In Front of God and Everybody (8 page)

Now, there's a notion. I have to admit, though, there was no reasoning behind it. Of course, being just a plain, ordinary crook . . . well, that was possible. That's why the Ozarks have so many criminals and weirdos, you know. They come here from everywhere else and think they can hide in the hills and hollers. Well, maybe they can, 'cause there sure seem to be a lot of them.

You better believe Rough Creek Road has its own oddballs. For example, there's Uncle Melt and Auntie Freesia Mahoney, who like to say they've raised three kids, one of each. One of each what, I'd like to know? A girl and a boy and what else? They talk to and about their fixed poodle, Pancake, as if it's a kid. Maybe that's what they mean. And then there's the Todds. They've lived at the end of the road, right on the edge of the Ozark National Forest, since the early 1960s. They don't talk to anyone—especially not the locals—and they sure don't want anyone talking to them. If you try, you might get your head blown off. Like I said, we got our share of weirdos around here.

Anyway, the more I thought about Mr. Rance being up to no good, the more it all made sense. The way the old man eyeballed the TV and VCR, he probably thought she was loaded. I'd heard about men who sweet-talk nice ladies into giving them everything they own, but Grandma don't have much— just her home furnishings and her Social Security checks.

Well, he better not try to sponge off my grandma. He better not be a crook. Or an old lady's purse snatcher. Or a wife murderer.

“Boy, oh boy,” I said as I started walking again. “You don't want to mess with the grandma of April Grace Reilly. If I find out he's up to mischief, I'm going to fix him good.”

I sort of felt like John Wayne or Clint Eastwood. If either one of them had been a girl, I mean.

That night I set the table for company supper. Myra Sue came into the dining room. She stared at the table, then squawked like a strangled goose.

“You dumb little kid! Don't you know
anything
?” she said to me. She began stacking up the plates I'd just laid out.

“Mama told me to set the table, and you're messing it up. Stop it!” I reached out to take the plates back from her.

“Stop it yourself, you toad!” said Myra Sue.

She yanked backward. The top two plates slid from the stack and crashed to the floor.

“What in the world?” Mama came out of the kitchen, looking from the plates on the floor to us. Her face was pink and damp from the hot stove.

“Mama, she unset the table—” I began.

“Mama, she was using these old dishes—” Myra Sue butted in.

“Quiet!” Mama hardly ever raised her voice, so when she hollered we both hushed. She glared at us, then said, “I told you to set the table, April Grace, and you, Myra Sue, are supposed to call Grandma and tell her to bring ice.”

Usually, Mama never gets flustered, but I had a feeling she was all nervous and jumpy because those snotty St. Jameses were coming. She rubbed a spot above her eyebrows.

“What happened, April?” she asked in a voice that sounded as if she were tired enough to lay right down.

I shot a triumphant look at my sister.

“I set the table, eight places, just like you told me to. Then Myra Sue sticks her stupid head in here—”

“April Grace.” Mama's voice held a warning.

I cleared my throat. “Myra Sue sticks her head in here and starts hollering and unsets it all, then she goes and dumps them plates on the floor.”

“You are such a big fat liar. Mama, your youngest daughter used our old dishes instead of our good ones, and Mr. and Mrs. St. James are extra special guests.”

“Oh brother,” I muttered.

“They deserve the very best,” she added.

Suddenly we're the Hallmark card people. I was afraid I might upchuck, but from the expression on Mama's face, I decided standing there and gagging probably wasn't the smartest thing I could do.

“They are from
California
,” Myra Sue continued, as if that were the cherry on top of her sundae.

“So what?” I said.

“What about these broken plates on the floor?” Mama pronounced each word real slow and precise, and her voice got louder with each word.

“I guess I picked up too many,” Myra said. “They slid off.”

Mama stared at her real hard, then at the plates, then at me. She took in a breath so deep, both sides of her nose pinched in.

“All right, Miss Myra. You want to set the table so much, set it. Use the good dishes, not because the St. Jameses are from California, but because they are our guests. And you.” She turned to me, and I shrunk a little inside my skin. “Get the broom and sweep up these broken plates. I'm sure your sister would not deliberately dump them on the floor.
Then
”—

she turned back to the sister—“you quit stalling and call your grandmother.”

Myra Sue's expression said she was dying by bits and pieces.

“Why does
Grandma
have to come?” Myra Sue said. “She is so . . . uncouth. She has no class.”

Mama's mouth flew open, but before she could respond, I said, “You are mean, Myra Sue Reilly! Grandma is the best grandma is the whole entire world!”

“But, Mama, she'll show up in one of those awful homemade dresses and her Dr. Scholl's shoes and use bad grammar and tell some stupid story about when she was a girl during the Great Depression. It will be absolutely humiliating.”

Mama unclenched her jaw. “For shame, Myra Sue Reilly! What's got into you, anyway? She's coming. That's that.”

Another sigh from the dark depths of Myra Sue's soul.

“And you better be nice to her,” Mama added.

“I'm always nice to her. But face it, Mama, Grandma is a hillbilly. A hick. She'll disgrace us all.”

I wanted to smack that girl square on the head, but Mama would've come unglued. She closed her eyes again and clamped her mouth real tight.

Mama took a deep breath, willing her patience. “Tonight, after our guests are gone, you and I, Myra Sue, are going to have a talk. And you
will
see the light. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

Then Mama looked at me, and I lost my grin right quick.

“Why are you still standing there, April? Get the broom and sweep up these broken plates like I told you to.”

I shot off to the broom closet without pausing to blink.

Now, I'm just a kid, so supposedly I don't know anything, but here's what I think: if you're invited to supper at 5:30, you got a lot of nerve to show up at 6:57 without calling to say you'll be late. But those St. Jameses. I tell you what. They must never have learned good manners out there in California. Grandma got here at 5:15, and she dragged old Mr. Rance right along with her, but at least they were here on time.

I just happened to be standing at the front door when Ian and Isabel drove up. I guess Ian saw me through the screen because he rolled down his window and hollered, “Is that vicious dog tied up?”

I didn't know where Daisy was, but she's never been tied up in her whole life. Probably she was asleep next to her food dish in the backyard. But I said “yep” and watched him stop the car near the front steps.

Ole Isabel took her sweet time getting out of the car all by herself because her mister didn't give her any assistance. He was flapping his handkerchief across the windshield of their car, like that was going to do something about the dust from Rough Creek Road. He held a little purse in one hand. I assume it belonged to his wife, but I wasn't too sure. Maybe men in their social circle carried purses. Isabel wobbled to the front porch steps on crutches.

Mama, who'd been keeping supper warm, saw Isabel through the screen. “Oh my goodness!” Mama said, and she went running outside. She was down the front steps before the screen door shut behind her.

I followed more slowly and hung around near the edge of the porch to watch what promised to be a real circus. Myra Sue was in the kitchen washing the pots and pans for the second time, since she didn't do it right the first go-round. She didn't know that the Emperor and Empress of the Isle of Rude had arrived.

“My stars!” Mama said to Isabel. “You injured it that badly?”

“Those quacks at that hick clinic are a bunch of fools. They told me I had barely twisted my ankle.”

“And they put you on crutches?” Mama said.

“Isabel insisted,” said Ian. His lips hardly moved. Well, how could they? His jaws looked clenched tight enough to crack walnuts. So much for
darling
and
lambkins
and
snookums
and whatever other names they came up with while Isabel was dying on the way to town.

“Of course I insisted,” Isabel snarled. “They were just going to wrap it, give me an aspirin, and send me on my merry way.”

“They took X-rays,” Ian said.

Isabel snorted. “That contraption was ancient. I'm sure I have radiation poisoning now.”

“Well, if you start to glow in the dark, I'll let you know,” Ian snapped.

Mama interrupted this precious gem of a conversation. “It can't be comfortable for you, standing here,” she said. Isabel whimpered and looked pitiful. “So you come on inside where you can sit down. I have supper ready.”

“How am I supposed to get to the door?” Isabel asked.

Mama shot a glance at Ian. “Why, your husband looks strong, and you're just a little mite. He can carry you. Here, I'll take your crutches.”

“Ian can't lift me, let alone carry me,” Isabel said.

“Of course he can,” Mama smiled. “I bet you don't weigh more than a hundred pounds.”

I looked at Ian. I bet the preschoolers in T-ball could beat him up.

“Well,” Ian said, staring at Isabel. He took in a deep breath and blew it out. “Let's get you inside.”

Pulling a face that involved squinching his eyes and dragging down the corners of his mouth, Ian picked up his lambkins and staggered around like it was midnight in an ice storm. Isabel shrieked the whole entire time.

Mama followed with the crutches, and I stood where I was, disgusted to the very bone. Inside the house, Mr. Rance— who had invited himself to come along with Grandma—told a long-winded horse story, and he was telling it so loud that I walked clear to the end of our long driveway to see if I could still hear him. I could. Honest.

I stayed outside until my sister came out on the porch.

“Oh, April,” she sang out. I looked at her standing on the edge of the porch, all prissy and sweet. “Mama says it's time to eat!” She bounced every word as if reciting a poem about a basket of kittens.

I stared at her, wondering if her sweetie-pie smiling-ness was supposed to fool me into getting close enough so she could whomp me upside my head. She's been known to pull that trick before. But I guess she didn't plan to do it right then, because she whirled on one foot and went back into the house.

Myra Sue might have planned to be all sweetness and light, and maybe she thought that evening was going to be something out of an old black-and-white Fred Astaire movie, but it wasn't. It turned out to be something closer to
A
Nightmare on Elm Street
.