Page 62 of A Boy Called Lovesong

The thunder didn’t seem so distant anymore.

I turned to Cybil. “If you don’t want to go to a hospital, I won’t take you. But will you at least let me drive us back to Clara’s Crossing?”

Cybil unclicked her safety belt.

CHAPTER 12

As we pulled into town,Maybelle saw us from the manor porch and instantly knew there was something wrong. She put down her broom and limped over to us as hastily as she could, while I parked the pickup out front of the general store.

She had a look of concern on her face, along with a pinch of fury. “Cybil? You okay, woman? Why is he driving? Did you take one of your turns?”

“I’m fine,” Cybil insisted, getting out of the car. “Although I ain’t sure I can say the same for the clutch on my poor old truck anymore. I feel like we been ridin’ on the Devil’s backbone the last fifty miles.” She looked at me as I climbed out of the driver’s seat. “What are you, a serial killer of cars or something? I’m gonna need to get Earl to take a look and see if you done any permanent damage.”

“I’m sorry,” I felt the need to apologize. It was a rough ride. “I’m not used to driving stick.”

“Never mind the damn truck,” Maybelle piped up. “I asked you, why is he driving in the first place?”

Cybil waved Maybelle’s question away with her hand and a fib. “It was my knee. Seized up, damn thing. Someone needed to drive us home.”

“I don’t believe a word of that,” Maybelle snipped. “I’m also beginning to believe you ain’t never gonna take yourself off to a doctor and get that heart of yours looked at, which leads me to believe all my naggin’ and nigglin’ and tellin’ you to take it easy and slow down is just a waste of my precious breath.”

“It was her knee,” I said, rightly or wrongly backing up Cybil’s lie.

Maybelle eyed me before a smile slid across her lips. “You’re sweet, Noah. You’re also full of shit. Now why don’t you make yourself useful and pick up a bag of flour from Cybil’s for me. I got biscuits to make and I sure as hell ain’t asking Cybil to bring it over for me, she ain’t fit for liftin’ a damn thing.”

If the air outside was hot, Maybelle’s kitchen was even hotter, the breeze blowing in through the open door and windows unable to shift the temperature in the room. Yet not a drop of sweat glistened on Maybelle’s brow.

Her apron on and her cane set to one side, Maybelle moved swiftly and assuredly across her kitchen floor, despite her limp. She was a woman in complete control of her realm, knowing exactly when to stir the gumbo, turn the corn cakes, and pull the fried chicken from the pot of spitting oil.

She reminded me of a world-class pianist tearing up and down the keys of a piano with expertise and grace, serving up a masterpiece with style and skill.

Indeed, if there was a cooking version of the Rach 3, this was it.

“You know how to cook a good southern buttermilk biscuit?” she asked with barely a glance in my direction as I set the bag of flour she requested on the counter.

“What? Me? No!”

“You can cook, can’t you?”

“Yes, but I’ve never cooked—”

“Good. Mixin’ bowl’s in the cupboard. Salt’s over here on the counter. The butter and buttermilk are in the old icebox and there’s a fresh tin of baking soda in the pantry.”

“Oh, okay. And then what do I do with them?” I asked, frantically trying to remember what was where as I began to dart around the kitchen while Chet wisely stepped back, hovering safely in the kitchen doorway.

“You mix ’em and you bake ’em! They ain’t gonna turn themselves into biscuits on their own.”

“But how much of what… goes in where… for how long? Please help!”

“The Lord helps those who help themselves.”

“Don’t say that. I don’t think Jesus likes me much at all. He doesn’t exactly have my back. In fact, there’s a good chance he’ll just set me up to fail.”

Maybelle laughed. “Jesus don’t set anyone up to fail. He knows too well we’re all very capable of doing that ourselves.” She set the chicken out on some kitchen towel, turned the heat down on the corn cakes and put the lid on the gumbo to let it simmer. She took a spoon from a drawer and handed it to me. “Here. Measure out half a spoonful of baking soda. Then pour three cups of buttermilk and cut the butter into cubes, makes it easier to mix through. Don’t worry. If Jesus don’t got your back, at least I do.”

“Thank you.”

“Out of curiosity, what exactly did you do to piss him off?”

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