“Nope. As I recall, we settled on a pig.”
The porch light came on and Mr. and Mrs. Langlin came outside. When they realized who it was, Mr. John came down the steps and shook Dink’s hand, pulling him into a quick hug. Miss Bertha was crying and laughing and wiping her hands on her apron. “Oh, my goodness, son,” she said. “You could have let me know. I’d have fried some chicken. All I’d planned on for supper was cornbread and soup beans.”
They were still hugging when Jeff backed out. “You know we’re going to be late for the movie,” he said. “If I get a ticket, you’re going to pay it.”
“You’re not going to get a ticket because we aren’t going. Drive back to Irish’s house. I have to tell her that Dink’s home.”
“I don’t think this is a good idea. Besides, what about us? We won’t see each other again until next weekend.” He put his arm around my shoulder and pulled me close.
“Stop that Jeff, somebody will tell my mama.”
“That’s what you always say,” he said in a tight voice. “I don’t know why you’re getting so heated up about Irish’s wedding. Don’t I turn you on?”
“When we get married is time enough for me to get turned on.”
“Then let’s get married,” he said. “We can be in South Carolina by morning. Don’t have to have no special papers to get married there.”
“Run off?”
“Elope. That’s all you been talking about. First Mr. McKay and Miss Willa. Now, Dink is back and I can just see your mind working. You’re ready to help them elope right now. Aren’t you?”
When I didn’t answer he popped the clutch and gave the truck gas. There was a screeching sound that would certainly get back to my mama as he drove off down the highway. I didn’t want to admit that I’d been getting turned on for a while. But Mama didn’t like Jeff. Said he wasn’t ambitious enough. I couldn’t count on him. And of late, I kept thinking about Irish going to Atlanta and finding a job where she could earn money and live in a home for girls where she had a roommate and someone to go to the movies with. I couldn’t stop imagining myself there.
Jeff stopped in front of my house. He didn’t get out of the truck and open my door. He didn’t try to kiss me again or touch my breasts. He just waited. I got out by myself and watched him roar off. I was already beginning to wonder if I’d done the right thing by turning him down tonight. There weren’t many boys in Wadley. I was lucky to have Jeff.
Or, maybe I didn’t have him anymore.
IRISH WAS IN her room planning what she was going to wear when James came. “If I dress up like I would have in Atlanta, I’ll make Mama and Daddy uncomfortable. They’ll look bad.” She sighed. “Chances are that James will make them uncomfortable anyway.”
“Why would he?” I asked. I couldn’t imagine Irish picking out any man who’d make her parents look bad.
“I mean, he’ll wear a suit and he’ll probably bring Mama flowers.”
“Well, just tell him not to do that,” I suggested, thinking how heavenly it would be to have a man bring flowers.
“I did. He wouldn’t hear of it. He wants to make a good impression. It was either make him feel good or make them feel bad. Oh, Joanna, what am I going to do. You’re right, I’ll feel uncomfortable meeting his parents, too. We ought to just elope.”
“Irish, I have something to tell you that you ought to know.”
She must have caught the reluctance in my voice. “What? Tell me now or I’ll stick pins in your voodoo doll.”
My voodoo doll? Buying the dolls from a gypsy at the county fair had been a joke. Of course we never really believed in Ouija boards or voodoo or any of that stuff. Still, a ripple ran down my spine.
“Joanne?”
“It’s Dink,” I said. “He’s home.”
“How do you know?”
“Jeff and I . . . we were going to the drive-in and we saw him get off the bus. We drove him to his mama’s house. He must be over his injury, he sure does look good in a uniform. I don’t know how you let him get away.”
“Because . . . he left me here and didn’t care how lonesome I was. I could have gone with him to the Army base, made friends with the other wives . . . seen the world. But no. I had to wait for him, until he’d stopped the Germans.”
“But you did see some of the world, didn’t you? You went to Atlanta and had an exciting life. I’ll bet you spent every night at the USO club.”
“Well, I did do my part to entertain our boys. I thought it was my duty. Do you think Dink cared? No.”
“How do you know what he thought?”
“Because I wrote to him and told him everything I was doing.”
“And he didn’t answer you back?”
“Yes. He told me to have fun. He said I was young and deserved to spread my wings. When he got assigned to the Air Corp he didn’t even ask me to come to see him get his wings. I didn’t have an engagement ring, Joanne, but I so wanted him to pin me with his wings.”
“Well, you’ve got James,” I offered.
“James, oh my gosh, what am I going to do? I have to see Dink. Why don’t his mother and daddy have a telephone?” She was still walking around the room but her gait had changed from bridal pace to military march. “Did he say how long he was going to stay?”
“No, but I think he’s going to talk to your daddy. I mean, I just got that idea.”
Irish went to her closet and started studying her clothes. I couldn’t decide whether she was getting ready for James or Dink but when she pulled out a sundress with a stretchy top, I had a bad feeling about what was coming.
When I left, she was sitting on the veranda in the dark, waiting. I watched until I couldn’t keep my eyes open but I never saw anybody come. Finally the house lights went out.
THE NEXT DAY was Sunday. I was still asleep when I heard the scream. In fact half of Wadley heard the scream. By the time I pulled on my jeans and hit the street a crowd of neighbors had gathered around the front steps of Irish’s house.
“How could he? How could he?” Irish was clasping and unclasping her fists giving her best Betty Davis impression of a woman on the edge.
I pushed my way through the onlookers to see what they were laughing about. Right there on the sidewalk, in front of God and all the neighbors, was a wooden crate containing a large pink pig. Judging by the oinking, the pig seemed to be enjoying the hoo rah.
“Hush up, girl,” Mr. McKay said to Irish as he opened the screen and stepped out.
“But, daddy . . .”
“Either hush, or go back inside.” He knelt down beside the crate and grinned.
“Guess the pig’s a girl,” the eight year old who lived next door said.
“This one is but lots of pigs start out pink,” Mr. McKay said. “They grow up and turn white or their spots come out.
“She has a pink bow around her neck,” one of the bystanders said.
“There’s a note attached. It’s addressed to Mr. McKay,” Bob Crane observed. “What’s it say, McKay?”
“I think it’s an offer for my daughter’s hand in marriage,” Mr. McKay said and reached inside for the note.
“Oh!” Irish exploded, before turning to run back into the house. “Mother!”
By church time the story was all over town. Irish’s new fiancée had sent a gift, earnest money, Mr. Crane said. Like the Indians used to do when they had to pay for a bride with horses or skins. Knowing Mr. McKay, everybody seemed to think it was a clever thing for an outsider to do. I didn’t say anything but I was pretty sure I knew who’d sent the pig and Irish knew, too. I wondered how he managed to get up so early and pull this off without a car. It was years later that I found out Jeff had helped Dink.
The pig went to Mr. McKay’s brother Sloan’s farm and Irish went to her room. Dink never ap
proached Irish and Irish swore if he did, she’d tell him in no uncertain terms to “Go to grass and eat mullet.” Nobody knew what that actually meant, short of an unpleasant trip from which a person didn’t return.
By Wednesday, I was beginning to worry. James was coming for the weekend. Dink only had three days more of leave before he had to report to an airbase in Texas. The first really hot spell of the summer came and the town seemed to hold its breath. The two-block long business section of Wadley had more weekday business than it ever experienced. The bank normally closed on Wednesday afternoon because it opened on Saturday morning. This week it stayed open. The news that a stranger had checked into the Wadley Hotel ran up the street like lightening following an electric wire into the house. My friend Rachel and I walked downtown and staked a table at the drugstore. We ordered cherry cola’s and made them last an hour as we waited.
“That must be her fiancée James,” I said. “What are we going to do, Rachel? She doesn’t love him. She just wants to marry a rich, important man. It’s Dink she loves. Always has.”
“I wouldn’t love him if he went off and left me.”
“My mama said he thought he’d die and he didn’t want to leave her . . . a widow.” My mama always took up for Dink.
“That’s silly,” Rachel said, laying the back of her hand dramatically against her forehead. Her Betty Davis routine didn’t hold a candle to Irish’s.
I sprang to my feet. “Let’s go, Rachel.”
“Where?”
“To see Dink. He needs to know about James.”
We raced up the street to the intersection and turned right. The Langlins were sitting on the side porch. I could hear them laughing. Dink’s sister Lurlene’s car was in the yard.
“Uh oh, Rachel, they’ve got company. How are we going to get Dink away?”
“I don’t know,” she said, “this was your idea.”
“I know, as you start up the steps, you fall. You’ll sprain your ankle and we’ll get Dink to take us home.”
“I can’t do that,” Rachel argued. “I’m no good at physical things.”
Then I heard someone heading around the wrap-around porch toward us. It was Dink. Now or never. I danced up the steps, caught my toe on the edge and fell backward, letting out a yell as I hit the ground.
“Joanne.” Dink ran toward me. “Are you hurt?”
I groaned and fell back. “I think I’ve sprained my ankle.”
“Let me get some help,” he said.
“Could you just take me home?”
By that time the others were gathered around me. “Of course,” Miss Lurlene said and pulled her car keys from her pocket. “You drive, Dink. I’ll come with you.”
“No!” I protested and attempted to stand. This time my groan was no dramatic gesture. I leaned toward Dink, motioning for him to bend down. “Get me out quick. I have something private to tell you that’s a matter of life and death. Open the door, Rachel.”
He looked puzzled for a moment then lifted me and slid me onto the front seat. I bit back a cry of pain. “Hurry,” I said and pulled the door closed.
Less than five minutes later we were at my house, across the street from Irish’s. “Dink, Irish’s fiancée just checked into the hotel. If you’re going to marry Irish, you’d better go get her right now. You can drive over to Augusta and elope, just like Mr. McKay and Miss Willa.”
He looked down at me for a minute and grinned. “They did, huh? That old liar. He made me promise not to marry Irish until I got back.”
“He did? Well, you’re back. I don’t think I’d wait any longer.” I said and opened my door to encourage him to take quick action. This time I touched my foot to the pavement and crumpled to the ground.
“You can stop acting now, Joanne,” Rachel said.
“I’m not acting,” I moaned and whispered under my breath, “Just help me up, Rachel and I’ll jump to the steps on my good ankle. Then go call Daddy and tell him to come home.” I raised my voice and said, “Hurry, Dink, before someone comes.”
I swallowed the pain long enough to see Dink march into Irish’s house. I could hear him talking as he headed up the steps. Then there was silence. Moments later, Dink, carrying Irish who was holding a small suitcase, came out and got into the car.
Miss Willa followed them, beaming like Brother Colson when someone came down to the altar to confess a sin. I could hear her call after them as they drove away, “I recommend the Blue Bird Motel.”
Irish never knew that the man who checked into the Wadley Hotel was a shoe salesman from Des Moines. Miss Lurlene always claimed credit for the church wedding that followed Irish’s marriage by the justice of the peace. A second ceremony was the price of lending Dink her car. The bridal procession took a little longer than usual because Irish insisted that as her maid of honor, I be allowed to walk down the aisle on crutches. Mr. McKay even announced that he was paying the doctor for setting my broken ankle. It was worth it. And I didn’t even have to wear an expensive gown.
Mr. and Mrs. Dink Langlin had a full page spread in the Wadley Herald, describing the two weddings and their relocation to Texas. The editor’s column carried the story of the pig right next to an ad for Clete’s new barbeque stand. The following week a note from the publisher explained that the placement was just unfortunate. Clete raised his own hogs.
I gave some serious thought to elopement but in the end both Rachel and I went to Augusta and enrolled in business school. Jeff took a course in television repair and we are having a church wedding.
He’s already made a reservation at the Blue Bird Motel.
By the way, Sweet Pea, that’s what Mr. McKay named his sow, weighs 300 pounds now and has set a tradition; every prospective father-in-law in Wadley asks for a pink pig in exchange for the bride. I told Jeff he’d better not bring my daddy any pig. My daddy doesn’t hunt but he and Jeff are building a dog yard in the back corner of Daddy’s property, complete with a very large water trough.
Well, this is the South and it’s hot down here.
Wedding Pound Cake
2 sticks of real butter softened
3 cups of sugar
6 eggs
3 cups sifted self-rising flour
1 tsp. vanilla
1/4 teaspoon baking soda
1 small size sour cream
Have ingredients at room temperature
Cream butter and sugar. Beat into mixture 2 eggs with 1 cup of flour until all is used.
Add soda to sour cream, then to mixture. Will be fluffy. Add 1 tsp. vanilla.
Bake in LARGE tube or bunt pan for 1 hour and 20 minutes @300 degrees.
This is my pound cake recipe. It can be made in two makings for a small wedding cake.
Saint Bubba’s Chili
OK, there’s always going to be that argument, beans or no beans? While I never listen to folks from Texas on the subject of barbeque (they think that beef is barbeque), they do know a thing or three about chili, and in the Terlingua International Chili Championship (the chili equivalent of the Memphis In May World Championship Barbeque competition), the rule is NO BEANS! That’s good enough for me. If you want to add beans, feel free.
2-3 pounds ground round (or you can used shredded chuck steak for a different texture)
2 cloves of garlic (finely chopped) per pound of meat
1 tbsp. extra virgin olive oil per pound of meat
2 10 oz. cans of Rotel tomatoes
1 10 oz. can of tomato sauce
2 small jalapeno peppers, seeded and diced
1 tsp. finely chopped fresh cilantro
½ cup chili powder
1 tsp. cumin or 1 tsp. finely chopped oregano
1 tsp. sifted masa flour
Brown the meat in the olive oil in a large Dutch oven or st
ock pot. Drain, but not thoroughly. Add the remaining ingredients except the masa flour into the pot and then add water, just enough so that the liquid is almost level with the top of the ingredients in the pot and stir. Bring to a boil, then cover and reduce to a simmer. Simmer over low heat for at least 2 hours, but 3 is better. Stir often. About 20 minutes before the chili is done, add the flour and stir in completely. Serve with chopped red onion and shredded cheddar or Monterrey Jack cheese.
Drag Racer Arrested On Horseback
by
Virginia Ellis
“O, for a horse with wings!”
—Cymbeline Act 2
MY BOYFRIEND during high school was a drag racer. You know how we in the south love our cars.(Think of the General Lee on Dukes of Hazard.) Anyway, I could sort of understand his need for speed, since I was into racing of a different sort. Instead of many-horse power, I depended on one quarter-horse barrel racer to ride to fame and fortune—or at least a colorful blue ribbon and trophy with a miniature horse on the top.
Usually our two racing hobbies didn’t cross paths, so to say. Drag races were mostly held on Saturday nights ‘under the lights’ while the big day for rodeo-ing is Sunday. My boyfriend rarely went by horseback whereas Saturday night being ‘date night’ I spent a good deal of time scrunched up against the gear shift in his 57’ Ford or later his ‘62 Corvette.
There was one Sunday though, where the two worlds collided, figuratively speaking thank goodness. The occasion happened at an amateur drag racing event. By amateur, I mean unsanctioned by the law. In all other respects these good old boys were dead serious about their racing—there was real money wagered on the outcome. So, hearing about the gathering through word of mouth—no internet blogs in those days—my boyfriend decided to show up and try his luck. Since I usually spent Sunday riding, I decided to meet him there, to ride my horse over to the abandoned airstrip serving as race track and watch.
That was my first mistake. Let me backtrack a bit and tell you a little more about my horse. In order to be a good barrel racer a horse has to have short bursts of speed coupled with the ability to nearly sit down and turn on a dime. They have to have good eyesight and be able to pay attention to pressure on a rein, a knee, or feel the rider lean one way or the other. My horse had all that. But, as with all creatures being a mix of good and bad, he had a few other things, too.
More Sweet Tea Page 16