by Fannie Flagg
Fritzi spoke first. “Well, Ada, it took a hell of a long time, but we brought you a little something.” She then took it out of a small box and held it up. “It’s the Congressional Medal of Honor. Congratulations, pal.”
Ada was in a little bit of a shock over the whole thing. She said, “I didn’t think anybody would have even remembered us, much less given us a medal.”
“Well, Ada,” said Verbena, “like I always say, it may take a while, but everybody gets what they deserve eventually.”
—
THAT AFTERNOON, THE GROUP was discussing who their favorite American heroes were and why. Gene said, “I think you would have to start with the men who wrote the Constitution. Without them, there would be no America.”
Lucille Beemer said, “Excellent. Elner, who are your heroes?”
Elner thought about it and then said, “Well, I would say that after Jesus Christ, it would have to be Thomas Edison and Walt Disney.”
Ida jumped in. “We are only naming important Americans, Elner. Jesus was not an American.”
“Oh…well, then, Thomas Edison and Walt Disney.”
“I agree with Mrs. Shimfissle,” said Mr. Bell. “I didn’t realize how famous Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck were until I went to Russia. I looked in the window of this shop, and there was a little statue of Mickey Mouse. Old Mickey Mouse made it all the way behind the Iron Curtain.”
Soon everybody started jumping in with their favorites.
“How about Babe Ruth?”
“I say Abner Doubleday.”
“Who?”
“He invented baseball.”
“Oh.”
“Franklin Roosevelt. He kept us all together during the Depression.”
“Harry Truman. He put a stop to the war.”
“Harvey Firestone gave us tires,” said Luther Griggs.
“Will Rogers and Bob Hope. They made us laugh.”
“Don’t forget Andrew Carnegie. He gave us free libraries.”
One of the younger boys called out, “Roy Rogers and Gene Autry!”
“J. Edgar Hoover,” said another.
Birdie Swensen, who had been with Katrina in 1916 at the St. Louis demonstration for women’s votes, said to Katrina, “Did you notice that not one woman was mentioned as being a great American? How about Susan B. Anthony? She helped get the vote for fifty-two percent of all American citizens…fifty-two percent!”
“Oh, Lord, once a suffragette, always a suffragette,” whispered her husband to his friend.
—
THE NEXT WEEK, at Birdie and Katrina’s request, the ladies were discussing who their favorite American women were, and Elner was ready with her list.
“Ginger Rogers, Dolly Parton, and the Statue of Liberty.”
Her sister Ida said, “Oh, Lord, Elner. The Statue of Liberty is not a person.”
“Well, she was once, wasn’t she?”
“Yes, but she was not an American. Miss Beemer said American women. Now my choice is Mrs. Regina Chalkley.”
“Who’s that?” asked Elner.
“The national president of the Garden Club of America. That’s who.”
“Nobody has ever heard of her, Ida,” said Gerta.
“Well, I have.”
Mrs. Bell suddenly offered a name. “Kate Smith.”
“Who?” asked a younger lady.
Elner said, “Kate Smith. She was that heavyset gal singer, used to be on the radio, had that big hit.” Then Elner sang out in a loud voice, “Oooh, when the moon comes over the mountain.”
“I still don’t know who she is,” said the lady.
Ada Goodnight said, “Hey, I have one. How about Sally Ride, the astronaut?”
“That’s a good one,” said Tot.
Verbena said, “Minnie Pearl.”
“Who?” asked Birdie.
“She was a comedian on the Grand Ole Opry, always wore that funny hat.”
Katrina said, “How about Louisa May Alcott?”
Ruby said, “Oh, that’s a good one, Katrina.”
Elner suddenly made a comment. “Isn’t it funny? Kate Smith used to be one of the biggest stars we had, and nobody under seventy knows who she is.”
Tiffany Ann, the teenage texter, suddenly joined in the conversation. “Like, uh, nobody’s even mentioned Lady Gaga.”
“Who?” asked about a hundred people.
“Just, like…the most famous person…like…in the whole entire world. Like…hello?”
This conversation was so interesting. Lucille Beemer, always on the rove for good discussion questions, thought that next week she might suggest the topic “Fame: Is It Worth the Effort?”
They didn’t know it yet, but that was to be their last Thursday afternoon discussion meeting. On Lucille Beemer’s next birthday, which was to be her 129th, all of her friends and ex-students, of which there were many, decided to surprise her and sing “Happy Birthday.”
On the morning of her birthday, the Goodnight sisters started and then everybody else joined in with a loud and rousing “Happy birthday, Miss Beemer. Happy birthday to you!” After it was over, everyone cheered and yelled, “Speech! Speech!”
They all waited to hear what she was going to say. They waited for a few more minutes. Then Ruby said, “Lucille…are you there?”
But there was no answer. Lucille Beemer was gone.
—
HE’D BEEN A RATHER quiet man and so it wasn’t until several weeks later when someone discovered that Gustav Tildholme was gone as well.
Norma had been sick for only a short time, but when she arrived at Still Meadows, she found herself in a state of complete shock. And not so much over the fact that she was there, awake and talking. It was something else.
“All my life, I had been so afraid and scared of dying, and it wasn’t scary at all. I just floated on out just as easy as can be, and I can’t believe how calm and peaceful I feel.”
“I’m so happy for you, honey,” said Elner. “I know how you suffered with your nerves.”
“Oh, thank you, Aunt Elner. I just hope it lasts.”
“Oh, it will, I promise you. If anything, it gets even better. Every morning I wake up and fall in love with the world all over again. I’d had a lot of peaceful moments before I got here, but nothing like this. It really does pass all understanding, doesn’t it, Tot?”
Tot Whooten said, “Hey, Norma, glad you’re here, hon. It sure does. And it’s so nice not to have a thing to do, but sit back and relax and enjoy yourself.”
Elner said, “Now, honey, aren’t you glad little Macky bought you your plot? If he hadn’t, no telling where you might have ended up.”
Tot added, “Hey, Norma, it’s a good thing I didn’t know how much fun being dead was going to be or I would have jumped off the top of a building and gotten here sooner.”
Elner laughed. “Well, it’s a good thing we don’t have any tall buildings in Elmwood Springs.”
Tot said, “Well, I could have jumped off the water tower. I didn’t think about that. Oh, well, too late now. I got here when I was supposed to, I guess.”
“Do you think it’s true, Aunt Elner?” asked Norma. “That we died when we were supposed to?”
“Oh, I feel it is, honey.” Then Elner added, “In fact, I think you came up at just the right time.”
—
TWO DAYS LATER, ELNER Shimfissle disappeared. It was a huge loss for everyone. First Miss Beemer, now Elner. She would be missed terribly, but Norma was thankful that at least she’d had a chance to speak with her that one last time.
It was three A.M., and James Dwayne Whooten, Jr., was rattling around in the kitchen, trying his best not to make any noise. He had looked in her purse, but as usual, his wife, Debbie, had hidden her car keys from him. She worked at Walmart and had just bought herself a new Toyota Camry, and she didn’t want him getting drunk and wrecking it. Damn Debbie, she was the cause of all his problems. If she hadn’t gotten pregnant, he could have left a long time ago, bu
t he had hung around, taking care of his kids and hers from another marriage. And now he just found out she was having an affair with some dude in the photo department. The kids didn’t give him any respect. Just last week, when he had been passed out on the couch, one of her brats had tried to set fire to him, so the hell with all of them. He looked everywhere. In the coffeepot, the microwave oven, in all the drawers, on the shelves, behind the toaster, but no keys. Shit.
Defeated, he went into the living room and flopped down on the plaid La-Z-Boy. Then he had another thought. He got up and went to the drawer where she kept all the information on the kitchen appliances and insurance papers, and sure enough, there it was: the envelope from the Toyota dealership with the car papers, and inside was the extra key. AHA…Margaritaville, here I come!
Today was Wednesday, and as usual, Edna Childress was over at the senior center. Wednesday was bingo day. Edna never missed bingo day or Texas hold ’em poker.
Ralph Childress was at home, sitting at the kitchen table with his coffee and a piece of apple pie Edna had left out for him, scrolling through his phone. He was looking on eBay at pictures of used recreational vehicles for sale. Luther Griggs, who had been an expert, had told him the best kind to look for.
Edna didn’t know it yet, but after his retirement from the police department next month, he was going to buy one and drive her up to the Mall of America and let the old gal shop till she dropped. Ralph was just about to take his first bite of pie when he heard the most god-awful screaming and banging going on at his front door. He jumped up and went to find out what in the hell was going on.
He should have known it. When he opened his door, there stood Debbie, Dwayne Jr.’s fourth or fifth wife—he couldn’t remember which—throwing a fit, screaming, and carrying on and on about how that no-good son of a bitch Dwayne Jr. had just stolen her brand-new Toyota Camry. Ralph listened and calmed her down as best he could. He told her he would meet her over at the station in a half hour, and she could fill out a stolen car report. As far as he was concerned, there was no hurry. He knew Dwayne Jr. hadn’t gone too far. He was too dumb and stoned to find his way out of town.
When Ralph returned to the kitchen and sat back down to eat his piece of pie, his plate was empty. There wasn’t anything left of his pie but a few crumbs and a black feather on the windowsill. “Goddamn it to hell.” He wished people wouldn’t bother him at home. While he’d been at the door dealing with crazy Debbie, some damn crow had flown in the window and made off with his pie. “Goddamn it.” And he’d wanted that pie, too. He knew he should have parked his patrol car in the back.
Ralph picked up his phone, stuck his gun in its holster, and slammed out of the house. He was so sick of dealing with the damn Whootens, he didn’t know what to do. James Whooten in and out of the drunk tank, Tot’s aggravated assault with a cement gnome, the daughter had set fire to one of her boyfriend’s trucks, and now Dwayne Jr. again. Lord. There was a bad gene running around in that family.
The last thing he remembered was stopping at the Quik Mart for a case of beer for the road. When he woke up three days later, James Dwayne Whooten, Jr., quickly realized he was not in Key West. He was up at Still Meadows in the Whooten family plot, deader than dirt and sober for the first time in thirty-five years.
“Hey, Momma,” he said to Tot. “Guess what? I think I just got killed in a car accident.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
“You ain’t surprised I’m here?”
“No. I’m just surprised you didn’t come sooner. What I want to know is where did you get a car? I thought they had taken your license away for good.”
Dwayne Jr. opened his mouth to lie (always his first instinct), but strangely enough, he suddenly found himself telling the truth. “I stole Debbie’s car.”
“Oh, Lord…poor Debbie. You didn’t kill anybody else, did you?”
“No, just me. It was a single-car accident. I think I hit a tree.”
“That was just pure luck. I’m sure you were drunk as a coot.”
“Yeah, I guess I was.”
“Well, I hate to say I told you so, but I told you so.”
“Hello, son,” said James, jumping into the conversation.
“Oh…hey, Dad, did you hear what happened to me?”
“Yes, I did.”
“What a bummer, huh?”
“Well, son, as bad as it sounds, it might have been the only way to get you sober.”
—
A MONTH LATER, DWAYNE JR. said, “Momma, I’m sorry I stole all that stuff from you and called you them ugly names.”
“I appreciate you telling me that, son.”
“I didn’t mean none of it.”
“I know you didn’t, honey, and just remember, no matter what, I love you, and you will always be my little boy.”
Hearing that one sentence gave Dwayne Jr. a better high than any drug or booze ever had. He’d had to drive himself into a tree to get here, but at last, he was at a place where he felt happy, joyous, and free and stone-cold sober. How cool was that?
—
LATER, WHEN NORMA WAS CHATTING with her mother, she said, “Mother, you just sound so relaxed.”
“Oh, I am,” Ida said. “Ask your father.”
Herbert said, “She’s right, honey. It took a while, but she’s finally calmed down.”
“You know, Norma, I always thought if I wasn’t running and doing all day and night, I might miss something, but now, just watching the world twirl by without me is so enjoyable. I wish I had known it sooner.”
“Me, too.”
“Honey?”
“Yes?” said Norma.
“Thank you for the roses every Mother’s Day.”
“Oh, you’re so welcome, Mother.”
“By the way…who is that little Chinese person Linda brought out to see me?”
“Oh, that’s Apple. Your great-granddaughter.”
There was a slight pause. “Has Linda married a Communist?”
“No, Mother. She adopted a little girl from China.”
“Oh…I see.”
“And the Chinese aren’t Communists anymore.”
“Really? Well, that’s good to know….There were too many of them.”
The rule of thumb is that when a crime is committed, there is usually someone out there who knows who did it. And no matter how long it takes, either out of guilt or sometimes just plain revenge, they will suddenly decide to tell what they know.
And that is exactly what happened in the Hanna Marie Swensen will-tampering case. One day, out of the blue, Chief of Police Ralph Childress had a strange message on his phone that read Look behind A.S. portrait at dairy.
Ralph had no idea what it meant; the only A.S. he knew was Ander Swensen. There was a painting of the old man down at the dairy. But it could be just some kid playing a prank. He’d gotten a lot of that lately, but he decided to drive over and check it out anyway.
—
WHEN HE GOT THERE, the young man working in the front office was not a lot of help.
“No, sir,” he said. “I’ve been working here six years, and I’ve never seen any portrait of anybody out here.”
“I see.”
“I’d be happy to show you around.”
“No, that’s okay. Thanks anyway.”
Ralph went back to the car and suddenly remembered that Mildred Flowers, a gal he had gone to high school with, had worked at the dairy right after Little Miss Davenport died. He decided to give her a call.
“Hey, Mildred, Ralph Childress.”
“Well, hey there. How are you? We haven’t seen you for a while. You okay? Is Edna still feeding you all those pies?”
“Oh, yeah. Ah, listen, let me ask you something. Didn’t there used to be a portrait of Mr. Swensen down at the dairy?”
“Yeah, it was hanging in the boardroom with all the other awards and things.”
“Whatever happened to it, do you know?”
“Sure. After poor Hann
a Marie died, His Royal Horse’s Assness ordered us to take it all down and throw it all out. Why?”
“Did you?”
“Well, hell no…I took them down, but I didn’t get rid of them. I knew the Swensens. That man worked hard to build that business and win those awards. I wasn’t going to sling them all out in the dumpster just because he said so.”
“So what did you do with them?”
“I stuck them in a big box and took ’em home and put it in the garage. Why?”
“Do you still have them?”
“Well, yeah, as far as I know, I do, unless Carl threw them out. But I doubt it.”
“Do you mind if I come over and take a look?”
“No, but it might take a while to find it. That garage is packed full of forty years of Carl’s crap. He don’t believe in throwing anything out. He’s still got his daddy’s old shoes.”
Ralph took a couple of young deputies with him, and after two hours of hot, sweaty work pulling down boxes, they found the one they were looking for. And by God, there was something wedged in the wood frame in the back of that painting. Ralph opened the envelope and saw what it was. He wasn’t quite sure why it would be important, but he took it over to the judge.
—
SHORTLY AFTER RALPH CHILDRESS located the copy of Hanna Marie’s original will and presented it to Judge Thorneycroft, two arrests were made. They located the woman lawyer, and she took a plea deal for a lesser sentence in exchange for a written confession explaining in detail how she and Michael Vincent had falsified the will. The lawyer got two years for fraud. He got ten, with no time off for good behavior. As one juror said after his trial, “That man wouldn’t know what good behavior was if it walked up and bit him in the ass.”