Showdown at the Okie-Dokie Read online

  India and Egyptian let out tiny snickers. Then the table gets quiet, just like it does right before a cyclone. But Big Momma surprises us all by turning to Aqua and Angie and asking, “How y’all come up with the songs?”

  “Chanel, um, I mean, Galleria and Chanel wrote the song, Big Momma,” Aqua says proudly.

  “We just made it up,” Chuchie adds. “I had a dream where there was money falling from the sky, and we were trying to grab all of it.”

  “That sounds like good inspiration to me,” Big Momma says with a chuckle.

  I take a deep breath and relax. I guess Big Momma just needed to have her say, even if Skeeter doesn’t seem to be paying her any attention. It kinda reminds me of how Chanel and her mother fight. Nothing Chuchie does is okay with Auntie Juanita, so Chuchie does as she pleases until she gets into real trouble. Then she starts crying, and running to me and my mom (who is her godmother).

  “Big Momma, do you know what fenugreek is?” Aqua asks hesitantly.

  “Nothing but herbs,” Big Momma says, coughing into her napkin.

  “Oh,” Aqua says, seeming relieved. I wonder why she wanted to know that?

  “Herbs that shouldn’t be messed with,” Big Momma continues.

  Now a look of concern comes over Aqua’s face, and she turns to look at Angle. Those two always communicate secretly….

  Ding! Suddenly I know what Aqua is getting at—they’re talking about all that hukalaka-hookie stuff that High Priestess Abala Shaballa gives to their father “for his health.” They’re worried she might be messing with his mind somehow, because he seems to believe everything Abala tells him—kinda like a robot. If it was my Daddy, I’d be worried too!

  “Why you wanna know?” Big Momma asks. “Y’all ain’t doing any more of those autopsy reports, like you used to do when you wuz little?”

  “No, Big Momma. We were just playing around. It’s nothing—just something I saw on Daddy’s nightstand—maybe some kind of supplement,” Aqua says, but I can tell she’s not telling the whole truth.

  “Back in the slavery days, desperate women used to mix fenugreek with Sargasso sticks to chain a man’s heart to them for life, in case they got separated or sold off to a different master on another plantation,” Big Momma explains.

  “You mean, like stuff they do in witchcraft?” Chuchie gasps, perking up.

  “No, I mean stuff that stubborn, foolish women used to do when they wanted to keep a man,” Big Momma says. “Sounds like John Walker done gone up to New York and got himself mixed up with—”

  “Ma!” Mrs. Walker says sharply. Now Aqua and Angie look like they’ve swallowed twin canaries, instead of Big Momma’s candied yams.

  “After I lost Selby, it didn’t make no never-mind to me if I never picked up after a man again,” Big Momma says, sighing. She starts sucking on a neck bone, remembering her dead husband.

  I watch in amazement: Big Momma can suck a neck bone cleaner than my pooch, Toto! “I’m sure you feel the same way, Junifred, now that you ain’t got no man.”

  “We’d better be getting over to Grand-daddy Walker’s,” Mrs. Walker huffs, getting up from the table.

  “How’s he doing?” Big Momma asks, like she was just talking about the weather.

  “His blood pressure is up,” Mrs. Walker says, brushing crumbs off the table. Then she mutters under her breath, “and so is mine.”

  I can hardly stand up, I’m so full. I’ve never had a five-course dinner before, and I’m grateful that Big Momma is letting us get up from her table! I think she is sad that we’re leaving and going to Granddaddy Walker’s house, but she just snorts at her daughter, “Junifred, tell Selma I said thank you. She outdid herself with that last bouquet.”

  Selma is the twins’ step-grandmother—she married their Granddaddy Walker after their Grandma Winnie died of cancer. Granddaddy Walker owns the biggest funeral parlor in Houston. He buried the twins’ maternal grandfather, Selby Jasper (Big Momma’s husband). Selma always puts big bouquets outside Mr. Jasper’s mausoleum—apparently, free of charge.

  “Yes, ma’am, I will,” Mrs. Walker says, motioning for us to wait outside by the car.

  “Bye, Egyptian and India,” Aqua says, kissing her cousins together.

  “Y’all gonna go and sleep with dead people now?” India asks, her eyes looking sleepy after eating two slices of peach cobbler and one slice of sweet potato pie.

  “We’ll see if Granddaddy Walker lets us commune with the dead. Then we might even have a séance,” Aqua chuckles.

  “Ooh, can we come too?” India asks, perking up.

  “No, y’all stay here with Big Momma and your Daddy,” Skeeter tells the girls.

  “I’ll be right out; y’all wait by the car,” Mrs. Walker says, standing with her arms folded.

  Once we’re outside, Aqua whispers, “Ma is gonna give Big Momma an earful.”

  “What happened?” Chuchie asks, like a nosy posy.

  “Wake up, Chuchie. You don’t have to be a divette detective with a pig snout to figure this one out,” I hiss at her.

  “I’m telling y’all,” Aqua says, getting upset, “as soon as we get back to New York, we’re putting an end to this High Priestess drama. I’m not gonna let Abala Shaballa chain Daddy to her for life!” Then she sees Mrs. Walker coming outside, so she shuts up quick.

  “Now, let’s head on over to Granddaddy Walker for Round Two,” Mrs. Walker says, chuckling.

  I wonder what she means, but I’m sure we’ll be finding out soon enough.

  “At least it’ll be quieter over there,” Mrs. Walker says, sticking the key in the ignition. “Right now, the only people I’m in the mood for are dead ones!”

  The twins’ paternal grandfather and step-grandmother live on the third floor of the building that houses their beautiful funeral parlor, Rest In Peace. Selma Walker is a lot younger than her husband, and if her eyes didn’t move, I’d swear she was a stuffed parakeet. I mean, she doesn’t move a limb the whole time we’re sitting at the dining room table.

  The only person who seems to be eating besides Granddaddy Walker is Do’ Re Mi. How can she eat after all that food at Big Momma’s? I have only been able to move my food from one side of my plate to the other.

  Granddaddy Walker is really nice, too. “What’s that y’all got around your necks?” he asks, admiring our Cheetah Girls chokers, which we’re wearing for Thanksgiving.

  “They’re our Cheetah Girls chokers—we made them,” Aqua explains proudly.

  “Well, I’ll be, I think those would look mighty nice on some of the corpses, don’t you, Selma?” Granddaddy Walker says, his eyes twinkling. I can’t tell if he’s joking or not, but I decide to stay out of it.

  “Yes indeed-y, they would look nice—especially on Wilma Burrows,” Selma says, dabbing her lips daintily with her napkin.

  “Who’s Wilma Burrows?” Aqua asks.

  “Oh, that’s the corpse downstairs in the mahogany coffin, waiting to be stuffed in the morning,” Granddaddy Walker says, then saws away at the turkey breast on his plate.

  Suddenly, I feel like I’m having dinner with the Addams family, if you get my whiff. “Yeah, Miss Wilma used to be a dancing fool,” Selma adds. “Gonna bury her in her favorite red dress and red tap-dancing shoes. That’s what she wanted.”

  Suddenly, I gain interest in my “handpicked and homemade” cranberry sauce. “I never had cranberry sauce that didn’t come out of a can,” I tell Selma, smiling.

  “What kind of singing do you do?” she asks me, almost causing me to jump. I look over at her—and her lips are closed. How does she do that—talking through closed lips? I wonder if she is a ventriloquist or something.

  “Um, we call our music global groove,” I explain, turning to look at Granddaddy Walker as well.

  “If I didn’t have to get Wilma trussed up tomorrow, I’d go see y’all at the rodeo,” he says. “Wouldn’t that be something, seeing my granddaughters singing!”

  “Well, y’all will se
e us performing one day, Granddaddy,” Aqua says, giving him a big hug.

  All of sudden, Selma is interested in our show, so we explain the whole thing again. “At the end of the song, we throw fake Benjamins in the air, so the audience can catch them!” I say excitedly.

  “Benjamins?” Granddaddy Walker asks, amused.

  “You know, duckets—one-hundred-dollar bills.”

  “Oh,” he says, getting a good chuckle.

  “It was our idea to come up with that stunt—you know, throwing money in the air,” Aqua says proudly.

  Oops! Actually, it wasn’t our idea originally—but I decide not to say anything. What’s the harm in Aqua letting her granddaddy think the idea was ours? “I don’t know,” I say. “This one may be our best song so far.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Aqua tells Selma, “we love them all—but I think people really love ‘It’s Raining Benjamins.’”

  “Do they have a lot of other people performing there?” Granddaddy Walker asks.

  “Oh yeah—it’s a contest,” I explain. “We know a few of the groups—One of them, CMG, we met in Hollywood when we performed at the Tinkerbell Lounge.”

  “It’ll be dope seeing them again,” Do’ Re Mi says.

  “Yeah, but this other group, Diamonds in the Ruff, they gave us drama—we performed with them at the ‘Houston Helps Its Own’ benefit at Kemah,” Aqua adds.

  “Yeah—but Miggy and Mo are nice, so we’ll have a good time,” Chuchie says cheerfully.

  “I just hope we win first prize for a change and some coins,” I blurt out.

  “Yeah, that would be nice,” Angie agrees, crossing her arms. “That would be real nice.”

  “Well, I guess we’d better head on back,” Mrs. Walker says suddenly.

  “No, Junifred, y’all stay right here with us, and go back in the morning,” Granddaddy Walker says. “I don’t get to see my girls, now that they’ve done gone and moved to New Yawk—let ’em stay the night at least.”

  “Of course,” Mrs. Walker says, smiling.

  Do’ Re Mi and Chuchie look at me, and I know what they’re thinking: We’re gonna spend the night in a funeral parlor. Yikes!

  There are four bedrooms on the third floor of Granddaddy Walker’s palatial digs. Mrs. Walker kisses us good night and goes to sleep in her own bedroom, next door to Granddaddy Walker and Selma.

  Before she retires, Selma gives us all pajamas from the closet. “These have all been worn by good folks, but they’re clean, so don’t you worry.”

  “Angie and I are gonna sleep in the smaller bedroom—the three of y’all can have the bigger one,” Aqua tells us.

  “Playing favorites?” I ask her.

  “No, you’re welcome to share the twin bed with me and Angie, but I think the three of you would be more comfortable in a king-size bed,” Aqua says, bugging her eyes.

  “Don’t you have a queen-size one?” Do’ Re Mi quips.

  “Okay, we’re going,” I mutter. “Too bad we can’t sleep in the coffins downstairs.”

  “Well, we wouldn’t want to disturb Wilma,” Aqua says, then hits me with her pillow and scurries into her bedroom.

  “I hope we do win first prize—even if it’s just some hokie statue,” I mumble to Chuchie and Do’ Re Mi as we drift off to sleep.

  “Sí, mamacita, I could put it with my doll collection,” Chuchie says, giggling.

  “Who says you’d get to keep it?” I tease her.

  Timidly, Do’ Re Mi mutters, “Who would get to keep it?”

  “I don’t know—let’s just win it first, then well worry about the flurry,” I chuckle, then doze off to sleep like a log.

  Tap’, tap, tap, rap a tap. Tap, tap, tap, rap a tap.

  “You hear that?” I whisper, shaking Chuchie’s shoulder.

  “What happened?” she mumbles back, but then bolts up in the bed.

  “I hear it,” Do’ Re Mi says, her voice quivering. “It sounds like someone is—tap-dancing!”

  The three of us lie there for what seems like hours. The noise doesn’t stop.

  “Let’s go see Aqua and Angie,” I whisper, and the three of us tiptoe out of the bedroom and into theirs.

  Aqua and Angie are sitting straight up in the bed. “I think Wilma is having one last dance!” Aqua says.

  “Let’s go tell her to shut up!” I whine at the twins.

  We all tiptoe down the creaky staircase into the Rest In Peace Funeral Parlor on the first floor. “I don’t think anybody is resting in peace tonight!” I whisper.

  When we turn on the light, everything seems still and peaceful. The five of us look at the beautiful wooden coffin in the corner of the room. “Who’s gonna open it?” I ask, suddenly losing my gumption.

  “I will,” Aqua volunteers. “We’re not scared of dead people!”

  “Do you need help?” Do’ Re Mi asks as Aqua struggles with the lid.

  “Dag on, I forgot how heavy these things are.”

  “Forgot?”

  Aqua turns and chuckles at me. “We used to come look at the dead people all the time!”

  I should have known the twins were a little kooky when we met them. Why else would they walk around with bottles of hot sauce in their purses?

  When Aqua and Angie open, the lid of the coffin, I gasp. “There’s nobody in there!”

  “She really did go dancing!” Chuchie exclaims, grabbing onto me.

  “Let go of me, Chuchie,” I whisper harshly. Everything’s making me jumpy now. I can feel a bad case of the spookies coming on strong.

  “Last dance, last chance?” Do’ Re Mi says in a squeaky voice.

  We look all over the funeral parlor for Wilma Burrows’s corpse, and come up with nada. “I can’t believe it. No lo creo!” Chuchie says, getting scared. We hightail it back to our bedrooms, and pull the covers over our heads.

  Tap, tap, tap, rap a tap!

  “She can dance all night for all I care. I’m not getting out of bed!” I moan to Chuchie, who has dug her heels into the mattress and won’t budge from my side.

  Since Wilma has kept us up for half the night, I feel it’s only fitting that I pay my respects to her, so I yell, “Good night, disco queen! Party on, girl!”

  Chapter

  8

  I don’t think I have ever woken up more tired in my whole life. But now is not the time to think about that, because we have to get sassy-fied and be at the Okie-Dokie Corral by noon, for the contest at the Sassy-sparilla Saloon!

  Driving back to the twins’ house, Mrs. Walker makes the mistake of asking us, “So, did you girls sleep okay?”

  “Peachy keen,” I say, telling a big fat fiberoni. Because nobody has gotten up the nerve to talk about Miss Wilma’s ghost dancing in the moonlight, I decide to ask Mrs. Walker if she heard anything strange last night.

  “No, I didn’t—why?” she responds.

  “’Cuz it sounded like somebody was tap-dancing all night!” Aqua moans.

  “Really?” Mrs. Walker responds, surprised.

  “Do you think it’s possible for a corpse to get out of a coffin and start dancing?” Angie asks her mom.

  “Have y’all been drinking Granddaddy Walker’s ’embombing’ fluid?” Mrs. Walker asks, amused.

  “I wish we did—’cuz maybe we woulda gotten more sleep!” groans Aqua.

  “Ma—’member once when we slept at Granddaddy Walker’s, and we heard someone hammering all night?” Aqua asks.

  “No, not really … Oh, wait a minute, was that the time y’all wanted to sleep in my bed ’cuz you were scared?”

  ‘Yes!” Aqua says. “That was the time Granddaddy Walker was burying a carpenter …”

  “Oh, I get your point,” Mrs. Walker says, looking into the car mirror before switching lanes. “Lemme tell you one thing I know—when souls aren’t happy, they keep doing what made them happy in real life before they died.”

  “Really?” Aqua responds, then turns to look at me, like, “finally, we got an answer to last night’s si
tuation.”

  “No—not really!” Mrs. Walker says, flipping the script. “You probably just heard the wind blowing at the window, or a tree or something.”

  “Well, then that tree sure has perfect rhythm!” Aqua says, folding her arms across her chest.

  “Now I know why my mom is so grumpy sometimes in the morning,” I sigh. “It’s because she’s tired. I mean, what I could really use right now is a double-whammy-jammy Frappuccino.”

  “I wonder how a corpse could disappear out of a coffin?” Do’ Re Mi ponders, fidgeting with the snaps on her jacket.

  “I don’t wanna know,” Chuchie moans, then puts her hands together as though she’s praying.

  “Chuchie, what are you doing?” I ask.

  “Praying that we win the contest today.”

  “We prayed last night,” Aqua reminds her.

  “I have a feeling that we are going to win,” I say. Then I think about that nasty group, Diamonds in the Ruff. In a few hours, we’ll be seeing them again. Could you believe those rhinestone wannabes trying to stop us from getting in the contest?” I say, shaking my head at the memory.

  “They sure did try to stop us,” Angie says, nodding her head. “That’s ’cuz they know we’re the real deal—and we’re gonna steal their Happy Meal!”

  The guy at the entrance of the Okie-Dokie Corral tries to charge us the ten-dollar admission price.

  “We’re performing in the contest at the Sassy-sparilla,” I protest.

  “Talent enters over there,” he points, then keeps on talking to the other customers. “Right this way, folks.”

  The peeps piling into the Okie-Dokie Corral are just like I imagined they would be. “Look at how they’re decked out,” I exclaim to my crew as we head toward the Sassy-sparilla Saloon. People are roaming around with bandannas tied around their necks, cowboy hats, and cowboy boots with spurs and all! Vendors selling cotton candy, bags of peanuts, and cowboy paraphernalia are everywhere. There are also peeps standing around shouting and giving out flyers.

  A cowboy clown on stilts with a red curly wig shoves a flyer in our faces: “Showdown at the Sassy-sparilla Saloon at high noon!” he shouts. The flyer is advertising the contest we’re in, and the All-Girl Rodeo afterward.