Fifteen minutes after I met her, the President’s wife deliberately ran over a dog.
Mamie Creek spied the poor animal — already dead, its head twisted at an odd angle, its fur blackened and matted — and put the pedal to the metal. She interrupted her impromptu tour of Tarantelle’s main streets, pressed her thin lips together, and took careful aim.
The Lincoln Towncar’s excellent suspension almost kept us from feeling the impact at all.
“That takes care of that,” Mamie said, returning to her side of the narrow road.
I noticed my own open mouth. I closed it.
Mamie laughed, her artificial teeth glittering in the afternoon sun. “Helps clear the road.” She reached out with an arthritic hand and patted my leg. “Wears ’em down faster.”
“Of course.”
She resumed the tour. “Town’s simple: city hall in the middle, the square around it. Roads leading off the square bear the names of the great Presidents: Washington, Adams, Lincoln, and Bush.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Senior or Junior?”
She shrugged. “Either. Or neither. Used to be Bush Street because it went past Celie Arden’s azaleas. South of the square’s the Bible College campus — we started there. Me ane President live in the little brown stone house — the one with the nice porch — out by the rose garden. I want you to feel free to come by anytime.”
“Thank you.”
“I mean that,” Mamie said, pointing at me for emphasis. “Anytime. And by anytime, I mean not before seven a.m. and not after eight pm. Understood?”
“Yes m’am.”
“North of campus is the Hill. That’s where the highway comes in — and the new bridge. Putting in the new one, ’cause if the old one ever goes out, we’re cut off.” She patted her silver hair. “There’s nice houses up there. The bed and breakfast — Lilly House, they call it. And Turret House. You seen it?”
I shook my head.
“It’s the one with the turret.”
“Ah.”
“But don’t go up there. It’s owned by that Kenny Derveson, the florist on the square.” She raised her hand, then tilted it from side to side. “He’s a little effeminate, if you know what I mean.”
Inwardly, I bristled, but said nothing.
“Your house is on the east side — good choice. Older homes, closer to the church and the Reverend’s house, with the lake nearby. Nobody swims in the lake — anyone tell you that?”
“I saw kids swimming in it yesterday.”
“Drowning in it, more like,” Mamie said. “Claims three kids a season and God knows how many transients. Mucky bottom and dropoffs. Look, but don’t touch. Understood?”
I laughed. “I won’t swim in the lake.”
“You’ll wind up in it, eventually,” Mamie said, frowning. “Church baptizes in it. They got a baptistry, of course, but people like the old ways around here. Just keep on your waders, keep to the shallows, and you’ll be fine.
I nod.
Mamie swerved right, forcing the car to lean to one side. “This is West Side. Mostly blacks, this side of town. Missus Leesom’s house is over here — local crazy lady, yard decorated with coffee cans, all very quaint. There’s the black GulfCo station, the black grocery, the black laundry, the black church.”
“You’re not serious.”
She stiffened. “What works, works.”
I said nothing else, looking out the window to hide my surprise.
Mamie gripped the steering wheel tightly enough to make her knuckles go white. “Don’t be so self-righteous. This isn’t Atlanta. You’ll want to come down off that high horse and try to fit in.”
“I really didn’t–“
“Which brings me to my questions,” Mamie said. “Herbert won’t ask them — he can’t — but I can, and I will. Why in the world is someone like you coming to Tarantelle in the first place?”
I blinked. “To work?”
“You had a job in Atlanta,” Mamie pointed out. “Let me be blunt: what you running from?”
Her question made me angry. Realizing that made me even angrier. “I’m not running from any–“
“Timothy James Walker, don’t you start our relationship with a lie,” Mamie said. “I’ve reviewed your file. You got the kind of background that takes people to state colleges and corporate jobs. Most of the people working the Bible College? They’re good hearted. They’re talented, in their way. But mostly? They’re there because there’s nowhere else for them to go — at least not anywhere else that’ll let ’em stay year after year after year without publishing or earning more degrees.”
She pressed her lips together, hard, and flared her nostrils. “So I’ll ask you just one more time: why the Bible College? Why Tarantelle? Why you, why here, why now?”
“My mother used to do that.”
“Do what?”
“Call me by all three names. It meant it was in serious trouble.”
Mamie relaxed, but her face remained red. “That’s part of being the President’s wife,” she said. “I’m everybody’s mother, and the Bible College is my baby. You hurt the baby, I take it personal. You understand that, and we’ll get along.”
I delivered my story exactly as I’d practiced it. “I grew up in the city. I went to school in the city. I’ve lived in the city all my life. Living in Tarantelle’s a chance to do something I’ve always wanted to do — live in a small town.”
This seemed to satisfy her; she nodded and slumped back in her seat. We rode in silence back over to the east side of town; the trip from one border to the other took all of ten minutes. When we pulled into the driveway of my rental house, the sun was low in the sky, all but obscured by the dusty pines.
I unbuckled my seatbelt. “I appreciate the tour.”
Mamie Creek manufactured a smile, her eyes all but disappearing in folds of wrinkled skin. “Learn a lot on tours.”
I offered her my hand. “Thanks again.”
She glanced at my hand, then looked up at me. “When I meet people, I either like them, or I don’t. I’m a quick judge of character. Your case? I don’t.”
The comment took me by surprise. I sat there with my hand in the air, unmoving, as immobile as a kid playing Swingin’ Statues.
“You’re young — too young. Young people are reckless; they got no respect for how things have always been done. They’re all about change. The Bible Collge isn’t ready for that.”
I finally moved, retracting my hand. “I’ve got tremendous respect for the College. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be here.”
“There’s something else, though,” Mamie said, measuring me with a look. “Can’t put a finger on it yet, what ever it is.” She put the car in reverse. “But — rest assured — I will.”
I opened the passenger door. “Have a good night, Ms. Creek.”
She dismissed me with a curt bob of her head.
I climbed out into the aggressive heat of the early evening, then stood in the gravel driveway and watched her retreat. Once alone, I stood in the gloom, watching the shadows deepen around me. A hot breeze rustled the kudzu vines; a humming bird buzzed around my head, darting in frantic circles before streaking off into the orange sky.
Inside the house, the phone rang. I checked my watch, cursed under my breath, and, rather than scramble for the porch, pulled out my flipphone. I punched several numbers before I noticed the NO SERVICE indicator.
Cursing again — aloud, this time — I sprinted for the door.
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