Temple Secrets: Southern Humorous Fiction: (New for 2015) For Lovers of Southern Authors and Southern Novels

by Susan Gabriel

  Old Sally nods. “The door to the jail cell be open. Now you just got to walk through.”

  Rose picks up a pebble and tosses it into the ocean. How many times has she walked this same coastline with Old Sally? She wishes now she’d kept count. As a girl, one of the biggest treats of her life was getting to spend the night at Old Sally’s house. Old Sally would move all her special trinkets and make a bed for Rose in the window seat where she could watch the ocean in the moonlight. Sometimes Rose awoke at dawn and dolphins would be playing on the waves. Later, she would wonder if she’d dreamed it.

  After wandering down the beach, they turn around and walk back over their own footprints. An unexpected calm flows through her.

  “I’ve missed this place,” Rose says. She breathes in the sea air.

  “This place has missed you, too,” Old Sally says.

  Rose feels ready to come home to Savannah now. She’s tired of running from the past. Tired of pretending that she doesn’t miss the people and the land here. Her mother’s bribe has helped her take an honest look at where she really belongs. It has everything to do with who she is at this moment and what she needs in life.

  But Max will never leave the West, she tells herself. It is his home just as surely as the Georgia coast is hers.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Queenie

  “Holy heaven, what a disaster,” Queenie says to herself. She places the keys to the Town Car on the hook in the kitchen. Her secret is out and not at all how she wanted it to be. After Iris died, she gave herself a month to tell Violet. The plan was to take her out to dinner some night and spill the secret she’d bottled up all these years. She has to admit, though, it will be nice to get some sleep again. She’s been worried for weeks that this very secret would show up on people’s doorsteps all over Savannah and everyone in town would know. Not that anybody would even care, except Violet.

  The drive home from Bo River’s office with Violet was the longest ride of her life: Violet’s painful silence—silence that proved fertile soil for Queenie’s shame. Then Queenie’s apology. Violet’s silence back. Another attempt at an apology. Then once they were home, Violet’s insistence that Queenie stop apologizing as she got out of the car, slammed the door and ran inside.

  The moment called for something more than Queenie had. A better reason. Better words to explain. In all honesty, it felt inevitable that she would have a child by Iris Temple’s husband. Wasn’t that what history expected of her?

  The phone hasn’t stopped ringing in the foyer, even though she had it changed to a private number. It is unreal how many people have called looking for a job after this morning’s ad. Did they really think it was real? Queenie unplugs the telephone and goes upstairs. She doesn’t have time to worry about phone calls or the handful of protestors outside. She seeks refuge in the green armchair in the corner of her bedroom. She pulls out her journal and pen from the side table drawer where she keeps it hidden. The last thing she needed while Iris was alive was Iris finding all her private thoughts. They might fill a whole other book of secrets.

  Journaling is something Queenie picked up from watching Oprah, and she is faithful to the practice of documenting her feelings and thoughts. In the margins she writes the three things she’s grateful for every day. But she is not ready for gratitude yet. Too much is in the way. Queenie picks up a pen and begins to write the story she never shared with anyone until now, not even her journal.

  I was sixteen when Mister Oscar first invited me into his study. I hated him for suggesting it, but another part of me liked the attention since I’d never really had a daddy. Not having a parent is like having only half of a road map in life, one torn right down the middle, so you never fully know where you’re going or where you’ve been. Of course I always knew that Iris and I had the same father. But he never acknowledged it. Not once. Sometimes I would sneak looks at him to see if I could recognize parts of me that came from him. As far as I could tell, we had the same nose, but other than that we could have been total strangers. He was tall and thin and very white. Did I mention he was very white!? Maybe the biggest thing we had in common was how well we could keep a secret!

  What secret, you may ask, dear journal? Well, when I was a girl, my mama would disappear from time to time into his bedroom, and I knew not to ask where she’d been. It was just the way things were. Other girls I knew had mothers who did the same thing. All housekeepers for Savannah’s upper class. Afraid to lose everything they had if they refused to do what the Misters wanted.

  So, in a weird way, going into Oscar’s study that first time when I was sixteen was like being initiated into the secrets that my mother knew. But unlike the Sea Gypsies that Rose and Violet created, I never enjoyed being a member of this secret society.

  Don’t get me wrong. Oscar was a nice enough man. He wasn’t cruel. Sometimes he was even sweet. But I hated the way he smelled, a combination of liquor and cigars. To be honest, I think we were both playing at a game we hated, but a game that was expected of us.

  Queenie pauses and recalls the smell of Oscar’s cigars and his bittersweet breath and thinks: Funny how smells can bring back memories so strongly. It’s as if Oscar stands right next to her this very moment. She looks around like maybe he is. At this point, the dead outnumber the living in the Temple mansion.

  More than once, Iris accused Oscar of making her sick to her stomach with all his smells. He let Iris use him as a doormat on more than one occasion. At times, her harsh treatment made Queenie feel sorry for him. Didn’t he know that men—white men—ran the world?

  It never occurred to her that Iris didn’t know about the affair, just as it seemed that Iris’s mother must have known what Queenie’s father was up to. How do you deny children running around the house who are a light brown version of your husband?

  The Temple features are distinct: a nose just a bit too pointed, eyes just a bit too small, yet with kindness around the creases that doesn’t necessarily match up to the personality—facial features that most people would find hard to miss. However, the denial in the Temple family is powerful enough it could power all of downtown Savannah. Denial that’s served up in their shrimp and grits every morning, as if to fortify them to keep the secrets. Secrets that are now showing up all over Savannah.

  It feels good to confess, even if it’s only to her journal. She begins to write again:

  When I was fifteen, Oscar would come into the kitchen all the time. I wasn’t a great beauty—I was already what you might call FULL figured—but my complexion often got me compliments. Of course, Oscar was no spring chicken and was already worn around the edges. He liked to make me laugh, and made jokes about boys beating down the Temple door to get to me.

  “Don’t be silly, Mister Oscar,” I remember saying to him. “That door’s too old and heavy.”

  Then he’d say how he’d break a door down to get to me if he had to.

  At the same time that I hated the attention, I also craved it. Mama watched his subtle advances and didn’t say a thing. Not one thing. She just stayed busy, refusing to look up from her work. I waited for weeks for her to say something. I kept thinking she would stop Oscar from flirting with me and tickling me right under her nose. Maybe Oscar was waiting for that, too. But when Mama turned a blind eye to it, I hated her with every bit of my teenage vengeance.

  Since then I’ve learned that nobody’s mama is perfect, but this was the first and only time she ever disappointed me. And I think she disappointed herself, too.

  Then over the years I resigned myself to what was expected of me. I wasn’t proud of what I did. But there were consequences to saying no, and who knows, I may have loved him a little bit, too.

  Queenie puts down the pen. “How could Violet possibly understand how things were back then?” Queenie says aloud.

  History pulled at Queenie from every direction and created a dangerous undercurrent of shame in which she thought she might drown. She didn’t have the strength to choose anything dif
ferent from what her mother and grandmother had done. Hadn’t we been taught our whole lives to take care of the needs of white people? And didn’t that include the bedroom needs, too?

  If her mother had stood up to Oscar she might have been fired and never worked again. That’s how things were. One word from the Temples and you could be blackballed forever. Blackballed from Savannah, the whole state of Georgia and maybe the Carolinas, too. Then how would her mama support herself?

  Today, keeping servants in their place is much more covert. Messages are sent by innuendo, a wink, a glare. Yet they are just as potent. She thinks of Violet downstairs and wishes she could go to her. But Violet made it clear she isn’t ready to talk.

  W.W.O.D? she writes in her journal. What would Oprah do?

  She thinks for a few seconds and decides her hero would give Violet the time she needs. Then take responsibility for the pain she’s caused. Queenie sighs. Sometimes making Oprah proud isn’t the least bit easy.

  Thanks to Oscar, Queenie found an alternative to spending her life in a kitchen and cleaning until her shoulders froze up and her knees went bad. For years, she’s being saving up her puny allowance Iris gave her so that Violet can stop working here and finally open that business she’s always wanted.

  It was Oscar’s idea for Queenie to become Iris’s companion. But even this so-called luck came with a price tag on it. She was never to tell anyone that Violet was their child, especially not Iris. And when her older sister, Maya, tragically died a short time after Violet was born, Oscar dreamed up the story to go with their deception, saying that Violet was her sister’s child. Maya was several years older and was already married by the time Queenie was in grade school.

  “Just so you know, Iris, I don’t miss you one bit.” Queenie points her finger at the overhead light fixture. “I don’t miss your bitterness. I don’t miss your constant criticism. Nor do I miss your not-so-subtle reminders, every day of my life, that I was servant stock and not a true Temple. And those errands you used to send me on? What a ridiculous waste of my time. All I’ve got to say is that you sure didn’t trouble your imagination very much.”

  Queenie huffs and remembers all the times she was told to mail a letter at the downtown post office, even if their regular postal carrier was expected to deliver and pickup within minutes. Then an hour after Queenie returned from the post office, Iris would decide she needed stamps.

  Her huff is followed by a yawn. This delving into the past is quite exhausting, Queenie thinks.

  After hiding her journal again, she puts her feet up for a quick snooze. Within minutes, she settles into a nice dream about Denzel Washington giving her a sexy foot rub, and then is startled awake by a knock on her bedroom door. In her imagination she asks Denzel to come back later and then shuffles toward the door to find Rose.

  “Sorry to disturb you, but I have to leave for the airport in a couple of hours,” Rose says.

  Sometimes Queenie can see the young girl Rose used to be. Shy. Awkward. Serious. “Did you have a nice walk on the beach?” Queenie asks.

  “I spent some time with Old Sally, so yes, it was wonderful,” Rose says.

  At Queenie’s invitation, Rose sits on the end of the bed. “Have you thought about what you’ll do?” Queenie asks. She’s been so into her own crisis she hasn’t even thought about Rose’s.

  “I’ll have a long talk with Max, I suppose,” Rose says. “I haven’t told him yet. I left a message that I had something to talk to him about once I got back. I guess I want to think about it more and decide how I feel. Mother sure knows how to shake things up, doesn’t she?”

  “Your mother was a force of nature,” Queenie says, “and in some ways she still is.” She looks at the chandelier again, as if daring Iris to disagree.

  “I doubt Max will have anything to do with Mother’s blackmail,” Rose says. “This whole day has just been unreal, hasn’t it?”

  Queenie nods, her thoughts returning to the meeting in Bo River’s office. She expected surprises from Iris, but not from Oscar.

  Why did he write that stupid letter? she wonders.

  Queenie was prepared to go to her grave without anybody knowing. Except that after Iris died it just didn’t make sense to keep it a secret anymore. What she didn’t expect was that finally telling the truth would feel like such a huge relief, despite the fact that Violet might never forgive her. It reminds her of those girdles she tried to wear in the 60s. Her ample body pinched and contained until finally released in the evening, so grateful to be unencumbered. That secret being out feels a little like that, too. Like finally she can breathe again.

  “How did I not know that you were Violet’s mother?” Rose asks.

  “I’m very good at keeping secrets,” Queenie says. “But keeping this one was selfish. I know that now.” She joins Rose on the end of the bed. “What I want to know is how I could have been such a coward? For years I convinced myself that Violet was better off not knowing the truth. She had this image of her dead mother that comforted her. A perfect mother who died too soon. How could I compete with that, Rose? I’m not a perfect anything, and I thought that if Violet found out the truth, she’d be disappointed.”

  Rose takes Queenie’s hand and squeezes it. “When are you going to talk to her?” Rose asks.

  “As soon as she’ll listen. Although I’m not sure what I’ll say.”

  “You need to explain what it was like for you and why you felt the need to keep the secret,” Rose says. “She needs to hear the truth, Queenie. In AA they call it making amends.”

  Queenie remembers Rose’s attempt to make amends with Iris twenty years before. After the letter arrived at the house, Iris read it aloud to Queenie. It was a lovely letter. Heartfelt. Sincere. But Iris dismissed it. Then marked the letter return to sender, recipient deceased and ordered Queenie to return it to the post office. Even for Iris, the response was especially mean-spirited. Her whole life Iris never knew how to apologize. To her, apologies were a sign of weakness, not of strength.

  “Promise me you’ll talk to Violet today,” Rose says. “I don’t want what happened between my mother and me to happen with you and Violet.”

  “I promise,” Queenie says and rests a hand on the shelf of her bosom to offer a solemn swear.

  Rose squeezes Queenie’s hand again and stands. “I’ve got to pack,” she says.

  “Can I take you to the airport?”

  “I’d appreciate that,” Rose says. “I need to drop off the rental car, but if you want to wait with me in the terminal, we could have a little more time together.”

  For the first time that afternoon, Queenie feels like everything might be okay again. She has amends to make, but maybe Violet will forgive her.

  “If you’re hungry, we can stop by Kentucky Fried Chicken on the way,” Queenie says with a grin. “I haven’t been back since the day of the funeral.”

  “I still can’t believe you put a bucket of chicken in Mother’s casket,” Rose says.

  “Original recipe,” Queenie says. “You know how your mother had a thing for tradition.”

  Rose laughs, as Queenie turns serious again.

  “I have no regrets, Rose. Especially after that stunt your mother pulled today.” Her head upturned, Queenie waits for Iris to comment, but the room is quiet.

  “I don’t think she’s been around since the reception,” Rose says. “Maybe that’s a sign that she’s finally ready to go.”

  “We should be so lucky,” Queenie says. “Truth be told, I’ve had enough of your mama to last at least two lifetimes, maybe three.”

  Rose leaves to pack and Queenie goes downstairs. When she enters the kitchen, Violet jumps. “You scared me,” she says with a frown.

  “I didn’t mean to scare you, baby, and I certainly didn’t mean to hurt you either.”

  Violet’s face softens and she bites her bottom lip as though willing herself not to cry.

  “I was wondering if we could talk about all this after I get back from taki
ng Rose to the airport,” Queenie says.

  Violet looks away and doesn’t answer.

  Queenie’s shame feels full-bodied now, as if a literal person standing in the room. She doesn’t like this person.

  “I need to tell you what happened,” Queenie says. “You deserve to hear the facts.”

  Violet wipes a single tear from her cheek and then agrees. At this point, nothing can keep Queenie from telling the truth. She owes Violet that much. This secret has stayed hidden way too long. Unlike people, secrets never die. Look at that stupid book. Just when you think two hundred years of confidences will be buried in a bank vault forever, it resurges refusing to be forgotten. It’s in their nature for secrets to surface in one way or another, and Queenie is counting on it being in Violet’s nature to forgive her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Violet

  Once the house is empty again, Violet looks at the kitchen ceiling and calls Miss Temple’s name. It’s not like spirits to come when called, but she wants to know if Violet getting the house is what Miss Temple really wants. After all, the note on Miss Temple’s night stand said she was going to change the will and then her agitated spirit showed up at the will reading.

  Violet leaves the kitchen and stands in the foyer listening to the tick of the grandfather clock, the heartbeat of the house. Having no time to process anything, she isn’t sure what she feels. It is a mixture of shock, sadness and exuberance. None of which she has much experience with.

  As if moving through a dream, she walks from room to room. Could this house really be hers now? She walks out the front door and down the front steps, something she rarely does since she always uses the side entrance. The Temple house is one of those mansions with a gold plaque on the front giving the date it was built.

  A house with a pedigree, she thinks.

  Violet has often thought that their apartment would fit into the Temple carriage house with room to spare.