Aunt Sookie & Me
Page 30
Aunt Sookie and I moved Donita into the ramshackle on Digby Street. She occupied the third bedroom on the right, nearest to mine.
It only seemed fitting that Rodney and Donita’s tiny place out past the railroad tracks was lost in the storm. That night, the roof succumbed to the Hurricane Clara’s violent winds. The trusses snapped, the plaster walls buckled, the window glass shattered, and the little house was flattened.
Daryl Turnball hired Donita to stock his traveling truck with fresh homemade cookies, cupcakes, and other scrumptious pastries. Donita’s Delicious Delights was boldly emblazoned in pink letters across the back of his musical van.
When Daryl first drove up the curb with his newly decorated truck, Donita jumped and squealed with excitement.
Daryl asked, “So what do you think, Sookie?”
Old Sook shook her head. “I didn’t think it was possible for your ridiculous jalopy to be any queerer. Now it’s as gay as a pink pony farting gawd-damned fairy dust!”
Donita smiled. “Don’t listen to her, Daryl. It’s lovely.”
When she wasn’t baking, Donita spent her days tending to Sookie’s garden as though it were her own. She worked the soil and tended to the rows of ripening vegetables. I reckoned it brought her peace of mind.
On her knees, there in the patch of ground, I suspected Donita believed she could be nearer to her sweetheart. In her own way, among the tomato bushes; stalks of corn; and crops of carrots, cabbage and cucumbers, Donita could still take care of her Rodney. But it wouldn’t ever be easy for Donita. Rodney’s restless spirit called to her from below the rows of radishes. He was always near her. If she passed a dark-haired man on the sidewalk with deep blue eyes, she’d lose her breath for the briefest moment. When Sook reported the final score of the Friday-night Savannah High football game from her evening paper, Donita would turn her face from us.
When blue days took a hold of Donita, we’d lose her to some place remembered. I’d reach for her, touching her arm, attempting to bring her back to us from some mournful memory.
I understand that life don’t never make living easy. Fine, happy days were made bittersweet by regrets and unanswered prayers.
One afternoon, on a blanket spread out near the beach on Tybee Island, Donita and I picnicked on her yummy potato salad and cucumber sandwiches.
“Poppy, how are you gonna go about living here in Savannah with all the hubbub?”
“I suppose most folks think I’m a sad case,” I replied. “But I don’t need to go searching to the far ends of the earth to find a home. This is my home. Besides, it seems to me that everyone spends their days searching. My momma travels from county to county, lookin’ for something she won’t never find. My grandma Lainey was always searchin’ the heavens for her chariot on to glory. I suspect every soul goes about hankerin’ for their rightful place, their slice of the sky. I just happen to be a fella doin’ my searching in a yellow dress and wearing a bracelet of genuine pearls.”
I held out my wrist, showing off my pearl bracelet.
Donita admired the jewelry. “It’s so lovely, Poppy.”
“It was a gift from Jackson,” I said.
“Have you ever heard from him?”
“Never,” I replied. “When I think about him now, I almost never get sad. I suspect Jackson won’t come ’round no more.”
Donita poured freshly squeezed lemonade from a silver Thermos.
“Jackson deserved the truth,” I confessed. “It was selfish of me to deny him the truth.”
“Poppy, boys will grow up to be men, and girls become women. You understand that season is coming for you?”
“Yessum.”
“As children, we can play games for a spell, but life requires adults to make choices, hard choices,” Donita remarked. “Your body is gonna be changing soon, and being Poppy will become harder.”
“Harder for who?”
“For you,” she answered. “You’ll have to work a heap harder to convince folks you’re Poppy and not Samuel.”
I could see Donita was treading softly, frightened that she was delivering some dire news that I hadn’t considered. “Poppy, I’m not sure you’ll be able to disguise all the changes as your body grows. Folks will be mighty spiteful. They won’t take kindly to you being different.” Donita looked at me from across our picnic spread.
“I understand,” I replied. “My momma once told me that my daddy had himself a thick, full moustache. I suppose it’s only a matter of time before my upper lip starts a-itchin’.” I smiled, trying to reassure her. “For thirteen years I’ve been raised by the Wainwright sisters. Just as sure as my daddy’s family tree grew a crop of fine respectable moustaches, my momma’s tree is a long line of stubborn, strong-willed women—strong as any oak. None of them bent when the wind blew hard. I’m a Wainwright,” I declared. “Don’t go worryin’ yourself none ’bout me.”
Donita’s shoulders eased, and a slight smile played at the corners of her mouth. “OK, Poppy, I won’t worry.” She tentatively reached over and touched my hand. “I’m sorry about you being burdened with this, Poppy. Maybe you and I, together, with the Lord’s help, can beat it.”
I shook my head. “I ain’t tryin’ to beat nothin’. I’d welcome the Lord’s help, if he’s agreeable. I’m just tryin’ to find me a place where folks won’t fret so much ’bout it. Maybe they can find a kind place in their hearts to let me be.”
THE FINAL CHAPTER
“What in tarnation are you two delinquents doin’ up there?” Sookie called to us.
I hollered down, “We’re just doin’ some thinkin’.”
From my shingled perch, Pearl and I watched on as Aunt Sook and Donita tended to the garden below. Donita hoed a straight row while Sook came up from behind, planted a seed, and gingerly covered it with rich, fertile soil.
Annabelle had forced her wet snout through a generous gap between two white pickets, angrily hissing, spitting, and snapping at the passing tourists on Digby.
Pearl declared, “My goodness gracious, Savannah is lovely from up here.”
“Yessum,” I said. “On some days, it looks just like a watercolor souvenir from one of the sidewalk painters over on Forsyth Square.”
Across the way, Dixie McAllister was hanging out her boys’ matching shirts and trousers on the line to dry, while Carl read his newspaper, smoking a pipe.
The sun was setting low below the magnolias. A September breeze blew in from the water, cooling the last days of August.
“It’s a lovely place, indeed,” I agreed.
“I must confess,” Pearl remarked, “there’s plenty of ugliness in a world painted with such pretty colors.”
“Ain’t true,” I said. “There’s far more lovely about than ugly.”
“Where do you reckon your Miss Loretta is at?”
“Ain’t sure, Pearl,” I answered. “I suspect she’s kicking up dust and raisin’ hell somewhere. But when she’s weary, Loretta will come huntin’ for me. Maybe there’s a taxi cab bringing my momma home to me right this very minute.”
“Our gawd-damned lunch ain’t gonna make itself!” Aunt Sook hollered. “You and that red-haired demon child get your asses off my rooftop, and get into the kitchen.”
“OK, Sook,” I said, turning to Pearl. “We’d best get movin’. She’s a mean grizzly bear when she’s hungry.”
Pearl’s bony elbow nudged my side, and she gestured down the road.
“Holy moly,” she gasped.
Up the sidewalk, with a clean, straight part in his hair and a spry step in his gait, carrying a bouquet of yellow daffodils and a box of chocolate-covered peanut clusters, came Mr. Jackson Taylor.
With a determined stride, Jackson walked a straight line in the direction of 22 South Digby.
Acknowledgments
To my sisters, Christi and Lori—thank you for your friendships.
To my parents, Loran and Alice—thank you for everything.
Team AH—Brittany, Kurt, Brandon, Lauren,
Jessie, Sean, Kennedy, Jackson, Eric, Lee, Coutny, Hallie—y’all better hope this novel sells like hotcakes, or there’s no inheritance when I bite the dust. The party will be over!
My gratitude to Patty Griffin—thank you for the inspiration.
Darlingside, Stevie Nicks, Robert Ellis, Iris Dement, the Avett Brothers, Ricki Lee Jones, Lucinda Williams—thank you for all the music.
Thank you to Will Freshwater, Lisa Horan, Frederick Feeley, SA Collins (Baz), Jeff Adams, Patti Comeau, Anita Locke, Tara Catogge, Ross Brown, Brian, Bruce Trethewy, Janet Mason, Cassie Dandridge Selleck, Marcia Ford, Shannon Roberts, the Editorial Department in Tucson, the Novel Approach, Wrote Podcast, Brittan, CreateSpace, and so many others. The most pleasant surprise of my journey into the publishing industry was the support I’ve received from the community of writers, reviewers, publishers, bloggers, and podcasts. Thank you all!
To my grandmothers, Lucille and Beatrice. Your fingerprints are on every page of this manuscript. Thank you.
About The Author
Michael Scott Garvin is an award-winning custom home builder and interior designer. His design firm, Michael Scott Garvin Studio, has designed and built a number of custom homes throughout the Southwest.
A Faithful Son, his debut novel, was a 2017 Independent Publisher Book Awards winner, a 2016 Beverly Hill Book Awards winner, a 2017 Indies finalist, and a finalist at the 2016 New York Book Festival. It was also voted Best of 2016 for The Novel Approach. At the International Book Festival, Garvin sat at the Table of Honor.
Aunt Sookie & Me: The Sordid Tale of a Scandalous Southern Belle is his second novel. Michael Scott Garvin’s third novel, The Last Winter, will be released in the summer of 2018.