Authors: Virginia Brown
We dwelled on that for a moment, both from our own unique perspective, then Bitty came in and all conversation halted as she launched into one of her Bitty-tales. This one had to do with the indignities and shameful conduct of certain judicial members who’d denied Jackson Lee’s petition to drop the charges against Bitty because of circumstantial evidence.
“Just what kind of evidence do they think they have?” she demanded from no one in particular. “A few specks of blood on my shoes, my fingerprints on an aluminum pot, of all things to worry about, and Philip thawing out in my wine cellar. It’s police brutality, that’s what it is, just police brutality!”
Sensitive to the fact that Sharita’s brother is Marcus Stone, the officer who arrested Bitty, I looked at her, but she only smiled. She obviously knew Bitty meant nothing personal against Officer Stone.
Sharita and I made soothing, noncommittal sounds that Bitty viewed as agreement. She sat down at the table with Chen Ling tucked under her chin, and destroyed a cinnamon roll with her fingers, shredding more than she consumed. I eyed it wistfully. I really hate to see cinnamon rolls vandalized.
“Have the police found out where Philip was hidden?” I asked when it looked like she intended to massacre another cinnamon roll, and licking icing from her fingers, Bitty shrugged.
“Probably a warehouse freezer. They’re still looking. Someone must have kept Sanders there too, though I don’t know about that. And just think, Trinket, we had that same—”
”Bitty, when are the boys due to arrive?” I interrupted before she said more than she needed to say in front of a police officer’s sister. It’s not like Marcus Stone had to already know all the details anyway, but no point in putting Sharita on the spot.
“Any time now,” she said, happily distracted. “I haven’t seen them in ages. It’s Spring Break and they’d planned on staying the whole time down in Florida, but I wish they’d stay here. They can go to Fort Lauderdale any old time.”
I brightened. The likelihood of two college boys being persuaded to stay with their drama-prone mother instead of bikini-clad college girls wasn’t great. I’d convince them they weren’t needed here yet, and promise to summon them home when they were. It sounded so perfect.
And as in so many things that sound perfect in theory, reality proved to be quite different.
Chapter Sixteen
Clayton and Brandon arrived in a whirlwind of noise and energy. It was both exhilarating and exhausting. Sometimes I wonder if that’s my age or my intolerance showing, since after about ten minutes of high-level, frenetic activity, I’m ready for a quiet, solitary corner. But then, I’ve been that way since my twenties. While I prefer to think of it as achieving maturity, Bitty has referred to it as having a stick up my rear. Or words very close to that.
From the moment Brandon pulled his gleaming black sports car into Bitty’s driveway, the walls rattled and roof shingles fluttered. Brandon is just naturally a loud speaker, which I think will be a great asset if he does go into law or becomes a carnival barker. Clayton, the younger by two minutes, is determined to be heard over his brother. The result is very similar to being caught in the middle of a volcanic eruption.
As I’ve said, Bitty’s sons are identical twins, both tall, blond-haired, with brown eyes and the general physique of their father, who’d been a jock at Ole Miss when Bitty met him. Neither of the boys have their father’s natural inclination to dishonesty, thank goodness, though I put that down to Bitty’s high expectations rather than genetics. She’s the kind of mother who expects the best from her offspring, and accepts nothing less. Her sons turn themselves inside out to please her, and while Bitty can be indulgent at times, when she says she’s had enough, she’s had enough and they toe the line.
So about the time my head began to vibrate at that high speed that shatters glass, Bitty said calmly to them, “That’s enough, boys. Your Aunt Trinket’s getting those unsightly lines between her eyebrows again.”
Blessed silence fell, though my ears still hummed a little.
I sorted through the rapid-fire things they’d said since coming in the front door, and said, “So Brandon, you’ve changed your major to pre-law classes?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Properly reared Southerners always use that courtesy with older family members and complete strangers. Most of the time, you just can’t get them
not
to say it, it’s that deeply ingrained. “Mama says I can argue the hide off a coon hound, so I figured that might come in handy.” Brandon nudged his brother. “Besides, the way Clayton’s going, he’ll need a good lawyer in the family.”
Clayton shoved back. “Better shut up, bro.”
Bitty narrowed her eyes. “All right. What’s going on?”
It was amazing, watching the transformation from often scattered drama queen to “I mean business” mother. Just as amazing, the two young men slouching in their chairs at the kitchen table sat up straight and looked nervous.
After a hesitation, Clayton said firmly, “We didn’t want to worry you, not with all you’ve had happening lately, but I’ve gotten myself into a fix at school. I’ve been accused of cheating by one of my professors.”
Bitty just looked at him with one brow lifted, and after a moment, Clayton added in a much less confident tone, “I didn’t cheat, Mama. Not really.”
“And what, pray tell, does ‘not really’ mean?”
“Well, I’ve been making a little extra cash, you know, so I don’t have to keep asking for money.”
“How have you been doing that, by stealing and selling tests?”
“
No ma’am
!” both young men said at the same time. Then Brandon said, “Clayton’s just been helping out a few people with failing grades, that’s all. He feels sorry for them, because most of them have to work all the time to pay for their tuition, while we’ve got trust funds and don’t have to work, so have plenty of time for studying.”
“So you
give
them the tests you’ve stolen? And I’m asking Clayton, not you, Brandon. Let him speak for himself.” She trained her gaze on Clayton, who fidgeted like he was twelve.
“No ma’am, I haven’t stolen anything, I swear. I write papers for them. Most of the time the professors don’t know who we are anyway, so I write the paper and they sign their name.”
“Out of the goodness of your heart.”
Clayton’s appeasing smile faded. “No ma’am, not quite. There’s a small fee, you know, just for my time. But then they pass the class.”
“Clayton Caldwell, that’s
cheating
. It’s turning in work they haven’t done. Shame on you for being a part of something like that.”
There were a few uncomfortable moments during which I decided this needed to be a private family discussion, and I eased away from the table and went out to the screened porch. It was once the old kitchen, separate from the house in case of fire, connected only by a breezeway. Over the years and renovations, it’s become a nice-sized screened-in porch, accessible just off the new kitchen. It still has a fireplace on one wall, with one of the six chimneys sticking up and painted white. In cold weather, a nice fire gets the chill off the air. But I turned on the ceiling fan and sat down in a wicker lounge to reflect on the perils of motherhood. Then I had the sudden urge to call my daughter, so I did.
To my delight, she picked up her cell phone immediately. “Mama, I was just thinking about you!”
We both laughed. The miles disappeared, and it was like she was right beside me. Michelle has this laugh that makes everyone around her want to laugh with her, one of those full, joyful, from deep inside laughs. When she was little, she had a stuffed rabbit Mama gave her for Easter, with a voice box laugh almost identical to hers. She named it Thumper for the giggly rabbit in the movie
Bambi
. Whenever she laughs now, I think about Thumper, and I smile.
“How’s Aunt Bitty?” Michelle asked after we’d gone down the usual conversational route of her health, husband, job, and new house-hunting. “Is she holding up all right?”
“Clayton and Brandon just got here. She’s turned into Super-Mom. She’ll be fine.”
“That’s probably just what she needs, a distraction to take her mind off everything.”
“Any more distractions,” I said, “and she won’t be able to fit the murder charges into her busy schedule. She’s adopted a dog, too.”
“Aunt Bitty? A dog? Now, why didn’t I ever think of that? It’s just perfect for her. She needs something to mother. What kind of dog?”
“A pug. Looks like a small Yoda. Or one of those Muppets. The cranky one.”
Michelle laughed. “Did she name it Oscar?”
“It’s a female named Lady something. She calls it Chen Ling. I call it Chitling.”
“I feel so much better now that you’re back home. I hated it when you were off all alone, you were so unhappy, and I always worried so much about you.”
That got my attention. “About me? I liked being alone.”
“I know. That’s what worried me. I think you’re doing much better now that you’ve got Grandad and Grandma close by, and of course, Aunt Bitty.”
Bitty isn’t really her aunt, like I’m not Clayton and Brandon’s aunt, but since it’s always so confusing and troublesome to go through the kinship rituals, even distant relatives are called aunt or uncle. Unless they’re disliked. Then they aren’t called at all, but avoided if possible.
“Well,” I said, “I’m glad
you
feel better. You may have to come visit me in Whitfield.”
Even Michelle, who didn’t grow up at all in Mississippi, knows that Whitfield is the state insane asylum. Of course they call it something else now, rehabilitation, or mental health facility, or some other name that really means the same thing. You’re there because “you ain’t right” in the head, whether through no fault of your own or self-inflicted substance abuse.
“Of all people in the world, you’re not one I’ll ever have to worry about checking into a mental facility of any kind,” Michelle said firmly, and I sighed.
“That’s too bad. I was looking forward to a little room service.”
When we hung up, I felt able to face almost anything, and I hope she had reassurance that I’m never too far away from her. Sometimes I make the mistake of thinking of her as she was at three, or six, or fifteen, then I remember she’s nearly thirty and on her own, and the love I had for her as a child has only grown, too. It’s the nice thing about children. Mothers tend to forget most of the bad things sooner or later. The good things are forever.
Bitty joined me on the porch, and sat down in the wicker rocker next to me and handed me a Bloody Mary. “It’s fresh,” she said. “Brandon took a bartending class.”
“Is that part of pre-law?”
“Must be mandatory. Every lawyer I’ve ever known can make any drink you name.”
“So, all’s well?”
“It will be. I’m going to have a talk with his professor to see if we can work out a way for Clayton to make up the classes he missed, but if we can’t, then he’ll fail the course. He’s lucky they’re not considering expelling him.”
“This is very good,” I said about the drink, “just spicy enough without being too spicy.”
Bitty grinned. “Brandon said he learned how to make these for old ladies at Oxford garden club functions.”
“I don’t know whether to be insulted, or wish I belonged to the Oxford Garden Club.”
We sat there for a little while, chatting aimlessly about our kids and the pretty weather, and everything except Philip Hollandale and Sherman Sanders. The ceiling fan stirred cool air, birds sang outside, and wonderful smells still came from the kitchen even though Sharita had left a few hours earlier.
For some reason, I thought about Melody Doyle saying what she had the night before. “How well do you know Melody?” I asked Bitty, who was stirring the last of her drink with the celery stalk.
“Um, not really well. She’s so young, you know. But her family’s always lived here. For a while she lived down in Georgia, went there after school, met a man and I guess that didn’t work out so well. Marcy brought her to a Diva meeting, and since two of our members had moved, and since her mother was Maybelle Overton, we invited her to join us.”
“Maybelle Overton . . . you know, I’d forgotten about her. Cancer, wasn’t it?”
Bitty nodded. “Just terrible. She went so quick, and Melody just a little thing. Maybelle’s mother raised her. Did as well as she could by her, but I always thought she was a scary old lady. Dressed in long black dresses and wore her hair pulled back into that tight bun.”
“I remember her. She tapped me with the end of her cane once for talking in church.”
We both laughed at that. Sunday morning church meetings had seemed to go on forever when we were kids, and Bitty and I used to try and sneak out if we got permission to sit in the back. My sister Emerald always sat up front with Mama and Daddy, dressed in her prim little dress and shiny shoes, with ribbons in her pretty blond hair and her hands folded in her lap. I rarely made it to church without getting dirt on my dress, and ribbons never stayed long in my unruly hair. Next to Emerald, I always looked like a cartoon character anyway. I can attest to the fact that there are three-hundred-sixty-eight bricks visible in the wall of the store next door to the church, in case you get stuck sitting in the first pew. There’s a big window by that pew. I still think Emerald figured out how to sleep through the sermons with her eyes open.
“When are the boys due to leave for Florida?” I asked casually, not that I was anxious for them to go or anything, it’s just that two more cars had pulled up outside and loud music rattled all six chimneys.
“Oh, they’re not going this year. Clayton needs to learn consequences for his actions, and I told them they can both stay home. Besides, I like having them around. It’s been too quiet lately without them, don’t you think?”
By now my eyes had crossed and my head vibrated like a tuning fork to the beat of a song with lyrics something like
“don’t you mess with me”
and a few other words I’d rather not repeat.
“Yes,” I mumbled when I could speak without screaming, “much too quiet. How long is Spring Break?”
“Ten days. They’re coming back for the pilgrimage, though. They can’t miss that. It’s the highlight of the year, and they’re always so handsome in their uniforms, don’t you think?”