Priced to Move

not bothered to tell me about even one a’ them? And you’re most certainly one a’ them Type-A types. Why, just look at your initials, sugarplum. AAA.”

One must navigate a minefield of choices when responding to Aunt Weeby. “What’s there to tell?”

“You do sound a mite peckish, now you mention it.” She clucks. “That’s what happens when a body moves to that scandalous Apple a’ yours. Why, I hear say they don’t even eat their greens there.”

I smile. “No. Not as a rule, they don’t.”

“What you need is a good mess a’ turnip greens and some a’ Great-Grandma Willetta’s favorite cod liver oil. That stuff’s so good they still make it even after all this time. It’s not smart to mess with success, I always say.”

The shudder rips through me, hard and heartfelt. Over the years, while staying with Aunt Weeby, I’ve been a frequent victim of Great-Great-Grandma Willetta’s health doctrines.

Not that she’s done the dosing herself, since Willetta Wither-spoon went to her Lord many decades before I came along. It’s just that Aunt Weeby doesn’t hesitate to lubricate at the slightest sneeze, limp, blush, blanch, or general peckishness, as she calls it.

“That’s okay. I did see the doctor recently.” Never mind that I didn’t understand a Chinese word the lovely lady said. “I’m doing just fine. And my trip to New Delhi should be . . . good. Yes, good. And productive too.”

I ask the Lord’s forgiveness for that one. I prefer not to fib, but when it comes to Aunt Weeby—even over a phone line—skating on the outer edges of the truth is sometimes for the greater good.

“What you also need—”

“For goodness sake, Olivia Adams Miller!”

The rich alto voice in the background sets off my suspicion-o-meter. Before I can comment, however, a tussle for the telephone ensues.

“Give me that thing already,” my auntie’s flea-market buddy, Miss Mona Latimer, demands. “You’ve been chewing the girl’s ear off for an eternity and still haven’t told her—” “Don’t pay no never mind to Mona, sugarplum. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about—”

“Of course I do. Andie knows that, don’t you, dear? But I’ve not been able to talk. Livvy here’s the one who’s hogged up the phone this whole time.”

“Have not.”

“Have so.”

If my ears don’t deceive me, the wrestling match for the receiver resumes.

“She is my niece, you know.”

“And that’s why she has to know—”

A loud KLUNK in my ear reveals the fate of the phone.

I’ve heard enough. “Aunt Weeby!” I try to count to ten but give up at three. “What is going on? I’d begun to wonder about the superlong call, but now Miss Mona’s made it clear something’s not right.”

Instead of Aunt Weeby, Miss Mona responds. “It’s that medicine they got her on for the pain, dear. It gives her the runs . . . of the talking-too-much kind. I wish we were calling you for a better reason, Andie, but this old fool here won’t get to the point even if you lead her right up and stick her on it.”

“So what is the point? Is Aunt Weeby okay? Are you?” Then I draw a sharp breath. “Oh no. Is it Mom? Dad? Did something happen at the mission?”

“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry we scared you. Your mama and daddy are fine as frogs. You know the good Lord watches over them and their naked natives all the time. And I’ve never had me more fun than I’m having these days. It’s your auntie here that’s got herself in a fine kerfuffle.”

Their antics tell me the circumstances can’t be life threatening. Even after Miss Mona won the phone fight, my aunt seems her usual wacky, lovable self. Which might, of course, be the problem in the first place. I don’t want to ask.

But I have no choice. “What’s wrong with Aunt Weeby?” “She broke her left leg.”

“Say wha-ut?” Under stress, my southern roots show up and multiply the syllables in my words.

“You heard me, Andie. Livvy broke her leg.”

The possibilities are endless. Still, I have to know.

“How?”

“Well . . . you see—it’s like this . . .”

Miss Mona isn’t given to hesitance, so I know what’s coming has to be good—or bad, depending on how you see things. “Go on,” I urge.

“Yes, well, it’s like this—”

“You gimme that phone right now, Mona Latimer.”

After a chorus of grunts and groans, Aunt Weeby wins this latest scuffle. “It wasn’t no big deal, sugarplum. I just took one of them Day-at-a-Horse-Farm tours. You know, you go and do what-all them horse farmers do every day.”

Visions of mayhem dance in my head. “And how did the tour lead to your broken leg?”

“Let’s just say that it did.” She sniffs. “It’s not the kinda thing a lady likes to talk about.”