Aunt Sookie & Me

by Michael Scott Garvin

We walked out from the church doors together into the Savannah sun.

  “Of course, Miss Sookie Wainwright on Digby.” She smiled. “Well, you tell your aunt that Donita Pendergast says hello. Tell her that I owe her a peach pie for her donation to the church bake sale.”

  “Donation? Ma’am, I’m guessin’ you got the wrong Sook Wainwright,” I replied.

  Donita winked. “There’s only one Sookie in Savannah.”

  I fought my kickstand and mounted my bicycle. “Mrs. Pendergast, it’s been a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  “Yes, Poppy Wainwright.” She smiled. “I’m certain we will meet again.”

  “Have yourself a fine day.”

  I pedaled myself back home and found Sook working a crossword puzzle on the front porch while Annabelle grazed on the grass sprouting in between the cracks of the cobblestone. I wrestled with the front gate latch and pushed my bike up the path.

  “Well, look who’s returned. I’d assumed the Lord had whisked you away to heaven.”

  “Church was lovely. Why don’t you join me come next Sunday?”

  Sook snorted, “No, no! Christians are sneaky, self-righteous bastards. They’ll smile at your face, and when your back is turned, they’ll plant a stiletto right between your shoulder blades.”

  “Ain’t true, Sook.”

  “It is, too.”

  “No, it ain’t.” I shook my head and linked the lock and chain around the front wheel of my bike. “I met a nice lady named Donita Pendergast at church service today. She sends her regards.”

  Sook mumbled to herself and then asked, “Donita didn’t threaten to bring around any of her dreadful pies, did she? She’s always threatening me with those gawd-damned pies of hers.”

  “Donita seems awful sweet to me,” I said and walked up the steps of the porch. I took a seat on the arm of Sookie’s chair and considered her crossword puzzle from over her shoulder. “Mrs. Pendergast was much obliged for your donation to the church.”

  “That’s fine,” Sook replied, and with the tip of her eraser, she rubbed out a few letters from the squares. “I need a seven-letter word, and the clue is another word for mucus.” With her quaking hand, Sookie penciled letters into the tiny boxes, S N O U G H T.

  “Sookie, snot ain’t spelled that way, and I don’t reckon that’s the correct answer—no how.”

  She cursed to herself and started erasing the letters. “Donita Pendergast is married to one of the Pendergast boys—Rodney. You’d best stay well clear of him. You won’t find a sweeter soul than Donita, but she married herself a lawless hooligan. He’s rattlesnake mean. Rosemary and Charles spared the rod with their boys, and now not a one of them is worth a lick. They’re all easy on the eyes, but any gal who tied her hopes to one of those ruthless Pendergast boys can expect to be tangled up in misfortune, heartache, and misery.”

  I asked, “Why do you suppose Donita would marry a man like that?”

  “Don’t have no clue. It’s never made a lick of sense to me. Like your foolish Grandma Lainey, some women yearn for the finest-strutting rooster in the pen, and then one morning, they’re gob smacked when they roll over and find a worthless cock under their bed covers.” Sookie shook her head.

  “That’s a cryin’ shame,” I said. “Donita seems charming. She offered her gratitude and mentioned she’s gonna be bringing you a peach pie.”

  “No, no, no!” Sookie protested, shaking her head. “You tell Donita Pendergast I don’t want none of her peach pies.” She twisted her nose like she’d detected the sulfur scent of a skunk. “Her pie crusts are as dry as dirt, and the fillings are sickly sweet.”

  The repeating thumping of bouncing, coiled springs on the pavement announced a young visitor’s arrival. Before I’d even spotted her noggin bobbing above the top of the front hedge, it was the approaching pogo stick striking against the sidewalk that sounded her entrance.

  I was sitting on the porch, perusing the glossy pictures of my Teen Beat magazine when I first glimpsed a messy mop of fiery-red curls. Two wide, green eyes appeared over the hedge and then disappeared just as quickly. With another pogo bounce, a round, freckled face with a pug nose arrived back above the hedge, then dropped out of sight again. Her wild head of frizzy, crimson ringlets moved like something untamed and free. Her bouncing course propelled her past our front yard and around the corner, where she vanished out of sight. Within a moment, the thumping of the rusted pogo springs returned for another pass by.

  When she was back in front of our gate, she maintained her bouncing and hollered over, “Name’s Pearl!”

  I stood up on the front stoop. “I’m Poppy. Poppy Wainwright.”

  She sprang in place for the longest while, surveying Sook’s house. Finally, Pearl’s bobbing ceased, and she waved me over. Breathless, she pointed to the ramshackle of a house. “They say this here is a haunted house.”

  “Naw, it ain’t haunted, but it’s dirty as a grave.”

  “How many rooms does it have?”

  “Not sure. Never counted, but plenty of ’em.”

  She asked, “You ever played hide-and-seek in there? Must be a million places to hide.”

  “Nope. Never. My old aunt can barely make it up the stoop, let alone go chasing me through the rooms.”

  “The McAllister boys sure did a mighty fine job papering this place,” Pearl replied.

  We both stood admiring the strands of sunbaked tissue.

  “Not since the twins toilet-papered the old Methodist Church in Telfair Square last year have I seen such a sight. Timmy and Tommy are infamous around these parts for their handiwork. When they papered the Methodist church, it made the front page of the morning edition,” she said. “Why ain’t your aunt cleaned up all this tissue paper?

  “Aww. She’s just bein’ spiteful. My aunt has got a nasty mean streak.”

  “The Methodists had their mess of toilet paper tidied up lickety-split.”

  “Well, maybe the Methodist congregation aren’t as spiteful and stubborn as my old aunt Sook.”

  Pearl scratched her forehead. “I ain’t sure about that. Have you ever met a Methodist?”

  I asked, “Wanna come inside?”

  Pearl hesitated, considering my invitation. “Sure. I guess so.” She dropped her rusted transport on the sidewalk. “They say the old woman who lives here is crazy as a loon.”

  “Aunt Sookie? I suppose. That could be a true conclusion, but not the kind of crazy that howls at the moon or eats children for supper. Come on in.” I grabbed hold of Pearl’s hand and pulled her up the porch. “There ain’t nothin’ to be scared of.”

  As we walked through the carved front door, Pearl’s head tilted up to the humongous bronze-and-crystal chandelier, suspended above the mahogany staircase. “Holy moly!”

  “It has three hundred and eighty-eight crystals,” I boasted. “One afternoon, I counted each and every one of them.”

  Pearl cleared her throat. “My mom says that you ain’t getting proper schooling, cuz you spend your days practicing voodoo up in here.”

  “Naw. Aunt Sookie don’t believe in such nonsense, be it voodoo or the Pentecost.”

  Pearl said, “My momma told me your people are old money.”

  From the top of the banister, Sookie snorted, “Well, your momma is half-right. We’re old, dusty money.” Sook started her long journey down the staircase. “Now, what’s all this ruckus?” Sook hollered.

  “Nothin’, Sook.”

  Pearl stepped back, pushing her spine straight against the front door.

  I said, “I’m just showing a friend the house.”

  “This is not some hippie commune where people come and go at their whimsy.” My aunt eyed Pearl suspiciously. “Who the hell are you?”

  “I’m Pearl Tucker, ma’am.”

  “Pearl Tucker?” Sookie made it to the bottom of the stairs and shuffled her feet up close to Pearl. Sook took a sniff near to Pearl’s head, like a hound dog sniffing the air for a coon. “Are you a communist?�
��

  Pearl stuttered, “Ain’t sure, ma’am.” She nervously looked to me, frightened that she had the wrong answers to my aunt’s inquisition. “I believe my momma will cast her ballot for Mr. Hubert Humphrey.”

  “Yes! Just as I suspected, a yellah-bellied communist.” Sookie pointed her quaking finger directly at Pearl’s nose. “Do you smoke the marijuana?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “I’ve yet to meet a redhead worth their salt,” Sook declared. “It’s been my experience that they are intrinsically dishonest creatures. I ain’t got no time for a red-haired communist.” Sookie dismissed us with a wave of her hand and hobbled on past into the sitting parlor. “Poppy, you’re welcome to show her about, but don’t let her anywhere near my silver.” Sookie adjusted her lumbar pillow and turned on the TV set.

  “Take no notice of her,” I whispered. “She’s so full of bull crap, her eyes are shit brown.”

  “Hello, Missy, you do understand that I can hear you?” Sook shouted over the volume of The Guiding Light. “I’m old, but I ain’t deaf.”

  Pearl asked in a hushed voice, “How old is your aunt?”

  Sook hollered out, “Child, I’m so old that when I was in school there weren’t no history classes!”

  “Come on.” I said, pulling Pearl up the stairs to my room. “She’s been in a foul mood all mornin’. Leave her be.”

  At first glance, there wasn’t much remarkable about Miss Pearl Tucker—nothing notable nor a hint of special significance. I reckon most folks walk right on by a buried treasure and never think to go digging any deeper. But Pearl Tucker was a red-haired, green-eyed, seventh-grade firecracker. She carried her stout, compact frame like the tiniest bulldozer, and she spoke with an absolute certainty on all matters. She laughed from her belly, and it seemed to me, even on an overcast day, she carried sunshine stuffed in her back pocket.

  Pearl lived on the ragged edge of town, out near the paper mills. She, her momma and older sister Nedra Sue resided in a modest place with scarcely enough elbow room to turn about. Mrs. Tucker scratched out a lean living waiting tables at Delia’s Diner. Nedra Sue was in her last year of high school and was idolized by her younger sis.

  Pearl confided to me that her pa had taken off with an exotic, raven-haired lady who wore plumes of feathers about her neck and swung on a swing, high above a stage, shaking her boobies for men who should’ve been raised better.

  “Before my pop left, Mom would stand at the sink washing dishes, singing like the prettiest songbird,” Pearl confessed. “Before dad followed that lady’s tail feathers out of town, our house was a mighty fine place.”

  Pearl told me it didn’t matter one wit about her pa’s leaving, but she couldn’t fool me. I knew that it mattered—it meant the world.

  She said her momma had soured like milk in the afternoon sun ever since her pop had ditched them.

  “Momma ain’t never been the same,” Pearl admitted. “She don’t wash dishes no more because she don’t cook, and I reckon it’s been years since I’ve heard her sing any songs. After Pop left, we had to move from our fine house in town. Bad luck followed us.” Pearl confessed, “Good luck don’t travel to our place, out past the train tracks.”

  With just the mention of her momma’s name, Pearl’s eyes turned to the ground, and she’d go searching for any reason to forget what waited for her back home. But when Pearl spoke of her pop, a smile returned to her freckled face, and a spark would reignite in her wide, green eyes.

  Sitting on my bed, Pearl confessed, “Before the feathered chickadee took Pa from us, he would sit me high atop his shoulders and parade me around the house, like I was something that belonged to the sky.”

  I confessed, “I ain’t never had a pa.”

  “How can that be?”

  “Ain’t sure. My momma told me that her dancing card was full on the night I was conceived,” I said, “I reckon she was too busy dancin’ to ever get my pop’s name.”

  “Where’s your momma at now?”

  “Dunno. The last card was postmarked from Oklahoma City.”

  Pearl looked at me strangely.

  “I was raised by my grandma in Mountain Home, Arkansas. She passed on a few months back.”

  “Is that how you came to live here with your aunt?” She asked.

  “Yessum.”

  “Did you leave a beau back in Mountain Home?”

  “Nope, never had me no boyfriend.” I shook my head. “You?”

  “No, but I’m hunting me one. My older sister, Nedra Sue, has plenty of boyfriends, one for every night of the week. And I’m fixin’ to grab me one of my own.” Pearl smiled like she was conjuring up mischief. “Nedra has a head for knowing, and she says finding a beau ain’t hard, but the secret is you can’t never let him know that you’re out lookin’. Nedra says it’s just like fishing for a trout. You bait your hook and throw out your line; then you wait and go about your business like you ain’t the slightest concerned. Be real patient and still. Then, when that slippery trout starts swimmin’ near your bait, you tease him, tempting it, with a slight tug of your line. And just when he takes that first bite, you pull your line as hard as you can muster. The sharp hook pierces the soft under of the trout’s lip, and the deed is done!” Pearl grinned. “My sister Nedra says even if he wants to run off into the deep, it don’t matter, because he’s all yours—hook, line and sinker!” Pearl fell back onto my bed, chuckling. “Poppy, you wanna go do some fishing for a beau with me sometime?” She flashed a wide, toothy grin.

  I shrugged my shoulders up to my ears. “I reckon so.”

  Hopping up from my bed, Pearl giggled, “Well, I know the best watering hole. The boys hang out in Calhoun Square after school! Let’s go fishing sometime.”

  “It’s a deal!”

  “Well, I gotta run, or my momma’s gonna break a broom over my backside. My sis is picking me up.” Like a red-haired bullet, Pearl shot out of the room, ricocheted down the stairs, and darted out the front door. From my window, I watched her bounce out of view.

  My grandma Lainey once said that God’s gifts don’t always arrive in boxes wrapped in pretty foiled paper or tied up with ribbons and bows. Grandma told me, “Some of the Lord’s finest gifts appear when you’re not even looking for them. Sometimes, God’s gifts are as quiet as a whisper and arrive on gossamer wings.”

  The Lord delivered Miss Pearl Tucker too me on a rusted pogo stick.

  CHAPTER 7

  Port Wentworth, Georgia

  A house knows well before it’s gonna come crashing to the ground. Its footings quake, and all the walls lean and sway. The ceiling plaster cracks and crumbles, breaking loose and falling to the carpets. The rafters moan low and begin to buckle. Wood planks begin to splinter, and the glass in the windowpanes crack and shatter. The rusty nails bend and snap, and the roof gives way.

  Donita Pendergast had seen all the signs. She had felt the rumblings below her feet and heard the quaking of its footings.

  When Rodney had bought her the modest little place, out past the dairy on a dead-end gravel road, the meager cottage was supposed to have sheltered the couple from any approaching storm.

  The small home had been purchased to be a proper home for Donita and their babies, who were to follow. But Rodney and she had been married for some six years, and each precious baby had been born cold and still. All the while, she had sensed the house’s foundations were crumbling. Brick by brick, the newlywed’s little house was falling down all around her.

  During their first years, Donita confessed, Rodney and she had found happiness inside its rooms. She cooked Rodney’s meals in the little kitchen. They watched television together side by side on the sofa in the sitting room, and at the end of the night, Rodney sweetly kissed Donita in their tiny bedroom.

  With the help of his father, Rodney opened an auto paint shop on Duffy Street and was off every morning attempting to drum up business. Donita stayed at home and hung sky-blue curtains in the windows and planted marigo
lds around the mailbox. She played music on the radio and kept a tidy house, growing a fine garden out back. But happy never took root in the Pendergast household. No matter how sunny she painted the walls or how appetizing her home cooking was, Donita could hear the awful aching sounds of a house collapsing.

  Rodney Pendergast had been a local high school legend: a Friday-night football star. Savannah cheered the hunky quarterback on from the wooden bleachers, watching a favorite Georgian son lead them to the state championship for three years. He was destined to be drafted for Georgia State and pursued by a pro team. But the college-football scouts never appeared, and soon after graduation, Rodney inherited his pop’s thirst for gin and willing Southern blondes. The homegrown golden boy lost his shine. The auto-paint shop was failing fast, and when no one was watching, Rodney took to sniffing paint cans in the back of his shop. The aerosol fumes wrecked his noggin and ignited his quick temper. He’d return home jacked up, stumbling through the back-screen door higher than a kite in a March wind and itching for a fight. It was around that time when Donita first felt the trembling of her little house.

  Like any self-respecting Southern bride, she told herself that her husband deserved peace and quiet after a hard day’s work. A cold beer and a hot supper waited for Rodney every evening. She learned to only speak when spoken to and kept her eyes turned to the floorboards when he was in one of his foul moods.

  The first time Rodney slapped her with his open hand, he swore to his trembling bride with tears streaming down his handsome face that it would never happen again. On bended knee, he begged Donita for forgiveness. The second time he landed a punch to her cheek, Donita told herself that she’d never tolerate such cruelty from any man. She packed her case and moved out to her folk’s place for two weeks.

  It was after their third round, when he left Donita with a black-and-blue face and a bruised ribcage, both she and Rodney understood without a single spoken word passing between them that their little house was built on faulty foundations. It was destined to come tumbling down.

  With his high school glory days disappearing in his rearview mirror, Rodney found a dead end around every bend. Although he saw the same devilishly handsome man reflected in the mirror as he shaved his black scruff every morning, Rodney knew he was running out of time. Fate had gifted him with striking dark features and an athletic prowess on the football field. But now, Rodney hadn’t the patience or the decency of character to strive for anything that didn’t come easy.