Deep in the Heart of Dixie
Page 6
Chapter 3
Mama always said a good house cleaning always made her feel better. That’s why the first day of spring meant official Spring Cleaning every year. Dixie would help to give the house a total overhauling, spit shining it from top to bottom in every room and outside as well. Laura Ray believed that the season’s arrival meant a fresh start for the world and never gave up the hope that it would rub off on her as well.
The magic of cleaning for the season hadn’t worked for Mama but Dixie was determined to do everything possible to make sure things went right for her this go around. She’d given herself a new name, changed her looks, and moved to an address that was far from the ghosts—living and dead—of her past. If a good house cleaning could help her to be reborn, then that is what she would do in honor of her mother. “I’m going to do it, Mama. I’ll live the life you wanted us to have.”
Once a decision was made, Dixie gave it one hundred percent. She pulled her hair back, dug out her ratty jeans and slipped on an old t-shirt. The windows and doors were thrown open wide, a warm, breath of fresh air washing away the remnants of previous inhabitants and the stink. The old trailer proceeded to receive a scrubbing that would have made Mama proud. Elbow grease was applied to every surface, top to bottom. Window cleaner and newspapers made the glass shine. Floors that had never seen soap and water revealed a pretty, floral pattern. The dust bunnies were sent packing and the couch cushions were pounded out in the yard until they regained some fullness and their original color. Slowly, the trailer made a transformation into some place tolerable.
Dixie was a flurry of motion, hardly taking time to breathe as she tackled each task, until the closet stopped her in her tracks. The closet…it had been her only escape since she was a little girl. Once inside, she imagined she could disappear, travel to another world like those kids in The Lion, the Witch,and the Wardrobe that they read about in school. She imagined her real daddy would be waiting for her and they’d climb up on a unicorn. It must have been a magic closet because Owen never found her there. Dixie would burrow in behind the clothes, wrap herself in a long, dark coat, make herself small, and disappear. Whenever he started to drink, she would seek out her hiding place. He would become louder and louder, his shouts followed by bangs, thumps, and Mama’s crying. There was nothing Dixie could do but wait and wish she could pull Mama inside so they could ride away forever.
Dixie shook off the memory. There would be no more hiding in closets. She cleaned the small area with a vengeance, her breath coming in sobs, unaware of the tears making tracks down her dirt-streaked face. She left the door open. There was very little to put inside anyway. When she was finished, a few items of clothing hung on the rack. She sank down onto the floor, sat with her head pressed to her knees, and waited for her nerves to settle. A few deep, breaths and she was on her feet again. She took a good, hard look at the results of her efforts. Everything gleamed around her, shining and bright. If only it was as easy to clean out her insides, take away the darkness, and make them sparkle like starlight.
Dixie forged ahead, adding final touches to make the place become her own, courtesy of the Dollar Store. She placed small bouquets of fake flowers here and there, trinkets in the windows, set out bright new towels in the bathroom, tossed colorful, throw rugs on the floor, and hung curtains with tiny strawberries. Someone had left behind a small radio which provided the perfect background music as Dixie sat on the steps and sipped iced tea. She felt honest-to-goodness satisfaction for a job well done, all by herself. Her eyes drooped shut and a humming rose up from somewhere deep inside of her. It was the part of her that remembered what happiness was, buried deep in those early years when there was only a little girl and her mama.
“Hello, sugar! Welcome to the neighborhood!” A rich, musical voice sang out, drowning out the radio. Dixie’s eyes snapped open and she sat up straight, taking in a big, black woman standing at the foot of her stairs. She was larger than life in every sense of the word, from her height of at least six feet, to her broad hips, her booming voice, and the size of her heart. Her hair was piled high on top of her head, her hips swaying to some inner music beneath a dress that was a splash of color.
Before Dixie could say a word, her visitor stepped forward and thrust out a hand for her to shake. “My name is Thelma Louise Lincoln, pleased to make your acquaintance. When the slaves was freed, my great, great granddaddy took the name of that great man, Abraham Lincoln, and I’ve still got it, Lord bless him but you all can call me Thelma Louise. I’ve brought my peach cobbler. It’s won first prize at the county fair for nigh on twenty years and it’s nice and warm from the oven. Let’s shake a leg and have a bite.”
Dixie’s mouth had fallen open at this run-on speech. Thelma Louise pumped her arm up and down until she nearly took the limb off at the shoulder. Somehow Dixie found the presence of mind to shut her trap and gesture to the door for her newcomer. “Won’t you please come in?” Mama had always said to give courtesy in exchange for courtesy, not that they’d ever had call for it back home. No visitors ever brightened their door.
“Why, sugar, I thought you’d never ask!” Thelma Louise winked and bustled ahead of her young neighbor, nodding in pleasure as she scrutinized the trailer. “My, my, honey. This looks like a new place. You must have worked those little fingers to the bone. By the way, what’s your name, child?”
Dixie felt herself blush at the praise, a warm spot growing inside of her. She cleared her throat and spoke with pride. “I’m Dixie Mason and thank you for the compliment. Would you like iced tea with your cobbler?”
Thelma Louise waved her aside. “Honey, you don’t need to be waitin’ on me. I invited myself in so let me spoil you for a spell.” She proceeded to take over the little kitchenette, finding dishes, glasses, and silverware. She dished out two very generous helpings, which might explain her considerable size, and poured two glasses of tea. Tipping her head toward the sofa, she beamed in appreciation. “Ah, honey, this floral sheet just brightens up that saggy, old couch and those throw pillows just make it pop. You is a natural Martha Stewart is what you is, sugar. Now sit yo’self down and have a sweet piece of heaven while you tell me about yourself.”
Dixie kept her eyes glued to her cobbler. She skirted talking about herself, something she’d never been good at. After all, what was there to tell? It was easy to oblige with the eating. She closed her eyes in pure delight, sighing in contentment. “Oh, Miss Lincoln, this is amazing! Can you teach me how to make it?”
The older woman leaned forward and squeezed Dixie’s hand. “Why sugar, I’d love to share the secret of my cobbler with you. The recipe has been passed down from my great, great grandma Lincoln. It’s never been written down, only told daughter to daughter and since I don’t have one, you’ll do and please call me Thelma Louise. Miss Lincoln sounds like my grandmamma. I hope you don’t mind my sayin’ so, honey, but you’s in the South now. Don’t go gettin’ no more of this powdered tea mix. No, honey, you get yo’self real tea bags, at least 7 or 8 o’ them, puts a cup of sugar in a glass pitcher, add hot water and let the whole thing sit out in the sun all day. You’ll have yo’self some of the best sun-made, sweet tea you’s ever had. Now, that’s enough about tea. Tell me about yo’self, child.”
Dixie took a deep breath. Stick to the truth—just not all of the truth. “I lived up North until my mama died a short while ago.” Her throat choked up and she had to look down, blinking hard and fast to hold back the tears that were always close to the surface when it came to Mama. When she continued, her voice was rough around the edges. “When Mama died, I had no one left. I had nothing but bad memories on my tail so I decided to move down here. Mama was from the South and she loved it so much that I was sure I would too. That’s my story—here I am.”
Thelma Louise dabbed at her eyes with a napkin and patted Dixie’s hand. “Oh, child, so young and already alo
ne.” She gave the younger girl a soft pat on the back. Another napkin was made handy for any more tears on either side of the couch. “You have no one looking out for you?”
Dixie looked away. “No one who cares for me or that I care about.” She could feel her heart aching all over again at the realization of how alone she really was. Starting a new life had been a dream for a long time but she’d always thought Mama would be there by her side to share it.
Thelma Louise’s large hand swallowed up the younger girl’s smaller one, the dark skin a sharp contrast to Dixie’s pale white. Thelma’s hand was rough, calloused from hard work and time, but warm, much like the woman who owned it. “Honey, you listen to Thelma Louise because I’m older and wiser too. I saw something just now, sliding away, tryin’ to hide in those baby blues. You can run from yo’s troubles, darling, but you can’t hide fo’ever. Someday, they’s goin’ to catch up. If’s and ever they does, you can call on yo’ next door neighbor in number one because now that you’re here, I care about you.”