Cooked Goose

door, the bell rang several more times.
    “All right, all right, I’m coming already,” she called, “Don’t wet your britches.”
    When she flung open the door, it was like lifting the lid on Pandora’s box. A flurry of munchkins charged past her and into the living room, a swirling tornado of chaos and commotion. It took her several seconds to realize the crowd consisted of only two youngsters—her beloved niece and nephew, Jack and his twin sister, Jillian.
    She scooped them up, one under each arm, just as they were beginning to scale the limbs of the Christmas tree. “Oh no, you don’t, you little monkeys!” she told them, planting a kiss on the top of each one’s golden curls. “No tree climbing in Aunt Savannah’s house. Where’s your sweet mama?”
    “Outside,” chimed Jack.
    “Paying the taxi man for the window,” added his sister.
    Savannah set them on their feet but kept a tight hold on each collar.
    “Paying for the window?” Margie asked. She stood in the kitchen doorway, her eyes wide with amazement.
    “Don’t ask,” Savannah told her. “It’s probably a long, sad story. Vi pays for a lot of things.”
    She took the children by their hands. “Come on, let’s go help your mommy with the bags. Margie, you want to give us a hand here?”
    “Sure.” She shot the kids a doubtful look. “With the suitcases, that is, not with... them, right?”
    “Right.”
    “I want some grape juice,” Jillian said in a whiny, singsong voice that grated on Savannah’s last nerve strand that was still intact, but strained from the week’s miscellaneous stresses.
    “I don’t have any grape juice,” Savannah told her as she walked them out to the taxi, where an extremely rotund, somewhat younger, but less well-groomed version of Savannah , was haggling with an irate cabby. “I only have grapes. But as soon as we get you all settled, I’ll go to the grocery store and get you some grape juice. Apple, too.”
    “I want it now!” A tiny foot came down hard on Savannah’s instep with a ferocity that she would have loved to have seen demonstrated in one of her defense classes.
    But on her front lawn... on her own foot... by an irate five-year-old... was a bit much.
    With one hand under each arm, she lifted her angelic niece until they were face to face. “And I,” she said, “want you to walk on your own feet, not mine. Because if you stomp on me again like that, I’ll buy broccoli-and-liver-flavored juice instead of grape. Do you understand?”
    Momentarily quelled, the girl nodded, and Savannah set her on the ground again. A second later, her arms were full of Vidalia and her tummy.
    “Sis! I can’t believe we’re finally here!” she cried, hugging Savannah so tightly that she could hardly breathe. “This is a big ol’ country! My tail end was practically rooted to that bus seat.”
    “I’ll bet it was.”
    Savannah was a bit shocked to see what a difference seven and a half months of pregnancy had made in her younger sister. Vidalia hadn’t gained any more weight than would be expected, but she was in desperate need of a haircut, and no Reid gal—pregnant or otherwise—would have been seen in such a shabby, shapeless outfit, outside of Gran’s rose garden.
    Savannah decided to chalk it up to Vidalia having spent several days on a bus with a couple of rambunctious kids with a tummy full of another one. Either that, or the once vain, fastidious Vidalia was in a downhill slide of depression.
    “Here, let me get those suitcases for you.” Savannah grabbed a couple of bags, but she hardly made a dent in the pile heaped on the curb. “Vidalia, meet Margie Bloss, a houseguest of mine. Margie, in case you hadn’t already guessed, this is my sister Vidalia and her family.”
    “Houseguest?” Vidalia looked positively put out—too put out for a deeply depressed ragamuffin, Savannah noted. “You invited another houseguest when you knew we were comin’ callin’?”
    Savannah glanced at Margie and saw the stud in her left nostril twitch with irritation. “Margie is more than welcome in my home, and so are you and the twins,” she added quickly. “The more the merrier, ho, ho, ho. Right?” She smiled weakly.
    “I guess so.” Vidalia shoved one of her bags into Margie’s hands, and for a long, awful second, Savannah thought Margie might shove it back at her.
    That was what she needed, a scene from a Jerry Springer show erupting right here on her front lawn.
    “Let’s go