Chapter 11: Dell
When Arianna and I pull up to the American Legion Hall a little after five, it’s clear there is a party in full swing.
Cars are parked all over the lot and in the dirt beside it and along the street.
I stand by the open door of the SUV, feeling a little more concerned than I did earlier. Is half of Birmingham invited to this shindig?
Did the word shindig just jump into my head?
I shake it off and close the door, coming around to the other side for Grace.
Arianna steps out, smoothing her sweater. She looks anxious.
I reach in for the baby and unbuckle her. She’s kicking and waving her arms. A good mood. That’s one less thing to worry about.
The diaper bag gets caught between the seats, and I have to tug to get it out.
“Everything okay?” Arianna asks, coming around the door.
“All good.” I take a second to arrange the baby in my arms and the bag on my shoulder.
Our diverted attention means that when we turn around, we’re blindsided by two pairs of legs and hands, and two shirts thrust near our faces.
One says “Groom” in ironed letters. The other reads “Bride.”
“And look on the back,” says a voice I can’t quite place. There’s a flash of a grin before the shirt flips. The back says “I’m with the ball.” And the other reads “I’m with the chain.” With arrows pointing at each other.
Now the shirt comes down. It’s Aunt Marge. Her lips are a florid orange, just a shade off her fluffy spun hair. “Love ’em or what?”
The other shirt comes down. It’s Daniel Dean, my cousin, Marge’s son. He’s a redneck through and through, his cheek bulging with chewing tobacco, his face rough with stubble, and his gimme cap curved tight over his forehead.
“She’s got a way with an iron,” Daniel Dean says, looking at the shirt. “The backs were my idea.”
I bet they were. I glance over at Arianna.
She has the biggest, fakest, most wide-eyed expression I’ve ever seen on her.
“How…lovely,” she says. “So much work went into them.”
Marge turns her “bride” shirt around. “I messed up the ‘b’ a bit, but bride or ride, it’s all about the same, isn’t it?” She elbows Arianna.
“Yes,” Arianna murmurs.
“This is my aunt Marge,” I tell Arianna. “And her son, my cousin Daniel Dean.”
“Nice to meet you,” Arianna says.
“Great gift, thanks,” I tell them, taking the shirts and tossing them over my arm.
“Oh, you have to wear them,” Daniel Dean says. “Everybody’s expecting it! They’ve all got their cameras ready to go!”
“Oh, I couldn’t risk messing it up!” Arianna says. “I might spill something on it.”
“Nonsense,” Aunt Marge says. She snatches the “bride” shirt from me and drags it over Arianna’s head.
I hear a little yelp. Arianna’s face pops through the hole. Her hair is all over the place, curls springing out from the careful updo she’d put together. Marge tugs the shirt down. It’s tight over the bulk of her sweater and makes Arianna look like a sausage.
She puts her game face on, though. “Thank you,” she tells Aunt Marge.
Daniel Dean steps up to force one on me, then seems to realize I’m holding a baby. “Who is this little critter?”
“This is Grace,” I say evenly. I don’t have to give anything away.
But Marge gets excited. “Yours, hers, or both?” she asks.
My gaze meets Arianna’s. “Both,” I say.
“By gawd, you better get yourself hitched!” she shouts, so loud it makes me blink. “Gotta make an honest critter out of this one!” She turns around to the open front door of the hall. “Wynona, get your tail out here! You’re a grandma!”
Mom sticks her head out the door. It’s the first time I’ve seen her in over a decade, but she doesn’t look much different from a distance.
“What are you going on about? You’re ruining the big entrance!”
“Git on out here!” Marge calls. “You gotta see this!”
Mom emerges. As she comes down the front walk, I can see she’s changed, her face more weathered and lined. Her hair is wiry with gray mixed in the brown. She’s dressed up for her, trading her cut-up T-shirts and tank tops for a blue long-sleeved shirt and jeans. Someone’s pinned a flower on her shoulder. Barefoot, though, as usual.
“Come look at this kid,” Daniel Dean shouts back at her. “Didn’t you know Hasmund had a kid?”
Mom stomps down the steps, her feet slapping against the wood. “Hasmund does not have any kid. He would have—” She stops short when she sees Grace. “Who is this?”
“It’s Grace, Mom. We wanted to surprise you. She’s eight months old.” I pick up Grace’s hand and give it a little wave.
This part surprises me. Mom’s eyes tear up, and she bites her lip. Her voice loses its caustic quality. “Well, look at her,” she says, holding out her arms. “Can I see her?”
I glance over at Arianna, who nods fervently. I pass the baby over, wondering if she’ll get fussy with a stranger.
But Grace has that sober look she gets when she’s taking in something new. She gazes up at Mom with a curious, intense expression.
“Well, if this don’t beat all,” Mom says, her voice cracking.
She smooshes Grace’s cheek against her own. “Beautiful little stinker. Eight months old.” She tilts her head. “So back in April?”
“April 6,” I say.
Mom holds her up. She can’t stop staring. “Just look at her. Marge, you ever seen anything so pretty?”
“Don’t think so,” Marge says. “You and I had nothing but grubby ol’ boys.”
From the entrance to the hall comes “What’s going on out here?”
I would know THAT voice anywhere. We turn to see Grandma Jessie, the mother of Marge and my mom, coming down the ramp in her wheelchair. Uncle Travis, Marge’s husband, pushes her.
She holds a cane despite the chair and waves it around. “What’s this I hear about a baby?”
“You got your first great-grandchild right here, Mama,” Mom says, holding up Grace. “Hasmund didn’t tell nobody.”
“Look at that baby girl,” Grandma Jessie says. “Give her to me.” She passes the cane to Uncle Travis.
Mom sets Grace in her lap. Grace has had just about enough of this and no more gets settled when she lets out a lusty howl.
“Hear them lungs!” Grandma Jessie says. “She’s a Spencer, all right!”
I come forward to take her, but Grandma waves me off. “I done raised two girls of my own. I can handle this.” She jiggles Grace on her knee. “What’s wrong with your daddy, not telling nobody you were born?”
She peers up at me. “I’m going to take my cane to you when I set down this child. You better run.”
I don’t even know how to address half the comments that have been made in the past two minutes. The jiggles work on Grace, and soon she’s giggling and babbling and reaching for Grandma Jessie’s big God’s-eye necklace.
“Well, don’t just stand around gawking,” Daniel Dean says. “I’m starving and Mom wouldn’t let me touch that pig until you saw it.”
“It’s turned all brown and perfect,” Marge says. “Purtiest pig I ever roasted, if I may say so myself.”
“And you may,” Mom says, clapping Marge on the back. She finally seems to notice the two of us. “Well, Hasmund, go ahead and introduce me to your bride.”
Arianna puts on a pleasant expression, her curls all over the place, the T-shirt stretched over her clothes. She’s a trouper.
“Mom, this is Arianna. She owns a daycare in New York.”
“Call me Wynona,” Mom says. “My friend Rhonda down the street owns a little daycare herself. Operates it out of her house. I ’spect you two will have a lot to talk about.”
“I’m sure we will,” Arianna says. She shakes Mom’s hand. “I enjoy being around children.”
“Got plenty of those around here!” Marge says, shoving Daniel Dean. “And sometimes they turn twenty-four and still don’t leave home!”
“Aw, Ma,” Daniel Dean says.
I take Arianna’s hand in mine. Uncle Travis starts pushing Grandma Jessie, still holding on to Grace, back up the walk. We fall in step behind them.
Arianna plucks at her shirt. I know she doesn’t want to go in wearing it, but she’s stuck. The least I can do is show solidarity. I let go of her and pull my shirt over my head.
When in Alabama, you do what your mama tells you.