by Beth Hoffman
The foreman’s voice boomed. “Now, hold on! You can’t go up there. It’s dangerous.”
Aunt Tootie ignored him and kept on marching. He spit out a cuss word, lifted his fingers to his lips, and let out a sharp whistle. “Pete, stop the crane. Jesus Christ, stop!”
The crane slowed to a stop but the engine remained idling as the operator stood to see what was going on.
“Ma’am, now I mean it, come back here,” the foreman said, walking toward her and shaking his head.
Just as she turned to face him, a screech of tires sounded. Car after car pulled to the curb, doors flew open, and women of all shapes and sizes poured out. They came rushing across the lawn like a stampede of buffalo in flowery dresses.
“The demolition permit was revoked!” a woman wearing a pink dress called out, waving her arms in the air.
“That’s right,” said a woman with rosy cheeks and curly gray hair.
The foreman held up his hands like a traffic cop. “Whoa. Now, y’all hold on.” But the women had him surrounded and began talking all at once, pointing their fingers at the crane.
“You’re not to touch a single brick of this house,” a woman with tight silver curls scolded, her jowls shaking with fury. “Now, tell your man to turn that thing off !”
He looked over at the crane, made a motion with his hand, and yelled. “Shut her down, Pete!” The rumble of the crane’s engine wound down, then it stopped with a belch of blue smoke. The crane operator lit a cigarette, leaned back on the seat, and put his feet up. He looked like he was enjoying the show.
A police car pulled up and an officer strutted toward the house. “What’s goin’ on here?”
“I have a permit to tear down this house, but these women are—”
“No you don’t. I have the key to this house right here!” the woman in the pink dress said with anger in her eyes.
“Now, Mrs. Wells,” the policeman soothed, “calm down a minute. We’ll get this straightened out.” He turned and looked at the foreman. “Let’s see that permit.”
“I don’t care what permit he has,” my aunt said evenly. “We own this house and it’s not to be touched.”
When the policeman saw Aunt Tootie, he tipped his hat and said, “Well, good mornin’, Miz Caldwell.”
“Good morning, Doug,” she said pleasantly. “How’s your mother feeling? I know she had her gallbladder removed. I sent her flowers.”
“Yes, ma’am, and she sure appreciated ’em.”
Just then a tall man in a dark blue suit walked briskly across the lawn, a black briefcase swinging at his side. “My name is T. Johnson Fuller. I’m an attorney representing the Foundation. And you are?” he asked the foreman, who still had powdered sugar on his chin.
“Grady Tucker of Wilder Demolition Company,” he said, shaking the attorney’s outstretched hand. “This house is scheduled to be demolished today. I got all the permits in my truck, and—”
“Well, Mr. Tucker, I’m afraid there’s been a gross error. The city building department committed an oversight,” Mr. Fuller said, pulling papers from his briefcase. “An injunction to stop the demolition was fi led, and Judge Goodwin ruled in favor of the injunction. Yesterday this house was sold to the Historic Savannah Foundation, and . . .”
I clutched Aunt Tootie’s hand, marveling at all the hullabaloo going on just for a saggy old house. She stood, all prim and proper in her blue chambray dress and little straw hat, smiling as if this were a church social.
I don’t know, maybe I got all caught up in the excitement and it was just my imagination. But as strange as it sounds, when it became obvious there would be no demolishing, I thought I heard that old house let out a creaky groan, as if it were grateful to be saved from the grips of death.
Mr. Fuller set down his briefcase and pulled a card from the breast pocket of his jacket. “Why don’t you come over to my office so we can sort this out? I’m just a block from the courthouse.”
The foreman took the card and looked it over. “What time do you want me to stop by?”
“I’m heading back to the office now, and I’ll be there for the rest of the morning.”
“All right,” the foreman grumbled. “I’ll wrap things up here and be over within a half hour or so.”
All the women sighed with relief. Aunt Tootie grinned, put her arm around my shoulders, and gave me a squeeze.
The policeman tipped his hat to Aunt Tootie and her friends. “Glad this all worked out. Now, you ladies have a nice day.”
“Thanks so much,” the woman in the pink dress said.
Aunt Tootie patted his arm. “You be sure to give your mother my best.”
“I’ll do that, Miz Caldwell.”
We all watched as the lawyer and the policemen walked to the street, climbed into their cars, and drove away.
Aunt Tootie looked at the foreman and smiled. “Mr. Tucker?”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Powdered sugar,” she said, dusting her hand over her chin.
He looked a bit embarrassed as he wiped it away, then he turned and instructed Pete to start up the crane and move it off the property. All the women smiled triumphantly as they watched it rumble across the lawn, leaving gouged-up pieces of earth in its wake.
Aunt Tootie introduced me to her friends, making a fuss and telling them how lucky she was to have me. “I can’t tell y’all what a joy it is to have Cecelia Rose living with me. She’s just a delight and such a big help in the garden. She even loves to pull weeds.”
The woman with the rosy cheeks laughed and looked at me. “Honey, you can come pull weeds in my garden anytime.”
We all talked for a few minutes, and then the women began to leave.
“Sara Jane,” my aunt said, “could I have the key to the house? I’d like to show Cecelia the inside.”
“Of course. You can give it back to me at Friday’s meeting,” she said, retrieving the key from her handbag. “You know, Tootie, this was sheer providence. Thank heavens you overheard those men talking about this at breakfast. Can you imagine? We would have had a title to nothing but a pile of bricks.”
Aunt Tootie nodded. “Well, as the saying goes—the Lord works in mysterious ways.”
“That He does,” Sara Jane said as she turned and headed toward her car. “That He surely does.”
After we waved good-bye, Aunt Tootie and I walked toward the house. “Now, be careful when we go inside,” she said, unlocking the front door. “There are shards of glass everywhere, and some of the floorboards are broken. I don’t want you falling through to the cellar.”
“You’ve been inside before?”
“Oh, yes. The members of the Foundation came here several months ago; that’s when we knew we had to save it.”
She pushed the door open and we stepped into an entrance hall. The sunlight could barely push through the grimy windowpanes, and scattered across the dusty hardwood floors was a carpet of dead wasps and flies. Dingy floral wallpaper had loosened from the walls in stiff, cracked sheets, and the ceilings were covered with scales of peeling paint. To me the house was a disaster, but from the look on Aunt Tootie’s face, you’d have thought we’d entered Buckingham Palace.
“Look at this gorgeous staircase. Even under all that awful paint, I can see that the balusters are magnificent.”
I smiled up at her, but I didn’t see what was so special about them. It looked like a bunch of chubby spindles all slopped up with paint.
“Come look at this,” she said, leading me into a room and pointing out a crystal chandelier swathed in dirty cobwebs. “I can’t wait to see it restored. Oh, Cecelia, can you imagine how many lively dinner parties took place under the glow of this chandelier? You know what surprises me most?”
“What?” I said, stepping over a rolled-up rug.
“That so many of this home’s original details survived all those years of abuse and neglect.”
She walked to the far wall, where a pair of tall windows flanked an en
ormous fireplace. “This fireplace was crafted from two solid pieces of marble—one piece for the mantel and the other for the entire front. And these,” she said, gesturing to delicate flowers cascading down each side of the fireplace, “were all hand-carved by a fine Italian craftsman. His name was Alphonse Brunalli, and he was well respected for his artistry. Such talent to carve these flowers, can you even imagine?”
I smoothed my fingers over a dusty petal. “It’s beautiful, Aunt Tootie. This fireplace looks like it belongs in a museum.”
“You’re touching an important piece of history, that’s for sure.”
She showed me the rest of the house, words I’d never heard falling easily from her lips—parquetry, guilloche, corbel—and then, like the curator in a museum, she’d tell me what they meant. I followed her from room to room, amazed. Not so much by the house, but by her knowledge and enthusiasm. But by the time we reached the third floor, I had to admit that I felt a small stirring of hope for the old house.
When we descended the back stairway, dried bug carcasses crunched beneath our feet. “It sounds like we’re walking on Rice Krispies,” I said. And my aunt laughed.
Just as I thought we were going to leave, Aunt Tootie stopped in the hallway and closed her eyes. “Oh, Cecelia, isn’t it a wonder?” she said with a look of ecstasy on her face. “This house is alive with history. I can feel it humming through the soles of my shoes.”
I looked down at the floor and waited. But I didn’t feel anything.
“All right,” she said, guiding me out the door, “let’s go home.”
As we headed to the car, I looked up at her. “You sure do love saving old houses.”
“Oh, yes, I do. It’s my fire.”
“Your fire?”
She glanced over her shoulder at the house, which was now bathed in a warm tint of yellow from the sun. “Yes. Everyone needs to find the one thing that brings out her passion. It’s what we do and share with the world that matters. I believe it’s important that we leave our communities in better shape than we found them.
“Cecelia Rose, she said, reaching for my hand, “far too many people die with a heart that’s gone flat with indifference, and it surely must be a terrible way to go. Life will offer us amazing opportunities, but we’ve got to be wide-awake to recognize them.”
She rested her hands on my shoulders and looked into my eyes. “If there’s one thing I’d like most for you, it’s that you’ll find your calling in life. That’s where true happiness and purpose lies. Whether it’s taking care of abandoned animals, saving old houses from the wreckin’ ball, or reading to the blind, you’ve got to find your fire, sugar. You’ll never be fulfi lled if you don’t.”
I thought about what she said, and as we climbed into the car I looked at her thoughtfully. “But how will I know what my fire is?”
She pulled the keys from her handbag and started the engine. “Oh, you’ll know. One day you’ll do something, see something, or get an idea that seems to pop up from nowhere. And you’ll feel a kind of stirring—like a warm flicker inside your chest. When that happens, whatever you do, don’t ignore it. Open your mind and explore the idea. Fan your flame. And when you do, you’ll have found it.”
As she stepped on the gas and pulled away from the curb, my aunt’s words settled deep within me. What my fire was, I didn’t know. But I promised myself that I’d find out.
On the drive home, I thought about Momma and all those lost years of her life. If she had found her fire would she still be alive? And if, sometime in her life she did find it, what had put it out?
Ten
Iwas changing the sheets on my bed when Aunt Tootie called from the bottom of the stairs, “Cecelia Rose?” “Yes, ma’am.”
“I’ve got a surprise. I’ll be right up.” I listened to the creaking of the stairs, and a moment later she appeared in the doorway with a package and an envelope in her hands. She smiled, and offered me the envelope first.
“It’s from Mrs. Odell!” I squealed, ripping open the envelope. I opened the ivory note card and read:My dear Cecelia,
I think of you every day. Remember the zinnias you planted in my border garden? They’re already blooming. They’re the prettiest zinnias I’ve ever had. I think you have a special touch. When you can, please write and tell me how you are. I miss our Sunday morning breakfasts so much.
All my love,
Mrs. O
As I set the note on my desk, Aunt Tootie handed me the package. “This is just a little something I thought you might enjoy.”
I opened the bag and pulled out a square box. “A camera! I’ve never had one.”
“It’s a Polaroid. You know, the kind that takes those instant pictures. I don’t know exactly how it works. When it comes to things mechanical, I’m dumber than a jaybird, but there’s a booklet inside that explains everything.”
I opened the box and pulled out the camera and the instruction manual. “Wow. This is great. I’ve seen ads for these on TV. Thank you.”
She patted my shoulder and smiled. “I hope you’ll have fun with it.”
“Oh, I know I will.” I stood on my tiptoes and kissed her cheek.
Later that evening, Aunt Tootie and I went for a leisurely walk. I took my new camera and snapped pictures along the way. Each time I pressed the button, the camera made a whirring sound and spit out the picture, and we’d both laugh; it was like making a miracle happen.
“Oh, look,” Aunt Tootie said, stopping by an iron fence. She pointed out a white water lily floating in a pond. “It looks like a cup and saucer, don’t you think?”
I nodded, leaned over the fence, and took three pictures: one for Aunt Tootie, one for Oletta, and the third I’d send to Mrs. Odell.
“You’re good at picture taking,” my aunt said as we turned down Bull Street. “I’m going to frame this and put it on my desk.”
“You think it’s that good?”
“Yes, Cecelia Rose. I do. I think you are a very smart and talented young lady.”
Her words made me smile.
While heading home, Aunt Tootie said, “I’m having lunch with my sister, Lucille, and her best friend tomorrow. They live down in Brunswick. It isn’t all that far away, and it’s a nice drive. Would you like to go with me?”
“Yes, ma’am. I love riding in the car with you.”
“Wonderful. I can’t wait to tell Lucille—she’ll be tickled you’re coming along. We’ll leave around ten o’clock in the morning.”
During our drive to Brunswick, Aunt Tootie told me about her sister. Lucille was once married to an Irishman called Dutch. She had been young and happy and pretty, and Dutch was older and handsome—a big jokester kind of a guy who loved to bet on the horses.
Dutch laughed and sang his way into Aunt Lu’s heart and married her less than three months after they met. Two years later, while she was minding the store on a rainy Tuesday afternoon, Dutch emptied her savings account, stole her mother’s antique diamond watch, and laughed his way out of town, driving Aunt Lu’s brand-new Chevrolet coupe. All this happened so fast that poor Aunt Lu never knew what hit her.
That experience did something to Aunt Lu—something real bad. From that day forward she wanted nothing more to do with men, and she never did get another car. She spent her days tending the jewelry store, and her nights locked away in the apartment above it, with her Perry Como record collection, her knitting, and her one-eared cat, Napoleon.
Aunt Tootie sighed and glanced over at me. “But as hard as that awful ordeal was on Lucille, she’s made her peace with it.”
When we arrived in Brunswick, Aunt Tootie pulled down a wide street lined with all sorts of shops. She parked the car and pointed out a narrow brick building that was three stories tall. Peeling gold letters spanned the small front window and spelled out the name: BRUNSWICK FINE JEWELERS.
“My father opened this store way back in 1887. It’s been in the family ever since.”
Aunt Tootie opened the door of the jewel
ry shop and a small bell tinkled overhead. Lining the walls were long glass cases, each of them brightly lit and fi lled with jewelry displayed on puffy black velvet pillows.
A door swung open at the back of the store and a prim little woman appeared. “Tallulah!” she said, fumbling to remove a pair of magnifying glasses that were strapped over her head. She set them on a jewelry case and rushed forward to give me a hug. She smelled like lily of the valley cologne. “Welcome, Cecelia. I remember holding you when you were just a baby.”
“Really?”
Her watery blue eyes twinkled when she nodded. “I rode all the way up to Ohio with Tallulah not long after you were born. I’m so glad to see you again.”
From somewhere outside a clock sounded twelve loud bongs.
“Lunchtime,” Aunt Lu said, pulling a small key from her pocket. She opened the cash register, slid two nickels from the change tray, and scurried out the door. From the window we watched her pick an empty parking spot. She leaned forward and listened to the whir of the coin counter as she pushed the nickels into the parking meter. A moment later she came inside and said, “Will you give me a hand?”
While she and Aunt Tootie hauled an old vinyl-topped card table out to the parking space, I followed, lugging three folding chairs.
“Where’s the fourth chair?” Aunt Tootie asked.
“It broke so I tossed it out. Rosa is bringing her chair. I’ll be right back.”
After she disappeared inside her shop, I looked at the old card table. “We’re having lunch out here?”
Aunt Tootie smiled. “If you ask Rosa and Lu about it, they’ll tell you the story of how it came to be.”
Aunt Lu returned with a basket fi lled with sandwiches, cookies, and drinks. After smoothing a crisp linen tablecloth over the table, we settled into our chairs. A minute later a loud, metallic clacking noise fi lled the air as Rosa Cicero, Aunt Lu’s best friend, came down the sidewalk, rolling her desk chair in front of her. Her stiletto-heeled shoes made a sharp clickety-click on the pavement and an unlit cigarette was stuck between her red lips. Unlit, Aunt Lu said, because Rosa had quit smoking years ago but could never entirely give up the idea of cigarettes.
