Queen Bee Goes Home Again (16 page)

But David's wife Barb hadn't been interested. She didn't do sugar.

Maybe I could teach the grandkids when they were old enough not to tell on me.

Miss Mamie brightened. “It's nice to cook for a man again, now that the General can't be with us.”

I looked to Tommy. What was he? Chopped liver?

He smiled back at me, shaking his head to indicate that it didn't bother him.

Miss Mamie leaned closer to Connor, her hand on his arm. “I've taught Lin how to make all my special recipes.”

Could she be more shameless? Now it was my turn to color up. I felt the tide of heat spread up my chest to my neck and face.

Connor looked at me with wry appreciation for what was happening, clearly enjoying it. “Lin is a woman of many talents, I'm sure.”

I blinked. Was that a double entendre?

I looked at Connor and saw that it was. Another brief pulse of desire went off inside me.

Kiss. Kiss, kiss, kiss.

No,
my inner Puritan chided.
Lunch. Lunch, lunch, lunch!

Kiss, kiss, kiss,
my inner hedonist taunted, but I ignored her and focused on my food.

An awkward silence fell over our meal, one Miss Mamie seemed to be enjoying immensely.

When we were done, Tommy leapt up, empty plate in hand. “Great meal, Miss Mamie.” He put his plate in the sink. “Sorry to eat and run, but I've got a meeting way down in Gwinnett.” He nodded to Connor. “Good having you.”

Connor picked up his own empty plate, then scooped up Miss Mamie's as he rose. “I won't take no for an answer, Miss Mamie. Today, I'm doing the dishes.” When I started to rise, he shot me a commanding look. “That goes for you, too, Miss Lin. Both of you have been so welcoming to me”—a bald-faced lie in light of our agreement—“please allow me the privilege of serving you in return.”

Without waiting for a response, he started washing away as if he'd always been part of the family.

For once, my mother sat back and let someone do for her.

When she was sure Connor was looking the other way, Miss Mamie motioned for me to go help him.

Unable to resist the prospect of being close to him, I joined him at the drainboard and started to dry with a bleached flour sack, my mother's favorite towel.

We worked in companionable silence till he said a quiet, “This feels nice. Very nice.”

Darn him, it did. “Um-hm.”

When the last dish and fork were clean and put away, he turned to look at me, well inside my typical American comfort space.

The promise and the peace in his eyes melted my insides.

Kiss. Kiss, kiss, kiss.

He kissed me, all right.

Hands on my shoulders, he gave me a peck on my forehead, then stepped back. “Thanks. I really appreciate it. Guess I'd better get back to my sermon.”

“Don't forget your green tomatoes.” The Mame got up and went to the pickle cabinet, then handed him two pints, as promised. “Don't be a stranger. There's plenty more where that came from,” she said in a perfect Mae West imitation.

Connor laughed, bowed his thanks, then shot me a parting look that could have set a brick on fire.

He wasn't making this any easier.

 

Twenty-three

The next afternoon, Tommy and I pulled everything (half a truckload) out of the Mame's closet for her to peruse, then started going through the contents one by one, for her to rule on. We had four piles marked with butcher paper: keep, toss, give to me or David, and donate.

“A lot of these are really good clothes,” Tommy said. “Once we get all the closets and cabinets purged, we should have an estate sale.”

Miss Mamie bristled. “I will
not
allow the general public to haggle for my belongings on the front lawn! Touching all my things.” She shuddered at the thought. “What I decide not to keep will be donated to a worthy charity, as is proper, and that is that.”

“No need to get so riled up,” Tommy told her. “I just figured you might need the money, with the General in the Home.” Hint, hint.

Definitely hit a nerve. Miss Mamie's expression gelled into concrete. “I could make money as a cocaine dealer, too,” she snapped, “but I wouldn't, because it's not proper. So there will be no more discussion of so-called estate sales.” She glared at my brother. “And take off that hat.”

He did, as an act of atonement.

Chastised, we went back to bringing out our mother's clothes in small batches.

What started as a chore ended up as a trip down memory lane with Miss Mamie as narrator. Every wrinkled dress had a memory attached, every age-curled shoe and smashed-up hat. Listening, we learned so much about our parents, and their parents before them.

Then we came upon a metal box of letters the General had sent Miss Mamie from the war (he was an aircraft mechanic in North Africa, then Italy).

Tommy opened one of the frail, thin international envelopes and unfolded to read the cramped writing in our father's usually expansive hand. “‘My sweet little chickadee, how I miss you and our home. What I wouldn't give for some of your sweet kisses and good, long hugs. For a night of peace to hold you safe in my arms.'”

I couldn't imagine my father ever thinking so tenderly of Miss Mamie, much less writing it down, so I had to fight back tears.

Tommy's voice thickened as he read on. “‘And for your wonderful cooking. The food here is brimming with garlic, which makes for some noisy nights in the barracks. One night it was so bad, I woke myself up! Just kidding.'”

Miss Mamie colored at the reference to passing gas. “Here, now. Give me that.” She made a swipe for the letter, but Tommy dodged her, then resumed reading.

“‘We are doing what we need to do here, and I pray every night that God will keep us both safe so I can come home to you. I don't know when, but I believe that day will come. I must. I hope you have enough to eat, with the rationing. Are my brothers putting too much of a burden on you? Bedford writes that he will join the navy as soon as he qualifies for officer's training at Tech. I wish he'd wait till he has graduated.'” He had. “‘Waring doesn't write, but he never was much good with that.'”

“Too
drunk
for that,” Miss Mamie corrected, her tone caustic.

“How old was Uncle Waring then?” I asked.

My mother didn't hesitate. “Nineteen, and already a sot. I swear, I don't think that boy ever did an honest day's work in his life. Wouldn't even cut our grass when he was living here.”

Wow. I couldn't imagine being saddled with that, and Daddy away. At least Granny Beth had been there to help her with the load.

Tommy let out a fatalistic sigh, then read on. “‘Precious pumpkin, you are the only woman in the world I want. Even though we fight, we always make up, and I can't wait to make up with you when I get home. Your loving husband, Mr. Samba.'”

“Mr. Samba?” Tommy and I both asked our mother at once.

Miss Mamie's eyes were still dreamy from the end of his letter. “Your daddy was the best dancer in three counties. Hot-tempered, but oh, did we dance.”

Then she blew her nose and motioned to the box. “Why don't you take that, Lin? I just cry when I read them, anyway. That's why I put them way in back, behind my dresses.”

Why did she cry? For the tenderness lost? For the fact that Daddy had only appreciated her when he was half a world away, staring death in the face?

I would have asked my mother, but her expression warned me not to.

“Okay. I'll keep them.” I turned to Tommy. “You can come over, and we'll read them together.”

He nodded.

After that, we continued the trip from the nineteen-twenties to the twenty-first century reflected in Mama's clothes. I set aside a lovely little wool suit with raglan sleeves and a tiny waist.

Mama smiled when she saw it. “My mother made that for me in 1938. Did I tell you she was a tailor?”

Tommy said no at the same moment I said yes.

Miss Mamie went on. “I was so awful. I complained about my homemade clothes, but they were the smartest ones in our set. I wish I had thanked her.”

I gave my mother's arm a consoling pat. “She made them because she loved you, and she knew you loved her.” I noted the suit's classic tailoring. Old photos of Miss Mamie showed her as a slender little woman with the look of Edward's Mrs. Simpson. “May I keep this?”

“Of course. I'd like that.”

Miss Mamie peered at me, then announced, “I don't want anything to go unsaid between us.”

I expected her to make some sort of confession, but instead, she asked, “Is there anything you'd like to thank me for before I die?”

I didn't know whether to laugh or cry, but I was deeply moved. “Only for everything,” I said. “Thank you for raising me right, and letting me make my own mistakes, and taking me in without saying ‘I told you so' when Phil dumped me, and for taking me in again now that I'm homeless, and for singing hymns with me, and wanting the best for me.”

My mother got up and bent between Tommy and me to hug our shoulders. “You and Tommy have always been the best things in my life, next to your daddy,” she said, then arched a brow at my brother. “Even when you, sir, were out there actin' like an idjit. I still loved you.”

I picked up a vintage fifties outfit to change the subject. “What about this?”

“I wore that to my first Service League tea,” she explained, then launched into the charity work she'd done before I was born.

When we finally got through all her clothes in the closet and the gift of Miss Mamie's reminiscences, she sorted through the piles and threw away anything that was stained beyond salvaging or moth-eaten, which included a lot of her size six sweater sets and wool coats. Then she chose what to keep and what to donate to the Interdenominational Thrift Shop. That chore completed, Mama excused herself, clearly traumatized by having to part with the physical evidence that she was once tiny and the belle of the ball.

Tommy and I spread all the usable donations on the bed, photographed them, then inventoried them for the IRS. That accomplished, we carried them down to my minivan.

“Mama,” I said as we came back inside, “you just gained three feet of closet rod and a clean floor for your shoes.” Not to mention the empty shelves. “And a nice write-off.”

She responded with a wistful smile. “Now comes the hard part.”

Daddy's things. An emotional minefield.

 

Twenty-four

After a cold Coke Zero, the three of us went back upstairs and started hauling things out of Daddy's closet. All his clothes were classic styles from the best men's shops, because he loved to haggle with the owners, which he couldn't do at the department stores.

Tommy dusted off a snappy fedora, then put it on.

“You look like a skinny Indiana Jones,” I complimented.

Miss Mamie scolded, “Thomas, remove that hat at once. You are in the presence of ladies, and indoors, to boot.”

Helping himself to a British driving cap, he just grinned. “I won't tell if you won't.” Then he went back to dragging out the closet's contents.

It didn't surprise me when we came up with four well-oiled shotguns, three large-caliber scoped hunting rifles, an assortment of handguns, our great-great-granddaddy's Confederate dress saber, and loads of ammo—from buckshot to hollow-points to copper shells. But the machine gun (oops: assault weapon) and long magazines of ammo came as a mild shock.

Seeing my expression, Miss Mamie sighed and shook her head. “He bought that for the coming rebellion, when the have-nots revolted against the haves, along with those undetectable tubes to bury his gold Krugerrands. Lord knows where those are, but they're undetectable, so there you are.” Mama glanced at the arsenal. “I told him and told him, God has nothing to do with hate and fear, but he never listened.”

Tommy and I exchanged pregnant looks. If only we could find Daddy's gold, he and Miss Mamie would be set for life.

Mama sighed. “But your father always imagined he was protecting us all from those crazy ravings he read about in those awful hate rags he subscribed to. Lord knows how much money he gave those people.”

Miss Mamie shook her head. “All those Breedlove boys were paranoid about anybody but conservative WASPs, just like their daddy before them.”

Which was a mystery, because the Breedlove men had opened the town and the mill to the blacks who were run out of Forsyth County so many decades ago. Despite their prejudices, they hadn't oppressed anyone. Quite the contrary. They'd given the refugees jobs. But like most Southerners of their generations, our forefathers were definitely men of stark contradictions.

She pulled out one of Daddy's nicest dark suits and flicked off some lint as she went on, holding it up to the light at the window. “What do you think about this one, for when he's called home?”

(Translate: dead.)

My stomach clenched, but I didn't overreact. “He always looked really nice in that one,” I managed to get out in an even tone. “With his white pinpoint oxford shirt and that narrow red damask tie.”

Help. I was using the past tense, already.

Mama closed her eyes as she sniffed the Old Spice embedded in the suit's collar. “It's selfish of me to want to keep your father alive. When God finally calls him home to heaven, he'll be healed of that hate and find peace at last.”

We both believed that the cross was potent enough to atone for even bigots. Otherwise, we wouldn't be able to sleep at night.

Sadly, America didn't have a monopoly on hate. Look at the Balkans, the Middle East, and Africa.

Nobody was immune.

Look at Congress. I mean, really.

Tommy surveyed the General's arsenal, nothing but the finest. “What do you want us to do with all the firepower?” he asked the Mame.