Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe

OCTOBER 9, 1986

Evelyn had been in a hurry to get to the nursing home today. She had badgered Ed to drive faster all the way there. She stopped, as she always did, in Big Momma’s room and offered her a honey-bun, but as usual, Big Momma declined, saying, “If I ate that I’d be sick as a dog. How you can eat that sticky, gooey stuff is beyond me.”

Evelyn excused herself and rushed down the hall to the visitors’ lounge.

Mrs. Threadgoode, who had on her bright green flowered dress today, greeted Evelyn with a cheery “Happy New Year!”

Evelyn sat down, concerned. “Honey, that’s not till three months from now. We haven’t had Christmas yet.”

Mrs. Threadgoode laughed. “I know that, I just thought I’d move it up a bit. Have some fun. All these old people out here are so gloomy, moping around the place something awful.”

Evelyn handed Mrs. Threadgoode her treat.

“Oh Evelyn, are these honey-buns?”

“They sure are. Remember I told you about them?”

“Well, don’t they look good?” She held one up. “Why, they’re just like a Dixie Cream Donut. Thank you, honey … have you ever had a Dixie Cream Donut? They’re as light as a feather. I used to say to Cleo, I’d say, ‘Cleo, if you’re going anywhere near the Dixie Cream Donut place, bring me and Albert home a dozen. Bring me six glazed and six jelly ones.’ I like the ones that are twisted, too. You know, like a French braid. I forget what they’re called …”

Evelyn couldn’t wait any longer.

“Mrs. Threadgoode, tell me what happened at the trial.”

“You mean Idgie and Big George’s trial?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, that was something, all right. We were all worried to death. We thought they never were coming home, but they finally got a not-guilty verdict. Cleo said that they proved beyond the shadow of a doubt where they had been at the time the murder was to have taken place, so they couldn’t possibly have done it. He said the only reason that Idgie would have stood trial like that was to protect someone else.”

Evelyn thought for a minute. “Who else would want to kill him?”

“Well, honey, it isn’t a matter of who wanted to, but who would have. That’s the question. Some say it could have been Smokey Lonesome. Some say it could have been Eva Bates and that gang out at the river—Lord knows it was a rough enough bunch, and those folks in the Dill Pickle Club stuck together … it’s hard to say. And then, of course”—Mrs. Threadgoode paused—“there’s Ruth, herself.”

Evelyn was surprised. “Ruth? But where was Ruth the night of the murder? Surely someone knows.”

Mrs. Threadgoode shook her head. “That’s just it, honey. Nobody knows for sure. Idgie says that she and Ruth were over at the big house visiting Momma Threadgoode, who had been sick. And I believe her. But there are some who wonder. All I know is that Idgie would go to her grave willingly before she would let Ruth’s name be involved with murder.”

“Did they ever find out who did it?”

“No, they never did.”

“Well, if Idgie and Big George didn’t kill him, who do you think did it?”

“Well, that’s the sixty-four-dollar question, isn’t it?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Well sure I would, who wouldn’t? It’s one of the great mysteries of the world. But, honey, nobody’s ever gonna know that one except the one that did it, and Frank Bennett. And you know what they say … dead men tell no tales.”