Read Online Lay that Trumpet in Our Hands by Susan Carol McCarthy - Free Book Online Page A

.” she says, dropping her chin like Marvin used to, “Ah brought you some snicker doodles, and, since those boys done traipsed off to O’landah, Ah ’spect you get the whole plate to your own self.”
    “Snicker doodles?”
    “Your mamma put ’em over there,” she says and points to the desk in front of the showroom window, “next to your puzzle.”
    “Thank you, Armetta,” I say, hugging her, “for . . . well, everything.”
    “Have some cookies, girl. Ah gotta get myself back to work,” she says, but holds me real tight a moment longer before she goes.
    I sink into Mother’s desk chair. The crunchy sweetness of a snicker doodle can’t cover the taste of bitter grief in my mouth. Staring through the shelves of the shell-lamp section, I hear Mother making change for a customer.
    Beyond her, in the driveway, a second car wheels in and parks beside the people just leaving. I recognize, with surprise, the big blue Pontiac that is May Carol’s mother’s car.
    Miz Lucy Garnet, blonde hair, pink shirtwaist and big black sunglasses, steps out of her car alone. As she greets my mother, I wonder where May Carol could be.
    “Hey, Lizbeth. How you doin’ today?” Miz Lucy calls, tucking her glasses with a snap into a small white purse.
    “Trying to stay cool,” Mother says. “How about you? Looks like it’s heating up pretty good out there.”
    “Yeah, probably, I had the air conditioner on.” Miz Lucy sounds distracted as she scans the showroom, spotting Armetta at work on the honeys and marmalades. “Listen, Lizbeth, would it be okay with you if I have a li’l conversation with Armetta? Won’t take a minute.”
    Mother, apparently not wanting to speak for her, turns toward the stepladder and calls, “Armetta?”
    Through the office window, I can tell Armetta’s noticed Miz Lucy but elected to keep on cleaning.
    Miz Lucy strides, high heels clacking across the concrete floor, around the rack of postcards, past the three big showcases of small souvenirs, to the great wall of glass jars in the back. “Armetta, could we talk a minute?” Miz Lucy calls up the ladder.
    “Ah got lots to do here, Miz Lucy.”
    “Armetta,
please
?”
    Armetta carefully, quite deliberately sets aside her spray bottle. She lumbers down and off the ladder, keeping the white cloth in her hand. Miz Lucy cups her elbow and pointing to the shell-lamp section, just in front of me, says, “How ’bout over there?”
    The two women move to a spot in front of the open window. May Carol’s mother is a fragile, pretty woman, a Southern Belle who married well. Next to her, Armetta stands at least a head taller, her arms thick and powerful next to Miz Lucy’s frail white ones.
    “Armetta,” Miz Lucy says urgently, in a voice so low that both Armetta and I incline our heads to hear. “I’m about to go out of my
mind
. May Carol can’t sleep, won’t eat, won’t hardly do a thing ’cause of missin’ you. Durin’ the day, that girl’s like a haunt, wanderin’ from room to room. Every night, she just cries and cries. What can I
say
, what can I
do
to get you to come back to us?”
    “Miz Lucy, you know this has nothin’ to do with you and that chil’.”
    “Yes, Armetta, and you have to know that Reed had nothin’ to do with Marvin’s death.”
    “No, ma’am, Ah can’t know that. Ah’m not saying Mistuh Reed pulled the trigger, or nothin’ like that. But Ah know it was the Klan that kilt mah Marvin and that Mistuh Reed’s a member.”
    “But, Armetta, there’s three different Klan dens around here. Reed’s is just a card club, bunch of overgrown boys playin’ poker.”
    Armetta looks off into the sunshiny distance outside and breathes deeply. The broad planes of her face are still when she turns back to Miz Lucy.
    “Miz Lucy, Ah can’t. Ah just can’t feature comin’ back to your house, cleanin’, cookin’, puttin’ clothes in the closet, seein’ that white robe hangin’ in there.”
    “Armetta, I could