by Fannie Flagg
I’m taking him on a vacation when he gets better.
… Dot Weems …
JULY 2, 1979
A gentleman of color inquired about another gentleman of color, who was sitting in the lobby, laughing.
“Is that nigger crazy, or what? What’s he laughing about? There ain’t nobody talking to him.”
The brown, pockmarked man behind the desk answered, “Oh, he don’t have to have nobody to talk to. His mind done went addlebrained a long time ago.”
“What he doin’ here?”
“Some woman brought him over two years ago.”
“Who’s springing for the bill?”
“She is.”
“Hummmmm …”
“She comes over and dresses him every morning and puts him to bed every night.”
“Some easy life.”
“I’d say.”
Artis O. Peavey, the subject of this discussion, was sitting on a red Naugahyde sofa, with a good deal of cotton stuffing escaping through the various tears and cuts it had acquired over the years. His cloudy brown eyes seemed to be fixed on the wall clock with the pink neon ring around it. The only other object on the wall was a cigarette ad showing an attractive black couple enjoying a Salem cigarette, remarking that the smoke was as cool as a mountain spring. Artis threw back his head and laughed again, revealing a perfect set of blue gums where once had flashed a number of gold teeth.
To the world, Mr. Peavey was sitting in a run-down flophouse hotel lobby, on a towel supplied by the management, since he was often known to pee through the rubber pants the woman put on him every morning. However, for Mr. Artis O. Peavey himself, it was 1936 again … and at the moment, he was walking down 8th Avenue North, dressed in a purple sharkskin suit, wearing a fifty-dollar pair of lime-green brogans, his hair freshly straightened and pomaded down like black ice. And on his arm, this Saturday night, was Miss Betty Simmons, who was, according to the social columns of the Slagtown News, the toast of Birmingham’s ebony glitter set.
They had just passed by the Masonic Hall and were, no doubt, headed on over to Ensley to the Tuxedo Junction Ballroom on the midnight streetcar, where Count Basie—or was it Cab Calloway?—would be playing.
No wonder he was laughing. And God bless God for not letting him remember the bad times, when it was no fun to be a “nigger” on a Saturday night. Those long, hard nights when he had been in Kilbey, beaten and kicked and stabbed by guards and prisoners alike, where a man had to sleep with one eye open and be ready to kill or be killed in an instant. Lately, Artis’s mind had become just like the Frolic Theater; it chose only to run light comedies and romances, starring himself and a number of brown, tan, and cinnamon-colored beauties with swishing hips and flashing eyes …
He banged on the once shiny, now dull, chrome arm of the sofa, and laughed again. The movie in his mind, this time, was starring himself when his stay in Chicago had made him an important figure for telling and retelling about the famous performers he had seen—Ethel “Momma Stringbean” Waters, the Inkspots, Lena, Louis.… He had been able to forget the insults, and the way his manhood had been cut off in the minds of the whites. But somehow, it was that very dismissal that made it go at it with a vengeance, just to prove that he as a man did exist.
Want a white woman?
I never hankered after no white woman! High yellow was as high as I cared to go.
He liked them, in fact, big and black … the blacker the berry, the sweeter the juice. And more could call him Daddy than he cared to admit. He could smile and shuffle, but it never bothered him; because he had a secret …
Yes, life was sweet; women, important talk, Knights of Pythias, High Potentate, strutting rights, setting on porches rights, the finest men’s colognes, women in peach satin gowns and multijeweled dresses to the floor, brown derbies and coats with collars puffed with purple, maroon, and green fur, midnight-colored women to kiss you good night, cigars that traveled from Cuba, a gold timepiece that could be pulled out for the hour or for impressing … Shake That Thing … good times at the Black Shadow Lounge. Bleach that skin, make us a little closer skin. If you are white, all right! If you’s brown, you be around. Yellow? You’re a nice fellow. But if you black, jump back … jump back.
Now the movie flipped to the fifties. He was standing in front of the Masonic Temple Drugstore, jingling change in his pockets. The feel and sound of folding money never appealed to him; he was not cursed with a driving desire to break his back earning the green stuff. He was just as happy with a pocket full of shiny dimes and quarters, won in the elusive game, known in the back alleys as the Galloping Dots, Seven-Come-Eleven, Snake-Eyes. But more times than not, the change was a gift from some grateful partner in passion.
When he finally lost his activities at age eighty, due to the natural deterioration and the normal wear and tear, there was many a disappointed lady in Slagtown. He was that rare and precious commodity: a woman’s man.
The movie speeds up, and sights and sounds start coming faster. Three-hundred-pound women, shaking and screaming in church … and in bed … “OH JESUS, I’M COMING!” … Mr. Artis O. Peavey and a number of women exchange nuptial vows … sitting in the Agate Cafe, talking to his friend Baby Shephard … “That woman done busted my head” … “I heard tell it was the husband” … “I would have fought for you, Odetta, but when a man’s got the difference in his hand, loaded and cocked, there ain’t no use in being a fool” … “Give me a pig’s foot and a bottle of beer” … “I’ve got the world in a jug and the stopper in my hand” … “You’re not the only oyster in the stew!”…. Blue Shadows and White Gardenias … amber-colored plastic cigar-holders … Professor Fess Whatley’s Jazz Demons.… Got the miseries? Feena-Mint.… Princess Pee Wee Sam and Scram … Fairyland Park Ballroom … Hartley Toots Killed in Bus.… I married her without my consent, so to speak … “That woman domineered over me”.… Nobody knows you when you’re down and out … Watch out … Don’t be coming down here … Oh no, you gonna get them white folks all mad … all riled up.… No, no, I ain’t one of ’em, boss, they’s just troublemakers … Yes suh … “Get off that bus!”
Artis tapped his foot on the floor three times and, magically, the movie changed. He is a little boy now, and his momma is cooking in the back of the cafe … Oh, don’t get in Momma’s way, she slap you out the door … There’s Naughty Bird and Willie Boy … and sweet Jasper … Grandma Sipsey’s there, dipping her cornbread in honey … Miss Idgie and Miss Ruth … they treat you white … And Stump … and Smokey Lonesome …
Then, the old man, who had been agitated just a moment before, begins to smile and relax. He is out in the back of the cafe, helping his daddy barbecue … and he is happy … we know a secret.
His daddy gives him a barbecue and a Grapico, and he runs way back up in the woods to eat it, where it’s cool and green and the pine needles are soft …
The pockmarked man in the hotel lobby walked over and shook the smiling Artis O. Peavey, who was now quiet and still. “What’s the matter with you?”
The man jumped back. “Jesus Christ! This nigger is dead!” He turned to his friend at the counter. “Not only that, but he’s done peed all over the floor!”
… But Artis was still way up in the woods, with his barbecue.
DECEMBER 5, 1986
Evelyn had been at the lodge almost two months now, and had already lost twenty-three pounds. But she had gained in another area. She had found her group, the group she had been looking for all of her life. Here they were, the candy snatchers: chubby housewives, divorcees, single teachers and librarians, each hoping for a new start in life as a slimmer, healthier person.
She had not known how much fun it would be. To Evelyn Couch and her cronies in poundage, the most important thing on their minds was what exciting low-cal dessert would the cooks come up with tonight? Would it be Chiffon Pumpkin Pie, 55 calories per serving? Or Nonfat Fruit Whip, only 50 calories? Or, maybe tonight they would have her favorite, Fitness Fla
n, 80 calories per serving.
It had never dawned on Evelyn that just knowing it was Boots and Mitties Day could make her heart sing, nor that she would be the one who was always early for Water Fun.
But something else had happened here that she could never have dreamed of. She had become a much sought-after, popular person! When new people arrived at the lodge, they were soon asked, “Have you met that darling woman from Alabama? Wait till you hear her talk, she has the most adorable accent, and is she a character!”
Evelyn had never thought of herself as being funny or having a cute accent, but it seemed that every time she said anything, the other women would scream with laughter. Evelyn enjoyed her newfound celebrity and played it for all it was worth, holding court at night by the fireplace. Her special friends were three housewives from Thousand Oaks, one named Dorothy and two named Stella. They formed their own, private fat club, and vowed to meet once a year for the rest of their lives; and Evelyn knew they would.
After stretch and flex class, she changed into her new royal-blue jogging outfit and stopped by the desk to get her mail. Ed dutifully forwarded all the junk mail, and usually there was nothing important; but today she saw a letter postmarked Whistle Stop, Alabama. She opened the letter and wondered who could be writing her from there?
Dear Mrs. Couch,
I am sorry to tell you that on last Sunday, around 6:30 A.M., your friend Mrs. Cleo Threadgoode passed away at her home. I have several things she wanted you to have. My husband and I will be happy to bring them to Birmingham, or you may pick them up at your convenience. Please call me at 555-7760. I am here all day.
Sincerely,
Mrs. Jonnie Hartman
Neighbor
Suddenly, Evelyn didn’t feel cute anymore, and she wanted to go home.
APRIL 8, 1986
Evelyn waited until the first warm day of spring before she called Mrs. Hartman. Somehow she could not stand the thought of seeing Whistle Stop for the first time in the dead of winter. Evelyn rang the doorbell and a pleasant-looking brown-haired woman came to the door.
“Oh Mrs. Couch, come on in. I’m so happy to meet you. Mrs. Threadgoode told me so much about you, I feel as if I know you already.”
She took Evelyn back into a spotless kitchen, where she had set two places with coffee cups and placed a freshly baked pound cake on her green Formica dinette set.
“I was so sorry to have to write you that letter, but I knew that you would want to know.”
“I appreciate that you did. I had no idea she had left Rose Terrace.”
“I know you didn’t. Her friend Mrs. Otis died about a week after you left.”
“Oh no. I didn’t know … I wonder why she didn’t tell me.”
“Well, I told her she ought to, but she said you were on your vacation and she didn’t want you to worry. That’s how she was, always looking out for the other fellow …
“We moved next door right after her husband died, so I guess I’ve been knowing her for over thirty years, and I never heard her complain, not once, and she didn’t have an easy life. Her son, Albert, was like a child. But every day, she’d get up, and shave and bathe and powder him, and put on his hernia belt—treated him just like he was a baby, even after he was a grown man.… There was never a child more loved than Albert Threadgoode. Bless her heart, I miss her so much, and I know you do, too.”
“Yes, I do, and I just feel terrible I wasn’t there. Maybe I could have done something, gotten her to a doctor or something.”
“No honey. There wasn’t a thing you could have done. She wasn’t sick. We always carried her with us to church on Sunday, and usually she would be all dressed and waiting, sitting on her front porch. But that Sunday morning, when we got ready to leave, she wasn’t there, which was very unusual. So Ray, my husband, walked over and knocked on her door, but she didn’t answer, so he went on in, and in a few minutes he came back out by himself. I said, ‘Ray, where’s Mrs. Threadgoode?’ And he said, ‘Honey, Mrs. Threadgoode’s dead,’ and then he sat down on the steps and cried. She died in her sleep, just as peaceful. I really think she knew her time was near, because whenever I went over there, she would say, ‘Now, Jonnie, if anything ever happens to me, I want Evelyn to have these things.’ She thought the world of you. She’d brag on you all the time and said that she was sure you’d come riding up here one day and take her for a ride in your new Cadillac. Poor old thing, when she died, she didn’t have hardly anything to her name but a few knickknacks. That reminds me, let me get your things.”
Mrs. Hartman came back with a picture of a naked girl swinging on a swing, with blue bubbles in the background; a shoe box; and a Mason jar with what looked like gravel in it.
Evelyn took the jar. “What in the world?”
Mrs. Hartman laughed. “That’s her gallstones. Why she thought you’d want them, the Lord only knows.”
Evelyn opened the shoe box. Inside, she found Albert’s birth certificate, Cleo’s graduation diploma from the Palmer School of Chiropractic, in Davenport, Iowa, in 1927, and about fifteen funeral programs. Then she found an envelope full of photographs. The first was a picture of a man and a little boy in a sailor suit, sitting on a half-moon. Next was a 1939 school picture of a little blond boy; on the back it said, Stump Threadgoode—10 years old. Then she picked up a family portrait of the Threadgoode family, taken in 1919; Evelyn felt as if they were old friends. She recognized Buddy immediately, with those flashing eyes and big smile. There was Essie Rue and the twins, and Leona, posing like a queen … and little Idgie, with her toy rooster. And there, way in the back, in a long white apron, was Sispey, taking picture posing very seriously.
Right underneath, she found a picture of a young woman in a white dress, standing in the same yard, shading her eyes from the sun and smiling at the person taking the picture. Evelyn thought that she was probably one of the loveliest-looking creatures she had ever seen, with those long eyelashes and that sweet smile. But she didn’t recognize her. She asked Mrs. Hartman if she knew who it was.
Mrs. Hartman put on the glasses she had hanging on a chain around her neck and studied that picture for a while, puzzled. “Oh, I’ll tell you who that is! That’s that friend of hers who lived here for a time. She was from Georgia … Ruth somebody.”
My God, thought Evelyn; Ruth Jamison. It must have been taken that first summer she had come to Whistle Stop. She looked at it again. It had never occurred to her that Ruth had been so beautiful.
The next picture was of a gray-haired woman wearing a hunting cap and sitting on Santa Claus’s knee, with Season’s Greetings, 1956 written on the backdrop.
Mrs. Hartman took it and laughed. “Oh, that’s that fool Idgie Threadgoode. She used to run the cafe out here.”
“Did you know her?”
“Who didn’t! Oh, she was a mess, there was no telling what that one would do next.”
“Look, Mrs. Hartman, here’s a picture of Mrs. Threadgoode.” The photograph had been taken downtown at Love-man’s department store, about twenty years before; Mrs. Threadgoode was already gray and looked very much like she did the last time Evelyn had seen her.
Mrs. Hartman took the picture in hand. “Bless her heart, I remember that dress. It was dark navy blue with white polka dots. She must have worn that dress for thirty years. After she died, she said she wanted all her clothes to go to the Goodwill. She really didn’t have anything worth saving, poor soul, just an old coat and a few housedresses. They picked up what little furniture there was, all except for the glider on the front porch. I just couldn’t bear to give them that. She used to sit in that thing all day and night, waiting for the trains to go by. It just wouldn’t seem right to let strangers have it. She left her house to our daughter, Terry.”
Evelyn was still taking things out of the box. “Look, Mrs. Hartman, here’s an old menu from the Whistle Stop Cafe. It must be from the thirties. Can you believe those prices? A barbecue for ten cents … and you could get a complete dinner for thirty-
five cents! And pie was a nickel!”
“Isn’t that something. It costs at least five or six dollars to get a decent meal nowadays, even out at the cafeteria, and they charge you extra for your beverage and your pie, at that.”
Before she was through, Evelyn found a photograph of Idgie wearing a pair of those glasses with the fake nose, standing with four goofy-looking guys dressed up in crazy outfits, with Dill Pickle Club … Icebox Follies, 1942 written underneath … and an Easter card from Cleo, the postcards Evelyn had sent her from California, a Southern Railroad pullman car menu from the fifties, a half-used lipstick, a mimeographed copy of Psalm 90, and a hospital armband that said:
Mrs. Cleo Threadgoode
An eighty-six-year-old woman
And down at the very bottom of the box, Evelyn found the envelope addressed to Mrs. Evelyn Couch.
“Look, she must have written me a letter.” She opened it and read the note:
Evelyn,
Here are some of Sipsey’s original recipes I wrote down. They have given me so much pleasure, I thought I’d pass them on to you, especially the one for Fried Green Tomatoes.
I love you, dear little Evelyn. Be happy. I am happy.
Your Friend,
Mrs. Cleo Threadgoode
Mrs. Hartman said, “Well, bless her heart, she wanted you to have those.”
Evelyn was sad as she carefully folded the note and put everything back. She thought, My God, a living, breathing person was on this earth for eighty-six years, and this is all that’s left, just a shoe box full of old papers.