Grace, Grits and Ghosts

by Susan Gabriel

  As a result, most of Savannah—regardless of race, class, gender or age—was waiting on Iris Temple to die. If for no other reason, so that life could return to scented bliss. This thought had certainly passed through Queenie’s mind many times. If she were lucky—sooner rather than later—Iris could become one of the many ghosts that lived in the old mansion. She imagined Iris would be a lot easier to live with in spirit form, although the Temple ghosts could get rambunctious from time to time.

  “I know it doesn’t bother you to smell the dryer sheets,” Iris conceded. “But if you were a true Temple, you’d understand. You just don’t have our level of sophistication.”

  There it is, Queenie thought, as predictable as Old Faithful, and just as full of toxic vapors.

  To distract herself from doing Iris harm, Queenie thought back to when she came to live here in 1965, thirty-five years ago. She had been twenty-two years old at the time and Iris, forty-five. It had been Mister Oscar’s idea—Iris Temple’s husband—that Queenie join the staff because of a special fondness he had for her. A fondness that eventually extended to the bedroom. Back then, Queenie’s mother still worked for the Temples as head housekeeper, though she eventually retired and was replaced in 1980 by Violet, Queenie’s niece.

  At one hundred years of age, Queenie’s mother, Old Sally, still practiced the family trade of root doctoring and folk magic in the way her Gullah ancestors did. People came from all over the southeast to have her work her spells and cure illnesses. The Gullah ways were taught to her by Queenie’s great-grandmother, Sadie, a slave owned by the Temple family. Queenie had never practiced the family trade. Perhaps it was the Temple blood in her that refused to participate. Though lately, she had questioned if her mother’s folk magic might offer a more permanent solution to her arrogant half-sister.

  Voodoo aside, every Wednesday afternoon, Queenie accompanied Iris Temple to the Piggly Wiggly grocery store on the opposite end of Savannah. Though she could afford a multitude of chauffeurs, Iris insisted on driving herself—an excursion which always proved harrowing, despite the snail-paced speed. As far as Queenie could tell, Iris had never once used the rear-view or side mirrors on her black Lincoln Town Car. Not to mention, she used the sidewalks in town as a kind of bumper car railing, to keep track of the edge of the road, due to a horrible case of near-sightedness she was too vain to correct. What Iris lacked in accuracy she made up for in spite and anyone she endangered with her recklessness, she deemed somehow deserving.

  All household errands were relegated to Queenie, with the exception of this one, which Iris did herself. This errand was to order exotic meats from Spud Grainger, the butcher at the Piggly Wiggly, with whom Iris had had a storied affair in the 1970s. An affair—Iris told Queenie in 1983, after having too much sherry on All Souls Day—that she blamed on an article she’d read in Vogue Magazine concerning the free love movement.

  The affair had begun in the late 70s, two years after her husband, Oscar, died unexpectedly of a massive heart attack. At the time, Spud Grainger was a bag boy at the Piggly Wiggly and a part-time jazz musician. The affair ended after six months, at Iris Temple’s insistence. Heartbroken, Spud Grainger was said to have never played the saxophone again.

  Now, twenty or so years later, Iris entered the Piggly Wiggly with the sophistication of Savannah royalty. Queenie followed not far behind. They walked down aisle number three toward the meat department in the back of the store. Despite being eighty years of age, Iris’s posture was impeccable, as if a flag pole extended from crown to coccyx. And though she was of normal height—perhaps five feet, seven inches—she seemed much taller than everyone else. Even her wrinkles appeared in proper alignment, and her solid white hair coiffed to perfection, as if she and the Queen of England shared hairdressers.

  Queenie served no particular function on these outings except to fulfill her half-sister duty as companion and to keep her mouth shut. Afterward, she would get her hair washed and relaxed at the Gladys Knight and the Tints Beauty Parlor located in the shopping center adjacent to the Piggly Wiggly—a reward she looked forward to every week.

  Iris arrived at the meat counter gingerly clearing her throat to get Spud Grainger’s attention. When this didn’t work, Iris’s query made a crescendo until the aging butcher turned and smiled. If ever there were an example of love’s blindness, it was Spud Grainger’s affection for Iris Temple.

  “My dear Iris, you get more beautiful every day,” he said, his southern accent smooth and lilting.

  “How very kind of you, Mister Grainger.” Iris radiated a smile that had received very little exercise over the years and her bottom lip quivered with the effort. Once weekly, Queenie marveled at her half-sister’s transformation into a somewhat pleasant human being while in Spud Grainger’s presence.

  Spud Grainger was not a day over sixty and had aged well. A solid white mustache hid his slightly crooked front teeth. He also had an affinity for bow ties. Today’s tie was lime green, with thin red stripes that matched the beef tips on special, displayed in the glass case in front of him.

  The elegant butcher wiped his hands on his perfectly clean white apron and stepped into the aisle to kiss Iris’s extended hand. A girlish giggle escaped her octogenarian lips.

  When Queenie was unsuccessful in hiding her smile, Iris shot her a look that could stop a wildebeest in a dead run. Queenie suppressed a gulp as Iris returned her attention to Spud. Iris’s face colored slightly from Spud’s attention. She tilted her head upward as if this regal gesture might command the color to recede. They spoke affectionately of the weather.

  Damn, y’all, how many different ways can you describe hot? Queenie wondered, for Savannah was as hot as a furnace in Hades for six months out of the year and had enough humidity to generate buckets of sweat within seconds.

  Iris turned and handed Queenie her leopard handbag, heavy enough to contain the wildebeest. As instructed, Queenie reached inside the bag for a linen envelope containing the neatly written order on Temple stationary. She handed the paper to Spud Grainger, who thanked her kindly.

  Exotic meats, Iris told anyone who had the misfortune to ask, were the only thing her delicate, voodoo cursed, constitution could tolerate. Whether the strong medicine of these animals was meant to counteract the voodoo spell she was at the mercy of remained a mystery.

  Antelope, alligator, buffalo, elk, kangaroo and ostrich were flown in from all over the world at great expense. Not to mention, iguana, llama, rattlesnake and yak. Animals that would have fought harder, Queenie thought, if they knew their capture would result in ending up in Iris Temple’s gullet.

  Spud Grainger studied the list. He smiled and petted his mustache, as if Iris Temple’s exotic orders, as well as her exotic nature, had captivated him.

  “The caribou may take a while,” he said thoughtfully. “But I’ll give Violet a call as soon as it comes in.”

  A line of Savannah housewives formed behind Iris Temple. She eyed their khaki shorts and New Balance sneakers and inclined her chin heavenward as if on the trail of an unacceptable scent. She wrinkled her nose, furrowed her brow. Though the 4th of July was three months away, Queenie anticipated the upcoming fireworks.

  “Someone is wearing Chanel!” Iris said to Queenie in a whisper that could be heard from the front of the store. The look on Iris’s face was one of complete and utter disgust.

  Chanel no. 5, as Queenie had been told countless times, was the fragrance of the terminally middle class. Iris Temple abhorred the wannabe rich, or any other kind of rich that didn’t involve money that had been around since the disbanding of the Confederacy.

  Spud Grainger offered Iris an apologetic look. He motioned to the line forming behind her. Iris stopped mid-sniff and thanked him, another kindness reserved only for Spud. Then she turned to the gaggle of Savannah housewives and huffed her disapproval, giving them a parting hiss, like the rattlesnake she planned to eat for dinner that night. Though Queenie offered a parting apology to the women, the final word
came from Iris in a cloud of flatulence that cleared the entire cereal aisle as she departed and sent two giggling children running in search of their mother.

  After the Piggly Wiggly, Iris dropped Queenie off at the hairdressers, and then the grand matriarch drove off to conduct another errand. She was never to question the nature of Iris Temple’s other business, but just last week when returning to the car to retrieve her knitting, Queenie had found a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken bones crammed under the back seat. The bones had been picked clean, as if an exotic jungle animal had been feasting on them while lying on the plush leather seats.

  So much for voodoo and special diets, Queenie had thought at the time, as she held the bucket of bones and smiled back at Colonel Sanders’ emblazoned image. If Iris kept this up, hardening of the arteries might take her out, but Queenie wasn’t sure she had the fortitude to wait for natural causes.

  An hour later, with her hair relaxed and styled, Queenie put the charge on Iris’s bill and waited at the entrance of the beauty shop. Within minutes, the shiny black Lincoln rounded the corner, rolled over a part of the sidewalk, and hit a green trash can that bounced off a silver Toyota wagon before coming to rest at the north end of the parking lot.

  Good lord, Queenie thought, this woman is an accident waiting to happen.

  Someday Queenie would have to take the car keys away from Iris, an action she looked forward to about as much as back-to-back root canals. Iris was not the type to give up control of anything, especially large, life-threatening motor vehicles.

  Queenie was an exceptional driver herself. Oscar, Iris’s husband, had taught her when she was sixteen in an equally big Lincoln Continental. In exchange for the driving lessons, she had agreed to climb into the back seat with him and show him her breasts. At the time, this gesture had seemed a small price to pay for use of the Temple cars. Of course, this was a secret Queenie doubted would ever make it into Iris’s precious book.

  The Town Car rounded the final corner and veered in Queenie’s direction, as if Iris was intent on playing a game of geriatric “chicken.” Queenie debated whether to jump aside, but decided to hold her ground.

  “Just try it, old lady,” Queenie said, her teeth gritted in determination. She locked her ample knees in place, grateful she had some substance to her. “If it’s my fate to go to the Great Beyond at the hands of Iris Temple, then so be it,” she added. “But I refuse to be the first one to flinch.”

  The Lincoln screeched to a halt, stopping only inches away from Queenie, so close that heat drifted from the engine and further relaxed her hair. She unlocked her knees and got inside while Iris’s wrinkled lips glistened in the sunlight from her latest rendezvous with the Colonel. The smell of his secret recipe of eleven herbs and spices permeated the closed car.

  After several attempts, Iris coerced the car into drive and hit the curb twice before reaching the main road, causing a family of four to frantically scatter into the good hands of an Allstate Insurance office.

  “God in heaven,” Queenie shrieked. “Watch where you’re going, Iris!”

  “Keep your commandments to yourself,” Iris said with a polished sneer. Then she raised one hip to expel another one for the record books.

  After returning from dinner later that evening, Iris was not herself. She didn’t complain once about their meal. Nor did she create a mundane task for Queenie to do to prove who was in charge. Uncharacteristically, Iris announced in the foyer that she was retiring early and gave Queenie a quick, tight embrace in a rare act of affection that felt more like a frontal Heimlich maneuver. Queenie emitted a short gasp, waiting for her ribs to crack.

  What was that about? she wondered.

  As Queenie recovered her breath, Iris ascended the spiral staircase to her bedroom. With each step, she discharged a slow windy release of gas, like a lonely train whistle fading in the distance. Iris glanced back at Queenie, as if determined to have the last word.

  “Damn, voodoo curse,” Iris said, a sigh escaping with the gas.

  Hours later, before the sun rose on another steamy summer morning, Iris Temple finally did the one thing nobody in Savannah ever thought she would do. At the exact moment of Iris’s departure, Queenie rolled over and smiled in her sleep. Meanwhile Spud Grainger startled awake with a sudden urge to play the saxophone.

  The Mail Slot

  The girl emerges from behind a hedge trimmed like a bad haircut which lines the sidewalk across the street and partially hides the house where she lives. She looks both ways before crossing the street, and then opens the squeaky iron gate in front of Allison Whitworth’s house.

  Allison observes the girl through curtains open the width of a tightly woven cocoon, clutches the top of her sweater and steps into the shadows of the grandfather clock in the entryway. She smells the lemon-scented furniture oil she’d applied to the clock cabinet the day before.

  Go away, Allison wants to tell her. Leave me alone.

  Why is she here anyway? Is it that time of year again? The time for endless school fundraisers, the selling of Girl Scout cookies and tickets for raffles? What would someone like Allison do with a Jamaican cruise, a Florida vacation? Has the girl forgotten that every year she knocks and every year there is no answer?

  The knock quiets Allison’s thoughts, a rapping so timid she reaches toward the crystal doorknob before withdrawing her hand. Her heartbeat accelerates. Her breathing grows shallow; her hands clammy. She forces herself to take deep breaths.

  The knock comes again, this time a little stronger. The girl waits. She stands not three feet away from Allison and opens the brass mail slot in the center of the wooden door with her index finger.

  “I know you’re in there,” she whispers through the opening. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. I want to be your friend.”

  Allison shuffles backward, touching the cool wall with one hand while covering her mouth with the other. Her throat grows tight, as if to stifle any words that might escape. How many years has it been since she had a friend? Maybe since St. Marks, the school she attended until her father suddenly died of a heart attack, and before her mother’s lengthy illness. Mary McMurray was her best friend then. Her only friend.

  The girl opens and closes the hinged flap.

  “Why don’t you talk to anybody?” she asks. “Why don’t you ever come out of your house?”

  Her questions drop through the slot like unwanted mail. The girl opens and closes the hinged flap three more times, as if to add question marks to her inquiry. She is close enough for Allison to hear her breathing.

  “My name’s Beth, short for Elizabeth,” the girl begins again. “Elizabeth Fletcher Owens. The Fletcher part is my grandmother’s name.”

  Allison bites her bottom lip and cautiously opens the curtains on the door’s side panel. A thin, sunny slice of the girl appears. A dozen freckles are captured, one brown eye, and the corner of a blue barrette in the shape of a dolphin. The girl lets the mail flap close a final time and stands there for several seconds chewing thoughtfully on the end of her ponytail. She turns to leave, bounding down the steps, looking back only once when she opens the gate.

  Allison clutches the doorknob and turns it to open the door and call after the girl. She hesitates—her face hot—fear echoing in her ears. With a sigh, she releases her grip and gives the door two swift taps, as if double-locking the possibility of stepping outside.

  To divert herself, Allison takes a monogrammed white handkerchief from the pocket of her skirt and blends in the smudge she made while leaning against the grandfather clock. She closes the slight opening in the curtains and walks over to the burgundy wingback chair that has stood in the same corner of the living room for as long as she can remember.

  A rectangle of fading lace drapes across the chair back to protect the fabric. On Wednesdays, Allison takes her afternoon nap in this chair. She seldom sits on any piece of furniture twice in a week, in order to save on their wear. Because of this precaution, everything looks as it did wh
en her parents were alive.

  Allison’s father grew up in this house, and Allison has lived here her entire life. In 1912, when the mansion had been built, this had been the most prestigious section of Atlanta. But in recent decades, newer, smaller houses have sprung up around her like weeds among rose bushes.

  The grandfather clock ticks in the distance, a reticent reminder of time passing. It chimes on the hour as Allison settles into the large chair, her feet placed carefully on its matching ottoman. She doesn’t remove her shoes, an act of defiance against her mother. The panty hose Allison wears gather at her ankles. She will add a new pair to her grocery list for her sister Melody; they don’t seem to last long with all the cleaning she has to do.

  Allison closes her eyes and rests into the sound of the grandfather clock. Her heartbeat returns to normal, though she can’t stop thinking of the girl. Her breathing deepens. In her dreams she is a girl again. She sees herself walk to the dining room window and stands on her tiptoes to look outside. Children her age ride bicycles up and down the street, laughing and yelling at each other. Her mother does not allow Allison to play with them. She might get hurt. She might get dirty. She is a princess locked in a tower, waiting for one of them to notice her. The tall boy, perhaps. Henry. He was in her class at school the year before and always carried a baseball glove. In her mind she calls to Henry, willing him to see her, to break the spell and free her from the tower.

  Scotty, Allison’s cat, jumps in her lap and awakens her.

  “Oh, Scotty,” she says. “A perfect nap destroyed.”

  After she shoos him away she picks at several white hairs he left on her dark skirt. She secures them inside the right front pocket of her sweater vest and wonders why she puts up with him, though she already knows.