The Madhatter's Guide To Chocolate

by Rhett DeVane

  I scanned the crowd. “Holston? Holston’s here?” I shrugged. “Don’t give me that look. I barely know the man. He only emailed me when he couldn’t get information out of you.”

  “Who do you think you’re foolin’? I may have had a head injury, but I could be deeply affected mentally and still see the look on your face every time his name comes up.”

  I snorted.

  Jake swung his cane in a circle. “I know something you don’t!”

  I grabbed the end of the cane, stopping it in midair. “Give it up, Jake.”

  “Easy, easy! You’ll tip your hormonal balance.” Jake wrestled the cane from my hand. “You know I told you that Mama’s mansion was up for sale again? Well, you’ll never guess who picked it up for a song!” His eyes glittered.

  “Okay. Who?”

  “You are just a tidbit irritable today, sister-girl. That peevish look really doesn’t work well for you.” He patted my shoulder. “The buyer is just your future husband from New York City! And, this is going to bite your butt. He has hired me to decorate after the repairs are completed. Is that not so circular?”

  Holston Lewis living in Chattahoochee?

  Jake motioned toward the stage. “C’mon, go with. I was heading over to get Piddie.”

  Aunt Piddie rested on an upholstered, red taffeta-covered, high-back chair; the queen of all chocolate cake judges. Numbered plates of sliced layer cake were scattered half-eaten on the table in front of her.

  Elvina Houston stood beside the booth, officiously recording Piddie’s comments. “I think we have a winner,” she said. “Wouldn’t have been who I would’ve chosen, but…”

  Piddie snatched the tally from Elvina’s thin hand. “Just give it over, Elvina, for God’s sake! It’s not like I asked you to help pick the next president.”

  Jake leaned over the table. “C’mon Piddie! Let’s start over toward the stage. They’ll need you to announce the winner of the best damn cake and icing contest.” He helped Piddie with her walker, and we started slowly toward the performance stage.

  At the podium, our squat, pompous mayor, Jimmy T. Johnson, cleared his throat into the microphone.

  “Oh, Lord help,” Piddie remarked. “We’ll be here all afternoon if that windbag gets started up.”

  Evelyn and Joe walked up, carrying folding chairs. “Shhh…Mama! Someone’ll hear you!” Evelyn said in a loud whisper. They walked ahead to the ground in front of the stage, and set the chairs in place.

  Jimmy T. cleared his throat and tapped on the microphone before he spoke. “This working? Well, suppose it is, now. As Mayor of Chattahoochee, I’d like to thank all of you for attending the second annual Madhatter’s Festival. As best as we can tell, we have over 2,000 people here this year!”

  A smattering of applause sounded from the audience.

  “Before I call Mrs. Piddie Longman to the stage to announce this years’ chocolate cake and icing winner…”

  “That’s best damn chocolate cake and icing, Jimmy T.!” Piddie yelled.

  The crowd laughed.

  The mayor paused. “Yes…well. I stand corrected. I’d like to thank all the sponsors who have been instrumental in making this festival a success: City of Chattahoochee, The Madhatter’s Antique Mini Mall, the Downtown Merchant’s Committee, and the Dragonfly Florist and Madhatter’s Sweet Shop and Massage Parlor.”

  Mayor Johnson paused to allow the applause to subside.

  “At this time, I ask Hattie Davis, co-owner of the Madhatter’s Sweet Shop and Massage Parlor to join me at the podium.”

  Jake’s eyes were round with suspicion. “What are you up to, sister-girl?”

  “You’ll see.” I patted him on the back and wove through the crowd to the stage. From the higher vantage point, I spotted Holston Lewis smiling up at me. A lump the size of China formed in my throat. Good thing I didn’t have to speak.

  “In the past two years,” the mayor continued, “our city has seen an amazing revival. We’ve profited from a boom in local business openings, and have welcomed many fine folks into our community. The City of Chattahoochee would like to honor one of its native sons, a man who has been an ambassador and promoter for our town…Mr. Jake Witherspoon!”

  The crowd exploded with applause and whistles.

  Piddie punched Jake playfully in the arm. “Get on up there!”

  Jake inched slowly to the stage. “Remind me to slap you silly, later, sister-girl,” he mumbled as he stepped to the podium.

  “Hattie Davis and I now join in presenting Jake Witherspoon with the key to the city!” We handed the three foot gold key ceremoniously to Jake.

  “Speech! Speech!” Piddie called. The crowd echoed her demand.

  I gave Jake a gentle nudge toward the microphone.

  For a moment, he studied the audience, purposely looking in every direction. “I feel a little emotional right now.” He mimed dabbing the corners of his eyes with an imaginary hankie. “There are so many people in my life to whom I would like to extend my deepest appreciation and love. Thanks to Hattie Davis, they all seem to be here today. Hmmm…” He rubbed his square chin as if in thought. Laughter trickled through the gathering.

  “I love this town, always have. Everyone knows each other. It was that fact that I credit with saving my life.” He searched out Ashley Wood, who stood next to her fiancée, and nodded in her direction. “Hattie and I have talked a lot about the history of Chattahoochee. This town has always opened its arms and hearts to different types of people.”

  “Now we’re stuck with the likes of you!” A voice called out from the edge of the crowd.

  Jake identified the heckler. “You best watch out, Officer Burns, or I’ll tell your wife, Carol, just how many iced cake brownies you eat in a week!”

  Laughter rippled through the audience. Carol Burns playfully punched her husband in the shoulder, making him wince.

  Jake continued, “Chattahoochee deserves to grow and prosper…just not so much that we ever lose contact with our neighbors. I do believe, if Max the Madhatter could be here right now, he’d love what’s happened to Washington Street, especially our sweet shop! Thank you all deeply, from the bottom of my heart!”

  The crowd cheered as Jake held up the key, then awkwardly executed his best curtsy.

  “Now,” the mayor said, “let’s have Mrs. Piddie Longman up on stage!”

  Joe and Evelyn helped Piddie to maneuver the steps onto the platform.

  “Good afternoon!” she called out to the crowd.

  Several people in the audience good-afternooned back.

  “Before I announce the winner of the Best Damn Chocolate Cake and Icing Contest, I’ve thought of a little story to tell y’all. It’s about the time my daughter, Evelyn, tried to make Joe, her husband, a five-layered chocolate cake for his birthday. Now, I know some of the firefighters in the crowd will remember this one…”

  “Have mercy,” Evelyn muttered.

  Excerpt from Max the Madhatter’s notebook, April 23, 1956

  I like to play dominoes. We don’t play them in the ward like the game is supposed to be – lining up the dots so the numbers match. Nurse Marion taught us to put them in a straight line on the floor like little soldiers marching. Then, you tap the first one and they all click down, one by one! I just set them up again and again to watch how one tipping over makes all the rest fall.

  Chapter Seventeen

  RENOVATION

  Garrett Douglas stepped into Cabo’s Tacos on Lafayette Street in Tallahassee, sweeping the crowded dining area with the baby-kissing smile of a Leon County politician running for a heavily disputed election. His gaze finally settled on the corner booth where I sprawled, nursing a bottle of light beer and a scowl.

  “Sorry, Hattie.” Garrett removed his custom-tailored suit jacket and flung it loosely across the end of his side of the booth. “I had a last-minute call I had to take.”

  I shook my head. “You know, this used to be the one thing that just ate me alive about you, Garr
ett. Everyone else’s time was always less important than yours.”

  He held up his hands in surrender. “Guilty as charged. I’ll buy you dinner to make up for my one unfortunate character flaw.” All fifty of his mega-watt incisors beamed at me at once.

  “Damn, Garrett. Did you have your teeth bleached again?”

  He rolled his eyes, then motioned to our waitress. “I’ll have a Dos Equus with a twist of lime, and, let’s see…an order of chicken nachos with guac’ and sour cream, please.” He studied my face in the dim light. “You look tired.”

  “I’ve been doing massage therapy all day. Tends to wear me out. My shoulders were killing me by the end of the day. Luckily, Anna fit me in for a quick shoulder fix. Best perk of the job. I can usually get one of my coworkers to help me out when I get stressed. Of course, I return the favor in kind.”

  “You have one of your football players in today?”

  “No, just an array of stressed-out computer-tortured state employees.”

  I sipped my beer and dipped one of Cabo’s tortilla chips into the homemade hot salsa. The flavors of onion, tomato, jalapeno pepper, and cilantro filtered over my tongue. Though I had never been well known at any of the capital city’s pubs, the personnel at a few of Tallahassee’s eateries knew me by name and favorite food. It warmed my heart to have a server smile when I entered the room, knowing that a tall glass of unsweetened iced tea with lemon would be in front of me when I sat down. Here, we went through the same dance each time. I would be handed a menu to peruse, my tea would appear, and they would wait for my order as if they didn’t know I always had the bean burrito wet supreme, hold the onions, with hot salsa. I had stressed them this afternoon by ordering a beer.

  Garrett took a long swig of the imported beer the waitress had delivered. “You heading back to the country in the morning?”

  “Thought I’d go on back tonight. I couldn’t catch up with any of my friends to play on a Friday night, so I’ll beat it back to the Hill.”

  He pointed to the bottle in my hand. “Better not drink too many of those, then.”

  “You know me better than that, Garrett. Piddie says she’s pretty sure someone rings a victory bell in hell every time I drink, I do it so seldom. Besides, after two of these, I would probably be underneath someone’s chair with my shirt half off, singing a sappy love song at the top of my lungs.”

  Garrett’s movie-star laugh emanated deep within his chest and resonated like shock waves from a pebble skipped over smooth water. Several of Cabo’s patrons turned to enjoy the sound, smiling in his direction. The man should have been either an evangelical preacher or a Southern political icon. No wonder I had once been swept up in his charismatic web.

  “So, Mr. Douglas. Don’t keep me in suspense. Why did you call me for dinner? Need advice for the lovelorn today? Or, are you just feeling lonely?”

  Garrett scowled. “You can be so sarcastic sometimes, Hattie. It really is quite unbecoming. Maybe I just wanted to see you. We are friends, after all.”

  I ran my hands wearily through my hair, then let them fall heavily onto the countertop. “I’m sorry. I’m tired and ready to head home. I shouldn’t take it out on you.”

  Garrett reached over and covered my hands with his. “Maybe you should stay at the townhouse tonight instead of driving to Chattahoochee.”

  “No, I told Jillie I wouldn’t be staying. I think one of her study groups is meeting there tonight. I have to hand it to you as far as she goes, Garrett. I don’t worry even a second about leaving my property here under her watch. She’s repainted her room and bathroom, cleans like a fiend when she’s not crouched over the books, and has even fixed the leaky flush valve in the downstairs half-bath.”

  “Her mother did a great job of raising her. I can’t claim too much credit, unfortunately. We’ve been able to spend some decent time together since she’s been up here attending FSU. I’m just pleased that she’s not living over close to campus. I don’t worry about her too much in your neighborhood.”

  Garrett cleared his throat. Something urged me to lean forward and listen carefully. The sound was Garrett’s this-is-really-what-I’m-setting-you-up-for signal.

  “Actually, I did want to speak to you about something.”

  Here we go! Lock up the little old ladies. Hide your women. Get those wagons in a circle!

  “Hattie? You with me?” Garrett asked.

  “All ears.”

  “I would like to buy your townhouse for Jillie. As a gift. She’ll be graduating next fall, and plans to stay on for her master’s studies, maybe even law school. She hasn’t decided on that part yet. I’d like to provide her with her first home.”

  I stared at him in disbelief. “Gee, I don’t know. I hadn’t thought that far ahead. Right now, I kinda like having a place over here.”

  Garrett flashed a smile. “C’mon, Hattie. I’ve noticed you spending more and more time in Gadsden County. Admit it. You really want to move over there full time.”

  Amazing how someone outside of your skin can nail a situation. The Hill had slowly wormed its way into my concept of home. It was the place where I kept my electric toothbrush. My best underwear. My rattiest jeans. My cat!

  “I really hadn’t given any thought to selling it, Garrett.”

  The waitress arrived with our food. Because the noisy surroundings didn’t call for his best manners, Garrett dug into the mountain of nachos with his fingers and crammed a mouthful of the Mexican goo into his mouth. “You don’t have to give me an answer now. Just let me have first dibs when you sell.” He said around a mouthful.

  “If I sell.”

  Garrett stopped chewing long enough to give me a conspiratorial wink. “Right.”

  Without conscious realization, I often sent blazing signals into the universe. The impulsive on-the-way-home purchase of a 2001 parchment gold metallic Ford Escape XLT Sport Utility Vehicle (with power accessory package and in-dash CD radio audio system with seven premium speakers and a subwoofer) sent a blaring announcement to the powers on high. I was ripe for change.

  I merged onto the entrance ramp of Interstate 10 West at the Highway 90 interchange and accelerated smoothly into the evening flow of traffic. The tight, powerful straight-off-the-assembly-line engine roared. After driving a four-cylinder pick-up truck powered by three hamsters and an anemic gerbil for the last seven years, the rush of the large V-6 tipped my hormonal balance heavily in favor of testosterone.

  The first few licks of Respect Yourself by the Staple Singers played on 106.1, the oldie FM radio station. At times like this, I imagined having at least a smattering of Motown soul buried deep inside. I smiled, remembering lazy childhood afternoons at Piddie’s white-frame house on Morgan Avenue. Piddie would spin one of her Motown records on a suitcase-style vintage turntable, and we’d sing and dance as if we’d lost what little sense we had. Aunt Piddie told me once that if she had one wish, it would be to change into a black woman, even if only for one Saturday night. They just have more passion! she claimed, Not all washed-out and fake-proper like most of us white folks!

  I turned the volume up full-tilt and sang and gyrated as much as I could and still keep the SUV on the road. The driver of a passing semi tractor/trailer truck tooted his air horn.

  The pungent scent of new upholstery and vinyl tickled my nose. If they could find a way to bottle the aroma, it would be a lot easier to heal new-car fever. I imagined a plastic-faced department-store salesperson spritzing unsuspecting customers, breathlessly saying, “I’m Mercedes 2000!”

  Relishing a new vehicle alone is not acceptable. I had a burning need to share the spoils of my insanity. On a straight monotonous stretch of the Interstate, I used my cell phone to contact Jake. No one answered on the Hill, so I breezed past our driveway off Highway 269 and cruised the three miles into town. The interior lights were off at the Dragonfly. Jake’s van wasn’t parked in either the delivery alley or the front parking lot of the Homeplace, his usual Friday evening French Dip and fries a
fter-work retreat.

  I turned left at the signal light on to Boliver Street and approached the empty intersection at the crest of Thrill Hill. On a blind let’s-see-what-this-baby-will-do impulse, I gunned past the three-way stop sign and lifted off as the Ford Escape cleared the pavement. The new shocks cushioned the return to Earth. I let out an ear-piercing redneck whooeee! Quickly, I checked the rear view mirror for signs of police pursuit. Okay! I won’t do it again…ever!

  Generally, I’m not a reckless driver. Ask anyone who knows me. I will drive five blocks out of my way to avoid making a left hand turn against traffic without the safety of a signal light and rarely exceed the posted speed limit. I’d have to watch myself in this new monster so that my decadent twin, an entity Jake fondly called Evil Rita, would not become the predominant operator.

  The only place I hadn’t checked for Jake was the Witherspoon mansion. Lately, he’d spent a great deal of his spare time with the construction team working on the renovations for Holston Lewis. Still flushed with the adrenaline rush of my Thrill Hill coup, I negotiated the winding azalea and dogwood-lined drive leading to Jake’s mother’s house. Even though Holston Lewis now owned the property, the locals would continue to refer to it as The Witherspoon Mansion until the end of time immortal.

  The sun-bleached white antebellum house loomed over a vast expanse of green lawn gone to seed. Islands of pine and Spanish-moss-draped live oak trees surrounded with overgrown flower beds gave way to a circular cement drive at the once-grand entrance. From afar, the structure looked like a Gone with the Wind movie set. A closer view revealed crumbling woodwork and ragged curls of peeling paint. Six Doric columns supported the porch, and two cement lions stood in fierce guard on either side of the steps leading to the double doors.

  I pulled alongside the Dragonfly Florist’s delivery van and killed the engine. Since the front door was open, I bounded in without knocking.