Aunt Sookie & Me

by Michael Scott Garvin

  Driving back and forth to the Piggly Wiggly, my aunt made it a practice to run the two pedaling punks right off the road whenever they were out and about. Her Buick’s bumper would kiss the spinning back wheel of one of the boy’s identical bikes as they attempted to escape. Sookie would grip to her steering wheel, riotously laughing as she reveled in the boy’s panic-stricken eyes.

  One afternoon Sookie confessed, “Watching those worthless boys, I now understand why some critters eat their own young!”

  Being held captive at Sookie’s, I still hadn’t made the acquaintance of any of the neighbor kids. But I found me a hiding spot down low in the front myrtle hedge, where I could spy on them as they waited for the coughing school bus to turn onto Digby.

  Kneeling down low in the bushes, I watched through the fence pickets the pretty girls all standing in a row, chewing bubble gum and twisting strands of their long hair. They clutched their school packs and whispered in one another’s ears while the boys hunched low in a circle, shooting marbles in the dirt. When the bus arrived, all the kids boarded in single file and then traveled off to school.

  Aunt Sook arrived back from town with a pile of thick, heavy textbooks from the library. Every morning by nine o’ clock sharp, Sook was hollering after me, “Poppy, come on inside. It’s time for your school lessons!”

  Back at Mountain Home, my sweet Grandma Lainey would sit patiently near my side, and we worked through my American history quiz, English lessons, or some math equations. Together, we solved the exercises and answered the daily assignments. If I couldn’t grasp a lesson, my understanding grandma would sit with me under the lamplight and work through each problem until she recognized the illumination of understanding in my eyes. But old Aunt Sook had no tolerance for my schoolwork, and within mere moments of sitting down at the breakfast table, she’d grow aggravated.

  “Child, are you soft in the noggin?” She shook her gray head in frustration. “Your grandma Lainey was as stupid as a stump, and I’m thinkin’ this branch didn’t fall too far from the tree.”

  I stiffened my backbone and replied, “My grandma went on to college, and she said that you were lucky to scratch out a high school diploma.”

  Sookie stammered, “Book learnin’ never interested me, no how.” She tapped her forehead with her finger. “I was gifted with the kind of smarts that don’t require all this nonsense.” With that, she pushed the textbooks far across the table. “Besides, if you’re wantin’ to enroll in the school come next September, you’d best get to learnin’ this nonsense.”

  One afternoon, after Aunt Sook closed the cover of my science book, she glanced over nervously in my direction. “Child, I ain’t sure if your Grandma Lainey ever sat you down and discussed the nature of men and womenfolk, but I feel it’s my duty to do so.” Fidgeting with the dusty, plastic fruit bowl in the center of the table, she announced, “It may be an uncomfortable discussion, but we best be done with it.”

  I watched her move about awkwardly in her chair.

  She retrieved a plastic banana from the table’s centerpiece bowl in one hand and with the other formed a circle with her quivering thumb and index finger. “Poppy, this here, is the man.” Sookie raised the yellow fruit. “And this hand, is the woman.”

  I interrupted, “Sookie, hold up. I know all about the birds and the bees.”

  The old woman exhaled, with a sigh of relief. “Thank the ghost of Jefferson Davis.”

  “Ma’am, when your momma is Miss Loretta Wainwright, you come to a clear understanding of the birds, the bees, and the entire barnyard. There’s no need to illuminate any new light on that particular subject.”

  For those lonely first few weeks at Aunt Sook’s, the grandfather clock downstairs was my constant companion. It tolled the lonesome hours. The swaying pendulum ticked off the passing seconds. I roamed from room to room and went about opening the heavy, fringed curtains, allowing sunshine in. It seemed the dusty parlors had been holding their breaths for decades, waiting on my arrival. The ancient rooms seemed to welcome my presence to Digby Street. Even Annabelle trailed close behind me as I wandered about the big old house, bringing light to every dark and dingy chamber.

  After my school lessons, I was left to my own devices. I explored every inch of the sprawling house and grounds. Up in Sook’s dusty attic, I rummaged through old cardboard boxes and crates. I discovered an ancient wooden chest. Inside, a satin and lace wedding dress was folded neatly and placed in tissue paper, like something cherished. I lost afternoons looking through picture albums with yellowing photographs of faces of those who had lived long before I was birthed. Cases were stacked upon cases of fine old-fashioned dresses, sequined gowns, and lace corsets. In a shoebox, I found stacks of old letters as fragile as tissue.

  Later, I descended into the deep, dank basement, where the old, rusty furnace groaned. Discarded antiques were stacked to the trusses. Tiffany lamps and leather-bound books were stacked in piles, collecting mildew and grime. After I’d investigated every nook and cranny of the old house, I walked every inch of Sook’s cluttered yard and explored the old shed out back, which housed Sook’s jalopy and stored all her garden supplies.

  At the dimming of the day, I’d return to my rooftop perch and recline on the shingles. Having fully explored the old house and its grounds, I grew restless of 22 South Digby Street—Savannah called to me from out past the front hedge, like some great adventure.

  Like string stretched between tin cans, word spread to the neighbors of my confinement inside Sook’s stuffy, decaying house.

  One afternoon, the McAllister twins, who were doing chores on the front lawn, spotted me reclining on the roof across the way.

  One of the tubby boys in a striped shirt, hollered, “Hey! You got a name?”

  “Poppy,” I said. “Poppy Wainwright.”

  The other twin in the same striped shirt called out, “Is she holding you prisoner up in there?”

  “Naw,” I answered back.

  Unconvinced, he replied, “My pa is a really good lawyer, so if you need him, he and the sheriff can come fetch you.”

  “Naw. I’m fine, but I appreciate the consideration.”

  The boy holding the rake scratched his fat head and called back, “Why ain’t you in school? Are you slow or something?”

  I giggled to myself and replied, “No, my aunt Sookie thinks it’s best for me to stay put for now. But she says, I’ll be enrolled by next September.”

  “Golly, you’re a lucky duck,” he hollered back. “My homeroom teacher is Mrs. Stutzman. She’s a real ball buster. She’s got her a wooden paddle that stings like a son of bitch.”

  The matching McAllister, knee-deep in a pile of freshly mowed summer’s grass, yelled, “I’m stuck with Mrs. Graf. She’s so old, she farts dust.”

  I reckon my mysterious presence inside Aunt Sook’s place had gotten all the neighbor ladies buzzing like busy bees. I overheard a collection of local women chatting as they strolled up and down the sidewalk. One short, squatty woman pointed at the house and whispered, “That child needs her a proper momma.”

  Another lady with teased hair the color of cotton candy remarked, “I’ve heard it said, the little girl is sleeping in a box, and she’s fed on the floor alongside that nasty goat.”

  The following week, when Sookie and I were shopping at the Piggly Wiggly, a big lady with ratty mauve hair and a big black mole on the tip of her nose leaned close to a skinny elderly woman working behind the register and remarked, “That spiteful woman shouldn’t be raisin’ no children!”

  One afternoon, sitting behind Sook and me at the Saturday picture show, I overheard two women chatting up a storm during the matinee.

  One of the ladies commented low in the dark, “It’s an absolute shame what that wicked woman is doin’ with that sweet little girl. Keeping her imprisoned like some jail bird.”

  The other woman responded in a whisper, “I heard that poor child isn’t even receiving a proper education. Dixie McAllister told
me just yesterday that she’s gonna report old Sook Wainwright to the school board.”

  Fed up, Aunt Sook stood up from her seat and directed her comment to the crowd in the darkened Avon Theater. “Stella Nance, if you don’t shut your gawd-damned pie hole, I’m gonna come find you and beat you with this stick.” My aunt waved her walking cane high in the air. “And Mildred, just keep up your gabbing, and you’ll get what’s comin’ to you.” Sook’s silhouette projected onto the movie screen as she wildly swung her walking cane.

  No matter the gossip of my imprisonment, Sook remained stubborn as a mule and would not be moved. Even with my constant nagging and pleading for my freedom to venture out beyond the front gate, Sook would not budge.

  “You’re a different sort, Miss Poppy Wainwright,” she explained. “You’ll remain inside the perimeter of these walls until I believe no harm can come.”

  “But, Sook, ain’t nobody gonna hurt me. I’ll be fine.”

  “No, I was speaking of my concern for the citizens of Savannah. Not you. I ain’t sure Georgia is ready for all of this.” She pointed at me with her walking stick. “Missy, your oddity will provoke folks.”

  It was only later, while Sook and I were sitting on the front porch, that I first detected cracks in her obstinate constitution.

  “Child, Savannah may be a bigger, more metropolitan city than Mountain Home, but people are every bit as small minded,” she remarked. “You understand me?”

  “Yessum. But Sookie, even in Mountain Home, Grandma Lainey permitted me to ride my bike into town.”

  The always-quaking old woman rocked in her chair and answered back with a stubborn silence.

  “I promise to venture only as far as the park. Not an inch further.”

  Sook pointed to the front hedge along the perimeter of the house. “Poppy, when you’re tall enough to see over that there hedge, then you’re free to go scouting up and down Digby Street. Until then, you are to stay within these grounds. Understand me?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I couldn’t conceal my beaming grin.

  So, I waited. For weeks, I waited, watching the growing hedge. It took no time to reason that the front myrtle hedge was sprouting at a faster pace than my bones could ever muster. So I took myself into the house, hunting for Sook.

  I came stomping into the sitting room, where she was consumed with her soap opera.

  “Sook, this just ain’t fair!” I sighed.

  Her eyes didn’t turn from the television.

  “Sookie, are you listenin’ to me?”

  I walked up to the set and turned the knob. The tube went black.

  “Child, I don’t want to miss my story. You turn my set back on right this minute!”

  “No, ma’am, I won’t. Not until we’ve come to a clear understanding.”

  She drew in a deep breath. “Speak your piece.”

  “Sook, that hedge will be sky high by spring, and I ain’t never gonna be free.” I held her stare.

  “So, it’s freedom that you’re after?” she asked. “I don’t suspect you’re gonna give me a moment’s peace until this issue is put to rest.”

  “No, ma’am. I won’t.”

  “Well then, next week, I’ll take you into town, and we’ll get you a bicycle, on one condition. You don’t take the bike anywhere but up and down Digby. You understand me?”

  “Yes, ma’am!”

  CHAPTER 4

  My real momma is Miss Loretta Jo Nell Wainwright—a terrible tangle of a mess.

  Miss Loretta never planted herself in one place for a sufficient length of time to cultivate deep roots. Tortured and always slightly tipsy, she only came poking around Grandma Lainey’s place when she needed a soft pillow to lay her weary head or when she felt compelled to behave like my proper momma for a short spell.

  Miss Loretta always arrived in a fitful storm. When she approached, hound dogs would begin howling, and livestock would look to the sky with worry. Heavy, dark clouds would quilt the sky on a perfectly fine day, and then there she’d be. Miss Loretta Wainwright would come strutting up the road.

  It was difficult to rile my patient Grandma Lainey, but her only offspring, Loretta, was well practiced at ruffling her tail feathers. She was always off gallivanting from state to state, sniffing around for trouble. Picture postcards arrived at Mountain Home, postmarked for me from Biloxi to Bakersfield.

  I hadn’t set eyes on Loretta for more than a year. I wasn’t even sure if she got word that Grandma Lainey, her own momma, had gone off and died.

  I recall one afternoon, while coming home from church service, Lainey explained to me, “Child, your momma is like the old yellow alley cat under the front porch, who keeps pushing out litters of kittens but won’t stick around long enough to let them taste the milk from her teats.”

  It was true enough. Miss Loretta had birthed enough children to keep the Mountain Home County Social Services busy from daylight to dusk. Like the old stray cat, Loretta had herself a mound of mangy, matted yellow hair piled atop her head and two big ’ole hard boobies, swollen high up on her chest, appearing to be in need of a good milking.

  When she sobered up, Loretta would find her way back to Mountain Home and show up at Grandma Lainey’s place, poking around the house and crying a river of crocodile tears.

  “I’m so sorry, baby,” she’d repent, wiping her sloppy nose with her forearm. “I’ve been a bad momma. But I swear on my heart, I’m gonna get myself clean. And I won’t never touch the stuff again.” She’d squeeze me tight in her arms.

  “Loretta, you listen good.” I squared her shoulders with mine and looked at her direct. “When I’m of legal age, I’ll come find you and take care of you. You just gotta hold on until then.”

  She sniffled, batted her wet false eyelashes, and asked, “You promise me, Poppy?”

  “Yes, Loretta, I swear. I’ll be of legal age in seven years. You gotta hang on until then.”

  But her visits to Mountain Home never lasted long. It wouldn’t take any time at all before the devil would arrive, whispering in her ear, calling for her to come follow him. Her wicked cravings would return, and after only a few days with us, Miss Loretta would start itching and scratching. I’d watch as she frantically paced the floorboards with yearnings. Her eyes would no longer meet mine. Money would go missing from Grandma Lainey’s pocket book, and Miss Loretta would be off wandering the streets, hunting her some dope or some booze or another mean, redneck beau.

  For the longest time, I held to the belief that a train only moved forward on its tracks, never to return from where it departed. Folks would board and take a seat, and the whistle would sound. The steel wheels would start turning, and the train would pull away from the station. I had the notion that the leaving train was long gone, never to be seen again. I also believed the same to be true when my momma got into the backseat of a yellow cab or if I saw a Greyhound traveling down a lonely stretch of interstate. Over the years, watching the comings and goings of Miss Loretta had taught me a fine lesson: if folks had a hankering to return, they could walk themselves up to a ticket counter, purchase a ticket back home, and return to whomever they long for and what was remembered. I determined it was those of us left waiting who must believe with all of our might that the same chugging train was somewhere on its rusty rails bringing them home. And so, with head bowed and palms pressed, I learned to pray to the Lord for my momma’s deliverance.

  But with each visit, it seemed she was only sinking deeper in despair. Poor Grandma Lainey wore her footprints into the floorboards, fretting about her wayward daughter. On the very night before Grandma Lainey passed away, Grandma beckoned me up to her room, and together we planted our knees on the carpet next to her bed. With heads bowed and hands clasped, we prayed for the Lord’s mercy. We prayed that he might deliver Loretta from Satan’s wickedness. We asked Jesus to guide her to a clear path to higher ground. Grandma Lainey was well familiar with the ways of the Almighty, so I rested safe in knowing the Lord had heard our earnest prayer
s.

  CHAPTER 5

  By the time I was eight years old, I had determined that I was at my most appealing wearing pastel yellow. The sunny hue shone on my face and brightened my drab brown eyes. A frilly, yellow frock brightened my muddy complexion and lifted my skin with light.

  On one of Loretta’s visits to Mountain Home, she told me, “Yellah is a color only a few select young ladies can pull off.” She dusted my cheeks with a powder blush. “Not every girl can wear yellah, but you’re special, Poppy. Sunny yellah suits you.”

  Miss Loretta was a true beauty and knew about such things, so I placed her compliment in my small purse like a treasured gift.

  But I wasn’t a “looker” like my momma. Not a single boy had ever promised his affections or whistled as I strolled along the sidewalk. I reckon, I understood at an early age, that I was one of the unlucky girls whose reflections betrayed them. I recognized the ugly truth when I faced the mean mirror. But being homely ain’t so bad. Pestering boys steered clear, and I would never be bothered with diamond tiaras, silk sashes, and such frivolous nonsense.

  Ordinary girls like me understood when Pretty walked into a room; everyone stood up. We learned to clear a wide path when Pretty arrived, because Pretty owned the center of every room. Us homely girls recognized the admiration in the eyes of the circle of ancient, silver ladies who watched on in fond remembrance when Pretty was anywhere near. Menfolk gazed longingly, unable to pull their eyes away from Pretty. Even the gray, stodgy old men smoking cigars like chimney stacks lusted for Pretty, wondering if they stood a chance to still win her affections. Rooms seemed to brighten, and days seemed warmer anytime Pretty smiled. Those of us with unremarkable faces and clumsy, bumpy bodies recognized our imperfections when Pretty made an appearance. All of us girls who would never be the sweet pea in the garden or the ripest peach on the tree just stood back in awe when Pretty entered.

  Constance White was painfully pretty. She had long, luxurious hair the color of corn silk. Her braided ponytail was like a long yellow rope that traveled down her back. I imagined Constance was the loveliest thirteen-year-old girl in all of Chatham County. Every morning from my hedge, I spied Constance and the other girls playing hopscotch along the sidewalk, waiting for the school bus. As she skipped down Digby, her yellow ponytail reflected in the sunlight. When she smiled, admiring boys flushed red. From my hiding spot, there were plenty of little girls who seemed sweet, kind, and clever. But Constance White was gifted with pretty, so Constance won before any game began. Her teeth were impossibly white, and her skin was as smooth and pink as one of Grandma Lainey’s porcelain dolls.