On the whole, the entire adventure went well. She offered a few brief groans, a few sighs, and a few,well, I’m not sure what they were, but they didn’t quite fit the gasp category. Dad sat meditatively across from me as well, never picking up a bite of food. Thomas looked up only between bites.
As the production came to a close, Dad got up calmly from his seat, kissed me on the head, and whispered in my ear,“I’m not sure what you are up to, but I know you have a plan.” I looked up and he smiled at me—that smile that is definitively Dad. Then he sat back down, content to finally eat his chicken.
I felt a hand on mine. I looked over at Vicky and saw tears coming down both cheeks. She just smiled at me, either out of pity or pleasure, I’m not quite sure, and patted my hand like she does. Then she said, “Eat your chicken, darling.” Even cold, Victoria’s chicken was still the best I had ever eaten.
“Jake, why don’t you and Thomas clear the table so Savannah and I can go for a walk?”
Dad hesitated, thinking I’m sure that the whole pat-on-the-hand, tears-in-the-eyes presentation at the table was a momentary diversion, and that I might be in for the reeling of my entire human existence. “Victoria, she’s a grown woman. You can’t make her decisions for her.”
She kissed him on the forehead and headed to the foyer.“Yes, but she’ll always be my daughter. We’ll be back shortly, I promise.”
She never asked me if I wanted to go for a walk, but I followed her to the foyer, and Duke followed close behind, both of us with our tails tucked between our legs.
“Grab your sweater. It might be cool,” she said. Vicky took her elegantly embroidered sweater from the coatrack by the door, and I grabbed my gray sweatshirt off the armchair. Duke seemed content to stay behind, but I made him come for protection. He and Vicky have issues. She’s had little regard for him since Dad refused to name him Magnolia.
As we walked down the stairs and turned the corner to East Jones Street, the air still held a slight chill, but I could feel the hint of summer in the distance. We headed straight to walk the squares.
It took an entire square for Vicky to get to the point of this excursion. We had taken only two other walks like this one since we moved to Savannah. One was the prerequisite birds-and-the-bees talk. I’m not sure how it ended. I just know that by the time she was through and I realized that she had participated in birds-and-bees behavior on at least two separate occasions—well, it absolutely rocked my world. Then there was the going-off-to-college talk: always be a lady,wear clean underwear in case you get in a wreck, don’t give your heart away, don’t talk back, and call home once a day. I obliged by calling three times a week. And I never understood the clean underwear part anyway, because after a wreck, who could be sure what was bad hygiene and what was simply a by-product of the wreck itself?
I had a feeling, however, that this conversation was going to be different. Why? Because for the first two blocks Vicky never said a word. She didn’t talk about the weather. She didn’t talk about the McCollums, who live next door, and their grandchildren,Penelope and Priscilla. She didn’t tell the latest gossip about crazy Mrs. Weitzer, who lives across the street, or dirty old Mr. Dickerson, who lives two doors down and has a habit of gazing through windows. She didn’t even talk about the new flowers planted around Lafayette Square. She didn’t talk about what was happening down at the Chamber of Commerce, where she served the city as director, or the coffeehouse. She didn’t talk about her latest recipe or award. She didn’t even talk about how glad she was to have both of her children home. No, for two solid blocks, my mother remained absolutely and miraculously silent. Then, it began like this.
“Savannah, I remember those countless times as I would rock you in the wee hours of the morning and stare into your precious face, dreaming of what you would become. For years I tried to make you me, but I realized some women weren’t meant to be like me,” she said, placing her hand daintily on her chest while I nodded in adamant agreement.
“I used to think you would be a great pianist, until I heard you play.”
That gave us both a moment of confirming laughter. “Ain’t that the truth.”
“Savannah, don’t say ‘ain’t.’”
“OK,” I said in mock appeasement.
“We tried you in ballet, and then we saw you dance.”
“Thank you for saving me,” I said, laughing again. We were coerced into stopping so Duke could take care of his business. We both stopped talking because it was hard to have any meaningful conversation with that going on.
“I don’t know why that dog has to do that,” she said, crinkling her nose and turning away.
“Because he’s a dog.”
“I don’t care. He should be more discreet. Out here where anyone can see. Did you bring something to pick it up with?”
“There is no way I’m picking that up!”
“That is the law around here, Savannah.”
“Well,you should have told me that before we started this thing.”
Victoria sighed in disgust. “I knew we should have gotten a lap dog.”
When Duke was finished, we picked up our walk and she picked up her thoughts.
“But when you brought home your first creative-writing piece in middle school, I knew then what you had been created for. I don’t believe I have ever read words more simple, yet profound, more compelling or endearing in my entire life.”
“That’s a bit overstated.”
“No, it’s not. You engulfed me with your story, and you made me cry at your ability to express yourself so tenderly yet with such strength.”
Duke yawned and shook his head.
“All that at thirteen?”
“Yes! You were a very gifted child.” Her use of the past tense gave me pause. “You got that from your mother. So I nurtured your imagination. You went into theater and writing. And I always believed that one day you would be one of the greatest writers of your generation—melodramatic,maybe, but phenomenal nonetheless.”
“Can you imagine, someone from our family melodramatic?”
“Well, they say every family has one.”
“Yes, they do.” I could not believe the poster child for melodrama had just labeled me the same.
“I’ve pictured your face in the bookstore windows and thought about how we could advertise your first book signing here in Savannah. Well, anyway, tonight, listening to you, I realized that your life isn’t about what I want. Your life is about doing what you believe is the absolute best thing for you.”
When we reached the edge of the Dueling Zone in front of the cemetery, Victoria stopped and turned to face me. The dueling zone was used years before for unresolvable conflicts. It had been avoided by us since our last flip-flop confrontation. Duke didn’t realize we had stopped until his leash extended fully and he was forced to come back or gag to death. Victoria looked down and patted his head. I thought about checking her temperature, her pulse, her latest psychiatric evaluation, but I figured this was one of those once-in-a-lifetime moments that just needed to be left as is.
“Savannah, everything in my life that I ever wanted I have achieved. I was crowned Miss Georgia United States of America.”
“Yes, you were.”
“I married the man I have always loved, and he has loved me better than I probably deserve,” she said hesitantly but not totally convincingly. I held my tongue.
“I have two children who are exactly what I wanted. I live in the city I adore. I have a job I love and the anticipation of something eternal beyond this world. I don’t need anything else except to see my children achieve the same happiness I have been fortunate enough to enjoy. If you find that in staying here and seeking out a new dream, then I will support you wholeheartedly.” And with that she kissed me and hugged me as only a mother can do.
Somehow Vicky made me believe her. How she could try so hard to secure my victory in that contest and not fight harder at this moment wasn’t clear, but she didn’t. And it felt ge
nuine. She really seemed, at that moment at least, to want for my life whatever I wanted for my life. We would see.
“Thanks.”
“Well, we believe you will make the right choices because we believe in you. Now, let’s go home before your father thinks I’ve killed you and thrown you into the river,” she said, and she hooked her arm in mine.
As we headed home, I took in all the changes that had taken place while I’d been gone.“I see the Adamses repainted their house. When did they do that?”
“Oh, that was an issue. Jane Ann wanted a rich cream and her husband wanted a gray. They were both wrong; I thought yellow would be perfect.”We continued up the street, leaving the yellow painted-brick house behind us.
CHAPTER FIVE
I have always been a jogger, well, since the eighth grade. It is the one form of enjoyable exercise that middle-school P.E. offered, and since then, running has been a way of life. I conned Paige into joining me for all of two days. Then she lost interest and retreated to her indoor life.
My freshman year in high school, though, my motivation for jogging changed. It happened one Sunday morning at the church we attend on Tybee Island, in my usual place on the tenth pew, left-hand side. I had not expected to encounter any life-altering milestone that morning, and so I was caught unaware. Pastor Brice took his place behind the acrylic podium and began his simple message titled “The State of Your Soil.” It was all about a gardener’s inability to plant a crop of any substance or value unless he first prepares his soil. He used the parable of the sower and the seed from the Gospel of Matthew. And he let us know in the most tender of ways, that unless we spent time preparing the soil of our hearts through prayer and actually dusting off the coffee-table Bible, no seed would ever take root.
Since that day, morning has been my “tilling time,” beginning with a jog. I put on my earphones and play some inspirational music. Then I head home and read from my grandmother’s Bible, digging for the same treasures she did before me.
I’ve come to realize that those moments in the morning have done exactly what Pastor Brice said they would. Focusing on my heart, focusing on my life, taking time to actually ask the Lord to show me His will—I’ve seen things take root.
This particular morning I grabbed Duke and we headed toward Forsythe Park. I greeted the lightness in the air with thankfulness that the heavy heat had not yet arrived. Spring in the South is simply a wish.
As Duke and I trotted along, a curly-headed beast on a bicycle attacked from out of nowhere. Duke turned around so fast that his leash wrapped up my legs like a bad mess of Christmas-tree lights, leaving me in a dreadfully knotted heap. The maniac came to an abrupt stop, and I tried to unwind my legs from my neck as graciously as possible.
“I’m so sorry,” he said, half apologetic, half laughing.“Here, let me help you.” He tried to untangle Duke’s leash from around my legs. Duke thought this whole thing was a game and couldn’t decide who needed licking more, me or Evel Knievel, so he just lavished us both.
“I’m OK. Really, it’s no big deal,” I said, trying to act cool as my feet finally touched the sidewalk again. He helped me up and handed me Duke’s leash. Duke clearly wanted him to stay, but I was ready for him to go.“Really, I’m OK. But you need to slow down a tad on that thing,” I said, raising my right eyebrow.
“Yeah, slow down a tad. I haven’t heard that word in a very long time.”
“What word?”
“Tad.”
“I didn’t say tad!”
“Well, I don’t have time to argue over a young, attractive woman like yourself using the word tad, because I’m kind of late for work. I’m really sorry. Are you sure you’re OK?” he asked again as he headed over to pick up his blue bike off the concrete.
“Yes, I’m OK, really,” I said, making it clear I was oblivious to the fact that he had called me both young and attractive.“It’s all of five thirty in the morning. Where on earth do you work?” I asked, trying not to notice how toned and tanned his arms were as they grabbed the handlebars and his muscles flexed magnificently.
“Oh, just up the street. Maybe we’ll bump into each other again,” he said, an irritatingly straight, beautiful white smile lighting up his annoyingly dramatic dark eyes. “But if you’re OK, I really have to go.”
“I’m OK. So just go,” I said, shoving my hand at him.
He departed with a smirk, and Duke watched as he and his bouncing black curls rode up the street in the direction of Bay Street, forcing me to have to watch as well. Grant was the only man who had ever turned my head, and that head had been stuck inside books for so long, even Grant hadn’t been able to turn it in years. Duke and I had a long talk about his leash, and I tried to “till” as best I could, but I confess I was a tad distracted.
How do newspaper people dress? Do they wear their hair back, or down, or what? I pulled up my wet, stringy hair, then let it fall, then pulled it up just to let it fall again. Duke was sitting at my bathroom door with a cocked eyebrow.“Do they walk around with pencils behind their ears and their shirttails out, always racing around on a deadline? I should have gone in yesterday before I came home and scoped out the joint.”
After great deliberation, I settled on a simple black pantsuit with a pale blue tank underneath, slid myself into my black mid-heeled mules, certain flip-flops were inappropriate, and pulled my hair back in what I hoped was a Lois Lane do. She’s about the only newspaper reporter I knew. Then I was on my way, sneaking out to join the world of the employed.
When I turned left onto Bay Street off of Abercorn, I could see the sign SAVANNAH CHRONICLE hanging vertically from the side of the building up ahead. Those two words seemed to mock me, “SAVANNAH CHRONICLE, and you don’t know anything about us.”
True, but that was all about to change. I walked into the office and wasn’t greeted by anyone. I came early, wanting to catch Mr. Hicks fresh before the onslaught of appointments and crises. The receptionist’s desk was empty, and the people who were there were running around in such a tizzy that they noticed nothing but the path ahead of them, if that. I decided to make myself at home and find Mr. Hicks’s office without assistance.
I searched the first and second floors without encountering so much as a hello, and decided to make my way to the third floor. As the elevator ascended, the fear in my mind did as well. Maybe this is the week he decided to take his wife and kids to the south of France. Or maybe he doesn’t even have a wife. And he probably doesn’t like kids. In fact, he probably would hate the south of France. Or maybe he’s a nice man who likes everyone and was just upset the day I called because of the loss of Gloria. Who knows?
The elevator doors opened, and I heard his booming personality before sighting the body that went with it. “So much for fresh, free from crisis, and no appointments.” I eased up the maze of aisles, following the noise toward a half-open door. The words coming from the office were loud and direct.“I told you yesterday I didn’t want to see you here this morning. So go to your office, pack it up, and get out of here. And if I see your face around here at lunch, I’ll pack you up and throw you out myself.”
I began to perspire. Southern ladies don’t “sweat,”Vicky says. She could have been proven wrong ten times over that morning, however. As I neared the door, the name placard that read “Mr. Samuel Hicks, Editor at Large” confirmed my fear. From my vantage point, his office looked rather sparse but possessed a fabulous view of Bay Street. Then, the object of his torment came into view—an elderly woman, whose black hair had strands of gray, and whose etched chocolate hands made it evident she was in her glory years. I couldn’t make out her soft words, but Mr. Happy Hicks’s roaring verbosity didn’t allow for much of a reply anyway.
I sat down in a chair on the other side of the door, which kept me out of view. “So that’s Mr. Hicks,” I said to myself. “Just like I thought, a man who takes vacations in his recliner with the remote control, who hates children, his wife left him years ago because he didn
’t know how to be nice, and when he dies, only a handful of people will come to his funeral, and they will only be there because he owes them money.”
And the longer I sat there contemplating this afflicted life, the madder I became. I should have let it go. But who could? Someone stronger maybe, but self-control was a quality I had yet to successfully till. I saw no reason to start today. When I heard her faint whisper and then the power of his voice begin to consume the air again, I stood and took a moment to set my course. Fortunately, one of my professors had been a hard one to melt, until I stole his heart with my Georgian graciousness. Well, maybe not completely stole his heart, but he did at least quit glaring at me. I wasn’t confident that a similar tactic would work here. But wars had been won with less. Then the spirit of Vicky welled up inside me, and I decided this wasn’t a moment for graciousness. The only appropriate approach for this brute was “The Vicky.” No lady should ever be spoken to in such a rude, ungentlemanly, and unacceptable manner. So, I spun my little heels around, steeled my jaw, and let Vicky take over.
As Mr. Hicks jerked his head to see me standing there, I realized he was a rather calm-looking man in his late fifties. The precious lady turned and smiled a beautiful white smile. She sensed rescue had come. I pushed the door open the rest of the way, and it flew so fast, I’m certain the doorknob stuck in the wall. For a moment, I wished he had been standing behind it. I walked over to his desk, where he had already assumed a seated position, his slight belly from too many fast-food lunches poking out in front. I put both hands on his desk and leaned over where he could see me clearly.
“What can I do for you, young lady?”
“Actually, I don’t need anything from you now. At first I thought I wanted to work at your newspaper. But I can tell you’re not a man who appreciates talent or even people, for that matter.”
That statement caught his attention, and the lady crossed her arms and leaned back in amusement.
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