In Front of God and Everybody (15 page)

He grinned, great big and toothy. “
You
won't have to fool with 'em. That'll be my job.”

“Why would you do that?” I asked him.

“That's what I'm wondering,” Grandma said.

“What?” he yelled at me. I don't think he even knew Grandma spoke.

“Why not plant trees on your own place?” I said real loud.

“'Cause the number one crop on my place is rocks. That there land right out there is good soil, not so rocky.”

“Jeffrey!” Grandma said, trying to get his attention.

“I'll order 'em right away from Stark Brothers,” he told us, “and they'll send 'em at planting time. We'll dig a water line out there and—”

“Jeffrey!”

“—I'll put in a irrigation—”

“Jeffrey Rance!” Grandma hollered loud enough to stop traffic on Highway 542.

This time, he actually heard her. “You say somethin', Miz Grace?”

“I don't want any apple trees out there.”

“What's that?”

“Turn on your hearing aids!” I screamed at him. “You're gonna make Grandma hoarse.”

He dug the thing out of the hairy recesses of his right ear and fiddled with it, then did the same on the left side. When they quit buzzing and whining like a couple of sick wasps, he shook his head at me.

“I didn't say a word about your granny raising a horse. I was talking about trees. Apple trees.”

“And I said you're making her hoarse because she has to yell all the time just so's you can hear her.”

“Oh.”

“And she don't want no apple trees, either!” I added.

He frowned. “How's that?”

“April Grace,” Grandma said, “run and get my pocketbook off the dresser like a good girl.” As soon as I was out of the room, she said to that old man, “We'll discuss apple trees another time.”

“Well, if we wait too long, won't be any use to order 'em.” He sounded sulky, but here's the thing: if he knew my grandma at all, he'd know that pouting wouldn't get him a blessed thing.

You reckon that old goat was buttering up Grandma so's he could use that back field for an apple orchard? Couldn't he see Daddy used it for pasture? Did he think he could flirt with Grandma and get apple trees? Boy, oh boy, he didn't know what he was up against with the Reilly family. We raised cows, not apples. And he better not try any funny business with my grandma.

Well, given that said grandma never puts her purse in the same place twice, it was not on the dresser like she said, or beside the dresser, or even under the dresser. It was nowhere in the bedroom or bathroom or living room. I thought about Mr. Rance and him going through the glove box of the car and going after her purse that time, and I wondered if he'd already stolen it. I went back into the kitchen to spill the beans, and that's when I saw the strap dangling out of the cabinet by the stove. Sure enough, when I opened the cabinet door, there was her purse next to the salt and baking soda.

I knew perfectly well that she's been misplacing her purse for a million years, but the notion occurred to me that she might be hiding it from Mr. Rance. But, I have to admit, if she had the least notion he'd steal her purse, she'd have told him to get lost the first time he tried to lay a big wet one on her.

To tell you the honest truth, I don't know why she didn't tell him to take a hike anyhow, him being so loud and bossy and obnoxious and sneaky. Like Mama and Daddy, my grandma is always kindhearted, but she also speaks her mind. The only reason I saw for her to let that old man hang around was that she was blinded by love—the mere thought of which makes my stomach want to barf up last Tuesday's breakfast.

I decided I'd just have to open her eyes, but I knew declaring that he was obnoxious, loud, and bossy probably wouldn't do the job. I figured I needed something specific to show her as solid proof. And there was that little incident that just happened out in the carport. Should I mention it or not? Maybe if I hung around with the two of them a little while, I'd figure it all out.

“So . . . I reckon Mr. Rance is going to take you to town today, huh?”

“Yes, honey,” Grandma said. “You want to tag along?”

“Sure,” I replied.

Now, I know what you're thinking, and as for my own personal self, I could hardly believe I agreed, because as Grandma would say, I'd rather crawl in a hole and pull it in after me. But there are things you'll do for your grandma that you wouldn't do for all the gold in the world.

Besides, if I didn't go with them, I'd have to go back home—and you-know-who was staying there.

Grandma wrote something else on her list. Probably apples. At that very exact moment, Mr. Rance was peeling one with his pocketknife. I guess all that apple talk made him hungry, but it looked to me like he could live at least six months without another meal.

As the peel came off all in one long piece, he held it up and crowed like he'd won first prize in a turkey shoot. Then he cut off a hunk of apple with the same grungy knife and held it out to me. I eyeballed the knife and figured he'd used it for everything from skinning rabbits to cutting his toenails.

“No, thanks,” I said.

“Ha!” he barked and popped the chunk in his mouth. “You don't know what's good,” he mumbled while he chewed. “I bet I know what you'd like.” He stood up and dug in the front pocket of his black Wrangler jeans, then pulled out something and offered it to me with his closed fingers hiding it.

With Grandma watching, I knew what I had to do, even if I didn't want to. I held out my hand, and he put a small object in it. I looked. It was a Kraft Caramel still in its wrapper, but it was all squishy and flat. Worst of all, it was warm from being in his pocket. He'd probably sweated all over it. I held it back out to him.

“No, thank you. I'm not hungry.”

Now, you have to know that Kraft Caramels are my most favorite candy, so it just goes to prove how disgusting it was to have one and not be able to eat it because it came warm and squooshy out of Mr. Rance's pocket.

“Don't like apples, don't like candy. What do you like, young'un? Cheeseburgers and french fries?”

Somewhere, way in the back of my mind, where unwanted thoughts and notions creep into my brain when I least want them to, came the idea that the old man was trying to be nice to me in his own weird way.

“Yes, sir,” I answered.

He grinned real big. “Well, then. It'll be cheeseburgers and french fries at the Koffee Kup. Are you ready, Miz Grace, honey?”

“Almost,” Grandma said. “I need to put on my good shoes.”

I would have preferred McDonald's or Ruby's Place, but the closest McDonald's is twenty-five miles away in Ava or in Blue Reed sixty miles away in the other direction. Cedar Ridge only has the Koffee Kup, Ruby's Place, and the Rootin' Tootin'. The Koffee Kup is where all the old men go to slurp coffee and swap tall tales. Ruby's Place is super, but it's tiny, and Mr. Rance's big mouth would probably run off all her customers.

The Rootin' Tootin' is a beer joint that looks like someone pulled it out of a junkyard. Daddy says it's a blight on the landscape. Mama says it's a sad, sad sight, and Grandma says it's a disgrace to the crickets and ought to be burned—except where would all the roaches go? Because the good Lord knows nothing will get rid of roaches.

As we went outside to his pickup, I thought roaches and Mr. Rance probably had a lot in common.

We went to Cedar Ridge in Mr. Rance's bright red pickup— which he announced was a 1986 Dodge Ram and less than six months old. And, if you recall, that is almost the same amount of time his wife has been dead. I've seen
60 Minutes
and cop shows. I may be a kid, but I've heard about life insurance and the money a person gets from it when someone passes on.

But right then, all I knew was that the seat was way high off the ground. You should've seen Grandma trying to get in that thing. With her short legs and chubby body, she made me think of a duck looking for something to eat in the pond. I pushed against her rump, and she kicked and squirmed and grunted and finally got herself on the seat, where she panted like Daisy on a hot day.

Mr. Rance sat behind the steering wheel, grinning the whole entire time like he thought she was putting on a show just to entertain him.

“Reckon I ought to build you that little stairstep,” he said.

Grandma fanned her face with her hand for a few seconds.

“Yes, Jeffrey. You said the same thing last week. I think you better build it before I ride in this truck again.”

“Yeah,” I added. “With her old bones, Grandma don't have any business heaving herself into your red pickup all the time.”

Mr. Rance leaned forward a little to look at me. He was grinning with his mouth hanging open.

“How's 'at?” he asked.

I started to repeat myself, but Grandma caught my eye and shook her head.

“Get in, April.” She started to slide across the seat, then stopped. “Or would you rather sit in the middle?”

Now, one thing I did
not
want to do was sit next to Mr. Rance. He'd probably yell in my ear the whole entire way to town, and I'd be stone-deaf by the time we got there.

I pulled myself up the two miles it took to get into the pickup.

“You sit by him, Grandma. He's your boyfriend.” I nearly choked on the word. Her face turned bright red.

All the way to town, Mr. Rance talked about that dumb truck.

“This here is the fifth Dodge I've owned. Ain't nothin' like 'em. This'un here's got a 318 motor, a five-point-nine liter Magnum V-8 engine and a Ram Trac shift-on-the-fly transfer case. Yes sirree, finest thing on the road. But I'll tell you one thing about a Dodge truck. The old'uns drive like new.”

Now, I had to admit I liked being way up high where I could look out. And the big seat was comfortable. But Mr. Rance like to have driven me crazy with all his truck talk, talk, talk.

“Why don't you still drive the very first one you ever had, then, if they're all so good?” I asked, showing off my ability to be smart.

Grandma gave me a little pinch on the elbow. Not hard and mean the way Myra Sue does, but firm enough that I knew I better stop being smartmouthed to my elders. Her lips were in a tight line where you could hardly see them, and she shook her head at me again.

“How's 'at?” He cupped his hand around his right ear and leaned sideways toward us.

“Never mind,” I yelled back.

When we got into town, we drove to the Koffee Kup first instead of the store, so Grandma's groceries wouldn't spoil out in the sun while we ate.

Mr. Rance, who didn't bother to take off his Stetson, bellowed our order to the waitress standing about two feet from him. I wanted to crawl under the table when everyone in the café looked at us. I suppose, though, the cook and waitresses were used to him since he went there every blessed day.

Right about then was when I decided Grandma must be losing her hearing, too, because his big mouth didn't seem to bother her in the least. She smoothed her hair and straightened her skirt and fluffed her sleeves, all with a little smile on her face.

“That's another pretty new dress, Grandma,” I said. “I didn't see you sewing that one.”

Most of the time she waved off compliments, but that day her cheeks turned pink.

“I ordered it from the JC Penney catalog,” she said.

Used to be that Grandma wore plain homemade dresses with little round collars and shiny buttons, and she always had her hair combed back in a plain ole bun. Lately, she'd taken to wearing pretty dresses and broaches. She braided her hair before she pinned it up. She had quit using bobby pins and instead kept her hair in place with pretty combs with sparkledy things in them.

Anytime I do something peculiar, someone says I'm going through a phase. I started to ask Grandma if she was going through a phase, but Mr. Rance spoke up.

“You look right pleasin' to the eye, Miz Grace.”

Her cheeks got redder, and it finally dawned on me that she didn't get so dolled up lately because of any old lady phase she might be going through. The sad and unvarnished truth was that she made herself all spiffy and glittery for that goofy old man.

I sighed as this soaked in. If she wanted to take up with some man, why hadn't she taken up with Reverend Jordan, who had been a bachelor his whole entire life and lived in a neat little house near the United Methodist Church and drove a snazzy little Mustang? Or Ernie Beason, who owned Ernie's Grocerteria? He was a nice old widower, and always real friendly. Or there was old man Watson who mowed yards and cut firewood for folks. I mean, there must have been more than two dozen old men available in Cedar Ridge, and she picked the loudmouthed newcomer who wouldn't let you get a word in edgewise, even if you were dying of snakebite.