by Various
In that one arena, Claree would never be her equal, and Mama knew it. “Now, why don’t you make that tea if that’s what you came in here to do? And, Shelby, stop standing there and answer the door since Little Will, Tammy, and Tray are in the back with Uncle Skeeter.”
No doorbell had rung, but I didn’t question her; I started for the door. Mama had a sixth sense about company. A down right spooky sense really. While “mother’s intuition” might explain the extra places already set when I had arrived with uninvited supper guests as a teenager, I had no explanation for why she always just happened to have the preacher’s favorite banana pudding when he dropped in. Or an already-bagged donation if Shirley from the Goodwill stopped by to chat.
Given Mama’s track record, I not only headed for the door, I gave the place a last minute once-over. On my way through the dining room, I inspected the Blue Willow china and straightened Granny Ida’s serving pieces. Mama had cleared off the oak buffet in preparation for “food overflow.” We’d need it.
She had every eye on the stove going. Pots warming between the eyes. Food in the oven. Food in the microwave, refrigerator, and on the grill. And catfish frying in the kettle out back.
She’d been cooking for three days; we’d be eating for three weeks. It was no surprise to me how Southerners survived the depression. We had a history of stockpiling food “just in case.”
In the living room I straightened a couple of doilies on the back of a tapestry rocker and tried to imagine what the room would look like if I’d never seen it.
Good furniture. Mostly oak. Cluttered with original craft projects of Martha Stewart caliber. Except these craft projects had been inherited from relatives through the years.
Apparently Mama had never met a doily she didn’t like. Doilies were everywhere. On top of and on each shelf of the curved glass curio cabinet. On every piece of furniture except the sofa, which was normally covered with a ratty old blanket to protect the fabric from Leroy’s muddy paw prints. At least someone had thought to replace the blanket with one of our better patchwork quilts.
The doorbell rang as I gave one last “fluff” to the garden flowers on the end table.
I’ve always considered answering that door an act of faith and bravery. Sort of like taking a bullet in battle because someone had to take the point. I plastered a smile on my face and approached the door to welcome Ian and my future in-laws. Their voices carried right through the wood.
In the South, it’s not eavesdropping if people talk loudly enough for you to hear through walls and doors. At least that’s the rule in our family.
“I can’t stand it, Ian. That porch swing would go for at least eight hundred at Stella’s gallery. I can’t believe they’d leave it out here in the weather. Anyone could just unhook it and steal it!”
A snort escaped me. Steal it? We’d tried to sell it in three yard sales and couldn’t get five dollars for it. The swing needed a coat of paint; it squeaked; and it was older than dirt. Somehow, just knowing that Ian’s mother wasn’t the incredibly sophisticated woman I’d built up in my mind gave me some hope. I flung open the door.
And had the stuffing kicked right out of me.
The most gorgeous woman I had ever seen stood in front of me. Perfectly applied makeup. Slender. A watermelon-colored silk suit. Pumps to match. Short moussed hair. And a smile that must have cost more than my college education.
For the first time in my life, I mentally thanked my mama for relentlessly drilling social responses into me. Instinct took over or I couldn’t have managed to form words. “Mrs. McClaren, hello and welcome. I’m just so glad you could join us.”
She had one of those smiles that didn’t quite warm her gaze or her voice. She glanced at Ian. “I didn’t have much choice did I? Ian seems to have made his decision, and there’s no talking him out of it.”
“Not in this lifetime.” Ian did have a smile that warmed his gaze, which was much too familiar in front of his mother. I could have strangled him.
“Yes, well.” Mrs. McClaren shifted her gaze back to me. “So sorry, Shelby, dear. My husband was called back to New York. I hope that doesn’t upset your little dinner party, and that your parents won’t mind.”
I stepped back from the door and wrestled with an age-old social dilemma: embarrass the poor woman now or wait for someone else to embarrass her later. I chose now. “I’m sure Mama will manage. She’s had a bit of practice. Daddy died two years ago.”
“Oh, then perhaps it is best that Everett had to return.”
That didn’t make much sense, but I wasn’t going to ask how not seeing Everett would make Mama feel any better about Daddy’s death. I was beginning to realize that my family was odd in a way that I could understand. Ian’s would take some getting used to.
The whole conversation might have headed for safer ground if my nephew Tray hadn’t come careening up the porch and barreled into all of us on his way inside.
“That damn dog is after me again!”
Tray is five.
The damn dog is a three-legged black and tan coonhound.
Tray’s left butt cheek was hanging out of his blue jeans and there was no sign of a hip pocket. A shred of underwear trailed down the back of his thigh. Mrs. McClaren paled visibly and had the look of someone who’d been unexpectedly accosted by a homeless person. With good reason.
Leroy had greeted her just as he would have a new dog—by planting his nose in her crotch.
While Ian grabbed for Leroy’s collar, I caught Tray the only way anyone had ever been able to stop Tray on a rampage. I grabbed a handful of hair before he got out of reach. In the split second of silence that followed the capture of dog and kid, I realized I was an unwilling participant in a scene from the Illustrated Guide to Murphy’s Law.
I’ve always had a fairly well developed sense of the ridiculous. And some situations are just inherently funny. This was not one of them. When I saw the dog slobber stain on the front of Mrs. McClaren’s silk skirt, I figured there was nothing worse Claree could do to me than what Murphy had already arranged.
There is a great deal of peace in hitting rock bottom.
When Tray squirmed, I transferred my grip to his arm without taking my eyes off Ian’s mother. “I am so sorry, ma’am.”
“No, it’s...okay...really. I love...dogs.” Her tone suggested that Leroy might not fit her definition of a dog—or anyone else’s. She fished a tissue out of her tiny black purse and brushed distastefully at the wet spot. Ian—bless his heart—tried to lighten the moment by tousling Tray’s hair.
“Whoa, pal. Tell us what you had in your pocket.”
“Nothin’.” Tray had the grace to look away when he lied.
Unfortunately he looked at Mrs. McClaren’s skirt and giggled. Fortunately, Mama appeared in the doorway. She had never seemed more like the cavalry. She welcomed Ian to the family with a hug and introduced herself to Ruth McClaren.
“Now, why don’t we go inside? I’m sorry your husband couldn’t come, Mrs. McClaren. We’ve so looked forward to meeting Ian and you. While I finish up in the kitchen, you might like to freshen up in the bathroom? Then you can meet the rest of the family.” With graceful motions and simple questions, she herded us inside, made the incident disappear and found time to ask Tray where his Daniel Boone cap was as she dragged him toward the kitchen.
In no more than the blink of an eye, Ian and I were alone with a coonhound and a case of the giggles. But before we could grab a hug and a kiss, his mother was back in the room, making a beeline for the sofa.
“It is! Oh, my. Now this is lovely.” She smoothed the quilt’s binding edge and then flipped a corner over to see the backing. Or the stitching.
“Mother collects quilts.” Ian reached for my hand and rolled his eyes. “She’s mad about them.”
“Yes. I love them. It was about the only way Ian could convince me to come down here. He promised me quilts.”
I stiffened at the obvious insult. Ian seemed oblivious, eve
n when I pulled my hand from his.
“How old is this one?” Mrs. McClaren demanded.
“Old. You’ll find pieces of Union and Confederate uniforms in it. Taken from uniforms of Jackson men when they came home. I think the woman who made it called it The Ties That Bind.”
“This quilt?” She straightened excitedly as she pointed.
That was all the invitation Leroy needed. He pulled away from Ian, loped a few ungainly three-legged steps and launched himself squarely into the middle of Mama’s sofa.
“Oh my God! Get him off!”
I scrambled for his collar. “No joke. Mama just washed that quilt. She’ll kill him.”
You’d have thought I slapped the woman. “You wash this quilt? In a washing machine?”
Aunt Claree slammed down a bowl on the dining room table and—since she’d been eavesdropping—answered for me. “Only when fools encourage the dog to sprawl on it.” She stood in the archway and ran her eyes over Ian and his mother. “I’m Claree Jackson. Shelby’s aunt.”
And I’m dead.
“Ruth McClaren.” She extended her hand like a man. When Claree only raised an eyebrow, Ruth dropped her hand and asked. “Do you have any idea what this quilt is worth?”
“Not as much as it was before the dog rolled on it.”
Ian and I exchanged she’s-your-relative-you-fix-it looks, but neither of us wanted the job. Coward that I was, I pretended I had to scoot Leroy out the front door. The house was well set back from the road, but I waited to be sure he ambled around to the backyard and stopped only long enough to urinate on his favorite mint patch at the corner of the house.
By the time I’d run out of my dog-watching excuse, Ruth and Claree were fast on the way to becoming life-long enemies. This visit was going downhill much too quickly. Ian looked desperate, and we still had Little Will, Tammy and Uncle Skeeter to introduce to Ruth. I honestly thought I had prepared Ian for my family, but he looked like a man suddenly presented with an electrified obstacle course.
“Let me get this straight,” Ruth told Claree. “You have more of these quilts? Quilts that are seventy or even a hundred years old...and you use them everyday.”
Claree sniffed. “Wouldn’t be much good to us if we didn’t. I don’t know what you folks do when it’s cold but we kind of like to cover up here in the South.”
“Okay!” I clapped my hands with exaggerated enthusiasm. “What say we go out back and you can meet Uncle Skeeter? That’ll be a treat. He’s eighty-six, and won’t let anyone else use the grill because none of us have killed a Nazi.”
Neither woman responded to my invitation, but Ruth politely followed when my glare at Ian got his feet moving. As we passed the kitchen, Mama waved away our offers of help but told us not to dawdle since the tomatoes would be ready soon. Ruth looked appalled at the amount of frying pans on the stove. I heard her whisper to Ian, “Whatever you do, don’t stop moving. These people will fry you.”
Ian smiled, and I was surprised to find I didn’t like it one bit. Sure, only a few minutes earlier I had been rolling my eyes at the “overflow” buffet, but questioning the quantity wasn’t the same as maligning the quality. Or the variety. Mama certainly hadn’t gone overboard frying things. We were only having fried chicken, fried corn, fried catfish, fried gizzards and livers, and fried green tomatoes. She certainly wasn’t frying the pickles, the ice cream or the biscuits. She hadn’t fried the pork chops, the okra, the squash or the eggplant.
Maybe Ian should have prepared me for his mother.
It was an effort to unfold my arms from my midsection and try one more time to like Ruth. Somehow I knew she’d prefer to be called Ruth, not Mom, and that was another strike against her.
Against Ian.
Ruth’s superior gaze swept the property as we approached the concrete pad and the group of people huddled around a steel drum grill and the fish kettle. Her interest finally settled on Mama’s well-tended garden patch. “I can’t believe your mother has time to garden like this, Shelby. Are these organically grown?”
Uncle Skeeter cackled. “Daft woman. This is the South. Damn bugs are big enough to carry off suckling pigs, and you expect Nell could grow tomatoes that size without pesticide?”
“Silly of me I’m sure, but I’m not intimately acquainted with bugs as you are. You must be Uncle Skeeter.” She made his name sound like a disease. “So nice to meet you.”
Little Will and Tammy waited their turn in the introduction process. Ruth didn’t appear to be impressed with them either. Bare-cheeked Tray she’d already met. But Uncle Skeeter seemed to fascinate her. At least she kept watching him as he scooped up the last of the catfish with a steel mesh strainer.
He had on black socks, his church shoes, shorts and a bowling league shirt with his fifty-year Sunday school pin proudly fastened to his collar. The church had had to have it specially commissioned. He hadn’t missed a single lesson in two-hundred-sixty Sundays, and he’d buried three Sunday school teachers.
But I didn’t explain the pin because I didn’t think any of that would matter to Ruth McClaren. All she saw was an odd old man who probably shouldn’t be left alone around grills and fish kettles.
When Skeeter scratched Leroy’s ear and then repositioned a piece of fish on the platter with the same hand, Ruth made a small choking sound. Skeeter heard it and misinterpreted it.
“Don’t be put off by Leroy. That missing leg is really my fault. The biggest raccoon I ever saw chewed it off.” He shook his head and scratched Leroy’s ear again. “I shouldn’t have taken that bitch in season out hunting with us. Leroy was awful distracted that night. That’s why the coon got ‘em.”
“Supper!” Mama yelled from the back porch.
Skeeter grabbed the pork chop and fish plates and headed for the house without breaking his conversational flow. “That’s okay. I killed the sumbitch with a neat twenty-two shot through the spine. Had a hat made out of him. Finally gave it to Tray so he’d quit pestering me.”
Ruth put her hand on Ian’s forearm and gave him a look. I wasn’t sure whether she was revolted at the image of a raccoon tearing apart Leroy’s leg or the fact that Uncle Skeeter had a gun. What she didn’t understand was that Uncle Skeeter had guns—plural. Every make, every model, for every hunting season. Each winter we lived in fear we’d find him dead in the deer stand.
But that was probably more information than Ruth needed or wanted, and I was fast losing any enthusiasm for sharing any family details with Ruth. Tammy sidled up beside me and whispered, “Bless her heart, she seems delicate.”
To the casual outsider, Tammy might seem vapid and sweet, but she’s as vicious as they come and a master of the “Bless her heart” insult. In the South, insults can be delivered without accountability as long as you preface them with “Bless her heart....”
The jury was in on Ruth McClaren. The family didn’t like her, her attitude or her high-fashion suit. Tammy’s subtle insult had pretty much covered all the bases.
I should have defended Ruth. Really. I should have pointed out that she’d adjust. That she needed a little time. I didn’t. I smiled and followed everyone in to a supper that couldn’t be over fast enough to suit me.
Finally Ian seemed to get a clue and dropped back to be with me as we entered the dining room. He gave my shoulders a quick squeeze for support. Too little, too late, I realized. He’d been behaving almost as stand-offish and superior as his mother. Perhaps my expectations had been unrealistic, but I’d had this image in my mind of Tray on his shoulders and of Ian and Little Will smiling at some secret “guy” joke.
When we filed into the dining room, Mama cocked her head and started for the door. She opened it as the preacher had his hand raised to knock. “Brother Hollis. What a surprise! We were just sitting down to eat. You’ve come just in time.”
“For supper? I had no idea your family sat down so early.”
Claree snorted, not a bit worried about the preacher hearing her. “Every blessed day and yo
u ought to know that because you eat here often enough. Now get in here before the food gets cold. And don’t you try to sit in Elmer’s chair again.”
Brother Hollis’ voice boomed as loudly in our home as it did from the pulpit. “Ah, Sister Claree, you are looking mighty rested.”
She sniffed, but in the way of a woman who doesn’t want to admit she’s been mollified.
“Who’s Elmer?” Ian whispered under cover of the scuffling of chairs and rattling of silver as we settled around the table.
“My father.” I pointed to the empty chair at the head of the table. “Mama keeps his place set at the table.”
Ian stared at me for a second. “Is she nuts?”
Strike two.
“What a joyous day, Sister Shelby! Hope you won’t mind if I give the blessing?” Brother Hollis didn’t wait for an answer before he plunged into giving grace. I couldn’t help but notice that the McClarens didn’t bow their heads.
“Our Father, we thank you for the chance to work and grow the bounty of our table. We thank you for the strength to tend our fields and the strength to harvest our crops. We thank you for allowing us to cook this food to nourish our bodies. We most especially thank you for Sister Claree’s wonderful way with the tea. Your bounty is a truly wondrous thing. Amen. Pass the potatoes!”
Mama hovered around the table, the tea pitcher in her hand. She wouldn’t sit down until everyone had their drink and a plate full of food. I believe she judges the success of a meal by the level of chaos created by people as they wrangle and negotiate the expedited passing of their favorite dishes.
“Mrs. McClaren, let me pour you some tea.”
“No.” Ruth put her perfectly manicured fingers across the top of her glass. “I can’t abide the syrupy stuff you people serve down here. But thank you anyway. Ian, be a dear and get us a couple of glasses of water.”