Saving CeeCee Honeycutt

by Beth Hoffman

  “This is the library,” she said, stepping into a room that smelled of old leather and books. Above a massive fireplace hung a faded photograph of a military officer, staring out through the dusty glass, looking glum. There were no drapes on the windows. Instead, hanging from various lengths of string nailed to the top of the moldings were crystal prisms, hundreds of them, all sizes and shapes. They caught the afternoon light and sent miniature rainbows shimmering across the walls and ceiling. From a hook by one of the windows hung a gold birdcage with its door propped open.

  “Do you have a pet bird?” I asked, looking around the room.

  “Oh, heavens, no. I’d never cage a bird. I can’t imagine a worse fate, can you? I bought this cage at a market in Peru several years ago. I hung it here and wired the door open to remind myself how delicious freedom is—financial and otherwise.”

  Her lips formed an odd smile, and she turned and gazed out the window. The trancelike look on her face made me uncomfortable, so I picked up a copy of Vogue from a chairside table and said, “I like to look at magazines. The librarian back in Willoughby used to give me old copies.”

  Miz Goodpepper blinked. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

  “I was saying that I like to look at magazines, especially the pictures.”

  She reached out, slid the magazine from my fingers, and studied the woman on the cover. “I used to look just like that. But after I turned forty it was a daily struggle to keep myself up. I turned forty-five this past February, and let me tell you, every day is nothing but an insult.” She tossed the magazine on the table with disgust. “Aging is a terrible slap in the face. My body betrays me every chance it gets.”

  She lifted her chin and tightened the towel on her head. “Oh, well, I’d much rather die with one of Oletta’s cinnamon rolls in my mouth than a lousy stalk of celery. Anyway, as you can see, I have tons of books. Pick anything you’d like. If you need me, I’ll be in the kitchen.”

  When she turned and left the room, the hem of her robe opened to a full sweep, sending dust motes spinning across the floor. As the rhythmic slap-slap-slap of her flip-flops faded down the hall, I began scanning the sagging shelves.

  There were books on everything from the healing powers of crystals to studies on the Mayan ruins to a book titled Exploring the Sacred Fires—A Beginner’s Guide to the Kama Sutra. I’d never heard of a place called the Kama Sutra and figured it was probably some boring old volcano, so I returned the book to the shelf.

  Before too long I had found at least twenty books I wanted to read. Not wanting to appear greedy, I narrowed my choices to seven and found my way back to the kitchen. Miz Goodpepper was standing at the counter, folding clothes and pushing them into paper grocery bags. Hooked over a knob of a china cupboard was a red taffeta party dress with rhinestone spaghetti straps. The dress was really, really fancy, and really, really red. Bright, screaming Crayola red.

  She looked up and smiled. “I’m glad you found some books that interest you. Would you like a glass of lemonade?”

  Though I was hoping to thank her for the books and be on my way, I didn’t want to seem rude. I nodded and set the stack of books on the counter. While Miz Goodpepper pulled a pitcher from the refrigerator, I asked, “Is the Kama Sutra a volcano?”

  She gasped and splashed lemonade across the kitchen counter. The strangest look streaked across her face as she sopped up the mess with a wad of paper towels. “Well, I suppose some might think it’s a volcano of sorts, but I can say with absolute assurance you wouldn’t enjoy that book.”

  “That’s what I thought,” I said, feeling pleased with myself, “so I put it back on the shelf.”

  She let out a barely audible sigh. “Good.”

  “That’s pretty,” I said, pointing to the red dress. “Are you going to a party?”

  She handed me the lemonade and turned her gaze toward the dress. “It is pretty, isn’t it? But no, I won’t be wearing that dress again. I’m donating it to the local animal shelter for their annual rummage sale.

  “That dress cost a king’s ransom. It’s a shame I only wore it twice,” Miz Goodpepper said with a wistful smile. “I bought it to wear to a charity ball back in 1959. I felt wonderful in that dress. It suited my personality. But when my husband and I got in the car to come home that night, he said I’d embarrassed him. He actually had the gall to say I looked like a prostitute. He told me never to wear that dress again.”

  She leaned her hip against the counter and folded her arms across her chest. “So I tucked it away at the back of my closet and all but forgot about it. But, wouldn’t you know, three years later I had the opportunity to wear that beautiful dress one last time.” Her lips formed a twisted half smile and her eyes gleamed. “I wore it to court on the day I divorced my husband.”

  I didn’t know what to say. Was it a joke, or was she serious?

  She let out a brief, wicked laugh, grabbed a bottle of wine from the counter, and pulled a razor-thin goblet from the cupboard. “Come sit with me for a while.”

  I took my glass of lemonade and followed. As we stepped off the porch, violin music poured from an open window. It swelled across the garden and ended in a vibrant crescendo. Miz Goodpepper rested back against a cushioned chaise lounge that sat beneath a canopy of gnarled vines. I sat in a rocking chair at her side.

  “What is this?” I asked, running my fingers over a smooth twist of bark.

  “Wisteria,” she said, pulling the towel off her head and fluffing her damp hair. “In the spring it blooms with the most beautiful purple flowers you can imagine. Wisteria is my favorite flowering vine. Do you know why?”

  I shook my head. “No, ma’am.”

  “Because it’s strong—just like me. But if you don’t take care of it, wisteria will grow wild. It can heave a porch right off its foundation. I remember once . . .”

  She talked about plants and the wonders of nature with a passion that lit up her eyes, the whole time drinking wine like it was water. Every time she moved, her silky robe slid off to the side and revealed her long, slender legs.

  “My love of nature is one of the reasons why I play music in the garden. See that camellia bush?” she said, pointing toward the far edge of the property. “It’s particularly fond of Mozart’s Symphony Number 12 in G Major. And my roses adore anything by Chopin. And once, when my oldest sago palm looked sickly, I played a Puccini opera as loud as my hi-fi would go, and do you know that old palm perked right up.”

  I’d never heard that plants liked music, but I didn’t want to seem stupid by asking about it, so I grinned as if I understood.

  “This garden is my greatest joy. It soothes my spirit and elevates my awareness to great heights. Every day I commune with nature. I owe my serenity and love of all living things to His Holiness, the Dalai Lama.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “He’s the supreme head of Tibetan Buddhism and a master of spiritual teachings. One of the most important things he teaches is that we’re never to cause harm to any living thing. Not ever. It makes for terrible karma.”

  I took a sip of lemonade. “Karma? What’s that?”

  She rested her head against the cushion and thought for a moment. “Karma stems from mental, physical, and verbal action. It’s the sum of all we’ve said, done, and thought, be it good or bad.”

  I sat quietly and listened to all she said, but the karma business was way over my head. And when she started talking about how we reincarnate to clean up our karma so we can eventually reach someplace called nirvana, I figured it was time for me to go home. But as I was about to stand up and excuse myself, Miz Goodpepper began spouting off about the countless wrongs people do to the earth and the animal kingdom.

  “Right there is a prime example of terrible karma,” she said bitterly, pointing to a tree stump by the hedge that separated her yard from Miz Hobbs’s swimming pool. “That poor withering stump is all that’s left of a beautiful magnolia. It was the most glorious thing you could possibly imagi
ne. Every spring it was smothered with thousands of blooms that smelled so wonderful it’d make your heart ache. I loved that tree. Every morning I’d sit beneath its cool shade and meditate. That magnolia had such a wonderful energy force, I could feel it pulse through my body whenever I leaned against its trunk.” She took a big gulp of wine and her face turned hard. “But that beautiful, defenseless tree was murdered!”

  I jolted, splashing lemonade on my shorts. “Murdered?”

  Her voice had a venomous sting when she replied, “Yes. Murdered in cold blood. While I was out of town in April, my neighbor, the great gaping vagina otherwise known as Violene Hobbs, murdered it.”

  I didn’t know what to think, much less say. A heavy silence fell across the garden as we stared at the patch of vivid blue sky the magnolia had once occupied.

  Miz Goodpepper smoothed a stray lock of hair off her forehead. “Murdering anything is just plain criminal, but a Southerner murdering a magnolia? Well, that’s an unforgivable sacrilege against nature and the South. Violene Hobbs is the black widow of Savannah. Stay clear of her, Cecelia. Behind that drippy-sweet voice lies nothing but pure evil.” Miz Goodpepper let out a bitter, humorless laugh. “There aren’t enough years left in my life to cauterize the wounds that wretched woman has inflicted upon me.”

  Without a doubt this was the most fascinating conversation I’d ever taken part in. I shifted in my chair to get more comfortable. “Why did she murder the tree?”

  Miz Goodpepper poured herself more wine, swirled it around in the glass, then drank it down in one long, slow gulp. Her eyes narrowed to slits of blue as she tightened the belt of her robe with an angry tug. “She murdered that beautiful tree because she was worried a strong wind might come and blow it into her swimming pool. Now, isn’t that the most ludicrous thing you’ve ever heard?”

  I had to agree.

  “From the first day I met her, I knew Violene was a pea-minded idiot. I’ve known ferns with higher IQs than hers. But I still can’t believe she murdered that magnolia. I can hardly bear to think about it. That beautiful tree was a home to countless birds and squirrels. Oh, I wish you could have seen it. It was like breathing in a bit of heaven.”

  She paused to finish off the bottle of wine and added, “But now after it rains, all I can smell is death. Have you ever smelled a dying tree after it rains?”

  “No, ma’am. I don’t think I have.”

  “Well, I hope you never do,” she said, spinning the mysterious green ring on her finger. “I can assure you it’s a smell you’ll never forget. Mark my words, one day all the wicked deeds Violene Hobbs has done will gather together and form a big black boomerang of karma that will spin through the sky and strike her down.” Miz Goodpepper closed her eyes and sighed. “I only hope I’m around to see it.”

  I stared at my hands, not knowing how to respond. I’d never heard of a holy man named after a llama, I’d never heard of a great gaping vagina, and I didn’t know a thing about the black boomerang of karma. All I knew for sure was this: I had been plunked into a strange, perfumed world that, as far as I could tell, seemed to be run entirely by women.

  Nine

  Iwoke the following Monday morning to realize I’d overslept. Oletta served breakfast promptly at eight-thirty, and it was almost nine o’clock. After dressing quickly, I scrambled downstairs. As I trotted down the hallway toward the kitchen, I heard Aunt Tootie talking to Oletta. “Cecelia won’t discuss her mother, and it worries me. I’ve tried several times to get her to open up, but she won’t. And she doesn’t show any signs of grieving. What should I do?”

  I crept into the den, and hid behind the door. There was the sound of a cup meeting a saucer, and then Oletta said, “Miz Tootie, I’ve told you everything Cecelia’s told me about her momma. I have the feelin’ she’s not grieving ‘cause she ain’t sorted things out yet. That child’s been through a whole lot, and the dust ain’t even settled. She’ll grieve when she’s good’n ready. And when she does, then I believe she’ll open up. We was young when my pappy died. My sister, Geneva, wanted to talk about him all the time; it was her way to make sense of things—her way to heal. But me, I was a lot like Cecelia. It took me a long time before I could bring myself to talk about him. It ain’t my place to tell you what to do, but since you asked, I think it’s best you give Cecelia more time to adjust. Let the child feel happy and safe, then you can . . .”

  I closed my eyes and leaned against the wall. Why can’t Aunt Tootie just leave things alone?

  The slap of the screen door sounded, and, thinking Aunt Tootie had left, I waited a minute and then walked down the hall. I entered the kitchen to find Aunt Tootie sitting at the table with the newspaper and a cup of coffee.

  “Good morning, sugar.”

  “Hi, where’s Oletta?”

  “She just left for a dental appointment. I thought I’d take you out to breakfast. There’s a little diner I’m fond of. It’s a hole-in-the-wall place, but they make wonderful omelets and all sorts of pancakes.”

  “Do I need to change clothes?” I asked, looking down at my shorts and blouse.

  “You look just fine,” she said, folding the paper. “I’m starved, so let’s go.”

  When we arrived at the diner it was crowded, mostly with businessmen in suits and construction workers wearing heavy boots. The smell of strong coffee and the sound of clanging silverware fi lled the air as we wound our way toward an empty table all the way at the back. A ballet of nimble-footed waitresses moved among the tables, taking orders and sliding them beneath the clips on a silver carousel above the cook’s window. Both Aunt Tootie and I ordered blueberry pancakes. But as good as they were, I have to say they didn’t come close to Oletta’s.

  “When we leave here, remind me to stop at the post office,” Aunt Tootie said, dabbing her mouth with her napkin. “I’m running out of stamps.”

  “Okay.”

  Just as I swallowed the last of my orange juice, two men at the table next to ours began talking.

  “A demolition company brought in a crane early this morning. The old Pemberton house sure was something back in the day.”

  The other man took a gulp of his coffee and nodded. “I’ve never been inside, but my mother used to play with the Pemberton kids when she was a girl. She said the moldings were spectacular. Did a salvage company come in and take them?”

  Aunt Tootie stiffened.

  “I don’t know,” the other man said. “And if they didn’t, it’s too late now. By nightfall that house’ll be gone.”

  “Excuse me, gentlemen,” my aunt said, turning in her chair. “I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation. Did you say there’s a wreckin’ ball at the Pemberton place?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” one of the men said.

  Aunt Tootie nodded her thanks and fumbled with her wallet, quickly tucking money beneath her coffee cup. “C’mon, Cecelia Rose,” she said, rising from her chair. I followed her as she rushed down a narrow hall toward a pay phone, but it was being used. She turned and was out the front door so fast I had to run to catch up with her.

  When we reached the street, she said, “Hurry, get in the car.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  She fired up the engine and barreled down the street, passing cars and honking the horn. “That’s the house we saved from the wreckin’ ball. There must be some mistake. As of yesterday, we own that house. Sara Jane picked up the key last night!” she said, turning a corner so fast I slid across the seat.

  I grabbed hold of the armrest and looked at her. “What are you going to do?”

  “First thing I’ve got to do is make a phone call.” She pulled into a gas station and screeched to a stop. “Wait here,” she said, jumping from the car.

  I watched her race inside the gas station and shove coins into the pay phone by the front window. She hadn’t talked for more than thirty seconds when she hung up and made another call. A moment later she pushed through the door and ran toward the car.

  “All ri
ght, let’s go.” She tromped on the gas and zoomed away, the sun glinting across the windshield in blinding bursts of light.

  “Cecelia Rose, we have become a throwaway society. Instead of honoring and preserving our past, we tear it down, shove it aside, and just go on our merry way. Well, I won’t have it. We have to stand firm for what we believe in. Only in the most dire circumstances should a structure of historical significance be demolished.”

  She came to a jolting stop in front of a three-story brick house that sagged in on itself like a ruined soufflé. A statue of an angel stood off to the side of the front garden. Her nose was broken and her moss-stained eyes gazed toward a big yellow crane that had a steel ball dangling from its long arm.

  “Oh, my word!” Aunt Tootie gasped, cutting the engine.

  Parked in front of us was a black pickup truck. Two men were sitting on the tailgate, eating doughnuts and drinking coffee from paper cups. Aunt Tootie climbed out of the car. “Good morning, gentlemen. Who’s in charge here?”

  One of the men, a big burly-looking guy, put down his coffee and slid off the tailgate. He had a dusting of powdered sugar on his chin. “I am,” he said, tipping his hardhat. “Grady Tucker.”

  “Mr. Tucker, my name is Tallulah Caldwell, and I’m a board member of the Historic Savannah Foundation. We just purchased this house and—”

  There came a deafening roar as the crane operator started the engine. The earth shook beneath my feet as the crane moved its wide steel treads toward the house.

  Aunt Tootie raised her voice above the loud rumble. “You’ve got to stop. There’s been a mistake.”

  “Ma’am. This house has been scheduled for demolition for a long time. I have all the paperwork in the truck. I’ll show you—”

  “Mr. Tucker, you are not listening to me. We own this house. It is impossible to overstate the importance of this.” Aunt Tootie turned and looked at the crane—it was moving into position, the heavy black ball swaying. “Cecelia, you stay right here.”

  To my astonishment, she turned and began marching across the yard, her chin held high, her handbag slapping against her hip. “Please, turn that thing off !” she called to the operator.