Looking for Me

by Beth Hoffman

  I gave her a nudge with my elbow. “No. It doesn’t.”

  “Hey, on an entirely different subject, I forgot to tell you that I’ve got a new treasure. Do you have time to take a look after lunch?”

  “Sure, as long as you’ll drive me back to the shop.”

  While Bear lounged in a spot of sun near the stone of Jonas Buckley, Olivia and I discussed topics that ranged from how many more bookshelves I thought she could fit into her upstairs den to the nineteenth-century tulipwood desk I’d recently acquired for my shop.

  When we stood to leave, I looked over my shoulder. “See you soon, Pernelia.”

  Olivia winked. “Take care, honey. Rest well.”

  Within a few minutes, Olivia turned her truck on Montagu Street and rolled to a stop in front of her house—a blue-painted Federal nearly hidden from view by a wall of dense hedges. When she unlocked the front door, a series of shrill beeps sounded before she punched in her code and the alarm fell silent.

  Should anyone attempt to break into her home, he’d be in for a shock on three counts: Her security system was state-of-the-art, Bear was a highly trained guard dog, plus Olivia claimed to have a pump-action shotgun and swore she knew how to use it.

  The reason for the heavy security was Olivia’s work. As a well-regarded book conservator, she often had upwards of a million dollars’ worth of rare books and manuscripts in her possession.

  To enter Olivia’s home was to experience a quirky smorgasbord for the eyes. In every corner, on every shelf, and behind every door, something offbeat was waiting to be discovered. A person could spend days wandering through the rooms and still not see everything. Her collections were eclectic and ranged from marionettes (Howdy Doody, Captain Hook, and Tinker Bell) to perfume bottles to her prized Pez collection. Her foyer walls were crammed with black-and-white photographs of old Hollywood stars—Jackie Gleason, the Lone Ranger, and her all-time favorite, Marlon Brando. The shelves above her kitchen cabinets were filled with at least fifty old soda-pop bottles, which wouldn’t have been so strange had they not been topped by hand puppets.

  Whenever I teased Olivia and called her a junkaholic, she’d lift her chin and fire back, “And you are a furniture slut. I swear, you just about drop your panties for any old walnut chest that comes your way.”

  Then we’d both laugh at the truth of it.

  Today, as I did each time before entering Olivia’s workroom, I joined her at the kitchen sink, where we washed our hands with a lemony astringent soap. The first time Olivia had invited me to handle a rare book she was restoring and had told me to wash my hands, I thought it was odd.

  “Why don’t you wear thin white gloves like they do in the movies?” I’d asked.

  Olivia rolled her eyes. “That’s a silly myth perpetuated by clueless Hollywood producers. She tapped her thumb and forefinger together. “A light touch and dexterity are most important. Only the pads of the fingers should be used.”

  With our hands clean and thoroughly dried, I followed her into her climate-controlled workroom, where overstuffed bookcases sagged beneath volumes of literary works—Tolstoy, Faulkner, and Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

  Mirroring my passion for antiques was Olivia’s strong relationship with books. She devoured them and often read as many as five a week. She hunted them down, mended their wounds, and brought them back to life.

  Olivia walked past an oak worktable that sat in the middle of the room. To the left, a wheeled utility cart held jars of conservation glue, sheaves of acid-free paper, and glass tubes filled with bookbinding needles. On the far wall was a large framed photograph of the Little Rascals. Olivia slid her hand along the bottom edge of the frame and pushed a button. Hinged on the right, the photograph swung open to reveal a small vault recessed into the wall. She waited for me to look away so she could turn the dial. I knew the drill and didn’t take it personally. When it came to the vault, she didn’t trust anyone.

  Reaching inside, she removed a small book and ceremoniously placed it in my hands. “You’re holding a first edition, first impression of The Tale of Peter Rabbit. It’s one of only two hundred fifty copies in the entire world—issued privately by Beatrix Potter—and it’s signed. She was rejected by so many publishing houses that she self-published in 1901.”

  Carefully, I leafed through the pages. “The illustrations are fantastic. Josh loved this story. I read it to him so many times that both of us knew it by heart.” I closed the book and handed it to Olivia. “Mama will be fascinated when she sees what you do.”

  “I can’t wait to meet her. In fact, I’ll cook a special dinner for the two of you. Something tells me it will be a very interesting evening.”

  From over my shoulder, I glanced into Olivia’s foyer, where a soft-sculpture witch sat in a rusty Radio Flyer wagon. “I have no doubt.”

  Olivia set the book on her worktable and looked at her watch. “C’mon, I’ll drive you back to the shop.”

  “You know what? I’ve changed my mind. It’s a beautiful day for a walk.”

  After pulling my empty lunch basket from the seat of Olivia’s truck, I strolled along the sidewalk and thought about my mother’s upcoming visit.

  Daddy had driven to Charleston once, about a year after I left home. He didn’t tell me he was coming, and when I saw him walk into Mr. Palmer’s shop, I was so surprised that I let out a whoop and nearly knocked him over when I catapulted myself into his arms.

  His damp hair was lined with deep comb marks that reminded me of his freshly plowed fields. He wore a brand-new pair of brown twill pants that still had creases from being folded on a store shelf. Though he was wearing his old farm boots, I could tell that he’d slathered them with oil and cleaned them up as best as he could.

  Daddy and Mr. Palmer hit it off, and after they talked for a while, I showed him around the workshop and introduced him to Albert. Mr. Palmer gave me the rest of the day off, which I spent showing Daddy my little apartment and giving him a walking tour of downtown Charleston. After dinner we strolled along the Battery, where the mansions were splashed with the last light of the day. We ended up at White Point Garden and sat on a bench that overlooked the water. As usual, neither of us said much, but we were glad to be together.

  After watching a sailboat glide by, Daddy reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a small envelope. “From your brother,” he said, handing it to me.

  Inside was a tiny gray feather tipped in bright yellow and a note that read:

  It’s good to fly in new skies.

  The goldfinch sends happiness.

  “He misses you, Teddi. We all do.”

  “I miss everyone, too. I’ll try to come home more often.”

  Daddy patted my knee. “I’m not trying to make you feel guilty. I’m glad you’re happy down here and doin’ work that you enjoy. That’s real important. I’m proud of you.”

  “Thanks, Daddy.”

  The evening light moved across his face, accentuating the deep lines of his hard-lived life. His callused hands were splayed across his knees.

  “I want you to promise me something, Peaches.”

  “Sure. What is it?”

  He glanced over his shoulder at the grand old homes, and his voice grew serious when he said, “Don’t forget where you came from.”

  While packing up Eddie’s toys and food for my drive back home, I thought about my father’s words. He needn’t have worried. Charlestonians treated me kindly and trusted me to mend their precious antiques, but I wasn’t one of them. And though I’d come to love Charleston, I did so with a detached admiration, much the same as one might feel while standing behind velvet ropes to admire a sculpture in a museum.

  It was a privilege to live within the fragrant boundaries of this ornamental city. Shaped by a rich history and quiet formalities, Charleston was a genteel community of charm and propriety that gazed upon itself with
restrained pride and satisfaction. Though a great many of its residents lived the gold-dipped life of the highborn, rarely was that fact flaunted.

  I couldn’t wait to introduce Mama to Charleston, and as I aimed my car north, I envisioned the two of us sitting on my tiny porch wrapped in our robes as we talked over breakfast. I wanted to walk her down the alleyways where, if you knew exactly the right place to peek, you’d get a glimpse of a garden that would surely take your breath away. I even went so far as to imagine us laughing together as we strolled along King Street and window-shopped. Maybe I’d slide my arm around hers and she’d give me a squeeze. Maybe . . .

  When I reached Slade, my head was crammed with scenarios that traversed an emotional landscape from the most childlike (the two of us staying up late at night and sharing our secrets) to the most implausible (Mama would walk into my shop and gasp with pride).

  I pulled in to the driveway, gathered my overnight bag, and went inside, but Mama wasn’t there. I called out several times and climbed the stairs to see if she was in the bathroom, but she wasn’t. When I stepped to her bedroom doorway and saw a partially packed suitcase sitting open on the bed, I smiled. It wasn’t until I returned to the kitchen that I saw the note she’d left on the counter.

  Teddi,

  Stella and I are going to the beauty parlor and to run a few errands. We’ll be back before 5. I hope you’ll take a nap.

  Mom

  More hungry than tired, I rooted through the pantry and gathered a box of crackers, then filled a teacup with Mama’s homemade applesauce. Grabbing the newest edition of Woman’s Day magazine from the basket on the kitchen table, I walked outside. While Eddie chewed a handful of treats, I sat on the porch swing and dug into the applesauce. With the magazine spread across my lap, I began leafing through the pages filled with recipes and helpful hints that were as foreign to me as my choice of career was to my mother. I smiled when I saw the dog-eared page about the many uses of baking soda, but my smile faded when I came to an article in the center of the magazine.

  Printed in bold letters at the top of the page were the words “Choosing the Right Name for Your Baby.”

  ELEVEN

  SUMMER 1959

  I was sitting on the steps of the back porch listening to the buzzing and humming that skipped across the fields. All sorts of bugs lived out there—crickets, katydids, and big green grasshoppers—busy doing whatever bugs did to create all that noise.

  The grass beneath the clothesline was burned to wisps of gold, and the tiger lilies along the side of the house had fainted from sunstroke. I watched a chubby Baltimore oriole swoop from the sky and take a long drink from the chipped birdbath. Off in the distance, I could see Daddy cutting hay.

  Balanced on my lap was a clear plastic bowl filled with water. Perry, my painted turtle, floated in the water while I sang him a song: “Smile and swim and be happy. The sun is our best friend. It’s summertime, and you and me . . .”

  Behind me, the screen door opened and Mama stepped onto the porch. She looked all puffy and was shiny with sweat. For a long time, she stood with her hands on her hips, her eyes fixed on something off in the distance. A low groan left her lips as she lowered herself down next to me. She lifted her hair off her neck and groaned again, her sleeveless blouse stained with sweat and frayed at the armholes.

  “You think life’s all happy-dappy, don’t you? Sitting out here with that turtle, singin’ your little songs. Well, go ahead and sing, Teddi. Get it out of your system now. When you grow up, all that singin’ will stop.”

  She yanked her blouse over her stomach and looked down. “Lord, I don’t want to go through this. I’m too old. Too tired.”

  My heart sped up. The look on Mama’s face was scaring me.

  Tilting her head, she studied me with red-rimmed eyes. Then she leaned forward and ran her hands through her hair, sending droplets of sweat splashing onto the step below us. “It’s so hot. I can’t take it anymore. Maybe I’ll put my head in the oven and just go ahead and finish myself off. At least I’d be out of my misery. Then you could sing at my funeral. How about that?”

  Her words set my ears on fire. The sun’s reflection in the bowl of water grew bright, so bright that my eyes hurt. I didn’t know what I done to make Mama so mad.

  She grabbed hold of the porch rail and hoisted herself up. The screen door made a slap when she went back inside the house.

  After that day I spent as much time outside as I could. But when I had to do house chores or stay inside because it was raining, sometimes I’d peek into the kitchen to see if Mama had her head in the oven.

  When harvest season arrived and bushels of fresh-picked vegetables lined the porch in bright reds, greens, and yellows, Daddy drove Mama to the hospital. While she was gone, summer scorched the farm. It was so hot that Grammy and I wore thin cotton nightgowns from morning till night. We listened to the radio and canned tomatoes and butter beans as a fan hummed from the kitchen counter. After supper we’d walk through the fields and pick wildflowers while Grammy told stories.

  About a week after Mama went away, a cool breeze blew in, and that was the day Daddy brought her home. I watched from the kitchen window as they came across the lawn. When Daddy opened the screen door, Mama stepped inside and handed me a yellow bundle.

  Inside was a baby brother.

  I thought he was mine, a gift from Mama as a way of saying she was sorry for setting my ears on fire.

  After Daddy helped Mama ease into a chair, he turned to me. “We couldn’t decide on a name. So we agreed that you should pick.”

  I looked at the bundle and chewed my lip. I was good at picking names for animals, but this? This was different.

  Why are they leaving this up to me? What if I make a mistake?

  I was so overwhelmed that I didn’t know what to think. While peering at his little pink face, I murmured, “Gosh.”

  “Hey,” Daddy said, “I like that name. Josh . . . Josh Overman. Has a real nice sound.”

  I snapped my head up. “But I—”

  “I like it, too,” Mama said. Though her voice was weary, she smiled when she added, “But, Teddi, try not to mumble when you speak.”

  Grammy handed Mama a cup of tea. “Josh is a fine name.”

  And that was it.

  But naming something or someone brings on a natural sense of responsibility, or at least that’s how it felt to me. So I took to caring for my little brother, bathing him in a rubber dishpan out on the back porch and pushing him all over the farm in a rickety buggy.

  “My name is Teddi,” I said while guiding the buggy down a slope. “Can you say Teddi?” I stopped at the edge of the vegetable patch and lifted a chubby toad from beneath one of Grammy’s hosta plants. I placed him in the buggy with my brother and grinned. “This is my favorite garden friend.”

  I steered the buggy along a bumpy path and into the shifting shadows of the woods. “This is where animals and birds live.” I pointed to the top of a craggy tree. “Mr. Owl lives right up there. Do you know what he says? He says hoo-hoo, hoo-hoo. Can you say that? And look, these are walnuts.” I collected a handful and put them in the buggy along with my brother and the toad. When I returned to the house, Josh was all but buried beneath the treasures I’d gathered.

  My little brother was so wonder-struck by the world around him that never once did I hear him cry. He’d sit in that old buggy with his eyes wide and his ears pricked sharp as a deer’s. It seemed to me that nature spoke to him more plainly than any human voice. I’d watch how he turned his head, how his eyes would focus. He was aware in ways that I clearly saw but didn’t understand—as if the wind moving through the trees and the subtle change in a blackbird’s song told him the truth of things.

  One day I was bouncing Josh on my knees and accidentally banged his head on the kitchen table. I hugged him real tight and told him I was sorry. His eyes filled with
tears, and I thought for sure he’d wail, but he blinked them away and smiled at me. I could hardly believe it.

  Mama said she’d never heard of a baby that didn’t cry. She was worried that something was wrong with him. But Grammy said no, that she should thank her lucky stars. Mama looked away and said she didn’t have any of those.

  The first clearly spoken words to leave my little brother’s lips came during the summer he was two years old. He was in a playpen under the maple tree, chewing on a soggy cracker. When he saw me walking across the lawn with a basket of tomatoes, he stood on his tiptoes and squealed, “Teddi!” Then he pointed to the woods and called out, “Mr. Owl—hoo-hoo, hoo-hoo!”

  With each passing year, my brother was drawn deeper into nature’s wonders. By the time he was ten, he worshipped the woods and their creatures with a reverence few could grasp. He saw holiness where others saw only the ordinary. Trees formed the spires of the cathedral where his prayers were gentle footsteps over sacred terrain. He knelt on the rocks of the Red River and drank in the company of rainbow trout, and he whistled in harmony with the birds.

  It was during his early teenage years that Josh became a solitary, singular boy—courageous, silent, and often unreadable. He was also observant. No bird sailed over our farm that my brother couldn’t identify. Never was there an animal track he didn’t recognize, no species of tree he couldn’t name.

  He was a boy who on a frigid winter’s day stood in the middle of the barren cornfield and pulled an apple from his jacket pocket. Under the gaze of a young six-point buck, my brother slowly moved forward until he was within seven yards or so of the deer. He stopped and placed the apple on the ground. Taking two slow steps backward, Josh lowered himself until he was sitting.

  The buck stood motionless, his eyes fixed on my brother, his tail flicking. Plumes of white left his nostrils as he took a series of tentative steps forward. When he was within reach of the apple, he stopped. Then, with one more flick of his tail, the deer lowered his head and began eating.