the other two followed dutifully behind, but upon entering the parlor the trio stopped cold, apparently stunned simultaneously. The women put Sweet Pea in mind of a herd of fainting goats her uncle used to have. When startled, their joints locked up and they toppled over, rigid as boards. Sweet Pea smiled, picturing all three white ladies dressed in voile and crinoline, lying about Miss Hazel’s new rubberized floor, stiff as a load of lumber.
As for Hazel, at first she smiled proudly, judging their reaction to be positive, yet as the seconds ticked by without a word, her stomach began to grow queasy again. She didn’t know what to say. She would have fled through the door had she not been in her own home.
“Y’all sit yourselves down,” Sweet Pea said, taking charge. “Miss Hazel done got some fine eating planned.”
“Yes, yes,” Hazel stammered. “Y’all sit down. Anywhere.”
Still standing in a bunch, the women swiveled their heads around the room as if determined to find a place to roost as a group. Finally, Miss Pearl and Miss Hertha chose the Stratoloungers and Delia settled on the vinyl couch. When her guests were seated Hazel eased herself into a plastic shell chair. There was a period of uncomfortable silence when Sweet Pea disappeared into the kitchen.
Hazel’s mind raced furiously, trying to think of something to say. When she looked over at Miss Pearl the woman smiled pleasantly, dismissing any awkwardness from the room. Pearl leaned in toward Hazel. “I’m so sorry. We can’t possibly stay but a few minutes. Our little club meeting went longer than we planned, and the rest of the ladies are at this very moment finishing up without us.”
“What kind of club y’all got?” Hazel blurted, excited that she had thought of something to say.
“Why, we call it the Trois Arts League.”
“It’s French,” Delia explained, her eyes still laughing. “For ‘three arts.’ ”
“I swan.”
“Exactly,” said Miss Pearl. “Every month we consider the life of a painter, a composer, and an author.”
“Ain’t that nice! Sounds so smart of y’all.”
“Why, thank you, Hazel,” Pearl said. “And of course we do our part for the community. Our busiest time is coming up, and we have a host of events to plan for.” Pearl touched her handkerchief to her heart and whispered, “Charity season, you know,” as if the poor people might be listening. “So we can only stay for a chat. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Don’t think nothing of it,” Hazel said to Pearl. “I’m just glad y’all could show.” Hazel knew she should be disappointed, but she wasn’t. These three ladies had only been there under five minutes and they had already overloaded her wagon.
Of course Pearl wasn’t being bad at all. It was Hertha who sent shivers through Hazel. The sheriff’s wife was sitting straight-backed and wooden in her lounger. Hazel couldn’t help noticing that her front teeth bucked worse than a rodeo horse and her brow hung like a fireplace mantel over eyes the color of cold ashes. She may well have been the most disagreeable-looking person Hazel had ever seen. It was she who spoke next. “Well, you certainly have a unique decorating style, Hazel.” There was something about the way the word “unique” splintered in Hertha’s throat that made Hazel judge the observation not at all complimentary. “What do you call it?” she asked. Even though Hertha was asking Hazel, she was looking sidelong at Delia. There was a slight curl to Hertha’s lip.
Thinking of how to answer a question she didn’t understand, Hazel noticed how warm it had become. She heard something that resembled the tinkling bells on a faraway hill. Or maybe, she thought, like laughter right before it breaks out into sound.
She looked again to Miss Pearl, who smiled at her sympathetically, encouraging her on. “Well, I don’t call it nothing by name,” Hazel said haltingly. “Just furniture, I suppose. Things I thought was pretty.”
The woman nodded and the corners of her mouth twitched and her nose scrunched up, as if she could burst into ugly hysterical snorts at any moment. “It’s certainly. . .what’s the word? Intense.”
The tinkling of the bells grew louder, and Hazel checked Miss Pearl’s expression. She was still smiling reassuringly.
Delia spoke up. “It all looks so. . .new.”
“Brand new. Just been bought,” Hazel said hopefully.
“Didn’t you bring any family pieces with you from home?” Hertha asked, wincing as if something hurt.
“No. My folks is still sitting in ’em, I reckon,” Hazel answered.
Little coughs were exchanged between Hertha and Delia, a cold was catching. To keep from crying, Hazel bit her lip and again looked over at Miss Pearl, her eyes pleading.
Pearl nodded agreeably and said, “It must be nice not to have to bother with dusty old hand-me-downs and start fresh.” She raised her lace handkerchief to her creamy throat and lowered her voice, as if she were confessing a deep dark secret. “Why, many a day I want to throw out the old and begin anew. Just because we saved them from the Yankees, we feel we have to display our pieces as if they were monuments. Now, that’s what I call silly. We should all be more sensible like Hazel here.”
The other ladies nodded, agreeing that they were the foolish ones after all. The bells were silenced and Hazel breathed easier.
“Where did your people distinguish themselves during the war, Hazel?” It was Hertha asking.
Hazel was confused. She snatched at the collar of her dress and said timidly, “War?”
“Well, for instance, my great-great-uncle served with Lee. And my great-grandfather was the drummer boy at Chickamauga. In fact, all the Trois Arts women belong to the United Daughters of the Confederacy.”
“Chicka—oh that war!” Hazel said, very relieved to be catching on. “We got a funny story about that.”
“Do tell it, Hazel,” Miss Pearl urged.
“Well, my great-great-granddaddy didn’t own no slaves, so he didn’t figure he should have to fight no war to keep them. He spent the whole time up a sycamore tree hiding from both sides. The only general we got in my family is my daddy, Major General Ishee, and that’s because he got to name hisself.”
The laughter Hazel evoked with her story was different from what she was aiming for. It was sharp and jagged like broken glass. Miss Pearl shot the two women daggers and the laughter ceased.
Then into the deathly silence clattered Sweet Pea with a large serving tray, bellowing, “Y’all surely going to love this here.” She set the tray on the banana table next to the punch bowl and backed away to let the women gaze at the feast of potato chips and onion dip, Vienna sausages smothered in barbecue sauce, and boiled ham bits floating in a bowl of crushed pineapple.
No one moved. Figuring that the women may not have read the Hopalachie Courier and therefore were not up-to-date on their delicacies, Sweet Pea decided to instruct them, bending down so low over the tray that everyone’s eyes went nervously to her tightly bound breasts, which looked ready to discharge themselves into the dip like cannonballs.
Sweet Pea held up a toothpick. “You git you a little stick
