A Quarter Past Nine
I caught her at a quarter past nine.
Aunt Verlene, at the back of her truck. A big silver Chevy Tahoe, parked at the far edge of the gravel lot behind the Pawnee Creek Community Building, where the string lights didn’t quite reach.
She had a full pan of brisket balanced on both hands. Holding it out in front of her, careful, close to her chest.
Like she was carrying a sleeping baby out to the dark.
I’d only come outside to breathe.
That’s all. I’d been dancing for an hour and a half in a wedding dress with a bodice that laced up the back, and my feet were screaming, and I’d kicked off my satin shoes under the head table and slipped out the side door in my stocking feet just to stand in the June night air for one minute by myself.
Then I saw the hatch of the Tahoe standing open. The dome light on inside.
And Aunt Verlene, walking across the gravel with a pan of brisket.
The hatch was already half loaded.
Foil pans stacked in the shadows, one on top of the other. I could see the edges of them catching the dome light.
Two trays of green beans. The big ones, the full hotel pans.
The ham. Spiral cut, with the brown sugar glaze. I knew it was the ham because I could see the bone sticking up under the foil.
The pulled pork.
“Verlene,” I said.
She didn’t jump.
That’s the thing I keep coming back to, even now. A person doing right jumps when you catch them. They startle. They laugh and say, oh, honey, you scared me.
Verlene didn’t jump.
She just turned around slow. Still holding the brisket.
“I’m getting this out of the heat, honey,” she said. “Before it spoils.”
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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