butter dish still adhered to it, slid down the wall, leaving a shiny trail like the path of a rectangular snail. Mama looked at the astonished faces around the table and said, “Don’t give me that look. She may have been the perfect little lady when she was in the White House—all lace doilies and finger bowls—but since she died, she ain’t done nothin’ but show up here drunk as a skunk, tryin’ to start some shit.” Later, Jackie Onassis came to see Mama, too, but she was much better behaved.
