“This sink is fine, hon. It gets disinfected with bleach every night. Just do me a favor and throw any leftover food into the trash. The garbage disposal works, but I only use it in an emergency. Septic tanks don’t respond well to too much diversity.”
I couldn’t see if the bowl was empty or not, nor did I hover over her shoulder to check. Rosie had finished her meal, and I intended to let her out the back door for a minute, as was her routine. This time, however, she took one look at the frozen commotion outside, and turned back into the kitchen to plant herself on her daytime doggy bed, which I kept for her by the huge palm plant at the entryway to the kitchen. The tropical greenery had been one of the gifts sent for Charlie’s funeral, and Rosie loved to lie under the fronds as though she was an African lioness enjoying the privacy and protection while surveying her territory. She had other cat traits, as well, such as a predisposition to crouching in tall grass to keep an eye on the barn cats. What else could I have expected considering that she was born in July under the sign of Leo?
Noting Sybil was heating a little water in the microwave to add to Carly’s beans, I could tell she had everything under control, so I looked around, ready to sit for a minute myself. “What did I do with my glass?”
“There,” Maggie said, pointing to where it had been hidden by the case of wines.
After getting it, I finally enjoying a sip, then had a twinge of conscience. “Sybil, do you want any help making that cornbread?” Maggie was making me uneasy. She was watching Carly at the sink as though she wanted to take a serrated knife to all of that glorious hair.
“You just rest your feet for a few minutes and enjoy your drink,” Sybil replied. “I know you’ve been preparing for us all day. You girls entertain me while I piddle. This is so nice not having to be on a schedule and all.”
Having finished with cleaning Wrigley’s dog bowl, Carly refilled her glass. Giving Sybil a shy smile, she quietly carried it and the bowl to the living room.
Noticing Maggie’s snooty expression, as her eyes followed Carly’s every step, I gave her a warning nudge with my elbow. In return she sent me a dismissive one-shoulder shrug.
“Please tell me that you’re making your mother’s renowned jalapeno and Vidalia onion version of corn bread?” Maggie all but cooed to Sybil.
“Is there any other? Why mess with perfection, although—” with a shake of her head, she looked up at the ceiling as though seeking Elvin’s confirmation “—I did experiment once with a can of condensed milk and Elvin almost ate the whole pan by himself. They say for every slice of bacon you eat, you lose nine days off of your lifespan. I don’t know what the ratio is for that sweet goo, but he was up all night eating what I call digestion candy, yet he still insisted, ‘That cornbread was so good, honey.’”
Her reminiscing triggered some of my own. “Poor Charlie. I confess most of the time, he had to settle for the packaged mixes. As much as I like to cook, I’m just not as in love with cornbread as the rest of you. Now give me a good sturdy rye bread like my grandmother used to make and I’m in heaven. Only I almost never made it because Charlie’s dentures couldn’t handle anything that hard.”
“I didn’t realize Charlie wore dentures,” Maggie said, looking sincerely taken aback.
“A partial. He admitted it was his own fault,” I told her. “His family could afford for him to go to the dentist, but he just couldn’t stand drills, let alone needles, so he usually found a way to avoid going.”
“I’ve heard some people fear a dentist more than a medical doctor,” Sybil replied. “But, girl, considering that you worked side by side with Charlie on this place, raised your family, and kept this splendid house, I don’t think he ever complained—or had a right to—over whatever you did or didn’t cook.”
Maggie raised her hand as though requesting her time to speak. “If I could have found a house without a kitchen in it, I would have bought it on the spot. I did give it a good try in the new house, until my realtor convinced me that such a thing would be hell on the resale value.”
Sybil snickered. “I can picture you trying to get away with that. Well, look at it this way—the person who buys your house will be tickled silly to get virtually all new appliances.”
“They won’t believe they are, unless the stickers are still all over the darned things, which is nothing I care to look at day in and day out—especially after the same realtor said, ‘Sellers are liars, and buyers are worse.’ I’m sure someone would accuse me of plastering them on things myself!”
“What an awful perspective of human nature,” Sybil replied. “At any rate, I wouldn’t know what to do with myself if I couldn’t be in a kitchen at least a couple of times a week. I like to think that God lives in my kitchen. He’s the executive chef and I’m the sous chef.”
Laughing, Maggie slapped the counter. “Leave it to you Southern Baptists to figure out a way to be in church more than three days a week!”
Giving her a mild look, Sybil replied, “A little more church could do you good.”
Without missing a beat, Maggie held up her glass. “Every time I pour myself one of these, honey, I’m having communion.”
Sybil’s lips still had a pinched look as she whipped together the cornmeal batter and poured it into the two muffin pans. Once they were in the oven, she set the timer.
“There, now,” she said, wiping her hands in her apron. Untying it, she put it on an empty bar stool and reached for her drink. “Why don’t we go socialize with the younger ones?”
Ignoring Maggie’s muttered, “Party pooper,” I picked up my glass. “Good idea.”
We filed into the living room and Sybil declared, “No wonder y’all have been so quiet!”
Carly had unpacked her tote full of pedicure paraphernalia. She was in the process of giving Dana a foot massage. By now we all knew she used to work at a nail salon at a strip mall just off of the interstate in Sulphur Springs. That’s where Walter met her. Self-conscious about how his diabetes demanded he take extra care of his feet, he’d preferred to go to a place out of town where he wouldn’t be so easily recognized. Regardless of what the gossips charged, whenever I’d seen Walter in those last months, it struck me how happy he’d looked. I had to respect Carly for undoubtedly taking good care of him.
As for Dana, the poor expectant mother had the typical swollen lower limbs of a woman only weeks away from giving birth. But she also looked darling in her black yoga pants and turquoise tunic top. “You seem to be enjoying that,” I said.
“I told her it was too much trouble,” Dana replied. “But oh, my goodness, this is sheer ecstasy.”
Although her answering glance spoke of modesty, Carly continued with her ministrations. “I had to do it. Just looking at your ankles makes mine hurt. Sit up now and put your feet over the side.”
She washed off and dried whatever remaining oils were on Dana’s feet. Recognizing my bowl and towel, I knew she had used the other entrance to the downstairs bathroom to avoid us. I didn’t mind at all, but it told me if Maggie had gone viral in the kitchen, Carly wouldn’t have missed a single one of her verbal stabs. I feared that was something I would have to guard against for the sake of everyone’s harmony.
Draping herself on the other end of the L-shaped couch, Maggie eyed Carly’s attentive care with half-hearted interest. “You know I treated Retta to a manicure once.”
“Oh, here we go,” I groaned. “Is it too much to hope that I would never have to listen to that story again?”
“Well, it was just so . . . unforgettable,” Maggie mused, all innocence.
Sybil settled herself on the long ledge of the brick fireplace and stretched her