Baroque and Desperate by Tamar Myers

ma’am, I found him outside the front door. He was crying his little heart out.”
    I lunged for my sometime bundle of joy, but missed. I lunged again. This time I was at least able to touch him. Unfortunately, Dmitri snarled.
    â€œYou see? He doesn’t even like you.”
    â€œHe’s mine just the same.”
    â€œNo, he’s not.”
    â€œHe is,” Tradd said.
    Mrs. Latham coughed to get our attention. “Tradd, is that the cat you were telling me about?”
    â€œYes, Grandmother.”
    Ten years seemed to drop from her face. “Bring him here.”
    Flora meekly allowed Tradd to relieve her of Dmitri who, in turn, meekly allowed Tradd to carry him over to Mrs. Latham. Dmitri couldn’t seem to leap into the old lady’s arms soon enough.”
    â€œWell!” I said.
    â€œHe nearly scratched her face off when she tried to get him out of the car!” C.J. would rather tattle than breathe.
    Mrs. Latham who was already stroking Dmitri with her right hand, waved Flora out of the room with her left. “Don’t worry about it, child,” she said to me. “That’s what makes him a cat. He’s angry at you for something, and he’s determined to make you pay. But he’ll soon forgive you, and be back in your arms purring up a storm. Would you mind terribly if I hold him until then?”
    â€œKnock yourself out, ma’am.”
    She beamed. “How old is he? Tell me all about him.”
    Lord knows I tried to, but I hadn’t gotten much past Dmitri’s weaning when Flora reentered the room, unbidden as you might have guessed. I glared at her, but no one else seemed to mind. She was, after all, balancing a tray with ten tall drinks on it.
    â€œPlanter’s punch,” Tradd whispered, but loud enough for the woman to hear. “Flora makes the best in the county.”
    â€œIs that so?” I said. I really didn’t mean for it to sound quite as sarcastic as it did.
    The faux French maid approached me first. “Care for a punch?”
    â€œWhy, yes, dear, I’d love one.”
    When she bent to place a glass in my outstretched hand, her bosoms billowed forward,threatening to burst from the confines of the black, maid’s uniform and smother me.
    â€œSlut,” I said to myself.
    When she bent to serve Tradd’s brothers across the room, I saw her matching black panties.
    â€œTacky, tacky,” I said to myself. I swear, my lips did not move.
    â€œFlora has her faults,” Mrs. Latham said, reading my mind, “but she’s reliable. That’s more than you can say about most folks these days.”
    The tramp in question turned and flashed me an insolent grin.
    â€œI’ve never had planter’s punch before,” I said coolly. “It’s very good.”
    â€œThis was my Elias’s recipe.”
    â€œIt’s very good,” C.J. agreed. “Much better than my Uncle Willie’s pollywog punch.”
    Foolishly, the matriarch bit. “I never heard of pollywog punch, child. What’s in it?”
    â€œVodka, vermouth, a little lime juice, and, of course, pollywogs.”
    â€œC.J.!”
    Much to my surprise, Mrs. Latham smiled. “Perhaps you’ll be so kind as to give Flora the recipe.”
    â€œOoh, I’d love to. And maybe she’d like my great-aunt Calmia’s recipe for toad-in-the-hole.”
    â€œIt’s an authentic English dish,” I explained to Mrs. Latham. “C.J.’s made it for me before. It’s really quite good.”
    C.J. frowned. “Did I serve you my Aunt Calmia’s version of toad-in-the-hole, or the English one, Abby?”
    â€œWhat difference does it make?” I said through gritted teeth.
    â€œMy Aunt Calmia was born and raised in Shelby. She uses real toads.”
    I gagged. Tradd gallantly patted my back. When I was quite through trying to bring up the remains of Mama’s lunch, our hostess