Roll with It: Chapters 9–16

It’s another Friday night, and Mema and Grandpa have gone to church for a potluck.

He does a few things that inconvenience people and we ship him off?

Behind me I hear the pump, pump, whir of the sewing machine.

She’s holding her white sweatshirt with the glitter heart and a red feather boa.

Bert runs around the back and pops up behind the counter like a puppet. He unrolls a canvas sign and it falls down the front.

“Well, did you know that Saint Valentine was a priest who was martyred and buried on February fourteenth in a city near Rome?”

“My point is, you two, that miniature golf is a much more appropriate pastime for Valentine’s Day than a dance or date or dinner. Romance has no place on this holiday.”

While Keith is cleaning up the trash, I remind myself: Make eye contact, pause, enunciate, ask for questions. This is the first time I’m going to have to talk to the entire class and they will have to talk back.

“You got an infection, baby. It turned into pneumonia.”
Well, that explains it, the feeling like a horse was stamping on my chest. I’ve had pneumonia before, but it’s been a few years since I was in the hospital for it.

I look down at my legs, skinnier than ever, like scraggly tree branches, and pull harder.

“We came here to help out with your grandpa, because that’s what families do. But, Ellie”—she stops my hand from mixing, takes the bowl, and kneels down in front of me—“you have to understand something. You are my first priority. I have never been so scared in my life as I was when they called me from the ambulance. You weren’t conscious, honey. You were barely breathing. I can’t lose you, Ellie. I can’t.”

“But if you will take a look at the chart, you will see that the weather here averages eight percent less humidity than in Tennessee.”

“And because of the slightly later blooming season, our allergens tend to be a good deal tamer than in your typical Southeastern region.”

She’s a determined girl, and I’ve seen what she can achieve when she pushes herself. She’s more motivated than half my students in gym.

“Three more months,” Coralee pleads. “That’s all we want. Just let her finish out the semester before you decide.”

All the teachers talked to me like they talk to the soccer players when they come back from concussions.
“Ellie, you just take it easy now. You get tired, you tell me.”

We pull up, and I feel a little hesitant for a minute. I’ve never actually been inside his house.

“I know, it’s frivolous, really. Just a bit of fun.”

And so for the next two hours, we sit in the sun and I paint trees in greens and golds. The breeze is cool and we don’t talk. For a little while I forget about anything else but the tiny leaves. It’s like baking—a totally mesmerizing act of creation.

“Well,” I say, rubbing the crusties out of my eyes, “it’s not custard or caramel or almond or strawberry or chocolate or licorice.”

I don’t know if it was the prayer or what, but when we bow our heads for the benediction—the blessing at the end of the service—I get an idea.

All of us in Royal Oaks decide to caravan over to Bethlehem Methodist together. So at noon on the money, Mom and I pull into the church parking lot, followed by Mema and Grandpa in the Buick, and Susie, Dane, and Coralee in their old pickup.

“Put your name on this and stick it right to the bottom of your pie plate. This’s so it stays anonymous.”

Bert picks up a vintage camera, but the man in charge of monitoring the tables takes it away from him when he almost drops it.

“You cut in line at a church function. Whatever happened to ‘do unto thy neighbor’?”
She takes a long sip of sweet tea and says, “Honey, everybody knows that does not apply to a fish fry.”

“Your dad’s the one offering the prize.”
“Yeah, but he doesn’t have anything to do with the contest. They won’t even let him near the pies. They say his presence could influence the results.”

At first my grandma said French cooking was too snooty, but when she found out it had shortening in it, she said, “Anything that uses Crisco is okay by me.”

And he looks okay. A little pale maybe, and his voice is hoarse.

Then when I got in there and saw all the trinkets at the silent auction, I remembered I’d left my own at home, the woodworking I’d been doing.

And once Mom gets settled into her permanent teaching job at the high school, she promises a full renovation with a handicapped shower.