In Front of God and Everybody (6 page)

“Isabel St. James is crazy to hate being here,” I declared.

“Well, I agree with you, honey,” Mama said. “Of course, I understand why she doesn't want to live in that house right now.”

I eyeballed the house. “Me, too. It looks full of mice and spiders to me.”

We stared at the old place for a bit longer.

“I like our house, Mama.”

She put one arm around my shoulders and pulled me to her. It didn't make my poison ivy itch too bad since it was Mama who was doing the hugging.

“I do too,” she said.

Our peace was then broken by a thrashing, crashing, tree-limb-breaking, leaf-crushing commotion coming from the woods on the east side of that weedy yard.

Mama and I stared at the east woods.

“Think that might be the wild animal Isabel said was scratching around under the house?” I asked.

Before Mama could reply, Temple and Forest Freebird, three dogs, five cats, and two goats emerged from the trees and into the weed-infested yard.

Temple was thin and friendly. She wore her gray hair in a braid like mine, except hers hung way down past her backside. I've never seen her wear anything but faded old T-shirts, long, flowy skirts, and sandals in the summer, or overalls, flannel shirts, and heavy, scuffed brogans in winter. Forest was medium-tall and kinda quiet. The top of his head was bald as an egg, but a thin gray ponytail hung, wormlike, on the back of his head. He wore overalls and T-shirts all year round. And he hardly ever wore shoes.

Temple and Forest both had some highfalutin college degrees, but they preferred to live like hippies.

Neither the people nor the animals looked as if they'd bathed in the last couple of months, which is not unusual, and I was glad we were upwind.

“Hey, Lily, April Grace,” Forest called as they approached. “What's going on over here? Sounded like someone being murdered. Scared us all.”

He looked around as if expecting to see blood, mayhem, and body parts.

“Hi guys!” Mama replied cheerfully.

With a big smile, she walked through the overgrown yard toward the Freebirds and Company. Leaving my book on the porch, I trailed behind with a lot more enthusiasm than I'd approached ole Isabel earlier.

“I've not seen either of you in so long,” Mama said. “How are you?”

Mama loved everybody, and everybody loved her right back. Well, except the St. Jameses. I've never seen anyone act like those two rude knotheads.

“Please don't be concerned about the noise,” she told the old hippies as she patted the heads of all three dogs and both goats. The cats were uppity and avoided her. “Your new neighbor fell and hurt her ankle, but she's all right.”

“She only
sounded
like she was being murdered,” I told Forest. “You never saw such carrying-on in your whole entire life.”

Temple looked at me, and this spaced-out, mushy expression came over her face as if she'd just seen a litter of new puppies.

“My goodness, you sweet baby,” she said. “How you have grown this summer!”

She put both arms around me and smashed my face into her front. My nose was right at her armpit, and I nearly choked to death right then and there. Isabel would have had a real excuse to scream and squall if she'd caught a whiff of that.

Now, don't get me wrong. I like Temple just fine. She's real nice, and so is Forest, but they are strange and weird and they don't believe in things like deodorant and toothpaste or having regular jobs. They farm, but not like everyone else on Rough Creek Road. What I mean is, they have this huge, organic vegetable and herb garden, and they grow everything you can think of, plus a few things you've never heard about. They eat everything they grow, but they don't eat animals, so all their goats and pigs and chickens and what have you are perfectly safe.

“Look at you,” Temple said, pulling back.

I gulped fresh, clean air and resisted the urge to wipe the damp feeling of her sweaty pit off my face. Then she tightened her grip on my upper arms.

“Tootsie Roll, have you been wallowing in poison ivy?”

She almost always calls me Tootsie Roll.

“Grandma's cat got out again, and I had to chase her all over creation,” I said. “I didn't see the poison ivy.”

“Aha.” Temple gave me a smile, like the kind you give to a little kid. “Now, if dear little Queenie escapes her prison again—”

“You mean
when
she escapes again,” I said.

“
When
she escapes her prison again, you could get her back much easier if you centered yourself in the universe.”

Then Temple folded her hands and closed her eyes as if she were praying. I wasn't sure whether or not I should do the same.

“You see,” she continued, “if you had simply sat down and sent her patient, loving vibes, she would have come right to you.”

Her eyelids popped open, and she looked at me.

“You felt you had to chase her, and her dear, little kitty instincts told her to run,” she said, beaming at me like a new flashlight.

“But you don't know Queenie,” I began.

“Ah, but I do know cats. I have six of them. And I know something else: how to dry up that nasty poison ivy rash and take away the itch.”

She put an arm around my shoulders, and I breathed through my mouth.

Turning us toward the woods, she said to Mama over her shoulder, “I have just the cure at home.”

Except for the funky odors wafting from Temple and Forest, I was more than willing to go with her. Their house was weird and messy, with incense and candles burning and lots of interesting books lying around.

“I'm sorry, Temple,” Mama said as we started walking, “but we have company coming, and I need my little helper.”

Temple crimped her mouth at me, but she smiled as if we were partners in crime and then turned me around to face Mama. Those two women smiled sweetly at each other as sunlight and the shade of the trees danced around in the breeze. Forest stood a few steps away, blinking in the hot sun at Sam White's old place, which was now the St. James's new place. The sweat beads on his bald head glittered in the sun.

“Say,” he said, looking at Mama, “what was that bit about new neighbors? Sam sold this place?”

“That's right,” Mama said. “To a couple about our age. Ian and Isabel St. James.”

“From San Francisco,” I added in what was a pretty good imitation of Isabel's snooty voice, if I do say so my own self.

Mama frowned and shook her head at me.

“Well, what d'ya know about that?” Forest sighed deeply. “I tried to buy this place from Sam a dozen times, and he just kept telling me it wasn't for sale.” He squinted at the house again. “It's really nice here.”

He said it so sadly that I felt sorry for him. With his slow, deep voice, droopy brown eyes, and long, hangy-down earlobes, Forest always made me think of an old hound dog. I just sort of felt sorry for him all the time, for no reason.

“Oh well.” He sighed again, then looked at me and Mama and smiled. “Tell Mike and the rest of your family I said hi.”

“I will,” Mama said. “It was good to see you both.”

I ran back to the porch to get my book; then I headed toward the car. We were almost there when Temple yoo-hooed and trotted toward me and Mama.

“Since you're so busy, I'll just bring over some of my salve for Tootsie Roll's poison ivy,” Temple said.

“Temple, that's very nice,” Mama said. “But please don't go to any trouble—”

“No, no. I can't bear to see her this way, so I'm going to do it. She must be so uncomfortable. Are you, sweetie?”

“I itch like crazy,” I declared.

She nodded. “That junk they sell at the drugstore is worse than useless. And it's full of toxins. I'll bring you some literature about that, Lily, so you can be informed. You don't want to poison your family.”

“Oh, I hardly think . . . Well, you needn't go to so much bother.”

Temple rested her hand on Mama's arm. “It's not a bit of trouble. And nature is so much kinder to our bodies than a laboratory. I'll fix you right up with the good stuff.”

“Well, thank you,” Mama said kind of helplessly, smiling and nodding and pushing me toward the car.

There were times when you might as well go visit with a fence post as try to talk to Temple Freebird, and I reckon Mama knew this was one of those times. I figured if Temple had some kind of magic potion to cure my poison ivy, I was willing to take a bath in it, even if it smelled like armpits.

Temple and Forest waved and turned to walk back home, their three dogs, five cats, and two goats in tow.

“Oh dear!” Mama said as we drove out of their weedy driveway. “We forgot your apology.”

“That's okay, Mama. I'm sure the St. Jameses don't even remember anything about any of it.”

She gave me a look. “It's not okay. You'll just have to do it when they come for supper.”

Well, I was disgusted right down to the core. I could only harbor the hope that they might not show up to eat. That was a very small hope, indeed, so I shoved the whole mess out of my mind.

But I got to thinking again about something else: Temple and Forest and Isabel and Ian as next-door neighbors.

“Wouldn't it be something,” I wondered out loud, “if Temple came by with her poison ivy cure while the St. Jameses are at our house?”

Well, just call me psychic.

When Mama and I got back to the house early that same afternoon, Grandma was still in the kitchen. She had fixed tuna salad sandwiches and baked brownies while we were gone. A fresh pot of coffee was giving off its waves of coffee fragrance.

“You gonna run into town with me, April?” Grandma asked as she put a sandwich and a warm brownie on a small plate in front of me. Then she set down a tall, cold glass of milk. “It's Tuesday.”

Well, other than to be stuck with Queenie and Myra Sue on a deserted island, or to have supper with the St. Jameses, I could think of nothing I wanted to do less than ride into town with Grandma at the wheel, and I'll tell you why: Grandma drives about thirty miles an hour on the hills and curves of the highway and about five million cars get stuck behind her because they can't pass safely. Then, when she gets to a straight stretch where folks can pass her, she mashes the gas pedal, and we go flying along at about seventy miles an hour. Boy, you should hear the horns honk when that happens. At intersections, Grandma stops and looks both ways like she's supposed to, but then she doesn't wait. She just pulls right out whether it's her turn or not. She never uses a turn signal.

“I've been going to Ernie's Grocerteria every Tuesday for forty years,” she says proudly. “Folks should know that by now.”

And if you're a pedestrian in Cedar Ridge, get some life insurance. Grandma says the streets are for cars, not pedestrians. She claims she can't watch out for everybody in town, so they should watch out for themselves. Last spring she like to have run down Mayor Pangborn when he was crossing the street from city hall to the Koffee Kup. I didn't think mayors were allowed to shake their fists and yell at old ladies, but obviously I was wrong.

Your best hope, if you cross the street in Cedar Ridge when Grandma is driving, is to pray that the good Lord sends down about ten thousand angels to protect you.

Right after lunch, Grandma and I walked across the hayfield to her little house near the pine forest. Except when the field grass has grown high like it was that day, you can see her place from our kitchen window. Her house looks like a little storybook cottage with a dark red roof and matching shutters. I love it there because it usually smells like cinnamon and nutmeg and vanilla and other good things. She used to live with us, but I guess when I was born I took up too much room or something, 'cause right after that, Daddy and Mr. Brett, our hired man who lives up Rough Creek Road about a half mile, built the house for her, and she moved out.