I felt him stiffen. My grandpa wasn’t good at meeting people. Or people in general. The fact he was at Autumn Springs at all was unbelievable. But I had him now, so I dragged him along by his own big, calloused hand, guiding him past the tables.
“Smells good, doesn’t it?” I said, trying to keep the communication lines open. He grunted and snorted like a pig being yanked from the mud. Mrs. Magnolia made her move.
She stood and clasped her hands together as we got near, and I got the feeling she did everything in a fancy formal way. I felt the faces on us, heard the forks clinking the plates in the dining hall. We’d become the lunchtime entertainment.
Mrs. Magnolia advanced on us with the precision of a well-rehearsed chorus line. “Oh, company. Wonderful, just wonderful,” she said, flitting about. Flitting’s really the only way I can explain her movements. She reminded me of a musical Mom had dragged me to see, the way her gown and scarf and bursting red hair and slight British accent. Maybe Scottish. What did I know?
She gestured to the plain, cafeteria chairs like we were in a ball room, her arms flailing arms and her eyes fluttering with electric blue mascara. Her cheeks held the gleam of a shiny red jazz apple. She came around the table to my already agitated grandpa. “Well, now you must introduce us,” she said, in her magical way of speaking. Papa’s gaze fell to her hand, resting on his elbow.
“Um, Mrs. Magnolia, this is my grandpa, Mr. Clem Wallace.”
“Oh please.” She waved her other hand at me. “Do call me Edith. Both of you. It’s a pleasure, Clem, a real pleasure.”
Papa grunted his pleasantries. Mrs. Magnolia beamed as we stood there. I guided Papa to the table before he could say anything inappropriate.
A server hustled over as we took our places. “The special today is fried chicken or Virginia baked ham. Our side dishes are…”
It was like Mrs. Magnolia didn’t know the server was there. She set her face in her hand, studying my grandpa like he was a newly discovered species. “You know, I saw you when I arrived here at Autumn Springs and I couldn’t wait for a chance to run into you. As it turns out, I ran into your grandson!” She lifted her head and clasped her two well-manicured hands.
The way she said Autumn Springs, you would have thought we were sitting in Camelot. Papa lifted his gaze from the table, wincing at the sudden brightness of the human filmstrip before us. I was sweating for sure, still sour from the strange conversation outside and shaken up from the hallway incident. Now this.
To my surprise, Papa’s mouth broke into a well creased grin. Mrs. Magnolia wasted no time; she tossed the scarf over her shoulder and shook her bangs from her face. She leaned forward, invading Papa’s very private space. “I have to say,” she whispered, her eyes scanning over the room. “Running into your grandson is the most excitement I’ve had since arriving.”
The server shook his head and grinned. “What about me, Edith?”
She waved him off, continuing her undeniably strange manner of speaking. “Oh, Bryan, must I confess my love for you at each mealtime?” Then she looked at me, her smile broadening and her eyes searching my own. I realized Papa still hadn’t uttered a word.
I cleared my throat. “Papa plays guitar. In fact, he used to be in a blues band. Right, Papa?”
My cheeks warmed before the words had left my mouth. I don’t know why I said it. Maybe it was the way Mrs. Magnolia made me feel kind of special. I guess I wanted her to know how special my papa was too. Though looking at him, crusty and scowling, it was a tough sell.
She turned to him. “Now, Clem. May I call you Clem? I’ve seen you walking the grounds with a guitar case, and I said to myself, ‘well now, just what we need.’ You see, I’m a singer and songwriter. Poet. I’ve done a few stage shows, but my heart lies with music.”
She continued on this way, as Bryan the Server shook his head and wandered to another table. Papa watched her go on, eyeing her like a lazy cat watching a bird in a tree. “…and I was thinking, with you being a musician, maybe we could put something together.”
She got him there. His eyes widened, just a sliver. Edith continued. “You see. I plan on doing poetry readings every Thursday night. I’ve already lined it up with the staff. And what better way to liven a performance than with some live music? Do you follow?”
Seeing how Papa had forgotten how to speak, I piped up. “He could do it, couldn’t you, Papa? He was on tour for years, been playing since he was a little boy, younger than me. Right, Papa? He’s been all over the place. He’s really, really good.”
Mrs. Magnolia’s face went chandelier bright. “Well, my, isn’t that just something,” she said with a gasp. “I just love the blues. Oh, I just love it.”
Then she did a funny thing. She reached out and set her hand on Papa’s hand. I held my breath. Again, Papa looked down to her red nails on his leathery, tattooed skin. His lips fell into what could be interpreted as a smile, just as Bryan the Server returned.
Papa almost looked like he was enjoying things. Almost. Then he raised his head. “I’ll have the fried chicken. Green beans and two rolls. Some butter, none of this fake stuff you got out here on the table.”
Mrs. Magnolia’s laughter scattered throughout the dining hall. The rest of the residence must have been deaf or used to her antics because they continued without notice, chewing like cows in the pasture.
I shot Papa a look, then turned to my fancy new friend. Poetry and Blues. The old grump and the spinster. This could be interesting.
Putting Mrs. Magnolia and Papa together at the table was like a clash in the cosmos, like a flowery vine curling its way around the thick, scaly bark of an old tree. But seeing them together helped me get over whatever had happened in the courtyard. With Edith Magnolia, nothing was ordinary, and with Papa, well, it was always interesting.
Things got moving when our food arrived. Papa got down to business, eating like no one was watching when everyone was watching. Food fell from his chin, and he kept going, his jaw working and his lips smacking. Watching him go to town reminded me of my manners. I even set the napkin on my lap.
Mrs. Magnolia went about delicately with her own lunch—French onion soup and lemon tea, hardly touching either. If she was put off by Papa’s lack of table manners, she kept it to herself. “So, Clem,” she said, dabbing her cheek. “I was hoping after you got situated, we could discuss our options.”
Seriously, that was how she spoke to him. Choking down his green beans, Papa wiped his mouth. At least he was eating, I thought. He usually he made a point to find something wrong with whatever was set in front of him. Overcooked. Undercooked. A messy eater for sure, I knew Papa to be a fine cook. I’d spent so many evenings in the kitchen with him, enjoying whatever he’d put on the grill: chicken, catfish, even steak. But this guy, chewing and making a mess, he looked like he’d been living on an island.
“Options?” he said, through a mouthful of food. I winced and turned away. Then Mrs. Magnolia did something I never would have imagined. She reached over with her napkin and wiped the corner of his mouth.
“There now, you’ve had a flake of bread there since your first bite. It was hard to concentrate.”