by Lauren Clark
I pass Shug’s office. One light burns in each window opposite the center door; the building is still and quiet. Next to his office is the Eufaula Library, a two-story red-brick building with light yellow trim. The large hanging eaves under the hipped roof give it a stately feel; long, narrow balconies face north and west.
Up ahead and across the road, a dark, gothic-looking church strikes an imposing figure as I come nearer. The bricks are pale, set off by dark, tall, stained-glass windows. Beneath a small white cross, the centerpiece of the church is a rose window set between the two main towers. To the left, a fountain sits in the center of a stone-paved garden.
I cross the street to get a better look at Shorter Mansion, which stands out in bright white with its Corinthian columns. A balcony sets off the double wooden doors and leaded-glass windows beneath. Dentils and a balustrade run along the top of the structure above a frieze of leaves and scrolls. It is certainly worthy of its stature as one of Alabama’s most magnificent historical sites.
The home next to it is a dark, sprawling estate with an expansive porch and a tower that must reach three stories high.
Up ahead, both Highland and Cotton Avenues branch off of the main street—North Eufaula Avenue. I watch for house numbers, and then I see it. An amazing creamy-tan stucco home comes into view. It must be the Jordan’s. I gaze up at it, impressed. Its enormous rotunda entrance with six columns shelters a wide balcony.
When I step from the sidewalk to get a better look by a young magnolia tree, the lawn feels like a cushion under my shoes.
The terrace seems empty, so I close my eyes a moment to think about tonight’s gathering. It’s a chance to get great background information for my story. I’ll have to remember to ask about the—
“Ow! Ouch!” I almost leap out of my skin as something sharp bites at my ankle, then my toes. My skin is burning, like someone lit a match under the arch of my foot. I jump around, brushing at my legs and peer down at the mound of dirt and grass.
In the streetlight, I see that it is swarming with minuscule red ants. An army of them. There must be five hundred, all on a mission from the devil himself to suck the blood out of my body.
I step onto the sidewalk and almost lose my balance trying to get my shoes off. The ants are clinging to my wrist and finger, munching on whatever they can find. I slap at my hand and manage not to fall, somehow kicking off one my shoes across the lawn.
All at once, someone grabs my waist to steady me. It’s Shug, who calmly bends down, smacks at my ankles with a plush, white hand towel, and wipes away the bugs. I am too busy knocking the critters off my knuckles to care about the burn of his hand on my skin.
With a splash, he pours a cool liquid on my ankles. The intense smell makes me want to pinch my nose, but I’m so relieved that the pain is gone that I don’t even care about being drenched in stinky, chilled vinegar with a hint of apple cider.
When the jug is empty and I’m satisfied Shug’s taken out the last ant, I look down at my legs and feel a little nauseous. This man kneeling in front of me is inspecting my toes. On top, between, and below each one of them. Thank goodness my feet are clean and my pedicure is relatively intact. The shiny red of my toenail polish glints back up at me.
I steady myself with one hand on Shug’s shoulder. If I let go, I think I might fall over.
“Okay, you’re safe. They’re all gone.” Shug flashes a concerned smile in my direction.
“W-what are those evil, blood-sucking monsters?” I spit out. My ankles are puffy and red in spots. I’m trying to ignore it and maintain my dignity.
Shug starts to laugh. “They don’t suck your blood. They’re fire ants. They bite.” He nods down at my feet. “And inject a kind of poison.”
I bite my lip. Poison.
My rescuer takes in the sick look on my face. “Some people are allergic,” Shug says quickly, “but you’ll probably be okay.”
I nod and try to put on a brave face, but can’t help that I shudder. It still feels like ants are crawling up my skin with tiny legs.
Shug tilts his head to get a better look at the small welts knotting up on my toes and the tops of my feet. “You’ll get little blisters. They’ll go away in a few days.”
I try to ignore the ugly welts. It’s impossible.
“C’mon,” he says, “let’s get you to a safer place.”
I hobble along behind him, humiliated. Despite the slight breeze, I’m covered with a slight sheen of sweat. Thank goodness, the rest of his family wasn’t here to witness—
“Ah-hah,” I hear from behind one of the porch columns. It’s PD, eased back in a rocking chair, the motion of it almost too slight to notice. “Shug to the rescue again.”
I’m on guard, but since this afternoon, the sharp edge to her voice has softened.
“Hello,” I call up to her.
She looks at me, smiling. “We’ll have to start calling my brother the caped crusader.”
“And this could be Wayne …” I wink at her, “I mean, Jordan Mansion.”
Ella Rae appears from nowhere, clambering down the steps. “Who’s Wayne?” she asks, throwing herself around Shug’s leg.
“Bruce Wayne,” I start to tell her, trying not to reach down and scratch at my blistering skin. Ella Rae looks up at me blankly.
“The guy who plays Batman,” Shug adds, swinging his niece up into his arms and hugging her tightly. “Just like Superman is Clark Kent.”
“Oh,” Ella Rae shrugs. Before anyone can finish explaining, she’s off again like a shot, at the other end of the veranda, amusing herself by weaving in and out of the columns like they’re a personal obstacle course.
PD leans forward, unruffled, extends her hand, squeezes mine lightly then releases. Her skin is cool and smooth, the sensation of laying a hot cheek against a marble slab.
“So we didn’t scare you off with the broken windshield?” PD asks, a slight smile playing on her lips as if she’s keeping a secret. “I’ll warn you. The entire Jordan family at once can be quite overwhelming.”
So I’ve heard. I can’t decide whether she’s trying to test me, so I’ll just be truthful.
“Can’t be any worse than the chaos of our office in New York,” I joke. “At the magazine, it’s always a dozen phones ringing, fax machines spitting out paper, and people yelling about the printers running out of ink.”
The creak of the door interrupts. Shug and PD, who are facing me, turn their heads at the sound. I smooth my shirt.
“Shug honey, be a dear, and come hold this door,” a musical voice comes from inside the house.
Before I can blink, Shug’s already there, and a curvaceous woman with flushed cheeks and flame-orange hair bursts through the door holding a tray of ice-filled glasses. They clink with every step, and all are filled with sweet tea. I’m certain of it.
My parched throat starts to close up at the sight. For a moment, I indulge the idea of “accidentally” spilling the sugary sweet tea all over my ankles so they’ll stop making me fidget. After another second, I realize than every mosquito and fly in a five-mile radius would then dive-bomb my legs.
After a slight bobble, Shug’s mother balances the drink tray on the small table between the rocking chairs. She then whirls around like an aged ballerina.
“This is my mother, Aubie Jordan,” PD leans forward in her chair, frowning.
“And you must be Julia,” Aubie sweeps over to hug me. As she exhales my name, I am enveloped in a cloud of Estee Lauder Pleasures and Jack Daniels.
I hold my breath and try not to cough as the air is squeezed out of my lungs. Over her shoulder, I see Shug exchange a glace with PD.
His mother releases me to reach down for a glass of sweet tea. Her hand shakes slightly as she offers it to me. “Here you go, honey. The best in Alabama.”
“Thank you,” I grit my teeth into a pleasant expression. She’s looking at me expectantly, so I pretend to take a sip. A piece of sugared ice slips into my mouth. I run it over my tongue, a
nd the sensation chills my taste buds.
Satisfied, Aubie takes a shaky step and slides into the seat next to Ella Rae, scolding her for not helping out in the kitchen. She looks young, but Aubie must be in her mid-fifties. Dressed in a trim cream pantsuit and heels, her unlined face bears only a hint of make-up. Like PD, there’s a dab of gloss on her lips and sweep of light shadow on her eyelids. Her charcoal dark eyes match Shug’s in color with a layer of mascara to open them up wide.
As I’m analyzing the familial similarities, I realize she’s still talking to me.
“I’m sorry,” I say at the awkward lull in the conversation. “What would you like to know?”
Aubie smiles widely, revealing two gleaming-white rows of perfect teeth. “Now, where do you go to church, up in New York? You must have a church family?” Her eyes are wide and soft, like a puppy’s. She looks almost hopeful, like I’m a lost soul to rescue.
I blink, hold my breath, and digest the question. Before I answer, I scan my memories like I’m thumbing looking through a cabinet of file folders. I stop when I see the portrait of my mother in the vestibule of First Presbyterian and hear the tinkle of wind chimes in the distance.
The question has caught me off guard, and I’m angry with myself for letting it. I remind myself I’m in the Bible belt, not New York. Marietta warned me that church, family, and football supersede global warming in the Deep South. No doubt, she would be rolling on the floor at this little situation.
“Mother, please,” Shug is saying. Clearly embarrassed, he tries to read my reaction.
Undeterred, Aubie takes a delicate swallow of sweet tea, which now I’m suspicious is spiked with something 80 proof. And waits.
I make my face a blank canvas. Nevertheless, I am trapped. I have to respond, sooner or later. And, as a travel writer, sometimes even the most overt, awkward question about religion or politics has to be overlooked in the interest of getting an article done—this particular story being the most important since it’s now directly connected to the rest of my journalism career.
I turn my head, cough lightly, and hold a hand over my mouth. “I’m Presbyterian,” I manage to get out, hoping she doesn’t ask for evidence of the last time I sat in a wooden pew and listened to a sermon. Or whether I’ve been saved.
Saved from what? I’d probably ask after a few drinks.
My mother was convinced of her faith—even after Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis sapped all of the strength from her body. As I watched her waste away from ALS—Lou Gehrig’s disease—the beliefs I’d been taught to hold onto so tightly began to chip away, pebbles loosened from cement after sun, wind, and rain take their toll.
Why would a benevolent God take away the most valuable things in life when you need them the most? And how do you fill the void that’s left behind? My questions are hollow and deep, like the indentations a metal scoop leaves behind in a container of ice cream. Before my insides melt, it’s back to the freezer with the memories of my mother, lid on tight—where the air’s too cold to think.
I consider telling Aubie I have no “church family” or any other “family” for that matter, but that’s not entirely true. There’s David, my once-estranged father and new boss.
However, before I can form a response to her question, she’s already moved on to sensitive topic number two. She’s staring at my fingers. The left ring finger, to be specific. I watch Aubie drain her sweet tea and mystery mixture. She dabs at her lips thoughtfully.
“And how about a boyfriend, dear? A fiancé?”
I knew it was coming, yet a blush of red creeps up the back of my neck and spreads into my hairline. PD is openly ignoring the conversation, staring at the roof of the home across the street. Shug shakes his head and walks toward Ella Rae, who, thank goodness, is oblivious.
I keep hoping a butler or a maid will ring a chime and announce dinner. Or a convoy of fire trucks could race through town, whistles blaring, lights flashing. Instead, the street is quiet, and a mockingbird calls in the distance.
I wrinkle my nose. “Um, Andrew and I have been dating for a while, but I’m in no hurry to get married,” I admit. I’m about to give the rest of my standard answer, which I’ve rehearsed a thousand times. My career comes first. I’m not ready to give that up, and it wouldn’t be fair to a husband or child to split my attention. And besides, if forty’s the new thirty, what’s the rush?
But Aubie tilts the empty glass to her lips and a stricken look crosses her face. “Excuse me, y’all,” she whispers. “I have to check on supper.” And with three unsteady steps to the door, Aubie disappears.
PD sighs, jumps up, and follows her mother at a hurried pace. The door slams behind her. I allow my shoulders to relax, but I avoid Shug’s gaze. I don’t say a word about Aubie. I’m sure it pains him to watch her.
Shug breaks the silence between us. “My mother’s an alcoholic. Has been ever since I can remember. I thought, since this was so important—having you here, representing the magazine—that she could take a break for a few hours.” He shakes his head.
I crease my forehead and put a finger to my lips. “You don’t owe me any excuses. It’s none of my business, Shug. Really, I’m fine.”
“Maybe I should have given you a disclosure list.” Shug allows a small chuckle.
“Your sister mentioned that it might be a little overwhelming,” I reply.
Shug hesitates, frowning, then takes a deep breath. “Julia—”
I clear my throat and look him directly in the eye. “Please give me a little credit. I’m here to learn about the Pilgrimage and Eufaula, not flush out Jordan family secrets. I work for a wholesome, family-friendly travel magazine, not US Weekly or Star.”
Visibly relieved, he reaches out to squeeze my hand. “Thank you for understanding.”
I squeeze back, then pull away, lowering my eyes. There’s a good chance my cheeks are Hello Kitty-pink, so I turn my head so that Shug can’t see. His touch still tingles all the way up my arm to the back of my neck.
We take a few steps toward the house. Inside is filled with candlelight, and the sound of silverware and serving spoons clinking. Whatever’s cooking smells heavenly—distinctly rich with butter and cream.
Shug’s not talking. He’s staring out—at nothing—lost in thought.
How did the mood get so serious? I have to say something to lighten it up.
“Now, listen,” I give him a quick elbow in the ribs. “If People magazine calls and offers me a million dollars for an exclusive, I might have to think about it.” I pause and wink. “So be on your best behavior, sir.”
Shug grins—ready to tease me back—but freezes in place as he glances over my shoulder. His face turns ashen. “Stop!”
Chapter 10
“Look at me,” says a childlike voice behind me. I spin around.
Ella Rae is up on the railing at the far end of the porch. She’s balancing in the air, her arms outstretched like a tightrope walker. One step, swing of the leg, next step. Oblivious to the sharp edges of the boxwood branches below that may cushion her fall or snap her neck.
A sudden urge overwhelms me. I want to run, scream, catch her before she falls. Under his skin, I believe Shug’s muscles are aching to sprint across the smooth pavement, yet neither of us makes a move. It’s like we’ve both unconsciously agreed sudden movement will scare her and she’ll fall for sure.
Shug moves his foot a few inches, then another. He’s barely picking up the soles of his shoes from the concrete. Only his hands give him away. They’re open wide, ready for his body to lunge forward.
I hold my breath as Ella Rae performs a slow pirouette on the banister, then extends one leg behind her. Her hands flutter, grasping at the air for balance, then she steadies herself.
Shug is closer.
Ella Rae has noticed. One eye on her uncle, she moves her leg perpendicular to the ground and dismounts with the grace of an Olympic athlete. In one smooth motion, Shug grabs Ella Rae underneath her arms and swings her up o
nto his shoulders. Ella Rae squeals with delight and claps, as Shug makes her bounce like a rider teaching her horse to canter.
“I’m thirsty, Uncle Shug,” Ella Rae announces with a sweep of her hand. As Shug sets her on the ground, Ella Rae breaks into a run. I realize she’s heading in my direction—for the pitcher of sweet tea, and six glasses beaded with condensation.
I concentrate on willing Ella Rae to stop before she plows into the end table next to my elbow. Just in case, I hold out my arms to brace the impact. I mean, really? How much damage can a 40-pound six-year-old do?
“Julia!” I hear Shug say with a hint of urgency. “You might want to—”
It’s already too late.
Ella Rae hits the table like a bowling ball; the glasses wobble like pins. One falls, then another. In slow motion, the rest knock against each other, crack apart, and tumble to the ground in pieces.
It’s a bit like a car crash, when you know you’ve made a mistake. You’re already in the middle of the intersection and the other vehicle is about to rearrange your fender. Everything’s in slow motion, and there’s not a thing you can do about it. You just sit and wait for the situation to play out.
“Yikes!” I can’t help but say when the tea and ice cubes hit my legs. It’s freezing cold and I’m now drenched with the syrupy brown liquid. Drops of it cling to my hair and cheek. I move my head to shake them loose.
I expect to see blood. But, on the ground to my right, Ella Rae’s managed to roll away unscathed. From a half-circle of broken glass, Shug deftly plucks his niece from the mess and sets her next to the front door.
Out of nowhere, laughter bubbles up in my chest. I try to cover my face with my hands in mock despair, but can’t because they’re bathed in a sticky film. Ella Rae, now pasted flat to the stucco wall, manages a smile.
