Aunt Sookie & Me

by Michael Scott Garvin

  The ravenous Christian women crowded in front of the Tupperware smorgasbord, bumping shoulders, nudging elbows, pushing children aside, and fighting to position themselves for the feeding. Donita’s strawberry-and-chocolate cream pies were their rewards, waiting on crystal platters at the finish line of the buffet.

  Donita Pendergast’s baking skills were widely admired in all of Chatham County. Her secret recipes were prized possessions, and her intricate pastries and desserts were considered some of the finest among the culinary elite of Savannah.

  “Rodney has been just an angel,” Donita gushed as we waited our turn in line. “I’m not sure what has come over him lately, but he brought me home a pendant necklace and the sweetest card.” She opened her blouse slightly and proudly flashed her shiny gold necklace with a delicate rose pendant. “I really think all my prayers have finally been answered.”

  “That’s just swell, Donita,” I commented, examining the rose pendant in the palm of my hand. “It’s lovely.”

  “It’s a genuine diamond in the center,” she gushed. “I told Rodney that he shouldn’t have. We don’t have the money for such luxuries. But he said, ‘Darling, only the best for my sweet girl.’ Poppy, I really do believe that the good Lord has seen us through these troublesome times. I’m certain if we can get past the dust up with the law that things are going to get better.” Donita squeezed her eyes shut tight, like she was wishing or praying. “I just know the good Lord has finally answered our prayers!”

  Aunt Sookie reclined back in her rocker, snickering as she perused the obituaries in the Sunday edition of the Savannah Morning Daily. On the porch steps, Miss Loretta ran a brush through my hair while I sat planted between her legs, snapping string beans into a plastic Tupperware bowl.

  I reported, “At church service today, Donita told me that her Rodney has changed his ways.”

  Sook lifted her left hip and farted a reply.

  “Sookie, you’re just awful,” I remarked. “Rodney even called her darling and bought her a real pretty diamond necklace.”

  “That’s really sweet, baby doll,” Loretta commented as she brushed my hair.

  “I wish I could have pin curls in my hair just like Donita’s.”

  “Sugar, I love your long hair,” Loretta replied. “You’ve inherited your luxurious chestnut mane and your small stature and your devout faith from your grandma.” She gathered my locks into a rubber band.

  I complained, “Loretta, there ain’t nothin’ luxurious ’bout my hair.”

  “Thank the Lord!” Sookie exclaimed. “Bitsie Booth kicked the bucket! She was a gawd-damned, dim-witted busy body. Good riddance!”

  Loretta ignored Sook’s celebratory rantings and continued, “I think your hair is beautiful. I suspect you inherited your stubborn disposition from your grandpa.”

  “Hot damn!” Sookie snorted. “Jim Douglas croaked! Yessum! Hell has claimed another rat bastard!”

  Loretta glanced over at Sook and sighed. But Sookie remained engrossed in the list of the daily dead.

  I asked, “What did I inherit from you, Miss Loretta?”

  “Your lovely bone structure. You’ve gotten your delicate fine features from me.” She smiled. “Look at those high cheek bones—just like mine.”

  Sook remarked, “I suspect you got your sassy mouth from your momma.”

  “Miss Loretta,” I asked, “what did I get from my daddy?”

  She leaned in close over my shoulder and whispered in my ear, “Your pecker.” She giggled.

  Sook glanced from her paper, shaking her head in disbelief. I blushed a tomato red.

  Miss Loretta stood from the stoop and announced, “Well, excuse me, ladies, but I have me a date. I met me a real gentleman. And he’s taking me out to the picture show tonight.”

  Sook snickered aloud.

  “Go ahead and roll your eyes, Sookie, but this one has got real potential. He tips his hat and opens the car door for me, like a proper gentleman.”

  “Pfft!” Sook sounded off. “And what does this new fella do for a vocation?”

  “He sells ladies’ shoes at Levy’s Department Store,” she gushed. “He’s got a real sense of style. He smells like jasmine and always wears a yellow rose in his jacket lapel.”

  Sookie spouted off, “This man sounds like a raving poofer! Are you sure you ain’t dating a Savannah sodomite? Maybe you can introduce him to Daryl? That pickle kisser needs himself a date more than you do.”

  “You’re just awful, Sook,” Loretta replied. “He’s got real panache.”

  “Hot damn, that old Jew Norman Schneiderman died!” My old aunt was downright gleeful. “That stingy son of a bitch has taken his last dollar from me down at the bank!”

  We ignored her.

  “Loretta, why ain’t you never been courted by a Jew?” Sook inquired. “Lord knows they got all the money, and they could keep you in fine furs rather than that ratty road kill hide you strut around in.”

  “Oh, Sookie.” She blushed.

  “No, no, missy. Don’t be so cavalier when dismissing my suggestion,” Sook insisted. “I’m only looking out for your best interest. I’ll ask around town and see if there’s any eligible Jews who are huntin’ to court the old hooker type.”

  “Thank you, Sook. That’s mighty kind of you.”

  “Sookie, why haven’t you never made any mention of having yourself a beau?” I asked. “Grandma Lainey told me that you once had yourself a boyfriend. Is he one of the fellas in the pictures up in the attic?”

  Sook waited the longest while before replying, “Child, if I believed that it was any of your concern, I’d take it up with you.”

  I commented, “Pearl Tucker believes there’s a strong likelihood that you fancy womenfolk. A lesbian.”

  “She did, eh?” Sook looked over to me. “A lesbian?”

  “Yessum.”

  “Well, you can assure little Miss Tucker there is only one other loathsome creature who sounds less appealing to lay with than a hairy-legged old man, and that would be a back-biting, yappin’ female,” Sook replied. “Besides, Digby already has old Alice Faye a few doors down. Savannah only permits one lesbian per every other block. I suspect it’s a city ordinance.”

  Loretta slightly squeezed my shoulder and smiled. “Sookie, you should go and find yourself a man. Your plumbing must be as rusty as an old drain pipe.”

  “Hush up! And not that it’s any of your beeswax,” Sook added, before returning back to her newspaper. “But some fingers aren’t meant to wear a wedding band.”

  Down the street a way, we spied the cluster of well-dressed ladies. The Society for the Beautification of Savannah was walking the street, previewing the homes of Digby. It seemed, on that fine afternoon, the members were making plans for the annual spring walking-garden tour.

  The prominent, dignified ladies seemed to glide along the cobblestone sidewalk. I watched from the other side of the hedge as the gracious flock seemingly floated like swans, elegant and proud, led by Dixie McAllister, who wore a delicate headpiece with bright, happy sunflowers sprouting from its brim.

  Dressed in their finest threads, white-laced cotton gloves, and wide-brimmed hats, the ladies followed the proposed path of the upcoming spring garden tour. After visiting each home to be featured on the season’s tour, the ladies cloistered, discussing every minute detail.

  Dixie conducted the meeting with an iron fist, taking meticulous notes in her binder as the ladies walked from house to house.

  Every year the Savannah garden extravaganza commenced at Alice Faye Nance’s, where guests nibbled on some Southern delicacy while enjoying Alice’s trellises of Wisteria and Confederate Jasmine vines. Then the guests moved farther down the street to the next manicured garden.

  It was determined the upcoming tour would include a peek at Mabel Gladden’s formal hedges, and then the tour would proceed to Bertie Lloyd’s to enjoy her baskets spilling with azaleas and English ivy hanging along her expansive front porch. The tour would th
en move on to the Wilkes’s place, to view Loma Wilkes’s flowering rose trees.

  From our front stoop, I spied the ladies standing at Minnie Pott’s front yard and gushing over her line of sculpted topiaries adorned with white ribbons.

  “Sookie, it looks like the ladies are heading this way,” I replied.

  “Yippee!” she squealed sarcastically.

  The refined ladies made a final stop at the McAllister’s house to admire Dixie’s prize-winning white Princess Anne rose bushes.

  When the glamorous gals exited the McAllister garden, they strolled up the sidewalk with Dixie in lead. As the ladies neared Sook’s dump, all their giggles fell to silence. Their gaits slowed, more closely resembling a solemn funeral procession. They peered past the hedge at the shocking state of Sookie’s place. Shaking their heads disapprovingly, they whispered in one another’s ears.

  Sook hurriedly struggled to stand from her rocker. “Dixie McAllister!” she hollered, shuffling to the front stoop. “I need to speak with you right this instant!”

  “Good evening, Sookie. I hope you’re having a lovely day.” Dixie wore an expression of loathing, gussied up with a saccharine-sweet smile.

  Sook hollered, “I’ve told you before, and I’m now telling you for the last time. That there magnolia is encroaching over my garden!” Sook pointed to the single branch of one of the majestic trees extending into the yard, casting its wide shadow directly over her prized garden bed.

  Dixie attempted to sprinkle some sugar on her response. “Now, now, Sook. These magnolias are a miraculous marvel. They are a living testament to God’s glorious handy work. They are cherished and protected in section two hundred and fourteen, article sixty-nine, in the handbook of the Society for the Beautification of Savannah.”

  “Stop with all your bullshit, Dixie! The township has been notified. I swear, I’m gonna take matters into my own hands if someone don’t tend to this gawd-damned tree!”

  Dixie blurted out, “Oh, poppycock!”

  Our porch went dead silent.

  Loretta looked over to me. I turned to Sook.

  “Pardon me, Dixie?” My aunt held her quaking hand near to her ear. “I didn’t catch that?”

  “You heard me. That’s all poppycock!”

  Miss Loretta snickered, but smothered her mouth with her palm.

  Sookie slapped her knee. “Did you hear that ladies?” She gestured to me and Loretta. “Dixie thinks it’s all poppycock!”

  I blushed red. Miss Loretta was bent over fighting a giggle fit.

  Gathered in a tight circle, all the ladies yakked among themselves, formulating a unified response.

  Dixie cleared her throat and called back over the fence, “Sookie, you know these magnolias are the pride of Savannah. It’s a punishable crime to ever touch ’em.”

  “Hogwash! Savannah was spared the devastation of Sherman’s march to the sea, but I ain’t sure she’ll withstand you bunch of bureaucratic bouffants!” Sook planted her shaking hands on her broad hips. “I’ve given all the authorities fair warnin’ ’bout this dadgum magnolia!” Pointing to the invading tree’s branch overhead with her walking stick, she warned, “I ain’t messing with you fools no more.”

  The nervous flock of Savannah socialites clucked among themselves.

  “I don’t care how highfalutin you believe yourselves to be,” Sook yelled. “All y’all can dress yourselves up in strands of perfect pearls and the finest petticoats, but y’all shit squattin’ over a hole, just like the rest of us!”

  Indignant and utterly offended, the society ladies huffed and puffed.

  “Sookie Wainwright!” Dixie called back over the hedge, “You’d best not touch a single stem on that tree, or the law will be breathing down the back of your neck!”

  Sook countered, “I’m at my wit’s end! My garden cannot thrive without proper sunshine. That there tree is intruding on my rightful piece of the sky!”

  I whispered, “Sookie, now don’t go getting yourself all worked up. Let’s head inside and have some supper.”

  But my wiry aunt advanced closer to the porch’s edge, her eyes fixed on the ladies.

  The insulted women conversed behind their white-laced gloves.

  Loretta gave the high-society ladies a slight wave of her hand. “Y’all have a lovely evening.” And muttering from the corner of her mouth, she said, “Sookie, you need to calm yourself.”

  But Sookie stood firm.

  All of Digby Street went quiet but for the thumping of the end of old Sook’s walking stick on a wood plank.

  Thump. Thump. Thump.

  From the other side of the picket fence, Dixie and her squad straightened their spines and, in an act of solidarity, staked a firm position on the sidewalk. Arms crossed tight, a battle line drawn. Both sides had taken their stand.

  Thump. Thump. Thump.

  All was quiet, but the rhythmic pounding of Sookie’s cane sounded like a call to war. Even the birds in the treetops seemed to cease their singing.

  Thump. Thump. Thump.

  “Sookie, come on now. Let’s go have supper,” I said.

  Miss Loretta and I walked to her side and gingerly attempted to escort Sook to the door, but the cantankerous old woman protested, twisting about and breaking loose from our hold.

  “Sookie, you’re gonna overheat,” I said, “and blow a gasket.”

  Flailing her arms, she hollered to the ladies, “You’re a bunch of girdle-wearin’, gawd-damned, bubble-headed buffoons!”

  “Good night, ladies!” Loretta interrupted Sook’s rant in the nick of time. “Have yourselves a glorious evening! Toodle-loo!” She waved.

  We lifted Sook’s flailing feet off the porch, carrying the fussing senior by the forearms back inside the house.

  The posse of upper-crust prima donnas marched in lock step down the street.

  Back in the kitchen, we sat Sook at the table. Miss Loretta poured her a shot glass of whiskey.

  “What the hell has gotten into you?” Loretta asked. “They’ll have you locked up in the loony bin if you continue to carry on like this.”

  “I won’t have that gander of loose-lipped geese tell me nothin’.”

  I slid a plate of fried chicken and corn bread in front of her. “You need to calm yourself, Sookie, and eat some supper.”

  She guzzled the shot of whiskey and poured herself another. “My nerves are shot,” she sighed. “As God is my witness, that magnolia is comin’ down.”

  “Sook, have some chicken, and settle yourself.” Loretta lingered near the stove top, sniffing under the pot lids simmering on the burners.

  Sook and I watched on as she nibbled from the skillets of fried potatoes and okra.

  “Loretta, sit yourself down and have a proper supper,” Sook remarked. “Poppy has cooked us this fine meal.”

  “I just can’t,” she whined. “I’m getting as big as a barn, and all this greasy fried food is causing havoc on my waistline.”

  I asked, “Where are you off to tonight, Miss Loretta?”

  “It just so happens my beau is taking me to see a movie at the drive-in!” Her eyes lit up. “He has a convertible with plush, sky-blue interiors. It’s dreamy.” She dipped a spoon into the sizzling skillet of gravy and licked it clean.

  “What picture are you two seeing?”

  “Miss Audrey Hepburn is starring in My Fair Lady.” She swooned and sampled more fried potatoes from another skillet. “He loves the theater. He’s mad over musicals. He’s cultured and refined.”

  “A raving queer, no doubt,” Sookie muttered under her breath.

  Loretta baptized a buttered biscuit in the brown gravy.

  “Would you please just sit down and eat sumpthin’, Loretta,” Sook insisted. “You’re working my last nerve.”

  Finally, Miss Loretta reached in the cupboard and grabbed herself a dish. “On second thought, I’ll help myself to the tiniest portion.”

  She went about filling her plate with abundant piles of pot roast, okra, frie
d taters, and collard greens. “I just won’t eat anything at the picture show,” she told herself. “Poppy, if you want to keep a man, never ever let him see you eat. Always remember to peck like the tiniest bird when you’re on a date.”

  “Yes, Poppy,” Sook piped in. “Don’t ever let a man know that your body requires nourishment.”

  Loretta spooned a generous helping of gravy, smothering her entree. She carried her plate to the table. As she bent to take a seat, the unmistakable sound of ripping seams and tearing fabric could be heard from beneath her substantial rump.

  Sook and I both looked over to Miss Loretta.

  Adjusting her buttocks in the wooden chair, she blushed. “Oh Lordy. I believe I’ve gone and busted my back seams wide open.” With her confession, Loretta placed a cloth napkin on her lap and began her feeding frenzy.

  Sookie remarked, “That’s what you get when you stuff fifty-five pounds of ass in a five-pound sack.”

  Loretta giggled, “Well, Sookie, I’ll have you know that my new man enjoys my feminine curves.”

  “When can we meet this new suitor, Miss Loretta?” I asked. “He seems to be becoming your steady.”

  Sook abruptly stood from the table. “Well, before Miss Loretta descends into one more of her vulgar tales of her tawdry romantic pursuits, I’m gonna head upstairs and go use the commode.”

  With her pronouncement, Sook started shuffling from the room.

  “Sookie, you know what your trouble is?” Loretta declared. “You don’t believe in true romance. You don’t believe in passion or desire or love at first sight.”

  My aunt began her long journey up the staircase, and hollered, “Missy, I’ll tell you what I do believe in. If I don’t make it to the toilet in a timely fashion, I’m gonna shit a pile in my bloomers.”

  It was later that night when Miss Loretta arrived back home. Sook had gone off to bed, and Annabelle slept soundly in the sitting parlor. The house was quiet, and I lay in bed, waiting for the sound of Momma’s cab pulling up to the front curb, bringing her home to me—assurance that it was safe to sleep.

  Returning from her nightly adventure, Loretta gingerly moved about downstairs. Dizzy from drinking, she bumped about in the dark, smacking into walls and tripping over carpets. From my bed, buried under quilts, I listened on as she clumsily maneuvered up the stairs. Stumbling down the corridor, she cursed aloud when she entered the wrong door.