Today's Reading
Mamma sits quietly in the front seat of my Jeep, the bag of Daddy on her lap. I remind her to put on her seat belt and think, Damn, a little snow would be more than welcome at this point. The heat's making everything feel too summery, too cheerful, like we might be on our way to a Kenny Chesney concert. Instead the Nativity scenes sweat and swell, Jesus threatens to melt altogether, and I roll down the window in defeat.
"Your hair's got long," Mamma observes. "I guess so."
"And school's going fine?"
"Same old, same old."
"Stand by Your Man" comes on the radio. 'Et tu,' Tammy Wynette?
"They ain't gonna kick you out for missing class, right? I don't want you to get in trouble."
"I worked it out with my professors."
"It's just, you know, at Easter you said you couldn't miss—"
"It's fine, Mamma."
We pull into the driveway, where a gaggle of garden gnomes smile like it's just another day. I don't suppose Cracker Barrel makes mourning gnomes. Mamma wipes her eyes.
"Just let me freshen up and we'll scoot."
The back of her hand is black. I never realized Mamma wore mascara until just now, when, without the ink, her little red eyelashes poke out like crooked birthday candles from her sparkly blue lids. The sight of it catches me off guard. I'm used to the version of Mamma that chops wood for the winter and harangues the cable company until they start looking for Jesus in the fine print. When she returns from the bathroom, her lashes are black again.
"You ready?" I ask.
"No," she admits, "but I heard Peewee Dupree's bringing a fifteen- layer dip. So at least there's that."
"I thought it was seven layers?"
"Apparently the other eight were about to expire."
Driving to the church, we talk only of finger foods. Delilah Fisher- Trapper's pimento-cheese bites, Trumpet Williams's pot stickers. Sometimes it's easier to discuss the pig in the blanket than the elephant in the room.
The Ziploc shrugs and sags in Mamma's arms as we walk inside. Across the street, sniffing for snow, a raccoon makes his way into the forest.
The eulogies run long. Damn near everybody in Critter County has waxed poetic about Daddy's bravery, his affinity for pork rinds, and the weird mole on the back of his neck, but there are still a few toothless stragglers who want their turn at the podium. Pageant of rascals, they talk until well after midnight.
Mamma and I are fast asleep when Mrs. Heller, the mildewing librarian, jostles us awake with 'An Illustrated History of the Volunteer State'.
"I thought y'all oughta have this," she offers.
The blue of her glasses picks up the blue of her hair. Pink lipstick cracks along her lips. And is that a brooch or a belt buckle pinned to her sweater? Despite being somewhere north of ninety, Mrs. Heller still does puppet shows every Wednesday with the local kindergarteners, especially the rowdy ones who are determined not to learn to read. She ladles the book into my hands.
"Earl used to check this out every Friday afternoon. Then, like clockwork, he'd return it Monday morning. I told him, Earl, I said, you read it so much you oughta keep it, but he told me he didn't mind sharing it with the rest of Pennywhistle. Said it was better that way."
"Sounds like Daddy."
"I hear you're quite the historian yourself, young lady."
"Getting her PhD up at Vanderbilt," Mamma gushes. "Oh, how wonderful."
"I'm surprised Mamma hadn't told you yet, Mrs. Heller. Didn't you get the postcard and the T-shirt like everybody else?"
"Darling, I can't hardly see anymore. I probably threw it away on accident."
I wonder how many jury duties and phone bills she's missed. Then again, Mamma's probably sweet-talked some Boy Scout or ex-con into sorting Mrs. Heller's mail for her. She takes care of things like that. Conjures up school supplies, airdrops casseroles. Even managed to get the old roller rink registered as a historical landmark last summer. It's strange to see her looking so small tonight. Like she can barely tie her shoes, much less water an entire town.
Mrs. Heller plants a soft pat on my shoulder. "Your daddy must have been so proud."
"He is," Mamma says.
We let the present tense hang there like a bookmark.
...
