How Sweet It Is - Alice J. Wisler [8]
I am about to study more of them when Regena Lorraine summons me into the dining room. “Don’t want the tea to get cold, Shug,” she says. “Sassafras tastes best with steam rising from it.”
As we sit across from each other at the wooden dining table, I think to myself that my aunt is my only connection to this small town called Bryson City. I don’t know another soul within a one-hundred-mile radius. And as eccentric as my sister Andrea and I have always thought our aunt to be, knowing her is better than knowing no one. I’m sure she’ll guide me on where to hand out my brochures and maybe even show me other venues for advertising my cake-decorating business to this mountain community.
With satisfaction, Regena Lorraine breathes in the aroma of her mug of tea. Steam is rising from the liquid, causing her glasses to fog. “When is your first day to be at The Center?” she asks.
I wonder where my grandpa keeps the sugar. “What?”
“Have you called them yet?” Taking off her glasses, she wipes them with the fabric around the neck of her dress.
“Called who?”
She laughs, but I can’t see what is so funny. “They are going to love you!”
“Who?” I ask. I want to say, “What in the world are you talking about?” but I don’t. My mother would consider that pure rudeness. I think of how to rephrase the question so that it will come across as polite and make my mother proud of me. “Can you explain this to me?”
“Explain? Oh my, Shug.” My aunt places her glasses on the bridge of her nose and then takes a long drink. “Delicious!” she says, and laughs again.
Uncertainty lines my face; I can feel it in every pore.
Fingers gripping the mug’s handle, Regena Lorraine peers at me. “You don’t know?”
five
Suddenly I am back in the hospital with my body covered in sterile bandages. Sally and Jeannie are giving each other glances—knowing glances. You don’t know, Deena? Lucas has been two-timing you.
“Lay it on me, Auntie,” I want to say. I don’t think I am capable of being shocked by anything anymore. But the boldness doesn’t surface in my tone; my voice merely utters a weak, “What?”
My aunt prolongs her answer by first taking a doggy biscuit from the pocket of her dress. “Here, Handsome,” she calls. Giovanni raises his large head, jumps up, and races to her side, drool rolling off his mouth.
I wouldn’t call him handsome.
She hands him the treat, and her adoration for her pet is evident. As he chews, she gently runs her fingers over his coat. I start to ask what kind of dog he is, but then I think: Does it really matter that I know the individual breeds of the very animals I am allergic to?
When he has devoured every crumb, he searches for some under the table and, finding none, resumes his position on the rug. Only then does my aunt give me her full attention. But she still doesn’t answer my question. “How are the pigs, Shug?” Her voice penetrates the darkness that has formed over the mountains outside the sliding glass door.
“They’re fine.” I think of my parents’ farm as a strange longing curls through my stomach. I wonder if Dad is filling the troughs with dinner for the animals now. I can almost hear Clementine, the spotted sow with an attitude, quacking at him in a tone that makes us think she is part duck. I say, “Clementine had a litter of nine last month.”
“Nine? Did you say nine?” Regena Lorraine clasps her hands together as