Sweet Tea: A Novel Read Free

hanging crooked from a skinny nail halfway down.
    Daddy would have been sad if he knew our portrait no longer sat on the fireplace mantle. He loved our house. He built it especially for our family. I remember him saying he made sure to build it big enough so we would never have to move. The only thing reminiscent of our old house now, was the flowerbed Mama made on the small plot of grass on the side of the trailer. 
    Dressed in her uniform, all fresh and clean, she said, “Good morning, girls.”
    Cece and I breathed identical sighs of relief. “Morning,” we said.
    Mama smoothed the sides of her hair while she sucked her lips inward, staring into the air as if it were a mirror. “What a beautiful fall day it is.”
    “Yes, Ma’am,” CeCe said. “It sure is a beautiful day.”
    She grabbed a couple of chocolate chip cookies from the cookie jar and waved goodbye. “Don’t forget to wake Luke up.” She slipped out the front door like any other Monday. But I knew it wasn’t any other Monday. It was one Monday closer to the anniversary of Daddy and John Lennon’s death.
    Each year when the anniversary drew near, John Lennon’s face plastered every station on the television. I would often dive across the living room floor rushing to change the channel before Mama saw it. We all knew if Mama saw Lennon’s fans clutching their candles while they sang Give Peace a Chance in Central Park, there would be no peace for us.  
    I feared that one day I would find Mama at the bus stop holding her own vigil right in front of the Woodlane Trailer Park sign. Candles surrounding her hollering, “Olivia come sit with me in honor of your daddy.” I know Daddy loved John Lennon too, but I know he would not have approved of Mama taking it to this extent. But she didn’t respond to any of our reasoning.
    One year, she bought a bunch of Lennon’s posters, rolled them up, stuck them into the ground and lit each one on fire. I nearly died when the neighbors called the police on her, who had become aware of Mama’s quirks, and they didn’t make a big issue of it. I wished God would take December 8th off the calendar like some hotels did with the thirteenth floor. That particular year topped them all.
    * * *
    After staying late at school to make up an algebra test, I stepped off the bus at the entrance to the Woodlane Trailer Park. My boyfriend, Mattéo on my mind, I wasn’t paying attention while I walked. Instead, I was imagining what it might be like to go all the way with Matt when I tripped on a crack in the middle of the road. My loose-leaf binder fell from my arms and tumbled to the ground. I bent to pick it up, and a blurred vision of what appeared to be Mama caught my eye. She strutted toward me like a model charging the runway.
    “Olivia, darlin’,” she yelled, waving her hand in the air. Wrapped in a stylish black fur coat that hung to her ankles, a red hat and shoes, she spun around as if photographers were snapping her picture.
    I nearly swallowed my gum and then peered over my shoulder to make sure no one else saw her. It was one thing when the older neighbors witnessed her strange behavior. But I couldn’t bear any remarks from the trailer-trouble on the bus.
    “Well . . . what do you think?” she asked.
    “Mama, where in the world did you get that coat?”
    She pulled the collar to her neck and closed her eyes in ecstasy. “Don’t ya love it?”
    “Well, yeah, it’s beautiful.” I took my glove off and touched her sleeve.
    She grinned and raised her penciled eyebrows. “It’s a mink! I got one for you, too.” She held her hands in the air like the hostess of a game show. “Come on, I’ll show ya.”
    I followed a few feet behind her and caught sight of Miss Ruth and Bubbles Clayton on their patio. The nosiest two ladies in the neighborhood. I heard them gossip about Mama many times. They said things like, “Cassandra Travis is as nutty as a pecan pie.” Or “Cassandra Travis’s mind is one