Page 4 of The Curve
I honk my arrival, so the dog has a heads up. The Colonel needs time to go through his routine. There he is at the side windows of the front door. He goes into protective mode, barking and growling what he has to say to me, making sure I know who’s boss.
The door swings open and Grandma Birdie steps out, giving a delicate wave as she does. As usual she’s dressed for the occasion. Sunday supper calls for pearls and an appropriate dress. I’ve never seen her with a hair out of place, or even in pants. I wonder if she goes to bed in her pearls? I don’t think Grandpa Davis would be as cool and collected if she did.
“There’s my southern belle!” I call.
The Colonel slips around her and sounds a warning. For a dachshund he’s got a good set of pipes and a bigger set of balls. He’s not afraid of anything. He’s down the stairs and sniffing my leg as I get out of the Ferrari. When he’s satisfied an intruder hasn’t breached his castle, he calms down.
“Hi, boy!” He gets a pat and a scratch on the head.
“Do I smell your peach cobbler, Grandma?” I call.
A pleased smile lights her face. “You know I’d make one for you, child. And butter pecan fudge for your brother and Bristol’s Hummingbird Cake. All my babies get their favorites today.”
Her arms open and she calls me to her with waving fingertips. Walking up the wide steps I lean in and wrap my arm around her soft frame. She’s shorter than me by a foot, but I always want to melt into her hug. There’s no place as comfortable as Grandma Birdie’s embrace.
“You’re going to spoil us, you know. Then no other woman’s cooking will be good enough, and I’ll die a lonely bachelor.”
She laughs out loud at my comment and looks me in the eye. “Who you kidding? It’s not their cooking that’s going to win your heart. I may be eighty-three years old but I remember that much.”
“Right as usual, Grandma.”
“All the chickens are here. Come on in.”
Arm in arm we walk across the mahogany-floored porch with the sky-blue ceiling and into the house. The sound of Swift voices and laughter fill the rooms. Up ahead, through the foyer and into the great room I see the familiar gathering.
“There he is!” says my smiling father, pouring his Jack Daniels. Scarlett, his beautiful, homely overweight cat lies at his feet. She gives me a look that says she’s weighing the idea of getting up to greet me, but it’s just too much effort. Like her namesake, she’s most comfortable having people come to her.
“Hey, y’all,” I say.
As Grandma goes one way and I head for the bowl of pecans, there’s a chorus of greetings from my mother and father, sister and brother. The Colonel lets me know he’s approved of my presence.
The last voice to weigh in is my grandfather, looking dapper in his bright-blue bow tie.
“How’s the injury? Are you healing properly, Atticus?”
I go to where he sits in his club chair and bend down for a kiss on the cheek. “It’s comin’ along. One of the kids at the signing today ran into it so it’s not feeling great right now.”
Brick turns his barstool to face me. “And that’s why you should have sat at the table. Wait! Where did I hear that? Who suggested that three times?”
I laugh at my brother’s questions. “Yeah, yeah, you told me so.”
“Can we talk about anything but baseball for once?” Bristol pleads.
No one takes offense at her comment. My poor sister is the lone wolf of the family. For her entire thirty-two years the sport has been the focus of the family. First my father, then Brick and I. She’s sick to death of the subject and pleads with us regularly to pick another topic of discussion. It hasn’t helped that my mother may be the greatest fan here.
“We can talk about football. Did you hear who the Falcons are letting go?” my grandfather says.
“I’ve got a better one!” Brick says chuckling.
“Good! What is it, darlin’?” my mother says.
“Atticus got shot down today by a woman.”
The faces reflect the surprise my family feels. They’re waiting for a fucking punchline.
“Believe me, I’m as shocked as you,” I say laughing at myself.
“Maybe she didn’t get a proper look,” my father says without a trace of humor.
