woman nodded and the corners of her mouth twitched and her nose scrunched up, as if she could burst into ugly hysterical snorts at any moment. “It’s certainly. . .what’s the word? Intense.”
The tinkling of the bells grew louder, and Hazel checked Miss Pearl’s expression. She was still smiling reassuringly.
Delia spoke up. “It all looks so. . .new.”
“Brand new. Just been bought,” Hazel said hopefully.
“Didn’t you bring any family pieces with you from home?” Hertha asked, wincing as if something hurt.
“No. My folks is still sitting in ’em, I reckon,” Hazel answered.
Little coughs were exchanged between Hertha and Delia, a cold was catching. To keep from crying, Hazel bit her lip and again looked over at Miss Pearl, her eyes pleading.
Pearl nodded agreeably and said, “It must be nice not to have to bother with dusty old hand-me-downs and start fresh.” She raised her lace handkerchief to her creamy throat and lowered her voice, as if she were confessing a deep dark secret. “Why, many a day I want to throw out the old and begin anew. Just because we saved them from the Yankees, we feel we have to display our pieces as if they were monuments. Now, that’s what I call silly. We should all be more sensible like Hazel here.”
The other ladies nodded, agreeing that they were the foolish ones after all. The bells were silenced and Hazel breathed easier.
“Where did your people distinguish themselves during the war, Hazel?” It was Hertha asking.
Hazel was confused. She snatched at the collar of her dress and said timidly, “War?”
“Well, for instance, my great-great-uncle served with Lee. And my great-grandfather was the drummer boy at Chickamauga. In fact, all the Trois Arts women belong to the United Daughters of the Confederacy.”
“Chicka—oh that war!” Hazel said, very relieved to be catching on. “We got a funny story about that.”
“Do tell it, Hazel,” Miss Pearl urged.
“Well, my great-great-granddaddy didn’t own no slaves, so he didn’t figure he should have to fight no war to keep them. He spent the whole time up a sycamore tree hiding from both sides. The only general we got in my family is my daddy, Major General Ishee, and that’s because he got to name hisself.”
The laughter Hazel evoked with her story was different from what she was aiming for. It was sharp and jagged like broken glass. Miss Pearl shot the two women daggers and the laughter ceased.
Then into the deathly silence clattered Sweet Pea with a large serving tray, bellowing, “Y’all surely going to love this here.” She set the tray on the banana table next to the punch bowl and backed away to let the women gaze at the feast of potato chips and onion dip, Vienna sausages smothered in barbecue sauce, and boiled ham bits floating in a bowl of crushed pineapple.
No one moved. Figuring that the women may not have read the Hopalachie Courier and therefore were not up-to-date on their delicacies, Sweet Pea decided to instruct them, bending down so low over the tray that everyone’s eyes went nervously to her tightly bound breasts, which looked ready to discharge themselves into the dip like cannonballs.
Sweet Pea held up a toothpick. “You git you a little stick here and poke yourself one of these little Veener sausages.” She pointed at the dip. “Or you can drag your tater chip through this here mess. Go on now and get you some.” Sweet Pea smiled at them wide, her gold teeth gleaming as brightly as the furniture.
Miss Pearl squirmed a little in her vinyl recliner. “It certainly looks delicious, Hazel. Though I have to confess that the club lunched at my house earlier, and I’m sure I forced too much food on them. Only finger sandwiches and such, nothing as hearty as what you offer.”
Miss Pearl dabbed the corner of her mouth with her handkerchief.
Sweet Pea shrugged as if there was no accounting for taste and ladled the punch, making sure everyone got a marshmallow, except for Hazel, who got two and a sympathetic wink. Then she made her hip-rolling exit from the room.
There followed another long silence. Her face hot with shame, Hazel seized the opportunity to steer the subject away from the food. “What y’all studying in your club?” she asked Miss Pearl desperately. She was the only one Hazel dared to look at now.
“Well, we are presently up to the p’s. Puccini, Proust, and Picasso. Hertha here has been leading us in an animated discussion of Remembrance of Things Past.” When Hazel only stared blankly at Miss Pearl, she asked, “Have you ever read it, Hazel?”
“No. It don’t sound familiar. I know a good book, though,” Hazel ventured. “Have you ever heard of David Copperfield?”
“Why, yes! By Mister Charles Dickens! Are you familiar with that work?” Miss Pearl asked, pleasantly surprised. The other women leaned forward greedily, gawking like customers at a sideshow promising a French-speaking pig.
“I sure do!” Hazel said, relieved to be talking about something she knew. “When I was a girl they playacted that story on the radio. We never had a radio before. Just when it got good, Daddy said I had to go milk the cows. Well, I thought when you turned the thing off and then come back later, you could pick up right where you left it. Lord, was I disappointed to find out my program done went on without me.” Hazel shook her head sadly and then looked up at Miss Pearl. “I never did find out how that boy turned out. Do you happen to know?” Miss Pearl smiled tenderly. “He turned out just fine, Hazel. Just fine.” She began to edge herself out of the recliner. “Hazel, I’m afraid I really must be going. Hayes will be back from the bank anytime now and I’ve still got the meeting to adjourn.”
Hertha and Delia followed suit and began their ascents. They made little sucking sounds as they peeled themselves from the furniture.
After the other two ladies had filed out the front door, Miss Pearl lingered behind for a moment. “Hazel, thank you so much. I think it went fine, don’t you, dear?”
“Well, I hope it did.”
“We’ll do it again real soon, all right? Next time we’ll have you and Floyd over.”
Miss Pearl left, trailing agreeable beauty parlor smells. Though Hazel wasn’t so sure things had gone as well as Miss Pearl said, she was delighted that she had made at least one new friend. Floyd would be proud.
Sweet Pea looked down at the untouched tray. “It’s a shame they done ate. Sure is some purty food. Shoulda sent a plate home with them.”
Hazel beamed. “That’s a good idea!” she said and wrapped up some Fancy Franks and filled an orange Fiestaware bowl with Hula Ham. She headed off for Miss Pearl’s house, thinking maybe she could serve them to Mr. Hayes with his supper.
As she came up the steps, she was met by gales of laughter pouring through the Irish lace curtains and unshuttered windows. The Trois Arts League must not have adjourned yet.
“Thank heavens you didn’t touch the food!” someone was saying. “What did you say she called them? Fancy Franks?”
“And did you see the wallpaper?” That was Miss Hertha’s voice. “Am I wrong or were those actually bird dogs with pheasants in their mouths?”
“You’ve got to hand it to her,” Delia said. “Most people choose their wallpaper as background. Not Hazel. Hers screams out ‘Hey, y’all! We got wallpaper!’ ”
“How could you keep from bursting out laughing?”
“And the colors!” Delia went on. “I couldn’t hear myself think, they were in such a riot.”
Hazel didn’t stand and listen because she wanted to. She stood there because she was too shamed