The Birds of Opulence (Kentucky Voices) by Wilkinson Crystal

Author:Wilkinson, Crystal [Wilkinson, Crystal]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Publisher: The University Press of Kentucky
Published: 2015-12-29T16:00:00+00:00

Dinner on the Grounds.

The next day at the church, Joe Brown watches cars line up along both sides of the street. Not just the normal neighborhood cars, the newest of which are at least two or three years old, but brand new cars that gleam in the sunlight and still smell car-lot fresh and sport black glistening tires that haven’t seen much dirt yet.

Two church buses full of out-of-towners pull into the lot, and a long, silver charter bus with air conditioning and a bathroom on board careens along the blacktop until it comes to a high-profile stop right in front of the church like a limousine. Fifty-five strangers from Atlanta strut off the silver steps: a guest choir. People mill in the street. All of Opulence’s wayward children, even those who live as far off as Texas or California, show up talking city talk and driving long, shiny black Cadillacs and red sports cars. They bring exotic gifts for their relatives—silver trays for chitterlings and fried potatoes and crystal goblets for Kool-aid and sweet iced tea. The mothers and grandmothers say, “Thank you, baby,” and will wait for the out-of-towners to leave before placing the items in the attic with the other strange things their kin have brought home. They bring candy that they claim is the best of the best, which makes children tear up their faces and spit out the bitter chocolate and head to Carter’s Grocery for the Laffy Taffy and sweet-tasting chocolate they’re used to. They bring young women expensive bubble bath with aromas so foul and foreign that they give it to their children to wash their dolls’ hair, or give it to the boys to wash the dogs in. All this, of course, after the courteous “Thank you” and polite “That smells so good.”

Children are dressed for church, but run through grass with wild abandon. Little boys avoid their mothers’ glares when brown stains appear on the knees of their best dress pants and their ties flap crookedly in the wind. Mothers notice aloud that the press and curls they had set off with blue, pink, and white ribbons have wilted with girls’ sweat in the July heat. Little girls stare down at the ground, then run back to play. Toddling children, who were told over and over how handsome or pretty they are before they left their homes, cry when they get ice cream on their pants or tear a hole in the knee of their white tights or scuff their patent leather shoes.

Old women beam smiles under Sunday hats when a lad from Lancaster or Harrodsburg says loud enough for all to hear, “I drove all the way from Lexington just for a taste of Miss Christine’s buttermilk pie.” And the young man saunters up to the table where Miss Christine stands proudly behind her pies, puts his hands up in the air, and says, “Thank the Lord and Jesus there’s still some left.” Each of the women, if they are

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