“Folks, you’re going to need a car out here, and I have an old one you can use,” Ben offered as he hoisted our suitcases onto the front porch. Before we could say anything, he was halfway down the path.
“Hey, wait a minute, we haven’t paid the fare.” Vincent reached around for his wallet. “How much do we owe you?”
“Just give me a twenty.” My husband was so stunned with this generosity, he gave him the twenty, plus another twenty as a tip. But Ben handed back the extra twenty and gave me a little hug.
“Take her out to a nice dinner.” And then he left.
We followed Louise onto the porch, which was lined with old rocking chairs, although only two looked like they could support any weight. The front door was open, revealing a large breezeway that ran the depth of the house. When we stepped inside, we were hit by a gust of cool ocean air whisking over the worn wooden floor planks. The ceilings were high and a few spider webs clung to corners. Two benches made of horsehair lined either side of the hallway. Off to one side was a living room, home to ancient furniture that looked uncomfortable, cold, and lonely. I’d bet no one had been in there for years. Connecting to it was a dining room with a large pine table, polished to within an inch of its life, crowned with the same vase of porcelain flowers that had been on our table growing up in Yazoo City. They were ugly. She pointed out the kitchen as the last door off the breezeway, but we didn’t get that far. There was a line of bedroom doors on the other side, and she opened the one in the middle.
The room was larger than any hotel room we could have hoped to find. It was a little musty, but as she pried open the window the breeze rejuvenated the stagnant air. A queen bed, a small pine desk and a large armoire barely filled the room. It was quiet, like the dead of night. Vines had made their way onto the window, mashing themselves against the panes and duplicating the faded wallpaper.
“The control to the attic fan is right outside the door.” Louise went outside, touched the switch and the motor roared in the attic of the breezeway while a tidal wave of wind poured in from the outside. “Your bath is behind that door -- it shares with the next room, but since no one else is here, it’s all yours.”
“I brought along a few cooking items. Would it be okay, if I use the kitchen sometime?” My husband gave me that look, like I was pushing my luck and should just keep my big mouth shut. He did that a lot, so I never paid too much attention to it. Momma always used to say, “You don’t ever know, if you don’t at least ask.” And I had always managed to sweeten any deal, just by asking. Mr. Ledbetter, down at Yazoo Appliances threw in a 6-month supply of Tide even though I purchased a dryer because I convinced him that my washer would break soon. Donald at the Yazoo Motor Company was delighted to give my husband a free recliner when he purchased that truck despite the incentive having expired a year earlier and being for cars only. You had to ask.
“Don’t mind at all, just make yourself comfortable.” I knew it was childish, but I had to stick my tongue out at my husband. I usually got what I asked for. “You like cooking, ha?”
“It’s just about my favorite thing in the world.”
“Well, don’t go expecting an earth-shattering breakfast tomorrow. It’ll be good and healthy, and if I get up early enough to get those guavas off the tree, fresh. Where are you from?”
“Mississippi.”
“I knew ya’ll were from somewhere in the South. Good cooks in the South. Do you by chance have a good chicken potpie recipe? It’s my favorite thing.”
“I have two, the hard one without canned soup, that’s pretty good. And the easy one with canned soup, that’ll knock your socks off.”
“Well, I hope we get a chance to make it. Make yourself at home.” She smiled and closed the door while my husband melted onto the bed.
Obama and taxes, McCain hammers- Joe the plumber loves coconut cake
Even Greenspan's thoughts on coconut meltdown
