LaVyrle Spencer: Small Town Girl

"Still, you could have been a little nicer to him."

"No, I couldn't. Not to that nerd. All he had to do was look around at everybody else to see how idiotic he looked and try to improve himself. Only he never did. If he wanted to hang with us he could have worked a little harder at it."

Mary wasn't one to show her displeasure overtly, but there were signs-a tightening of a facial muscle, the persnickety way she picked up her coffee cup and carried it to the sink. Quietly she suggested, "Why don't you get your bags out of the car and park it back by the garage. It's probably better if you don't leave it on the street overnight, an expensive thing like that."

Tess knew when she was being chastised and it put a knot in her chest. What was it about her mother's displeasure that weighed heavier than that of others? Tess could handle herself out in the business and entertainment world like a pro, could make choices and decisions and lay down music that created respect-even awe-in those around her, but she hadn't been home one hour and already she felt the strictures of trying to return to a place she'd outgrown.

She drove around the south end of the block and headed up the alley past sheds and garages where she used to play hide-and-seek and kick-the-can when she was little, past backyard tulip trees and grapevines gone rambling over things they hadn't ought to ramble over. There were piles of blackened lumber and burning barrels that were used no more. Every place had a garden. The yards were green and old enough that their lot lines had become obscured by trees that had seeded themselves beside sheds, and by bushes that had ranged into the adjoining property. But here in Wintergreen, just above the bootheel of Missouri, where neighbors truly were neighbors and had been for twenty and thirty years, nobody cared about lines of demarcation.

Mary's garage was as old as the others and needed painting. Surprisingly, however, it had a new door. Nosing the car up to it and getting out, Tess glanced at the place across the alley. Everything painted, no ranging grapevines and not a piece of junk anywhere. Good for Saint Kenny, she thought sarcastically, grabbing her duffel bag and heading for the house. On the way through the backyard she noticed that her mother had somehow managed to put in a garden already. Tradition, this garden, no matter how unnecessary it was, and no matter how it must have hurt Mary's hip to get down on her hands and knees and plant it. Tess noticed that it was well established due to an unseasonably early spring, and supposed that during the next four weeks she'd end up having to care for it, which would positively ruin her nails! And her nails were one of her trademarks.

The back stoop was three steps high with a black iron handrail on one side only. Tess wondered how Mary would climb them after her surgery. Inside was a small landing with the basement door straight ahead, and the kitchen up a single step to the right. When Tess reached the house and bumped through the kitchen with her duffel bag, she called back over her shoulder, "Hey, Momma, you shouldn't have put in that garden this year with your hip so bad."

She was in the living room rounding the center arch when Mary called back, "Oh, I didn't put it in. Kenny did it for me this year."

Tess came up short and backed down the one step she'd climbed. She shot a look at the kitchen archway. All she could see was one chrome leg of the kitchen table and the window beyond it, and in her imagination, pimply Kenny Kronek planting her mother's tomatoes.

"He's got a rototiller," came Mary's voice, "and he offered, so I let him."

Saint Kenny the Rototiller, Tess thought wryly as she clumped upstairs.

Mary yelled, "And did you see my new garage door? He installed that for me, too."

Tess stopped in her tracks, resting the duffel bag on the step at her knee. The nerd installed the garage door, too? What was he after?

The upper story of the house was laid out shotgun style, its ceiling shaped like the roofline with a window at either end. The girls had called it "the barracks" when they were growing up, sleeping in three single beds whose headboards were pushed into the south roof angle. The stairs emerged onto the east end of the expanse with only a sturdy homemade railing to keep anyone from falling off the floor above. Straight ahead, at the top of the steps, was a window giving a bird's-eye view of Saint Kenny's yard. Tess whisked past it without giving it so much as a glance, executed a U-turn around the handrail and looked down the length of the room.

The beds hunkered along the left with a stack of drawers beside each one. On the far end a small dressing table stood beneath the window, and on the right, kneehole closets filled the space beneath the eaves. She dropped her duffel on the farthest bed. They had earned their distance from the stairs by birth order; closest to the stairs and the downstairs bathroom was the oldest, Judy; middle bed was Renee's, and way over at the farthest end was Tess's, because she was the baby. She had always hated being referred to as the baby of the family, and felt a ripple of smug satisfaction at being the one who went off and did the best.

She stood looking around, then wandered to the dressing table where she had first written in her diary that she wanted to be a singer; where she had learned to put on makeup from Renee; and had sat staring out at the street with a puckered mouth when she'd been sent to her room as punishment. For what? It was hard to remember now, but there had been times. Times when she'd needed it, she supposed.

The top of the dressing table held an empty perfume bottle from Love's Baby Soft, and a framed photograph of Judy with two of her high school girlfriends; a pink glass dish containing a pearl button, a small ring, a cloth-covered ponytail holder and some dust. Dented into the top of the table, painted over in the years since, was the name Elvis ,

pressed there in ballpoint pen by Tess in 1977, the year he died and she graduated from high school. She'd grown up listening to Elvis and he had been her idol: if he could do it, she could do it. She brushed the word with her fingertips, as if it were a headstone, then switched on the familiar little lamp with the cheap flared plastic shade. She switched it off again and opened the single dressing-table drawer. Something went rolling and she reached inside and pulled it out: a tube of Bonne Bell root-beer-flavored Lip Smackers. She removed the cap and sniffed it. Nostalgia came rumbling like a tidal wave-being thirteen again and getting her first pair of panty hose; being fourteen and wearing these adolescent perfumes; being fifteen and going out on her first official dates with boys. She rubbed the Bonne Bell on her lips. It had turned sticky with age and she swiped it off with the side of one hand and dropped the tube back where it had been.

Bracing her palms on the tabletop she put her face near the window and glanced down at the street where she had watched for cars when her dates had come to pick her up. The trees in the front yard had grown. From up here she could see even more clearly the cracks in the sidewalk, the thin spots in the grass, the weeds. The sun was hovering just above the houses across the street where she used to babysit. On the lawn the dandelions were closing up as the afternoon waned.

And down below, her mother was calling, "Tess? Should I put the hot dish in now?"

She murmured to herself, "Yes, Momma, because the world will fall off its axis if it's not on the table at the crack of six." She pushed off the dressing table and called, "I'll do it, Momma! Just let me hang up some clothes first, okay?"

"Well… okay," Mary replied with grave doubt, then added, "but it's ten after five already and it really should bake for a full hour."