Temple Secrets: Southern Humorous Fiction: (New for 2015) For Lovers of Southern Authors and Southern Novels
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“Mama, when will I have to start working for the Temples?”
Tia is fourteen and the question shocked Violet. As she told Tia, she will never, ever, let either of her daughters work as servants. Never. Violet gives her foot a strong tap now to seal the promise. She will be the last of a long line. Her children will never know what her life has been like, and she is glad. Never, she tells herself again, standing straighter. If she can save enough to open her own business, she won’t be at this job much longer anyway.
Life is too short to spend it waiting on rich white people, she thinks. At the same time she is grateful for the job.
When Iris isn’t looking, Violet winks a hello to her Aunt Queenie. In return, Queenie gives a brief nod and hides a smile behind her napkin. Queenie makes the entire situation of waiting on Miss Temple bearable. They are like two soldiers in a foxhole together, their fates linked by a common foe.
Shadows grasp the corners of the room winning out in a tug-of-war with the light. The dark wood of the doors and moldings adds a veil of heaviness to the room. Period furniture, heralding the time the house was constructed, gleam with over a century’s worth of lemon oil rubbed into the grain by her ancestors, and now by Violet. History, in this house, is as heavy as the curtains that cover the floor to ceiling windows. Every day, Violet yearns to throw open the curtains and let some fresh air into the rooms. She is convinced air from the last century is still trapped in the corners.
As far as she knows, Miss Temple is the only member of Savannah’s upper class who still insists that they dress for dinner. Violet is also the only housekeeper and cook still required, even in the year 2000, to wear a blue uniform with a starched white apron on top and white shoes. A look meant to remind Violet of her place and perhaps the 1940s. As Violet has observed, things are slow to change in the Temple household.
However, on this particular evening, Miss Temple has not changed from the clothes she wore that morning when Violet cleaned up the spilled tea in the sunroom. Something from the newspaper had Miss Temple practically in tears. Not that Violet has ever seen her employer cry. Violet isn’t that fond of crying, either, but at least she knows she can do it when a situation warrants. Yet Miss Temple’s lack of dinner etiquette strikes her as odd.
Violet lifts an eyebrow to ask Queenie what’s up.
Queenie shrugs and widens her eyes with the message to stay alert.
No one speaks during meals—another of Miss Temple’s dinner rules—so Violet is left to listen to the old grandfather clock ticking away the seconds of her life and the click, click, clicks of silver on china, along with Miss Temple’s persistent chewing, accompanied by guttural noises and the occasional passing of gas. As her husband, Jack, likes to say: Iris Temple passes gas like a 300 pound Georgia Bulldog after a chili cook off. She resists smiling.
Violet pulls a small tincture bottle of vanilla, cinnamon and ginger root from the pocket of her apron to dab underneath her nose. A scent, oddly enough, Miss Temple never notices. The tincture is the only thing Violet has been able to find to counteract the smell of the potent exotic meats and Miss Temple’s inevitable reaction to them.
Tonight’s reactions are more forceful than usual. Perhaps because of what was in the newspaper this morning. Before the first course is finished, Miss Temple leans and lifts her hip three times. Another gesture found more often at a Bulldogs game than one of Savannah’s most prominent families.
It remains a mystery what causes Miss Temple’s ailments. No matter how many specialists she sees or what radical changes she makes to her diet, her condition does not improve, making Violet believe that it is entirely possible that her grandmother deserves more credit.
“Are you reading during dinner?” Miss Temples barks at Queenie, as if she’s caught her buying sweatpants at Wal-Mart.
Violet snaps to attention.
“Answer me,” she insists. If Violet had the nerve, she would tell Miss Temple to quit being such a bully. But, for now, she can’t risk losing her job. Besides, Queenie knows how to take care of herself.
“If you must know, Iris, I was praying,” Queenie says.
Miss Temple pauses as if aware that even she can’t trump God.
“No need to worry, Iris, I’ll put in a good word for you.” Queenie glances heavenward, whispers a few words and then winks at Violet.
In response, Miss Temple’s stomach rumbles like a thunderclap and her body leans. Anticipating what’s next, Violet dabs another application of her tincture to her upper lip. Over the years, Violet has become as adept at reading Miss Temple’s dark moods as the experts on the weather channel are at predicting hurricanes. In the current forecast, her employer’s stormy disposition has changed from a watch to a warning.
Miss Temple coaxes into her mouth a piece of rattlesnake that Violet sautéed in butter and onions. In the last decade, she has learned to cook things she would have never dreamed would end up in her kitchen. Miss Temple chews with so much vigor it makes Violet’s jaws hurt. Her Gullah ancestors would much sooner run from a snake than to eat one. When Violet was a girl her grandmother told her stories about whip snakes, which were said to bite their tails and roll like a wheel in order to overcome their victims. At that moment, she pines for her grandmother’s stories, as well as her red rice, okra soup, and shrimp and grits. She has come a long way from her Gullah roots, though she’s not so certain this is a good thing.
No one expected Miss Temple to live this long. A delicate constitution has plagued her since before Violet started working here and has intensified over the years. Meanwhile, Miss Temple’s face takes on the color of a confederate gray uniform worn by one of her ancestors in the portrait gallery. Violet is smart enough to fear what is coming, but luckily it doesn’t seem to be about the food.
“I was at my attorney’s office today trying to sue the newspaper when I received some alarming news of a different nature,” Miss Temple says.
Violet and her aunt exchange quick looks.
“Sometimes those closest to us betray us,” Miss Temple says, sounding like a Hallmark greeting card gone wrong. Her eyes narrow and change from tired blue to a steel gray. A pause follows, the distance between lightning and a thunderclap.
Violet fears for Queenie more than herself. Miss Temple can be spiteful when she wants to be, especially to Queenie.
“It seems my attorney has found a most distressing letter,” Miss Temple says.
“A letter?” Queenie asks, appearing calm. “From whom?” Both Violet and Queenie know it is safer not to react.
Miss Temple tightens her lips and then wipes her mouth on a silk napkin graced with a prominent monogrammed “T” in gold thread that Violet has laundered and ironed hundreds of times.
“Did everyone know except me?” Miss Temple asks Queenie and then turns the question toward Violet, who takes a step back. It is not like Miss Temple to notice her.
“I’ve fought my entire life for the recognition I deserve,” Miss Temple begins again. “My father would have much preferred his only child be a son. It doesn’t matter that I’ve solidified the Temple dynasty during my tenure.”
Violet has never heard the Temple matriarch talk like this. Does it have anything to do with the threat in the newspaper this morning? Something to do with the secrets?
“Are you okay, Iris?” Queenie asks, as if she, too, has noticed the change.
“I’ve been thinking about the past more than usual, that’s all,” she answers. “Nothing good can come of it, of course. It’s probably because of those damn secrets.”
“Do you want to talk about it?” Queenie asks.
Miss Temple’s eyes widen like confiding in Queenie is about as appealing as desegregation. “Must you be so common,” she says to Queenie, her words coming out in a huff. “Of course I don’t want to talk about it, especially not with someone who isn’t a true Temple. How could you possibly understand?” She sighs, as though putting Queenie in her place isn’t as satisfying as she hoped.
“My father was a brilliant man except for sleeping with the servants,” Miss Temple begins again. “But I have to put up with you as a constant reminder of his indiscretions. Have you ever thought about what it’s like for me to deal with my father’s bastard child for over half a century?”
Violet steps closer to defend Queenie, but Queenie shakes her head again. In most cases it’s best to just let Miss Temple’s rants play out, like letting a tea kettle release its steam. It doesn’t help that someone is threatening to leak secrets to the newspaper, however this latest news seems to have distracted her from even that.
“Of course it was Oscar’s idea,” Miss Temple continues. “He could be quite persuasive when he wanted to be.” She rubs her temples as though smoothing a splitting headache. “Did I ever tell you that I married him just to make my mother angry? He was from a family of tailors.” Iris gives a short laugh. “Beneath us, my mother said.”
Violet always wondered how Mister Oscar ended up with Miss Temple. He seemed way too nice for her.
According to Queenie, Miss Temple treated his parents horribly. They were never invited to Temple events, and she didn’t even attend their funerals. To Violet, family is sacred. Having never known her parents, she doesn’t take family for granted.
“I shouldn’t have changed it,” Miss Temple says, talking to herself.
“You shouldn’t have changed what?” Queenie asks.
Within moments Miss Temple’s mood shifts, like the wind has changed direction and the storm downgraded. Yet, Violet and Queenie know better than to relax just yet.
Miss Temple turns to Violet again. “You are lovely,” she says.
Violet stands straighter. Her employer never pays compliments. She gives a quick, “Thank you,” wondering what this has to do with a found letter.
As Queenie can attest, to capture Miss Temple’s attention is rarely a good thing. She has observed more than one casualty from her employer’s venom. Violet remembers Rose, Miss Temple’s daughter who hasn’t returned to Savannah in decades. Venom goes a long way when used to poison a relationship, and Violet never wants to pass on anything like that to her girls.
“Are you married, my dear?” Miss Temple asks her.
Violet looks at her aunt and then back at Miss Temple. Should she refuse to answer?
“Iris, leave her alone,” Queenie says, but Miss Temple waves her comment away.
“I’m married to a man named Jack,” Violet says, hoping her response will end the tension.
“What does this Jack do?” Miss Temple asks.
“He teaches English at the community college.” Violet lowers her eyes.
“Do you have children?” she asks.
Violet hesitates. Then she thinks about how hard it will be to find another job without a reference from Miss Temple.
“Two daughters,” Violet says. “Sixteen and fourteen.”
Miss Temple looks thoughtful.
Violet’s face feels hot and her heartbeat races. She steps toward Queenie’s end of the table in an effort to flee. Under the table, Queenie makes a slight motion with her hand, as if guiding jets onto a tiny aircraft carrier at her feet. In their foxhole, Queenie and Violet have developed a type of Morse code, using a series of eye and subtle hand gestures to relay Miss Temple’s moods. If not for the seriousness of the situation, Violet would feel foolish making these gestures.
Meanwhile, Miss Temple scrutinizes Violet, as if overcome with great curiosity. After the main entrée is finished, Violet gathers the empty plates and goes back into the kitchen. She returns with crystal dessert goblets each filled with a scoop of blackberry sherbet. Violet waits near the kitchen door. Beyond this door is her territory, her safe place. The heightened tension in the room causes goose bumps to raise on her arms. Queenie must feel it, too.
In their agreed upon mayday signal, Queenie winks twice and jerks her head left, like the return on an old typewriter. Through gestures, Queenie tells Violet to save herself. Violet, however, refuses to abandon Queenie no matter how many times she winks and returns her carriage.
Not only are Violet and Queenie bonded as niece and aunt, but they are close like people who survive natural disasters are close. When Miss Temple has nothing for her to do, Queenie often helps Violet in the kitchen and knows intimate details about her and her husband, Jack, and their two daughters, Tia and Leisha. Sometimes Tia and Leisha come over for the day if they don’t have school and Queenie and the girls have Parcheesi tournaments in the kitchen, just like Violet and Rose and Queenie did decades before.
After taking her last bite of sherbet, Miss Temple nods, a signal to Violet that she is finished.
As Violet clears the table, Miss Temple pats Violet’s hand and thanks her.
Violet swallows a gasp and shoots an alarmed look in Queenie’s direction. Miss Temple never touches anyone, especially not a servant. Nor does she thank anyone for anything. If saved from a raging river, Miss Iris Temple of the Savannah Temples would expect her rescuers to thank her for the privilege of keeping her alive. Hubris she may have inherited from her father, a man who supposedly never liked children and made a daily practice of ignoring her. It is this fact alone that helps Violet tolerate her.
Queenie signals for Violet to save herself, but Violet refuses to leave. Miss Temple is up to something big. Something that feels dangerous. After having observed her employer for over twenty years, Violet knows one thing for certain: a predator is still a predator, even with claws retracted.
Miss Temple stands and stares at Violet like she is seeing her for the first time.
“Iris, are you sure you’re all right?” Queenie asks. “You’ve had a big day with the threat of the Book of Secrets getting released.”
“Of course I’m all right,” she says, her tone dismissive. But she doesn’t look all right at all. This crisis seems to have cracked her hard exterior, at least for now.
Violet and Queenie follow Miss Temple into the foyer, where she announces she’s going to bed early because she has a big day tomorrow.
At the base of the grand staircase, Miss Temple gives Violet a quick, tight embrace in a rare act of affection that feels more like a frontal version of the Heimlich maneuver that Violet learned in a Red Cross class. In response, Violet lets out a short gasp, waiting for her ribs to crack, and then lowers her eyes wondering if she should be terrified or relieved.
Miss Temple lets out a belch to rival her other emissions for the day and says, “Damn voodoo curse,” glancing back like she holds Queenie responsible.
Ascending the spiral staircase, Miss Temple discharges a slow windy release of gas with each step, like a lonely train whistle fading in the distance.
CHAPTER THREE
Queenie
The next morning Queenie chews a fingernail as she wonders who is behind releasing the coming secrets. Iris picks up the morning paper, skips the society section entirely and goes straight to the classifieds. Queenie lost sleep the night before, worrying that her secret might be the first one revealed. She imagines there are many people in Savannah with this very same fear.
As Iris runs a finger down the column, Queenie covers her ears awaiting the scream but hears a shriek instead. Iris’s lips disappear into her scowl.
“Who is doing this?” Iris points at Queenie as if she should know.
Queenie has no idea who is behind it. If she did she would offer them every penny in her savings account to keep her biggest secret out of the newspaper. Meanwhile, in all the years she’s known Iris, she has never seen her this unnerved. In a way, she finds it as refreshing as those scented dryer sheets Iris hates so much.
Iris throws the newspaper at Queenie and pieces cascade to the floor. Despite a personal visit to the newspaper and another trip to her attorney, the first secret has appeared anyway.
“Get the car,
” Iris orders. She walks out of the sunroom and climbs the stairs heavy-footed like a child in the midst of her second tantrum in as many days.
Queenie quickly gathers the newspapers and reads the first secret in the classifieds:
Several Savannah patriarchs have mixed-raced children.
Contact Iris Temple for more information: 912-944-0455.
Queenie lets out a guffaw to go along with the relief she feels that the secret released is not one of her own. Even though she is of mixed-race, that scandal is old news. Almost immediately, the phone rings in the hallway and Queenie answers it.
“Keep your damn mouth shut,” a male caller says, before a loud click severs the call.
“Uh, oh,” Queenie says. She’d better warn Violet not to answer the telephone today.
An hour later, Queenie sits in the waiting room of Bo Rivers, Iris’s attorney, someone who probably has his own share of secrets in Iris’s book. Queenie wonders if he’s someone who actually might have access. It would be just like Iris to store a copy with her legal representative in case the banks failed. Iris could be a little paranoid sometimes.
Behind a heavy door Queenie can hear Iris’s raised voice and the low mumblings of Bo Rivers as he tries to calm her. Seconds later Iris appears from behind the door and slams it, and then strides past Queenie who scurries to follow. For an old lady, Iris has some pep. It reminds Queenie of when power walks were in fashion. Not that she ever did one. Wouldn’t want to ruin my girlish figure, she says to herself, and slaps her large hip. She has never understood why white women have to be skinny to be happy. Even Oprah falls for it from time to time.
Later that afternoon, Queenie waits in the grand foyer where the telephone has not only been unplugged but removed entirely. It is Queenie’s job to accompany Iris to the Piggly Wiggly grocery store across town. All household errands are relegated to Queenie, with the exception of one, which Iris insists on doing herself. This errand is to order exotic meats from Spud Grainger, the butcher at the Piggly Wiggly, with whom Iris had a storied affair in the 1970s. An affair—Iris told Queenie after having too much sherry on All Souls Day in 1983—that she blames on an article she read in Vogue Magazine concerning the free love movement.