by KD McCrite
I looked at that ignorant woman.
“I mean Grandma’s white cat.”
“I haven’t seen her,” Myra Sue said. “How long has she been out?”
“A while. Grandma saw her run across the road just before we got home, and I saw her a few times in the woods, but she wouldn’t let me catch her.”
“She gets out all the time,” Myra Sue said. “Who cares?”
“If you’d seen Grandma all upset and crying, you’d care. I’m going over to her house right now.”
“Grandma was crying?” Myra Sue asked.
“She sat in the ditch on the side of Rough Creek Road and bawled her eyes out.”
Through all that makeup, my sister looked worried. Even though Myra Sue insulted Grandma at supper that one time, I knew she loved her.
“Poor Grandma. I’ll come with you,” said Myra Sue.
I nodded, and she turned to Isabel, who leaned her head weakly against the back of an antique wicker chair. One hand was thrown across her eyes like she was a heroine in a cheesy old movie.
“I’ll change my clothes and go with my sister now,” Myra Sue said to her.
Isabel dropped her hand. She sighed.
“If you must. But tomorrow we’ll continue our lessons.” She smiled.
Lessons in what, besides exercising until your tongue hung out?
The two of them touched fingertips. Then, with her face beaming like the angel Gabriel just kissed her, my sister went out of the room with a stiff, uppity walk. Maybe her drawers were riding up her bottom under that slinky dress. She nearly fell off her high heels.
Isabel exchanged her smile for a hard look when she turned to me. She reached for the cigarettes and lighter.
“You could benefit from lessons yourself,” she said as she started to shake out a smoke. “Or maybe not. I rather doubt lessons would do you an iota of good. Some people are simply born to be—”
“Mama’s gonna have a cow when she sees my sister’s hair. She’d flat-out keel over if she saw that aluminum foil dress. And if she knew you were smoking in her bedroom . . .”
The woman gave me tight little smile and put aside the pack.
“No offense, dear, but your mother could do with a makeover herself. She and her homespun ways would be laughed out of our circle back home.”
Boy, oh boy, what a drip.
Honest, I tried to remember the little talk Grandma and I had shared earlier. I thought about it real hard, but Isabel had just insulted my mother, and there are some things I can’t abide. All my good intentions flew right out the window.
“That would never happen,” I said.
She twitched a little and sneered. “I beg to differ with—”
“Because Mama would never join your circle back home in the first place. She’s picky about what groups she joins.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You little . . .”
I won’t tell you what she called me, but it sure wasn’t “little darling.”
Myra Sue, wearing her T-shirt and jeans shorts, came back into the room, hopping on her bare left foot while trying to put her right one in a sneaker. She had wiped off most of that gruesome makeup.
“April Grace, you better be nice to Isabel, or I’ll tell Mama.”
“If you do, I’ll fill her in about your spangly dress and all that makeup.”
Isabel followed us into the kitchen. She looked down at the beans as if she faced a brain transplant.
“I’ll help you with those beans as soon as I get back, Isabel dear,” my sister said.
“Will you, darling?”
“Of course!” She went to the woman, and they kissed the air on both sides of each other’s cheeks.
“Good-bye, darling,” said Isabel.
“Good-bye, dearest Isabel,” said Myra Sue.
“Good grief,” I said.
About the time we reached the edge of the hayfield, I asked, “Why’d you do that to your hair?”
She sniffed and didn’t reply for a minute. Finally, she said, “Because I put a color on Isabel’s hair, and she wanted to repay my kindness.”
I stopped walking. “Are you kidding?”
“Well, her roots were showing! And . . . and she had two boxes of color, and they were the same, and I thought my hair would look like hers . . . Well, it was supposed to be rich chestnut brown.”
“Yeah,” I said, “But the thing is, now it’s blacker than a moonless night in a cave.”
She touched it with the fingertips of her right hand, looking dismayed. I shook my head and started walking again.
“I’d hate to be you when Mama and Daddy get home.”
She drew in a deep breath that shuddered, but I didn’t look at her. I actually felt kinda sorry for her. Kinda. I mean, not only was her hair ruined, she was in such Big Trouble, she’d be 104 years old before things got back to normal. And just when she had finally shown some real feelings for poor Grandma.
We crossed the hayfield while the sun beat down on our heads like we were loaves of bread in need of baking. At least Daddy kept the little track for going back and forth to Grandma’s mowed short. Otherwise we’d have been battling all that field grass ’til we passed out. Daddy or Mr. Brett would mow that hayfield in a day or two; then everything would look all clean and flat out there for a while.
Right when we got to Grandma’s yard, we saw Queenie lounging in the shade of the oak tree. She was right on top of Mr. Rance’s bright red Dodge Ram.
“There she is!” I hollered, making a dash toward the house. “I’ll tell Grandma.”
Myra Sue was right behind me, and when we got to the porch, we raced to the door, both of us trying to be the one who got to announce the good news. I reached the door first, but Myra Sue grabbed me by the arm and yanked me backward.
She opened the screen door and yelled, “Queenie’s on top of the pickup!”
I went inside, slammed her a dirty look, then shouted, “Right out there, right on top of it.”
Grandma had been lying on the couch, something she didn’t do very often. She had a wet cloth on her head, and she looked pale. But when she heard us, she got up right quick, exclaiming, “Kitty, kitty, kitty!”
Mr. Rance snored in the recliner with his mouth wide-open. He didn’t move a muscle. Looking at him, I thought I’d just about seen all the human ugliness I could stand that day.
“Open the door, April,” Grandma said. Then she called, “Here, kitty, kitty,” a couple more times. “Is she coming?”
I looked outside. That dumb Queenie was licking her tail. She stopped and looked toward the house; then she just sat there while Grandma called again. Finally, Queenie stood up, real slow. She stretched herself so long you’d think she’d pull her body into two pieces. She sat down again, as if she were the Queen of Sheba, then wrapped her tail around her legs, stared at the house, and yawned so big you could practically see her gizzard.
How could Grandma love such a fool?
“Come on, Queenie,” I said. “Grandma needs you.”
She stared back at me, blinked, and began to lick her chest. I sighed and turned away.
“Grandma, she won’t come,” I said.
Grandma headed to the front door, but switched directions. “I know what’ll work,” she said, and went into the kitchen.
She returned with a little square box of Kat Kibble. At the door, she shook the box, and the treats rattled. Queenie leaped off the pickup like a flying squirrel and streaked through the open door. Grandma gave her a treat, and the minute that cat had swallowed it, my grandmother picked her up and cuddled her like a newborn baby.
“Ooh, oo ittle bad puddy tat, wunning off wike dat and scaring you mommy to def!”
“If me or Myra Sue had run off that way, we’d be in trouble ’til Doomsday,” I said, purely disgusted.
“Oh, hush,” Grandma said, smiling at Queenie and rubbing noses with her. “You’re not a defenseless little animal.”
And neither is Queenie, I thought s
ilently. Boy, oh boy.
EIGHTEEN
The Magical
Influence of Isabel
St. James
I uttered not one mumblin’ word to Mama and Daddy about the scary makeup, the strappy high-heeled shoes, or the shiny dress because ole Myra Sue got in such trouble for dyeing her hair black, it wouldn’t have made any difference.
Instead, I decided just to tuck away those little tidbits for such a time in the future as they might be useful.
Here’s what happened. It was late afternoon, that very same day. Me and Myra Sue and Isabel were in the kitchen, going at them beans like there was no tomorrow. And yes, I was helping, because Grandma’s little talk kept playing over and over in my head.
We heard the truck door slam when Mama and Daddy arrived home from town, and ole Isabel jumped up and trotted off to the bedroom like a big coward. Myra Sue looked like she’d been caught in a rabbit trap, but she just sat there and broke beans so fast my eyes blurred watching her.
Mama and Daddy walked in the door, laughing and talking about something they’d just heard on the radio. Mama seemed more relaxed than I’d seen her for a few days, but their jolly mood evaporated the second they got a gander at my sister’s hair.
She and Daddy just stood there, each holding a couple of brown paper sacks from Ernie’s Grocerteria.
“What in the world?” Mama finally managed to say. Daddy’s mouth opened and shut without a single sound coming out.
Myra Sue broke beans as she said, prim as the Queen of France, “Isabel and I colored each other’s hair.”
You could’ve heard the ice dripping off the glaciers in Alaska.
“Isabel put black dye on your hair?” Mama’s voice was kind of strangled.
“The box said ‘rich chestnut brown,’ ” said Myra Sue.
Snap, snap, snap went the beans. There was a soft rustle as she pitched each one into the nearly full bowl.
“It should have said ‘coal dust black,’ ” Daddy said. “Good grief, girl.”
I just about barked a laugh, but I thought better of it.
Mama swallowed hard. I guess it was a shock to see your golden-haired daughter turn into a coal-dust-black brunette. At least she hung on to the grocery sacks she held. Daddy put his on the counter, then took hers.
“Lily, honey,” he said, “you know I’ll abide by whatever decision you make about this. Right now, I better change clothes and get out to the barn to give Brett a hand with the milking. Ian’s no good at it. He’s afraid of the cows.” He shook his head, kissed Mama, and hurried from the room.
Mama just stood in the middle of the kitchen. I don’t think she even heard him. She stared at my sister for another long minute. Then, without a word, she marched to her own bedroom door and rapped on it. I followed her to see what would happen. But when she went inside, she shut the door right in my face.
She opened it immediately and snapped, “Go take a bath, April Grace,” and shut the door again.
Well, what did I do wrong? I had been good as gold, searching for Queenie and later sitting right there at the kitchen table, snapping beans. I had nothing to do with Myra Sue’s hair or the fact that another bushel basket of beans still needed to be broken.
The next morning, which was Wednesday, Mama called Faye at the beauty shop in Cedar Ridge and told her it was an emergency. Faye said she was sick with a stomach virus, but when Mama told her about Myra Sue’s blond locks being dyed black as night, Faye got right up out of her sickbed and told Mama to come in immediately.
I was getting a glass from the cabinet when they got back home. Myra Sue’s eyes were all swole up and red. The black had been stripped from her hair, leaving it an orangey-yellow. She looked right colorful with red eyes and that hair. Actually, she made me think of Mrs. Winkler, who works behind the counter at the dry cleaners, except Mrs. Winkler is about fifty years old and has wrinkles all around her mouth from smoking every other minute of the day.
“Nice hairdo,” I muttered as I got the milk from the refrigerator and poured a glassful. She snarled at me like a rat terrier. She tried to stomp off upstairs, but Mama wouldn’t let her. Then Myra Sue tried to run to Isabel, who still hid out in my folks’ bedroom. Mama put a stop to that too.
“You have spent entirely too much time with Isabel lately,” she said, “so you just stay in here with me and your sister and help us finish these beans. Your beautiful blond hair.” Mama shook her head. “Do you realize how many girls want to have hair like yours? Or like yours was before you dyed it?”
Myra Sue blinked her eyes rapidly and tightened her lips for a few seconds.
“Mother,” she said prissily, “you have absolutely no taste whatsoever. In fact, you could do with a major makeover yourself.”
Mama’s mouth dropped open in what I’m sure was pure astonishment.
Ole Myra Sue sealed her fate by adding, “Oh, how I wish I lived in California instead of this hideous hole of a farm!”
Mama recovered right quick. Myra Sue’s attitude and her big mouth earned Kitchen Duty not only that night, but every night for a week. I’m not sure what Mama had said to Isabel when they talked the day before, but the woman stayed in her room all morning. I can tell you, I did not miss hearing her whine and complain.
Anyway, that night after we went to bed, Myra Sue lay beside me, sniffling and snuffling. She blubbered about her sad lot in life. I lost count of how many times she muttered, “I wish I’d been born anywhere but here.” “I wish you had been too,” I told her fervently.
Given the notion that she was undoubtedly an adopted member of this family, she probably had been born somewhere else. You understand, don’t you, that no one ever actually said Myra Sue was adopted. It’s just my theory, but boy, oh boy, all signs point to it.
Thursday morning, I dawdled over my biscuits and gravy, while Myra Sue sulked her way through a piece of dry toast and half a glass of skim milk. She flat-out refused eggs, bacon, biscuits, gravy, grits, oatmeal, Malt-O-Meal, Cheerios, Corn Flakes, or Lucky Charms. Until the last few weeks, she’d always wolfed down any of it like a starving truck driver. I could only conclude that Isabel St. James, who smoked her breakfast on the front porch with a cup of coffee, encouraged, if not created, my sister’s new menu.
Myra Sue regarded her last bite of toast with disgust, and I observed, “Your hair is the same color as my scrambled eggs.”
She stood up so fast, her chair nearly toppled backward.
Mama looked up from ironing Daddy’s shirts. “Myra Sue, sit down, please. You are not leaving the table until you finish your milk. April Grace, that was rude. Apologize to your sister.”
I sighed, then remembered what Grandma said about Mama and Daddy being nice to people who did not always deserve it.
“Sorry, sis. Your hair doesn’t look so bad.”
Myra Sue just rolled her eyes, then glared at her milk.
“I will not stay where I am being insulted,” she muttered.
Mama pursed her mouth. “Sit down, young woman,” she said in That Tone.
You’d think Myra Sue, with all the punishments she’d piled up yesterday, would avoid further disaster, but she seemed to have a death wish, ’cause she met Mama’s gaze without batting an eyelash.
Myra Sue just stood there. Mama turned off the iron without taking her eyes from my sister. “I said, sit down.”
For a minute it seemed ole Myra Sue would stand forever by the table. I wondered if Mama might get a paddle and use it, but finally, Myra Sue plopped back into her chair. With pinkie extended, she picked up the glass as if it were covered in slime. She took a delicate sip.
“Thank you.” Mama’s voice seemed thin. Her cheeks were red and her eyes were bright, but she held her temper. She turned the iron on again and picked up the final shirt from the basket.
Myra Sue sipped a thimbleful at a time until the milk was gone.
“May I please be excused from your table and your kitchen?” she said, all snooty-like.
“Iron the sheets?”
“Yes.”
I waited for ole Myra Sue’s eyeballs to pop right out of her orangey-yellow head.
“March!” Mama said. “By the time you’re back, I’ll be finished, and you can have the iron.”
“Oh, goody. Your generosity is boundless.”
“No Days of Our Lives for three weeks,” Mama said casually as she spray-starched the shirt collar.
“What?!” Myra Sue exclaimed. “Have I not been persecuted enough?”
“A month, then,” Mama said.
“A month! Are you crazy?”
“No Days of Our Lives until Labor Day,” Mama said calmly. That meant that school would start before my goofy sister was allowed to watch her favorite daytime TV. Those people on her soap would just have to do without her until Christmas vacation.
Myra Sue’s lips flew apart, and I could see she was fixing to keep on running her mouth.
“Boy, you just don’t know when to stop, do you?” I blurted.
She looked at me right quick.
“Be quiet!” she screamed, then ran from the kitchen, blubbering like a spoiled brat.
Mama just kept ironing as if she weren’t as mad as a wet hen. Pretty soon she put the last shirt on a hanger and started to carry them all away. I stopped her.
“Mama?”
“What is it, April Grace?” Her voice sounded normal, and her cheeks weren’t so bright pink anymore.
“Mama, when you were pregnant with Myra Sue, were you ever bitten by a weasel, or maybe a rabid possum?” I asked.
She looked at me from the doorway. “What a question! Of course not.”
I sat at the table after she left. Of course not, I thought. ’Cause she’d never been pregnant with Myra Sue. But something awful must have bitten Myra Sue’s real mother to cause her to give birth to such a bratty kid.
I had just come up with my next question when Grandma walked in the back door.
“Yoo-hoo, Lily,” she called; then she saw me. “Good morning, April,” she said, all big smiles.