by Beth Hoffman
Just as I climbed up to remove the brassiere, someone shouted, “Hey. What do you think you’re doing?”
I turned to see a policeman trotting toward me. I snatched the brassiere off the lion’s ears, lobbed myself over the fence, and took off.
“You stop right now!” he bellowed.
I blitzed my way down Bay Street to Whitaker, never once looking back.
I arrived home sweaty and winded. I wasn’t about to stop my chronicles of Miz Hobbs’s brassiere, but I knew I had to be a lot more careful. Already I had several photographs in a manila envelope hidden beneath my bedroom rug, and when the timing was right, I’d launch my secret campaign to drive Miz Hobbs crazy.
Then came the day when I overheard Aunt Tootie tell Oletta that Miz Hobbs had returned home from the hospital. I grinned like a Cheshire cat: at last the time had come. I needed a pad of paper and envelopes, but I knew better than to use Aunt Tootie’s fine stationery. So later that afternoon I walked to the five-and-dime and bought the plainest envelopes and paper they had. Then, when Aunt Tootie was out in the garden, I slid open her desk drawer, removed a page of stamps, and retreated to my bedroom.
The first picture I sent Miz Hobbs was the one of her brassiere lying at the base of General Oglethorpe’s statue. I composed a short note and took my time printing it out. The note read: Hi Violene,
You and Earl left me hanging in the bushes.
But finally I was rescued.
I had my picture taken in Chippewa Square and thought you’d like to see it.
Love from your brassiere
I tucked the note inside the envelope along with the picture, then skipped to the mailbox at the corner of the street and shoved it into the slot.
Every few days I wrote another note and sent it off with a corresponding picture. I’d have given anything to see Miz Hobbs’s face when the mystery notes arrived. I imagined her lips tightening into a little red circle as she ripped open the envelope, and I could all but hear the shriek she’d let out when she saw her brassiere flaunting itself all over Savannah.
Whenever I went for a walk, I shoved Miz Hobbs’s brassiere into my pocket in case the opportunity for a perfect picture presented itself. One day I was taking pictures of a flower garden on Habersham Street to send to Mrs. Odell when a police car came to a screeching stop at the curb. I froze when Earl, Miz Hobbs’s married boyfriend, climbed out and adjusted his gun holster. And there I was, camera in hand and Miz Hobbs’s brassiere in the pocket of my jumper.
Oh, my God. He knows it’s me sending those notes!
But Earl never so much as glanced my way. He locked his cruiser, stepped onto the sidewalk, and headed for Dilly Ray’s Café. As I watched him saunter inside, my fear fell away and I knew I had just struck gold. The picture I was about to take would bring a thunder-clap to Miz Hobbs’s world.
Trying to look breezy and carefree, I ambled down the sidewalk, cupped my hands around my eyes, and peered through the restaurant window. Earl was sitting at the counter, smoking a cigarette and reading the menu. I waited for a few people to walk by, and when the coast was clear, I dashed into the street and placed Miz Hobbs’s brassiere on the rear bumper of his cruiser. Written across the trunk above the splayed-out brassiere was the single word I wanted to be in the picture: P-O-L-I-C-E.
I snapped the picture and hightailed it home, laughing the whole way.
Early the following morning I sat down at the writing desk in my bedroom and addressed an envelope to Miz Hobbs. After pressing a stamp in its corner, I pulled a pad of paper from the drawer and wrote:Good Morning, Violene
How’s Earl these days?
Love—your brassiere
I glanced at the clock and knew I’d be late for breakfast if I didn’t hustle, so I left everything on the desk and ran into the bathroom to take a shower. While shampooing my hair, I wondered: Is Miz Hobbs going crazy when she receives her mail? Who does she think is sending the photos and notes?
I tingled with delight as I imagined the shocked look on her face when she opened my envelopes, and I laughed out loud as I toweled off and slipped into my robe. But when I padded out of the bathroom, my delight evaporated.
There, sitting on my bed with the note, photograph, and envelope in her hands, was Oletta. A dreadful silence seeped into the room. When she finally spoke, her voice was low and serious.
“So, this is your diploma of worth? You think this is something a fine young lady would do? I got worried when you didn’t come down for breakfast, so I came all the way up here to check on you. And what do I find?” she said, looking down at the items in her hand. “What are you doin’ taking pictures of a brassiere and writin’ notes to Miz Hobbs? What’s all this about?”
My legs grew weak as I crossed the room and sat in the chair, facing her. With my hands clamped between my knees, I fessed up. I told Oletta about Miz Goodpepper and the flying slugs—how Earl, the married policeman, had danced around the porch in his Zorro mask and underpants while swinging Miz Hobbs’s brassiere, and how, when Miz Hobbs ran down the steps, she slipped on a slug and cracked her head open. I finished my confession by telling Oletta I’d found the brassiere in the shrubs the night she and I had gone swimming.
Oletta shook her head. “So, you’ve been doing this just for ugly’s sake? Is that right?”
The look on her face was worse than if she’d raised her voice and scolded me. The way the corners of her mouth sagged was so awful that I crashed, fell right out of the sky of our friendship and watched myself go up in flames.
She rose to her feet, slid the note and photograph inside the envelope, and pushed it deep into her apron pocket. Her voice was barely audible when she leveled her eyes on me. “You got any more pictures?”
I knew better than to lie, so I got down on my knees, flipped over the edge of the rug, and handed her the envelope. Oletta pulled out the one remaining photograph: the one of the brassiere looped over the lion’s ear at the Cotton Exchange. It was my favorite picture of all, and I had been saving it for last. In fact, I loved it so much I’d been contemplating keeping it for myself.
She shoved the picture into her apron pocket. “Where’s the b rassiere?”
Unable to speak, I headed toward the closet, wading waist-deep in shame. Slowly I opened the door, pulled the brassiere from beneath my hat, and handed it over.
“Get dressed and come downstairs.”
That was it. That was all she said. But it was the way her shoulders slumped when she turned and shuffled out the door that blew a hole into my world. I sat on the bed and studied my reflection in the cheval mirror, amazed at the damage I’d caused. How I’d begin to repair it was something I simply didn’t know.
Oletta didn’t so much as glance my way when I got to the kitchen. She took my plate into the breakfast room, set it on the table, and went about her business. But her silence was like the ticking of a bomb.
The day stretched on, minute by agonizing minute, and still she said nothing. I had been exiled from the warmth of her touch and the delight of her laughter, and it was killing me. I figured it was best if I stayed out of sight, so I spent the majority of the day in my bedroom, reading. When I went downstairs in the afternoon to get something fresh to drink, Oletta was standing at the counter chopping onions.
I walked to her side, hoping she’d look at me. But she didn’t. I took in a breath for courage and said, “Oletta, I know what I did was wrong. It’s just . . . just that I got so mad when you told me what Miz Hobbs called you. I hate that word.”
She stopped chopping the onions and put down the knife. “You can’t run around town tryin’ to get even with every person who done you wrong. Ain’t enough hours in the day to do that. Besides, two wrongs don’t make a right. Understand?”
I hung my head and nodded. “Please don’t be mad at me.”
“I ain’t mad. I’m disappointed is all. Since the first day you came here, I been thinkin’ you was one of the nicest young people I ever did know. Didn’t thi
nk you had a mean bone in your body.”
“I’m sorry, Oletta. Will you forgive me?”
“Don’t worry. I forgive you. We all do things we ain’t proud of. That’s human nature.”
“So . . . so, I’m not in trouble?”
She raised her eyebrows and peered down at me. “I said I forgive you. I never said you wasn’t in trouble. Them’s two entirely different things. You’re in trouble plenty.”
I leaned against the counter and fidgeted with a button on my blouse. “What kind of trouble?”
She picked up the knife and went back to chopping onions. “I ain’t figured that out just yet.”
The tone in her voice made it clear that our conversation was over. I pushed myself away from the counter and glanced at the clock above the stove. It was three-thirty. I knew I’d crumble if Oletta left at four o’clock and didn’t hug me good-bye like she always did, so I decided to go feed the birds at Forsyth Park and stay out of sight until she went home for the weekend.
I wandered into the pantry, and while stuffing my pockets with sunflower seeds, I noticed Oletta’s purse hanging on a hook on the back of the door. Sticking out of one of the side pockets was the envelope I’d addressed to Miz Hobbs. I felt sick to my stomach. Aunt Tootie would be home any minute, and I knew Oletta would give it to her. The envelope wasn’t sealed, and I silently slid my fingers inside to see if the note and picture were still there. They were. I was doomed. Not only had I lost my best friend but I was about to fall out of Aunt Tootie’s favor with a big bang.
I slipped out of the house and headed toward the park.
While I was sitting on a bench throwing sunflower seeds to a chickadee, two girls pedaled toward me on bikes. One was wearing a floppy straw hat, and the other had a pink sun visor shading her eyes. They were riding one-handed while licking ice cream cones. Perfect little belles—that’s what they were. I was certain they’d never had a single worry in their lives. All they had to do all day was have fun, eat ice cream, and be their darling little peaches-and-cream selves. I looked away as they passed me by, the spokes of their bikes whirring and their laughter flowing behind them.
After throwing the remaining seeds into the grass, I decided to take the long way home. I walked around the massive fountain and took a narrow path that spit me out on Drayton Street. As I approached Gaston, I saw Oletta. She was shuffling down the sidewalk on her way to the bus stop. I thought I’d die if she didn’t look my way and speak to me, but then I thought I’d die if she did. Deciding it was in my best interest to stay out of sight, I plastered myself against a tree and peeked around the trunk.
She stopped at the corner, and from her handbag she removed the envelope I’d addressed to Miz Hobbs. I could hardly believe my eyes when she licked it closed. Then she let out a laugh and shoved it into the mailbox. A moment later the hiss of air brakes sounded as the bus rolled to a stop. Oletta pulled herself up the steps, and I heard the clinkety-clink as she dropped coins into the receptacle. Relief flowed over me like a fresh breeze. Oletta had changed her mind. I wasn’t in trouble after all. When the bus pulled away from the curb, I leaned my forehead against the tree trunk and let out a sigh of pure relief.
Monday morning arrived, and I went down to the kitchen for breakfast, wondering how Oletta would be. When she saw me in the doorway, she smiled her usual smile. Never once did she mention anything about my chronicles of Miz Hobbs’s traveling brassiere. And believe me, neither did I. Nor did I tell Oletta that I’d seen her mail the envelope. We took up our friendship as if nothing had happened.
Late Wednesday afternoon, I was lounging in the den with the newest issue of National Geographic when Aunt Tootie arrived home. I overheard her talking with Oletta about Miz Hobbs, so I put down the magazine and walked into the kitchen as Oletta pulled a covered dish from the oven.
“Oletta, thank you for making that ham and cheese casserole for Violene. I know she’s a thorn in your side. Mine too. But maybe that fall she took has knocked some sense into her. We can always hope.”
Oletta let out a grunt as she wrapped the casserole in a dish towel and placed it in a basket along with a loaf of her homemade bread and a jar of preserves.
Aunt Tootie tied a ribbon on the basket handle, and while making a bow, she said, “I’ll go over and drop this off right now while the casserole is still nice and hot.”
When Oletta saw me standing in the doorway, she turned to Aunt Tootie and smiled. “Cecelia asked if she could take the get-well basket over to Miz Hobbs. Would that be all right with you?”
What! Is she crazy? Why would she say that?
I wanted to see Miz Hobbs about as much as I wanted to set my hair on fire. My mouth dropped open in protest, but I quickly clamped it shut when Aunt Tootie turned and looked at me with surprise. “That’s so thoughtful of you, Cecelia. Bless your heart. It’ll brighten Violene’s day to have you deliver this basket. I’m sure she’ll be thrilled. I’ve got some flowers too,” she said, walking into the pantry and returning with a small vase fi lled with roses.
“Now, you know how Violene is, so no matter what she says or how annoying she gets, just do your best to be real sweet. If she talks for more than an hour, then just be polite and excuse yourself. Tell her you have to come home and help me do some work in the garden.”
If she talks for more than an hour!
I slouched against the doorjamb and telegraphed a look to Oletta that said, How could you do this to me?
A devilish twinkle sparked in Oletta’s eyes when she handed me the basket and said, “Miz Hobbs sure will be glad to see you.”
So this was my punishment. The black boomerang of karma had circled through the sky and was about to land at my feet, and there wasn’t a darn thing I could do about it. With the basket in one hand and the vase of flowers in the other, I headed out the door. From the open kitchen window, I heard Oletta laugh.
Around the side of the house I went, muttering about the cruelty of my punishment. Had I walked any slower to Miz Hobbs’s house, I would have fallen over. I even stopped a few times to tie and retie my shoes.
Just as I reached up to knock on her door, it swung wide open. Miz Hobbs stood there with a gauze bandage wrapped around her head, grinning like we were best friends.
“Well, what a treat this is!” she trilled. “I was on the sofa just startin’ to doze off when I saw you comin’ down the sidewalk with that basket and flowers. I wondered if they were for me.”
“Yes, ma’am. I don’t want to interrupt your nap,” I said, pushing the vase of roses into her hands. As I leaned over and shoved the basket inside the door with the intent of a quick escape, she took hold of my arm and yanked me inside.
“Come in and keep me company!” she said, pushing the door closed so fast I had to jump out of the way. “My neck and shoulders ache somethin’ awful, so while we’re talkin’, you can rub them for me.”
My insides sputtered like spit on a griddle as she ushered me into her living room. In my mind I envisioned Oletta tidying the kitchen before she went home. There was no missing the smile on her face.
Twenty
It was a dismal, rainy afternoon. I was sitting at the kitchen table working on a crossword puzzle while Oletta stood at the counter, peeling potatoes. The radio was turned down low, and predictions of strong winds and flood warnings for low-lying areas crowded the airwaves. When the lights flickered and the radio began to crackle, Oletta turned it off and looked out the window. “Big storm’s comin’. I hope we don’t lose power before I get these scalloped potatoes in the oven.”
“I love scalloped potatoes. I made them a few times with Mrs. Odell,” I said, glancing at all the ingredients on the counter. “But what’s the brown sugar for?”
“I sprinkle it on the potatoes after I pour in the cream.”
“Sugar on potatoes?”
“Where you been, child?” Oletta said with a laugh. “Don’t you know that sugar is food’s best friend?”
Just then the
back door swung open with a windy bang, followed by the sound of Tootie’s footsteps. “It’s miserable out there,” she said, shaking off her raincoat and hanging her umbrella on a hook in the hall. “I wish this rain would let up. If I don’t do some work in the garden soon, it’ll turn into a jungle.”
“You won’t be doin’ no gardening for a few days,” Oletta said, pushing the potato peels into a paper bag. “Weatherman says it’s gonna rain till Saturday.”
“Saturday? We’ll all float away by then, so I guess it won’t matter what the garden looks like.” Aunt Tootie stepped across the kitchen and gave me a kiss on the cheek. “How’s your puzzle going?”
I looked up and shrugged. “I’m stumped.”
She rested her hand on my back and leaned over my shoulder. “What’s the clue?”
“English explorer and the first European to reach Lake Victoria. His last name is five letters long and begins with an S.”
She furrowed her brow and thought for a moment. “I have no idea. Sorry, honey.” She walked across the kitchen and lifted the kettle from the stove. While fi lling it with water, she said to Oletta, “I had lunch with Minnie Hayes today. She wanted me to be sure to give you her best.”
“I haven’t seen her in ages. How’s she doin’?”
“She’s fine, busy as ever. She’s a grandmother now. Her eldest daughter just had a baby girl. They named her Dorie Bree. Isn’t that precious?”
Oletta smiled and nodded, but I kept my mouth shut. I thought it sounded like the name of a tugboat.
Aunt Tootie returned the kettle to the stove and switched on the burner. Blue flames shot up and licked its sides. “After we got caught up on family talk, Minnie told me the strangest story. Her neighbor’s son claims he was attacked by Negroes over on Tybee. Did you hear anything about that?”
Oletta and I exchanged a brief, paralyzing glance. Her lips barely moved when she said, “Yes, ma’am. I heard some about it.”
