In Front of God and Everybody (3 page)

Well, that was too much for me to take.

“Daisy barked two measly little times.” I jabbed my pointy finger in the air to emphasize my words. “Just two little woofs. And anyway, even if she did set up a ruckus—which she didn't, Myra Sue, and you know it—don't you want her to let us know when a stranger drives up?”

“April Grace,” Mama said in a tone that made the hair on the back of my neck prickle, “were you rude to those people?”

“Yes, she was,” Big Mouth answered. “She just walked off and left poor Mr. St. James out there, pitiful and confused.” Suddenly my sister was Mother Teresa, but she lost the effect when she said to me, “You are so rude and crude wearing that ugly ratty T-shirt and shorts. I bet when you grow up, you'll be nothing but trailer trash.”

“Myra Sue, leave this table,” Daddy said.

She stared at him with her mouth hanging open. We all got a good look at her new braces, which she dearly hates.

“But April Grace is such a big, fat pain!”

Daddy leaned back in his chair and narrowed his eyes at her.

“One more word, Myra Sue, and you'll be helping me muck out the cow barn tomorrow. Right now you can get started on the supper dishes.”

She pooched out her lower lip but didn't say anything else. Her sigh nearly heaved the shoes right off her feet. And the way she dragged herself toward the kitchen, you would've thought she was going to her own execution.

As soon as we heard water running in the kitchen sink, Mama slowly wiped her lips with her napkin. She and Daddy both looked at me for a minute or two. My food settled in my belly like a big, hard lump.

“April Grace, honey,” Mama said, “there is no excuse for rudeness to strangers or to family.”

“But Myra Sue just opened the door right up to that man and went right out on the porch. Mama, he could have been an ax murderer or a kidnapper or something.” I looked at Daddy for a little backup on this logic.

Now here's something else you should know: Daddy and Mama are In Love. They went together since eighth grade, never dated anyone else, and got married the year they turned nineteen. Never in my life have I heard them contradict each other. Maybe they agree about everything. I don't expect them to change anytime soon.

“Of course, you should never open the door to a stranger,” he said to me. “But you shouldn't just walk away when someone asks a question. Your mother and I have tried to teach you that the way other people act doesn't make a difference in how you treat them. You could have answered through the door. And now that we know they're our neighbors, we need to make them welcome.”

“Remember what Jesus said about treating others the way you want to be treated, always.” Mama added. “Do you understand?”

“Yes'm.”

“So you will give these St. James people a person-to-person apology tomorrow?”

I thought my heart had already sunk, but I was wrong.

“But that woman said I had rural diseases, and she called us hillbillies, and . . . and . . .”

I could see this wasn't helping. I thrashed around in my head for something to tell my parents so they would understand how awful the St. Jameses were.

“And they were cussing and took the Lord's name in vain. And they insulted poor ole Daisy, and scared her with their loud car horn and their big mouths. You wouldn't want me not to defend Daisy, would you, or keep listening to them take the Lord's name in vain, would you?”

“No, honey, of course not,” Mama said. “And I admire your loyalty to Daisy, I really do. But I'm sure Daisy would want you to apologize. And God wants us to forgive others, so no more excuses.”

Well, if insulting our dog and using the Lord's name in vain wouldn't change Mama's mind, nothing would. I slumped back in my chair. The only comfort I got out of the whole situation was the sound of my sister in the kitchen, washing dishes and getting dishpan hands.

When I woke up the next morning, it took me a minute to figure out why I felt so depressed.

Mama was downstairs in the kitchen, singing the hymn “Rock of Ages.” The sun shone, the birds sang. It was Myra Sue's turn to do laundry, and since we only used the clothes dryer in the winter or when it rained, she would have to hang the wet wash on the clothesline in the backyard. It was a job she dearly hated. All things considered, I had every reason to feel blissfully happy.

Then I remembered.

Today was the day I had to apologize to our new neighbors, the St. Jameses. As far as I was concerned, I'd done nothing wrong. But what Mama says is Law, so I'd just have to do it, even if I turned blue and fell over dead.

I lay there and stared up at the ceiling and wished I could suddenly get sick. Not cancer or the black plague or even the flu, understand. But a good case of tonsillitis would be helpful. If I had a sore throat, everyone would know I couldn't talk.

I practiced speaking in a pitiful, hoarse voice, and when Mama called me for breakfast, I dragged myself downstairs in my nightie. I left my hair uncombed and my face unwashed, hoping I looked puny. It was hard to do, let me tell you. You know as well as I do that it's hard to look frail and sick if you're hungry as a starving lumberjack and the aroma of bacon and eggs is filling the kitchen. Mama stood at the big, old stove in our yellow-and-white kitchen, breaking eggs into the cast-iron skillet. They sizzled as they hit the hot grease. On the counter were a bunch of canning jars filled with fresh cucumbers, and on the back stove burners were two big pots of vinegar, water, and salt simmering for pickles. The vinegar and bacon smells mixed together real nice. Mama makes the best dill pickles you'll ever have the pleasure to munch.

Now, I should tell you that my mama isn't one of them lowfat cooks whose food tastes like packing peanuts or the boxes they come in. For instance, she uses bacon fat for flavoring. At least once a week she fixes fried chicken and mashed potatoes and gravy. In the summer we eat fried okra, fried potatoes, fried or baked squash, fried catfish, and fried corn fritters, and every bit of it will melt in your mouth. In the winter we enjoy thick, yummy soup made of brown beans and ham with cornbread and fried potatoes on the side. We also eat meat loaf or pot roast with brown gravy and roasted potatoes. On Mama's hot, fluffy biscuits, we spread real butter, not margarine. We drink fresh, whole milk, and every single night, all year round, we have dessert. Everyone says Mama is the best cook in the whole county—even Grandma, who is her mother-in-law.

And in case you're wondering, none of us is fat, except Grandma, who is merely plump and prefers it that way. She says, “A layer of fat under an old lady's skin keeps her looking twenty years younger.”

While Mama cooked my eggs that morning, I slumped down into a chair at the table and tried to look as pathetic as possible. She glanced at me and smiled.

“Wash your face, April Grace,” she singsonged. That was a rhyme she'd made up a long time ago when I was little. I used to think it was funny. “And brush your hair and teeth.”

Inside my head, I made a face, 'cause there's something I can't understand: what's the Big Deal about primping for breakfast? Mama and Daddy had eaten earlier, right before Daddy went out to do the milking, and it wasn't like the two eggs on my plate could see me. And I sure didn't care two hoots how lovely or revolting I looked to my dumb sister. Which was just as well because, as I went upstairs to wash up, she came clomping down with a basket of dirty laundry. She was all scrubbed and brushed with her blonde hair all big and curly. She probably thought she looked like Madonna or Cyndi Lauper or somebody like that. Lucky Mama wouldn't let her wear makeup or clothes like any of those girl singers, or we'd have a mess to look at around here.

“You look like dog poop,” Myra Sue said to me as she passed.

I gave serious thought to sticking out my foot and tripping her so she'd fall face-first into some dirty underwear, but if she fell down the stairs and ended up breaking her head or something important, I'd be blamed for it. Plus, I'd have to do all her chores. So I just crossed my eyes at her and went to primp for breakfast.

“Why don't you act like you're eleven-going-on-twelve, instead of like you're three years old?” she hollered after me. Silly, silly girl. At least I didn't act fourteen-going-on-thirty.

Back in the kitchen a little later, I was all wound up to complain about a headache, stomachache, water on the knee,
and
poison ivy, but the back door opened and Grandma walked in. She lives in a little house on the other side of the hayfield. Her name is Myra Grace Reilly. My sister and I are named after her. She goes by Grace. I never knew my other grandma, whose name was Sandra. That's all I know, because Mama won't tell me anything else about when she was a little girl, other than that her great-aunt Maxie raised her. Great-Aunt Maxie died the year before Myra Sue happened. One time I asked Grandma if she knew anything about Mama's mother, but she acted odd and quiet and told me never to talk about it to anyone again. So I haven't, but it sure makes you wonder, doesn't it?

Now here's the thing about Grandma: she is not like my friends' grandmothers. They all wear their hair short, and they usually dye it brown or red or blond, and they have jobs and go to aerobics at the gym and stuff. Daddy says my grandma is a “throwback to another era.” She wears dresses, which she makes at home, and has wavy gray hair she wears in a bun. Her shoes are way ugly, but Grandma declares she's long past trying to show off trim ankles and pretty legs. She says anyone who wears high heels is out of her cotton-pickin' mind. That's how she ruined her feet in the first place, when she worked at the dime store during the war. She has this big blue vein on her right leg.

When Myra Sue starts whining for new shoes with heels, Grandma sticks out her leg with the vein, hikes her skirt up to her knee, and says, “Lookie there, sis. Is that what you're after? 'Cause that's what you'll get if you wear them kind of fool shoes.”

“City girls wear high heels to the dances all the time,” my sister told her one time, all uppity, as if she knows everything about dances in the city—which she does not, let me assure you.

Myra Sue made this profound announcement one evening a few weeks ago when we were all sitting in the living room playing the latest craze, a game called Pictionary, where you try to guess the answer by the pictures your partner draws. Everybody stared at my goofy sister; then Grandma spoke.

“I've seen pictures of what girls wear at those discos. Disgraceful.”

Myra Sue had rolled her eyes like she does when she thinks she knows Everything.

“Step into reality, Grandma. It's 1986, and disco is out. Good grief.”

Daddy had laughed. “Yeah, Mom. Break-dancing is the thing these days.”

I thought break-dancing was out, too, but what do I know? I want to learn the Charleston.

“Break-dancing!” Grandma said. “What's that? No, wait. I don't even want to know. It sounds painful.”

That morning in the kitchen, for a minute after Grandma came in, I forgot to try to look sick. I jumped up from my chair and gave her a hug. She hugged me back and asked about my poison ivy.

“Itchy.”

“Looks itchy,” she agreed, examining my arms and legs.

“Morning, Lily,” she said to Mama.

“Morning, Myra Susie,” she said to my prissy big sister coming out of the laundry room. “Got your first load ready to hang out already?”

Myra Sue gave her a pained smile. “Yes, and there's about a million tons more to do.”

“Ah, well.” Grandma sat down heavily. “Doing the wash is like politics. It's always there, always dirty, and there ain't no end in sight.”

Myra Sue grunted and went outside with her basket of wet laundry. She probably thought politics were bugs that bite you on the bottom in the summer.

I buttered a biscuit.

“Coffee, Mama Grace?” Mama asked. She got out the special cup with
#1 Grandma
printed on it in big, red letters. She filled it before Grandma had a chance to answer.

“Thankee kindly, Lily.” She took a noisy sip.

“Grandma?” I said.

“Woo?” Grandma always says “Woo?” like that. She says it in a high-pitched kind of way, kinda like she's making a train whistle. Everybody else's grandma just says “What?” or “Huh?” or “Don't bother me now.”

“How do you drink your coffee that way, right out of the coffee pot without even blowing on it?” I asked. “Don't it burn your guzzle?”

Guzzle
is another Grandma word I like to borrow. Aside from its real dictionary definition, I think it means anything inside you, from your lips all the way to your belly.

“Aw, April, I been drinking hot coffee since I was a squirt, littler 'n you. My guzzle is calloused.”