All the Colors of the Dark — Chapter 191

191

Norma once told Saint that it took a village to raise a child. Though she did not have a village, on the last Friday of each month Saint threw open the doors of the tall house on Pinehill Cemetery Road and cooked a meal for her grandmother, Charlotte, Mrs. Meyer, and, with blazing reluctance, Sammy.

At six Charlotte emerged from the yard with a jar, then stood beside Saint as she mixed the cornmeal and flour. Charlotte sprinkled in a little sugar, beat the eggs and buttermilk. They had agreed on an allowance of two dollars each week, for which Charlotte acted as sous chef, quickly honing her skills till Norma declared her cornbread superior to Saint’s. In return Saint declared her grandmother Judas and threatened to withdraw from the kitchen entirely.

Mrs. Meyer arrived with a bottle of red, Sammy, with two bottles of Buffalo Trace Bourbon.

Saint fixed glazed skillet chicken while Charlotte took her blueberry buckle to the corner to fold. Mrs. Meyer dressed the table, the three women working together in orchestra while Sammy and Norma quietly got drunk.

They ate on the porch, Charlotte watching the fired sky, her grandmother beside her. “Sweetest chicken I ever tasted,” Norma said.

“Charlotte’s honey,” Saint said.

“Fuckers only stung me thirty times during production. That aftertaste is likely my blood,” Charlotte said.

Mrs. Meyer sighed. She wore a white virgin wool jacket, Dior lipstick, and crystal-embellished mules. Each time she showed at the door Saint would silently note the combinations then seek to copy the outfit at the

Three-Rivers Outlet Mall. She used to wonder if the lady was going on someplace grander afterward till Charlotte told her that her grandmother only left the house to visit with them now.

Charlotte brought out the dessert, which Sammy tried to decline till Saint threatened to subpoena his second bottle.

“It’s the finest honey I ever tasted,” Norma said, smacking her lips till Saint threatened her, too. “I mean…Saint’s produce was fine enough, but Charlotte here has a true farmer’s touch.”

“Is that why all the boys want me to milk them?” Charlotte said.

“Jesus,” Saint said.

“Don’t blaspheme,” Norma said.

Mrs. Meyer sighed once more.

“Charlotte is the closest thing I have to a great-granddaughter,” Norma declared. “I was waiting on Saint, but I reckon she’s running my clock down now, and hers. No time to fall in love—”

“And produce a clutch of eggs?” Saint said.

“Don’t need a man for that,” Charlotte said.

“You’re not talking about…what’s it called?” Norma slurred.

“Spunk donor?” Sammy offered.

“Jesus,” Saint said.

“Don’t blaspheme,” Norma said.

“It’s all delicious,” Mrs. Meyer said, aiming to bring it back.

Saint smiled. “I registered Charlotte with the American Beekeeping Federation.”

“Sometimes I worry she knows me too well,” Charlotte said.

“Sass all you want, but I reckon you’d be a shoo-in for this year’s Honey Princess,” Saint said, raising an eyebrow at Charlotte.

“And that could also be my stripper name,” Charlotte said, to a deep roar of laughter from Sammy.

When it was done, when the last wine had been drunk, when a drunk Sammy aimed a goodbye kiss at Mrs. Meyer, who swerved with such finesse that he toppled from the front step and disappeared into a ninebark, Saint sat at the old piano and played.

She watched the painting of the white house as she did.

“Why do you always play this song? Norma said it was your wedding song,” Charlotte said, standing behind her.

“It belonged to two people way before I got married.”

“Will Patch die in there?” Charlotte said.

“No.”

“Shame.”

“Don’t say that.”

“You can’t think there’s a heaven for people like him?”

“It’s the only thing that I pray for.”

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