the gray down parka and snow boots she had thrown on to go fetch her mother after receiving Forrest Payne’s phone call. Beatrice frowned as she took in her daughter’s ensemble. She said, “I can’t believe you allow yourself to be seen in public like this. These people may be the lowest of God’s creatures, but that doesn’t mean they won’t talk.”
Clarice quietly mumbled to herself, “I love my mother. I love my mother.” She knew she was going to have to remind herself of that often over the next several days. This Christmas season was going to be rough, with Odette being sick, Barbara Jean walking around half in a coma, and Richmond behaving more like Richmond than ever. She wasn’t in the mood to have her mother’s special brand of crazy piled on top of it all. Clarice gave serious thought to marching into the Pink Slipper and doing her best to persuade Forrest Payne to have Beatrice locked up for trespassing and disturbing the peace. Let the county jail have her for the holidays. That would serve her right.
Clarice hugged her mother and said, “Merry Christmas.”
The following morning as she cooked breakfast, Clarice discussed the day’s itinerary with her mother. She had scheduled several things: hair appointments for them both, visits to old family friends, shopping excursions for last-minute gifts, and a grocery store trip for the meal they had to prepare for Clarice’s children and their families. There were also all sorts of holiday events going on at Calvary Baptist if more was required to keep Beatrice busy. It was important that Beatrice always have something to do. Left to her own devices, her fingers began to itch for her bullhorn.
Things would become easier when the kids arrived the next day. Ricky would be with his wife’s family this year, but Clarice and Richmond’s other children were coming. Abe was bringing along a new girlfriend for his grandmother to exhaustively interview and disapprove of. Carl would have dozens of pictures to show Beatrice from the latest exotic vacation spot he had taken his wife to as penance for his latest transgression. Carolyn’s four-year-old son, Esai, who had inherited Clarice’s musical genes, could be relied upon to occupy his great-grandmother with hours of singing and dancing. God bless him. The child could go all day, if needed.
Beatrice wore dark red lipstick that left a vivid imprint on the white mug from which she sipped Earl Grey tea. She always came to breakfast in full makeup. Because it involved a rare excursion into the use of coarse language, Clarice never forgot her mother’s opinion about being seen, even in your own home, without your face done. “Honey, it’s the equivalent of dropping your pants and taking a dump in the fountain outside of Town Hall.” As a goodwill gesture toward her mother and to avoid aggravation, Clarice had been sure to apply lipstick herself that morning.
Her mother asked, “What were you playing last night?”
Clarice apologized for waking her. The piano was in a music room that was off the living room. The bedrooms were upstairs at the opposite end of the house—far out of earshot, she thought.
“No, no, you didn’t wake me. I just got up in the night to go to the bathroom and I heard you. I sat on the stairs for a while and listened to you play. It was beautiful. Took me back to when you were a youngster. I used to sit on the stairs at the old house for hours listening to you practice. I have never been as proud of you as I was then, listening to my baby girl overpower that big piano. You really had a gift.”
Her mother seldom passed out compliments, even backhanded ones. Clarice took a moment to enjoy it. Then she said, “It was Beethoven, the Waldstein Sonata. I’ve gotten into a habit lately of practicing Beethoven in the middle of the night when I can’t sleep.”
Beatrice took another sip of tea and said, “You know, I’ve always thought it was a terrible shame that you gave up on your music.”
Here we go, Clarice thought. “I hardly gave up on music, Mother. I have two dozen piano students, and I have former students performing all around the world.”
Her mother dabbed at her lips with a napkin and said, “That’s nice, I suppose. But what I meant was that it’s a shame you never did more, after showing such promise. You never made those recordings when that