Between, Georgia

  Her silence was noncommittal.

  I said, “I mean it, Fisher. Stay in your bed. I’m going to be in town for a long time, and you can stay with me over the weekends like always. Okay?”

  She made a small formal motion, more of a head dip than a nod. I decided to take what I could get. “Did your grandma get home?”

  Fisher peeked out from under her bangs, studying my face. She lifted one shoulder in a shrug and dropped her head again.

  “Grandma is inside, measuring my supper. Grampa can see me out that window. I’m not going in the road.”

  “Making your supper,” I corrected. I ruffled her hair and she suffered it politely, bowing her neck like a well-mannered cat accepting a pet from an unwholesome stranger.

  “Okay, Fisher, I get that you’re mad. I’m sorry I haven’t been around much this month. I’ve missed you, too, you know.” She didn’t answer, so I headed up toward the house.

  I was two steps up the walk when she said, “My friend Tia at school is a Methodist.”

  I looked back. She was prodding the leaf again, and I wasn’t sure if she was talking to me or just talking. She went on, “I’ll be so sad when she’s in hell. Like one thousand sad.”

  I put my hand to my forehead. “Fisher, Tia’s not going to go to hell for being a Methodist.”

  She didn’t answer, and I stood staring helplessly at the back of her head. “She’s not going to hell for being black,” she said at last, as if challenging me.

  “Of course not,” I said.

  “So why is she going to hell?”

  I said, “God does not send little girls to hell. Ever. Trust me on this one.”

  She stabbed savagely down at the leaf, and the toothpick broke through it. She twirled the toothpick, making the impaled leaf revolve, and a few of the stones fell down. She muttered, “Well, I’m not going in the road.”

  “Good girl,” I said. She hunched her shoulders up around her ears, still squatting over her rock pile with her back turned squarely toward me. I waited, but she didn’t say anything else.

  Fisher was part mule. She would be mad at me until she was good and ready to stop.

  I went on up to the front door and paused for a moment, gird-ing my loins for battle. Bernese had been running a guerrilla campaign against me for almost a year, ever since I’d told her I had kicked Jonno out. According to Bernese, neither Baptists nor Fretts got divorced. Her flurried attacks had stepped up considerably as my court date approached. And she always found a way to prang me. I couldn’t expect her to cut me a break simply because my mama and Genny were in the hospital; my divorce was like Rome, and all of Bernese’s conversational roads led to it.

  I had my bottle with me, though, tucked down deep in my purse. If she pushed me hard enough, in the mood I was in, I might bounce it off her head.

  I passed through the foyer, pausing to peer into the terrarium where Bernese had laced branches and twigs from her dogwood trees. Yellowy-green and pink caterpillars were climbing all over, and here and there I could see a few cocoons. Bernese now did all her butterfly farming at her museum, but she’d long ago replaced the terrarium my birth mother had shot to pieces. It was Fisher’s now—she shared Bernese’s fondness for the little bugs—and it looked to me like Fish was raising Azures.

  I went down the long hall toward the kitchen, passing the archway to the den and then another that led into the formal dining room. It was so pristine in there, you could safely perform open-heart surgery on the big table. The dust-free china gleamed in orderly rows in the cabinet. I’d never actually eaten off any of Bernese’s wedding china. She served all her meals on plain white Farberware.

  Bernese had recently updated her kitchen. She’d replaced her avocado-green appliances with brushed steel, and they looked overly large and shiny against the faded daisies that drifted down her wallpaper. The walls were covered with pictures of Bernese’s three boys and their families. There were several gaps where the wallpaper glowed brightly in the shape of the frames that used to hang there. Bernese had taken down all the pictures of her youngest child, Lori-Anne, and was slowly filling in the holes with portraits of Fisher.

  Bernese stood in her kitchen beside her gigantic gleaming fridge, facing the counter with her back to me. She was already dressed for bed in a terry-cloth robe and her house shoes. Pink foam curlers were lined up in a neat row on the top of her head, revealing a hint of silver at the roots of her otherwise dead-black hair. She had her cutting board out and was slicing half a cantaloupe into four equal slices.

  “I thought that was you,” she said, glancing over her shoulder.

  “I called over to the hospital a little while ago. Genny’s stable, they say. Doing good. They got her on a drip for pain and to put antibiotics straight into her blood. They said she’s going to spend the next day or two pretty much sleeping, but Lord, that just proves they don’t know Genny. If she’s upset enough, she’ll fight off any drug they think to give her, and God help them then. Stacia is still solid out.”

  I nodded. “I told my agency not to book me for anything. I’ll stay at the hospital until we see how Genny’s going to do.”

  Bernese set down the knife and turned to me, saying, “You’d best lean over here and give me a squeeze.”

  I put one arm around her in a sideways hug, bending low to drop a peck on the front curler. Bernese’s waist felt strangely squishy. I was used to the packed feel of her body after it had been subdued by her cast-iron foundation garments.

  “I’m too done in to make a real supper. I can heat you up some of these leftovers, though, and there’s fresh fruit.”

  I shook my head. “I need to get going. I wanted to make sure you had gotten home. I see Fisher’s in a mood.”

  Bernese released me and turned to the fridge. I took a step back so she could get the door open and pull out a couple of Tupperware containers. “That girl. She’s a grudge holder.” She lifted the lid on a container and grunted at the green beans in it, then walked past me to put it in the microwave.

  “She says she’s worried about her little friend Tia going to hell.

  Did you say something to her about Methodists?”

  Bernese blew air out between her lips. “I didn’t say Methodists were going to hell. Fisher wanted to visit her friend’s church over in Loganville for some picnic day they had. I was telling her she didn’t want to fall in with them. Methodists think everybody who’s born is already bound for heaven or hell and there’s nothing you can do about it, like there’s no grace and Jesus don’t matter.”

  I shook my head. “You can’t say that kind of thing to Fisher, Bernese. You know how she is. And if you mean predestination, that’s not the Methodists. That’s the Presbyterians.”

  Bernese shrugged. “Well, the Methodists believe something stupid or else they’d be Baptists. Anyway, if you want to know why Fisher’s ill as hornets, why don’t you look in the mirror, Miss Busy Divorce. She’s used to you being here every week. She counts on you.”

  There it was: salvo one. I ignored it. “Did you get things straightened out at the sheriff ’s office?”

  Bernese opened the other Tupperware. Egg salad. She gave it a sniff and nodded, satisfied. “Yes, for now. Lord, Thig is such an ass. I sicced my lawyer on him.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Bernese, Isaac wrote up Thig’s will. He’s everyone’s lawyer. You probably want to go to Loganville and get someone who knows some criminal law.”

  Bernese shrugged. “Isaac’s always done me fine. And you know nothing’s going to happen. I pretty much own Thig.” Her lower lip poked out, and she suddenly looked like a giant, swollen version of Fisher. “I better get my gun back, too.”

  She took her linked measuring cups out of the junk drawer and scooped out a level half-cup of the egg salad. There was a plate sitting out on the counter, and she upended the measuring cup so the salad fell onto the plate in a little mound. “Check the microwave, see if those green beans are hot?”

  I opened
the microwave and pulled out one of the limp beans while Bernese rinsed the measuring cup.

  “They’re warm enough,” I said, and handed her the container.

  She measured out a half-cup of the beans and dumped them into a heap beside the egg salad. She picked up her pepper mill and began grinding it over the beans until they looked freckled. I narrowed my eyes. “You’re making this plate for Fisher?”

  “Mm-hm,” said Bernese. She grabbed a slice of the cantaloupe off the cutting board.

  “Why are you measuring Fisher’s egg salad?”

  Bernese put the fruit on the plate. It looked like a sad face, with little round piles of egg salad and beans for eyes and the lonely cantaloupe slice making a long, curved frown. Bernese picked up an open book that had been lying on top of the bread box, closed it, and held it up so I could see the cover. It was called Get Fit, Kid! and underneath the title it said “Help your kids win the war on the obesity epidemic.”

  I shook my head. “Fisher isn’t overweight.”

  “Have you looked at her?” said Bernese. “She’s as squatty as a brick.”

  “That’s how she’s shaped. She isn’t fat.”

  “She’s pretty thick.” Bernese paused and turned toward the hallway. She raised her voice and bellowed, “Lou? Get Fisher in here for supper.”

  I heard a faint “All righty” float down the stairs.

  Bernese put the book back on top of the bread box. To me she said, “And if she’s not fat now, then this book says it can make sure she won’t go that way. Have you seen her mama?”

  “No. Have you seen her mama?”

  Bernese set Fisher’s plate on the kitchen table, keeping her back to me. I walked around the table so I could see her face.

  “Was Lori-Anne here?”

  Bernese shrugged, her mouth pinching up into a little wad as if she were preparing to kiss a mortal enemy. Then she said,

  “Yeah. She came by on Monday. You never saw anything so fat.”

  “What’d she want?”

  “Not to see Fisher. She came by during school hours, and her bad luck, it was a teacher planning day, and there Fisher was.

  Lord, Lord. Lori-Anne wasn’t sure what to do with herself, and Fisher was trying to climb straight up her like she was a big, fat tree. Wanting to get in her arms, crying, ‘It’s Mama, it’s Mama,’

  and Lori-Anne was barely standing it. Gritting her teeth and giving me the pointy eye like I planned to have Fisher home. Like I magically knew she was going to drag herself over here to try and borrow money again. She wants to get that gastric bypass.”

  “What’d you tell her?”

  “What do you think? It’s like pouring money down a black hole. So she got sorrier and sorrier with me and said, ‘You are making me gain fifty more pounds, because if I do, the state will pay for my bypass. You want to make me gain fifty more pounds?’

  I had to laugh out loud. I said, ‘Girl, I couldn’t even make you brush your teeth when you were seven. If I could make you do anything at all, you got to know your butt would be in church this living second and you’d be praying to Jesus to take you back.’ ” Bernese went back to the hallway. “Lou? I said I need Fisher for dinner. Now,” she hollered.

  I took a deep breath. “It depends on when they release Mama and Genny, but maybe tomorrow after school, I can take Fisher down to Henry’s. She wants some book about the insides of frogs.”

  “Don’t encourage that mess,” said Bernese. “I got enough talk about blood and organs when I was nursing to last me. And Fisher is always after me about what’s inside a person and what a kidney does. A kidney doesn’t do anything pleasant to talk about, that’s certain.”

  I opened my mouth to respond but closed it again as Fisher came trailing in. She flopped into her chair at the kitchen table and stared balefully down at her supper.

  Bernese started running warm water, adding a little dish soap and dropping in the dirty Tupperware.

  I took a deep breath and stayed over by the table. I said, “Tomorrow I need to go out for a little, so if they release Mama, I may leave her here with you. You know those drugs can make a person woozy for a day or two, and I’m not sure she should be alone.”

  “Where on earth do you have to be that’s that important?”

  “I have to go see Ona Crabtree.”

  Bernese froze at the mention of Ona’s name and then turned slowly around. “I hope you’re going over there to kick her bony old butt.”

  Fisher seemed oblivious, deep in a staring contest with her pitiful supper, but I said, “You’re going to get Fisher expelled, teach-ing her that ugly talk.”

  “How can you even look at Ona after what they did to our Genny?” Bernese said.

  “I don’t have a choice. You made sure of that. I already tried to get her on the phone, and I’ll be trying again as soon as I check on Mama. Those boys of hers are wild, Bernese, and their Alabama cousins are over here all the time, and they are more than wild. They are criminals. When Thig drops the charges against you and lets you get clean away with shooting that dog, and you know he will, there’s no telling what they’re going to do.”

  “If they don’t like how Thig handles it, they can call the real police over in Loganville,” said Bernese.

  “Crabtrees don’t call the police. Half those boys are on parole.”

  Bernese glared at me and then began meticulously scrubbing at the edges of her measuring cups. “That dog getting out was Crabtree carelessness, if they didn’t do it on purpose. They hate me, and they wanted to hurt our family. The dog was a weapon, so I took their weapon away.” She glanced over her shoulder.

  “Fisher, eat your supper.”

  Fisher picked up her fork and gave the egg salad a halfhearted prod. As soon as Bernese wasn’t looking, she set the fork back down, centering it carefully on her folded paper napkin.

  Bernese said, “Well, if you’re going, you might as well take Ona a message. Tell her she better get those other two dogs put down. They’re a menace.” She stared down into the dishwater, implacable, running the sponge around and around the half-cup’s edge. “If Ona won’t do it, I’ll get Isaac to get me a court order, and Thig can. And if Isaac and Thig can’t get it done, I will shoot those dogs myself. Fisher, are you eating?”

  “My dinner is sad,” said Fisher, and Bernese wheeled around on her.

  “Eat it,” she yelled. “You have to eat this list of food exactly for the book to work.”

  Fisher looked mutinous. Her hands stayed in her lap.

  “Pick. Up. Your. Fork,” said Bernese.

  Fisher shoved her hands under her thighs and slumped. “It’s too sad for eating.”

  Bernese came roaring down the length of the kitchen looking murderous. I hurried around and got in between them, leaning over the table by Fisher. “It’s not sad,” I said to Fisher. I picked up the cantaloupe and turned it over so its points curved upward in a cheerful arch. “It’s happy. See?”

  Fisher stared down at the plate for another moment. “Okay,”

  she said. She picked up her fork and dutifully stabbed some beans.

  I turned around to Bernese, who was standing behind me, blowing like a bull. “Are you all right?” I said to her. Bernese had a temper, but I’d never seen her loose it upon Fisher so quickly.

  “You riled me,” she said.

  I held up my hands. “I’m sorry I brought it up. We can talk about Ona later. I need to get on to see Mama now.”

  Bernese moved her tongue around inside her mouth, shifting her jaw as if sucking on something nasty. “All right then.” She went deliberately back to her dishes.

  I kissed the top of Fisher’s head. “See you tomorrow.” She kept her head lowered, mechanically forking up food. “I’ll let myself out, Bernese.”

  I was almost into the hall when Bernese added in an oddly formal tone, “Thank you for coming.”

  I paused, surprised, and said, “You don’t have to thank me.

  She’s my m
other.”

  Bernese said, “It’s hard to know how seriously you take your family these days. Technically, a husband is family, and look what you’re doing to yours.”

  Hot blood rushed to heat my face, and I found myself clutching my purse, with the nails of my other hand digging hard into my palm. But Fisher was between us, sitting with her head bent earnestly over her supper, and there was nothing I could say.

  CHAPTER 7

  ISTOPPED AT the nurses’ station to find out Mama and Genny’s room number. They were up on the second floor. As I came out of the elevator, I could hear Genny’s piping voice coming down the hall. She was yammering in spurts, and as I got closer to her room, I heard a calm male voice speaking soothingly in the pauses. I followed the sound to room 214. The door was open, so I went in without knocking.

  Mama was tucked into the bed by the window. She was still sound asleep. The curtains between the beds were open. Genny was in the closer bed, her shoulder and neck swathed in bandages. She had the blanket pulled over her legs. Her mouth looked tiny and puckered in her round face, and it took me a moment to realize this was probably the first time in years I had seen her without a cheerful slash of pink lipstick. Her long white hair was down, thick and still streaked liberally with black.

  Henry Crabtree was sitting in a visitor’s chair, pulled up close beside her bed. As I came in, Genny saw me over his shoulder, and her eyes lit up as she squawked, “Oh, Nonny, you came!”

  Henry stood immediately and turned toward me, smiling. He was built low, close to the bone, and his unbandaged forearm, corded with muscle and prominent dark veins, looked incongruous emerging from the rolled cuff of his shirt as he held one hand out to me.

  I took it and squeezed, saying, “I’m so glad you’re here.” Then I bent down and dropped a kiss on Genny’s forehead. “Of course I came, silly widget.” To Henry I added, “Has Mama stirred at all?”

  He shook his head.

  Genny blinked, so long and slow I thought she had dropped into sleep, but then her eyes sprang open, and her hands came fluttering up like drunken birds. “Oh, Lordy, Nonny, why isn’t Stacia awake? Is it a coma?”