Read Online Tender Graces by Kathryn Magendie - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kathryn Magendie
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dresses and preachers and booze and lost babies. I go to the window and see old moon grinning. Moon doesn’t have a lick of sense tonight.
A gust of wind hits my face and sweeps papers from the bed onto the floor. I roll my eyes. “I know, Grandma. I still have work to do.”
On the way to the kitchen to make coffee, I like how the old worn floor feels cool on my feet. On the kitchen counter is the red-and-white rooster-handled sugar and creamer, alongside the flour jar that matches Grandma Faith’s. Everything is just as Momma left it. Even her cup is rinsed, dried, and left by the sink. I pick it up and rub the cool porcelain. As the cup warms in my hands, I see Momma sipping from it, making that oh-it’s-hot-but-good face. I put the kettle on the fire, and then look around.
Near the corner to the left, at attention, stand the liquor bottles. Beside them is an ashtray full of cigarette butts—the red lipstick-tipped filters make it seem as if Momma’s coming right back to have coffee with me, as soon as she puts her house dress on. I smell her Shalimar and tobacco.
I say, “Momma? I’m not afraid if you want to come to the kitchen with me.” But I really am afraid she’ll float into the room, pour rum into her coffee, and start telling me secrets.
I have a sudden urge to sweep the bottles onto the floor, watch them bleed their liquid until they’re emptied. Instead, I take a circle glass from the cabinet, pick up the rum and pour a bit into it. I sniff it and the smell makes my stomach clench. I’ve had wine and beer, and bubbly champagne on the day of my I-thought-this-would-be-forever wedding, but I never cared for the strong stuff. There must be sparkly magic to it, though, since it kept Momma coming back for more. Daddy knew its magic, too. But he learned it’s the bad kind of trick before it destroyed him for good.
I take a big gulp. It’s fire across my tongue. The frog in my gullet coughs out, “Momma, how could you drink this stuff?” I dump out the dark rum and pour in a splash of vodka. When I swallow the clear liquid, the frog laps it up with a greedy grin. It makes me mad how liquidly smooth warm it makes my tongue, then my throat, then my stomach feel. I glub the rest of it in one throat-heating gulp. I wonder if my chin is getting pointy. Rinsing and drying the glass, I put it back in the cabinet, and leave the bottles where they are, for now.
Momma’s checkered curtains blow on either side of the open window, letting the coolness enter the room. I look out to see a light in Mrs. Mendel’s house and wonder if she’s still awake. She always did turn up on our doorstep when she thought we needed her. But she never meddled. That’s just how things were; mountain people minded their own business much as they could.
From the living room, I step outside. The dark puts its arms around me. The wind is blowing hard; no rain’s come yet. Everything feels velvety and close, like my favorite shirt. I step in the cool grass, feeling the blades under my feet, the springiness of the damp earth.
I get moon-sick-crazy, as I twirl around the yard towards Mrs. Mendel’s garden, whirl until I’m dizzy as a drunk. I lie in the grass and gaze up at my friend moon staining the sky pale, staining the mountains with mystery. When I get too chilly, I stand and put one foot in front of the other right where I’d stepped before. At the door, I glance back and a shadowy face is looking from Mrs. Mendel’s window. I wave and the shadow waves back.
Back in the kitchen, I see us all at the table. I imagine laughing and giggling and smiling. I put Momma in her blue house dress, Micah with his baggy pj’s and inky fingers, Daddy’s hair combed back—a plate of biscuits and gravy in front of him, Andy grinning with jelly on his face, and me pushing back my messy hair to watch everyone. It’s as pretty as the old television shows they used to make. The marks on the wall made when Mee Maw’s big rear end hit
A gust of wind hits my face and sweeps papers from the bed onto the floor. I roll my eyes. “I know, Grandma. I still have work to do.”
On the way to the kitchen to make coffee, I like how the old worn floor feels cool on my feet. On the kitchen counter is the red-and-white rooster-handled sugar and creamer, alongside the flour jar that matches Grandma Faith’s. Everything is just as Momma left it. Even her cup is rinsed, dried, and left by the sink. I pick it up and rub the cool porcelain. As the cup warms in my hands, I see Momma sipping from it, making that oh-it’s-hot-but-good face. I put the kettle on the fire, and then look around.
Near the corner to the left, at attention, stand the liquor bottles. Beside them is an ashtray full of cigarette butts—the red lipstick-tipped filters make it seem as if Momma’s coming right back to have coffee with me, as soon as she puts her house dress on. I smell her Shalimar and tobacco.
I say, “Momma? I’m not afraid if you want to come to the kitchen with me.” But I really am afraid she’ll float into the room, pour rum into her coffee, and start telling me secrets.
I have a sudden urge to sweep the bottles onto the floor, watch them bleed their liquid until they’re emptied. Instead, I take a circle glass from the cabinet, pick up the rum and pour a bit into it. I sniff it and the smell makes my stomach clench. I’ve had wine and beer, and bubbly champagne on the day of my I-thought-this-would-be-forever wedding, but I never cared for the strong stuff. There must be sparkly magic to it, though, since it kept Momma coming back for more. Daddy knew its magic, too. But he learned it’s the bad kind of trick before it destroyed him for good.
I take a big gulp. It’s fire across my tongue. The frog in my gullet coughs out, “Momma, how could you drink this stuff?” I dump out the dark rum and pour in a splash of vodka. When I swallow the clear liquid, the frog laps it up with a greedy grin. It makes me mad how liquidly smooth warm it makes my tongue, then my throat, then my stomach feel. I glub the rest of it in one throat-heating gulp. I wonder if my chin is getting pointy. Rinsing and drying the glass, I put it back in the cabinet, and leave the bottles where they are, for now.
Momma’s checkered curtains blow on either side of the open window, letting the coolness enter the room. I look out to see a light in Mrs. Mendel’s house and wonder if she’s still awake. She always did turn up on our doorstep when she thought we needed her. But she never meddled. That’s just how things were; mountain people minded their own business much as they could.
From the living room, I step outside. The dark puts its arms around me. The wind is blowing hard; no rain’s come yet. Everything feels velvety and close, like my favorite shirt. I step in the cool grass, feeling the blades under my feet, the springiness of the damp earth.
I get moon-sick-crazy, as I twirl around the yard towards Mrs. Mendel’s garden, whirl until I’m dizzy as a drunk. I lie in the grass and gaze up at my friend moon staining the sky pale, staining the mountains with mystery. When I get too chilly, I stand and put one foot in front of the other right where I’d stepped before. At the door, I glance back and a shadowy face is looking from Mrs. Mendel’s window. I wave and the shadow waves back.
Back in the kitchen, I see us all at the table. I imagine laughing and giggling and smiling. I put Momma in her blue house dress, Micah with his baggy pj’s and inky fingers, Daddy’s hair combed back—a plate of biscuits and gravy in front of him, Andy grinning with jelly on his face, and me pushing back my messy hair to watch everyone. It’s as pretty as the old television shows they used to make. The marks on the wall made when Mee Maw’s big rear end hit
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