Tupelo Honey

by Lis Anna-Langston

  That afternoon the sound of the sewing machine mysteriously stopped, the hot rollers cooled, and the miniature satin evening gown hung, strangely unfinished, in the hall. The entire house was silent except for my mother coughing in the back room. I took eyeliner and painted a warrior face across my cheeks and forehead. I cut the cotton crotch from all of my leotards and put on my disco costume. I rigged up a makeshift tool belt from an old sash and went out into the backyard to nail boards together. It was my best talent.

  Chapter 10

  I talked Preston Brown into starting a fitness routine with me. All the junk food I had been eating since giving up beauty pageants had given me fat thighs. Every pair of jeans I owned was tight. I ripped a workout schedule from a magazine and we started right away. We were pitiful. Even on our best days we could only jog down to the wooded area where the snakes lived and back. On our way back we plodded breathlessly down the street and collapsed into a pile of thick heaving blubber on his front porch.

  On the third day Preston said, “Why don’t we relax today.”

  Fine with me.

  I poked around in Randall’s room until he came back from Taco Bell and caught me. “Is it the weekend already?” He flopped down on his bed, unpacking the paper sack.

  He remained quiet, focused on his bean burrito. I begged a taco off him and went outside. Marmalade was out back cleaning pots and pans with bleach.

  Mattress springs creaked in Randall’s room, and I ran back down the hall. When I found him, he was sitting upright on the edge of his bed, staring off into that great divide of nothingness. He still didn’t seem to be in the mood to talk so I walked to the gossip bench to call the Time and Temperature Man.

  I loved the Time and Temperature Man. He never called in sick, never missed a day and was really dedicated. He sat in a room all day picking up the phone whenever it rang to tell people the time. I figured he must have a big clock on his desk. I dialed.

  “Hello,” I said, excited to have the chance to talk to someone who talks to people all day.

  The time is eleven fifty-two AM. The temperature is sixty-two degrees.

  I slammed the receiver back in the cradle. “Dammit.”

  After a few minutes I decided to call him again.

  He picked up.

  This time I talked very fast, “Hello. My name is Tupelo Honey . . .”

  But before I had a chance to finish, he said patiently, The time is eleven fifty-four AM. The temperature is sixty-two degrees.

  I slammed the receiver again. “Come on. It’s almost noon, dammit.”

  For a few minutes I sat on the bench, listening, looking around. We had no plastic wall clock, cuckoo or grandfather clock or even a cheap plastic thing that was a free gift. I caught a reflection of myself in the shiny metal address book that sat next to the phone. My hair was wild and crazy, circling my head.

  I went looking for Moochi and found him in the driveway.

  Fat Ass was in the kitchen throwing sticks of butter on the floor. “Who ate all of the freaking pimento loaf?”

  “Not me,” I said, pushing past him to get a soda.

  Randall passed by the doorway looking guilty, trying to get to his room before anyone noticed.

  Thursgood eyed me. “What are you doing here, you little turd?

  “My mom and Nash are learning Spanish.”

  “HA.” He slapped his fat, jiggly thigh. “That’ll be the day.” Walking over to the door, he yelled out down the hall. “Someone go to the freaking store and buy some more pimento loaf. Jesus Almighty Christ. What’s wrong with you people?”

  I was about to tell him to kiss off when Marmalade appeared, wiping her hands on a dishcloth.

  Moochi was out back waiting for me, half person, half dog, looking for magic rocks in the driveway. "We may take another trip. I heard Nash talking about it. ” I began conversationally.

  Moochi looked up at me, a gray moon rock resting in the palm of his furry hand.

  “Do you want to come?”

  Moochi nodded, wagging his tail.

  “Do you think it will be any fun?”

  “Loads,” Fat Ass boomed behind me, scaring the crap out of us.

  I felt the color drain from my face down to my toes where they suddenly throbbed. “Go away,” I said, trying to ignore all two hundred and fifty pounds of him.

  “Screw you,” he sneered, walking in front of me, blowing smoke in my face. Then, he raised his big ham hock leg in the air and let it thunder down onto the gravel, digging his heel deep into the ground. “Did I get him,” he laughed manically. “Where’s your stupid friend now?”

  I spat back. “Go away.”

  His foot came down several inches from my hand, grinding, kicking up gravel. “How about now? Did I get the little imaginary fucker that time?” Ha ha ha ha ha ha he howled, choking on cigarette smoke.

  Now I’d had enough. “Has anyone ever told you how absolutely frikkin ugly you are?” I was fully prepared to haul ass across the back yard if necessary.

  “Ugly like you,” he breathed, lowering himself closer to my face, picking his teeth with his tongue.

  “No, really, you’re more ugly,” I said, matter-of-fact. The big hunks of gravel dug deep into my palms.

  “Am not,” he bit back, digging his other foot down into the gravel, kicking up dust.

  “God, you’re such a jackass.” I pushed myself up from the ground, walking away, praying that he didn’t chase me. For several seconds I held my breath, listening to make sure he wasn’t going to pounce from behind.

  He yelled after me. “You need to get some religion.”

  That made me snort. “What a dipshit you are.”

  Puffing hard on his last bit of cigarette, he pulled one of his flip-flop shoes off, throwing it at my head, where he missed. It sailed over my left shoulder, landing in the holly berry bush. “You need to get with Jesus,” he yelled at me as he wandered into the house and up to his room.

  God help us. Now I’ve heard it all. Get with Jesus. Ain’t that something.

  At ten-fifteen that night Nash knocked on the front door. I heard the springs on the sofa creak when Marmalade got up. She walked over, opening the door. I was hiding in a closet with dead moths and dust bunnies.

  “She’s hiding,” I heard Marmalade say, closing the door.

  “Tupelo Honey,” Nash called out, walking down the dark hall.

  “She might be upstairs.”

  When I crept out from my hiding place and saw that everyone had gone out into the backyard with a flashlight to look for me, I walked over and sat on the sofa, pretending to be imaginary.

  “She’s in here, Mother,” I heard Randall yell out the back door.

  Everyone came into the living room. I was still invisible. Nash gave me that look. I was pretty sure he could see me. I think I needed to get more tips from Moochi on how to be imaginary.

  “Didn’t you hear me calling for you?” Nash asked, propping his hand on his hip.

  “No,” I answered, averting my eyes, immediately sorry for lying in the first place.

  He frowned and reached for my hand. “Come on. Your mother is waiting on you in the car.”

  My mother, true to form, was pissed. “Why does it take you twenty minutes to walk fifteen yards?”

  “I’m constipated,” I said, climbing into the backseat.

  That was the end of that conversation.

  The next morning, Nash got up early to drive me to school. After practicing my sniffle under my blanket for half an hour, I rubbed my eyes to make them look red and itchy. I successfully convinced Nash that I was too sick to go to school. Since my mother would be hanging around the house all day, Moochi and I camped out in the closet with a pile of pillows and blankets and a flashlight to read 007 comic books. The rest of the day was pretty uneventful, and I passed out on my bed in the warm thick glow of sunset streaming across my body.

  The sound of twigs snapping underfoot woke me up in the middle of the night. The warm gl
ow had given way to a cold chill and I sat up in the middle of my bed rubbing my arms. That’s when I saw it.

  Light from a flashlight cut a deep line through the darkness, hovering, trembling. Very quietly I slid out of bed and crept on tiptoes to the window. About twenty yards out, Nash walked to the back of the yard, carrying a shovel and the new flashlight he’d bought at Sears.

  Since he didn’t believe in banks he’d devised a system. All along the edge of the woods behind our house he buried his cash, sealed in plastic baggies, stuffed in old army ammunition cans. It was weird, but it worked for him. It had been a long time since I’d seen him out there. My breath clouds puffed on the window. Nash’s shadow wound through the moonlight in a clear stillness that gave me the shivers.

  Chapter 11

  Marmalade increased Thursgood’s medicine and he settled into a routine of sleeping or watching television all the time. He even ate in his room.

  It was a windy Saturday morning when I woke to the sound of a bus idling at the curb in front of her house. Since we were the last house on a dead end street such odd occurrences aroused my suspicions. I’d fallen asleep on the couch after playing checkers with Randall all night and only had to lift my head slightly to see through the curtains.

  Marmalade breezed through the room. She was wearing a wig and lipstick and carrying her pocketbook. I rolled over, listening to the sound of the engine outside.

  She stopped when she saw my eyes open. “I’m going out,” she said. “Get Randall to help you make breakfast.”

  “Where are you going?” I turned back to the window. Waiting at the curb was a big white bus with bright blue letters painted on the side proclaiming it the moving Tabernacle of Faith.

  It appeared someone in our house had summoned Jesus.

  “I’m going to church,” she stated emphatically. “They’re going to pick me up and drop me off.

  I waited until the bus pulled away from the curb before I ran to wake Randall up. When I rounded the corner to his room, he was sitting up in bed, staring out the window at the big puffs of exhaust trailing behind the Tabernacle.

  “Did you see that?” I pointed.

  He nodded.

  “What do you suppose she’s doing?”

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  Between the two of us we were absolutely clueless, so I looked up the Tabernacle of Faith in the phone book. When I found the listing I dragged the phone book into the kitchen where Randall was making coffee.

  I pointed to the address. “It’s on Chestnut Street.”

  “That’s kind of far,” he said, as he scooped coffee into the pot.

  Something scraped the floor upstairs. When the movement upstairs stopped, we determined the Beast had gone back to sleep.

  Randall went back to making coffee. “Why do you suppose Mother went to church?” he asked with his brow knotted together in the kind of perplexed way that was a novelty on Randall’s face.

  I jerked my thumb toward the ceiling. “I bet it has something to do with Jackass up there.”

  “But how did she find them? Maybe God called her in a dream. I seen that on tv.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Then what?” Randall reached for a can of corned beef hash. A light bulb dinged on in his brain. “Your friend Preston knows a lot about the Lord. Go ask him.”

  “Preston’s at religious school today.”

  After the Tabernacle bus brought Marmalade home I saw her sitting alone, with the lights out, smoking a Kool cigarette. A juice glass full of malt liquor sat on the table in front of her. The only light in the room slanted through the metal blinds casting half light, half shadow.

  Finally, I sucked in a breath and told her the truth. “I have a book of magic. I can make him disappear. “

  For the first time all afternoon she looked up at me and smiled so thin and bare that a burst of air could have blown it off of her face. Quietly, she said, “The Lord will help him, Tupelo Honey.” She patted my hand softly.

  The next morning I woke to the sound of religious fanatics screaming at us from the tv. As I walked down the hall to Randall’s room Marmalade started begging for forgiveness openly.

  She pulled a can of tomato soup off the shelf in the kitchen. “Help me Jesus.”

  I wondered if Jesus knew I was planning to sneak off and watch tv later.

  For no reason she squeezed out the faintest little gasp while plugging in the percolator. Praise the Lord. She reached for the carton of eggs. Praise Jesus. She poured juice into a glass. Save me Jesus.

  A minister dropped by for a house call that afternoon. He sat on the Victorian sofa for hours, talking about God with an ease and familiarity that suggested Our Father could have been napping in the other room. Randall and I gawked from across the room where Marmalade insisted we sit and pray. Thursgood and his fat, unforgiven ass was, as usual, upstairs in his bedroom. He paced back and forth. After a while, it didn’t take a brain surgeon to realize that Thursgood wasn’t interested in developing a healthy relationship with God. To make matters worse, God didn’t seem all that interested in him either. The minister’s eyes drifted up to the ceiling. The heavy thudding of footsteps interrupted the prayer session. I watched from the hallway, fascinated. He knew we had the devil living upstairs. Tiny beads of sweat formed on his brow. Marmalade touched him lightly on the hand to make eye contact. Upstairs, the Beast flopped down on his bed, springs squeaking. Praise the Lord. Sweet Jesus . . .

  The minister nodded aimlessly. Something heavy landed on the floor overhead. Praise Jesus . . . Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name . . .

  Randall turned his stereo up. He couldn’t stand the constant praying. Praise the Lord. The minister shifted on the sofa and I saw his eyes go to rest on the door. He wanted to leave but he would stay because he was doing God’s work and God doesn’t let you leave early.

  “Can I get you a little something to eat?” Marmalade begged him with her eyes.

  “Huh?” The minister jerked back to reality, patting his stomach. “I ate just before coming over.”

  The afternoon light was fading. An eerie calm settled over everything. I waited. The minister helped Marmalade down on her knees to pray. Dear Father look upon us with forgiveness. Know that in our hearts we dwell without sin.

  Yeah, right. I hope sound travels up.

  The following weekend I didn’t notice any excessive praying at Marmalade’s house. But on Sunday morning she brought me a clean pair of pants and shirt. “Put this on. You have to go with me today.”

  “No . . . ,” I whined.

  “Yes,” she said. “This is not a discussion.”

  Randall drove us over to the Tabernacle church.

  I went to Sunday School and Marmalade went to the main service. I was so mad. She just dumped me off in a room full of people I didn’t even know and expected me to jump for joy. God. So, this is what Preston had to go through all of the time.

  The lesson of the day was to write down the Christian homilies our family lived by. Then we sat in a circle and politely read them aloud. I was supposed to sit in a room full of strangers and pretend I wanted to be here instead of at home watching old black and white movies about romance and space invaders.

  Fine.

  Marmalade walked into the room just as I started to read.

  “Words my family lives by. Pass the joint.”

  Marmalade politely lifted her pocketbook and glared at me. “We’re ready to go home now.”

  Chapter 12

  Two days later I walked home from the bus stop to find Thursgood’s fat, unforgiven butt lounging on our sofa. Nash’s sofa, to be exact.

  Thursgood didn’t even acknowledge me when I walked in. My mother was at the kitchen table smoking what was left of a joint.

  “What’s he doing here?” I demanded.

  Tiny strands of smoke curled around her face. “Marmalade thought it would be a good idea if he spent more time around people his own age, got out,
made some friends.”

  “What?”

  She stood up, reaching for a box of chocolate cupcakes. “Yep. He’s our guest.”

  “Are you crazy? This is where we live.”

  “Shhh . . .” she hissed. “Don’t be so goddamn loud. He’ll be fine. He only pulls that crap at Mother’s house because she lets him get away with it.”

  “He pulls that crap because he’s crazy,” I said, throwing my backpack on the floor. “Hasn’t anyone noticed that he’s nuts?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Well, Miss Smart Mouth, Marmalade needs a rest. She’s paying me good money to let him stay here for a week. All I have to do is let his fat ass lay there and watch TV, so cram it.”

  I was so mad I thought I’d explode. My mother grabbed her box of cupcakes and stomped off to her bedroom.

  I skulked through the living room and headed outside. As I passed behind the sofa Fat Ass looked up and sneered, “You need to show some respect to your elders.”

  “Screw you,” I yelled, changing direction, walking down the hall to my room. I stopped and looked over my shoulder to make sure he wasn’t following me. I locked my door and dug around in my closet until I found my Disappearing Dust from my Magic Kit. I stuffed it down into my front pocket and sat on my bed to wait until he fell asleep. Then I got bored and climbed through my window to go outside and play.

  The shovel Nash used to dig in the backyard was propped against the house. I grabbed it just in case Thursgood came running out.

  Moochi was standing by the doghouse picking at the fur between his toes.

  “God!” I slammed the shovel into the dirt. “Why does that moron have to come live here?”

  Moochi shrugged his shoulders when I sat down on the ground in a huff.

  I looked up just in time to see Nash’s car turn into the driveway. My beacon of hope. My salvation. Surely, Nash would not be enticed to put up with the devil for a measly wad of cash.

  Moochi and I ran over to his car as he pulled to a stop in front of the house. “Did you know Thursgood is in our house?”

  Nash got out of the car and slammed the door. He looked distracted. “Yeah . . . just for a few days until he gets better.”