Confessions of April Grace: In Front of God And Everybody - Preview

8/7/2019 Confessions of April Grace: In Front of God And Everybody - Preview

http://slidepdf.com/reader/full/confessions-of-april-grace-in-front-of-god-and-everybody-preview 1/13



Where’s a Good Case of Tonsillitis When You Need One? When I woke up the next morning, it took me a minute to figure

out why I felt so depressed. Mama was downstairs in the kitchen, singing the hymn

“Rock of Ages.” The sun shone, the birds sang. It was Myra Sue’s

turn to do laundry, and since we only used the clothes dryer in the

winter or when it rained, she would have to hang the wet wash on

the clothesline in the backyard. It was a job she dearly hated. All

things considered, I had every reason to feel blissfully happy. Then I remembered. Today was the day I had to apologize to our new neighbors,

the St. Jameses. As far as I was concerned, I’d done nothing wrong.

But what Mama says is Law, so I’d just have to do it, even if I

turned blue and fell over dead. I laid there and stared up at the ceiling and wished I could

suddenly get sick. Not cancer or the black plague or even the flu,

understand. But a good case of tonsillitis would be helpful. If I had

a sore throat, everyone would know I couldn’t talk. I practiced speaking in a pitiful, hoarse voice, and when

Mama called me for breakfast, I dragged myself downstairs in my



nightie. I left my hair uncombed and my face unwashed, hoping I

looked puny. It was hard to do, let me tell you. You know as well

as I do that it’s hard to look frail and sick if you’re hungry as a

starving lumberjack and the aroma of bacon and eggs is filling the

kitchen. Mama stood at the big, old stove in our yellow-and-white

kitchen, breaking eggs into the cast-iron skillet. They sizzled as

they hit the hot grease. On the counter were a bunch of canning

jars filled with fresh cucumbers, and on the back stove burners

were two big pots of vinegar, water, and salt simmering for pickles.

The vinegar and bacon smells mixed together real nice. Mama

makes the best dill pickles you’ll ever have the pleasure to munch. Now, I should tell you that my mama isn’t one of them

low-fat cooks whose food tastes like packing peanuts or the boxes

they come in. For instance, she uses bacon fat for flavoring. At

least once a week she fixes fried chicken and mashed potatoes and

gravy. In the summer, we eat fried okra, fried potatoes, fried or

baked squash, fried catfish, and fried corn fritters, and every bit of

it will melt in your mouth. In the winter, we enjoy thick, yummy

soup made of brown beans and ham with cornbread and fried

potatoes on the side. We also eat meatloaf or pot roast with brown



gravy and roasted potatoes. On Mama’s hot, fluffy biscuits, we

spread real butter, not margarine. We drink fresh, whole milk, and

every single night, all year round, we have dessert. Everyone says

my Mama is the best cook in the whole county—even Grandma,

who is her mother-in-law. And in case you’re wondering, none of us is fat, except

Grandma, who is merely plump and prefers it that way. She says,

“A layer fat under an old lady’s skin keeps her looking twenty

years younger.” While Mama cooked my eggs that morning, I slumped

down into a chair at the table and tried to look as pathetic as

possible. She glanced at me and smiled. “Wash your face, April Grace,” she sing-songed. That was

a rhyme she’d made up a long time ago when I was little. I used to

think it was funny. “And brush your hair and teeth.” Inside my head, I made a face, ’cause there’s something I

can’t understand: What’s the Big Deal about primping for

breakfast? Mama and Daddy had eaten earlier, right before Daddy

went out to do the milking, and it wasn’t like the two eggs on my

plate could see me. And I sure didn’t care two hoots how lovely or



revolting I looked to my dumb sister. Which was just as well

because, as I went upstairs to wash up, she came clomping down

with a basket of dirty laundry. She was all scrubbed and brushed

with her blonde hair all big and curly. She probably thought she

looked like Madonna or Cyndi Lauper or somebody like that.

Lucky Mama wouldn’t let her wear makeup or clothes like any of

those girl singers, or we’d have a mess to look at around here. “You look like dog poop,” Myra Sue said to me as she

passed. I gave serious thought to sticking out my foot and tripping

her so she’d fall face-first into some dirty underwear, but if she fell

down the stairs and ended up breaking her head or something

important, I’d be blamed for it. Plus, I’d have to do all her chores.

So I just crossed my eyes at her and went to primp for breakfast. “Why don’t you act like you’re eleven going on twelve,

instead of like you’re three years old?” she hollered after me. Silly,

silly girl. At least I didn’t act fourteen-going-on-thirty. Back in the kitchen a little later, I was all wound up to

complain about a headache, stomachache, water on the knee, and

poison ivy, but the back door opened and Grandma walked in. She



lives in a little house on the other side of the hayfield. Her name is

Myra Grace Reilly. My sister and I are named after her. She goes

by Grace. I never knew my other grandma, whose name was

Sandra. That’s all I know, because Mama won’t tell me anything

else about when she was a little girl, other than that her great-aunt

Maxie raised her. Great-aunt Maxie died the year before Myra Sue

happened. One time I asked Grandma if she knew anything about

Mama’s mother, but she acted odd and quiet and told me never to

talk about it to anyone again. So I haven’t, but it sure makes you

wonder, doesn’t it? Now here’s the thing about Grandma: She is not like my

friends’ grandmothers. They all wear their hair short, and they

usually dye it brown or red or blond, and they have jobs and go to

aerobics at the gym and stuff. Daddy says my grandma is a

“throwback to another era.” She wears dresses, which she makes at

home, and has wavy gray hair she wears in a bun. Her shoes are

way ugly, but Grandma declares she’s long past trying to show off

trim ankles and pretty legs. She says anyone who wears high heels

is out of her cotton-pickin’ mind. That’s how she ruined her feet in

the first place, when she worked at the dime store during the war.



She has this big blue vein on her right leg. When Myra Sue starts whining for new shoes with heels,

Grandma sticks out her leg with the vein, hikes her skirt up to her

knee, and says, “Lookie there, sis. Is that what you’re after? ’Cause

that’s what you’ll get if you wear them kind of fool shoes.” “City girls wear high heels to the dances all the time,” my

sister told her one time, all uppity, as if she knows everything

about dances in the city—which she does not, let me assure you. Myra Sue made this profound announcement one evening a

few weeks ago when we were all sitting in the living room playing

the latest craze, a game called Pictionary, where you try to guess

the answer by the pictures your partner draws. Everybody stared at

my goofy sister, then Grandma spoke. “I’ve seen pictures of what girls wear at those discos.

Disgraceful.” Myra Sue had rolled her eyes like she does when she thinks

she knows Everything. “Step into reality, Grandma. It’s 1986, and disco is out.

Good grief.” Daddy had laughed. “Yeah, Mom. Break-dancing is the



thing these days.” I thought break-dancing was out, too, but what do I know?

I want to learn the Charleston. “Break-dancing!” Grandma said. “What’s that? No, wait. I

don’t even want to know. It sounds painful.” That morning in the kitchen, for a minute after Grandma

came in, I forgot to try to look sick. I jumped up from my chair and

gave her a hug. She hugged me back and asked about my poison

ivy. “Itchy.” “Looks itchy,” she agreed, examining my arms and legs. “Morning, Lily,” she said to Mama. “Morning, Myra Susie,” she said to my prissy big sister

coming out of the laundry room. “Got your first load ready to hang

out already?” Myra Sue gave her a pained smile. “Yes, and there’s about

a million tons more to do.” “Ah, well.” Grandma sat down heavily. “Doing the wash is

like politics. It’s always there, always dirty, and there ain’t no end

in sight.”



Myra Sue grunted and went outside with her basket of wet

laundry. She probably thought politics were bugs that bite you on

the bottom in the summer. I buttered a biscuit. “Coffee, Mama Grace?” Mama asked. She got out the

special cup with #1 Grandma printed on it in big red letters. She

filled it before Grandma had a chance to answer. “Thankee kindly, Lily.” She took a noisy sip. “Grandma?” I said. “Woo?” Grandma always says “Woo?” like that. She says

it in a high-pitched kind of way, kinda like she’s making a train

whistle. Everybody else’s grandma just says “What?” or “Huh?” or

“Don’t bother me now.” “How do you drink your coffee that way, right out of the

coffee pot without even blowing on it?” I asked. “Don’t it burn

your guzzle?”

Guzzle is another Grandma word I like to borrow. Aside

from its real dictionary definition, I think it means anything inside

you, from your lips all the way to your belly. “Aw, April, I been drinking hot coffee since I was a squirt,



littler ’n you. My guzzle is calloused.” Even on a day as hot as that one, steam rose from her mug.

I watched her drink. “I guess it is,” I agreed. “Plumb calloused.” “Some eggs and toast, Mama Grace?” my mama asked. “Had me some oats earlier, Lily, but thanks anyway.” Grandma put down her mug and tapped the rim for a

minute, as if she was gathering her thoughts. Then she announced

right out loud, “I do believe old man Rance has got designs on me.” Mama had just poured herself a cup of coffee, and now she

turned around so fast it sloshed over her fingers and onto the floor. “Ouch!” She sucked in a breath, shaking the drops from her

hand while she gave Grandma a big-eyed look. “Jeffrey Rance?” “The very one.” Grandma swigged another drink, eyeballing my mama with

her eyebrows raised.

“Well, don’t look so stunned, Lily. I won’t win no Miss

Universe contest, but I ain’t that ugly, am I?” Mama kept staring at her. “You mean Mr. Rance from

Texas? The man who bought the Fielding place this spring? The



one who told us his wife died just last Christmas?” “Yep.” “Designs? Like tattoos?” I asked, all agog. Which was the

wrong thing to do because it drew Mama’s attention. “April Grace, go take a shower and get dressed.” “But, Mama, if Grandma is—” “Right now.” She had that don’t-give-me-any-sass look on her face, so I

had to leave the room just when things were getting good. Believe

me, my grandma getting a tattoo just about topped my list of

Interesting Things. I left the kitchen, but I hung around out of sight

in the dining room, straightening the knickknacks and stuff on the

shelves. I kept real quiet, but I want to tell you something: I had

met that Mr. Rance, and there was something about that man I

didn’t care for. Not that I knew him personally at that point, but I’d

seen him at the store a time or two, and he came to church a couple

of times. There was just something about the way he looked at

people when they weren’t looking at him, kinda like he was sizing

them up or looking for their secrets or something. Then when

they’d look at him, he’d smile real big and get all friendly. I



wondered if anybody else had noticed these things. “What makes you think Mr. Rance is after you?” I heard

Mama ask. After her? I stopped breathing and straightening. After her,

like a stalker? “Oh, he’s been calling, bringing me things.” Grandma said this real casual. Too casual, if you ask me. Mama must have thought so, too, because she said

suspiciously, “What things?” “Oh, some tomatoes he bought from a vendor at the

farmer’s market.” “We have plenty of early eating tomatoes in our own

garden. You’re welcome to as many as you want. Goodness knows

you’ve done enough work taking care of them.” “And he brought me some peaches.” Mama didn’t say anything for a second or two, then

answered, “Well, that was nice. Peaches are kinda expensive this

year since that late freeze.” “Yes. And he gave me a book on horses, and a little glass

horse, too.”



“Well, Mama Grace, that doesn’t mean . . . Well, that is,

has he said, well, you know . . .” I heard Grandma take a noisy slurp of coffee and set the

mug back on the table. She sucked in a big loud breath and heaved

it out. “It’s like this, Lily. He kissed me last night.” Well, I almost fainted right there on the dining room floor

and nearly dropped the little ceramic elf I was holding. I love my

grandma, so don’t get me wrong, but . . . it kinda makes the little,

tiny hairs on my arms stand up when I think about her and some

man kissing. There was no sound at all from the kitchen for a minute.

Then Mama said in a very odd voice that sounded as if she was

choking, “Mama Grace, did you kiss him back?” Well, this had gone way past my interest. I plunked down

the ceramic elf and fled upstairs so I wouldn’t hear the answer to

that.

Documents

Confessions of April Grace: In Front of God And Everybody - Preview