Leaving Cold Sassy (9780547527291) by Olive Ann Burns

Miss Klein just stared, puzzled, and finally looked up. The ceiling plaster was wet!
    She nudged Hugh, and he glanced at the ceiling, but just said
sh-h-h-h.
He wanted to hear Judge Fuss tell about his first legal client, a chicken thief called Two Fingers.
    But the judge never got to say what happened at Two Finger’s trial. He stopped in midsentence, staring up as those first drops became a stream. The dim electric lights flickered, went out! Before anybody could duck or dodge, the crystal chandelier crashed down with a mess of wet plaster. Women screamed and men cursed, and the colored women in their white uniforms flew in. Missouri looked up and shouted, “Lawd a mercy, de bed gwine come down nex’!”
    Miss Klein, sobbing anew, said, “It was j-just the biggest m-m-mess you ever saw, Mr. Tweedy!” The candles on the sideboard and buffet gave enough light to show plaster and food all over the lace tablecloth, roses scattered, cut-glass goblets and china plates broken. Everything was crushed, and the chandelier sprawled over the table like a big dead octopus.
    Judge Fuss’s shoulders were drenched with water and crumbled plaster. A piece of oyster clung to Mr. Crowe’s vest. One arm of the chandelier dripped gravy. A green tomato pickle was impaled on the jagged glass of a broken electric light bulb. Miss Klein discovered she had wet congealed salad in her lap.
    Mr. Blankenship jumped up and shouted at his wife, “That fool tub! How come you didn’t call Mr. Amos like I told you to!”
    Hugh grabbed Miss Klein’s shoulder and said, “Sanna! Did you take a bath?” Then he dashed upstairs behind his daddy.
    Miss Klein was too shocked to speak.
    Missouri shook her fist at the ceiling. “I’se been a-tellin’ you, Miz ’Ships, dem faucets and dem drainpipes, dey ain’ nothin’ but RUST . An’ all dat fine china busted!” She waved her arms towards the table. “Lawd hep us. Whut we go’n do, Miz ’Ships?”
    As if rising from a stupor, Mrs. Blankenship got up and said, “We’re going to clean it up.”
    Sanna was weeping by then. “It’s all m-my f-fault! I took a bath!”
    â€œNo, it’s mine. I just kept putting off calling Mr. Amos. Sanna, see if you can help Aunt Trudy wipe the soufflé off her neck.”
    I could tell that Sanna Klein was reliving all this now, after reliving it all the time she should have been sleeping the night before. “And you do see, Mr. Tweedy,” she wailed, “why no matter how much Mrs. Blankenship tried to comfort me, it was all—all—m-my f-f-fault! I just f-felt so hot and d-dusty after the ride over! I hated to p-put on my nice dress f-for the p-party when I was so sweaty—I mean, perspiring so much. I...”
    She had completely run out of steam.
    My way of comforting probably wasn’t like Mrs. Blankenship’s. I said, “It strikes me as how this would make a fine scene in a movie film, Miss Klein. Comedy or tragedy, either one.”
    She didn’t say anything. Just kept crying.
    â€œGosh, Miss Klein,” I said finally, “from now on you’d better watch out.”
    â€œWh-what?” she spoke from the middle of a sob.
    â€œI mean, you may be in real danger. One day you’re under a tree and a watermelon drops out of it and hits you, and a week later a chandelier crashes down onto a dinner table and splashes you with congealed salad!”
    A moment of stunned silence on her part, then as I started laughing, Miss Klein’s mouth turned up at the corners. But not for long. “I wish I could see something funny about the rest of last night.” She looked at me and went to laughing again. As the big clock bonged for twelve-thirty, I heard a clatter of voices and high heels on the front porch.
    â€œMust be Miss Love and them, Miss Klein, comin’ in from church.”
    â€œOh, my,” she