by Leanna Sain
I snorted. Well, that was a sure-fire way to halt a runaway mouth. “Okay, you don’t want to tell me. I get it. At least you didn’t throw another quote at me.” I drew a deep breath and blew it out. “You want to know about my home…well, like I told you before, it’s right across from the park on West Gaston. Built back in 1857 by one of my aunt’s ancestors, though I’m not sure how the Davenports got added into the Brantley mix; by marriage, I guess. I’m not up on all the genealogy. I only know that the house has always been in the family. You probably don’t know this, but certain people in Savannah take tremendous pride in having that kind of history.”
Lily got the strangest look on her face. “Pride. Enough to choke a horse. Know about that crowd. Same thing with money. They love it, but hate to spend it.”
“Yeah,” I answered, surprised. “The only thing they love more is gossiping. It’s as vital as breathing, but how did you know about the money part?”
“Nevermind. You were telling me about your home.”
I studied her through narrowed eyes before continuing, “My parents died when I was nine, and I was sent there to live with my aunt—no, my great aunt—my mother’s aunt. And well…she hated me.”
“Hate is a strong word.”
I nodded. “Yup. And she was pretty obvious about it.”
“Was? Is she—”
“Dead? Yes.”
“Don’t be so broken up about it.”
I laughed without humor. “It’s hard to be broken up about the death of someone when you feel nothing but relief.”
She let that slide. “So you’re by yourself?”
“No, not by myself. Remember I mentioned Minnie? She and her husband, Tobias, live there too. They’re family. Oh…and Tut, of course.”
“Tut?”
“King Tut…my cat.”
Her eyes twinkled.
“I guess that’s all.”
After a thoughtful gaze, she asked, “Why did she hate you?”
“Aunt Patricia?” I shrugged. “I wish I knew. I’m pretty sure it had something to do with my mother, but no one ever told me and I didn’t dare ask.”
“Holding a grudge is like letting someone live, rent-free, in your head.”
I had to chuckle. “I was wondering how long you’d be able to go before giving me another of your quotes.”
She just smiled, looking very wise in her comical hat. “What else?”
“What do you mean, “what else”?”
“You’re a senior at SCAD. How’d you get there?”
“Well, I wanted to be a painter, but I needed some training. SCAD is right here; spread out all over the town. Did you know that they’ve reclaimed over sixty historic buildings that would’ve been torn down otherwise? Very eco-friendly, if you ask me.”
“Mm-hmm. But there are better art schools. Why not choose one of them?”
“Not you, too,” I cried. “I know SCAD sort of has a bad reputation with some people. Strict Southern decorum doesn’t mix well with free spirits. Sort of like oil and water. I’m sure Aunt Patricia wanted me to choose a “good” college, an ivy-leagued one, preferably one that was on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean, or at least several states away so she’d be rid of me. Not only did I pick a school close by—parts of it almost within rock throwing distance of the house—I picked SCAD. I guess she considered it a slap in her face. Anytime she or her snobby friends even said the name, it was spoken in a nasty tone and with the same expression worn whenever passing the paper mill.”
Lily chuckled. “Think you’re exaggerating.”
“I’m not!” I insisted. “It’s true.” At her look, I laughed. “Okay. Maybe I slightly exaggerated. The good part is it’s all paid for. My school, that is. Remember the pride we were talking about? Well, Aunt Patricia wouldn’t hear of me “begging for money,” which is what she called any type of student loans. The phrase, “what would people think?” played a big role in her decision-making process.”
“I see.”
“Yeah. It was a surprise, all right. But not as big as the one I got after she died. I figured she’d have donated the house to the Daughters of the American Revolution, or one of the long list of committees she chaired, and that I’d have to find another place to live, but the fine folks at Groben, White, and Jones, Attorneys-at-law told me the house was mine. As long as I continued living there. All Aunt Patricia’s assets had been put into a trust from which I’d get a meager living allowance until I married, at which point my husband would take charge of the purse strings.”
“Husband?” she looked startled. “Anybody in mind?”
“Hah!” I scoffed. Her question proved how little she knew me. “That’s not the point. It bothers me that Aunt Patricia—a dyed-in-the-wool spinster who’d never had to answer to anyone her entire adult life about how she chose to spend her money—put that kind of stipulation in her will.”
“You’re not one of those feminists, are you?”
“No, but—”
“But nothing. Your college is paid for, right?”
“Yeah,” I grudgingly saw her point. “And any costs associated with the house are taken care of by a fund she set up with her attorneys. And I don’t need a car because I can walk anywhere I need to go.”
“Pretty sweet deal.”
I burst out laughing. The phrase sounded hilarious coming from her lips.
“What? That’s what they call it, right?”
“That’s what they call it,” I nodded, still chuckling.
“Be thankful for such things as you have.” The words hung in the air. She clapped a hand over her lips, the oddest expression on her face.
Hmmm. What was that about? “Another quote? Okay, okay. I get the message.”
I could tell she didn’t want me to pursue it—whatever it was, so I didn’t. I picked up my sketchpad instead, flipping the page over to a clean, white surface. As my pencil captured the pensive expression on her face, I replayed our conversation in my mind, skipping over that last quote. I’d heard it before, but couldn’t remember where. I knew it would come back to me later.
I knew the only reason I had a roof over my head was because Aunt Patricia feared the wagging tongues of Savannah. Her pride wouldn’t allow her to be the focus of gossip even after her death. And while I’m thankful I didn’t have to scramble for a place to live, I think being talked about is probably the last thing she needed to worry about now.
I drew in silence for a while. When I finished the sketch, I picked up the conversation where she’d so cleverly changed the subject. “So…how’d you do your smoke act last night?” I gestured with my hands. “Poof! You just vanished.”
“Not so fast. I’ve got one more thing to say.”
Her expression looked so serious, she instantly had my undivided attention. “Okay.”
“You said you wished you knew why your aunt hated you. Did you mean that?”
The question caught me off guard. I swallowed hard before stuttering, “I g-guess so.”
Lily cocked one eyebrow and waited.
“Okay, yes! It would be nice to know. Maybe, if I knew, it would help me understand why she treated me the way she did. It wouldn’t change anything, but at least I’d know.”
She nodded once. “I’ll find out.”
Okaaay…A heavy silence hung between us. What do you say after something like that? I had nothing.
“The best things in life are unseen. That’s why we close our eyes to kiss, laugh, and dream.”
Leave it to Lily to fill in an uncomfortable blank with one of her quotes. I laughed in relief, thankful for the break in the tension. “I’ll probably never know about the kiss part of that statement, but I finally understand your game. Whenever you feel uncomfortable or don’t want to answer my question, you respond with one of your little proverbs. That’s pretty sneaky, you know, but I’m onto you now, so you can stop hiding behind them and start answering when I ask you something. Where. Did. You. Go?”
Boy, that sounded bold! What’s gotten into me lately? Where’s the quiet, introverted, push-over? That’s me, not this demanding, bossy person that seemed to emerge in Lily’s presence. The dual-personality thing was disconcerting, to say the least. Maybe it was just the intensity of the previous moment that caused me to react this way.
She studied me carefully before rising to her feet. “Come. I’ll show you.”
Chapter Seven
Cleo
“Almost there,” Lily called over her shoulder. “One more flight to go.”
I didn’t answer. I was too out of breath, sucking wind to beat the band and Lily wasn’t even breathing hard. How embarrassing. “Where are you…taking me?” I finally panted. “Are these stairs…even safe? It’s a fire…escape. Has the fire marshal…checked them lately? Seem kind of…rickety to me. Seems like they’re…just clinging to the back of the building…sort of like ivy.”
Lily was muttering something. I think I heard the word, “wimp,” but didn’t have the energy to ask.
“We’re here.” She held a door open and I dragged myself inside.
Once my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I could see that we were standing in a slanted-ceilinged room that was smaller than my closet. The only spot where you could stand fully upright was directly in the center, where the ceiling reached its apex. A pallet of blankets lay on the floor. A mostly-melted candle sat in a cracked Tybee Island mug, a book of matches beside it. A single burner hot-plate was plugged into the only outlet I could see, a beat-up aluminum pot sat atop it. A few dented cans of Campbell’s soup were stacked on the floor to one side, a plastic milk jug, half full of water on the other.
“What is this place?” I asked, once I’d caught my breath.
“I live here.”
“What? I thought you were homeless,” I blurted. “I mean, I’m glad you have a roof over your head, but…I don’t understand.”
“You don’t have to,” she answered brusquely. “No questions. Only reason I brought you here was to show you something.”
“No questions?” I whined, ready to argue, but one look at her expression made me change my mind. She meant it. “Okay,” I sighed. “No questions.”
She gave me a single nod and turned toward the window, her back facing me.
I tried to satisfy my curiosity by studying the room. To say that the furnishings were merely Spartan would be the greatest of understatements. The only thing “decorative” in the room were the curtains at the single window. Though faded, the dark red fabric still had a lustrous sheen that seemed out of place, too fancy for the rest of the décor…if you wanted to call the contents of the room, décor, that is.
Now I understood how she’d disappeared the night before. The doorway that led between this building and the one beside it was basically invisible, hidden completely behind a huge camellia bush. It took less than a minute after leaving the square for us to vanish from the street. A narrow walkway led to the rear of this large five-story house. Her room was in the attic.
Cardboard boxes were stacked along one wall, nearly bursting with no-telling what. The one closest to me had a collection of colorful Savannah area brochures fanned-out beside a book that was turned face-down. I couldn’t read the title.
What sort of book would she have and why didn’t she keep it with the rest of her things in her metal cart? I couldn’t help myself; I reached for it, turning it over.
Holy Bible?
My gaze dropped to the bottom right corner where her name was stamped in gold: Lily Telfair-Gordon. I spun around and stared at her back as she stood at the window, silently gazing through the faded curtains. I was confused. With Lily, every step forward came with twice that many backward steps. She had to be the most multi-layered person I’d ever encountered. Worse than an onion.
She had a Bible—with her name stamped on it, no less—very much like the one I had packed away in a box somewhere in my closet.
My mind suddenly slipped back to a time when my parents were still alive and I was about five or six years old. Every Sunday morning we had waffles for breakfast, then put on our best clothes, tucked our Bibles under our arms, and headed off to church. I loved the separate service they had for kids—His Kids is what they called it. There was always lots of singing, and wonderful stories told with the help of puppets. Sometimes these stories were illustrated with chalk drawings, which were my favorites. They’d turn all the lights off except for the single spotlight on the artist. Vibrant colors seemed to flow right out of his fingertips as he painted a beautiful pastel illustration. Unknown to us children, he used some fluorescent chalk for unseen details. At just the right moment, a black-light replaced the spotlight and the hidden parts appeared like magic accompanied by gasps of surprise and lots of oohs and ahhs. It was after one such presentation that I’d asked Jesus into my heart.
I shook my head to dispel the memory. When my parents died and I came to live with my aunt, we attended her church every Sunday morning, because that’s what people did; it was expected. But it wasn’t the same. Though beautiful, Aunt Patricia’s church was as cold and dead as a package of frozen peas. I felt myself becoming just as wintry as the rest of the congregation, and I made a promise to myself that as soon I could manage it, I’d never step foot into that church again. When I walked out after Aunt Patricia’s funeral, it was for the last time. I’d kept that promise to myself and never looked back…until now.
Finding out that Lily had a Bible unearthed some guilty memories as well as more confusion about my new friend. Just when I thought I was starting to figure out her “pitching style,” she’d throw me a curve ball. How could she make me feel confident and off-balance at the same time? It didn’t make sense. I wondered if it ever would.
She seemed deep in thought. I waited for her to break the silence.
“You can’t start the next chapter of your life if you keep re-reading the last one.”
Her voice was barely louder than a whisper, as if she was talking to herself, as if I wasn’t meant to hear. I was about to throw my hands up in exasperation and stomp out of the room, when I stopped and allowed her words to penetrate my mind: You can’t start the next chapter of your life if you keep re-reading the last one.
The words were a mental forehead smack.
The message pealed out in bell-tones, loud and clear, making me completely forget my attempted psychoanalysis of her, and focus on me. It shot like an arrow, straight to the center of my heart…bull’s eye! She was talking about my life before meeting her. Did she know that? I’d done nothing, but re-read the same boring chapters over and over. Poor me…my parents died and I had to go live with my mean, old aunt who hated me.
What an epiphany!
“Can I show you something?”
Lily’s voice sounded…what? Choked up? A little scared? I wasn’t sure. Maybe she’d had an epiphany too and was just as emotional as I was.
“Yeah,” I croaked, and then cleared my throat. “Sure you can.”
She held out the black plastic garbage bag she’d retrieved from her cart before we’d started up the stairs. It was one of those thick lawn and leaf kind, but only a fraction of it was full. She held it out to me without a word, pulling back slightly when I reached for it. I shot her a glance, and let my hand drop. What on earth was wrong? It was clear that she was fighting some inner battle; it was painted all over her face. It took several seconds for her to decide the outcome of the struggle, but then she squared her shoulders
and almost forced the bag into my hands. But by that time, I didn’t want it.
“What is this?” I asked. “Something you found in someone’s trash?”
She didn’t answer, just turned back to the window, leaving me with my questions.
I tentatively hefted it from hand to hand. “It’s heavy for its size. And lumpy, though I can’t tell what it might be through this thick plastic. Can you give me a hint? Animal, vegetable, mineral?” I joked, trying to lighten the atmosphere that now seemed too heavy to breathe. “Nothing? C’mon, Lily. You’re scaring me. Why are you acting so skittish?”
She never moved, just kept staring out her window. It looked like I’d have to open the darn thing if I wanted to know what it was. It was bad. I knew it. She didn’t have to say the words to tell me. Her actions screamed it. Did I really want to know? No, but it was something that I had to do.
My fingers fumbled with the knot that held it closed before finally managing to untie it and peer inside.
It was like staring into a bucket of black paint. I couldn’t see a thing. The thick plastic bag seemed to absorb any available light like a sponge. A glance overhead told me there was no light fixture, and the candle by her pallet of blankets wouldn’t be much help. The only other source of illumination was the window, so I moved to stand beside Lily.
At first, I didn’t understand what I was seeing. Booklets? Flyers that someone had printed out? It was thick stacks of paper, with rectangular designs printed on top, several per page. “Huh. Looks sort of like sheets of play-money from a board game…a bunch of hundred dollar bills.”
I pulled the bag closer, studying it more carefully in the dim light.
“Wait a minute… Lily, this is some pretty realistic play-money. It looks a lot like hundred dollar bills.”
My hands went a little numb and I clumsily turned the bag upside down, dumping the contents to the floor, then gawking with a mixture of fascination and horror at the uncut sheets covered with little portraits of Benjamin Franklin.