The Supremes at Earl's All-You-Can-Eat Read Free

“if.”
    Mama said, “What was I talkin’ about? Oh yeah, the fountain. Thelma said the fountain in her front room was six feet tall, if it was an inch. And it was made up to look like a naked white girl pouring water out of a pitcher onto the head of another naked white girl. Who comes up with that kind of stuff?”
    I poured another glass of water, and thought. Mama was often wrong when it came to her perceptions of the world, physical or ghostly. And she’d said many times herself that ghosts could be tricksters. The whole thing about Big Earl being dead could have been a prank played on Mama by a tipsy, belligerent Eleanor Roosevelt. I decided to put it out of my mind until later when we’d meet our friends for our standing after-church dinner date. We were gathering that Sunday, as we always did, at the All-You-Can-Eat. Little Earl and his wife, Erma Mae, had taken over running the restaurant several years back, but Big Earl still came in nearly every day to help out his son and daughter-in-law. One way or another, I’d have my answer come evening.
    Mama asked, “So why are you up drinkin’ all this water at this hour?”
    “I woke up hot and needed to cool down,” I said, taking another swig. “Hot flash.”
    “Hot flash? I thought you were done with the change.”
    “I thought so, too, but I guess I’m still changing.”
    “Well, you might wanna get that checked out. You don’t wanna change too much. Your aunt Marjorie started changin’ and kept it up till she changed into a man.”
    “Oh, she did not and you know it.”
    “Okay, maybe she didn’t switch all the way over to a man, but Marjorie grew a mustache, shaved her head, and took to wearin’ overalls to church. I’m not sayin’ the look didn’t suit her; I’m just sayin’ you can draw a straight line between her first hot flash and that bar fight she died in.”
    I ate a grape and said, “Point taken.”
    We sat in silence, me thinking about Big Earl in spite of telling myself I wouldn’t, and Mama thinking about God knows what. She stood up and walked to the window that looked out onto the side yard. She said, “It’s gonna be a truly beautiful Sunday morning. I love it hot. You should get some rest before you go to church.” She turned away from the window and said, talking to me like she used to when I was a kid, “Go on to bed now, git.”
    I obeyed. I put my glass in the sink and replaced the half-empty bowl of grapes and the water pitcher in the fridge and headed back toward my bedroom. I turned around and said, “Say hi to Daddy for me.”
    But Mama had already slipped out the back door. Through the window, I saw her slowly making her way through my sorry excuse for a garden. She stopped and shook her head with disapproval at the stunted stalks, insect-chewed vegetables, and pale blooms that made up my pitiful little plots. I knew what I would hear about on her next visit.
    Back in the bedroom, I climbed into the bed and squeezed in close to my husband. I propped myself up on one elbow, leaned over James, and kissed the rough scar on his jaw. He grunted, but didn’t wake up. I lay back down and pressed myself against his back. Then I reached around and brought my hand to rest on James’s stomach. Squeezed against my man in the center of our king-size bed, I fell asleep listening to the rhythm of his breathing.
    Throughout the year that followed, I thought about that Sundaymorning and how Mama’s visit had cooled me down and cheered me. Even during the worst of the troubles that came later, I smiled whenever I recalled that visit and how sweet it had been for her to come by, looking all done up in that cute sky-blue dress I hadn’t seen in the six years since we buried her in it.

Chapter 2
    I was born in a sycamore tree. That was fifty-five years ago, and it made me a bit of a local celebrity. My celebrity status was brief, though. Two baby girls, later my best friends, came along within months of me in ways that made