because they were still too short, but the cabbage plants had begun to head up and butter beans had their first true leaves.
“I hear Dwight’s planted y’all a garden, too,” Maidie said.
“Oh yes. I’ve told him that I don’t can and I don’t freeze, but that hasn’t stopped him.”
Maidie laughed. “And how’s that Rhonda working out?”
“You were right,” I admitted ruefully, having resisted hiring someone to help me with the housework for as long as I could. “I don’t know how I ever got along without her.”
“I know exactly how you were getting along,” she said tartly. “I saw the dust and dirt in that house.”
“Dirt?” I protested. “It wasn’t dirty. Not really.”
“Them windows? Those baseboards? Them dust bunnies under the beds? I was pure ashamed of you, Deborah.”
Which was why she had bestirred herself to find someone to clean for me when it became clear that Dwight and Cal and I weren’t keeping to her standards. She no longer has a pool of nieces and cousins to draw from. The Research Triangle and state government departments have siphoned them off. But through her own grapevine, she found an energetic young white woman willing to work mornings so she could be home with her children in the afternoons, and Rhonda Banks comes once a week now. She dusts, mops, scrubs, changes the beds, and does the laundry. I pay her more than twice the minimum wage and she’s worth every penny.
But it was soon apparent that Rhonda wasn’t what Maidie wanted to talk to me about. Cletus wasn’t back yet either and we went out to the kitchen, a kitchen warm and cheerful with red-checked curtains, tablecloth, and dish towels. I picked up her big black cat and stroked it under its chin while she sauteed three thick pork chops in her iron skillet.
“Is everything okay with Daddy?” I asked, plunging into it.
“Well, now, that’s what I wanted to ask you,” she said, a worried look on her warm brown face. “You know well as me, Mr. Kezzie ain’t never been religious.”
I nodded, wondering where this was going.
“I’ve prayed on it, your mama used to pray on it, and I think Miss Zell still does, but I figure the Lord knows he’s a good man deep down even if he might not’ve always been right with the law.”
That was putting it mildly.
“But?” I asked.
“But right lately he’s been asking me a lot about what it means to be saved. And what somebody needs to do to get right with the Lord. Now I know he’s getting old and starting to slow down a bit, but getting right with the Lord’s never been something he cared one lick about, now is it?”
I had to admit she was right about that. I don’t have a clue about Daddy’s religious beliefs, but I do know he never goes to church except for weddings and funerals. He adored Mother, but I’ve never heard him speak of being reunited with her in heaven and, if asked, would have to say that he probably doesn’t believe in a heaven.
Or hell.
“You don’t reckon he’s sick, do you?”
“Does he act sick?”
“Well . . . no, not really. And he still eats good.”
I waited while she seemed to concentrate on cooking. The chops had nicely browned in the hot grease, so she put them in a bowl, poured off most of the grease, and began to brown some diced onions and a little flour with the pan scrapings.
Even though I had skipped lunch, I didn’t think I was hungry, but those sizzling onions gave off an aroma that made my mouth water. I tried to ignore the rumble in my stomach.
“He’s just not hisself these days,” Maidie said, cocking her head at me. She’s only fifteen years older, but her hair had passed the tipping point and was now more gray than black. (Of course, mine may be gray, too. Only my hairdresser knows for sure.)
“Has he been to a doctor?”
“No.”
“Well, if he’s eating good and staying active, what’s got you worried, Maidie?”
She shook her head and didn’t answer. I watched as she poured water in the pan and a cloud of steam boiled up. After stirring until the water and the flour and onions had turned to a smooth gravy, she put the pork chops back in the pan, covered them with a lid and turned the flame to low.
Her face was troubled as she sat down at the table across from me and the cat slid off my lap in one graceful, fluid motion to go sit in hers.
“I don’t want you laughing at me,” she said at last, smoothing an almost nonexistent wrinkle from the red- and-white cloth on the table between us.
I was indignant. “When did I ever laugh at you?”
“Just don’t you be starting now.” She stroked the cat, who began to purr so loudly I could hear him clearly from my side of the table. “All his talk about getting right with the Lord? I’ve seen it before, Deborah. Sometimes old people seem to know when it’s their time. They can be up and doing one day and then tell you they’ll be gone by that time next week. It’s like they feel His hand on their shoulder saying ‘Come on along now, child. Time to go home,’ and they just lean back in their rocking chair or lay down on their bed and they’re gone. Gone home to Jesus.”
Her words chilled me on two levels. One, because she was right. At least twice I’ve seen elderly relatives who had never talked of death suddenly say quite matter-of-factly that their time was up. They said it without drama. No
