We darted across the September’s yellowing grass.
In the park, a circle of boys hunched low, shooting a game of marbles, while some older boys sat shirtless atop the monkey bars, smoking ciggies. Sitting in the shade of an oak tree, I recognized several girls from the bus stop. Pretty Constance White sat in the center, circled by her giggling friends.
As Pearl and I approached, the boys’ heads turned from their marble match. They eyed me up and down. Two girls already on the swings skid their sandals in the dirt, bringing their swings to a stop.
“Hey, Tallulah.” Pearl waved.
“Mornin’, Pearl.” A skinny blonde with knobby knees and cat-eyed spectacles that magnified her eyeballs to the size of two silver dollars called out, frantically waving her tiny hands. “Come on over here, Pearl. Swing by me.”
Pearl took a swing next to the awkward little one. “Tallulah, I sure like your dress.”
“Thank you kindly, Pearl.” Little Tallulah opened a small yellow note pad and rapidly scribbled something in its pages.
Pearl inquired, “How’s your allergies and asthma spells?”
“My doctor says I’ll be just fine,” the pasty-white girl replied. She opened her pad and seemed to be reading from a list. “The doctor suggests that I don’t run about too much or walk great distances. It’s best I don’t jump rope or play hopscotch or dance about. He insists I steer clear of all dairy products, beef, bread, and honey bees. I can’t venture near citrus orchards or bodies of water with mosquito infestations. And no sniffin’ bloomin’ flowers or stink weeds.”
“Holy moly!” Pearl shook her head. “Should you be swingin’?”
“Sure. Swingin’ is fine!” Tiny Tallulah replied. “Just not too fast, for too long, or too high.”
Constance and her girls made the stroll over to greet us. Their long manes of shiny hair were perfectly coiffed, and their cotton dresses were pleated and pressed.
Pearl took a running start. Her momentum took the swing high into the air. She kicked her legs, lifting her even higher. “This here is Poppy. She’s new to town.”
All the girls greeted me with friendly smiles. Constance White took the empty swing next to mine and said, “Welcome to Savannah, Poppy.” She grinned. “Are you starting school?”
“No, not until next year,” I replied.
With a push, Constance started swinging. “That’s a real pity. We could’ve been best friends.”
Working up the nerve, I said, “Constance, I do believe you have the prettiest hair I’ve ever seen.”
She tossed her locks over one shoulder. “I brush it three times a day and wash it in lemon water.”
“It’s lovely,” I said.
“Yessum.” She nodded in total agreement. “My momma says a girl’s hair is her crowning achievement.”
I suspected Constance White had a grander opinion of her beauty than any mirror could ever reflect.
The group of boys had abandoned their marbles and moseyed over nearer to us.
“Hey, ain’t you the orphan livin’ across the street?” one of the tubby McAllister twins asked.
I recognized the rolls of fat on the back of his shaved head. “Yessum,” I answered.
“I’ve seen you sittin’ on Sook’s roof top.”
All the boys inspected me, like I was the newest Schwinn model in Sears & Roebuck’s window front.
The second McAllister boy, in a matching T-shirt, confirmed his brother’s suspicions. “Yup, she’s the orphan livin’ at crazy old Sook’s place.”
“I ain’t no orphan,” I said. “I’m staying with my aunt for a spell.”
Another fella piped in, “Your Aunt Sook is a mean ol’ biddy. Just the summer before last, she shot me with her pellet gun.” He raised his shirtsleeve, revealing a tiny round scar on his left shoulder. “She’s got good aim for an old geezer.”
I replied, “Well, I ain’t never seen no BB gun around Sook’s place.”
“Oh, keep lookin’,” another boy, who had a crazy eye, added. “It’s there. One afternoon, I was riding my bike home, and she nailed me ’tween the eyes.” He leaned in close and pointed to a pea-sized pellet scar in the center of his brows.
“Are you sure it was my old Aunt Sook?”
“Is a frog’s ass water tight?” The kid rubbed his forehead like the wound still stung.
Another freckle-faced boy, with an impressive scab on his chin, asked me, “Does she beat you?”
“Nope,” I answered. “Not as of yet.”
“Well, it’s just a matter of time,” he said. “She’s gonna. It’s in her nature.”
“Sook’s got the shakes real bad,” I replied. “She has a devil of a time even gettin’ round. I’m thinkin’ I could out run her in a foot race.”
“Ain’t your momma a junkie?” a handsome, blue-jeaned boy with a blond head full of cowlicks inquired.
Pearl snapped, “Jackson Taylor, you ain’t got no manners.”
“No,” I corrected the handsome kid. “My momma is a drunk. She used to be a junkie, but she’s healed herself of dope. Now she drinks to quiet her cravings.”
A little girl, even smaller than me, in a pink-and-yellow polka-dot dress, asked in a voice no more than a whisper, “I heard you’re from Oklahoma?”
An older shirtless kid wearing overalls and whose front teeth had gone missing called out, “Nuttin’ worse than a dirty damn Okie!”
The good-looking boy with hair the color of wheat directed his comment to the shirtless kid, “Lest you’ve forgotten, Bradford, I’m an Okie. You got a problem with that?”
The shirtless kid hesitated and then stuttered, “Nope, I got no issue with you, Jackson.”
I replied, “I’m not from Oklahoma. I’m from Mountain Home, Arkansas.”
“Ain’t no real difference that I can tell,” Jackson said with a grin. “Folks from Arkansas are just Okies with a respectable pair of Sunday shoes.”
Constance White laughed, “Jackson Taylor, you’re no more of an Okie than I am.” As she swayed on the swing, her long hair caught the wind and shimmered like strands of floating gold.
“Ain’t true, Constance. My pop is from Chickasaw, Oklahoma,” Jackson replied. “I got Okie blood running through my veins.”
Little Tallulah spoke up, “Pearl, if Poppy has a mind to, she’s welcome to come to my party on Saturday.”
“That’s mighty cordial of you, Tallulah,” Pearl replied.
I gestured to the little one with a nod of gratitude. She pushed her spectacles further up on her button nose and again made a few mysterious notes in her private pad.
One of the McAllister boys announced, “My momma says that Sook Wainwright don’t enroll you in school because you’re retarded.”
“Timmy McAllister, you’re as dumb as a pile of rocks,” Pearl hollered from her soaring swing. “If you spent more time searchin’ your books for learnin’ and less time mining your nose for a nugget of gold, you’d be a heap smarter.”
All the kids laughed.
“Shut your mouth, Pearl! Ain’t no one talkin’ to you.”
“Just try and make me,” Pearl countered. “You don’t have any proper manners.”
Timmy kicked the dirt at his feet. “Pearl Tucker, you’re so ugly, even the tide on Tybee Island won’t take you out.”
Some of the older boys chuckled, but Pearl kept up her swinging. Her cheeks flushed red. “Tim, you’re aching for a knuckle sandwich.”
Jackson piped in, “McAllister, not all of us have our mommas buyin’ us fancy matching britches, so we can run around town lookin’ like twiddle dee and twiddle dumb.”
Again, all of the kids broke out into laughter, and the McAllister boy stuck his hands deep in his pockets like he was digging for a clever word.
Pearl’s worn sneakers slid into the dirt, bringing her swing to an abrupt halt. “Come on, Poppy. Let’s get goin’.” She took my hand and led me from the swings. “These boys ain’t got a lick of sense.”
We left the other kids and walked across the park into the shade of a hackle berry tree.
From behind us, Jackson Taylor hollered, “I’ll see you around, Poppy Wainwright.” When I turned, he flashed a smile in my direction, and I felt warmth from the back of my neck race clear down my spine to the tips of my toes.
There was no denying that Jackson Taylor was dreamy. He was three inches taller than the nearest boy and had wide, hunky shoulders. The rips in his frayed jeans had been patched at the knees, and he neatly rolled his pant legs to rest atop his sneakers. Jackson had two dimples that mysteriously appeared like a magic trick when he grinned, and his eyes reflected the palest green in the Savannah sun. When the wind caught his shirt collar, he resembled the James Dean poster at the matinee. The other boys had red-spotted skin, but Jackson Taylor’s face was smooth, without a single blemish. His attempt at growing two side burns looked promising, and his eyes were clear and green as Dixie McAllister’s rye lawn. It was hard for me to set my eyes on Jackson for any longer than a moment without my face flushing red. I feared my telling eyes would hint that I was crushing.
Pearl and I found a clearing away from the others. From a brown paper bag, she delivered two pickle-and-cheese sandwiches wrapped in cellophane. Her curly mass of hair burned red and gold in the sunlight. Freckles spotted her sunburned cheeks, dotting up and over the bridge of her button nose. I thought Pearl was a marvelous creature. Unlike the other girls at Colonial Park, who were all sugar syrup and honey, Pearl was spiked with a tablespoon of vinegar: tart to the taste, compared to the sickly sweet of the sugar pies gathered over near the swing set.
I asked, “What does little Tallulah write in her note pad?”
“Beats me. Don’t have no clue. Tallulah Banks is always scribbling in that pad of hers. Some of the kids say she keeps lists of magical spells or mystic potions. Her parents are Lutherans, so I suspect black magic could be involved.”
“What grade is that Jackson in?” I asked.
“Jackson Taylor is in eighth grade.”
“Is he courting Constance?”
“Naw. Constance has herself a boyfriend, Derek, over at the high school. He drives a sweet, cherry-red Ford. Constance has her pick of beaus.” Pearl took a drink from her thermos and then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Girls like us, Poppy, we gotta go lookin’ for a passin’ compliment, but Constance White is so easy on the eyes that flattery is rolled out at her feet, like some plush red carpet. I suppose it’s just the nature of things. Praise comes easy for Constance, while the rest of us gotta go searchin’ for a flattering word, like a needle in a bale of hay.”
Pearl and I had a laugh under a fine Savannah sun.
“Does Jackson have a girlfriend?”
“Poppy Wainwright, do you fancy Jackson Taylor?” Pearl quizzed.
“Nope.”
Pearl moved in closer to inspect my expression, her freckled nose almost touching mine.
Flashing a wide grin, she announced, “You sure do, Poppy. You fancy Jackson Taylor!”
“I do not.”
“Do too!”
“Do not!” I laughed, covering my telling eyes with the palms of my hands.
“Well, you’d best get in line. Jackson has a string of girls who follow him around like love-struck puppy dogs. If you’re lookin’ to snag Jackson, you gotta play it smart. You can’t be too obvious.” Pearl lay back in the cool grass and crossed her legs at her socked ankles.
“A boy like Jackson is never gonna give a girl like me a second look,” I said.
“Ain’t true,” Pearl replied. “Nedra Sue says that guys may get all hot and bothered over a pretty face, but fellas will always fall for a girl’s true essence.”
I asked, “What’s that?”
“Ain’t sure. But if you wanna snag a big fish like Jackson, we gotta get you some essence.”
A September breeze blew through the trees and cooled the afternoon sun. Swallows swirled above us, scavenging for any crumbs. They fluttered low, in and out of the treetops. Pearl signaled to me when a curious squirrel moved in closer to her untied sneakers. She peeled some bread crust from her sandwich and tossed it near the critter. The two of us remained silent. He chattered at us like he had a story to tell and then scampered about, investigating the promising morsel at her feet. Always keeping a watchful eye on us, the squirrel sniffed at the breadcrumb. Pearl’s slight giggle sent the furry varmint across the grass and up into an oak.
CHAPTER 11
It seemed to me Donita Pendergast’s faith was carved from the softest balsam wood. On Sunday mornings, she’d find me among the congregation and scoot her way down the pew, taking a seat at my side. Even before the pastor had begun, Mrs. Pendergast was sobbing a storm of tears. While the choir sang the final hymn and continuing through the preacher’s closing benediction, waves of sorrow washed over Donita, like the repeating tide on the shores of Tybee Island. I watched her as she prayed from the corner of my eye. Hands clasped tight, she prayed with such conviction it seemed she was reading from a grocery list of wants, wishes, and worries. By the time the tithing basket made its round, Donita was a puddle in the backrow pew.
My grandma Lainey once said a believer’s faith should be as strong as a mighty oak, not weepy like a willow. It seemed Donita’s faith wasn’t grounded by any firm deep roots and could be toppled over by the slightest breeze. After the service, she would gather herself and powder her red nose, placing a friendly smile back on her face, like she’d stored it in her purse during the pastor’s sermon.
One Sunday afternoon, following church, I accepted her invitation for lunch. We loaded my bike in her trunk and drove to her small place, out past the train tracks.
The phone on the wall was ringing as Donita scrambled with the lock on the back door.
“Hello.” Out of breath, she answered, “Hi, Momma.”
I trailed behind her into the tiny kitchen.
“Yes, I’ve just returned home from church,” she reported. “It was a lovely service.” Donita covered the phone’s receiver with the palm of her hand and whispered to me, “Poppy, please, excuse me. I need to take this call. My daddy has been feeling poorly.” And she walked around the corner out of sight.
“Everything is fine, Momma,” I overheard. “Yes, I know. Money is just tight. The mechanic shop is slow, and with Rodney’s lawyer’s cost, it’s hard to make ends meet.”
I meandered into the little sitting room and observed the collection of photographs of Donita and Rodney hanging on the walls. I admired her perfect pin curls in each framed image. The pair brightly smiled and made a handsome couple. His dark eyes and chiseled features resembled a matinee idol on the marquee posters at the theater. Her thin frame and lined eyes looked like those of a young movie starlet.
The modest sitting room was painted a pale yellow and had simple hand-stitched curtains draped over the windows. Atop the wooden fireplace mantle, several football trophies and plaques were proudly displayed, engraved with Rodney’s name. Alongside his awards were blue ribbons from the local county and state fairs. Each pretty ribbon was marked with Donita’s name, printed in golden letters: Chatham County Fair 1966, Best Apple Pie; Georgia State Fair 1967, Best Peach Cobbler; First Place Recognition to Mrs. Donita Pendergast for her Plum Preserves, Savannah Baptist Church Bake Sale; First Place Prize, awarded to Donita Pendergast for her Red Velvet Cake.
“Momma, Rodney’s under a lot of pressure.” Her voice filtered from the hallway. “Yes, I understand. But don’t you fret. We will be just fine. Send Daddy all my love.”
A glass vase with a few modest carnations sat on a lace doily on the coffee table, next to a leather-bound family Bible.
Donita entered the room. “I’m sorry, Poppy. That was my sweet momma, long distance. My folks live in Richmond.”
“I’ve never been there,” I replied. “But my momma has spent some time there.”
“It’s a lovely place,” Donita said. “My poor daddy was stricken by a stroke last
spring, and now Mom must tend to him night and day.” She disappeared into the kitchen. “I’ve made us some finger sandwiches. What do you say we take them out on to the porch and enjoy this lovely afternoon?”
She dressed a small wicker table on the porch with a checkered tablecloth, delicate china, and silverware. We sat and nibbled tiny cucumber sandwiches and sipped iced tea.
“These are absolutely yummy,” I licked my fingertips clean. “Sook can’t cook at all, and Loretta eats plenty of groceries, but she’d need a map to find her way around a kitchen.”
“Is Miss Loretta your momma?”
“Yessum,” I answered. “She was a dope fiend, but she’s been healed.”
“Halleluiah.” Donita slightly raised one hand into the air. “That’s just wonderful, Poppy. Did the Lord heal her?”
“No, ma’am. As far as I can reason, she did it all on her own. I don’t believe Miss Loretta and the Lord have met. If they have, they ain’t on a first-name basis.”
“Oh, I see.” Donita smiled and disappeared back into the kitchen.
I called to her through the screen, “Miss Loretta battles a fistful of demons.”
“I understand,” Donita answered back. “Maybe you can bring her to church. It sounds like your momma just needs to find her way to the Lord.”
“With all due respect, Miss Donita. Loretta ain’t too keen on the Almighty. She says faith in the Lord requires a lot of heavy lifting. And she says she’s gotta travel light. I reckon my momma wants a heaven that don’t weigh so much.”
Mrs. Pendergast reappeared, holding two slices of chocolate cake with fresh strawberries and cream. “Maybe our pastor could say a prayer over your momma and help her with her demons.”
“Miss Loretta has a taste for trouble, liquor, and mean men. And she entertains all three on most Saturday nights. She’s tuckered out come Sunday mornings.”
Donita giggled.
“I pity the preacher assigned the chore of casting out Miss Loretta’s demons. Her own momma, my grandma Lainey, tried to bring Loretta to know Jesus, but she wasn’t having none of it.”
Aunt Sookie & Me Page 9
