Flowers Out of Bone
by Ethel Morgan Smith
Flowers Out of Bone (8)
Soon after Big Mama moved in with us, Beauty mustered up enough courage to kick Mr. Tex out of the house and out of our lives. He was her third husband, my sister’s daddy, and everybody’s disappointment. A tiny man with processed hair and copper-colored skin that shaded more red in the summer; he never had much to say except on the weekends when he had been drinking. After Friday’s payday, we often didn’t see him again until late Sunday night when he’d stumble home without money or food and the bickering would begin. Sometimes Beauty would go to the sawmill on payday to try and catch him before he got away with his paycheck. Finally, she put Mr. Tex’s clothes on our front porch in five brown paper bags from the Winn Dixie. She told Mr. Pig Walker to go by the sawmill to tell Mr. Tex that if he didn’t come and pick up the clothes by Saturday, she was going to give them away.
When Miss Sweet had called ten years ago with the news of Big Mama’s death, I was packing to travel to Holland to secure a relationship with a flower distributor. I was nervous and so excited. This little flower shop was not just working but had grown into an international business. I owned an international company! Well, almost. My host was to be a Mr. Anton Haas, who had been kind and understanding when I telephoned him to reschedule our appointment. After cancelling my plans to travel to the international flower festival, I drove the rough and rugged roads of rural Alabama with a weighty heart and still in shock with Emma. Only for Big Mama’s funeral was I willing to set foot in Bone again, until Emma asked me to come. I never thought I’d need to come back for anything other than funerals. I never thought of Beauty with regard to funerals, maybe Aunt Honey’s, Miss Sweet’s, or Mrs. Wright’s.
I continue driving, fussing to myself through the wide-open pastures of rural Alabama. Why did the citizens of this state put up with such bad roads? Potholes are dangerous. Highway 29 had been the only main road for as long as I can remember. Why should the road be any different from the town? Some things don’t change, and those I haven’t missed. I shake my head in disbelief when I hear a sudden rattling noise. Assuming it’s more bad roads, I keep driving, but the noise grows louder and the car jerks. I swerve onto the shoulder of the road and navigate the car to a safe stop.
“Emma. Emma. Wake up. Something’s wrong with the car.” I wonder how she can sleep through all the noise. Dust and gravel settle.
Flowers Out of Bone is to be continued