Queen Bee Goes Home Again (11 page)

My mother paused to study me. “I don't know who it is you've been trying to scrub away, but you can tell me, you know.”

Only if I wanted it on the grapevine (aka the prayer chain—both Baptist and Methodist, so my mother didn't miss anything). I didn't spill the beans, deflecting with, “It's not somebody. It's my own stupidity and my stubborn, rebellious flesh.”

Her left brow rose as she granted me a skeptical smile. “As bad as that?”

“Yep.”

“Well,” she said cheerfully, “you could always get a good dildo. There's nothing in the Bible that says you can't have a good dildo.”

“Mama!” Had she really said that? “That's not what I was talking about.” Though it might not be a bad idea. Or would it?

Shoot. There went my wayward brain again.

No wonder God had stopped speaking to me.

“Sorry,” Miss Mamie said without apology.

Flustered, I heard my mouth engage before my mind. “I thought when I got old, I'd get better. Smarter. More mature. More in control of my emotions and my physical desires. But I'm still that same impulsive, contrary nit-head I was at puberty.”

My mother peered at me till a light went on in her eyes. “Oooohhh. Our new neighbor.” She sobered. “I was afraid of that.”

Horrified, I splayed my hand over my heart. “Oh, no. Could you tell?”
Please don't let everybody in town know! Please-oh-please-oh-please.

“Of course not.” She patted my arm. “I just now figured it out. If I'd known, I wouldn't have asked you what was wrong.”

Why didn't I believe that? Because it was the Mame. Her maternal compulsion to comfort Tommy and me always overrode such trivial inconveniences as the truth.

But I would never be able to show my face in Mimosa Branch again if she spread this around. “Mama, I know it's hard to keep things to yourself, but this one is a biggie. If anybody else even guesses this, I'd have to leave town and go to a shelter, and I'm not kidding. You and I both know perfectly well that nothing good can come from my crush on Connor, for him or me.”

Miss Mamie sniffed, the simple gesture transmitting a blast of “Oh, yeah? Who says?”

“I mean it, Mama.” I only called her Mama when things were drastic. “I have to nip this in the bud.” My mind immediately conjured a bug-eyed Barney Fife hollering, “Nip it in the bud,” but I stayed on topic. “I have no intention of acting on these ridiculous feelings, and it can't go any further than you and me.” I grasped her rubber gloves in my own. “Please, this is
really
important. If you need to talk to anybody about it, talk to God. He sure hasn't been talking to me lately.”

“Oh, sweetie.” She leaned over and gave me an awkward hug, because getting up then back down was too much trouble for both of us. “I vow, this won't go any further than God.”

I knew she meant it. I just didn't know if she could keep her promise, any more than I could stop cussing in my head.

Please, Lord, don't let this get out.

I went back to scrubbing, slowing my pace to the somber beat of “The Old Rugged Cross,” one of Granny Beth's favorites, and mine. But no matter how hard I scrubbed or sang, my flesh wouldn't let go of thinking about Connor Allen.

 

Twelve

Three weeks after my first visit to Ocee State, I returned to the baking campus and waited to be called back to Pam What's-her-name's office.

Brady,
I managed to remember as the receptionist (another student) led me back to see her.

Pam rose, as before. “Hi! We processed your registration and transcripts.” She closed the door, then offered her hand.

I shook it. “Great. Any news?”

I waited till she sat to do the same, as mixed emotions warred over what she might say. She seemed happy—a good sign. A very good sign, as it turned out.

“Based on your finances and situation,” she told me, “I am pleased to announce that you have qualified for a Pell Grant, which will cover both your classes and your textbooks, for winter/spring quarter.”

I sat there, stunned, doing my best to stomp out the
Oh no
s and
You can't even keep up with what day it is! How do you expect to pass in college?
that erupted alongside my sense of accomplishment.

Holy crow! I was really going back to college.

Pam nodded to me, clearly expecting a reaction.

Closeting my fears, I found myself on my feet, pumping her hand. “Wow! Thanks. I don't know how to thank you. Thanks.”

I still couldn't believe it had actually happened. A full ride! Wow.

Miracle of miracles.
Thank you, Lord!

She grinned. “I think you're really going to like it here. Almost all of our nontraditional students do.”

Still dazed, I subsided to my chair. “What's next?”

“You'll need to meet with your adviser.” She handed me his card. “You can call and leave a message at his office for an appointment, but a student e-mail might do better.” She paused. “Do you have any special needs?”

“Well, I can't filter voices when there's background noise. Is that a special need?”

She made a note on my file, then handed me a card that said “Cathy Wallace, Student Accommodations Office.”

Too politically correct. Instead of saying
Disabilities Office,
they came up with a name that sounded like student housing—which they didn't even have.

She went on. “This is the number for our special needs office. You can schedule an appointment with them for evaluation, and they'll work with you on your accommodations.”

“Thanks.” Cool. When I'd gone to college in 1970, nobody gave a fig whether anybody needed special help.

She handed me an orientation packet. “Here's the information you'll need to get started. Your password for our Web site is your full birth date—two digits for both the month and date, and four for the year—then your mother's maiden name. Once you've registered for your classes, you can set up your student e-mail and get your ID and parking permit.”

“How many credits transferred from my year at Sandford?” I wondered aloud.

She looked over the transcript, then said, “Five hours of art history.”

Shoot! My mouth tugged down on one side. “That's all?”

She shrugged. “That's all.”

I really was starting from scratch. “Then I need
everything
.”

She lifted a finger. “I'd recommend your trying to CLEP out of some of your basic courses. We allow you to test out of up to thirty-five credit hours.”

“Clep?”

“College Level Equivalency Program,” she clarified. “Of course, if you qualify for special accommodations, you can register early in October, ahead of the other students, and Cathy can help you pick the professors who work best with limitations like yours.” She showed me a printed blue sheet that listed the required courses, then she started checking off categories. “You'll need all of these core courses for an English degree, but you can select which ones you can CLEP from the link on our Web site.”

There were an awful lot of checks.

Seeing my dismay, she smiled in sympathy. “Cathy will go over this in more detail if you qualify for special accommodations. Otherwise, your adviser can help you.”

Based on past experiences, a question popped into my mind. “How long has my adviser been here?”

Pam made a brief face, then admitted, “This is his first year with us.”

Talk about the blind leading the blind! “Well, I hope I qualify for accommodations, then.”

Mouth, could you possibly be ruder? Shoot!

But Pam laughed, then leaned in for a confidential, “Me, too.”

I tucked the cards in my purse, then rose along with her. “Thank you so much. And the grant committee. Thank everybody for me, please.”

She nodded. “See you in January.”

January, and it was already August. I had a lot to learn in a very short time if I was going to CLEP well.

My friends who'd gone back to school over the years had told me that it wasn't the courses that were so hard, it was learning how each school did things that made it difficult.

Frankly, my “life plan” had been more of an impulse than a calling. Yet there I was, all set to go to school for three years. Maybe less, if I could test out of a bunch of classes.

I could do that. I loved school.

Except math.

Shoot. I'd have to take math! Just one course, but still …

Passing that would take a Red Sea miracle.

But God had provided the scholarship, so I supposed He could provide the brains I needed to pass college algebra. Or a good tutor.

If not, I could always pay somebody to take it for me, online.

My inner Puritan flailed away on me with a hickory stick for even thinking such a thing.

Sorry, sorry, sorry. I was only kidding.
I'd never cheated before, and had no intention of doing so.

Unless it was the absolute
only
way I could get my diploma.

I could sense God's shaking His head at me.

Thanks so much for the scholarship,
I prayed again with conviction.
So much.

More than even the money, getting that grant made me feel like I wasn't such a failure.

I decided to see the disabilities office and register as soon as I could, so I could get a basic algebra textbook and start reviewing, even though I knew perfectly well that all the bridges had been burned long ago when it came to math.

Thank goodness for grace and forgiveness, that's all I can say.

 

Thirteen

Back home, I parked in my spot beside Tommy's truck in the garage, then headed for the house.

You know, maybe poverty wasn't so bad if it made me eligible for a grant.

I wondered if I'd qualify for food stamps. Lord knew, I'd paid plenty of taxes in the past ten years, so I didn't mind trying to get some of it back.

By the time I got to the top of the stairs leading to the dining room from the verandah, I could barely breathe for the heat. It hadn't taken me a minute to get used to air-conditioning when I'd married, but getting used to our local version of global warming was taking forever.

I was panting by the time I reached the relative cool of the kitchen, where I found Tommy talking to the Mame under the gently whirring ceiling fans.

“Hey, Sissie-ma-noo-noo.” (A nickname that came from an original episode of
The Dick Van Dyke Show
.) Tommy waved a glass of cold tea my way.

“Your decaf Splenda tea's in the icebox,” my mother said. “In the tall, skinny pitcher, so I can keep 'em straight.” She squinted at me in concern. “You look whipped.”

“It's just the heat.” I grabbed one of the quart glasses from the orderly cabinets, then loaded up on ice and tea. By the time I'd had a long sip and sat down, I could talk.

“Guess what?” I said, still unable to believe it fully myself.

Tommy frowned. “I hate when you do that. Why don't you just come out and tell us?”

The Mame patted his arm. “Oh, now Tommy, it's a girl thing. Just let it go.” She turned to me in expectation. “What, sweetie?”

“I got accepted to Ocee State. On a full ride for winter/spring quarter. They're even paying for my books.”

“Linwood Breedlove Scott,” my mother crowed, shooting to her feet, arms wide. “I am
so
proud of you. Come here and let me give you a big old hug!”

I did.

Tommy's reaction was a lot quieter, but at least he was smiling. “I knew you could do it, Sissie-ma-noo-noo. When do you start?”

“January sixth. Which gives me some time to brush up on my algebra. I think I'll be okay in the language-based courses”—assuming I could still memorize and wasn't getting Alzheimer's—“but the math really scares me.”

Tommy raised both palms to me, fingers splayed. “Don't look at me. I don't even remember what algebra
means
.”

Miss Mamie chuckled. “Same here. Balancing our finances is as far as I go.”

I needed to ask her about that, but this wasn't the time.

“You could always put off taking algebra to the last,” Tommy suggested. “After you're back in the swing of things.”

I considered that, but real estate had trained me to get the hardest things out of the way first. “I'd really like to go on and get it behind me.” I sipped my tea, finally letting it all sink in. “Maybe I could try it, then drop it in time to schedule something else if it doesn't go well.”

“It'll go well,” Tommy said with more than a little edge on it. “School always went well for you.”

“That was forty years ago, honey,” I reminded him. “I haven't had to study since my real estate and appraisal exams, and trust me, those did not come easy.”

The Mame got up and did what she always did when there was something to celebrate: she started cooking. “We'll have a special supper, then, for our coed. What would you like?”

I did my best to pick things that wouldn't leave me with five more pounds to carve off, like I had after her last feast. “I'd just love some baked chicken with plain broccoli and mashed cauliflower. And some of that cranberry sauce I made with Splenda.”

Miss Mamie shook her head, even as she said, “Well, all right. If that's what you want, that's what you'll get. Though why you're so dead set on losing more weight is beyond me. If you get any skinnier, you'll look like a POW, and I'd die of mortification if anybody thought I wasn't feeding you.”

Aha. There was the rub.

“Trust me, Mama,” I reassured her. “Anybody who knows you will know you are
not
starving me.”

Even though I was sixty, she still put me in a high chair. But the Mame was the Mame, and I wasn't about to be able to change her.