A Place Called Wiregrass (6 page)

A tall man in a navy suit escorted us to the tenth pew. Missoura’s appointed spot, I decided. I was surprised he didn’t sit us in the front row. Roxi always told me whenever white people went to her church for weddings or funerals, they were seated directly in the front. At first I thought it was a sign of honor, but then she told me it was because everybody wanted to keep an eye on them. Seeing how underdressed I was, I sighed, relieved we didn’t get placed up in the very front.

When the organ music swept over us and the singing started, I had to tap Cher’s arm to stop her from turning around and staring. People were swaying all around us and lifting up their hands. A few shouted “Amen” and “I know that’s right.” Whatever we may have thought, we couldn’t knock the peace and confidence they had that Sunday morning.

While a big bald man in a black robe wiped sweat off his brow, we heard a booming voice deliver the same story told to us by Miss Claudia. One of divine appointment, crucifixion, and resurrection. Even Miss Claudia let loose with a few amens of her own. At one point, when the pastor asked everyone to turn to their neighbor and declare they’d been blessed, Miss Claudia quickly turned to Cher and me. She put both of her cold hands on our cheeks and said, “Oh, I’ve been blessed.”

A warmth cut through me. I started to reach up and put my hand on hers. But I sat silent, searching her hazel eyes. Her eyes were the softest I had ever seen—eyes that made you feel like you were the only one in the room who meant a thing in the world to her.

It was one-thirty before we ever made it to the circular driveway of Miss Claudia’s country club. The church service had to go on record as the longest in history. “As long as the Spirit is moving, who’s gonna argue?” Miss Claudia whispered after Cher voiced her shock at the length of the sermon. I had to agree with Cher.

After the service, I was afraid Cher had put her foot in her mouth when she asked Missoura if she was going to join us for lunch. “No, y’all go on. I got other plans.” I knew she hadn’t been invited. Couldn’t have gone even if Miss Claudia wanted her to. I thought it crazy how this petite elderly woman, who was dressed much better than me, couldn’t enter the doors of the very place Miss Claudia was taking a cafeteria worker. Believe me, I’d rather be eating dinner with Missoura than the crowd I had to face at that club.

I swallowed hard and carefully maneuvered the car up the hill to the covered portico. The big white brick building had white columns everywhere you turned. Cher had her head pressed against the backseat window as we made our way up the azalea-lined driveway. The grounds were manicured as perfectly as Miss Claudia’s, but five hundred times bigger. I couldn’t even imagine how many people it must take to keep the place in shape.

The good thing about the long church service was that most of the Methodist, Baptist, Presbyterian, and Episcopalian crowd had already eaten and gone. But one of the old guard remained. As soon as we stepped foot into the red-carpeted foyer, I laid eyes on that prune-faced Elizabeth. Cher and me
stood next to the planted palm and watched as she offered air kisses to Miss Claudia.

“That hat is just precious,” Prune Face said, actually showing teeth. “We missed you in church today,” she said with that pointy chin tilted towards the carpet.

“My friend Missoura wanted us to go to her church.” Miss Claudia turned to point in our general direction. Prune Face shot us a quick look and then blinked her eyes, seeming to want to take us out of focus.

“Well, now. Do I know this lady? She attend the Baptist church?” Elizabeth folded her arms and leaned sideways, as if concerned she’d have to stop Miss Claudia from joining a cult.

“We go way back to Apalachicola. You know her. Her husband, Aaron, worked for us down at the store.”

“Aaron?” Elizabeth straightened up and slightly tucked her head. “You mean the colored man who ran the elevator?” By the way she whispered the word
colored,
you would’ve thought she was using the most vile four-letter word known to man.

Miss Claudia was unaffected. “Bless his soul, you know, he died five years back. Anyway, I just think the world of his wife, Missoura. We all went to services with her. And brother did that preacher lay it on us.” Miss Claudia turned to look out the double-glassed doors. “In fact, I’m expecting her any minute. She’s going to join us for lunch.”

Elizabeth’s big blue eyes bugged even wider. “Here?” She leaned over and pointed down to the carpet.

“Well, where else? Oh me, where are my manners. You know my companion, Erma Lee Jacobs. This here’s her granddaughter, Cher.” Miss Claudia waved her hands for us to stand by her.

Prune Face stood frozen, finger pointing down to the floor. Cher looked up at me all nervous-like. I hated that she had to see this, but I was just doing handstands on the inside.
If I’d had control over the Wiregrass newspaper that day, I would’ve run with the headline: “Prune Face Gets Hers.”

“Now, Claudia. You do realize there are rules the club abides to and…”

Prune Face was saved by her skinny, bent-over husband, who had strips of thin gray hair covering his balding head.

“Well, lookie here.” He wiped his mouth with his handkerchief and had a more pleasant grin than his wife. “Claudia, you look like you’re doing good. Hip getting back to normal?”

While Miss Claudia updated the husband on her nasty fall and the bruise that still lingered, I saw Elizabeth pinch him on the sleeve of his jacket. As if pulled by a string, he quickly said, “Well, y’all have a nice lunch,” and they departed. I turned around to look through the glass doors and saw her bony hands chopping air as I’m sure she recounted the shocking news that a colored would be having lunch at her exclusive club.

I tried to contain myself by biting my tongue. The soft piano music coming from the center of the room seemed too dignified for a fit of laughter. When the man in the white dinner jacket sat us outside on the balcony, I was relieved. The clapping of rotating sprinklers on the fairway would help to weaken any misbehavior that might burst forth. Finally the picture of Prune Face bent over, pointing with her skinny finger, was too much.

Cher looked at me like I’d lost my senses when I erupted. Unfortunately, Miss Claudia had just taken a sip of iced tea and spat the liquid across the table. All the sudden I forgot that she lived on Elm Drive. She was still all refined in her white-and-navy hat, but the way she bent over sideways, clutching her shaking bosom, made me believe she could pass for one of my neighbors at Westgate Trailer Park. A couple behind us peered to see what the commotion was all about.

I have got to straighten up,
I kept telling myself. But every time I tried to stop laughing, Miss Claudia would mimic Prune Face by dropping her chin, bugging her eyes out, and pointing to the floor with her index finger. Then it would all start right back up again.

“Y’all are embarrassing me.” Cher held the menu up to her face.

Through a blur of tears, I finally staggered to the ladies’ room, leaned against the magnolia-printed wallpaper, and howled. The deep stomach holler felt good. Miss Claudia really didn’t like that Prune Face after all.

I
had never been late before in my life. Not even when Bozo would get on a drunk and keep me up until two in the morning. That play only had two scenes. Either I’d try to find him and drag him away from one of his watering holes, or he’d find me with his raging fist.

But when I faced the morning late for work because my car wouldn’t crank, I knew I had to take action. Not even the pliers trick could make the engine come to life.

Kasi, Laurel’s mama, appeared out of nowhere. I barely knew the woman who lived in the double-wide across from me. Her bleached white hair was shorter than Mama’s and stuck up all over the top of her head. To look at Kasi, you’d think she never ran a brush through that spiky mess. She approached me as I tinkered under the hood of the car, mumbling every cuss word I knew.

“Sounds like you got you a mess.”

When I leaned from under the car hood displaying my evil eye, as Cher calls it, she took a step backward.

“I just…well, thought maybe you needed me to call somebody or something.” She took a drag on her cigarette and pulled down her already too tight black T-shirt with a face resembling Vince Gill spray-painted across her bosom.

“This piece of crap just got on my last nerve is all.” I slammed the hood down. “As it is, I’m already going to be late for work.” I didn’t want to tell her I had no one to call for
help. Richard first entered my mind, but fearing he might have an attack of his nerves under the pressure, I decided against it.

“Well, my shift ain’t for another hour. I’ll run you to work.” The ride to Barton Elementary in her sapphire blue Toyota pickup was risky on my part. I still didn’t know who to trust.

“That old bat Miss Trellis give you her rules yet?” Kasi squashed out a cigarette in the ashtray while trying to steer the truck at the same time. “Don’t tell her nothing you don’t want the whole entire trailer park to know.” She squinted her eyes and held the fire-orange bulb of the truck lighter to a second cigarette. “Oh, and about that car. Take it to Gerald Peterson, down at Peterson and Son. He’ll give you a real good deal. Tell him I sent you. Just down past the trailer park on Naples Road.”

When her blue truck made its way up the circular school driveway, I wanted out of there. I was hoping Patricia wouldn’t look out her corner office window and see me, late for work and talking to a spiky-haired creature in a pickup truck. “I sure do appreciate it. Let me know if there’s any way I can help you sometime,” I said. If the closing truck door had squeaked any louder, I would have missed Kasi’s parting words.

Kasi leaned towards the open passenger window and nodded her head. “Awright. Sounds good. Maybe we can go out partying. When Cher’s daddy comes to visit, you’ll have a full-time baby-sitter then.”

Before I could get the questions I wanted to ask out of my opened mouth, the blue truck lurched forward and gained speed. I was so shocked at Kasi’s announcement of unexpected company that I forgot to be nervous about being late for work.

By the time I had mixed up the potato-burger loaf, I went from being worried to angry. What did Kasi mean that Cher’s daddy was coming to visit? How dare Bozo plan to come down here and pay a visit to Cher? He had only talked to her three times since we had moved here. And only then to find out what I’d been up to. But then again, was Cher really telling the truth? Maybe she just told Laurel and her mama that he was coming to make them think Bozo gave a flip about her.
Poor little thing
.

As we put the trays of food out on the cafeteria line, Sammy continued to prod my quiet mood. He kept asking me if I was in trouble. “Nothing’s the matter,” I lied. I wanted to scream and tell him to watch for a murder on CNN, because I knew if Bozo showed up something bad would happen. After the attack I dreamed up, I pictured Sammy being interviewed and saying what a good worker I was. From down the line of third-graders ready to graze, I spotted Patricia with her arms draped over the shoulders of two little boys. She would be interviewed too. She’d wax her face up but good and act all sad over the horrible misfortune. I just hoped the killing wouldn’t happen right in front of Miss Claudia’s house. After all, Bozo did have her phone number.

“Mama said y’all had the best time Sunday,” Patricia drawled with one hand on a lunch tray and the other straightening the shirt collar attached to a little black boy. He rolled his eyes up towards her shiny red mouth. When she grinned and pursed her glossed lips, I cautiously guarded the potato-burger loaf. I knew that just any minute the honey-looking stuff on her lips would drip off into the food.

“It was real nice,” I said, handing her a plate. With my car dead and me soon to be next, I was not in the mood for her
fakey ways.
Keep moving down the line away from me
. The image of my green paycheck gave me the strength to smile real nice at Patricia.

“I just hate that I missed it.” She released the little black boy, and he quickly stepped two paces ahead of her. Patricia’s hand dangled at her lips as if she was telling me the secret recipe to Kentucky Fried Chicken. “It just didn’t look good for Doctor Tom and me to go, you know.” She pursed her lips, closed her eyes, and shook her head real fast to emphasize the inappropriateness of it all.

Why Patricia called her own husband by the title of doctor, I never did know. When I first started working for Miss Claudia, I thought the word
doctor
was part of his first name. Just like I got two first names. Then I realized that this man, whose first name Patricia always threw the
doctor
to, was really a dentist. I guess if he spent all that time in school, he wanted to make sure he was appreciated for his hard work.

During lunch cleanup, I watched Sammy out of the corner of my eye. He twisted and turned to help this one and that one remove empty trays from the steaming bed. And with a prance, he was in the main kitchen, where he appointed Miss Dot, who was still ailing from hip surgery, the easy job of wiping down tables.

When he approached me, my stomach churned. I imagined the little kids who had earlier that day bravely stood on the cafeteria stage and spelled words longer than my arm. Swallowing hard and trying to imitate the spelling-bee bravery, I wondered whether I should go on offense or defense in justifying my squirrelly behavior.

“You know when you asked me what was the matter earlier,” I said, creasing the lines of the dishrag. “Well, my car is tore up. I had to catch a lift here this morning. You know, that’s how come me to be late, and I just hate to ask…”

His mustache spread wide, and he gently placed his hand on my white polyester shoulder. “You need a ride to Mrs. Tyler’s?”

While he drove me to my second job, Sammy talked about taking his cat to the vet. I leaned against the window, offering a few “uh-huhs” in the right places.
Why couldn’t I get my new life in order? Why was Bozo showing up now of all times? If he would’ve come at all, I’da thought it would’ve been when we first moved down here.
Dread brewed in my chest. Some things aren’t fitting to talk to others about, and most the time nobody really cares anyway. So I sat there in the passenger seat of Sammy’s black El Camino, letting the Wiregrass sun pour on me as I listened to the ailments of Spooksie.

The clanging of the piano drifted onto the street. Richard was sitting on the side-porch steps reading a book. Learning more about the Bermuda Triangle, I figured. As I drew closer, the noise of the piano increased. It sounded like the old-timey piano playing at Aunt Stella’s church. The rhythm had a one-two-three, one-two-three tempo. The song even seemed familiar.

“Mama’s getting ready for Carnegie Hall,” Richard said, squinting his eyes together and laughing.

I didn’t even bother with one of my usual fake grins. His silliness was not finding me in good humor today. The old fool didn’t even realize somebody had dropped me off. I decided when it got time for me to go, I was going to have to come out and directly ask Richard for a ride home.

When I began to walk past him, Richard blocked me by stretching his left arm across the concrete step. Stroking his thin black book, he said, “I’m reading about the domestication of modern-day cats in the Egyptian world. It’s just fascinating. Erma Lee, did you know that Cleopatra…”

“Oh, goodness. I think I hear Miss Claudia needing some help.” I stepped over his arm and continued up the porch.
Too bad Sammy and Richard couldn’t get together,
I thought.
With all Richard’s so-called knowledge, maybe he could save Sammy a vet bill by diagnosing what ailed Spooksie
.

The one-two-three rhythm engulfed me when I walked into the living room. With her eyes closed and swaying like Ray Charles, Miss Claudia hummed some song, and I fished for the name in the deepest corner of my mind. Her cane was propped up against the big black piano. I wondered how she ever learned to play with such an awful childhood. I knew that trashy stepdaddy of hers didn’t pay for any lessons.

With the last touch of the ivory, I forced my mind to dump the image of Bozo, drunk, with a loaded shotgun. Instead, I clapped my hands. As bad as my day had been and with my life now ending, I hoped her home with its warm colors and fancy paintings would offer a refuge.

“Good gracious alive.” She clamped her hand to the periwinkle blouse. Her hair was done, and her makeup dewy fresh. “I didn’t know I had an audience.”

I began picking up pieces of Richard’s trademarks: sections of the newspaper scattered on the floor near the sofa. “I mean to tell you, you’re good now.” I continued to work and talk. With a talker like Miss Claudia it’s the only way I could get my work done and be able to visit at the same time. After Easter, I’d come to realize part of my duties was to keep her entertained. Patricia never came right out and said it, but even Miss Claudia claimed me as her companion. “How long you been playing the piano?”

She flipped through the faded green hymnal and shook her head ever so gently. “I declare. Let’s see. Missoura taught me back when I was seventeen, somers in there. Here we go. How about ‘How Great Thou Art’?”

Some of my favorite things in the home on Elm Drive were the cobalt blue glasses stored in the white living-room shelves. Miss Claudia had told me her late husband, Wade, had given her the antique glasses as a wedding gift. After a good dusting, I always loved standing back and watching the sun seep inside the swirls of blue and teal.

As I inched the dust rag inside each glass, I found myself humming along with Miss Claudia to the steady rhythm. Then, as clear as the pictures Miss Claudia made with her instant Polaroid, I remembered where I had heard the song. I remembered the flowers, the preacher, and the sweet one-two-three rhythm of that old-timey piano just like it was yesterday. But Aunt Stella had been gone ten years now.

When I looked inside that frilly gray casket and saw my aunt’s face all sticky-looking, I started to cry. From the time I was just a little thing, I knew she was the one person who really loved me. Mama quickly reached across the flowers on top of the casket and squeezed my elbow. Her eyes pierced me as if to say, “If I can stand my own sister’s death, then I expect the same out of you.”

Mama didn’t like for me to cry. Said it made me look weak, and people would feel sorry for me. I just hope that after Bozo shows up with his shotgun and blows me away in front of this safe haven, Mama won’t expect Cher not to cry.

What about Cher? If I go, who’ll end up with her? Mama?

I felt the blood drain from my face and neck. The very idea of that cold woman taking thirteen years of my training and turning Cher into an empty shell made me want to throw up. I tipped to the right and caught myself on the edge of the grand piano top. Before I realized it, the blue cobalt glass blasted into pieces on the hardwood floor.

Bozo’s shotgun blast won’t sound much louder,
I thought. Paralyzed, I stood looking at the scattered pieces. The chips of
glass looked like hundreds of expensive blue stones ready to be mined.

With the shrill crack of glass, Miss Claudia stopped playing and turned towards me. I had my hands up in the air like something gone wild. My mouth flew open, but nothing came out. Tears puddled in my eyes.

“Don’t you cry, girl. You want this woman to think you’re weak?”
I heard Mama yell in my mind.

Miss Claudia picked up her cane and approached the rubble. She put her hand on my shoulder. I still couldn’t look at her. My hand shielded the side of my face as though I expected a strike from her blue-veined hand. Mouth still open, all I could manage was some sort of half-human moan.

This is it for sure. I’ll never be able to work off how much this thing cost.

“It was an accident is all. No reason to let your nerves get keyed up.” Her bony fingers squeezed my shoulder tighter.

I could only turn my head away from her. “I’m so…so…sorry. And these the glasses your husband…” Some sort of matter seemed to gather in my throat. Looking down, I saw an escaped tear mark a spot on her hardwood floor.

“People make mistakes every day. You know what my husband Wade used to tell folks down at the store? He’d tell ’em, if you’re not making one mistake a day, then I question if you’re really working.”

If I’d had a tail, it would’ve been tucked between my legs. Instead, I tucked my head. When I turned to face her, I let myself fall into those hazel eyes. I dropped the invisible shield and bit my lip to keep from squalling. Soon I felt her bony fingers again, pulling me into her bosom.

“All this fuss over some blue glass. Oh, I can get Patricia to get me another one. It’s just a thing, sugar, not a human being.”

Her hand patted my back while I clung to her soft, silky shoulder. I would not cry. I couldn’t cry now and stain her
pretty silk blouse with my weak tears. Without the release of a single tear, I erupted. “I’m gonna get killed. Cher won’t even be able to cry, and they’ll all be telling you what trash I was.”

She pulled me back to examine my face. Her raised eyebrows and gaped mouth seemed to question if I had been struck by one of Richard’s nerve attacks. Instead of calling for a straitjacket like she probably should have, she and her cane led me to the kitchen table.