It’s gotta be the caffeine.
I make myself flip my palm over so I can’t see her number. My watch tells me I’m going to be late if I don’t hustle. I’m supposed to meet up with Deuce at Saint & Sinner to watch the game and I can’t let him see Betsy’s number or I’ll never hear the end of it. What I really need is the cold beer waiting there with my name on it.
CHAPTER NINE
Betsy
“You just missed an interception!”Nana hollers from the couch.
I whip my head up from where I’ve had my nose buried in my phone while I sit on the floor. The crowd on the television is going crazy, waving purple and gold pompoms with a level of excitement that could be described as hysteria.
“Goooo Angels!” I lamely reply, trying my best to match the enthusiasm and failing.
“Oh, Betsy. What am I gonna do with you?” Nana drawls. She’s smiling at me though, so I know she’s not mad.
“I’m sorry, Nana. I’ve just never been much of a ball sport person.”
Something about that makes her crack up. She wipes her eyes and puts her glasses back on. “What’re you lookin’ at over there.”
I hold up my phone. “Silas sent me the website where he buys all his merchandise. I’ve been combing through, trying to find some cute outfits for the mamas going to the football games.”
All I had to do was hear about that ten-thousand-dollar bonus and I’m all in. I’ll research until my internal thoughts start sounding Southern if it means getting the kind of money that will make a dent in this reverse mortgage of Nana’s. That bonus is practically mine already.
“Don’t you think you should be watching the game to understand what they wear? Studying the crowd? Observing the cheerleaders?”
I lift my eyebrows in surprise. Nana doesn’t have any kind of college degree and yet that makes a lot of sense. It’s research, kind of like what I did at Mary London’s boutique. I put my phone down on the rug and rise to curl up on the couch next to her.
The camera pans the crowd while the Archangels’ side of the stadium does some weird chant cheer with accompanying movements. My gaze darts back and forth, zeroing in on the middle-aged women.
“Oh! She’s got on a polka-dotted flared maxi!” I point at the screen with triumph.
“I don’t know what in tarnation that is, but she looksperty,” Nana says.
I lean down in a rush and grab my phone. I don’t get it to the camera function in time, but that’s okay. The camera pans and I see another woman looking extremely fashionable in a smock dress with a purple chevron pattern. Suddenly, I’m snapping pictures like a madwoman. The camera goes back to the game and I relax back on the couch, only to repeat the process every time they show the crowd.
During a commercial break, I turn to Nana. “How come all the women are in dresses? In California, women wear sweats or jeans. Just casual comfortable clothes.”
Nana pats my hand. I look at the worn white-gold wedding ring on her arthritic finger. She said it’s her swollen knucklesthat prevent her from taking it off, but I’ve seen it nearly fly off when she does the dishes. Grandpa died when I was two and yet she’s still loyal. I bet if I asked her, she’d say that here in the South, they don’t believe in the “til death do us part” portion of the wedding vows. Love just endures. It’s hard to believe in a feeling lasting decades, even after the person is gone. And yet it’s so sweet it makes my heart ache for a love like that all of my own.
“Why do you like all-black clothing, darlin’?”
I open my mouth, but stop short. I wasn’t expecting her to ask me that. Most people just lift an eyebrow at my goth look and move on.
“Well, I guess I do it because it feels like it matches my internal thoughts. My mood. Maybe my personality. I don’t get all excited about things or smile frequently. Black just feels like me.”
Nana’s nodding as I work my way through my answer. I can tell she doesn’t agree with my fashion choices, but she listens, even smiles at me when I’m done.
“And women out here in the South love to feel like women. They like to embody femininity and all that comes with it. Ruffles and pearls and flowers and smiles. It’s a state of mind, just like your style is. You grew up different but you’re still the same.”
I stare at Nana, trying to absorb why that statement feels significant. I’ve never been one of those people who think old people are irrelevant, just because they’ve aged. I think a lot of true wisdom comes with having seen decades of life and lived to tell the tale.
“Nana?” She nods at me to continue. “I’m going to think on that, okay?”
She drops her head on my shoulder and clings to my arm. The scent of flowery perfume and that essential muscle rub sheuses constantly wafts toward my nose. “Have I told you how glad I am that you’re here with me, Betsy Mae?”
I eye the red brick building like it might fall in on itself and kill everyone inside. Or lightning might take out the electricity. Who knows what the heavens will unleash when I darken the door of Mississippi’s most attended church? I’m regretting my black dress, even though it’s lacy and actually quite feminine, but there’s nothing for it now. At least I left the boots at home and wore sandals I dare say Mary London would even approve of.
Nana loops her arm through mine and marches right up the stairs like those intrusive thoughts have never occurred to her, which they probably haven’t. I may be named after her, but I’m finding we have quite a few differences. Betsy Sue Pemberton has probably never had a mean thought in her life. She certainly doesn’t flip people off on the regular like me. Maybe if I stick close to her side, God won’t be able to find a way to smite me without taking sweet Nana too.
