In Front of God and Everybody (2 page)

On that warm July day, while I watched from the porch, that car just sat there, paused in our driveway. I could see two people inside talking to each other. They looked toward the house for a bit; then the car sort of oozed up the driveway and stopped near the porch.

Daisy, our big white dog who is older than dirt, slept in her favorite sunny patch by the porch steps. She woke up and looked up long enough to take note of the visitors. Then she thumped her tail once or twice, yawned, and lowered her head to her paws.

“Some watchdog you are,” I told her.

I was wearing a baggy, raggedy pair of red terry cloth shorts and a yellow T-shirt with the arms cut out because I'd got into poison ivy chasing Grandma's spoiled white cat, Queenie, who is not supposed to get out of the house but does anyway. Just because of her, I'd spent the better part of that week begging God not to let me itch completely to death.

Mama and Daddy had gone over to Ava in Douglas County to pick up a part at the tractor place because in all of Zachary County, that particular part was not to be found. Although my grandmother lives just across the hayfield from us, my sister and I were home alone right then.

The blond-haired, pink-faced man in the car blasted his horn. It was as loud as a freight train and startled me so bad I jumped. Daisy lumbered up and woofed once.

The man motioned for me to come to his car door, but I didn't do it for three good reasons. Number one: he might've been an ax murderer for all I knew. Though from the looks of that spiffy car and the diamond ring winking in the sunlight on his pinky finger as he beckoned me, he looked more like a banker than a crook. Number two: my poison ivy itched worse every time I moved. Number three: I was pretty put out that he just sat in our driveway and honked for me to come running like he was King of the World. Plus, Daddy and Mama have talked to me and my sister about being careful around strangers.

I looked at the scrawny boy in the seat beside him. Boy, that kid was some kind of ugly with a mug that was all ghostly white cheekbones and forehead. His black eyebrows dipped down toward a long, pointy nose. He wore his short, dark hair all slicked back so his face was just hanging there, and you just had to stare at it, kinda like a bad wreck on the highway.

The way that pair glared at each other, you could see they were both madder than a two-edged sword.

They began to argue, but I couldn't make out the words.

Finally the man's window slid down, smooth as you please.

“You! Girlie! Is that creature vicious?”

I glanced around, expecting to see Grandma's cat, who has been known to bite the hand that feeds her, or anyone else's hand for that matter. Then I saw him eyeball Daisy, who had plopped back down in the sun and was lying there like melted ice cream. I laughed out loud. That dog would rather lick you than sic you, and that tight-faced man was the only person in the world who ever thought good ole Daisy might be vicious.

“No, sir, she ain't mean,” I said when I finally quit laughing fit to be tied.

The man turned to the boy and said something. This time, with the car window down, that boy's answer came out loud and clear.

That's when I realized the homely kid was actually the most unpleasantest-looking woman I've ever seen in all my life, and that's putting it nicely. And let me tell you, she had a voice shrill enough to crack the Arctic ice cap.

“I am not getting out of this car, Ian! That child is covered with sores, and there's no telling what rural diseases she has.”

Well, she didn't need to make it sound like I had the cooties. We Reillys take a bath every single night before bed. My sister, Myra Sue, who is fourteen years old and is in love with herself, bathes about five times a day even though she's too lazy to do a blessed thing to get herself dirty.

“I got poison ivy,” I hollered at the woman, who continued to gawk at me as if I were something disgusting. “It's not catchy, like the measles or head lice.”

There was just the tiniest silence, as if they were both surprised I could speak. After a moment, the man gave me a big plastic smile that stretched his lips halfway to both ears. He obviously didn't wear dentures because they would've popped out from all the grinning.

“Well, then,” he said heartily, “can you tell us if this is Rough—”

“What's the matter with you, Ian?” screeched the woman. “She's a child. She doesn't know anything!”

Ian jerked his head around to look at her, and I got a real good view of his bald spot turning a peculiar shade of purple.

“Isabel! Be quiet! You haven't shut your yapping mouth since we left San Francisco.”

Well, I hate to say it, but watching this business was almost better than reading. I put my book down so I could pay attention. What were those people, anyway? Crazy?

The woman shrieked as if she had been goosed.

“Don't you tell me what to do, Ian St. James,” she said. “This whole move is your idiotic idea. I was perfectly content at home, in the middle of civilization!”

His next words came out like little soldiers in a row, all stiff and even.

“Kindly remember that our home is gone.”

“And it's all your fault!” she screamed.

The little soldiers continued to march forth. “I told you that someday I wanted to get back to our roots,” he said.

“Roots? Back to our roots? We were both born in Marin County. California, Ian.
California!
”

“But my grandfather came from West Memphis.”

She looked so mad I thought her eyeballs would pop right out. She leaned into him.

“Have you ever looked at a map?” she asked. “West Memphis is at least two hundred miles from this odious place. We don't have hillbilly roots!”

They glared at each other for a spell and cussed each other out pretty good, then she slung herself back against the car seat, crossing her arms.

“Idiot!”

By then it seemed evident they weren't ax murderers or dangerous in any way except maybe to each other, but all that screeching and cursing made me itch and gave me a headache. I'd had an earful more than I could stomach. I got up and went into the house, letting the screen door bang shut behind me. Then I latched it, just for good measure and for safety's sake.

The car horn blasted again, three times.

In the living room, Myra Sue lounged on the sofa with a pile of clean, unfolded towels all around her, as if she thought she were a princess and the laundry were velvet cushions. With her mouth hanging half-open, she had her eyes glued to the TV, watching
Days of Our Lives
. She didn't have anything better to do, I guess, because her two best friends, Jessica and Jennifer Cleland, were spending the summer with their grandparents in Hawaii.

I settled carefully into the soft, old rocking chair Grandma uses whenever she comes to visit, which, if you are interested, is every single day.

“Is someone outside?” Myra Sue asked, coming up for air during a commercial. My sister has wavy blond hair and bright blue eyes and thinks she is so all-fired gorgeous that it's like her feet are glued to the floor in front of the mirror. I bet she'd stare at herself 'til the Second Coming if Mama would let her. I even caught her kissing her reflection one time, and she like to pulled me bald-headed when I couldn't stop laughing.

“You could say that,” I muttered.

Outside, Daisy gave another low, lazy woof. Someone squealed. A car door slammed loud enough to wake the dead in Cedar Ridge Cemetery eight miles away.

Myra Sue gave me her usual dirty look.

“Did you lock the screen?” she asked. “We don't want a lunatic or a salesman in the house.”

With one foot, I set Grandma's chair to rocking and ignored her. I opened my book and plunged myself back into the world of
Oliver Twist
, which I like way, way better than that series about junior high cheerleaders all the other girls my age love so much.

“Hey in there! Girlie!” The man's voice came from outside, somewhere in the region of the porch steps.

Myra Sue didn't move, and neither did I.

“He's hollering at you,” she said. That girl is so lazy she wouldn't move if the towels caught fire.

“Say! In the house! Hello in there!” the voice came again.

“Aren't you going to see what he wants?” Myra Sue asked.

“Nope,” I said.

My sister's dirty look got dirtier. Then she blew an exaggerated sigh and heaved herself off the sofa just as
Days of Our
Lives
came back on. Clean towels fell on the floor, and she kicked them out of the way with her bare feet. The TV remote was still clutched in her hot little hand, so I couldn't use it even if I wanted to. With the other hand, she smoothed her side ponytail in its blue scrunchie, patted her bright yellow T-shirt and stone-washed jeans in case wrinkles had invaded her territory, then went to the screen door.

“Are your parents at home?” the banker-looking man asked.

Myra Sue gave this oopsy little gasp and blurted out, “Ooo! I
love
your car! It's a Chrysler New Yorker, isn't it?”

So much for lunatics and salesmen. All they'd have to do is drive up in a flashy car, and she'd invite them in to murder us or sell us a Kirby vacuum cleaner.

“It's a Cadillac!” the man snapped. “Now call off your dog. He's terrorizing my wife.”

I figured I might have to call the TV station about this late-breaking phenomenon. You see, Daisy is fifteen years old. If she were an old lady, she'd be almost a hundred. Plus, she has lost most of her teeth. I scooched around in the rocking chair so I could look outside. Oh yeah, Daisy seemed ferocious, all right, sitting near the bottom of the steps, her tongue hanging out of her mouth sideways while her tail whacked back and forth in the dust. The skinny woman in the car looked like she was about to run for the hills.

“Go get 'er, Daisy,” I whispered and turned away.

That goofy Myra Sue was still fluttering and panting over the man's dumb ole car when I went upstairs to renew my calamine lotion and sit in front of the fan.

Here's the thing: I'm pretty sure Myra Sue is adopted because she isn't like Mama or Daddy or me, or even Grandma. None of us cares about what people drive or what they have. If Myra Sue is related to anyone I know, it would have to be Queenie, Grandma's cat, because they are both such a pain in the behind and like to cause trouble for everyone else.

For instance, that very evening my dear sister announced right at the supper table: “April Grace was mean and rude to our new neighbors.”

Well, everyone, including yours very truly, stopped chewing and stared at her. She was sitting so straight and prim, you'd think Mama had starched her drawers.

“What new neighbors?” Mama, Daddy, and I said at the same time.

“Ian and Isabel St. James.”

Her tone of voice and her high-and-mighty expression said the rest of us must be from a planet far, far away.

“You mean that loudmouthed man and that skinny woman that looks like the ugliest boy in the world?” I said.

“April Grace,” Mama said.

Here is something you should know. Mama is prettier than anyone in all of Zachary County and maybe in the entire state of Arkansas. She has shiny, curly red hair that touches just below her shoulders, and her eyes are green and sparkly. Everyone says her freckles are adorable. Not only is Mama beautiful to look at, but she's beautiful inside. Everybody says I look like her, but I don't see it. And my inside sure as the world isn't as pretty as hers. She never says anything bad about anyone, and she doesn't like us to talk bad about someone else, even if we don't know them personally, even if it's just somebody on the TV.

“I'm sorry, Mama,” I said, “but it kinda hurt my eyes to look at her. Her face looks like the edge of a butcher knife, and her nose is so long . . .”

“Enough, April Grace, or leave the table,” Mama said.

I looked down at my fried okra. “Yes'm.”

“Were you rude to them?” Daddy asked. Daddy is all strong and muscle-y from working hard on our farm every single day of his life. He has dark hair, and his eyes look real blue because his face is so sun-browned.

“No, sir, Daddy,” I said at the same time ole Myra Sue said, “Yes, sir, Daddy. She was plain hateful.”

“I was not!”

“Was so!”

“Stop it,” Daddy said in that Tone of Voice that makes us quit whatever we're doing. Like Mama, he's real nice, and he's soft-spoken, but he can get riled sometimes.

I took a deep breath, looked first at Daddy, then at Mama.

“I was not being rude,” I said. “They were fighting and screaming at each other—”

“Oh, you are such a liar,” Myra Sue butted in. “Mother, they had to raise their voices because she was in the car and he was on the porch, and Daisy set up such a ruckus—”