Biggie and the Devil Diet (2 page)

1

O
ur next-door neighbor, Mrs. Moody, came tapping at the back door just as Willie Mae was frying up a batch of beignets for our breakfast. If you've never tasted beignets, you're in for a treat. They're little square doughnuts covered all over in powdered sugar. When Willie Mae puts them, hot out of the frying pan, on my plate then dusts them with enough powdered sugar to make them white as snow, I feel like I've died and gone to heaven.

"I just got a call from Woodrow," Mrs. Moody said, pouring herself a cup of coffee from the pot on the stove. She pulled out a chair and took a seat beside Biggie at the table. "Umm, something smells good. What is that, Willie Mae?"

"Beignets," Willie Mae said, not looking around.

"Have some breakfast with us," Biggie said. "What did Woodrow have on his mind this time?"

Woodrow is Mrs. Moody's son who lives in Wascom, over near the Louisiana line. To hear Mrs. Moody tell it, he would be president of General Motors if his wife wasn't holding him back. She says that's what you get when you marry beneath your station in life, a no-account wife and a house full of bucktoothed kids to support. Woodrow had to take a job delivering Rainbo bread to support his family instead of becoming a business tycoon the way he'd planned.

"It's Imogene, of course," Mrs. Moody said. "It seems her mother, who lives over in Marshall, lost her job at the pants factory. She's a widow, you know, since the old man drank himself to death."

"Poor thing." Biggie wiped powdered sugar off her chin. "What's she going to do?"

"Oh, she got another job right away," Mrs. Moody said. "She hired on with the gas company as a meter reader. That's the problem."

"How so?" Biggie asked.

"Well, it seems she was reading the gas meter outside the old folks home with a cigarette in her mouth. She didn't know the meter had a leak. Well, naturally the thing blew up— knocked the whole back wall out of the home, and several of the old folks went into heart failure from the shock. They said it shook cans off the shelves down at the Piggly Wiggly five blocks away."

"Was she killed?" I asked.

"Not her." Mrs. Moody held up her plate and waited while Willie Mae slid two fresh beignets on it. "That old woman is tough as boot leather. It singed off all her hair though, and she had burns on her face and arms. Anyway, now she's laid up in the hospital over in Marshall, and Imogene's got to go take care of her. Woodrow asked me to come look after him and the kids while she's away. Willie Mae, you've got to give me your recipe for these." She waved a beignet in the air over her head.

"Well, Essie, that's too bad. Is there anything I can do to help?" Biggie asked.

"Oh no, not a thing." Mrs. Moody got up and poured herself a fresh cup of coffee. "I was going to ask J.R. for one teensy favor though." She looked at me over her shoulder.

"What?" I asked.

"It's Prissy. I can't take her with me. Those children just run her ragged, all the time wanting to dress her up in doll clothes and push her around in that little toy stroller they've got. Prissy was a bundle of nerves the last time we visited them. I had to call up Doc Lasky over in Center Point to give her some pills to calm her down."

"Dr. Lasky's not a vet. He's a chiropractor— or an osteopath— something like that. Lonie Thedford said he did wonders for her last winter when she slipped and hurt her back."

"Oh, I know, Biggie. That man's got magic hands; everybody says so. But those pills he gave me sure did help Prissy. She calmed down real quick and slept for a day and a half, poor thing. She was just a wreck!"

To my way of thinking, Prissy is a nervous wreck all the time. She is a little white poodle, and all she ever does is run back and forth along her fence yapping at everybody who walks down the sidewalk. Even when she's asleep, she twitches and barks and makes running motions with her legs. My dog, Bingo, who is a mutt but ten times smarter than Prissy, is scared of her on account of she bit him once just because he was trying to get one little taste of the bone she was gnawing.

"I don't know," I said. "Booger and Bingo don't get along with her too good." The truth is, Booger can beat her up anytime he feels like it.

"Of course we'll take care of her," Biggie said. "J.R., you can keep her in that pen Rosebud built for Bingo when he was a puppy. When will you bring her over, Essie?"

"First thing tomorrow morning." Mrs. Moody stood up and brushed the powdered sugar off her blouse. "And I'll make it worth your while, J.R."

I remembered the last time she'd said that. I spent the whole afternoon raking up leaves in her yard, and she paid me with an old catcher's mitt that used to belong to Woodrow. It had a hole in the pocket with the stuffing coming out. I sighed, knowing there was no sense in arguing about it. Biggie's word is law in our house. I'd just have to find a way to keep Prissy in that pen and out of my hair most of the time. I nodded and went to the stove and held out my plate for another hot biegnet.

After breakfast, I rode my bike down to the vacant lot on the alley behind Handy's House of Hardware. It used to be a construction site on account of Mr. Handy was going to build a lumberyard there; but the bank wouldn't approve his loan, so now it's just this monster hole. Mr. Handy said us guys could build a dirt track out there as long as we didn't get hurt. When I got there, DeWayne Boggs, Arthur Handy, and Bruce Oterwald were dragging a huge piece of plywood from the back of the hardware store.

"Hey, J.R.," DeWayne said, dropping his end of the plywood, "looky here what we found."

"Cool," I said. "Does Mr. Handy know you've got that?"

"Yep," Arthur said.

"He gave it to us," Bruce put in. "See, it's warped in the middle, and the layers are coming apart at the corners on account of it got left out in the rain last week. We're gonna make a dirt bike ramp."

I pitched in and helped build the ramp. We laid it up against the side of the excavation, being careful to dig a trench and put rocks around the bottom edge so it wouldn't slide around. After it was set in place, we spent the rest of the morning racing our bikes up to the top. It felt great flying off the top of that old plywood, and it didn't hurt too much when we toppled down into the soft mud in the bottom of the hole. My bike and I were both pretty much of a mess when I rode into our yard around eleven.

As soon as I came in the back door, I noticed something was wrong. There was no smell of lunch being prepared, and Willie Mae was not even in the kitchen getting ready to cook anything. I went to the back stairs and yelled, "Biggeeee!"

Biggie appeared at the top of the stairs in her slip, her hand at her throat. "My soul, J.R., what's the matter?"

"Willie Mae's not cooking lunch," I said.

If looks could kill, I'd have been a dead duck. "J.R., you scared me half to death. Willie Mae had an emergency. Miss Rosa Dorsett, who goes to her church, has passed on, and Willie Mae had to go to the funeral home to fix her hair." Then she took a good look at me. "What on earth have you been doing? Get up here and get in the bathtub this very minute— and take off those shoes and leave them on the back porch. Willie Mae will have your hide if you leave a mess in her kitchen."

I left my clothes in a pile on the bathroom floor. I was just slipping into a clean tee shirt when Biggie tapped on the door, then without waiting for an answer, pushed it open and poked her head in. She had changed from her old sweat pants to a pantsuit with a scarf.

"How come you're so dressed up?" I asked before she could speak.

"That's just what I wanted to talk to you about." She leaned against the door frame. "I'm meeting some of the girls down at Mattie's Tea Room for lunch. You can come along if you want." Then she spotted my clothes on the floor and pointed. "Were you planning to leave those there?"

"Well, I didn't want to put them in the hamper with Willie Mae's clean dirty clothes."

"Probably a good idea," she said. "Take them out back and hang them on the clothesline. When we get back, you can wash the mud off with the hose."

"I might not go, Biggie."

"Suit yourself," she said, "but today's Tuesday, and Mattie's special is always fried catfish on Tuesday. Still, if you want to stay here, there's some leftover cornbread and turnip greens in the fridge. Just be sure to clean up after yourself."

"I guess I'll go." I picked up my muddy clothes and started down the backstairs. "I sure hope nobody sees me though."

Lately, I've been getting a little embarrassed about being seen all over town with my grandmother. I don't know why; I didn't used to feel that way. And that's not all. A lot of other things have been bothering me recently, like girls. All of a sudden, the girls in my class at school have taken to wearing lipstick and eye shadow and stuff. And the way they dress is real stupid, too. Half the time you can see their bare skin sticking out from between their pants and tops. And they're always whispering and looking at you out of the corners of their eyes. I don't know why that makes me nervous, but it does. Thank goodness my friend, Monica Sontag, doesn't act that way. If she ever starts, she can just kiss our friendship good-bye.

* * *

Mattie's Tea Room sits on the square right across Pecan Street from the courthouse. It is between Dossie's New and Old Antiques & Massage Parlor and Mr. Beamis's law office. Mrs. Mattie Thripp and her husband, Norman, run it, although if you ask me, I'd say Norman Thripp is nothing but a slave around there the way his wife orders him around all the time. If I ever get married, which I'm not going to, I'll never let my wife treat me the way Mattie treats Norman.

The tearoom is one of those girly places, if you know what I mean. Ruffled curtains hang on the windows, and the tables are covered with peach-colored cloths with little vases of fresh flowers in the middle of each one. Butch Hinckley, who owns Hinckley's House of Flowers, changes the flowers every day or so. The chairs are all antiques, according to Miss Mattie, and I think she's telling the truth because most of them are pretty rickety.

A little silver bell tinkled when we pushed open the door and went inside. Mrs. Muckleroy, Miss Julia Lockhart, and Butch were already seated at the round table in the middle of the room. A long table under the windows had a white card in the middle that said RESERVED.

"Yoo-hoo, Biggie. Here we are," Miss Julia called out, as if we couldn't see them plain as day. "Oh, goody, J.R. came along. My stars, baby, you're getting tall just like your daddy." She turned to Butch. "Royce was our star basketball player when he was in high school. Remember, Ruby?"

Mrs. Muckleroy nodded, but didn't comment.

Butch was wearing a black tee shirt with a sequin chrysanthemum on the front and very tight white jeans with white tennies. "Ya'll sit down," he said, waving us toward the two empty chairs. "I've got to get back to the shop just as soon as I eat. I had to lock it up to come here since I don't have help anymore."

"I guess you're lost now that Meredith Michelle is on her glamorous honeymoon in the Bahamas." Mrs. Muckleroy held up her hand and examined her blood red fingernails.

Meredith Michelle is Mrs. Muckleroy's daughter and had worked for Butch before she got married last week. The wedding was the biggest party anybody's ever seen in Job's Crossing. At least that's what Mrs. Muckleroy says. She put up a big white tent in her backyard with a floor for dancing. I heard her tell Biggie it was the only wedding ever in our town to have a live band. Some band. It was just Buddy Green, who is still in high school, and his garage band, which is named Snot Licks. The name is painted in big red letters on their bass drum. Mrs. Muckleroy made him cover that name with paper when he played for the wedding— and she introduced the band as Buddy and the Swing Kings. Buddy said he never would have sat still for that, but this was the first time they'd ever been asked to play anywhere. He thought the wedding might lead to future gigs.

Butch rolled his eyes at Mrs. Muckleroy's last remark. "Well, Ruby, if you want to know the truth…"

"What looks good?" Biggie asked quickly, picking up her menu. "Hmmm, Mattie's got crab quiche today. I might just have that, with a fresh green salad."

"We don't have that anymore." Miss Mattie had just walked up to the table and pulled up a chair. "Norman discovered he didn't have any crabmeat, so he substituted sardines. Uggh! I had to throw the things out. They smelled up the whole kitchen. I have some nice pasta primavera though."

"I'll have that then," Biggie said.

Mrs. Muckleroy had the same thing, while Miss Julia and Butch decided on a club sandwich. Naturally, I ordered the catfish special.

"You'll like that, J.R.," Miss Mattie said. "The catfish is crusted with ground pecans and Parmesan cheese. It's a recipe I saw on the Food Network."

"Can't I just have cornmeal on mine?" I asked.

"Are you sure, J.R.?" Miss Mattie asked. "It's very good. We're serving it with a pureed red bell pepper sauce. Very elegant."

"Did
Emeril
do it?" Butch asked. "I just love that
Emeril. Bam!
" He picked up the salt shaker and pretended to sprinkle salt on the table.

"I'll just have the cornmeal," I said, "with ketchup."

Just as Miss Mattie started toward the kitchen to turn in our orders, the little bell over the door tinkled. "Oh, there's my party of ten," she said. "I'll just turn in your orders before I take care of them." She leaned down and whispered. "They're from an exclusive spa outside of town."