In Front of God and Everybody (10 page)

Ian and Isabel snarled under their breath at each other, cussing quite a bit, so Mama spoke up. “I do believe these are the best rolls you've ever made, Mama Grace.” She was trying to get things back to normal.

“I used a different brand of yeast,” Grandma announced quickly, reaching for a roll and breaking it open. “They are nice and soft, ain't they? Have another, Mr. St. James?” She held out the basket to him, and he took one.

Just about that time, Mr. Rance said to Daddy, “I hear tell this here is just about the biggest farm in these parts. How many acres you farmin'?”

“A little under four hundred.”

“'Zat all? Why, this ain't but a flyspeck to what I ranched down in Beauhide County in Texas,” the old man bragged. “Just my backyard was a couple a hundred acres.”

What was this, anyway? Be Rude to the Folks Who Feed You Night?

But my good ole daddy just laughed and said, “Well, I hear everything's bigger in Texas.”

Mr. Rance's loud laugh drowned out everybody else. While the old man snorted and heehawed, Daddy asked Ian about the weather in California this time of year. Mama tried to talk to Isabel, but the ole gal didn't talk back. She blinked a lot, though, with her mouth all pushed into a wad.

Mr. Rance bellowed some information about some kind of new horse breed and would have bored everyone stiff, not to mention shriveled our eardrums, if Grandma hadn't kept putting food on his plate to keep his big mouth busy that way.

Grandma said to Myra Sue, “I hear they're gonna add some new subjects to the high school curriculum this year. Maybe some foreign languages. I heard tell they was gonna have some kind of performing arts classes. That'll be nice, won't it? You'll like that, won't you?”

Myra Sue, that rude toad, just shrugged and kept gawking at Isabel and Ian like she'd never seen people before.

Mama had no luck getting Isabel to speak, but Myra Sue did. She started saying things like, “What kind of eyeliner do you use? It makes your eyes look so dramatic!” and, “Is that a designer blouse? It's gorgeous!” and, “How do you keep your hair in place? It's just so perfect!”

I nearly choked, but Isabel started to thaw, and Myra Sue kept telling her how beautiful she was until pretty soon that woman told my dumb sister that pink fingernail polish was not fashionable.

“Blood red, darling. And long. Remember: passion and glamour,
always
.” She held out a scrawny claw so Myra Sue could gush over it. “I'll show you how to do yours properly yourself, if you don't go to a manicurist. There probably isn't one within a hundred miles of here, anyway.” She sniffed and pursed her mouth for a few seconds. “Of course, avoid harsh detergents, like dish soap or bathroom cleaner. They are murder on your nails. And always remember: they are adornments,
not
tools.”

Myra Sue looked at her short, frosty pink nails and curled her fingers out of sight.

“I so totally agree,” she sighed. I bet she was thinking right then of ways to get out of even more chores, most especially the supper dishes, so as not to ruin her nails.

Isabel and Myra Sue smiled at each other, then nibbled on bits of lettuce. It occurred to me all of a sudden that since I'm pretty sure my sister is adopted, her real mother is probably Isabel St. James. Maybe that was why they had come to Rough Creek Road, to claim their child.

“Did you ever have a baby, Isabel St. James?” I asked.

The woman jerked like she'd been poked with a sharp stick. “Most certainly not! I refuse to ruin my figure. And what business is it of yours, anyway?”

“Don't listen to her,” Myra Sue said. “She's a mere child. By the way, how's your poor foot?”

“Dreadful, darling!”

Well, just when I thought I'd seen it all, Isabel pulled the ugliest face yet, this time with her eyeballs rolled back in her head and the ropey places on her throat all tight and sticking out more than usual.

“It throbs,” Isabel said, “and the pain shoots all the way to my head.”

“Shall I get you an ice pack, or maybe a heat pad?” Myra Sue moved to the edge of her chair, ready to fly to get whatever Isabel wanted.

“How about both?” I suggested, but they ignored me.

Isabel touched her hand. “Dear girl. No. Nothing more can be done, so I'll just bear it as best I can.”

“Didn't the clinic give you anything for the pain?” Mama asked.

“Tylenol. I wanted Darvocet at the very, very least. And some Valium for the stress. But . . . Tylenol.” She groaned and then sighed. “With nothing but a bunch of ignorant quacks in charge, what do you people do when you get sick?”

Daddy spoke up. “It's hard to get quality healthcare in a small town like Cedar Ridge, but the clinic's not so bad. And we're all pretty healthy. Hard work, good food, family, and friends work toward keeping a person in good health and good spirits.”

“See? See?” Ian crowed. “What did I tell you? Get back to our roots, I said. Out of the pollution and the rat race and you'll feel better, I said.”

“I'll
feel better
if we—”

“You'll feel better if you'll eat somethin' besides that galldurned rabbit food,” Mr. Rance yelled.

Isabel shifted in her chair and gave the old man a look, but he was scraping the last of the beans out of the bowl and onto his plate, so he didn't see her expression.

“Well, I'll just go get the dessert,” Mama said as she got to her feet.

“I'll help you, Lily.” Grandma went into the kitchen with her. They stayed in the kitchen for a while, and when they were out of the room, Isabel leaned toward Myra Sue.

“Be a darling and retrieve my purse from wherever it has been taken.”

She made it sound like a bunch of thieves and pickpockets ran our house. Of course, after the way I saw him eyeball everything, I wasn't too sure about Mr. Rance. . . .

“It's laying right in there on the sofa where Ian put it when you came in,” I told her. So much for my notion that California men might carry purses. She gave me a tight little smile that wasn't friendly, not even an itty-bitty bit.

Myra Sue nearly broke her neck in a mad dash to get the pocketbook and bring it to Isabel.

“What line of work are you in, Ian?” Daddy asked.

“Banking,” he said shortly. “I was a banker.”

Ha! I knew he looked like a banker.

Daddy nodded. Either he had nothing to say to that, or he saw as well as I did that Ian didn't want to discuss it. Apparently Mr. Rance failed to notice or care.

“Banks around here ain't hirin', I'm told,” he said. “You'd best put her t'work.” He pointed his fork at Isabel.

Her face turned frosty, and that's putting it warmly. I figured this was my chance to ask a question without seeming nosy.

“What do you do, Isabel St. James?” I asked. “I mean, for work.”

For a minute I thought she would ignore me. But finally she sniffed primly and said, “I've done some acting. But by profession, I'm a dancer. A prima ballerina, actually. I had to leave all that behind, along with everything else.”

“I remember you saying you danced,” I said, “but I didn't think you meant you actually did it for a
living
.”

“A ballerina?” Myra Sue clasped both hands to her chest and leaned forward, all agog. Boy, it doesn't take much to impress her. “You can be one here!”

“Good grief, Myra Sue,” I said. “When's the last time you saw a ballet around in these parts?” To Isabel, I said, “The only nutcracker around here is the one we use after the black walnuts dry.”

Isabel whimpered, and Mama and Grandma came out of the kitchen right then. Grandma toted a carton of ice cream, and Mama carried a big pan of flaky apple cobbler, steaming hot with plenty of cinnamon. It smelled the way I think heaven smells. No matter how full I am, even if I think my stomach will explode, I will still eat Mama's apple cobbler.

Isabel gave the dessert one of her looks and didn't even try to keep the snooty expression off her face. She made a big show of looking away from the food as Mama began to scoop out huge servings into dishes.

Isabel opened her little slip of a purse, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and a fancy silver lighter. She tapped a cigarette against the table a few times, then lit the stupid thing. Myra Sue watched like she was hypnotized. I looked at Mama and Daddy just in time to see them exchange a glance. They saw all this, but I reckon they were going to be polite. Grandma heaped a big plop of vanilla ice cream on top of a bowl of cobbler, but she was frowning right at Isabel St. James, who either didn't notice or didn't care.

Mama passed a goodly serving to Ian. “Would you like some nice, warm apple cobbler, Isabel?” Mama asked. “It isn't greasy.”

The ole gal had sucked in a big lungful from her cigarette and blew the stinking smoke out of the corner of her mouth. I hacked and wheezed a few times, but she didn't seem to notice.

“I never eat sugar,” she said. “It's pure poison.” She took another deep pull and heaved it out, further stinking up our dining room.

“What do you think cigarettes are?” I asked. “Vitamin C?”

She looked at me through the fuzz of smoke around her head. Her eyes were little slits.

“Don't be dumb,” Myra Sue piped up. “She smokes so she won't get fat.”

Isabel looked at her and smiled as if my silly sister was a sweet little baby.

“Bingo, darling.” She knocked off the ash right smack dab on Mama's good china, which Bingo-darling had insisted we use.

Isabel stared at her water glass for a minute, then said, “Don't you people have anything to drink?”

I'm not stupid. I knew she meant booze, but before anyone else could reply, I piped up and said, “We got milk, coffee, tea, and water. Or I could make you some red Kool-Aid.”

I think she wanted to slap me, but I just grinned and pretended like trotting off to the kitchen to make it for her pleased me to no end. Myra Sue reached under the table and pinched my thigh.

“Stop it!” I yelped and pinched her back.

She screeched. “You stop it, you brat! And she doesn't want milk or water or tea or Kool-Aid. She wants something like . . .” Her face got all dopey and slack from the effort of thinking. “Sherry!” she announced in triumph. “Would you like some sherry, Isabel-dear?”

We don't have alcohol of any kind in this house, and besides, Myra Sue wouldn't know sherry if it bit her pinky toe.

Isabel gave a snotty little laugh. “No, my dear. Not sherry. Never sherry. I was thinking more like—”

“Cherry Coke!” I hollered. Myra Sue pinched me again.

“Girls,” my daddy interrupted from the head of the table. “What's going on?”

The adults stopped talking and stared at us.

“Nothing, Daddy,” we both said, sweet as baby lambs.

As soon as everyone started talking again, Myra leaned over. “You better quit being stupid,” she said from the corner of her mouth.

I started to cross my eyes at her but got interrupted. “Greetings and salutations, Reilly family!” someone shouted from the front door.

A moment later the screen door opened and in walked Temple Freebird. She came into the dining room with Forest trailing along. She was all dressed up in a grimy floral prairie skirt and a dingy blue tank top. And there was good ole Forest, his crusty bare feet making a dark contrast against Mama's clean floor. Their body odors followed like a pack of faithful dogs, and old man Rance's Old Spice did nothing to mask a bit of it.

I looked at Isabel. She pulled back as if she thought she could escape the sight, sound,
and
smell. Ha! Temple is everyone's chum, and there's no getting away from her.

Daddy got to his feet. “Temple! Forest!”

Mr. Rance was too busy gulping down his cobbler to be polite. Ian seemed stunned and unable to move. Or maybe no one ever told him a man is supposed to stand when a lady enters the room. It's called Good Manners.

“Come in and have some supper,” Daddy invited.

“Yes,” Mama said. “There's plenty. Have a seat.”

Daddy introduced Temple and Forest to the St. Jameses, who looked like they'd accidentally opened the outhouse door. Ian finally cleared his throat, nodding slightly at the two of them. Temple smiled at both of them, showing where a couple of her teeth were missing.

“I thought all you hill people howdied at the door to be let in,” Ian said, stifling a belch behind his hand.

“Well, Temple and Forest came here from Boston,” I told him, “and anyways, they know they're always welcome to come right on in. But us hillbillies always knock or ring the doorbell. What do you West Coasters do?”

Ian gave me a look that said he was trying to figure out if I were all innocent or if I were just a smart-alecky kid. I figured if he were too silly to know the difference, I wouldn't educate him.