Aunt Sookie & Me

by Michael Scott Garvin

  I grabbed her, shaking her shoulders. “Momma, you’re scaring me! You’re actin’ crazy. Stop it now!” I took her hands in my own, gently squeezing, until I saw a hint of recognition in her eyes. “Loretta?” Seemingly, she was back with me again, hunched low in the dank shed.

  Inspecting my wrists, she cried, “Baby, have I hurt you? Did I hurt you, Poppy?”

  I attempted to calm her. “It’s OK, Loretta. I’m fine. It’s just sore.”

  “No, no, no!” she cried. Her panic spiked again. “I told myself I’d never leave another mark on you. I said, Loretta Wainwright, if you ever touch Samuel again in anger, you gotta take yourself down to the river and bury yourself deep beneath the water. Now, look what I’ve gone and done.”

  She grabbed my hands, kissing them over and over.

  “No, Momma, they’re just tender. It’s nothing a little ice won’t fix. I’ll be good as new.”

  She brought my hands in front of her mouth as though attempting to hush her own words. “Baby, if I could make it stop. If I could just stop this freight train from runnin’ through my head.”

  “Momma, we can get you help. Remember? You had a good spell after your time in Little Rock.”

  “Poppy, I’ve made such a mess of things. Surely there must be a particular place in hell for the kind of momma who puts her baby in a hospital bed.” She turned, focusing her sights on me. “It’s an unforgivable thing. No proper mother would ever put her sweet baby boy into a hospital bed.” Her voice failed her. She seemed to be breaking into a million pieces.

  Outside the door, Sook continued to call for us in the night.

  “Miss Loretta, you need to gather yourself. The rain is coming down. We need to get ourselves to the house.”

  “I’m so sorry. I’m a bad momma.” Her eyes welled until a single sloppy tear fell on her cheek. “I gotta go someplace far, far away, where my hurt doesn’t fall on you.”

  “Momma, come to church with me next Sunday. The pastor will lay his hands on you and say a prayer.”

  Loretta tried to muster a smile. Reaching over, she cautiously touched my arm as if she didn’t have the right.

  For the briefest moment, I glanced down, finding new puncture marks to her skin. She quickly crossed her arms tight to her chest to cover the tracks.

  “Poppy, ain’t no God gonna save me.”

  “That ain’t true,” I said. “He’s partial to sinners.”

  “I gotta leave, baby, before I hurt you again.” She winced as though she had witnessed an awful sight in the black night.

  Aunt Sook called out again from the porch.

  “Momma, it won’t be no better any other place. If you can’t get ahold of this, it will follow you no matter where you run.”

  She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. Loretta seemed to think on my words. “No, I suspect not.” With her fingertips, she brushed my cheek. “Poppy, things weren’t supposed to turn out like this.”

  “I know, but until you get yourself clean, it ain’t never gonna be no different.” I brushed the streaming tears from her anguished face. “Now, let’s get ourselves inside. Sookie must be worried sick.”

  Momma mumbled incoherently and then nodded, seeming to answer her own question.

  “Are you gonna be OK?”

  Studying my face, Loretta looked puzzled, as though it were the first time she’d ever laid eyes on me.

  I asked, “Can we go back to the house now?”

  “Yessum,” she conceded. “Poppy, I’m gonna get myself clean. I promise, I ain’t ever gonna touch the stuff again.”

  “I know, Momma. I know.” Standing, I took her hand, leading her to the door.

  Before I could turn the knob, she took a hold of my forearm. “Baby, you listen.” Her weary eyes searched mine. “When you’ve had enough…when you’ve finally given up on your momma…you keep it to yourself. Do you hear me?” She turned away, seeming to whisper to the night. “When you’re finished with me, when you’ve had enough of your messy momma, don’t you speak a single, solitary word. When you’re done, just carry on. Because it’s gonna break my heart in two.” She squeezed my hand.

  “Loretta, I’ll never—”

  She blunted me, “Poppy, you have to promise.”

  “OK. I promise.”

  She wrapped her arms around me, squeezing the breath from my chest. My momma wept softly, holding me there in the dark, until the quiet of the night was louder than our breathing.

  The two of us stepped from the old shed into the October rain and made our way across the yard to a waiting Sook.

  CHAPTER 23

  Port Wentworth, Georgia

  Perhaps it was all the scandalous stories circulating about Rodney’s cruelty or their pending legal woes, but Donita sensed how the congregation of Savannah Baptist Church would step a wide path around her like she was the broken step on the stoop as they entered church.

  Always cordial in the Southern way, they greeted her with smiling faces and a slight hug about the neck. They chatted briefly on the weather and then moved along. Every Sunday, Donita took her seat in the last pew of the sanctuary and remained quiet, waiting for the opening hymn. She had become a stranger among the same folks she’d known since childhood. She reckoned that’s what happens when a local gal’s life becomes too uncivilized in a town where its citizens expect a lady to mind her p’s and q’s. A proper wife was expected to cook a respectable supper and corral even the most wild and unruly man with a gracious smile and a pleasant disposition. Folks don’t like mess in a tidy town.

  Perhaps it was Donita who had withdrawn from sight, embarrassed by her failings as a wife and a mother. She had retreated to her little house out past the railroad tracks.

  Until the arrival of the little one from Arkansas, there wasn’t a single soul who beckoned her to join them in a pew closer to the pulpit. Until that Sunday when Poppy came in and found a seat next to Donita in the last-row pew, it was only the pudgy pastor who openly embraced Donita for longer than a moment. With compassionate, graying eyes, he’d listen to her for longer than just a passing howdy.

  On a few occasions after church service, the pastor would lead Donita off under the shade of a dogwood, where the two would speak for a spell in soft hushed tones on matters that only Donita, the minister, and God could hear.

  Now, Miss Poppy Wainwright had become her confidante. Sometimes Donita fretted that it was unseemly for her to be so friendly with such a youngster, that she ought not burden a thirteen-year-old girl with her struggles. She worried that she shouldn’t confess her secrets to an impressionable Poppy. But the girl from Mountain Home seemed to understand that the world was a heavy place—she seemed to possess a gentle old soul. The two had become fast friends. In unspoken words, the pair of Savannah misfits had become allies.

  Every passing day with Rodney at the helm, Donita was sailing out further into troublesome waters without a compass or any sign of land. In a muted cry, she was sinking fast and calling out for help. It seemed the congregation of Savannah Baptist Church couldn’t hear or wasn’t listening to her desperate cries.

  Sometimes Donita believed that it was plain foolishness to tether her hopes to a precocious youngster, but Poppy Wainwright was buoyed with a strength that Donita Pendergast did not possess.

  CHAPTER 24

  Daryl Turnball resided in an apartment at the top of the stairs above the bakery on Broughton Street. I spied his comings and goings from a side door, off the alley.

  After my school lessons and after Sookie disappeared into the sitting room to watch her story, I’d pedal myself up to the bakery and park my bike across the street from Mr. Turnball’s place.

  Each Tuesday, while the other kids were still in class, before Mr. Turnball made his late-afternoon ice cream run through the neighborhoods, I trailed behind him, acting out my most convincing private-eye routine, as Daryl went about his mornings. Peddling just out of view, I watched Mr. Turnball saunter along State Street and browse the bo
utiques and shops. He always chatted up two men who operated the flower shop on Congress Street, and on some days, he sipped tea with three posh ladies on Drayton.

  On Tuesday afternoons at twelve-thirty sharp, Daryl lunched with another debonair fella in a cafe on the corner of East Broad Street. The two dapper men laughed as they dined on the bistro’s patio. Dressed in tailored jackets and pressed slacks, the stylish pair sipped iced tea and enjoyed their afternoons together. At the end of their lunch, the two friendly fellas always embraced and walked down the sidewalks in opposite directions.

  One afternoon, as Mr. Turnball returned to his apartment above the bakery, he glimpsed me sitting on my bike across the way.

  Waving in my direction, he sauntered across the street. “Good afternoon, Miss Poppy Wainwright. What brings you over to my side of the tracks?”

  “Afternoon, Mr. Turnball. It seemed like a lovely day for a ride on my bike.”

  “Yes, indeed, it is a glorious day. Let’s sit for a spell.”

  He and I found a park bench and sat side by side in the afternoon sun.

  “Mr. Turnball, my aunt says that you’re a dandy.”

  “She did, eh?” He grinned broadly. “Well, your old aunt Sook is of the belief that being different is all that I am. It’s just the nature of some folks. You see, if I was a fella who tended to the sickly and dying in New York City, your aunt would only see me as a Yankee. If I was some negro man who repaired her leaking water tap, I’d be the darkie with a pipe wrench.”

  I asked, “That man who you lunch with…is he your fella?”

  “Who?”

  “I’ve seen you enjoying lunch on Tuesdays with a fair-haired man. Is he your special beau?”

  Daryl flashed a quizzical smile. “Oh, Monroe? Well, maybe. One day.” He winked.

  “He seems like a fine choice to me,” I commented. “If he was your beau, how would you go about courting a fella without all the townsfolk pitchin’ a hissy fit?”

  “Miss Wainwright, I suspect most folks in Savannah will never believe that love isn’t always comprised of a blushing bride in white lace and a stiff groom in a top hat and tails. My sort has to go about searching for love in places where proper social circles don’t approve of. But, my child, make no mistake, it’s still love.” He patted my knee. “Poppy, whether you’re a sweet little girl in Savannah or a precious little boy living in Mountain Home, you’re always deserving of love. You understand me?”

  “Yes, sir.” My cheeks blushed red as two cherry tomatoes. I realized my aunt and Mr. Turnball’s afternoons spent exchanging gossip had also included my predicament.

  The always-smiling man wrapped his arm around my shoulder. “You and I, Poppy, we are worthy of respect, happiness, and love.”

  I wanted remain there on the bench with Mr. Daryl Turnball at my side. His embrace felt warm and familiar.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “It’s been my pleasure, Poppy,” he replied. “Let’s make a pact. If you’re ever in need of anything at all, you come find your old friend Mr. Daryl Turnball. Deal?”

  “It’s a deal!” I said.

  “Come next Tuesday, if you happen to find yourself in my neck of the woods again, why don’t you come by and join Monroe and me for a bite of lunch?”

  “I look forward to it.”

  “Run along home, and tell your old aunt Sook that Mr. Daryl Turnball has a frozen rainbow bullet in his freezer with her name written on it.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “And would you, please, tell that old woman to brush those grimy teeth of hers. I don’t believe they’ve felt a bristle in a month of Sundays.”

  “You bet! I’ll tell her!”

  I pedaled up Broughton wearing a smile as big as the Georgia sky.

  On my way home from Mr. Turnball’s, I caught my passing reflection in the tall storefront glass. The windows of the boutiques mirrored me as I rode in a February breeze. I saw little Samuel there, looking back over at me in his cut-off jeans, white T-shirt, and untied sneakers. With a pitiful, lonely gaze, Samuel rode along my side in the reflection. Perhaps he was on his way back to Grandma Lainey as he was on the summer afternoon when the local boys caught up with him.

  I maneuvered in and out of the strolling tourists and the locals lunching at Logan’s, moving through the busy Savannah streets. I recalled that hot afternoon. The rowdy boys’ bikes were faster; their thick, powerful legs were stronger. The Arkansas rough necks had been waiting for a good spell to pounce.

  I pedaled along the shops—the little one remained right beside me. He struggled to keep up. I remembered his panic as he tried to flee from the redneck boys. Turning off Broughton, I sped down Clayton Street, trying to outrun little Samuel’s frightened eyes in the glass, but in the windows of Woolworths and Levy’s Department Stores, he struggled to keep pace. I accelerated faster, pumping my Schwinn through Savannah’s busy streets.

  On that fateful day, Samuel had mistakenly taken the shortcut through the abandoned dairy down Parker’s Path. But the determined older boys pursued him with their spiteful words, baseball bats, and angry, hard fists. When his single, stray shoelace caught in the rusty bike’s gears, twisting like a string on a spool, the deed was done.

  Peddling as swiftly as I could, I tried to escape the memory of that sweltering afternoon back at Mountain Home. I was breathless by the time I turned on to Digby, my heart pounding like a drum inside my chest. All at once, the sun was at my back, and I was relieved to discover that my shadow on the pavement was the silhouette of a perfect little girl.

  Before the day when those Arkansas rough necks beat me down, leaving me black and blue, I believed I was protected by the Holy Ghost. The scriptures in Grandma Lainey’s Bible said it was so.

  “If the Lord’s eye is on the smallest sparrow,” Grandma told me, “you can be certain his eye is on you.”

  She assured me that the Lord’s love was like a great suit of armor. I trusted that I was sheltered by the Almighty’s love like one of the silver shields worn by the superheroes in my comic books. Until that hot August afternoon, I was certain of God’s always-watching eyes. But I was a stupid kid and foolishly believed that I could walk about Mountain Home in my yellow cotton sundress and my favorite hair barrettes.

  After the beating, Grandma remained vigilant at my bedside, nursing all my broken parts. From morning to night, she read from her old Bible with pages as fragile as tissue paper. But I suspect Grandma already knew, as did I, that Lainey’s Lord hadn’t the time for my sort. His protection was reserved for the lucky ones, those youngins who were born into this world fitting together perfectly, like a puzzle that arrives with its pieces already in place.

  I reckoned I had to leave little Samuel behind to fend for himself. I had no choice—my life depended on it.

  Pieces of a blue sky floated between the branches of the magnolias. I was flat on my back in the yard, my head propped on a spare tire, listening as Sookie encouraged her tomatoes. On her knees, she worked the soil and removed any sprouting weeds.

  Lying on the grass, I listened to the sounds of Digby. Annabelle’s tin bell clanked about her neck as she ate books in the study. A few pretty girls played hopscotch on the sidewalk. Further down the street, some boys dribbled a ball and shot hoops on their paved drive. The McAllister twins had been fussing all morning, until finally they’d squared off in the front lawn with clenched fists, readying to exchange blows. Miss Loretta was sleeping off a bender from the night before. Sookie had finished admiring her tomatoes. Moving her affections on to the row of radishes, she serenaded the saplings and paid no never mind to passing neighbors.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Wainwright.” Mr. Calvert tipped his hat as he sauntered by, but Sook’s regard remained fixed on her gardening.

  Mr. Calvert gave neighborly hospitality another attempt. “Those are some fine cherry tomato bushes. In fact, I believe they are the prettiest I’ve seen this season.”

  In between the rows of radishes, on all f
ours, Sookie returned his gracious compliment with a thunderous fart. The propulsion of her flatulence sounded like a horn’s blast from her bloomers.

  The passing man took a second glance over at Sook’s bent backside and quickened his pace. Mr. Calvert escaped down the lane.

  Across the way, Dixie came out charging from her screen door, swinging her fly swatter, sending Timmy and Tommy running off down Digby.

  “You get back here right this instant!” she demanded. “I’m gonna skin you two alive!” But the two boys paid her no never mind, disappearing down West Jones Street.

  Standing at her front gate, Dixie took notice of Sook and me. Sniffing into the air like some hound dog, she seemed to be detecting on the breeze if it was an opportune time for a visit.

  I always felt an ache of sympathy anytime Dixie came calling. She just couldn’t help herself. Tangling with Aunt Sook was a rough, rocky road she’d traveled many times, always ending up at a pitiful dead end. Like a moth to the flame, Dixie got burned every dadgum time.

  With each visit, Mrs. McAllister seemed to have some new facial tic or nervous twitch, as if the mere proximity to old Sook made Dixie’s entire body convulse and revolt.

  On the occasions of her visits, I’d watch as Dixie positioned herself on the sidewalk outside our front gate, conjuring up the courage to come up our cobblestone path. She seemed to debate her entry, as if she was returning to a hornet’s nest for another round of poisonous stings. It was only when she felt the Holy Ghost move inside her did she have the righteous fortitude to come marching up to our porch and, again, battle wits with old Sook.

  This particular day, Dixie seemed uncertain of her crusade. Hesitantly and ever so slowly, Mrs. McAllister meandered a casual track across the street and up to our gate.

  “Yoohoo. Mornin’, Sook,” she called. “Mornin’, Poppy.”

  “Howdy, Mrs. McAllister,” I replied. “It’s a fine day.”

  Sookie ignored all the niceties and continued to weed in and around her bell peppers.