beneath the lights over the Brussels sprouts. “It’s got a pie crust, but I can do that. I make good pies.”
“Can you bring it to my house?”
“I might could do that.”
“No. I’ll come pick it up. Where do you live?”
“Dahlonega Road, down by Happy’s Flea Market.”
Suzanne fished for and found a pencil and a Pasta To Go receipt in her purse. “Two sixty-five Dahlonega Road,” continued the woman, watching Suzanne write it down in tight scribbles. “Little green house with white trim. My daddy’s got a Bible message on a big board in the front yard. It’s kinda hard to miss.”
Suzanne handed her a hundred-dollar bill then turned to walk away.
“I can’t accept this much money, ma’am.”
“It’s worth every penny to me,” Suzanne said.
“You want me to bake it, too?”
“I want it all done, everything. Like it’s gonna go right on the table.”
On the day Suzanne O’Neal married Boone Parley in Tattnall Christ Church on Cotton Avenue, her father showed up fifteen minutes before the ceremony was to begin. He was wearing one blue sock and one black, with Jack Daniel’s and cash register mints on his breath and a speeding ticket poking out of the breast pocket of his tuxedo like a kerchief. His wallet had been emptied, once again, that morning at a roulette wheel in the Creek Indians’ Big Peach Casino south of town.
Suzanne, expecting the worst—expecting exactly
this
—intercepted her father at the front door and yanked him by the arm, pulling him into the pastor’s study. Her mother, seeing this from the room across the vestibule, followed them inside then shut the heavy walnut door behind them.
Suzanne pushed her father into a wooden chair. Drunk, he fell back easily, and he looked at her, hurt and bewildered. “What’s all this about, young lady? You better get to talkin’ and you better get to talkin’ fast!”
Suzanne bent forward at the waist, got her hands around the base of the veil and came back up, flipping it, like long hair, to thebackside of her head. She wanted nothing in the way that would soften or filter her anger.
“No, Daddy,” she said. “You listen to me, you sorry, sorry man.”
She spoke in a hushed tone, just a few degrees stronger than a whisper, but the words were born from someplace so deep within her that by the time they reached her lips they seemed to pack the power of an untethered, primal scream.
“Look at you! You look like somethin’ the cat drug home and the kittens refused. My gosh, Daddy, can’t you even shave on your own daughter’s wedding day?”
“You got some nerve to—”
“No, you’ve got the nerve. I can’t believe you, I just can’t believe you. You know, Daddy, I’ve been wantin’ to say this for a long time, and I’m gonna say it now. You are a worthless man. You are a drunk. You’re a gambler—”
“Honey, don’t be ugly to your daddy,” her mother interrupted.
“You have ruined Momma’s life, and you sure as heck have tried to ruin mine, and if I hadn’t won the Miss Selby pageant and gotten that scholarship to Athens my life would still be a livin’ hell.”
“Suzanne, now watch your language,” said her mother.
Suzanne jabbed her rigid index finger onto his chest as she spoke. Both her mother and father watched her, wide-eyed with mouths open. “Momma and me are sick
(jab)
and
(jab)
tired
(jab)
of you makin’ our lives junky and poor, and I promise to you right now that the rest of Suzanne O’Neal’s life is gonna be rich and sweet—I am never gonna eat canned beans again—and if you mess this up for me today I truly think I could find it in my heart to kill you, ’cause you’ve already just about killed Momma, and you’ve tried to kill me, but thank the Lord we are both stronger than you.”
Suzanne stood up straight again and took two deep breaths to calm down. The veins in her neck twitched and pushed at the surface of her reddened skin.
“Momma,” she said. “can you
“Can you bring it to my house?”
“I might could do that.”
“No. I’ll come pick it up. Where do you live?”
“Dahlonega Road, down by Happy’s Flea Market.”
Suzanne fished for and found a pencil and a Pasta To Go receipt in her purse. “Two sixty-five Dahlonega Road,” continued the woman, watching Suzanne write it down in tight scribbles. “Little green house with white trim. My daddy’s got a Bible message on a big board in the front yard. It’s kinda hard to miss.”
Suzanne handed her a hundred-dollar bill then turned to walk away.
“I can’t accept this much money, ma’am.”
“It’s worth every penny to me,” Suzanne said.
“You want me to bake it, too?”
“I want it all done, everything. Like it’s gonna go right on the table.”
On the day Suzanne O’Neal married Boone Parley in Tattnall Christ Church on Cotton Avenue, her father showed up fifteen minutes before the ceremony was to begin. He was wearing one blue sock and one black, with Jack Daniel’s and cash register mints on his breath and a speeding ticket poking out of the breast pocket of his tuxedo like a kerchief. His wallet had been emptied, once again, that morning at a roulette wheel in the Creek Indians’ Big Peach Casino south of town.
Suzanne, expecting the worst—expecting exactly
this
—intercepted her father at the front door and yanked him by the arm, pulling him into the pastor’s study. Her mother, seeing this from the room across the vestibule, followed them inside then shut the heavy walnut door behind them.
Suzanne pushed her father into a wooden chair. Drunk, he fell back easily, and he looked at her, hurt and bewildered. “What’s all this about, young lady? You better get to talkin’ and you better get to talkin’ fast!”
Suzanne bent forward at the waist, got her hands around the base of the veil and came back up, flipping it, like long hair, to thebackside of her head. She wanted nothing in the way that would soften or filter her anger.
“No, Daddy,” she said. “You listen to me, you sorry, sorry man.”
She spoke in a hushed tone, just a few degrees stronger than a whisper, but the words were born from someplace so deep within her that by the time they reached her lips they seemed to pack the power of an untethered, primal scream.
“Look at you! You look like somethin’ the cat drug home and the kittens refused. My gosh, Daddy, can’t you even shave on your own daughter’s wedding day?”
“You got some nerve to—”
“No, you’ve got the nerve. I can’t believe you, I just can’t believe you. You know, Daddy, I’ve been wantin’ to say this for a long time, and I’m gonna say it now. You are a worthless man. You are a drunk. You’re a gambler—”
“Honey, don’t be ugly to your daddy,” her mother interrupted.
“You have ruined Momma’s life, and you sure as heck have tried to ruin mine, and if I hadn’t won the Miss Selby pageant and gotten that scholarship to Athens my life would still be a livin’ hell.”
“Suzanne, now watch your language,” said her mother.
Suzanne jabbed her rigid index finger onto his chest as she spoke. Both her mother and father watched her, wide-eyed with mouths open. “Momma and me are sick
(jab)
and
(jab)
tired
(jab)
of you makin’ our lives junky and poor, and I promise to you right now that the rest of Suzanne O’Neal’s life is gonna be rich and sweet—I am never gonna eat canned beans again—and if you mess this up for me today I truly think I could find it in my heart to kill you, ’cause you’ve already just about killed Momma, and you’ve tried to kill me, but thank the Lord we are both stronger than you.”
Suzanne stood up straight again and took two deep breaths to calm down. The veins in her neck twitched and pushed at the surface of her reddened skin.
“Momma,” she said. “can you
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