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 Hot Fudge Sundae Blues.
Chapter 1
The year I turned thirteen I got religion. Oh, I’d been going to church, praying like a sinner on her deathbed, but when the Holy Spirit flew over Mississippi, it never landed on me. All through the spring and summer of 1963, I sat beside Grandma on the sixth pew of Pisgah Methodist Church waiting for salvation, but the Lord never spoke one word to me. Grandma’s shoulders drooped in disappointment when, Sunday after Sunday, I didn’t join the other sinners who accepted Brother Thompson’s invitation to “come on down and get wrapped in the bosom of the Lord.” She was counting on me to lead a pious life because both her husband and her daughter were bent on sinning themselves straight into hell. Every Sunday, during the hour or so we sat on our hard wooden pew, breathing in the suffocating air of wilted gladiolas, Old Spice aftershave, and Mrs. Duncan’s Midnight in Paris perfume, Papaw would be out riding across the pasture on Jim, a dappled gray that he claimed was the fastest in Lexie County. Mama slept late on Sundays.
So as Grandma’s only grandchild and last hope for conversion, I felt a huge responsibility to get saved, but I hadn’t been able to get my feet moving down the crimson carpeted aisle of Pisgah Methodist up until this Sunday. Brother Thompson hadn’t enticed a sinner to come up and get saved for several weeks, and at the end of every service, he would wearily lift his hand for the benediction. Then with his voice filled with disappointment, he would pray for us sinners to get washed in Jesus’ blood and become whiter than snow.
So on this hot August morning, I pretended the Holy Spirit had finally lit on me because I wanted to please the preacher and Grandma, who had had a big fight with Mama the night before and seemed more down than usual, and because Jehu Albright, the cutest boy in the ninth grade, was sitting across the aisle on the fourth pew down from us. We always sat on the right hand pews because the morning sun bore down on the other side of the church, making it hotter than Hades, and over there you could see forty or more cardboard fans flapping faster than a wasp could fly. I had thought that Jehu was a Baptist, but his mother told Grandma that they had been attending Centenary Methodist in town and didn’t like their new pastor who had posted a list of the members who hadn’t sign their pledge cards on the bulletin board in the vestibule.
Today Brother Thompson’s sermon was about Jesus feeding the multitudes with a few hunks of bread and a couple of little fish, and although I believed in miracles, I was having a hard time picturing the baskets filling up with loaves and fishes over and over like that. But then it occurred to me that, if what you couldn’t imagine could be true, maybe Grandma wouldn’t know that I was about to fake salvation. So when Miss Wilda banged out the first chords of “Just As I Am” on the old black upright piano, with heart racing like a galloping horse, I squeezed past Grandma’s knees and stepped out into the aisle. My taffeta dress, the color of a grape Popsicle, rustled applause as I slowly made my way up to the altar. When I passed Jehu’s pew, I paused, tucked a curl behind my ear, and glanced over at him with what I hoped was a beatific smile. After I reached the altar rail, Brother Thompson, trembling with joy, leaned over and placed his hand on the top of my head. “Do you accept Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior?” he whispered.
His voice was filled with such happiness I thought he might burst out laughing, and quickly I answered, “Uh huh. Yessir.”
I had been rehearsing this scene all summer on Saturdays, which was the day Grandma and I cleaned the church. Grandma had taken the job, refusing payment for her labors, avowing that menial tasks would keep us humble. She assured me that the reward of serving the Lord was compensation enough. I didn’t want the Lord’s rewards. I wanted cash to purchase a madras blouse and a wraparound skirt, but Grandma had refused even the paltry sum that Brother Thompson offered her from the collection of coins and bills that piled up in the silver pie plate we passed around every time the church doors opened.
After I finished my Saturday chores of dusting pews and straightening the song books, I enacted all roles in the play I had written, entitled, “Layla Jay Gets Saved and Wins A Young Boy’s Heart.” I pounded out hymns on the piano, switching my singing voice from soprano to alto, harmonizing with myself as perfectly as an entire choir inside my head. In the role of preacher, I gripped the lectern until sweat stung my eyes as I shouted out for the sinners to come down and be saved. I had also rehearsed the heroine’s part I was playing now - - that of repentant sinner tearfully asking for forgiveness. I was ready to testify, to admit to any and all sins, for what would it matter, the past? But before I could blurt out a single sin, Brother Thompson raised his hands and gave the benediction. My moment was over in less time that it took to close a hymnal. I stood beside the preacher, filled with disappointment as I accepted the first congratulatory hand that belonged to old Mr. Stokes. “Bless you, child,” he said, spraying small droplets of saliva on my new taffeta bodice, which I had stuffed with a pair of socks for Jehu Albright’s perusal. Then came the others; Mr. Felder, Mr. and Mrs. Frank Utley, Doris Faye Wiggins, Joan Gail Martin, Mary Lynn Sutter, Johnny Moore, Jr. They shuffled past me with blessings and smiles, and suddenly there he was standing right in front of me. Blond crew cut pomaded with grease, rabbit-sized front teeth, a good strong jaw, my Ideal.
“Congratulations, Layla Jay,” Jehu mumbled. “You staying for dinner on the ground?”
“Thank you. Yes, I am,” I whispered in the reverent tone I had practiced. And then he was gone, and Mrs. Gabe Tucker was swinging her oversized purse into my stomach as she stretched out her fat fingers to pinch my arm. “Welcome, child. You’re safe in the Lord’s hands now.”
After pumping the remaining hands of the Lord’s disciples, I escaped outside and meandered around the church grounds where I spotted Jehu lobbing pine cones at my cousin, James Louis, who was firing back with cones of his own. I have hated James Louis for as long as I can remember. He is meaner than a starving bulldog, but around grown-ups, he acts like a poodle puppy, all fuzzy and soft and eager to please. Like all older women, my Grandma loves him. This is how I came to know that women can be easily fooled by men, and, since learning this fact, have resolved to never never be taken in by anyone of the opposite sex. I do not fear this happening with Jehu Albright. I will never believe that he is capable of the kind of duplicity my cousin James Louis demonstrates.
When Brother Thompson called for quiet so that he could get another prayer going, I walked over to the folding tables set up between two oak trees that served as boundaries for the little kids. Waiting for us to assemble and quiet down, he stood at the head of the table, holding up both hands like he was signaling a touchdown for the Zebulon Cougars. Jehu was standing to my left with his head bowed and his hands crossed over a pine cone behind his back.
Although delirious with happiness over my conversion, Grandma frowned when I fished around in one of the fried chicken platters for the piece that held the pulley bone. I ignored her. I needed to make a wish and I figured a pulley bone that had been blessed by a preacher would be extra good luck if I broke it right. Jehu was already going back for seconds when I took my plate over to the brick steps that led to the back of the church. My best friend, June McCormick, had saved me a spot, and when I sat down beside her, she leaned over and bumped my arm with her plate. “How come you decided to get saved today?”
I bit off a piece of crunchy chicken. “Got filled up with the spirit.”
“You did not.”
“Did so.”
June patted her teased wheat-colored bubble hair-do that Mama said made her face look fat. “Well, I don’t believe you. You just wanted to parade up to the altar to show off your new dress I’ll bet.”
Better to let her think vanity rather than seduction. “Well, okay. But I was planning on getting saved sometime soon anyway,” I said, holding up my pinkie. “Secret pledge?”
June licked the fried chicken grease from her fingers and wrapped her little finger around mine. “Sure. I won’t tell anyone. I’m your friend. You wouldn’t tell on me.”
Thinking that a subtle hint of blackmail was good insurance, I said, “No. I didn’t tell you were the one who took a quarter out of the collection plate to buy nail polish that time.” This prompted June to recite from memory all the new colors of polish sitting on her dresser, and after I offered my opinion that blue-based red polish, rather than orange-red, went with green outfits, I broached the subject I was most anxious to talk about. “Grandma said Jehu Albright’s family is joining Pisgah. They switched over from Centenary.”
“Yeah, I knew they were going to. My mother and his mother are in Beta Sigma Phi together. I think he’s cool, looks a little like Steve McQueen, doesn’t he?” I held my breath, hoping June didn’t have a crush on him, too. She was far more popular than I and could get boyfriends as easily as you could catch chicken pox. She glanced over to where Jehu sat with his back against an oak tree. “But he’s got big teeth and everybody knows crew cuts are passé.” Breathing with a lighter heart, I tore the white meat away from the pulley bone and held it out to her. As we closed our eyes and pulled, I made my wish for Jehu Albright to love me, and got the short bone.
After everyone had eaten all their stomachs could hold, they began to gather their empty bowls and say their good-byes. As I walked to Grandma’s old green Plymouth, I saw Jehu and his family driving away in their big white Chrysler Imperial and vowed that someday I’d be cuddled up beside him on the back seat of that car.
As soon as Grandma parked the Plymouth under the carport, I ran into the house to find Mama. She was sitting at the dining room table in her green satin robe, smoking a Lucky Strike between sips of strong black coffee. I could tell by the straight lines between her brows that she had a hangover again.
When Grandma came in through the kitchen door, Mama blew two smoke circles over the table and then said, “So how was church?”
“Wonderful. Layla Jay got saved.” Grandma drew the pearl hatpin from her pink pillbox and lifted it off her head. “It’s a shame you weren’t there, Frieda.”
Mama ignored the last comment. She laid her cigarette on the ashtray and lifted her arms to hug me. “Honey, that’s nice. I’m glad for you. And you look so pretty in your purple dress. Were many people there?”
“Regular crowd,” I said sliding onto the chair beside her. “Brother Thompson gave me a New Testament.” I drew out the small white leather bound book from my patent purse.
Mama laughed, took up her cigarette again and blew out another ring of smoke. “I didn’t know you got a prize along with salvation.”
Grandma ignored the joke, but I couldn’t help smiling. Next to Papaw, Mama was the wittiest person I knew. Grandma pulled at the fingers of her white gloves until they flapped off the ends of her hands and fell onto the table. She looked down the hall. “Where’s Claude? Did he feed the chickens?”
Mama shrugged. “Pop was gone when I got up. Haven’t seen him.” She pushed back her chair. “I better get dressed. Will is picking me up in an hour.”
I gripped the New Testament tightly. Although Grandma had told me that it was a sin to hate and you could wind up in hell for not opening your heart to people who didn’t know God’s love, she definitely hated Will Satterly. Grandma sucked in her breath, gathering air to spew out her disapproval, but before she could say a word, Mama wiggled her robe from her shoulders and naked as a newborn walked out of the room. Just before her bedroom door slammed, she yelled at Grandma. “Save your breath. I’ll wait for him out front.”
My mother had been dating Will for nearly a month, so I knew that he wouldn’t be visiting our house much longer. None of Mama’s beaus lasted for more than three or four weeks. Mama had gotten rid of Errol Newman after only one picture show, and Jake Lott held the record for keeping Mama interested for the longest time of six and a half weeks. Grandma didn’t like any of the men Mama brought home, but she especially loathed Will because the weekend before this one he and my mother had come home at four in the morning to find Grandma sitting with the phone in her lap dialing the hospital emergency room number.
That night Mama and Grandma had argued until milking time when Papaw woke up and threatened to call the sheriff if they didn’t shut up and get some biscuits in the oven. Papaw missed most of the fuss because he is a really sound sleeper, but even though I had squeezed my pillow over my ears, I heard every word they screamed at each other. Grandma called Mama a Jezebel, the devil’s child, and a couple of other names I didn’t know she knew. Mama retaliated by breaking two of the porcelain figurines on Grandma’s whatnot shelf, and kicking the coffee table till one leg broke off, so that it looked as drunk as Mama. I was glad about the whatnots as they were a pain to move when I had to dust the shelves.
After we heard Mama’s door slam, Grandma frowned at me even though I hadn’t said a word. “Go change your clothes,” she said. “I’m leaving in fifteen minutes.”
Sunday afternoons Grandma and I visited the infirm. That’s what she called anyone who belonged to Pisgah and skipped church. I was changing into a pair of shorts when Grandma came into my room and said that she had decided to go alone today because, as a newly saved Christian, I should spend the afternoon staying close to God by reading scripture and offering up prayers of thanks. I had expected just the opposite. If I wasn’t a sinner anymore, it seemed to me I wouldn’t need to read the Bible near as much. But I didn’t argue because I welcomed the opportunity to have the house to myself. Papaw was most likely gone for the entire day, Mama wouldn’t be back until late, and with Grandma out visiting, I could count on at least three hours or so of absolute freedom during which time I planned on experimenting with Mama’s make-up.
Mama’s business is make-up. She sells Elizabeth Arden at Salloum’s Department Store in Zebulon. My mother got the job because she’s beautiful. Her hair is the color of tobacco streaked with gold and it falls in soft waves that ripple across her shoulders when she walks across a room. Her smooth white skin, without a pimple or blemish of any kind, is as soft as a feather pillow and she keeps it that way by applying moisturizers twice daily. Since I have entered puberty and am engaged in a war with pimples, Mama has brought home jars of a variety of pimple fighting weapons that smell dreadful, but seem to be winning. I have her nose, and I’m hoping that somewhere within me lies a gene that will develop into fabulous breasts exactly like hers. Mama says I got my long slender feet from Daddy’s gene pool.
My father’s name is Kenneth Woodrow Andrews, and because he died before I was two, I don’t remember anything about him. I’m absolutely certain he was much nicer than any of the men who treat me like a kid when they stand in the living room waiting for Mama to make her appearance. I know what Daddy’s voice sounds like because he talks to me sometimes when I get the hot fudge sundae blues. That’s what Mama calls them. When you’re feeling as rotten and low and hopeless as you can be and you think the world’s biggest sponge couldn’t mop up all the tears inside you, the remedy is this: You drive to the Tasty Freeze and order the large size hot fudge sundae. And when it comes, the bright red cherry on top cheers you up a little, and then you spoon the first bite into your mouth and you taste the warm chocolate and the cool vanilla ice cream and the sweet sweet whipped cream, and you look at yourself in the rearview mirror of the car and you’re wearing a white mustache, and you smile just a little, and after you’ve taken the last bite, satisfied and filled with that cup of joyful sweetness, suddenly you don’t have the blues anymore.
But you can’t always get to the Tasty Freeze, especially when you’re only thirteen and you can’t drive. So sometimes when I get the blues, my father comes and whispers words that sound like music and he tells me how much he misses me, how much he wishes he were here to hold me in his arms and kiss away my pain. I close my eyes and see him as he looks in the picture on Mama’s nightstand. He is wearing a checked shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His hair, black as Jim’s hooves, is swept back on the sides, and one piece falls across his forehead just above his laughing eyes. He is tall, with narrow hips and long slender feet encased in shiny brown alligator boots. I can feel his strong hands on my shoulders, his lips soft on my forehead. Sometimes he makes silly faces with his eyelids turned inside out and his fingers in his mouth stretching his lips out toward his wiggling ears. Other times his amber eyes are filled with pain, and I see his broken body lying beside the hunk of twisted metal that was his motorcycle. Mama often rode with him, but on the day of the accident, they had argued; Mama had thrown a potted plant against the wall where he stood, and she told me that he left the house brushing fine black dirt out of his hair. He hadn’t stopped to pick up the helmet he usually wore. When Mama got the call from the hospital, she had finished repotting the asparagus fern and set it on the dining table between two candles which she planned to light when he came home.
After Grandma left, I did say a prayer, a plea for forgiveness for my latest sin. I knew that God couldn’t be fooled like Grandma and Brother Thompson, so I asked Him to order the Holy Spirit to enter my heart and make things right. I also asked Him for breasts, Jehu Albright’s love, and a daddy just like the one He had taken away from Mama and me.
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