by KD McCrite
“Hey, Grandma,” I said. “Queenie still in the house?”
“Oh, sure. But chasing after her did me in. I need to lose some weight.” She patted her round tummy and slid her hands down her thighs.
“If you did that, you wouldn’t look like Grandma.”
“Piffle! I could use some fixin’ up. Time was when I was right pretty.” She poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down at the table just as Mama came back into the kitchen. “Mornin’, Lily,” Grandma said.
Mama greeted her, but it was easy to see she was distracted. Grandma looked at me, then back at my mother, who began to wash beans in clear, cool water.
“Reckon you weren’t none too happy with Myra Sue’s new hair,” Grandma said, then took a noisy slurp of coffee.
“Did you ever!” Mama burst out, throwing a handful of beans into a colander to drain. “What in the world got into her?”
As if whatever had gotten into her wasn’t snoozing until the crack of noon right down the hall.
“It’s her age, Lily. Be grateful she hasn’t pierced something. I hear that’s all the rage nowadays. In fact, I saw a girl at Ernie’s Grocerteria the other day with something pinned in the side of her nose that looked like a growth the doctor burned off mine years ago.” She took another good swallow of coffee.
“But she’s becoming so hateful, Mama Grace,” Mama said. “Sarcastic, you know. Short-tempered. And she’s suddenly taken on this . . . this superior tone of voice that makes my skin crawl—”
“Just like Isabel St. James,” I muttered, but they ignored me.
“—and she’s all but quit eating. Why, a couple of days ago I caught her staring at herself in the mirror, saying something about her huge butt. Where does she get that notion?”
“Isabel St. James,” I said even louder, but they didn’t even glance my way.
Grandma sighed. “I reckon every fourteen-year-old girl thinks she’s too fat, or too skinny, or her nose is too big, or her eyes are too small. I reckon all of ’em are sarcastic and temperamental at least part of the time. I sure was. ’Course, my mama whupped the daylights out of me whenever I was sassy-mouthed.”
Mama nodded while she packed a quart jar with broken beans.
“Aunt Maxie made me suck on a bar of pine tar soap when she thought I was impudent.” She shuddered. “Maybe I should wash out Myra Sue’s mouth?”
“You shouldn’t let her hang around Isabel St. James for the rest of forever,” I said in what I considered to be a grownup tone of voice.
Both women looked at me as if they thought I’d just sprouted from the kitchen chair that minute.
“April Grace,” Mama said, “go clean your room.”
I looked down at my plate. “But I’m still eating.” Given that they’d just been worried about Myra Sue not eating enough, I figured this earned me my place at the table for a few more minutes.
She glanced at my half-full plate of food. “Then sit there and finish, but please don’t interrupt, honey. We’re talking.”
She stopped in mid-chore and poured a cup of coffee. Sitting down across from Grandma, she said, “I’ve grounded her from that soap opera until Labor Day—watching that thing can’t be good for her. And she’s going to iron the sheets this morning.” She let out a deep breath, then sipped her coffee. “I’ve always hoped chores will make her more responsible and grown-up, but I just don’t know.”
“Be patient,” Grandma told her. “You’ve never been the parent of a teenager before. Worst thing you can do is overreact. And Lily, just between you and me and the lamppost, you know having that woman living here isn’t . . .”
Grandma’s voice trailed into silence as Mama slid a glance at me and shook her head. They dropped the subject, but I knew they weren’t through discussing it.
Myra Sue stomped in from outside and plunked down the laundry basket full of clean sheets and pillowcases. She ignored Grandma and slammed a mean glare at Mama. Mama gave her a look that said Myra Sue might very well be on Social Security before she ever watched another episode of Days. My sister picked up a pillowcase, put it on the ironing board, and got to work.
Mama and Grandma watched her for a while. Grandma stared at her hair.
“Faye the one who took out that awful black dye?”
“Yes. She wanted to put on a rinse to tone down that orange cast, but I figure this way, Myra Sue will remember how foolish she was. And if she behaves herself for a week or two, I’ll have Faye color it so it looks normal.”
Myra Sue looked up. “Really? Will you, Mama?”
“If you behave yourself,” Mama repeated.
“And eat,” Grandma whispered to Mama.
“And eat,” Mama said.
My sister stopped ironing. “But look at me. I’m a house!”
Grandma snorted. “If you’re a house then I’m a barn. I’m two barns.”
Myra Sue rolled her eyes. “You’re old, Grandma, so it’s okay to be fat. But I’m too young. And I can’t be as graceful as a gazelle if I have the figure of a warthog!”
“You aren’t fat!” all three of us said together, as if we’d rehearsed it. Myra Sue rolled her eyes.
Mama sipped her coffee until she drank it all; then she got up and resumed work with the beans.
“Then I hope you like going to school with orange hair, because you will if you keep refusing to eat,” she said, looking very calm and determined.
Boy, oh boy, you should have seen ole Myra Sue think about her choices. She didn’t say anything, but you could tell her little pea-brain steamed. No one spoke, and it seemed the good stuff was over. I finished my eggs, which had turned cold, and drank my milk, which had turned warm.
Just about the time I got up and started to take my plate to the sink, Grandma said, “S’pose you could show me how to paint my face a little bit, Lily?”
Well, I sat right back down. Myra Sue looked up from the ironing. Mama’s lips flew apart.
“You mean use makeup?” she asked, her eyes round.
Grandma nodded.
“Why, you’ve never . . . have you?”
“I use face powder now and again, and when I was young I used lipstick, but Mike’s daddy never liked seeing a woman’s face painted, so I quit.”
“Why do you want to paint it now, Grandma?” I asked.
She looked at me. “’Cause.”
“I’m curious myself, Mama Grace,” said Mama. “Why now?”
“Why not now?” Grandma countered with a bright smile. “There’s no time like the present!”
All three of us looked at her until she squirmed like a fish worm.
“Well, if you all are gonna hound me this way, I might as well tell you. Jeffrey is taking me to the Veranda Club up in Branson on Saturday night, and then we’re going to a music show. I want to look nice. I’m going to Blue Reed tomorrow and buy me a fancy dress. And shoes.”
“And shoes?” The three of us spoke in unison for the second time. Grandma never wore anything but those ugly librarian/teacher/nurse shoes.
“High heels?” Myra Sue gasped.
“Mercy no. Well, not high high heels. I’d break my neck. But something pretty, to go with a fancy dress.”
There was a short silence while we all absorbed this development; then Mama spoke up.
“So. The Veranda Club, huh? Pretty classy.”
Grandma smiled. “Yes, isn’t it? I ain’t never been there. Hope I don’t spill anything.”
I had other things besides table manners on my mind. Grandma driving that sixty-mile trip into Blue Reed tomorrow and me going along, to be specific.
“Is Mr. Rance taking you to Blue Reed tomorrow?” I asked.
Grandma stared into her coffee cup, got up, and poured herself more. “Of course. I’d never drive that far alone.” She turned and gave us a tight little smile. “You all would have a fit if I tried. Wouldn’t you?”
“Now, Mama Grace, we just want you to be safe on the road.” Mama’s voice was all soft and nice
, like when I’m sick and she’s giving me bad-tasting medicine.
Grandma took a sip from her cup. “So, Lily. Will you help me fix up my face?”
“I’m no beauty queen expert,” Mama said, “but I guess I know how to put on makeup about as well as anyone.”
Now, you’d think my sister woulda had enough sense not to say anything else, wouldn’t you? But Myra Sue just had to stop ironing and open her big mouth.
“If you want an expert, Grandma, get Isabel to help you. She’s been on the stage. She knows how to look beautiful.”
Well, I about choked.
“Your grandmother does not need Isabel St. James helping her with makeup.” Mama’s voice was strained, as if she wanted to say more but wouldn’t. She continued to work without turning around.
“My stars, no!” Grandma declared. “If I wanted to look like a scarecrow, I could do it my own—”
None of us had heard the bedroom door open, but I can tell you every one of us saw Isabel come into the room just as Grandma said this.
Isabel stood in the doorway and looked at us for a minute. Then her lower lip quivered. A second later her eyes filled with tears. Without a word, she turned and ran down the hall, back to the bedroom. The door closed.
Well, I hate to admit it, but for once in my life, I felt some human compassion for Isabel St. James.
“Oh dear,” Mama said after a little bit. She grabbed a towel and dried her hands. “Well, I better go see to her.”
“Mebbe I oughta—” Grandma started.
Mama held up one hand. “No, Mama Grace. I’ll talk to her.” She paused at the door and said to me, “While I’m with Isabel, go ahead and stack those breakfast dishes, will you, honey? And Myra Sue, you can just do that pillow slip again. The object of ironing is to get rid of wrinkles, not put them in. I’ll check your work when I come back.”
For a minute or two after Mama left, Grandma leaned her backside against the edge of the cabinet and stared at the floor.
Pretty soon, without looking up, she said, “Well, now, I feel real bad. I didn’t mean to hurt that woman’s feelings.” She took in a deep breath and let it out real slow.
“Don’t worry, Grandma,” I said. “We didn’t know Isabel St. James had feelings.”
She looked up and frowned. “Ever’body has feelings. You know, I’d forgotten for a minute that she was here.”
“This Saturday—that’s the day after tomorrow, Grandma— they will have been in our house for three entire weeks!” I nearly hollered. “How could you forget that?”
“Oh, I dunno. All wrapped up in excitement, I reckon.”
“Excitement over Mr. Rance?” I asked.
She nodded, and I had to force myself real hard to remember our talk about thinking good things about him. If he had Grandma so excited she was starting to forget things. . . . well, I kinda shuddered inside myself.
“Well then, I am just appalled,” Myra Sue proclaimed. “Absolutely devastated that—”
“You’d best keep ironing,” Grandma told her. “In case you haven’t noticed, your mama’s nerves is about shot.”
Myra Sue blinked a bunch of times. She opened her mouth to reply, then seemed to think the better of it. Instead, her face got as frowny as a bulldog’s, and she picked up another pillowcase.
Grandma watched her for a minute; then she looked at me over her coffee cup. She took a good-size drink.
“You been thinking about what we discussed in the café?” she asked me.
Ole Myra Sue’s head snapped up again. She eyeballed us both suspiciously.
“We wasn’t talking about you,” I told her, “so don’t get your hopes up.”
She stuck out her tongue, and I crossed my eyes. Grandma heaved a sigh.
“Sorry, Grandma. And I been thinking about what you told me,” I said before she could lecture us on good behavior. “I’m trying to do my best.”
“I hope so,” she said, and sighed again. I looked at my dear ole grandma and realized how much I loved her, and how much I didn’t want anyone to hurt her, especially that sneaky old man. But knowing Grandma the way I do, I knew I had to get something factual on him, or she’d never listen to me.
“Grandma?” I said, real casual and offhand.
“Woo?” She looked at me.
“Where’d Mr. Rance live in Texas?”
“On a horse ranch. You know that.”
“Yeah, but what town?”
“Town?” She sounded like she’d never heard the word before. “Why, I don’t know that he ever said. Maybe he didn’t get into town very often. Why are you so interested in that?”
I shrugged, again real casual-like. “Oh, you know. Just trying to get to know him a little better so I can like him.”
She gave me this big, bright smile, and suddenly she didn’t look so old. I could almost imagine what she might have looked like when she was young and pretty. I felt a little guilty that I had to spoil her dreams of Prince Charming.
“That’s my girl!” She hugged me. “You know, now that I think about it, he talks about Beauhide County a lot. You can ask him sometime about the town he grew up in.” She paused. “But don’t talk about his wife anymore. He don’t like talking about Emmaline, and I can’t blame him. She ain’t been dead a year yet, and it probably hurts him to think of her.”
Hmm. Maybe.
Mama popped her head around the doorway between the kitchen and the hall.
“Mama Grace, would you come in here for a minute?”
Grandma set her coffee mug on the counter. She sucked in a deep breath like she was sucking in something to help her deal with ole Isabel. After she left the room, Myra Sue and I looked at each other. My sister developed a snooty little smile, but she didn’t speak and neither did I. We concentrated on our chores, and I got busy plotting the next step in my investigation.
NINETEEN
Just Like a Real
Detective, Sort Of
Mama came into the kitchen a little later, but Grandma was not with her.
“What’s up with Isabel and Grandma?” I asked.
Myra Sue used the excuse of conversation to stop ironing. “Yes, Mother, what’s going on in there?”
Mama examined the pillowcases.
“These’ll do,” she said. “And never you mind about what’s going on, either one of you. Myra Sue, when you’re finished with your ironing, you may get busy on this other basket of beans. April Grace, you come with me. We need to pick the tomatoes before the sun cooks them on the vine.”
I hated picking tomatoes.
“I should probably clean my room,” I said.
Mama pulled a billed cap on over her curly red hair, picked up some sunscreen lotion she kept on the shelf next to the back door, and began rubbing it on her face, neck, and arms. She didn’t want more freckles.
“I know. You may clean it when we’re through picking.” She grinned at me like she’d just given me a Mars bar. “Put on some of this sunscreen, then nip out to the garden. Double time.”
While we pulled the plump, heavy tomatoes off the vine, I said, “My library books are due tomorrow. Are you going to town?”
She didn’t look up. “I need some canning salt and few other things. I can drop you off at the library while I run to the store.”
When we went back into the house, ole Myra Sue, Isabel, and Grandma sat at the kitchen table, breaking beans and putting them into big pans on their laps. No one looked mad or even peeved.
Grandma eyed our load of tomatoes. “Well, looks like you girls have been busy!”
“Are you going to town tomorrow?” Myra Sue said. “I need to go to the—”
“You’re not going anywhere tomorrow,” Mama told her. Myra Sue’s lower lip pooched until it nearly reached the floor, but Mama ignored it.
Grandma put aside her pan of beans and got up. She and Mama began sorting the tomatoes.
“Here’s a whopper,” Grandma said, holding up one as big as a basketball. Well, not
that big. But big. “Let’s have hamburgers for dinner. I got me some nice, sweet red onions at Ernie’s yesterday. April, run over to my place and get a couple of them onions. And bring some potatoes. Might as well have fried taters too.”
I sent a glance to Isabel, but she didn’t react to the menu. Not even a flicker of a false eyelash. Instead, she seemed real intent on doing the beans, almost as if she enjoyed it, for Pete’s sake.
As I braved the blazing sun and crossed the field to Grandma’s house, I wondered why Grandma never asked Myra Sue to run these errands for her. In my opinion, ole Myra could do with a trot across the field just to take some of the sass out of her. But it was always, “April, run over to my house and do this,” or, “April, trot across the field to my place and bring back that.”
Boy, sometimes being a kid stinks.
The next morning, Mama and I left Myra Sue sulking at home while we went into town. It was a treat to be alone with my mama, because usually Myra Sue is always there to whine and complain and take most of Mama’s attention. But that day, it was just the two of us. I hoped we’d stop at Ruby’s Place for my most favorite treat in the whole entire world.
“Can we stop for a Pepsi slush?” I asked.
“We’ll see.” Mama navigated around the rocks and ruts, and I figured my best chance at having the treat was to keep quiet. Even when we got out on the highway, I chose to be a perfect little lady and talked only of polite things, like the weather and the dust on Rough Creek Road, and how glad I was that Daisy was our dog. But boy, oh boy, I was itching to know what had transpired between Mama and Grandma and Isabel St. James the day before. I reckon I never will know the details of that meeting.
At one point I said, “Mama, do you like Mr. Rance?”
“Why do you ask that?”
“Well, do you?”
She didn’t answer right away, and I could see she was thinking about her reply. Finally she said, “He’s good company for your grandma.”
“So you don’t like him?”
She gave me a Look. I figured I might blow my chance for a Pepsi slush, but I pressed on. “Can you name one thing you like about him?”