LEE ANN CAME IN FROM the chicken house with three eggs and put them in the fridge. The hens slowed production as the days shortened. She selected Marie Callender’s Home Style Meatloaf Dinner from the freezer in the mudroom and balanced it on top of a Saran-wrapped bowl of cherry Jell-O. Mother frowned on frozen dinners. A woman’s duties included serving homemade meals, preferably meat and at least one vegetable for supper, with dessert made from scratch. Planning ahead, making do with what was left in the pantry, using what was plentiful in the garden, and canning the rest were on Lee Ann’s list of “should-do’s.” Sunday the men would gather for roundup. There simply wasn’t time this week to be the perfect countrywoman.
Announcing her arrival with a sparrow’s song, she left the food on the cook stove. Get her to the bathroom, dole out her evening pills, offer an explanation for the poor excuse for a meal, or not. Wonder if she hears or comprehends. Wonder if “roundup” tickles memories of Dad and Edgar on horseback working cattle. Wonder if she cares that Saul Duran ordered official documents shredded, along with memos re-apportioning funds for Head Start. Wonder if she understands the term “closed session,” if she senses the pressure of covering up secret deals, or sympathizes with the guilt of cheating county residents.
Possibly, the commissioners’ actions and Lee Ann’s coercion fooled no one. While collecting files to be altered, the courthouse seemed hushed. Office doors closed. Clerks rushed down the hall, whispering, their eyes searching for double meaning in her requests.
When last consulted, the Bible had said, Therefore, there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus, who do not walk according to the flesh, but according to the spirits. Romans 8:1. She’d shoved the passage aside and held up the portrait of Jesus with both hands, his face level with hers.
“Lord, in public the commissioners proclaim to ‘walk with God, according to the spirits,’ but pronouncements don’t make it so.” She shook the picture. “If they steal, they should be punished. Instead, You let them get away with it.”
Her elbow knocked the Bible to the floor. She dropped the picture and snatched the Book up and wiped the front and the back with her apron and brought it to her lips. Sorry. So sorry. She propped His picture in place. A crack had split the glass across His forehead.
Tony Curtis and Jack Lemmon, clothed in women’s dresses, wigs, and high heels, were chasing Marilyn Monroe down a busy street in Some Like it Hot. Boxes surrounded Mother’s wheelchair, some stacked, one fallen on its side, spilling a hair dryer, alarm clock, and hand towels. Jackets and dresses draped the sofa and rocking chair. Two very upset cats cried from pet carriers on the front porch.
Mother’s eyelids fluttered at a remarkable speed.
“Oh, Mother. Did we explain Walker remarried Danielle? These must be her things.” She knelt beside the wheelchair. “You see, he’s bringing her here to live. I know it will take some getting used to, but the company might do you good. Remember how lively she is. And she won’t be here all the time—she works the day shift at the motel.”
“Pebbles,” Mother said.
“Don’t worry, dear. I haven’t forgotten you’re allergic to cats.”
Mother’s eyelids settled down.
“Let’s get you taken care of,” Lee Ann said, shoving the hair dryer and clock aside with her foot. “Manuel and Rudy are taking time off to help with roundup Sunday. There will be leftovers after the men have eaten, but tonight I brought a frozen dinner. We’ll make do. Claire Marsh was at the Extension Office today and asked about you, said to remind you of the time Alma Persons gave you both basket-weaving lessons and you made a tiny, misshapen pine needle basket with a narrow neck and acted silly, stuffing it with pine needles with their sharp ends sticking out the top. You tacked it to the living room wall, joking about your talent as an artiste. That must have been before I was born. I don’t think I ever saw it.”
The wheelchair nicked boxes on its way through the maze.
“Claire was reserving a space for the Democrats inside the exhibits building at the fair. She was huffy about it, complaining that last year they designated only one table, for Republicans. Claire warned that this year had better be different, with space allotted to all political parties. I pretended to sympathize.” She steered Mother to the bathroom. “Mother, if God sees all and is just, I can’t understand why some are favored and some are forgiven, some are lucky and others are cursed. Dishonest men are spared. Yes, I’m talking about the commissioners. I suppose they’ll receive a fair verdict on judgment day, but in the meantime they’re depriving low-income women and children of essential services. It’s despicable.”
Halfway down the dim hallway, she stopped short outside her old bedroom. Clothes covered the bed—sequined tee shirts and blue jeans, short skirts, and colorful blouses. Shoes and purses blocked the entrance. The room smelled like a hothouse overgrown with gardenias. Lee Ann had never dabbed scent behind an ear, sprayed her hair, or dusted with bath powder. As a teenager she’d tried lipstick, but at some point had read, Do not let your adornment be merely outward—arranging the hair, wearing gold, or putting on fine apparel—rather, let it be the hidden person of the heart, with the incorruptible beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is very precious in the sight of God. 1 Peter 3:4. On the ranch she wore jeans, but always dressed in a skirt or pantsuit for work. A range of grays, tans, and dark blues filled her closet, no rainbows there. Bright colors conjured images of Indian powwows and native dances from south of the border. Swirling skirts and clicking heels accompanied by lively music aroused passion and excitement, emotions better kept under control. Donning a white blouse and gray suit brought things down to a calm level where the miracle of a mockingbird’s song, a woodpecker’s tap, and the hatching of a baby chick affirmed the glory of creation. In spring, pink apple blossoms burst open in the small orchard south of the house. All too soon their pastel beauty faded, their memory blotted out by the boisterous red and yellow red hot pokers Grace had given Mother thirty years ago. At the time, they’d formed a small clump by the porch steps. Now, they lined the entire front of the house, having multiplied to three feet deep. Although the garish, phallic flowers lived short lives and left a lush, green hedge that softened the chalk white stucco, as soon as Mother died, she’d have Scott dig them up.
She carried the two cat carriers to the workshop and set out a bowl of dry food and water, emptied a box of work gloves, filled it with dirt and set it in the corner. For years they had kept only barn cats, their feral population controlled by coyotes and bobcats. She unhooked the cat carrier doors and Danielle’s two critters leapt to the floor, seeking shelter under the worktable. Eugene wouldn’t be happy with these tenants. She fumbled through his toolbox for a pencil, tore a sheet from the legal pad on the table saw, scrawled a warning and tacked it to the door: Cats inside. Enter quickly and shut the door.