Free Deep Dixie by Annie Jones

s a rich, eccentric old Southern family that exerts its influence in the town its forebears founded. And you think that ’ s in some way unusual? ”
    “ You ’ re right. You ’ re right. There ’ s probably nothing extraordinary about them at all. They are probably just your everyday, average, millionaire lunatics. ” She took up her fork and scooped some meatloaf up with the potatoes and took a bite.
    “ Don ’ t worry, Mom. ” He grabbed up the plastic pitcher on her tray and filled her water glass, handing it to her just as she made a face to show her dislike of the food. “ I think I can handle myself with them. Besides, Mr. Greenhow gave me the impression I wouldn ’ t be dealing with the family anyway. He seems to have the whole thing pretty much under control. ”
    Momma gulped down one swallow, then another. Then she set the glass down with a decisive thunk and met his gaze with a shrewd, skeptical look.
    “ That ’ s good, then, because if ever there truly was one, from what I hear that Fulton family is surely a first-class example of a complete and utter troublement. ”
     
    * * *
     
    “‘ There is a patina on everything in the South. An oily grittiness that settles itself like skin over the kitchen canisters and car hoods and antique milk glass lampshades. You cannot rub it off nor wash it off, and the longer you stay here, the more it becomes a part of you. ’“ Dixie pressed flat the brand-new, red velveteen journal until the binding cracked. “ How ’ s that for a start, then? ”
    “ That ’ s lovely, dear. Quite nice. Quite. ” Miss Letticia Gautier patted her gnarled, mocha-colored hand in the air, as though keeping beat to some unheard song. She nodded her head to that same silent rhythm, swaying gently in her high-backed rocker. “ What is it, lamb? ”
    “ What is it? ” Dixie let her shoulders slump just enough to get truly comfortable and toed her white-socked feet inward. “ Don ’ t you recognize what I just read? ”
    The delicate wisp of an old woman sitting beside Dixie blinked her crepe-lidded, owl-like brown eyes in incomprehension.
    Dixie watched her, torn between a smile and exasperation. “ Remember how I told you we were going to record your words for posterity? How I wanted to collect your thoughts and experiences as a sort of commemoration for your upcoming one hundredth birthday? Remember? ” Dixie held open the cream-colored page filled with the swirls of blue ink, knowing full well that dear old Miss Lettie could not see well enough anymore to make out the words. “ Well, that ’ s what I ’ ve done. I ’ ve taken what you told me and written it down here. ”
    “ Go on with you. ” Lettie ’ s dismissive wave was no less than regal.
    “ It ’ s true. ”
    “ Me? That came from me? ” She threw back her head, as much as she could, and gave out a crackling laugh like an old hen having its scrawny neck wrung. Then she coughed, and as her rough tongue rasped against the almost invisible line of her lips, she jabbed a finger toward the journal. “ Read that again. ”
    Dixie spoke the words again with the dramatic conviction one might use to intone the constitution or the prose of Miss Margaret Mitchell.
    Lettie tipped her rocking chair back, paused, then let the runners fall forward with a definitive creak. “ You got all that from what I said? ”
    “ W-well, yes. I admit I did embellish just a tad but it ’ s still the essence of your words. ” Dixie closed the book, pulling it close to her chest. “ You said— ”
    “ I said … ” Miss Lettie landed a look on Dixie that left no room for doubt that the elderly woman was still as sharp, as strong, and as unwilling to tolerate nonsense as ever… “ What I said , Miss Dixie Belle Fulton-Leigh, was that since I came to Fulton ’ s Dominion, Mississippi, over seventy years ago, that I can ’ t recall a day when I didn ’ t sweat! ”
    “ Well, I... ”
    For several seconds the stillness