There was a moment of absolute silence in that room before Ruby Blankenship screamed and bolted for the door. We heard her footsteps taking the stairs three at a time.
Tolitha hopped nimbly out of the casket, vaulting over the sides with two hands. She slipped her shoes back on her feet and with a demonic smile, she whispered, “I know the back way out.”
Downstairs, Mrs. Blankenship was hysterical and we could hear her trying to explain to Winthrop Ogletree what she had just witnessed, but she was too unnerved to weave together a coherent narrative. We followed our grandmother down a narrow set of back stairs and through the small, bricked-in garden at the back of the mortuary. When we were safely out of view, the four of us threw ourselves down onto a patch of grass and screamed with laughter until our stomachs ached. Tolitha laughed with her feet straight up in the air and her underpants showing. Savannah and I rolled in each other’s arms, trying to stifle our laughter by pressing our mouths against each other’s shoulders. Only Luke’s laugh was soundless, but he shook like a wet puppy on the ground.
But it was Tolitha’s laugh that overwhelmed the street. She had a head-turning, musical laugh like a bell coming apart in her throat. Her laughter was a titanic, passionate thing that seemed to pass up like a wave from her toes to her mouth.
Between paroxysms we heard her beg, “Please stop me from laughing. Please stop me.”
When I could answer her finally, I said, “Why, Tolitha?”
She laughed some more, helpless, undone, then said, gasping, “I always pee in my pants when I laugh this hard.”
This was enough to stem my laughter but it made Luke and Savannah laugh all the harder.
“Please, Tolitha. Don’t pee in your pants. You’re my grandmother,” I said, but the dignity and quality of pleading in my voice set her off again. Her thin legs danced above her head like a wounded insect. Her little white underpants shone in the sunlight.
“Put your legs down, Tolitha. I can see your thingamajig,” I begged.
“I’m going to pee. I’m going to pee. Oh, God, I can’t help it,” Tolitha screamed ecstatically as she rose to her feet, still laughing.
She ran behind an azalea bush, pulled off her panties, and laughed uncontrollably with tears streaming down her face as she urinated loudly on the azalea.
“Oh, Lord,” I cried, “our grandma’s watering the plants in the middle of town.”
“Hush, boy,” she said when she regained control of her breath. “You hush and hand me back my step-ins.”
She put her underpants back on, then stepped out from behind the azalea bush, her rapturous femininity and regal mien restored again. From the mortuary, we could still hear Ruby Blankenship’s screams as they boomed through those vast Victorian hallways.
Then we regrouped and arm in arm we made our way back down the Street of Tides, letting Mr. Fruit signal us across the street once more.
9
In springtime my mother would wear gardenias in her hair. When she came into our room to kiss us good night, a flower would blaze like a piece of white jewelry stolen from a king’s greenhouse. When the gardenias had exhausted themselves on the bush and the bruised flowers lay on the ground, haunting the air with their sweet decay, we knew the roses would not be far behind. We could annotate the spring and summer days by noticing the movable garden set daily in our mother’s hair. To see a woman lift her arms and place a flower in her curls is still an act of indescribable delicacy and beauty to me. In that sensual gesture, I have placed all the sadness and pity of lost mothers. And it was from this innocent and charming habit that I learned my first unforgettable lesson about the disfiguring cruelty of class in my own southern town. There would be many more, but none of them hurt as much as the first one; none of them do I remember with such authentic clarity.
My mother always wore her gardenias when she shopped in Colleton. Though she seldom bought much, she loved the rituals and courtesies of small-town shopping, the pleasantries exchanged over counters, the cheerful gossip of shopkeepers, and all the streets alive with the commerce of neighbors. She dressed carefully on those days when she went downtown. Walking down the Street of Tides, Lila Wingo was the prettiest woman in Colleton and she knew it. It was a joy to watch her walk, to see the eyes of men attendant and respectful as she approached. The eyes of women registered something else when my mother passed. I watched the women of Colleton withhold approval as my mother made her way past storefronts, pausing briefly to admire her reflection in the window and to note the stir she made in her lovely passage. She moved with a flawless coherence of instinct but she moved with beauty alone. With a gardenia in her hair and her makeup artfully applied, she entered Sarah Poston’s dress shop in May of 1955. She said “Good morning” to Isabel Newbury and Tina Blanchard, who were looking at dresses for the annual spring ball of the Colleton League. Mrs. Newbury and Mrs. Blanchard returned her greeting politely. My mother took a dress she could not afford from the rack and went to the dressing room in the back of the store to try it on. Luke and I were looking at fishing rods in Ford-ham’s Hardware. As she stood in the dressing room, she heard Isabel Newbury say to her friend, “I shouldn’t be surprised if Lila attended galas with a rose hanging out of her mouth, snapping her fingers like a flamenco dancer. Her instinct for acts of questionable taste is unerring. I’d like to pull those flowers out of her hair and teach her how to do her nails.”
Savannah was in the booth with my mother when those words were spoken. Isabel Newbury had not seen them walk back to the dressing room. My mother smiled and put her fingers to her lips. Then she turned back to look at herself in the mirror. She reached up and took the gardenia from her hair and tossed it into the wastepaper basket. Then she studied her nails. They stayed in that dressing room for an hour as my mother pretended to be making up her mind about buying that dress she could never afford. And from that day on we never saw her adorn her glorious hair with a single blossom, nor was she ever in our long childhood invited to a single gala. I missed those gardenias and those times she would pass me in the house and I would catch the sweet-smelling passage of her, that irresistible tunic of perfume she carried with her, attractive to bees and worshipful sons. I cannot smell a gardenia today without thinking of my mother the way I did when I was a boy, and I cannot think of a woman’s fingernails without hating Isabel Newbury for stealing the flowers from my mother’s hair.
There are two kinds of Wingos: There is the forgiving Wingo, exemplified by my grandfather, who spent his life absolving his neighbors of all sins and trespasses against him. And there is the other kind of Wingo, who holds onto a grudge for a century or more. This portion of the family, by far the majority, had a heroic and merciless racial memory of all hurt and injustice. To cross these Wingos one year would ensure drawing the attention of an avenging Wingo generations later. These Wingos passed their grievances through their children and these feuds and germinating vendettas entered our bloodstreams like bruised heirlooms. I hold membership in the ranks of the second kind of Wingo.
Behind the wheel of his shrimp boat my father would instruct us in this part of our legacy. He would say, “If you can’t beat up an enemy at school, wait twenty years and beat up his wife and kid.”
“Always take the high road, huh, Dad?” Savannah would answer, repeating one of my mother’s oft-quoted clichés.
“People got to get the picture, Savannah,” he answered. “If they don’t get the picture, then sometimes you got to paint roses on the end of their noses.”
“Mama doesn’t allow us to fight,” I said.
“Ha,” my father roared. “Your mother! That broad is the real killer in the family. She’ll cut your heart out and eat it before your eyes if you’re not careful.”
He said it with total admiration.
It was a year after that fateful shopping expedition that the subject of gardenias came up again. I was walking from the school cafeteria to my locker when I saw Todd Newbury and three of his friends pointing at my feet.
Todd was the only child of Isabel and Reese Newbury and he moved in that self-conscious manner so common among only children. Everything about him seemed overindulged and fussed over. He stood in the middle of a squirrelly though articulate group of boys. Dicky Dickson and Farley Bledsoe were the sons of bankers, both employed by Reese Newbury. Marvin Grant was the son of the lawyer who represented the bank. I had known them my whole life.
“Nice shoes, Wingo,” Todd said as I walked by them, and the others laughed.
I looked down and saw the same tennis shoes I had put on in the morning. They were neither new nor old; they were simply broken in well.
“Glad you like ’em, Todd,” I said, and the other three boys laughed even harder.
“It looks like you stole ’em off a dead nigger’s feet,” said Todd. “I can smell ’em from here. Don’t you have a pair of loafers?”
“Yeah,” I answered, “but they’re at home.”
“You saving ’em for spring plowing?” he asked me. “Admit it. You’ve never had a pair of loafers in your life.”
“My daddy says your family doesn’t have enough money to buy a hambone to make shit soup out of,” Farley Bledsoe said. “So how are they going to afford a pair of Bass Weejuns, Wingo?”
“They’re at home, Farley,” I answered. “I’m not allowed to wear them at school.”
“You’re a liar, Wingo,” Todd said. “I’ve never known a river rat who wasn’t a complete liar in my whole life. I heard my mama say the other day that a Wingo was the lowest form of white man on the face of this earth, and I tend to agree with my mama.”
He took a five-dollar bill out of his wallet and threw it on the floor in front of me.
“Here, Wingo. This won’t buy you a new pair of loafers, but you already got a pair at home, don’t you, liar? Just get a new pair of sneakers so I don’t have to go around smelling your stinking feet.”
I knelt down and picked up the five-dollar bill and held it out to Todd Newbury, saying, “No thanks, Todd. Just put this back in your billfold. I don’t need your money.”
“I’m just trying to be a good Christian, Wingo. I just want to help clothe the poor.”
“Please put it back, Todd. Put it in your wallet. I’m asking you nicely.”
“Not after you touched it, river shit. It’s got your germs on it now,” Todd said, his bravado matched by the laughter of his pals.
“If you don’t put it back in your wallet, Todd, I’m going to make you eat it,” I said, and by the reaction of Todd Newbury I knew for the first time in my life that I was big.
“You can’t lick four of us, Wingo,” Todd said confidently.
“Yes, I can,” I disagreed.
I hit Todd, silenced him with three strong blows to the face, each one of them drawing blood. He slid down a wall and sat crying, looking at his friends with a wounded disbelief.
“Get him. He hurt me,” he cried out, but the other three boys moved away from us.
“Eat the money, Todd,” I said, “or I’ll hit you again.”
“You can’t make me, river shit,” he shouted, and I hit him again. He was swallowing the money when a teacher grabbed me from behind and escorted me to the principal’s office.
There was pandemonium loose in the hallways as the news of the fight spread through the student body. Todd’s blood stained my white T-shirt and I stood facing the principal, Mr. Carlton Roe, with the proof of my guilt embossed on my chest.
Mr. Roe was a lean blond man who had been a college athlete. He was normally good-humored but had a volatile temper when aroused. He was one of those rare educators whose whole life revolved around his school, and he did not tolerate fisticuffs in the hallway. I had never been in trouble with the principal in my life.
“Okay, Tom,” he said easily when the teacher had gone. “Tell me what happened.”
“Todd said something about my shoes,” I said, my eyes resting on the floor.
“So you beat him up.”
“No, sir. He called my family river shit. He gave me five bucks and told me to go buy a new pair of shoes.”
“Then you hit him.”
“Yes, sir. Then I hit him.”
There was a noise by the doorway and Todd Newbury stormed into the room, holding a bloody handkerchief to his lip.
“You better whip him good, Mr. Roe. I mean whip him within an inch of his life. I just called my daddy and he’s thinking of calling the cops.”
“What happened, Todd?” Mr. Roe asked. “And I don’t remember inviting you into my office.”
“I was standing by my locker, minding my own business, when this kid jumped me from behind. I got three witnesses who’ll back me up.”
“What did you say to Tom?” Mr. Roe asked, his brown eyes expressionless.
“I didn’t say one word to him. Why would I talk to him? I hope you like it in reform school, Wingo.”
The phone in the office rang and Mr. Roe lifted the receiver, keeping his eyes on Todd. It was the superintendent of schools calling, and I heard Mr. Roe say, “Yes, Mr. Aimar, I’m aware of the situation. I have both boys in my office right now. No. If Mr. Newbury wishes to see me, he can come to my office. This is school business and there’s no need for me to go to his office to talk about this. Yes, sir. I’ll handle it. Thanks for calling.”
“You’ll learn not to mess with a Newbury,” Todd said to me. “I’ll guarantee you that.”
“Shut up, Todd,” Mr. Roe said.
“You better not talk to me like that, Mr. Roe. My father won’t like it one little bit.”
“I told you to shut up, Todd,” he repeated. “Now you run along to your next class and I’ll take care of Mr. Wingo.”
“Are you going to paddle him good?” Todd asked, pressing his handkerchief to his mouth.
“Yes, I’m going to paddle him good,” Mr. Roe said, lifting a wooden paddle from the top of his desk. Todd smiled at me and left the room.
Mr. Roe walked over to me, brandishing the paddle. He stood me up and made me lean down and grab my ankles with my hands. He drew back on the paddle like he was going to break me in half. Then he tapped me lightly, lovingly, on the behind, as gently as a bishop slapping the cheeks of a confirmed child.
“If you ever get into a fight in my school again, Tom, I’m going to take all the skin off your ass, and that’s a promise. And if you ever fight Todd Newbury again and don’t do a better job of shutting his mouth, I’m going to whip you to within an inch of your life. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“Now, I’m going to hit the paddle on this geography book. Every time I do, you give out a yelp. Make it convincing. Because I’m going to tell Reese Newbury that I tore your butt up.”
He struck the book hard with his paddle and I yelled. It was in Mr. Roe’s office that day that I decided to become a schoolteacher.
My mother was waiting for me when I got home from school that day. I had seen her mad before, but I had never seen her so completely out of control. She began slapping my face as soon as I entered the back door. Luke and Savannah were both trying to pull her off me.
“You want to fight someone, you little low-class bastard,” she screamed, striking me again and again as I retreated to a neutral corner between the stove and refrigerator, “then you can fight with me. If you want to be like all the rest of them, then I’ll treat you like all the rest of them. Shame me and your family, will you? Act like trash when I’ve taught you better?”
“I’m sorry, Mama,” I cried, covering my face with my arms.
“Get off him,” Savannah yelled, trying to pin my mother’s arms. “He already got a whipping from the principal.”
“Not like the one he’s gonna get from me.”
“Stop it, Mama,” Luke demanded. “You stop it right now. He was right to punch that Newbury boy.”
“What will people think if I let my children grow up to be ruffians? Nice children will never bother with you again.”
“Newbury
insulted our family, Mama,” Luke explained. “That’s why Tom hit him. I’d have hit him too.”
“What did he say about our family?” my mother said, poising her hand in mid swing.
“He called us low class,” I said, lowering my guard.
She slapped me hard across the face and I put up my guard again.
“And then you proved him right, you stupid cracker. My poor stupid, low-rent son. Ignoring him would have been the best thing to do. It would have proven you the better man . . . the better trained and better raised. You’d have been the perfect gentleman I’ve tried to make out of you.”
“Oh, Mother,” Savannah said, “you sound like the president of the Daughters of the Confederacy again.”
“I’m the one who has to walk the streets of this town trying to hold my head up proud. Now everyone will know I’ve raised ruffians instead of decent young men.”
“Do you want that snotty little Newbury running down your family?” asked Savannah.
“People have a right to their opinions,” my mother said, crying out of frustration. “I believe in the Fourth Amendment or whatever that amendment is. It’s a guaranteed right of all Americans and what he thinks should not concern us at all. We should walk tall and show them we’re too fine and proud to care about their opinions.”
“I care about their opinions,” I said.
She slapped me again and screamed, “Then you better care about my opinion a lot more because I’m going to teach you how to act in this world or I’m going to half kill you trying. I won’t have you acting like your father. I won’t have it, do you hear?”
“You’re acting like our father,” Savannah said, and the house grew deadly still as my mother turned to face her only daughter.
“I’m acting in the only way I know how to act, Savannah. I’m hitting Tom because I know what my son is in danger of becoming. I know the danger for all of you. If I don’t train you well, if I don’t drive you, push you to the absolute limits, then this stinking mean town and this stinking mean world will eat you alive. Don’t you think I’ve learned from our own failures? Look at me. What am I? Nothing. Nothing at all. A shrimper’s wife without a dime, living in a tiny house on an island. Don’t you think I know what they think about me and how they look at me? But I will not let them win.”