In Front of God and Everybody (25 page)

In a quiet and gentle tone of voice, Miss Delaine told me, “I sent a letter to the librarian in Beauhide County with your request, but she hasn't replied yet. Be patient, April Grace. School doesn't start for another few weeks. You've got plenty of time to write that composition.”

I started to tell her it was a matter of life and death, but since I couldn't prove anything whatsoever, I figured she'd not understand any better than the people in our house. Even if she is nice and kind and speaks quietly. I hung up the phone and felt downright helpless.

Downstairs, Mr. Rance bellowed for Grandma. In a few minutes they took off in that red truck, going on yet another date. Boy, you'd think Grandma would be sick of the ole goof by now and not want to marry him. Not long after, Daddy and Ian came home for lunch earlier than usual. Mama called me and Myra Sue to come help her get a quick meal on the table. Ian and Isabel joined us, and Daddy ate so fast I don't see how he had time to swallow. Once again, Myra Sue hardly had a bite.

Finally, Daddy shoved back his chair and said, “Lily, I need to talk to you.”

They went into the hall. I could hear them speaking in whispers, but even when I leaned back in my chair as far as possible and strained my ears, I couldn't understand a blessed word.

A few minutes later, he came to the door of the kitchen and said to the daughter who hadn't eaten a real meal in a month, “Myra Sue, your mother and I want to see you in your room.”

Looking mystified, but not necessarily concerned, she left the table and went upstairs.

In just a little while, the awfullest ruckus came from her bedroom. Myra Sue was yelling and—you might or might not believe this bit—cussing as bad as Isabel. Then Daddy raised his voice above hers, and everything up there got deathly quiet. Ian and Isabel and I all looked at each other, and none of us said one word.

Pretty soon all three of them came downstairs. Mama and Myra Sue went straight outside, and Daddy came into the kitchen. He looked more than a little agitated.

“Ian, we've got to run into town, so we'll finish that fence tomorrow,” Daddy said. “I'll let Brett know on our way out. Why don't you cut the grass at your place since it's been a week or more? And if you want to, when you get back, you can start mowing the lawn here. The riding mower is in the shed.”

All three of us in the kitchen were just as quiet as still water for a minute or two. Ian finally fixed himself another ham sandwich and a glass of sweet tea. Isabel watched him. She had gorged herself on half an orange and a tiny container of plain yogurt.

“Well,” she said at last, pushing back her chair, “I need to work on my glutes. They are absolutely flabby.”

I had no idea what glutes were, but as she walked away, Ian eyeballed her scrawny butt and said, “No, they aren't.”

She turned, stared a moment at the mound of potato salad he'd put on his plate, sniffed as though offended, and went down the hall to the bedroom. A moment later she came back, passed the kitchen doorway with her cigarettes and lighter, and went outside. I guess glutes are less flabby after a couple of smokes.

Ian finished eating, took his plate to the sink, and rinsed it off. He was all nice and sun-browned now from so much outdoor work, but he was still pink around the edges in some places, like on the tops of his ears or the growing bald spot on the back of his head.

“Ian,” I said, “do you feel you've got back to your roots like you wanted when you first moved here?”

He kinda squinched his eyes a little as he thought about it.

“Yes,” he said after a bit. “I think so. Your daddy and Mr. Brett are helping me learn a lot—but I have a long way to go.” He grinned, adding, “And now I have to get busy.”

“Wait!” I said, as he started to go outside. “Are you glad, Ian? Glad to find your roots even if the work is hard?”

He laughed softly. “Oh yeah. You better believe it. See you later, April Grace.”

He gave me a little smile and wave and went out the back door. The place seemed awful quiet after he'd driven away in the old pickup, which used to belong to us.

Well, I'll tell you. I knew I ought to do those dirty lunch dishes, but I sure didn't want to. I was mad as fire at everybody in my family for a number of reasons. Number one: you know about the Grandma and Mr. Rance thing so I won't even go into that. Number two: Daddy and Mama took off for town without asking me to go with them. Number three: they took Myra Sue. Number four: no one told me why.

But I figured if I didn't do the dishes, I'd have to do all the lunch and supper dishes for the next sixty years. My big sigh of martyrdom totally lost its impact since no one was there to hear it. I got up and cleared the table. By putting his plate in the sink, Ian St. James was the only one who had bothered to lift a finger. Good ole Ian.

I'd just filled the sink with hot soapy water when this terrifying, bloodcurdling scream came from the front porch. I was so startled, I dropped the dishrag right smack on the floor and didn't even stop to pick it up. Instead, I tore out of the house to see if killer bees or an ax murderer had attacked Isabel.

She stood near the railing, all hunched over, her right hand clutching the left one against her chest. In between wails of pain she moaned like a pregnant heifer.

“What happened?” I screamed.

“I . . . oh . . .” She had leaned her whole body against the rail by this time. “Oh, oh,
oh
! It hurts! Help me, help me!”

I was thrown back in time to the day she twisted her ankle and acted like she'd shattered every bone in her body. My heartbeat slowed.

“What's wrong?” I asked in a normal tone of voice.

“I impaled my hand on this wretched railing,” she managed to choke out.

Maybe Grandma or Mama had left a paring knife out here from when they'd peeled potatoes. Sometimes they sat on the porch and prepared vegetables just to get out of the kitchen for a while. Or maybe Mr. Rance and his nasty old pocketknife had been out here earlier. I looked for a nail or something else sharp, but I saw absolutely nothing on that porch railing. Surely she hadn't gotten a
splinter
. But remember, we're talking about Isabel St. James, the Queen of Imaginary Illness and Pain. It was just like her to carry on over a little ole splinter.

Then I saw the blood. It dripped from the hand she had clenched to her chest and splattered on the gray painted floor of the porch.

“Help me!” she gasped. Her face was chalky.

For a minute I felt frozen by the sight of blood, unable to think or move. But then I remembered all that I'd learned in health class last year.

“Let me see it,” I told her.

She moaned and shuddered as I peeled away the bloody fingers of her right hand to look at her left one. A large sliver of wood protruded from the meaty part of her palm, and let me tell you, it was bleeding pretty good. I might have screamed a bit, my own personal self.

“Okay, Isabel St. James, here's what you need to do. First, just take a nice, deep breath. That will help you relax. Here. Like this.” I pulled in a deep breath through my nose, then breathed it out through my mouth. “Do that.”

I dragged over one of the cane-bottomed porch chairs.

“Now, sit down and just keep breathing that way. I'm going to get the first aid box and take care of you.”

“Call 9-1-1,” she moaned weakly.

“It's not that bad. Besides, Zachary County don't have 9-1-1. Now, you just sit there and breathe.”

I walked calmly into the house because I wanted her to understand she wasn't mortally wounded. Once I was out of her eyesight, I rushed to the hall bathroom and dove into the recesses of the little vanity.

I shoved aside a can of Scrubbing Bubbles, a pair of bright yellow rubber gloves, a can of Lysol spray, a can of rose-scented Glade, two packages of Charmin toilet paper, a package of Handi Wipes, a box of feminine you-know-whats, a bag of cotton balls, and three boxes of Preparation H cream before I could, at long last, get to the first aid box and a bottle of hydrogen peroxide.

Boy, oh boy, when you have an emergency, you shouldn't have to crawl around through a zillion bathroom items to reach what you need. I was gonna reorganize the bottom shelf of that vanity as soon as Isabel's Crisis was over.

I picked up the cotton balls, took a bottle of aspirin from the medicine cabinet, wetted a handful of washrags, grabbed a couple of towels, and got a glass of water from the kitchen. Then, balancing everything, I dashed to the front door where I stopped, took a deep breath, and calmly went outside.

Isabel sat right where I'd left her, eyes shut, breathing the way I'd told her to do. I knelt down next to her chair.

“Okay, Isabel St. James. Here's the thing: this is gonna hurt a little bit.” I sounded like the nurse who flashes a needle for my booster shots. “So you have to be brave.”

She opened one eye. “Are you positive you can't call 9-1-1?”

“Well, I can call it, but it won't do any good 'cause Zachary County doesn't have 9-1-1 service. I can call the sheriff's office, and they can call an ambulance, but you don't really want me to do that, do you? I mean, for a little ole splinter?” It wasn't such a little splinter, but I didn't want her to think I thought it was anything more. She might pass right out for sure.

She looked at me and made me think of the time Daisy got her leg broke, and she looked at us like she didn't understand why she was hurt. I felt sorry for ole Isabel.

“It'll be okay, Isabel St. James,” I said softly. “I promise.”

Her mouth quivered. She licked her lips and clamped them together.

Squinching her eyes tight, she said, “Okay. Do what you can for me.”

Again, she let me pry loose the fingers of her right hand and pull her left hand away from her chest. She wasn't bleeding so badly by then.

I took the first aid tweezers from the kit, and as gently as possible got the end of that huge sliver of wood and worked it free of her palm.

“Oh, dear me,” she moaned as blood seeped again.

“It's okay,” I told her. “I got it all out. Now I just gotta clean the wound.” As careful as could be, I sponged the gouge. “Now this might hurt a little, but it'll help kill bacteria.” I put aside the cloths and picked up the hydrogen peroxide. Her face was white as a sheet, and she stared in horror at her palm. I tried to distract her.

“Boy, it's a good thing you didn't use this stuff on ole Myra Sue's hair, huh? I hear peroxide does awful things to hair.”

“Used by a professional, it works quite well,” she gasped. “Of course, I take full responsibility for the way that child's hair turned out. I simply lost track of the time and left it on too long. A few minutes would have turned her into a stunning brunette.”

Yeah, right. Stunned brunette was more like it. Anyway, while she was talking and semi-sidetracked, I poured the stuff on her wound. It hissed and bubbled, but at least she didn't scream and faint dead away like I thought she might.

“Did you know our school is going to have performing arts classes this year if they can find a teacher?” I asked.

She broke off mid-groan. “Really?”

“Yeah. You think you might like to teach acting and dancing at our school?”

“Oh, I hardly think—” She paused, looking at me sharply. “Are you sure this is something they're going to do?”

I shrugged. “That's what I heard. Ask Myra Sue. I'm surprised she hasn't already said something to you.” I glanced down at her palm, happy that my distraction ploy worked so well. “Okay,” I said quietly. “That's over. Now I'll just put on this dressing and bandage it, and you'll be good as new.” A little bit later, I gently pressed down the last bit of tape and sat back on my heels. “There you go, Isabel St. James. I think you'll live. Now take these aspirin.”

I shook out a couple and handed her the water. I expected resistance, but she was as obedient as a little baby. Boy, if the color of her face was any indication of life, she'd been dead a few weeks already. Once more, she cradled her hand to her chest.

“Thank you, dear,” she whispered, then leaned back.

For a long time she sat there with her head against the back of the chair, her eyes firmly closed. Maybe she was thinking about those classes, but she looked kinda sad. Finally, she flickered open her eyelids a slit and looked at me.

“Little girl, tell me something.”

“Okay. Pick a subject.”

“Why does everyone hate me?”

I blinked in surprise. “Are you kiddin'?”

“No. I want to know, because the only people who treat me with any respect around here are your parents and your grandmother.”

Where to begin listing her offenses, transgressions, character flaws, and faults? So many answers popped up that my head buzzed.