Note: the blog is still on vacation this week as I am re-grouping from a writer's conference. So.. here's a story instead.
“She is just trailer trash in brand new shoes!”
My cousin Lyannie was incensed. Outraged. She stomped her foot on the porch, drew herself up to her considerable height of just under five feet and glared at my sisters and me. I looked at Darlene, who looked at Arlene, who looked back at me as if to say “here we go again”.
“Can you believe it? That Siddalou Udderly just insinuating herself right into the Miss Chuckapaw County Pageant?”
I thought she might spontaneously combust right there before our very eyes. As the porch was wood, and dry wood this far into the summer on top, it might present a hazard. Now, none of us liked Siddalou, and liked the fact that we were related to her even less. The familial relationship between the Bodines and the Udderlys was not something we talked about, but they were family all the same. Lyannie, being a Boudreau and all, found the family ties unmentionable at best and roundly intolerable in the main. She adored us, though. I wondered sometimes if it was just because we were the only relatives nearby who were from the right side of the tracks. Granted, we were from alongside the tracks, but at least on the acceptable side. It was mutual adoration too, which was an odd thing, since neither my sisters nor I had much tolerance for the perpetually pretty and perky types.
“It is supposed to be about Beauty, Poise, Elegance and Charm-the Essential Qualities of a True Lady.” You could hear the capital letters in her voice.
Darlene, Arlene and I mouthed the last three ‘essential qualities’ in silence along with her. Of course, none of us had any of them, but we were well versed in Lyannie’s philosophy, since she constantly tried to instill the said 'essential qualities' into us. A day out with my cousin always included some ill-fated visit to a dress shop or hair dresser where one or all of us would wind up assaulted by some shade of pink, as pink was Lyannie’s all purpose miracle remedy for the “underachievement of feminine potential”. Thankfully today nothing more painful than sitting on the porch yakking was on her agenda.
Arlene was the only one of the three of us who liked pink. But, as Darlene would remind me: “She was the one Daddy dropped on her head.” I’m pretty sure that explained a lot of things about Arlene, including her insistence on spelling her name “R-lene”. But, family is family, as I’ve often said, and you can’t just deny them for convenience sake. Darlene once accused Arlene of having “aspirations of Boudreaucity”. I think Arlene just likes pink.
Any-hoo, Lyannie was in a fine fit over Siddalou’s impromptu incursion into what has always been my cousin’s milieu. (I like that word, milieu). Why, over the years, she had held (in order) the titles of Little Miss Possum Prairie, Pre-Teen Queen of the Bovine Days Parade, Junior Miss Sweet Pea, Princess Nell of the Liberty Bell (twice, and that was just unprecedented), and Miss Nayshan’s Car Wash. Her picture was up in several places at Jake’s Highway 29 Hash 'n’ Dash. Something of a local celebrity, really. But then, the Boudreaus have put the glamour into this part of
“Lyannie.” It was Darlene speaking. “Siddalou Udderly doesn’t have a snowball’s chance. She has no talent, unless you call excelling at irritating people talent. She’s homely, and that’s me being generous on the ‘count of her being family, and her ass is so big it’s like she’s hauling a double-wide around with her all the time. I don’t know what the fuss is.”
She lit a cigarette, scrunched the now empty pack into a ball and set it on the porch railing. I watched it unscrunch itself and slowly stretch like a cellophane inchworm. Darlene smoked in front of Lyannie, even though she knew how much Cousin Boudreau hated the habit. I never did. It was an unspoken agreement. I pretended she didn’t know I smoked. She pretended she didn’t know either.
“It's the principle, Darlene, and I'm just not having it. Marlene,” Lyannie looked at me in exasperation. “Tell me you understand what I mean by the principle.”
“Sure,” I said, trying really hard not to reach for my own pack of cellophane-wrapped relaxation. I had no idea at all.
“Maybe you can explain it to me then, Marlene, 'cause I don't see what difference it makes. Siddalou's a cow, and I'm sorry to say that, since it insults cows and such, but she is, and folks are only going to wonder what the hell she's doing. Not like they're going to take her serious as a candidate for
Lyannie looked at me expectantly. I shot Darlene the death gaze and waited for her to topple over, but nothing happened. Arlene just looked genuinely interested in what I might have to say.
“Well,” I said, then took a long pull from my icy cold can of Coca-Cola while I frantically tried to come up with some reason why it should matter what Siddalou Udderly decided to do with a Saturday afternoon in late August. I had nothing.
“Do any of you know who handles the address changes at the post office?” Arlene suddenly piped up. It was out of left field, but I was saved for the moment.
“Uh, no, Arlene. What does that have to do with Siddalou?” Darlene asked.
“Nothing. But I was over to the Hash 'n' Dash with Bobby Jack Petrie and on the way back I saw the announcement sign at the church, and I couldn't believe what it said.”
“What did it say, honey?” Lyannie turned to Arlene, and I was forgotten for the moment. I said a prayer of thanks.
“It said 'Jesus lives here'. Pretty thrilling huh? I don't remember Him ever living here before. So I got to thinking, how's He going to get His mail now?”
Silence fell.
Lyannie opened her mouth once, twice, a third time, but no sound came out. Darlene looked at Arlene like she'd suddenly grown a second head. I know my eyebrows were up near my scalp.
“I don't think Jesus gets mail, Arlene,” I finally managed to say.
“Well, sure He does. Everybody gets mail, Marlene.” Somehow, she managed to make that sound reasonable and I felt like an idiot.
“But Jesus doesn't need mail. He's all knowing and powerful and stuff.” I wondered why that sounded lame to me.
“I know better.” Arlene sniffed. “Jesus gets mail and unless He changed His address He's gonna be missing some. And it might be important.”
“I'm trying to remember now, Arlene,” Darlene said, “Did Daddy drop you just one time on your head or was it two?”
“It was just the one time, Darlene, and I wasn't damaged. Well, just this little dent back here.” Arlene touched a spot under her hair at the back of her head. “But my mind is just fine, thank you. I can't help it if you don't know about Jesus' mail delivery problems. Maybe if you went to church more often you would.”
At least it had the effect of getting us off the subject of Siddalou Udderly and principles.
“Are you sure she's related to us?” Darlene asked me.
“I'm the youngest. I wasn't around for all that. I have to take it on faith.”
“Arlene, do you think maybe you'd like to go in and get a cold cloth for your head? It’s punishingly hot today.” Lyannie looked hopeful.
“I think I would, yes.” Arlene got up from the swing bench and looked at Darlene and
Lyannie and Arlene disappeared into the house. Darlene and I looked at each other.
“Well,” she said.
“Yep.”
Then I began to laugh.
“What's so darn funny, Marlene?”
“Oh, I was thinking. What if there was some sort of heavenly post office? You know, sorting parcels for St. Peter, letters for St. Lucy. Think of the bureaucracy of that. Would they have 'disgruntled' workers like us? I can see them, changing the postage meters, stamping everything return to sender. God: addressee unknown. Laughing maniacally.”
“I'm beginning to think Daddy must have dropped you on your head too, Marlene.”
I grinned, and took out my nicotine comfort sticks. “Daddy was a butterfingers, that’s a true thing. So maybe so, Darlene. Maybe so.” Lighting up, I took a long delicious taste of tobacco. It would be worth whatever pink penance I’d have to do later.
Posts
