Old Sally sits at Iris’s side holding her hand. Perhaps her mama is encouraging Iris to let go, and telling her that everything will be okay. Rose has tears in her eyes. Queenie leans closer to Rose. She can’t even imagine having to say goodbye to her own mother and pushes this thought away. Finally Iris closes her eyes. Queenie waits for them to pop back open, but they don’t. Then just like on the television shows where the patient flat lines, the urgent sounds of the machines become a single tone.
After Lynette turns off the machines, the room goes silent. She looks at her watch. “Time of death, 11:54 p.m.,” she says.
Old Sally releases Iris’s hand and moves to a chair in the corner. She rests her head in her hands.
“What is it, Mama?” Queenie asks. “Iris has crossed over, right?”
“It didn’t work,” Old Sally says.
“What do you mean?” Rose asks.
“Iris’s transition,” Old Sally says. “I wasn’t able to help her complete it.”
“You mean she’s not dead?” Queenie asks.
“She be dead all right,” Old Sally says. “But her spirit be stuck in the in-between world.”
“Does that mean I still have to run errands for her?” Queenie asks. The other women turn to look at her. “Just asking,” she adds.
Iris’s body gets the last word with a final, triumphant hiss of gas.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Violet
Miss Temple would want me to use the silver serving dishes instead of the China, she thinks.
Violet has worked since six a.m. preparing food for the funeral reception and still has things to do. Every edible sea creature known to Savannah is spread out on the kitchen counters in serving dishes that she is now covering with cellophane to store. A knock on the kitchen door pulls her away from the task and she opens the door to find Spud Grainger holding a plastic bag full of fresh scallops.
“I couldn’t have done this without you,” Violet says, giving him a quick hug.
“Happy to help,” Spud says, but he doesn’t look happy at all. In the other hand he carries several posters pulled from the ornate iron work surrounding the house.
“You look exhausted,” Violet says, feeling worn out herself. She hasn’t had time to consider how Spud might be affected by Miss Temple’s death.
“I’ve been up all night,” he says.
In a suit and bow tie, Spud is already dressed for the funeral later this morning. For his sake, she hopes there isn’t a scene. If polled by Savannah’s upper class, Miss Temple’s approval rating would be in the negative numbers. However, popular opinion appears to be changing. At least a little. Two posters she pulled off the gate yesterday had a different message and portrayed Miss Temple as a kind of folk hero.
Spud helps Violet carry the serving dishes to the spare refrigerator next to the laundry room. In the last bit of space she stores the scallops to prepare later.
“Would you like a cup of coffee?” Violet asks, putting the posters in the trash.
Spud accepts her offer. “Iris would hate all those terrible signs on the fence. Does anybody know who’s putting those secrets in the newspaper?”
“We have no idea,” Violet says. “We were hoping it would stop after Miss Temple died, but they haven’t.”
Spud takes a seat at the table. “Iris would be so disappointed about how the Temple legacy is being tarnished,” he says.
Thirty minutes before, Rose and Queenie left the kitchen to get ready for the funeral and Violet was looking forward to some uninterrupted time. She has a thousand things to do, but she can tell Spud needs to talk.
Ten years ago Spud began delivering Miss Temple’s exotic meat—bringing only the best cuts, trimmed to perfection, carefully wrapped in single servings—as if Miss Temple herself might receive these gifts. But since her employer rarely stepped into the kitchen, Spud began coming to see Violet. Not in a romantic way. He is old enough to be her father. Perhaps that was part of the initial draw, since Violet never had one.
After pouring him a cup of coffee, Violet cuts two slices of banana bread, a small one for her, a bigger piece for Spud. She sits at the kitchen table, almost expecting her chair to still be warm from when Queenie and Rose were there.
Violet has often thought that more healing goes on around kitchen tables than in churches. At least it always felt that way at her grandmother’s kitchen table when Violet was a girl. Meals were celebrations that not only included good food, but laughter, tears, singing, love, and conflicts—all aspects of life. To Violet, kitchens are where community happens.
In a way it makes sense that her dream is to open a tea shop and bakery in downtown Savannah for an even bigger community to enjoy. But her dream can wait. She returns her attention to Spud.
“What were you thinking about all night?” Violet breaks off a piece of banana bread and eats it. It’s delicious, if she does say so herself.
“Mostly memories,” he says. “The time when Iris and I were together.”
“How did you meet her?” Violet asks. She’s curious why she never thought to ask this before.
Spud smiles and pauses like he’s gathering his thoughts.
“I played saxophone in a small jazz band called the Grainger Quartet,” he begins. “We played local clubs and wedding receptions and various engagements with the Savannah Historical Society.”
Violet has never heard this story and it seems important for Spud to tell it.
“I first laid eyes on Iris in the mid-seventies at one of our gigs for the Historical Society.” He looks out the window into the garden, as if reliving the moment. “Her presence captured my imagination, the part that’s prone to improvisation. She was older, of course, and a privileged member of Savannah. Iris was everything I wasn’t supposed to want or have. Perhaps that was part of the attraction.” He turns away from the window and smiles at Violet. “Love doesn’t always abide by the rules of social order,” he concludes.
“My grandmother worked here then. Did you ever meet her?” Violet asks. “She goes by the name Old Sally.”
Spud narrows his eyes, as if searching the past. “I do remember her. She was very regal looking.”
Violet likes to think of her grandmother as regal.
“Whenever my quartet played one of Iris’s events and we were on a break, we went to the kitchen and your grandmother fed us,” Spud says. “She took a liking to me. One time she asked if she might have something of mine to add to some kind of collection. Something small, she said. I didn’t really understand why she wanted it,” he continues. “But I didn’t want to refuse her. She was quite persuasive, if you know what I mean.”
You have no idea, Violet thinks. And if her grandmother’s personality isn’t persuasive enough, there are always her spells.
“The only thing I had on me that night was a box of brand new saxophone reeds,” he says.
Violet remembers a small rectangular box with gold lettering. “Oh, that’s where those came from,” Violet says with a laugh. “My grandmother collects things. I always wondered what those were.”
“I’m sorry, I’m confused,” Spud says.
“It means she chose you,” Violet explains. “She kind of watches out for certain people. People that she feels need her for one reason or another.”
“Well, I was always struggling in those days,” Spud says. “Then it seemed my luck changed. Maybe that was your grandmother’s doing,” he adds with a chuckle.
“Maybe,” Violet says.
“Is she still alive?” Spud asks. “That must have been forty years ago.”
“Alive and well,” Violet says. “We just celebrated her 100th birthday last January.”
“Impressive,” Spud says. He pets his mustache. “Next time you see her please tell her how much I appreciate her looking out for me.”
Violet promises she will as Spud straightens his tie again.
Several years ago, Violet counted how many times Spud straightened his tie over coffee. Th
e result was seven, but today he seems to have doubled his efforts.
“My quartet played for Iris’s daughter’s wedding reception,” he begins again. “I can’t remember her name.”
“Rose?” Violet asks.
“Yes, Rose,” he says. “We played 50 minute sets, with a 10 minute break to rest our lips and grab a smoke. Rose was marrying a young man from somewhere out West. I remember this detail because it was the first and only wedding my quartet played where the groom wore a cowboy hat. I don’t think Iris liked that. She always worried about appearances in those days.”
Violet doesn’t tell him that Miss Temple probably died with the same concerns, the Book of Secrets being her biggest worry. She glances at her watch. Violet won’t have time to go to the church now, with all she has left to do, but maybe the graveside service.
“Oh my, Iris was beautiful in those days,” Spud continues. His gaze drifts. “I wasn’t so bad looking myself. People used to say I looked like James Dean.”
He turns his profile for Violet to see the resemblance. She nods, even though she has no idea who James Dean is.
“I never deluded myself into believing that I had anything to offer Iris,” he says, sadness showing in his eyes. “I’ve been replaying the past for days now, ever since you called to tell me that Iris had passed. The news hit me hard, Violet. I couldn’t even work the next day.”
She reaches over and squeezes his hand, and he returns the squeeze.
“What I keep remembering is that first time we got together,” Spud says. “Can I tell you about it? I’ve never told anyone before.”
“Please do,” Violet says. She has to admit she’s curious. She can’t imagine her former employer in the throes of a passionate love affair. It’s hard to imagine Miss Temple passionate about anything except perhaps elevating the Temple social status.
“It was after her husband, Oscar, died. Iris was planning a charity house tour, and I came here to talk about the music. She asked if I wanted tea and when I said yes, I was surprised that she went into the kitchen and made it herself. For some reason your grandmother was gone.”
“I didn’t think Miss Temple ever stepped foot in the kitchen,” Violet says. Except for leaving her critiques, she thinks.
“Well, I’d never had anything other than sweet iced tea in my entire life,” Spud says. “So when she served me a cup of hot tea from a silver tea service, I had no idea what I was doing. I’d watched enough British movies to know how to hold up my little finger when I drank from the fancy cup,” he says, with a laugh. “Can you believe I was that naïve?”
Violet touches his hand again. “I can relate to being naive. It took me years to get used to the day-to-day excesses of the wealthy,” she says. “Especially while Jack and I watched every penny.”
Spud nods, like he’s watched a few pennies himself.
Violet imagines what a handsome man Spud must have been earlier in his life. Photographs of a younger Miss Temple always surprise her. At times, even Miss Temple looked softer and prettier.
Spud continues with his story. “Iris and I were in the sunroom when she asked me if I was familiar with the free love movement. I can’t say I had any idea what she meant. It’s not like Savannah had hippies in those days. But that was the first time I realized that Iris wasn’t just a Temple, but a woman with desires.”
His eyebrows rise as he lowers his head. “Since I was much braver back then, I asked if I could kiss her. Keep in mind I was a musician. Who was I to think I could kiss someone like her? Savannah bowed at her feet.”
Violet’s face grows warm with the thought that Miss Temple would not like her housekeeper and cook knowing something so intimate about her.
“Afterwards, she led me upstairs to her bedroom,” Spud says without looking up. He stops here, as if, as a gentleman, he has gone far enough. Then he looks at her. “She refused to call me Spud, you know. She called me Henry. She said the name Spud, sounded common, like a French fry.”
They laugh. Violet can imagine Miss Temple’s inflections while saying this, the emphasis on French fry. However, her actions are much harder to visualize. In a way, Violet wishes she had known this side of Miss Temple. The side that allowed herself to be swept away by a jazz musician.
Violet touches his arm. “How long did it last?” she asks.
“Several months,” he says. “In order to keep it private, we spent weekends on Hilton Head at a bed and breakfast. Those times were some of the happiest of my life.”
His eyes redden, and he pulls a handkerchief from his suit jacket.
“Why did it end?” Violet asks, genuinely curious.
“Iris called it off,” he says, blowing his nose. “I’ll never forget the day her letter arrived, telling me that our love affair was over. She threatened to sue me for everything I had if I ever told anyone, and I haven’t told a soul until now.”
“I’m so sorry, Spud.”
“Me, too,” he says. “But the most embarrassing part was that attached to the letter was a check for $180,000 dollars. I figured she was reimbursing me a hundred dollars for every day of our six months together. I still have the letter,” he adds.
Spud blows his nose with vigor now, as though all these years later he is still insulted by Iris’s actions. “I never cashed that check.”
“Oh, Spud,” Violet says, “love is hard no matter what the circumstances, but this sounds devastating.”
“What I want to know is why do rich people always think money is the solution for everything?” Spud asks.
“I have often wondered the same thing,” Violet says, thinking this is one thing she’ll never have personal experience with.
“Iris changed after that,” Spud begins again. “She was always proper, but never cutting. I changed too,” he adds. “I disbanded my group, and I took a full time job at the Piggly Wiggly as their butcher.” He neatly folds his handkerchief and puts it in his breast pocket. “Then years later she started coming to the Piggly Wiggly to order her exotic meats,” he continues. “I knew it was more than that. I knew she wanted to see me. To see how I was. You don’t travel across town to get something you could have delivered from anywhere in the world right to your doorstep. You don’t do that unless you want to see someone and want to let them know that you still care. Right?”
“I wish she could have told you how she truly felt,” Violet says. “We all deserve that much.”
He sighs and agrees. “I think the most hurtful thing was that she required that it be kept secret,” he says. “She was convinced our affair would ruin her.”
“What is it about the Temples that attracts so many secrets?” Violet asks.
“I know. It’s such a mess, isn’t it?” Spud says. “By the way, I saw the Book of Secrets once, that everybody’s talking about. Iris showed it to me. She said that whoever had that book could bring Savannah to its knees.”
“Well, I’m not so sure about bringing Savannah to its knees, but it has certainly brought Savannah to our gate.”
Spud gives a brief smile. “You know, now that I think about it, Iris mentioned that there was a second book that nobody else knew about.”
“A second book?” Violet doesn’t know if she has the stamina to withstand the fallout from more secret books.
“She didn’t say much about it,” Spud continues. “Just that it could be dangerous if it fell into the wrong hands. Where do you think that one is?”
“I have no idea,” Violet says, and she doesn’t want to know.
Spud thanks Violet for listening, glances at his watch and says he’d better get going. They hug again and say their goodbyes.
The house returns to quiet, except for the unseen entities that offer an occasional bump and rattle. Cold air brushes past her. She rubs goose bumps on her arms.
“Is that you, Miss Temple?” Violet asks, as she looks around the kitchen. “He still loves you, you know.”
A heavy sadness descends. A sadness that feels more like Miss Temp
le’s than her own. She shivers again and reminds herself that she doesn’t have time to be a counselor for ghosts. At least not right now. She has a reception to prepare for.
Violet retrieves the scallops from the refrigerator and thinks again of Spud. Miss Temple’s time with him was like a Get Out of Jail Free card.
“Too bad you didn’t take advantage of that,” Violet says, in case the newest Temple ghost can hear her.
How would Miss Temple’s life have been different if she’d made decisions based on what her heart wanted instead of her head? How would any of our lives be different?
“This is what happens when books of secrets are more important than relationships,” she tells her deceased employer. But it seems Miss Temple is gone for now, perhaps trying to make it to the church on time for her own funeral.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Rose
Mother would like this, Rose thinks.
The street in front of the Catholic Church has been blocked off for her mother’s funeral, which promises to be well-attended. Do people want proof that the grand matriarch of Savannah is finally dead?
People gather outside to chat and some even smoke. A cacophony of smells rise from the crowd, as though every fragrance ever denied them at her mother’s insistence is being worn on the day of her funeral.
Talk of secrets is everywhere as she overhears several people suggest that this will be the end of the daily reveal in the newspaper. But isn’t that assuming her mother was responsible for them? That just doesn’t make sense. Besides, Queenie told Rose the secrets showed up in the classifieds every morning the entire time her mother was in a coma. Rose wonders if the person or persons responsible are in the crowd of mourners. She surveys the guests and decides that they all look guilty of something.
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