blame on me for the way your life turned out.”
Her
mother’s face crumpled into more tears. “I’m sorry. I was wrong to make you
quit school. I’ve known it all along, just didn’t know how to take it back.”
Coming
from her mother, it was a gracious apology, and Honey Belle accepted it. She
knelt and lifted her mother’s chafed and work-worn hands into hers. “Don’t cry,
Mama. I know your life has been hard, and you’ve had your share of
disappointments. But I’m not one of them. Why, just tonight, Tripp asked me to
marry him. And I said yes. You’ll see, Mama. Everything is going to be okay.”
With
a heavy sigh, her mother lifted the corner of her threadbare nightgown and
dried her eyes. She rose and patted Honey Belle’s cheek. “You always did
believe in fairy tales.” She hunched her shoulders, and her feet shuffled
toward the bedroom she shared with her husband. It seemed to Honey Belle that
her mother was much older than her thirty-five years.
At
the door, Delilah Garrett turned and stood staring, her face a mixture of anger
and melancholy. “That boy will never marry you, and you’re a fool to think
otherwise, Honey Belle.”
Honey
Belle turned out the lamp. Inside the bathroom, she ran a tub of cold water and
soaked her hot body. She shampooed the salt and sand from her hair. Rinsing
off, she stepped from the tub. Wrapped in a towel, she tiptoed to her bedroom.
Her
body no longer hummed with desire. She tried to conjure up the elation she’d
felt when Tripp had asked her to marry him, but the attempt failed. She didn’t
want to think about her mother’s harsh accusations.
Outside,
the rain frogs croaked for rain. As she lay in bed, their song echoed inside
Honey Belle’s head— that boy will never marry you.
A
moment of déjà vu washed over her. What if her mother and the frogs were
right?
****
Monday
morning Tripp stood at the top of the staircase, fighting a case of nerves that
matched any he’d met on college exam days. Dressed in a pair of crisp white
slacks and a blue golfing shirt that accentuated the color of his eyes, he
folded his hands together and stretched them forward cracking his knuckles. He
shook off the nerves as he descended the stairs.
Placing
his hands inside his pants pockets, he whistled a tune as he strolled into the
large airy dining room. “Good morning, Mother.” He bent and kissed her on the
cheek.
The
maid hustled over to fill his coffee cup. “How would you like your eggs this
morning, Mr. Tripp?”
“Sunnyside
up, and load the grits with butter.”
The
woman offered him a wide grin. “Just the way you like ’em, Mr. Tripp.”
“Oh,
and Pearlie Mae, is that hot biscuits I smell?”
“I
’s’pose you want ’em loaded with butter, too?”
“Yes,
ma’am, and dripping with honey.”
Tripp’s
father folded the newspaper and laid it next to his plate. “Pearlie Mae, you do
spoil us with your cooking.” He patted his stomach.
With
a giggle, the maid bounced off toward the kitchen.
“She’s
a jewel, that Pearlie Mae. Don’t know what I’d do without her.” Tripp’s mother
flashed a smile across the table toward her son.
Tripp
stirred sugar into his coffee. The spoon clattered against the sides of the
cup. His throat felt as if it were stuffed with cotton. Without waiting for the
coffee to cool, he gulped a large sip, not expecting to scorch the back of his
throat. He grabbed the white linen napkin and pressed it to his mouth to keep
from spewing hot liquid across the table.
Stricken
with a coughing spasm, Tripp’s eyes dripped with tears and his face suffused
red as his father pounded him on the back. Between sputters, Tripp managed to
say, “Now I know what a piece of bacon must feel like when it hits the frying
pan.”
His
mother fussed and fidgeted. “Merciful heaven, Pearlie Mae, bring a glass of
cold buttermilk, and be quick about your slow self.”
The
maid bustled in as fast as her short fat legs would carry her.
Her
mother’s face crumpled into more tears. “I’m sorry. I was wrong to make you
quit school. I’ve known it all along, just didn’t know how to take it back.”
Coming
from her mother, it was a gracious apology, and Honey Belle accepted it. She
knelt and lifted her mother’s chafed and work-worn hands into hers. “Don’t cry,
Mama. I know your life has been hard, and you’ve had your share of
disappointments. But I’m not one of them. Why, just tonight, Tripp asked me to
marry him. And I said yes. You’ll see, Mama. Everything is going to be okay.”
With
a heavy sigh, her mother lifted the corner of her threadbare nightgown and
dried her eyes. She rose and patted Honey Belle’s cheek. “You always did
believe in fairy tales.” She hunched her shoulders, and her feet shuffled
toward the bedroom she shared with her husband. It seemed to Honey Belle that
her mother was much older than her thirty-five years.
At
the door, Delilah Garrett turned and stood staring, her face a mixture of anger
and melancholy. “That boy will never marry you, and you’re a fool to think
otherwise, Honey Belle.”
Honey
Belle turned out the lamp. Inside the bathroom, she ran a tub of cold water and
soaked her hot body. She shampooed the salt and sand from her hair. Rinsing
off, she stepped from the tub. Wrapped in a towel, she tiptoed to her bedroom.
Her
body no longer hummed with desire. She tried to conjure up the elation she’d
felt when Tripp had asked her to marry him, but the attempt failed. She didn’t
want to think about her mother’s harsh accusations.
Outside,
the rain frogs croaked for rain. As she lay in bed, their song echoed inside
Honey Belle’s head— that boy will never marry you.
A
moment of déjà vu washed over her. What if her mother and the frogs were
right?
****
Monday
morning Tripp stood at the top of the staircase, fighting a case of nerves that
matched any he’d met on college exam days. Dressed in a pair of crisp white
slacks and a blue golfing shirt that accentuated the color of his eyes, he
folded his hands together and stretched them forward cracking his knuckles. He
shook off the nerves as he descended the stairs.
Placing
his hands inside his pants pockets, he whistled a tune as he strolled into the
large airy dining room. “Good morning, Mother.” He bent and kissed her on the
cheek.
The
maid hustled over to fill his coffee cup. “How would you like your eggs this
morning, Mr. Tripp?”
“Sunnyside
up, and load the grits with butter.”
The
woman offered him a wide grin. “Just the way you like ’em, Mr. Tripp.”
“Oh,
and Pearlie Mae, is that hot biscuits I smell?”
“I
’s’pose you want ’em loaded with butter, too?”
“Yes,
ma’am, and dripping with honey.”
Tripp’s
father folded the newspaper and laid it next to his plate. “Pearlie Mae, you do
spoil us with your cooking.” He patted his stomach.
With
a giggle, the maid bounced off toward the kitchen.
“She’s
a jewel, that Pearlie Mae. Don’t know what I’d do without her.” Tripp’s mother
flashed a smile across the table toward her son.
Tripp
stirred sugar into his coffee. The spoon clattered against the sides of the
cup. His throat felt as if it were stuffed with cotton. Without waiting for the
coffee to cool, he gulped a large sip, not expecting to scorch the back of his
throat. He grabbed the white linen napkin and pressed it to his mouth to keep
from spewing hot liquid across the table.
Stricken
with a coughing spasm, Tripp’s eyes dripped with tears and his face suffused
red as his father pounded him on the back. Between sputters, Tripp managed to
say, “Now I know what a piece of bacon must feel like when it hits the frying
pan.”
His
mother fussed and fidgeted. “Merciful heaven, Pearlie Mae, bring a glass of
cold buttermilk, and be quick about your slow self.”
The
maid bustled in as fast as her short fat legs would carry her.
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