Looking for Me

  And now, thanks to a gentleman named Jackson T. Palmer, in a small way I guess I was.

  THREE

  It had taken me more than a week to faux-finish a small bedside table I’d bought at a garage sale for a dollar. I began by stripping off the original finish, and then I whacked the table with a bicycle chain to make it look distressed. After painting it a soft French blue, I dipped a toothbrush into dark brown paint and lightly spattered the surface. When it had dried, I glazed the entire thing to give it a warm patina. I loved the word “patina” and felt smart whenever I said it out loud.

  With the last drawer knob screwed into place, I stepped back and studied my work. It was the best I’d ever done. I ran up the cellar stairs and into the kitchen. “Mama, come see the patina I created!”

  She pulled a skillet from the dishwater and rinsed it off. “I should patina your behind for not washing these dishes.” Though she gave me a weary look, she dried her hands on her apron and followed me to the cellar.

  “What are all those marks?” she asked, squinting at the table.

  “Distressed antiquing. I learned how to do it from a library book.”

  “It’s real pretty.” I waited for her to say more, to open one of the drawers or run her fingertips over the surface, but all she said was, “Now, don’t forget to do your chores.”

  As she climbed the stairs, I called, “I’m gonna take this outside and see if I can sell it. But I’ll vacuum and change the sheets when I come back.”

  Careful not to bump the table against the wall, I carried it up the steps and into the front yard. After leaning my For Sale sign against the mailbox, I sat beneath the tree and waited. It was a brisk and bright autumn morning that set the highest points of the mountain ablaze in colors that lured photographers, hikers, and sightseers from far and wide.

  A few cars and a caravan of RVs went by, but no one stopped to have a look. When my butt grew numb, I figured I should go start the laundry before Mama got angry. As I stood and brushed off the seat of my jeans, a black panel-style truck slowed to a stop at the side of the road.

  The driver’s-side door opened with a rusty squeak, and a gray-haired man, tall and thin as a sapling, eased himself from the seat. His white shirt was dull and slightly frayed at the cuffs, and from a pair of leather suspenders hung a pair of baggy brown pants.

  “What you got there, missy?”

  I smiled and straightened my shoulders. “It’s a French night table. I painted it myself.”

  “Is that so?” He stepped closer to have a better look. Reaching out, he smoothed his hand over the top. Surprise registered on his face when he opened the drawer and saw that it was lined with white brocade. I didn’t tell him the fabric came from an old wedding dress I’d found at a rummage sale.

  “You say it was you who did this? Did I hear that right?”

  “Yessir. I’ve been refinishing furniture since I was ten years old. I taught myself from books.”

  He gave me a narrow-eyed look. “Well then, go ahead and explain it to me. How’d you do it?”

  My face grew warm when I realized he didn’t believe me, so I stood tall and recounted exactly what I’d done.

  He listened, lips pursed and his gray eyes locked on me. When I finished telling him about the antique glaze I’d concocted, he nodded but didn’t offer a word one way or the other. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a pouch of tobacco, took a pinch, and pressed it inside his cheek.

  “So how much you want for it?”

  “Fifty dollars.” A bold price, but I held my ground.

  He considered me for a long, agonizing moment. “You think it’s worth fifty dollars?”

  There was no turning back. I lifted my chin and said, “Yessir. It’s a one-of-a-kind piece.”

  He scratched the stubble at the side of his jaw. “Fifty dollars . . . hmmm. Well then, I reckon you’ve made yourself a sale.”

  I’d never sold a piece of my work for that much money, and though I wanted to jump for joy, I checked my excitement and simply said, “All right.”

  I carried the table to his truck while he opened the back doors. There were so many chairs, chests, and headboards packed inside that there was hardly any room left. The old man pulled a roll of twine and a blanket from the cab of his truck and began wrapping my table.

  “You still in school?”

  “Yessir. I’m a senior.”

  “What’re you gonna do when you graduate?”

  I grinned. “Have my own furniture shop.”

  He offered no comment as he lifted the table into his truck and pushed it next to a chest of drawers.

  “Well, I suppose you’re itchin’ to be paid,” he said, closing the doors with a thud. He reached into the back pocket of his pants, removed a wafer-thin wallet that looked as old as he did, and pulled out a hundred-dollar bill. “All righty, here ya go.”

  I’d never seen a hundred-dollar bill, let alone touched one. “I keep my furniture-sales money in my bedroom. Wait here while I go get change.”

  I was about to turn and run for the house when the old man said, “What’s your name?”

  “Teddi. Teddi Overman.”

  He spit a thin stream of tobacco into the ditch. “Now, Teddi, I don’t want any change, but I do want you to listen to me for a minute. You’ve got yourself some mighty fine talent. I’d even go so far as to say that what you do is art. But here’s the thing: You sold your piece for a whole lot less than it’s worth.”

  He leaned toward me and raised his eyebrows. “I’m gonna share a secret. You listening?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Always start your price higher than what you’re willin’ to take. People like to haggle a bit, makes ’em feel like they got a bargain when you finally settle on a deal.”

  I looked at the crisp bill in my hand, not knowing what to say.

  He dipped his bony fingers into his shirt pocket, pulled out a card, and handed it to me. “If you’re ever down my way, look me up.”

  And with that he shook my hand and climbed into his truck. As he rattled away in a swirl of dust, I looked at the card he’d given me. It smelled of tobacco and was soft and lightly stained around the edges.

  JACKSON T. PALMER ~ FINE ANTIQUES

  WENTWORTH STREET

  CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA

  FOUR

  School had let out for Easter vacation. When I arrived home and walked into the kitchen, the air was warm and spicy. An apple pie was cooling on a rack by the stove. I was about to break off a piece of crust when Mama walked in holding a manila envelope.

  “Teddi, don’t pick at the pie. Come sit for a minute. I want to talk with you.”

  “Okay.” I pulled out a chair and sat across from her.

  “I have some brochures here. Now, your father and I know you’re smart as can be, but we can’t afford to send you to a regular college. So I’ve done some checkin’, and there are several schools within driving distance that offer courses—”

  “I already know what I want to do. I’m gonna sell antiques and refinish furniture.”

  She leveled her green eyes at me and opened the envelope. “You need to get training so you can take care of yourself. Now, let’s take a look at these.”

  I halfheartedly spread the brochures across the table. There was one on court reporting, another on medical transcription, and three from secretarial schools. I pushed them to the far end of the table. “I’m not interested in any of these. I’m good at refinishing and painting furniture. I want to work with my hands and—”

  “You’re a good typist, and that is working with your hands.”

  “No, Mama. It’s not the same thing. I have so many ideas that my head’s about to pop. I want to—”

  “Let me show you something.” She stood and motioned for me to follow. We walked into the living room, and M
ama opened the door. The century-old floorboards creaked beneath our feet as we stepped onto the front porch.

  She pointed toward the road and stabbed the air with her finger. “See that? Take a real good look and listen to me. That’s not the Yellow Brick Road. Without training, you could end up stuck in a life you never wanted and no way to see yourself clear to change it. I realize you’ve had fun with all that old junk you’ve worked on over the years, but now you need to buckle down and make something of yourself.”

  Her words stung as if she’d hauled off and slapped me.

  “Teddi, it’s an ugly world out there, and—”

  “You’re wrong, Mama. The world’s beautiful, but you’re so busy being disappointed in everything that you don’t see it!”

  She glared at me, lips parted, eyes glistening with tears. “Take those brochures and go to your room. And don’t come out until you’ve read each one.” Her voice quivered when she said, “Give those schools a chance. Lord, don’t you see I’m tryin’ to help you?”

  But I didn’t.

  Against my vehement protests, Mama made arrangements for the two of us to visit the Alice Brown Secretarial School in Richmond, Kentucky. Our appointment was set for a Friday, just a few weeks after my high-school graduation. Mama was so excited about it that she never shut up. The more she talked, the more furious I became.

  One night we were in the kitchen, Mama washing dishes, me drying, and Grammy putting everything away. Mama gushed about how wonderful that school was until I got so mad that my hands shook.

  “Just think,” she said, rinsing a glass and placing it in the strainer, “after you graduate from secretarial school and get a job, you’ll be able to afford nice clothes and a cute apartment. And I bet you’ll even—”

  “Stop it, Mama! Since you’re so thrilled, why don’t you go to that stupid school and leave me alone!”

  She pointed a soapy spoon at my nose and gave it a shake. “Don’t sass me!”

  Grammy’s eyes widened as she looked from me to Mama. Without making a sound, she took off her apron, hung it on the hook, and quickly left the kitchen.

  “I won’t go to that dumb school!” I tossed the dish towel across the counter and bolted from the house. I was down the road beyond the bend when I heard my mother calling my name. I never looked back.

  I ran until I was so winded that my lungs burned and my chest heaved. Then I walked and cussed and cried until the sky turned deep purple, as if a giant bruise had formed above the trees. Though I was a good five miles from home, I kept right on walking straight into the dark of night. I wrapped my arms tighter around myself and tried to massage away the chill in the air. I didn’t know what to do or where to turn. All I knew was that I wasn’t going home and I sure as heck wasn’t going to secretarial school.

  From behind me I heard the rumble of an engine. A moment later I was bathed in a halo from a set of bright headlights. I stepped to the edge of the road, my ankles wobbling as I maneuvered over stones the size of red-skinned potatoes. My heart slammed against my ribs when the vehicle slowed to a stop, and all my senses snapped to high alert. I heard the truck’s door creak open, and I set off running across the open field as fast as I could go.

  “Hey, Teddi. Hold up, girl!”

  I stopped and turned around. The headlights blurred his silhouette. A sharp click sounded, and a blue flame shot up as he lit a cigarette. A swirl of smoke rose into the night air.

  “You all right, Peaches?”

  I took in a gulp of air to calm my racing heart and then walked toward him. “No, Daddy. I’m not all right, and I’m not goin’ to that dumb school. I want to be a secretary about as much as I want to shave my head! Mama won’t listen to a thing I say. She’s so stubborn.”

  “Well, that’s what she says about you.”

  “Having a dream doesn’t make me stubborn. Mama thinks everyone should do as she says, and if we don’t, she gets mad. I’m sick of it, Daddy.”

  He dropped his cigarette, red sparks skittering across the road as he crushed it out with his boot. “We’ll talk on the way home.”

  I looked into the night sky and shook my head. “I won’t go to that school, no matter what she says.”

  “Being out here on a dark road won’t solve anything. Now, c’mon and get in the truck.”

  For several minutes we drove in silence, and then Daddy glanced at me. “Come Monday, I’ll go down to the bank and talk to Lloyd Turner about a loan. I’ve got plenty of good land as collateral. That way you can go to a regular college.”

  I leaned my head against the back of the seat and tried to smile. “Thanks for offering, Daddy. I wish there was a college that offered a degree in antiques and furniture painting, but my school counselor checked everywhere, and there isn’t.”

  The lights from the dashboard seeped into the folds around my father’s eyes, and I felt bad that I’d caused him to worry. He reached into the pocket of his shirt, pulled out a pack of Black Jack gum, and offered me a stick. The aroma of anise rose in the air as I pushed it into my mouth. Daddy did the same. We both knew there wasn’t much else to say, so we drove home in the inky darkness, thinking our private thoughts.

  On the day I graduated from high school, Mama gave me a big box wrapped in silver paper. Thinking it was the oil-painting kit I’d been talking about, I could hardly rip off the paper fast enough. I was devastated to see a picture of a blue typewriter on the top of the box. Mama smiled and smoothed her hand over the name “Smith-Corona” as if it were scripture.

  Grammy Belle gave me a handmade card she’d decorated with dried flower petals and scraps of lace. Folded inside was a fifty-dollar bill. Josh gave me a chickadee’s feather and a pink quartz stone he’d made into a paperweight. But it was Daddy who surprised me most. He asked me to come out to the barn, his face revealing nothing as he slid open the door. Parked in front of the tractor was a white 1961 Ford Falcon sedan with a three-speed gearshift on the column, green plaid interior, and whitewall tires.

  It was one ugly car.

  Daddy’s eyes twinkled. “I know you’ve been driving for two years—and you’re good at it, Teddi, real good. But this has a lot more zip than my truck, and the clutch is touchy, so take it easy. Okay?”

  We climbed in, me behind the wheel and Daddy in the passenger seat. He patted the dashboard and winked. “This buggy will take care of you just fine. I won’t be worried about you breaking down on the highway.”

  “Thanks, Daddy. You know how much I love driving a stick shift.”

  After adjusting the seat, I pushed in the clutch and started the engine. I was so excited that I couldn’t stop myself from stomping on the gas. Daddy laughed as we blasted out of the barn and set off for my inaugural drive.

  “Runs like a top,” Daddy said with satisfaction. “Nice suspension, too.”

  As I zoomed along, shifting gears and maneuvering around curves, I had to admit that, ugly or not, the car sure had some spunk. I looked at him and smiled. “This is a great little car. It’s a lot different than driving your truck.”

  “You just be careful, you hear?”

  “Yessir.”

  When we arrived home and I parked beneath the oak tree, Daddy reached under the seat and pulled out a large envelope. “This is between us, and we need to keep it that way.”

  I nodded and pushed it inside my handbag.

  Daddy climbed out and closed the door, his face serious as he walked to my side of the car. “Teddi, I’ve got somethin’ to say.”

  I curled my thumbs through the belt loops of my jeans. “Okay.”

  “I fought in the war so people could be free. Free from fear—free to raise a family and make an honest living.” He looked into the sky, his head tilted back and his chin raised. It grew so quiet that I could hear the tick-tick-tick of the engine cooling.

  “Freedom is the most precious thing y
ou’ll ever have, Teddi.” He met my eyes and then patted the hood of the car with his hand. “Now, I know it might not look like much, but this little car is your red, white, and blue.”

  I thought he was going to say more, but all he did was give my arm a squeeze. Then he turned and ambled toward the barn, his arms swinging free from his wide shoulders.

  When I went inside the house, Mama turned off the vacuum cleaner and said, “You like your car?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Your brother wants to go to the ranger station, but I’m too busy to take him. Will you drive him over?”

  “Sure.”

  I called for Josh, and he yelled from his bedroom, “Coming!”

  He was nearing his thirteenth birthday, and a recent growth spurt had given him an awkward stride. I watched him bound down the stairs as if his legs were hinged with rubber bands.

  While pulling out of the driveway, I asked, “So what’s going on at the ranger station?”

  “They had new brochures made up and asked me to help pass them out. Too many campers and hikers aren’t following the rules. Ranger Jim says we have to stay on top of things. Lots of people are stupid with campfires, and last week three guys stole a baby fox cub—”

  “Oh, no! What happened?”

  “They bragged about it, and someone from the next campsite turned them in. Ranger Wiley went and got the cub and returned it to the nest, but those guys are in a mess of trouble. I’ve been keeping a close eye on the woods ever since.”

  I reached over and patted his knee. “You know what I heard Ranger Jim tell Daddy? He said you were the best woodsman he’d ever seen.”

  Though my brother didn’t say anything, the pink in his cheeks revealed that he was pleased.