"I wouldn't spit on him if his guts was on fire!" Aunt Sempie took a long serious draw on her Winston cigarette and straightened the crooked crease in her slacks. She then pulled her hundred pound body back into a seated position and touched up her hair with her nails. "If he's waitin' for a phone call from me, he'll be waitin' till Hell freezes over – that's all I've got to say!" This proclamation was made with the fervor of a temperance pledge.


The person to whom she is speaking is her older sister, and though I hear every word they say, I am allowed to remain only because I appear to be lost in my private world of picture drawing – a childish rendering of "Guardian Angel", which had hung over the brick fireplace as long as anyone could remember. The two of them had been at it for an hour now, Mr. Drew Clayheart being their lengthiest and most heated topic. Aunt Sempie still hadn't been very clear whose fault it actually was that caused the rift between them, and the absence of this little detail kept the conversation going in a circle. It didn't really matter though, Aunt Sempie said, because, "Men would rather die and go to Hell than admit they were wrong!" Having set that matter straight, she rewarded herself with another proud puff on her Winston. Only, this time she held it in for a smug moment, then let it curl out like a drunken ghost. "I'll tell you what he's fixin' to do now. He'll go home and load up that damn truck and take off on a fishin' trip with that good-fer-nothin' brother of his." The very thought brought a hateful smirk to her face. "I swear, every time that man and me have words, he takes off on a fishin' trip or huntin' trip or some God-awful place with good-fer-nothin' people. People he knows I just hate!" Truth was, Aunt Sempie hated most folks, especially those who didn't see things her way.

Mimmaw, a gentle woman, just nodded and rocked and listened patiently. Wisely. After all, Aunt Sempie was the baby. And even though she was forty-five years old, Mimmaw reassured her she had all the time in the world to find another suitor if this one didn't take. Aunt Sempie's marriage didn't take either, and that was nearly thirty years back. Of course, it was all her husband's fault, him not buying her everything under the sun. Never mind there was a world war going on, or that her want list – silk hose and the like – couldn't be bought even if he had the money. But war or no war, Aunt Sempie wouldn't have it. When she didn't get everything she was expecting from marriage, she "wanted" herself right out of a husband, and to this very day she still blames Shell Watson (that was his name) for most of her life's miseries. (Uncle Root said she was so mean minded she probably blamed him for the war, too.)

"Maybe you just ought to be thinkin' in another direction." Mimmaw suggested, testing the water. You never knew with Aunt Sempie. "Seems to me you spend more time fussin' than funnin' with that man. You been courtin' Drew Clayheart long enough to have him bagged and honeymooned by now – if he was worth the havin'."

This remark just pouted up Aunt Sempie even worse. After all, she was in charge of this romance, and she would be the best judge of when it was time to part ways, and if and when that time came she wouldn't have to be told, thank you very much. She spent the next ten minutes making that point, waving her cigarette around like a baton to show who was in charge here. And when she wasn't waving and asserting, she was smoking and smirking.

"Then maybe you oughta' try gettin' along with that man, instead of mean-mouthin' and findin' fault in everything he does!" If it was agreement Aunt Sempie was after, she sure wasn't sitting in the Amen section. Mimmaw's words cut her to the quick. Drew her mouth wide open. "The Good Lord ain't got time or inclination to work out your piddly problems. Nosir! He's got His hands full with folks that got better sense than to ask." She was referring to the way Aunt Sempie kept saying: "Lord, what's wrong with that man? Lord give me strength! Lord have mercy!" Her words were meant to touch her dear sister's heart, to help her get beyond herself long enough to see things plain. But she got nothing in return, unless a pouty little "Hmh" counts.

A cool minute passed between them. We could see a vile mood taking shape – the kind Aunt Sempie was famous for. The kind of selfish mood that might have consumed the rest of the day had we not been interrupted by tapping at the front door. Faint tapping at first, so faint as to be mistaken for the house next door. But then a second knock reassured us that we indeed had a caller. No one responded at first. Aunt Sempie was much too put out to be bothered by somebody at the door. She sat there cross-armed and half-hidden in her own smoke. It was just like Papaw said: "When Sempie gets in one of her moods, she wouldn't get the damn door if the Good Lord hisself came knockin'." I was sent instead.

As it turned out, it wasn't the Good Lord. It was Miss Ida Grace, a maiden lady who used to live down the street with her mama and daddy, had come for a visit. All gussied up from hat to high heels and smelling fresh as citrus rind – just like she was on her way to Sunday preaching. When Aunt Sempie heard her tiny bird voice at the front door, she popped off: "That woman must have radar in her bobby pins. How in hell did she know I was here? Shut the door-Shut the door-Shut the door!" Thank the Lord Miss Grace never could hear too well. What a mess that would've been. But I heard her plenty well and had to deal with pretending I didn't the whole time she was patting me on the head and telling me what a fine boy I was. By the time we made our way back to the sitting room, Mimmaw had laid down the law to her sister and was halfway out to the kitchen for a pitcher of iced tea. It was all Aunt Sempie could do to light up another cigarette and hack out a half-hearted greeting for our company – a pitiful welcome Miss Grace kindly overlooked.

"How you doin', Miss Sempie? Haven't seen you in ages! My-my, don't you look nice." Miss Grace always referred to Aunt Sempie as "Miss", and the way she said it gave the impression she expected it always would be Miss. Oh, she knew Aunt Sempie was married once – right out of school – but everybody knows when a marriage doesn't last long enough for the kettle to get hot it doesn't count. Miss Ida then added a few pleasant words of praise – taking notice of Sempie's new opal choker and her earrings, and her tight new hair-do that swept up to a smart knot at the crown of her head – nothing she could not admire. She smiled and laughed and did her best to bring cheer to the conversation. And then she said something that drew Aunt Sempie's bored eyes from the floor to half-mast. Said she'd always felt this peculiar bond with Aunt Sempie, something quite strong. Ever since way back in grade school, since the time they played the sisters in Cinderella, and what good days those were. And though this was meant in every way a compliment, the most she could get out of Aunt Sempie was a tight little smile, empty of any sentiment. Just as Miss Ida was running completely out of kind things to say, Mimmaw was finally back from the kitchen with a pitcher of tea, four glasses, and a plate of company teacakes.

"Well, I declare! Ida Fay Grace. What brings you out on such a sultry day?" Mimmaw set the tray down and gave Miss Ida a big hug. "Mercy me! Would you just look at that new summer dress! What color is that? Pink?" Turning to Sempie, she entreated, "Would you just look at that, sister! Have you ever seen anything perttier'? Umh-Umh-Umh!" Drawing her sister into the conversation was a wasted exercise, though. She just rolled her eyes and took a hitch in her belt, giving Ida Fay the stingiest little nod of approval. Poor Miss Grace was just too nice to fully understand a good insult, and she went right on with her pleasantries and picking at her teacakes. Aunt Sempie would love to slap the woman into the middle of next week, but knew she couldn't. Instead, she withdrew into her own selfish thoughts again, leaving the jawing to her sister. She resented having her afternoon interrupted with the blitherings of a pitiful maiden lady who wouldn't say, "crap" if she had a mouth full of it. Even if she was her sister's neighbor for forty years. And even if they had known each other since the Old Testament. Thought Ida Fay ought to do her visiting someplace where people give a damn what she has to say.

"I saw your suitcase out in the hallway, Miss Sempie. You must be planning to stay for a while." It was amazing to watch Miss Ida carry on a lively conversation without dumping her teacakes, which she kept balanced on one leg the whole time. "Funny we should both be visitin' family at the same time, Miss Sempie – an odd coincidence I guess. It must mean somethin'. Things like this always do."

I kept waiting for Aunt Sempie to reach over and pop her one. Miss Grace could not know what was behind her hateful mood – just that it cast ugly shadows in her face. Knowing full well that her sister was likely to blurt out the first insult that popped into her head, Mimmaw answered for her.

"Sempie drove out here so she can take me to town tomorrow – to the dime store and Sears Town." She may have been addressing Miss Grace, but her eyes were fixed sternly on her sister the whole while she was talking. "Bless her heart, she took off work just to drive me around. Ain't that right, sister?"

No response.

"I say, aint' that right, sister?"

Sempie's gruff reply came forcibly, in a jaunty little smoke-cloud that made its way to Ida Fay and set her coughing. Poor thing nearly barked her head off, apologizing for herself the whole time. Aunt Sempie managed an insincere little apology and then went right on with her smoking. By the time Ida Fay finally got her breath and was able to talk, Sempie had abandoned all pretence of manners, now coiled up with a magazine stuck in her face. This embarrassed Mimmaw to no end. It was worse than the time she kicked the new preacher lady out of the house while Mimmaw was out fetching coffee and potato pie from the kitchen. That poor woman never did bother to call again, and Mimmaw just knew she'd told the whole congregation exactly why. Every time she ran into her at the grocery store the woman took off in another direction.

Mimmaw and Miss Ida had barely gotten the conversation back on track – back to Ida Fay's cousin Elmo, with the glass eye – when they found themselves being slowly drowned out by din of galloping nails on the side table – quietly at first, and then louder as Sempie's angry thoughts made their way down her arm to her fingertips.

"You wanna' stop that damn racket, Sempie? I can't hear a word Ida Fay here has to say!" Mimmaw loved her baby sister, but she was completely put out with her by now. Felt like tying and gagging her with her own belt.

"Lordy-Lordy! Looks like we could use a fresh pitcher of tea." She was hoping hard that Aunt Sempie would offer to get up and fetch it – which would get her out of the room for a while – but her sister's mind was still working buttonholes over Mr. Clayheart. She just shrugged and told Mimmaw to bring her a big glass of fresh ice with the tea – and then popped open her compact.

With that, Mimmaw excused herself to the kitchen, leaving the two younger women in each other's company once again. She did not wish to, but decent manners demanded. The two women may have been in the same room, but they occupied different worlds – one incapable of arousing the slightest interest and the other unwilling to even try. So there they sat, transfixed by their own silence. Miss Grace twiddled and twitched and smiled pleasantly the whole while. Now and again I could see Aunt Sempie steal a glance at Ida Fay, summing up her dress and her features and singling each one out for criticism. No mystery at all to her why the woman never landed herself a man. . Not until Mimmaw reentered the room did either woman speak a word.

"Miss Emmie, I declare you make the best teacakes in town," Ida Fay cooed, grateful to be rescued. "Mama says so, too. I guess you wouldn't part with that recipe. Huh?" Mimmaw smiled and thanked her graciously, as she freshened our tea glasses all around – and of course a whole glass of ice for Aunt Sempie.

"Tell me, Miss Sempie, did the Good Lord bless you in the "culinary" arts as well? Like your sister here?"

Thinking her remarks patronizing, Aunt Sempie didn't even bother to respond to the woman, and this caused a long hollow moment in the conversation. Poor Miss Grace sat flush-faced and downcast. Not a word. Just the tick-tick-ticking of the mantle clock, which made the ugly silence linger shamefully, until at last – like a mission bell – Mimmaw's voice broke the hateful spell.

"Tell me, Ida Fay, where have you been spendin' your time? I haven't seen hide nor hair of you in months – at church or the store or the beauty shop. You been outa' town, honey? Got yourself a fella'?" Naturally these questions were meant to lighten the tension and put Ida Fay at ease – a testimonial to the fact that Southern women have a natural gift for spinning kindness from insult. (And vice versa, as the occasion deems).

"As a matter of fact, Miss Emmie, I moved away." Miss Grace announced. "Over to Ferriday. With my new job!" It was a proud announcement for Miss Grace – and a total shock to Aunt Sempie, who snapped to at this news. She just couldn't imagine a Miss Priss like Ida Fay taking off on her own and moving to another town. The whole thing sounded suspicious to her.

"I thought mama woulda' told you, but she said she hadn't seen you since I left. She doesn't get out much any more. Since her fall last winter." Her remarks were addressed to Mimmaw, but Ida Fay kept one eye on Aunt Sempie, who by now had slunk back into the armchair, her brow wrinkled into fine pleats. Speculating. Imagining.

"And I do have a new fella'." Miss Grace grinned. "Lives right here in town. But he drives all the way over to Ferriday to see me as often as he can." With this announcement, she lifted herself slightly, adjusted the dainty lace in her dress, then resumed her prim pose on the divan – a gesture Sempie found plumb prissy.

"Scandalous, huh? A woman seeing a man secretly from another town?"

Absolutely no one was expecting such a statement from Miss Grace. It shook Aunt Sempie right out of her trance again. Somehow, "scandalous" and "Ida Fay Grace" just didn't belong in the same sentence. Mimmaw was indeed shocked by the news – her not telling her own family, leaving them to think whatever they wanted. Seeing someone secretly was a pretty fresh notion to folks of her generation.

"You mean to tell me you've been keepin' company regularly over in Ferriday?" Aunt Sempie was sitting bolt upright now. I guess she had forgotten about Mr. Clayheart. "How long? I mean, how long you two foxes been steppin' out?" Just like she was about everyone, Aunt Sempie was skeptical. Thought Ida Fay made the whole thing up. After all, she'd lived her life neat as a nun – and now suddenly this? Mimmaw was completely silent on the matter. Just nodded and stared. Miss Grace, however, seemed to enjoy the sudden interest in her affairs, a kind of wicked pleasure she'd never experienced before. With each parsimonious detail, she seemed compelled to raise one brow just so and give a naughty little smile. It seems that she had met the man a few months before at a social. An out-of-towner no one knew anything about. Just that he was a traveling salesman who passed through town from time to time. A Mr. Gamble. He lived in West Monroe – not for long – and had never been married.

Before long, Miss Ida had divulged more than she'd intended. Now fearing she had shared too much, she stopped abruptly and changed the subjec. She was not about to give away all her secrets. Her treasures. After all, she had waited her whole life for such a man to come along, and now she would be cautious about sharing him with anyone – even in conversation.

"You say this Mr. Gamble lives right here in town now? Works out of town?" Aunt Sempie was persistent, just the way Papaw described her: like a bloodhound sniffing out every last detail.

"This Mr. Gamble of yours – he got any relatives here? Besides a brother, I mean?" Miss Grace hemmed and hawed and tried delicately to change the subject, but Aunt Sempie wheedled the woman right through another cigarette. "I bet your mama was fit to be tied when she found out you been slippin' around." A smug little laugh accompanied this hateful statement.

Mimmaw was shocked and angered at her sister's vulgarity. But not even this insult could pry one more detail out of Ida Fay, and it chapped Aunt Sempie but good. In all fairness, it was rightfully Ida Fay's turn to be tight-lipped and cool, leaving the conversation with nowhere to go. Mimmaw had that very thought in mind as she attempted to re-direct them to the TV set, where poor Lorene Chandler was just about to leave her husband on "Changing Lives". But a TV soap opera seemed ridiculous to Aunt Sempie at the moment. She went right on with her grilling, telling Mimmaw to "Turn the damn set down set so we can talk!" There was obviously a better story to be had right here. Poor Miss Grace looked like a deer caught in the headlights.

But before Mimmaw could respond to her sister's rude demand, we were once again diverted by a knock at the front door. This time it was loud, forceful. Leaving us in no doubt we had a caller. Reluctantly, Mimmaw decided to get the door herself. She knew wild horses couldn't drag her sister away right now. In her absence – which seemed an hour – Sempie did manage to ring a bit more from the rag. Nothing of great importance, but it satisfied her just the same.

When Mimmaw finally reappeared, she was escorted by a tall figure of a man, whose silhouette against the sunlit windows made him at first difficult to identify. He had stopped dead still upon entering the room, as if unsure of himself. No words were spoken. Aunt Sempie squinted at the dark faceless figure till she could finally give it form. Her face may have registered surprise, but her eyes betrayed it. The smirk she wore for Ida Fay was now replaced with a look of contempt, a look that seemed to conceal some odd pleasure.

Miss Grace – upon seeing the man enter the room – rose immediately from the divan and walked clear across the room to where he stood. Once there, she extended her hand and smiled as if awaiting an introduction, a gesture that gave Aunt Sempie pause. And then she spoke: "Why, Mr. Gamble! What are you…That is to say… How did you know that I…?" Ida Fay was beaming, this time with surprise and excitement. Couldn't even finish a simple sentence. As the two of them stared at each other, there was yet another moment of awkward silence in the room. Eyes darted from face to face in search of clues, and each face seemed to speak a different language. It was an odd scene indeed, rather like people acting out a charade.

The whole thing was completely unsettling to Aunt Sempie, who by now had serious questions about Ida Fay's behavior. In one grand, fluid gesture, she rose from her armchair and swaggered over to where the two stood. There was vanity in her movement, to be sure.

"What do you mean – Mr. Gamble?" Sempie's eyes gazed intently upon the man, but clearly her question was addressed to Miss Grace. "You mean – Mr. Clayheart!" There was no response from Ida Fay. Aunt Sempie searched the man's eyes for some meaning to all of this. Searched his face for confirmation. The man looked away.

Then, without the slightest hesitation, Miss Grace turned and faced the man. Smiling sweetly, she took him by the hand and presented him to Aunt Sempie: "Why, this is my Mr. Gamble, you silly thing. I ought to know who I'm to be engaged to." Ida Fay spoke in the unmistakable language of the heart. She clasped the man's hand a little tighter to confirm the bond her smile had already conveyed.

"Engaged?" The word resonated in her head, leaving Sempie with a sudden feeling of other-worldliness. Lost to herself alone.

"Engaged!"

She had answered her own question, and the response stung like a scorpion. But it was a revelation she would not suffer lightly. Thoughts and emotions now came rapidly, tumbling one upon the other till at last she could not contain them. They summoned in her a fury no one had ever witnessed. Not her sister. Not even herself. She lit into the man like a wildcat, yelling and screaming, cussing him for a sorry S.O.B. – and a host of other names one can't repeat and hope to get to Heaven. She charged up and down the room like a Bantie hen, ranting and raving – spewing pure gibberish as her temper got ahead of her tongue. Somewhere in the tirade, she'd picked up an over-stuffed ashtray and hurled it, missing her mark and leaving Mimmaw and Miss Ida painted like two coughing hoot owls. In shock, neither one of them had even flinched. It was a relentless storm that raged uninterrupted till she'd finally purged herself of her anger – fifteen minutes by the clock.

Once it was over and she was left with only the hurt, she wished the man all sorts of misfortune and then withdrew to another region of the house – leaving the rest of us completely wrung out. It wasn't merely the anger of insufferable truth that set her off. No, her wrath stemmed as much from her own boastful conceit as it did from the painful notion that someone would prefer an old maid like Ida Fay over her.

In the wake of her stormy exit, poor Ida Fay was left stunned and faint. Sempie's performance had left little edge for doubt. The shame and humiliation were just too much for Miss Grace. Turning to her suitor, she too searched his face for some reason, some explanation. Her eyes begged for reassurance. Finding none, she turned quietly, staring off into nothingness, her eyes now vacant as her hollow heart. Mimmaw placed a comforting arm around Miss Ida and patted her gently. Childlike. She took no notice.

The scorned man lingered, hunched and penitent, staring shamefully at the floor, perhaps still in shock. Now there was no one who would look upon his face. Whatever his thoughts, they remained with him. He made no effort, issued no statement. With all attentions now on Miss Grace, he ceased to exist. And then, spirit-like, he was suddenly gone without our knowing. And though we did not hear his exit, we knew it was final.

Mimmaw tried desperately to talk to Ida Fay, but it was no use. She could not be reached. Then she, too, moved quietly toward the front door and made her way out again, still saying nothing. We followed her to the end of the walkway and a few yards down the road, until she broke into drunken jog, unconscious of passing cars and yelling drivers. Mimmaw called after her several times to get out of the road and pleaded with her to come back, but Ida Fay was lost to the world. We stood watching till she finally disappeared into the traffic dust. We worried and talked about the matter deep into the evening, well past my bedtime. Aunt Sempie had confined herself to her bedroom for the night and received no one. Mimmaw said she would pay Miss Ida's mama a visit next morning – to check on her. I don't think she got a wink of sleep.

Next morning, we found out that Miss Grace did manage somehow to make her way home safely in her fretful stupor. Once home, however, she promptly fell into some kind of screaming fit. It seems it took her father two hours to calm her down long enough to get a sensible word out of her. She had to be restrained several times during the episode. Never had the Graces seen their daughter in such a state. Helpless, they could only hold her at a distance.

Then, like a passing storm cloud, it was all over. As if awakening from a deep dream, Miss Ida began to collect herself again – even managed a bite of supper. Afterward, she felt compelled to relate the entire story to her father, a calm and humorous retelling. Once done, she smiled and reassured him that God, in His wisdom, had seen her through. There were other men in the world, after all. They even shared a little snicker about Miss Sempie, all puffed up and charging around like an old wet hen.

The weight now lifted, Mr. Grace kissed his daughter tenderly and retired for the evening, leaving Ida Fay in the company of his loving wife. The two women talked and laughed and made light of the matter well into the night. At twelve o'clock, Miss Grace excused herself and disappeared down the hall to the bathroom. Moments later, Mrs. Grace heard a mumbling sound in the distance. She stole quietly down the hallway and peeped through the cracked door. Now alone with her private thoughts, Miss Ida faced her demons head on. As she stood before the gilded mirror studying the pitiful figure staring back, she searched her pleading eyes for some semblance of hope – a hope her heart had abandoned. It was a moment of dead reckoning, a spiritual moment when one's soul can be read by the heart alone. And in their meeting, her soul was cleansed. The heart made wise.

At length, a wistful little smile began to take shape in the mirror, a smile that drew her fragile features into a delicate cameo. Flattered, she took her pearl-handled brush from its case and swept it gently through her hair in fine even strokes. Preening, posing, she gave her double-hearts barrette a final adjustment. She then reached down deep into her crocheted handbag and produced a pearl-handled derringer, which she kept for safety, and stuck it to the roof of her mouth.

This is how the newspaper reported it, more or less, as if they had somehow read her thoughts. As with all such stories, this one would be followed by endless gossip. How she managed to fire off two shots would remain a matter of local speculation for some time to come. Until someone finally asks – in print – "Does it really matter?"

After reading and re-reading the story out loud at least four times – the number it took to fully register – Mimmaw decided she'd better put on a pot of stew for poor old Mr. Grace and his grief-stricken callers. After all, his wife had been taken from him too, in the middle of the night – strapped and drugged. It was she who first responded to the hideous peal. I could tell that this had struck a deep and private chord in Mimmaw's soul. She was somehow and forever changed by the dark event – a never-sleeping kind of knowledge that sets the mind to ponder and the heart to doubt. She went mechanically about her work – cutting, slicing, stirring, – completely unaware of other voices in the room. She knew the solemn rage that drove Miss Grace to her demise. She had seen into her soul. Like god signs, these thoughts filled her mind and heart. She knew that she alone had been made wise by the event, a truth confirmed in an instant. Like a clarion, her sister's voice broke her trance.

"This is one more good reason why I wouldn't spit on that man if his guts was on fire! To think I could have married that sorry soul! I don't know whether to feel grief or gratitude toward Ida Fay. Either way, she's gone, the pitiful thing. Lord knows she saved me a lot of heartache." With that, Sempie shook the folded newspaper and slapped it onto the table.

Mimmaw studied her baby sister, taking note that she was lighting a cigarette instead of a candle. She pondered the woman's manner, searching for some hidden vein of sincerity. But having received her sister's meaning before the message, she could only think to herself, wisely: "A petty eulogy indeed."

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