The Madhatter's Guide To Chocolate

by Rhett DeVane

  “Thank you, Mama. I think.”

  Bobby tapped the edge of his water glass with a fork. “Okay. Time for the big moment.” He turned to Leigh and took her by the hand. “Leigh and I were married last weekend.”

  Everyone at the table stared in shock.

  “M-m-married?” Piddie said. “What happened to the engagement announcement? And the weddin’ plans?”

  Bobby smiled down at his new wife. “Leigh and I agreed we didn’t want a big fuss made over us.”

  Tears formed at the corners of Leigh’s blue eyes. “I’m so sorry if we’ve hurt your feelings.”

  Jake leaped up and hugged the newlyweds. “Nonsense! We’re all thrilled! This means we can plan a reception party!”

  Evelyn clapped her hands. “Of course. Bobby, Joe and I can stand in for your folks since your mama and daddy have to attend in spirit! I can just see the decorations in my mind!”

  “Don’t you worry, honey.” Piddie patted Bobby’s new wife on the hand. “This gives us all somethin’ wonderful to look forward to.”

  After dinner, we retired to the living room where Evelyn served decaffeinated coffee with cream and sugar. The party guests received a miniature piñata filled with candy.

  “Well…” Holston stood to leave. “I’ve got to call it a night. It was most enjoyable.”

  Evelyn jumped up. “Oh, I wish you didn’t have to go. We’re going to play a game of spoons! It’s a fast and furious card game. You might not have heard of it, you being from the North, and all. We’ll teach you.”

  “Maybe next time,” Holston said as he walked toward the door. “Thank you so much for a wonderful evening.”

  Evelyn held the door. “Please, don’t be a stranger, now.”

  Piddie punched me in the side. “Walk him out!”

  Holston and I stood between the tiki torches on the front walkway.

  “I’m booked with massage clients during the day, but I can come by after work on Monday and Tuesday to help you finish the trim in your private quarters.”

  He looked into the distance. His strong jaw outlined in the torch’s glow. “You can if you’d like. Jake has a key. I’m leaving for a couple of weeks. Got to fly to New York to tie up some loose ends with my publisher.”

  “Oh. Okay. Well, I’ll guess I’ll see you when you return, then. Have a safe trip.”

  Holston gave a small wave over his shoulder as he walked toward his car. I watched him drive away. A slight haze of dust from his hasty departure hung in the air, a statement or question mark. I was unsure which.

  Piddie met me at the door. “Well?”

  “He’s leaving town for a couple of weeks,” I said. My voice sounded as flat and washed out as I felt.

  “If that don’t beat all.” Piddie sighed. “You remember when your daddy used to take you fishin’?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “When you snagged a big ole’ fish that was a keeper, it would take off to the bottom like a shot. You’d give it some line to play with. Pretty soon, it just gave out, and you got it in the boat!”

  “It’s not my intention to trick anyone into being with me,” I said. “If he wants me, he’ll have to make the moves.”

  “All I’m sayin’ is…be patient.”

  Jake stood. “I’m all pooped out, sister-girl. Let’s take it to the Hill, shall we?”

  Excerpt from Max the Madhatter’s notebook, March 28, 1959

  Life is not only here on this earth. I see the ghosts of the past mingling in the park outside my window. Most of the time, they carry on their existence with barely a notice of our own. One old gentleman in a top hat sometimes follows Nurse Marion around, but I won’t tell her.

  Chapter Twenty

  FUTURE SIGHT

  The week following Holston’s departure, my clients benefited from my need for distraction as I threw myself into work with a mad-scientist passion. By Thursday afternoon, I walked around the Tallahassee clinic in a weary, sleep-deprived fog.

  Anna rested her hand on my shoulder. “You look just awful, Hattie. Is there anything I can do?”

  “No, I’m just working through some stuff.” I ran my fingers through my hair. “I wish I could just wave a magic wand and get all the answers!”

  Anna’s long purple skirt swished with her slightest movement. “Why don’t you make an appointment for a reading with Phil Waters? He helped me a lot last year when I hit the wall during the custody battle for my daughter. He may not give you all the answers, but I certainly felt comforted by the session he did for me.”

  Friday morning, I did what any sane woman would do when confronting a personal crisis. I consulted a psychic.

  “You’re in luck,” he said over the phone. “Although, we know there is no such thing as luck. My 2:00 consultation just cancelled. Otherwise, it’ll be around three weeks before I have an opening.”

  Phil Waters’ townhouse was nestled midway in a row of older brick structures off Beard Street. A thin, thirty-ish man with sandy blonde hair and kind brown eyes answered the door and welcomed me into a light-filled sitting room scattered with plants and books. Sunlight refracting through crystals suspended in the windows sent rainbows dancing on the parquet floors.

  Phil served tall glasses of ice water, and we settled into the overstuffed cushions of his couch. We talked casually for a few minutes before he began the session.

  “I usually open myself to the spirit family surrounding you at the beginning. I am not a trance channel. I close my eyes to focus inward, but my consciousness stays here with us as I communicate with the guardians around you.”

  He moved to a high-backed cushioned chair, closed his eyes, and took a series of deep breaths. In a few moments, he began to speak in a pleasant, soothing voice. “As I enter your energy field, I am aware of the friends and family around you. They are very excited to be here. You have been asking for help in lifting a burden, and to find answers to help you find a peace you have been working toward. There’s a lot to be said and much healing that can take place today.”

  After a brief pause, he continued, “Your spirit family is ready, willing, and able to come to your aid…to bring you the strength to carry on…to help you find you find the faith you need when you doubt…to let you know their presence is real. Their involvement is based on a deep commitment to who you are as an individual.

  “They want to tell you that the reason your life has been touched with pain is to open your heart…to prepare you for a life of compassion, for yourself and others. The pain has made you realize that you don’t want to create the same experience for others.

  “Compassion and service to others is a central theme for this life.”

  Phil tilted his head slightly to the right and paused. “You have some old ghosts hanging around you regarding your self worth. Spirit is adamant that you let these go….let go….that you never doubt yourself, not even for a second, for the contribution you make to the world simply by your being here.

  “The word they give me is courage. They are very pleased with the amount of courage you have displayed in this life and they say job well done…job well done.”

  The silence was punctuated with the rhythmic ticking of an oak wall clock. “There’s a part of you that blocks off the experience of your value….a part of you that wants to turn some of your best qualities of compassion—gentle, caring, loving—into negative qualities. Spirit is adamant that this wound be healed. This critical voice in your head that doubts your life’s purpose must be silenced.” His eyes opened slowly.

  Phil drew a large imaginary circle in the air with his index fingers. “The physical world where we live offers us doubt, fear, limitation. We lose sight of the fact that the universe only has our best interest at heart. The source of our pain comes from living in the physical world. The spiritual world holds no such judgment.”

  His voice became very soft as he closed his eyes. “Yes, you have suffered loss and pain. There have been times when it felt as if everything has been ta
ken from you. But, you’re still here. You are growing and evolving every day. You are still here.

  “Spirit says you don’t need to work so hard at yourself. All you really need to do is acknowledge the self you already are. Who I am as a spiritual being is just fine.

  “There’s no reason you can’t make the choice today to not listen to the voice of doubt that lives within you. Turn off that voice. It pulls you down into heaviness. All you have to do is call off the search and say, this is me. This is who I am, and I’m fine.

  “It doesn’t mean that all the problems will go away…or the challenges will stop. You are not a problem. You are a gift.”

  Phil’s face eased into a warm smile. “Life doesn’t need for you to effort at it. You are doing the best you can do given the circumstances. Spirit wants you to know that life doesn’t have to be about suffering. Choose to see what you can learn and grow out of this to become a richer, fuller being.”

  Phil paused and took a deep breath. After a brief moment, he continued, “Your father and mother are both in spirit. They are showing me a baby girl with them.”

  “Baby?” I thought for a minute. “Sarah?”

  “Your sister.”

  Sarah hadn’t crossed my mind in a long time. She had been born between my older brother and me. She lived for two days before succumbing to a systemic infection contracted during the lengthy birth. My parents seldom spoke her name, preferring to hold their grief inside. As an adult, I had learned the story of my sister’s short life from Aunt Piddie, but my parents shielded my brother and me from the loss.

  “Sarah is with your mother and father. It is okay to remember and honor her brief time with your family.”

  Phil opened his eyes. “Are there any questions you wish to ask?”

  “Just a couple. First, are there any health concerns I need to address?”

  Phil’s eyes rested on me briefly. “There is an imbalance here. Part of it relates to, and is involved with, blood. Some type of internal problem…possibly with the assimilation system—digestion, utilization of food and nutrients. You should be aware of this imbalance.”

  I leaned closer. “How about relationships, particularly romantic…”

  “There is someone who may have already entered your energy field. There was contact…written correspondence. This person may not be aware of the potential for the union. I get the sense that there are old burdens left over from childhood…an oppressive parent, perhaps. This person is working through old scars.

  “There is an aura of family surrounding you—extended family. I am getting a picture of a bubbling brook…spring-fed…and a field of small wildflowers, perhaps daisies.”

  Phil studied me for a moment. “There are two children in your energy field. Although there is a connection to both, I don’t sense a biological commonality in one of the children.”

  After the session, I walked around Lake Ella, grabbed a chicken tetrazzini salad at Hopkin’s Eatery, took myself shopping at the Tallahassee Mall, then went to the townhouse. I planned to go to the Hill first thing Saturday morning.

  Since Jillie was at the university library buried in research for a project, I had the townhouse to myself for the evening. I wandered around the rooms in search of something to lift my growing sense of melancholy. I entertained the idea of ordering out a pizza, a luxury Chattahoochee didn’t provide, but food didn’t appeal to me. Even though the townhouse glowed under Jillie’s careful household maintenance, I cleaned the bathrooms. The smell of bleach soothed me with the notion I was doing something fruitful by destroying hordes of helpless microscopic organisms.

  Friday evening in a city big enough to actually support a night life, and here I was schlepping around in a terry cloth robe riddled with holes and pulled threads, with a spray bottle of bleach in hand. I thought of phoning Garrett, then wiped that notion away. No need to spend an evening providing a mirror for his blonde, overblown ego. Besides, he was way too popular to be free on a weekend night.

  I rummaged through what was left in Tallahassee of my CD collection, and selected one of my favorite jazz standards, Love Season by Alex Bugnon. The rich tones flowed from the Bose speakers surrounding the room.

  “I need to move my system to the Hill when I take Pearl home,” I said aloud.

  Shocked, I looked around the townhouse, realizing how little I felt connected to the place. Bit by bit, I had loaded books, mementos, pictures, and small pieces of furniture into the truck for my weekly sojourn to the country. Where traces of my life once graced the walls, floors, and drawers, evidence of Jillie’s young personality exerted itself like a patient opportunistic virus waiting for the host to weaken so that it could flourish in its own right.

  I bolted up the stairs and threw on my jeans, tank top, and shoes. I scribbled a quick note to Jillie explaining my sudden departure, killed the stereo, and dashed out to the parking lot.

  Driven was a good description of my mood and intent. My evil twin Rita came out as I cussed, dodged, and accelerated my way out of the city to the Interstate. The drivers in front of me operated their vehicles as if the pavement was made of molasses. I wouldn’t have been surprised if a misguided plane landed in front of me. Thanks to the help of several harried guardian angels, I reached the Chattahoochee exit intact. No need to look at the speedometer to know I was exceeding the posted 70 mph speed limit. The fact that I’d passed cars, buses, and semi-trucks as though they were stapled to the asphalt was proof enough.

  The farmhouse was lit with welcoming light at the top of Bonnie Hill. I expelled a huge sigh as I reached the head of the driveway. Spackle lifted his dopey puppy head and woofed at Betty’s arrival. I parked, hopped from the truck, and almost ran to the front door. I scooped him up, and he splashed my face with wet puppy kisses. Jake stood behind the screen door watching us.

  “I’m so glad you decided to come home, sister-girl.” His voice cracked with emotion.

  I flung open the screened door and hugged him. “I just had to get here as soon as I could! It was weird…” I stopped. The tears glistened at the corners of his eyes.

  “Jake! What’s wrong? Come sit down.” I guided him to the loveseat in the kitchen’s seating area.

  “It’s been one hell of a day, sister-girl.” His shoulders drooped. “Thomas Thurgood dropped dead of a heart attack last night around midnight. His wife called me today to tell me of the arrangements and plan the flowers for his memorial. Then, this afternoon, she received word from San Diego. Timothy Thurgood, her husband’s twin brother, had died from coronary failure…within minutes of Thomas’s time of death.”

  The room was silent except for the monotonous ticking of the antique mantle clock. Jake wiped his eyes with his sleeve. “They’re flying Timothy’s ashes home to be interred with his brother.”

  A visual memory of Thomas Thurgood’s massive, strong hands holding mine at his nephew’s wake flashed in memory.

  “They’ll finally be reunited,” I said softly.

  I held Jake as he sobbed. The scars of family hatred and violence cut too deep to heal over completely. Jake and I cried together for the futility of lives spent in shame, fear, and regret. Because of Marshall Thurgood’s vicious attack on Jake, the lives and lies of their family were permanently intertwined with his. Because he was my best and truest heart-friend, Jake’s pain was mine.

  “I didn’t expect you till the morning,” Jake said shakily as the wave of grief ebbed.

  “I just felt like I needed to be home.”

  We looked at each other and said at the same time, “ESP-N!”

  I began to giggle. Then, he did. Spackle started to yip and howl. Shammie sauntered into the kitchen and meowed loudly. Jake and I laughed harder, spurring Spackle to new heights of coyote-pitched yowling. Shammie sat down and studied all three of us with the absolute disgust only a cat can project.

  “Aren’t we one freaked-out family,” Jake said when he caught his breath.

  “Best kind in my book.”

&nbs
p; Southern Chocolate Pecan Pie

  Ingredients: 4 whole eggs, 2 cups sugar, 4 Tbsp melted butter, 8 oz semi-sweet chocolate, a pinch of salt, ½ tsp lemon juice, 1 cup pecans.

  Prepare my Chocolate Pie Crust and set aside. Beat the eggs well, add the sugar, and continue to beat until light and creamy. Add the melted butter and the chocolate. Stir in the salt and lemon juice. Add the pecans and pour the filling into the unbaked pie shell. Bake in a 375º oven for 30 minutes, or until set.

  Chocolate Pie Crust

  Ingredients: ½ cup sifted flour, ¼ cup sugar, ¼ cup cocoa, ½ tsp salt, ½ cup shortening, ½ tsp vanilla, 3 Tbsp ice cold water.

  Sift flout, sugar, cocoa, and salt into a large bowl. Cut in shortening until pieces are the size of small peas. Add vanilla and water and mix lightly to form a dough that holds together. Roll out to 11˝ in diameter and fit into a 9˝ pie pan. Bake at 400º for 8 minutes. Crust will be soft when it comes out, but it sets as it cools.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  RECONCILIATION

  Unlike Marshall’s media-saturated funeral three years past, Thomas and Timothy Thurgood’s memorial service was small and sparsely attended. Jake and myself, Louise and Lottie Thurgood, their extended family, a smattering of Thomas’s coworkers, and, naturally, Elvina Houston, were in attendance at the dual burial. Reverend Samuel Morrison of the First Presbyterian Church of Chattahoochee performed the brief service. A last-minute judge’s order had permitted Matthew Thurgood the privilege of attending his uncle’s and father’s service under police guard, before returning him to the state prison where he was serving a ten-year sentence for his part in the initial assault and desecration of Jake’s shop.

  Since I’d cancelled massage clients for the day, I followed Jake home to the Hill, and we rode Margie’s and John’s ATV to the fish pond. A warm spring breeze chased swirls of pollen across the glassy surface of the water. An hour later, we negotiated the steep grassy steps to the parked ATV and returned to the farmhouse.