I’d tried to nap before my first shift but couldn’t. Momma didn’t understand that I’d been up since seven o’clock that morning, and I’d be up until after that the next day. Maybe she did understand and didn’t care, I didn’t know, but it didn’t matter. She chatted on the phone loud enough for the neighbors a mile away to hear, clanked pots and pans together in the kitchen, upped the volume on the ancient TV to the maximum level and hollered to Daddy across the house and outside without an open window anywhere.
I wanted to think she’d done it on purpose, but I knew she hadn’t. They’d been without me forever, and they had their way of doing things. I’d come back and interrupted that way, and I had to adjust. It was wrong of me to expect them to change, even though I knew they had. If Momma had her way, my door would be opened already, my bed made, the room dusted and vacuumed and fresh flowers from the field down the street in a vase on my dresser. Momma loved fresh flowers. They filled vases throughout the house. Daddy picked them for her almost daily.
At four-thirty she burst through my door without knocking like she’d always done. “Up and at ‘em. You’ve got work to prepare for.”
I yanked the pillow from my side and buried my head under it. “Momma, I’m an adult. I know how to wake myself up.”
“Now sugar, I know how you get when you’re tired. You don’t want to start your new job all ugly like that.” She yanked the covers off me, pulled them up to her nose and smelled them. “Heavens, what’d you do, roll in the mud with the Johnston’s cows?” She shook her head and made a pee-u sound. “Come on, now. Get a move on.”
The Johnston’s owned a local dairy farm a few miles outside of town. The family joke was when Daddy had a particularly lousy plumbing job, he must have worked at the Johnston’s farm because he’d come home smelling like manure. I knew the point Momma wanted to make. “I’ll throw them in the wash before I leave. Promise.” Though I doubted I’d remember. They smelled fine to me. I suspected she used that as a tactic to get me out of bed. I hadn’t even been home a full forty-eight hours.
I dragged the covers back over my body and snuck a peek at the centuries-old digital alarm clock on my wicker nightstand. “Momma. It’s four-thirty-one. I don’t have to be there until ten-thirty tonight to fill out paperwork. That’s six hours.” I hid my head under the pillow again. “I need to get some sleep, or I’ll never be able to focus tonight.”
She jerked the covers off me again. “You know you end up all cranky and what not after a long nap. You don’t want to go to your first day of work a hot mess now, do you?”
I tugged the covers back over me and tucked them under my body so she couldn’t pull them off again. “My first night, Momma. Night. And I’d like to start it alert, so I really do need to get some rest.”
She sighed. “Well, then fine. If you think that’s the best way to do this, then you just go on with yourself.” She made some frustrated Momma sound and stomped out.
And I never did get back to sleep.
Daddy filled his green work thermos full of high-octane coffee, the most potent stuff he’d ever had, he’d said. “I got it at that organic farmer's market, the one that’s open year-round.”
The fact that Daddy had gone to a farmers market stunned me. “Daddy, whatever possessed you to go to one of those?”
He patted his growing belly. “Me and my baby bump here, we got to start taking care of ourselves better. The doc told me those organic veggies are better for me, so I thought I’d check them out. Turns out they’re pricier, too.”
“They sure are.”
Momma sighed. “He don’t need no organic vegetables. He just needs to stop sneaking that extra scoop of ice cream at night.” She waved her spatula at him. “He thinks I don’t know what he’s doing, but I’m not blind. I see the carton, and I know it’s not me eating all that chocolate chip mint.”
His pudgy cheeks turned bright pink, and he winked at me.
“Well, I think you look wonderful, Daddy. Don’t you worry a bit about that baby in there.” I poked his belly. “You’ve got at least another four months before you deliver.”
“Better check the floors though. Don’t want you crashing through them,” Momma said.
He patted his belly again. “With this thing, I’d probably bounce right back up.”
“Well, that’s my cue to leave.”
“Good luck, Meme,” Daddy said. He kissed me on the cheek. “Knock ‘em dead.”
“It’s a health insurance company, Daddy. That’s probably not the ultimate goal.”
“You never know,” Momma said. She waved her spatula at me. “Good luck, darlin’.”
Twenty-seven minutes later I’d arrived at my new job with my attitude in check. I wasn’t happy, but I wasn’t upset either. I’d resigned myself to the fact that my life hadn’t turned out how I’d planned, and outside of a miracle, it was what it was, and I’d just have to make the best of it until I was able to get my acting career back on track, whenever that may be.
My trainer, Ashley McDonough, turned out to be a sweet girl, a few years older than me and not at all dissatisfied with her life. Married with two kids and six months pregnant, she worked the night shift while her husband worked a day job so they could afford their mortgage and not pay for child care.
The thick lines and raccoon circles under her eyes were easily explained, but she didn’t seem to mind. The toothy smile stretched across her face, and genuine good-natured attitude were a testament to her true happiness, and honestly, I envied her. I wondered if I’d missed something in the simple life of the South. If my dreams of fame, or whatever it was, had clouded over the happiness of an uncomplicated, authentic life with someone I truly loved? An image of a light-brown haired, brown-eyed, trim but fit, maybe five foot eleven man, carrying a chunky baby with me walking by his side flashed through my mind. The man was Christopher Lacy, and the baby, ours. Woah, there, Mayme. Don’t even go there.
Ashley walked me through each step of the mailroom process from recognizing the different mail types, to opening the claim envelopes, date stamping them, sorting them, scanning them, reviewing the scan and sending it off, and filing the claim in the proper place to accommodate the HIPAA compliance laws. She’d explained that HIPAA stood for the Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act and that it meant we had to keep everything on the claim forms private and secure, but that was next to impossible in my opinion, though I did my best to follow the stringent rules. It wasn’t like I understood what anything on them meant anyway. Ashley explained that I’d get the codes down quickly and wouldn’t need the cheat sheet in less than a week.
It was by far the most boring thing I’d ever done in my life, including my high school job of directing parking traffic for the park district during the Christmas lights displays. Actually, that wasn’t boring by comparison.
“Generally, people have the same common sicknesses.” She explained the primary diseases and categories for sorting the claims. I hadn’t realized things were that simple.
“My husband thinks it’s because of aliens, but I think he’s crazy. He’s one of them people that swears we should all wear tinfoil on our heads, so the government don’t record our thoughts.”
Maybe the simple life wasn’t for me after all?
“So, how’d you end up here?” she asked.
“Well now, that’s an interesting story, for sure.”
“We’ve got all the time in the world, so go ahead.”
When I told her, she gave me a lengthy, slow full-bodied appraisal. “Honey, if you’re plus-sized then I’m what them Hollywood people call obese, and I’m talkin’ about when I’m not a stay and play for a baby, you know what I’m sayin’?”
I had an idea. “The standards are different in the acting world.”
“By different, I hope you mean crazy stupid.” She patted my behind. “Look at you. You’re as pretty as a peach. Plus-sized my booty.” She laughed. “I sure hope you told them to stick it where the sun don’t shine.”
I wished I had, but my career was already destroyed enough. Aside from any couch gymnastics I’d never do and had never been offered anyway, thank God, if I had any chance of a career revival, I had to tread the waters carefully and telling Off-Broadway where to stick it was more like drowning.
“Are you plannin’ on actin’ in the community theater out here? My cousin is an actress. She auditioned at one of them, but she said they’re too uppity for her, so she got herself a job with an agency in town. Said she loves it. You might could work with her. Said it’s always looking for good people. You want me to get the number for you? I could send her off a text right quick?”
“I tried the community theaters, none would hire me.”
“Sugar, this ain’t one of those. It’s an agency like I said.” She took her phone from her pants pocket. “Gimme a minute, let me get the name for you.” She worked the keyboard on her cell phone like an expert. Tapping into it with multiple fingers without pause. Seconds later the phone beeped. “Here you go. Mourning Productions is the name of the place. What’s your cell number? I’ll text you the info.”
I gave her my number, and she typed a message with rapid speed. My cell notified me of her message like every other message, with the main song from the musical Rent, the musical I’d hoped to perform in one day.
Grief instantly washed over me like a hurricane. Get over it, Mayme. What’s done is done, I thought. I’d made a conscious decision to stop whining about what I couldn’t control and control what I could, my attitude.
“She said it can be a full-time gig, but it ain’t like the theater. Won’t give me any details. Said you got to check it out for yourself, so that’s why I gave you the address, too. I don’t know if you can do both this and that, but it might be worth checkin’ into if you still got your heart set on being an actress.”
“Thanks, I appreciate it.”
We spent the rest of the early morning hours sorting and scanning medical claims and chatting. The chatting I didn’t mind, but the sorting and scanning did nothing for the creative side of me and left my brain bored and empty. In between conversations, I plotted my escape from the health insurance claim world. By the end of my first shift I’d mapped out a plan to get me back to New York City and back onto Off-Broadway, and that plan started with Mourning Productions.
I rushed home, jumped in the shower, scrubbed the stench of the United States Postal Service and a stuffy, dark claims mail room off my tired body, deep conditioned my hair at the same time, and then prepared for battle. Okay, I didn’t exactly prepare for battle, but I did prepare for what I considered was the role of a lifetime.
My career comeback.
My re-do.
My last chance.
One day I’d be like Winona Ryder, a fallen superstar who came back and everyone forgot why she’d needed to come back in the first place. Only I wasn’t exactly a superstar when I’d fallen, literally, through the stage floor, but that was just a minor detail. Sure, I was a bit of a drama queen, but acting was my field, so...
I sifted through the clothes in my closet searching for the perfect outfit. When one prepared for the role of her lifetime, clothing mattered. Previously my black Michael Kors slingback pumps and very likely overly-applied Bobbi Brown makeup didn’t cut it, and I’d broken the heel on one of the shoes anyway, so instead, I went for an understated look with a hint of something I couldn’t quite define. Maybe a touch professional but sexy? I’d chosen a fitted black, knee-length skirt, accentuating my curves with a low heeled boot I’d picked up at a high-end discount store, and a tight but not too tight V-neck sweater with black and white pinstripes, vertical, never horizontal. I considered it something akin to conservatively sexy, but when Momma asked where I was going dressed like a two-bit hooker, I thought otherwise.
“People dress like this in New York all the time.”
“Because people in the big city like to show everyone their promised land.”
I glanced down, but if my promised land was visible, I certainly couldn’t see it. I rolled my eyes, guzzled down a cup of burnt coffee, and marched toward the door.
“Where you goin’?” Momma asked.
“To an acting agency someone at work mentioned. I’ll tell you about it when I get back.”
As the door shut behind me, I heard Momma holler, “I got me an appointment at the hairdresser today, and then I’m closing the store, so you’re on your own for dinner.”
I nodded, knowing full well she couldn’t see me.
My car engine did its clanking and complaining thing again and along with it added a new grinding sound. My-lanta, if something good didn’t come from all the troubles in my life I’d end up addicted to Tums, I just knew it. I practically felt the ulcers shaping in my stomach right then and there.
The drive over to the agency didn’t take long, nor did it use much gas, thankfully. Primed for a perfect presentation of my acting skills, I didn’t rest on my laurels and spent the few minutes driving practicing my various strengths along the route. I got a few questioning glances at red lights, but I didn’t let them stop me. I needed the gig, and no matter what it was, I would get it.
A soft bell jingled when I opened the door to Mourning Productions. No one sat at the reception desk, but there was a bell sitting next to a stack of pamphlets, so I rang it, grabbed a flyer, and took a seat in one of the chairs lined up against the gray wall.
As I read the pamphlet, I realized I’d made a colossal mistake. My comeback dream had suddenly turned into a nightmare.
Mourning Productions wasn’t an acting agency, not exactly anyway. It was a place that hired actors and actresses as professional mourners. People that posed as mourners and such for dead people. Pretend mourners, I’d thought. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t done any research. Desperate and determined to rebuild my ego, not my career, I didn’t do my due diligence. I let my big head get in the way of my small town values. Tears pooled in my eyes. I crumpled up the pamphlet, and just as I’d stood to toss it in the trash and leave, a middle-aged looking woman stepped into the room.
“Leaving so soon?” She flicked her hand toward the crumpled brochure. “Those aren’t cheap. I’d prefer you didn’t treat it like that.”
Even though I didn’t think I liked her business, I was ashamed of my behavior. “Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry. I don’t think I belong here. My apologies.” I did my best to straighten out the crinkled paper and handed it to her. “I’ll be going now.”
“You’re not the first person to say that, and you won’t be the last one, either, but you’re here for a reason, and I suspect you think something about my business that isn’t correct.” She coughed. Actually, she hacked, repeatedly, and I backed away, worried one of her lungs would fly out of her mouth and hit me in the face. When she finally finished her minor hacking attack, her 1960s retro-styled glasses sat crooked on her face. She adjusted them with the tips of her fingers. “Come on back to my office. Sometimes when girls like you come here, they’re desperate, and you’ve got that look on your face. Maybe I can help. Name’s Betty. Betty Hayfield.”
I didn’t know it then, but it was that very moment that Betty Hayfield changed my life forever.
I left Mourning Productions two hours later with a renewed sense of pride, still humbled of course, but with a better understanding of loss and what it meant to the people who’d experienced it. I’d never lost anyone of significance in my life. Sure, my grandparents had all passed, but I was young and immature, and never really knew them.
I planned to apologize to my parents for my selfishness during that time, soon.
I was scheduled to start my new job the next morning. I needed to read up on my boyfriend Buford Lester, but I also had my other new job in the mailroom that night. Conflicted and frustrated, I did what I always did when I didn’t know what to do. I called Daddy.
When I told him I’d found a job more to my liking, he cheered. “Oh, Princess, that’s just fantastic. I knew you’d be back doin’ what you loved in no time. Did you get a starring role with one of the theaters in town?”
“Not exactly, but it might lead to one. Who knows, I could be back in the city in no time, Daddy.” He always made me feel like I could do anything just by the sound of his voice.
“You can do anything, you’re a Buckley.”
“I know Daddy, but it hasn’t felt that way lately. So, what should I do about the health insurance company? If I stay there, I’ll be exhausted. I’m not sure I can work both jobs. An actress needs her beauty sleep, or she can’t perform at her best.”
He grunted, and the rattle of some kind of tool beating a metal pipe echoed through the phone. “Meme, if you think this job is going to get you back to the city and back in the good graces of the people that can get you the kind of parts you want, then I don’t think there’s a reason you ought to stay with that health insurance job. You just do right by them and let them know, you hear?”
“What about Momma?”
“Your momma’ll be fine. She just wants you to be happy.”
“As long as it’s not acting.”
“Well, we both know she’s not all that thrilled with your career choice, but it ain’t up to her now, is it?”
He was right, but Daddy was the one person that never really had to suffer Momma’s wrath. She had a love for him that stretched from the earth to the sun and back again, and nothing or nobody could shake it, not even their daughter.
“Okay, Daddy. I’ll call them now.”
We hung up, and I made the call to the temp agency. I spoke with my contact, explained my situation, and she understood. She agreed to refill the position and keep my file pending, and I promised to call back once my gig with the agency was done, if I didn’t take on another one, of course. Afterward, I headed over to the French Broad River Park to read the dossier and practice for what I hoped would be my starting ticket back to Off-Broadway. Since I needed to be at the funeral home the next day to meet with the family and start my week-long job, I needed to prep quickly.
I found the perfect place to pop a squat along the river. I threw down the quilt Daddy put in my car for my drive to New York years ago. Instead of using it for emergencies, I’d used it for relaxing and imagined it could be used for dates at Central Park in the city, but those never happened. Not because I hadn’t dated. I had. I just never drove to the city. I rarely drove anywhere in New York because trying to find a parking space usually gave me a migraine. On the rare occasion when I did drive into Manhattan, I’d either pay my month’s rent in quarters to a meter or my car would end up towed to the other side of town, and I’d have to pay an arm and a leg to the impound to get it out. It just wasn’t worth it.
Papers spread out in front of me on the red, blue and yellow quilt, I started with the first section, the general information on my character, Buford Lester’s significant other and recent fiancée, Ivy Sawyer.
No one in Buford’s family knew who Ivy Sawyer was or that she even existed. Apparently, Buford kept Ivy a secret because, as the dossier said, he felt the family didn’t deserve to know the details about a woman of such stature. When Betty explained the gig to me, she’d had to do so twice for it to settle in my brain. Buford thought Ivy hung the moon.
“Normally, I can’t tell you who hired us, but in this case, you’ll probably figure it out when you get to the funeral home.” Betty didn’t have a traditional southern accent, so, I wasn’t sure if she’d come to Asheville from somewhere else, or was born here but had Yankee parents. Sometimes that was the case, and it made all the difference. Either way, she was old enough that any chance of acquiring an accent had long passed.
“There’s an envelope in the dossier that states the deceased’s wishes for his funeral. It’s all paid for by his mother. You’ll give that to the funeral director. A Clementine…” She flipped through the dossier. “James. Yes, Clementine James. Have her open it. In there will be another envelope for you to read to the family. I’m told it might be distressful for them, so be prepared. You’ll need to handle this with reserve, but also with strength. You understand?”
I nodded.
“Good.” She read another note in the dossier. “Ms. James was contacted by the attorney already. Has the information about you and the information, but you’re to read the deceased’s requests for his services at the meeting tomorrow. Got that?”
“Yes, ma’am. And in the future, who do I go to if I have a question?”
She leaned back in her chair. “You’re looking at her.”
“Okay. May I ask how the man died?”
“He was allergic to bees and got stung in the neck by a wasp. Says so in the dossier.”
“That’s horrible.”
“Not all that uncommon I guess. Most people don’t know they’re allergic until it’s too late.” She handed me the dossier. At least three inches thick, I knew I’d be one busy gal. “You don’t need to memorize this. You need to become this. You’re not acting here as much as you are living the part. You understand?”
I dipped my head up and down with intent and maybe even a little fear.
“Buford Lester wasn’t Asheville turned New York. He was true mountain country.” She waved the tip of her finger at me. She might have even judged me with her eyes, but it was hard to tell with her old grandma-like framed glasses in the way. “So you’ll need to lose the look.”
I glanced down at my outfit. “Okay. What would you suggest?”
“Well, you’re full-figured, which is perfect for the part, and you’ve got the big southern hair thing, so, you’re halfway there. Oh, and you definitely have the accent, so you need to let that back out, but not too much. Our client wanted someone above what she believed the rest of the family felt Buford deserved. High class, but not snooty, still country, but not what someone might stereotype inappropriately as redneck.”
I cringed and furrowed my brow at the same time. I’d worked hard to bury my accent. No one in the city wanted to hire a Southern girl. The stereotype was real there. “I hate that word.”
“Most Southerners do.”
“And that? Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
That brow thing you just did. I saw that. Apparently, I said something you didn’t like. If I can see it, everyone else will, too.”
Everyone’s a critic. “Yes, ma’am.”
She smiled. “Tomorrow morning. Nine o’clock sharp at the address on the sticky note in the file. Be there. Report back after your first meeting if you have any questions or concerns. You’re committed for the week, maybe longer.” She stood. “I’m counting on you, Mayme.”
I stood also. “Yes, Betty. I won’t let you down.”
Staring at the files spread across the quilt, I worried I’d bitten off more than I could chew.
A brown and gold leaf floated down and landed on top of a pile of papers. I picked it up and smiled. Sure, leaves skirted around Brooklyn during the fall too, but none had the vibrant hues of the North Carolina ones. I glanced up and the treetops and watched as the gentle breeze took hold of them, sending them sailing to the left in one big swoop. Several leaves, desperate to escape their trapped existence on the trees, detached themselves and took flight, sailing away to land God only knew where, left to settle into a crispy dry death, becoming one with their finality into cement or grass or wherever it was they fell.
The gentle breeze wasn’t as soft as it appeared and captured one of the papers from Mourning Productions. I raised my hand to catch it and snatched it before it flew away.
“Nice,” a male voice behind me said.
I turned around, surprised by the familiar baritone voice. Christopher jogged in place behind me. My eyes involuntarily scanned his muscular physique, and when I realized he’d caught me checking him out, I blushed. “What’re you doing here?” I hadn’t intended for my tone to be so snooty.
He dipped his head toward his toes. “Uh, jogging. Isn’t that one of the things the greenway is for?”
My face reddened even more. “I mean, in the early afternoon. Shouldn’t you be working or something?”
“I’m actually off today. Detectives don’t work normal nine to five jobs. That’s not how crimes work.”
“Got it.”
He had a bottle of water in his left hand and chugged it. Afterward, he smiled as he pointed to my papers. “Looks like you’ve got a lot of work right there.”
I pulled the quilt over the papers, in part to keep them from blowing away but also to cover their information. I wasn’t sure if I was embarrassed or just keeping the information private as Betty required. “Just working on a part, I’m auditioning for.”
“Well, good luck.”
“Thank you.”
He stopped jogging in place. “So, there’s this thing this weekend. It’s nothing big, just a local band playing at a bar. If you’re not busy, maybe you’d like to come?”
The job lasted at least a week, and required nearly twenty-four-seven availability, depending on how the family took to me. I didn’t want to commit to anything. Besides, what if I went out with Christopher and someone associated with Buford saw me? My cover would be blown. I couldn’t do that. But Christopher had just asked me out.
Christopher Lacy.
My timing stunk. His timing stunk.
“I’d love to, but I have plans. I’ve got this acting gig, and I…well, I have to work. Rain check?”
“Definitely.” He smiled. “Let’s catch up soon then. Off to finish my run.”
“Take care.” I waved at his back as he ran off. I had to admit, it was a beautiful view.
I studied the dossier. Buford Lester wasn’t all that interesting, and it made me sad. Thirty-six-years old at the time of his death, a supervisor for a local moving company who drove the moving truck, but didn’t actually move the furniture or boxes due to a bad back. He did the inventory and sales, set up insurance claims, and handled customer service issues for the customers. He wasn’t an owner, but he did own his truck, though I wasn’t exactly sure how that worked, and that information wasn’t anywhere in the dossier. I made a note to search online for information on that when I got home. My phone didn’t have a good connection in the middle of the park.
Buford’s momma divorced his daddy when he was three. Rumors say she accused Buford senior of abuse, but no one could ever or would ever corroborate those rumors, and that was okay in my book. Just the accusation was enough to skedaddle. Better safe than sorry. Senior passed away just before Buford’s tenth birthday, which he celebrated by moving from his small three-room cabin in the mountains to a trailer park with his daddy’s sister where he’s lived ever since. Only before his death he spent most nights in the bed of his truck eating microwave popcorn and watching Netflix, though the reason for that wasn’t listed in the dossier either.
Buford Lester didn’t have much of a social life, and people picked on him for that. What he lacked in social skills though, he made up for in aggression, and when given a hard time, he took it out on skinny drunks in dive bars where moonshine sold for a buck a glass and women were free for the taking, at their choice according to interviews. I wondered who did the interviewing? The cops never arrested Buford Lester at those bars because they figured if someone was crazy enough to fight a guy like Buford Lester, they deserved what they had coming. That excluded the women, of course. Those women, if they accused someone of something improper or illegal, the cops came. Only, the women never accused Buford Lester, because when it came to women, he was proper and polite, every single time. Those women didn’t matter to Buford Lester.
In fact, Buford Lester never touched a woman at any of those bars. They all said he was kind. They said Buford was like a big ol’ teddy bear when it came to them, and they were the reason he got into fights. He was their protector. If someone did decide to approach them disrespectfully, he made sure they changed their tune right quick, they said.
Also, I decided to think Buford never touched those women because he wanted to wait until he found someone special, someone, like Ivy Sawyer.
Momma dropped a teaspoon full of reduced fat pancake syrup on my single pancake.
My single, lonely pancake.
She didn’t even put the butter out for me.
I’d asked for two, and could have easily made my own, but one didn’t get their own breakfast in Momma’s kitchen. Not only was it an insult, but it could also potentially bring on Momma’s wrath, which, depending on the time of the month, could be worse than God’s wrath. “What on God’s earth are you dressed like that for?”
“I have a new job today, and it requires I dress for the part.” I held out my plate with the lonely little pancake. “And where’s my other pancake? I asked for two.”
“You already got a job.” She ignored my pancake comment.
“I know but this more to my liking.” I left the table, and risking my life, took my own extra pancake from the counter.
Daddy’s eyes sparkled. He loved my independence.
Momma snatched the butter dish from my other hand. “Doing what?”
I grabbed it back, and she patted my shoulder then shook her head and laughed. “An acting job, Momma, and don’t worry, the temp agency is fine with it. I’ve already talked to them. They said they’ll have something for me when I’m ready.”
She barked at Daddy to turn off the stove and bring the bacon to the table. “Hurry please, ‘fore the pancakes get cold. We should eat it all together.”
When Momma stressed, she barked at everyone, but Daddy didn’t seem to mind. He just went with the flow. He glided over to the stove, switched it off, leaned over and grabbed hold of the bacon, swiveled around and sashayed over to the table. Once he set it down, he planted a kiss on Momma’s head and told her he loved her something awful. She giggled, and I would have sworn a cloud of stress dissolved above her.
He whispered in her ear. “It’ll be fine, darling. Don’t you worry.”
“I’m just worried about you, sugar.”
“What’ll be fine?” I asked.
“Oh, nothing, Princess. Don’t you worry about it,” Daddy said.
They were hiding something from me, and I knew it, but I also knew when they did that, it was better left alone. When I needed to know, they’d tell me.
Momma redirected the conversation back to my job. “What’s the theater? I thought you said none of them would hire you since you fell through that floor and all?”
Thanks for the reminder, I thought. “It’s not exactly a play. It’s more like a living production.”
She pushed her glasses up and rubbed her right eye. Fall allergies always bothered Momma. Her eyes, bloodshot and tired already, probably itched like crazy from the ragweed outside. I felt for her. She refused to take anything, claiming if God had wanted it any other way, he wouldn’t have made her allergic in the first place. Crazy talk, if you asked me. “What’s a living production?”
“I’m working for a company called Mourning Productions. They’re professional mourners. You probably don’t—”
“You’re working for that Betty Hayfield?” Momma pushed her plate away from her and stood. “Bobby, did you know? Did you agree to this?”
Yikes. Momma’s mood took a sharp right turn into cranky. Nobody liked a cranky Anna Buckley.
“Honey, Meme’s an adult, she doesn’t need to get our approval—”
“She’s living in our home. She sure does have to get our approval. Our house, our rules. Ain’t that the way it’s always been?”
“Momma, I don’t—”
She wouldn’t let me finish. Stopped me with a flat palm stuck right up and in my face. “Don’t you sass me, missy. Why I have a mind to make you go out back and cut a switch right off a tree so I can take to whipping your behind right now, you hear me?” Her nostrils flared with each breath she took. In and out. In and out.
I smelled the sweat moistening her skin, and I knew she was livid. Momma got mad. Momma got angry, but when Momma was livid, look out. My body tensed, my jaw tightened, and I sat on my hands, knowing full well if I used them to help me speak, she’d tell me to sit on them anyway. “Momma, I don’t understand. Why are you upset?”
“Mayme, that woman is a snake in the grass. What she’s doing is dishonest as the day is long. You working for her is like saying our family is just as bad as she is.”
“Now darlin’, that isn’t true, and you know it,” Daddy said. He stood and rubbed Momma’s back. “Many people have been comforted by the likes of her business. Besides, it’s an acting job, it doesn’t mean it’s who Meme is. She’s trying to re-establish herself as a bona fide actress, and she’s got to do what she’s got to do, and we need to let her.” He smiled in my direction. “It’s our job to support our daughter. She knows what’s right for her.”
“Of course, you’d say that. You always thought she could be a star. I always wanted her home with us, making babies we could spoil, and now that she is, you want to set her up to leave us again.”
And there it was. None of this had anything to do with Betty or Mourning Productions or what I wanted, and everything to do with Momma and what she wanted. Me home, me having babies, and me close to Momma.
I stood, threw my napkin on the table and huffed like a spoiled teenager. “Well, I’m sorry Momma, but maybe I don’t want to have babies. Have you ever thought about that? And if I do, Lord knows I don’t want them hanging around your cranky, bitter self.”
Her mouth dropped open, and her hand flew to it. “How dare you talk to me like that. Especially now!”
Visibly sweating, Daddy rubbed the back of his neck. He pulled Momma close to him as she fell into a blubbering mess of tears.
I rushed out of the house, dressed to the hilt like a good old country girl, tears streaming down my face, not for the part I was about to play, but for breaking my momma’s heart with my harsh words—ones I didn’t even mean.
I’d just reverted back to the terribly spoiled teenager I was when I’d been given the Mazda Tribute I’d just climbed into to head over to the funeral home. Way to be an unappreciative, self-centered adult brat, Mayme Buckley.