MIMI'S VISIT

"How long will she be here?" my dad asks, holding his fork midair, as though he can not take the bite until he hears the answer. I wait for the pea to fall from the tine of his fork.

"Just a day or two, I'm sure," my mom replies. Her eyes wide in sympathy, aware of my dad's displeasure with her sister's visit but not able to share in it. In fact, she has hummed throughout the afternoon, baking homemade bread, Mimi's favorite thing in the whole world.

My older brother, Wil and my sister ask to leave the table. I remove the bottom crust of the cornbread, the best part, and place the soft part on top the peas.

"Excuse me," I say quietly, hoping they will not react to my leaving.

"Eat your peas," my dad says, placing a hand over mine as I push back from the table. I am caught. I mix what I think is the least acceptable amount of peas, five to be exact, into my mashed potatoes, spoon them into my mouth and wash them down with milk.

"You are excused," my mom says, not looking at me or my dad, just staring into her plate.

I pause at the kitchen door, "Can Mimi sleep in my bed?" I guess she will have to. My parents won't give up their room, my brother's share a room and Patty and I share the other bedroom. There was a time when Patty and I vied for Mimi's. presence. But that was before Patty was a 7th grader and, as my mom says, a blossoming young lady.

Mimi is my mom's older sister. She is a tall woman with olive skin and baby blue eyes. I think she is beautiful, so much like my mom but taller, stouter, more "out there." She is an artist, she can draw my portrait in 15 minutes and knows at least 20 verses of Barbara Allan. And, she has always been some place else before she comes to our house. Maybe we are a stopover. She never drives, never stays long, and never has luggage. A single bag holds cigarettes, the tiniest cigarette lighter I've every seen, a tube of lipstick, a small thin wallet and a change of clothes.

I am trying to put some order into the bedroom that I share with Patty. We have twin beds, a gas heater and an unfinished wall where Patty has drawn a picture of little girls in long frilly dresses. The girls are holding hands and dancing around a decorated Christmas tree, even though it's summer time. The crayoned figures really brighten up the room. Patty is so so proud of it.

We are stair steps, Patty is eleven, I am nine and Wil is ten, smack in the middle. Our little brother, Jon-Jon is five. He is a Downs Syndrome baby. In fact, he is everyones baby. His life, though, is touch and go with any and every illness.

Once, when Jon-Jon was four Mimi came to visit us. Our dad, a Naval pilot during the Second World War was not home, probably out teaching someone to fly. The rest of us were sitting in the living room just after supper and talking with Mimi about her whereabouts before she came to our house. Jon-Jon was holding a notebook with wires that held the pages together in the book. Somehow, the wire found its way into Jon-Jon's left eye. It began to bleed heavily. We all panicked, I ran out the front door. I can't say what my mom, my brother and sister did but I know what they did not do: go to the aid of Jon-Jon. But Mimi did! So cool, so calm, she removed the wire and wiped the blood from his cheek. She was our hero! We were so so thankful to her.

We three are little parents to Jon-Jon. We take him everywhere. I am small and very skinny, Jon-Jon probably weighs as much as me. I swing him up and he locks his legs around my waist. I take him to the grocery store, to grandma's in Happy Hollow and to Dreamland, the local swimming pool.

It is almost dusk. Fireflies light the evening and crickets sing in the tall grass along the creek bank. Drifting clouds play hide and seek with the new moon. I wait on the front porch, an eye toward the dirt road that follows the creek right through our hollow. The creek and the road stop at a sheer cliff at the head of the hollow. Water is always falling from the cliff. In winter it freezes, and we dare each other to stand beneath the ice-sickles.

My mom calls to me, "Sissy it's bedtime." And Mimi is still not here. I am so disappointed.

My mom says, "When you wake, Mimi will be here."

The smell of hot cinnamon draws me to the kitchen. My mom sits at the table, one foot resting on a chair. My dad has gone to work, she doesn't sit that way when he is home. An apple pie cools on the stove top. Mom has fashioned the left-over pastry into cinnamon squares with little designs forked on top, maybe for Mimi's arrival. The cinnamon squares sit on the stove untouched. The kitchen table is her late night and early morning harbor. She often reads there in the quiet evening hours, eating cornbread crumbled into milk. This morning she waits, a book unopened before her.

Patty breezes into the kitchen, buttoning her shorts, and examining the cinnamon squares, still too hot to eat. She yells for Wil to get up. We are gathering eggs from our neighbor's chicken house this morning. Actually, it is Wil and Patty who gather the eggs. Chickens frighten me. Their heads with their sharp little beaks pecking even when there is nothing to peck but air. I do not want to find myself in their air space. I like them from a distance though. They are cloud white and fluffy. And, the smell is not altogether bad. It is an interesting mixture of straw, chicken droppings, and the honeysuckle which borders the wire of the pen. The chickens strut up and down a weathered four foot plank which connects the opening to the ground. Patty and Wil crawl up the plank to get the eggs.

I lace my fingers through the mesh, wondering if an egg could fit through the hexagonal openings formed in the wire. Hands wrap around my eyes, I feel Mimi's gold ring and yelp for joy. She is unchanged. She runs her hands through her wiry dark hair. It is her habit to fluff up her short-cropped curls using the finger tips of both hands.

She hugs me. My mom comes out to the chicken yard. "Where on earth have you been?" My mom ask, and embraces her older sister. Mimi smiles and winks at me, causing Patty to roll her eyes. Patty definitely has moved out of Mimi's fan club.

"Here and there," Mimi says, catching my eye and indicating with her head a place just beyond the group in the chicken yard.

"I want to show you something, " she whispers. Mimi positions herself between me and the rest of the family. Patty stares pointedly up at the sky, probably because of the outright favoritism Mimi is showing to me or maybe for the lack of good manners. Mom, always sensitive to any slight, pulls Patty into the group discussing the missing chicken and the tell-tale hole tunneled beneath the fence.

Mimi takes a gold locket from around her neck. It is attached to a delicate gold chain.

"Look at this," she says. She opens the locket into two perfect hearts. There is a miniature picture of Mimi in one half and a picture of James Dean in the other. She slips the small picture of James Dean out of the locket and shows me the scrawl on the back.

It reads, "To Mimi, love always, James."

"Would you like to know the story?" she asks, not waiting for an answer, "I'll tell you after breakfast."

"Hey Mims," Patty says, trying out her new nickname for Mimi. Patty has renamed all the neighborhood kids. In place of the customary hug, Patty stands back to back, with Mimi measuring their height.

"Yes!" She yells, shooting one arm upward. "I am taller than Mimi."

Mimi shrugs her shoulders in a "so what" attitude. "I'm making omelettes," Patty announces. She has just completed seventh grade home economics. Her specialty is omelettes. Always inventive, Patty makes omelettes with everything from asparagus to zucchini. I like best her mushroom and tomato omelettes. That is what she decides to make.

My mom has sewn a table cloth of red and yellow flowers printed on a white background. Patty places a ceramic bowl filled with tomatoes and yellow peppers in the center of the kitchen table. She must have learned that in Home Ec.

"Decorate with what is natural and near," she says, pleased with the sound of it. She washes little sprigs of sour grass to decorate the plates, fussing through the cabinets for matching plates. She settles for the Melmac, eyeing the table critically.

"Isn't she remarkable?" My mom asks Mimi. Skillfully, Patty serves the omelettes, sitting down in my dad's place at the head of the table, pleased and expectant. Wil and I praise the omelettes to the high-hilt, partly because of the to-do of the preparation, but also because they are delicious.

"You know," Mimi says, pausing to spoon sugar into her hot tea then stirring and tapping her spoon on the cup before she speaks.

"The best omelette I've ever had, and I've had my share, was in Santa Fe. Bones Diner, it was called. No tables, no chairs or booths, just a counter with about a half dozen stools. And, a half dozen items on the menu. Now, you talk about good! That was good," she said emphasizing the word "that."

"It was filled with chiles and refried beans and served with fried corn tortillas. It was seasoned with oregano, and,"

Patty interrupts her, "It was probably cilantro," Patty says, "Oregano," she says, placing emphasis on the r-e-g is not commonly used in Mexican or Western dishes.

A touch of color rises in Mimi's face. She purses her lips and pushes her plate, which still holds some omelette, several inches away.

"Well," announces Mimi, "I'll make dinner. Chicken, we'll have roasted chicken with all the trimmings."

Patty breathes out a sigh and leaves the table. We divvy up the housework.

Mom pulls Mimi from her chair and chants to her, "Lavender Blue, Dilly Dilly, Lavender green, you do your art sweet Mimi, and I 'll do the clean."

Holding Mimi's hand, she walks her to the front porch, handing her a sketch pad and charcoals.

"Draw the silver maple for me," she says. The silver maple is mom's, and my, favorite tree. The bark is black and nubby. The leaves are almost powdery on the underside. It stands tall just beside mom's bedroom window. Mimi does it justice. My mom hangs it on her bedroom wall.

Mimi finds me in the front yard. She puts her arm around my shoulder as we walk. She is ready to tell her story. And, it is a once in a lifetime story!

Traveling through Texas a year or so ago, she overhears a passenger talking about Marfa, Texas, the location for a movie staring Elizabeth Taylor. Marfa is on Highway 30, in the Big Bend region of Texas. Highway 30 is the very bus route that Mimi is on. That is all she needs to know.

Marfa, Texas is a few towns away. It is not a very large city but that is an advantage. She can browse the downtown area. She searches dark, smelly local pubs, hoping to find Elizabeth Taylor. She doesn't find Taylor, of course. That is not Taylor's scene.

She does, however find James Dean. He doesn't look like he did in the movie."Rebel Without A Cause," He is alone. He almost looks sad. He slumps into a booth near the back of the bar, studying his drink.

"Are you," that's all she manages to say before he nods his head in weary affirmation. He looks at her, likes what he sees, and motions with his head for her to sit. She slides into the booth, holding her breath and gazing at him.

"What's a pretty little thing like you doing in Marfa, Texas," he drawls.

"I'm on my way to El Paso," she says, "And you look sort of lonely."

She tells him all about herself growing up in Kentucky and West Virginia. They talk for hours. Sometime, in the course of the evening, he gives her the photo. It is tiny, cut from a group picture. He writes on the back and places it into her hand. I am so impressed, more than impressed! I am knocked out!

James Dean is my hero, everybody's hero. Or at least everyone under the age of 18. I can not wait to tell Patty.

Patty is lying in the sun and listening to the radio. I sit down on her blanket. Patty always takes a sunbath. She is pale with long auburn hair. She is pretty and very, very popular. She always has friends! I don't have many friends, just Patty, Wil and Jon-Jon. I sit there blocking her sun until she opens her eyes and tells me to skedaddle.

I don't move. I launch into the story of James Dean and the locket. Patty listens, seemingly interested at first, but then she squints her eyes at me.

"You really believe that crap, don't you?"

I am shocked! I cannot believe what she is saying! Why would she outright dismiss the story? I stare at her in confusion, only to catch a movement out of the corner of my eye. It is Mimi. She is sitting in the front porch swing. I think she hears us. She swings back and forth with one foot resting on the porch.

Mimi announces that she will walk out to where their old house stood. The house burned down several years ago but Mimi loves to wander the grounds, find traces of the vegetable garden and lean into the cool air of the well, her arms resting of the concrete brim. She glances at Patty, who often accompanied her, but Patty does not ask to go. She would rather sun-bathe.

It is, seemingly, just another summer day. Wil and his buddies play canasta on the front porch. Mom putters around in the kitchen and I take Jon-Jon over to grandma Donnelly's for a short visit.

Mimi, back from her walk, goes through the house to the back yard. Mom is writing a grocery list: a chicken, buttermilk and sage for the dressing. She gathers her dark auburn hair to the nape of her neck, twist and clasps it to the top of her head.

A high, thin screech pierces the air, followed by the compulsive clamor of a half-hundred wings. We all rush to the ruckus, the chicken yard.

Patty leaves her sunning in the front yard, my mom with her grocery list still in her hand and Wil with his buddies from the front porch.

Mimi stands outside the chicken yard, silhouetted against a sky as blue as her eyes and clouds as fluffy as the chickens.

"Mimi, what in heavens name are you doing?" My mom screams.

What she is doing is clear. She holds one of the Mrs. Lett's chickens by the neck, by its head, really, holds its head in a death-lock grip, swinging it in a wide arc through the air, a white whorl of beating, thrashing wings.

The penned-in chickens clamor about the chicken yard, a chorus of squawks and squalls, their wings flapping for flight. They flutter three or four feet in the air only to fall back to earth. Feathers are flying helter-skelter and hanging to the mesh wire of the pen.

Mimi does not respond, probably does not even hear. She is the be-header, the executioner, her eyes trained crazily on the chicken, her lips part to show her perfect white teeth, gritted in expectation of the sever.

"Mimi." My mom screams again, "Those are not our chickens!"

That is true. They are not our chickens. They belong to Mrs. Lett. I suppose my mom has seen a lot of chickens getting their necks wrung. My grandma must have done it often enough. Probably, my mom had done it as well. But, I can not imagine my mom wringing a chicken's neck. We are not permitted to harm anything living in any way.

"Go into the house,," my mom orders, in response, I think, to the horror she reads in our faces. We stand transfixed. If she could have, she probably would cover our eyes. We are held by the spiral. On an upward arc the body severs and falls to the earth, wings still beating. Headless, it hops and shivers before us. My mouth is formed to scream but nothing issues and it is Patty's cries that I remember. They are little soft no's, almost as though she is saying them only for herself, as though she is telling herself not to believe what she sees.

In a frenzied little flutter, it hops toward me, hesitates as though to rest, and does not move again. And for a moment, everything is still, no frogs, no crickets or birds, just a death silence.

Mimi stands victorious, the head still in her hands, looking back at us as though we are absurd. She looks at my mom as though she is foolish, failing her children in some practical, worldly manner.

Patty approaches Mimi, standing close to her face, almost touching, as though she is measuring them again.

"You are disgusting," she whispers.

My mom closes her eyes. I have never seen her so very sad.

Mimi looks surprised, and, I think, hurt. She steps back and curtsies to Patty. Laying the chicken head by Patty's bare feet.

"Pardon me, your highness," Mimi says and turns to where the chicken lays in the grass. I see Patty curl her toes under but she does not move her feet.

I stare at the chicken head, pillowed in the mustard grass of the back yard. Dark red drops of blood cling to the grass.

I think I am going to be sick.

Mimi plucks and bastes the chicken in preparation for our supper. Dazed, my mom prepares the "trimmings."

Patty does not come to supper. My mom chokes down a piece of chicken under the curious glances from my dad. Mimi eats chicken as though it is her last meal. My dad nods his approval. He probably thinks it is very proper that Mimi should, as her sister's guest, prepare dinner. I eat mashed potatoes, biscuits and gravy, avoiding any chicken, even Wil avoids the chicken.

Supper over and dishes done, the house is unusually quiet. My dad, along with Wil and Jon-Jon, walks to grandma's. Mom is sitting at the kitchen table with no lights turned on. Mimi approaches her.

"Well Nellie, I've got to go." says Mimi.

"I know you do, Mimi. Please be careful and take care of yourself," my mom says with her head lowered.

"Will you say bye to Patty for me? Mimi asks.

Patty is still in the bedroom.

Mimi and I sit on the front porch steps.

"Well Miss Sissy," Mimi says, removing the locket from her neck, "I hope you will wear this and think of me, huh?" She takes my hand and folds the locket into it.

"The Powhatan Arrow leaves at 9:40 PM." She can walk to the railroad station from our house. I watch her walk through the front yard, and disappear into the shadows of the hollow road. I sit on the porch steps, opening and closing the locket, listening and feeling the hasp of the fastening, the sureness of its connection.

Our back porch is made of old railroad ties with holes scattered throughout. I walk slowly through the house to the back porch. Reaching down, I dangle the locket from my hand and slowly push it into one of the holes.