« ^ »
As I drove through Dobbs, maintenance workers were maneuvering the town’s cherry picker along Main Street, putting up Christmas decorations in preparation for the Santa Claus parade on Saturday.
After three years and four separate hearings on the matter, the town Board of Commissioners had finally agreed to throw out our ratty old red-and-white candy canes and buy new green tinsel wreaths with big red plastic bows. Each four-foot wreath held a fat red tinsel candle with what looked like a yellow light for the candle flame. One was being attached to each lamppost and it looked as if the commissioners had even sprung for green tinsel swags to loop across the street.
Out at the Kmart, shopping carts were loaded with the schizophrenia of late November: bags of sale-priced Halloween candy were wedged in beside Thanksgiving Pilgrim candles and Christmas lights and wrapping paper. Carols were playing over the intercom and most of the store clerks were wearing red Santa Claus hats.
I ran into three people from church before I was even inside good. Reese and his sister Annie Sue were buying Pepsis at the snack bar by the door.
Reese gave me a sheepish smile that meant he was willing to bury the hatchet if I was. “Ma says we’re getting together out at Granddaddy’s this Saturday?”
“Yeah. You don’t happen to know what shade her blue cups are, do you? I’m supposed to get plates and napkins.”
Reese looked blank but Annie Sue thought they were royal. “More like Duke blue than Carolina.”
When I got to the paper goods aisle, Pete Grimes was there eyeing paper snack plates like a big brown bear who couldn’t decide between acorns or honey.
“We’re having some folks over to watch football Thursday,” he said. “You reckon I ought to get these with the NFL teams or the Thanksgiving ones?”
“Merrilee would probably rather have Thanksgiving ones, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, you’re right.” His big paw scooped up a couple of packs and put them in his cart next to several bags of chips and liter bottles of soft drinks.
“Were you and Merrilee able to make arrangements for Mr. Jap?”
“Yeah. She was talking with Allen this morning. They decided to just have a graveside service. Tomorrow at three. Out at Sweetwater. They’re going to lay him between Aunt Elsie and Dallas.”
“It’s a sad time for Merrilee, losing Dallas and now Mr. Jap.”
“Well, it is,” he agreed, but a nimbly growl escaped him. “I don’t know why he couldn’t have told her while he was alive that he appreciated her. She was always so good to him and he always acted like she didn’t have nothing better to do. It would’ve meant so much to her.”
“Sometimes old men don’t think.”
“Well, I just wish he had’ve. And I been wanting to thank you for telling her about that will he didn’t get to sign. It sure means the world to Merrilee and I don’t believe Mr. Lee would’ve said anything if we didn’t tell him you already told us.”
Uh-oh. I’d be hearing about that slip of the tongue from John Claude.
Pete added some yellow napkins to his cart. As he trundled away, he said, “Visitation’s tonight at Aldcroft’s. Seven till nine.”
Kidd and I were going to spend Thanksgiving together and since I hoped to be halfway to New Bern before this time tomorrow, I told Pete I’d try to make it that night.
I found some blue plaid plates and matching napkins and got enough for fifty people, just to be on the safe side. There were only about thirty-five of us in the area, but some of the kids might bring friends.
Paper plates and napkins were all I was obligated for, but we were going to be eating in the potato house and it wouldn’t matter where the shells flew, so I picked up a ten-pound bag of peanuts roasted in the shell. Herman loves them.
Over the store intercom, announcements of a blue-light special on Halloween costumes (“Stock up for next year at sixty percent off!”) competed with “Joy to the World.” I pushed my cart through aisles crowded with goods and people, adding hairspray, a rawhide chew bone for Hambone, and some other odds and ends until I arrived at the checkout counter with too many items for the express lane.
I cruised the other lanes looking for the shortest line, and nearly ran over Jack Jamison, who seemed to be lurking instead of shopping. The rookie detective gave me an embarrassed smile and melted back into the crowd of shoppers. Eventually I wheeled my cart into line behind a very pregnant young woman with short brown curls whom I recognized a split second before she remembered me.
“Judge Knott, is it?”
I smiled and nodded. “And you’re Mrs. Wall?”
“Yes, ma’am. Jenny Wall.”
It’s no big deal to be called ma’am by receptionists, salesclerks, and men of all ages, but it always comes as a fresh shock when a younger woman does it to me automatically, meaning only respect. (At one time or another, we’ve all done it with bitchy intent to slightly older women.) Makes me feel ancient. On the other hand, if I’d gotten married at sixteen as some of my classmates had, it was quite possible that I could be the mother of an eighteen- year-old like Jenny Wall and nine months on my way to being a grandmother.
Grandmothers expect to be ma’am’d.
“You look like you’re about done with your Christmas shopping,” I said, realizing that the reason this line was shorter than the others was because she had two carts piled high and nobody likes to be behind that much
