MAMAW PICKENS
We all clumb down in front of the insurance office.
A woman threw open the office door and said, “Mr. Grayson ain’t here right now, but if’n ya give me your … oh my Lord in Heaven! Ray Cutler!” The look on the woman’s face showed shock. And a healthy dose of fear, too.
“Leona,” Daddy said, matter-of-fact. “Didn’t think I’d ever see your face again. Adabel, this is your Mamaw Pickens.”
“Mamaw Grayson,” she said. “I married Franklin Grayson.”
She turned to me, and afore I could say a single word, fleshy arms squeezed around me and dang near hugged the stuffing out’a me. “Adabel. Dear, dear Adabel.”
“Nice to meet ya, Mamaw,” I mumbled into her ample bosom, whilst I tried to keep from suffocating.
“Sorry, child. It’s jist so good to see ya! What there is of ya. It don’t look like ya’s had a decent meal in a right long time.” She pinched my skinny arms and scorched Daddy with a look. “Nice to meet me? Don’t ya remember your mamaw?” The look she give me was a considerable change from the one she give Daddy, reminding me a bit of the way Jane Louise could change, becoming her pretend self when it suited her fancy.
“Adabel was sick a few years back, Leona,” Daddy said. “It left her skinny, and she don’t remember much afore that time.”
She took to hugging me again, but I finally wriggled free.
Daddy went on, “This here is Darrel Shortwell’s son. Ya recollect—”
“Shovel Shortwell. I sure do. Him and Pick was like twins sewed together at the shoulders.”
“Speaking of Pick,” I began.
Mamaw glanced up the road and seemed a mite nervous. “Do ya want to step inside for a spell? Royce and Franklin ain’t here right now.”
The insurance office was small and kind’a reminded me of Mr. Putney’s office, only more cluttered. Boxes, books, and file drawers was ever’where.
“Sorry for the mess,” Mamaw said, as she lifted a pile of books off a chair, making space for ’em on the floor by scooting a pile of boxes with her foot. “Set yourself down, Adabel. I keep watch on the office whilst the men make sales calls.”
“And when Royce comes to Smoke Ridge to scare my young’uns witless.” Daddy stood tall and straight, his hands on his hips, and looked eye-to-eye with Mamaw.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mamaw said. “If ya’ve come to pick a fight, ya might as well leave now.”
I set on the edge of the chair, whilst Norris stood and shifted his weight from one foot to t’other.
“Don’t worry,” Daddy said. “We won’t be here long. This was a mistake, Adabel. She don’t need to know nothing about Blissie.”
“What about Blissie?” Mamaw asked.
I swallowed hard. “Actually, ma’am, we come to find Pick.”
“What?” Daddy roared, that single word trampling over Mamaw’s “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I don’t have no idea where Pick is,” Mamaw repeated. “Ya had ought’a go.”
“I brung Pick here last July,” Norris said, looking at the back door afore his eyes swept slow across the messy room.
Mamaw shook her head. “You must be remembering crooked,” she said.
“No, ma’am,” Norris said, stepping across my feet to pick a book off the pile Mamaw’d set on the floor. “This here is Pick’s book.” I recognized the book, remembered it in Pick’s hands as he read by the fire.
Mamaw reached for the book, but Norris kept holt of it. “One book is like the next,” she said.
“I give him this book two Christmases ago.” Norris flipped open the cover. “See? His name’s wrote in it.”
My heart thumped hard.
Daddy’s head jerked up and his mouth fell open. “You want’a tell me how my boy Pick’s book come to be here, Leona?”