by Peggy Webb
“You’re planning on birthing a dog?”
“This is no time for jokes. Elvis is about to die and my eggs are about to shrivel up.”
“Quick, let me take out a full page ad!”
She pokes me in the ribs, and I can’t help but laugh, too. Okay, I admit it. I inherited some of Mama’s flair for drama and I’m a bit unhinged because Jack and I haven’t gotten pregnant yet – and it’s not for lack of trying.
“That’s better. Listen, Cal, Aunt Ruby Nell’s only going ten miles over the speed limit and if she gets a ticket, I guarantee she can charm her way out of it. Elvis is in no more danger of falling out of the convertible than he is of falling off Jack’s Harley Screamin’ Eagle.”
“I should have thought to strap on his dog helmet.”
Lovie says a word that curdles milk. “You need to relax, Cal. We’re going to the beach, for Pete’s sake. What on earth can happen at the beach!”
“Sunburn?”
“How about, a tan without lines that is so perfect Jack will hold you captive in the bedroom till your eggs are singing Brahms Lullaby?”
This is a talent Lovie has, making me see the glass as half full instead of half empty. Now, if I can just get her to see that Rocky Malone, gentleman archeologist, is the man who appreciates her for the amazing woman she is, I can relax and enjoy this vacation in Biloxi. Maybe. If I don’t think about Mama crashing that convertible into a telephone pole and Jack getting shot at by major criminals heaven only knows where. Company men are forbidden to reveal their missions.
Still, as the hilly terrain flattens out and we get so close to our destination I can almost smell the ocean, I start thinking about someday having a baby who might have to grow up without his daddy. Jack and I have discussed having children, but this is the elephant in the room that neither of us wants to talk about. We broke up once over the baby discussion. Sort of. I sent him to town to buy a baby crib and he came back with a Harley Screamin’ Eagle.
It was awful, him living in a tacky apartment and me living in a big, empty house, and Elvis being bounced between us like a basket ball. Now that we’re back together again – permanently, let me add, and thanks partially to Elvis (we couldn’t figure out the dog custody issue) – neither of us wants to repeat that mistake.
“Snap out of it, Callie!”
“How did you know what I’m thinking?”
“I know you like a book.”
Lovie’s beginning to look concerned, and I’m not about to ruin her trip. I grin at her. “Biloxi, here we come!”
Sun and sand, plenty of great food and lots of fun. Lovie has designated me her sous chef, which is totally inaccurate. She wouldn’t dare put me second in charge of her kitchen, and she sure won’t let me near her stove. I burn everything in sight. Sous chef is merely a fancy way of saying I’ll be chopping a few vegetables and slicing some meat. Though mostly I’ll just be organizing her cooking utensils and lending moral support.
“Who are the judges this year, Lovie?”
“Sol Kennedy, Jet Caulder, Georgia Kelly, Glenda Swift and that wart on a hog, George Ransom.”
Rumors have been circulating for years that Lovie slept with George Ransom in order to win the Kentucky Bake-off. Though Lovie has had three times as many boyfriends as Henry VIII had wives, I know for a fact that George Ransom is not among them. For one thing, she’s too smart to date him. Though he knows his way around a kitchen as well as a skirt, he has the personality of a turnip. No offense to turnips. I like them, especially if they’re prepared the way Lovie does. For another thing, he’s too busy chasing every other woman he thinks he can con into his bed.
“Maybe the rumors have died by now, Lovie.”
“Rumors don’t scare me. I let my cooking do the talking.”
I grab another Hershey bar because Mama’s car has just zoomed so far ahead I can’t even see a little pink dot. My need for chocolate has shot off the scale.
“Unwrap a couple for me,” Lovie says.
Thank goodness, she’s realized keeping up with Mama as hopeless and is now driving a more sedate sixty-five miles per hour. My eggs breathe a sigh of relief. Their likelihood of being pulverized in a pile of metal has just gone down fifty per cent.
Six chocolate bars later, two for me, four for Lovie, I spot the Welcome to Biloxi sign.
“We’re here!” Lovie’s excitement shows in her voice.
Nothing revs her up like a cooking competition. Unless it’s trying to get Rocky to discover her National Treasure. In one of her many moments of joie de vivre she had the words tattooed on her hips, as she puts it, “about as close to the Holy Grail as you can get.”
She makes a sharp turn into the parking lot of the Biloxi Resort and Convention Center and parks her van beside Mama’s flashy car. Wouldn’t you know? She’s sitting in the front seat wearing rhinestone studded sunglasses and smoking a cigarette from her vintage cigarette holder. With her faithful use of Ponds Cold Cream and her penchant for colorful clothes and scarves that only enhance the cute cuts and colors I give her at Hair.Net, Mama looks like she might be a secret Hollywood star, brought in for entertainment at the get-acquainted party tonight. Currently, she’s sporting a hair color called Tahitian Sunset, a gorgeous blend of red and honey blond.
Elvis wags his tail when he sees us get out of the van, and Fayrene looks up from a tangle of green yarn in her lap.
“I brought my yarn,” she says. “Jarvetis’ birthday is coming up and I’m making him a crocheted African. His feet have been cold ever since he had that heart castration.”
Lovie elbows me and I nearly wet myself trying to hold in my giggles. Back in Mooreville, we call these statements Fayrenese. But I’ll have to say it’s reassuring to have that little touch of home with me when I’m clear at the opposite end of the state without Jack.
It’s beautiful down here, even more spectacular than the travel brochures show – fishing boats anchored at the pier, blue sky and water that go on forever, and sea gulls circling the beach where tourists are scattered like fallen blooms on their colorful towels. I’m looking forward to joining them, but Lovie’s already unloading her cooking supplies. And her baseball bat, of course. She never goes anywhere without her weapon of choice, though for the life of me, I can’t think why she’d need it at a cooking competition.
“Mama, I’ll get the stuff out of your trunk so you and Fayrene can go on to your cottage and relax. The roast beef cook-off doesn’t start for two hours and the welcome dance is tonight.”
I wouldn’t dare say so in front of Mama, but that’s a lot of activity for two senior citizens, especially after a long drive.
“Flitter. I’m no hothouse flower.”
Mama bails out of the convertible, followed by Elvis and Fayrene, and then proceeds to spend considerable time trying to open her trunk while Fayrene stands patiently by with the knitting she wants to stow.
“I didn’t say you were, Mama. Do you need any help with that trunk?”
“When I need your help, I’ll ask for it.” Her trunk finally pops open and she jerks out a box containing Lovie’s prized cutlery.
“I can take that in so you won’t have to climb those stairs, Mama.”
“I’m not leaving till I see who all is here. There might be somebody cute I can flirt with.”
She’s kidding, I hope. With Mama you never know.
“Will they have dancing at the welcome party?” Fayrene takes up a box filled with dish towels, aprons and Lovie’s chef’s hat.
“I think so,” I tell her. Lovie has whizzed past me and disappeared. There’s nothing like a cooking competition to get her engines going.
“Good. You nab us a good man, Ruby Nell. I told Jarvetis I was dying to do the Vietnamese Waltz.”
Amazingly, Fayrene will be good at the waltz, no matter what she calls it. She and her long-suffering husband won the dance trophy up in Memphis at the Peabody where Elvis ended up in the fountain and Mama swore she nearly ended up a corpse. The
trophy is proudly displayed over the pickles pigs’ lips at Gas, Grits and Guts. People come from as far away as Alabama and Tennessee to see it. I’d say it put us on the map, if I didn’t know that my little beauty shop has already done that. I don’t like to brag, but I don’t believe in false modesty, either.
That dance competition was the place where I finally learned I’m married to Mooreville’s answer to 007. In spite of nearly going into a swoon over the thought of Jack always being in danger, I’ll have to admit that the knowledge only enhanced his already considerable charms. I don’t even try to pretend I don’t have a blind spot where Jack Jones is concerned. Especially now that I’m racing my biological clock to have a darling little Jones baby girl with Jack’s black hair and my long legs. Back home, I’ve already spotted some baby designer shoes I’m just dying to buy.
I walk through a set of doors and into the ballroom of the convention center, a cavernous room lit by a chandelier as big as Texas. I see I’ve come through the wrong doors, but so did a lot of other people. Chefs I’ve met through the years of following Lovie call out, “Hey, Callie. Nice to see you.” I try to make a good impression wherever I go, and it’s nice to see that my efforts at good manners have paid off.
It’s also nice to see that these seasoned chefs didn’t come through the right door, either.
“Which way?” Mama says as she and Fayrene huff up behind me.
“It’s through that door on the west side of the ballroom.” I think. “When we get there I want you and Fayrene to leave the rest of the unpacking to us and go have some fun.”
“Hmm.” Mama’s reply could mean anything. I’ve learned it’s best not to argue with her, but that still doesn’t keep me from speaking my mind when the occasion calls for it.
“Callie’s right, Ruby Nell,” Fayrene says. “If you keep on huffing like that, I’m going to have to give you VCR.”
I push through the door that leads to a series of hallways that eventually take us to the cooking hall. Chefs’ stations are scattered throughout, but I could spot Lovie in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. It’s not just her mane of red curls that makes her stand out; it’s her size and her attitude. She’s a tall, well-rounded bombshell with enough sass to command a fleet of Navy destroyers.
We head that way, and she immediately starts giving orders. And I mean that in the best of ways. We’re on Lovie’s turf now, and I’m only too happy to let her take charge. It’s nice to get away from Hair.Net where everybody in Mooreville depends on me for New York haircuts and fashion advice. Not to mention advice about their love lives, their children, their husbands, and thanks to Darlene, their horoscopes.
Under Lovie’s direction we make quick work of unpacking boxes, but I can see how Mama is beginning to fatigue.
“You should go on, Mama. Didn’t you say you and Fayrene were going to have a picnic on the beach?”
“Maybe.” She’s so stubborn she wouldn’t agree with me if her hair was up in flames and I had the only fire hose.
“Which way is the ladies’ room?” Fayrene is hopping up and down, and I point to the nearest one. Mama grabs her arm and they take off at a quick trot with Elvis outdoing himself to keep up on those little crooked legs.
“Be careful,” I call after them, and Lovie gives me this look.
“What kind of trouble do you think they’ll find in the bathroom, Cal?”
“I don’t know. Elvis could fall in the toilet.”
Lovie says a word most folks would cover their ears over. I’m just glad I’m not pregnant and my darling little unborn baby didn’t hear. With one last look in the direction of the bathroom, I follow Lovie back to the van for the rest of her supplies. There’s enough food out there for a three day event, and even I know that most of it has to be stored in the industrial sized refrigerators Lovie said were at the back of the cooking hall.
We step back into the parking lot, which has become bedlam while we were inside. There must be a hundred people milling around. Cars with gaping trunks and vans with open doors fill every available parking slot. Somebody could ride an elephant into this chaos and nobody would pay the least bit of attention.
“Good grief,” I say.
”Don’t you just love it?”
What I love is peace and quiet, unless, of course, I’m at Hair.Net where the decibel level is off the charts and the chaos level is barely controlled, especially on days Mama and Fayrene are there.
Lovie eyes her ice chest, and I know just what she’s thinking. It’s filled with food and far too heavy for two women to lug the distance we’ve parked.
“Hop in, Cal. We’ll move to the loading docks.”
The crowd hampers our progress as we creep along toward the back of the convention center.
“I could mow down some of my competition,” Lovie says.
“Don’t even think about it.”
Finally we’re free of the bedlam out front and Lovie pulls into a parking space behind the center. It’s quiet back here, with only Sol Kennedy, one of the judges, standing on the loading dock smoking. He sees us struggling with the ice chest then stamps out his cigarette.
“Need some help, Lovie?”
“That’ll be great.”
Sol grabs one end of the chest while Lovie and I hold onto the other. He’s the only judge I know besides George Ransom, and let me tell you, Sol is no turnip. He’s right up there with lobster and drawn butter. Tall with gray hair, he has elegant manners and a great sense of humor. I’m also happy to say, that his hair is perfectly styled. I’ve brought plenty of business cards, but I try to curb my need to hand out fashion advice when I’m not on my home turf. Not everybody appreciates being told when their haircut is unflattering and their color clashes with their complexions.
“Callie, it’s great to see you again,” Sol says, then winks. “But, don’t tell anybody I was consorting with the South’s most famous red-head.”
Fayrenese leaps to mind - dumb’s the word - but I don’t want to get off on the wrong foot with the judge most likely to score Lovie high.
“I won’t tell a soul. Scout’s honor,” I say.
Lovie and Sol come to a halt in a small break room just beyond the cooking hall.
“I have to get off the train here.” Sol’s smart not to let anybody see him helping Lovie, even if it is just to tote a heavy load. Chefs take their cooking seriously. You never know who’s going to take umbrage over something like this.
“Thanks, Sol,” Lovie tells him, and he wishes her good luck then trots off.
We finally round the corner with our ice chest then set it down and start arranging award-winning food in the refrigerator. This takes far longer than I’d have imagined, mainly because my cousin, usually so chaotic, organizes her food as if she’s laying plans for a military coup instead of a cooking competition.
Finally she puts the last piece of beef into the refrigerator, and I breathe a sigh of relief. Suddenly I spot Mama and Fayrene just leaving the bathroom, and my relief dies a sudden death.
“What in the world could possibly have taken Mama so long? They’ve been in there nearly an hour!”
“It wouldn’t surprise me if they were holding a séance so they could consult the dead over who would win.”
“Reckon I ought to go over there and see about them?”
“Relax, Cal. They’re happy as larks. Just leave them alone to do their thing.”
“They last time I did that, they sacrificed a chicken.”
“There’ll be plenty of chickens sacrificed tomorrow.” It’s the chicken cook-off, if I recall. “They’ll fit right in.”
Mama and Fayrene wave at us, and I wave back then rein in my control-complex as they disappear in the direction of the parking lot. Going on their picnic, I hope. What kind of trouble can they possibly get into at the beach?
Elvis Opinion #2
Elvis Opinion #2 on Fried Chicken, I Scream and Murder a la carte
We are finally back in the car headed to the beach, me
in the back seat with my ears flapping and Fayrene in the passenger side re-hashing our hour-long bathroom intervention with that cute little chef from Oxford. Blues eyes, curly blond hair, plenty of curves. Melinda was her name. Listen, if she’d been a basset hound instead of a married woman, I might have snatched her aboard my mystery train and howled, “Put the Blame on Me,” which just so happens to be a hit song I recorded for RCA in Studio B up in Nashville in 1961.
“You reckon we cured her?” Fayrene says to Ruby Nell.
“I don’t know if there’s any cure for what she’s got. I’m just glad she found two friendly faces instead of some rank stranger.”
“She was so tore up I thought we’d have to call the avalanche.”
“Poor little thing. She’s lucky you had the grass skirts in your tote bag, Fayrene.”
“Always be pickled. That’s my motto.”
And what a motto!
In case you’re wondering why Fayrene travels with a grass skirt, let me ease your mind. Don’t try too hard to figure her out. Ever since she and Ruby Nell went to that undertakers’ convention in Cozumel and discovered the mysteries of exotic native rituals, they’re just as likely to be toting dead spiders, chicken gizzards and grass skirts as they are suntan oil.
Fortunately for us, nobody else was in the bathroom. But even if they had been, what harm would they see in two women way past their prime, wearing grass skirts and dancing around a teary-eyed blond while they performed the chant Fayrene invented down Mexico way. The fact that it sounds like her grocery list need not rouse suspicious minds. Who’s to say watermelon, pickles and cucumbers won’t get the same results as abracadabra?
Let me tell you, when that foxy little blond left the bathroom she was smiling, but my nose for trouble tells me it wasn’t for the reason Fayrene and Ruby Nell believe.
“That sweet little thing’s spouse ought to be ashamed of himself, the big bulk! If Jarvetis two-timed me like that, I’d cut off his tentacles.”
“You need not worry about your husband cheating on you, Fayrene. Why would he go after peas and cornbread when he’s got steak and gravy right there on his plate?”