Looking for Me

by Beth Hoffman

  I smiled and squeezed his fingers. “I hope you’ll come back and see me again, Mr. Lee.”

  He leaned against his cane and bowed. “God willing, Miz Overman. God willing.”

  When I walked back into the shop, Inez was waiting with the credit-card slip in her hand, her eyes wide. “I don’t know what surprised me more—that you sold the bowl or who you sold it to!”

  “What do you mean? Has Mr. Lee been in the shop when I wasn’t here?”

  “No. But when I saw his name and the Shelbyville, Tennessee, address on the receipt, I about fainted. Not long ago Time magazine had a big write-up about him. He’s famous—came up from nothing, and I’m talking the kind of dirt poor where none of the children had shoes. He’s made a fortune in the preserves business. His elderberry jams have won all sorts of awards.”

  I glanced out the window. “Well, famous or not, I’ll remember him for as long as I live.”

  The sale of the monteith bowl had saved me from having to take out a loan, but it would be a year or more before I could rebuild my personal savings. Which is why, when a phone call came three weeks later, I was both relieved and heartbroken. The call lasted just a few minutes, but the result would be forever.

  When I hung up, I grabbed my sweater and stepped into Inez’s doorway. “I’m going for a walk.”

  She stopped typing and peered over the top of her glasses. “What happened? You look like hell. Are you sick?”

  I shook my head. “I just need some fresh air.”

  The past few days had been unusually cold, and I pulled up my collar against the chill. I walked with my eyes cast downward until I turned off the sidewalk and stepped onto the narrow path that led into the cemetery. I sat down on the bench and folded my hands in my lap. “This is a bad day, Pernelia.”

  The wind increased, and bloated clouds lumbered through the sky. Elbows to knees, I rested my head in my hands and thought about my family, my life, and how much I wished I could do it all over again. Do it better. I could feel myself sinking into a dark place when I noticed a little woman come around the side of the church. She was lugging a heavy tote bag that gave a wobble to her stride. Sprigs of gray hair poked through the holes of her green crocheted hat, and her coat hung open and flapped in the wind.

  Though there were plenty of places to sit, she eased herself down on the opposite end of my bench. She smiled, dug through her tote, and removed a thick wool sock. Pushing her hand inside, she drew out a tiny porcelain shoe and gave it a quick polishing with the end of her scarf. I knew right away the shoe was an antique from the Edwardian era. Had I not been so depressed, I would have asked her about it.

  The old lady looked at me. “Your heart is heavy and your pain is deep, yes?”

  For a moment I just stared at her. “Those sound like the words to a really bad country-western song.”

  She placed the shoe on the bench between us. “Twenty dollars to ease your pain.”

  “No thanks.”

  She shrugged, pulled a half-eaten sandwich from her tote, peeled back the waxed-paper wrapping, and took a bite.

  From the corner of my eye, I watched her, my insides softening when I took in her threadbare coat and scarf—and Lord, those broken-down shoes were a sorry sight. I dug through my pockets and removed a crinkled five-dollar bill. “This is all I have.”

  “What day is this?” she asked, dabbing her lips with the edge of her scarf.

  “Wednesday.”

  She pointed to the shoe. “Lucky for you, Wednesday is discount day. Put your money in there.”

  I took the bill and tucked it inside the shoe, feeling both sorry for the old woman and silly for taking part in whatever the heck this was.

  “What’s your name?” she asked.

  I glanced at the headstone directly across the path. Chiseled into the granite was the name Suzanne Reynolds.

  “My name’s Suzanne,” I said, avoiding the old woman’s eyes.

  “Hmm, interesting. Your name doesn’t match your energy, but that’s okay, I have your energy anyway.” She folded her small, wrinkled hands on her lap and looked into the sky.

  “So what are we doing?”

  “I’m a sky reader.”

  I silently laughed at myself for sitting there with an old woman who had a goofy expression on her face and a five-dollar bill sticking out of a porcelain shoe. I wondered what had happened to bring her to this sad state of affairs. No sooner did I have that thought than I felt ashamed. After all, there I was, sitting in a cemetery talking to a headstone, so who was worse off?

  She sniffed the air and exhaled. “They say it’s a big dilemma, yes?”

  “Who? Who says that?”

  “My people,” the old woman said while scanning the clouds. “Guides. Everybody has them, but most people don’t listen. They say it’s time to begin the journey. What does that mean?”

  “I don’t know. You’re the one with mystery guides and five dollars sticking out of a shoe.”

  The old lady ignored my comment and continued. “Nothing works until we find a place of peace. It’s the way things work—here and over there, too.”

  “Over where?”

  “On the other side. The other life.”

  None of this was making any sense, though I shouldn’t have expected it would.

  Her face grew serious. “They say it’s time to put down the stone and begin your journey.”

  Stone? What stone?

  She fell quiet and scanned the sky as if searching for something. Without looking at me, she said, “That is what I get for you. There’s nothing more. Oh, wait. I see the sun coming up over a . . . What is it I’m seeing? Ah, there it is. A cornfield. Yes, it’s corn.”

  “What?” I tried to rub away the chill racing up my arms. “You couldn’t possibly have made that up.”

  She tilted her head. “No. Zelda makes nothing up. That is what I get for you. The energy’s gone now.”

  “No! Call it back,” I cried, waving my arms toward the darkening sky. “Can you tell me about my brother? He’s—”

  “I’m sorry, Suzanne. When the energy goes, it goes.”

  I fished a crumpled tissue from my pocket and blotted my runny nose. “Suzanne isn’t my real name. I lied to you about that. Sorry.”

  “That’s okay,” she said, sliding the porcelain shoe back inside the sock. “My real name’s not Zelda.”

  I pushed myself up from the bench and said good-bye to the old woman. Stepping onto the path, I wondered what on earth had just taken place. A few moments later, I stopped and looked back. Zelda was already tottering around the corner of the church.

  When I left the cemetery, a fierce wind cut around the buildings. Ahead of me, two paper cups raced across the sidewalk, tumbling end over end. As I crossed Fulton Street, someone shouted my name. I turned to see Olivia trotting a half block behind me. The wind had whipped her hair into a froth of curls. I pulled my sweater tighter across my chest and waited.

  “Hey, Olivia. What are you doing?”

  “Trying to find you,” she said, catching her breath. “But I wouldn’t make a very good detective. I was positive you’d be with Pernelia.”

  “Actually, I just came from there. Why, what’s up?”

  “Inez called me. She was really worried, Teddi. She said you took a phone call and the minute you hung up, you left the shop all pale and out of sorts.”

  “She overreacted. I’m fine.”

  “No you’re not. You should see your face. Come on, what happened?”

  “It’s nothing, really. I need to get back to the shop and put a coat of gesso on a table.”

  “The hell with the gesso.” She took hold of my arm and didn’t let go until we arrived at Marty’s Café.

  We slid into a lumpy green vinyl booth by the front window. A tired-eyed waitress pushed through the
swinging door from the kitchen. The spicy aroma of warm apple pie followed her down the aisle. After she took our order and shuffled off, I blew into my hands and tried to rub away the cold.

  “So tell me what happened,” Olivia said, removing her gloves and unbuttoning her jacket.

  “Joe Springer called. He’s the farmer who’s been leasing Daddy’s crop fields for the past few years. He made an offer to buy the land. And not a ‘let’s dicker about price’ offer—an honest, respectable offer.”

  Olivia looked puzzled. “But that’s good, right? Especially since you’ve been worried about finances and all.”

  The waitress brought our order—onion rings and lemonade for Olivia and hot chocolate for me. I picked up a misshapen spoon and stirred the dollop of whipped cream until it disappeared. “But that means I’ll have to split everything up. Joe doesn’t want the house or the barn, only the fields. I can understand that, but the land has been in my family for so long. Anyway, his call took me off guard. That’s all.”

  Olivia took a bite of an onion ring. “I know it’s hard, but let’s talk about the positives. You won’t have to work so many long hours, and you’ll finally be able to buy a house.”

  “Sad price to pay for owning a home.”

  Olivia’s eyes narrowed as she learned forward. “What about the price you’ve paid? Working your ass off for six, sometimes seven days a week so you can support your grandmother. And then there’s all that driving to Kentucky and back again. I honestly don’t know how you’ve managed. The driving alone would have done me in long ago. It’s your turn now, Teddi. Grab it with both hands.”

  I looked out the window. The wind was fierce, and I watched a woman chase her runaway scarf across the street. Wanting to move off the subject of the farm, I told Olivia about meeting Zelda.

  She laughed so hard she nearly choked on another onion ring. “Ha! You fell for Zelda’s spiel? Which one did she use? ‘Your heart is heavy’ or her old standby, ‘Your pain is deep’?”

  I draped a paper napkin over my head. “Both.”

  “You’re such a banana. So what did she soak you for?”

  “Five dollars,” I said as the napkin slid over my face and onto the table. “It’s all I had on me, so I hope you’re picking up the tab.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ve got it covered.”

  “When she asked me what my name was, I told her it was Suzanne.”

  Olivia scrunched up her face. “Suzanne?”

  “Yeah. I don’t know why, but I just didn’t want her to know my real name. And then, when I apologized for lying, she told me her real name wasn’t Zelda.”

  “Her real name is Ethel Townley, but that probably didn’t sound exotic enough for a sky reader, so she started calling herself Zelda. She’s been wandering the streets for as long as I can remember. I’m surprised you’ve never run into her before. She’s part of Charleston’s soft underbelly. Years ago—I’m talking the late sixties—she got hit by lightning and flew through the air like Mary Poppins, or so the story goes. Some people swear she’s had ‘the gift’ ever since, but I think the poor old thing is off her rocker.”

  “Who knows? Maybe it’s both.” I swirled one of Olivia’s onion rings through a river of ketchup. “I feel sorry for her.”

  “She lives with her brother and his wife in a nice house over on Lamboll, so don’t feel too sorry for her. She’s a lot better off than most people think. Tourists love her.” Olivia paused for a moment and then laughed. “All right, here’s a confession. I’m a banana, too. Several years ago I put ten bucks in that goofy shoe, but nothing she said made any sense.”

  “Well, that was pretty much my experience, except that she did mention a cornfield.”

  Olivia’s eyes widened. “Really? That’s just plain spooky, especially coming right after that phone call. What did she say about it?”

  “Nothing. Only that she saw it.”

  Olivia leaned back and looked at me thoughtfully. “Teddi, I didn’t come from a family who had land, but if I did, I’d probably feel exactly like you. The thought of selling it must be incredibly hard. But you’re going to accept the offer, aren’t you?”

  I shrugged sadly. “I don’t think I have much choice . . .”

  Olivia and I talked for an hour, and when I got back to the shop, I felt a lot better. After applying a coat of gesso to the tabletop that I would soon marbleize, I locked the doors and set off to see Grammy.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  On my way down the corridor, I glanced into Mr. Lamb’s room and saw him reading a book with a magnifying glass. I stopped at the doorway. “Hi, Mr. Lamb. How are you this evening?”

  He looked up and smiled, his old dentures appearing a bit loose. “Hey there, Miz Teddi,” he said with a click of his teeth. “Guess I’m doin’ all right. Devil ain’t found me yet,” he said with a laugh. “You on your way to see Belle or you leavin’?”

  “Just heading there now. And guess what? I’m bringing something special on Sunday, and I’ll make extra for you.”

  His eyes widened with hope. “Macaroni and cheese?”

  “Yep.”

  “Oh, boy. I’ll be waitin’.”

  I waved good-bye and continued down the corridor. When I turned in to my grandmother’s room, she was sitting in her wheelchair. The TV was tuned to her favorite nature show, but she wasn’t watching. Her head was tipped forward, and a dinner tray was pushed to the side of her table. Her meal was cold and untouched.

  When I knelt so I could see her face, her eyes were teary. “Oh, Grammy, what’s wrong?”

  “I don’t like how they do their chicken casserole. So I opened the box of doughnuts you brought me. I was havin’ one and enjoying my show when that new nurse came in.” My grandmother pointed to the top shelf of her closet. “She put them up there where I can’t reach.”

  “She took them away from you?”

  “Yes, scolded me like I was a child. Said all that sugar would kill me. Well, I told her we all gotta die of something, and I couldn’t think of a better way to go. So I asked her to give me my doughnuts. I asked her nice. But she just walked out the door.”

  “Is that right?” I stepped to the closet, pulled the box from the shelf, and set it on the table. I smiled at my grandmother as I opened the lid. “You go right ahead and have as many as you’d like.”

  She blinked away a tear, picked one out, and took a bite.

  “Grammy, I think I forgot to lock my car. I’ll be back in just a minute.”

  I could feel my cheeks begin to flush as I marched down the hall toward the nursing station. When I rounded the corner, I saw a tall, middle-aged nurse writing in a chart. I walked to the counter and waited. When she didn’t acknowledge my presence, I said, “Excuse me. I’m Teddi Overman, Belle Forrester’s granddaughter. I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  She glanced up. “What can I do for you?”

  I leaned over the counter so I could read her name tag. “Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, too, Rochelle. Are you new here?”

  “Yes,” she said, flipping a page in the chart.

  “Did you take my grandmother’s box of doughnuts away from her and put them in the closet?”

  “Of course I did,” she said, meeting my eye with a challenging look. “Doughnuts aren’t to be eaten for dinner. She needs—”

  “Let me tell you something, Miz Rochelle. My grandmother had to stuff newspapers in her clothes to keep from freezing to death during the Depression. She’s almost ninety-three years old and has gone through more in her life than you could even begin to imagine.”

  “Well, I—”

  “For the love of God, if my grandmother wants a doughnut, then she’s to have one, or two, or a whole dozen! And if you ever take anything away from her again or speak to her in a way that’s belittling or unkind, I guarantee I’ll report you to the board of direc
tors. And I demand—that’s right, Miz Rochelle, I demand that you treat that wonderful little woman with respect.”

  From his room Mr. Lamb yelled in his gravelly voice, “Yeah . . . let Belle have her GODDAMN doughnuts!”

  I nearly burst out laughing. With my shoulders thrown back and my chin held high, I turned and walked away. There was no mistaking the heat of Rochelle’s angry glare on my back. As I passed Mr. Lamb’s room, he gave me a thumbs-up. I smiled and gave him a thumbs-up in return.

  When I turned right, I nearly plowed into my grandmother’s wheelchair. She had rolled down the hall and was sitting just beyond view of the nursing station. She looked up at me and grinned. A few doughnut crumbs clung to her chin. “Get your car all locked up, honey?”

  I winked, took hold of the chair’s handles, and spun her around. On the way past her room, I stopped, grabbed two doughnuts, and wrapped them in a paper towel. “Wait here,” I said, trotting down the hall and into Mr. Lamb’s room. When I gave him the doughnuts, he smiled, and then we both laughed as I waved good-bye.

  “It’s too cold to sit in the garden, Grammy. Would you like to go for a ride to the parlor and sit by the window?”

  “That would be nice.”

  As we passed a large window, my grandmother said, “Oh, no. Digger’s here.”

  “Digger?”

  “That’s what we call the undertaker.”

  I had to stifle my laugh.

  “Looks like somebody left us. Wonder who it was? Bless their soul. I know Mildred Coleman hasn’t been feeling well. I hope it’s not her. We have a date to go to craft class tomorrow.”

  I thought about how difficult all this was for my grandmother—making new friends only to have them pass away. I wondered how many times she’d seen Digger pull to the back door, how many beds stripped down and rooms sanitized in preparation for the next short-term resident.

  “Here we are,” I said, rolling her up to a window that overlooked a small terraced garden. I dragged an upholstered chair from the side of the fireplace and angled it next to my grandmother.