“He can take them down, but not up,” Mamaw says, rather sternly, while peeking around from the closet door.
Carl doesn’t seem to mind. “No problem. We’ll take the elevator.” Before leaving he taps Jasmine’s mother on the shoulder. “Can I bring you anything from downstairs, Miss Devonia?”
“I’d think I’d like some lunch, please, Carl. Soon as you get a chance.”
We have a C-store in the lobby, but Mamaw had packed sandwiches, enough for a small army. She steps toward Mrs. Crawford. “I packed plenty of sandwiches for all of us. Chicken salad, egg salad, and ham and cheese. Do you have a preference?”
Mrs. Crawford raises a hand to her chest. “No, ma’am. I’ll be happy with anything you give me.”
“We have plenty of drinks, too.” Mamaw moves over to the cooler and lifts the top. “May I hand you one?”
“Why thank you, ma’am. I’d love a Co-Cola. If you have one.”
“Sure I do.” Mamaw hands her both a sandwich and a Coke and offers one to Jasmine, who declines. Then she turns to Carl. “How about you, son?”
“No, ma’am. I’ll wait till I get back. Then I might want two or three,” he says, making a silly face. Crossing his arms, Carl surveys the room. “Now, ladies, I want to see this place perfect by the time we get back.” I watch him give an exaggerated wink behind Jasmine’s back.
“I’ll show you perfect,” Jasmine says, spinning around to face him. She strikes a pose with her hip cocked and chin lifted.
“Mmm-hmm,” Carl responds. “Perfect ineveryway.”
“Go on with your bad self.” Jasmine pushes him out the door and Papaw follows behind.
Jasmine is tall. Must be close to six feet. And since I’m only five two, we look like Kanga and Roo standing side by side. She had told me she had been a high school basketball player in Greenville, but had not been offered a scholarship on the Ole Miss team. That’s one of the things we have in common. We’re both athletes. I was on our high school cross-country team all four years.
For the next couple of hours we unpack a little and talk a lot. It’s fun for all of us to get to know one another. Mamaw and Mrs. Crawford seem to be getting along famously, talking about growing up in Mississippi. Even though the Crawfords are from the Delta, it seems things aren’t that much different from Blue Mountain. Small town life in Mississippi appears to be the same no matter where you live.
The only thing left to do, besides unpacking the rest of Jasmine’s boxes and suitcases, is hang the curtains. With Carl’s help, Papaw installs the rods, on the window and closets, with the peel and stick strips that are allowed. Mamaw had packed her steamer and expertly steams away any wrinkles once the curtains have been hung. Sweet Mrs. Crawford, who moved over to the chair once Jasmine’s bed was lifted, has been slowly folding Jasmine’s clothes into neat piles.
Around four o’clock Papaw backs up to the door and lifts his arms, taking it all in. “Well, girls, it looks like we’re finished.”
Mamaw crosses her arms, nods her head. “This has to be the best-looking, most stylish room in Martin Hall. Even if I didn’t make it all myself. You girls should be proud.”
“I am very proud,” I say, hiking up on my bed. “We only need one more thing. Stepstools.”
Jasmine pats the top of her mattress. “Speak for yourself, shorty.” She hops up with ease and turns around, jutting her chest toward me. “Our room is dope. I guarantee you nobody has our sense of style. What do you think, Cali?”
Before I can answer, Carl scoots over, puts a casual arm around her shoulder. “My baby has excellent taste.” Then he winks and laughs at himself.
Jasmine looks at us, shrugs her shoulders. “I’m no dummy.”
“And neither am I,” Papaw says. “Cali, I think I better get your Mamaw home. I can tell she’s pretty tuckered out.”
***
When we get down to Papaw’s truck, I can tell he’s the one who’s tuckered out. His Blue Mountain College T-shirt is damp and wrinkled. He reaches into his pocket for a handkerchief and wipes his brow, then offers it to Mamaw. Her temples are moist and her blouse is stuck to her plump middle.
Papaw is about to cry. I can tell by the way he’s sucking his bottom lip. Whenever I see him cry, even at a movie, it breaks my heart. Mamaw, on the other hand, rarely gets emotional, but I still know she cares. My mother has caused them enough pain for three lifetimes. That’s probably why I was always such a good girl and stayed away from trouble.
Leaning over the side, he peeks into the truck bed. “Well. She’s empty.” My grandfather is stalling. I know him so well.
“Come on, Charles,” Mamaw responds in a frustrated voice. “I’m hot and ready to get on the road.”
Never one to react, he ignores her, then turns to me. “Cali. Have I told you how proud of you I am?”
“Only a hundred times.” I grin, bat my eyelashes.
“Well, that was number one hundred and one and I suspect I’ll get to a thousand before I kick the bucket.”
