Cliques, Hicks, and Ugly Sticks

by KD McCrite

  “Let’s not fight about it,” I said, finally turning from the wall. “Did ole Lottie talk to you?”

  “No. She just looked at me as if I smelled bad. I don’t know why she sat next to me. Lottie Fuhrman is strange.”

  “Yep. She’s always been a little different—you know, kinda sensitive and always getting her feelings hurt, thinking people are talking about her or making fun of her and stuff. But this stuck-up business is brand new.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Melissa said. “I think something happened this summer.”

  “Like what?”

  “Who knows? While she was in Little Rock, her mom married that ole guy.”

  I scooted my back down the wall until I was sitting on the floor. I could smell food cooking, and I was hoping we’d eat soon.

  “You mean Carter Lee Ritter?”

  “Yeah. Him. He’s a lawyer or something. And guess what else? He’s the new president of the school board.”

  “Huh!” I said. “That’s probably why she’s so rotten at school this year.”

  “Yeah. Maybe now that she’s his daughter, she thinks she’s hot stuff or something.”

  “Yeah, maybe so,” I agreed. But I didn’t want to waste time talking about Lottie. “Hey, listen, Melissa, did you notice anything different about my mama at church today?”

  “Your mom? No. Why?”

  “To tell you the honest truth, I’m downright worried about her.”

  I heard disgusting lip-smacking, crunching sounds, and then my best friend—who knows it drives me right up a tree to hear someone talk with their mouth full—said, with her mouth obviously full to overflowing, “Blag blakkim?”

  I was especially put out by her eating noises right then when I was already tense. “Will you please not eat potato chips while I’m trying to pour out my heart to you?” I begged.

  Crunch, crunch, smack. Rattle of the chip bag loud as anything right in the phone. A slosh and gurgle. A belch. I reckoned she was washing down those chips with some Mountain Dew, her favorite drink of all time.

  “Sorry,” she said finally. “I’ve been about to starve and thirst to death. Mom served liver and spinach salad for lunch.”

  “Eww.”

  “Yeah. Eww big-time.”

  Mrs. Carlyle is a rotten cook, but she likes to experiment. Sometimes she will serve something junky but try to salvage the nutrition by adding something that’s supposed to be good for you. One time she added crushed peppermint candy to peas. This is probably one of the reasons Mrs. Carlyle is no longer a married lady.

  I did not tell poor Melissa that we were having meat loaf and mashed potatoes and green beans and pickled beets (which Melissa dearly loves, but which I hate to the point it makes the little hairs on my arms stand up) and sliced tomatoes (which I dearly love).

  “Well, I hope you can control your starvation long enough to talk to me.”

  “I’ll try.” She heaved a loud breath. “So tell me what’s up with your mom.”

  “There is something severely wrong with her.”

  “What do you mean?” I heard true concern in her voice.

  “I don’t know what I mean! She has looked bad for a while, and she’s kinda cranky.”

  There was a silence on her end of the phone.

  “Well?” I prodded. “Are you still there?”

  “That doesn’t mean anything is wrong with your mother.

  My mom is cranky most of the time,” she said.

  “But my mama isn’t.”

  “Well, April, at this point, I have to ask: What did you do?” She sounded just like a headshrinker on some TV show.

  “Do?” As if I’d never heard the word before.

  “Yes, April. If your mom is in a bad mood, you must’ve done something to upset her because she’s always nice.”

  I pondered a moment, then announced with confidence, “I did not do a blessed thing to upset her.”

  “Well, then maybe your sister did something.”

  Now, that was a thought worth thinking.

  “What about the St. Jameses?” she asked. “Did one of ’em say something dumb to your mom?”

  “I don’t think so. Ole Isabel is gonna be a great big pain while she recovers, though. She like to have worn her husband clear down to a nub having him do this and do that all the time.”

  “Maybe your mom is worried that ole Isabel is gonna wear her down to a nub, too,” Melissa said with all the logic in the world.

  “Yeah. She might be.”

  Right about then, Grandma called me to go change out of my church clothes because dinner was almost on the table. Melissa and I promised to talk later, said good-bye, and hung up.

  Let me say this: Ian St. James sat at the table and ate like there was no tomorrow. And then he had seconds of every blessed thing there. His little missus was sound asleep, but he sat on the edge of his seat, and you could tell he was listening for her to call him any second.

  “I have missed your good food, Lily,” he told Mama. “The hospital cuisine leaves a lot to be desired.”

  “That whole hospital leaves a lot to be desired!” I declared, but no one backed me up or said “Amen!” or anything.

  Mama looked up and smiled like she was half asleep. “Thank you, Ian. It’s good to have you and Isabel back home.”

  Trust Mama to say something sweet like that. I wondered if she’d still be saying it once ole Isabel’s medication ran out and she commenced to hollering for help instead of snoring away in the bed.

  “We got us a big crop of tomatoes out in the garden and will have ’em for a long spell yet,” Grandma said as she passed the platter of thick red slices. “Here, Ian, get you some more.”

  Ian swallowed the last bite on his plate, pushed back his chair, and stood.

  “Thanks, but I’m full.” He patted his stomach. “I’d better get back to Isabel now. If she wakes up and I’m not there . . .” Who knows what he was gonna say, because his voice trailed off and so did he.

  “Shall we let all the tomatoes ripen and then can ’em, Lily?” Grandma asked. “Or shall we pick ’em green and put up green tomato relish?”

  Mama poked at her meat loaf with her fork. As far as I could tell, she had not eaten a single, solitary bite of it.

  “If you want to, Mama Grace,” she said quietly and all tired-sounding. She looked at the rest of us and said, “I declare. I feel like someone has pulled a plug on my energy today. If y’all will excuse me, I’m going to go lie down.”

  Now, let me tell you something. Going to bed early and a midday nap—that was not like Lily Reilly at all.

  “Lily?” Daddy said. His concern was so obvious, you could nearly smell it.

  “I’m all right, honey,” she said.

  “You still have your headache from this morning, Mama?”

  I asked.

  “Yes, a bit. And I’m a little tired. You girls will clean the kitchen for me, won’t you?”

  “Yes’m,” we chimed together quietly, watching her leave the room.

  Grandma got up from her own half-eaten meal and followed Mama right up the stairs.

  Daddy just sat there, looking worried and about half sick his own personal self. He stared out the window, but you could tell he wasn’t looking at anything.

  “Daddy?” I said. He did not reply, so I spoke again, louder the second time. “Daddy.”

  He blinked, threw off that somber stare, and looked at me.

  “Finish your dinner, sweetheart. You, too, Myra. Then be good girls and keep quiet so your mama can get some rest.”

  “Daddy,” I said firmly, “what is wrong with my mama?”

  His smile looked forced. “You heard her, April. She’s just tired. Not a thing for you to worry about. She’ll be better by and by.”

  “Daddy, I ain’t trying to argue with you, but I don’t think she’s just tired. She doesn’t look right. She’s all pale. And puffy. And she don’t hardly eat anything. Look at her plate.” All three of us looked at t
he full plate Mama had left on the table.

  Daddy pushed back his chair. “I’ll go up and check on her.” He reached out and stroked my head, then chucked Myra Sue under the chin like she was a cute little baby. “You girls stop worrying. Your mama will be just fine.”

  He left the room before we could say another word.

  “Sissy, what d’you think is wrong with her?” Myra Sue whispered to me, her eyes big and blue and worried.

  “I don’t know, Myra, but I’m scared,” I said.

  “Me, too. First Isabel and now Mama. This family is falling apart.”

  I didn’t think it was the time to announce that Isabel St. James was not a part of our family. In fact, right then I didn’t have the heart to be sassy, even to my sister.

  We forced ourselves to finish eating because we did not want to worry the others, and with great cooperation, we cleared the table, stored the leftovers, washed, rinsed, dried, and put away the dishes, and even swept the floor.

  SEVEN

  The Pittiest Pit of Your Stomach

  The following Monday morning at breakfast, Mama looked more tired than ever. I was real glad that Daddy let Ian slide on the farmwork some more so Isabel’s hubby could wait on her instead of my very own mother. For the most part, even though she didn’t look like her usual self, Mama acted like nothing was any different than usual, except she was kinda snappish and impatient one minute, and all sorry and sweet the next.

  I went to school feeling confused and scared about her.

  That week I did my best not to worry, but I didn’t do very well. I just kept thinking about Mama and how she was changing day by day. Then, once the very terrifying idea that she might be dying came roaring into my mind, all normal brain actions stopped. No matter how many times my parents reassured me everything was fine, that thought was like a smothering dark blanket that blocked out everything else.

  Somehow I got through those days, but I hardly remember any of it, except more homework assignments than should be allowed by law for kids our age. Those Lotties roamed around, laughing at everyone and being a pain, but I barely even noticed them. I hoped things would get better as time went on, but I had an awful feeling down in the pittiest pit of my stomach that nothing would ever be right again.

  That next Saturday, I couldn’t even talk to ole Myra Sue because she had gone to spend the night with Jessica and Jennifer. Not that I minded. In fact, I was overjoyed that our house was free of her for a while. I tried to talk to Grandma, but she refused to discuss Mama other than to say, “If your mama says she’s all right, then she’s all right.”

  I thought about talking with Ian or Isabel, but I didn’t do it for two good reasons. Number one: Isabel still slept a lot, and when she wasn’t sleeping, she was complaining, and I had enough problems without listening to her gripe about her chipped teeth and where in the world would she find a “first-class orthodontist in this deplorable pit of the world.” Number two: Ole Ian was still plumb worn-out, and I didn’t have the heart to tire him even more.

  Saturday afternoon, I just got to feeling so bad that I asked Mama if Melissa Kay Carlyle could come spend the night.

  Mama was in the recliner with her head against the back and her feet up on the footrest. I had to stop and stare at her a minute ’cause seeing her relaxing like that is something I have not seen very often in my life. I felt kinda bad asking if I could have company, but I tell you, I needed another pair of eyes and someone of equal smarts who would listen and talk to me straight.

  “You okay, Mama?” I asked.

  Without lifting her head, she turned it and gave me a tired smile. She reached out and took my hand. “I’m fine, honey. Just taking a rest.”

  Hmm. Grandma looked up from where she sat in her rocker, sewing a button on one of Daddy’s shirts. She didn’t say anything, but she pinned a gaze on Mama for a bit.

  “Mama, since Myra Sue’s spending the night with Jessica and Jennifer, can Melissa spend the night here?”

  She did not look as if the idea pleased her very much.

  “Oh, honey, I don’t know.”

  “She’s not been here since early in the summer. And we’ll be really quiet, I promise. We want to help each other with that awful, terrible math homework.” I pulled a face that I was pretty sure looked ugly as all get-out, but it demonstrated how I truly felt about junior high math.

  “Well . . .”

  Good ole Grandma spoke up. “Let her have Melissa over. I’ll be here, and it will give April some company. I want to use your sewing machine, Lily, so I’ll be in hollerin’ distance if they need something.”

  “We’ll be really, really quiet,” I repeated.

  Mama thought about it a little longer. Then she smiled. “Okay then,” she said. “You go ask if she wants to come over.”

  “Thanks, Mama! Thanks, Grandma!” I gave them both quick kisses on the cheeks, then galloped to the telephone and called up Melissa Kay Carlyle.

  “Hey, whatcha doin’?” I asked as soon as she answered.

  “Nothin’. Whatcha doin’?”

  “Nothin’. Listen, Melissa Kay,” I said. “You know how I’ve been doin’ all this worrying over Mama? Well, I have a good idea. You think you could come spend the night tonight? Maybe you’ll see something I’ve missed.”

  “I’d like to, but Mom probably won’t let me. I haven’t done my math homework yet.”

  Just the thought of math and nasty ole homework gave me a severe pain where the sun don’t shine.

  “Me either,” I told her. “Maybe we can help each other.”

  There was a small silence in which I heard something rattle that sounded suspiciously like a bag of chips or cookies, then I heard that Melissa nibbling like a mouse on something. She crunched those chips or cookies right into my hearing waves, and I like to have come unglued, but I didn’t, because what good would that do?

  So I said, all nice and calm, “Why don’t you go ask your mom right now?”

  “Okay. Hang on.” Half a second later, she screamed, “Mom!”, hollering as if my eardrums were not hanging around right there. “MOOOOOOMMMMM! ”

  So, all right. This sort of behavior is probably why Melissa’s mother is cranky so often.

  “Hang on,” she said again after a little bit. This time you could hear the clatter of the telephone as she clunked it down on the floor or the table or wherever she had clunked it. In a minute she was back and asked, “She wants to know if it’s okay with your mom.”

  “Of course!”

  “Hang on.” In a minute she came back. “Mom says it’s okay as long as I get my homework done.”

  That settled, I ran upstairs to be sure my room was completely tidy. I hung up all ole Myra Sue’s clothes and emptied her overflowing trash can. I made good progress, and I felt pretty relaxed until Grandma walked into the room with her purse strap over one shoulder and her car keys in her hand. That could only mean one thing.

  “C’mon, baby girl,” she said, smiling. “Let’s go get Melissa.”

  I gulped so hard, I nearly swallowed my tongue and adenoids and all my molars. Grandma drives either slow, like she’s taking a tour of the whole entire countryside, or all crazy, like she’s wearing a paper bag over her whole entire head. One time we drove halfway to Cedar Ridge on the wrong side of the road because the highway department had just patched the highway cracks with hot-mix on our side. I reckon she’d rather we got blood and guts all over her white car instead of a little bit of tar around the wheel wells.

  “Are you gonna drive?”

  “Yep,” she said, grinning.

  Well, just when you think the world might be tipping a little bit more in the right direction, it flops over like an old, one-eyed rag doll with the stuffing hanging out.

  “We’ll even stop at Ruby’s Place, and you girls can get yourselves a Pepsi slush.”

  Even the promise of a Pepsi slush didn’t make me feel as good as it usually does, especially as I knew I had to risk life and limb to g
et it.

  When we got back home, safe and sound with Melissa and her purple overnight case, I was finally able to breathe easy again. The worst thing on that trip was when Grandma blasted the car horn, stuck her left arm out the window, and waved at someone she knew like she’d never see them again. She ran right off the road, and we went bumping along the shoulder for a while. She like to have scared me and Melissa white-headed. I did not know who she was waving at, and I did not care, but when we finally got back on the road, I nearly offered to drive us the rest of the way.

  Here’s the deal. After all that wheedling I did, and after taking my life in my own hands by riding to town with Grandma, I was bumfuzzled to see Mama act like her regular self that night when Melissa was over. She did not act cranky or seem dragged-out tired or anything.

  While Grandma whirred away at the sewing machine on the service porch, Melissa and I followed Mama around like two puppies. She didn’t seem to notice that we eyeballed her sharply every minute or two.

  At one point, she looked up from peeling potatoes for supper and said, “Before it gets dark, you girls ought to play outside and get some fresh air.”

  Melissa and I were sitting at the kitchen table, where I was skunking my ole pal pretty good at Yahtzee.

  “We aren’t in the mood for outdoor activities,” I told Mama.

  “Yeah,” Melissa agreed. “We like being in here. With you.” She gave me a sneaky look that said we were in on this together.

  “Seems to me you’d want to be out in the fresh air and sunshine. On Monday you’ll be back in school, wishing you were outdoors.”

  Mama was right. Boy, oh boy, I would’ve loved to take a walk through the woods with my two best friends, Daisy— our white Great Pyrenees dog who is older than Methuselah’s grandfather—and Melissa. We always loved to do that except for the time we got into the seed ticks. But that’s a whole ’nother story, and I won’t gross you out with the details. I did not want to leave Mama unattended, so we just kept playing Yahtzee.

  Pretty soon Grandma finished sewing her new curtains and came into the kitchen. She started helping Mama put supper together.