Patsy & Le’Vander
The dulcet tones of Celine Dion singing
Si’l Suffiait D’aimer snapped on at
6:30. Patsy moaned, rolled over in her chintz
ruffled queen-sized bed and hit the snooze button. She sat up as the Public Radio station
transitioned from Carmen to Luciano Pavarotti singing Ave Maria. Patsy stretched,
stood and smiled.
“Good morning, Brad!” She blew a
kiss to the autographed photo wedged between her mirror and frame. “You are one good-looking man.”
She joined Mady Mespe in Ariadne aui Nexos, enjoying the coloratura
range of her own voice. She showered to Madame Butterfly and dressed to Lena
Horn. Chantilly was generously sprayed
between her breasts. Vitamin E cream was
slathered on face, neck and chest. Then
cucumber lotion smoothed down arms and legs.
She began with her Delta Burke merry-widow, then slipped on a Palm Beach
canary yellow capri and a spandex and cotton Caribbean Joe shirt that was one
size too small – but it had been on sale.
She tugged the v-neck up to just cover the top edge of her bra.
Combing through her mass of curls
moistened with gel, she sang along with Wagner’s Pilgrim’s Progress, throwing her arms wide at “Hallelujah! Hallelujah!!!” She picked up and discarded three kinds of
foundation, finally chose a bisque for multi-tones and successfully blended the
liquid into her skin. While it dried,
she sang along with the theme to Cats and repainted her nails and toes.
While her nails dried, she danced
downstairs to Vivaldi’s Four Seasons
and fixed a large mug of coffee. It was
already perked and waiting for her, thanks to Le’Vander. Le’Vander was her handy-man, and since he was
going to be there at the crack of dawn anyway, he always fixed coffee.
As Patsy took a break from singing –
one just could not compete with the Three Tenors – she savored the brew. Le’Vander
did have a way with coffee.
“G’morning.” Le’Vander’s voice came from the laundry room.
If
it had been any other man, Patsy would have run squealing back upstairs because
her make-up wasn’t finished. But it was
just Le’Vander, and he didn’t count.
“Hey,” she replied.
“And
how is Miss Cline this morning?” He
loved to tease her that her mother had named her after the famous Patsy
Cline. That’s why I’m crazy for loving you, he used to croon to her in
third grade. She eventually learned to
ignore him when he called her Miss Cline.
Now, two decades later, she expected to be greeted each morning by this
nickname. She let Le’Vander get it out
of his system, and then the day would commence just fine.
“You
make the best coffee,” she smiled.
“Since
you’re finished with your shower, I thought I’d bleed your hot water heater.”
“How
do you know I’m finished with my shower?” She glowered.
“It’s 7:15,” he answered, as if the
connection between the time and her having showered was the most obvious fact
in the world.
“I’ve
got customers coming in the morning.”
“It’ll be drained and reheating by
9:00. And since it’s Ginny Sutton, you
won’t need hot water.”
Patsy
snorted. “She wouldn’t pay for a wash if
I gave her the cut for free. Hey, how’d
you know she’s coming? Are you two
dating?”
“No,”
Le’Vander growled.
“Well,
don’t turn your nose up at her just because she’s a bit older than you. You could do worse.”
“I’m
not dating her. Your appointment book is
open by the coffee pot.”
Le’Vander
came out of the laundry room, out the back door – which was the customer door
for Patsy’s home-business Peggy’s Parlor. Peggy was Patsy’s mother. Had
been her mother. Le’Vander returned,
dragging in one end of a garden hose.
“Hey!
Don’t be tracking dirt in here.”
“I took my shoes off.”
Patsy
rolled her eyes at Le’Vander’s gray-white athletic socks with a hole in one toe
and frayed at the heel on the other foot.
“Le’Vander, you are letting yourself go.
When was the last time you bought new socks?”
He
stopped and stared down. “What’s wrong
with my socks? My mother bought these
socks.”
Pearl McAfee was a saint. At least, that’s how Le’Vander saw her. Patsy rolled her eyes again and marched away.
The radio switched to more
contemporary classics at 7:30. Le’Vander
said it was because they didn’t want normal people to fall asleep driving to
work. He said it quite often. Almost every day as a matter of fact, 7:30
would roll around and Patsy would pop English muffins into her toaster and they
would sit at the table in her kitchenette and Le’Vander would say, Thank goodness. Normal music so normal people won’t nod off
driving to work.
But he didn’t say that this morning. Liza Minnelli sang You Are the Wind Beneath My Wings, and Le’Vander blinked away
tears. It was his mother’s favorite song.
It had been her favorite
song. Patsy sang it at her funeral over
two years ago, but it still brought tears to Le’Vander’s eyes.
Patsy
spread butter on Le’Vander’s muffins.
“Your mother was a saint.”
“Yes. Yes, she was.”
“Why don’t you pray for us this
morning?”
He
took her hand – the only time he got to touch her – and prayed for blessings
and strength and wisdom for the day.
She’d never tell him; she always
liked his prayers.
She
slipped back upstairs and finished her make-up: amethyst eye-liner, lavender
shadow, brow gel, self-adjusting blush, lip liner, plum lipstick and curling
mascara. Another dose of Chantilly and Patsy
was ready to face the world.
True
to his word, the garden hose was removed and the hot water heater was refilling
when Ginny Sutton arrived, five minutes early.
After
Ginny’s appointment was the Baptist preacher’s wife’s weekly wash and set. Patsy had almost lost her as a customer when
she turned down first Baptist’s offer for a place in their choir. But Atticus offered her the position of Music
Minister. Well, choir director, and
Patsy was happier than she’d ever been in her life.
Excerpt from
To
Build an Army
© Evelyn Rainey
Available for publication.
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