A Place Called Wiregrass by Michael Morris

as we made our way up the azalea-lined driveway. The grounds were manicured as perfectly as Miss Claudia’s, but five hundred times bigger. I couldn’t even imagine how many people it must take to keep the place in shape.
    The good thing about the long church service was that most of the Methodist, Baptist, Presbyterian, and Episcopalian crowd had already eaten and gone. But one of the old guard remained. As soon as we stepped foot into the red-carpeted foyer, I laid eyes on that prune-faced Elizabeth. Cher and mestood next to the planted palm and watched as she offered air kisses to Miss Claudia.
    “That hat is just precious,” Prune Face said, actually showing teeth. “We missed you in church today,” she said with that pointy chin tilted towards the carpet.
    “My friend Missoura wanted us to go to her church.” Miss Claudia turned to point in our general direction. Prune Face shot us a quick look and then blinked her eyes, seeming to want to take us out of focus.
    “Well, now. Do I know this lady? She attend the Baptist church?” Elizabeth folded her arms and leaned sideways, as if concerned she’d have to stop Miss Claudia from joining a cult.
    “We go way back to Apalachicola. You know her. Her husband, Aaron, worked for us down at the store.”
    “Aaron?” Elizabeth straightened up and slightly tucked her head. “You mean the colored man who ran the elevator?” By the way she whispered the word colored, you would’ve thought she was using the most vile four-letter word known to man.
    Miss Claudia was unaffected. “Bless his soul, you know, he died five years back. Anyway, I just think the world of his wife, Missoura. We all went to services with her. And brother did that preacher lay it on us.” Miss Claudia turned to look out the double-glassed doors. “In fact, I’m expecting her any minute. She’s going to join us for lunch.”
    Elizabeth’s big blue eyes bugged even wider. “Here?” She leaned over and pointed down to the carpet.
    “Well, where else? Oh me, where are my manners. You know my companion, Erma Lee Jacobs. This here’s her granddaughter, Cher.” Miss Claudia waved her hands for us to stand by her.
    Prune Face stood frozen, finger pointing down to the floor. Cher looked up at me all nervous-like. I hated that she had to see this, but I was just doing handstands on the inside.If I’d had control over the Wiregrass newspaper that day, I would’ve run with the headline: “Prune Face Gets Hers.”
    “Now, Claudia. You do realize there are rules the club abides to and…”
    Prune Face was saved by her skinny, bent-over husband, who had strips of thin gray hair covering his balding head.
    “Well, lookie here.” He wiped his mouth with his handkerchief and had a more pleasant grin than his wife. “Claudia, you look like you’re doing good. Hip getting back to normal?”
    While Miss Claudia updated the husband on her nasty fall and the bruise that still lingered, I saw Elizabeth pinch him on the sleeve of his jacket. As if pulled by a string, he quickly said, “Well, y’all have a nice lunch,” and they departed. I turned around to look through the glass doors and saw her bony hands chopping air as I’m sure she recounted the shocking news that a colored would be having lunch at her exclusive club.
    I tried to contain myself by biting my tongue. The soft piano music coming from the center of the room seemed too dignified for a fit of laughter. When the man in the white dinner jacket sat us outside on the balcony, I was relieved. The clapping of rotating sprinklers on the fairway would help to weaken any misbehavior that might burst forth. Finally the picture of Prune Face bent over, pointing with her skinny finger, was too much.
    Cher looked at me like I’d lost my senses when I erupted. Unfortunately, Miss Claudia had just taken a sip of iced tea and spat the liquid across the table. All the sudden I forgot that she lived on Elm Drive. She was still all refined in her