Well, now. What’s this I hear?
It’ll never make a number-one hit record, but it’s music to my ears. Callie, calling me to supper. Judging by the smells that have been coming from the grill, I’d say it’s a good leftover T-bone steak.
Thank you, thank you very much. Elvis has left the building.
Obituaries
Tupelo—Dr. Leonard Laton, 78, prominent physician, died Wednesday, August 8, at Peaceful Pines Nursing Home after an extended illness. He is predeceased by his wife, Marie Hotchins Laton.
Survivors include one son, Kevin Laton of Tupelo; three daughters, Janice Laton Mims and her husband, Bradford, San Francisco; Bevvie Laton, Boulder; and Mellie Laton, Tupelo; and three step-grandchildren also of San Francisco.
Eternal Rest Funeral Home is handling all arrangements, which are incomplete at this time.
Chapter 1
Love, Vodka, and Red Pasties
Elvis has just peed on my shoes, which is my life in a nutshell. Every time I think I’m fixing to forge forward, somebody comes along to rain on my parade.
Not only do I have the most arrogant failed show dog east of the Mississippi, but I have a beauty parlor that’s more outgo than income, an almost exhusband I’m fighting for custody of my dog and my inconvenient libido, and a mama who makes withdrawals as if I’m the Bank of Callie Valentine Jones.
Currently Elvis is taking umbrage over getting dog chow for supper while Dr. Laton’s California relatives eat all the T-bone steak. Uncle Charlie always offers the out-of-town bereaved a place to stay, and my two-story, white clapboard house in Mooreville (population six hundred and fifty) on the outskirts of Tupelo is the only one in the Valentine family big enough to accommodate Janice Laton Mims, her husband, Bradford, and his three teenaged boys, plus Janice’s seven-piece matched set of Louis Vuitton luggage. The only good thing I can say about the invasion is that I don’t have to worry about being bushwhacked in my own bed by Jack Jones.
I bend over to scratch behind Elvis’ ears. Ordinarily this would make him forgive me, but just when I’m about to placate my opinionated basset hound, one of Dr. Laton’s step-grandkids—Rufus, I think—runs up and pulls his tail. Major mistake. Elvis prances over and hikes his leg on Janice Laton Mims’s Prada purse.
“Somebody get that animal out of here,” she yells, never mind that she’s a guest in my house.
“Don’t worry. I’ll clean it up. It’ll be just like new.” Collaring her purse and my dog, I escape to my kitchen.
Some people don’t know the meaning of gratitude.
I’m happy to say I’m not among that number. I’m putting up with the Laton bunch because it makes Uncle Charlie happy, and I’d do anything for the man who has been my surrogate father and my stronghold for most of my thirty-seven years.
His motto at Eternal Rest is “laissez le bon temps rouler,” which sounds strange for a funeral home unless you know the Valentine family. Although we have our serious side, we believe in letting the good times roll through every stage of life and that includes the leave-taking. Mama provides jazzy music and fancy headstones, I do the deceased’s hair and makeup, Lovie eases the bereaved’s pain with dishes featuring vodka, and Uncle Charlie sends the dearly departed off in high style to that big tent revival in the sky—or in the opposite direction.
The Valentine family has death covered. What we don’t have covered is keeping our own leaky boats afloat, especially in the treacherous waters of finance and love.
As if to prove my point, Lovie calls my cell phone while I’m in the middle of trying to rescue the overpriced purse.
“Callie, you’ve got to stall Daddy on Dr. Laton’s family viewing.”
“Why?”
“Because Kevin Laton’s going to be a little bit late.”
“How late?”
“I don’t know. It depends on how excited he gets over my crotchless panties and how long he can hold out.”
Lovie’s the most outrageous woman I know. She can walk into a room and bring everybody to their knees with laughter. But there’s so much more to her than entertainment value. She’s a strong, resilient, one-woman comfort machine.
Every time life clips my wings, Lovie picks me up and lets me glide along in her tailwinds till I’m strong enough to fly again.
After Daddy accidentally drove his tractor into the Tombigee River and floated off to Glory Land, I holed up in my bedroom determined to become the only ten-year-old recluse in Mooreville. Even Mama couldn’t get me to come out. But Lovie marched into my bedroom and said, “If you don’t come outside and play wedding Barbies this instant, I’m going to quit wearing clothes.”
“Nobody in this house cares, Lovie,” I told her.
“I bet the preacher will. Next Sunday I’m going to church naked.”
And she would have, too. Even at nine, she was as bullheaded as the team of mules Granddaddy Valentine used to plow the vegetable garden. I left my malaise behind and didn’t pick it up again till Jack left. Lovie came straight over with a six-pack of Hershey’s bars and an armful of I Love Lucy DVDs, and brought me back to life.
If I had her capacity for cures, I’d save her from her bad choices in men.
But I don’t, so all I can do is tell her, “Kevin’s a playboy. He’s never going to settle down.”
“Who said I wanted to settle down? Besides, you married God’s gift to women and look where that got you.”
A yearlong standoff in the divorce court. That’s where. Over a fracas involving the Harley that I refuse to discuss.
“That’s tacky of you to remind me, Lovie.”
“I’m a tacky, shallow person,” she says, which is the exact opposite of the truth. “Just do this one thing for me, Callie, and I’ll take Elvis to the vet the next time he has to go.”
Taking Elvis to the vet is my personal Battle at Waterloo. He hikes his leg on everything from the car tires to the vet’s pants leg, and that’s when he’s in a good mood.
“All right. I’ll stall.”
I make this promise reluctantly, not because stalling will be hard to do—the way the Laton teenagers are ripping around my backyard it’ll take a lasso to get them started on the fifteen-minute drive to Eternal Rest in Tupelo—but because I worry about Lovie. She can’t say no. More than one man has mixed up the name of her catering business—Lovie’s Luscious Eats—and called it Luscious Lovie Eats.
She’s the only woman I know who can make a hundred and ninety pounds look like a bombshell.
Beside her I look like a swizzle stick. No butt, long, skinny legs, size 34-B bra, which I refuse to stuff with push-up pads no matter how much sexier Lovie thinks I’d be. It’s not sex I’m aiming
