Aunt Sookie & Me

by Michael Scott Garvin

  “Thank you,” the boy called as he pedaled by. “Sir, ain’t sure if you’ve heard the news, but it seems old Sookie Wainwright’s niece ain’t her niece after all. She’s her nephew!” The young boy steered his Schwinn onto West Jones Street and pedaled out of sight.

  Mr. McAllister’s mouth went dry as dust. His tongue went limp. He stood slack-jawed, paralyzed on the sidewalk in his flannel pajamas. Carl went to beckon back the young Banks boy, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, he abandoned the morning paper on the curb and walked slowly back to the house, scratching his noggin.

  Like some tasty treat, the yummy news was nourishment for the hungry ears of the silver-haired ladies in the squares of Savannah. The ancient women resting on the park benches in Forsyth and Colonial Square gobbled it up.

  The gossip of my goober was like some miracle tonic for the old men in Johnson Square, causing them to jump to their feet, stretch their boney knees, and go about spreading the word of my piddly pickle’s presence. The townsfolk repeated the news to anyone within earshot. The patrons in Leopold’s and Delia’s Diner fed on the scandalous chatter.

  Pearl Tucker had let the cat out of the bag, and it had scampered from square to square, scurrying to all corners of Savannah.

  Like a string stretched between tin cans, word of my peculiarity traveled to the faithful flock of the Savannah First Baptist Church.

  As I entered through the open doors, the congregation’s voices dwindled to only hushed murmurs. I took my place in the back pew. The elderly ladies whispered in one another’s ears, suspiciously looking over their shoulders at me. Behind white lace gloves, the news of my puny peepee journeyed from pew to pew. Before the last chime had rung in the steeple, summoning all to Sunday service, my willy was the congregation’s sole worry.

  When Donita entered the hall, she spotted me from across the chapel. Waving wildly, she scooted by down the pew and took her regular spot at my side.

  She greeted me with a big hug and a howdy. With her cordial disposition, I wondered if the gossip hadn’t yet found its way out past the railroad tracks.

  The pastor welcomed the congregation and led us in “Just a Closer Walk with Thee.” Sharing a hymnal, Donita and I sang along.

  As the choir rejoiced, she leaned in closer to me. “Well, Miss Poppy Wainwright,” she nudged and winked, “aren’t you a bundle of surprises?”

  I felt my pulse pounding like a drum in my ears, and my knees went weak and wobbly.

  Donita and I took our seats, and the pastor took his place behind his pulpit. Clearing his throat, he prepared himself to address his parishioners. But on this particular Sunday it seemed our minister was uncertain of his sermon. As he readied himself, fidgeting with his notes, the front doors of the church swung wide open.

  The scandalous sight of Mr. Daryl Turnball and Miss Sookie Wainwright walking arm-in-arm over the threshold of the First Savannah Baptist Church left the devout congregation God-smacked. The twosome entered, cackling like they’d just heard the punchline to a tawdry joke. But it was the obscene spectacle of the pair’s attire that brought gasps from the sanctuary. The elderly women of the church feigned fainting and the deacons grumbled in utter disgust.

  Daryl wore a blush-and-champagne striped seersucker suit and a top hat. His white shoes were spit and polished, and he wore a white rose pinned to his lapel. Aunt Sookie was draped in full-length white fur and wore red satin gloves up to her elbows. Her feathered headdress blossomed with pink plumes of feathers, and her neck, ears, fingers, and wrists were smothered in garish costume jewelry.

  As the pair sauntered in, Daryl winked at the handsome altar boys, and Sook smiled broadly, waving to the appalled congregation like they were her admiring fans. When they spotted Donita and me, they pushed their way down the pew and took a seat next to us. Sookie pulled a fan from her purse and complained loudly to the congregation, “It’s hotter than fuckin’ Hades in here!”

  The church went quiet as a tomb.

  Folks settled themselves, and the smiling pastor welcomed the unexpected guests, “I am so very pleased to see Miss Sookie Wainwright has joined us on this glorious day. It is a rare occasion but a welcomed one, indeed. She’s been kinder to this church than any of you could know. Her quiet generosity has been a blessing throughout the years. And I see my dear old friend, Mr. Daryl Turnball. I have asked Daryl to stop by and visit our church many, many times. Just the sound of the music coming from his ice cream truck brings smiles to my five youngins’ faces. My children are more delighted to see Daryl everyday than they are to see my ugly mug arrive home. I’m overjoyed to see his smiling face among us this morning.”

  The minister then opened his leather Bible, cleared his throat, and preached from the book of John.

  He spoke of the Lord’s benevolence to a wanton woman.

  The preacher looked to his congregation and his tone took a serious turn. “Brothers and sisters, it’s the church’s foremost obligation to reach a compassionate hand to the troubled. It’s our promise to the ages to lift up the downcast and disheartened.”

  The pudgy preacher recounted the story of Jesus on the Mount of Olives. He spoke of how early one morning, Jesus came to the temple, and crowds gathered around him. When the scribes and Pharisees brought to Jesus a shamed, adulterous woman, they forced her at his feet, reminding him that under Moses’s law, the immoral woman should be stoned. But Jesus kneeled down and remained silent for the longest while.

  The pastor described to his hushed congregation, “With his finger, the Lord wrote in the dirt, as though he had heard them not. But when the scribes pressed our Lord for his judgement of the adulterous woman, Jesus finally lifted himself up and spoke to the gathered crowds, ‘He who is without sin among you, let him cast the first stone.’”

  Sweat soaked through our preacher’s button-up. He pounded a closed fist on his pulpit, jarring the slumbering from their naps. “Judgement is not ours, my brothers and sisters! Judgement is not ours!” He pointed a rigid finger out over the pews of believers. “And I tell you now, if there are any of you sitting in this sanctuary preparing to cast stones at another member of this faithful congregation, you’ll be answering to the Almighty.” The pastor drew in a deep breath. “And make no mistake, you will also be answering to me!” His fist pounded the pine pulpit once more. “I will not abide the weakest among us to be treated with anything less than kindness and compassion. Inside these walls is a holy refuge, this is not a room for condemnation! Can I get an amen?”

  The shell-shocked congregation muttered among themselves. The stodgy gray men complained low in dissention, while the offended church ladies rapidly fanned their flushed cheeks.

  It was the singular voice that sounded from the back pew. Jumping to her feet, Donita proclaimed, “Amen!”

  In unison, every head pivoted to the back row of the sanctuary. Donita turned a crimson shade of red and returned to her seat.

  After the closing prayer and the collection plate was passed along the rows of pews, Sook, Daryl, Donita, and I walked from the chapel. I assisted my aunt down the front steps and into her Buick.

  “Thank you for comin’ Sook,” I said. “I really do appreciate it.”

  “’Twas nothin’,” she replied.

  “You’ll forever be a mystery to me. Why would you give money to the church? I thought you were of the belief that all Christians were charlatans?”

  “They are! Self-righteous bastards all of ’em! A bunch of busy-body know-it-alls. But raisin’ children in these tryin’ times is like sailin’ a ship in troublesome waters. Youngins need an anchor and a compass to guide them true north,” she said. “It’s a real pity that the church is bogged down in such bullshit, but the way I see it, the alternative is a frightenin’ affair. Now I have to go home and take me a long hot bath. I have to scrub off all this mendacity. I’m covered in filthy mendacity! How ’bout you Daryl?” She elbowed Mr. Turnball. “Are you coated in the grimy soot of mendacity?”

  “Yes, m
a’am.” He tipped his hat and winked at me.

  Mr. Turnball rode shotgun in Sookie’s old Buick. The sound of his panicked squeals could be heard all the way down the lane as she drove the opposite direction down the one-way road.

  “Poppy Wainwright, is it true?” Donita asked under the shade of an elm. “I thought we were good friends. How could you not have said somethin’?”

  I shrugged my shoulders up to my ears. “I reckon it’s some scandalous secret for most folks, but when you’ve walked about in my shoes, it’s no big deal.”

  Donita laughed, “In a city like Savannah, it’s a great big deal!”

  “I suppose so,” I replied. “Pearl Tucker let the secret slip. I can’t blame her. I should’ve known something like this was too big for Pearl to keep locked up in that little body of hers.”

  Donita asked, “What about Jackson Taylor?”

  “That’s a whole heap of trouble. He won’t return my calls. I gotta run and find him. I suspect he ain’t never gonna speak to me again.”

  Donita offered, “We can load your bike in my trunk and go track him down together, if you’d like.”

  “No, thank you, ma’am. I’ve made this messy mess,” I replied. “I best go clean it up myself. Old Sook says telling lies is like sleeping in a barberry thicket. You won’t never get a restful night’s sleep, and you’re certain to wake up with thorns in your backside. I reckoned I’m harvesting a patch of stickers from my rear for not being forthright with the other kids right from the start.”

  “Well, you be careful, baby girl. I don’t want any harm to come to you.”

  I pedaled myself up Gaston Street to Forsyth Square in my search for Jackson. Forsyth was crowded with tourists admiring the splashing fountain and snapping pictures of the oaks, but there was no sign of Jackson.

  Over on Montgomery Street, in Franklin Square, I found Constance and a few of the other girls near the swings.

  Constance’s little pink finger pointed in my face. “You ain’t no real girl. You’re a nasty, disgustin’ boy, Poppy Wainwright!”

  “Is it true?” Little Tallulah’s two magnified eyeballs looked baffled. “Are you really a fella?”

  “Yessum. It’s true,” I answered back. “I’m real sorry for not being more forthright.”

  “It’s a sin against nature!” Constance hoisted her hands high on her hips. “My momma says you can powder yourself up and put on as many frilly dresses as you wish, but that don’t make you no girl. And what’s more, you’re never gonna be one!”

  Pearl came peddling up to the rescue on her rusty bike. “Hey, Poppy, I’ve been huntin’ all over Savannah for you!” She turned and greeted the others. “Howdy, Constance, Tallulah.”

  Constance huffed, “Pearl, I’m suspectin’ you knew all the while that Poppy here was a boy! It’s downright disgustin’!”

  Pearl dropped her bicycle on the grass and walked a direct line to Constance. “Shut your mouth. You may be a real girl and all, and you may be a hell of a lot prettier than Poppy here, but…”

  I looked to Pearl with a puzzled expression.

  Pearl shrugged her shoulders. “I’m sorry, Poppy, but this ain’t no time to be dilutin’ ourselves in hogwash.” She turned back to Constance. “It’s true you may be prettier than the rest of us with your long locks of silky hair, but Constance, you’re ugly in places where Poppy is beautiful.”

  “You’re hateful, Pearl Tucker!” Constance barked.

  “No. I’m just truth tellin’. I suspect the Lord burdened you with your repulsive skin condition to even the playin’ field for the rest of us!”

  Constance sniffled as the pack of boys led by the McAllister twins sauntered up to the swing set.

  Pearl continued, “Sure, Constance, all your teeth are pearly white and in perfect, straight rows, and God gifted you with glistening green eyes, but Poppy Wainwright has more kindness in her pinky finger than you have in your entire perfect body!”

  Constance gave a slight tilt to her head and offered up a pretty pout. Her little lips pursed into the shape of a perfect, pink heart.

  All the gathered boys sighed at the sad sight, offering Constance their unwavering support and devotion.

  “Ain’t true, Constance,” a skinny boy with dirty bare feet the color of coal consoled her. “Pearl Tucker don’t know what she’s talkin’ about.”

  Another older kid with a mouth full of metal advised, “Constance, don’t you listen to Pearl. She’s just jealous.”

  “Yup. Don’t believe a single word,” Tommy McAllister remarked. “Pearl Tucker is just pea green with envy.”

  Constance worked up a single translucent tear. The collection of concerned admirers moved closer to her side as reinforcement.

  A few of the older boys came sniffing. They walked in closer behind me. I could feel their breath on the back of my neck. One of the boys gave me a hard push, and I stumbled into the chest of another kid, who shoved me over to the McAllisters.

  Timothy and Tommy moved in like two attacking alley dogs—one to my left, one to my right.

  “Is it true?” Tommy scoffed. “You’re a sissy boy?”

  The other McAllister hocked up some snot, spitting it at my Sunday shoes. “I always knew sumpthin’ didn’t add up.”

  The rowdy boys strutted about me like fighting cocks, kicking up dust, pecking at me. Not a one was willing to admit that we’d become fast friends since my arrival to Savannah. Not one of them was courageous enough to be kind.

  Timmy McAllister reached to grab my shoulder, ripping the seams of the sleeve of my cotton dress.

  “Oh, look, you ripped his pretty little dress,” one of the other guys mocked.

  “McAllister, you’d best step back.” Pearl’s round face was as red as a beet, and her two fists were balled up behind her back. “I’d hate to send you home to your momma, crying with a busted lip.” Pearl took a big step in front of me. “I’m warnin’ you assholes to let her be.”

  “Wainwright, you’re a faggot!” one of the boys jeered.

  The others snickered.

  Timmy uttered, “From the second I set my sights on you, I knew you was a fuckin’ pansy.”

  Little Tallulah stood up from the grass, dusting off her backside. “I don’t wanna stick my nose where I ought not.” She pushed her magnifying spectacles further up on her nose and went thumbing through the well-worn pages of her notebook.

  Finding a specific page, Tallulah held out the open pad, showing all of us her hand-written inscription. She announced, “The Golden Rule instructs us to always treat others as we wish to be treated.”

  In front of the McAllister boys and the other fellas, Tallulah held out the single page for a closer examination.

  Tommy scoffed, “If you’re suggestin’ that we give this little pervert a pass, then you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

  Without taking a breath, the little wisp of a girl replied, “What I’m suggesting is, if you fellas don’t wanna be treated to an ass whippin’ by my older brother and his buddies from over at the high school, you assholes best step back and let my good friend Poppy pass by.”

  A few of the girls gasped at little Tallulah’s cursing. The boys seemed to rethink their positions.

  Little Tallulah gestured to me with a friendly nod. “Poppy, if you ever find yourself in a pinch, you just let me know. My brother, Brody, and his buds know how to treat a lady and won’t stand for this kind of disrespect.”

  “Let’s go, Poppy.” Pearl cautiously led me through the circle of kids. “I’ve had enough of this bullshit!” Holding my hand, Pearl led me through the cluster of boys and over to our bikes.

  Pearl and I pedaled from the park, speeding through the gates of Franklin Square. There, off by himself, I spotted Jackson. He sat in the shade of a hackle berry tree. I called out to him, but he remained still, resting his back against the tree’s trunk.

  Constance yelled, “You’re a freak of nature, Poppy Wainwright!”

  As Pearl and I spe
d on to Market Street, the collection of kids jeered and mocked behind us.

  “Thank you, Pearl!”

  “Poppy, this whole dust up is all my fault,” she confessed. “I’m real sorry.”

  “Ain’t nothin,” I said. “It was bound to become common knowledge.”

  “No, it was dead wrong of me. You left a treasured secret in my care, but because of my loose lips, the shit has done hit the fan.”

  “Ya think?”

  “Yessum,” she answered back. “You’d best run for cover. The shit is gonna start flyin’.”

  CHAPTER 32

  Sookie’s nervous index finger repeatedly tapped on her chin as she considered my dire circumstances. “So, tell me, missy, now that your pickle is out of the jar and this news has made its way into the clear light of day, just how in tarnation are you fixin’ to deal with it?”

  “Ain’t sure.”

  “Well, I haven’t the vaguest notion how folks around here are gonna sit with all of this hubbub.” Sook fidgeted with the collar of her blouse.

  I asked, “Sook, am I a freak of nature?”

  “A freak of nature?”

  “Yessum. Constance White called me a freak of nature.”

  Sook cleared her throat. “Well, I reckon so. But you’ve come from a long, proud lineage of freaks. You know your precious grandma Lainey? The one who you believe walked on water? When we was just youngins, no more than your age, I walked into her room and caught her sniffing her own undies.”

  “Nu-uh. That ain’t true,” I said.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Sook cackled. “Your pious grandma Lainey was gripping a pair of her own bloomers and was sniffin’ them like they was one of Dixie’s Queen Anne, long-stem roses.”

  “That ain’t true.” Laughter erupted from my belly.

  “The sooner you understand that there ain’t no saints walking about on this green earth, the better off you’ll be. Every last one of us is equal parts good and evil. Look at your Miss Loretta. You won’t find a kinder heart, but goodness knows your momma ain’t got the good sense the Lord gave her. She’s one card shy of a full deck. My daddy, your great-grandpa, would play with his pecker during church service, right in the third-row pew! He was sweet on a young, fiery-haired girl in the Sunday choir. While she was singing “How Great Thou Art,” my daddy would slide his hand into his trousers and yank his johnson. When Pa cried out, rejoicing during the pastor’s sermon, folks believed my daddy was moved by the spirit, but it had nothin’ to do with the Almighty. It was that red-haired soprano in the choir who brought Papa to his knees. Child, do you understand what I’m sayin’ to you?”