Hildreth 2-in-1

by Denise Hildreth Jones

  A faint scent of lavender was in the air. Maybe her fragrance or a scented candle. I sat down slowly in her chair and ran my hands across the smooth leather arms. The stapler and tape dispenser were in exemplary condition and fastidiously positioned. The Post-it notes and paper clips looked as if they had rarely been used. I opened her top drawer to find nothing more than some notepads.

  I swiveled the chair around to stare out the wall-length window and repressed my intense need to grin. My eyes made their way to the two black metal filing cabinets against the wall. I walked over and opened the top drawer to find everything perfectly labeled and color-coded. Though an amazing writer, the woman obviously suffered from an obsessive-compulsive neatness disorder. My only neatness disorder manifested itself in the bathroom area.

  I sifted through each folder, feeling as if I was somehow violating her privacy. I was sorting through this woman’s life. These files held the questions,mysteries, and discoveries never revealed in her columns. They held her decisions of what to print and what not to print. They held her legacy. They held secrets I was sure I shouldn’t see but couldn’t keep myself from opening.

  Four hours passed before the startling sound of knocking broke the spell. I looked up and felt the burning sensation in my neck muscles.“Come in.”

  “Savannah,you’ve been in here a long time. You OK?”Mr.Greer asked, tugging at his pants to pull them up frighteningly higher.

  “Yes, sir. I’m doing fine.”

  “Would you like some lunch? I’m going out to grab a quick bite.”

  “Oh, that would be great. I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

  “Oh, you will, will you?” he said with a chuckle.“Need you some cottage cheese and prunes? You look a little young for those things.”

  I laughed myself. “Well, how ’bout you grab me something more accustomed to my dietary tract.”

  “That would be a cheeseburger and French fries, I presume.”

  “You would be a phenomenal presumer.”I returned to my work, and he returned quickly for someone who should probably move a little slower. The prunes probably kept him in a hurry everywhere he went. I ate simply to keep my stomach from distracting me and went straight back to reading.

  Each story was like a life lesson. And each article was neatly cut out and paper-clipped to the inside of each folder that housed the related interviews and research. In the last drawer of the second file cabinet, I came upon closed files. Some were closed due to lack of information, some for lack of validity, and others because the subject had changed his mind. By all notions of modern journalism, not many reporters kept stories from going to press because the subject changed his mind.

  After peering at the clock and seeing it was already five thirty,my stiffening body made it clear it was time to go home. Mr. Greer had said good-bye an hour ago. I stood up to close the file drawer and heard something bang inside. I reopened it and looked to make sure the files hadn’t fallen. I closed the door again and heard the same sliding, banging noise. Opening it once more, I reached my hand between two files to feel down inside the bottom of the drawer. At the back, my hand found something square, about the size of my palm.

  It was a tape recorder. I pulled it out and found a tape inside. I pushed “play” and immediately heard a woman’s voice asking a question. It had to be Gloria. It freaked me out, sitting there in her office, holding her voice in my hand, so I shut the tape off. I put the tape player in my purse, knowing it wasn’t stealing, because it would be returned to its rightful place. But I wasn’t about to sit there and listen to it in her office.

  I could smell dinner from the street. Duke was at the door and politely rolled over so his stomach could be rubbed with my foot. I took my flip-flop off and gave him a courtesy rub.

  Vicky wanted a lap dog. Duke would oblige, but he’s not exactly what she had in mind. She told Dad that if Duke knocked over one more antique with his tail, the dog would be living in the coffee shop. I believe Vicky might be gone before Duke, but we’ll let time play that hand.

  In the kitchen, Dad was already setting the table and Thomas was filling the tea glasses, both talking to Vicky as she set dinner on the counter. She had prepared fried pork chops, fried potatoes, steamed cabbage, and fried cornbread patties. No wonder Dad and Duke were having to go for walks. It was that or become terminally clogged.

  “Savannah, were you at the newspaper all day?”Vicky asked.

  “Yes, I was. And it was so interesting. And you should see my office. It’s awesome. It overlooks Bay Street and has a wall of windows. I know it will be a lot of work, but I’m totally prepared.”

  We fixed our plates and sat down at the table. With grace said, Vicky revealed her latest idea. “I’ve been thinking about our talk this morning.”

  “Our talk?” I asked.

  “The apartment, darling. I understand that a young woman would want her own place.” Poor Thomas about spewed pork chops at that. Dad even perked up to listen.

  “Well, thank you, Mother. I’m glad to hear that.”

  “And you know, I know a place that just came on the market that I think would be perfect for you.”

  “Well, that really isn’t necessary. I want to do this on my—”

  “I insist, Savannah. I’ve already called, and we have an appointment to see it tomorrow after lunch.” And without any further conversation or debate, she proceeded to recount the events of a day worthy of a movie script. How so much can happen to one lady on a Saturday is beyond my power of imagination. I zoned out somewhere between the hair salon and manicure and picked back up with Duke taking a dip in the swimming pool.

  “Well, it is warm for May,” I said. It wouldn’t have mattered, however, if Duke had been teetering on the edge of heatstroke and utter demise; the fact that the pool would have to be excavated of dog hair was reason enough to keep him out.

  “I don’t know why you didn’t take him with you this morning,” she said to Dad.

  “Because he was sound asleep on Thomas’s bed, and I didn’t figure they would get up before noon. I couldn’t imagine Duke doing much damage in an afternoon,”he said, smiling at me across the table.

  “Well,Thomas didn’t actually get up until one and left around two, so the damage that Duke caused happened in less than an afternoon. Your dog is amazingly talented.”

  Duke had been called “your dog” since the naming episode. Now, if she had gotten her way, Magnolia probably could have taken a dump in her pool and she wouldn’t have thought a thing about it.

  “Well,we’ll get the pool cleaned out,” Dad calmly assured her.

  I sneaked away somewhere between Duke’s need for obedience training and the city’s need for a flowering fish garden in front of the Chamber of Commerce. I had a more important conversation to listen to.

  CHAPTER NINE

  My purse rested on one of the glass tables that flanked each side of my bed. I knew what was in there; I just wasn’t sure it was for me to hear.

  It has to be OK, I assured myself. She would want her work continued. I took my purse and retrieved the tape recorder, popping the tape out. Side A was clearly marked, but there was no other labeling of any kind. Odd for a woman who could have won the Savannah Labeler of the Year Award.

  A scratching and sniffing noise at the door distracted me. I cracked it open to see Duke wearing a look that cried, “Rescue me. Bring me into your sanctuary. Save me from the wicked throes of men. Purge me from this madness.”

  I opened the door wider and he ran straight to my bed, perched his hairy body on my cream coverlet, and sprawled himself out where his back paws reached my duvet. I made him scoot over and proceeded to rewind the tape.

  I pushed play, and that voice, that unfamiliar voice, the one I had heard in my head for years,was more commanding than I had ever imagined. The tape began with questions of the interviewee’s past. I listened intently. The woman who responded to Gloria’s questions seemed familiar, but I couldn’t place her voice. “So,
tell me,” Gloria asked, “When did you begin competing in the Miss Georgia United States of America Pageant?” For a moment I thought the other voice would betray itself as my mother’s. But when the answer came, it was certainly not the voice of Victoria. This was driving me crazy.

  Apparently, the lady Gloria was interviewing was there to tell the tale of why she believed the pageant was rigged the year she competed.

  “Can you tell me the events that led you to your conclusions?”

  The lady paused before saying in a soft and kind voice, “You know, Gloria, I really don’t think I want to talk about this. It’s been a long time, and I’ve moved past this. I really don’t think it’s necessary to go over such silly events. I hope I haven’t wasted your time.”

  Gloria responded just as kindly, “Of course not; here, I’ll just cut this off . . .” And with that, the tape went dead. I tried both sides. There was nothing else.

  I leaned back against Duke almost afraid of what I held in my hand. Downstairs resided not only the queen of pageants, but the queen of the Miss Georgia United States of America Pageant. If this pageant was rigged—if it had ever been rigged—I needed to know. She needed to know. Everyone needed to know.“But who cares about pageants anyway?” I said to Duke. He put his head on his paws.“They’re silly. They have no value. You prance around the stage in your skivvies. You wear heels of inhumane height. We’re just going to put this back inside my purse here and forget we ever even heard such nonsense. Gloria was right not to pursue such a silly story. That’s not a human-interest story. That’s silliness. Don’t you agree?” His expression said he did.

  I walked into the bathroom to brush my teeth. In the mirror, a little bit of mildew in the bottom of my shower caught my eye.

  Two hours later, Thomas found me. “What’s wrong with you now?”

  Some of my hair had come loose from its knot on the back of my head, and I blew it out of my eyes.“What do you mean, what’s wrong with me? There’s nothing wrong with me. Does something have to be wrong with a person simply because they want to have a clean bathroom?”

  “Chill, Homer.”

  “Just because you’re totally comfortable living in filth doesn’t mean I am. Bathrooms carry more germs than Duke’s mouth. Ever thought about that when you step into that shower of yours?” I finished off the grout in the far corner of the bathroom, underneath the farthest cabinet. Then I sat down, took off my rubber gloves, and looked up at Thomas, giving my hair one more quick blow.“There, I’m through.”

  “You are your mother’s child.”

  “Why in the world did you say that?”

  “Because Dad has more money than—”

  “Do not say God; that’s totally sacrilegious.”

  “I was going to say Bill Gates.”

  “No, he doesn’t.”

  “Well, more money than most, and Mom refuses to have anyone clean her house.”

  “She doesn’t think anyone can do it as well as she can.”

  “That’s sick. Why would you clean your own house when you could afford to have someone else clean it?”

  “Thomas, I’m way too tired to talk about our mother’s issues. She does it because she is a control freak. And besides, someone might try to steal her tiara.”

  Thomas began staring at Duke’s mouth.“Did you know dogs’ mouths are supposed to be one of the cleanest places known to man?”

  “You are here why?”

  He came over to kneel down beside me. “To say good night. You can deny it if you want, but between dinner and now something happened. No one cleans the bathroom for pleasure,my dear Vanni. Especially you. Are you sure you don’t want to tell me what’s wrong?”

  “There’s nothing wrong,Thomas,” I said, standing up in front of him.“I simply wanted to take a shower in a clean one, that’s all. Now if you’ll excuse me . . .”With that, I closed the door on his perfectly positioned nose.

  “OK. Whatever you say. But I’m just two floors down,” he hollered. I heard Duke pad after him.

  After a nice long, hot shower, bed captured me. Reading would be nice, but sleep was persistent. Dreams of tiaras, big hair, spiked heels, and that voice held me captive. Everyone in my dream had that voice. I woke up one time in the middle of the night with fists flailing, trying to prevent someone from wrapping a sash around me. By the time morning came, I was simply glad to have survived the night.

  Sunday in the South means church. Sunday in this house, even if we lived in California, would still mean church. I hadn’t been to our church in months: Babies had been born, people had been buried, and marriage vows had been spoken, and no doubt Vicky knew about each one. But bless her heart, I hadn’t given her enough time to tell me what she had been doing,much less what anyone else had been doing.

  Mother descended the staircase as though it were a runway. She had brought back hats on Sundays in Savannah. And everything always matched. Today she had chosen a pale blue ensemble trimmed in cream, her feet adorned by lovely Via Spigas in cream as well. She was accessorized with pearls this morning, and the whole grouping was topped off by a beautiful cream hat encompassed by a stunning pale blue bow, accentuated in the center by pristine blue silk hydrangeas.

  Dad looked sharp in one of his navy suits, white crisp shirt, and light blue tie with white polka dots. He only wore suits on Sundays anymore. He wouldn’t even wear them on Sunday if he didn’t feel one should wear one’s very best to church. Mom thought one should look divine. I chose pleasant;Thomas settled for doable. In fact, I don’t know how he got past her, in his wrinkled no-pleat khakis, flip-flops, and stretch-cotton shirt sleeves rolled up, but he did. He pulled off flip-flops on a Sunday! In fact, he pulled off a million things I never could.

  I wore a simple black skirt and white blouse. Feeling rebellious, I let the blouse hang outside of my skirt. I pulled my shoulder-length hair back in a sleek ponytail, about the only way I wore it anymore, valuing the thirty minutes it saved me by not having to blow it dry. I debated wearing flip-flops but didn’t desire war. A pair of black mules completed the look, and I was off to accomplish the day.

  Dad and Vicky left about thirty minutes early so she wouldn’t miss greeting anyone. Through the years, many in the city have thought of my father as a pushover when it comes to Vicky. This perception is usually reversed when they meet him. Dad was the one who let her know that we would travel thirty minutes to Tybee Island to go to church, because he thought it was best for the family. Pastor Brice’s church has a little bit of everything; it is an integrated place of culture and worship. My dad believes that you should worship in places where all people are accepted.

  “If you only see people there who look like you, you’re missing what you’ve come for,” he told us.

  Mother loved the church but felt that as the head of the Chamber of Commerce she should attend church in one of the historical churches downtown. “You are more than welcome to attend any church you want,” he said, “but you will attend it alone. The kids and I are going to Pastor Brice’s church, with or without you.” Today, Sister Victoria is one of our church’s official greeters.

  Thomas and I got to spend some time together on the ride over. He opened the door to his 1995 Jeep, a gift for graduation—not new of course, but nice nonetheless. “Glad to see you’re learning how to be a gentleman.”

  “Glad to see you’re still too chicken to wear flip-flops.”

  I slid into the car, and he closed the door. Dad didn’t even buy new cars for himself, so he sure wasn’t going to buy one for us. He knew you lost ten thousand dollars by driving a car off the lot, so he made sure the ten thousand was lost by someone else before he drove it away. It wasn’t by frivolousness that he had retired at forty. Now Vicky, she would pay extra just so she could have it.

  The Jeep was unusually clean.“Did Mother make you take her someplace?”

  “No, things were growing in the back, so I figured yesterday was a good day to get it cleaned up. You just lucked out,�
�� he laughed.

  “No, I would have just driven myself. What else did you do yesterday?”

  “Well, me and Jeff Bryson—you remember him from Louisiana?”

  “Yeah, sure . . . no, I honestly have no idea.”

  “You know, the guy from New Orleans who goes to The Citadel with me? He came home with me last summer for a couple of weeks. He won Mom over because he told her Savannah was far more beautiful than Charleston.”

  “Oh yeah, I remember.”

  “Well, he was here visiting his girlfriend, Mary Thomas, who went to Saint Vincent’s and now goes to the College of Charleston. I went with them to the beach to surf and hang out. After your meltdown, we went to City Market to listen to a jazz band. I got so sunburned, though, I could hardly sleep,” he added. “What did you do?”

  “It wasn’t a meltdown. My bathroom needed cleaning.”

  “Was it the apartment thing? Because I’m not ever leaving.”

  “Why should you? Free room, free laundry.”

  “Don’t forget the food.”

  “No, how dare I forget the food.”

  “Why would you leave?”

  “If you have to ask, you wouldn’t understand.” I knew he would continue to think it was the apartment that had me troubled. No one else needed to carry the burden of that tape until it was clear what it was really about. Not even Thomas.

  We pulled up to the church just a couple of minutes before service started at ten. You could see Vicky’s brim a mile away. She greeted us as she had every Sunday for the last thirteen years, straightening our shirts, spitting on her fingers to flatten one of Thomas’s cowlicks. We often went in one of the other entrances just to avoid her spit and shine, but because we had parked in the front of the church today,we had to go through the front entrance.