Jimmy Matthew is about to lay eyes on that old picture from Mawmaw’s house, and he is bound to misunderstand it in the way only Jimmy Hardhead can

Jimmy Matthew had two natural talents in this world.
First, he could misunderstand any situation with the precision of a Swiss watchmaker.
Second, he could turn that misunderstanding into a story large enough to embarrass Heaven itself.

One Sunday afternoon, Jimmy Matthew found himself at his Mawmaw’s house. The air smelled like fried cornbread and old furniture polish. The box fan rattled in the window like it was fightin’ off unseen intruders. And on the wall above the sofa hung that picture. The one every Southern grandmother seemed to have. The one your Mawmaw had, too.

It showed two children walkin’ across a rickety bridge, totally about to plunge to their doom, while a guardian angel floated behind them like she had just stepped out of a cloud bank and was checkin’ up on the situation. She had wings you could park a Buick under, hair like spun gold, and a glow that looked suspiciously like Mawmaw’s nightlight.

Jimmy Matthew stopped in his tracks.

“Mawmaw,” he said, “is that angel real?”

Mawmaw did not even look up from shellin’ peas. She waved a hand the same way she waved flies off the porch.

“Well now, Jimmy Matthew, she is real enough.”

That was all the encouragement he needed.

By Monday morning, Jimmy Matthew was convinced that the angel in that picture had come down from Heaven with the express purpose of followin’ him around. He strutted through Piedmont like a miniature prophet, spreadin’ the news.

“Y’all can quit worryin’,” he told Mrs. Delphine at the Dixie Boarding House. “I got my own personal angel. She is about yay tall, wings like a field tarp, and she stays right behind me keepin’ trouble away. Mawmaw said so.”

Mrs. Delphine paused mid-sweet-tea pour.

“Lord have mercy,” she whispered, “we ain’t never gonna hear the end of this.”

Jimmy Matthew kept on preachin’. He told Zeek Monroe that the reason he got in fewer scrapes this week was because the angel was keepin’ him from sayin’ anything foolish. Zeek frowned and said that if the angel was stoppin’ fool talk, she sure had missed a few opportunities.

He told Mrs. Woolf that her hydrangeas bloomed extra blue because the angel liked the color. Mrs. Woolf did not know how hydrangeas worked, so she nodded solemnly and repeated it at the grocery store.

He even told Preacher Boone that he had seen the angel hoverin’ behind him durin’ the sermon. Preacher Boone, who had been prayin’ for a revival of some kind, perked up immediately and asked for details. Jimmy Matthew obliged.

“She had golden hair, a pretty dress, and she was watchin’ those two kids keep from fallin’. I reckon she is assigned to you the same way she is assigned to me. We got the same angel.”

Preacher Boone blinked twice.
“Well, that is theologically irregular.”

By Wednesday, Jimmy Matthew had half the town lookin’ over their shoulders for stray angels. Folks stood out on Daily Street at dusk, squintin’ into the sky like they were hopin’ to catch a glimpse of heavenly air traffic. Businesses slowed down. Farm chores got forgotten. Mrs. Caffrey blamed the angel for her husband’s indigestion. The entire rhythm of Piedmont drifted off course.

Saturday morning came around hot and hazy. Jimmy Matthew was sittin’ on Mawmaw’s porch glider with his cousin Jim Leroy when a breeze stirred the air just enough to rustle the picture hangin’ inside the living room. The window was open. The little rustle sent a shiver across the curtain.

Jimmy Matthew gasped.

“She is movin’,” he whispered. “Jim Leroy, the angel is movin’.”

Jim rolled his eyes.
“Hush. That’s the breeze.”

But he would not hush. Jimmy Matthew tore into the house like a squirrel with heated opinions. He stood in front of the picture, eyes as wide as the Hoover Dam.

Sure enough, the picture swayed again.

“It is a sign,” he said, “that she’s still watchin’ me.”

At that moment Mawmaw came through with a basket of laundry balanced on one hip.

“Jimmy Matthew,” she said, settin’ the basket down with a grunt, “that picture has hung crooked for thirty years. Your Uncle Pete put it up with a bent nail. It wiggles every time the fan turns.”

Jimmy Matthew stared at her.
Then at the angel.
Then back at Mawmaw.

“So, she ain’t been followin’ me?”

Mawmaw wiped her brow.

“Baby, if an angel was assigned to you full-time, she would have resigned two weeks in.”

Jimmy Matthew blinked with deep theological confusion.

“But you said she was real.”

“She is,” Mawmaw said, tappin’ the frame lightly. “Real in the way all good things are real. The picture is a reminder that somebody is watchin’, and you ought to behave even if you think you’re alone. Now come help me shell these peas.”

And somehow that hit Jimmy Matthew harder than any sermon Preacher Boone ever preached.

He shuffled onto the porch, sat beside Mawmaw, and began helpin’ her work through the pile. After a minute, he asked:

“Mawmaw… do you think the angel knows my name anyway?”

Mawmaw smiled soft and slow.

“I think she knows all the names worth knowin’.”

Jimmy Matthew nodded.
And for the first time in days, he quit tryin’ to impress the Almighty and just enjoyed the porch breeze, the clack of the pea shells, and the comfort of a Mawmaw who understood things better than angels did.

Behind him, the picture wiggled once more in the draft, as if winkin’.

And maybe it was.

*****

New Yesterdays can be found at: Books-A-Million, Barnes & Noble, and Amazon, as well as your favorite bookshops. The Audiobook is available from Libro.fm, as well as Amazon.