Chapter Two: Sweet dreams are made of this

Little Ovella changed into her favorite pajamas, the ones that Nanny Fleetwood stitched together out of old washcloths in one of her arts and crafts workshops at the old age home in Clayhatchee, Alabama. True, the pajamas were a little scratchy in the crotch, but Nanny Fleetwood had run out of washcloths halfway through the project, and stitched the bottoms from a pile of old dishrags and Brillo Pads she found in the closet of a recently deceased tenant who everybody liked named Juanita Buscachicos, a retired librarian from Sulphur Springs, Dekalb County, which was so far north and east in Alabama that it might as well have been Rhode Island. Although Juanita died peacefully in her sleep, the controversy surrounding her subsequent embalming and funeral was now legendary in Clayhatchee. It turns out that Miss Juanita Buscachicos was actually The Reverend Bobby-Ray “Repent Ye Sinners” Reynolds, a televangelist who disappeared without a trace, but with millions of dollars of donations from his generous disciples. Apparently, the old dishrags and Brillo Pads weren't the only things in the closet. The Reverend Bobby-Ray, who preached death to hypocrites and homosexuals, was a devout cross-dresser who preferred having sex with the male population of the Clayhatchee Rest-Up Retirement Resort, including, but not limited to, the hunky orderlies and muscular high school boys who worked there on summer break, cutting the grass and robbing the old ladies blind, or was it the blind old ladies? No one was more surprised at Juanita’s deception than Old Man Smoot, Clayhatchee’s epileptic undertaker, who undertook undressing Juanita so's he could embalm her. Old Man Smoot took a look-see, scratched his head and then saw Juanita for what she really was. He suffered a grand mal seizure, and died on the spot. Their funerals were held the same day, but at different times so as not to further confuse the bereaved.

Little Ovella liked these pajamas best because they smelled like Nanny Fleetwood, at least the top, anyway - a little sweet, a little sour and a whole lotta musty. She appreciated the fact that Nanny Fleetwood had not only made the pajamas her own self, but also wrapped them in an old, brown paper bag from the Piggly-Wiggly and mailed them at the book rate from the Dale County post office. That meant that these pajamas had traveled clear across the country from Clayhatchee, Alabama to Walla Walla, Washington and saved Nanny Fleetwood a pretty penny in the process. It gave Little Ovella goose pimples to think of all the towns across America these homemade pajamas had seen. She saved the brown paper Piggly-Wiggly bag, storing it in her necessities drawer in case she ever needed a suitcase to run away from the Tremont Mobile Home Park and Auto Court in Walla Walla to a more civilized place like Detroit.

Little Ovella’s grandmother, also known as Nanny Fleetwood or the drunk-bitch-who-lived-over-the-liquor-store, didn’t actually live at the old age home. It was more like she worked there. At the ripe old age of 52, she had worked as the cafeteria lady at the Clayhatchee Rest-Up Retirement Resort for nearly 40 years, serving creamed corn and Johnny-cake to the dead and nearly-dying residents of Dale County. Nanny Fleetwood still lived in the little apartment where she single-handedly raised Momma, a return address she proudly scratched in black magic marker on every little thing she ever sent Little Ovella:

FROM:
Miss Tioga Fleetwood
137 and 1/2 “B” Tugaloo Street, Rear
(Above the Liquor Store)
Cedar Springs, GA 4XXXX

Cedar Springs was a two-hour bus ride from Clayhatchee, but Nanny Fleetwood dutifully made the four-hour round trip six days a week and only complained if the sun was shining, because it hurt her eyes, or if it was raining, because it made the rheumatoid arthritis in her knee-bone scream like an unpaid whore. As a tribute to her long years of service, Nanny Fleetwood was offered a free stay at the Clayhatchee Rest-Up Retirement Resort, but always politely declined, saying she was too independent to take a handout. Little Ovella suspected that the real reason had something to do with county blue laws. Everybody knew that Dale County was dry, and Nanny Fleetwood wasn’t worth a damn at work unless she was nursing a class-A hangover from her nightly case and a half of Ortlieb’s beer.

Thinking about Nanny Fleetwood made Little Ovella feel nostalgic, so she took the Piggly Wiggly bag out of her necessities drawer and sniffed the return address. Even after two years, the smell from the Sharpie magic marker got Little Ovella woozy. She barely got to enjoy the rush, because Buddy suddenly burst into her room with a glass of water and a Dimetapp. Little Ovella was ecstatic that it was not a generic, but kept her mind a blank so Buddy couldn’t read it, even though he couldn’t read the back of a beer can near as she could tell.

“Okay, Whirly-Girly,” said Buddy, “take your pill and get to bed”.

Momma poked her head in the room. “Hey, Little Ovella,” said Momma, “I heard you been actin’ up t’day”.

“Sorry, Momma,” said Little Ovella, thinking how purple her teeth and gums would be in a few minutes. “I tried to be good, but I guess I need to be ‘tapped”.

Momma’s lazy eye tried to focus on Little Ovella, but it only made her look like she was rolling her eyes at Buddy, or searching her memory banks for the final Jeopardy! answer. She stepped into the room, shoved Buddy out of the way and scooped Little Ovella into her arms.

“I sure do love my Little Ovella,” Momma said, belching and then waving away the scent of a McDonald’s Big N Tasty and Burger King onion rings from Little Ovella’s face. She kissed Little Ovella so hard that her gums started to bleed, and she had to put Little Ovella down and run into the bathroom to rinse her mouth out with peppermint schnapps.

Buddy thrust the glass of water at Little Ovella with one hand, and held the Dimetapp in the other. When Little Ovella reached for the pill, Buddy jerked his hand away, asking, “Did you say your prayers?”

Little Ovella wanted to scream, “Yes, I said my prayers, you fucking moron. I prayed that God would take pity on me and send Christopher Meloni here to make you his bitch! I prayed that Momma would come to her senses and realize that the three inches between your legs and the four minutes it takes you to get off, including foreplay and a cigarette break, make you less of a man than Juanita Buscachicos! I prayed that the good people of Walla Walla would make calling little girls “Whirly-Girly” a crime, punishable by public flogging, or public castration, or forced public transportation!”

Little Ovella could have gone on, but she stopped there because she was itching to take the Dimetapp. She looked at Buddy, and simply nodded her head. She thought Buddy looked at her funny, but it was hard to tell because he always looked like that, as if he had just got a whiff of his own self. He gave her the pill, and went to check on Momma.

Little Ovella was in heaven! She didn’t even have to pretend not to swallow the Dimetapp! She sucked on it for at least an hour, finally succumbing to the drowsiness, which was really a side effect, at about three a.m.