Saving CeeCee Honeycutt

  “Good morning,” I said, walking in to help her.

  “Well, if it ain’t Miz Lazybones. It’s half past nine.”

  Knowing how much it annoyed her if I wasn’t dressed and ready for breakfast by eight-thirty, I looked at her sheepishly. “I’m sorry, Oletta.”

  “That’s okay. Give me a minute to finish up, and I’ll make you some French toast.”

  “Thanks, but I’m not very hungry. I think I’ll just have some fruit.” I tucked a pillow into its case and fluffed it up. “I can’t wait to see Mrs. Odell. It feels like I haven’t seen her in years.”

  “That’s how it is when you love someone. I’m sure she’s as excited as you are.”

  After straightening the coverlet, we headed down the stairs.

  While I sat at the kitchen table and peeled an orange, I looked out the window and watched Aunt Tootie. She was bent over with her rear to the sky, cutting flowers. The vision took me back to the memories I had of Mrs. Odell working in her garden, and the thought of seeing my old friend in just a few hours made me so happy I thought I’d burst.

  We arrived at the terminal a half hour before Mrs. Odell’s bus was scheduled to arrive, Aunt Tootie in a soft yellow linen dress and a straw hat and me in a periwinkle blue sundress and white, ballet-style leather shoes. From a bench by a window we sat and watched weary travelers waiting for their suitcases to be pulled from the bellies of buses that were lined up in the parking lot.

  I was so excited, I kept banging my knees together. “How will we know which bus is hers?” I asked.

  “I believe her bus number is eighty-three.” Aunt Tootie pulled a paper from her handbag and squinted. “Yes, that’s it. Eighty-three.” She slipped the paper back inside her handbag and patted my knee. “Guess what, sugar? I’ve got a special event planned for Thursday. Several of my friends are opening their gardens in honor of Gertrude’s visit. Isn’t that sweet of them? We’ll start with a luncheon at our house, then we’ll visit the other gardens and finish up at Thelma Rae’s for desserts and refreshments.”

  “Look! I think she’s here.” I jumped from the bench and ran to the window as a bus rolled into the parking lot. “She is! It’s bus number eighty-three.”

  Aunt Tootie stood. “All right, let’s go out. But don’t run toward the bus. Just wait till everyone gets off.”

  “Okay,” I said, tugging at her arm.

  A handful of tired-looking travelers climbed off the bus, gathered their suitcases, and headed for the terminal, but Mrs. Odell wasn’t among them. “Oh, dear, I wonder what happened,” my aunt said. “I’d better go in and see if I made a mistake when I wrote down the information.”

  Just then the bus driver climbed back onto the bus. My heart rolled over as I watched him help Mrs. Odell down the steps, one slow movement at a time. I waved my arms and called out, “Mrs. Odell. Mrs. Odell!”

  When she looked up and saw me, she smiled the smile I had loved for all my life. I took off running and made a beeline across the parking lot. Mrs. Odell opened her arms, and I soared right into them. I buried my face in her shoulder and breathed her in. She smelled of freshly ironed cotton, exactly as I remembered.

  “Oh, it’s good to hold my little pal again. I’ve missed you so much, Cecelia.”

  Hardly believing this moment was real, I leaned back to look at her face. A runaway tear traveled along Mrs. Odell’s chin. It ran down her neck and disappeared behind the slightly frayed collar of her thin cotton dress—a dress that surely began its life long before I was born.

  The first few days of Mrs. Odell’s stay in Savannah were fi lled with morning sightseeing tours followed by lunches out on the back porch. One afternoon three friends of Aunt Tootie’s stopped by to meet Mrs. Odell. The first was Estelle Trent, whom I’d met, and coming up the walk right behind her were two women I didn’t recognize. Aunt Tootie introduced them as Agnes White and Lottie Donahue, both members of the Historic Savannah Foundation. All three ladies arrived with gifts in hand: Estelle with a vase of fresh-cut flowers, Agnes with a jar of homemade jam with a ribbon tied around the top, and Lottie with a loaf of bread, still fragrant with yeast and warm from the oven.

  As I watched all the comings and goings and listened to the charming “Welcome to Savannah’s” and the heartfelt “I’m so pleased to meet you’s” that dripped like honey from these women’s lips, I realized that Southern hospitality not only came from the heart but was a practiced social art that had been passed down from one generation to the next—like fine silverware or china. Southerners had a way of doing things that made you feel special, and Mrs. Odell soaked in every drop of the kindness.

  The luncheon Aunt Tootie had arranged was a huge success, and before beginning the garden tour, Mrs. Odell was presented with an official Ladies of Savannah Garden Club hat. The hat, which was the size of a turkey platter and crafted from finely woven straw, had a cluster of white silk flowers pinned to the garden club’s signature pink-grosgrain band. All the women clapped when Mrs. Odell put it on her head, and to see Mrs. Odell wear that hat as she strolled through the lush private gardens, well, my heart puffed up like a cherry popover is all I can say.

  Mrs. Odell liked the hat so much she took to wearing it every day. And once, when I walked by her room just before bed, I saw her sitting on the chair reading a magazine, wearing a nightgown with the hat on her head. Her feet were propped on a footstool, and stuck to the sole of one of her slippers was a price tag that read: SALE 75¢.

  It was an image I would carry with me for the rest of my life.

  One afternoon while Aunt Tootie and Mrs. Odell were sitting in the living room talking, I wandered to the back porch to read for a while. When I stepped out the door, I was startled when something flew in front of my face. I jumped back to see a huge dusty cobweb hanging from the porch ceiling like an old fishing net.

  From the pantry I gathered a broom and stepstool. While brushing the web away, I heard music weaving through the tree branches. I smiled to myself and wondered if one of Miz Goodpepper’s plants was feeling poorly.

  A few minutes later Miz Goodpepper appeared on the far side of the patio. She was wearing a long, fi lmy white cocoon of a dress. The fabric was so gauzy I could see the shadowed outline of her body beneath. As I watched her approach, I felt that same magnetic pull and strange fascination I had experienced when I first laid eyes on her.

  “Hello, darling,” she said, smiling her ever-knowing, catlike smile as she climbed the steps. “What are you doing?”

  “Cleaning cobwebs.”

  Her eyes widened. “You’re not killing any spiders, are you?”

  “No, ma’am,” I said, stepping down from the stool.

  “Good. Spiders are such wonderful, misunderstood creatures. It’s terrible how they’ve been demonized over the years. Did I ever introduce you to Matilda?”

  “Who’s that?”

  She sat in one of the chairs and crossed her legs. “Matilda’s a beautiful yellow garden spider who’s taken up residence in my jasmine trellis. She’s been with me for two years. I’m enormously fond of her. Last week she spun a new web that spans from the trellis to my statue of Persephone. When the afternoon sun hits it just right, the web looks like lace that’s been made from strands of silver light. You’ll have to come see it. Matilda is a true artist—a highly advanced spirit in the spider kingdom.”

  I looked at the dusty cobwebs that covered the broom in my hand, and tried to think of something to say.

  “The other day I was playing a violin concerto for my dogwood tree and noticed that Matilda was weaving her web in tune to the music. She never missed a single nuance. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if she reincarnates as a fine musician. I can picture her poised at a grand piano, her nimble fingers blazing through a Mozart sonata. It was such a splendid moment that I believe I had a tiny glimpse at nirvana.”

  I leaned against the porch rail. “Did you know there’s a place called nirvana in Idaho?”

  “Idaho!” She fell
back in the chair, all laughter and legs. “Oh, Cecelia, you never cease to delight me.”

  “Well, there is. I brought in the mail the other day, and on the cover of one of Aunt Tootie’s magazines it said there was a place in Idaho called Serenity Gardens. And they have some kind of water garden that’s named Little Nirvana. So I figured that’s where it was.”

  “Well, nirvana is a place of serenity, but it’s not an external place. It’s a state of perfect calm and acceptance where we join the eternal rhythm. Nirvana represents the final goal of Buddhism.” Miz Goodpepper looked into the sky. “But it takes many, many lifetimes to get there.”

  “Well, too bad it’s not in Idaho; then you could go there right away.”

  She laughed and shook her head. “Cecelia, you always brighten my day. I wish you’d come over and spend more time with me.”

  I picked cobwebs from the broom bristles and flicked them over the porch rail. “I will, after Mrs. Odell goes to Florida.”

  “Oh,” she said, rising to her feet, “I got so lost in our conversation, I almost forgot. I have a little something for Gertrude. Is she here?”

  I escorted Miz Goodpepper into the house and led her down the hallway to the living room. She reached into the pocket of her dress and pulled out a small narrow box tied with a blue ribbon. “For you, Gertrude.”

  Inside was a silver bookmark. Mrs. Odell smoothed her fingers over its surface and smiled. “It’s just beautiful, Thelma. Thank you.”

  Miz Goodpepper reclined on the sofa. “When we all got together after the garden tour, Cecelia mentioned how much you loved to read.”

  “Yes, I do. But I’ve never had such a lovely bookmark.”

  “It’s quite old; my guess is that it was probably made during the1880s.”

  “So was I,” Mrs. Odell said with a chuckle.

  “I’m fascinated with antiques,” Miz Goodpepper said, bathing in a pool of soft light from the window. “I find there’s a sweet sorrow in objects that have slipped away from their original owners. Years ago I began to collect antique perfume bottles. I’d scour estate sales and antique shops, and every time I’d find one and bring it home, I’d wonder whose fingers had first wrapped around it, what she dreamed about, what she looked like . . . if she was happy.”

  There was a thoughtful stillness about Miz Goodpepper as she gazed out the window. “Once, when I was holding one of those beautiful bottles in my hand, I got a fleeting glimpse of the woman who owned it. It was like the fringed edge of a fading dream. Anyway,” she said, fluffing her dress, “when I was browsing through that darling shop over on Tattnall yesterday, I saw the bookmark and thought you might like it.”

  “Oh, I do,” Mrs. Odell said, smoothing her fingers over its surface. “I’ll cherish it.”

  Not ten minutes after she excused herself and left for home, Miz Hobbs blew in through the back door without so much as knocking. She was wearing a frightful green floral dress, and in her hands she held a gift box of sugar-coated pecans.

  “I just hate bein’ the last one to meet your friend,” she said, tugging at her dress, “but I’ve been havin’ such awful headaches lately. The doctor said they’d go away once the swelling in my brain went all the way down.” She laughed and patted my shoulder. “Who knew a brain could swell? Do you suppose I’ll get any smarter?”

  I pretended to laugh.

  “So where’s your friend?”

  “In the living room with Aunt Tootie.”

  I was about to lead her down the hall when she turned and left the kitchen without me. Her hat didn’t cover the bald spot on the back of her head from where she’d gotten stitches, and her scar looked like a pink zipper. The sight of it made me feel bad, but not bad enough to go and join her in the living room.

  All these visitors made me remember something Momma had said several years ago. She’d been more distraught than usual about her life in Ohio and was on a rampage when I got home from school. After smashing a coffee mug against the refrigerator, she looked at me and cried, “Being in the North isn’t living—it’s absolute hell. Northerners have no idea what real living means, and they don’t know a damn thing about etiquette or hospitality.”

  What triggered that outburst I’ll never know, but as crazy as Momma sometimes was, I now recognized that her statement held more than a grain of truth.

  During one of my visits to Miz Goodpepper’s house, she had pointed out a camellia bush in her yard and told me it couldn’t survive above the Mason-Dixon Line. She said camellias needed warmth to thrive and bloom. And now I wondered if my mother, Camille Sugarbaker Honeycutt, had been like her flowering name-sake.

  When my father plucked her from the warm Georgia soil and drove her to Ohio, did she begin to wither when they sped across the Mason-Dixon Line? Was she geographically doomed?

  I wondered about it so much that one night, when Aunt Tootie and I were alone in the den, I asked her what she thought. She put down her cross-stitch and looked at me thoughtfully. She neither confirmed nor denied the possibility, but what she said was, “There’s no doubt in my mind that certain temperaments do better in some climates than others. And if, from now on, you happen to think of your mother when you see a camellia in bloom, well, I’m sure she’d be tickled pink.”

  The first week of Mrs. Odell’s visit melted into a blur of luncheons, teas, and visitors at the door. Everyone seemed to be enjoying her visit to Savannah. Well, everyone but Oletta.

  Shortly after Mrs. Odell’s arrival, I noticed Oletta had grown quiet. Though she shuffled around the kitchen making meals and baking like she always did, she didn’t say much. If anyone asked her a question, she’d answer, but not once did she initiate a conversation.

  One afternoon, Aunt Tootie, Mrs. Odell, and I were sitting on the back porch having lunch. Oletta had made a creamy chicken salad with walnuts, grapes, and slivers of crisp celery that she served on a pillow of fresh greens. When she came out to the porch to refi ll our water glasses, Mrs. Odell beamed up at her. “Oletta, I’ve never tasted such wonderful chicken salad. Is there whipped cream in the dressing?”

  Oletta nodded.

  “Well, it’s just heavenly. Would you mind sharing your recipe?” Oletta never even looked at Mrs. Odell, and her voice was cold and flat when she said, “I don’t give my cookin’ secrets away.”

  Aunt Tootie’s face flushed, and I sat slack-mouthed. But Mrs. Odell never missed a beat when she said, “I don’t blame you one bit, Oletta. Good cooks should protect their recipes. Forgive me. I shouldn’t have asked.”

  After we’d finished lunch, Oletta cleared the table while the rest of us wandered into the garden. The way Oletta banged the dishes together was something she’d never done before. Aunt Tootie glanced toward the house and furrowed her brow as she watched Oletta carelessly pile the dishes on a tray.

  Mrs. Odell, who didn’t seem to notice the racket, stood at the far side of the garden and fussed over some red flowers that had bright yellow centers. “Oh, these have such happy little faces.”

  Aunt Tootie grinned. “Would you like a bouquet for your bedroom, Gertrude?”

  “Oh, I would.”

  “I’ll get my snips.” As she headed to the house, Aunt Tootie put her arm around my shoulders and said, “Come with me.”

  When we were out of Mrs. Odell’s earshot, Aunt Tootie slowed her stride and whispered, “Oletta hasn’t been herself, and I believe I’ve figured out why. Sugar, you’ve been spending all your time with Gertrude, and I have the suspicion that Oletta’s been feeling a little shoved out.”

  “But I love Oletta.”

  My aunt smoothed her hand down my back and leaned close to my ear. “I know you do, and she loves you too. Ever since you came to live here, the two of you have been like peas in a pod. You’re every bit as important to Oletta as she is to you. Try to give her a little attention. It’ll do her good.”

  How could I have been so stupid? I haven’t even read to Oletta since Mrs. Odell came to visit.

&n
bsp; While Aunt Tootie gathered her basket and garden snips, I wandered into the kitchen. Oletta was washing dishes and didn’t look up when I pulled a towel from the drawer and started drying. Though I was standing right next to her, she acted like I wasn’t there. When the dishes had been dried, I put them away while Oletta tidied the kitchen.

  With a wet sponge in hand and her lips pressed tight, she worked her arm in a furious circular motion as she scrubbed the counter. “Why ain’t you outside with your friend?”

  “Because I want to be with you.”

  “Suit yourself,” she grumbled, working the sponge so hard it began to shred. “Don’t make no never-mind to me one way or the other.”

  I wasn’t about to give up, so I sat at the table and leafed through the newspaper, hoping that when she was done she’d decide to talk to me. At the bottom of the third page I noticed an article about Martin Luther King. Knowing how much Oletta admired him, I cleared my throat and read aloud: “‘Dr. Martin Luther King delivered a speech at the Southern Christian Leadership Conference last week ...’

  As I read the article, Oletta stopped scrubbing the counter. She came and sat across from me, listening intently, occasionally nodding her head. When I finished reading, I folded the paper and looked at her. “He sure sounds like a smart man.”

  “Yes, he is. Thank you for readin’ it to me.” She pushed herself up from the table. “I got somethin’ for you,” she said, pulling a covered tin from the top of the refrigerator and handing it to me. “I made ’em this morning.”

  I pried off the lid, and when I saw what was inside, I felt awful. While I all but ignored her and went for a morning stroll through Forsyth Park with Mrs. Odell, Oletta had made me chocolate chip cookies. I looked into her eyes and said, “Thank you, Oletta.”

  “I put walnuts in the batter too, just how you like.”