Free The Music of Your Life by John Rowell Page A

of homesickness for the big city. Of course, sometimes when I’m on Fifth Avenue, I get a little pang of homesickness for North Carolina, too, especially when I’m walking along, minding my own business, window-shopping at Brooks Brothers or the Gap, and some harried businessfreak bumps into me and continues walking, without even acknowledging the collision, maybe even shooting me a surly, irritated look. That would never happen here. If someone bumps into you at the mall at home, they say, “Oh, I’m so sorry, excuse me, I didn’t see you!” and then they might open up their purse to fish you out a dollar or a peppermint because they feel so ashamed and contrite.
    â€œY’all finding everything OK?” asks Evelyn, brushing by.
    â€œYes, just fine,” Mother says.
    â€œNow when’s that weddin’?” she asks, her eyes narrowing in thoughtful concern.
    â€œI’m ashamed to tell you it’s in two weeks!” Mother says, full of apology, mournful even, as though she had broken some kind of female point of honor to wait this late to buy her mother-of-the-groom dress. So much shame! You’d think she was Hester Prynne sporting the Big A.
    â€œOh, goodness,” says Evelyn. “I hope you find something. I know a darlin’ purple dress that would be good on you.”
    â€œCan’t wear purple,” says Mavis, coming up with a slew of formals draped over her scrawny arm. “Bride’s mother is in purple.”
    â€œThen you sure can’t,” says Evelyn, as she goes into the back.
    â€œNow these just come in this morning,” exhales Mavis. “I hadn’t even looked ’em over good, but there might be something. What size are you, honey?”
    â€œA twelve.”
    â€œOK. Now here’s something I think is real pretty …”
    Mavis lifts out a long beige gown that would be all right except it has multiple little yarn balls hanging off at the waist, kind of like what’s on the end of an elf ’s cap, but about a hundred of them.
    â€œThese are a little odd,” says Mother, fingering the yarn balls.
    Mavis continues to sift through formals, and Mother and I mostly veto them. Some of this stuff, I swear to God. Not since the Captain and Tennille had a TV variety show, or perhaps not since the heyday of the Gabor sisters, has this much fringe and this many sequins shared the same surface.
    Mother and I finally agree on something, a rather tasteful, ankle-length pearl gray muted satin. It’s actually in her size and everything. She goes to try it on, leaving me alone with Mavis Bunce.
    â€œWell, I don’t know about deep gray for her. With her dark hair, she might need something a little brighter,” Mavis says, sotto voce, almost as if it were private information between us. Mavis Bunce, the Deep Throat of Fuquay Varina.
    â€œActually, I think she looks good in gray. Good with her blue eyes.” Mavis and I are going point to counterpoint.
    â€œWell,” she volleys back, “I’m not too sure that particular shade doesn’t look a mite too funeralish for a wedding. But we’ll see, won’t we?”
    Mother returns in the dress, having traded her Laura Ashley floral print skirt and mid-sleeved white cotton sweater for this formal. I can tell by the expression on her face that it won’t do.
    â€œIt doesn’t really do,” says Mother.
    Mavis studies her, touching fabric here and there. She absently makes the clucking sound again. “I think it’s a mite dark, honey. You need a pretty red, or a pink, or something brighter.”
    And what I think is that Mavis has done this Bridal Barn thing a mite too long. Besides, she looks like she’s just dying to get back out to that tobacco field and suck on another cigarette, illnesses be damned. But of course, there’s no reason to be impolite. In her way, she has been helpful. I almost feel bad we