by Rhett DeVane
Piddie’s hair, due to her last color rinse, was a pale shade of shell pink. Small oriental fans were stuck between the tall layered mound of stiff curls. Delicate dangling gold fan earrings and red satin slippers complimented her ensemble.
Piddie batted her eyelashes. “You’re such a charmer, Jake Witherspoon. If I was sixty years younger, and you leaned toward the female side for your philanderin’s, I’d take you under my wing and show you a thing or three!”
“That’s damn near enough to scare him straight,” Elvina said. She pointed toward the table. “What’s the little book for?”
“It’s a guest sign-in keepsake for little Sarah. One of Jon’s friends in the ER over at Tallahassee Memorial made it,” Jake said.
“Well…that’s nice. Where is Jon?”
“He’s upstairs grooming Elvis. You’re goin’ to love his outfit! Evelyn made him a little doggie kimono for the party. That little Pomeranian was, I remind you, the 2000 Georgia Calendar Dog for December.”
“I’d heard. But, is that altogether sanitary…havin’ a dog in here?” Elvina wrinkled her nose like she smelled something foul.
Jake smirked. “It’s only for the grand opening. He’s great at meetin’ and greetin’. Otherwise, he’ll be confined to the upstairs private quarters when Jon’s visiting. Besides, that canine probably takes more baths than most people in this town. I know Jon spends more time on Elvis’s hair than I do mine. That little dog wouldn’t know a flea if one slipped up and bit him on the behind!”
“I don’t know how Jon stands to drive every day in that Tallahassee traffic,” Elvina said. “Why…just last Wednesday, Miz Lucille and I rode over to an interfaith women’s mission meeting at the Ramada, and some lady pulled right out in front of me. I stood the car on its nose tryin’ to keep from hittin’ her! And the funny part? She had one of those bumper stickers that said GOD IS MY COPILOT. I told Miz Lucille that, judging by the way that woman was slingin’ her car around, she maybe oughta move over and let Him do the drivin’!”
Jake plucked a ladybug from the floral arrangement on the entrance table. “The other day when I was over there picking up some supplies for the party, I saw some fella in one of those big ole SUV’s almost run over a biker on Thomasville Road. The poor guy was in the designated lane especially for bicycles. You know what the SUV’s bumper sticker said? SHARE THE ROAD. BIKES BELONG!”
Elvina leaned in, a conspirator with a mission. “I reckon Jon will move on over here once he starts his job with hospice, then?”
Jake propped his hands on his hips. “Sure doesn’t take long for things to get around!”
Piddie punched him playfully in the arm. “Aww…c’mon, Jake. You’ve lived here long enough to know there ain’t any secrets. At least, not as long as Elvina and I can draw a breath.”
“That’s right,” Elvina said. “Besides, the Bible teaches for you to love your neighbor like your own self. How you supposed to do that if you don’t know what’s happenin’ to them?” She tapped the brim of her hat. “I think I’ll go on back and look around before the crowd arrives. Oh! I almost forgot!” She dug around in her straw bag and retrieved a small wrapped package. “This is a little somethin’ for the baby.”
Jake pointed to the far side of the parlor. “There’s a gift table set up over by the fountain.”
“Let me say that I think it’s wonderful what you’re doin’ to help out those Clark children. Their Grandma Maizie’s a fine woman. It’s a cryin’ shame she’s havin’ to take on the responsibility of raisin’ those youngun’s. I suppose it happens a lot, nowadays. The younger generation’s too busy out druggin’ and drinkin’ to mind the babies they’ve spawned.”
Jake sighed. “Yeah. We see it a lot around here — particularly with the folks that don’t have a lot of money to live on. Moses and Tameka are a pleasure to have around, and a big help.”
“And, at least you’re not lookin’ for a public pat on the back like that oily Hank Henderson.” Elvina sniffed.
“Well, I gotta flit around a bit. Make yourself at home, Elvina.” Jake headed toward the kitchen.
Elvina reached down to pat her old friend on the hand. “Piddie, I’ll come back and draw up a chair to keep you company after I tour the spa.”
Piddie grinned. “All right. That way, we can see everything’s goin’ on, and talk about people as they come by.”
“My thoughts exactly, shuga.”
Hattie
I settled into one of the cushioned high-back chairs next to Aunt Piddie. As the morning progressed, more townsfolk filtered in to view the newly redecorated mansion. Leigh and Bobby brought little Josh at 11:00. In his tan and black elfwear kimono and diapers, my nephew resembled a miniature Sumo wrestler. His chubby, solid body had earned him the nickname Tank, a label that would no doubt stick with him until he was a burly, testosterone-infested linebacker for the local football team: Tank Davis, first string linebacker for the Chattahoochee Yellow Jackets.
The babies entertained themselves on a handmade quilt spread in the center of the front parlor, purposely far removed from any breakable decorations. People stopped to say their first hellos to Sarah, who looked delicate and fragile in comparison to her newly acquired first cousin.
“How you holdin’ up, gal?” Piddie asked.
“Fine. I thought Sarah would be fussing for a nap by now, but she seems to thrive on the attention and activity.”
“I love my little Chinaberry!” Piddie waved and cooed toward the quilt.
Sarah had been fascinated with my elderly aunt from their first meeting. Whenever Piddie was near, Sarah’s eyes periodically sought her out, as if she was checking to make sure my aunt was still there.
“Goo-gah!” Sarah giggled and pumped her arms in our direction.
Piddie waved. “Goo-gah to you, my little Chinaberry!” she called out. Then, to me, “I do believe that’s the sweetest little nickname Sarah’s pinned to me. Don’t have a clue what Goo-gah means, but if she’s picked it out, then that’s who I’ll be.”
I studied my aunt’s wrinkled profile. “Evelyn says you haven’t been feeling well.”
“Honey, at my age, if I get up in the mornin’ and somethin’ don’t hurt somewhere, I figure I’ve died durin’ the night.”
“Evelyn seems pretty worried about you.”
Piddie swatted a hand in the air. “She worries if I chip my nail polish. I’ve just been a little tired and short’a breath lately. I guess that’s to be expected at ninety-eight years of age. I ain’t no spring chicken.”
We sat in silence for a moment, watching the babies play amidst the milling crowd.
Piddie heaved a sigh. “Evelyn’s set up an appoint-mint next week with some fella in Tallahassee. Supposed to specialize in jerry-actricks. You know what they’ll write on my chart when I go in there, don’t you?”
“Hmm?”
Piddie stuck her chin in the air. “L.O.L.”
“What does that mean, Pid?”
“It stands for little old lady, and it means they won’t lissen to a thing I say!”
I chuckled. “You know, you probably aren’t too far from the truth.”
“Well, I’ll go on over there to humor Evelyn. It won’t be so busy here at the spa they can’t handle the reception desk for a few hours while I’m gone.” Piddie stared at the front entrance with keen interest. “Well. If it ain’t the devil’s apprentice, hisself. God knows, Satan has a pitchfork warmin’ up for that man, just waitin’ for him to kick the bucket and come to claim it.”
We watched as Hank Henderson oozed into the room and immediately glommed onto the Mayor.
“Jimmy T.! How ya doin’, son?” Hank said in a loud voice. He pumped Mayor Jimmy T. Johnson’s hand like he was trying to siphon water from a deep well.
The mayor beamed. “Mr. Hank Henderson, where you been keepin’ yourself?”
Hank pushed his hands in his pockets and rocked back and forth on his heels. He puffed his chest out like a banty roost
er. “Keepin’ busy. A lot to do for folks in this area, you know.”
“You sure are a dedicated citizen. I was just talking to a couple of the council members just t’other day. You’re ’bout due to receive the golden key to the city — what with your work with the underprivileged youths in the black community.”
Hank flashed a saccharine-laced smile. “I do it purely out of love for this fine little town, Jimmy T.”
The mayor dabbed a trickle of sweat from his pudgy face. “Your daddy would’ve been proud. He always was involved with civic projects when he was alive. This town sure lost an asset when he passed.”
“Why, thank you, Mayor. It’s always good to hear such fine words. ’Scuse me, let me go over and say hello to the guest of honor.”
“Certainly, Hank. You stop by the city hall sometime, and we’ll go grab some lunch.” He patted the attorney on the back.
Piddie and I watched Hank approach the quilt where Sarah and Josh were playing, oblivious to the milling crowds surrounding them. The hair on my neck prickled. When Hank reached down to touch Sarah’s face, she let out an ear-piercing shriek that made several of the older party guests reach to fine tune their hearing aids. Clearly shocked, Hank snatched his hand away.
The room fell silent. Thirty pairs of eyes watched the small drama on the center stage.
“What’d you do to that child, Hank?” Mayor Johnson asked. “Quote her your fees?”
A ripple of laughter rolled around the room.
“I…I don’t rightly know. I just love little girl babies. They usually take to me right off!” When he reached for Sarah the second time, she squealed louder than before and crawled off the quilt toward us. Josh reached over and bonked Hank’s hand with a slobber-laden plastic pop bead.
I scooped Sarah into my arms. She turned her head and studied Hank with huge dark eyes.
Jimmy T. came to Hank’s defense. “Must’a been your boyish charm, Hank.”
“Come here to Goo-gah, little Chinaberry.” Piddie settled the baby onto her lap. Sarah whimpered and reached up to pat Piddie’s wrinkled face.
Hank shrugged. “I guess not all women can handle my good looks.” He chuckled nervously and left the room in search of someone more easily impressed.
Jake appeared behind us. “What was that all about?” he asked in a low voice. “I heard Sarah squeal from the back of the mansion.”
“She knows what we all know about Hank Henderson,” Piddie said. “There ain’t enough money in the world to buy class.”
By the end of the afternoon, many of the residents of Chattahoochee, Sneeds, Greensboro, and Mt. Pleasant had stopped in to say hello and tour the Triple C. My friends from Tallahassee, Chris, Kelly, and Kathy, had driven over, promising to visit us on the Hill. The appointment books had filled for the first two weeks. Both of the Bed & Breakfast owners had discussed adding a spa package to their vacation specials, and the new owners of the local golf course took a stack of business cards for the clubhouse. Though Wanda Orenstein had yet to arrive, the members of the black community who attended the open house had expressed interest in her rumored expertise with hair weaves. Jake and Mandy’s dream of providing a haven for all members of the surrounding communities was taking shape.
Evelyn’s kimonos were a big hit. She took ten orders for the oriental influence designs. Several infant elf-wear designs were purchased for upcoming baby showers. Melody proudly displayed her new line of scenes from the inner city nail polish and handed out free samples of cuticle remover and conditioner. Stephanie borrowed a seated massage chair from one of her friends in Tallahassee and spent the day giving ten-minute shoulder and neck massages. Clad in a bright yellow satin kimono, Mandy flitted between her hair salon post and the kitchen, making sure Tameka and her brother kept the serving platters filled.
After the last of the lingering guests departed, we crowded into the front parlor. Bobby and Leigh took Moses and Tameka home, laden with platters of leftover food for Grandma Maizie.
“Whew!” Mandy plopped down on a cushioned chair. “I don’t know about you guys, but my dogs are tired.” She removed the satin slippers and rubbed her feet.
“Amen on that one, honey,” Jake said “Poor little Elvis fell asleep right in the middle of the hair salon. Jon’s upstairs asleep. He has to pull an eleven-to-seven tonight. I’ll be so glad when he’s through with hospital shift work.”
“It had to be good for him to be introduced around to everyone,” Stephanie said. “There’re a lot of folks here who will probably be patients of his some day.”
Jake smirked. “Well, thanks to someone we all know and love — I won’t mention any names, but she has tall pink hair — everyone in town knows that Jon’s nickname is sugar monkey. Course, they’ve shortened it down. Everyone’s calling him Shug Presley!”
Piddie grinned. “He didn’t say it was a gospel secret. I figured it was all right to tell.”
“It would’ve got out, eventually, Jake,” Mandy said. “Besides, Shug Presley kind of has a nice, warm, nurse-y ring to it, don’t ya think?”
Jake shrugged. “Maybe. I’m just too tired to dwell on it right now. Jon doesn’t seem to mind.”
Mandy sat bolt upright like she’d been stabbed with a straight pin. “That slime ball Hank Henderson! You won’t bee—lieve what he said to me!”
Jake smirked. “Somethin’ politically incorrect, no doubt. The man’s an absolute cretin.”
“Well…he was watchin’ Tameka carry a plate of cheese balls into the front parlor, and he says who’s the pretty little pick-a-ninny? Well… I said, I think that saying went out with the Civil War. If you can’t say African-American, or just, black, don’t say anything at all!”
“That jerk,” I said.
Mandy frowned. “He launched into this long song and dance about how everyone’s so sensitive these days, squealing sexual harassment over what used to be considered fun. It was disgusting…and, the way he looked at Tameka. It gave me the heebee-jeebee’s.”
Aunt Piddie huffed. “Don’t you worry. I’ll be keepin’ a watchful eye over Mister Henderson!”
“That goes for me, too,” Elvina said.
“I never thought I’d see the day when the wing part of a chicken would be so popular. Used to be, that was the part I’d eat to save the good pieces for ever’one else.”
Piddie Davis Longman
Hattie’s Devil-Hot Wings
2 ½ lbs. chicken wings, cut up
½ stick of margarine or butter, melted
½ cup Louisiana hot sauce
1/8 cup lemon juice
½ tsp. dried basil
1 pkg. Good Season’s Italian Dressing Mix
Broil lightly salted wings until crisp on each side. Switch oven from broil to 400°. Marinate wings with sauce mixture above as they cook, turning to coat both sides. This will take about ten to fifteen minutes depending on the size of the wings. Lightly sprinkle cooked wings with additional hot sauce after cooking if hotter wings are desired. Serve warm with carrot and celery sticks and either ranch or bleu cheese dressing as a dipping sauce.
Chapter Four
The Davis Homestead
Late spring weather in the northern panhandle of Florida is unpredictable. Some years, the allotment of low humidity and mild temperatures last for a mere two to three weeks. The heat builds and the very thought of venturing outside after ten AM or before eight PM can send even the hardiest native into a full-blown sinking spell.
This year, we were blessed with three months of temperate days and cool nights. The home improvement stores geared up to cash in on the biological fact that human psyches are wired for spring yard work. Some mechanism clicks on, and a soothing voice beckons — go dig a hole in the yard…several of them! Don’t worry about what you’ll put in the holes. That will come.
I was happy as a fat feeder pig in mud — up to my armpits in hoes, shovels, and fertilizer, digging holes all over the Hill. Clumps of narcissus, lirope, and daylilies needed to be divid
ed and replanted, which created even more holes to fill with loads of top soil hauled in from — yet, another gaping hole I’d created at the edge of the woods.
Holston found his property maintenance niche in the form of a shiny new green and yellow John Deere mulching riding mower. He and Bobby left early one Saturday on an expedition to locate the perfect piece of machinery to properly trim the three acres of grass lawn surrounding the farmhouse.
Several hours later, they bounced up the sandy lane with the new mower lashed into the bed of Bobby’s faded blue pick-up truck. After carefully unloading the machine via the ramps Bobby had thoughtfully provided, the two men took turns slicing wide arcs into the lawn, stopping often to grunt over some newly discovered adjustment. The first time they mowed the acreage, it took three times longer than necessary. A great deal of male bonding had to happen between the breaks for actual work.
Being female (and, therefore, obviously an idiot in their eyes), the one thing I couldn’t quite fathom was the need for headlights on a riding mower. Why would you possibly ever mow at night during the time of year when daylight extended from six in the morning till almost nine at night? Perhaps, if your buddies stopped in late for a visit, the bright beams would come in handy, allowing you to demonstrate the amazing qualities of the machine without running over the dog in the dark.
Like most of the discrepancies in the male/female view of life, things evened out in the long run. Holston and Bobby couldn’t wrap their male minds around the fact that Leigh and I could go shopping for new black pumps when we already had, between us, seven pair. Or, that we could cuss and discuss daytime soap opera plots and players as if they were members of the family. I’d somehow allowed myself to be drawn into the daytime dramas’ tangled web during recuperation from surgery. Now, I was right up there with Jake and Aunt Piddie, either watching or recording my shows, and Oprah, with a single-minded vengeance I’d previously reserved for football games.