Read Online Sneaky Pie's Cookbook for Mystery Lovers by Rita Mae Brown - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Rita Mae Brown
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here are pretty much the same. Mother intends to stay awake until midnight. She places pots and pans by the door with a giant spoon, the idea being thatafter her mouthful of black-eyed peas, she goes outside and bangs the pots. The horses hate it, of course.
Out here in the country, people shoot rifles in the air, set off firecrackers, and make a great deal of noise. In the icy January air, with no leaves on the trees to muffle sound, those sounds carry. There’s a lot of stall banging and loud complaints from the stable on New Year’s Eve.
The New Year’s Eve I remember best occurred when Pewter and I were kittens. The Corgi wasn’t born yet. Mom waited until December 31 to buy a truck. Her first new truck. Pewter and I ran outside to admire the Ford F150 4 × 4. The metallic royal blue exterior seemed deeper against the white snow. The interior was a handsome beige. Naturally, our human was over the moon.
A mile and a half down our road lived a simpleminded neighbor two years older than God. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a human that old before or since. No one called him by his last name because his uncle had been governor of Virginia back in the forties and a governor couldn’t have a simpleminded nephew. As he was a short, energetic man, everyone just called him Banty.
Banty lived alone since his family had long been dead. He adored my mother because she spoke to him as though he was just like everyone else. Now, why he wanted to be just like anyone else mystifies me because the truth about Virginians is that one out of four is mentally ill. Think of your three best friends. If they’re all right, then it’s you! Mother’s mother told her that and it’s the God’s honest truth—not that anyone from Virginia will admit it.
Anyway, Banty desperately wanted to be like everyone else. He’d visit and bring us fresh-grown catnip. What money his family had put aside for him had been exhausted decades ago—no one had ever expected him to live to such an advanced age. He cut his own wood for his wood-burning stove and his cookstove. He raised chickens and sold eggs. He also had goats for milk and he’d learned to make goat’s milk soap, and a fine soap it was.
This particular New Year’s Eve the evening temperature skidded into the teens. The day had been warmer, the low forties, and the snow melted a bit, which meant on top of the snow rested a treacherous layer of ice.
Mom had parked her new truck by the front door so she could look at it constantly. Before sunset she hopped into her old truck one last time, a worn 1972 Ford, and drove it down to the dealer. He would carry her home.
Banty, with a goat on a leash, a gift for Mom, walked up to the front door and knocked, but Mom wasn’t home. We meowed. He opened the door a crack, thought better of it, and closed the door. The night was so bitter, he didn’t want to leave the nanny goat tied to a fence. And if he turned the goat out in a pasture it would follow him home. So he opened the door of the brand-new truck and the goat jumped right in. Perfect. He slipped and slid down the driveway, walking the mile and a half back to his little house in the hollow.
Mom showed up in the driveway about an hour after that. She hopped out of the passenger seat and waved goodbye to the Ford dealer.
We watched from the picture window as she admiredher truck. She took a step closer. Stopped. Then moved as fast as we’d ever seen Mom move. Remarkable, really, given the ice. She opened the door to behold her present from Banty, and the fact that her truck now had no interior. The nanny goat even ate hunks out of the dash.
Mom lifted the goat out of the truck, sat down on the front steps, and cried. Finally she pulled herself together, walking the goat down to the garden shed. She couldn’t put the nanny in with the horses because the scent of a goat will drive them crazy until they become accustomed to it. If you live in the city you might not know it but goats
Out here in the country, people shoot rifles in the air, set off firecrackers, and make a great deal of noise. In the icy January air, with no leaves on the trees to muffle sound, those sounds carry. There’s a lot of stall banging and loud complaints from the stable on New Year’s Eve.
The New Year’s Eve I remember best occurred when Pewter and I were kittens. The Corgi wasn’t born yet. Mom waited until December 31 to buy a truck. Her first new truck. Pewter and I ran outside to admire the Ford F150 4 × 4. The metallic royal blue exterior seemed deeper against the white snow. The interior was a handsome beige. Naturally, our human was over the moon.
A mile and a half down our road lived a simpleminded neighbor two years older than God. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a human that old before or since. No one called him by his last name because his uncle had been governor of Virginia back in the forties and a governor couldn’t have a simpleminded nephew. As he was a short, energetic man, everyone just called him Banty.
Banty lived alone since his family had long been dead. He adored my mother because she spoke to him as though he was just like everyone else. Now, why he wanted to be just like anyone else mystifies me because the truth about Virginians is that one out of four is mentally ill. Think of your three best friends. If they’re all right, then it’s you! Mother’s mother told her that and it’s the God’s honest truth—not that anyone from Virginia will admit it.
Anyway, Banty desperately wanted to be like everyone else. He’d visit and bring us fresh-grown catnip. What money his family had put aside for him had been exhausted decades ago—no one had ever expected him to live to such an advanced age. He cut his own wood for his wood-burning stove and his cookstove. He raised chickens and sold eggs. He also had goats for milk and he’d learned to make goat’s milk soap, and a fine soap it was.
This particular New Year’s Eve the evening temperature skidded into the teens. The day had been warmer, the low forties, and the snow melted a bit, which meant on top of the snow rested a treacherous layer of ice.
Mom had parked her new truck by the front door so she could look at it constantly. Before sunset she hopped into her old truck one last time, a worn 1972 Ford, and drove it down to the dealer. He would carry her home.
Banty, with a goat on a leash, a gift for Mom, walked up to the front door and knocked, but Mom wasn’t home. We meowed. He opened the door a crack, thought better of it, and closed the door. The night was so bitter, he didn’t want to leave the nanny goat tied to a fence. And if he turned the goat out in a pasture it would follow him home. So he opened the door of the brand-new truck and the goat jumped right in. Perfect. He slipped and slid down the driveway, walking the mile and a half back to his little house in the hollow.
Mom showed up in the driveway about an hour after that. She hopped out of the passenger seat and waved goodbye to the Ford dealer.
We watched from the picture window as she admiredher truck. She took a step closer. Stopped. Then moved as fast as we’d ever seen Mom move. Remarkable, really, given the ice. She opened the door to behold her present from Banty, and the fact that her truck now had no interior. The nanny goat even ate hunks out of the dash.
Mom lifted the goat out of the truck, sat down on the front steps, and cried. Finally she pulled herself together, walking the goat down to the garden shed. She couldn’t put the nanny in with the horses because the scent of a goat will drive them crazy until they become accustomed to it. If you live in the city you might not know it but goats
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