style="font-size:15px;"> Translated, that’s acid reflux and fibroids in the uterus. Fayrene is Mama’s best friend and the queen of malapropisms and green polyester. I’ve tried to steer her to a more flattering color but she says she likes green because it’s the color of money.
I console her over her imaginary ailments and she says, “I’m glad to see you’re back with Jack.”
Jack winks at her. “So am I.”
I flounce out and straddle the hated Harley. “I’m not back with you.”
“Not yet.”
He revs up and we check the rest of Elvis’ stomping ground: the Mooreville High School ball field where he loves to sit on the sidelines and howl along with the band or watch ball practice, the barbershop that features a red-and-white-striped pole he regularly anoints, and the used car lot whose owner has a big black 1960s Cadillac that Elvis considers his.
All these places are within easy walking distance of Hair.Net. Mooreville is not much more than a wide place in the road. Two roads, actually. The four-way stop in the heart of things is at the intersection of Highways 178 and 371. That’s not saying much because both are two-lane roads.
If the state ever adds more lanes I’ll be too worried to buy shoes. My dog is an escape artist. If a hound dog wants to wander, even my almost-ex can’t keep it fenced in.
“We might as well go back,” I say.
“There’s another place I want to check out.”
We peel out of the used car lot, race four miles south on 371, and hang a hard right on the narrow lane across from Wildwood Chapel Cemetery, dominated by Daddy’s black African marble obelisk, Aunt Minrose’s (Lovie’s mom) soaring pink Italian marble angel, and our Valentine grandparents’ replica of the Pearly Gates.
Jack screeches to a halt in a wooded glade overlooking Mama’s lake on the hundred-and-sixty-acre farm where I grew up.
Dreams gestate in the beauty of this land. When we were sixteen Lovie and I sat side by side on an overhanging limb of the massive blackjack oak and planned our futures. At the age of eighty, she was to be an even more famous musician than her mother, while I was going to be in my own house surrounded by sixteen great-grandchildren, an adoring husband, and a faithful dog.
At the rate I’m going, the only part I’m going to end up with is a faithful dog.
Now I’m telling Jack, “Oh no, you don’t,” but he just grins and plucks me off the Harley.
The minute my feet touch that beloved, almost sacred ground, I’m a goner. And I can’t say I’m all that sorry, either.
Much, much later, as I brush grass off my skirt I tell Jack, “Don’t think this means you’re going to get custody of Elvis.”
He swats me on the butt, tosses me onto his Harley, and roars off.
But I’m not fixing to start feeling guilty. Love makes fools of us all, and that’s all I’m saying on that subject. Besides, dallying with my ex is better than being roadkill.
“Callie, you have grass in your hair.” Lovie’s sharp blue eyes never miss a thing.
“Oh, shoot.” I reach up and brush the bits and pieces out, hopefully before Uncle Charlie or any of the Latons notice.
We’re in the boardroom at Eternal Rest where Grover Grimsley, who happens to be my divorce lawyer, is setting up a screen so we can watch Dr. Laton deliver funeral instructions as well as his last will and testament.
“Jack?” Lovie asks.
“How’d you know?”
“You’re predictable. And he’s just downright dangerous, which is why he still rings every one of your chimes.”
“I want a steady man with a decent nine-to-five job.”
“I’d amputate my G-spot with a shish kebab stick before I’d have a man that boring. And so would you.”
“Hush up, Lovie. Grover will hear you.”
“I wonder if he’s partial to cream puffs.”
Lovie and I slide into seats at the back so we can spy.
When I arrived at Eternal Rest with a beard burn located where I’ll never tell and a nagging fear about Elvis, Uncle Charlie told me, “I want you and Lovie to observe everybody. It had to be one of the Latons who surprised us with the pasties, because they were the only ones here besides us.”
Now Uncle Charlie’s up front saying, “It looks like everybody is here.”
“Not quite.” Grover looks at his watch, then at the back door.
As if she’s been waiting for her cue, an aging Amazonian peroxided blonde strolls in wearing widow’s weeds that show enough bare leg and cleavage to scandalize everybody in the Bible Belt. Lifting the veil of her sassy sequined hat with one black-gloved hand, she winks at me, which is a pure miracle. She’s wearing so much mascara it’s a wonder she can move her eyes.
“Do you mind?” the woman asks, then sits beside me, crosses her legs, and proceeds to dangle a sling-backed shoe with killer stiletto heels. Her fragrance wafts over me in a nauseating wave—Poison.
Lovie punches me in the ribs and I punch her back while Grover says, “Let’s proceed.”
He dims the lights and switches on the DVD video player and up pops a larger-than-life image of Dr. Leonard Laton.
“Well, I guess you’re all here except Bevvie, who is probably off shooting something, which means I’m dead and all of you can breathe a sigh of relief. Janice, stop your silly histrionics, and, Mellie, you never did give a damn about me, so don’t start pretending now.”
Janice leans on her husband’s shoulder in a fake swoon I can spot a mile away while Mellie sits stiff-backed. The woman beside me takes a man’s handkerchief with a monogrammed M out of a black sequined evening bag.
“You’re in good hands with my buddy Charlie Valentine, who’s not only the best undertaker in Mississippi but the best fisherman. Much as it will pain all of you to hang around and look at my carcass, I’m not fixing to be put in the ground till every one of you is here. And I don’t want a single one of you crying at my funeral.”
“How could he?” Janice yells, but when her husband rises to escort her from the room, she jerks his coattail, and he plops back into his chair.
As if he had anticipated her reaction, Dr. Laton says, “You didn’t shed a tear nor lift a hand while I wasted away at Peaceful Pines Nursing Home. For that reason and many more that are none of your damned business, I leave my house in Tupelo, my condo in Key West, three million dollars in stocks and mutual funds, and my Mercedes Benz to Bubbles Malone.”
The woman beside me smothers a sound with her handkerchief that might be mistaken for grief if you weren’t sitting elbow to elbow.
“Bubbles, strut your stuff, honey, and finish scandalizing this greedy bunch.” Dr.
