Wouldn’t Change a Thing (16 page)

“We sell until we're done, then we take orders if necessary.”

Remembering the curtains she'd sewn the past few days, I ask, “Did Uncle Raymond set up the pantry?”

“Last night. We were downtown until one this morning getting everything together. I finally finished the curtains and managed to tack the rod on the wood.”

The matching curtains, labels, and Whiplash's cheerleading outfit display cartoon caricatures of May, Ray, and Whiplash. The bold font reads
May and Ray's Preserves.
We pasted the jars with the decorative pink, brown, and black labels. The preserves are permanent fixtures at the festival.

After breakfast, we caravan to the festival with my aunt and uncle leading the way. Donald entertains us with tales from his job and McKenna is bent over in a texting frenzy. Between her laughing and harrumphs, I deduce she's still dating Uriah. She taps my shoulder and shows me a photo of him at the beach surrounded by other teens.

“He's cute.”

“He's a'ight.”

Donald gives her the protective daddy look in the rearview mirror, and she sinks lower in her seat.

We arrive at our booth as others are setting up around us. The smell of delectable food wafts around the courthouse square. A band does a soundcheck on a heavy, wooden stage set up in back of the courthouse. Vendors untwist power cords, check food temperatures, and unpack cases of CDs and DVDs. Our home church, St. John's A.M.E., loads huge cakes on their table, as well as assemble quilt raffle tickets. Near the stage, carnival workers give one last test run for the two most popular rides—the Dragon Wagon and the Kite Flyer.

Willa flings an apron in my direction. “Put this on.”

She tosses everyone else an apron as well. Donald opens Ball jar boxes and we each fill the pantry with goods, unfold the plastic May and Ray logo bags, and get ready for a long day. Everyone around us speaks to each other, and I almost forget that today I was supposed to say
I do.

I bend down to pick up the cash box and credit card machine. When I stand again, a cheerful woman stares at me. “How may I help you, ma'am?”

“What time do you all start selling? May and Ray's is the first thing I buy every year.”

“We officially start at ten, but if you tell me what you want, I can set it aside for you.”

She looks around. “Where is ole' Whiplash? That dog gets a rise out of me every year. With her little freaky self.” She laughs at her own joke. “I want the pepper jelly, some cucumbers, and a bottle of muscadine wine.”

She opens her purse. Willa whispers in my ear, “Girl, that's not a purse, that's a pocketbook. An old, back-in-the-day one, like Mama and her friends carried.”

I give her leg a soft kick and turn back to our customer. “You don't have to pay right now. I'll tuck it away for you.” I get a box from beneath the table and place her requests inside.

“I pay for what I want upfront. You might slick me and act like I didn't come by here. Supply and demand, honey.” She holds a twenty and her age-spotted hands tremble. The money lingers in her hands as she looks from me to Willa. “Y'all are Paul and Greta's girls, right?”

“Yes, ma'am,” we respond in unison.

I gear up for another showdown like the one I had in IGA. She swings her big bag on the opposite shoulder like Shirley. She pulls on her red muumuu and twists her string of pearls, as if seeing us for the first time.

“Well, I declare! I hadn't seen y'all since you were practically babies. I lived down on Linton Road next to your Grandma Rose and Granddaddy Horace years ago.”

“We were always forbidden to see them,” Willa says.

“I know all about it. Wasn't right how Rose was left to fend for herself. Horace did the best he could, but Rose was sick and sick with it.”

Donald steps in. “Hello, ma'am. I'm Willa's husband, Donald.”

“I haven't even said my name yet. I'm Creasy Taylor. Been knowing the McCallisters for years.”

“I'm sure my wife and sister-in-law would love to chat with you. Sounds like you know a lot about the family.”

“I'm a walking encyclopedia of Hancock County, the Sparta Griot. Ain't a family I don't know about 'round here.”

“You know our cousin, Edwina, correct?”

“Girl, yes. 'Wina is Grady's daughter. I knew Norlyza and Carrie Bell before they left here, too.”

“We aren't supposed to sell until ten, but Ms. Creasy, we'll give you your items now if you promise to come back and chat later,” I say.

“You don't have to bribe me. It'll be my pleasure. Y'all lived cooped up with too much secrecy anyway.” I take her money and give her the small box. “You got any newspaper to wrap my wine? I don't want my nosy church members peeking in my box. Ain't none'a their business what I buy.”

“Ms. Creasy, you are a mess!”

“I'm telling the truth, though. There's a difference between saints and ain'ts. Jesus was the life of the party, always drinking wine and having fun. But you can't tell the saints that.”

“Give me your bottle,” I say. I mummy-wrap her wine with the
Union Recorder
and stuff it in the box. She meanders to other booths, her muumuu blowing in the breeze.

A woman across from us stands at the DJ Cheese DVD booth. She smiles and I recognize her immediately. I get her attention, and she approaches our booth with tiny steps. Her embarrassment is evident as she bites her bottom lip and fiddles with our logoed tablecloth.

I shatter the silence with a hug. “Cousin Lorene, it's good to see you!”

Willa looks up from counting the till and follows suit. We group hug with a flimsy show of emotion from Lorene. The tighter we hug, the more she relaxes.

She steps back and gives us a head-to-toe scan. “You have grown into beautiful young ladies.”

“You still look like a teenager, Cousin Lorene.”

She blushes at the statement and flashes her signature, pearly smile. As a physical education teacher, she hounded us about hygiene, flossing, and exercise. When she was still married to Clay, we spent the night at their house, and when I refused to floss, she made me glide the string through my teeth, then sniff it. “If you can smell that, imagine what others smell,” she said.

I purchase floss in bulk at Costco because of Lorene. Willa introduces her to Donald and McKenna. After which, we step aside and chat.

Lorene removes her wide straw hat, revealing a shaved head. Her skin is darker, but glowing.

“Chemo. I'm better now. There is a great support group of women here in Sparta who look out for me.”

“We're sorry, Cousin Lorene. Aunt Mavis didn't tell us.”

“Not a lot of people knew when I was first diagnosed, and not too many people know now unless I'm not wearing a hat or a scarf on my head. Folks mean well, but I don't like everybody praying over me, and I sure don't like a lot of negativity.”

I make eye contact since she's embarrassed. “I'm glad you're better.”

She delays her words like a child in time-out counting to ten and asks, “How is Clayton?”

“I went to see him last week. He's packing up the house and moving to Florida.”

“Is he still with…” Her voice trails off, still unable to say Russell's name.

“Yes, ma'am. They're still together.”

She sighs and fans her face with the hat. I check her ring finger to see if she's remarried, but it is void of a band of gold.

“Cousin Lorene, did you ever remarry?” Willa asks.

“Clayton Kenneth Myles was the only man I loved. I went back and forth about it, believing it was a phase. I don't care what people say about me behind my back; when we were good, we were good together. Him leaving me for a man knocked the wind out of me, you know.”

The tables have shifted. When we were growing up, adults never made confessions to children. We're not children anymore, so Cousin Lorene sprinkles wisdom our way.

“I heard about what happened at the Blue Willow Inn,” she says.

I bite my bottom lip now. “Yep. Left at the altar.”

“He wasn't for you. A man who really loves you loves all of you. Remember that, ya hear?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Give me some of Mavis's goodies. Two pepper jellies, pickled peaches, and cucumbers, please.” We bag her items and take her money. “You all down at the home-house?”

“Yes. I'm picking Mama up from the hospital Monday.”

“Is it okay if I stop by to say hello sometimes?”

“Our doors are always open.”

“Honey, open-door policies went away with cassette tapes. I don't drop in on people like I used to. Might get my feelings hurt.”

That's exactly what led to her divorce. This is the story I gathered eavesdropping when Aunt Mavis's friends sat on her porch one night: Clayton packed for the Georgia Association of Educators conference and assured Lorene he'd be back in time for their anniversary dinner. His mistake was telling her he'd stop by their Atlanta house to check on the property. They spent their summer breaks in Atlanta in the home her parents had given them as a wedding gift. Her parents should have given her the middle name, Surprise. She had a reputation for popping in unannounced with gifts and trinkets for people.

In she waltzed, carrying a bouquet of daisies, a picnic basket, and Clay's favorite Manischewitz Blackberry wine. She stood in the living room, head cocked to the side, while Clay sat in Russ's lap eating cheese and purple globe grapes. As Russ bounced Clay on his knee and serenaded him with Marvin Gaye's “Soon I'll Be Loving You Again,” she dropped the bottle, opened the picnic basket, and tossed food at them. Sandwiches, sweets, and fruit littered the living room floor. Near-sighted and living with astigmatism, she dropped her glasses, but felt around on the floor for the daisies.

She followed the sound of Clayton's voice saying, “Lorene, it's not what you think.” She cold-cocked Russ in his mouth, chipping his tooth.

She backed away from them screaming and crying, “What don't I understand,
Clayton
? That you like sausages instead of pancakes!” She found her glasses and left the two of them there, filing for divorce the following week.

I assure her, “Your doors were always open for us, so the rules haven't changed. You're still Cousin Lorene, and you're still welcome to stop in anytime.”

“Glad to know it,” she says. She moves along, heartbreak covering her face.

The morning is starting off with a bang. It only gets better when I see Ethan's handsome face devouring a bag of blue cotton candy.

I
wave to Ethan and he looks past me. A handsome, lighter, teenage version of Ethan reaches across him as a woman in the food stand hands him a pretzel dog. The teen wears a red Baldwin High School T-shirt with an Indian sporting a Mohawk. The teen steps back as I try to get Ethan's attention again. This time, he gives me a slack wave and turns his attention back to the food stand. I look around for his wife. I don't want to be disrespectful, but it's good seeing him again and I want to tell him so.

“Willa, will you watch the booth? I'm going to speak to someone.”

“Who do you know in this town after all these years?”

I point to Ethan. Willa's expression is a question mark. “He's Mama's social worker. He was at the meeting two weeks ago.”

“Go ahead.” She hands me a ten-dollar bill. “Bring me a pretzel dog and some popcorn, please.”

The streets are swollen with people. I snake my way through the maze and tap Ethan's shoulder. “How are you? It's good to see you.” He pauses a few seconds. “I'm Toni. Greta's daughter. We met a few weeks ago.”

“I—”

“It's the hair, isn't it? I had it out and flowing the first time. These braids are necessary for this weather. October in Georgia is still warm.”

“Dad, I'm going to mingle. Cuties abound.” Ethan and his son do a fist pound.

“Son, you've got two hours to roam free. Meet me on the courthouse steps in two hours.”

Ethan turns his attention to me again. His left finger is void of its ring. It's too soon to be trouble in paradise. “Do we know each other?”

“Hello.
We met at GMH.”

“Oh, you mean—”

“Harassing the ladies, bro?” a voice asks.

Humiliation fills me. They stand next to each other and my mouth is agape.

“I'm Evan. I think you thought I was my twin brother, Ethan. He's the educated big head in the family. I'm just a handyman.”

Ethan greets me again with his wife and children in tow. “Toni, when you mentioned the festival, I had no idea you'd be front and center.” He points to my apron and quickly acknowledges his family. “This is my wife, Madeline, and my son, Calvin, and my daughter, Cheris.” They shake my hand. Calvin and Cheris sport braces and preteen acne. Madeline smiles as well and looks lovingly at Ethan. “Toni is a relative of one of my clients.”