Aunt Sookie & Me

by Michael Scott Garvin

  We walked the cobbled streets of granite markers, through row after row of the forgotten dead. A curtain of fog drifted off the water and lingered around us, moving about the crypts and ivy-choked vaults like some invading smoke.

  Suddenly, Jackson and the twins scattered, giving us the slip. We heard them sneaking low among the granite tombs.

  Pearl called out, “Jackson, we know what y’all are up to. We’re not scared.”

  In an attempt to frighten us girls, the hiding boys hooted like owls and squeaked like scampering mice.

  I huddled in close to Pearl and demanded, “You boys stop it! Stop it right now!”

  A low-hanging tree branch bristled in an October breeze, causing us girls to jump from our skin. Constance let out a high-pitched scream that pierced through the night.

  The voice of one of the McAllisters called out from behind a stone crypt. “Constance, zip it! The caretaker is gonna boot us outta here if you don’t shut up!”

  I pleaded, “Jackson, come on out.”

  Only silence answered back.

  The flailing of a raven’s wings caused another screaming frenzy from Constance.

  Unnerved, Pearl rolled her eyes and whispered to me, “I swear, the first open grave we come across, Constance White is goin’ in head first.”

  Finally, we spotted Jackson posing atop the tallest family mausoleum. He stood high above us; his suit jacket and white button-up shirt were discarded. There was no sign of his black-rimmed glasses. He flexed his modest biceps, modeling the T-shirt with Superman’s S proudly displayed on his chest. His pop’s oversized slacks were still cinched around his waist.

  “Did someone call for a superhero? May I assist you lovely ladies?” He grinned from atop his stone pillar. “Howdy, fair ladies. Superman has come to your rescue!”

  Constance dismissed Jackson with a snarl. I couldn’t help but silently swoon.

  He extended his hand to me from high above. “Is that my sweet Lois Lane that I see?

  Constance muttered, “I believe I’m gonna throw up.”

  Pearl shook her head. “Jackson Taylor, I swear you’re retarded.” She drew her plastic pistol from her holster, took aim, and shot him.

  Jackson dramatically clutched his chest. “I’m shot!” he moaned in pain. “You got me!” He took a theatrical fall off the top of the mausoleum and into a pile of October leaves.

  I applauded his performance.

  Constance complained, “I’m gettin’ the hell out of this god-forsaken place. It gives me the creeps.”

  We made our way back onto the street to find tiny Tallulah still waiting patiently under the streetlamp, shivering in the cold. Her blue lips quivered, “What was all that ruckus?”

  Constance shook her head. “Annie Oakley killed Superman.”

  Little Tallulah looked baffled.

  “The boys were just bein’ fools,” Pearl answered.

  Timmy ran ahead of us, shouting, “There’s a haunted house over at the high school! Let’s go!”

  Breathless, we sprinted to Savannah High, little Tallulah lagging far behind. She came trailing up the sidewalk, gasping for air and gripping tight to her pompoms. She dug in the pockets of her cheerleader’s pleated skirt for her plastic asthmatic breather.

  I asked, “Are you gonna be OK, Tallulah?”

  She nodded in the affirmative as her white lips sucked on the plastic inhaler.

  We paid our admission at the ticket booth and waited in a long line of screaming girls and mischievous boys.

  When we entered the first pitch-black chamber, the door slammed shut behind us. We waited silently in the dark. When a rubber spider landed on her shoulder, Constance screamed, piercing our eardrums. She stumbled in the black, collecting strings of cobwebs in her hair. Pumped-in smoke lingered like the spreading fog back at the cemetery. Wicked laughter came through a loud speaker, and flashes of white light illuminated the tiny room for the briefest moments. A plastic witch with blinking green eyes cackled high above us.

  The pitch-black room was filled with our faceless, laughing voices. My hands reached blindly in front of me. Pearl walked, face first, into a wall. A dull thump in the black was followed by Pearl erupting into uncontrollable laughter. Jackson was doing his best Count Dracula “I vant to suck your blood” while Constance and Tallulah were insisting that the lights be switched on immediately.

  I reached blindly, careful not to stumble. My fingers read the braille night. All at once, Jackson was at my side. His hands were on my shoulder. Under my fingertips, I felt his skin; I touched his eyes, lips, nose, and hair. I read his laughing mouth.

  Placing both his palms on my face, cupping my cheeks, he asked me, “Are you frightened, Poppy?” His breath was warm and smelled like hard candy.

  I admitted, “Yes. I’m scared.”

  Holding me in his awkward arms, he whispered in the dark, “Don’t be afraid. Don’t ever be afraid. I’ll protect you.” And he kissed my mouth.

  Tommy yelled out, “He’s got a knife! He’s got a knife!”

  Little Tallulah screamed, tripping on a Styrofoam headstone. She hit the floor with a thud. Her pompoms flew into the air, landing directly on Constance’s head, who believed them to be yet another giant spider’s web. We all screamed and laughed, then screamed again. But Jackson stayed near my side. In between our shrieks and squeals, he kissed me again.

  Pearl called out, “Tallulah, are you OK?”

  “Uh, I think so,” she replied with a whimper.

  A hidden door opened wide, and we all rushed into another black chamber. Jackson held my hand tightly. When the door behind us slammed shut, Constance let out another ear-deafening shriek.

  Pearl’s voice threatened, “I’m gonna strangle your neck, Constance, if you don’t shut up your screaming.”

  The McAllister twins laughed riotously; their Lone Ranger and Tonto masks glowed in the dark. When a zombie appeared, gripping a chain saw, high above his head, I moved even nearer to Jackson.

  I reckon I understood in that moment that if I let Jackson kiss me again that he’d be tangled up in my mess. No more would it be just me lying to all the fine folks of Savannah, but Jackson could be branded with a red-hot poker as the blue-jeaned local boy who was duped by some fella gussied up as a girl. Standing in the haunted house at the Savannah High gymnasium, I knew full well that if I let Jackson kiss me again, he could be hurt bad by my masquerade.

  He whispered low, “Poppy, I suspect I’m fallin’ for ya.”

  Between the terrified screams and the laughter of caged teenagers, I made the selfish choice. I let Jackson Taylor kiss me again.

  “Do ya think you’d ever consider bein’ my girl?” His warm breath was on my neck.

  I was six months and eight days shy of turning fourteen. Life had been a hard, burdensome thing, more sour than sweet. And so, there in the dark, I gripped to Jackson’s hand and held tight to my first-ever chance at happy.

  A white light flashed like a bolt of lightning, and everyone could see one another for the briefest second.

  Timmy sang out, “Two little lovers sitting in a tree…K-I-S-S-I-N-G.”

  But Jackson didn’t care one wit. He held me tighter in his arms.

  “First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes Jackson with a baby carriage!” Timmy chuckled.

  Pearl hollered, “McAllister, you’re so immature!” She fumbled in the black, making her way over to Timmy’s glowing disguise, and whacked him with her bag of treats.

  We all giggled and pushed toward the exit.

  Jackson grabbed my hand and pulled me from the haunted house.

  We escaped, running like howling banshees up Drayton Street. Delirious and out of breath, we fell on the wet grass in the park under a bloated, full moon, Jackson still holding tightly to my hand. Lying on our backs, we examined the night sky, pocked with a million stars.

  Pearl inventoried her bag of candy while Constance fussed with her hair, untangling the strings of spider webs. Our asthm
atic little cheerleader siphoned oxygen from her inhaler and wrote in her notepad under a streetlamp. The McAllister boys had squared off and were engaging in a round of fisticuffs about nothing in particular. We were young, and the moon and stars were ours.

  Jackson asked if he could walk me back home. We said good-bye to the rest of the gang. The streets had gone quiet, except for some older boys dressed as pillaging pirates. The buccaneers went about looting in silence, from porch to porch. They busted up carved pumpkins on the street pavement.

  One of the sword-toting pirates, wearing a patch over his left eye and a stuffed parrot riding on his shoulder, called from across the street, “Hey, Taylor. How’s it goin’ tonight?”

  “Fine, Jimmy.”

  The plundering swashbuckler raised his blade high into the night air and viciously impaled the skull of the pumpkin with his sword. “I’ll see ya at practice on Tuesday! Make sure to say howdy to your momma and pop.”

  “Sure, Jimmy!”

  The pirates ran off, rollicking into the disappearing night.

  Jackson shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his trousers. “Poppy, I reckon, I owe you an apology for stealing a kiss in the cover of dark. It wasn’t proper of me.”

  “I suspect not,” I said.

  He stopped on the sidewalk and took a deep breath of the cold October night. “It wasn’t the gentlemanly thing to do. I’m downright ashamed of my scandalous behavior.”

  I replied, “If I let you kiss me in the sunlight, would you it put your shame to rest?”

  Jackson’s wide grin shown in the pale moonlight.

  As we strolled, he explained to me that he believed God created a perfect match for every living soul.

  “Poppy, some poor saps have to go searchin’ to the far ends of the earth,” he said. “Aren’t we so lucky that we found each other now?”

  At the front gate, Jackson brushed a stray strand of hair from my face and thanked me for a lovely evening.

  “Good night, Poppy Wainwright.”

  I liked the way my name sounded coming from his mouth.

  “Jackson, get yourself home safe, before you get caught in the rain.”

  He pounded on his chest with a closed fist. “Shucks, I ain’t afraid of a little drizzle. I’m Superman!” Saluting me, he took off sprinting up Digby.

  I sauntered down the path, grinning like some dreamy, star-crossed fool.

  “Poppy Wainwright!” Jackson called from the dark in a faraway voice.

  I stood on my tippy-toes on the front porch, searching the lonely lane for any sight of him.

  His voice echoed in the night. “Poppy Wainwright! You’ve got my head spinning!”

  I looked for Jackson, but only a glowing streetlamp stood solemn along Digby. Blushing, I turned from the watching moon.

  His voice hollered out again, “I’ve never known such a night!”

  Running back to the gate, I called, “Good night, Jackson. Good night!”

  Exuberant and breathless, I laughed out loud. My cheeks ached from an insuppressible grin. It was such a hollow kind of lonesome, believing affections bestowed on other girls wouldn’t ever be offered up to me, but on that chilly autumn night, I knew with certainty Mr. Jackson Taylor was mine, and I was his.

  I crept into a sleeping house. Annabelle rested in the foyer, feeding on the spilled bowl of Halloween sweets. Sookie had never made it upstairs. She snored on the couch in the sitting parlor still wrapped in her fur. Her television was gray, sizzling with static. Miss Loretta was still out, trying to cling on to what remained of the night. I closed my bedroom door behind me and took myself up to the rooftop.

  The moon over Savannah was a lovely sight, suspended from the stars. It hung low and lonely, casting a golden glow over Georgia. A November rain was coming on out over the ocean. I sat on the shingles and listened to a whisper on the breeze. I wondered if Jackson could hear the words.

  Below me, shadows moved about the yard like ghosts hiding from a fading night. Did Jackson make it home safely? Was he somewhere searching the same night sky for any hint of me? I asked the bloated moon, but it turned away shyly.

  With the first droplets of rainfall, I climbed in from the roof and back into my window. I slipped into my nightgown and snuggled beneath my bed covers. Holding tight to my pillow, I dreamed a lovely dream that only lucky girls like Constance White and me could dream.

  “Poppy, wake up!” I was startled from sleep to find a breathless Loretta hovering over me. “We gotta go! Hurry up, baby!”

  “What?” Rubbing my eyes, I tried to focus. “What’s wrong, Miss Loretta?”

  “Just get up, baby.” She smelled of cigarettes, and her voice was panicked.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Her lipstick was smudged violently across her anguished face. Her mangled, mangy mess of yellow hair was knotted and unruly. Still dressed in her same red frock from her night out on the town, but her new black nylon stockings were snagged and torn.

  She tugged at my covers.

  “What time is it, Momma?”

  “We gotta run.”

  “Why? What’s goin’ on?”

  Loretta fought with my blanket, pulling my covers to the floor. “There’s no time, baby! We gotta go. They’re coming for us.” Pulling at me, she strained my wrists.

  I cried out, “Momma, you’re hurting me!”

  “We ain’t got no time.” She was spooked, like a wild animal. Streams of mascara stained her cheeks.

  With a tight grip of my arm, she yanked me from my bed, off the mattress, pulling me across the wood floor into the hallway. I stood myself up, but she had me again, leading me down the darkened staircase and out the front door, into the night.

  “You’re hurtin’ me, Momma,” I whimpered. “Please, stop. You’re hurtin’ me bad.” Fighting to release her tight hold, I reached, peeling back each one of her gripping fingers until she finally released her clutch.

  “Poppy, you’ve got to come with me!”

  Out on the front porch, she stopped for a moment, manically peering into the dark.

  “You’re scaring me,” I cried.

  Stumbling off the stoop, momma darted barefoot, out across the lawn, still soaked from a midnight rain.

  “Come on, baby!” Motioning for me, she panted, “Hurry!”

  I followed her around to the back of the house, through the wet grass. The night was cold. I passed Sook’s garden and tripped through the rusted metal box springs from a soggy, discarded mattress. Somewhere in the back yard, I lost her, calling out, “Miss Loretta, where’d ya go?”

  I noticed the open, darkened door to Sook’s shed.

  From inside came a rustling, like a stray cat who was sniffing for shelter from the passing storm. I walked closer to the door, whispering into the black, “Loretta, are you in there?”

  She hissed, “Hurry, Poppy! Hurry!” Her arm extended from the shadow, snatching me and pulling me inside. She slammed the door shut behind us.

  I asked, “What’s wrong?”

  But she ignored me.

  Inside the old shed, the walls were lined with rows of rakes, hoes, and clippers. Sook’s jalopy sat idle, covered in a quilt of dust. Loretta scampered about, peeking through gaps in the wood siding. Squatting low to the ground, she gasped as if all the air was escaping the room. She ducked, peering through the thin sliver.

  “Loretta? Are you OK?”

  A slice of moonlight filtered in through the louvers of the old window shutters, illuminating only a corner of the dank, dingy quarters. The two of us remained silent for the longest while, hunched low, waiting.

  “Loretta, I’m scared.”

  “Shh!” She smothered my mouth with her sweaty palm. Her rapid breaths were short and shallow. She frantically warned, “Keep still, or they’ll find us.”

  I fought her fingers from my mouth.

  “Loretta, you’re strung out.”

  Her head darted about, distraught and wild eyed. “Shh! Baby, we gotta hide. Jus
t hunker low until they’ve gone.”

  Squatting on the cold concrete floor in my dressing gown, I heard Sook beckoning to us from the porch. “Poppy! Loretta! Where have you run off to?”

  “I’m cold,” I whined. “And it’s starting’ to rain again.”

  “Stay with me, baby, just a little longer, until they’ve gone.”

  “Who, Loretta?”

  The tapping of falling rain slapped on the tin roof, and her panting was the only sound inside the tight room.

  “Are you’re drunk? Are you strung out?” I asked. “No one is comin’ for us.”

  She turned to me, lost in her madness, searching my eyes for any comfort.

  “No one’s comin’ for you, Momma. I swear.”

  “Baby, you’re as wrong as wrong can be. They’re all around us. Just listen. You can hear them coming.” She waited, listening for an indication of an invading intruder. “They’re after us.”

  In the moon’s half-light, I saw Loretta had come undone. She was as pale as a ghost with haunted, glassy eyes nervously darting about, looking at everything but seeing nothing.

  “Poppy, I’m gonna get us out of here. We’ll leave town at the first hint of sunrise.”

  “No, Momma. I don’t wanna go nowhere.” I rubbed my aching wrists, her fingertips still imprinted on my skin.

  “But baby, it’ll be better if we get outta this town.”

  “No, Momma.”

  Mumbling in a whisper, she asked of no one, “Why do you come ’round here?”

  I glanced over, but Loretta was lost to me. The sliver of moonlight shone on her crazed eyes.

  She repeated, “Why you gotta come ’round here?” Asking questions of ghosts, she mumbled more nonsense that I couldn’t make any sense of. Loretta rattled off gibberish to the night, like my grandma Lainey speaking with an anointed tongue during church service. I shivered from the cold and from fright, listening to the rants of a mad woman.

  “Please, I’m beggin’ you, Momma. I’m scared.”

  She looked around the small shed as if she was cornered by angry shadows. “Leave me be,” she asked of the night. “Leave me be.” Staring blindly into the darkness, she whispered again, “Please, just leave me be.”