“Grandmother just turned one hundred,” Violet says. “We had a birthday party for her last month. She lives in the same place on the coast.”
“I’d love to see her while I’m here,” Rose says. “Is Queenie around?”
Their conversation, though warm, feels hesitant, as if the past is scrambling to catch up with the present.
“She’s in her room,” Violet says. “She’s been looking forward to seeing you.”
“Any change with Mother?” she asks, realizing she has relegated her main reason for coming to an afterthought.
“I’m sorry, there’s not,” Violet says. “They’re bringing her home from the hospital in an hour. She’ll have a nurse, 24 hours a day until…” Violet pauses, as though concerned about being insensitive.
“Until she dies?” Rose asks.
Violet nods and lowers her eyes.
Should Rose tell Violet that the possibility of her mother’s death holds no emotional charge for her? In a way, it’s like her mother has already been dead for twenty-five years. But Rose hesitates to reveal this to someone she is just getting to know again, even if she is a Sea Gypsy.
“Evidently your mother left detailed instructions on how to conduct her final days,” Violet continues. “She made lists of things to be done in the event of her incapacitation, as well as instructions about her funeral.”
“She thought she might get decapitated?” Rose asks, confused.
Violet laughs. “No, silly. Incapacitation, not decapitation.”
Rose rolls her eyes at her mistake and laughs, too. It feels good to laugh at such a serious moment.
“I guess I’m more jet-lagged than I realized,” Rose says. She set the alarm for four that morning so she could leave the house by six and get to the Denver airport by eight. Weary doesn’t begin to describe how she feels.
“I saw Edward in the garden,” Rose says, her pinkie vibrating with the memory.
“What was he doing in the garden?” Violet asks. “I didn’t even know he was in town.”
“He’s good at lurking,” Rose says. “He probably appointed himself as head of my welcoming committee.”
The look on Violet’s face confirms that no love is lost between her and Edward.
“Your mother’s stroke has been bad enough,” Violet says. “Edward sure doesn’t help things. He’s like a vulture circling.”
Footsteps approach, the kitchen door swings open and it’s like the sun breaks through thick clouds.
“I thought I heard you,” Queenie says, her smile aimed right at Rose.
Seeing Queenie is like coming home to the best part of Rose’s past. Queenie wears a flower print dress of bright pink and orange. Colors so vivid it looks like they might attract hummingbirds.
I wouldn’t dream of wearing something so alive, Rose thinks. But just being around Queenie again makes her wonder if she should try.
“Sweet Jesus, there’s a cowgirl in the kitchen,” Queenie says, slapping her thigh.
Rose welcomes Queenie’s embrace—a woman who was more like a mother to her than anyone else. On her desk at home is a framed photograph of Queenie carrying her around after she was born, a twelve-year-old toting a baby. She is the one person in Savannah that Rose has kept in close contact with, having exchanged letters several times a year for over two decades.
When they end their embrace, Queenie pulls Violet into their circle and they are all young again and inseparable. Yet as much as Rose wants to relax into their reunion, the closeness feels almost unbearable. It is too much of what she’s missed. Too much of what will be hard to leave again.
“How’s Mother?” Rose asks, as if she knows the question will serve to separate them. It does.
“I talked to her doctor this morning,” Queenie says. “He says she doesn’t have much time left.”
“Do they think she’ll wake up again?” Rose asks.
“Unlikely,” Queenie says. “But you never know with Iris. She’s probably writing a letter to God on Temple stationery as we speak. She hasn’t given all that money to Catholic charities for nothing.” Queenie lets out a cackle that makes Rose laugh. There was a lot of laughter in her childhood. She has missed that, too.
“I’m sure it’s not the way Mother would have wanted to go,” Rose says, serious again.
Queenie agrees. “To lose all control must be killing her.” She lifts an eyebrow at her choice of words. “You know how much your mother likes to be in charge,” she adds.
“That’s the understatement of the century,” Rose says, putting her purse on the kitchen table.
“Perhaps the millennium,” Violet says.
They pause, as if each realizes how much Rose’s mother would disapprove.
“They’re bringing Iris home this afternoon,” Queenie says. “Her wishes were to die here, and it would be just like Iris to haunt me after she’s gone if I don’t follow her requests to the letter.”
“The famous Temple deathbed requests,” Rose says. “I’d forgotten about those.”
“She wouldn’t be the first apparition to live here,” Violet says. She glances up like she’s listening for confirmation.
Queenie clucks her agreement.
“I can’t say that I’ve missed the ghosts,” Rose says. “There’s nothing quite like seeing your dead great-grandfather in the garden on your way to school. Of course, he seemed harmless enough, but it was always a little startling when he first showed up.”
“He’s the one with the surgeon’s bag, right?” Violet asks. “He’s always out by the oak tree.”
“He was a doctor during the Civil War,” Rose says. “When my mother was a little girl he was very old and told her stories about the war. He said he had sawed off more limbs than all the limbs on that live oak in the garden.”
“That’s why Iris refused to go near that old tree,” Queenie says. “She told me once that she always imagined amputated arms and legs dangling from its limbs.”
It occurs to Rose that only in Savannah would the first real conversation she’s had in twenty-five years include an update on the Temple ghosts. From Rose’s experience, sometimes the living can be scarier than the dead. In a way, her mother has haunted Rose her entire life.
It’s also been years since Rose thought of curses and spells and the magical Gullah arts. When she was a girl, Old Sally told her stories that intrigued her, about how Old Sally’s grandmother was a slave owned by the Temples, as was her mother before her. Old Sally’s mother was the first woman in her family born free and she was very proud of that fact.
Rose has never told anyone that her ancestors owned slaves. Not even Max. It is Rose’s secret. Growing up, she related much more to being owned than to being an owner. Sometimes she still feels like she’s waiting to be liberated. Maybe that’s part of the reason she’s here.
“You look like you’re a million miles away,” Violet says.
“I was.” Rose turns to look at her and Queenie. “I was remembering that time when I was six and I covered myself with mud from the garden to darken my skin.”
Queenie laughs. “You wanted to be black like me and Mama,” she says.
“I thought you were magical,” Rose begins. “Old Sally knew all these Gullah potions and spells, and you had these deep roots that extended all the way back to Africa,” Rose says.
“I’ll never forget the look on Mama’s face when you showed up in the kitchen,” Queenie says. “She laughed until tears came and was still laughing when she put you in the bathtub. Remember that?”
“She was always so patient with me,” Rose says, thinking of how much she looks forward to seeing Old Sally again. But first she needs to play the dutiful daughter for one last time.
CHAPTER SIX
Violet
Miss Temple would not like that Rose is back home, standing in her kitchen, which makes no sense to Violet given how kind Rose is. Violet remembers why she and Rose were friends now. Unlike some in Savannah, she doesn’t see color as a reas
on to reject someone.
“Have you told Rose about our latest drama in the newspaper?” Violet asks Queenie. Her aunt has been acting strange the last several days. She practically races Violet to be the first one to grab the newspaper off the porch. Then the rest of the day she mumbles about who must be behind telling the secrets.
“You mean someone is still releasing secrets from that old book?” Rose asks.
“One a day,” Queenie says. “At this rate, whoever it is will be at it for years.” Queenie’s eyes widen.
“Mother must have had a fit when this first started,” Rose says.
“Actually, she had a stroke,” Queenie says, with a grimace.
Violet retrieves the newspaper from the counter and reads Rose the today’s entry:
Temple Secret:
Downtown Jewelry Shop Does Money Laundering for Millionaires.
Contact Reeves Bartow.
“Do the Bartow’s still live here?” Rose asks. “I was in school with the son.”
“He’s probably calling his attorney as we speak,” Queenie says. “All of Savannah is standing in line to file lawsuits. And nobody can figure out who is doing it.”
“God, I hope I don’t have any secrets in there,” Rose says, her brow creased.
“Me, too,” Violet says, although her only secret is how much she hates working for Miss Temple and she doubts that is newsworthy. “Would you believe I found a designer poop bag at the front door this morning filled with doggie you-know-what?” Violet says, wondering why she’s using you-know-what for its true contents.
“Who would do something like that?” Rose asks.
“No telling,” Violet says. “But I just thought you should know in case someone approaches you.”
“It’s probably good Mother’s in a coma,” Rose says. “She couldn’t bear to see the Temple family name tarnished.”
“She brought it on herself,” Queenie says. “That Book of Secrets was how she kept everybody in line. Including me.”
“This morning I pulled a couple of posters off the fence,” Violet says, “with not very flattering pictures of Miss Temple.”
“That’s the least of it,” Queenie says. “You should have heard some of the phone calls.”
Aware of how tired Rose looks, Violet interrupts: “Let’s get your things,” she says, taking Rose’s arm. “Unfortunately, our resident ghosts don’t carry luggage from the car. But I can do that. Then you can settle in a bit before your mother arrives.”
“I can get my own luggage,” Rose says, but Violet insists.
Violet retrieves Rose’s suitcase and then ascends the spiral staircase toward Rose’s old bedroom. Violet has trudged up and down these stairs thousands of times. At least it keeps her legs in shape. She’s also memorized every detail of the maroon carpet runners on the wooden steps, the polished banisters, as well as the Temple portraits lining the walls. As girls, whenever the Temples weren’t around, Violet and Rose slid down the banisters as the Temple ancestors watched in framed silence. They watch her now. Do they remember Rose?
Violet meets Rose at the doorway to Rose’s room as Rose places her suitcase on the bed. Violet seems to always be standing at doorways these days, as if tempting herself to exit from the Temple lives for good. Rose’s bedroom is frozen in time from before Rose left for college. The dark antique furniture, too heavy for a child’s room, makes Violet feel claustrophobic whenever she cleans in here. The furniture and heavy draperies over the windows do their best to suck the oxygen from the room.
“I’m surprised she kept my room intact,” Rose says. “I noticed my portrait was gone from downstairs.”
Violet doesn’t tell Rose that when Violet started working here Miss Temple forbid her to ever speak Rose’s name. But she did keep the room as it was. Over the years Violet has discovered that Miss Temple is as complicated as her meal choices.
“I forgot how dark this room is,” Rose says. “I could never paint in here.”
“So you still paint?” Violet asks. Rose was quite good by the time she went away to college.
“I do still paint,” Rose says. “Mostly Western scenes now, but I’d love to paint more of the landscape around here.”
Violet’s creative side comes out in her cooking and baking. She walks over to the window and tries to open it but it won’t budge. A large crepe myrtle twists upward outside the second story window. At least the blossoms offer a touch of cheerfulness to the drab room. As girls, they rarely spent time here and played in the kitchen or in the garden while her grandmother worked.
“It looks like a museum or something,” Rose says. “No wonder I could hardly wait to leave home.”
Violet resists confessing that she can hardly wait to leave, too.
“I’m surprised a security guard isn’t stationed at the door to make sure I don’t touch anything,” Rose says.
“I can get you one if you want,” Violet says, and they both laugh.
A small photograph of Rose and her mother at Rose’s college graduation sits atop her antique bureau. Rose looks sullen in it, as she always did when photographed with her mother. Miss Temple doesn’t look that thrilled, either, her chin tilted upward in typical Temple fashion. As teenagers Rose talked to Violet about how she was a constant disappointment to her mother. That’s also when their friendship began to fade.
Queenie calls from foyer that the ambulance has arrived.
“Should I go downstairs and greet her?” Rose asks.
“It’s up to you,” Violet says. “She won’t know the difference.” Or will she? Violet thinks.
Violet follows Rose downstairs where two men wait with a stretcher next to Queenie. Strapped onto the stretcher covered with a white blanket, Miss Temple appears small and vulnerable, the opposite of the critical force she usually is.
Violet, Queenie and Rose follow the men carrying Miss Temple upstairs. It feels ceremonial, in a way, as if they are practicing for the funeral, not that Violet would be part of the procession. Violet never knew her own mother, so she can’t imagine what this is like for Rose. She imagines it is like witnessing a fire-breathing dragon whose flame is going out. She is surprised her arm isn’t hurting, since it usually announces a death or injury. Does this mean Miss Temple isn’t ready to die?
Two technicians join the crowd in Miss Temple’s bedroom to set up the various machines. A hospital bed sits where the four-poster antique used to be.
“Mother won’t like this,” Rose says to Violet and Queenie. “She would want to die in a Temple bed.”
“I know,” Queenie says. “But this is the only way her doctor would agree to let us bring her home.”
Even the Temple beds have lineages. Miss Temple was born in the same bed in which her grandmother and grandfather died. Working for Miss Temple meant Violet had to know the history of every piece of furniture in the house, as if it somehow might make her dust and polish everything with more care.
Why anyone would want to sleep where numerous relatives have died is beyond me, she thinks. At the very least, it verges on weird. But to Miss Temple, tradition trumps weird. Tradition trumps everything.
Stories about the Temples are given on every carriage ride tour that passes the house. Most famously, the story of Rose’s great grandfather, one of the more eccentric Temples, who took to his deathbed requesting a final visit from his pet pig, Salty. According to legend, Salty lived on the Temple family’s plantation near Charleston and was transported the hundred miles between Charleston and Savannah and led up the stairs to say his final goodbyes.
Violet overheard Miss Temple tell Queenie one day about how much she liked that “dumb old pig.”
Evidently the same evening the grandfather died, the grandmother condemned Salty to their dinner table. Revenge for his transgressions, Miss Temple said, of which there were supposedly many. To this day, Violet is to never serve Miss Temple pork of any kind.
The front bell chimes and Violet goes to answer it. She spies another fancy d
oggy-do bag on the porch. A nurse arrives, a young woman who introduces herself as Ava. She wears a white uniform, her dyed black hair pulled back in a rubber band. A green lizard tattoo crawls up the middle finger of her right hand, a detail that hints at a different personality hidden beneath the young woman’s professional appearance. Violet knows what it’s like to wear a uniform that’s meant to obscure your personality, but she’s never considered a tattoo. Maybe she should. It would certainly surprise Tia and Leisha.
Just outside the door, Violet, Queenie and Rose wait for the flurry of activity to cease. Rose’s face drains of color and Violet steps closer. On the hospital bed a few feet away is the person her former friend has spent the last twenty-five years of her life avoiding. Even Violet’s chest tightens with the thought. She decides to stay close in case Rose needs her.
The ambulance drivers leave first and then, after several minutes of testing the various machines, the two technicians leave. Ava, the nurse, straightens the sheet over Miss Temple’s body and then motions for them to enter.
“Miss Temple is ready for visitors,” Ava says, sounding older than she looks. If she is aware of the secrets that have caused such a fuss for the last ten days, she doesn’t let on.
Rose approaches the bed and Queenie and Violet file behind her. Queenie rests her hand on Rose’s shoulder, as if to offer emotional support. Queenie can be counted on in a crisis. She was the one Violet called upon when mean darker girls said hateful things to her at school because Violet was lighter-skinned. Queenie was also there when Edward attacked her that time when he was home from college.
“She looks strangely peaceful, doesn’t she?” Queenie says. “It’s like the Temple Book of Secrets never existed.”
Peaceful isn’t a word Violet would ever use to describe Miss Temple. “I guess we’d all be better off if we hadn’t heard of that book,” Violet says, reminding herself to pick up the second batch of dog poop on the porch, and wondering what might come next.
“Look at it this way,” Queenie says, her eyes sporting a twinkle. “It only took a devastating stroke and a coma to achieve this serenity.”
Temple Secrets: Southern Humorous Fiction: (New for 2015) For Lovers of Southern Authors and Southern Novels Page 5
