“That’s why we’re here.” I unfold one arm long enough to point in the cemetery’s general direction. “She wants to be buried next to Grandmother.”
“Of course,” he says, as if I’d told him water is wet and money is green.
“I hope that isn’t for a while, but no one knows. She could live for five more years or pass away in six months.” I drop my hands to my sides and shake my head. “This house will fall down around our ears if we last more than five years.”
“Nah. The wood rot isn’t that bad.”
“Tell me you’re pulling my leg again.”
“You’re in bayou country. Can’t get away from wood rot.” He points toward the hall with his chin. “It’s just about empty over there. Do you want some of this furniture moved into that room?”
My brain is still on wood rot, and I mentally shake my head. I hadn’t thought about moving things around up here, but the windows are better in Great-grandmother’s room, and the view’s better too. I like throwing open the double doors and walking out onto the veranda. Especially now that I know it’s not going to collapse.
We stand side by side, his shoulder on the same level as my ear, and stare up at the half tester. One of the men could get an eye poked out, and I don’t even know if I have homeowner’s insurance. “It’s heavy.”
“Several hundred pounds, for sure.”
“Do you want to move it?”
“Do you want to sleep on it?”
I glance at him. “If it’s moved, will it fit back together, solid like it is now?”
He shrugs. “Sure. Why not?”
“I don’t want to get impaled in the middle of the night.” What if it has wood rot or the screws are stripped? I’d be alone, pinned to the mattress or smashed like a pancake, Mom’s snores cracking the plaster walls and reverberating from the monitor, and no one to hear my screams. “Will bolts fall out if I roll around and shake the bed?”
“Mais.” He looks at me out of the corners of his eyes, which seem to turn deeper green when he asks, “What’re you planning, tee Lou Ann?”
10
Mom says periwinkle. I see red.
SOMETIME DURING dinner, Raphael reappeared in his cage. I wonder where he’s been hiding out and if he’s responsible for the shredded roll of toilet paper in Mom’s bathroom.
“Where have you been?” I am very careful not to startle him as I slide my hand inside his cage and place his water crock in the brackets. His eyes are closed, and I gingerly pull my hand back out. “It took half a bottle of Lysol kitchen cleaner to get rid of your little gift in the kitchen.” He yawns and sticks out his creepy pink-and-black tongue. “If you do it again, no more tasty seed sticks for you.” His beady eyes open and stare right at me. “Pretty bird,” I lie, so he won’t get uppity before I can finish feeding him. Down the hall, Mother’s television is blasting out game shows; Lindsey is in her room upstairs. Once again, I am left to deal with this crazy bird on my own. He watches me as I hang his food bowl. “Such a nice boy.” To prove me wrong, he screeches like I’ve plunged a knife into his naked breast.
My wrist bumps the cage as I jerk my hand out. “You’re an asshole, Raphael.” I firmly close the cage door and make sure it’s shut tight this time. No more nocturnal flights for him.
I follow the sound of Mom’s television, hoping to spend a little time with her before saying good night. She and Lindsey set up her room earlier while I worked. And by that, I mean Lindsey set up her room earlier while Mom pointed and ordered her about.
Mom sits on the side of her four-poster bed wearing a lacy black nightgown; her hair falls down her back in rich brown waves. A rumpled bag of Pirate’s Booty is next to her right hand. Minus the popcorn, the room looks like an old bordello with rich red-and-gold bedding and fancy pillows. “The House of the Rising Sun” plays in my head as the scene is indelibly burnt in my brain.
“There is one letter p,” Pat Sajak announces from a big TV sitting on the walnut mantel.
“Peter Piper!” Mom yells out.
I don’t tell her that’s three p’s. “How do you like it in here?”
She shakes her head. “No fireplace screen.”
After everything that was moved in here for her, she’s still complaining about that stupid fireplace screen. I’m tempted to tell her Wynonna stole it in hopes she’ll eventually move on. Oh wait, I’m talking about my mother, who hasn’t moved on from the loss of her kitten heels years ago.
“I can’t change the channel.” She points the remote across the room and jabs at the buttons with her finger.
Without saying a word, I take the remote from her hand and turn it the right way. I don’t want to embarrass her, so I say, “That remote is tricky.” Her brow is creased as she stares at the television control, and I add, “I get it mixed up all the time.”
“Do you need glasses?”