3

TOWARDS late afternoon, Ida Bell and me piddled around in the kitchen so we’d be close by when Will came home from marching band practice. Using fresh blackberries Ida Bell and her grandkids picked that very morning, we worked on three cobblers right from scratch: one for us Callaways, one for Ida Bell to carry home, and the third for her to share at the Pecan Grove Baptist Church’s Wednesday evening potluck.

Will bounced into the kitchen with a hot, red face and his band buddy, Ben. He always looked half-dead after practice; sometimes I secretly wished for his other half to go on and die, too. As sure as the day was long, he reached right up to the top of the fridge for “his” cookies, and then inside the fridge for icy-cold dipping milk. He and Ben both flopped down at the table with long, drawn out breaths.

Ida Bell filled up the pie dishes with the berry mixture while I cut half-inch strips of rolled-out dough for the lattice crust. I didn’t look at her, and she didn’t look at me. It was hard enough not to act like something was going on, but one look at each other, and we’d double over laughing and give away our secret.

“Now, Ben, this here’s the best treat east of the Mississippi,” Will said, dipping a cookie and handing it to his friend. His face was happy as a tick on a fat dog. He dunked one for himself, too, and popped it whole right into his mouth. Ida Bell and me kept our heads down and our hands hard at work, laying down seven parallel dough strips across each pie.

It only took half a chew before Will and Ben both tasted the Pure Lard. Ben spit his into his napkin and guzzled some milk, but Will—well he carried on like somebody chased after him with a BB gun. He flinched and flailed this way and that, and turned even redder in the face than before, a fire lit behind his eyes. He flew off the handle, “Ida Bell, somebody went and put lard in my cookies, and they just better watch out!” I studied the crisscross pattern on my pie, pretending it needed fixing. I wanted to look up at Will something terrible, but I knew better. If I did, the giggles that were squished down in my belly would sure enough jump on out.

“Now, why somebody gone go and do a fool thing like that?” Ida Bell asked, an earnest look in her eye and not even cracking one hint of a smile.

He kicked at the floor and set his hands on both hips. “I couldn’t tell you, but I won’t get that awful taste out of my mouth for a solid week.”

Ida Bell crossed her fingers behind her back. “Child, ain’t nobody done put lard in them cookies,” she said. “You starting to sound like you done gone ‘round the bend a little bit. Must have made a mistake at the factory. Now, why don’t you go visit the good folks down at the Piggly Wiggly and see won’t they give you a fresh bag.”

“All right, then. I will. Let’s go, Ben.” They left with their Pure Lard cookies, spitting in the yard every other step.

When the boys were just far enough away, Ida Bell and me cut loose. Our giggles had us in pain and reaching for tissues to blot our eyes. And just when one of us would pull back together, the other would start laughing all over again, the way laughing can’t be stopped for nothing during a church service. “It worked, Ida Bell!” I finally managed to say, with a satisfaction that darn near only comes from beating the boys in the running races on field day.

“Course it did, Gracie-girl,” she said, that we-know-what-we’re-doing sort of smile across her face. “Course it did.”

Giggling in between, we finished up weaving the lattice crust, crimped the edges, and then sprinkled a little cane sugar on top. “Now, Gracie, you go on and put a little more sugar than it calls for. Way I figure, if a little bit tastes good, a little bit more gone be even better!” Ida Bell said, a twinkle like stardust in her eyes.

While the cobblers baked and filled up the air with pie-crust scent like holiday time, we took turns reading to each other from the funny papers in The Monroe Journal. We read until Momma and Daddy came home from work. Once Momma disappeared into the bedroom to change out of her work clothes, Daddy asked a question right off. “Ida Bell, Will called my office all riled up, something about lard in his cookies. Do you know what he was talking about?”

“Well, sure I do, Dr. Callaway. He had lard in his cookies, sure as I’m standing here. I sent him down to the Piggly Wiggly to get it straightened out.”

“That’s why he called me. Said the good folks at the Piggly Wiggly didn’t take too kindly to being accused of larding-up his cookies. They told him and Ben that their behavior was bordering on harassment, and said if they came around again with make-believe trouble, they’d call the law on them.”

The light in Ida Bell’s eyes grew a shade brighter, but only I would notice such a thing. “Mmm-mmm, that boy sure do know how to stir up some trouble. You hear about him putting Gracie here up to walking the top pole of the swing set?”

“I did,” Daddy said, scrunching up his mouth and reaching out for me. “You back to feeling all right, Gracie?”

I hugged Daddy tight and winked at Ida Bell behind his back. “I sure am, Daddy. I’m feeling mighty good.” Daddy couldn’t see Ida Bell and me smiling at each other. She and I both made our letters for our handshake, and did an imaginary shake from a distance so Daddy wouldn’t know we’d been up to something.

I drifted to sleep that night some kind of satisfied. Ida Bell had helped me get back at Will a bunch of times, but something about it happening in front of one of his friends put a cherry on top of my sundae.

It seemed like I’d only slept a few minutes when the dogs woke me, barking up a blue streak and howling like the moon had dropped right out of the night sky. I thought I was dreaming, but as I came to, I realized that flickers of light shone through Lisbeth’s and my bedroom window where there ought to have been dark. It slowly dawned on me that something was wrong.

I checked the clock: 2:58 A.M. Grabbing the picture of Ida Bell I kept under my pillow, I waved aside my pink curtains and the sparkly yellow star that hung in the window for wishing on. Then, I froze. Wheaton Whetstone’s house was nothing but a heap of tall orange flames lapping up toward the stars. His place stood about the length of a football field from ours, but the pines in between gave fire to each other like hands passing an offering plate. Their popping, cracking, and sizzling sent a shiver straight through my middle. The hair on my arms stood up. I held my picture of Ida Bell close and ran for help.

“Lisbeth! Momma! Daddy! Momma!” My screams got stuck in my throat. I shouted, all right, but they came out like measly little whispers. I tossed Lisbeth’s covers off her, gave her a shake, then ran to Momma and Daddy’s room and grabbed Momma’s arm. She sat straight up in bed, wild in her eyes and her mouth all scrunched up.

“Land sakes, what’s going on, Grace?” Momma said, her arms holding both my shoulders like she needed to shake some sense into me. I pulled her into mine and Lisbeth’s room and before I even pointed outside, Momma found her scream. “William, get the kids! Get them out of here! Whet’s house is burning up and ours is next!”

“Oh, my word!” Daddy yelled.

“I’ve got Grace. Meet me out front with the big kids. Hurry, William. Hurry!”