Looking For Salvation At The Dairy Queen Part 6

"Daddy, c'mon," I said, a little irritated by this last-ditch effort to biblically guilt me into staying home.

If something was really heavy on my daddy's heart, then he started talking in parables, just like Jesus Christ Himself except in overalls. What Daddy was really saying was that Atlanta was going to be a difficult place to lead a good, healthy life. There may be too many temptations, too much money, too much fast living, too many smooth-talking men. I could only hope.

But here in Ringgold, where the soil is rich and healthy and temptations are few and far between, I could grow a strong, healthy family and be bored out of my mind.

"Well, at least I always knew you were going to leave . . . not like your mama."

"Daddy, I'm not dying. I'm just going less than a hundred miles from here. You're going to see me again," I said, even more irritated that he was talking about Mama like that, like she died on purpose. I guess his heart had finally caught up with his mouth.

"I'm sorry, sweetie. I didn't mean that the way it came out. It's just harder than I thought," he said, staring at the ground. "Maybe we oughta get your bags in the car. Your bus is going to be here soon, and I know you need to be getting on your way." I walked into my room and saw my suitcases against the wall, just where I had left them. I couldn't bear to look at my room anymore; the emptiness was hurting too much. I never for a minute would have believed a dream could be this painful.

Somehow I managed to drag all three of my bags to the front door, carrying the smallest one across my shoulder and pulling the other two behind me. If my house had any feelings at all, I sure hoped it understood why I left without saying good-bye.

Daddy put my luggage in the backseat of the Oldsmobile. Then the three of us climbed into the front, not wanting to be separated for a minute more than we had to be. Martha Ann called shotgun, but that was fine with me; I wanted to be nestled in between the two people I loved most in this world.

We pulled into the parking lot next to the Dairy Queen, surprised to find the bus already there, the driver standing by the door licking a chocolate-dipped ice cream cone, obviously the handiwork of Eddie Franklin.

Daddy pulled the bags from the back and handed the two biggest ones to the bus driver. He handed me the small cosmetic bag where I had packed Gloria Jean's chocolate chip cookies, her brand new copy of Vogue magazine that she had given me even before reading it herself, and, wrapped in an old soft hand towel, my mama's box.

"We're running right on time, little lady, and I intend to keep it that way," the driver said rather firmly. It was kind of hard to take him too seriously, though, since he had a big chocolate stain on the pocket of his white uniform s.h.i.+rt. "I'm going to finish this ice cream, and then we're off. So say your good-byes and find your seat."

"Yes, sir." I was panicked and relieved to know that after eighteen years of waiting, my moment was finally here. In my dream, I had planned on having a few more minutes with Daddy and Martha Ann, but I guess by now I'd said all that needed to be said.

"I love you," I mumbled, afraid if I said it too clearly or too loudly then I'd start crying again. I wrapped my arms around them both and lowered my head between their bodies.

"I love you, too. I'll be right here waiting on you," Daddy said, sounding calmer than he had all day.

I turned to Martha Ann and she held me tight. "I don't know if I can do this without you," she said.

"Yes, you can," I told her, whispering in her ear. I felt so guilty leaving her behind. Maybe she really did need me to stay. I wondered if this was how Mama felt when she got to heaven, happy to be there but sorry she had to go. G.o.d, I wished Gloria Jean were here, pus.h.i.+ng me onto that bus. She would tell me that I had to go, that Martha Ann was going to be just fine, that she had some dreaming of her own she needed to do.

"I'm not going to be far," I said, and kissed her on the cheek, stepping onto the Greyhound without looking back.

As soon as I was situated in my seat, the driver climbed onto the bus and started the engine. It was all happening much faster than I had imagined. But I think the good Lord knew that I, unlike Moses, needed my exodus to be short and sweet. I just kept staring out the window, looking straight ahead, not looking back.

The driver yanked the door shut, revved the engine, and then steered the bus onto the main highway. He was barely out of the parking lot when a red pickup truck came barreling down the other side of the road, forcing the bus driver to swerve his Greyhound off onto the dirt shoulder. "Holy c.r.a.p," the driver shouted. But I knew that truck. I came out of my seat and pushed my way to the other side of the bus, leaning over some poor old man. It was Hank. He sped into the parking lot and jumped out of the front of his pickup. He stood there staring at the bus, looking as stunned as my daddy and Martha Ann. I didn't know what to do so I fell back in my seat and closed my eyes.

I always figured my Moses was going to be a strong, handsome man capable of parting an ocean with one hand, not some bald-headed bus driver with blobs of chocolate dripping down his s.h.i.+rt. But I guess there's no sense in questioning G.o.d's choice in saviors when you're making your way to the Promised Land.

Laura Lynn Cline picked me up at the Greyhound station just like she told Daddy she would. She had written my name on a piece of white cardboard and was holding it out in front of her chest so I'd know who she was. What a sad thing, I thought, needing a sign to find a girl who's got some of the very same blood running through her veins as is running through mine.

Turns out, I didn't need any old piece of cardboard. Laura Lynn was staring at me with those same steely blue eyes that can belong only to a Cline. Daddy said her great-granddaddy Merrill Otis and our great-granddaddy were brothers, but Laura Lynn said her mama told her that after William Floyd found the Lord, he never had much to do with his brother. They just figured William Floyd was too busy doing G.o.d's work to keep up with his family, especially considering Merrill Otis was a whiskey-drinking Methodist and all.

Laura Lynn had moved to Atlanta three or four years ago and was some kind of loan officer at the Peachtree Savings and Trust. I really didn't know what she did but she wore the same dark navy suit to work every single day. To tell the truth, I'd never seen a girl dress more like a man than she did, and except for that string of pearls hanging around her neck, you'd hardly know there was a woman inside that get-up. Laura Lynn said that's what all the professional women in Atlanta wear these days, and if I ever wanted to make something of myself, I better understand real quick that it's a man's world out there.

Actually my cousin didn't seem to like men much, except for Royce that is. She had gotten engaged back in the spring sometime, and her pending nuptials and her fiance, Royce Randolph Duncan, III, were all she knew to talk about. She always said his name real slow like I was supposed to be impressed. So I called him Roy whenever Laura Lynn was around just to see her squint her little eyes and puff those cheeks out like some kind of African blowfish I'd seen in an old National Geographic.

Laura Lynn said that she and Royce were getting married at his mother's house over in Buckhead, some rich, fancy neighborhood in town. Since she and Royce didn't go to church much, she thought it more appropriate to get married in a house not belonging to the Lord. She also said that someday they would be the ones living in the big house in Buckhead.

They even went and hired themselves a caterer for the wedding reception. Of course, when I asked what a caterer was, Laura Lynn just rolled her eyes like I should know better. Ida Belle would absolutely die if a bride at Cedar Grove paid somebody else to make her ham biscuits and Cheddar cheese straws. But Laura Lynn said that anyone who's anybody in Atlanta would know to hire a caterer.

Truth be told, I figured Laura Lynn would be more like me-and not just because we turned up sharing the same last name. I thought she came to Atlanta to do something that she couldn't do back in Martin, Tennessee. But instead she seemed to be like all the other girls back home, just waiting for the world, or a boy named Royce, to take care of her.

But one thing was for darn sure. I decided real quick that hanging around two people in love was about as awkward as watching Brother Fulmer's horse when he's put out to stud. Gloria Jean was right-there's no sin in loving somebody, but you sure don't need an audience. And Royce was stuck to Laura Lynn's lips like a magnet. Unfortunately, her apartment was real tiny, and there weren't many places for me to go unnoticed. So I spent a lot of time out on the balcony, but I really didn't mind. In fact, I liked it out there, especially late at night when all the lights in the city were turned on bright and twinkling all around me. Heck, I felt like I was standing smack dab in the middle of a birthday cake with all its candles ablaze.

I could see Laura Lynn's bank building from up there, and I couldn't help but wonder what all those women in their dark navy suits did behind those gla.s.s walls all day long cooped up like a bunch of chickens in a henhouse. On top of the building stood this giant orange ball that turned 'round and 'round day and night. I reckon it was supposed to be some kind of oversized Georgia peach.

A little bit farther down were two big yellow arches that glowed in the dark like the Star of David lighting the way for all those weary shepherds apparently hungering for a burger and an order of fries. McDonald's was open twenty-four hours a day, and that's the G.o.d's honest truth. I'd figured only hospitals and police stations were open all night long, and I certainly couldn't imagine Eddie Franklin staying up until three in the morning to make banana splits and chocolate-dip cones for anybody, not even his own mama. One time I made Royce walk me over there after midnight for no good reason other than I wanted to order something in the dead of night. I got a Quarter Pounder with cheese, French fries, and a large Coca-Cola and sat there under those golden arches until one in the morning.

And lucky for me, Lenox Square mall was only four blocks from Laura Lynn's apartment. She was real anxious for me to get over there and start "knocking on some doors," so to speak. I told her that it made me a little nervous walking there seeing how I had to cross a road that looked more like an interstate than a city street. She told me I was being ridiculous, that I had two good eyes and two good legs, so use them. Personally speaking, though, I always considered it somewhat of an accomplishment making it to the other side in one piece.

I'd been to the mall only once before, with Daddy and Martha Ann, and that was a long, long time ago. And other than the toy department at Davison's and that Barbie doll dressed in her white winter coat, I really didn't remember much. All these years later, I couldn't help but wonder if that Barbie doll was still hanging around, maybe sporting a little cotton sundress and a wide-brimmed hat.

But when I got there, what I found looked more like a city than a shopping mall. There were so many places to eat and spend your money, I figured you could be lost for weeks and come out none the worse for wear. One store sold nothing but women's handbags and another one sold nothing but women's underwear-all sorts of silk panties and lacy bras-things I was not sure should be displayed for everybody to see. But I decided right at that very moment that when I got my first paycheck, I was marching into that store and buying myself a pair of pink panties with little pink roses embroidered all over them. Somehow knowing that Ruthie Morgan would trade her best cashmere sweater set for a pair of those panties would make it worth it, no matter what they cost!

I must have filled out at least a dozen applications and, even though my feet were hurting from walking so much, I headed on over to Penney's to introduce myself to that old friend of Gloria Jean's. I had made a solemn promise that I'd look her up as soon as I got to town, and there's no going back on a solemn promise, especially one involving Gloria Jean Graves.

A tall, slender woman with bright blue eye shadow was standing behind the jewelry counter, and I knew without even asking her name that she was the woman I was looking for. She said she didn't know about any jobs at Penney's that would be good for a girl like me, but she did know a sweet, old lady, a Miss Myrtie Mabie, who might have a room to rent, something I could afford.

She handed me a small piece of paper with Miss Mabie's phone number on it and suggested I call her, not too early and not too late, seeing how she was nearing eighty. And seeing how I was sleeping on some crummy old couch Laura Lynn bought at the Goodwill store, which had such a stale smoky smell about it that it left me feeling like I'd been puffing on Mrs. Dempsey's Virginia Slims, I was real eager to call this Miss Mabie.

Living with Laura Lynn wasn't all bad, don't get me wrong. But I must admit that my favorite time of day was right after she left for work. As soon as the door slammed shut, I fixed myself a bowl of cereal and turned on the television. Daddy never let Martha Ann and me watch too much TV, said it wasn't good for our brains. But here, I just couldn't get enough of it, especially the Action News on WSB-TV.

Every morning, this nice-looking man, much younger than Daddy's Walter Cronkite, talked about all the bad things that had happened in Atlanta while I was sleeping-all the things I imagined Daddy hoped I would never hear or see. Truth be told, probably not a single night went by when somebody wasn't getting robbed or shot, but the man's voice was so warm and soothing that it just never sounded all that bad.

Today the worst thing he had to say was that the temperature was going to be close to one hundred and five, again, some kind of late-summer heat wave pus.h.i.+ng east from the Great Plains. I'd never sweated more like a stuck pig in my life. Laura Lynn said it was all the asphalt and concrete, something about an urban jungle. So I decided today was as good as any to sit by the telephone, in the air-conditioning, in front of the TV, and wait for somebody to call and give me a job.

And sure enough, someone did. A man, a senior manager I think he said, from Davison's department store phoned a little before noon and wanted me, Catherine Grace Cline, to come in for an interview. He said he was looking for an energetic young woman to join a new department that was scheduled to open early next week. He said he had read my application carefully and was very impressed with my entrepreneurial spirit. It was possible I might have made my jam-making business sound a little grander than it really was. But either way, he figured I must be a real go-getter, just the kind of person he wanted representing Davison's department store.

My nerves started twitching right there on the telephone, but I kept telling myself that any girl who can sell strawberry jam can surely sell pretty clothes and high-heeled shoes. Then I started blabbing, telling him all about my daddy and the time he brought me to the store to see Santa Claus and how I had dreamed of working there myself someday. He said he looked forward to meeting someone who loved Davison's as much as he did and that I should meet him at the back door, by the loading dock, the very next morning at nine o'clock sharp.

I spent the rest of the day trying to decide what to wear, finally choosing my Villager set that Gloria Jean had bought me a couple years ago for the Mother-Daughter Tea. Laura Lynn said it didn't look very professional, not being navy and all, but she guessed it would be okay for retail work. I was really growing to dislike that girl.

The next morning I woke up extra early, not even needing to set my alarm clock. I wanted to spend a little time in the bathroom before Laura Lynn started shooing me out of her way, leaving me to brush my teeth in the kitchen sink and fix my hair staring into the side of the toaster. The man on the television said it had been a real quiet night in Atlanta, and I took that to be an omen of sorts that something good was coming my way.

Mr. Wallis was standing by the back door, waiting for me when I got there. Thankfully, I was five minutes early 'cause I noticed he glanced down at his watch and noted the time. Mr. Charles Humphrey Wallis turned out to be a very soft gentleman even though his voice had sounded big and strong on the telephone. He was short and thin and had thick, gray hair parted neatly on the side and coated with some kind of oil that made it s.h.i.+ne real bright in the sunlight. A little blue handkerchief was tucked inside his suit pocket and gold b.u.t.tons were fastened to his s.h.i.+rt cuffs. He was dressed more like the governor than any other man I had ever met before in my life.

We walked from one end of the store to the other, and even though I kept step with Mr. Wallis, I couldn't keep my eyes from darting every which way. I started wondering how many people it would take to buy up all the dresses and jewelry and perfume that were on display, more than everybody in Ringgold, that's for sure. Mr. Wallis didn't seem to notice any of it. I wondered if that would happen to me after a while.

He led me into a small but comfortable-looking office directly behind the women's shoe department. He sat behind the desk and I sat in front of it, and we talked back and forth for almost an hour. He asked me all sorts of questions about Ringgold-about school and making jam and the like. He even asked me about Daddy and Martha Ann. Next thing I knew, I had myself a job, although I wasn't going to be selling cosmetics or fancy dresses. Turns out, I had gourmet food experience and would be working in Davison's new specialty foods department, selling expensive crackers and olives and candies and . . . yes . . . jams.

But Mr. Wallis said that if I did a real good job, the store's executives might even consider me for the management-training program. "Because Davison's is all about opportunity." That's exactly what he said.

Mr. Wallis started as a sales clerk just like me, and he told me that if I worked hard, someday I might be sitting right where he was. I wasn't sure if perched behind a stack of women's shoes was exactly what he meant, but I smiled and told him I sure hoped he was right.

Laura Lynn was almost happier than I was to hear about my new job. She had already figured that with a paycheck or two in my pocket, I could be looking for a place of my own and she and Royce could get back to loving each other full-time. Heck, Royce almost picked me up off the floor when he heard the news. Those two will most surely be birthing a baby by their first wedding anniversary, if not sooner.

But after Laura Lynn went to bed, I got down on my knees and thanked the Lord for Mr. Wallis and my new job. If I was going to be the best sales clerk Davison's had ever had, I figured I was going to need the Almighty on my side. To tell the truth, talking to the Lord was coming a whole lot easier these days-what with Him finally listening and all.

Of course, Daddy always taught me to pray for my enemies first, but I skipped right over Laura Lynn and the like and started thinking on Daddy and Martha Ann and Gloria Jean. I wondered if they were missing me as much as I was missing them. I hadn't heard from Daddy yet, even though I had already written him two long letters. I reckoned the church was keeping him pretty busy, especially with Homecoming just around the corner. And I was sure Roberta Huckstep was buzzing about his ear, reminding him how little Emma Sue would never think of leaving her family like I'd up and done.

After saying all that, I just lay there and wondered about Hank. I saved him for last, so I could take my time thinking about his blue eyes and his strong arms and the way he'd whisper in my ear, causing my insides to tingle. I saw his red pickup pull into the parking lot at the Dairy Queen as my bus was pulling out. A part of me had wanted to yell at that driver to stop and let me get off. But I just closed my eyes instead. And now when I couldn't think about Hank Blankens.h.i.+p anymore, I just closed my eyes and went to sleep.

September 19, 1975 Dear Catherine Grace, I was so excited to finally get a letter. Mr. Winfield brought it right to the door. He said he knew I'd been waiting on pins and needles to hear from you and that the U.S. Postal Service wanted to do whatever it could for Reverend Cline's baby girl. Ha, the U.S. Postal Service being Mr. Winfield and his wife!

You have no idea how much I've been missing you, but I am absolutely thrilled to hear about your new job-although you have to admit that it's a little ironic that you had to go all the way to Atlanta to sell strawberry jam! No kidding, we're all real proud of you. Gloria Jean says sales are sales and you obviously have a natural-born talent for it. Daddy even smiled when he heard the news.

As exciting as it must be in Atlanta, rest a.s.sured that it is just that quiet here. And who would have thought this place could get any worse? Thank goodness Gloria Jean has been coming by to check on us, because if she didn't, I don't think this house would have seen a smile lately. She said to tell you that she's waiting for a letter of her own!

I know you'd like to hear that Daddy is doing fine, but I have to be honest with you, Catherine Grace, he's not. He's sad, really sad. He misses you terribly. And most days, he acts as though you've up and died. He spends most of his time at the church reading the Bible and doing G.o.d only knows what. And when he comes home, he never has much to say. He watches the news, shakes his head as if to remind me that the world is a bad place, and then goes to bed.

Last Sunday, he woke up acting more like his old self. He even put a pot roast in the Crock-Pot. I had hoped Miss Raines might be coming over for lunch just like she used to. But she didn't. In fact, Daddy hardly spoke to her after the service. And oh my, the sermon, let's just say he spent more than an hour preaching the parable of the Prodigal Son-sounding very much like the wounded father. I think he just wanted to remind the congregation that his precious, wayward daughter would be coming home as soon as she figures out what a big mistake she's gone and made. (Although he may have to rethink this, seeing how the Prodigal Son never landed a job at Davison's department store!) And just so you know, according to Daddy's version of the story, I'm the loyal, devoted child who stayed home to water all these stupid tomatoes. And of course I'll also be the one stuck cleaning the house and helping Ida Belle cook for the big party he's going to have in celebration of your grand return!

Laura Lynn sounds nice enough, but you're right, it is really strange to think about the family we have and don't know anything about. But I guess lucky for you a Cline turned up in Atlanta even if she wasn't what you were hoping for.

OK, now you need to sit down, Catherine Grace, because if you don't, you are going to hit the floor laughing. At the Tigers' first home game, little Miss Emma Sue was making her official debut as a Ringgold varsity cheerleader. Yuk! Anyway, her entire family was there, sitting in the bleachers, waving signs that read, "Go Tiger Sue," and taking at least a million pictures.

During halftime the cheerleading squad ran out onto the field for their big cheer, and Walter Pigeon lifted Emma Sue up over his head. She was standing on Walter's shoulders, grinning so big, so impressed with herself. Anyway, she was supposed to fall into Walter's arms, but somebody blew a horn and distracted poor Walter Pigeon and Emma Sue fell right on the ground!!!

She cracked her cute little tailbone! In two places! And now she has to sit on this piece of foam that looks like a giant doughnut. She carries it around with her everywhere she goes. If she's not sitting on it, she's wearing it around her wrist like a bracelet! I have never laughed so hard in my entire life. Mrs. Roberta Huckstep hasn't been in church for two weeks. I think the entire family is suffering from terminal humiliation, at least that's what Gloria Jean called it. I love it-terminal humiliation!

Of course, we lost the game, but n.o.body cared. Robbie Preston is the only quarterback I know of who can't throw a football. And you know as well as I do that we can't beat LaFayette just running the ball up and down the field.

By the way, the new English teacher from Murfreesboro never showed up. Apparently she got caught in a compromising situation with the princ.i.p.al at her old school. Needless to say, she was asked not to come to Ringgold High. So Mr. Boyce, a retired English teacher from some boys' school in Chattanooga, was hired at the last minute. At first I thought he was going to be a downright, total bore. But he's wonderful. He actually believes that there are other great American writers besides Mrs. Tyne's beloved William Faulkner!

He told me I'm one of the most promising students he's ever had, and as much as I love words, I ought to think about being an English teacher or a newspaper writer or maybe somebody kind of like Mary Tyler Moore. How about that?! Maybe I could work for the paper in Atlanta, and then we could live together. Wouldn't that be great!

Of course, we might have to wait till poor Daddy has completely lost his mind or is dead and buried cause I'm not sure he'll ever be able to stand both of his baby girls leaving town. Just kidding! I think!

Lots and lots of hugs and kisses,

Martha Ann

Turns out the nice old lady with the room to rent lived in a big beautiful house right smack dab in the middle of Buckhead. Laura Lynn couldn't stand it that I, Catherine Grace Cline, made it to the fancy neighborhood before she did. She was so mad, she could have spit but instead she dropped me off at the end of Miss Mabie's driveway, leaving me to lug my bags to the house all on my own. I was huffing and puffing something awful by the time I made my way to the front steps.

Miss Mabie was standing just outside her door when I got there, looking real tiny and small next to the huge, square white columns stretched across the front of her house. She had a rather nice figure for a woman her age, and her hair was snow white and cut in a short, stylish bob. She looked very sophisticated and elegant till you got down to her feet and saw her brown, clunky orthopedic shoes. She told me later that she was a vain woman from the tip of her head all the way down to her ankles-but that's where her vanity turned to comfort.

"Child, are you Catherine Grace Cline?" she asked, pointing her little crooked finger right at me.

"Yes, ma'am, I am."

"Child, you walk all the way here?"

"No, ma'am, my cousin dropped me off at the end of your driveway."

"Hmm." Then she looked me over long and hard.

"Well, your cousin's either got no manners at all or she doesn't like you too much. Which is it?"

"I think a bit of both to tell the truth."

"d.a.m.n it. Well, I've either got me the best tenant I've ever had or I need to go and lock the silver closet. Come on and get in here and let's find out which it is."

She yelled for Flora to come and take my bags, and almost instantly a large black woman appeared from behind a white swinging door. Miss Mabie didn't introduce us, but Flora flashed a quick smile and then headed up the stairs carrying all three of my bags in her hands.

Miss Mabie turned her back to me and walked away, obviously intending for me to follow. She stopped in the kitchen and pointed to the kitchen table, directing me to take a seat. She fixed me a gla.s.s of iced tea, all the while explaining the rules of the house. No smoking and no loud music. Rent was due the first of the month. Local calls could be made from the phone in the kitchen. And any gentleman callers were welcome as long as they didn't smoke or play loud music.

Then without me even asking, Miss Mabie told me that she ran away from home when she was no more than sixteen, catching a ride with some insurance salesman pa.s.sing through Georgia on his way to New York City. She said she used to model for a store called Bloomingdale's and even danced on Broadway! She said Gene Kelley was a very good friend and she emphasized the very. And she said she used to be tall till life and old age beat her down.

I didn't understand her ever wanting to leave New York City, but she said she loved the South and since her daddy left her with more money than she knew what to do with, she figured she'd come home and spend the rest of her years sipping gin and tonics and swatting flies. She told everyone in town that she had been married twice and widowed twice. She said that Atlanta society preferred to think that she had known the love of a man only within the sacramental confines of matrimonial bliss. "Marriage would be wonderful, dear," she rea.s.sured me, "if it weren't so everyday."

Miss Mabie's house was like a giant jewelry box filled with treasures she'd found all over the world, like that huge blue-and-white jar that always sat in the middle of the dining room table. Miss Mabie said it was an ancient Chinese vase and that it was older than Ringgold. Flora kept it filled with fresh flowers every single day.

My room probably wasn't much bigger than our tool-shed back home, but I loved it. It was painted a soft shade of yellow and had a large picture window that looked out on the backyard. And right outside my window was one of the prettiest magnolia trees I'd ever seen. Sometimes, when I was lying in my bed, I actually felt like that little baby bird Daddy was always talking about. And there I was, safe and sound, settled in my nest way up high in my beautiful magnolia tree.

Miss Mabie said she loved knowing somebody else was in the house with her, especially the daughter of a preacher. Flora was always there, too, but she was the biggest scaredy cat I'd ever seen. When it was storming and lightning one night, Flora cried so hard, Miss Mabie had to let her come in bed with her just to quiet her down.

I liked to sit in the kitchen and talk to Flora while she worked. She was a large-boned woman, but the graceful way she moved her body around the kitchen was something beautiful to watch. She was a lot like Ida Belle, actually, but with skin as dark as night. She'd been cooking Miss Mabie's meals since she was fourteen years old. Flora said her own mama died shortly after giving birth, and she said her daddy never did get used to looking at her. Her daddy worked for Miss Mabie's daddy and so they met when Miss Mabie was home visiting. He told her he had a girl, didn't know what to do with her. Miss Mabie said she did. Flora said Miss Mabie was the only mama she'd ever had. She also said she was the craziest white woman she'd ever known.

"Oh precious Jesus," she told me one afternoon while she was rolling out dough for the evening's biscuits, "she took me shoppin' for some new clothes as soon as I started workin' for her. She said there was no lookin' like a street chil' in her house. You shoulda been there. She tol' all a those clerks that I was her baby niece visitin' from South Carolina. I think she done it for fun, jus' to watch 'em all squirm like some little earthworm after the rain. But Miss Mabie spent so much money in that sto' they jus' had to smile."

Flora thought it was very funny that I was selling fancy foods and didn't know how to do much of anything in the kitchen but make strawberry jam and Thursday-night meatloaf. I told her I also knew how to make Mrs. Gulbenk's special tea, but she said that didn't count.

Most nights Miss Mabie asked me to join her for dinner, unless she was too tired, and then Flora served her in her room. We always sat on opposite ends of the big, long table in the dining room. Miss Mabie was a little hard of hearing, so talking at the table was more like a shouting match on a school playground than the exchange of some polite conversation. Flora always sat in the kitchen by herself, except for Christmas, Thanksgiving, and Easter. I felt kind of funny about that, but I didn't dare ask Miss Mabie how come.

Most days I just couldn't stop pinching myself. I had paid Miss Mabie my first month's rent, had bought myself a pretty pair of panties, and still put one hundred and fifty-three dollars in the bank. I was waking up in a world that I had only dreamed about, except in this dream there was a magnolia tree outside my window. And even though I found myself wondering what Daddy and Martha Ann were doing, I just couldn't imagine being anyplace else.

October 25, 1975 Dear Catherine Grace, I am so excited for you. First your job, now Miss Mabie. She sounds wonderful, Flora too. I agree, the Lord is listening to you now!

Daddy said that maybe I could come down and see you sometime in January, after the Christmas-shopping rush. I can't wait to see your new room, Miss Mabie's fancy house, and Davison's. Sounds like you're living more like a princess than a preacher's daughter!

We were all sorry you couldn't come home for the Cedar Grove Homecoming. I really missed you, but I understand that working retail means giving up some of your weekends. It was a lot of fun, though, more fun than I ever expected it to be. The youth group played bingo with the Euzelian cla.s.s, and for the first time ever, the youth group won. Of course, all we won was another bingo party hosted by the Euzelians. Ha!

Ida Belle outdid herself in the kitchen, of course. She fried seven hundred and twenty-five pieces of chicken and baked more than four hundred and fifty brownies. She wanted to be sure everyone, including Brother Fulmer, left with a full stomach.

The best part though was playing musical chairs. Everybody played-Lolly, Miss Raines, Ida Belle, even Emma Sue, although she's still carrying that stupid doughnut pillow around, which slowed the game down a bit. Mrs. Huckstep says her little Emma Sue has a very delicate bone structure and the healing process is taking longer than expected. Naturally.

Anyway, Mrs. Huckstep couldn't bear the thought of losing even a child's game, so she would linger around a chair just waiting for Mrs. Gilbert to lift her fingers off those piano keys. Heck, that woman practically knocked me over trying to plant her big b.u.t.t on my chair. But I squeezed in right under her. It was actually pretty funny!

OK. I know I haven't mentioned Hank. I guess to be perfectly honest with you I was avoiding the subject because I really didn't know how to tell you this. He is dating somebody else. They've been going together for about a month now. He said they'd been friends forever and then one day they just saw each other in a different way. I am so, so sorry.