by Beth Hoffman
As the wind whistled through the open windows and the scenery flew by in blurry smears of gray, I got a pretty good idea why Aunt Tootie’s husband had a guardian angel made for the hood of her car. I looked at my aunt and said, “Looks like you’re not afraid to drive anymore.”
Oh, how she laughed.
I watched out the window and read every sign we passed. Finally I saw one that advertised a motel. “Look,” I said, pointing to a dimly lit sign at the side of the road. “Mountain View Travel Lodge—ten point five miles.”
“Good job, sugar. We’ll be relaxing in bed in no time.”
The headlights carved a hole through the foggy darkness as she zoomed down the highway. I felt like she was driving me straight into a silver-edged dream. I had no idea where we were, and to be honest, I don’t think Aunt Tootie did, either. All I knew was that I was flying through the night in a fancy car with a woman who showed up out of nowhere and offered to take me, messed-up life and all, to a place called Savannah.
It was nearly five o’clock the following evening when we approached a narrow, vine-covered bridge. Three words were written on a sign at the side of the road, and as we roared by, I whispered them to myself: “Welcome to Savannah.”
The biggest trees I’d ever seen reached out to one another as if trying to hold hands over wide, brick-paved streets, and grand old houses stood tall and proud on smooth shade-dappled lawns. Like a curious spaniel, I leaned my head out the window and breathed in. The air was warm and sweet with the scent of freshly cut grass.
Aunt Tootie slowed and turned onto a shady street called West Gaston. “Well, here we are,” she said, pulling to a stop at the curb. “Welcome to your new home, sugar.” She gestured to a house surrounded by lush gardens and an iron fence that looked like countless yards of black lace. The house, which was made of stucco and painted the color of lemonade, was three stories tall and had lots of arched windows. Wide stone steps stretched high above the street and ended at double front doors.
“We’ll leave the car here. After we unload the trunk, I’ll pull it around back to the garage.” She grabbed her handbag and we climbed out of the car. While she headed up the steps, I lagged behind and craned my neck to see all that surrounded me. I had the sensation that an unseen hand had plunked me into a giant slingshot, pulled back, and let go. I was catapulting into a new world and nothing could have prepared me for it.
The front hall—which Aunt Tootie called the foy-yay—was, to my way of thinking, a room unto itself. An alabaster chandelier sent a wash of mellow light over walls the color of peach sherbet. The ceiling soared over my head and was framed by elaborately carved moldings, and to the left was a stairway that had a wide ribbon of flowery carpet running down its center.
My aunt chattered like a sparrow as she flitted from room to room. “This is your home now, honey, and I want you to know where everything is so you feel comfortable. You have no idea how much I love this old house. It was built back in 1858. Thanks to General Sherman, Savannah was spared the ravages of the Civil War . . .”
I tried to listen to all she said, but her voice faded into the plump upholstery and richly patterned carpets. Each room was a vision of beauty, and each had vases overflowing with all sorts of fresh flowers.
“Oh, look what Oletta did,” Aunt Tootie said, stopping to smell a vase full of yellow roses. “Aren’t they pretty? She went out to the garden and cut all these flowers while I was gone. I love coming home to a house full of bouquets—it makes me feel happy.”
I studied the face of a tall grandfather clock and lightly touched its beveled-glass door. “Who’s Oletta?”
“She runs my house, and she’s the finest cook I’ve ever known. Just wait, you’ll think you went straight to heaven when you taste her chocolate cream pie.”
“But if you live alone, why do you need a cook?”
Aunt Tootie pulled off her gloves and dropped them on a marble-topped chest. “Oletta has been with me for years and years,” she said, removing her hat and scratching her scalp. “Lord knows I tried, but I never was much of a cook. Taylor just loved good food—eating was one of the greatest joys in his life. We needed Oletta back then. When Taylor passed away, I kept her on. She’s family to me. I honestly don’t know what I’d do without her.”
When we climbed the steps to the second floor, I was weak-kneed from sensory overload. A pair of blue-and-white vases, as tall as I was and fi lled with flowers the size of basketballs, flanked the arched corridor at the top of the staircase. I all but got drunk on the perfumed air as we headed down the hall.
“There are four guest bedrooms up here. This one faces the front of the house,” she said, stepping into a room and turning on the overhead light. The bed had four carved posts and was so high off the floor there were little wooden steps to reach it. Long ivory-colored draperies were covered with acres of embroidery and tied back with huge green tassels. Between two windows sat a chest of drawers the size of a refrigerator.
“It’s yours if you want it, Cecelia, but we’ll take a look at all the others before you decide.”
The other bedrooms were much the same as the first—big and fancy—all with their own private bathrooms that had shiny white tubs supported by golden feet that looked like the claws of giant birds.
My aunt chattered away as she continued her tour. I followed, keeping my arms glued to my sides so I wouldn’t bump into anything. As breathtaking as the house was, Aunt Tootie wasn’t even the slightest bit show-offy. In fact, she seemed tethered to the earth and as homey as a comfortable chair.
At the far left side of the upstairs hallway was an alcove with an arched door. “What’s in there?” I asked.
“I’ll show you.” She opened the door, flicked on a light, and led me up a narrow stairway. “There are two bedrooms and a storage room at the end of the hall. And this,” she said, dramatically opening a door, “is the sleeping porch. Isn’t it the sweetest thing you’ve ever seen?”
She walked around the room and flung open tall moss-green shutters to reveal floor-to-ceiling screens. A light breeze rolled in and my aunt took a deep breath. “It smells divine up here, doesn’t it?”
The wooden floor was painted a soft robin’s-egg blue, and the ceiling was pale yellow. An iron bed shaped like a sleigh was smothered with colorful pillows, and when I touched the white comforter, my fingers disappeared as if I’d plunged them into a mound of whipped cream. The room was like a happy tree house made just for girls.
I stepped across the floor and pressed my nose against the window screen. I was up so high I had a bird’s-eye view of the entire garden. “Wow. Is this your bedroom?”
“Oh, no, honey. My bedroom is at the end of the hall on the second floor. When we go back downstairs, I’ll show you.”
A smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. “Aunt Tootie,” I said, turning to face her, “could this be my bedroom?”
She was quiet for a moment, and I wondered if I shouldn’t have asked, like maybe this was a room reserved for special guests. But then she put her arm around my shoulders and nodded. “If I were your age, I believe this is the room I’d pick too. Consider it yours, Cecelia Rose. In the winter months you’ll have to use one of the other bedrooms—this room gets cold—but for now I think it’ll be perfect.”
She gave my shoulders a squeeze. “All right, let’s get your suitcase out of the car and get you settled. Then we’ll have a bite to eat and go to bed. I don’t know about you, but I’m plum worn-out.”
Six
Iwoke to the sound of children’s voices, as faint as the tinkling wind chimes. The voices grew louder and erupted into gales of laughter. I listened until the laughter faded away.
The bedsheets were damp with humidity and sleep, and from the pillowcase I detected a familiar scent: it was just like the lavender sachets Mrs. Odell made every year as Christmas gifts. I rubbed my eyes and tried to sit up, but I was nestled deep in the feather bed, like a baby bird in a nest. Once I freed myself, I sat up and looked arou
nd the room. My dented brown suitcase looked out of place on the pretty floral rug, and my scuffed-up penny loafers looked just plain wrong sitting beneath the delicate antique chair with its crisp, eyelet-ruffled seat cushion.
Thoughts of Momma surfaced. It seemed like she died a long time ago, an event that was now fuzzy and out of focus, from the passage of years instead of days. A terrible ache spread across my chest when I thought of Mrs. Odell. I wondered if she was thinking about me too, and if her chest hurt like mine. My thoughts drifted to the adventure of traveling all those miles to get here, and how only a few hours ago that sign had appeared at the side of the road, spelling out the three words I knew would forever change my life: WELCOME TO SAVANNAH.
All those thoughts swirled in my mind like confetti in a wind-storm. I actually felt dizzy, flopped back on the pillow, and closed my eyes. I must have dozed off, because I was startled when a voice boomed from above me.
“You’re sleeping your life away up here. This ain’t no hotel. Time to get up.”
I bolted upright and blinked. Standing at the end of the bed was a tall, thickly built woman with skin as smooth and brown as a chestnut. A bright yellow-and-blue-striped scarf was coiled around her head, and a white apron hung loosely over her shapeless graydress.
Her brown eyes narrowed. “I ain’t got time for no lazybones today. You need to get up and get yourself dressed.”
She propped her hands on her hips and waited for me to say something. But my tongue had turned thick, and all I could do was stare.
“You got five minutes to get downstairs—that’s all. Understand?”
A strong breeze pushed through the windows and lifted the edge of her apron like a sail. She smoothed it down and headed toward the door. As she disappeared I heard her grumble, “Lord, next time I climb this many steps it best be on the stairway to heaven. That’s all I gotta say.”
I listened to the slow thump, thump, thump as she lumbered down the stairs. When the sound of her footsteps faded, I bolted out of bed, brushed my teeth, and got dressed.
When I descended the stairs and entered the room Aunt Tootie had called the foy-yay, an overwhelming longing to be back in Ohio washed over me. It was so powerful I had to stop for a minute and collect myself. I looked down at my rumpled clothes, and while trying to smooth out my T-shirt, I knew I didn’t belong in this beautiful house.
Her voice thundered down the hall behind me. “Hello! I’m speakin’ to you.”
I snapped to attention and turned. Framed in an open doorway at the end of the hall, she stood on a pair of thick legs that sagged into boxy brown shoes. “C’mon, breakfast is ready.”
My heart raced and my bare feet slapped against the shiny wood floor as I scurried down the hall. I followed her shadow through an arched doorway and into the kitchen.
“The table’s in there,” she said, tilting her head toward a door. “Miz Tootie went to the beauty parlor, and then she’s goin’ to a board meeting. She won’t be home till after lunch.”
I nodded, gingerly pushed open the door, and stepped into a sun-splashed room that overlooked a garden. A round table draped in a pink-and-white plaid tablecloth sat in the center of the room. Fancy silverware engraved with swirling initials sat atop a linen napkin, and on the table were two white china plates. Carefully I picked one up and held it to the light. It was so delicate I could almost see right through it.
The door from the kitchen swung open, and I quickly returned the plate to the table. She walked in with a tray in her hands and set it on the table. Silence fi lled the room as we considered each other.
“Are you Oletta?”
“Umm-hmm.” From a gleaming crystal pitcher she poured orange juice into a glass and set it on the table with a loud thunk. “This is a fine home,” she said, leveling her dark eyes on me. “And fine homes have rules. And one of them rules is wearin’ shoes to the table.”
I looked at my bare feet and felt my cheeks flame.
Her voice softened a bit when she said. “Just remember for next time. Okay?”
I nodded.
“Now, sit yourself down so I can serve breakfast.”
Oletta placed a starched white doily on the plate in front of me while I pulled out a chair and sat down. On top of the doily she set a bowl covered by a dome-shaped silver lid. Next she set out two small glass bowls that looked like they were carved from ice; one was fi lled with raspberries and the other with brown sugar. With a pair of silver tongs she placed a frosted cinnamon roll on a small plate. Her eyes bore a hole right through me when she hooked her finger through the handle of the domed lid and lifted it to reveal a bowl of steaming hot oatmeal. She replaced the lid with a sharp-sounding ting, turned, and left the room.
Oatmeal.
I remembered a blustery cold morning back in 1963. I had walked into the kitchen to find Momma standing at the stove. Steam rose in the air, and beads of moisture dripped down the windowpane as she frantically stirred a pot. When she saw me in the doorway, she smiled and told me to sit at the table while she finished.
A few minutes later she ceremoniously placed a bowl of oatmeal in front of me, propped her hands on her hips, and smiled. “I made a special surprise for my sweet little honey-bunny. Happy birthday.”
I peered into the bowl in disbelief. Sprinkled on top of the lumpy oatmeal were chunks of broken candy canes, and if that wasn’t bad enough, Momma had topped it off with a sprinkle of paprika and three shriveled-up green olives. I stared into the bowl, stupefied.
But worst of all: it wasn’t my birthday.
I pushed that memory aside and gazed out the window at Aunt Tootie’s garden. Mounds of creamy-white flowers billowed over the edge of the brick patio like runaway soapsuds. I thought about Mrs. Odell—how much she loved flowers—and me. Next thing I knew tears flooded my eyes. I pressed my palms to my cheeks and tried to grab hold of myself, but I was powerless to stop the avalanche of emotions that crashed in on me.
Coming to Savannah was a colossal mistake. I didn’t fi t in and I knew I never would. I buried my face into my hands, let out a muffled sob, and wondered how much it would cost for a bus ticket back to Willoughby. I had fi fteen dollars shoved inside my suitcase, and I’d use that to get as close to home as I could. I’d walk the rest of the way if I had to. I didn’t know when I’d ever felt so low or cried so hard. Probably never.
I was startled when something pressed against the bare flesh of my arm. I looked up to see Oletta standing next to me with a scowl on her face as she tapped a box of tissues against my skin. I took one and blotted my eyes.
“What’s the matter with you, child?”
I blew my nose. “Everything’s the matter with me.”
Her eyebrows lifted into high arches. “Everything? Well, that’s a whoooole lot.”
I don’t know what happened, but my hands began to shake, and my scalp felt like it was on fire. Something deep within me let loose, and I broke wide open. Before I could stop myself, I told Oletta about Momma’s Goodwill shopping sprees, her fits of rage, and how my dad had walked out on us. The more I told Oletta, the more I cried, pulling one tissue after another from the box she’d set on the table. I couldn’t believe all the things I heard myself say.
What are you doing? Are you crazy? Stop it, CeeCee. Shut up. Shut up.
But my mouth had disengaged from my brain, and I jabbered on and on.
Oletta’s eyes grew as round as silver dollars as she listened to my tear-soaked autobiography. She never said a word; she just pulled out the chair next to me and lowered herself down with a tired-sounding groan.
“Nobody liked me,” I mumbled into a wad of soggy tissue. “The only friend I ever had was Mrs. Odell. And now I’ll never see her again.”
When I finally grabbed hold of myself and realized I’d exposed the worst of my shame, I clamped my mouth shut and looked down at my hands. I wanted to crawl into a hole and die for all the things I’d just revealed.
“Sorry,” I whispered.
&n
bsp; Oletta reached over and lifted the lid off the oatmeal. “Eat your breakfast before it gets cold.”
My stomach was tied in knots, but I didn’t want to insult her by not eating the breakfast she’d prepared. Halfheartedly I dipped my spoon into the oatmeal, but when it touched my tongue, my taste buds snapped awake.
Oletta reached out and spooned some brown sugar onto the oatmeal, followed by some plump berries. She never took her eyes off me as I emptied the entire bowl and gulped down a glass of orange juice. I had the sinking feeling Oletta had summed me up pretty fast, and I was sure the word pathetic was in her mind.
“Miz Tootie left in a hurry. I didn’t catch what your name was.”
“My name is CeeCee. CeeCee Honeycutt,” I said, plucking the cinnamon roll from the plate. I took a bite and an involuntary moan of pleasure pushed past my lips. It was the most extraordinary thing I’d ever tasted. A rush of sugar exploded into my veins, and with my mouth full of that sugary, buttery sweetness, I let out a nervous laugh and started crying all over again. “I’m the daughter of the 1951 Vidalia Onion Queen.”
Oletta slapped her hands on her thighs. “Sweet baby Jesus. That’s some kinda crazy life you was livin’. Um-um-um. No wonder you’re cryin’ and carryin’ on.” She pressed her lips together and looked at me with such intensity, I got a sudden chill. I could see a storm of questions gathering in her eyes. “How old are you, child?”
“Twelve.”
“Twelve? You sure is tiny for twelve. I thought you was about nine or ten. There ain’t much to you but skin and bones.” She rested back in the chair and shook her head. “So, your daddy didn’t want to face all the problems your momma was having and he up and walked out, leaving you all alone without your momma’s hand to guide you. That’s a sad, sad story. C’mon over here, child,” she said, patting her lap. “Let me give you some sugar.”
I had no idea what she meant, but at her urging I got up from the table. As she eased me onto her lap, I leaned against her shoulder and inhaled her scent. She smelled of warm cinnamon and kindness.
