Tumbling Blocks Read Free

curator at the Josiah Sinclair Folk Art Museum and Artists’ Co-op. “I am completely insane. What was I thinking? Please, forgive me. I have an idea. Let’s simplify your system. I could run down to Target and pick you up a couple of Hawaiian muumuus to see you through the next seven months. Wash one, wear one.” I grinned at her, proud of my joke. Actually, Target didn’t carry muumuus, something Elvia wouldn’t know, because I was certain she’d never bought any clothes there.
    She was speechless for a moment. Her bottom lip began to tremble, and tears moistened her dark-lashed eyes. “Don’t make fun of my system,” she whispered. “It’s my . . .” Her voice faltered. “. . . my system.”
    Seeing my normally levelheaded friend about to melt down because of a stuck zipper and an out-of-order dress stirred a flood of pity inside me.
    “Oh, Ellie Mae,” I said, using the childhood nickname I only used when she was really sad or upset because its silliness and absolute incongruity always made her smile. I reached over and took her cold hand. “Did you really think you could have a baby without putting on any weight?”
    A single tear ran down Elvia’s smooth, brown cheek. She must have been wearing waterproof mascara, because it was as clear and lovely as the diamonds on her wedding band. “I’m being silly,” she said, swallowing hard.
    “You’re allowed,” I said, putting my arm around her shoulders. “My advice is, take advantage of the next seven months and make my cousin and all six of your brothers wait on you hand and foot.”
    She gave a wet, unladylike sniff, causing both of us to laugh. “My brothers have been avoiding me like a poor relative. Emory, on the other hand, would carry me around in his pocket if he could. He’s driving me loco.”
    “Welcome to the club. He’s always driven me crazy.”
    Downstairs we could hear her housekeeper, Janey, singing an old Broadway musical song my gramma Dove used to sing to us as children while she was rubbing shampoo into our hair: “I’m Gonna Wash That Man Right Outa My Hair.” It always made us giggle.
    “Remember when you asked Dove why a man was in her hair?” I said, trying to make her smile.
    Elvia inhaled a shuddering breath. “I took things so literally.”
    I started flipping through the dresses in the open armoire. “Everything’s literal when you’re in the second grade. Now, until we can track you down some outrageously cool and hip maternity clothes, let’s be wild, throw your system to the wind, and find you something to wear this fine December day.”
    “Okay,” she said, suddenly docile. “I have a bunch of catalogs. You have to help me pick out some clothes.”
    Now I knew that my friend had gone completely round the bend, asking me, the queen of manure-caked boots and Wrangler jeans, to help her pick out a new wardrobe. I had a sneaking suspicion that she’d be fine by this afternoon and that soon Emory would fly her down to Orange County to hit all the fancy maternity shops at South Coast Plaza and Newport Fashion Island. She’d develop a new system in no time with weight gain and swollen ankles factored in.
    “Sure,” I said. “And no muumuus. At least, not with this first child.”
    “Not ever ,” she replied, giving a slight shudder. My fashionista friend had returned.
    “How about this?” I pulled out a black-and-white dress that appeared a little more boxy in the waist.
    She nodded. “It’s an early January, but it’ll have to do.” She slipped out of the gray silk and took the black-and-white dress from me. This time, the zipper slid up without a hitch.
    “This was always big on me,” she said. “That’s why I usually wear it in January. In case I ate too many of Mama’s tamales over the holidays.”
    “Good, now let’s concentrate on my problems.”
    “Talk to me while I fix my hair.”
    I followed her into the master bedroom decorated in a classy burgundy and deep navy Victorian style