With a Hammer for My Heart: A Novel

LAWANDA

LAWANDA: The next day was Sunday and I rode over with Mom, who had to take Mamaw a quilt top. That's one of Mamaw's jobs—she runs up quilts for people. By machine. Some folks look down their noses at that, but Mamaw says she can do it a lot cheaper and faster that way than she could by hand, and besides, her hands are shaky and her eyes clouded over. She has big fingers, too, but I don't know if that matters. Anyway, I mentioned to Mom that I wanted to talk to Mamaw about something. She wanted to know what. "God," I told her. "Oh, Lawanda, don't do this to me!" "What?" "Don't drag out Mommy's old stories." "Mom, it's important." "I don't care. If I have to listen to that tale of Mother Jesus again, I'll pull my hair out." Sheesh. I didn't know she felt like that. I didn't want to hurt her, but I did want to hear Mamaw on the subject. I watched the road, the hillside, the swoop of blazing maples. "Look, Mom, this boy at school—he's in my civics class—says Mamaw is a witch, and everybody's bugging me, and I just want something to say." Mom bit her lip and clutched the wheel. The rings slid 26 LAWANDA down her finger bones. More to herself than me, she said, "The very thing you want to forget about, your kids can't wait to dig up." "But you're the one who told me in the first place," I reminded her. "Mamaw hardly ever mentions it." "I just wanted you to be prepared," Mom said, her voice tired. "I didn't want kids to make fun of you and you not know why." "But they didn't till now." "It's a miracle." I laughed but Mom didn't. I don't think she got it. We kept driving. We were across the mountain now and coming down into the crooked valley. Just turn to the left at Turner's Grab 'n' Go, drive three miles up the creek, and we'd be there. "I always thought you and Mamaw got along," I said. "Lawanda!" Mom's cheeks got red. "Saying you get along with Mommy is like saying you get along with fire." We hit a dip too fast and my stomach flew up to my shoulders . I studied Mom. She was wearing white "cush shoes"— that's what she calls imitation SAS sandals—stockings, a lime green wraparound skirt, a yellow-and-white-striped top, and her opal pendant. She's skinny and tough-looking, with curly blond-gray hair cut close. Her blue eyes were fierce behind brown plastic glasses, one temple of which was held on with a safety pin. Mom. Drives fast. Cooks fast. Makes beds and folds laundry like there is no tomorrow. "Just slow down, Junie," Dad will say. "The Kingdom's not coming till Sunday week." "Maybe not," she'll answer, "but somebody's got to see that we're in clean clothes." Mamaw's as big and slow as Mom is small and fast. I don't mean slow in her mind; I mean careful, weighing. Mom is like a needle flashing through cloth. Mamaw reels out steady like the thread. 27 WITH A HAMMER FOR MY HEART I was still thinking all this when we pulled into the gravel of Mamaw's drive. Papaw was sitting on the porch, chewing tobacco and watching for us. "Lord, Junie," he said, hitching up his pants and coming down the steps, "where'd you get that big old girl?" "Kmart," she said, reaching up to pat his bony shoulders. "Well, come hug my neck, youngun," he called, and I did. He was hard and leathery and smelled like wood smoke as well as that Red Man he chews. "Where's Mamaw?" I asked. "On in the kitchen, I reckon, cleaning up from dinner. She said send you women on back." Now push comes to shove, I thought, but Mom just said, "You go on, Lawanda. I'll sit out here with your papaw. Tell Mommy I'll bring in the quilt top when you get done." I smiled thanks at her, then went on in, letting the screen door bang just enough to alert Mamaw. "Hello!" I called into...