Shiloh and Other Stories - Bobbie Ann Mason [34]
“What all did she get?”
“A rocking chair she’s going to refinish, and a milk glass lamp, and some kind of whatnot, and a big grabbag—a box of junk you buy for a dollar and then there might be one thing in it you want. I never saw such par’phenalin.”
“Was there anything in it she could use?” asks Rita Jean. Rita Jean, who has no children, is always intensely concerned about Cleo’s family.
“She found a wood spoon she said was antique.”
“People are antique-crazy.”
“You’re telling me.” Cleo has spent years trying to get rid of things she has collected. After her husband died, she moved to town, to a little brick house with a dishwasher and wall-to-wall carpet. Cleo’s two sons haven’t mentioned it, but Linda says it’s awful that Cleo has gotten rid of every reminder of Jake. There is nothing but the picture album left. All his suits were given away, and the rest of his things boxed up and sold. She gave away all his handkerchiefs, neatly washed and ironed. They were monogrammed with the initials RJW, for Robert Jacob Watkins. And now somebody with totally different initials is carrying them around and blowing his nose on them. Linda reminds her of this every so often but Cleo isn’t sorry. She doesn’t want to live in the past.
After talking to Rita Jean, Cleo cleans the house with unusual attention. The kids have scattered their things everywhere. Cleo hangs up Tammy’s clothes and puts Davey’s toys in the trunk Linda has brought. The trunk is yellow enamel with thin black swirls that make it look old. Linda has antiqued it.
Cleo pins patterns down on the length of material laid on the table. She is cutting out a set of cheerleader outfits that have to be done by next week. The cheerleader outfits are red and gray, made like bib overalls, with shorts. Everything is double seams, and the bibs have pockets with flaps.
“Get down from there, Prissy-Tail!” The cat has attacked the flimsy pattern and torn it. “You know you’re not supposed to be on Mama’s sewing.” Cleo waves the scissors at Prissy-Tail, who scampers onto Cleo’s shoulder. Cleo sets her down on a pillow, saying, “I can’t cut out with you dancing on my shoulder.” Prissy-Tail struts around on the divan, purring.
“I could tell you things that would sizzle your tailfeathers,” Cleo says.
—
Cleo backs in the front door, pulling the storm door shut with her foot. On TV there is a Wild West shoot-out, and the radio is blaring out an accompanying song with a heavy, driving beat. Tammy is talking on the telephone.
“What do you mean, what do I mean? Oh, you know what I mean. Anyway, we’re at my grandmother’s and my mother’s going out tonight—Davey, quit it!—that was my little brother. He’s a meanie. I just stuck my tongue out at him. Anyway, do you think he’ll ask you or what? Unh-huh. That’s what I thought.”
Cleo stands in the hallway, adjusting to the sounds. Tammy’s patter on the phone is meaningless to her. Linda had never done that. Linda had been such a quiet child. She hears Tammy speaking in a knowing tone.
“You know what April told Kevin? I nearly died! Kevin was going to ask her for her homework? And he said to her could she meet him at the Dairy Queen and she said she might and she might not, and he said to her could she carry him because his car was broke down? And she said he had legs, he could walk! I think he’s mad at her.”
“Watch out, Tammy, I’m coming through,” says Cleo. Davey has returned to the television, and Tammy is sprawled out in the kitchen doorway. Tammy is wearing ripped bluejeans and a velour pullover with stripes down the sleeves. Tammy bends her knees so half the doorway is clear, and Cleo squeezes by, balancing the groceries on her hip.
Tammy hangs up and pokes into the grocery sack. “Chicken! Not again!”
“Chicken was ninety-nine cents a pound,” says Cleo. “You better be glad you’re where there’s food on the table, kid.”
“Ick! All that yellow fat.”
“The yellower a chicken is, the better it is. That’s how you tell when they’re good. If they’re blue they’re not any ’count. Or if