Buried Bones

Chasing the blues away is a talent Delaney women are still trying to acquire. Perhaps our melancholy is a sign, as Jitty insists, of some obscure womb disorder. Regrettus Wombus, a medical term for the regretful womb, resulting in the deep-dark, down-and-ugly blues. Historically, Delaney women have been known to wallow in that place where loss takes up more space than any other organ. I fear I'm no exception to the family tradition. There wasn't a radio station in the small Mississippi town of Zinnia that wasn't playing "I'll Be Home for Christmas." It is my belief that any song mentioning chestnuts, toasty fires, or sleigh rides for two should be banned from the airwaves. It's a fact, documented in my psychology journals, that suicide rates increase during the holidays. Due, no doubt, to the sadistic disc jockeys playing these songs. With the conclusion of my first case, I'd received payment in full from Tinkie for my investigative services. Dahlia House had been saved, for the moment, from my creditors. I should have been on top of the world. Instead, I was in the front parlor, knotted in a tangle of tinsel, and with a Christmas tree that looked as if residents of Bedlam had put up the lights. Turning off the radio, I tossed the tinsel in the fire and was rewarded with a multihued flame. I picked up all the magnolia leaves, holly, and cedar that I'd cut and brought in to use as decorations. With a mighty heave, I burned them, too. As the last of the Delaneys, I'd inherited my mother's incredible collection of great albums, and I sat down on the carpet and began to go through them. I couldn't control the radio stations, but I could find my own music. As my fingers closed over Denise LaSalle, I felt a surge of renewed spirit. The album was a little scratched, but there was no denying the feminist power of the Delta-born blueswoman. It was perfect--fight the blues with the blues. And Denise was putting it on her no-good man. She had her Crown Royal, her car, and a juke-joint band to dance to. She'd also given me a new motto--"If you can't be with the one you love, love the one you're with." There were plenty of fish in the ocean. All I had to do was find me a pole and throw in my line. With my energy renewed, I crawled behind Aunt LouLane's horsehair sofa, found the electrical outlet, and jammed the prongs of the extension plug into the holes. Maybe I wasn't the best with traditional Christmas decorating, but I'd found something even better. Something that spoke to me. And I'd gotten it at a bargain-basement price. Peering over the back of the sofa at the mantel, I smiled with satisfaction at what I had wrought. The neon tubing slid to hot green with liquid light, creating the perfect outline of a Christmas wreath. Mingled in the green curlicues that made the body of the wreath were red ornaments that blinked on and off. It was a masterpiece, a real find in Rudy's Junk Shop. I picked up the second extension cord and poked it home. The reds, greens, blues, and yellows of old-fashioned Christmas lights flickered to life, creating a series of fascinating shadows on the high ceilings of the front parlor. Neon meets tradition! A successful Delaney moment. BeHaines, Carolyn is the author of 'Buried Bones' with ISBN 9780553581720 and ISBN 0553581724.