Chasing Lilacs

by Carla Stewart

  Then I remembered the feeling I had from a long time ago. At first it seemed more like a dream, but when I leaned my head against the closet wall, the pictures came into sharp focus. Mama held my hand while we stood in front of a casket. Grandma Grace, that’s who it was. Aunt Vadine and Daddy stood off to the side, Aunt Vadine clutching onto Daddy. That surprised me. Had she always had these feelings for Daddy? Mama whispered something, but I didn’t catch the words, only that she seemed upset. That would be right. After all, it was her mother in the casket. The next thing I knew, we walked around the cemetery, looking at grave markers. Mama pointed to this one and that, but I didn’t remember the names. I don’t even think I could read, or if I could, I was only in the second or third grade. I ran off to chase a butterfly and turned around when I heard Aunt Vadine’s sharp voice.

  “Would you look at that? Someone has chipped a corner plumb off this stone.” She knelt by a grave maker, not one of those that jutted up like the headboard on a bed, but a shoe-box-sized rectangle flat on the ground. Under the writing and the numbers, I saw an imprint of two tiny feet. When Aunt Vadine looked up, her eyes had the same hollow look as in my dream.

  Baby Sylvia? For some reason that didn’t seem right. Who was buried under the chipped stone? I curled up on Mama’s clothes, using her robe for a pillow. In my hand I clutched the lilac soap, its sweet, clean smell enveloping me in my meandering thoughts.

  The next Saturday, one week before my birthday, Daddy and Aunt Vadine went to town. I called Tuwana to come over to look for the pearls and then go visit Slim.

  “Think. Where would you hide the pearls?” Tuwana stood in the middle of the floor with her finger on her cheek as if a bolt of lightning might come through the ceiling and provide the answer.

  “I’ve looked through everything in the bedroom and the bathroom.”

  Tuwana pulled the cushions from the couch, looked behind the books on the shelf beside the television, all the logical places. Then, standing with her hands on her hips, she pointed to Aunt Vadine’s wooden sewing box.

  “It’s worth a try.” I had my doubts since Aunt Vadine dug in that box every blessed day of the week, pulling string out to create mountains of doilies. Pineapple pattern. Rose pattern. Single crochet. Double crochet. After the bibs, she’d started crocheting baby bonnets and booties. Why, I had no idea.

  I unlatched the tiny golden clasp at the top, allowing the two halves to open outward. Taking a deep breath, I lifted out the latest project attached to a ball of No. 2 thread, the shiny hook jabbed into the side. Scissors, a tape measure, instruction books, and six skeins of thread still in their cellophane wrappers all came out, leaving the bottom of the wooden box staring up at me, empty. Tuwana picked up the softball-sized skeins, wound around in such a way that they were hollow in the center.

  “Listen.” She shook one of them. It rattled. She turned it around and over and found a hole, no bigger around than a pencil, slit in one end. Inside we found the strand of Mama’s pearls. We shook the yarn ball until the metal clasp came to the opening, then pulled the necklace through.

  “Right in front of our noses.” Tuwana laughed a tinkling hee-hee-hee. We joined hands and danced in a circle.

  “Good work. Best place to hide something—in plain sight! Quick, let’s get this all back together like we found it.”

  Satisfied that we’d arranged it all as we found it, I redid the clasp and held the pearls.

  “I feel so evil doing this. Like button, button, who’s got the button. The sneakiest one wins. Now we have to figure out where to hide them so she won’t find them.”

  Tuwana thought for about two seconds and said, “How about if we bury them? Like a treasure?”

  “I thought of that. But where?”

  It ended up, we found the cocoa tin from my brownie-making frenzy the previous summer and dumped the last bit down the drain. Placing the pearls in a stretched-out bobby sock, we then stuffed the whole thing in the cocoa box, pushed the lid on tight, and took it to the camp playground.

  Tuwana and I had discovered a special hiding place years ago. Cedars had sprung up, making a perfect circle except for a gap on one side, which, if you slanted your body and shielded your face with your arm, you could slip into without getting scratched. Once inside, you couldn’t see out, and no one could see you. We’d take our dolls in there and play for hours. In third grade, Tuwana had brought one of her mother’s sewing needles. We pricked our fingers, smeared them together, and became blood sisters.

  Now we found our secret spot, overgrown but with a gap we could still squeeze into. Sunshine had melted the Christmas snow, leaving the needled ground underfoot spongy with the smell of moist earth. With the tools we’d brought—a red-handled serving spoon and a meat fork—we dug a hole and put in the cocoa tin. Finally, we covered the spot with dead leaves and cedar fans and slipped out. We headed for Tuwana’s.

  Going past the row of garages for Tuwana’s block, we saw her dad hauling out boxes, old rags, broken toys, and the like.

  “Whatcha doin’, Daddy?” Tuwana kept her voice light.

  “Your mother’s been after me to clean out the garage. First nice day we’ve had in a month of Sundays, so here I am.” He laughed in that big throaty way he had and disappeared into the blackness of the garage. The Edsel was nowhere in sight, so we knew Tuwana’s mother had taken the girls to their piano lessons. We cleaned up at Tuwana’s kitchen sink.

  “Phase two,” I said as we picked the cedar needles off our coats. “Slim’s house to do some investigating.”

  For the eleventeenth time, I had to convince Tuwana we were doing the right thing. She drove me crazy the way she could see crystal clear how to handle someone else’s situations but froze in terror when it came to her own.

  “Mother will kill me if she finds out I went into Slim Wallace’s house.”

  “Stop saying that. She won’t find out. Now come on.”

  Slim opened the door on the first knock and let us in.

  “And to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?” he asked. “Want to teach Tuwana how to play backgammon?”

  “No, we were just out in the neighborhood and thought we’d drop in,” I said.

  “I just made a fresh pot o’ coffee. Better not offer you any though. You know what they say: It’ll turn your feet black if you’re not old enough to drink it.”

  Tuwana, who had been standing on one foot then the other, like she might wet her pants or something, giggled. “That’s what Mother says to Tommie Sue when she begs to have a sip of Daddy’s coffee.”

  “Is that a fact? How about some Ovaltine?”

  Tuwana stood in the front room, scanning it like a ghost might pop out any minute. I followed Slim into the kitchen and opened the cabinet for the cups. From the corner of my eye, I saw Tuwana move over to the table where the backgammon board and Slim’s Bible sat in their usual places. She picked up the Bible, silently fanning through the pages. Praying for deliverance, no doubt.

  Slim reached in his pocket for a handkerchief when a rattly cough interrupted him from fixing the Ovaltine.

  “You still got the crud, Slim?”

  “Can’t seem to shake it. Doc Pinkerton’s got me on penicillin shots. Says I’m on the verge of pneumonia. Olivia’s been after me constant to take care o’ myself.”

  Tuwana’s head was bent over something in Slim’s Bible, her eyebrows puckered.

  “How is Olivia?” I asked, anxious to get around to the real reason for our visit.

  “Fine as frog hair.”

  Whack! Tuwana slammed the Bible shut, threw it on the table, and hollered she had to go. She ran out the front door, slamming the screen behind her.

  “Wonder what scared her off?” Slim asked.

  “Tuwana gets nervous. I’d better go check on her.”

  She had already run half a block before I got out the door. As I called for her to stop, a boom filled the air. Oh my gosh, the plant’s exploding! I looked toward the towering smokestacks
to see what had happened. Nothing looked any different. I thought of the underground maze of natural gas threading its way all over creation. Another boom sounded, so near I jumped. Smoke billowed above the garages.

  An incinerator. Near the Johnsons’. Running as fast as I could to catch up with Tuwana, we both arrived at her house at the same time.

  “Fire! My clothes are on fire!” Mr. Johnson’s bloodcurdling screams filled the air.

  Tuwana screeched as loud as or louder than Mr. Johnson. “Daddy! What should I do? Help! Somebody, help! Daddy, please don’t die!” She ran toward him and then jumped back from the heat of Mr. Johnson being on fire.

  I looked around, trying to think what to do. Stop! Drop! Roll! The fire drill words rang in my head, but Tuwana’s dad had already dropped and rolled on the ground, moaning and drawing his arms and legs up to his body. People scurried up from all directions. Mr. Nash threw an army blanket over Mr. Johnson, stopping the smoke but not his howls.

  Tuwana knelt by her dad, sobbing, saying she was sorry. For what, I didn’t know. I tried to put my arm around her as some men bundled Mr. Johnson into a car and roared off. She pushed me away. A stink filled the air. Not like normal trash burning, but something much worse. Like singed chicken feathers, but I knew it was charred flesh. Bile came up in my mouth, and I spit on the grass.

  The next thing I knew Tuwana’s mother pulled up in the Edsel. “What happened? Why is everyone here?”

  Tuwana stood frozen, staring at her mother. When someone repeated what had happened, Mrs. Johnson fainted, and Tuwana ran to her, sobbing and shaking. “Daddy’s going to die. I just know it. He caught fire….”

  Ernie and Lola Greenwood pulled Tuwana away from Mrs. Johnson, whose eyes fluttered open. Mrs. Greenwood helped her up, then piled Mrs. Johnson and the girls into the Edsel and got behind the wheel. Mr. Greenwood followed in his Pontiac.

  The incinerator didn’t send off any more explosions, but we all stayed back just in case. Daddy came up behind me just then, and I blurted out the awful news. He put his arm around me and led me off. I cried all the way home, babbling about Mr. Johnson cleaning out the garage and how something he threw in the incinerator must have exploded and caught him on fire. “You always told Mama and me to stand back and be careful with aerosol cans. Do you think that’s what did it?”

  Daddy kept his arm around me. “We can’t rightly know. We’ll just pray he makes it. Don’t do no good putting any blame.”

  I wanted to blame something though. For Mr. Johnson. For Mama. But what? Goldie’s words about not questioning the Almighty popped into my head, but still I couldn’t help thinking, Why? Why Mama? Why Mr. Johnson?

  Aunt Vadine fixed lunch, and we ate in silence. Around five o’clock the prayer chain called to say Mr. Johnson had severe burns on his face and upper body and had been taken by ambulance to Amarillo. His chances of recovery looked good, but he would be in the hospital for several weeks. Maybe months.

  Poor Tuwana. Her mother would be crushed. Now she would hate Graham Camp more than ever.

  I couldn’t get my mind off Tuwana even when I went to visit Goldie. Later, taking Scarlett for a walk, I tried to think. Tuwana ran from Slim’s house like she’d been shot. What had she seen in Slim’s Bible? Did she read something about Slim’s wife? What if she hadn’t died in the wreck like Slim said? No. Slim wouldn’t lie. Maybe Slim was drinking when the wreck happened and that’s why he couldn’t get over it. It didn’t sound like Slim, but people change after a big shock, so maybe he quit drinking. What was in Slim’s Bible? A clipping of some kind? What? The only one who knew was Tuwana, and she was at the hospital with her dad.

  It probably wasn’t anything in the Bible at all. Maybe Tuwana had stashed an Aqua Net can in the garage and suddenly remembered her dad throwing stuff in the incinerator. How awful for Tuwana if that’s what caused the explosion. Was that why she screamed she was sorry? For causing her daddy to catch fire?

  As soon as she got back from Amarillo I would ask her about it. Or maybe I’d go over to Slim’s and look in the Bible myself. The rotten thing was—we still hadn’t found out anything about Mrs. Gray.

  [ THIRTY-SIX ]

  February 13, 1959

  Dear Diary,

  My thirteenth birthday, can you believe it? I’m a teenager!

  Not only that. The minute Daddy got off his graveyard shift, he surprised me with my gift. Not a surprise, really, since Aunt Vadine had planted the idea in Daddy’s head on what to give me. Still, an Olympia portable typewriter just for me. Not a used one from the school either, but a brand-new one with its own carrying case. I have to wait until Daddy wakes up to try it out. So now I’m stuck studying the instruction manual and learning where to place my hands on the keys. Just think: in no time words, paragraphs, and whole pages will flow from my fingers. Now I really wish Aunt Vadine hadn’t gotten me kicked off the school newspaper.

  Speaking of which, you know who keeps coming in my room like she’s dying to say something. I think she’s discovered the pearls are missing. Should I say something? I think not. Ha. Ha.

  SJT

  When Daddy woke up, I went straight to work. I rolled a new sheet of paper into the typewriter and plunked a thank-you note to Daddy and another one to Aunt Vadine. Tap-tap-plunk. The sound made my heart race.

  I folded the notes and put them beside Daddy and Aunt Vadine’s plates when I set the supper table.

  Aunt Vadine came into the kitchen looking for the aspirin. “All that racket’s given me a headache. Guess you’ll have to make your own birthday supper, Samantha.”

  When Daddy came in from outside, we had sauerkraut and weenies, and I washed the dishes. It reminded me of when Mama was gone to the hospital. Just Daddy and me.

  He had the backgammon board set up by the time I finished the dishes, and we played for three hours straight. I kept trying to bring up Mrs. Gray, but I could never get the right words in my head, and then it would be my turn to throw the dice. Bringing up the part about Aunt Vadine slapping me didn’t seem right either, since it was my birthday and all, and it was her idea to get me the typewriter. Daddy took a thirty-minute nap and went off for his graveyard shift. I wanted to kick myself for not saying something.

  Tuwana would barely speak to me when she got home from Amarillo. She didn’t even look at me when I asked about her dad. “He’s got second- and third-degree burns on his neck, face, ears, and hands. Now beat it. I don’t want to talk about it.”

  I tried again the next day.

  She put her hands over her face and cried. “Leave me alone! Can’t you see I’m dealing with all I can?” I patted her on the arm and told her I would listen anytime. She knocked my hand off her arm and walked away. It was like after Mama died, when I didn’t want anyone touching me. That dirty feeling of people’s hands on me trying to make me feel better but making me sick instead. I left her alone, hoping someday she would tell me what happened in Slim’s front room.

  Every weekend, Tuwana went to Amarillo to see her dad, so I spent as much time as Aunt Vadine would let me practicing on my new typewriter. Thirty minutes. That was her limit, and even then she gave me a sour-lemon look every time I got it out. She kept an eye on the clock and yelled, “That’s it. Time’s up.” Even if I was in the middle of a sentence, I stopped and put everything away. While I typed I let my imagination run free. What would it be like if Aunt Vadine went home to Midland? What if I interviewed the man with no legs I’d once seen begging on the sidewalk in Amarillo? What kind of story would he have? What if Daddy decided to get married again and it wasn’t Aunt Vadine?

  The more I wrote, the more I wanted to be back on the school newspaper and close to Mrs. Gray. I thought about bribing Aunt Vadine by telling her I’d give back the pearls if she would tell Mr. Howard to put me back on the paper, but then I got mad all over again at her taking them from me in the first place and kissing Daddy the way she did. She gave me fiery-eyed looks that straightened the hair on the back of my neck. Then
she went back to her latest crochet project—baby booties. Every Wednesday on double Green Stamp day she drove to Mandeville and bought our groceries and a new supply of crochet thread. Now she had a dozen baby booties lined up on top of the dresser. Sorta creepy, you know?

  Actually, I was sick of myself. Was this how Mama felt? Always hoping things would take a turn for the better? I looked up depression in the dictionary. A neurotic disorder marked by sadness, inactivity, lack of concentration. Dejection. Hopelessness. Sometimes suicidal tendencies. It sounded like Mr. Webster had taken a look at Mama when he made up the definition. But I wasn’t like Mama, was I?

  No. I had my New Year’s resolution. I gritted my teeth. I would face my problems. But why couldn’t I get up the nerve to tell Daddy why I wasn’t on the school paper anymore? Or shake Tuwana and make her tell me what was in Slim’s Bible? I even tiptoed around Aunt Vadine like a spooked bunny rabbit.

  Cly picked up on my moodiness right off when he came by one Saturday and wanted to go for a walk.

  “You aren’t yourself, Sam. What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. Why would you think that?”

  “Hey, don’t bite my head off. Everything’s cool, you know.”

  “Sorry, I’m just sick of Aunt Vadine and all that.”

  “You’ve been moping around for more than a month. At least your aunt hasn’t threatened to send you to an orphanage. My old man did that once.” He kicked a rock like he meant to send it into orbit.

  “How awful. But it does sound like something Aunt Vadine might pull. Then she could have Daddy to herself.”