In Front of God and Everybody

by KD McCrite

  Now, to fully appreciate this situation, you have to know about the Freebirds. For one thing, “Freebird” is not their real name. Their actual last name is Durwood. And her real name is not Temple; it’s Estelle. And his real name is not Forest; it’s DeWayne. She says she is the temple of her inner goddess, and he says he inhabits the souls of trees. So, okay. They are hippies—old hippies—and if you know anything, you know what that means.

  Anyway, there went ole Isabel stomping toward Ian, and she was screaming at him before he even got out of the car. She called him names that I won’t repeat, and he just stood there while his pink face turned the color of a ripe tomato, and his blue eyes looked like hot marbles. I figured she and her husband were probably about Daddy’s and Mama’s age, but it’s hard to tell someone’s age once they get old. Anyway, she sure wasn’t acting like a grown-up.

  Isabel waved her arms while she yelled, and at one point she stomped her foot. Then she fell down like a rock in a pond. But this time all her screaming and cussing was from pain.

  By the time Mama and I reached her, she was holding on to her foot like she was afraid someone planned to run off with it. Ian looked down at her as if she were an obnoxious skunk cabbage in his rose garden.

  “My goodness, what happened?” Mama said, kneeling on the ground.

  Isabel was screeching so loud and long, she wouldn’t have heard a freight train coming, even if she’d been tied to the tracks. I saw what had happened, though.

  “She stomped so hard throwing her hissy fit that she broke her shoe,” I announced.

  I figured all that hollering was more for the sake of her broken high heel than her injured foot, so I picked up the thin spike and held it out to her.

  She yanked it from me and hurled it at Ian’s head, calling him a you-know-what and a you-know-who. Ian roared like a mad bull, threw the heel back at her, and missed by a mile because he threw like a girl. He marched off toward the house, saying as he went, “I came home with good news, and you won’t even let me talk.”

  “There is no good news,” she bellowed after him. “There is no good news in this hideous armpit of the world!”

  He turned. His face was nearly as purple as plums on Grandma’s tree.

  “Well, you can just—”

  One time I saw a rerun of the old Andy Griffith Show, when Gomer Pyle got mad at Barney Fife and told him, “You just go up an alley and holler fish!”

  Well, that was not what Ian St. James said to his wife, let me tell you.

  I looked at her, real interested in what new cuss words I might hear, but Mama spoiled it.

  “Mr. and Mrs. St. James! My daughter is only eleven.”

  Isabel blinked and squooshed up her mouth. “Well, I did not invite either of you here.”

  She started to stand, then squealed bloody murder and grabbed her leg.

  Mama stayed just as sweet and nice as always, though in my opinion I thought she should have smacked Isabel a good one. Instead, she patted one of Isabel’s skinny shoulders.

  “Here, hon,” she said. “You just sit still and let me look at your foot.”

  “I think I’ve shattered my entire foot and leg.” Isabel’s voice quivered like Jell-O in a windstorm.

  “Oh, I hope not,” Mama told her.

  I knew good and well Mama didn’t think for one minute that Isabel had seriously hurt herself, even though her skinny ankle was starting to swell some. She touched Isabel’s long, bony toes with her fingertips, but Mama jerked back when Isabel screamed again.

  “I’m sorry,” Mama said. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  “It’s quite all right,” Isabel bravely answered, blinking rapidly. “Please, tell me how bad it is. Will I be able to walk again, do you think?”

  “Of course. Now let me feel for any broken—”

  Isabel shrieked at the mere words.

  Mama did not touch her. “Can you at least wiggle your toes?” she said.

  With her lips thinned to where you couldn’t even see them, Isabel wiggled all her little piggies with their bright red nail polish.

  “How about your ankle?”

  The woman sucked in air and cursed, but she moved it a little bit.

  “Your knee?”

  She flexed and bent it.

  “I’m a dancer, you know,” Isabel said. “Ballet, of course, not clodhopping.”

  Mama cleared her throat. “Mrs. St. James, is it all right if I call you Isabel?” The woman sort of nodded. “Isabel, I’m pretty sure you’ll be dancing again soon. I believe you’ve only sprained your ankle.”

  Isabel narrowed her eyes.

  “I’m in agony. Sheer torture. Something is broken, or I wouldn’t feel this wrenching pain.”

  “If you broke something,” I told her, “you wouldn’t be able to move it, and you just moved everything.”

  She glared at me. Boy, what a d-r-i-p, drip.

  “You should get your husband to drive you to the clinic in town,” Mama said, “just to be sure everything is all right.”

  “When pigs take flight,” Isabel said calmly, as if she weren’t in agony, sheer torture.

  “April Grace, run and get Mr. St. James. Tell him his wife needs medical attention.”

  Isabel sniffled loudly. “He’ll only want to shoot me, like a wounded racehorse. I know Ian. He does not care about anyone except himself.”

  If that wasn’t the pot calling the kettle black. Boy, oh boy.

  “Go on, honey,” Mama said to me.

  So Mama stayed with Isabel while I went after her mister. I didn’t know who I felt the most sorriest for, me or Mama. I found Ian inside that awful house, kicking a stained, stinky old mattress that must have been on the floor since before Noah sailed the Ark. He was still cussing up a blue streak. When he saw me, he snarled like a mean dog.

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  “My mama said to tell you that you should take your wife to see a doctor.”

  “If my wife wants to see a doctor, she can drive herself.”

  Well, I held no especial affection for either of them, as you know, but I’m not heartless.

  “She hurt her foot pretty good, and I don’t think she can drive,” I said.

  He glared at me a minute longer. “Is she really hurt, or is she just being dramatic?” he asked. “She’s the queen of drama.”

  “Well, she’s being pretty dramatic,” I agreed, “but her ankle has done swelled up the size of a turnip.” This was an Extreme Exaggeration, but I did not want to argue with him.

  I watched as this bit of news sunk in. The glare and nastiness slid right off his face. He rushed from the house like Sir George out to slay a dragon. Imagine Isabel St. James as a damsel in distress. If a dragon met up with her, she’d scare it so bad, it would run for cover with its tail between its legs.

  “Poor darling,” Ian was saying when I reached them. “Is it unbearable, lambkins?”

  “Horribly so, dearest,” Isabel said. “It’s unbelievable how much pain I’m suffering.”

  Oh, brother.

  The year I turned six, I broke my wrist when I used a shovel as a sled on the north slope behind the barn, and even then, I didn’t carry on as bad as Isabel.

  Watching those two coo and twinkle at each other was almost worse than listening to them scream and swear. I figured they weren’t going to hurl shoes at each other for a while.

  With Mama’s help, Ian got his wife into the backseat of their car amidst her crying and hollering, “Help me, I’m in agony,” about thirty times.

  After they closed the car door and Ian jumped into the driver’s seat, Mama gave him directions to the clinic. Then she did something I really hated.

  She said, “It’s a small clinic, so you’ll probably have a long wait and won’t feel up to cooking. Come to our house for supper tonight.”

  “I’ll be in the hospital for at least a week,” I heard Isabel wail. “I’m sure of it.”

  “Well, if they decide to send you ba
ck home today, come by and eat with us. We usually have supper at about 5:30.”

  “Yes, yes,” Ian said impatiently.

  Without a “thank you” or an “excuse me” or a “see ya later,” Ian rolled up his automatic window and blasted backward out of his driveway. It’s impossible to squeal tires on the dirt of Rough Creek Road, but his engine whined, and gravel flew like rice at a shotgun wedding. He drove off in a dust cloud so thick I nearly coughed up my lungs.

  “He’ll tear up their nice car, driving like that on this road,” Mama said.

  “He’s afraid 'lambkins' is going to die in the backseat.”

  Mama wiped the dust off her clothes. “Just between you and me, I believe they both think she’s dying,” she said.

  We looked at each other, and I busted out laughing. Mama smiled real big and patted my head.

  After they were gone, peace settled around us like the dust off Rough Creek Road. It was so quiet that for a few moments, Mama and I just stood there and listened as leaves rustled against one another and hundreds of birds whistled and sang. I reckon you couldn’t actually call it quiet, but it sure was better than listening to the St. Jameses, or the noise of cars, and people talking, and radios and televisions blaring like you hear when you go to Cedar Ridge. Which is just a little town, by the way. I can’t imagine the racket in an actual city, and I prayed to God I’d never have to find out because I love it in the country so much, right here on Rough Creek Road. The Ozarks is a fine place to live, I think.

  “Isabel St. James is crazy to hate being here,” I declared.

  “Well, I agree with you, honey,” Mama said. “Of course, I understand why she doesn’t want to live in that house right now.”

  I eyeballed the house. “Me, too. It looks full of mice and spiders to me.”

  We stared at the old place for a bit longer.

  “I like our house, Mama.”

  She put one arm around my shoulders and pulled me to her. It didn’t make my poison ivy itch too bad since it was Mama who was doing the hugging.

  “I do too,” she said.

  Our peace was then broken by a thrashing, crashing, tree-limb-breaking, leaf-crushing commotion coming from the woods on the east side of that weedy yard.

  SIX

  There’s No Hippies

  Like Old Hippies

  Mama and I stared at the east woods.

  “Think that might be the wild animal Isabel said was scratching around under the house?” I asked.

  Before Mama could reply, Temple and Forest Freebird, three dogs, five cats, and two goats emerged from the trees and into the weed-infested yard.

  Temple was thin and friendly. She wore her gray hair in a braid like mine, except hers hung way down past her backside. I’ve never seen her wear anything but faded old T-shirts, long, flowy skirts, and sandals in the summer, or overalls, flannel shirts, and heavy, scuffed brogans in winter. Forest was medium-tall and kinda quiet. The top of his head was bald as an egg, but a thin gray ponytail hung, wormlike, on the back of his head. He wore overalls and T-shirts all year round. And he hardly ever wore shoes.

  Temple and Forest both had some highfalutin college degrees, but they preferred to live like hippies.

  Neither the people nor the animals looked as if they’d bathed in the last couple of months, which is not unusual, and I was glad we were upwind.

  “Hey, Lily, April Grace,” Forest called as they approached. “What’s going on over here? Sounded like someone being murdered. Scared us all.”

  He looked around as if expecting to see blood, mayhem, and body parts.

  “Hi guys!” Mama replied cheerfully.

  With a big smile, she walked through the overgrown yard toward the Freebirds and Company. Leaving my book on the porch, I trailed behind with a lot more enthusiasm than I’d approached ole Isabel earlier.

  “I’ve not seen either of you in so long,” Mama said. “How are you?”

  Mama loved everybody, and everybody loved her right back. Well, except the St. Jameses. I’ve never seen anyone act like those two rude knotheads.

  “Please don’t be concerned about the noise,” she told the old hippies as she patted the heads of all three dogs and both goats. The cats were uppity and avoided her. “Your new neighbor fell and hurt her ankle, but she’s all right.”

  “She only sounded like she was being murdered,” I told Forest. “You never saw such carrying-on in your whole entire life.”

  Temple looked at me, and this spaced-out, mushy expression came over her face as if she’d just seen a litter of new puppies.

  “My goodness, you sweet baby,” she said. “How you have grown this summer!”

  She put both arms around me and smashed my face into her front. My nose was right at her armpit, and I nearly choked to death right then and there. Isabel would have had a real excuse to scream and squall if she’d caught a whiff of that.

  Now, don’t get me wrong. I like Temple just fine. She’s real nice, and so is Forest, but they are strange and weird and they don’t believe in things like deodorant and toothpaste or having regular jobs. They farm, but not like everyone else on Rough Creek Road. What I mean is, they have this huge, organic vegetable and herb garden, and they grow everything you can think of, plus a few things you’ve never heard about. They eat everything they grow, but they don’t eat animals, so all their goats and pigs and chickens and what have you are perfectly safe.

  “Look at you,” Temple said, pulling back.

  I gulped fresh, clean air and resisted the urge to wipe the damp feeling of her sweaty pit off my face. Then she tightened her grip on my upper arms.

  “Tootsie Roll, have you been wallowing in poison ivy?”

  She almost always calls me Tootsie Roll.

  “Grandma’s cat got out again, and I had to chase her all over creation,” I said. “I didn’t see the poison ivy.”

  “Aha.” Temple gave me a smile, like the kind you give to a little kid. “Now, if dear little Queenie escapes her prison again—”

  “You mean when she escapes again,” I said.

  “When she escapes her prison again, you could get her back much easier if you centered yourself in the universe.”

  Then Temple folded her hands and closed her eyes as if she were praying. I wasn’t sure whether or not I should do the same.

  “You see,” she continued, “if you had simply sat down and sent her patient, loving vibes, she would have come right to you.”

  Her eyelids popped open, and she looked at me.

  “You felt you had to chase her, and her dear, little kitty instincts told her to run,” she said, beaming at me like a new flashlight.

  “But you don’t know Queenie,” I began.

  “Ah, but I do know cats. I have six of them. And I know something else: how to dry up that nasty poison ivy rash and take away the itch.”

  She put an arm around my shoulders, and I breathed through my mouth.

  Turning us toward the woods, she said to Mama over her shoulder, “I have just the cure at home.”

  Except for the funky odors wafting from Temple and Forest, I was more than willing to go with her. Their house was weird and messy, with incense and candles burning and lots of interesting books lying around.

  “I’m sorry, Temple,” Mama said as we started walking, “but we have company coming, and I need my little helper.”

  Temple crimped her mouth at me, but she smiled as if we were partners in crime and then turned me around to face Mama. Those two women smiled sweetly at each other as sunlight and the shade of the trees danced around in the breeze. Forest stood a few steps away, blinking in the hot sun at Sam White’s old place, which was now the St. James’s new place. The sweat beads on his bald head glittered in the sun.

  “Say,” he said, looking at Mama, “what was that bit about new neighbors? Sam sold this place?”

  “That’s right,” Mama said. “To a couple about our age. Ian and Isabel St. James.”

  “From San Franci
sco,” I added in what was a pretty good imitation of Isabel’s snooty voice, if I do say so my own self.

  Mama frowned and shook her head at me.

  “Well, what d’ya know about that?” Forest sighed deeply. “I tried to buy this place from Sam a dozen times, and he just kept telling me it wasn’t for sale.” He squinted at the house again. “It’s really nice here.”

  He said it so sadly that I felt sorry for him. With his slow, deep voice, droopy brown eyes, and long, hangy-down earlobes, Forest always made me think of an old hound dog. I just sort of felt sorry for him all the time, for no reason.

  “Oh well.” He sighed again, then looked at me and Mama and smiled. “Tell Mike and the rest of your family I said hi.”

  “I will,” Mama said. “It was good to see you both.”

  I ran back to the porch to get my book; then I headed toward the car. We were almost there when Temple yoo-hooed and trotted toward me and Mama.

  “Since you’re so busy, I’ll just bring over some of my salve for Tootsie Roll’s poison ivy,” Temple said.

  “Temple, that’s very nice,” Mama said. “But please don’t go to any trouble—”

  “No, no. I can’t bear to see her this way, so I’m going to do it. She must be so uncomfortable. Are you, sweetie?”

  “I itch like crazy,” I declared.

  She nodded. “That junk they sell at the drugstore is worse than useless. And it’s full of toxins. I’ll bring you some literature about that, Lily, so you can be informed. You don’t want to poison your family.”

  “Oh, I hardly think . . . Well, you needn’t go to so much bother.”

  Temple rested her hand on Mama’s arm. “It’s not a bit of trouble. And nature is so much kinder to our bodies than a laboratory. I’ll fix you right up with the good stuff.”

  “Well, thank you,” Mama said kind of helplessly, smiling and nodding and pushing me toward the car.

  There were times when you might as well go visit with a fence post as try to talk to Temple Freebird, and I reckon Mama knew this was one of those times. I figured if Temple had some kind of magic potion to cure my poison ivy, I was willing to take a bath in it, even if it smelled like armpits.