table. Without someone to steer, she’d become a ghost ship herself. She started wandering off for hours, in her own mind or all around town. After the third call from some kind soul or other from Walgreens or the Piggly Wiggly, Momma confiscated her car and several months later placed her at Sandpiper.
We should’ve moved into her old house on McCants Drive in the Old Village, but the cost of living and keeping her in the Villas was too dear. Not to mention the taxes, and Momma and Daddy had their own home to worry about.
’Course it wasn’t an easy road. Renters came and went with no sale in sight. After Daddy died, the place turned ramshackle. At times the rental income was the only thing keeping us afloat.
The eighties up-market sailed right past us. Buyers not interested in the old cottage, demolition permits denied. As soon as the rezoning ordinance had been nailed to the majestic live oak outside Mimi’s, a Historic Committee meeting consisting of high and mighty residents was called.
Over two decades ago, I’d listened in on my parents, my ear pressed against my bedroom door.
Momma fumed to my placid daddy, “If my grandpappy, rest his blessed soul, could have heard them tonight, why he’d to turn over in his grave. He built that house back in 1920 with his bare hands, and it cost nine hundred dollars to make...honey, you know that was a lot of money back then.”
The crinkle of his newspaper preceded the whine of his recliner, the tread of his feet, and the sound of ice cracking under the gurgle of bourbon.
I edged the door open.
Momma took a sip and carried on, “Why, that young gal got nothin’ better to do than walk the village with her baby. Oooh, I’m so damn mad, Zanny! She had the gall, the gall I tell you, to testify I don’t have the right to do what I want with Momma’s house because, and I quote, ‘I just love to push my carriage past that quaint old house, it’d be a shame to see it torn down.’
“ A shame? I’ll tell her what a shame is. A shame would be I couldn’t pay my bills. A cryin’ shame would be I couldn’t make sure Momma was safely cared for. A damn shame would be I’d have to hold onto that old house because–wait, oh you wait for it, honey–because, ‘It’s harmonious with the neighborhood.’
“I’ll give ’em a shame, yes siree. Histrionic Committee’s what them damn fools should call themselves.” Her footfalls pattered close to my door. “You’d best be asleep now, Shay, you hear?”
I’d squeaked, “Yes, Momma.”
“Them with connections can restore whatever the crap they like.”
I’d bet good money Momma clapped her hand over her mouth, she hardly ever swore.
“But not us Jusselys, not us Mottes.”
Daddy murmured.
Their feet moved together.
“Don’t get rascally on me, mister. I ain’t done.”
Oh! I sidled away from the door, close enough to hear but not enough to hear .
“You know what them work boys do down at Sharon’s since she won’t let common folk into her house?” Momma had quieted to a whisper, “They piss on her siding. Serves her right.”
Mimi, Momma, and me were exactly alike. Red heads. Firebrands .
“How’s mah house, girl?”
Momma grumbled at Mimi’s usual question. “Still standin’.”
“Y’all cain’t ever get rid of it. Miss Cassandra told me so. That be Adelaide’s momma, and you know they got the foresight.”
Mimi’s face was pressed parchment, wrinkles so deep they joined to her luminous bones. She’d been the looker of our family, back in the day.
“Who’s this now?” She squinted at me. “This my Shay-girl?”
I hugged her close as I dared, my hands crossing her bony back beneath the dowager’s hump. My hand tucked inside her elbow, she doddled to an afghan-covered recliner.
Settled down, she drawled, “Dawlin’s, y’all can take a seat now.”
Having welcomed us, she concentrated on her beading. A magnifying glass sat on a stand before her and her knuckles bent
We should’ve moved into her old house on McCants Drive in the Old Village, but the cost of living and keeping her in the Villas was too dear. Not to mention the taxes, and Momma and Daddy had their own home to worry about.
’Course it wasn’t an easy road. Renters came and went with no sale in sight. After Daddy died, the place turned ramshackle. At times the rental income was the only thing keeping us afloat.
The eighties up-market sailed right past us. Buyers not interested in the old cottage, demolition permits denied. As soon as the rezoning ordinance had been nailed to the majestic live oak outside Mimi’s, a Historic Committee meeting consisting of high and mighty residents was called.
Over two decades ago, I’d listened in on my parents, my ear pressed against my bedroom door.
Momma fumed to my placid daddy, “If my grandpappy, rest his blessed soul, could have heard them tonight, why he’d to turn over in his grave. He built that house back in 1920 with his bare hands, and it cost nine hundred dollars to make...honey, you know that was a lot of money back then.”
The crinkle of his newspaper preceded the whine of his recliner, the tread of his feet, and the sound of ice cracking under the gurgle of bourbon.
I edged the door open.
Momma took a sip and carried on, “Why, that young gal got nothin’ better to do than walk the village with her baby. Oooh, I’m so damn mad, Zanny! She had the gall, the gall I tell you, to testify I don’t have the right to do what I want with Momma’s house because, and I quote, ‘I just love to push my carriage past that quaint old house, it’d be a shame to see it torn down.’
“ A shame? I’ll tell her what a shame is. A shame would be I couldn’t pay my bills. A cryin’ shame would be I couldn’t make sure Momma was safely cared for. A damn shame would be I’d have to hold onto that old house because–wait, oh you wait for it, honey–because, ‘It’s harmonious with the neighborhood.’
“I’ll give ’em a shame, yes siree. Histrionic Committee’s what them damn fools should call themselves.” Her footfalls pattered close to my door. “You’d best be asleep now, Shay, you hear?”
I’d squeaked, “Yes, Momma.”
“Them with connections can restore whatever the crap they like.”
I’d bet good money Momma clapped her hand over her mouth, she hardly ever swore.
“But not us Jusselys, not us Mottes.”
Daddy murmured.
Their feet moved together.
“Don’t get rascally on me, mister. I ain’t done.”
Oh! I sidled away from the door, close enough to hear but not enough to hear .
“You know what them work boys do down at Sharon’s since she won’t let common folk into her house?” Momma had quieted to a whisper, “They piss on her siding. Serves her right.”
Mimi, Momma, and me were exactly alike. Red heads. Firebrands .
“How’s mah house, girl?”
Momma grumbled at Mimi’s usual question. “Still standin’.”
“Y’all cain’t ever get rid of it. Miss Cassandra told me so. That be Adelaide’s momma, and you know they got the foresight.”
Mimi’s face was pressed parchment, wrinkles so deep they joined to her luminous bones. She’d been the looker of our family, back in the day.
“Who’s this now?” She squinted at me. “This my Shay-girl?”
I hugged her close as I dared, my hands crossing her bony back beneath the dowager’s hump. My hand tucked inside her elbow, she doddled to an afghan-covered recliner.
Settled down, she drawled, “Dawlin’s, y’all can take a seat now.”
Having welcomed us, she concentrated on her beading. A magnifying glass sat on a stand before her and her knuckles bent
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