RSS 2.0 FeedLate Corn
Miss Lily McCabe rises at six each morning and brews herself a cup of tea. She takes it to her recliner in the living room and sips it as she watches the sun come up. After draining her cup, she heads back to the kitchen and pours one cup of water into a pan. She places it on a burner and drops two slices of whole wheat bread into the toaster. By the time the bread pops up, the water is boiling, so she adds one-half cup of oatmeal and boils it one minute.
When she first retired, Miss Lily listened to her favorite country music station as she ate her oatmeal, singing along with George Jones, Loretta Lynn and other old-timers. But now they are playing more and more new country music, and she abhors it. She also abhors the country music television shows of today; young, beefed-up men singing about their trucks, emaciated women strutting around the stage in their tight leather pants, silicone breasts straining against clinging, low-necked satin blouses.
Nowadays she breakfasts in silence, wondering where the time has gone, imagining what her life would be like had she married, had a family. She would have grandchildren now, like her friends Mary and Hazel, joining them in talking about the latest family gathering, what this one or that one is doing. She might have a granddaughter named after her, and imagines the two Lilys having tea together, discussing one student or another, lesson plans. Young Lily would be a school teacher, of course.
After breakfast she watches the Today Show, although she does not like Ann Curry. Why, she does not know. Ann Curry is always nice and kind to people she interviews. But there is just something about her that rubs Miss Lily the wrong way. She likes Matt Lauer, though; he is very handsome. Even if he is losing his hair.
One morning she finds nothing exciting when she turns on the television; no plane crashes, no people killed or held hostage; not even a politician apologizing for stealing money or cheating on his wife.
She stands and places her hands on her hips, gazing around the living room. What is life all about, anyway? Why is she here, and what has she learned? She taught hundreds of kids during her forty years as a teacher, but she hasn't learned much of anything herself. She is snapped to attention by the ringing of her phone.
"Hello?"
"Lily?"
"Yes."
"Bet you don't know who this is."
"No, I don't. How would I know?"
The man chuckles. "This is Robert Grubbs."
"Robert Grubbs? I don't know a Robert Grubbs."
"Remember Bardwell High School, class of '51?"
"Of course I do. That's the year I graduated."
The man chuckles again. "Well, remember Fuzzy?"
Miss Lily frowns, searching her memory, when somewhere in the far recesses of her mind a big, round face appears, black curly hair. The boys called him Fuzzy because he had hair on his chest. Lots of it. Miss Lily had never seen as much hair on a boy's chest. It peeped above the collar of his shirt, front and back, and everyone made fun of him. The poor boy never had a girlfriend. During freshman year, a group of boys ran Fuzzy for class president as a joke, and Albert Lee Ramage hopped upon a chair and made a speech on his behalf. "Vote for Fuzzy!" he yelled. "He's the only boy in our class with hair on his chest!"
She jumps as Fuzzy clears his throat.
"I lived in Lexington for years, and after I retired I decided to come back to the old home place here. I've been farming the land again. Which brings me to the reason I called. I was wondering, Lily, if you might need some corn."
"I thought all the corn was gone now. Besides, I don't eat much corn."
"I have late corn, Lily. It'll just go to waste. I'd be glad to bring some over."
"I don't want any corn, late or otherwise, Mr. Grubbs. Now if you'll excuse me, I have things to do." She hangs up the phone and drops onto her chair. He isn't fooling her. She knows what he's after. Who does he think he is?
For the next few days, Fuzzy's face keeps popping into her mind. He certainly had his nerve. She is a charter member of New Hope Baptist Church, a former school teacher, now a Sunday school teacher. Her ancestors were some of the first settlers in Carlisle County. The McCabe name has always meant something in these parts. That Grubbs bunch was nothing but poor white trash.
That night Miss Lily tosses and turns before she falls into a restless sleep: she and her girlfriends are walking down the street, talking and laughing, when Fuzzy Grubbs jumps out from behind a bush. Miss Lily starts to run, Fuzzy chases her. She runs faster and faster, but Fuzzy keeps up. “Gotcha!” he yells. She wakes up slick with sweat, heart thumping. "White trash," she mutters, pulling herself up and fanning her face with the covers, "That's what he is, poor white trash!"
Days pass, then weeks. Each time the phone rings Miss Lily checks her caller ID before answering. She hates to be ugly, but she has nothing to say to Fuzzy Grubbs! But Fuzzy does not call.
Each time Miss Lily goes into town, she gazes up and down Front Street, looking for a man in his seventies who might be Fuzzy. At Sunday school and church, she looks for him. She has friends who go to the other two churches in town, and they have not mentioned Fuzzy. If he attended services, Hazel and Mary would tell her. It's a big occasion when someone new shows up at any of the churches. Which could mean only one thing. "He is a heathen," Miss Lilly murmurs, "A low-down heathen."
After mulling it over and over in her mind for several days, Miss Lily gets directions to Fuzzy's farm and drives by to check it out. She is surprised to see a nice, well-kept farmhouse. Blooming flowers and bushes surround the house and grounds, and a big Golden Retriever sits at the front door. When the dog gets up and heads toward the car, Miss Lily floors the accelerator and speeds away, watching through the rear view mirror as he fades in the rolling dust.
That night Miss Lily has another dream: she is in a big field, unable to find her way out. Suddenly she hears a roaring noise, and corn is flying every which way, knocking her to the ground, covering her whole body. “Help!” she screams, her mouth full of corn, “Help!” When she pulls herself awake, she is clawing at the covers.
She spends the next day staring at the phone and pacing up and down the living room. By late afternoon her face is flushed, blouse wet with perspiration. She takes a cool shower and dons her robe, and then she sits staring at the phone the rest of the afternoon. "White trash!" she mutters, "And a heathen to boot!"
The next morning, Miss Lily gets up early and brews herself a pot of strong coffee. She drinks it black. Afterward, she makes a western omelet, complete with ham, green peppers, onions, cheese, and anything else she can find in the fridge. "To hell with cholesterol!" she says, digging into her omelet, "To hell with it all!" After she takes her last sip of coffee, she rises and paces up and down the living room, a memory flashing through her mind: she is a child, running in circles, turning flips on the lawn. "Calm down, girl," her father laughs, "You've got ants in your pants!"
She stops and looks out the window, wringing her hands, eyes darting here and there, and then she rushes to her bedroom and hurriedly dresses. Minutes later she is in her Buick and skidding out of the driveway. She turns on the radio as she whizzes down the country road, moving the dial to the classic country station, singing along with Randy Travis, "I'm diggin' up bones; I'm diggin' up bones, exhuming things that’re better left alone..."
As she nears Fuzzy's house, she stops singing. By the time she pulls into the driveway and cuts off the motor, she is shaking like a leaf and weak as a feather. The Golden Retriever appears and begins barking, circling the car, but she gets out and heads toward the house. The front door opens, and a man appears. He is shirtless; no hair on his chest; no hair on his head.
He starts to say something, but she rushes forward. "There you are, you heathen!" she yells, body quivering, heart thumping. She throws herself into his arms, his man-scent enveloping her. "Give me my late corn! Now!"
Brenda Wilson Wooley cannot remember a time when she was not observing people –facial expressions, mannerisms, body language. As soon as she learned to write, she was off and running, writing stories about everyone from the local hellfire-and-damnation-spewing Baptist preacher to Elwanda Lampworth, who had "something to do" with every man in the county.
Brenda was born in Kentucky into a family of storytellers, among friends and neighbors whose beliefs were steeped in tradition and religion. Much of her writing is drawn from those characters, capturing the unique dialogue, eccentricities and contradictions of the people she knows best.
Retired now, she resides in Paducah and is working on a novel. Her work has appeared in more than thirty publications. To learn more about or to talk to Brenda, go to http://www.onekentuckywriter.blogspot.com or bwilsonwooley@yahoo.com