arkansastraveler (6 page)

“Eat dirt, Beauregard,” I said.

“You’ll regret those words, my dear Priscilla,” he said in a thick Southern drawl. He stood in front of the French doors and clasped a hand over his heart dramatically.
“When they find my broken and maggot-filled body in a shallow Yankee grave.”

“I’ll name our firstborn after you, Beau, honey,” I answered to his retreating back. “Even if’n he wurn’t yours.”

“Beauregard and Priscilla?” Elvia said.

“An old game we used to play when we were kids,” I said. “We used to dress up in old clothes and act out skits. The attic in this house is unbelievable, trunks and trunks of old clothes. Some of them go back to the Civil War.”

“And they always left it in a mess,” Miss DeLora said. “A couple of little brats, they were.”

“Ah, Miss DeLora, haven’t we made up for our misspent youths now that we’re grown?”

“Hmph,” she said. “Ain’t enough time on this ole earth to make up for the mischief y’all used to get into. Y’all lucky I didn’t sweep you out with the fireplace ashes and leave you for the trashman.”

I grinned at Elvia. “Deep inside she knows we were good kids.”

“Only when you was takin’ naps,” she said. “Why, my Amen was a good girl until she hooked up with the likes of you and Emory and that doctor fella.”

I laughed and didn’t say anything. She obviously still didn’t know that half the time our escapades were thought up by her own darling Amen who had an imaginative mind and a bucketful of nerve from early on.

“So, are you ready for a tour of the town?” I asked Elvia.

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

I gave Miss DeLora a quick hug. “See you tonight.”

We wound our way back through the fountain garden and headed downtown. While we circled the town square, I gave a running commentary about each place of business, its past and present owners, its place in Emory’s personal history. Sugartree looked entirely different this bright Monday morning with people shopping, bustling in and out of the courthouse for various official reasons, and
baggy-jeaned kids loitering on their way to school. Elvia and I stopped in at a half-dozen places where I introduced her and stayed to shoot the bull with people who’d known me since I was a girl. Of course, I couldn’t resist taking her to Beulah’s Beauty Barn and Elvis Emporium.

The pink-and-aqua shop with its old-fashioned bonnet hair dryers and faded pictures of Arkansas beauty queens going back to the fifties hadn’t changed one iota since the last time I’d seen it ten years ago. The colorful Elvis shrine next to the cash register still reigned supreme. In front of his gold-framed picture was a gallon pickle jar where the hand-printed sign said: “
MONEYS COLLECTED GO TO LOCAL CHILDREN
’
S CHARITIES BECAUSE ELVIS LOVED KIDS
.”

Beulah herself didn’t look one minute older, though I knew she had to be in her late sixties. Her brick-red dancing curls, black eyeliner, and sky blue eye shadow were as classic as she was. She greeted me with a rib-crushing hug the minute she spotted me.

“Benni Louise, it’s been a crow’s year since I’ve seen you.” She felt my hair. “And you need a good conditioning.”

“I’ll make an appointment,” I said. “We’re just visiting today.” I introduced her to Elvia.

“Now there’s some healthy hair,” she said, reaching out and feeling a lock of Elvia’s hair. “Good cut, too.”

“Thank you,” Elvia said.

Beulah turned back to the woman in her chair. “We’ve got years to catch up on, Benni,” she said, teasing the woman’s short taffy-colored hair. “You make sure and drop back by.”

“You know I will,” I said.

“Where y’all going now?” she asked. She gazed down at the woman’s roots. “Hon, these roots can last one more week and that’s it.”

“I know, Beulah,” the woman said. “I’m waiting for my egg money to come in.”

“Better tell them chickens to lay a little faster,” she said, giving a big hoot of a laugh.

“We’re going to stop by the 3B,” I said. “Say hey to John Luther.”

“He’ll be real proud to see you,” she said. “See you at the quiltin’ on Tuesday?”

“Probably,” I said, though I had no idea what she was talking about. “It’s probably a quilting bee up at the church,” I told Elvia as we walked the block to Billings’ Bean-N-Biscuit.

“John Luther Billings is another kid we used to hang out with,” I continued. “But he lived out of town on a farm, so we only saw him on Saturdays and Sundays. He used to be able to burp the whole National Anthem.”

“Impressive,” Elvia murmured.

I laughed. “It was when we were ten.”

A cattle bell attached to the front door announced our entrance.

A pretty young blond girl in her late teens carried three plates of eggs, grits, and bacon to some men in overalls sitting at one of the ten booths that lined each side of the narrow cafe. The air smelled of butter and coffee and maple syrup.

“Hotcakes are comin’,” she told the men. She gave us a shy smile. “Y’all can sit anywhere you like.”

“Thanks, but we’re just here to say hey to John Luther. Is he around?”

She gestured toward the double doors at the end of the aisle. “Daddy’s cooking today. Leon’s home with the flu.”

In the kitchen, John Luther had his back to us and was flipping two rows of pancakes.

“Hey, Johnny, make sure all the bubbles have popped,” I said.

He swung around, and a huge smile lit up his broad, hound dog face. “Benni Harper, you little twit. Come over here and hug my neck.”

After quick introductions, he continued to flip the hotcakes while I filled him in on the last ten years.

“I heard about Jack,” he said, his golden brown eyes drooping slightly. “Sure am sorry.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“Heard you got hitched again, though. Did he come with you?”

“He’ll be here tomorrow. He’s . . .” But before I could tell him more, his daughter burst into the kitchen, her face white and terrified.

“Daddy,” she cried, her voice trembling. “He’s out front again!”

John threw down the metal spatula. It hit the concrete floor with a loud clang, splattering batter. He pushed through the swinging doors and strode down the cafe’s short aisle. I followed him, wondering what the ruckus was about. The three men eating breakfast stopped talking and watched him head for the front door.

“Be cool now, J L,” one called.

“Cool, my ass,” he replied.

Except for his daughter, who seemed to have disappeared, we all flocked to the window to see what was going on.

He walked over to the passenger side of a bright green jacked-up Chevy pickup with a Confederate flag in the back window. Painted on the truck’s door in fancy script were the words
WHITE IS BEAUTIFUL
. John started jabbing an angry finger at the young, blond man looking down at him. The man was handsome but had a spoiled, sullen expression on his face. A cigarette dangled from his thick lips. We could hear the timbre of John’s shouting voice, but the lack of a good muffler caused the truck’s engine to drown out his exact words. The man laughed, his face contorting in a mocking sneer.

John Luther shook a fist at the man. With a screech the truck took off, leaving John in a cloud of black exhaust
smoke. He stood there breathing heavily, his fist still held up in the air.

I opened the door and joined him on the sidewalk. There was no way we could pretend something hadn’t happened, so I decided to just jump right in and ask about it.

“Is everything okay?” I asked.

He turned to look at me, his eyes cold and angry, then just as quickly changed back to easygoing John Luther. “Fine,” he said, waving a hand in dismissal. “I’m sorry you had to see that. Just a little problem we’ve been having with one of the local boys harassing Tara.” He glanced over at the cafe where the three men and Elvia had wisely moved away from the window.

“My gosh, the last time I saw Tara she was seven years old. Time sure has flown.”

“Tell me about it.” He gave another angry glance down the street though the truck was long gone.

“Excuse me for being nosy, but who was that hassling her? An old boyfriend?” I felt sorry for young girls these days. Dating was certainly different now than it was when I was in my teens. So many relationships included violence, and it seemed it was starting at younger and younger ages.

“Not by a long shot. Just some joker she dated once. He . . .” John Luther stopped. “I don’t really want to go into it. He’s just one of those jerks who can’t believe someone would say no to him. But then, what do you expect? He’s a Hunter.”

“As in Grady Hunter, the mayor?”

“The one and only. That’s his son, Toby. A walking advertisement for the benefit of vasectomies, if you ask me.” He wiped his hands on his stained white apron. “Well, the show’s over for today.” He gave me a wry smile. “Welcome home, Benni Harper.”

I scratched the side of my neck, not certain if I should smile back. “You’re not the first person to say that to me.”

“I’d better get back inside and start preparations for
lunch. Come back when there’s not so much turmoil, and I’ll make you and your friend a real Arkansas stick-to-your-ribs breakfast feast.”

“You got it, John Luther.”

Elvia questioned me as we walked down the street. “What was that all about?”

“Something between his daughter, Tara, and that boy who is apparently Grady Hunter’s son.”

She shook her head. “Grady Hunter? Refresh my memory,
amiga
.”

“He’s the incumbent mayor and Amen’s rival. He owns half the town and is a very respected deacon at Sugartree Baptist. He’s also, from what Dove told me, the head of the group that’s against the churches merging.”

“Looks like his son is every minority’s nightmare,” she said.

“Like father, like son, I guess. There’s a lot of good and decent people in this town, but some real jerks, too. Like everywhere, I guess.”

We spent another hour or so walking around the town, but by lunchtime I grew tired of greeting old acquaintances, and we decided to retreat to Aunt Garnet’s cool and comfortable front porch.

“We’ll do the infamous Dairy Queen and Dandy’s Five and Dime another day,” I promised.

Back at Aunt Garnet’s we found an empty house.

“Everyone must be out doing their part to get ready for the coming festivities,” I said, bringing in the jar of sun tea sitting in the front yard. In the kitchen, there was a note from Dove . . . and Garnet.

“Sandwiches in the refrigerator, girls,” Dove’s note said. “I made your favorite tuna salad. Here’s a list of the week’s activities.” Her neat, blunt printing listed each day’s agenda.

Aunt Garnet’s note said, “Benni and Elvia—sandwiches in the refrigerator. I made your favorite chicken salad.
Here’s a list of the week’s events.” A duplicate list of the church and town doings was written in Garnet’s pretty, cursive handwriting.

“The battle continues,” I said, holding up the notes. “Guess we’d better eat some of both and peruse these lists.”

Elvia smiled while opening a cupboard to look for plates. “Reminds me of Mama and her sisters when they make tortillas. Always mine is softer than yours, mine never falls apart, yours are too hard or too moist, they taste like cardboard. Tia Maria always accuses Tia Josefina of using old lard.”

We took our sandwiches and iced tea out on the porch. After eating, we lay back in the padded wicker lounges, drowsily discussing the week’s activities.

“There’s Amen’s fund-raising dinner tonight,” I said, reading the lists. “Then there’s a quilting bee at the church in the morning. I think they’re working on a quilt to give to Brother Cooke, our old preacher. I pick up Gabe at three in Little Rock. Then it’s dinner at Garnet’s. Wednesday night there’s a gospel sing, pie social, and auction at the church with the combined Sugartree and Zion choirs. It’s going to be something to watch a bunch of uptight white folks and spirit-filled black folks try to harmonize on gospel tunes.” I scanned the list. “There’s a lot going on. They’re even having a day at the old Sugartree pioneer cemetery cleaning off graves. That’s on Friday. Saturday morning’s the kids’ carnival, and Saturday afternoon the Ping-Pong ball drop. Saturday night is the progressive dinner. Sunday is the big day, of course. The preacher does his best to save as many souls as he can, and then there’s all-day singing and dinner on the grounds.”

“What’s a Ping-Pong ball drop?”

“That’s a new one on me. Some kind of game, I guess.”

“Hope I brought the right clothes for everything,” Elvia fretted.

“You’ll look perfect. You always do.”

She leaned her head back and closed her eyes. “I don’t care if I look perfect, I just want . . .” She didn’t finish her sentence, but I knew what she was thinking. She just wanted to fit in. To not embarrass Emory. To make him proud of her. And to not lose herself in the process.

“You are my best friend. You will always be perfect to me.”

Without opening her eyes, she waved her hand, dismissing my words, but her lips gave a small smile.

A
T A QUARTER
to two, I woke Elvia from her nap. “We’re supposed to meet Amen at Boone’s at two.” We walked the four blocks to Boone’s Good Eatin’ Chicken Cafe. It sat next to the offices of the town’s weekly paper, the
Sugartree Independent Gazette
. A poster supporting Grady Hunter was posted in the
Gazette
’s window. A poster with Amen’s image and the words
IT
’
S TIME FOR A CHANGE
was taped in Boone’s window. Amen had beat us and was sitting in a back corner booth with a cup of coffee and papers spread all over the table.