Queen Bee Goes Home Again (19 page)

Donnie went to the microphone.

“Ah, there he is,” Franklin said. “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you our mayor, Donnie West.” He handed the microphone to Donnie.

“Hey, y'all,” Donnie said with a grin, his voice carrying out into the alley and beyond. “God bless each and every one of you for coming out tonight.” He sobered. “As most of y'all know, I have considered it a great honor to serve each and every one of you as mayor for the past ten years. But my first work, and foremost, is to preach the good news of Jesus Christ to all I can. So when the Lord called me to Philadelphia, I had to say yes, much as I hate leaving you all.”

A murmur of acceptance arose, then faded.

Donnie waited for silence, then went on. “But I know the Lord will bless Mimosa Branch for supporting my obedience to His call.”

Amens erupted all over the room.

Again, he waited for silence, then said, “What you, the good citizens of Mimosa Branch, need to decide is who should be my successor.” Silence stretched long this time, and expressions revealed a mix of anticipation, unwillingness, and confusion.

“Tell us who he is,” Ottis Wilburn insisted, his voice thready with age.

Typically, he'd assumed it would be a male.

Donnie shook his head. “I've prayed about that long and hard, and the Lord's answer was that
y'all
should be the ones to call your new mayor, not me, because y'all will be the ones he serves. So I ask us all to bow our heads and pray for an answer. And if God gives you a name, be bold to speak it out.” He dropped his head and closed his eyes. “May we pray silently, asking only God's will in this matter, and the courage to carry that out?”

We all bowed our heads.

Not a peep.

Shuffling of feet, squirming in seats.

The weight of the silence grew with every passing second, but no one spoke.

Sniffs. Soft clearing of throats. Toes tapping. Occasional coughs.

Lord, it would be really nice if You'd come up with a name. Everybody here wants what's best for our town. Please direct us.

Nothing.

I peeked at my watch. Only two minutes.

“We're counting on You, Lord,” Donnie prayed with confidence. “Show us Your will, not because we are worthy, but because we belong to Christ, and when You look at us, You see His righteousness, not our sin.”

More silence followed.

The Holy Ghost, He don't say nothin'.

The room got hotter, and you could sense the discomfort of the people as they breathed, but still, no word came.

Now granted, we have become an instant people in this country, but the Bible says that where two or more are gathered in His name, the Lord Jehovah, Creator of the Universe, is present, so I figured it only made sense to take Him at His word.
Please, God, show us the answer.

At that very moment, Walter Lott and “Uncle” Delton Pirkle stood at the same time and said in unison, “Tommy Breedlove.”

Talk about a lightning bolt!

The hairs stood on the back of my neck as everybody else, including Tommy, looked up in astonishment.

I thought Miss Mamie was going to fall out on the spot, but her prayer partners propped her up, murmuring soothing reassurance.

Donnie grinned. “I have a witness in my soul for that!” he said, pointing to Tommy. “A good man, Tommy, who appreciates the transforming power of God's grace the same way I do.”

Donnie, too, had come from a background of drugs and alcohol. And worse. Compared to him, Tommy was squeaky clean. But Tommy had always kept his faith—and his recovery—to himself and his fellow AA members. And his AA fishing club, the Bassholes.

Tommy lifted his hands in a staying gesture. “I'm truly honored, y'all. Really I am. But it seems to me there are far better men than I who should take this job. And if God wanted me to do it, wouldn't He have told
me
about it?”

Donnie shook his head with a chuckle. “Brother, I told you I've been praying about this for weeks. And fasting. And the answer I got was that the people should choose my successor, and that's what just happened.”

For a split second, my skeptical self wondered if Donnie had set this up. But he wasn't that kind of man. And Walter and Delton had seemed as shocked as everybody else.

I talked to God all the time and asked Him for things. Why was I always so amazed when He did as I'd asked?

But, I mean, really!
Tommy?

Not that I didn't think he'd make a good mayor. He knew this town top to bottom, and back up again. And most of the people in it.

But
Tommy
?

The last thing he needed now was to be in the spotlight.

Tommy peered at me, his face communicating the same thought. And the spotlight would extend to me. And Connor. And us, if there was ever to be an us.

Oh, Lord, are You
sure
?

As if someone had flipped a switch, everyone rose from their chairs, clapping, then crowded around my brother, shaking his hand and telling him he'd make a great mayor.

Only Miss Mamie and I remained seated, both of us stunned.

Shelia approached Tommy with a broad grin. “Don't you worry, Tommy. I'm your campaign manager, and we already have plenty collected to get you elected. Donnie's been encouraging people to give for months. Just rely on me and be where I tell you, when I tell you.”

Tommy frowned. “But I have to take care of some legal matters for my parents. I could be gone for weeks.” His voice dropped to a murmur. “And I can't miss my meetings.”

Oh, man. The road trip.

Shelia was undaunted. “We can work around all that. Why don't you come by tomorrow morning to do a game plan.” She hugged his shoulders. “With Donnie's endorsement, not to mention his knowledge of city finances, you're a shoo-in.”

And his past, an open book.

Tommy grabbed her upper arm and leaned close to speak to her. I read his lips. “I'm gonna have to talk to my sponsor about this.”

She looked up at him with absolute confidence. “After what just happened, I have no doubt he'll approve.”

Tommy scanned the crowd around him, then shot me a befuddled look.

If this really was God's will, everything would work out, no matter what we did or didn't find on our road trip. No matter what happened between Connor and me. No matter how crazy Daddy was.

Shelia was right.

I smiled and nodded. Tommy was the perfect candidate. Not to mention the fact that nobody else in town had even hinted at running.

It would be nice, God, if he ran unopposed. As long as it's okay with You, of course.

Tommy, mayor of Mimosa Branch. The more I thought about it, the better it sounded.

But the first Tuesday in October was weeks and weeks away, and Tommy and I had a treasure hunt to go on first.

 

Twenty-seven

For the next two weeks, Tommy met with his sponsor, went to lots of AA meetings, then finally officially accepted his call to run for mayor by qualifying on August fifth.

By then, Mama and I were both convinced he should run.

He and Shelia, with Donnie's invaluable input about the city budget, planned a great set of sensible, doable objectives for his term in office. Honesty, transparency, fairness, and fiscal responsibility were the watchwords of his campaign.

After he qualified, an out-of-the-blue transplant female CPA named Carla Simmons signed up to run against him as an independent. Then, when Shelia started booking Tommy for personal appearances that didn't conflict with his meetings, Carla's people promptly booked her for the same events.

Bad form!

Tommy was no debater, but when I went with him to the first booking with his opponent, he was extra courteous to her. Yet, thanks to Donnie, he had a wealth of knowledge about the bottom lines during the past ten years.

Carla proposed lots of new ideas, but Tommy politely asked how much each one would cost, then asked how she planned to pay for it. His suggestions came with explicit funding information. By the middle of September, they had appeared at Rotary, Kiwanis, Lions Club, the BPOE, and VFW. Also the men's and women's groups at various churches, plus the garden club and women's club.

And every time, Tommy politely asked Carla questions she couldn't really answer.

After the first few debates, he started coming home later and later, which worried Miss Mamie and me. We both knew alcoholism was a disease of recidivism, but neither of us mentioned it till he didn't come home all night.

Had taking on the campaign pushed him over the edge?

We were waiting for him at the breakfast table when he finally rolled in. He looked rumpled, but sober. Still, Miss Mamie asked him point-blank, “Tommy, have you been drinking again?”

He laughed with obvious amusement. “No, Mama. I haven't been drinking. Or drugging. But thanks for caring enough to ask.” He poured himself a big mug of coffee, then sat down, the twinkle still in his eye.

“What
have
you been doing then?” my mouth asked without any participation from my brain.

Tommy smiled. “I am a grown man. As long as it isn't destructive to me or anyone else, what I do is my business.” He nodded to me. “Think, Sissie-ma-noo-noo. A grown man stays out all night. You're smart enough to figure it out.”

Again, my voice got ahead of me. “Oh, no. Not the midget in Sheetrockers' stilts!”

Tommy hooted, laughing till he cried, almost losing his breath before he finally settled down. “No. Definitely no.”

“A midget in Sheetrockers' stilts?” Miss Mamie asked.

“It's just an inside joke, Mama,” he said. “Don't give it a thought.”

He had a point. He was a grown man, with a grown man's needs and emotions. Maybe he'd met someone at one of the campaign functions.

I'd already stepped over the line into Tommy's private life, so I didn't question him further.

Tommy got up, stretched, then told us, “If y'all will excuse me, I'm going to take a nap in the front guest room so I'll be fresh for the Knights of Columbus this evenin'.”

Miss Mamie patted his arm. “Go right ahead. We'll try to be quiet.”

We sat in silence until we heard his footsteps climb the stairs, whereupon my mother grabbed my arm and leaned in to demand in a stage whisper, “What is this joke about a midget in Sheetrockers' stilts?”

I thought fast, then answered, “We saw one at the diner, and she flirted with Tommy, so we've both joked about it. That's all.”

Miss Mamie tucked her chin. “A midget in Sheetrockers' stilts.” She went wary. “You're making that up.”

“We're supposed to call them ‘little people' now,” I corrected, then raised the Girl Scout salute. “Hand to my heart, Miss Mamie, it's true.”

Not the whole truth, but as much as she needed to know.

“Come on,” I told her, carrying my dishes to the sink. “Let's get back to cleaning. But no hymns today. Tommy's sleeping.”

The Mame joined me with the rest of the dishes. “Do you think Tommy was with a woman last night?”

I didn't remind her that he'd practically spelled it out. “I think that's a pretty good guess.”

I expected concern, but she turned on the water with a grin of relief. “Thanks be to the Good Lord. I was beginning to wonder if he was still … you know,
normal,
now that he's sober.”

As in not homosexual.

Different times. Different times. Miss Mamie was brought up believing homosexuality was an “abomination” that people came down with, like a virus.

I smiled. “If there is such a thing as normal in this family, I think Tommy definitely qualifies.”

My mother started singing softly for joy as we did the dishes.

Can we say, double standard? If I'd stayed out all night, she'd be wailing about moral decay.

Once we were done with the dishes, we both made a trip to Jaemor Farms for a vanload of their Silver Queen corn and homegrown tomatoes and butter beans and crowder peas and bell peppers and eggplant and sweet, white Georgia Belle peaches to put up and freeze in the Mame's giant chest-freezer. We did the peaches first. Mama scalded the skins off, then cut up half of them into plastic bags for freezing, and used the rest in her famous homemade peach ice cream.

Honestly, she kept three ice-cream makers going from sunup to sundown for days.

While she was overseeing the ice cream, I stewed and froze the corn, then parboiled and put up the rest of the vegetables.

Meanwhile, Tommy roped up with his grapples and pulleys to clean the outsides of the windows and touch up the paint.

By the middle of September, we'd finished cleaning everything except the attic, the basement, and the garage.

I'd hoped the hot weather would cool down, but September was still blazing away, and we were worn slap out. One can only grub around in grime and heat for so long without needing a break.

So after we'd finally finished everything but the attic, then showered and cleaned up, Tommy escorted Miss Mamie and me—still wearing cool summer dresses—into the dusky front yard to survey the results.

Miss Mamie let out a satisfied sigh, not even seeing the bathtub anymore. “Looks just like it used to when I had a cook, two maids, and a yard man. And the General's whole crew to fix whatever needed fixing.”

Another world, seen through rose-colored glasses.

As Albert Schweitzer said, happiness is nothing but good health and a bad memory.

Miss Mamie turned to me and Tommy. “Y'all are doing the work of all those people. Bless your hearts. And you, Tommy, runnin' for mayor. I don't see how you do it.”

“It's the new economics,” Tommy said. “Two people doing the work of ten. But none of us shows up on the unemployment statistics.”

That was too depressing to address, so I turned my attention back to the house. “The place looks gorgeous,” I complimented my brother. Then my evil twin said, “I wonder how long it will stay this way.”