Tupperware containers. “That girl. She’s a grudge holder.” She lifted the lid on a container and grunted at the green beans in it, then walked past me to put it in the microwave.
“She says she’s worried about her little friend Tia going to hell.
Did you say something to her about Methodists?”
Bernese blew air out between her lips. “I didn’t say Methodists were going to hell. Fisher wanted to visit her friend’s church over in Loganville for some picnic day they had. I was telling her she didn’t want to fall in with them. Methodists think everybody who’s born is already bound for heaven or hell and there’s nothing you can do about it, like there’s no grace and Jesus don’t matter.”
I shook my head. “You can’t say that kind of thing to Fisher, Bernese. You know how she is. And if you mean predestination, that’s not the Methodists. That’s the Presbyterians.”
Bernese shrugged. “Well, the Methodists believe something stupid or else they’d be Baptists. Anyway, if you want to know why Fisher’s ill as hornets, why don’t you look in the mirror, Miss Busy Divorce. She’s used to you being here every week. She counts on you.”
There it was: salvo one. I ignored it. “Did you get things straightened out at the sheriff ’s office?”
Bernese opened the other Tupperware. Egg salad. She gave it a sniff and nodded, satisfied. “Yes, for now. Lord, Thig is such an ass. I sicced my lawyer on him.”
I rolled my eyes. “Bernese, Isaac wrote up Thig’s will. He’s everyone’s lawyer. You probably want to go to Loganville and get someone who knows some criminal law.”
Bernese shrugged. “Isaac’s always done me fine. And you know nothing’s going to happen. I pretty much own Thig.” Her lower lip poked out, and she suddenly looked like a giant, swollen version of Fisher. “I better get my gun back, too.”
She took her linked measuring cups out of the junk drawer and scooped out a level half-cup of the egg salad. There was a plate sitting out on the counter, and she upended the measuring cup so the salad fell onto the plate in a little mound. “Check the microwave, see if those green beans are hot?”
I opened the microwave and pulled out one of the limp beans while Bernese rinsed the measuring cup.
“They’re warm enough,” I said, and handed her the container.
She measured out a half-cup of the beans and dumped them into a heap beside the egg salad. She picked up her pepper mill and began grinding it over the beans until they looked freckled. I narrowed my eyes. “You’re making this plate for Fisher?”
“Mm-hm,” said Bernese. She grabbed a slice of the cantaloupe off the cutting board.
“Why are you measuring Fisher’s egg salad?”
Bernese put the fruit on the plate. It looked like a sad face, with little round piles of egg salad and beans for eyes and the lonely cantaloupe slice making a long, curved frown. Bernese picked up an open book that had been lying on top of the bread box, closed it, and held it up so I could see the cover. It was called Get Fit, Kid! and underneath the title it said “Help your kids win the war on the obesity epidemic.”
I shook my head. “Fisher isn’t overweight.”
“Have you looked at her?” said Bernese. “She’s as squatty as a brick.”
“That’s how she’s shaped. She isn’t fat.”
“She’s pretty thick.” Bernese paused and turned toward the hallway. She raised her voice and bellowed, “Lou? Get Fisher in here for supper.”
I heard a faint “All righty” float down the stairs.
Bernese put the book back on top of the bread box. To me she said, “And if she’s not fat now, then this book says it can make sure she won’t go that way. Have you seen her mama?”
“No. Have you seen her mama?”
Bernese set Fisher’s plate on the kitchen table, keeping her back to me. I walked around the table so I could see her face.
“Was Lori-Anne here?”
Bernese shrugged, her mouth pinching up into a
“She says she’s worried about her little friend Tia going to hell.
Did you say something to her about Methodists?”
Bernese blew air out between her lips. “I didn’t say Methodists were going to hell. Fisher wanted to visit her friend’s church over in Loganville for some picnic day they had. I was telling her she didn’t want to fall in with them. Methodists think everybody who’s born is already bound for heaven or hell and there’s nothing you can do about it, like there’s no grace and Jesus don’t matter.”
I shook my head. “You can’t say that kind of thing to Fisher, Bernese. You know how she is. And if you mean predestination, that’s not the Methodists. That’s the Presbyterians.”
Bernese shrugged. “Well, the Methodists believe something stupid or else they’d be Baptists. Anyway, if you want to know why Fisher’s ill as hornets, why don’t you look in the mirror, Miss Busy Divorce. She’s used to you being here every week. She counts on you.”
There it was: salvo one. I ignored it. “Did you get things straightened out at the sheriff ’s office?”
Bernese opened the other Tupperware. Egg salad. She gave it a sniff and nodded, satisfied. “Yes, for now. Lord, Thig is such an ass. I sicced my lawyer on him.”
I rolled my eyes. “Bernese, Isaac wrote up Thig’s will. He’s everyone’s lawyer. You probably want to go to Loganville and get someone who knows some criminal law.”
Bernese shrugged. “Isaac’s always done me fine. And you know nothing’s going to happen. I pretty much own Thig.” Her lower lip poked out, and she suddenly looked like a giant, swollen version of Fisher. “I better get my gun back, too.”
She took her linked measuring cups out of the junk drawer and scooped out a level half-cup of the egg salad. There was a plate sitting out on the counter, and she upended the measuring cup so the salad fell onto the plate in a little mound. “Check the microwave, see if those green beans are hot?”
I opened the microwave and pulled out one of the limp beans while Bernese rinsed the measuring cup.
“They’re warm enough,” I said, and handed her the container.
She measured out a half-cup of the beans and dumped them into a heap beside the egg salad. She picked up her pepper mill and began grinding it over the beans until they looked freckled. I narrowed my eyes. “You’re making this plate for Fisher?”
“Mm-hm,” said Bernese. She grabbed a slice of the cantaloupe off the cutting board.
“Why are you measuring Fisher’s egg salad?”
Bernese put the fruit on the plate. It looked like a sad face, with little round piles of egg salad and beans for eyes and the lonely cantaloupe slice making a long, curved frown. Bernese picked up an open book that had been lying on top of the bread box, closed it, and held it up so I could see the cover. It was called Get Fit, Kid! and underneath the title it said “Help your kids win the war on the obesity epidemic.”
I shook my head. “Fisher isn’t overweight.”
“Have you looked at her?” said Bernese. “She’s as squatty as a brick.”
“That’s how she’s shaped. She isn’t fat.”
“She’s pretty thick.” Bernese paused and turned toward the hallway. She raised her voice and bellowed, “Lou? Get Fisher in here for supper.”
I heard a faint “All righty” float down the stairs.
Bernese put the book back on top of the bread box. To me she said, “And if she’s not fat now, then this book says it can make sure she won’t go that way. Have you seen her mama?”
“No. Have you seen her mama?”
Bernese set Fisher’s plate on the kitchen table, keeping her back to me. I walked around the table so I could see her face.
“Was Lori-Anne here?”
Bernese shrugged, her mouth pinching up into a
Similar Books
