by Beth Hoffman
“Oh, we had such a productive meeting this morning,” she said, climbing the steps of the porch. “We’ve been trying to save the Pemberton place from that nasty wreckin’ ball for months, and we finally did.” She sat in a chair next to Oletta with a satisfied smile on her face.
“You mean that old house over by Lafayette Square?” Oletta said, furrowing her brow. “Lord, ain’t much left to save, is there?”
Aunt Tootie gazed across the garden. “It’s in critical condition, there’s no doubt about it, but that house is a wonderful example of Italianate architecture. Oh, you should see the moldings and balustrades. And the fireplaces are gorgeous beyond words. Today we got another sizable donation, and finally we’ve raised enough money to buy that wonderful old home.”
“What will you do with it, Aunt Tootie?”
“I hope we’ll find someone to buy it and have it rehabilitated.”
“Can I see it sometime?”
“Oh, I’d love to show it to you, sugar. As soon as we take possession and get the keys, I’ll take you over. And guess what else I did today? I went shopping for you. It was so much fun. Wait till you see what all I got. Will you help me with the bags?”
Together we hauled more than a dozen bags from the trunk of her car, lugged them upstairs to my room, and piled them on the bed. Aunt Tootie sat in the chair by the desk. “Open them up, honey. Let’s see how everything fits.”
Inside the first bag was a shoe box. I lifted the lid and peered down at a pair of dark blue sneakers with white laces.
“Red Ball Jets.” I was so excited I kicked off my scuffed-up loafers, sat on the floor, and put them on. All my life I’d dreamed of having a pair.
“Do they fit all right?”
I rose to my feet and walked around the room. “They’re perfect.”
I tore through the remaining bags and pulled out enough summer dresses to clothe all the debutantes in Georgia. And there were shorts, blue jeans, sweaters, T-shirts, underpants with flowers on the waistbands, and then there were jumpers, pajamas, and a pair of shiny black patent-leather party shoes. Inside the last bag was a large pale blue box.
Aunt Tootie clasped her hands beneath her chin, looking so excited that I couldn’t imagine what was inside. I removed the lid, unfolded the crisp tissue, and lifted out a fancy white party dress. When I got a good look at it, my throat tightened.
Oh, no. Oh, God, please, no.
The dress in my hands was nearly identical to Momma’s pageant dress, just a miniature version.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” my aunt gushed, her eyes gleaming. “The moment I saw it in the window of Betsy’s Belles I had a fit over it. I just had to get it for you.”
A long-forgotten memory flashed through my mind.
It was a breezy spring day, the kind of day where the air is so fresh and clean it makes your nose tingle. Mrs. Odell and I had spent the entire morning turning the soil in her garden in preparation for planting. As we returned the tools to her shed, she invited me inside for a lunch of grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup. But my socks were wet, my shoes were caked with mud, and my feet were cold. So I told her I’d run home, change my shoes and socks, and be back in a few minutes. As I approached the house, I heard the radio blaring from an open window. I left my shoes on the back steps and walked into the kitchen. Momma’s white pageant dress was draped over the ironing board. Whenever I saw that dress a siren went off in my head—Momma was in trouble.
I turned off the radio and glanced into the living room. Momma was standing on a hassock in front of the living room window, her face slathered with cold cream. She was talking into a wooden spoon as if it were a microphone.
Other than the fuzzy yellow slippers on her feet, she was totally naked. This was a stunt I hadn’t seen before, and desperation clawed its way up my spine. I bolted to the front widow and pulled the curtains closed. “Momma! Get down from there,” I said, grabbing her hand and all but yanking her off the hassock. “For Pete’s sake, put some clothes on!”
Her eyes blazed with outrage. She threw the spoon on the floor and screeched, “You just ruined it!”
“Ruined what?”
She pushed past me, ran up the stairs, and slammed her bedroom door.
When she was like this, there was nothing I could do. I was about to head back to Mrs. Odell’s when I thought, Oh no. What if Momma stands in front of her bedroom window and somebody sees her!
I dashed up the stairs.
As I knocked on her door, begging her to let me in, I realized I had just taken my father’s place: there I was, standing outside her locked bedroom door, frustrated and helpless and just plain tired. Tired of it all.
Aunt Tootie’s voice startled me. “Sugar, is something wrong?”
“No,” I said, plastering a smile on my face. “Everything’s fine. I’m just so . . . so happy. Thank you for all these pretty clothes and shoes.” I averted my eyes and picked up a shoe box.
“You’re welcome. I had so much fun picking everything out. I know I should have taken you with me, but I wanted it to be a surprise.”
While we hung my new dresses in the closet, my aunt said, “Would you like to go out for dinner and a movie tonight?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I just love a good movie,” she said, smoothing the skirt of a pale yellow sundress before hanging it in the closet. “Did your mother take you to movies?”
“No. But Mrs. Odell did a few times.”
“What kinds of fun things did you and your mother do together?”
I just stood there, staring blankly at my aunt. What was I to say—that living with Momma was about as much fun as living with a hurricane stuffed in the closet?
Aunt Tootie grew quiet and studied me. “Honey,” she said, cupping her hand beneath my chin, “I don’t want to pry, but I think we need to talk about your mother.”
I looked away. “Not now, please?”
She hesitated, then rested her hand on my shoulder. “All right. But soon.”
After gathering the empty bags, she stepped toward the door. “I’ll go look at the newspaper and see what movies are playing.”
After she left the room, I got down on my knees and pulled Momma’s scrapbook from its hiding place beneath the mattress. I flipped to the page that held the glossy eight-by-ten color picture that was taken when she was crowned Vidalia Onion Queen. I was right. The party dress Aunt Tootie had bought me was eerily similar to Momma’s pageant dress: crisp white with a full gathered skirt, sleeveless, scoop neck, and a zipper up the back. It even had layers of crinoline petticoats. The only real difference I could see was that Momma’s dress didn’t have a sash at the waist and mine did.
Momma had been wearing that dress on the day she died, and though her casket had been closed, I imagined she was still wearing it, along with her red shoes, when she was lowered into the ground. It wasn’t a vision I could wipe easily from my mind.
I closed the scrapbook and shoved it back under the mattress.
As I smoothed the comforter into place, terrifying thoughts bumped around in my head. What if the dress Aunt Tootie bought me is an omen of the worst possible kind? Has Momma’s illness been passed down to me? Am I genetically doomed? Will it only be a matter of time before my mind corrodes like hers did?
Wanting the dress as far from sight as possible, I walked to the closet and pushed it all the way to the end of the pole, then I rearranged and fluffed up my other dresses so it all but vanished behind cotton prints, checks, and stripes. With any luck, maybe Aunt Tootie would forget all about it.
Eight
Friday was a busy day in Aunt Tootie’s house. She was out the door before eight o’clock in the morning to attend a special meeting of the Historic Savannah Foundation. Around nine-thirty, a light blue van rumbled its way down the alley behind the house and parked next to the garage. Two men came through the garden gate, one carrying hedge clippers and a tote bag fi lled with gardening tools, the other pushing a lawnmower.
Within minutes I heard the snip, snip of the clippers, and soon the roar of the lawnmower rolled in through the open windows, growing loud, then soft, then loud again as it was pushed up and down the yard.
Oletta was busy too. With the fan humming at the kitchen ceiling, she was baking bread and cinnamon rolls for Aunt Tootie and me to eat over the weekend. Though I’d lived in this big old house for only a few days, already Oletta and I had established a morning routine. As sweet, yeasty aromas fi lled the air, I’d sit on a stool by the chopping block and read aloud to Oletta from one of my Nancy Drew books.
“That Nancy Drew sure is smart,” Oletta said, shaping bread dough into a pan. “You read real good too—got yourself a nice voice.”
Her words made me blush. “I’ve read this book so many times I know it by heart. I looked at the books in Aunt Tootie’s library, but they all seem kinda boring.”
She slid a bread pan into the oven. “Most all them books was Mr. Taylor’s, rest his sweet soul. Too bad you never got the chance to meet him—finest man I ever did know. A real gentleman.” She shook her head. “They don’t make ’em like him no more.”
“What did he die from?”
“Heart attack,” she said, leaning over the stove to set the timer. “He passed away sittin’ in his favorite chair in the library. Oh, how that man loved to read. Every night after supper he’d sit himself down and read till bedtime.”
Oletta headed for the pantry, and I slid off the stool and followed. “How did he get so rich?”
“Mr. Taylor bought a lot of land in Florida way, way back,” she said, lifting a sack of flour from the shelf. “When he sold it, he made himself bushels of money. He had something to do with mining too, not coal, but them big stone quarries. He was a powerful man and a kind, kind soul. Usually them two things don’t go together.”
We returned to the kitchen and I held the canister steady so Oletta could pour in the flour. “Most of the books in the library are history books. He must have liked history a lot.”
Oletta nodded. “He sure did. But I don’t think none of them books would be anything you’d like. Later this afternoon I’ll walk you down to the public library. I’m sure they got lots of books for children.” She looked at me and winked. “Even real smart ones like you.”
From behind me a woman spoke—had it been a color, her voice would have been a velvety shade of purple. “No need to go to the library.”
I looked over my shoulder and sucked in my breath. It was like the universe had cracked wide open. Poised in the doorway, one perfectly manicured hand on her hip and the other resting on the doorjamb, was the reigning empress of some strange, exotic land. Though she’d long since passed the zenith of youth, unmistakable remnants of a mysterious beauty oozed from the pores of her porcelain-white skin. Swirling around her ankles, as light as smoke and the color of midnight, was a silk caftan splashed with bits of silver glitter. Her wavy red hair was pinned high on top of her head like the plumage of an alien bird.
“I have a library in my house that doesn’t get a lick of attention except for an occasional dusting,” she said from the reddest lips I’d ever seen. “You’re welcome to come have a look and borrow anything you’d like.” She smiled a slow, catlike smile. “I take it you must be Cecelia.”
Oletta grinned. “How you doin’, Miz Goodpepper? This here child is Cecelia Rose Honeycutt, Miz Tootie’s grandniece. And Cecelia, this is Miz Thelma Rae Goodpepper, she lives next door.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Cecelia,” she said, floating toward me in a pair of silver lamé slippers. She extended her hand, and perched on her right pointer finger was a deep green ring the size of a walnut.
I didn’t know if I should kiss her ring or curtsy. Finally I took hold of her outstretched hand and managed to push out the words “Thank you.”
Her blue eyes twinkled. “And like I said, please come over and go through my library. I have thousands of books, and I’m sure you’d find several to your liking.”
She flashed a sideways glance at Oletta. “I was sitting in my garden, having a cup of coffee, when the most heavenly ambrosia floated through the air. And I said to myself, ‘Thelma Rae, Oletta’s making her fabulous cinnamon rolls.’”
Oletta pointed to the rolls with pride. “Your nose was right. I got a dozen of ’em right there on the rack. When they cool, I’ll ice ’em up real nice.”
Miz Goodpepper closed her eyes, pressed a hand to her breast, and inhaled deeply. “Oletta, you are the culinary goddess of Savannah. I know it’s shameful how I come over here sniffing the air like a dog, begging for your baked goods. But I’d love to have one or two if you’ve got them to spare.”
Oletta beamed like neon. “You know I always make extra for you. I’ll send Cecelia over with ’em after I make the icing.”
“You’re such a treasure,” she said with a breathy exhale. “You know, I kick myself every day—I should have snapped you away from Tootie years ago.” She lifted her slender fingers to her lips and blew Oletta a big, lip-smacking kiss, turned, and disappeared, leaving a swirl of spicy perfume in her wake.
It was at that very moment when I first felt the powerful undertow of beauty.
Later in the day, Oletta placed three thickly iced cinnamon rolls on a paper plate. “These should make Miz Goodpepper happy. I gave her the biggest ones.”
“She looks like . . . well, like she’s from a foreign country or something,” I said, dipping my finger into the icing bowl.
“Miz Goodpepper’s lived in Savannah all her life, but she does dress a little strange at times, I’ll grant you that,” she said, smoothing tinfoil over the top of the plate and pinching down the edges. “Take these over to her, will you? There’s a path at the side of the garden that leads into her backyard.”
My heart made a flip-flop. What it was I couldn’t have said, but something about Miz Goodpepper scared me. I took a step back and chewed my lip.
Oletta furrowed her brow. “What’s the matter, child?”
“M-m-maybe-e-e you could go with me?” I sputtered.
She studied me through squinted eyes. “Is you afraid of Miz Goodpepper?”
“I . . . well, maybe a little.”
“Oh, Cecelia,” she said with a laugh. “Ain’t no reason to be. Miz Goodpepper’s just as nice as she can be. So don’t you worry.” Oletta handed me the foil-covered plate and nodded toward the back door. “Now, go on, I’ve got to keep an eye on the oven.”
Knowing there was no way to wiggle my way out of it, I took the plate and headed out the door. Already I felt tongue-tied just from the thought of being alone with Miz Goodpepper.
I walked beneath a giant live oak, and found a small opening in the hedge shrouded by a ferocious twist of moss-covered branches. I took a deep breath and stepped into Miz Goodpepper’s yard. Grateful that she was nowhere in sight, I moved along a path that led to the back porch of her house, hoping I could leave the plate by the door and skedaddle back home.
The yard was a sea of living color. Never had I seen so many flowers in one place. Classical music sailed across the extravagant garden. Where it came from I didn’t know, but it was like an orchestra was hidden in the lush foliage. I walked beneath a vine-smothered trellis, and Miz Goodpepper’s house came into full view. It was a colossal monstrosity of gray stone that looked more like a mausoleum than a place where someone actually lived.
I was startled by a screech and turned to see a peacock standing in a sunny spot on the lawn. He was so beautiful I caught my breath. I stood still as he took a few tentative steps toward me, and then he stopped, tilted his head, and scanned me from head to toe. I figured he was disappointed in what he saw because he flattened his top-knot and strutted away.
I heard a splash followed by a gurgle, and turned to see Miz Goodpepper’s head appear above a thick hedge. Her hair was dripping wet.
“Well, what a nice surprise,” she said, wrapping her head in a towel. “Let me get something on. I’ll be out in a secon
d.”
A moment later she appeared, wearing a pale, silvery-blue satin robe and a pair of iridescent pink flip-flops. When she saw the look on my face, her lips curled ever so slightly. “I take it you’ve never seen an outdoor bath before,” she mused, tightening the belt of her robe. She gestured toward a perfectly clipped opening in the foliage. “Come have a look.”
I took a few steps forward and peered in. On a slab of thick gray marble sat a moss-stained, claw-footed bathtub. Frothy soapsuds spun down the drain, gurgling as they went. Next to the tub stood a life-size marble statue of a naked woman with her arms outstretched. Draped over one of her hands was a damp towel.
Miz Goodpepper gazed at her tub fondly. “It’s charming, don’t you think? I call it my secret garden spa. You’ll have to come over and try it sometime. I especially like to use it late at night. There’s nothing more relaxing than to lean back and watch the stars.” She nodded toward the peacock. “I see you’ve met Louie. He’s such a handsome boy, though he isn’t very social. He belongs to a neighbor, but wanders over here quite often.” She flashed the bird an intimate look. “Louie’s a bit of a voyeur—he likes to peek through the bushes and watch me bathe.”
I didn’t know what to say about her secret garden spa or the peacock being a voyeur, so I offered her the foil-covered plate. “These are from Oletta.”
“Thank you, darling,” she said, making an elegant gesture toward her house. “Welcome to my home, Cecelia. Please come inside.”
A warm breeze sent her robe fluttering around her ankles, and the faint scent of bubble bath wafted through the air as I followed her. Louie let out a deafening squawk and headed in the opposite direction.
When we entered Miz Goodpepper’s kitchen, I glanced down at my wrinkled shorts and dusty Red Ball Jets, feeling frumpy—like Daffy Duck standing in the presence of a great blue heron. The next thing I knew, Miz Goodpepper grabbed hold of my hand and whisked me down a long cool hallway.
