Standing a few yards away, Johnny looked from the two women to the plane. He had never seen a private plane up close. He eyed Wadley Johnson and thought that the man looked as everyday as any of them. Johnny had seen a few pretty-rich men. Shorty Lightfoot had millions made in oil but still came into the Valentine Stop in his twenty-year-old beat-up Chevy truck.
Wadley Johnson came forward, smiling in a friendly manner, and introduced himself. He shook Johnny’s hand and congratulated him. Johnny thought this showed that maybe Gracie’s mother wasn’t going to try to bust them up, which was what he half suspected.
Then Johnny was shaking Sylvia Kinney’s hand and greeting her, and suddenly the image of the shaving kit that he kept in Gracie’s bathroom cabinet popped into his mind. He was struck with the panic to get in there and hide it before her mother saw it.
As he drove to Gracie’s apartment, he reminded her about the shaving kit.
“Oh, sweetheart, my mother isn’t even stayin’ with me…and we are getting married, after all,” Gracie said, laughing at him.
“I know, but she might look in there, and I don’t want to give her any cause to back up,” he replied. He also had a worry that her mother might get very angry and say something to his mother. This idea had taken such a hold on him that when they reached Gracie’s apartment, he went straight to the bathroom, grabbed his shaving kit and stuck it three places before finally settling on behind the cleansers in the rear of the sink cabinet. He didn’t think Mrs. Kinney looked like someone who would be cleaning a bathroom. As he quietly closed the cabinet door, he wondered when a guy began to feel grown up. Maybe not until his parents died.
Johnny visited politely with everyone for over an hour, then made his escape. He drove down to his parents’ house, where he told everyone about the arrival of Sylvia Kinney and Wadley Johnson, and the private plane. His mother made him a peanut butter and banana sandwich, and he watched the NASCAR race with his father, Grandpop and uncle, just as he had been doing ever since he could recall. For dinner, his mother made cheeseburgers, and his Aunt Joella made fried potatoes just for him, so he stayed for that.
In the end, he slept on the living-room couch. His Uncle Charlie J. used his old room, because his Aunt Joella, who snored, was in the guest room, and his grandfather was in the family room watching the television. When Johnny was half asleep, his mother, who was wearing herself out getting everything ready for Gracie’s mother, came into the living room and stood there staring at him. He felt her love fall all over him like a warm winter blanket, nice but heavy.
The next morning his mother fixed him sausage and eggs and pancakes, everything exactly as he liked it without him having to say a word. When he left, he hugged her tight and even stopped to hug his dad, and then he walked slowly to his car and drove away, thinking that when he married Gracie, he could never be the boy come home again. He would be a guest, just as his Grandpop, uncle and aunt.
He couldn’t explain it to anyone and would have been too embarrassed to try, but he worried what his parents would do without him as their boy.
By the time their very special out-of-town guests arrived for Sunday dinner, Emma was a nervous wreck. She was trying to prepare a dinner for a woman whom she was pretending never to have met, and whom she wanted to please and impress beyond all reason.
On Saturday, she had received the delivery of a dozen roses with a card that read: Looking forward to meeting you.—Sylvia Kinney. After that, Emma put the gelatin salad in the cabinet, and it would have stayed there all night if her sister-in-law hadn’t found it when she was looking for a bowl for chip dip. She let the potatoes for the potato salad boil over and was cleaning the stove at ten o’clock at night.
John Cole came in and found her, and asked what she was doing, and she told him, “I don’t want Sylvia Kinney to think that Johnny comes from trashy people.” She even got paint and touched up a couple of nicks in the dining-room walls.
Sunday afternoon at one o’clock, the special guests arrived. Emma was removing the cream pies from the oven and heard her sister-in-law call from the living room, “They’re here!” followed by her mother’s lower tone, “Get your hat and girdle!”
Emma set one hot glass pie plate on the butcher block and went back for the other, and while passing the family room entry, waved a hot pad to get John Cole’s attention. She could have just as well yelled at him, though, because Pop Berry and Charlie J. had been glued to their seats and the television all day, and didn’t even look around. It crossed her mind that they could have been dead with their eyes open.
Swinging to check her appearance in the mirror, she then went for her purse to get a lipstick.
Joella came running into the kitchen. “Well, they’re in a Mercedes, la-de-da. I didn’t know people could rent Mercedeses. Do you think he bought it?”
There came a crash of breaking glass, and Emma looked around to see that Joella had dropped her glass.
“Oh…oh, I’m sorry!” In something of a frenzy, Joella went down on her knees and began grabbing broken pieces.
“Oh, honey…be careful. You’ll cut yourself.” Emma came quickly with a cloth. She caught the faint scent of bourbon.
Then John Cole was there, shooing Emma out. “I’ll get this…go on.”
Hurrying through the living room, she glanced out the wide window and saw the cars stopping out front.
At the door, she paused. Help me, Lord, she asked, and she lifted her chin.
Sylvia Kinney gazed through the windshield and grudgingly admitted that the house was lovely. Long and low, it was rock with a wide front porch graced by large pots and plants.
“Mother, those are the pool-construction trucks,” Gracie said, just as Sylvia’s eyes went beyond Johnny’s car stopped ahead of them to see a group of battered pickup trucks at the end of the driveway. There were also a cement mixer, wheel-barrows and mounds of dirt. At least there was no grass growing up around any of it, she thought as she unbuckled her seatbelt.
Wadley was at her door. As she got out, she saw a figure coming from the front porch. Emma Berry. Blond hair glimmering in the bright light, earrings swaying at her ears, she came toward them with the joyful laugh of a girl.
“Welcome! We’re so glad y’all could come!”
Emma Berry threw her arms around Gracie, who responded in the same manner, the two of them hugging, while Sylvia stood there watching. Then Gracie, still arm-in-arm with the woman, made the introductions. Emma Berry looked right at Sylvia and said, “Of course I know who this is. You and Gracie strongly favor…just beautiful women.”
For a distressing moment Sylvia thought the woman was headed to embrace her. Sylvia stuck out her hand, saying, “I’m very glad to meet you. Gracie’s told me so much about you.”
Then it was Wadley’s turn, and he went so far as to lean over and kiss the woman’s cheek, saying, of all things, “I believe we could be kin. Your son tells me that you are a Macomb-Jennings from North Carolina.”
At that Emma Berry laughed even more gaily, if that were possible. “I am…and you must be a Car’lina boy, if you would say somethin’ like that.”
Sylvia imagined spraying them both with a hose.
They all went inside, where there was more family to meet. John Cole, not just John but clearly John Cole Berry, was something of a surprise—the surprise being that immediately upon looking into his sparkling blue eyes, Sylvia judged him an intelligent sort and liked him immediately.
As for the rest, well, they were all about what she had expected, as was the situation, both being a little boring and awkward. The grandfather appeared to be of the same opinion. After being introduced, he left, never again to appear. Sylvia gathered by the sound of a television coming from the family room, and later seeing Emma Berry carry a plate that direction, that he was in there. In a moment of fantasy, Sylvia imagined what might have happened should she have joined him.
Emma Berry proved to be the perfect hostess, serving up refreshments along with smiles and welcomi
ng words. Sylvia set herself to equal the woman at every turn. Their conversation was like a tennis match, each batting compliments back and forth, until it got embarrassing and they both quit. A minute later, Emma Berry excused herself to put dinner on the table.
“I’ll just go help Emma,” Gracie said, and Sylvia watched her daughter trail off after the woman. Responding to fashion questions posed by the aunt, who seemed to be regarding her with a schoolgirl crush, Sylvia heard the sound of her daughter’s and Emma Berry’s happy voices floating from the kitchen.
The grandmother, Emma Berry’s mother, brought out a scrapbook that she was building about the family tree as a wedding gift for Gracie and Johnny. She showed the pages of old photographs of her relatives, even a tintype, and went on at great length about ancestors who—apparently single-handedly—settled America and carried out the Revolution.
Sylvia saw it coming and prepared to answer questions about Gracie’s family tree; however, as it turned out, Wadley, being thoroughly swept up in the conversation, jumped in to say that his great-grandfather had owned farms in and around a place with the unlikely name of Pittsboro. This information appeared to have a great effect on the older woman, who peered at him and said intensely, “Are you any relation to Harold Johnson?” as if there were not a million of them. Wadley, however, eagerly answered that he was. Then and there the two seemed enamored with each other. Wadley all but abandoned Sylvia and spent the entire time so deep in conversation with the older woman that at times their foreheads practically touched. It was amazing.
The dinner was enormous. It was the sort Sylvia had attended a couple of times during her short marriage to Paul Mercier. John Cole served wine and offered a toast to the young couple. Sylvia drank her wine and later Wadley’s glass; he was still enamored with the old lady and didn’t notice. By then, she had observed that the aunt was definitely drinking something stronger than iced tea. The idea of stealing it from her played across Sylvia’s mind. When the grandmother tore herself away from Wadley for a few minutes and returned smelling of cigarette smoke, Sylvia almost asked her to share, or at least breathe in her direction.
After dinner, Emma Berry went to the kitchen to make mocha. Gracie got caught up in serving more pie to the men, who had all joined the grandfather in the family room, watching NASCAR or something. Except Wadley, who remained at the dining table with the grandmother, talking as intently as if planning a robbery.
Sylvia was left sitting across the table from the aunt, who commented about Gracie and Sylvia being Catholic. Sylvia said yes, they were.
The woman then said, “John Cole and Emma have a mixed marriage, too. We’re all Baptists. All the Berrys are. John Cole was until he married Emma. It broke Mother Berry’s heart, Emma bein’ Methodist. And now Johnny is marryin’ a Catholic. Y’all’ll be the first Catholics in our Berry family. I was wonderin’ if Gracie’s daddy was maybe Mexican. She sure is a dark-eyed beauty, like so many of those Mexican girls.”
Sylvia had a moment of wondering if she had heard correctly. Then she replied, “No, she isn’t. Excuse me. I need to go to the rest room.”
“Oh, the guest powder room is just right through there, honey,” said the woman, pointing.
When she came out, Emma Berry called her to have coffee on the rear porch, where all the shades were rolled down over the screens and the door had been left open for the air-conditioning. Passing the dining room, Sylvia saw the aunt lying facedown on the table, asleep with her mouth open.
Sylvia went on to the porch and drank coffee for another half hour, and offered to buy Gracie’s wedding gown, as well as to buy and do all manner of things in order to overcome all that Emma Berry was doing. The woman was hand-making decorations for the church pews, forgodsake. Sylvia thought that she could not compete with handmade items, but she sure could buy her way into her daughter’s good graces.
She was satisfied that she equaled the woman in the pretense of never before having met. Actually, by then, they had both performed so thoroughly that Sylvia had an odd feeling their exchange in her office was but a figment of her imagination.
“That seemed to go very well,” said Wadley, behind the wheel of their rental car, heading it down the highway in a thoroughly happy manner. “You charmed their socks off. They’re all in love with you, darlin’.” He caressed her leg.
Sylvia, who had her head laid back on the seat, cut her eyes to him. He had called her darlin’.
He said a few more words of praise about the dinner and went on for a bit about how Lillian Jennings had reminded him of his grandmother. Sylvia had never heard him speak of his grandmother or much of any part of his life in North Carolina. He had actually begun to drawl, and he used the phrase might could be. Within hours of being with these people, he was losing years of education.
After he had fallen quiet for some minutes, and as she watched the countryside through the passenger window, she said, “The damn woman is a cross between Martha Stewart and Dolly Parton.”
Wadley didn’t need to ask to whom she was referring.
Emma watched her son hug his aunt goodbye, and shake hands with his grandfather and uncle and receive a few pats on the back, then get into his car with his bride-to-be. She watched her husband tuck his family into their Suburban, take several steps back and slide his gaze over the vehicle, as if doing a safety check. She stood in the circle of his arm, waving them all away with calls of sweet goodbyes back and forth, then watched as both vehicles disappeared from sight.
“Well,” she said.
“Yep,” he said.
Another moment and John Cole turned in the direction of his shop. “I need to check something out here,” he said as he was already walking away.
Emma went in the opposite direction, into the house and kitchen, where she looked at the mess remaining, then put the kettle on for a good cup of comforting tea, and got out the fine china teapot and cup and saucer that had belonged to her grandmother. The tea made, she sat at the table, propped her feet on a chair and considered the events of the afternoon.
All in all, she was quite satisfied. Her obligation as the mother of the groom had been fulfilled. What she had wanted was for the families to meet and be cordial. This was crucial support for the beginning couple. Becoming great friends was not a requirement—although it did seem that her mother and Wadley Johnson had become bosom buddies, which was quite a humorous turn.
The back door opened, and John Cole came inside. He went to the refrigerator, got a can of Coke, saying, “Well, it all seemed to go pretty good.”
“Yes, it did.”
“Sylvia Kinney seems pretty nice.” He popped the top on the can.
“Yes.” She sipped her tea and murmured, “She liked you.”
He looked at her with confusion and took refuge in drinking deeply from his Coke.
She said, “What matters most is that Johnny and Gracie have the blessing of both sets of parents. We will likely see Sylvia again for the barbeque—and the wedding, of course—but our social obligations have been met and are over.”
He nodded in that way that a man nods when he feels it necessary but likely he doesn’t understand any of it.
Then, after a minute, he asked with a little hesitation, “Why do you think she didn’t say anything about your goin’ up to see her in Baltimore?”
To which Emma replied, “Oh, honey, for the same reason that I didn’t—because any way it comes out, we are both goin’ to look real bad.”
He blinked at that, then gave the same perplexed nod.
He stood there sipping his Coke, while she sat there drinking her tea, the both of them thinking their own thoughts.
Then she put her feet on the floor. “I guess I’d better get some of this cleaned up.” Dishes remained in the dining room, and filled the sink and counter, along with food not yet put away and pans on the stove.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” he asked, standing next to a bag of garbage, one he had stepped around on his way to t
he refrigerator.
She looked at him. “Well, I don’t know. What did you have in mind?”
He blinked. “I don’t know…anything you need me to do.”
“No,” she replied, “not a thing.”
He then said something about needing to check the oil in his truck and headed again out the back door.
She took her cup to the sink and washed it by itself, drying it carefully, marveling at how an intelligent man could stand in the midst of a mess and not figure out anything to do.
20
Private Session
Monday morning, Emma sat at the kitchen table with her planner, a tablet and a sense of accomplishment at the fulfillment of her social obligation toward Sylvia Kinney. Now it was full steam ahead with the production of the bridal-shower barbeque and her part for the wedding. She saw the events rolling out ahead of her like a bolt of white satin: the bridal-shower barbeque, all lovely and happy around the new pool, then the wedding-party dinner, the wedding, the reception, waving Gracie and Johnny away on their honeymoon. Her heart filled with anticipation, joy—and sadness, too. So many emotions.
There was a lot to do, she thought, bringing herself back to the moment. Picking up her pencil in a purposeful manner, she then sat looking at the blank tablet. She made a couple of notations, then stopped again. She had never been very good at getting organized with goals.
Likely Sylvia Kinney was very good with goals, she thought. A person didn’t get to be in a management position without knowing all about setting goals. She remembered the woman from the previous afternoon. Sylvia had whipped out some sort of electronic gadget and gone to making notes. She had immediately given out first, second and third places to look for a wedding dress, as well as dates for making decisions about them. For the wedding invitations, she had said, “Preston will handle it.” There had been no discussion of styles, no perusing a catalog or samples, which was how Emma would have had to do it, then think on it all and look again before finally choosing.
Chin Up, Honey Page 18