7
On the trip home, Tonilynn asked me to guess what Aunt Gomer’s two greatest fears were. Feeling a little shell-shocked, I just said, “What?”
“Satan and having to go to a nursing home.”
I didn’t respond.
“Know what I say to her whenever she gets all worked up?” Tonilynn turned her liquid brown eyes from the road and looked at me like the answer was obvious. “I tell her, ‘Aunt Gomer, first off, you don’t have to be scared of the devil. The Lord’s stronger than him and that’s like saying you don’t have faith.’
“And about the nursing home, I say, ‘Aunt Gomer, if, and that’s a big old if because 99 percent of the things we fear never happen, but if you have to go to a nursing home, you’ll be so out of it you won’t even know you’re there!’ ” She laughed and slapped the stonewashed denim stretched over her thigh.
I don’t think I even blinked. It was an eye-opening experience seeing from whence Tonilynn came. Her homestead was certainly what folks would call backwoods, maybe even backwards. That old tin-roofed farmhouse with tar-paper siding, hens pecking around a tractor tire on its side in the front yard, a lopsided well house with a communal drinking jar, and a hound dog whimpering at some dream as he slept beneath the kitchen table. I thought of how Aunt Gomer maintained that God answered her prayer with her sister’s death, and that brought forth something I’d overheard one of the sound technicians at the studio saying about Tonilynn. He said, “She’s just one of those wack-job born-agains who acts like Jesus is her best friend.”
But wasn’t it nice to feel like part of a family for a while? I sure didn’t have to put on airs to hang out at Cagle Mountain. And even if Tonilynn was hopelessly wacko when it came to religion, she was unpretentious not to mention entertaining and easy to talk to. The same with Bobby Lee. What you first noticed about Tonilynn’s son, after the wheelchair, was how ruggedly handsome the man was, with his sun-kissed skin and his long, unstyled chestnut hair. He favored his mother quite a bit, but where Tonilynn had deep brown eyes and a cute nose, Bobby Lee had hazel eyes and a classic Roman nose. Not bad to look at.
It was that very night, as soon as I decided to redirect my energy away from judging Tonilynn to just accepting her, that I opened up a space to create what I’d been yearning for—a true friendship. Where there’d been a cavernous, lonely ache inside of me, a tiny flame of hope flickered to life. The flame grew brighter with each thump of my heart as it dawned on me that I could reveal things to Tonilynn without fear of judgment. Not that I wanted to reveal everything. There were some things I’d never share.
Generally I avoided the terrace at Harmony Hill, but the next evening a full moon lured me out onto the bricks. It had been more than three months since the ugly incident with Holt, and as I stood there looking up at the nighttime sky, a recollection moved in of the two of us during one of our good times. At one end of the terrace was an enclosed sitting porch, with candle chandeliers and a fireplace, and Holt and I were sitting on the sofa there, our legs entwined as we gazed out the big window, watching the stars make their appearance. Suddenly he jumped up, pulling me to my feet, and we danced to Josh Turner’s deep, sexy voice singing, “Why Don’t We Just Dance,” and laughed at how we were acting it out.
The memory was so vivid I could smell Holt like he was right there in my arms again, that lingering scent of evergreen from his cologne mixed with the faint aroma of leather from his hatband you wouldn’t notice if you weren’t oh-so-close. I heard him whispering “Love you, babe,” into that soft place behind my ear, making my breath catch in my throat. I felt his five-o’clock shadow tickly rough, making my insides melt as he whispered, “We’re the next Faith Hill and Tim McGraw, you know.”
For a while I was carried away, my body recalling all the delicious sensations of being held, adored by Holt Cantrell, with his bedroom eyes and that devilish grin he kept on his lips. Then all of a sudden, my breath caught in my throat and everything evaporated as I recalled a recent article in Country Weekly.
Maybe I was a thief and a psychotic mess! Maybe I had pushed and pushed until Holt finally reached his limit, having no choice but to twist my arm around my back until it almost snapped. I shouldn’t have called the police because really, the whole episode wasn’t Holt’s fault! It was mine for pouring his Jack Daniel’s down the sink. That was stealing, really, if I was going to be honest with myself.
I started to cry, and that’s when I dug my cell phone out of the floppy pocket of my sweatpants. I needed to call Holt and apologize, set things straight. He was in Vancouver on tour, but he’d be home in three days, and when he got back to Nashville we could pick right back up where we’d left off.
But right before I pressed the button to call Holt, I remembered Tonilynn saying, “He’s a snake, hon.” It was hard, but I managed to stop myself with the thought that I’d wait and talk to Tonilynn some more about what led up to me pouring Holt’s whiskey down the sink, about what he was watching on the screen of his laptop. Those things he said he wanted me to do!
It was hard, going back and forth between pining for Holt and then remembering Tonilynn’s warning. I had to make it through the two days until I was scheduled to be back in the Hair Chair, and there was nothing on my agenda except playing around with some songs in progress and an afternoon meeting with Mike about the liner notes for my upcoming album.
I wondered if I had it in me to talk to Mike this time. My stomach had started aching continually and I felt like I was walking across an emotional minefield anytime I’d sing or hear “Dirt Roads and Sequin Gowns.” The spirit of the song was supposedly one about rags to riches and overcoming; this poor little girl lives in a shack on the side of a dirt road, and as she grows up, she sings to passersby, with her muddy knees and her dirty feet and wearing tattered dresses. She’s dreaming of becoming a star, and then, years down the road, she’s standing onstage at the Grand Ole Opry, in a sparkly dress, happy.
The final verse goes: When she sings the song that plays in her heart, she’s wearing a sequined gown. Sometimes it’s red, sometimes it’s blue, but it’s never gonna be dirt brown. It’s never gonna be dirt brown. When she sings the song that plays in her heart, she’s wearing a sequined gown.
She comes off sounding victorious, but I knew the story between the lines. I knew the soul-wrenching cost of fame.
Tomorrow came as it always did, and it was a rainy April day. Usually I loved rainy days for songwriting. I’d sit in a spot on the floor at one of the deep windows in the den with my coffee on the low sill and my notebook open between spread-eagled legs, looking out at what was blooming in my garden, and beyond that to the branches of trees reaching upward to the sky. It was calming and inspirational at the same time. But that day I felt a heavy weight pressing down on me as I contemplated the afternoon meeting with Mike. I penned the first words that flashed through my mind; The dark side of a star.
I held my notebook to my heart and almost wept from the truth. There was so much from my past I needed to keep buried, and I knew I could do it if I didn’t have Mike constantly pushing, pushing, saying stuff like, “Being happy is awful for writing a country song, Jenny girl. Fans just want to hear about sad things, like leaving and heartbreak,” and “You just need to put yourself in a dark place until you can come up with something good,” and “You know as well as I do that as a songwriter, heartbreak’s invaluable. It’s good to have these terrible things you’ve gone through. Dig deep for that heart-rending song.” He also loved quoting Conway Twitty: “A good country song takes a page out of somebody’s life and puts it to music.”
Just thinking of the superconfident way Mike said all these things made my skin draw up tight.
I dressed in my disguise and drove to Panera Bread for our two o’clock meeting. Even though my stomach had been sending out echoing rumbles, one bite of cinnamon crunch bagel and a third of a cup of espresso was all I could handle. I sat staring at the front door, hugging myself.
“Jenny Cloud! How ya doin’, sweetheart?” Mike said loudly in that charismatic Southern drawl when he walked in, those fancy black cowboy boots of his making a grand entrance. I flinched, ducked down. It was a good thing the other chairs in the front room were empty at this hour.
“Fine,” I said around a powerful whiff of Herrera for Men.
“Good, good. Lemme run grab a libation and we’ll talk. ’Kay?”
“Sure.”
Mike returned with coffee, sunk into a chair, and stretched his long khaki-clad legs out in front of him. “So,” he said after a gulp, “you’re absolutely gonna love what marketing came up with for our new album. No other word for it but genius.” He pulled a folded sheet of paper from his shirt pocket and smoothed it out flat on his thigh. “Okeydoke. Listen at this: ‘A country music star and the autobiographical songs that reflect the sorrows and pain, the disillusionment of her childhood.’ ” He looked up at me with those hazel eyes like bullets to my soul. “Nice, huh?”
I didn’t answer.
“Or how ’bout this one? ‘A Country Music Diva grapples with the drinkin’, cheatin’, lyin’, and leavin’ of her Southern roots’?” Without pausing for my response, he continued. “Here’s another: ‘When the music calls her home, a country music superstar must deal with the dark memories and the people who didn’t keep their promises.’ ”
Mike grew even more excited, talking fast and gesturing with his free hand. “ ‘Each of the songs on this album is the kind of a steel guitar-drenched, tear-in-your-ear ballad that Jenny Cloud can deliver like no one else. These are stories, songs carved from Cloud’s own experience.’ ”
I finally managed to make a sound. I laughed, a humorless little snort.
Mike leaned forward and touched my wrist. “I knew you’d like them too. These are incredible, like I said.” Smile crinkles radiated from the corners of his eyes. “Flint Recording is sure taking care of you, aren’t they darlin’? We’re gaining visibility in places where country music doesn’t usually go. We are on a roll!”
I lifted my espresso for a drink and my hand was trembling so that some trickled from the corner of my mouth and dripped down onto my blouse.
“Key words here are support and visibility, Jenny,” Mike continued, “which we’re getting from radio and from the digital retailers. The goal here is to sell more albums, and speaking of that, we’ve got to make sure your CD’s packaging will achieve that as well. I’m supposed to be getting design ideas for the cover tomorrow. You want me to e-mail them on to you, or do you trust me to choose?”
I dried my chin on my shoulder and looked at Mike, beseechingly, I thought.
“Okay,” he said, switching directions seamlessly, “that’s settled. I’ll call on the cover. Now let’s talk about what you’re currently working on. What you got in the channel, darlin’?”
“I’m . . . a song called ‘The Dark Side of a Star.’ ” This came out sounding like a question.
“Well, now, that’s certainly a catchy title—‘The Dark Side of a Star.’ Can’t wait to hear it.” Mike’s eyes were bright. He leaned back in his chair, laced his fingers across his big silver belt buckle. “Got Jerome playing around with the chords for ‘True Love and Wild Blackberries,’ and I believe he’s really pleased with it. You’ll have to come by the studio and give it a listen.”
It felt like Mike had leaned forward and slapped me. I did not want to even think about that song. I’d written it, along with several other similar ones, while I was high on love for Holt Cantrell. I opened up my mouth, but the words of protest in my head wouldn’t come out. I yelled internally; Jennifer, you weakling! When are you ever going to learn to assert yourself! This is literally killing you!
Loving music the way I did was a double-edged sword. It certainly seemed like I’d continue to sell myself out purely because I adored writing, singing, and performing. And, yes, I adored success, if I was going to be honest.
It was hard to fall asleep that night, and finally, as I closed my eyes sometime after two a.m., right as I fell into that no-man’s land between awake and asleep, an unspeakable image from my past began playing on the screen of my mind. In that odd way of dreams, it was all tangled up with a vision of a business downtown on Demonbreun Street. Déjà Vu Showgirls was a nude club with a pulsing neon sign showcasing a woman’s legs in a seductive pose. Every time I passed it, I felt heartbreaking, overwhelming pity for those young girls inside, the couch dancers. That night my pity mixed with a sharp, bright fury as I saw my own vulnerable self so long ago. The film rolled on and the darkness grew deeper, mixing with astonishment that he would use me like that, my own father!
Some vaguely conscious part of me was aware that the whole poisonous mix of guilt and the loss of my innocence would come crashing down, full force, if I didn’t stop it. I struggled to sit upright, shaking in the dark, the breath-snatching shame like a hot cattle brand on my soul. I did not sleep one wink that night. My survival instinct kept me pacing through Harmony Hill, telling myself I’d keep awake forever, reassuring myself I’ll never let this one out. Not even for a perfect country song.
Bridge: Aunt Gomer
It’s been raining cats and dogs so many days I feel like I’m growing moldy. But like they say, April showers bring May flowers. I went out this afternoon when it slacked off a spell and cut two early irises for Bobby Lee to give Jennifer when she comes for supper.
Tonilynn said not to say word one about Holt Cantrell, especially don’t mention his new hit “Livin’ on Your Kisses” on account of that’s a song he and Jennifer wrote together and he has claimed as entirely his. Tonilynn was like a broken record, saying, “Aunt Gomer, promise me, ’cause Jennifer’s going through a lot of hard issues right now. Keep your lips sealed on anything about Holt Cantrell. Promise?” I almost told her, “Why don’t you just write it down and fasten it to the Frigidaire?” Tonilynn ought to know I wouldn’t hurt that nervous little gal for anything in this world.
When Bobby Lee wheeled out of the bathroom after lunch, I barely recognized him. He looked—I guess the word is radiant. Had his beard trimmed neat and his hair combed back into a nice, clean ponytail, and he was wearing a fairly clean T-shirt. I didn’t like what it said, however—“You can smell our butts for miles. Slocumb’s Barbecue.”
But I ignored that because the most remarkable thing was the change in Bobby Lee’s personality. His eyes were lit up, and he had this brightness about him. Generally, unless it’s good fishing weather, he’s a fairly hangdog kind of person. In fact, I used to wonder would there ever be anything besides fishing and hanging around with that smelly hound that would excite Bobby Lee after his accident. Well, not thirty minutes after Jennifer left the homestead that first visit, here he was with his laptop perched on his knees, his fingers going to town hunting up her website. Said it was just on account of his interest in music, but I knew the real reason he kept watching that video over and over. I’m more of a phonograph person myself, and I don’t generally watch singers gyrating and crooning on what they call music videos. Of course, I couldn’t help seeing Jennifer as Bobby Lee kept watching her singing a song called “Walking the Wildwood.” It was real pretty, and I have to admit she wasn’t dressed trashy or dancing suggestively. I could tell she was made for the stage. She did not act nervous like she does in the flesh.
Bobby Lee kept after me to carry him to Chattanooga, to the Best Buy to get the CD that song is on. He couldn’t stand it until he had it in his hands, ripping the plastic off and reading the little booklet what came with it, and then listening to it on his CD player so many times I had it memorized.
I told Tonilynn she ought to look into getting him one of those special vans where he could drive himself using hand controls. I said, “It’s a cryin’ shame when a grown man has to beg me to carry him places. Bobby Lee’s capable. He gets himself down to the lake lickety-split whenever those catfish are biting. Better’n most able-bodied men I know.”
She was eating a bowl of Neapolitan ice cream and watching television, and she was not in a receptive mood. “Don’t tell me what my child needs!”
“He’s not your child. Well, he is your child, but he’s not a child. That’s where the problem is. If you love him, you’d—”
“He can’t take care of himself! He’s crippled!”
“He could if you’d ever give him a chance. Have you ever thought about what might happen if you and me both went on to Glory before him?”
“Don’t go getting all gloomy on me.”
“Speaking of gloomy, Bobby Lee’d be happier if you let him be independent.”
“That is enough, Aunt Gomer! You want to know the truth? I believe the two of you are good for each other. You’re so spry and able-bodied, and Bobby Lee is so . . . smart. Together, you two are like one perfect . . .” Tonilynn was sitting there, spoon in midair and hunting around for a nice way to say she thought my mind was going. My cheeks got warm and my heart started fluttering and it felt like the ground flew out from under me.
“Are you telling me you think I have the old-timer’s? You think I’m losing it? Because I know I’ve flubbed up a thing or two lately, but I’ll have you know, it wasn’t on account of my mind going. It’s because—”
“Please, Aunt Gomer! All I meant is Bobby Lee’s so smart, and he can fix things, and you know, keep you from being alone up here. He can protect you! That’s it. You need a man to protect you. Do you want me to fix you a bowl of ice cream?”
Well, I wasn’t born yesterday. I knew if she didn’t think he could live by himself, she sure wasn’t thinking he would be my knight in shining armor. Anyway, I don’t need a man to protect me. Never had one before. I’ve got my derringer in the drawer of my bedside table.
Rain or no rain, I had to walk straight outside into the garden to get my head together after that conversation. It took me a good half hour to turn all that over in my mind. I did not have any idea who else I could ask if they thought my mind was slipping. I decided I would think on that later.
The menu is ham, lima beans, squash casserole, and some more of my biscuits that child seemed to think so much of. Made a pound cake for dessert. I hope Tonilynn’s careful on the long drive off the main road. It’s not paved and sometimes after rain like we’ve been having, you can slide into the ditch or clobber your head against the roof when you hit a pothole. I’m praying it’s going to stop all this rain soon so I can finally get my garden in.
At five I decided I better make sure we had enough tea and clean glasses. It crossed my mind to ask Bobby Lee to do it and then comment about how independent he was over supper. “Bobby Lee!” I hollered.
He’d been in his bedroom, and he came wheeling out lickety-split. “Are they here?”
I smelled a cloud of that Axe spray we bought at the Walmart after we left Best Buy. “Not yet,” I said, “I need to spruce up a bit before they get here, and I want you to see if we got enough tea and get out the glasses.”
“Be happy to.”
I almost fainted. Generally, Bobby Lee pitches a fit when I try to get him to do anything.
Well, I watched him as I swept the parlor and lo and behold, he was training Erastus to open the Frigidaire. Bobby Lee’d say, “Open, boy,” and Erastus would pull on a dish towel hanging from the handle. Every time Erastus opened the door, Bobby Lee would give him a handful of Cap’n Crunch.
“Aunt Gomer!” Bobby Lee hollered after a bit. “Come’ere.”
He was staring at the ham on the counter like it was a snake. “What’s the matter?” I asked.
“She doesn’t eat meat.”
“Who?”
“Jennifer. I read how she’s a vegetarian and doesn’t eat anything with eyes or a mother.”
I stood there listening to rain dripping off the roof and the wall clock ticking. In all my life I’d never known anybody that didn’t eat meat, and I never dreamed I’d have to feed someone who didn’t. It was crazy. “Oh, for crying out loud,” I said finally. “Then she can eat beans, squash, and biscuits. And cake.”
“Aunt Gomer,” Bobby Lee said in his exasperated tone, “there’s bacon fat in the butterbeans and the squash casserole, and the biscuits have lard in them. The only things truly vegetarian are the tea and the pound cake.”
I looked hard at Bobby Lee. “Listen,” I said, “I believe the good Lord meant for people to eat meat. That little thing needs her some protein. Might be why she’s so tiny. Don’t you say a word about the bacon fat or the lard. What she don’t know won’t hurt her.”
After Tonilynn asked the blessing, we started loading our plates. I passed the ham and the butterbeans around. The squash casserole was too hot, so I left it in the middle of the table. Jennifer helped herself to some butterbeans and a biscuit and a spoonful of squash, but her plate looked pathetic without a slice of ham on it, and so I said, just as innocently as you please, “Want some ham, dear? It’s nice and tender.”
“No thanks.”
“You don’t like ham?”
“I just don’t care for any.”
“Well, I declare. When I was growing up, ham was a real treat. Every Easter my mama fixed the prettiest ham, and she—”
“Eggs are good for Easter,” Bobby Lee piped up, narrowing his eyes at me. “I think omelets . . . or a soufflé . . . no, maybe a crepe would be the perfect thing for you to serve for Easter.”
“Aunt Gomer,” Tonilynn touched my wrist, “I thought I told you Jennifer doesn’t eat meat. We were talking about what y’all used to do when you were a child during the depression and there wasn’t any meat? Remember?”
I tried to recall a conversation with Tonilynn about this, but I couldn’t for the life of me. Nobody said anything for a while. Just the sound of forks and spoons clinking on plates. It flashed through my mind to slide a piece of ham between my second biscuit. “Now, who can tell me what’s better than a ham biscuit,” I said after a delicious bite.
“A tomato slice between a biscuit,” Bobby Lee said, looking at Jennifer.
She didn’t say anything, and hearing about tomatoes put me in mind of getting my warm season vegetables planted and so I rooted around in my brain and figured I’d make conversation about gardening. “Jennifer, did your mother have a garden?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I bet she loved it same as I do.”
“Nope. She didn’t love it.” Jennifer shook her head.
“Then why’d she do it?” Aunt Gomer asked.
“If we wanted to eat, she had to garden. Had to freeze and can and dry, too, because my father was one sorry slacker in the providing-for-your-family department.”
“Bless her heart,” I said. “Hard for me to fathom a person who doesn’t like gardening, but I must commend a woman who does what she has to do to care for her family.”
All of a sudden, that child dropped her head down into her hands real pathetic looking and mumbled, “Shoot. She didn’t care for me any better than she cared for the garden.”
“Well,” I said, “the good Lord made us all different. Now, I’d be happy if I had to plant a garden and put by. I’m planting four types of beans on Good Friday—bush beans, snap beans, pole beans, and limas, and I’m also—”
“We don’t need any more talk about gardening, Aunt Gomer!” Tonilynn glared at me, turned to Jennifer, and said, real soft, “It’s all right, hon, you’re gonna be all right. We love you.”
There was a long silence. Didn’t any of us hardly move a muscle. At last Jennifer lifted her head and drew in a deep breath. “My mother didn’t take care of me. She lived in a state of denial. About a lot of things. She’d go around the house, sighing and saying, ‘For better or for worse, that’s what I promised in front of God and everyone.’ ”
I was going to say she sounded like a fine Christian woman, but Tonilynn was leaning over, petting her, saying, “I bet that was hard. Tell us about your growing up years.”
Jennifer blinked. She looked like she was going back in her mind. “We lived in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains, up this long curvy dirt road where Sugar Creek Road meets the Old State Route. Beautiful country, full of rivers, and creeks, and wild spaces to run if you needed to get your head together.” Snot was running out of her nose and she blew a loud honk into her napkin. “It was perfect for me. I’d literally run for hours.”
Bobby Lee about hopped out of his wheelchair. “ ‘Walking the Wildwood!’ I know that line ’bout you running so fast you’d forget to breathe and lying down next to the Noontootla. Is that a river?”
“That’s a creek, runs into the Toccoa River.”
Bobby Lee almost knocked his tea over. “I love the line that goes, ‘He’s gone, and I’m gonna run for miles and miles down red clay paths flanked with green mountain laurel, dipping my toes into blue streams clear as a violin’s high note.’ ”
“Thank you.” Jennifer blushed.
“Were you sad? About the man in that song being gone?” Bobby Lee was clutching the edge of the table.
“No. I was happy. I lived for those peaceful stretches, some going on months even, when my father didn’t come around. I loved to run outside even when he wasn’t home. When I was running, my feet on the ground, my eyes on the sky, or the trees, my mind was clear, and it was like I was more deeply connected to the world or something. It was a great way to . . . well, how can I put this? Think through some things I’d witnessed that nobody had to tell me weren’t normal.”
Now, I could certainly understand the healing power of being outside, dirt beneath and sky above. Outside was where I went when my mind got all a dither. Best thinking place I knew. But if it was too cold or stormy, I’d call one of my friends from church, Verna or Evelyn, and that was some good therapy too. I said to Jennifer, “Didn’t it help to talk with your friends?”
“I didn’t have any friends.”
“What? You’re teasing, aren’t you, honey? Your mother didn’t invite little friends over for you to play with?”
Jennifer sighed. “Mother had no lady friends, and I guess it just never occurred to her I’d be any different.”
“You didn’t have friends at school or church?”
“No. To be honest, I was scared to death of all those girls who danced through life worrying about what color polish to put on their fingernails or who was currently going with who. Probably didn’t help that I didn’t have the cute haircut or the nice clothes.”
Tonilynn sighed. “Poor baby. Life’s hard enough as it is without a friend to discuss your problems with.”
“We all need friends,” I said, reaching out for Bobby Lee’s hand. “ ’Course, most men have friends where they work.”
Tonilynn looked at me with those knife-eyes she makes, just itching to come back, but Jennifer piped up, and as they say, saved the day.
“Well, I didn’t need a friend to tell me that what my father did—the kind of man he was, is—wasn’t okay.”
“What’d he do?” I asked, which just kind of naturally spouted out of my mouth. Tonilynn kicked me underneath the table, but Jennifer must not have thought it was all that awful of a thing to ask because she piped right up without hardly taking a breath.
“Basically, he’s a drunk who has no respect for women.”
“Is that right?” I asked.
“I used to beg Mother to take me with her and leave him. She’d say, ‘Jennifer, I’m praying, and I know he’ll change. In his heart, deep down, he’s a good man.’ She honestly believed that baloney.”
Tears dribbled out of her eyes at that point, and I was touched when Bobby Lee took his napkin and passed it to her.
“Well, we all have hard things to bear, don’t we?” I didn’t really mean it as a question, but Jennifer started in again, and I was amazed at the vinegar came pouring out of that little gal.
“Like I said, she didn’t have to bear it! For years, my daydreams, besides singing, were of me and mother leaving him. And when I finally realized she was never going to leave him, I prayed he’d die, maybe get drunk and fall down some stairs and break his neck or run off the road and hit a tree.”
“Don’t be silly,” I said, “you don’t mean that.”
“Yes, I do. If you knew the things he did when he took drunk, or the things he said, you’d want him dead too. It wouldn’t mean you weren’t a good Christian.”
Jennifer looked right at me and I could tell she was wanting me to agree with her. I’ve been going to church for eighty-six years now, read my Bible from cover to cover more times than I can count, but I was having a heap of trouble pulling up a nugget of wisdom to offer. Feeling flustered, I said, “Jennifer, you come on with me to church this Sunday for the Easter service. Just like you prayed for your father to die, you can pray for his redemption. God loves everybody, and God can save even the worst of us.”
I could tell Tonilynn was put out with me, and I hadn’t even mentioned Holt Cantrell. All of a sudden I remembered the pound cake. “Let me get our dessert.”
Before I could even get to my feet, Bobby Lee shocked me by saying, “Keep your seat, Aunt Gomer, I’ll get it.”