That day, Delia hadn't remembered tater tots, and they'd been her favorites. Gracie had ordered them for her anyway, and Delia hadn't remembered what the hell they were until they'd arrived on their tray. After that, she’d laughed at her forgetfulness and dunked every one of them in ketchup.
Gracie's eyes welled again as she lowered the window to order, but she knew in her heart what she was going to choose when she pressed the button.
"Welcome to Sonic. What can I get for you today?"
"I want a chili-cheese coney, an order of tater tots, and a large Coke," Gracie said.
"Will there be anything else?" the boy asked.
"No. That's all," Gracie said, rolled up the window, jacked up the air conditioner, then called the preacher.
He answered on the second ring. "Brother Harp speaking."
"This is Gracie Dunham. I've set the service for this coming Friday at 10:00 A.M., with the family dinner at the church after we come back from the cemetery. Will that work for you?"
"Yes. I'll notify the Ladies Aide so they can make plans to provide the food. Do you have any idea how much family will be coming?"
"Less than ten, counting me," Gracie said. "One other thing. If you would, please inform the congregation not to bring food to my house. There won't be any family here ahead of time. I don't have a working deep freeze, and it'll all go to waste in this heat."
"Yes, ma'am, I will certainly do that," he said. "Do you have a eulogy written? If not–"
"Mama wrote her own. I'll drop it by the church in a day or so. She also picked out the songs she wanted sung, so I'll bring the file with all her last wishes. You can plan the service around that."
"Well, I'll say," Brother Harp said. "Delia was—"
"Always in charge," Gracie said. "She took care of business."
"Yes, that she did," Brother Harp agreed.
Gracie disconnected, then sent a text to Daphne, giving her the date and time of the service and the funeral home where Mama was being laid out.
She didn't want to talk to her. She wished she never had to see their faces again, but that was running away from trouble and wasn't Gracie's style.
She had money waiting when the carhop brought out her food. As soon as she was alone again, she opened a packet of ketchup, squirted it all over the tater tots, and then picked one off the top.
"Here's to you, Mama," Gracie said, and popped it in her mouth.
She ate slowly, savoring the food, the comfort of eating where it was cool, and the luxury of not having to stuff it in her mouth on the run like she had at home. And when she had finished eating, she headed for the supermarket. She needed cleaning supplies and enough food to last for three days.
A couple of hours later, Gracie was home and putting up groceries when she heard a knock at the door. As she walked back toward the front of the house, she saw a delivery van from the florist parked in the drive and opened the door to a man she'd gone to school with.
"Delivery for you, Gracie."
"Hello, Kenny. I'm not accepting flowers here. If you don't mind, please take everything to Decker's Funeral home."
"Uh...well, I..."
Gracie shut the door and caught a glimpse of herself in the hall mirror on her way back to the kitchen, then paused and moved closer.
She still looked like her daddy—dark eyes, black hair, and high cheekbones. But where her daddy's jaw had been square and sharp, Gracie's had a soft curve leading down to a very stubborn chin. She saw defiance and anger in her eyes—two emotions she had a right to feel.
Then she leaned closer, then closer still until she could see the pores in her skin and the glisten of sweat on her forehead and stared straight into her own eyes—as if she was facing down her worst enemy and didn't like what she saw.
She closed her eyes, took a slow, deep breath, and when she opened her eyes again, there was nothing left to see but pain, and that would fade with the passing of time.
Glancing down, she saw the dust on the floor, and on the hall table, and absently traced her name in it, as she had done so many times before as a child, writing, I, Gracie, as if she was just getting ready to swear to some kind of vow.
And then she smiled, remembering her mother's sharp tone every time she'd done it.
"Well now, Gracie Jean... since you saw fit to call attention to this ever-present west Texas dust, then I suggest you get a dust rag and the furniture polish, and start wiping it off."
"Yes, ma'am," Gracie would answer, and run to get the lemon oil. It was still one of her favorite scents.
She looked down at the name she'd just scribbled and could only imagine what a stir her refusal to accept flowers at the house was going to cause. But stirring was a woman's prerogative, and her days of careful silence were over.
It occurred to her then that notifying the other florists in Sweetwater about her decision might be prudent, so she sat down and did that, then finished putting away groceries.
Her next task was cleaning and laundry, so she headed straight to her mama's bedroom and began stripping the bed and putting everything in to wash. Then she did something she'd been wanting to do for years and began pulling down the old rotting curtains in Mama's room. She stuffed them in a garbage bag, then began emptying trash cans all over the house.
When the laundry cycle ended, she threw the sheets in the dryer and put her own bedding in to wash. Next came the floors. She got out the broom, then followed up with a dust mop. When she was through, grabbed a dust rag and the lemon oil, began wiping down the tables and the chairs, then all the woodwork.
She'd prided herself on keeping the old house clean, even as it began to fall down around them, but the dust storm last week, and then these last four days of Delia's sudden deterioration, had made cleaning the last thing that mattered.
It was late evening by the time she'd remade her bed, but the floors were spotless, all the surfaces dust-free. The rooms smelled of Pine-Sol and lemon oil. The old house was as presentable as it could possibly be, but Gracie looked like hell.
She had the box fan on in the kitchen, and the one going in her bedroom. It didn't cool anything, but it did stir the hot air. She was tired and hungry, but too dirty to eat. So once again, she showered, then put on her PJs, and went to the kitchen. She made herself a ham and cheese sandwich, poured a glass of milk, and carried them outside to the back porch to watch the sunset as she ate.
In the old days, Daddy would have been out here with a cold beer at his elbow, playing his guitar and singing songs at Mama's request.
Sometimes, James would join him, adding his harmonica to the music Tommy Dunham skillfully coaxed from the old guitar. Daphne and Mamie would dance—sometimes a two-step, sometimes a waltz, and sometimes a line dance, interpreting it with steps of their own when they forgot what came next.
Then Daddy had been killed in a car wreck, less than a mile from their house, and after that, the music had died.
She finished her sandwich and milk, and then sat in sweet silence as the sky turned vivid shades of red and orange, two of Mama's favorite colors, before fading into dusk, then full-on dark.
She was tired and needed sleep, but she didn't want to go into that house alone, and so she sat, waiting for the first coyote of the night to let out a little yip. When it did, it was the signal for the chorus that followed.