The Bourbon Kings
Page 11
Roger that, ma’am, he thought.
Crossing the shallow space, he found that the TV trays the two of them had always eaten off of were exactly where he’d seen them last—over in the corner, propped up between the entertainment console and the bookcase that was set at an angle. The pair of Barcaloungers were the same, too, each one in front of a tall window, crocheted doilies draped over the tops where the backs of heads went.
Pictures of children were everywhere and in all kinds of frames, and amid the beautiful, dark faces, there were pale ones, too: There was him at his kindergarten graduation; his brother Max scoring a goal in lacrosse; his sister, Gin, dressed up as a milk maid in a school play; his other brother, Edward, in a tie and jacket for his senior picture at U.Va.
“Good Lord, you are too thin, boy,” Miss Aurora muttered as she went to stir a pot that he knew was filled with green beans cooked with cubes of ham. “Don’t they have food up there in New York?”
“Not like this, ma’am.”
The sound she made in the back of her throat was like a Chevy backfiring. “Get the plates.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He discovered his hands were shaking as he took two out of the cupboard and they rattled together. Unlike the woman who had birthed him, who was no doubt upstairs “resting” in a medicated haze of I’m-not-an-addict-because-my-doctor-gave-me-the-pills, Miss Aurora had always seemed both ageless and strong as a superhero. The idea that the cancer was back?
Hell, he couldn’t fathom her having had it in the first place. But he wasn’t fooling himself. That had to be the reason for the collapse.
After he’d gotten the silver and napkins on the trays and poured them both a sweet tea, he went over and sat on the chair on the right.
“You shouldn’t be cooking,” he said as she started to plate up.
“And you should’na been gone so long. What’s wrong with you.”
Definitely not on her deathbed, he thought.
“What did the doctor say?” he asked.
“Nothing worth hearing in my opinion.” She brought over all kinds of heaped-to-Heaven. “Now be quiet and eat.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Oh, sweet Jesus, he thought as he stared down at his plate. Fried okra. Chitterlings. Potato cakes. Beans in that pork boil. And the fried chicken.
As his stomach let out a roar of starvation, she laughed.
But he didn’t, and abruptly, he had to clear his throat. This was home. This food, prepared by this specific woman, was home—he’d had exactly what was on this plate all of his life, especially back in the years before his mother had retreated from everything and she and his father had been out five nights a week socializing. Sick or well, happy or sad, hot or cold, he and his brothers and sister had sat in the kitchen with Miss Aurora and behaved themselves or risked getting swatted on the back of the head.
There were never any troublemakers in Miss Aurora’s kitchen.
“G’on now,” she said softly. “Don’t wait to where it gets cold.”
Talk about digging in, and he moaned as the first taste flooded his mouth. “Oh, Miss Aurora.”
“You need to come on home, boy.” She shook her head as she sat down with her own plate. “That northern stuff is not for you. Don’t know how you stand the weather—much less those people.”
“So you going to tell me what happened?” he asked, nodding at the cotton ball and surgical tape in the crook of her elbow.
“I don’t need that car you bought me. That’s what happened.”
He wiped his mouth. “What car?”
Those black eyes narrowed. “Don’t you try to play, boy.”
“Miss Aurora, you were driving a piece of—ah, junk. I can’t have y’all like that.”
He could hear the Southern creeping back into his voice. Didn’t take long, did it.
“My Malibu is perfectly fine—”
Now he held her stare. “It was a cheap car to begin with and had a hundred thousand miles on it.”
“Don’t see why—”
“Miss Aurora, I’m not having you in that junker no more. Sorry.”
She glared at him hard enough to burn a hole in his forehead, but when he didn’t budge, she dropped her eyes. And that was the nature of their relationship. Two hard heads, neither of whom was willing to give an inch about anything—except to the other one.
“I don’t need a Mercedes,” she muttered.
“Four-wheel drive, ma’am.”
“I don’t like the color. It’s unholy.”
“Bull. It’s U of C red and you love it.”
As she grumped again, he knew the truth. She adored the new car. Her sister, Miss Patience, had called him up and told him that Miss Aurora had been driving the E350 4MATIC all around town. Of course, Miss Aurora never dialed him to thank him, and he’d been expecting this protest: She’d always been too proud to accept anything for free.
But Miss Aurora also didn’t want to upset him—and knew he was right.
“So what happened this morning with you.” Not a question on his part. He was done with that.
“I just got a little light-headed.”
“They said you passed out.”
“I’m fine.”
“They said the cancer’s back.”
“Who is they.”
“Miss Aurora—”
“My Lord and Savior has healed me before and He will again.” She put one palm to Heaven and closed her eyes. Then looked over at him. “I’m going to be fine. Have I ever lied to you, boy?”
Crossing the shallow space, he found that the TV trays the two of them had always eaten off of were exactly where he’d seen them last—over in the corner, propped up between the entertainment console and the bookcase that was set at an angle. The pair of Barcaloungers were the same, too, each one in front of a tall window, crocheted doilies draped over the tops where the backs of heads went.
Pictures of children were everywhere and in all kinds of frames, and amid the beautiful, dark faces, there were pale ones, too: There was him at his kindergarten graduation; his brother Max scoring a goal in lacrosse; his sister, Gin, dressed up as a milk maid in a school play; his other brother, Edward, in a tie and jacket for his senior picture at U.Va.
“Good Lord, you are too thin, boy,” Miss Aurora muttered as she went to stir a pot that he knew was filled with green beans cooked with cubes of ham. “Don’t they have food up there in New York?”
“Not like this, ma’am.”
The sound she made in the back of her throat was like a Chevy backfiring. “Get the plates.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He discovered his hands were shaking as he took two out of the cupboard and they rattled together. Unlike the woman who had birthed him, who was no doubt upstairs “resting” in a medicated haze of I’m-not-an-addict-because-my-doctor-gave-me-the-pills, Miss Aurora had always seemed both ageless and strong as a superhero. The idea that the cancer was back?
Hell, he couldn’t fathom her having had it in the first place. But he wasn’t fooling himself. That had to be the reason for the collapse.
After he’d gotten the silver and napkins on the trays and poured them both a sweet tea, he went over and sat on the chair on the right.
“You shouldn’t be cooking,” he said as she started to plate up.
“And you should’na been gone so long. What’s wrong with you.”
Definitely not on her deathbed, he thought.
“What did the doctor say?” he asked.
“Nothing worth hearing in my opinion.” She brought over all kinds of heaped-to-Heaven. “Now be quiet and eat.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Oh, sweet Jesus, he thought as he stared down at his plate. Fried okra. Chitterlings. Potato cakes. Beans in that pork boil. And the fried chicken.
As his stomach let out a roar of starvation, she laughed.
But he didn’t, and abruptly, he had to clear his throat. This was home. This food, prepared by this specific woman, was home—he’d had exactly what was on this plate all of his life, especially back in the years before his mother had retreated from everything and she and his father had been out five nights a week socializing. Sick or well, happy or sad, hot or cold, he and his brothers and sister had sat in the kitchen with Miss Aurora and behaved themselves or risked getting swatted on the back of the head.
There were never any troublemakers in Miss Aurora’s kitchen.
“G’on now,” she said softly. “Don’t wait to where it gets cold.”
Talk about digging in, and he moaned as the first taste flooded his mouth. “Oh, Miss Aurora.”
“You need to come on home, boy.” She shook her head as she sat down with her own plate. “That northern stuff is not for you. Don’t know how you stand the weather—much less those people.”
“So you going to tell me what happened?” he asked, nodding at the cotton ball and surgical tape in the crook of her elbow.
“I don’t need that car you bought me. That’s what happened.”
He wiped his mouth. “What car?”
Those black eyes narrowed. “Don’t you try to play, boy.”
“Miss Aurora, you were driving a piece of—ah, junk. I can’t have y’all like that.”
He could hear the Southern creeping back into his voice. Didn’t take long, did it.
“My Malibu is perfectly fine—”
Now he held her stare. “It was a cheap car to begin with and had a hundred thousand miles on it.”
“Don’t see why—”
“Miss Aurora, I’m not having you in that junker no more. Sorry.”
She glared at him hard enough to burn a hole in his forehead, but when he didn’t budge, she dropped her eyes. And that was the nature of their relationship. Two hard heads, neither of whom was willing to give an inch about anything—except to the other one.
“I don’t need a Mercedes,” she muttered.
“Four-wheel drive, ma’am.”
“I don’t like the color. It’s unholy.”
“Bull. It’s U of C red and you love it.”
As she grumped again, he knew the truth. She adored the new car. Her sister, Miss Patience, had called him up and told him that Miss Aurora had been driving the E350 4MATIC all around town. Of course, Miss Aurora never dialed him to thank him, and he’d been expecting this protest: She’d always been too proud to accept anything for free.
But Miss Aurora also didn’t want to upset him—and knew he was right.
“So what happened this morning with you.” Not a question on his part. He was done with that.
“I just got a little light-headed.”
“They said you passed out.”
“I’m fine.”
“They said the cancer’s back.”
“Who is they.”
“Miss Aurora—”
“My Lord and Savior has healed me before and He will again.” She put one palm to Heaven and closed her eyes. Then looked over at him. “I’m going to be fine. Have I ever lied to you, boy?”
