“Instant grits aren’t real grits. No respectable Southerner would be caught dead with instant grits.”
Now it’s my turn to laugh. Instant or not, Mom won’t know the difference. “Good thing I’m not a Southerner.” I walk toward the coffee aisle and say over my shoulder, “Au revoir, Simon.”
He smiles because I’m sure my pronunciation is horrible. “On va se revoir, tee Lou Ann.”
His is not. If I wasn’t immune to classic shirts and party pants, the sweet words rolling off his tongue might make me play with my hair like the blondes in the produce aisle.
I grab three bags of coffee and make it home before Lindsey turns in for the night. She’s in the kitchen filling Mom’s pill minder. “How were things while I was gone?” I ask as I set the pineapple on the counter.
“I gave Patricia her meds and haven’t heard a peep from her.”
“Have you ever cooked grits?” I pick up the box and read the back.
“I’ve never even seen a grit. Are they good?”
I hand her the box. “No.”
She reads the directions and shrugs. “Doesn’t look hard. All I need is water and salt.”
That sounds bland. “Maybe some butter or sugar, too.” But I don’t know much about it. “What you really need is a driver’s license so you can go to the pharmacy or grocery store.” She looks up from the box. “And there are going to be days when I can’t take Mom to her appointments,” I add, but it isn’t Mom’s appointments that I can’t take. It’s her back-seat driving, and I don’t see why I have to be the target of torture when Lindsey is a paid victim.
Lindsey hands me the box. “Where do I go to get one?”
“Google it.”
“How much does it cost?” she wonders as she grabs her phone.
“Don’t know but I’ll pay for it.”
“Really?” She smiles and it lights up her eyes. “That’s so nice. Thanks.”
I shake my head. “It’s part of my plan to trap you. Remember?”
“Yeah.” Her smile gets even bigger. “Is the Escalade part of your trap?”
“You’re getting ahead of yourself.” I learned in an old Taurus. Not an eighty-five-thousand-dollar Cadillac. “Just get all the information first and we’ll talk about the Escalade later.”
I leave her to search the internet for the Louisiana DMV, and by the next morning at breakfast, she seems to have it all worked out.
“I need to establish residency and study for the written test.”
I stare at my plate of lumpy grits and scrambled eggs, muste
ring the courage to take a bite.
“I’ll need to practice for the driving part.”
“You can practice in the driveway.” I reach for an antique coffee cup and glance at Mom sitting at the head of the table. We’re dining off hand-painted Dresden today. “You’re not eating your grits.”
“They taste like instant grits.” She shakes her head. “No Southerner eats instant grits.”
12
April 3
Money pit. Melvin Thompson.
Boots ’N’ Roots incident.