Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe (13 page)

Idgie denied that there was anything the matter, and started ordering more drinks and trying to be funny. She got all liquored up and wound up dancing all over the place and acting like a fool. Eva just watched her.

Big Jack made her sit down and eat, around nine o’clock, but by ten she was off and running again.

Eva turned to her daddy, who was concerned. “We might as well just let her alone, let her do what she wants to.”

About five hours later, Idgie, who had made a roomful of new friends, was holding court and telling funny stories. Then somebody played a sad hillbilly song about lost love, and Idgie stopped right in the middle of her story, put her head down on the table, and cried. Eva, who was pretty well liquored up, herself, by this time and had been thinking about Buddy all
night, started to cry right along with her. The group moved on away from them to a happier table.

At about three o’clock that morning, Eva said, “Come on,” and, putting Idgie’s arm around her shoulder, she took her over to her cabin and put her in the bed.

Eva couldn’t stand to see anything hurt that bad. She sat down beside Idgie, who was still crying, and said, “Now, sugar, I don’t know who you’re crying over, and it doesn’t really matter, ‘cause you’re gonna be all right. Hush up, now … you just need somebody to love you, that’s all … it’s gonna be all right … Eva’s here …” and she turned off the lights.

Eva didn’t know about a lot of things, but she knew about love.

Idgie would live down at the river, on and off, for the next five years. Eva was always there when needed, just like she had been for Buddy.

Railroad Bill threw 17 hams off the government supply train the other night, and I understand our friends in Troutville had a wonderful Thanksgiving.

The pageant
The History of Whistle Stop
that was presented over at the school was a reminder that the Indians who used to live around here were a brave and fierce-like people, especially as portrayed by Vesta Adcock, who was Chief Syacagga, the Blackfoot Indian Chief whose land this was.

My other half claims that he is one-third Blackfoot Indian, but he ain’t so fierce … just kidding, Wilbur.

P.S. In case you wondered who was inside that cardboard train that came across the stage, it was none other than Peanut Limeway.

Idgie says that Sipsey, her colored woman, grew a stalk of okra six feet, ten inches tall, in the garden
over by the Threadgoode place, and that she has that over at the cafe.

Everyone here is still heartbroken over the death of Will Rogers. We all loved him so much, and wonder who can replace our beloved Doctor of Applesauce. How many of us remember those happy evenings at the cafe, listening to him on the radio? In these hard times, he made us forget our trouble for a little while, and gave us a smile. We are sending his wife and children our sympathy and good wishes, and Sipsey is sending one of her pecan pies, so you all come by the post office and sign the card that’s going with it.

 … Dot Weems …

Evelyn had brought an assortment of cookies from the Nabisco company, hoping to cheer her mother-in-law up, but Big Mama had said no thank you, that she didn’t care for any, so Evelyn took them down the hall to Mrs. Threadgoode, who was delighted. “I could eat ginger snaps and vanilla wafers all day long, couldn’t you?”

Evelyn unfortunately had to nod yes. Chewing on her cookie, Mrs. Threadgoode looked down at the floor.

“You know, Evelyn, I hate a linoleum floor. This place is just full of ugly gray linoleum floors. You’d think with so many old people out here, running around in their felt slippers, that are prone to slippin’ and slidin’ and breaking their hips, they’d put down some rugs. I have a hooked rug in my living room. I made Norris take my black tie-up shoes down to the shoe shop and get me a rubber Cat’s Paw sole put on them, and I don’t take them off from the time I get up until the time I go to bed at night. I’m not gonna break my hip. Once you do that, it’s goodbye, Charlie.

“These old people out here are all in bed by seven-thirty or eight o’clock. I’m not used to that. I never went to bed before
the ten-twenty to Atlanta passed by my house. Oh, I get into bed by eight and turn out the lights so I won’t disturb Mrs. Otis, but I can never get to sleep good until I hear the ten-twenty blow his whistle. You can hear it all the way across town. Or maybe I just think I hear it, but it doesn’t matter. I still don’t go off until I do.

“It’s a good thing I love trains, because Whistle Stop wasn’t never nothing more than a railroad town, and Troutville was just a bunch of shacks, with one church, the Mount Zion Primitive Baptist Church, where Sipsey and them went.

“The railroad tracks run right along the side of my house. If I had me a fishin’ pole, I could reach out and touch the trains with it, that’s how close I am. So, I’ve been sitting on my glider swing on the front porch for the past fifty years, watching those trains go by, and I never get tired of looking at them. Just like the raccoon washing the cracker. I like to look at them at night the best. My favorite thing was the dining car. Now, they just have a snack bar where people sit and drink their beer and smoke their cigarettes, but back before they took the good trains off, the seven-forty
Silver Crescent
from New York, on its way to New Orleans, would pass by right at suppertime, and, oh, you should have seen it, with the colored waiters dressed up in their starched white jackets and black leather bow ties, with the finest flatware and silver coffeepots, and a fresh rose with baby’s breath on each table. And each table had its own little lamp with a little shade on it.

“Of course, those were the days when the women would dress in their finest, with hats and furs, and the men looked so handsome in their blue suits. The
Silver Crescent
even had little tiny Venetian blinds for each window. There you could sit, just like you were in a restaurant, rolling through the night. I used to tell Cleo, eating and getting somewhere at the same time appealed to me.

“Idgie always said, ‘Ninny, I think you ride that train just to eat’… and she was right, too. I loved that porterhouse steak they used to serve, and you’ve never had a better plate of ham and eggs than what you could get on the train. Whenever the train stopped in those small towns along the way, people would
sell the cooks fresh eggs and ham and fresh trout. Everything was fresh back then.

“I don’t cook that much anymore … oh, I’ll heat up a can of Campbell’s tomato soup, now and then. Not that I don’t enjoy a good meal. I do. But it’s hard to find one nowadays. One time, Mrs. Otis signed us up for this Meals on Wheels program they got down at the church, but they were so terrible that I just stopped them from coming. They may have been on wheels, but they weren’t anything like the meals you could get on the trains.

“Of course, living so close to the tracks had its bad side. My dishes got all cracked, even that green set I won when we all went to the picture show over in Birmingham during the Depression. I can tell you what was playin’: it was
Hello Everybody
, with Kate Smith.” She looked at Evelyn. “Now, you probably don’t remember her, but she was known as the Songbird of the South. A big fat girl with a good personality. Don’t you think fat people have a good disposition?”

Evelyn smiled weakly, hoping this was true, since she was already on her second bag of Lorna Doones.

“But I wouldn’t take anything for the trains. What would I have done all those years? They didn’t have television yet. I used to try and guess where people were comin’ from and goin’ to. Every once in a while, when Cleo could scrape together a few dollars, he’d take me and the baby on the train and we’d go as far as Memphis and back. Jasper, Big George and Onzell’s son, was a pullman porter at the time, and he’d treat us like we were the king and queen of Rumania. Jasper went on to become the president of the Brotherhood of the Sleeping-Car Porter’s Union. He and his brother Artis moved to Birmingham when they were very young … but Artis wound up in jail two or three times. It’s funny, you never know how a child will turn out.… Take Ruth and Idgie’s little boy, for instance. Having to go through life like that could have ruined some people, but not him. You never know what’s in a person’s heart until they’re tested, do you?”

The minute Idgie heard the voices outside by the tracks, she knew that somebody had been hurt. She looked out and saw Biddie Louise Otis running for the cafe.

Sipsey and Onzell had walked out of the kitchen, just as Biddie threw open the door and screamed, “It’s your little boy, he’s been run over by the train!”

Idgie’s heart stopped for a moment.

Sipsey threw her hands up to her mouth, “Oh Lord Jesus!”

Idgie turned to Onzell: “Keep Ruth in the back,” and started running over to the tracks. When she got there, the six-year-old boy was lying on his back with his eyes wide open, staring at the group of people who were looking down on him in horror.

When he saw her, he smiled, and she almost smiled back, thinking he was all right, until she saw his arm lying in a pool of blood three feet away.

Big George, who had been out in the back of the cafe, barbecuing, had come running right up behind her and saw the blood at the same time. He picked him up and started running as fast as he could toward Dr. Hadley’s house.

Onzell was standing in the door, blocking Ruth from leaving the back room.

“No, now, Miz Ruth, you cain’t go. You jus’ stay put right here, sugar.”

Ruth was scared and confused. “What’s the matter? What’s happened? Is it the baby?”

Onzell took her over to the couch and sat her down and held her hands with a death grip.

“Hush, sugar … you jus’ sit here and wait now, honey, it’s gonna be all right.”

Ruth was terrified. “What is it?”

Sipsey was still in the cafe, wagging her finger up to the ceiling. “Don’t you do dis, Lord … don’t you do dis to Miz Idgie and Miz Ruth … don’t you do dis thang! You hear me, God? Don’t do it!”

Idgie was running right behind Big George and they were both yelling at the house, three blocks away, “Doctor Hadley! Doctor Hadley!”

The doctor’s wife, Margaret, heard them first and came out on the front porch. She spotted them just as they came around the corner, and she shouted for her husband, “Get out here quick! It’s Idgie and she’s got Buddy Jr.!”

Dr. Hadley jumped up from the table and met them on the sidewalk, with his napkin still in his hand. When he saw the blood spurting from the boy’s arm, he threw the napkin down and said, “Get in the car. We’ve got to get him to Birmingham. He’s gonna need transfusions.”

As he was running to the old Dodge, he told his wife to call the hospital and tell them they were coming. She ran inside to call, and Big George, who was by this time completely covered with blood, got in the backseat and held the boy in his arms. Idgie sat in the front seat and talked to him all the way there, telling him stories to keep him calm, although her own legs were shaking.