“Miss Earlene, I think you and I are going to be very good friends,” I called after her as she began searching the shelves.
Her shrunken little form came toddling back to the circulation desk, carrying a pile of books that reached her chin. She plopped them in a perfect stack beside my laptop. “Right back at you, girlie.”
6
In Which I Tangle with Marsupials, Both Living and Dead
No good day ever started with staring down a dead possum.
Thanks to some helpful utility workers, I got the electricity temporarily turned on at the music hall, making my job there much easier. I spent the first few days sifting through mountains of dust and debris. I kept little things, like buttons and guitar picks I found on the floor. Larger items were sealed in Tupperware until I could handle them properly.
I tried to develop a schedule. I worked in the music hall in the mornings, when the building was coolest. In the afternoons, I visited Miss Earlene at the library, looked through historical materials, and helped her organize some of the chaos—at least the shelves she couldn’t reach.
I ate most of my meals at the famed local diner. The Dinner Bell crowd was definitely blue-collar—work shirts, battered jeans, and baseball caps seemed to be the local uniform. This was a small-town diner, with classic car posters and sports schedules for the local high school teams on the walls. The owners also seemed to own a small fortune in antique soda signage. The brightly colored pressed tin advertisements they were using as decorations would fetch up to two hundred dollars each at an antique shop. Then again, if I mentioned it to the owners, they might think I was after something. It was better not to mention it. But it was nice to know that other people in Mud Creek valued older Americana. Maybe I could find a few kindred souls.
There were no garden omelets or turkey bacon available at the Dinner Bell. Everything on the breakfast menu involved sausage gravy. But the chicken-fried steak was just as delicious as Will had promised. We’d even enjoyed one together a time or two.
In fact, I was supposed to be joining him for lunch that very afternoon. But at the moment, I was staring in horror at a furry gray shape curled in the corner behind the music hall’s hamburger counter. I slipped on rubber gloves and was debating my disposal plan when I heard a shrill “Yoohoo!” from the glass-block entrance.
A petite, vaguely familiar-looking woman with light caramel-colored hair, wide blue eyes, and a dusting of freckles across the bridge of her pert nose stuck her head into the doorway. “Are you open to visitors—” Brows puckered, she came toward me. “Are you all right?”
“Oh, it’s just a dead possum. I don’t know how he found his way into the building. But I guess it’s better that I found him sooner than later.” I scooped it up, prepared to drop the carcass into an industrial trash bag for proper burial.
The woman arched an eyebrow as I lifted the stiff little body by the tail. “Honey, I wouldn’t do that if I were you. I would just leave it and hope it skedaddles away on its own.”
“Why?” I said, lifting the animal until it was level with my head.
Here’s the thing about possums: they’re basically just giant rats with bigger teeth and more attitude. And, suddenly, this supposedly dead possum was not happy to be held by the tail like some sort of furry tetherball, as it demonstrated by hissing and screeching and thrashing back and forth as it tried to take a bite out of me. I screamed, “Oh my
God
!”
And for some reason, I couldn’t seem to drop the little demon. I just held on, staring in horror as it snapped, sharp white fangs bared.
“Why are you still holding on to it?” the woman demanded.
“I don’t know!”
I dropped the squirming, spitting mass to the floor as gently as I could, and my visitor shooed it out with a broom. I ran to the sink to scrub my hands clean, even though I’d been wearing gloves. I didn’t want to catch some weird possum-related illness. Was there such a thing as possum pox? As our chattering guest departed, the woman slammed the door behind it, hopefully barring further invasions from pissed-off marsupials.
“Thank you,” I told her. “From now on, I will assume that any random animals I find in here are, in fact, living.”
“Probably a good idea,” she agreed. “Mean little things, possums, but not bad roasted with potatoes.”
I did my best not to make an “ew” face. I knew that many of the people I’d met in my travels were enthusiastic game eaters. They ate everything from deer chili to beer-basted wild boar. Sometimes it was out of necessity, because they couldn’t afford to buy meat from the grocery, and sometimes it was because they just enjoyed the challenge of eating what they caught. Either way, I didn’t appreciate it when people fed me something and then cackled “I bet you can’t tell that’s not beef!”
“I’ve heard it’s kind of greasy. And gamy,” I said, in what I hoped was a nonjudgmental tone.
“It is a little bit better in burgoo,” she said. “The other flavors mask the taste.”
“The stew stuff? I thought that was just for the Kentucky Derby.”
“Not really. Burgoo has always been more of a potluck party thing. When people didn’t have enough to feed their families—or when they were just plain bored—they got together and threw whatever they had in the pot—venison, chicken, raccoon, vegetables—and they made a stew out of it. There’s no official recipe. Corn, lima beans, carrots, onions, and whatever meat you can get together. Back when Will was a little boy, we used to do it as a sort of community feed for people who couldn’t afford to feed their families—that way, we didn’t put them on the spot. It’s harder to be depressed about poverty when you’re throwing a party.”
“So why did you stop throwing the parties?”
She shrugged. “My mother-in-law was the one who organized them. After she died, we seemed to fall out of the habit. I thought about starting it up again but then Jim took over the music hall and my hands were too full.”
Suddenly, I realized where I knew this woman from. And I felt like the dumbest person alive. She had Will’s eyes. Or rather, Will had her eyes. This sweet-faced woman in the peach-plaid shorts was Will’s mother, she of the delicious pecan pie.
And it seemed that she was here to power-hug me. “Well, now that the excitement is over, honey, I am so glad to meet you!” she cried, throwing her arms around me so hard that my neck cracked. “I’m Brenda, Will’s mama.”
“Um, thank you for the pie,” I said.
“Oh, it was the least I could do. You’re just adorable up close, aren’t you, sweetie? No wonder my Will’s been in such a dither.”
“I try,” I told her, turning toward the door as I heard yet another familiar voice yell, “Hello? Ma?”
It was Will. And he seemed to be carrying more possums.
There were two taxidermically preserved bodies in the cardboard box Will was toting. Their eyes were open and fixed, pale yellow glass. And their bodies were frozen in playful poses, as if they were dancing. Brenda grimaced. “I thought you could use them for your displays . . . The possum thing is just a coincidence, I promise.”
She pulled the two stuffed animals out of the box and put them on a nearby table. “This is Flotsam and Jetsam. George won them in a poker game a year or so after he opened the club and trained them to dance outside the door. People used to stop by just to see them hop around. And then, of course, they’d hear the music and they’d have to come in.”
“I had no idea you could train possums,” I said, thinking of the furious specimen we’d just evicted.
“Anything to bring people through the door,” Will muttered in unison with his mother, though her tone was more reminiscent and cheerful.
Brenda ignored her son’s grumpiness and laced her arm through mine, leading me around the room so she could see my progress in cleaning. “I can’t tell you how happy I am that someone is going to organize all this stuff and share it with people. I’ve been begging Will for years to come over and at least clean the place out. But he said it wasn’t our building anymore, so we should just leave it.” Will shifted from foot to foot, suddenly fascinated with the sunglasses hanging from his pocket. “I’m so happy it won’t be left to the bulldozer.”
“Happy to help.”
“Now, I have something for you, out in the car,” she said, looking to Will. “Hon, would you mind getting the plastic storage bin in my backseat?”
He frowned. “Why didn’t you just bring it in with you?”
“Are you going to argue with your mama or are you going to comply with my very simple request?” she asked, her voice going steely.
Will’s mouth popped open as if he was going to make some sort of remark, but with an increased measure of “mother’s stare” from Brenda, he clamped his lips shut and slapped his hat on his head.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said with a sigh, skulking out the door.
Brenda gave my cheek another gentle pinch.
“Mrs. McBride, I think you have the wrong idea about your son and me. We’re just friends.” I pulled at the collar of my T-shirt, which seemed to be sticking to my neck. Seriously, how long could it take Will to get a stupid box out of the car?
Brenda leveled her gaze at me and told me, “My son is a very sweet, very complicated, sometimes extremely stupid man. He’s a lot like his father.”
I worked to hold in my snicker. I really did.
“I loved my husband,” she said. “Thought the absolute world of him. But he was not a businessman. Will took on a lot of guilt, feeling like Jim was working hard to preserve a legacy for him. The two of them never did see eye to eye on this place, which is why it’s so difficult for Will to appreciate it, I think. Will was here with his daddy, trying to box things up, when Jim had his heart attack. Jim had been downright depressed about his decision to close and Will wanted Jim to snap out of it, move on, start looking for a real job, grow the hell up. Jim was about to argue right back, but the next thing Will knew, Jim was on his knees, clutching his chest.”
“Mr. McBride died
here
?” I whispered. No wonder Will was so reluctant to come into the building. He’d watched his father die here. A shard of guilt pricked at the edge of my conscience. I was surprised he had been willing to take me as far as the parking lot.
“Doesn’t it bother you to be here?” I asked her quietly.
“Oh, honey, not a bit. I mean, Jim lived on a steady diet of cheeseburgers and stress. And it only made sense that he passed on here. He lived his whole life here.”
“That is a very balanced and yet somehow unnerving way of looking at it,” I told her.
She shrugged. “I’ve gained perspective over the years.”
Just then, Will came struggling through the door with a large plastic storage bin. He scowled, dropping his burden at our feet, and backed toward the hamburger counter to inspect the polish I’d given the chrome. Brenda opened the lid to reveal carefully stacked film reels and sleeves of negatives and dozens of small framed photos. “My mother-in-law was a bit of a camera nut. She started right after George got home from the war. She only had one picture of him when he went away, and something about not being able to see his face every day for years on end . . . well, she wanted to make sure that if anything ever happened, she would have plenty of pictures of George. She took a few snapshots just about every day. I have enough slide carousels to start my own tiny amusement park. And when he opened the music hall, she took to recording almost every act that crossed the stage. She changed camera models as the technology got better. She even bought a Super 8 and took some movies. It’s all right here. And I’m going to give it to you.”
I wiped the historian drool from my chin. “W-why would you do that?”
“Because I think you would make the best use of them. And I like the idea of our family’s work being shared with the world.”
I could hear Will groan quietly behind us. Brenda rolled her eyes.
“So is she the one who took the photo of Louis Gray on the wall?” I asked.
“That was one of her best,” she said, smiling fondly. “He played here a few times before he hit it big. I have a copy hanging in my living room. The negative is in there somewhere. Feel free to use it.”
I threw my arms around her, squealing a little, which I would be embarrassed about at a later date. “This is exactly what I needed, Miss Brenda! Thank you so much.”
Brenda wiped at the tears gathering at the corners of her eyes as she released me. “Well, I’m going to go have a look around. Maybe try to find my initials. Jim carved ours around here somewhere.”
She wandered off, gently pushing chairs aside and inspecting the walls for the right carving. I noticed Will shifting from foot to foot, intentionally looking at the floor rather than searching the building for memories like his mother. I glanced down at the box and saw a maroon leather photo album. I bent to pick it up.
“No, no, don’t do that,” he said as I opened it to see a picture of Will and his dad behind the hamburger counter, wearing matching white paper hats. Will and his dad eating pie with a much younger Loretta Lynn. Will’s mother chasing a pair of possums while Will laughed hysterically. What looked like a baby Will sitting in James Brown’s lap.
I cried, “These are great!”
He groaned. “I only kept them to make my mom happy. She likes to think of the good times.”
“But these pictures are adorable,” I cooed. “Look at you, wiping lemon meringue pie filling on Loretta Lynn’s skirt.”
“She was not happy about that,” he said, shaking his head.
“Come on, you have to admit there were perks to growing up here. How many people can say that they sat on the laps of music legends?”
He sighed. “It’s like my life is divided into two sections. The part when I was a kid, and everything about the hall was excitin’ and I was meetin’ all of these fun people in sparkly clothes. And when my dad said everything was gonna be okay, I believed him. And then there’s another part, when I knew better. It’s less fun, less colorful now, but I know where I stand.”
“Maybe it’s not about knowing where you stand. Maybe it’s about remembering those good times without resenting what caused them.”
“You have a Hallmark greeting card speech for just about every situation, don’t you?” he muttered.
I nodded. “Except for ‘your husband dumped you for a lady lumberjack,’” I told him. “There are no words that will make that better.”
“You are . . . different, aren’t you?” he asked, staring at me. I shrugged. “Why are you so interested in this stuff? I mean, you don’t have any connection to the musicians. You don’t know anybody in Mud Creek. Why is this so important to you?”