Cathead Crazy

by Rhett DeVane

  The sun popped from behind the high puffy clouds, sending penetrating warmth through her skin. Here on the old river’s banks Hannah felt a connection with its ancient native inhabitants. Along the water’s edge, small pottery shards could still be found partially buried in the sand, a testament to man’s impermanence and the unrelenting passage of time.

  Hannah closed her eyes and drifted. The hum of passing boat motors and muffled laughter from her husband and children accompanied the breeze whispering through the river willows. Nostalgia washed over her in a velvet ripple.

  Her father’s boat, The Three Amigos—after Helen, Hal, and Hannah—had been a twenty-two foot cabin cruiser built by her father and longtime friends Sam Blount and Dan Davis. On weekends not spent fishing or skiing, the Mathers family joined members of a loose-knit boating club, the Chattahoochee River Rats, for overnight sandbar campouts.

  Peace and stillness were what she remembered most. Far removed from electric lighting, televisions, and automotive traffic, the only sounds came from nature: the serenade of peeper frogs, crickets, and bullfrogs, the occasional grunt of a bull gator, and the gentle lap of water on the anchored boats.

  Mornings brought boiled coffee, fried eggs, and country bacon cooked over a charcoal fire pit. For the duration, the men took charge of food preparation duties. The women visited, played with the children, and enjoyed the welcomed role reversal.

  Unlike her father’s lumbering cabin cruiser, the Olsen family’s craft was a swift combination ski/pleasure boat with a glossy finish that glittered garnet and gold in the sunlight. The outboard motor sported a dinner-plate-sized Seminole head sticker, demonstrating the family’s allegiance: the Florida State Seminoles.

  When Norman’s mother Grace had passed away, she had endowed her estate to her two sons with one stipulation: they should use the monies from the sale of the house and land to buy something each had always wanted. Norman’s brother Nathan used his for a down payment on a small cottage on the Wakulla River south of Tallahassee. Norman shopped for the boat of his dreams.

  Since the craft had been compliments of his deceased father’s careful financial planning and his mother’s last wishes, Norman named the boat the Savin’ Grace. At first, he toyed with the title Amazing Grace, but decided against it. Every now and then, Norman skipped church and slipped off to fish, and he worried the church-hymn name might demonstrate a conflict of interest.

  From the first crisp mornings of spring until the frosts of fall, the Savin’ Grace rarely sat idle. Every Saturday, other than an occasional sacrifice for a round of golf, Norman woke early, often abducting his son for a day of fresh water fishing.

  As the fading sun cast long shadows across the sandbar, the family reluctantly loaded the boat for the trip home. When they passed the final jetty, Norman cut the engine back to a slower pace. “Since we’re not in a huge hurry to get back, let’s ‘Cadillac along’ for a while, shall we?”

  Norman’s expression brought to mind a long, pink boat of a car, its purpose to see and be seen rather than move at any great speed. Justine dozed on the bow, her tanned lithe body stretched across a line of cushions. Other than the times she had skied, Justine had seemed a bit preoccupied. Hannah fell into her habit of worrying, then forced herself to resume peaceful, happy thoughts. Teenagers wore angst like designer fashions, especially the female of the species.

  Jonas took the opportunity to cast a trolling line behind the boat. Any fish would be released, as Norman had designated the day off-limits for scaling and cleaning bream, bass or river catfish. At the helm, her husband wore an expression of complete contentment. In his world of male responsibilities, the river was the one place he held a modicum of control. He didn’t have to voice this; Hannah knew it intuitively.

  Hannah closed her eyes and inhaled the aroma of the Apalachicola: a blend of rich earth, vegetation, and the fleeting scent of fresh water fish lurking in the shady water beneath overhanging tree branches. Her family had given her the perfect gift for Mother’s Day: peace wrapped in love.

  God help, it might last a few days.

  Justine’s Pasta Salad

  1, 13.5 oz. box of pasta (shells, rotini or elbows)

  1, 15 oz. can of diced, stewed tomatoes, drained

  1/2 cup crumbled feta cheese

  1 can artichoke hearts in water, drained and cut into small bites

  3 Tbsp extra virgin olive oil

  Salt and pepper to taste

  Dash of garlic powder

  Cook and drain pasta according to package directions. Place in a large bowl. Add drained diced stewed tomatoes, crumbled feta cheese, diced artichoke hearts, and the olive oil. Toss to mix. Add salt and pepper, and a dash of garlic powder, to taste.

  May be served warm or cold. For variation, toss in a cup of cooked, cubed chicken breast.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Still can’t believe you talked me into this,” Hannah said in a low voice.

  Around them, women of all shapes, sizes and ages stretched in preparation for the belly dancing class. A few wore brilliantly-colored hip scarves festooned with reflective bangles.

  Becky leaned over and attempted to touch her toes. “Man, am I ever out of shape.” She grabbed Hannah’s shoulder and gave it a playful shake. “C’mon H, this will be a blast. Good exercise, learn something new, challenge your body and mind. Ching, ching!” She touched her middle fingers to her thumbs, clanging imaginary finger cymbals. “Besides, you’re helping me stave off my midlife crisis, remember?”

  “I’m honored to serve so noble a purpose in your life, Beck.”

  Suzanne bustled into the Women’s Club ballroom and flung her hot pink purse to the floor in one corner. “Hope I didn’t miss anything. I was tied up with that brother of yours.”

  “What’s he done now?” Hannah asked.

  “He’s making redneck wind chimes.”

  Becky lifted one eyebrow. “What?”

  Suzanne stretched before answering. “Something he saw at the Madhatter’s Festival down by the river a couple of years back. He’s making a bunch to sell.”

  “My brother, into arts and crafts?” Speaking of a midlife crisis . . .

  “Not much art to it,” Suzanne said. “Flattened beer cans strung on fishing line, hanging from a piece of scrap wood, with metal washers between to make ’em clang in the wind. They raise holy Hades in a stiff breeze.”

  Hannah shook her head. “For Pete’s sake.”

  “We don’t even drink beer. That’s the sad part. Now, I’ll drink the heck out of the Sangria I make, but I’ve never been much of a beer fan. Bloats me.” Suzanne slipped her pink flower-festooned slides off and threw them to her growing pile. “Hal buys the cheapest brand and pours the booze down the drain.”

  Becky asked, “How, exactly, did his newfound passion make you run late?”

  “Hal lined up a bunch of cans and I drove across them with the van. He’s tried it several ways, and the tires do the best job. When you smash them with a hammer, the label crumbles and flakes off.” Suzanne flashed a smile. “All that back and forth gets downright time consuming.”

  “No wonder people from up North think we’re interbred cretins,” Hannah said.

  “You best learn to get past it, Sister-in-law. Hal’s making you an extra big set for Christmas.”

  “Oh good,” Hannah said. “I’ll finally be able to compete with Mrs. Keats’s yard two doors down.”

  Becky tapped her chin with one finger. “Don’t know about that, H. Last time I was in Chattahoochee, I noticed she had added a manatee and two leaping dolphins to her front flower bed.”

  “Obviously you haven’t seen the five-foot chainsaw grizzly bear under the oak tree in her side yard,” Hannah said.

  Suzanne laughed. “I’ve always thought half of the nuts in Chattahoochee weren’t locked up.”

  “Easy, Sis,” Hannah chided. “Need I remind you that you married one of us and that he is, even as we speak, turning trash into treasure?”

/>   “Never said I didn’t like colorful folks,” Suzanne said.

  A raven-haired woman shimmied by wearing a purple spangled hip scarf.

  “Eww!” Suzanne’s eyes sparkled like a kid’s at an ice cream truck. “I want one of those things with the jangles across the behind.” She glanced down at her bare feet. “And I’ll have to buy me a pair of those little ballet slippers.”

  Hannah patted her sister-in-law on the shoulder. “Heaven forbid, you without the proper foot wear.”

  The instructor clapped her hands. “Let’s spread out a bit. Give yourselves at least an arm’s width in all directions.” Deep dimples flanked her wide smile. “For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Amy Vanguard. Teacher for Middle Eastern dance.”

  “Suppose that’s the politically correct way to say belly dancing?” Suzanne whispered.

  “Now,” the instructor motioned toward her left, “I see a few of my more advanced ladies. I want y’all to cluster over on this side.” Her gaze roamed the room and rested on the three of them. “Ah, my newbies. Y’all move on up here so I can keep an eye on your form.”

  Becky leaned close to Hannah. “There goes being a good back-row Baptist.”

  They shuffled to spots directly in front of the teacher. For the next few minutes, Amy led a series of stretches, then reviewed proper posture. “Get in the habit of tucking your pelvis forward a bit. Prevents lower back strain. Don’t slump! Shoulders back!”

  Hannah felt as if she had landed in belly dancing boot camp, except the highly-polished wood floors of the Women’s Club hall didn’t resemble a military facility.

  Amy demonstrated a few basic arm, hip, shoulder, and hand movements.

  “I feel sexier already.” Becky grinned and swiveled.

  Hannah focused on raising and dropping her right hip while holding her arms at shoulder height. “Maybe you can go home and demonstrate for your husband.”

  Becky cut her eyes at Hannah. “As long as there’s not a ball game on. When it’s game time, I could strut by wearing a loincloth, sporting a bone through my nose and he wouldn’t pay any mind, except to tell me to quit blocking the dadgum TV.”

  Amy shimmied and talked at the same time. “I see some really good hip movement out there!” The next series involved stepping from side to side to the count of eight, then four, then two, all while rotating the shoulders front to back.

  “I get my feet going okay,” Suzanne said. “Then my shoulders don’t move right.”

  “Don’t think about what you’re doing,” Amy suggested. “Just move to the beat.”

  After a few intermittent stretches, Amy dug around in a small silk pouch and removed two small metal discs. “These are zills.”

  “Seals?” Suzanne asked.

  “Zills. Z-I-L-L-S. Like dills, only with a Z.” The teacher slipped the attached elastic bands around the third finger and thumb on each hand, then clanged a rhythm to match the music. The ladies in the advanced section scuttled to their duffel bags and returned, zill-clad and ready for action. Amy rotated to a spot in front of them and demonstrated the complex set of short and long beats.

  “I really want some of those,” Suzanne said.

  “Looks deceptively easy, doesn’t it?” Amy talked effortlessly while her fingers carried on in their own nervous fashion.

  Hannah felt the stir of something primordial: the urge to fling back her head and let out one of those trilling vocalizations she had heard from the women in movies set in the Middle East. If she could add intense sunlight and waves of undulating heat, there was no telling how wild and demented she might become. Would Norman wear sheik’s robes, if she asked him nicely? The notion caused her to laugh out loud.

  “Having fun?” Amy said, fingers flying and everything from the waist down moving.

  Hannah nodded. “I may not be able to get out of bed by morning, but who cares?”

  “Okay! Time to work with the veils.” Amy dropped the zills back in their silk pouch, then passed out several long, filmy lengths of fabric to the students who hadn’t brought their own. “Let’s form a large circle.”

  Amy demonstrated the proper way to hold the material between the second and middle fingers. When she cued the music, the students walked briskly in a circle. The gauzy veils rippled in multicolored wakes behind them.

  “Here’s a little move I like to call the washing machine.” Amy twirled her veil around in front of her, then back, in one fluid motion. After several spastic attempts, the newbies managed a reasonable imitation. “Next week, we’ll incorporate the veil into our routine.”

  “That ought to really trip me up,” Hannah said. “I can barely chew gum and walk at the same time.”

  An hour and a half later, after numerous twitches and swivels, the three newbie dancers walked out to the dimly lit parking lot. Other than a distant dog barking and the muffled sound of canned television laughter from a nearby house, the street had settled into the solitude Hannah enjoyed. Forget big city life.

  “I’m taking a handful of Advil before I hit the bed,” Becky said. “I can already tell my hips are going to be sore tomorrow.”

  “I’m slathering mine with Bengay when I get home,” Hannah added.

  “I hear y’all. I’m whipped,” Suzanne said. “And I still have to stop by the store on the way home.” She turned to leave.

  “Why don’t you go tomorrow, Sis?” Hannah called. “What do you need that’s so important?”

  Suzanne stopped and spun around. “Ice cream and Preparation H.”

  Becky bent double with laughter.

  “What a combination.” Hannah shook her head.

  Suzanne propped her hands on her hips. “I’m craving ice cream, and my butt is hurting. Okay?”

  Becky gasped for air. “Are we three pathetic old broads, or what?”

  Hannah agreed. “You ought to see me getting ready for bed. I have a nose strip on to keep me from snoring and a mouth guard so I don’t grind my teeth. Good thing I’m married to Norman. He doesn’t seem to mind. Otherwise, I would be lucky to have sex again in this lifetime.”

  Becky rested one finger on her chin. “That’s an idea, H. If I swipe a thick slash of black eyeliner under my eyes and put on a pair of shoulder pads—along with the outfit you described— I’ll bet it would make Keith hot! I’d look like a linebacker. He loves anything to do with football.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  When Hannah entered the kitchen, she noticed her daughter wiping away a tear. Since the drinking incident, their relationship had shifted slightly in a positive direction. How long the open communication lines would last was anyone’s guess. At least for the moment, Hannah felt comfortable inquiring into her teenage daughter’s affairs.

  She poured a cup of steaming coffee and joined Justine at the kitchen table. “You okay?”

  Justine tucked a strand of blonde hair behind one ear and sniffed. “I guess.”

  “Anything you want to talk about?”

  Justine’s petite shoulders rose and fell. The trick was to draw her daughter into sharing intimate feelings without triggering the protective shields.

  “Everything seems to be going better for you.” Hannah tried for a casual tone. “Since the meeting with the judge, I mean. I’m proud of the way you’ve handled yourself, Jus. It’s a sign of maturity when you take responsibility for your actions.”

  Justine sipped from a glass of Diet Coke. “I suppose.”

  “Is it . . . boy troubles?”

  “As if.” Justine slumped back in the chair. “The guys in this town aren’t worth wasting tears over, Mom. I can’t wait until I leave for college!”

  Hannah chuckled. “I remember feeling much the same way. Then, lo and behold, I married your hometown-boy father and moved back.”

  “Like, I see that happening to me. Really.”

  “If it’s not recent legal issues or men, what has you so upset that you’re crying so early in the day? Only if you want to share . . . ”

  Justin
e’s blue eyes glistened. “It’s Grand-Mae.”

  “She said something to upset you?”

  “Sorta.”

  Hannah rested one hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “You have to remember, honey. Your grandmother is from another generation. Her way of thinking may seem old-fashioned, but she means well.”

  “It’s not that.”

  Hannah willed herself to wait patiently without prodding.

  “I went by to see her on the way home from class yesterday.”

  “That’s wonderful, Jus. It means a great deal to her when you kids visit.”

  “We were having a pretty good time for a while. She had this puzzle of the beach and I was helping her. She didn’t want me to do the sky, so I did the sides all around.”

  Hannah smiled and nodded.

  “She started talking about dying.” Justine’s eyes brimmed. “All this stuff about the funeral and preacher. Even how she wants socks on her feet and no shoes. It was so creepy, and weird.”

  Hannah rose to refresh her coffee while she gathered her thoughts. When she returned to the table, she took a moment before she spoke. “I can’t tell you how many times she’s told me the same things. She wants the green nightgown and matching robe. It’s kind of an aqua color and is hanging in the back of her closet. She wants the First Baptist preacher to perform the service. She doesn’t want to be carted to the church, then out to the cemetery, just straight to the grave. The casket will be open during the viewing and visitation, then closed for the funeral. She’d like a few flowers, but wants money donations for the Baptist Children’s Society, too. Her wedding ring and her gold cross necklace for jewelry. Her little white Bible with the gold lettering in her hands. Oh, and a clean embroidered hankie, though I can’t imagine why.”