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Savanah's Swan Song (Part 5B)
🕑 Added 2024-08-09 14:58:48 +0000 UTCNota bene: Sorry for the delay. Now that we're back, expect parts 6 and 7 to follow very soon! (No Magma visuals this time, but plenty are to come!) If you need a quick refresher, here's a link to Part 5A.
“You told Skeeter I was commin’?” Savanah shook her head. She wasn’t sure what concerned her more—her mother’s ballooning weight or the fact that her gabby little sister already knew about her supposedly top-secret visit…
Or that she’d been home for five minutes and was already clipping the G’s off the ends of words.
“Would’ve been hard not to, considerin’ she lives here.”
“Sally still lives here?” Unlike Savanah, her diminutive sister had always been a homebody, but she never thought she’d still be homebound at age 25. Or was it 26?
Savanah’s mother nodded. “Helps me with my rheumatoid arthritis.” Then she held up her gnarled index fingers and placed them side by side. They ran parallel until their tips, which diverged like a forking river. “At least I was able to find water during last year’s drought!”
Savanah smiled. Her mother’s mishappen fingers did look a bit like divining rods, though that didn’t seem like a laughing matter. Of course, momma always could find the humor in any situation.
“Oh, don’t worry ‘bout me,” Momma said, waving away Savanah’s sad smile. Batwings flapping, the heavyset woman opened a cabinet, removed a stack of porcelain plasticware Savanah had eaten off as a child, and handed it to her famous daughter. “Let’s set the table.”
The popstar dutifully arranged the plates around a creaky vinyl-covered card table that had served as their dining table for decades. (As far as Savanah knew, the only “game” the table had seen was the occasional pheasant shot by her father.) Next, she added paper towel napkins, aluminum 'silverware,' and a mismatched selection of cups and glasses.
After circling the table for the fourth time, the sinewy singer felt lightheaded--a feeling exacerbated by the smell of dust and diesel as a truck roared up the drive. Seconds later, “Skeeter,” aka, Savanah’s little sister Sally, kicked open the screen door while cradling a half-dozen sacks from “The Pit,” a local BBQ joint.
“Thanks for the help,” the cute blonde moaned, struggling to make it over the threshold before the screen door crashed back into her butt.
“Quitcherbitchin,’” Momma said as she lightened Skeeter’s load by one, a large sack labeled Burnt Ends in black Sharpie. “You know my knees are botherin’ me and your sister’s s’posed to be in-cog-neato.”
“Hey, Skeeter.” Savanah took two more bags off her little sister’s hands. They were heavy. What was the The Pit barbecuing? Bricks?
“Careful,” Skeeter said, sensing her older sister’s struggle. “Ma was hungry.”
“Oh, I was not,” Momma said, her nose already buried in the burnt ends’ bag. “Besides, we have company.”
“Right,” Skeeter said, rolling her eyes. After setting the bags on the table she greeted Savanah with a “Hey, sis.”
Savanah was caught off guard by her sister’s figure now that it wasn’t buried beneath BBQ bags. She’d gotten thick! Their mother had always been plump, so her rotundity, while worrisome, hadn’t shocked the singer, but she never expected her tomboy sister to look so voluptuous. As a girl she’d been a rail-thin bundle of energy, flitting around the house on spindly appendages like a mosquito, but now her childhood nickname didn’t fit her any better than her blouse, which bunched and puckered above her womanly curves.
Sharing a quick embrace, Skeeter was similarly taken aback, but for the opposite reason. “Jesus, sis,” she said, risking injury as she ran her hand across her sister’s shoulder blade. “Don’t they let you eat anymore?”
At one time, Savanah would have been voted the sister most likely to follow in their mother’s heavy footsteps. The singer was never fat, but she’d had a healthy appetite, and, unlike her little sis, who would only take a few bites of whatever food had been served before racing off to skip rocks or collect fireflies, would always clean her plate in deference to the “children starving in Africa” her mother would bring up whenever she struggled to finish. As a result, she developed physically at a young age and, had it not been for her music, probably would’ve ended up a barefoot and pregnant porker on Trenton Doogle’s farm.
Back then, Savanah enjoyed cooking almost as much as she did eating. Some of her favorite memories involved experimenting with her mother to revive illegible recipes scribbled on index cards by long-dead relatives. Although the results of their culinary necromancy were spotty at best, they were a fun bonding experience. Eventually, Savanah’s mother encouraged her eldest daughter to sing in the church choir and even found a way to pay for a few guitar lessons, but Savanah suspected she secretly wished her famous progeny had taken up the mantle of dutiful wife and homemaker.
“Dear heavenly father,” Momma said, grasping Savanah’s right hand as Skeeter took hold of her left. “Thank you for the bountiful feast before us and thank you for returning my baby girl home safely—"
Skeeter shook her bowed head realizing she wasn’t the “baby girl” in her mother’s prayer.
“Look after her, lord. Please keep her safe and provide what she needs while she’s here. In Jesus’ name, amen.”
“Amen,” the sisters said in unison.
A flurry of bag-tearing and muted swearing followed, as the three women ripped into containers and past the grabby hands of tablemates. There was plenty of food for everyone, but that didn’t keep the sisters from fork-fighting over a particularly juicy-looking side of brisket.
“Let Savanah have it,” Momma said. “She’s our guest.”
Skeeter reluctantly gave up the roast, and Savanah forked it to her plate with a triumphant smile.
The singer wasn’t sure what had gotten into her. She wasn’t surprised to be hungry; she hadn’t eaten since before the long drive out and then only a scone provided by Dr. Wagner, but this was something else. This was ravenous gluttony. Was it the country air? Sibling rivalry?
Or perhaps the sweet taste of freedom?
Savanah dipped her napkin in her Porky Pig drinking glass, one of the last survivors from a Warner Brothers cartoon set she and her sister had collected as children, then dabbed some sauce from her cheek. “You receive my checks, right?”
“Of course,” Momma said. “Whadya think paid for this barbeque?”
Based on the size of her mother and the plate before her, Savanah was a bit worried to ask her follow-up: “What else do you spend them on?”
“Some goes to Skeeter’s college fund. We’re also settin’ aside a little for when Daisy finally gives up the ghost.”
Daisy was the nickname of the old family pickup, a 1980 Chevy C-10 Savanah’s father had monikered. Years after his death, Savanah learned the truck was named after his first girlfriend. From what she knew of her father, Savanah expected the girl had been sturdily built and ridden hard.
“‘Bout to hit 300,000 miles,” Skeeter said proudly.
Even considering their healthy barbeque budget, Savanah had sent enough money to buy a dozen new trucks. “I think it’s time you put that thing out to pasture.”
“And why would I do that?” Momma snapped. “It still works good. Just ‘cause something is old doesn’t mean it should be tossed aside. Dependability counts for somethin’. Right, Skeeter?”
“Right, momma.”
The masticating matron took a deep breath and returned her attention to the dwindling pile of burnt ends on her plate. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to get so riled up.”
Savanah swallowed hard. “That’s ok, momma.”
“So, what brings you here? You said you had to lay low but you didn’t say why.”
Savanah recalled her femme-bot’s flawless concert debut and how she’d soon be performing for her boyfriend who was, at this very moment, flying to Germany to join her. Her? It? Should she be jealous? Could she eventually lose her boyfriend as well as her career? She didn’t even want to think about it, much less discuss it.
“Later,” the pop star said, plopping another hunk of brisket on her plate. “Right now, I just want to eat.”
