In Front of God and Everybody (26 page)

“Well, go on.” She sat upright with her eyes completely open. “You won't hurt my feelings.”

I figured she probably didn't care two shakes one way or the other about my opinions or how I felt, so I sincerely doubted I
could
hurt her feelings. I jumped in with both feet.

“You act like we're inferior to you.”

“Oh, now. Really,” she said.

“You do!”

She shrugged and made an airy gesture with her uninjured hand.

“Well, after all . . . you do live . . . that is, you are from . . . I mean to say, uh, you are . . .”

“Are you saying that because we aren't from California or New York or Chicago or somewhere like that, we aren't as good as you? Is that what you're trying to say?”

She had this little smile that made me want to bite something. A roofing nail maybe.

“Well, my dear child, after all, being from here, you can't possibly know as much as, well, those of us who are from somewhere else.”

I wanted to scream because that was the dumbest thing I'd heard in a long time, and believe me, I'd heard a lot of dumb things lately.

“Do you mean to sit there on your skinny rump and tell me that, after living with us for all these weeks, you still think we're stupid?”

Her mouth wagged and she blinked a dozen times. “I know you aren't stupid, none of you,” she said. “And I see you reading a lot, April Grace. But surely you realize Rough Creek Road can hardly be called a mecca of culture. That awful little Cedar Whatever is no thriving megalopolis, and you people are so provincial, it's appalling.”

Well, that frosted me good. I squinched my eyes to little slits and stared hard at her.

“So what if Cedar
Ridge
is a little town? There are little towns in every state, even the Fantastic and Golden state of California. And one thing for sure, I know
provincial
means you don't think outside the place you come from. So, okay. Maybe I
am
provincial. But, Isabel St. James, so are you.”

She blinked. “I . . .
what
?”

Obviously she had never considered this possibility.

“You don't think anything matters outside the place where you used to live,” I said. “You're so provincial, you don't even know the name of the nearest town to where you are right now.”

She twitched, an odd expression on her face. “I've . . . I've never thought of it quite that way.”

“And you know something else?” I said. “I might not speak good grammar all the time, but I
know
good grammar. And so does Daddy, and so does Grandma, and so does most everyone else around here. We just don't like using it sometimes, so don't even think about using that old saw to insult my family, or any of our friends.”

She had her mouth all screwed up and kept twitching in her chair like she was itching to say something rude. But she had asked me for this information, and I was telling her. After a minute, she allowed her lips to relax a little.

“All right, then. Point taken. Thank you for your honesty.” She paused, then asked, “Is that the reason you don't like me?”

I gave her a look, flickering with hope that she was actually listening to me. I kinda hated to say it, but she needed to hear it, so I did.

“That's one reason of about a hundred and ten,” I said.

Her eyes opened wide. “Really? Well, you may as well drive the nails in my hands and feet. Pray continue.”

I nearly rolled my eyes at her martyrdom. “Well, since you're using Jesus images, it galls my behind that you and Ian won't even bother to go to church with us one time so you can meet the people who are gonna work on your house, free of charge, so you'll have a nice place to live this winter.”

Her face got red, and she leaned forward.

“We are not religious fanatics!”

“Neither are we.”

“You people pray over every meal.”

This time I actually did roll my eyes in a goodly imitation of Myra Sue.

“So? We don't stand on street corners screaming at people about hellfire and brimstone. We thank God for all the good things He has done and all the blessings He has given us.”

She sniffed.

“When Ian and I went into town the other day, a foolish little man in a plaid suit had the nerve to invite us to a revival meeting.”

“So what? Did he put a gun to your head and force you to attend?”

“Of course not! But just the fact that he approached us—”

“Good grief,” I said. “He didn't mean anything. He was just extending an invitation.”

Isabel sniffed again and batted her eyes a few times. Then she said, “Your parents have that . . . that hideous prayer framed and hanging in their room.”

Mama and Daddy told my sister and me that their bedroom was their private sanctuary, so usually I went in there only with permission. But I'd been in it enough to know what she was talking about.

“You mean the Prayer of Saint Francis? Is that the hideous prayer of which you speak?” I figured if there was ever a good time for proper elocution and correct grammar, this was it. “Have you ever read that prayer, Isabel St. James?”

“No!” she said. “I saw the word
prayer
and didn't read further.”

Boy, oh boy.

“That just proves my point,” I said. “You are narrow-minded!” Her mouth flew open. “I'll have you know I'm a registered Democrat.”

“Who cares and so what? I strongly recommend you read that prayer sometime instead of making judgments about it. And I'll tell you something else, if my mama and daddy are religious fanatics, then I reckon it's not such a bad thing to be! After all, look at how you and Ian have been treated.”

We stared at each other for a long time. Then I said, “You want me to tell you some more things about yourself, or have you had enough?”

I fully expected her just to reach out and smack me a good one, but instead she took in a deep breath and said, rather slowly, “No. No, I'm willing to hear more. If I'm doomed to live here, then I should at least try to find a way to connect with you.”

I was glad to hear it. She was showing a little sense.

“You think you're sick all the time,” I said.

She blinked at me a few times. “Well, I have a delicate constitution.”

“Yeah. That may be, but nobody likes to hear about it three times a day and six times on Sunday. Hearing about your toe fungus or possible diphtheria makes me tired. Look how you carried on about that splinter. It was all bloody and gross, but it's not a life-threatening emergency. You wanted to call in the paramedics, for crying out loud.”

Her back was very stiff, but she said, “I see. What else?”

“You don't do anything around here.”

“I beg to differ!” She started ticking things off on the fingers of her good hand. “I have chopped tomatoes, I've broken beans, I've shucked corn—” she shuddered “—and there were
worms
! I peeled peaches, and the fuzz on the skins could have given me a dreadful rash that might have . . .” She trailed off, probably remembering what I'd just said. “I . . . I turned the steaks over on the grill the other day. And . . .” Here she paused to think. “Oh yes. I have never folded so much laundry in my life!”

“So? You could do a lot more. And you have insulted my mother so many times I can't count them all.”

Her mouth flew open.

“When? When did I
ever
insult your mother?”

“Oh brother!” I yelled. “Are you kidding? You called her Lucy about a million times until she finally snapped and asked you very politely to call her Lily—which is her name! You refuse to eat her cooking, and she has to drive all the way to Ava, and sometimes Blue Reed, to get food just for you.”

She stared at me. “Well, I . . . she does?” This was almost a whisper.

“Yes.”

For the first time, she actually looked dismayed. “Well . . . well . . . I never asked her to do that.”

“No, but she's nice, and she does things for people.”

“But she's so busy all the time. And that's a long way to go for just one person. Why, she's never said a thing to me about it. Are you sure?”

“Positive. She went to Blue Reed one night last week to get mangoes because you set up a fuss for them, and she didn't get home until after ten. She'd been up since five that morning. Then you complained that they just didn't taste like the ones
back home
, so most of them spoiled because they weren't good enough for you.”

She pressed the fingers of her injured hand to her mouth. “Oh my.”

Well, I was all wound up and couldn't stop. “And here's something else: Our dog Daisy isn't vicious, this house isn't dreadful, we don't have rural diseases, fresh country air doesn't make you sick, and Forest and Temple are nice people, not ‘vile creatures.' Furthermore, you've been treated like royalty in this house when the only royal thing you've done is act like a royal pain in the neck!”

Isabel stared at me in a way I've never seen before.

“Oh my,” she said again.

Then she looked past me and gazed at nothing for a long time. After a while, she spoke again in a strangled voice, “Does everyone in your family feel this way?”

I took a deep breath and pushed it out. “I don't think so,” I said. “I mean, they'd sure never let on even if they did.”

“No. No, I suppose they wouldn't, would they? Your parents are wonderful people. They've done more for Ian and me than any of our friends back home ever did.”

“And Myra Sue worships the ground you walk on.”

A slow, soft smile came to Isabel's lips. “She's a dear girl.”

I snorted. “Well, that's debatable. But let's not argue.”

I thought about telling her I thought Ian had turned out to be a nice guy after all, and she ought to stop being so crabby and snotty to him, but then I decided maybe the two of them ought to work out their own relationship.

“And I think your grandmother is an absolute hoot,”

Isabel said.

“You do?”

Finally she met my eyes. “Don't you?”

“Oh yeah,” I said. “Grandma is a case. Sometimes I nearly pass out from laughing at the funny things she says and does.”

“I used to think she was a dreadful hillbilly, but actually, once you get to know her, she's so clever and wise.”

“I know!”

Anyone who loved my grandma couldn't be a complete knotheaded jerk. I began to get a warm, fuzzy feeling for Isabel St. James, so I dismissed that hillbilly remark. After all, since she and Ian lived there now, they qualified as hillbillies, like it or not, deny it or not.

“So you have more to say?” Isabel asked after a minute. “Go ahead. I'm braced for it.”

“Just this. Treat my folks with a little more consideration, especially Mama. There was a time when she was treated real bad, and I just . . .” I stopped right there, remembering that Mama likes to keep some things to herself. “Just be nicer to them, okay?”

Isabel sniffed a little and blinked a little and twitched a little more.

Then she said, “Thank you again for your honesty. I shall be more mindful of how I present myself from here on out.” She cocked her head slightly to one side. “You know, my dear, you and I are a lot alike.”

I gawked at her. “That's one of craziest things you've ever said, Isabel St. James.”

“Think about it for a minute.”

So I did. I went back over how I had acted and the things I'd said and done since I first met the St. Jameses. I had judged them before I met them, just from the car they drove. And hardly ever tried to see past the things they said and did as a reason to understand them.

I remembered what Grandma had told me that day in the Koffee Kup, how no one was perfect, and I knew then just how right she was. Isabel wasn't perfect . . . and neither was I. That was a hard pill to swallow, I tell you, but once I swallowed it, I had to admit it aloud. I think Jesus would've liked that.

Gulping in a deep breath, I said, “Isabel St. James, you are absolutely—”

The telephone rang in the house. I excused myself very politely to go answer it.

“April Grace?” the voice on the other end of the telephone said. “This is Miss Delaine from the library.”

My heart jumped.

“Hi! Do you have some information about Mrs. Rance after all?”

“Yes, I do,” she said. “It came in the afternoon mail. But I'm afraid it's not what you were looking for. You might need to choose another subject for your composition, April Grace.”

“Why?” I asked. “What do you mean?”

“You want to write about women who've died in Texas, right? Mrs. Emmaline Rance is not dead.”

What did Miss Delaine just say?

“She's not dead?” I yelped. “Of course she's dead! She died about Christmastime last year.”