Chasing Lilacs

by Carla Stewart

  Cly looked up sorta sheepish and tossed me the ball. I dribbled up to him and asked him how basketball was going. First string on the B-team.

  “Congratulations. Bet your uncle is proud.”

  He shrugged and went over to scoop up my purse. “Hey, cat, what do you carry in here? Bricks?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. Be nice and I might show you.” I started toward home, and he fell in step beside me. A patch of grass, now crusty brown, grew between our incinerator and the garages for our block. You couldn’t see the garage door from here so it didn’t creep me out too bad to just see the side of the tin building. I motioned for him to follow me, and we sat down with our backs against the warm incinerator.

  “I always wanted to know what you birds carried around in those bags. You gonna tell me, or do I have to wrestle you for it?”

  “I’m thinking about it. You’ll probably think I’ve flipped my wig if I show you.”

  He reached into his pocket and took something out.

  “Shut your eyes and open your mouth.” When I did, he put a cherry Life Saver on my tongue.

  “All right. I’ll show you.”

  I pulled out my wallet, a compact, a skinny notebook for school assignments, two tubes of lipstick, one called “Party Pink” and the other a shiny lip gloss, and a pencil with no eraser. Should I show him the rest? Mama’s stuff? So far, I hadn’t shown that to anyone. Tuwana would laugh. Gina would probably be okay with it, but it hadn’t come up. But Cly? Should I or not?

  “Come on, what else you got in there?”

  “Promise you won’t think I’m crazy?”

  Cly nodded, and I took out the New Testament, the glove full of grave dirt, and last, the leather box with Mama’s pearls.

  “These were Mama’s things.” I explained what they were. “I feel connected to her somehow by having them with me.”

  Silence. I stared at the toes of my loafers. He probably thinks I’m nuts. My fingers went numb from clutching the pearl box so tight.

  After a while Cly peeled off another Life Saver and offered it to me. “You’re lucky, you know?”

  “How’s that?”

  “At least you’ve got something to remember your mom. Me, I don’t even have a picture. Just a bunch of rotten memories.”

  “I’m sorry. Does it make you sad?”

  “Sometimes. Mostly I just don’t think about it.”

  We sat in the dark, not saying much, just looking up at the sky. I tucked the things back in my purse and leaned back into the warmth of the incinerator. “That’s all I think about.”

  “I figured. Sometimes you’re off in another world.”

  “Have you ever been afraid to do something?”

  Cly spun the basketball between his fingers and didn’t answer.

  “Well?”

  He cleared his throat. “I don’t think about it much anymore, but there used to be rats in the place where my dad and me lived. Scared the bejeebies out of me to shut my eyes at night. I could hear them scratching when it got dark, and I would lie with my eyes open, keeping a lookout. When I fell asleep, they came in my dreams. My dad laughed, called me a sissy.”

  “You were afraid of rats, but you killed a rattlesnake.”

  “Slim pushed me to it. Then when I started hitting it, I thought about those rats, and that’s why I beat the bloody pulp out of that thing. You know what? I don’t have those rat dreams anymore.” He stretched out his legs and whistled for Scarlett. “Why’d you wanna know if I’m afraid?”

  “There’s this thing I’m afraid to do.”

  “If you don’t do it, you’ll always be afraid. You gotta put it on the front burner and just go after it. You wanna tell me what it is?”

  “Maybe someday.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  I took a deep breath and looked up at the sky. Stars looked down, millions of them, winking at me. Why, of all the guys in California, had the one without a mother shown up at Graham Camp? What did it mean? The stars twinkled while I wondered whether or not to tell Cly tonight. Or ever. A falling star shot across the Milky Way.

  Feeling braver, I told him. “It’s the garage. Where Slim found Mama that day. I want to go in there, but I can’t. I’m afraid to ask Slim how Mama looked, if she said anything….” My voice broke, and I couldn’t finish.

  Cly reached over and put his arm around me. I rested my head against his shoulder.

  “You’ll do it someday, cat.”

  My stomach growled and made us laugh. Tinny, echoing laughs.

  “I’d better go before my aunt gets worried.” She’d probably had forty conniptions by then already, but facing her wasn’t half as scary as the thought of stepping into the garage.

  Cly stood and pulled me up. “Here. You might need these.” He tucked a half roll of Life Savers into my palm and went off dribbling the basketball.

  The kitchen clock read only eight o’clock, but Aunt Vadine snored from Daddy’s rocker. I got a drink of water and tiptoed into the bedroom. At my desk I pulled out a sheet of notebook paper and wrote Mama a letter. I let her know I thought Cly was a good friend and that I was thinking about wearing the pearls to the dance. I tucked it in an envelope and wrote XXX and OOO on the back before I took it to her room and propped it on her pillow next to Daddy’s.

  [ TWENTY-FIVE ]

  NOTHING SCARED SCARLETT O’HARA. She took care of dying soldiers, and when she was flat out of food and money, she made a dress out of her curtains. One Saturday, I decided to read Gone with the Wind again and see if I could figure out what made her so brave. When I went to get the book from my desk, I couldn’t find it, so I asked Aunt Vadine if she’d seen it.

  “A child your age shouldn’t be reading such filth. Books like that give girls ideas, and boys can smell it on ’em coming and going.”

  “It’s just a book about the Civil War, people caring for each other even though Atlanta burned to the ground and thousands of men lost their lives.”

  “Phooey!” Her lips drew together like the top of a drawstring purse. “Trash. That’s all it is. Totally inappropriate for you to be reading. And don’t think I didn’t see you behind the incinerator, cavorting with that boy, Sly somebody or another.”

  “Cly. His name is Cly. And we weren’t cavorting. I don’t even know what that is. We were talking. And I would like it very much if you would give back my book.”

  “Get it yourself. It’s in that incinerator you’re so fond of.” She picked up her crochet, jabbing the shiny hook in and out of the pot-holder-sized creation in her hands.

  I ran out the back door over to Goldie’s, my face burning from her words.

  “Cavorting! Why would she say that?”

  Goldie listened patiently while I told her everything.

  “Maybe she feels responsible for you, wants to be a substitute mother, and doesn’t know how to go about it.” Goldie handed me a glass measure with her special vitamin mix and nodded toward the mating parakeet bins. “She’ll either come around or tire of Graham Camp and move on. Sometimes you have to let things slide off and stick it out.”

  For once I didn’t find Goldie’s advice all that comforting. Why did I have to make all the adjustments? None of this would’ve happened if Mama hadn’t killed herself. No tiptoeing around one disaster after another. No Aunt Vadine snooping through my stuff, taking over my room. No Scarlett being banished to the doghouse. No Mr. Howard with his Howdy Doody eyes on me.

  Slamming the screen between the parakeet pens and the work area, I glared at Goldie. “You know what I think? None of this would be happening if Mama hadn’t you-know-what to herself. It’s all her fault. Did she give one thought about me and Daddy? No, she had to go off and be with her precious Sylvia.” I smacked the measuring cup on the worktable and felt the blood pumping in my ears. Once I started, I couldn’t stop.

  “You know what else? She didn’t just up and decide that morning to slip a rope around her neck. She knew the night before.” My breaths panted out l
ike Scarlett after she’d been chasing a rabbit. “Why else would she tell me everything was going to be just fine? How could she know that unless she knew she was going to do it? And another thing. When I left for school, she stood on the porch and blew me a kiss. She never did that before.”

  Goldie wiped her hands on her dirty apron and led me out of the aviary and into her front room. By now my whole body shook, and when Goldie tried to sit me down, I shoved her away.

  “And what about Daddy? All these years, while Mama moped around in her bathrobe, he left me to worry whether she took her pills or supper got put on the table. Smiling like we were just the most ordinary people on the block, telling me things would get better. Then you know what else he did? He tried to get Mama to go back to that hospital. Just a checkup, he said, but he knew something wasn’t right. Mama said she would rather die than go back to the hospital. Not once did she think what would happen to me. Now Mr. Howard at school thinks I’m two steps away from being a freak show. That’s what Mama did—turned me into someone I don’t even know anymore. I hate her! Do you hear me? I hate her!”

  The words gagged me, closing my throat off. I raced into Goldie’s bathroom and vomited, my head over her toilet, clutching the sides of the cold porcelain. Rivers of bile, sour and yellow, puked out over and over again. I got the hiccups, which felt like being punched in the belly every time one came. I held my breath and counted to fifty. My head got all swimmy, and I gulped for air. Tears and vomit wet my face, and I felt as hollow as a dead tree. And just as rotten.

  Goldie washed my face and walked me into her front room. Lowering me on the couch beside her, she held me in her arms, rocking back and forth. When she talked, it wasn’t about Mama, and her voice sounded far away, like coming up from a deep well.

  “When my Jimmy died, nothing and no one could console me. I blamed God and George and my own stupidity for letting him go off to that swimming hole. Like a cancer, it devoured me, robbing me of every joy I had in life. George looked like death himself, and one day he said to me, ‘Goldie, we’ve let fear get the better of us. Fear of what might happen if we choose to go on and live a normal life.’ Soon after we moved here and chose to go on.”

  She stopped for a minute, then cleared her throat and said, “You’ve been through a lot in your young life, more than your share.” Her rough fingers stroked my cheeks. “The Lord says we’ll have troubles. Guaranteed. Listen to me, child. Your mama made her choice, and you have to make yours. You can keep your anger and hate everyone around you. You can blame God or your mama or your daddy. Or you can choose to face life, wherever it takes you.” Goldie held me tight and kissed the top of my head.

  “It’s too hard and not fair….” Daddy’s words echoed in my head: Life is not fair.

  “You’re not alone—there’s your daddy and me, and don’t go discounting the helpers the Almighty brings your way. Irregardless… you, and you alone, have to choose.”

  My choice? What helpers? Aunt Vadine? Mr. Howard? Even Alice Johnson and her showing me the proper etiquette of gratitude? If this was the work of the Almighty, it was a big fat joke.

  Goldie had never lied to me before. Never. She couldn’t if she tried.

  What if I had it all mixed up? It wouldn’t have been the first time. Still. Mama had known what she was going to do, and she didn’t care.

  She.

  Did.

  Not.

  Care.

  But… what if Goldie was right?

  Deep inside I felt a burning spot, a hot coal that wouldn’t stop. How could Mama do this to me?

  [ TWENTY-SIX ]

  GOLDIE’S WORDS RANG IN my ears. You decide.

  What I decided was to write Mama another letter and tell her what a rotten mother she was. Tears splotched the notebook paper as I scribbled.

  Why didn’t you think about what would happen to me? How could you do that? Leave me so Aunt Vadine had to come and take over, telling me how I upset the organization of her cupboards by putting the cinnamon next to the pepper? Her cupboards? Did you get that? Everyone thinks Aunt Vadine is going to be my new mother. I want a mother, but she’s not the one. You are. Now I’m stuck with her.

  I’m going to my first dance, and she lectured me about the evils of dancing just because Brother Henry preached about that. She puffed up like a toad when I told her you met Daddy at a dance. Why can’t you be here to see me dressed up and wearing your pearls?

  After writing three more pages, I didn’t feel so mad anymore. Just sad. And lonely. I folded up the pages and stuck them in an envelope. No XXX and OOO on the outside. I thought about Cly and going to the dance. Maybe Cly was one of the helpers Goldie talked about. He even said someday I would be able to go in the garage.

  Today. It has to be today. Before I chicken out.

  I grabbed my jacket and stuffed the letter to Mama in the pocket. When I did, my fingers curled around the Life Savers Cly had given me. I peeled off the paper and put one on my tongue. The sharp cherry taste made me feel braver. I buttoned my jacket and went outside.

  The sky was bright, a blinding blue that hurt my eyes when I looked up. And the wind bit my cheeks, making them feel hot and cold at the same time. With my hands stuffed in my pockets, I lowered my head and walked from the back porch toward the driveway and the garages. Scarlett bounced beside me, wagging her tail, like I might take her for a walk.

  When my feet crunched on the gravel drive, I raised my head and looked at the row of garages. Six on our side for the houses on our half of the block. Six identical doors, all shut. Two of them had padlocks. Finally I let my eyes focus on ours. Second from the right. Shut tight. No lock.

  In the background Goldie’s parakeets sang—crisp, chirpy noises. Had Mama heard the parakeets that morning? I listened for a minute and took a deep breath. Even with the sun out, I felt chilled and shrugged deeper into my jacket as I walked to our garage. I lifted the metal latch and let the door creak open. I waited for a second, hoping more light would fill up the space. I stepped inside and noticed how quiet and still the air was. Scarlett scratched in the dirt floor and sniffed around the walls. I watched her and then made myself walk to the center of the garage. A nervous energy surrounded me. That and the shadows.

  When I looked up, I saw that metal beams crisscrossed below the slanted ceiling. How had Mama done it? Did she throw a rope up and loop it around or climb on something? How did she know how to make a noose? I studied the beams and didn’t see anything at all. Like nothing had ever hung from them. A stepladder leaned against the back wall. I walked over to it and dragged it back to the middle, where I opened it. Daddy had used the ladder to paint my room blue when I was in the fifth grade, and blobs of blue paint dotted the steps. Steadying myself, I climbed up until I got to the third step. I reached up and touched the metal crossbar. Mama must’ve done it from this step, right here. A shiver went through me as a picture of her dangling from a rope flashed through my head.

  I tried to step down, but the hem of my jacket caught on the hinge of the ladder. When I pulled it free, I saw a spot of green. A tiny piece of material, no bigger than a postage stamp, was stuck in the hinge. I gulped for air. Mama must’ve worn her green dress that day. The same one she wore the day I got my hair cut in a pageboy.

  I hurried down the steps and half-folded the ladder so I could pull the scrap out. I rubbed it between my fingers, a tiny triangle with two sides frayed where it ripped. My throat got a knotty feel as I remembered the way the skirt swished when Mama walked. Did it hang limp or float in the stillness of the garage that day? I sat on the folded ladder and let the cold numb me—my face, my toes, my fingers, so that after a while I could no longer feel the smoothness of the green fabric in my hand.

  Scarlett came up and sniffed the patch, then jumped up and licked my face. I picked her up and tucked her inside my jacket, needing her close to me. After a while she squirmed out and ran into the corner of the garage where Daddy kept paint buckets and oilcans on a metal shelf. I shooe
d her away, and when I did, I noticed a hatbox on the bottom shelf.

  “Seek and ye shall find” popped into my head. I hauled the round box out, trying to remember where I’d seen it. Mama’s closet? Maybe Aunt Vadine put it in here. Or Mama. A lavender ribbon, grosgrain I think you call it, held the lid on. Quickly I undid the knot and peered inside. A crocheted baby bonnet lay on the top. The one Sylvia had worn in the picture. No doubt this had been one of Aunt Vadine’s creations the way she spent half her life with a ball of yarn in one hand and a hook in the other. It felt delicate and lacy. Under the bonnet were two stacks of letters with rubber bands around them. In the dimness of the garage I couldn’t tell what they were or who they were from. I decided to take them into the house. I put the lavender ribbon and the green scrap inside the box, leaned the ladder against the wall, and whistled for Scarlett. Before I left, I turned around and looked into the empty garage. It didn’t scare me anymore. No more black hole. Just my heart feeling like a squeezed orange knowing that’s where Mama died. Died and left me.

  I creaked the door shut behind me and looked up. Cly leaned against the end of the garages.

  “You did it.” He winked at me.

  “It wasn’t so bad. Not good, but…”

  “No rats?”

  “Nope. I found this box though. I think it’s some more of Mama’s things. Were you watching me?”

  “Just got here. You want to come over to Slim’s for a little backgammon?”

  “Sure. First, though, maybe I ought to put this box back. Aunt Vadine would just snoop in it.” I flipped open the garage latch and carried the box back to the shelf. In and out, like I did it every day of the week.

  When we walked by the incinerator, I stopped, fished the rotten mother letter out of my pocket, and threw it into the lake of fire.

  While we played backgammon all afternoon, the wind howled outside Slim’s windows. Slim got up to check the weather. “The sky’s darkening up. Looks like there’s rain a-coming.” He craned his neck to look through the front room window. “Best if you young’ens get goin’. Sammie, I’ll drive you home.”