Aunt Sookie & Me

by Michael Scott Garvin

  Sookie came shuffling on to the porch, taking a seat next to me. “It’s comin’ on a summer shower,” she reported.

  “Yessum.”

  “Poppy, it’s the nature of this old world. You can’t keep nothin’ any nearer than it chooses to remain. The sooner you come to that understanding, the sooner you’ll appreciate those who choose to stay close.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I nodded. With a momma like Miss Loretta, I knew too well it was plain foolishness wishing wishes that burned like paper.

  Sook reached to me and rested her trembling hand on my knee. “You will learn that some folks hold a tender place in your heart but ain’t got no place in your life.”

  CHAPTER 35

  Pendergast Auto Repair

  101 Eisenhower Drive, Savannah, GA

  Rodney Pendergast woke early on that particular Friday morning—a dead man walking.

  At the breakfast table, he complained to Donita that his eggs were over scrambled and that the strips of bacon were undercooked.

  “I can’t stomach this shit!” He pushed back his breakfast and pounded the little table with his balled fist. The fragile plates, bowls, cups, and saucers quaked at the sheer brute force of his anger.

  Skittish, Donita rushed about, attempting to appease him. “Baby, let me fry you up something else. Flap-jacks? How about some biscuits and gravy?”

  Rodney snapped, “No, I ain’t got time! I’ll just go to the shop hungry.”

  On that particular morning, scrambled eggs should’ve been the least of his concern.

  Rodney Pendergast should’ve savored his breakfast and enjoyed the aroma of his coffee, because Rodney would be deader than Lincoln by supper time.

  He made his early drive to the auto shop. He picked up the morning edition of the Savannah Press and purchased a pack of ciggies at the A&P. He placed the “We’re Open” sign in the front window glass, slid open the two garage doors, and sorted through the cash register drawer. He perused the sports section in the newspaper while squatting on the toilet and enjoyed the colored pictures of a Playboy magazine he kept hidden above a ceiling tile in the office. His attorney phoned, conveying a few details of his upcoming criminal trial. The top-notch lawyer his folks had hired was well respected and had advised Rodney to take the plea deal—twenty-four months in the Savannah County jail and a $65,000 fine—but Rodney wasn’t having none of it.

  An aging Southern belle who wore white stockings stopped by the shop, and Rodney serviced her and her carburetor. After she drove from the shop with her chassis lubricated and engine running smoothly, Rodney waited in the front office for an hour or so, just watching the morning traffic speed on by.

  But Rodney understood there weren’t any paying customers coming in. All of Savannah had cheered him on from the high school bleachers. They had wished for big things for Rodney over at University of Georgia, and even after he had failed to make the cut in college, townsfolk patronized his new auto and paint shop. But now the citizens of Savannah had watched on in silence long enough as their golden boy answered to the courts for his crimes. Savannah’s patience was being tested. The locals had read the bold, disgraceful headlines of Rodney’s legal woes. They had heard the scandalous whispers of his addiction and the damning rumors of his brutality to his young bride. His affairs were far too messy for civilized Savannah society. By this particular Friday morning, all of the townsfolk had grown weary of Mr. Rodney Pendergast’s sordid conduct.

  Out of regard for Rodney’s respected parents, Rosemary and Charles, the townsfolk had patronized Rodney for an oil change or a new coat of paint on their jalopies. The great ladies of Savannah would take their automobiles in to Rodney’s shop for a tire rotation and a buff and polish. But those days had long passed. Rodney knew full well that the shop was a losing proposition. It was bleeding money like spilling blood through a cut vein.

  He stared at the silent phone on his desk until noon, watching and waiting on any potential customer’s call. He gobbled up the packed lunch that Donita had prepared for him. All the while, a voice was beckoning to Rodney from the back of the shop. He blared Lynyrd Skynyrd from the mounted speakers, but no matter how loud the radio raged, Rodney could still hear the call.

  The aerosol cans lining the shelves in the storage room summoned Rodney. He tried with all his might to ignore them, but to no avail. Behind the locked metal racks, the cans called.

  Around two thirty, he phoned another lady friend from his high school hey days—a sweet, accommodating gal who was always more than willing to pleasure Rodney in the office.

  By the time her Pontiac drove up to the curb, Rodney was sky high. She discovered him in his office, his work boots kicked up on his desk, laughing deliriously at nothing in particular. The paint fumes caused Rodney to lose his head. The sweet scent allowed him to forget his past. In those lost moments, as the poisonous vapors contaminated Rodney’s noggin, he could forget all the disappointments. He could discount Donita’s tears and forget the sweet babies who were born too soon. All of Rodney’s hopes and unrealized dreams would dissipate, like the aerosol fumes from the paint cans.

  His eager lady friend pulled closed the blinds in his office and took the We’re Open sign from the store front. Rodney unbuttoned his jeans, dropping them to the concrete floor. He watched the blonde seductively undress in front of him. She then climbed between Rodney’s legs, under his desk. He leaned back in his office chair and placed his hands behind his head. The talented, willing lady worked Rodney on her knees.

  After the deed was done, Rodney ran her off from the shop. Returning inside, he went to answer the repeating calls coming from the storage room.

  Rodney took several deep breaths and then inhaled the metallic red paint. The room was spinning. He dropped his head back, closed his eyes, and let the devil do his work.

  My life ain’t so bad, he mused with a satisfied smile. It’s gonna be a fine day after all.

  What Rodney Pendergast hadn’t considered—what he hadn’t accounted for—was that fate was a fickle thing. Like the Southern belle who loved her man strong on one day and then slices his neck with a dagger on the next, fate could turn on a dime.

  After Rodney sniffed a few rounds, he inhaled even more. Spraying the aerosol into a tin bucket, he quickly breathed in the ether. The stinging scent sent Rodney’s head whirling, poisoning his mind and igniting his temper.

  An old high school buddy phoned up. “Hey, you son of a bitch. Let’s go get some beers. It’s fuckin’ Friday! What do you say we go kick some ass?”

  “Hell ya! I’m on my way.” Rodney’s head was spinning.

  Stumbling out to his pickup, he tripped on the pavement. Checking his handsome reflection in the mirror, he thought, it’s a fine day for a little hell raisin’.

  What Mr. Rodney Pendergast didn’t know—what he couldn’t have foreseen—was that particular Friday was a fine day for dying.

  “The coast is clear!”

  Donita and I snuck into their small house. Like cat burglars, we tiptoed from room to room. When she was assured that it was safe passage, Donita went about packing up her belongings. Running back and forth from the house, she rushed about, carrying in her arms blouses, skirts, and dresses still on wire hangers. She piled them into the car’s open trunk. Picture albums and her momma’s Bible were stacked in her backseat.

  It was a troublesome thing watching a desperate woman choosing what would accompany her to a new life and what should remain.

  I said, “I’m really scared that Mr. Pendergast is gonna come home, Donita.”

  “No, no. It’s Friday, Poppy. Rodney called earlier, and he’ll be out all night with his buds. He won’t come home till sunrise.”

  With a screwdriver, she removed a loose floor board in the hall closet and took a meager stash of cash held together by a single rubber band. She frantically went about pulling drawers and opening cabinets, searching dressers and cupboards, scavenging for pieces of her life that could fit in the back seat of a Gala
xie.

  When the rumbling of Rodney’s engine came driving up gravel road, Donita looked over to me with frightened, panicked eyes. For a split second, we just stood in place. She searched my eyes like I had an answer to a pressing question. The little house swayed on its footings. The walls trembled and the trusses creaked.

  Donita scrambled about, clearing up the mess, stuffing shoes beneath the sofa, and placing framed photographs back on the mantel.

  “Poppy, get in the closet below the stairs,” she demanded, “and stay there!”

  Hurrying me into a tiny broom closet, she repeated, “You stay put! Don’t you dare come out!” And she shut the door.

  “What’s all this about?” Rodney stepped in through the backscreen. “Can you explain all this?”

  “Welcome home, baby. What a lovely surprise having my Rodney home for a Friday night supper.” She rung her hands. “You’re gonna spoil me, coming home on a Friday.”

  A single burned-out bulb hung from a wire over my head. I held my breath, crouched low in the tiny space.

  “Donita, what the fuck is goin’ on here?”

  I turned the handle, cracking the door open a sliver.

  Donita walked into the kitchen and started readying Rodney’s supper.

  “I wasn’t expecting you, baby. What a treat to have you home.” She stood at the sink, tying her apron about her waist. “Let me fix your favorite. How about some chicken and dumplings, honey?”

  “I can see you weren’t expectin’ me,” he scoffed. “Are you leavin’, Donita?” Rodney walked to her side and took her hands in his own. “Is that what you’re doin’? Are you leavin’ me?” He brought her quivering hands up to his mouth, kissing both her palms. “Stay with me, will you?”

  She broke away from him and walked over to the fridge. “Don’t be silly. Have you already been drinking, Rodney?”

  His impossibly blue eyes held Donita’s. “Baby, why is your trunk full? You’ve got a carload of stuff out yonder.”

  “It’s nothin’. I’m going to visit Mom and Pa in Richmond,” she lied. “Momma called early this mornin’, and Daddy has taken a turn for the worse.”

  “Don’t you fuckin’ lie to me.”

  “I’ll just be gone for a few days. I wanna help Momma with Daddy. Bless her heart. He’s been so sick for so long.”

  “Come on over here, babe,” the handsome man summoned her, but Donita stepped further to the corner. “Come here,” he repeated.

  “No, Rodney.”

  He reached for her, but she swatted back at his hand.

  “Please.”

  “Donita, come here,” he attempted a sincere note. “I’m real sorry about your daddy.”

  “I just want to get my stuff and go,” she pleaded. “Let me be, Rodney.”

  He reached for Donita again, but she moved behind the counter. “I just wanna go. Please, baby, let me go.”

  “Donita, just settle yourself.” His voice was calm, but his stare was hard. “You’ve gone and got yourself all flustered. You’re free to go.” Rodney’s words were soothing, but his anger was palatable. “I ain’t holdin’ you here like some prisoner.” With a wave of his hand, he stepped aside to let her pass.

  When Donita made her move, Rodney jumped to frighten her. Snickering, he warned, “Get your fuckin ass out of here. And I best not ever find you snoopin’ ’round her again. You hear me, you crazy, fucking bitch?”

  “I’m leavin’. It’s done, Rodney. It is done,” she repeated and then called out to me. “Poppy, you can come on out and go get in the car.”

  I slowly exited the closet.

  Rodney turned to find me. He snickered, “Well, I’ll be gawd-damned.”

  I asked, “Are you gonna be OK, Mrs. Pendergast?”

  “It’s OK, Poppy.” From the kitchen, Donita’s eyes tried to comfort me. “Everything is gonna be just fine. Grab your stuff, and let’s go.”

  Donita cautiously reached for her purse on the counter.

  With the backside of his hand, Rodney swung, striking her the side of her face. Her purse flew across the kitchen.

  She stumbled about the room, dazed by the staggering blow. Holding to the counter, Donita moved toward the back door, but Rodney was there.

  I screamed for her to run, but he took hold of the back of her skull.

  “Let Poppy go. Let the child go!” Donita pleaded. “Poppy, take yourself out of here right now.”

  He gripped Donita’s hair and walked her face directly into the refrigerator door. She yelped, like a hurt animal. Still clutching the back of her skull, he slammed her face again and then again. Blood splattered about the white refrigerator door.

  Picking up her small frame, Rodney dragged Donita into the sitting room. Her limp body seemed to float over the floor, her sandaled feet skimmed the carpet. Holding her trembling chin with his thick fingers, he shouted, “Look at this gawd-damned mess of a house. You’re a worthless piece of shit. Ain’t you?” He brought her face nearer his own and slapped her cheeks lightly, toying with her.

  Donita gasped for air through a broken nose. Crimson red smeared her face. She wasn’t expecting the devastating punch; when Rodney landed the blow to her cheek, she was left flailing to the floor. The hit caused blood to spill from Donita’s mouth, staining the front of her apron.

  Through running tears and blood, she begged, “If you ever loved me, let the child go. Let Poppy leave this place.”

  He picked Donita up like a doll and spoke directly into her face. “I say who comes and who goes in my own gawd-damned house,” Rodney raged. “It’s my gawd-damned house, and I don’t want no fucking freaks here.” He dropped her to the floor, and with both hands flipped the coffee table. The glass vase with paper flowers shattered on the floor.

  Donita withdrew, crawling behind the sofa.

  “So, you’re a fuckin’ fairy?” Rodney directed his fury toward me.

  I stuttered, “No, sir.”

  “You look like a gawd-damned fairy to me,” he scouffed. “It ain’t no wonder that you’re a damned faggot. Your momma is a doped-up fucking whore.”

  “Stop it, Rodney. That’s enough!” Donita pleaded as she attempted to pick herself off the ground. “Let Poppy go.”

  “It just so happens your momma came by my shop a few months back sniffing for drugs and a good time. She wanted to get serviced.” He ran his dirty hands through his black hair and smirked. “Of course, being a fine Southern gentleman, I obliged her.”

  “Please, stop, Rodney.”

  “You’re a liar!” I hollered.

  He chuckled. “Kid, it ain’t no lie. Your sloppy momma left my shop a satisfied customer. I believe she even said I had real potential.”

  “You’re a filthy liar!” I repeated.

  “Yessum. I was just being neighborly. And let’s say your momma and me bartered for the services rendered. She left a trinket for my tip.” He walked over to Donita and ripped the small rose pendant from her neck.

  Donita pleaded, “Just stop, Rodney.”

  He tossed the delicate necklace at my feet and then made a rapid movement in my direction as though he was gonna pounce. Instead he laughed. “Are you frightened, kid?”

  “No.”

  Rodney snickered. “Funny…for a minute you looked like some pretty, scared little girl.”

  “You’re a pig!” Donita lunged at him, clawing at his face, but Rodney caught her forearm. His grasp muscled her arm back down to her side.

  I ran into the kitchen and searched the cupboards while the two scuffled. When Donita screamed, he covered her bleeding mouth with the palm of his grimy hand. She bit down on his fingers and he hollered out. Throwing her back to the ground, with the heel of his work boots, he kicked Donita’s chest. Attempting a scream, only an aching loathsome sound erupted from her throat.

  With one swing, Rodney Pendergast dropped to the ground with a thud. I gripped to the handle of a frying skillet with both my hands.

  I ran to Donita and helped her to
her feet. Still gasping for air, she clutched to her chest with terror-stricken eyes and a bloody heaving mouth.

  I squared her shoulders with mine. “Breathe, Donita. You gotta breathe!”

  After I had talked her back from her panic, she and I stood, facing each other.

  She asked, “Are you OK, Poppy?”

  “Yessum.”

  Rodney’s body laid limp at our feet. The summer night was still as a grave.

  She looked over to me. The running blood from her nose saturated the front of her dress.

  “I believe, he’s dead,” I uttered. “I killed him dead, Donita.”

  “God help us.”

  “You’re bleeding really bad,” I told her.

  “Are you sure you’re OK, Poppy?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I answered. “What are we gonna do? I killed him.”

  Donita reached over with her sandaled foot and nudged his limp shoulder. “I’m gonna get you outta here.”

  I said, “I suspect we should call Sheriff Delany.”

  “No, no! Let’s go.” She grabbed her purse and my hand, pulling me out of the door.

  Donita battled with her key in the ignition. “Let’s leave this God-forsaken place.”

  She was shifting the car into gear when Rodney came stumbling out from the house, gripping one of his golden trophies. He swung wildly at the car, striking the window, shattering the glass into thousands of glistening puzzle pieces.

  I screamed for Donita to go, but Rodney hoisted his torso onto the car’s hood. Using his trophy, he repeatedly struck the front window shield. Donita punched the gas and the car lurched forward. Slamming the brakes, she sent Rodney sliding off the hood. He hit the pavement with a thud. She cut the steering wheel and accelerated the automobile, but Rodney was there, standing in our headlights. She pressed the pedal and struck him. Rodney’s body fell in front of the car’s path, and she accelerated again.

  I felt the car roll over his body, crushing his chest under the weight.

  The spinning rubber tires spit up gravel and dust. Her hands gripped to the steering wheel.