Three years after the murder, my father invited a lady to dinner. Although he knew little about cooking, and even less about fancy cooking, it was evident that this was someone he wished to impress. My brother and I had never eaten shrimp before, but dad made a trip to the local provision company and brought home two dozen raw shrimp. He bought a six-pack of beer–more expensive than what he had ever purchased before, bread from the local bakery, and lastly, a trip to the grocery where he bought not only cheese and crackers, but enough greenery for a splendid salad, a whole chicken, baking potatoes and sauce for the shrimp.
Serendipitously, dessert had been provided quite unexpectedly by Eddie Morrison’s wife Izzy–undoubtedly with the hope that Pat might share it with her, some night when Eddie was laboring at his night-shift job. I was over nine now, and Teddy had become a strapping fourteen-year old. We were both pressed into service and among the three of us, we managed to complete the cooking, and cleaned up the kitchen in a fairly proper fashion.
Inspecting his ears and neck, daddy admonished Teddy once again: “Teddy–march yourself back to the bathroom and this time, use soap and water, and if my next inspection doesn’t prove you’ve done so, I’ll come in and scrub for you! And Sunshine, for God’s sake, put on a clean dress. The one you’re wearing is spotted with everything we’re having for dinner,” he complained, while picking a piece of shrimp shell from my hair.
After mother’s death, not too much attention had been paid to my appearance. My clothing consisted mainly of hand-me-downs from sympathetic neighbors, or a gift from Mike, who was now the manager of the Ladies Fashion Salon, at Pitts Department Store; however, two years ago, my father began bringing me an occasional package which contained a simple dress or two, and ordinary underwear which he himself had purchased at Pitts.
In the afternoon, the weather turned windy and the sky was inky with dark and angry clouds. Forever after, when I saw raw shrimp in their shells of grey and black, I would be reminded of that day, and never again would I enjoy sitting on a porch of a summer evening watching heat lightning in the distance, nor hear the rumble of thunder without reliving the moment she came into our lives.
Teddy and I peered out an upstairs’ window in time to see our dad scramble from the driver’s seat, fairly falling over his own feet to make it around to the other side of the car to help ‘Jo’ (short for Josephine, we later learned.) from the car. Just as she emerged, the rain began in earnest. Under the protection of his umbrella, she minced her way up the front porch steps in a dainty pair of black patent leather, pointy-toed shoes, with the highest heels I’d ever seen, and even then, I noticed that this lady only came to my daddy’s chin. She shrieked at each flash of lightening, covered her ears with every clap of thunder, and squealed while grabbing his arm “honey, if you don’ hustle me in, ma ’do’ is gonna be completely rooint!”
By the time they reached the front door, we had made our way downstairs and after hasty and nervous introductions, the adults settled themselves in the living room, while Teddy and I served the shrimp and crackers, and Teddy produced two bottles of beer. It occurred to me that perhaps the lady didn’t know my daddy’s name, for it was ‘honey’ this, and ‘sweetie’ that, and it became quite clear to us that this was not going to be a once in a lifetime visit! Jo politely asked in a long, drawly sort of way to “faaetch me a tumblah for ma beeeah, honey.” I remembered my mother’s collection of metal tumblers delivered by the milkman, each containing eight ounces of cottage cheese, and I promptly ran to “faaetch” one. I handed her the tumbler, Teddy poured her beer, and then we sat in a corner of the room and stared in silence.
When Jo withdrew a cigarette from a gold cigarette case, which I mistook for a lady’s compact, my father stumbled over his feet to strike a match for her. Now when my daddy smoked, he inhaled, exhaled, and coughed. Jo inhaled long and hard, and when she exhaled, the smoke came out of her puckered mouth and nose at the same time, terminating with a perfect little smoke ring. Teddy and I were mesmerized by this spoiled lady who called our daddy ‘honey’.
During dinner Jo picked a crumb from her lower lip, looked toward us and drawled, “ahd be ever so pleased if you’all’d call me ‘Miss Jo’. It sounds so nice and respectable to me, don’t you’all think so?”
Teddy pushed the chicken around his plate while I looked at my daddy, who conveniently was distracted by swatting an invisible fly. We both murmured “Yes, Miss Jo.” Jo nodded smugly and gave Pat a little nod and a wink as if to say “there, I told you so!”
She ate with dainty little bites (morsels, as she called them,) patted her dainty little lips after each morsel with her paper napkin, and commented “this was jes the sweetest dinnah ah think ahv evah been served, but if you don’ mind, I’ll pass on the cherry pie–watchin ma figgah, ya know.”
After dinner, we all ‘retired’ to the living room, where once again we were hypnotized by her pyrotechnics, and then Jo mentioned that she “was mighty supraahsed” that you han’t got rid of a passel of Sally’s thangs.” I glanced at my daddy just in time to see him put his finger to his lips to shush her.
By the time our father returned from delivering Jo to wherever it was that she was to be delivered, we were fast asleep. The following weekend, Jo once again came to dinner, and three months later,unbeknownst to Teddy and me, they were married on a Saturday afternoon by the same minister who had buried our mother. His secretary Myrtle was the only witness.
Returning home with Jo later that evening, our dad announced to us, “I have great news for you both–you can now call Miss Jo, ‘mama’, or ‘ma’am’ if you prefer because we hitched the knot this afternoon, and Jo is now going to be your new mother.” I looked at Teddy, Teddy looked at me, and later, when we were alone, we discussed the situation. “What do we do now?” I asked, “I liked it when it was just the three of us.”
“I don’t know about you, Sunny, but if I was a little older, I’d join the army–even army rations would be better than having her around. I’ll bet she doesn’t even know how to cook–unless it’s possum!” “Well, she’ll never be ‘mama’ to me,” I said sadly.
With that, Miss Jo moved into our lives, and into our mama’s side of the bed.
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