Fiction Friday

Running Away

             Mama slapped him for saying “shit.”  He had been trying out all sorts of words like that for weeks, but never in front of Mama.  I didn’t really understand why she hit him.  After all, she was the one that he’d heard say it in the first place.  But she did.  Then, with a few dirty words of her own, she dragged him down the hall and told him to stay in his room for the rest of the night.  I followed on her heels and realized that I was standing on the wrong side of the door the second that she slammed it.

             I sat down Indian style under the window and ran Hot Wheels cars over my legs while I watched Jonathan toss cards into a baseball cap.

            “I wish we could go to Granny’s.”

            Jonathan propped himself up on his elbow and looked down at me from the bed.  “We can’t go anywhere,” he said.  “Don’t you ever listen, Jess?”

            I listened more than any of them knew.  I was the only one that heard Daddy tell Mama that he wanted a divorce and that he was going to take me and Jonathan and David away.  Daddy caught me crying later, when he came to kiss me goodnight before he went to work, and I told him what I’d heard.  He said that Mama loved us, but that she couldn’t take care of us like we needed her to, so he was going to take us to Granny’s big farm where we could run and play and always be safe.

            I had dreamed about a big farm that night.  The next morning, I woke up when I heard someone banging on the door.  David answered it because he couldn’t wake Mama up.  He didn’t know I was listening, but I heard the policeman tell him that Daddy had been in a bad wreck.

            I heard Mama sneak her boyfriend into the house that same night.  I heard him say they would rob a gas station in the next town, and I heard them laughing because they got away with it while they counted their money.

            “I listen,” I said, pouting and crossing my arms over my chest.

            “Whatever.”  Jonathan fell back across the bed and picked up his baseball and David’s old glove.  He tossed the ball into the air, dangerously close to the dusty globe on the ceiling fan, and caught it just inches above his face.  I didn’t have anything better to do, so I started counting.

            The forty-sixth time he tossed the ball, something slid in the gravel in front of the house.  Jonathan jumped up to look out the window and the ball landed on the plywood floor with a thud.  “It's Lenny,” he muttered.

            Lenny was Mama's boyfriend.  He was skinny, with long, dirty looking blonde hair and a long nose.  I always hated it when Lenny came over.  It usually meant that the den was going to be full of funny smelling smoke and that the TV was going to be turned up too loud and that Mama was going to laugh at things that weren’t funny.  Plus, Lenny liked to touch my hair.  He would tug at the ends of my ponytail and smile at me around the cigarette that was always hanging from his lips.

            “You really want to go to Granny’s?” Jonathan asked.

            I nodded.

            “Then let’s go.”

            “But, I thought…”

            Jonathan shushed me and looked back out the window where Lenny was showing Mama his new motorcycle.  “Get some clothes,” he whispered.  “Hurry.”

            I pulled my only pair of blue jeans and some tattered shorts out of a drawer and stacked them on the bed.  “You better get a jacket, too,” Jonathan said.  He took all my clothes and shoved them into his backpack with his ball and David’s glove.  “I’ll be right back,” he said.  “Stay here.”

            I listened to the old floors of the trailer creak while he tiptoed down the hall.  He came back a few minutes later with two Pop-tarts and a couple cans of Coke.  He shoved them into a smaller backpack and handed it to me.  “You need anything else?”

            I looked around the room and tried to remember if there was anything worth taking with me.  We always had nice things when Daddy was there, but when he died, Mama sold most of our stuff.  I pulled a little box out from under the bed and tucked it into my bag.  “What’s in there?” Jonathan asked.

            “A necklace that Daddy gave me.”

            Jonathan tugged a book out from under the mattress and took out his favorite baseball cards.  “Put these in there, too.”  He shoved his baseball cap into his bag and zipped it up.

            “Are we gonna leave David a note so he can find us?”

            Jonathan shook his head.  “He’ll know where we are.”  He crouched by the door and put his finger over his lips.  “We just have to wait for them to turn on the TV,” he whispered.  “When they do, it’ll be so loud they won’t hear us.”  I nodded and strained to hear what was going on in the den.  When we heard the theme song for The Price is Right, Jonathan pulled his backpack onto his shoulders and nodded at me.  “Let’s go,” he hissed.

            My stomach was all tied in knots.  “Do you even know the way to Granny’s house?”

            “Shh…” Jonathan clapped his hand over my mouth and pointed to the bathroom.  “In here,” he whispered.  I followed him and watched him climb onto the toilet and push the heavy window above it open.  “Here,” he said, holding out his hand.  I grabbed it and he pulled me up onto the edge of the toilet seat.  “We’re gonna jump out, okay?”

            I gulped and almost shook my head, but I knew Jonathan wouldn't understand that I was afraid.  David would have, but not Jonathan.  So I nodded once and my long ponytail slapped against my backpack.  We climbed onto the windowsill and Jonathan counted to three.  He clamped his hand hard over my mouth when we jumped and I squeezed my eyes shut tight.

            Dust flew up into our faces when we landed and the cans in my backpack clinked together loudly.  Maggie, our Daddy’s old hound dog, ran towards us and tugged at her chain.  “Can we take Maggie with us?” I asked.

            Jonathan shrugged.  “Sure.”  He unhooked her from her chain, hooked two fingers under her collar, and gave her a tug. 

            “Which way do we go?” I asked.

            Jonathan bit his lip for a second and stood with one hand pressed to his forehead, shielding his eyes from the late afternoon sun.  He pointed to the woods behind the house.  “This way,” he said.  We ran across the yard and into the trees with Maggie right behind us.

            “Jonathan, are we running away?”

            He took his baseball cap out of his backpack and shoved it down onto his head.  “I guess so.”

            “Do you think Mama will miss us?”

            Jonathan rubbed his face, where Mama’s handprint was still a blotchy red outline on his cheek.  “Do you think she will?” he asked.

            I shrugged and looked down at my worn sneakers.  “Come on,” Jonathan said, tugging at my arm.  “If we’re gonna get to Granny’s before dark, we better get going.”

* * * * *

            “We’ve been walking for forever!” I whined.  “How much farther, Jonathan?”

            “I don’t know, Jess.”  Jonathan put his hands on his hips and kicked at a pebble.

            I crossed my arms over my chest and sat down on a big rock.  “I’m hot.”  Tears ran down my dirty cheeks.  “And my feet hurt.  And these cans are heavy.  And it’s getting dark.”

            “How did you get so good at pouting?” Jonathan asked. 

“I wish David was here.” 

I felt new tears burn my eyes and Jonathan shook his head.  “Don’t you start crying,” he said, pointing his finger in my face.  “Now, would you rather be out here with me, or back at the trailer with Mama and Lenny?”

            I sniffed and wiped the back of my hand over my cheeks.  “With you."  We heard a car coming down the road and Jonathan grabbed me by the shoulders and pulled me behind a tree.

            I had those knots in my stomach again.  If it was Mama and Lenny, they’d be really mad.  When Lenny got mad, he got mean.  I reached over and touched the rough scars on Jonathan's arm, where Lenny had ground his cigarette into it the last time that he was mad, and felt my lip start to quiver.  "Jonathan?"

            “Hush!”  Jonathan pushed my hand away from his arm and pulled his sleeve down over the scars.  “They’re not gonna find us.”

            “But…”

            He put his hand over my mouth.  “Quiet,” he hissed.

            “Do you see them?” I heard Mama’s voice call.

            “Hold on a minute,” Lenny’s raspy voice answered.  He pushed at the bushed and stomped by just a few feet away from us.

            “Well, do you see them, or not?” Mama called.

            Lenny pushed a limb and it scratched against my neck.  I sucked in a breath and Jonathan tightened his grip around me and pressed his hand down harder on my mouth.  Just then, Maggie growled, jumped out from behind us, and clamped down on Lenny’s hand.  He screamed and kicked Maggie hard.

“What is it?” Mama’s yelled.

“That stupid dog!”  Lenny reached for Maggie, but she yelped and ran off and Jonathan pulled me deeper into the woods.  He tugged my arm as he ran and held me steady as I stumbled over the uneven ground behind him.

            We came to a little clearing and Jonathan stopped and bent over with his hands resting on his knees.  He wiped his face with the bottom of his shirt.  I was crying and had the hiccups.  “Calm down, Jess,” Jonathan said.  He whistled softly and Maggie limped out of the woods and sat down beside me.  “Look,” he said desperately, rubbing my back, “Maggie’s fine.  You’re fine.  They didn’t get us, so stop crying.”

            Tires crunched over the gravel and I felt the knots in my stomach again.  I gripped the straps of my backpack hard, expecting to see Mama and Lenny, but instead, I saw David’s old blue truck.

            “Jon!  Jess!” He called quietly, “I know you’re out here."  He stood in the rays of his truck's headlights and cupped his hands around his mouth.  "Come on, guys!”

            Jonathan stood up and jerked his head toward the truck.  “Look, Jess,” he said, kicking the toe of my shoe.  “David’s gonna take us to Granny’s house.”

            I followed him to the truck and climbed in beside David.  “There’s my beautiful girl,” David said.  He looked just like Daddy, with wavy brown hair and hazel eyes that always looked tired.  “You scared me, running off like that.”

            “It was his idea,” I tattled, pointing to Jonathan.

            David just grinned.  “I know.”  He stretched across the cab of the truck, ran his callused fingers over Jonathan’s shaggy brown hair and patted him on the shoulder.  Jonathan whistled for Maggie and let the tailgate down so she could jump in the back, then climbed into the truck beside me. 

David patted my knee.  “You guys walked a long way,” he said as he pulled the truck out into the road.

            “How long does it take to get to Granny’s house?”

            “A long time.”  David turned onto the highway and put his arm around my shoulders.  The skin on his forearm, where it was supposed to be smooth, was bumpy and rough from Lenny’s cigarettes, too.  “Why don’t you take a nap and I’ll wake you up when we get there, okay?”

            I yawned and leaned against his side.

            “You were really brave tonight,” David whispered, reaching over to run his fingers over Jonathan’s hair.

            “Was I brave, too, David?” I asked sleepily.

            He tugged gently on my tangled ponytail.  “You were brave, too," he said.  "Now go to sleep.”

* * * * *

            I was still asleep when David pulled up at Granny’s house.  He carried me inside and up the stairs to the bedroom.  I woke up when he was pulling the covers up to my chin.  “Are we at Granny’s?” I asked.

David nodded.  “You’ll get to meet her in the morning,” he said.  He smelled like coffee when kissed me on the forehead.

“What time is it?”

“Late.  Now go back to sleep.”

            I rolled onto my back and waited for my eyes to adjust to the dark.  The full moon was shining through the window, casting shadows around the room.  The sheets smelled like sunshine and were as soft as my favorite t-shirt.  Outside, I heard crickets and frogs, just like at home.  I slid out from under the covers and tiptoed to the window.  The big red barn looked blue in the moonlight.  Behind it, fields of thick grass went on forever, just like Daddy had said they would.

            The door creaked open and I ran back to the bed and jumped under the covers.  “It’s just me,” Jonathan whispered.  He’d had a bath and his hair was still wet and stuck to his forehead.  “Do you remember this place?”

            I shook my head.

            “I didn’t think you would.  You were just a baby last time we came here.”  He sat down on the edge of the bed.  “Do you remember Granny?”

            “I talk to her on the phone all the time,” I said.

            “You’ll like it here,” Jonathan said.

            He looked sad.  “Do you think Mama’s sad that we left?” I asked.

            “No.”

            “Do you think she’s mad?”

            “Probably.”

            I picked at a loose thread on the pillowcase.  “Do you think Lenny’s hand still hurts?”

            Jonathan covered his mouth to stifle a laugh.  “Yeah, I bet it does,” he said with a big, gap-toothed grin.  He stood up and walked towards the door.  "Good night, Jess."

“What if they look for us?” I asked.

            “They won’t.”

            “How do you know?”

            “Because David said so,” he said with a shrug.  That was all he needed to say.

The Bonus Merchant

            It all started when the phone rang on Friday morning.  “Ivie Bridges?”  The voice that said her name was familiar, but she couldn’t quite place it. 

“Yessuh?”

“Good morning, ma’am,” the voice boomed over the line.  “Do you know the Bonus Merchant?”  It was the local radio announcer, calling as part of his weekly show.  If Miss Ivie had taken a minute to think about it, to realize who he was and why he was calling, she would have cheerily announced that the Bonus Merchant was Turner’s Grocery and she would have won forty dollars. 

But Miss Ivie didn’t have time to think, so she just said, “Naw, Ah knows lots a Merchants, but Ah don’t believe Ah knows a Mistah Bonus.”  The radio announcer laughed so hard that he accidentally hung up on her.  Ivie just shrugged, dropped the phone onto its receiver and went back to her chores.

James Reed was lying on the floor of his mother’s kitchen, fixing the drain on her sink, when he heard it.  He chuckled to himself and shook his head.  “Mister Bonus,” he said with a grin.  “That’s funny.”

On Saturday, her name was on everyone’s lips as they opened up their storefronts and the farmers came into town to buy their weekly supplies.  The old men who spit and tell lies on the porch of the Courthouse slapped their knees as they told it over and over.  Even the kids were talking about it as they rode the loop and sat on the tailgates of their trucks in the high school parking lot that night.

By Sunday, everyone in the county knew the name Ivie Bridges, and on Monday morning, the owner of the newspaper himself walked up the beaten down dirt path in Ivie’s front yard and knocked on her door.

Miss Ivie peeked through the curtains on the kitchen window and saw the man standing on her porch in a stiff-collared cream-colored shirt, starched grey pants, and shiny black shoes.  He was tall and skinny, with wavy brown hair and freckles sprinkled across his boyish face.  “Lawd,” she muttered under her breath, “he must done be at da wrong house.”  She pulled her hands from the dishwater and wiped them on her apron.

“Mizz Ivie.”  Miss Ivie turned around and saw eight year old Parris Harris, her neighbor’s granddaughter, standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the den with her bare feet spread wide and her hands planted firmly on her hips.  “Dey’s a man at da do’ fo’ you.”

Miss Ivie had been up since her neighbor’s rooster crowed at a quarter till five, but she was still wearing her slippers and had a scarf tied around her hair.  She patted her damp brown fingers over the scarf and pulled its knot tight.  “Ah’m a cummin’,” she said.

“What dat man doin’ out heah?” Parris asked, crossing her arms over her purple t-shirt.  “Mama done said dat if da man from da carlot come ‘round, we ain’t supposed to tell him nuttin.”

“Hush, child,” Miss Ivie said.  “Git on outside and play wit yo’ friends.”

Parris raised her chin in defiance after being dismissed, but when her eyes met Miss Ivie’s she reconsidered, dropped her chin, and lowered her eyes to the floor.  “Yessum.”

When Miss Ivie walked into the den, the man waved through the screen door.  The kids had flung the wood door open wide, but hadn’t invited him in, and he was still out on the porch.  “Miss Ivie Bridges?”

“Yessuh?”  Miss Ivie tugged the door open a little ways, but didn’t step aside to allow the stranger inside.

“I’m James Reed,” he said, holding his hand out to Miss Ivie.

She shook it, but still stood in the doorway.  “Yessuh,” she said.  “You write fo’ da paper.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I done paid my bill, Mistah Reed.”

“Yes, I know.  That’s not why I’m here.”

Miss Ivie’s large eyes rounded.  “Den why is you heah?  Dis a good ways from where you stays up on dat hill outside town.”

“I want to interview you,” James said, pulling a little spiral notebook and a pencil from his shirt pocket.  “For the newspaper.”

She laughed.  “Interview me?” she asked.  “What fo’?”

“Well, I just wanted to talk to you,” James said, “and I thought I would write about you as the Person of the Week.”

“Person of da Week?” Miss Ivie asked.  She shook her head.  “Dere ain’t nobody wants to read ‘bout me.”

“I think they will.  You’re a pretty popular person around town lately.”

“You mean dere’s a a buncha folks laughin’ ‘bout me in town, right, Mistah Reed?” Miss Ivie asked.  “Ah know dey’s a laughin’.  But Ah don’t care.  Dey can laugh if’n dey feel like it.  Guess it’s good ta have somethin’ to laugh about.”

“So you did it as a joke?”

“Twatt’n no joke, Mistah Reed.  Ah’s jest busy, what wit all dees kids ‘round.  And Ah’s jest watt’n thinkin’ straight.  Ah didn’t know dat wuz da man from da radio, or’s Ah woulda fo’ sho told him dat Turner’s Grocery wuz da Bonus Merchant las’ week.  Dat pot o’money wuz nearly forty dollas.  I sho woulda took dat money if’n Ah hadn’t been so busy.”

James looked around at the group of kids playing in Ivie’s yard.  “You keep these kids every day?” he asked. 

“Sho do,” Miss Ivie said, standing up straighter and smiling.  “’Specially in da summers.  During school too, sometimes, if’n one of ‘em is sick or somethin’.”

“So you run a daycare?”  James counted seven kids in the front yard and three little ones on the den floor behind Miss Ivie.

“Naw, Ah don’t know nothin’ ‘bout dat,” she said.  “Ah jest keep watch over ‘em while dey mamas is at work.  Ah don’t really keep ‘em, jest watch after ‘em a bit.”  She looked over at the clock on the kitchen wall and started to push the door closed.  “’Cuse me, Mistah Reed, but Ah’s got ta git ta cookin’ dinner, or’s dem kids gone be thinkin’ dey’s dyin’ a hunger pains soon.  Sorry, now, but dey ain’t no story fo’ yo’ paper ‘round heah.”

“Wait,” James said, stepping closer to the door.  “Could I come in and talk to you while you cook?  I won’t get in the way, I promise.”

Miss Ivie rolled her eyes towards Heaven and shook her head.  “Ah reckon so,” she said.  “Might as well stay fo’ dinner, too.”

James shook his head.  “That won’t be necessary,” he said.  “I don’t mean to be any trouble.”

“Tain’t no trouble,” Miss Ivie said.  “One mo’ ain’t never gone make no difference, da way Ah cook.  ‘Specially one as skinny as you.”  She opened the screen door for James and he followed her into the kitchen.  She had wide shoulders and hips, and she shuffled her feet when she walked.  “You’ll have ta ‘cuse da mess,” she said, even though the little house was spotlessly clean.  “Ah hadn’t done my moppin’ yet.”  She pulled a chair out from under a little round table by the stove that was covered with a red and white checkered tablecloth and patted the top back rung.  “Have a seat, Mistah Reed.”

“Thank you.”  James sat down and flipped open his notebook.

“Ah read yo’ paper ever week,” Miss Ivie said.  “Ah ‘specially like da stories yo’ Mama write ‘bout da Bible.”

James smiled.  “Thank you,” he said.  “I’ll tell Mama that.  She’ll be tickled.”

“Ah used ta work wit yo’ Mama,” she said.  “She a real nice lady.”

“Yes, she is.”  James watched Miss Ivie put a large black skillet on the stove and turn on the gas burner.  She plopped a big scoop of Crisco into the skillet. 

“You like fried chicken, Mistah Reed?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Miss Ivie smiled.  “Ah make da best fried chicken yo’ ever gone put in yo’ mouth,” she said.  “Ah don’t like ta brag on myself, but Ah’s proud a my chicken.”  She took a bowl of chicken out of the refrigerator and set it on the counter, then pulled a large brown paper grocery sack out of a drawer by the stove.  “Yo’ Mama used ta cook some good rolls when she worked at da school wit me,” Miss Ivie said.  “Ah ‘member how all da kids would come in da lunch room jest a sniffin’ ‘cause dey smelled ‘em cookin’.”

James watched her dump some flour into the grocery sack.  She tossed in a pinch of salt, a few shakes of pepper, and a generous dash of cayenne pepper into the bag before she placed the chicken down into it.  “Have you always liked to cook?” James asked.

“Oh, yessuh,” Miss Ivie said.  “Ever since Ah was high-tall,” she said, motioning about knee-high.  “Ah’d climb up on da stool in my Mama’s kitchen an’ do whatever she did.  Could cook by myself by da time Ah’s sebem or eight.”  She folded the top of the bag over a few times and gave it a good shake.  “Den Ah gots da job at da school, cookin fo’ da school kids.”

She dropped the first few pieces of chicken into the grease and they bubbled and popped and hissed.  James grinned when he saw some little faces peering in the screen door behind Miss Ivie.  One of the boys, the littlest one, pressed his nose to the screen, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath.

Miss Ivie saw them, too, and she winked at James.  “Whatchu doin’ leanin’ on my screen do’ like dat?” she said, turning around and shaking a wooden spoon towards the door.  The kids jumped, but then Miss Ivie smiled and they laughed and ran back into the yard.  “Dem two little ‘ens is mines,” Ivie said.

“Your children?”

“Naw,” Miss Ivie rolled her eyes at James and shook the spoon in his direction.  “Ah’s too old fo’ dat,” she said.  “Dey’s my grandchillen.  But dey stays wit me.”  She lifted a lid off a large pot of what smelled like turnip greens and stirred them with one hand while she flipped chicken with the other.  “Dey Mama’s in Memphis bookooing around, tryin’ ta be a singer or somethin’,” she said.  “But dey Daddy’s got hisself a real good job up in Detroit, buildin’ cars.”  She nodded towards a framed picture hanging on the wall by the refrigerator.  “Dat’s him, dere,” she said.  “His name James, like yours.”  She smiled.  “He been savin’ his money, and he say he gone bring a car a his own down heah when he come at Christmas.”

“That’s great,” James said.  “What kind is he going to get?”

Miss Ivie shrugged.  “Ah told him to jest pick him out a nice one,” she said.  “It’ll be a sight when he pulls up in his very own car.”  She lowered her voice a little and grinned.  “Ah can’t wait ta see Patrice Riley’s face when my boy comes up in his own car.”

“Who’s that?”

“My neighbor ‘cross da road,” she said.  “She act right top-superior, like she better dan da rest of us ‘cause her son went to college an all.”  Miss Ivie shook her head.  “Don’t git me wrong,” she said, “Ah’s right proud a Eddie, but his Mama… whew.”  She shook her head.  “But dat’s a story fo’ another day.”

She pulled the first pieces of chicken out of the grease and dropped in the rest.  “You ain’t serious ‘bout puttin’ me in da paper, is you, Mistah Reed?” she asked.

“I am,” James said.  “I think people would like to read about you and your cooking and how you watch these kids in the summers.”

Miss Ivie wiped her wide hands on her apron.  “Ah really didn’t mean ta say what Ah did, Mistah Reed.  Ah’s just so busy, what wit da kids and gittin dinner fixed, dat I just plumb didn’t think about what Ah was sayin’.”  She gingerly lifted a piece of chicken to check how brown it was getting, shook her head and dropped it back down into the bubbling grease.  “Ah knew dat voice was familiar, but Ah jest couldn’t place it.  An’ when he ask about da Bonus Merchant, dat jest wadn’t what was on my mind.  You know, we still gots da party-line on dis side a town, an Ah guess Ah jest thought he was lookin’ for da Merchants what live down da road.  Ah jest said it and had already hung up an’ was going ‘bout my chores again when Ah saw Patrice Riley cumin up da road a cacklin’ like a hen.  Nex’ thing Ah know, everybody was askin’ me if’n Ah knew a Mistah Bonus.”  She flipped her chicken over and rested her hand on her hip.  “Like Ah said befo’, if’n folks wanna laugh, Ah guess dey can jest go on an’ laugh.”  She let a hearty laugh out, as if to make her point.  “It is kinda funny,” she admitted.  “But Ah sho wish Ah’d got dat forty dollas.”

“What would you have done with the money?” James asked.

Miss Ivie pursed her lips and her big eyes rounded, then she shook her head and laughed.  “Don’t matter,” she said.  “Tain’t never gone happen, no how.”

“What?”

“Well, Mistah Reed,” she said, “Ah really want ta open me up a restaurant.  Ah think Ah’d be real good at it, an’ like Ah said, Ah cook da best chicken yo’ ever put in yo’ mouth.”

“That sounds like a great idea,” James said.

Miss Ivie shrugged.  “Jest an old woman a dreamin’,” she said.  “Don’t pay dat no never mind.”  She took the last of the chicken out of the grease and stacked in on a platter.  James helped her carry all her bowls and dishes out to the backyard to the two picnic tables under the big oak tree on the edge of her yard.  She put two fingers in her mouth and whistled.  “Come on!” she yelled.

Kids appeared from all directions.  Each came up to Miss Ivie with their palms out and she checked their hands before she handed them their plates.  A few of them got dirty looks and instructions to “git yo’self washed up ‘fore you come up heah fo’ yo’ dinner.”  James sat with the kids and ate some of the best fried chicken he’d ever put in his mouth.

Parris Harris sat beside him, swinging her bare feet over the firmly packed dirt that covered the back yard.  “You gonna write ‘bout Mizz Ivie, huh?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Whatchu gone say ‘bout her?”

James shrugged.  “I don’t know yet.”

He helped Miss Ivie carry all the dishes back to the house, but she waved him away from the sink.  “Yo’ Mama’ll never fo’give me if’n Ah let you git dat pretty shirt stained,” she said. 

“Miss Ivie, are you going to let me write about you for the Person of the Week article?” he asked.

She shrugged.  “It’s yo’ paper,” she said.

“But I don’t want to write about you without your permission.”  Miss Ivie shrugged again and chewed on her lip while she washed the dishes.  “Just think about what Miss Riley will say when she sees the paper,” James said.

“She’ll keel over dead,” she said with a chuckle.

“Plus, the Person of the Week gets forty dollars,” James said.

“Really?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The article appeared in that Wednesday’s paper.  James wrote about Miss Ivie’s cooking and how she took care of all the neighborhood kids during the summers.  He talked about how she loved to read his mother’s weekly Bible study column.  He bragged for two paragraphs about how good Miss Ivie’s chicken tasted.  And he ended his article by saying that, although Miss Ivie didn’t know Mister Bonus, Mister Bonus (whoever he was) would be proud to know her.

A framed copy of the article hangs on the wall by the cash register at Ivie’s Place, its edges starting to yellow and the print beginning to fade.  People drive for miles just to taste Miss Ivie’s fried chicken.  She doesn’t cook much anymore, but she sits on a stool by that register and greets every customer who comes in.  Last week, Ivie’s Place was the Bonus Merchant for the local radio station.  I was sitting at my usual booth when Mister Reed came in for his plate of fried chicken and turnip greens.  His hair is streaked with grey now, and weekly helpings of Miss Ivie’s fried chicken and turnip greens have put a little weight on him, but he still has freckles splashed across a young, boyish face.  Mister Reed walked around the counter and hugged Miss Ivie.  “Miss Ivie Bridges, do you know the Bonus Merchant?” he asked with a wide grin.

“Naw,” Miss Ivie said, tossing her head back and letting out a hearty laugh.  “Ah don’t know no Mistah Bonus.”

*Note – The African American dialect used in this story is in no way meant to be disrespectful or demeaning.  The style of this story was inspired by the writing style of African American author, Zora Neale Hurston.  She often used dialect in her stories to show how African Americans really spoke.  That was the intention here – to tell a real-sounding story.  I referenced Hurston’s “Characteristics of Negro Expression” to develop the dialect for Miss Ivie’s character.   

The Dilettanti

MUW's literary arts magazine, The Dilettanti, came out yesterday!  It has been a long time since I've had any of my fiction work published, so I'm excited!  My story, Finding Home, came in 2nd in the Prose Competition.

Fiction Friday

I am going to attempt to write some fiction at least once a week.  This story was inspired by a prompt that I found on the Writer's Digest website:

Write a 26-word story where every word begins with a different letter of the alphabet.  (Instead of sticking to 26 words, I wrote a story where every sentence begins with a different letter of the alphabet.  I went through the alphabet twice in this story...hope you enjoy!)

After he called, Laura got out of bed and started making coffee.  Brian would want coffee when he got home.  Coffee with two sugar cubes and a little dash of vanilla creamer.  Detectives usually liked their coffee black, but the detective who had visited that morning wanted two sugar cubes and a dash of vanilla creamer.  Ever since he left, Laura had felt uneasy, like she’d said too much or not said enough.  Fake names were easy to forget and sometimes she worried that she would mix up who she was now with who she used to be.  Going around pretending to be someone that you’re not gets old, after all.  Having to remember all those stories was nothing when she was twenty but now that her hair was starting to turn grey, she found herself forgetting things more and more often. 

“I’m sorry I’m late,” Brian said, stepping through the back door as quiet as a mouse.  Just as he pushed the door closed, the coffee started to drip from the pot.  “Know anything new?”

Laura tapped a spoon against the counter nervously.  “Mrs. Reynolds said that our rent check is late.”

“Never mind that,” Brian said, sitting at the little table by the back door and stretching his long legs out in front of him.  “Only a day late, anyway,” he said with a shrug.

“Police came by today.”

“Quite the day you had, then.”

“Really, Brian,” Laura said, putting her hand on her hip.  “Seems like you could manage to stay out of trouble for once.”

“Trouble?”

“Under a microscope.  Vanishing again.  Wondering all the time when we’ll be caught,” Laura muttered.

“X marks the spot.”

“You’re never serious,” Laura said, watching him grin while she poured his coffee.  “Zip it.”

“Alright, then.”  Brian smiled and folded his hands behind his head as he leaned his chair back on two legs.  “Can’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Did you?” Laura asked fidgeting with a dishtowel as she leaned against the counter.

“Ever since day one.  First time we met, I told you that I was no good.”

“Good girls like bad boys,” Laura said with a wistful grin.

“Helps make life more interesting for them, I guess.  I never thought you’d stick with me, though.”

“Jonesboro changed things,” Laura whispered, her eyes narrowing as she remembered the first night she’d become his accomplice.  Knowing what he did was one thing.  Laura shivered as she remembered the first night she’d helped him do it.  Maybe she should have left after that night, but she never felt like she could.

“Never did get over that, did you?” Brian asked. 

“Only time I ever helped,” Laura muttered.  “Paid a pretty high price for it, too.”  Quiet pain settled on her face as she ran her hand over her stomach, feeling the knotted scar through the thin fabric of her nightgown. 

Reality had been hard for her to swallow.  She had thought his business was glamorous.  The first time she went along for a ride, she went and got herself shot right in the stomach and Brian had thought he would lose her for good.

“Understand this,” he said, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees.  “Virginia.”

When he used her real name, Laura looked up, surprise filling her tired green eyes. 

“X marks the spot,” he repeated, handing her a wrinkled map with a large red X drawn over the state of California.

“You’re taking me to California?” she asked.

“Zero chance they’ll look for us there,” he said.  “And when we get there, we’ll start over.”

Just Passing Through

Here's an excerpt from a fiction story that I have been working on.  Let me know what you think...

 

"I can't believe you fired Miss Lillian."  Lance Clayborne stood in front of the stainless steel refrigerator with both doors slung wide open and scowled at the bare shelves.  He was hungry, but all the huge Whirlpool fridge had to offer was a slice of dried out bologna, a few ounces of orange juice, and a single Coors Light.  He picked up the beer, hesitated, then put it back down and reached for the orange juice instead.  He always felt like his mother was watching him, especially in the kitchen, and she would probably have frowned upon a breakfast of beer.

"Lillian," Sam Clayborne scoffed.  "That old woman couldn't cook anyway."  He was sitting at the breakfast table, reading yesterday's newspaper and sipping a cup of coffee.

"Yes, she could."  Lance unscrewed the cap of the orange juice and took a sip straight from the jug.  It was three days past the expiration date and so sour that it made his lips pucker.  He winced at the sourness and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.  "You just got mad 'cause she poured out your whiskey."

Sam glanced up from his paper and nodded at Lance.  "She should have minded her own business."  He rubbed his tanned, calloused hand over his salt and pepper beard and chewed on a piece of peppermint.  "I didn't hire her to lecture me about the evils of liquor or to save me by ridding me of the temptation to drink."  He folded the newspaper and slapped it down onto the large oak table.  "I hired her to cook and clean, not to nag."

"At least we had some food in the house when she was around," Lance said.  He turned the jug up, swallowed the last of the sour orange juice, and cringed.

Sam tried not to laugh at his son's face.  "Don't worry," he said.  "I'm going to town today to get some groceries."

"Maybe I should go with you."  Lance tossed the empty jug into the overflowing trash can.  "See if we can find a new cook."

"I'll hire a new cook," Sam said.  "And I don't want you going with me.  Besides, you've got plenty to do around here.  We had four cows out this morning when Charlie and Adam went to feed, so there's got to be a fence down somewhere."

"Fine."  Lance tugged on his coat and pushed his hat down onto his head.  "Just make sure you buy some real food this time.  All Charlie got was hot dogs and beer when he went to town this weekend."

Sam stood up and put his coffee mug into the sink with the other piles of dirty dishes.  "I'll be back by lunch," he said, pushing his dusty cowboy hat onto his head.  "You guys should be done with the fences by then.  We'll unload the groceries, then call around for a cook."

"Thank you."  Lance scanned the kitchen, it's large island and counters piled with dirty dishes, empty soda cans, beer bottles, and food wrappers, and shook his head.

"Your mama would strangle us both, letting her kitchen look like this," Sam said.

Lance grinned.  "I have a feeling that our new cook is gonna feel the same way as soon as she walks in."

Sam shrugged.  "Well, I guess I'll just have to find someone that likes a challenge."

* * * * *

The bells above the door jingled, announcing the presence of a new customer to the barkeeper, Milt Harrison.  He looked up from his newspaper with lazy eyes, expecting to see one of the usual cowboys saunter in, but was surprised to see a pretty young woman standing in the doorway.

Katie Duncan pushed her sunglasses up into her thick brown hair.  The bar wasn't very crowded, except for a table of cowboys in the back.  She walked over to the bar and slid onto a bar stool near the door.

Milt raised his eyebrows at the stranger, folded his paper under his arm, and eased down the bar to the stool where Katie was sitting.  He was heavy set, with dancing blue eyes and a graying beard and mustache that surrounded a wide and inviting smile.  "Can I help you, Miss?"  He clinched an unlit cigar between his teeth and rolled it in his mouth when he talked.  Katie decided instantly that she liked him.

Sam hadn't bothered to turn around when he heard someone come in.  He had been too busy weaving tall tales with his buddies to worry about Milt's lunch crowd, but when his audience became distracted by the newcomer, he turned around.  She was tall and slim, with dark brown hair that hung down her back in long, thick curls.  Freckles dotted her nose and cheeks.  She was dressed like a farmer's daughter, in tattered Levi's and a blue plaid flannel work shirt with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, but there was no doubt in Sam's mind that she was more used to cashmere and pearls than denim and flannel.

Katie leaned against the bar and batted her eyelashes at Milt, making his old heart skip a beat.  "The guy at the gas station told me this was the best place in town to get a burger," she drawled.

Milt smiled.  "Well, sweetheart, he told you right."

"Good, because I've been craving one for over a hundred miles and all I've been able to find is McDonald's."

Sam leaned his elbows on the table and watched her flirt with Milt while he took her order.  She was definitely southern, he decided.  

"Where are you from, sweetheart?" Milt asked.  He wiped down the glossy bar with a white dish rag while he fixed her drink.  She had ordered water, and he suddenly wished that he had a little slice of lemon to put in it.  She looked like the kind of girl that would like lemon in her water.

"Alabama," she answered.  She tore the paper off a straw and stuck in into her glass.

"You're pretty far from home," Milt said.  "What brings you to Colorado?"

Everyone in the bar was watching them.  Katie could feel their eyes on her as she took a sip of water through her straw.  "I'm just passing through," she said.

Sam had seen her smile falter when Milt questioned her.  She reminded him of his Elizabeth.  She had been a southern belle, and she had just been passing through, too, at least until she met him.  "You look like you could use some sweet tea," he said, sliding onto the bar stool beside her.

"I sure could," Katie said, "but I didn't think you had that kind of stuff around here."

Sam's eyes twinkled.  "Well, you just have to know who to ask," he said.

Katie grinned, showing off a deep dimple in her left cheek.  "And I guess that would be you?" 

"Sure would."  Sam winked at her and held out his hand.  "Sam Clayborne."

Katie slipped her hand into Sam's.  "Katie Duncan," she said.  "Nice to meet you."

Sam walked around the counter and poured Katie a tall glass of sweet tea.  "Trust me," he said, "the pleasure is all mine."

  

The Secret of the Dough

When I was about seven or eight, I would spend the night with my great-grandmother every Wednesday night during the summer. She would get up early every morning and make biscuits from scratch. It didn’t matter what else we had to eat that day, which was usually just whatever my little heart desired, we always had homemade biscuits for breakfast.

Her kitchen was small. The refrigerator, stove, and sink were arranged in a tight triangle at one end of the room, and in this space Mamaw ruled. The butcher-block counters were worn, but always spotlessly clean, and the dark wood cabinets shined and smelled like lemon Pledge. She had a big pink Tupperware bowl with a white lid that she used to store her flour in a cabinet between the sink and the stove. I would watch in amazement as she would pat the flour down with her fist and pour buttermilk right into the storage bowl. It was magic to me that she could pour milk in the bowl and not get all the flour wet. She would use her fingers to stir the milk and shortening into the flour and soon she would have a ball of dough ready to be rolled out and cut into perfect, flaky biscuits.

I would usually stand on a stool by the stove and watch her cook for a little while before I would run outside to play or become engrossed in a television show or coloring book. But one rainy Thursday, as I sat at the tiny kitchen table and ate my biscuit while swinging my feet and banging my worn Keds into the metal legs of the red vinyl kitchen chairs, I asked if I could learn how to make the dough.

Mamaw picked up our plates and put them in the sink, then bent over and pulled her flour bowl out of the cabinet by the stove. “Get some buttermilk out of the ice box,” she said. “And pull that stool over here.” She set a tub of Crisco on the counter and handed me a little knife. “We’re gonna make fried apple pies.”

“You can make that out of biscuit dough?” I asked, placing my stool between the stainless steel sink and the stove.

Mamaw nodded. “First, we’re gonna cook the apples.” She set a bowl of red and gold speckled apples in front of me. “Can you peel these?”

I nodded and eagerly reached for the first apple while Mamaw draped a faded blue apron around my neck and tied it around my waist. My little hands worked as fast as they could. Mamaw stood beside me and peeled twice as many apples as I did in half the time. She told me stories about my mama and older cousins while we worked, then cut the apples into chunks and put them in a big saucepan on the stove. “We’ll let those cook for a little while,” she said. “Let’s work on the crust.”

She opened the lid on the flour bowl and took my hand in hers. “Make a fist,” she said, pushing my chubby fingers into a ball. “And pat it like this.” She pushed my knuckles into the soft flour. “Keep patting it down ‘til it’s hard.”

I pushed the flour down with all my might, my tongue stuck between my teeth in ultimate concentration. “Is this right?”

Mamaw examined my work and shook her head. “Your hole’s got to be deeper, and not as big around.” She shook the bowl a few times to loosen the flour. “Try again.”

On my third try, Mamaw approved. She dropped a big scoop of Crisco into the bowl, then let me pour in the buttermilk. “How much?” I asked.

Mamaw shrugged. “Just pour it ‘til it looks right,” she said. “I’ll tell you when.” I poured, watching her closely so I could stop at the exact moment that she said. “That’s good.” Mamaw took the jug of milk from me and set it by the sink. “Now, you’re gonna have to get your hands dirty,” she warned.

I wasn’t very concerned about that. I’d watched her make this dough hundreds of times, and it never stuck to her hands. I was absolutely sure it wouldn’t stick to mine either, so I plunged my chubby hands into the bowl. It was cold, squishy, and sticky. Mamaw laughed when I wrinkled my nose up and picked up my goo-covered hand. “What did I do wrong?” I asked, almost in tears.

“Nothing,” Mamaw said, wiping her hands on her pink flowered apron. “Keep mixing.”

“But it doesn’t stick to your hands!”

“It won’t stick to yours, if you practice,” she laughed. “Keep mixing.”

I rolled the goo between my fingers and smushed it deeper into the flour, until I finally had a somewhat solid ball of dough. Mamaw laughed as I raked it off my fingers and onto the floured butcher-block countertop. “Yuck,” I muttered, picking little rolls of dough off my hands.

Mamaw took the dough and patted it into a neat ball. She handed me her wooden rolling pin. “Flour this.”

“What do you mean?”

“Cover it with flour so it won’t stick to the dough,” Mamaw explained.

I reached into the flour bowl, took a fist-full of flour, and coated the rolling pin with flour. I also floured the floor, myself, and Mamaw. She pulled off her flour coated glasses and wiped them on her apron. I bit my lip nervously, waiting for her to get onto me, but she just laughed. She wiped the flour off her face, put her glasses back on, and rubbed her fingers over my flour covered bangs. “Now your hair matches mine,” she said with a grin.

She rolled out the dough and let me cut it into large circles, then she spooned the apples onto each piece and let me fold them over and press the edges with a fork. While I was decorating our masterpieces, Mamaw melted a big scoop of Crisco in a black iron skillet on the stove. The Crisco was bubbling and popping by the time I finished, and I stood behind Mamaw and peeked around her apron while she dropped the pies into the grease. They bubbled and popped until they were golden brown and the kitchen smelled like heaven, then Mamaw scooped them out of the grease and placed them on a paper towel.

She left the flour in the floor, all the stuff on the counter, and sat down at the table with me so we could try our pies. “These look yummy,” I said, watching her scoop a big spoonful of vanilla ice cream onto my plate.

“Try it.”

I’d been waiting for those instructions all morning. I picked up a beautiful, golden brown pie and took a big bite. The crust was flaky, just like Mamaw’s biscuits. But the apples made my mouth pucker.

“What’s the matter?” Mamaw asked, when I forced myself to swallow and set my pie back down on my plate.

“I think I messed up your pies.” I pouted and crossed my arms over my chest.

Mamaw reached across the table for my pie and took a big bite. She made the same bad face I had made. “We forgot to put sugar in the apples.” Mamaw looked over her glasses and pointed at me. “Don’t you tell anybody I did that.”

“It’ll be our secret?”

The front door swung open and my cousin, Lisa, walked in. “What in the world happened in here?” she asked, looking at the flour that was covering the flour, the counter, and us.

“We just had a little cooking lesson,” Mamaw said.

“You made a mess.”

“That’s what a broom is for.” Mamaw stood up and pushed the plate of pies into my hand. “Take these outside,” she whispered.

“What did you make?” Lisa asked.

“It’s a secret,” Mamaw said. She winked at me and started cleaning up while I snuck down the back steps and into the yard to get rid of the evidence.

Now, when I make fried apple pies, I always double check to make sure I put sugar in the apples. The dough still sticks to my fingers, no matter how much I practice. I may not have learned the secret of the dough, but I did learn that the best things that come out of the kitchen aren’t always things you eat. Sometimes, it’s the memories – the giggles and the messes and the secrets – that are the sweetest.

Who has the cutest little brother ever? Yep. That's right. I do. :)

Spring in Alabama

I found these old books at my great-aunt's house.

This one was my grandmother's home economics textbook from when she was in high school.

Her name, written on the first page of the book.

There's sugar in the bone...

My great-grandmother was a somewhat eccentric lady that I was lucky enough to get to know for the first few years of my life. She had four children, twelve grandchildren, and more great-grandchildren than I can name without help.

Every summer, the entire family would gather at Mamaw Freeman's house. She lived in an old country farmhouse with a big wrap-around porch and a large front room where she would sit and receive her visitors. I always had to wait in line to get to her chair. The line would wrap through the house as children and adults alike waited to share hugs and kisses with her.

Her hands were strong, even in her old age, and callused and knotted from years of picking cotton, canning vegetables and mending boo-boos. She would put those slender hands on each side of my face, lean down from her chair, and kiss my forehead with a hundred little pecks. Each time, she would smile and say, "There's sugar in the bone."

Mamaw was a great story teller. She would entertain us for hours by telling us what things were like when she grew up, painting pictures of a world that seemed so far away from our lives in the 90s. She assured us that she never got in trouble as a child, and we should try to be just a good as she was. She only got one whipping in her entire life, and it wasn't even her fault. Mamaw Freeman had sugar in the bone.

She taught us to be sweet from the inside out: to love God, to help others, to pray about everything, to laugh and to enjoy life. I didn't live up to my Mamaw's perfect behavior record. Few people could have. But down deep, there's sugar in my bones.