I sat up so fast that the chair nearly bucked me out of my seat. “Oh, my gosh. Are you serious?”
“I am right now. So hurry up ’fore I change my mind.”
“But what should I wear? I don’t have a bathing suit.”
“Neither do I. We’re goin’ skinny-dippin’. So quit flappin’ your jaws, and let’s go.”
I jumped to my feet and took the towels from Oletta’s arms. She turned on the flashlight and led the way down the steps and across the garden, keeping the beam low as we moved into the cool, velvety shadows of Miz Goodpepper’s backyard.
“So where’s that hole in the hedge you talked about?” she whispered, picking her way around a flower bed.
I put my hand on the flashlight and aimed it toward the far side of the garden. “Right there. See it?”
Oletta grumbled, “I can’t fit through that.”
I urged her forward. “Yes, you can. It’ll be okay.”
Well, poor Oletta got her bare arms scratched up in the process, but she finally squeezed through the hedge. We moved across Miz Hobbs’s lawn and onto the brick patio that surrounded the pool. Oletta kicked off her shoes and whispered, “Turn around while I pull off my dress and get in the pool. I want to see how deep it is.”
“Can I take off my pajamas?” I asked.
“Wouldn’t be skinny-dippin’ if you didn’t.”
While pulling off my pajamas, I heard a splash.
“Ahhh, this water is just right. Okay, now c’mon in. Take hold of that handrail and walk down the steps real slow. I’m right here.”
I scampered across the warm bricks and stepped into the water.
“Here, child, take my hand.”
The water slapped against my bare chest and sent shivers up my spine. I let out a giggle as we walked from one side of the pool to the other, bobbing like two happy corks. Oletta kept hold of my hand, but I wasn’t scared at all. I dunked my face into the water, and before long I began to dog-paddle all on my own.
When I grew tired, we leaned against the side of the pool and gazed into the sky. The stars looked so close I longed to reach up, pluck the brightest one, and give it to Oletta. I wanted to tell her how much I loved her. I wanted to taste the words on my tongue and sing them into the night air. And I wanted, more than anything, to hear her say she loved me too.
Over and over I practiced saying the words in my mind: I love you, Oletta. I love you. But when I gathered the courage to say them out loud, the words that popped out were, “Oletta, if you and I had met when we were both kids, would you have liked me?”
That question seemed to surprise her as much as it did me. Even in the darkness I could see her eyes crinkle up when she smiled. “Oh, yes, I’da liked you just fine, but I’d probably been a little scared of you too.”
“Scared? Why?”
“Because you’re so smart and pretty. Sometimes them two things in one person can mean a whole lot of trouble.”
My voice squeaked when I said, “Pretty?”
“Ain’t nobody ever tell you that? You got the prettiest skin and eyes I ever seen.”
I smoothed my fingertips over my cheek.
“Oletta, what were you like when you were my age?”
She leaned her head back and said, “When I was your age, I was full of dreams. My momma used to say if she had a drop of water for every dream I had, we’d be livin’ on a houseboat in the middle of a clear blue lake. I loved to sew and got it in my head that I wanted to make wedding dresses. By the time I was thirteen, I could sew just about anything. I’ll never forget the Christmas of 1924. My sweet momma went out and bought me a used sewing machine, the kind with the foot treadle. I cleaned it up and oiled it real good. Lord, I’d have that machine goin’ so fast it’d send out a breeze. Then I got it in my mind that I wanted to be a gospel singer. I’d stand on the porch and sing my heart out when I ironed clothes.”
“Did you sing in the school choir?”
“I did when I was real young, but my momma had to get a job when my pappy died. So I quit school and stayed home to take care of my sisters.” Oletta fluttered her feet in the water and looked into the sky. “But there’s a blessing in everything if we open our eyes. That’s the reason why I’m a good cook. I been workin’ in the kitchen my whole life. I wish I could have finished school, but there’s no sense in feelin’ sorry for myself. Life is what it is. When I was seventeen, I got a job cookin’ in a restaurant. I worked there for years.
“Then one day I heard about a lady over on Gaston Street who was lookin’ for a cook. I did some checkin’ and found out which house she lived in. I made up my mind I was gonna have that job. When I got off work that afternoon, I went home and cooked up my fried chicken. I put on my best Sunday dress and took the bus to Miz Tootie’s house with a plate of hot fried chicken in my hands.
“I’ll never forget it. I rang the doorbell, and it was Mr. Taylor who answered. I said, ‘My name is Oletta Jones, and I’m the best cook in all of Savannah—brought my secret recipe fried chicken to prove it.’ ”
Oletta let out a hearty laugh. “I sure was bold in them days. Mr. Taylor looked at me kinda funny and said, ‘Is that right? So what’s the secret?’ I looked him in the eye and said, ‘If I told you, then it wouldn’t be a secret no more.’ Oh, how that man laughed. He took a piece of my chicken and ate it, standing right there at the front door. He asked me to come inside and then he called down the hall, ‘Tootie, your new cook is here.’ They hired me on the spot, and Mr. Taylor offered to drive me home if I’d leave him the plate of chicken.”
I threw back my head and laughed. “He did?”
“Um-hm. That was the luckiest day of my life. Sometimes I feel bad about not finishing school, but I have it a whole lot better than my momma did. I wish I could read better, but I sure like it when you read to me. My daughter, Jewel, used to read to me while I was makin’ supper. I remember she loved some story about an old frog that was always gettin’ himself into all kinds of trouble. Lord, she musta read it a hundred times.”
Oletta fell quiet, and though the moonlight was slim, I could see the sadness in her face. I knew she was lost in her memories of Jewel. And just as she’d done for me earlier in the evening, I reached over and took hold of her hand.
We floated and gazed into the sky until Oletta said, “Your toes is probably shriveled up like raisins. You better get out and dry off. This might be my first and last time in a pool, so I’m gonna swim for a few minutes. Then we’ll go home.”
I climbed out of the pool and dried off. After pulling on my pajamas, I sat in a lounge chair and watched Oletta swim from one end to the other. Gone was the lumbering, swollen-kneed woman, and in her place was a graceful creature. Leaving only a silent ripple behind, Oletta plunged deep into the water, her wavy reflection moving like a shadowy dream along the bottom of the pool. She rose to the surface at the far end and floated weightlessly in the moonlit water. From a distance she looked like a blissfully content manatee.
While rubbing a towel over my hair, I noticed something lying in the bushes on the side of Miz Hobbs’s back porch. I grabbed the flashlight, crept through the shadows, and aimed the beam. When I realized what it was, I pushed my hand through a thorny bush and pulled out Miz Hobbs’s brassiere. I laughed to myself as I recalled how Earl Jenkins had spun it in the air and let it sail off into the night.
For some demented reason, I took the brassiere and wrapped it in a towel so Oletta wouldn’t see it. What I thought I’d do with it I couldn’t have said, but I wanted it just the same. Later that night I hid it on the shelf in my closet, feeling smug and not knowing why.
Nineteen
Aunt Tootie breezed in through the door from her trip to Raleigh, full of chatter and bearing gifts—a green scarf for Oletta, and a yellow jumper for me. “Oh, sugar, I missed you so much,” she said, wrapping me in her arms. “Come upstairs and talk to me. I want to hear all about your day at Tybee Island.”
Oletta’s eyes met mine, th
en I turned and followed my aunt upstairs.
I sat on the bed and we talked while she unpacked her suitcase. “So how was your picnic with Oletta and her friends? Did you have fun?”
“Yes, ma’am.” My cheeks heated up from the secret that stirred inside of me. I looked down and picked at the toe of my shoe, searching for a way to change the subject.
“Tell me about it, sugar,” my aunt said, dropping an armful of clothes into a laundry basket. “I see you got some sun.”
I grinned up at her, but my tongue turned thick. For Pete’s sake, say something, CeeCee. Act normal. Words tumbled from my lips so fast they bumped into one another. “Well, I liked the ocean a lot. Nadine made me a bracelet, and we ate a ton of food. That’s about it.”
“Taylor and I used to go to Tybee now and then. He liked to crumble up bread and throw handfuls to the gulls. We always had so much fun . . .”
She finished emptying her suitcase and clicked it shut. “All right, now that I’ve got that out of the way, how about going for a little drive with me to the market? I’m just about out of shampoo and aspirin. I think Oletta might want me to pick up a few things too. Why don’t you run downstairs and ask her?”
“Sure,” I said, practically springing off the bed with relief that the subject of Tybee Island had come to an end.
When we arrived at the market, Aunt Tootie pushed the cart down an aisle as I read from the shopping list, checking off each item as she put it into the cart. While heading for the checkout, we bumped into Miz Goodpepper. In her cart were eight large bottles of carrot juice, a tin of sea salt, and a tube of Preparation H.
While the three of us talked, Aunt Tootie kept glancing into Miz Goodpepper’s cart with a furrowed brow. “Thelma, honey, are you all right?”
Miz Goodpepper chuckled. “I read an article about detoxifying the body. It said to pour the carrot juice and sea salt into a bathtub fi lled with hot water. After soaking for twenty minutes, you’re to get out, take a steamy shower, and scrub with a loofah. Have you ever heard of it, Tootie?”
“No, I can’t say that I have.”
When the cashier started wringing up our groceries, Miz Goodpepper said, “Oh, and the Preparation H is for my skin. I was having my hair trimmed the other day, and everyone in the beauty shop was talking about how it smooths the skin and tightens the bags under the eyes.”
I had to look away. Between the duct tape she’d used on her breasts and now the Preparation H and the carrot juice, it was all I could do not to burst out laughing.
“Well, Thelma,” Aunt Tootie said with a crooked smile, “you’ve always been willing to try new things, bless your heart. You’ll have to let me know how it all works out.”
As we headed to the parking lot, Miz Goodpepper said, “I ran into Minnie Hayes yesterday. Isn’t she the sweetest thing?”
“She sure is. I haven’t seen her since Easter, but we talked on the phone awhile back and made plans to have lunch together. If I remember right, I believe it’s next Tuesday.”
Miz Goodpepper unlocked the trunk of her car and turned to my aunt. “Well, I’ve got a little bit of gossip. Minnie told me that two police cars were parked in front of her neighbor’s house a few days ago. And then a detective went door-to-door all the way down the street, asking questions and taking notes. Minnie didn’t have many details, but her neighbors are Augustus and Marilee Slade. Apparently something’s happened to their son. Do you know them, Tootie?”
“No, I don’t. I remember meeting them at a party years ago, but we’ve never socialized.”
Oh, my God! They’re talking about Lucas Slade’s parents. I took in a gulp of air and stepped back.
“Did Minnie say what happened?”
“She didn’t know,” Miz Goodpepper said, lifting her bags into the trunk. “But she said something peculiar is going on. She tried to call Marilee several times, but Marilee didn’t answer. Maybe Minnie will know more when you have lunch. Anyway, that’s all the news I have to report. Glad to have you back in town, Tootie. I’m heading home to try my carrot juice detoxification,” she said with a laugh.
I forced a smile and tried to act casual. Aunt Tootie waved good-bye, and called out, “Have fun, darlin’.”
My stomach churned as we drove home, and I set my gaze out the windshield and thought to myself, Stay quiet, CeeCee. It’ll be okay. Just hold on to the secret.
When we arrived home, Oletta was ironing in the kitchen. The warm smell of starched linen lingered in the air. Aunt Tootie headed upstairs with her shampoo and aspirin while I put away the groceries. I hovered in the kitchen, wondering if I should pull Oletta aside and tell her what Miz Goodpepper had said about Lucas Slade.
I chewed my fingernails and wandered from the window to the kitchen counter, and back to the window again.
The iron let out a hiss when Oletta unplugged it. As she set a stack of pillowcases into a laundry basket, she looked at me. “What’s wrong, child, you got ants in your pants?”
“No, but . . .” Words clotted in my throat. And it’s a good thing, because right then Aunt Tootie came into the kitchen.
“Oletta, have you seen my address book?”
“Did you take it when you went to Raleigh?”
Aunt Tootie tapped her forehead. “Well, of course I did. Now I remember, it’s in my handbag,” she said, heading out of the room.
Knowing this wasn’t the time to talk to Oletta, I went outside and sat on the porch steps.
Later that afternoon, while Aunt Tootie was on the phone in the den, I followed Oletta into the pantry. She hung up her apron, and as she took hold of her handbag, I reached out and touched her arm. “Oletta,” I whispered. “I need to tell you something.”
Her eyes widened when I told her what Miz Goodpepper had said. I didn’t know that colored people could pale, but Oletta’s face turned ashy. “Lord have mercy. Well, it’s time to tell Miz Tootie.”
I shook my head. “No, Oletta. Don’t do that.”
For a long moment we stood by the window in a slant of sunlight, not moving a muscle, studying each other. From the hook on the door I removed her sweater and draped it over her arm. She let out a slow breath, turned, and left for home.
The following afternoon, I brought in the mail and set it on Aunt Tootie’s desk. Among the magazines and bills was a letter from Mrs. Odell. I sat in a chair by the window and opened it, slowly deciphering her small, scratchy writing.
Dearest CeeCee,
I love the picture you sent me of the water lily. I’ve got it sitting on my bedside table. It’s the first thing I see in the morning, and the last thing I see before going to sleep.
Have you met some nice people in Savannah? You have no idea how it brightens my day to receive your letters and pictures. Send more when you can.
I love you,
Mrs. O
I took her letter and trotted upstairs just as Aunt Tootie was on her way down. “I got a letter from Mrs. Odell today. She liked the picture of the water lily.”
“I bet she did,” Aunt Tootie said, stopping to pat my shoulder. “You’re good with the camera, sugar.”
“Would it be okay if I went over to Forsyth Park? I’d like to take more pictures to send her.”
“Of course. Just don’t be gone too long.”
I promised to be home within half an hour, and went to my bedroom to get my camera and sunglasses. I wanted to wear my hat too, and when I pulled it from the shelf, Miz Hobbs’s brassiere came down with it. Why that brassiere held my fascination is something I honestly didn’t know. I sat on the bed and examined it closely. It was white and so stiff the cups stood up like twin mountain peaks.
I thought about the comments Miz Hobbs had made about my hair, how she’d murdered Miz Goodpepper’s magnolia, and how she used those disgusting words to refer to Oletta—“Miz Tootie’s nigger.” And the more I thought about those things, the madder I got. I stared at the brassiere and wondered what kind of person could think such an ugly thing—much les
s say it out loud. A dark loathing rippled though me, and with it came an idea that bloomed in my mind like a thorny rose. Maybe Oletta couldn’t get even with Miz Hobbs, but I would.
I folded the brassiere and shoved it into my pocket. With my hat on my head and my sunglasses in place, I grabbed the camera and headed out of the house.
On the corner of Gaston and Whitaker was the Georgia Historical Society; a stately, serious-looking building that evoked an abiding respect for the past. It was the perfect place to take a picture of something as ridiculous as Miz Hobbs’s brassiere.
I waited until no one was in sight, then I flung the brassiere over the large bronze sign posted in the yard and took a picture. Quickly I stuffed the brassiere in my pocket and retreated into the shadows of the trees. When the picture developed I let out a squeal. It was a triumph.
And so began my first real hobby—the photo exposé of the unpredictable escapades of Miz Hobbs’s remarkable traveling brassiere.
During the next few days, I wandered beyond the safe frontiers of Gaston Street and took Miz Hobbs’s brassiere to visit the highlights of Savannah. Along shady sidewalks I went, smiling inwardly with it shoved deep inside my pocket. I took the brassiere to Chippewa Square, laid it out prettily—with its cups standing at full attention—at the base of General Oglethorpe’s statue, and took a shot. I marched happily down Bull Street, where I secured the brassiere to a wooden Indian that stood outside the door of a tobacco shop, and quickly snapped a picture.
But my favorite picture came on a sun-sparked morning when I walked all the way to the Cotton Exchange on Bay Street.
The Cotton Exchange was a grand brick building that sat high on the banks above the Savannah River. In front of the Cotton Exchange was a regal, winged lion fountain that spewed a stream of water from its mouth. I climbed over the low iron fence, pulled myself onto the base of the lion, and hung the brassiere over one of its ears, making sure to keep the tips of the cups pointy. Laughter bubbled in my throat when I jumped down and took a picture.