have been caught by the eyes of the Busybody Club. The elderly women of the Neighborhood Watch loved to snoop under the guise of being vigilant.
My neighbor wore a t-shirt and jeans. He leaned over to check the gas in the mower, giving me a perfect view of his posterior. A blush rushed to my face when I realized I’d been staring at it. I turned away and wiped stray potato peels from the kitchen counter with a dishrag as I heard the mower start.
“That infernal Yankee is interruptin’ my news!” Momma shouted from the other room. While the mower could be easily heard with all the windows open, it wasn’t even close to drowning out the news anchor’s voice.
“Momma, he is not a Yankee.” In Henryetta, being a Yankee was a serious offense, the term synonymous with liars, thieves, and murderers. And not necessarily in that order.
“Mildred said she heard he was from Missoura. That right there makes him a Yankee. Besides, it don’t matter where’s he’s from, he ain’t from around here.”
There lay the actual problem. He wasn’t from around here, which meant no one knew anything about his family. In this neck of the woods, the deeper the roots of your family tree, the higher your social esteem. My neighbor was a sapling transplanted into a prehistoric forest. It amazed me that he lasted this long.
“People move around nowadays, Momma.”
She harrumphed again. “Not in Henryetta they don’t.”
The sound of the television rose, competing with the buzz of the mower. I tried my best to ignore both while I finished making dinner. My mind wandered to my vision earlier. Violet and her children had been a great distraction but with the company of just myself, my thoughts presented themselves like unwelcome houseguests. I’d never seen something really bad before, and the fact that it was about me scared the stuffing out of me. But I also realized my visions didn’t always come true. I’d never met Daniel Crocker before today. Why on earth would he want to murder me? People ignored me, mo
cked me, and even gossiped about me, but murder me?
The best thing I could do was just forget about it.
Chapter Two
The annoying beep of my alarm broke the early morning silence. In a rare act of defiance, I didn't turn it off. I lay on my back, one arm draped over my head, and gazed at the water-stained ceiling. Dreams of bloody furniture, scruffy men, and an angry Momma had plagued my sleep, causing me to toss and turn so much the sheets knotted into a tangled mess. I would have loved nothing more than to sleep in, but Momma would have none of that. She considered sleeping past eight in the morning slothfulness, another one of the seven deadly sins. No excuses were acceptable, not even illness.
I was twenty-four years old and I let my momma tell me what time to get up every day. I felt hopelessly pathetic.
Momma shuffled down the hall. Let me have five minutes of peace, you old biddy. As soon as the words formed in my brain, I was contrite. What had gotten into me? Momma pounded on my bedroom door. “Rose Anne! Turn off that confounded alarm!”
It surprised me she didn’t fling the door wide open. I learned years ago there was no such thing as privacy in this house. Momma made it her business to know everything about everything.
I blindly threw my arm in the general direction of the alarm clock. Even after the shrilling stopped, I continued to lie on the bed and tried to the summon energy to face yet another day with Momma.
“Rose! Whatcha still doin’ in there? Get yourself outta bed.”
The morning soon filled with household chores, which really meant that I dusted, vacuumed, and scrubbed the bathroom while Momma bossed me around. As the minutes ticked on, my anger brewed and grew acrid, like a pot of coffee that sat too long. I worked all week while Momma watched television and gossiped with the neighbors. On my day off, I was nothing but her slave. I decided I would clean until lunchtime, then run off to the library. When I announced my plans to Momma, she protested with a vengeance.
“Rose, you have to make two apple pies for the Memorial Day church picnic tomorrow.”
“Momma,” I said, drawing out her name, worried my raging volcano of anger would burst out through the words. After a lifetime of keeping my anger stuffed like money under a mattress, I wasn’t ready to let it out now. “I can make them when I get back from the library.” I pulled out the leftover meatloaf to make sandwiches for lunch.
“The Henryetta Southern Baptist Church is countin’ on me to bring them pies tomorrow. I made a commitment and I intend to honor it. You’re makin’ them pies before you go.”
Momma sat in a chair at the kitchen table and waited for me to serve her lunch, as if I was her personal servant and she was the Queen of Sheba. Suddenly, just like a light switch turned from off to on, I’d had enough. I slammed my palm down, causing the dishes on the counter to rattle. Her head jerked up as I turned to face her. Anger made black spots dance before my eyes. “Well, Momma, if you made a commitment, then perhaps you should honor it and make the pies.” I practically shouted the last part, which from the look on Momma’s face, surprised her as much as it amazed me.
“Don’t you raise your voice to me!” Momma shouted back. “I will not tolerate you breakin’ the Ten Commandments in my house.”
I fumed while I finished making her sandwich then slammed the plate on the table in front of her. Turning back to the counter, I gathered the flour and butter to start the piecrust.
“You come sit here right now. You can make them pies after lunch.”
I turned to her, with my hand on my hip. “Which is it, Momma? You just told me I had to make the pies before I go. Now you’re tellin’ me not to make them. What about your commitment? I’m makin’ crust for the pies that you said you would make and then I’m leavin’.”
Momma looked aghast. I later wondered if she was stymied by what I said or the fact I finally stood up to her. No matter the reason, she obviously didn’t like it. Her mouth puckered up like she’d just sucked on a lemon and her face turned a mottled red. I about fell over when I realized I had stunned her into speechlessness. That was a first.
It didn't take long to make the piecrust. Normally, I would have put the dough in the refrigerator to harden then roll it out several hours later, but I didn't want to commit to being home by then. I threw an abundance of flour on the counter. The sticky mess clung to the rolling pin, no matter how much flour I added. I knew the crust would be a disaster, but I didn't care. If anything, it filled me with self-righteousness. That’s what she got for bullying me to do this instead of doing it herself. To add the piece de resistance, instead of peeling fresh apples, I pulled two cans of apple pie filling out of the cupboard. I opened them and simultaneously turned the cans upside down over the piecrust shells. The contents of the cans slurped and glooped out into the pie plates, the silence of the room filling with the sickening sound. I grabbed a spatula to spread the goo around then threw a crust on top of each.
A quick glance at Momma confirmed the intended effect; she was horrified by the sight of the cans. I knew I should feel contrite about the smugness that filled me, but I told myself I could feel guilt later. Right now, I was gonna revel in the glory of it.
The heat of the oven blasted my face when I tossed them in, but the fire inside me burned even hotter. I dumped all of the dirty bowls and utensils into the sink.
“I’ve set a timer; you can take the pies out when it goes off.” I left the kitchen to get my purse and library books.
Momma found her tongue when I returned. I was surprised it took her so long. “I ain’t got no idea what’s gotten into you, Rose Anne Gardner. Don’t you take that uppity tone with me. Your daddy must be rollin’ over in his grave.”
“Don't you dare bring Daddy into this!” I yelled, not caring anymore. Shouting at Momma was like uncorking an oil well. Once it started spewing, it would take a whole lot of effort to make it stop. “Poor Daddy had to live with your evil tongue for years, decades even. I can’t believe Daddy stayed with you! He was the sweetest, gentlest man and you just wore the life right out of him, Momma. I bet Daddy’s doin’ a tap dance right now, rejoicin’ with the angels that I finally stood up to you!”
Momma rose from her chair, grabbing the table to lift herself up. “I’m not gettin’ them pies outta the oven! I can’t bend over. You know that.”
“I don’t give a cotton pickin’ damn if you get them out or not! Get Mildred to do it or let ’em burn for all I care! I’ve done my part. I made your insufferable pies! Now I’m leavin’!”
“Don’t you curse in my house, you evil, demon-possessed child!”
“I am not a child, Momma! You treat me like one and up to now I’ve let you, but I’m an adult and I’m not toleratin’ this anymore!”
I threw the door open and walked out into the humid heat. Angry thunderheads brewed on the horizon, practically causing the air to boil. Everything in the cosmos raged in unison with me, validating the rightness of my tirade. The new neighbor stood in his front yard, talking to Mildred. Eyes wide in surprise, both turned to watch me walk to my car. Momma followed behind me. The windows of the house were still wide open and our shouting match had entertained anyone within a quarter mile. Good, let them hear it. I wanted witnesses to this historic occasion.
“You get yourself back in this house right now, Rose Anne Gardner! You come back and finish them pies!”
I dug through the contents of my purse, searching for my keys. Panic rose like the rising floodwaters of Blackberry Creek after a heavy rainfall, my sanity bobbing precariously on the surface. I could not have just told my momma off, stormed out of the house and forgot my keys inside the house. Yet, I did. Obviously, my dramatic exits needed better planning.
Screw it. I gasped at my own crassness.
“Get your own damn pies out of the oven!” I shouted over my shoulder, adding to the neighborhood entertainment. The library was only a half-mile away. It would give me time to stomp off my anger.
“Rose, you get yourself back here
right now! Don't you walk away from me!”
Her words clung to the air behind me as I continued down the crumpled concrete path, neighbors staring as if I were a three-headed cow. I lifted my chin and marched. Go ahead! Get a good look! I wanted to shout, but then I decided I’d made enough of a spectacle of myself for one day. I needed to pace myself; it was barely past noon.
By the time I pushed through the library doors, my anger had cooled. The smell of books dampened the rest. The library was my refuge, the one place I could go and escape from Momma’s wrath. Every Saturday afternoon I spent several hours there, going on the Internet since we didn’t have a computer at home or reading. Today I just wanted to read.
When five o’clock rolled around, the library’s closing time, I wasn’t anywhere close to being ready to go home yet. Instead, I walked several blocks to a cafe. Momma would expect me to come home and fix her something for dinner, but she wasn’t an invalid. She could make her own meal.
After ordering my food, I finally dwelled on our fight. I knew I should feel remorse. At the very least, I should feel guilty. Yet I didn’t. What I said had been a long time coming. If I had a cell phone I would call Violet with the news, but I didn’t own one. Momma said cell phones were just a way for the government to record all your calls and at the very least a waste of money. As part of my stand of newfound independence, I decided tomorrow I would go to the cell phone store and get one. Momma be damned.
That made me contrite. Three curse words in one day and a crass phrase to boot. Maybe I did have a demon.
There would be a moment of reckoning when I finally showed up, but I wasn't ready to face it yet. I knew I was acting like a petulant child putting it off, but Rome wasn’t built in a day and a sourdough starter took a week to create. I was gaining my independence after twenty-four years. I didn’t need to rush into it all at once.
After I paid the bill, I stood on the sidewalk in indecision. I wasn’t ready to go home yet. My other option was to find a pay phone and call Violet. I knew she or Mike would come and take me to their place for the night, and I found myself sorely tempted. But if I called Violet, she would be rescuing me and part of my new independence meant rescuing myself. I needed to stand on my own two feet and be a grown up. Loitering in the sweltering heat at the corner of Ivy Road and Madison Avenue, the cold, harsh reality slammed into me hard. Yes, I could blame Momma for my dependence, but I had to take some of the responsibility, too. I was a grown woman. I let her treat me that way.
Twenty-Eight and a Half Wishes Page 2