“Ma’am, who do you suspect did the papering?” I asked. “Do you know ’em?”
In a voice that seemed to arrive from somewhere down deep in her spiteful gut, she grumbled low, “Oh, yes, I know who they are. I know exactly who the little fuckers are.”
Old Sook fought with the rickety gate latch, and we walked up the front path.
Mine was the last bedroom down the long hallway on the second floor. The vine-choked house had been a beauty in its day. With peeling, pale yellow paint and a raised porch wrapping the entire first floor, the grand estate stood as a living testament to a bygone era. A crooked white picket fence traveled the length of the front yard and up along the side yard on West Jones Street. French paned windows lined the upper floor. The rusted plumbing moaned behind the plastered walls, and the taps only gifted us a drizzle of lukewarm water in the mornings. The tangles of haphazard electrical wiring caused the dusty chandeliers and hallway sconces to flicker as the clothes washer whined through it cycles.
The decaying state of Aunt Sook’s place was a growing concern for the surrounding neighbors. Anytime the ladies of the Society for the Beautification of Savannah came snooping around the front gate, Sookie would shoo them back off into the street. At one time, her house was the most prized historic antebellum in these parts, but the decomposing ramshackle kept the nosy society ladies up fretting at night.
Back at Mountain Home, my grandma’s house was clean as a whistle. If she wasn’t dusting something, she was walking room to room, sniffing out dust. Grandma would slide her finger along the credenza in the foyer, over the piano keys, and high above the armoire in the front sitting room, then examine her digit for a hint of a speck. Lainey’s shelves of leather-bound books were arranged in perfect straight rows, and her freshly laundered towels smelled like lavender. The windows’ flower boxes bloomed with marigolds and geraniums, and her green lawn was plush as a carpet. But Aunt Sookie’s filthy, rambling house was a calamity. Sunlight had corroded the lace on the window curtains, and when you took a seat on a cushion, plumes of soot rose into the air like Oklahoma dust. The wood-paneled doors squeaked an off-pitch tune, and the old staircase grumbled low when one descended its treads.
There was no denying the big old house and its grounds were in fast decline. Choking English ivy and a coating of grime covered any remaining trace of elegance. The wooden shutters hung by their last penny nails, and warped wood siding buckled and cracked. Sookie’s only lawn care was an ornery goat named Annabelle, who grazed on the always-growing dandelions and gypsum weeds that sprouted wild in the yard. Having mastered the backdoor knob with her hoof, Annabelle entered and exited the home at will.
Aunt Sookie was of the belief that the goat was Mother Nature’s most perfect invention.
“A goat is a scrappy, self-reliant creature,” Sook declared. “They tend to themselves. They’ll gobble up pretty much anything placed in front of their snouts, and they ain’t got no ax to grind with nobody. I got absolutely no use for a dimwitted dog or a treacherous cat. A poor hound can be beat with a stick, and he’ll still come back sniffin’ for another kick, out of some perverse sense of devotion. And felines don’t have no conscience at all. It don’t matter if it’s a stray alley cat or a pampered house tabby, they’ll scratch your eyes from their sockets if given the opportunity. But a goat is the loyal and independent sort.”
Annabelle roamed the unkempt yard during the day and retired to her bed in the corner of the sitting room come nightfall. Her little pellet droppings littered the yard and down the hallways, scattered about on the worn oriental rugs. It seemed to me that the spiteful goat shared none of the loyalty of which Sookie spoke. If given the opportunity, I believed Annabelle would’ve taken aim at Sookie’s ample backside, lowering her snout, taking off at a full gait, and ramming Sook to the far side of the moon.
On the sunny south side, protected with a perimeter of chicken wire, was Sook’s bountiful vegetable garden. Perfect rows of carrots, radishes, onions, and peppers grew to ripe perfection, like her very own Garden of Eden. Tomato bushes, squash vines, a vast assortment of melons, lettuce, cabbage, and black-eyed peas grew under the warm Savannah sun.
My aunt Sook spent countless hours tending to her prized garden, laboring on her knees. While Sook hadn’t the slightest interest in conversing with town folk, she would lavish every seedling with praise and encouragement as she toiled in her garden. Among her crops, she’d speak sweetly to every sapling and saved her acidic tongue for all her surrounding neighbors. With rich mulch and fertilizers, Sook worked the earth into the most fertile soil in all of Savannah. After we had buried the corpse deep under the garden bed, Aunt Sookie said it was just another nutritional supplement for the grub worms to feast on.
Coaxing a civil sentiment or kind compliment about my aunt Sook from her surrounding neighbors was an impossible task, but when it came to Auntie’s vegetable garden, not a soul in Savannah could muster a single negative word. The neighbor ladies passing along on the sidewalk would peek beyond the yard’s clutter and debris to admire Sook’s meticulous green garden. Attempting to catch a glimpse, the envious neighbors stretched their necks up over the front hedge to sneak a look at the rows of golden corn stalks, collard greens, and meaty tomato bushes. From our side of the picket fence, Annabelle would follow the ladies’ path along the sidewalk, snapping and spitting. The ornery goat seemed to enjoy threatening the tourists and blue-haired voyeurs.
It took a good spell for Sook and me to warm to each other. I reckon a person had to go looking hard to find any sweet spot in Sookie. If you crossed her, she was meaner than spit, and any soft places were calloused over with worn, leathered skin. But I had a hunch that in time I could manage old Sookie and melt her into something warm and mushy like a bowl of Grandma Lainey’s mashed potatoes.
The house was a quiet place, and for those first few weeks Sook and I walked a wide path around each other. I stepped silent as a field mouse on the floorboards of the rambling antebellum. I suspected she was also content to keep well clear of me. With my ear pressed to the wall, I listened for any sign of my aunt. Her slow, shuffling feet in the hallways or the poking of her walking stick up the staircase provided the stretch of time to plot an opposite path and dodge the cantankerous old woman.
The day after arriving on the Greyhound, I sat across from Sook at a quiet supper table, waiting for either to bridge the silence. With my fork, I pushed an unidentifiable slice of burned beef around my plate.
“You’d best understand now, I’m no cook,” Sook declared. “You’ll have to fend for yourself in the kitchen. I can fry up a good egg and a digestible chicken casserole, but that just about sums up my culinary expertise.” She took a bite and struggled to chew the dry morsel of mystery meat.
“Grandma insisted we say grace before each supper.”
Agitated, Sookie drew in a deep breath and rested her fork near her plate. “I’m a nonbeliever, so if you’re gonna go about quotin’ scriptures, you best know you’re preachin’ to a deaf ear.”
I paid her no never mind and bowed my head, pressed my palms together and mumbled through grace, while an amused Sook looked on.
“I suspect your Grandma Lainey led you to the church.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Taking a bite of the charred chop, she chewed with furious intensity. “There’s a steeple on every street corner in Savannah, so you can believe in whichever God you wish. Hell, there’s so many damned churches, you can praise a new savior every Sunday. In time, I reckon, you’ll be permitted to go exploring for salvation, but for now church will have to wait.”
“Are you denying me the right to worship the Pentecost in a proper house of God?”
“Yes,” Sook responded. “I suppose I am.” She cleared her throat. “Missy, I ain’t sure the citizens of Savannah are ready for a child with your proclivities. It’s wiser for you to stay near the house for the time being, so I can keep my eye on you. I believe your great-grandma’s Bible is in t
he bottom drawer in the foyer credenza. You can go searching for your redemption in its pages for now.”
It was clear that I’d be left to my own devices to seek out nourishment for my body and sustenance for my soul. So I read the old Bible by lamplight and prepared home-cooked vittles for Aunt Sook and myself. For my services rendered, I earned a four-dollar weekly allowance.
On Sundays when payment came due, Sook begrudgingly counted out the coins in the palm of my hand and took the opportunity to remind me of every disappointment on the week’s menu. “Last night’s supper was a lumpy mush,” she griped. “The collard greens were indigestible; the broccoli gave me terrible gas, and that beef brisket was overcooked. It was like chewing on a gawd-damned work boot.”
“You sure are the crotchety sort,” I said. “Why so?”
She seemed to consider my question.
“I suspect it’s cuz I’m older than dirt. Death is knockin’ at my door. Just yesterday I was strollin’ by the Bonaventure cemetery, and two fellas came chasin’ after me with shovels.”
“Ain’t true,” I laughed. “If you don’t mind me askin’, how old are ya?”
“Hmm, I ain’t sure, but when I was a girl the Dead Sea was only feeling poorly.”
From the start, Aunt Sook laid down the strict law, forbidding me to travel past the front gate. She made it clear as crystal that straying into the city streets wouldn’t be permitted.
“Child, you’re too young to roam Savannah unattended. And I ain’t sure Georgia will take kindly to your sort.”
“But Sookie,” I complained, “all the other kids are allowed to ride their bikes to the park, or to the Piggly Wiggly, or the ice cream parlor.”
“No, no. I won’t abide a juvenile delinquent gallivantin’ around Savannah, unsupervised.” She stood firm. “You’re gonna stay put. If you have a hankering, I can escort you to the Piggly Wiggly.”
I huffed and crossed my arms in protest. “Auntie, when can I be enrolled in a proper school?”
“We’ll have to wait and see. Didn’t your Grandma Lainey homeschool you?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, “but she promised I could attend a real school.”
The crusty old woman tapped her quaking finger on her chin, considering my request. “Only time will tell. Perhaps next September you’ll be permitted to enroll. But until then, you’ll be taught right here at my side. I’ve got more knowledge in my pinky finger than those tightly wound teachers over at the elementary school.”
For those first weeks, I remained in the confines of Sook’s old house and inside the perimeter of the picket fence. Like the old goat Annabelle, I was held captive from the big world outside. If I was restless, I took myself to the shingled rooftop, where I could see all of Savannah. I observed the comings and goings of Digby Street. From my roof perch, I could spy some of the neighbor ladies chatting over the picket fences, exchanging recipes and gossip. I came to know my neighbors from a distance. A skinny blond lady in the white house with the yellow shutters entertained a handsome gentleman caller in the afternoons, when her husband was off to work. A rotund, elderly woman with blue, teased hair three houses down on the right buried empty whiskey bottles deep in her garbage bin when she thought no one was watching.
At the day’s end, all the fathers sauntered out onto their porches and smoked cigars and read the evening paper. On Saturdays, the boys played kickball right down the middle of Digby, and a cluster of little girls gathered in circles under the shade trees and giggled among themselves.
I imagined their perfect lives being lived in the rows of perfect houses. At dusk, from my shingled perch, I conjured up the image of perfect families taking their proper places around their supper table while kind fathers bowed their heads and said grace. Behind the pulled window shades, I imagined perfect mothers tucking their young’uns into soft down beds and sleepy children dreaming big dreams that always came true.
I reckon, after a child has been abandoned by a struggling momma, we learn to dream more practical dreams, like choosing our Sunday shoes from the sales bin and never daring to wish for the loveliest pair in the storefront window. An occasional postcard from Poughkeepsie arrived in the box like a Christmas gift wrapped in pretty foil paper. Us kids who are left waiting, learn to listen to the whispering wind for a lost lullaby. The night cradles us to sleep, and hope wakes us the next morning like a hungry stomach. When a troubled momma leaves her babies behind, we learn to yearn for only what is placed in front of us at the supper table and not hunger for a single crumb more.
CHAPTER 3
From my rooftop, I spied directly into the McAllister’s kitchen window, right across the street. Mr. Carl McAllister was a respected lawyer in town, and Dixie, his wife, was a high-society lady who chaired the Society for the Beautification of Savannah. Because of her high position, poor Dixie was kept up late at night, fretting about my aunt Sook’s dilapidated dump, which sat right outside her front window. Every week, Sookie would find another violation or citation in her mailbox with Dixie’s signature, demanding repairs commence immediately on the historical home. But, Sook paid no heed to the notices and instead fed the yellow citations to Annabelle.
Dixie McAllister moved about like some boney bird, always nervous, always hesitant. A platinum bouffant balanced atop her tiny noggin, and her long, thin neck seemed to carry her compact cranium out in front of her, leaving her feet and torso following behind.
Carl and Dixie had a pair of fat-necked boys, Timmy and Tommy. The boys were identical twins who fought and fussed around the clock. A day didn’t pass when I didn’t witness Mr. McAllister chasing the boys about the house, swinging his leather belt, or Dixie hollering their names and throwing frying skillets at the roughens from her front porch.
The boys fought like two alley dogs. The tubby twins’ hatred for each other had no bounds. So diabolical was their loathing for each other that a concerned Carl asked the local sheriff to escort the boys to the Savannah county jail and lock them up—all in an attempt to demonstrate to the identical demons what prison would feel like if they happened to kill the other during one of their brawls. But what Timmy and Tommy lacked in social graces, Dixie made up for with the boy’s fancy, matching duds. Her twin hooligans were polished up like two matching bookends.
Sook told me that when Mrs. McAllister was pregnant with the boys, she had set her hopes on a pair of delicate little girls.
“When Dixie delivered those two no-neck little bastards, her heart broke into a million pieces. She was absolutely beside herself. After Dixie dried her tears, she decided to spare no expense and started dressing those ugly, fat baby boys in fancy matching ensembles. She paraded those dreadful mongrels around Savannah in identical rompers, hats, and booties.” Sook shook her head disapprovingly. “Dixie McAllister spent too much time shopping for matching britches and suspenders and forgot to civilize those two rotten boys.”
At thirteen years old, far past the age that any respectable boy would ever dress like his brother, the two were still trotted out in matching shirts, socks, britches, and bow ties. Every morning, we’d hear the awful ruckus coming from the McAllister’s window as Dixie demanded that the boys dress in their matching getups. Thanks to Carl’s stinging belt and Dixie’s vigilant tenacity, Timmy and Tommy arrived at the school bus stop, a mirrored reflection of one another.
Because the McAllister twins were spitting images of each other, it was all but impossible to differentiate between the two, blubbery boys. One afternoon, from our front porch we watched as the twins squared off, taunting each other.
Finally, one boy grabbed the other about his fat neck, and they tumbled to the ground. In a dusty tangle of legs and arms with rusty elbows and blackened, soiled feet, they rolled in the dirt, punching, biting, flailing, and cursing.
It was then Aunt Sook confessed her fail-safe formula to distinguish one fat boy from the other.
“It took me some time, but I finally got those little bastards all sorted out,” Sook rem
arked. “Timmy is the nose picker. When he ain’t fightin’ or fussin’, he’s always pickin’!”
Sure enough, after Dixie came out from the door, and separated the two fighting hooligans, one of the bloated boys went exploring his left nostril with his index finger.
“Good Lord, I can’t even bear to watch,” Sookie winced. “If that child goes digging any deeper, he’s gonna tunnel himself all the way to Shanghai.”
It seemed to me that old Sook and the McAllister twins reveled in their ongoing feud, antagonizing one another from a stone’s throw distance across the lane. Like some nasty game of dodgeball, the eighty-four-year-old cripple and the pair of ornery eighth-graders torpedoed insults back and forth across Digby.
One afternoon from my window, I watched on as the two boys, high up in their treehouse, whistled over to Sook, who was busy watering her bean sprouts.
“Hey, you old coot!”
Sook searched the sky until she spotted the rascals held up in their tree fort, nestled in the highest branches of an old oak.
The other McAllister hollered, “Up here, you old, fat battleax!”
The two boys extended their stumpy middle fingers, flipping off old Sook with their twin birds. From my window seat, I could see each of their middle fingers had been fitted with a cardboard spool from an empty toilet paper roll.
Sookie returned the not-so-neighborly gesture by turning about, lifting up the back of her skirt, dropping her bloomers to the dirt, and flashing the boys a full view of her bare backside.
The twins cringed at the sorry sight.
It just so happened Mr. McAllister sauntered out onto his porch at the precise moment as Sook was advertising her wide ass like a billboard along the interstate.
He called out kindly, “Sookie Wainwright, I don’t believe you’ve ever looked prettier than you do on this very mornin’!” He took a seat on his favorite lawn chair and perused his Morning Daily Press.
Aunt Sookie & Me Page 2
