Hildreth 2-in-1

by Denise Hildreth Jones

  “No, anyone that would speak to a precious lady like this”— I patted her on the arm— “the way I’ve heard you speak to her isn’t a man that deserves fine, raw talent. This lady has probably worked for you for years. Met your deadlines, listened to your rantings, spent sleepless nights wondering what would possibly make someone like you happy. She comes into the office every day and isn’t allowed to drink McDonald’s Coke or even have pictures of her golden retriever on her desk.”

  “She doesn’t have a golden retriever, and she drinks coffee.”

  “Like you know what kind of dog she has.”

  “Yes, I do. She has a cocker spaniel.”

  I looked at the lady, hoping he was bluffing, but she nodded with a smile.

  “Well, the point isn’t what kind of dog she has; it has to do with who she is. She’s a human being who deserves your respect. She deserves to be treated like a lady and respected for her, well, for her age if for nothing else. There’s wisdom behind these gray hairs, gray hair you probably contributed to. Lord knows she’s probably spent a lifetime having to make sure you’re happy. And frankly, I don’t want to spend the rest of my life doing the same.”

  Mr. Hicks was having trouble stifling a grin, which incensed me all the more. “Are you through?” he asked as he folded his arms and rested them on the top of his stomach.

  “No, not quite. I came here today to get a job. Gloria Richardson’s job. But I am leaving here disillusioned and dismayed. You wouldn’t appreciate me. You probably didn’t appreciate Gloria any more than you appreciate this fine lady.”

  “It’s Ruby,” she said with a smile and a nod of apparent satisfaction in Mr. Hicks’s direction.

  “Thank you, Ruby, nice to meet you. I’m Savannah. Anyway, I have decided I wouldn’t want to work for someone who would treat anyone the way Miss Ruby has been treated here today. So for all of the beleaguered souls, I quit.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes, and remember you could have had your Gloria back by next week, only her name would have been Savannah. You could have published stories the next generation could appreciate and the older generation would have respected.”

  “Yeah, that the older generation would have respected.” Miss Ruby snickered.

  I looked at her, shook Miss Ruby’s hand, and turned on my heels, not so gracefully. Fortunately, I gathered myself prior to disaster, and proceeded to walk toward the door. Vicky was good, but Savannah had just raised the bar.

  “Hold it just one moment, young lady.” I turned around cautiously to face the now-standing and rather looming figure in front of me.“Do you mean you are just going to come in here and rant and rave and then leave without ever allowing anyone else to speak?”

  “Well, I . . .”

  “Now it is time for you to listen. Miss Ruby, would you like to tell her what was happening here today?”

  Miss Ruby walked over to me and took me by the hand.“I just want you to know, Miss Savannah, that is the kindest thing I’ve seen anyone do for someone else in a long time. I thought kids your age didn’t think about much else than the opposite sex and mooching off their parents.” I decided then never to introduce her to Paige.“But on Mr. Hicks’s behalf, I must tell you, he was making me go on vacation.”

  Her face lit up and every ounce of blood drained from my own.“Oh.”

  “Yes, that’s what I was telling her . This woman, as you can tell, is here before anyone else and works after everyone else leaves. She doesn’t go on vacation unless absolutely forced and hasn’t taken a sick day in thirty years.”

  “Don’t need a sick day, Samuel. I’m healthy as a horse. My husband’s no longer living, all the kids are grown, and I just enjoy being here,” she said, looking at me with a wink. I tried to smile back, but I was totally incapable. I no longer had a book deal and had just successfully rejoined the world of the unemployed without ever having left.

  “So see, Savannah. Things aren’t always as they appear. Now, if you’ll excuse us, I’d like to talk to this lady for a minute,” he said.

  “Sure, I’m sorry. I hope you have a great vacation,” I said, nodding to Miss Ruby. “And I hope you have a pleasant day as well, sir.”

  “Savannah, I was actually talking to Miss Ruby. I’d like you to stay for a moment,” he said, smiling.“Ruby, I meant every word I said. Get going.”

  “I’m going, I’m going. Savannah, if you don’t make it in the newspaper world, you’d make an excellent defense attorney,” she said, patting me on the arm. She left the room, and her chuckle trailed her up the hall.

  Then there were two. I looked at him with a pathetic grin, and he motioned for me to have a seat. “So you’re the one I told to send me some of her writing. Do you always follow instructions this well?”

  “Well, I wanted to make sure you read my articles. I didn’t know where they would end up if I simply mailed them.”

  “You’re a brave soul, Savannah.”

  “I believe I just knocked on the door of stupidity myself.”

  “Well, that too,” he said chuckling, his belly bouncing as he laughed.“I’ve only seen that kind of passion one other place before.”

  “Where’s that, sir?”

  “In Gloria Richardson. She had it from the moment she arrived and it left with her. Don’t get me wrong. We’ve got excellent journalists. But passion and an ability to write are two different things. You’ll have to learn to harness your passion, Savannah. And I’m not sure if you can even write, seeing as I never got what I asked for.”

  “I have some samples with me, though I can’t imagine you’d actually want to read them now.”

  “Well, I do. Leave them with me, and I’ll call you later.”

  I retrieved what I had brought and placed them on his desk. “Does she really have a cocker spaniel?”

  “Yes, his name is Sam, after me, and he just turned eight. And she takes her coffee with cream, no sugar. I know the people who work with me, Savannah. And I know them well.”

  “Hmm.” And with that I pulled the embedded door closed, certain I had left a couple of lingering impressions.

  CHAPTER SIX

  I needed a Coke. A Coke and a good book. I headed to Jake’s.

  Only eight fifteen and Jake’s was already lively. The atmosphere and the company, even more than the coffee, is why people return. In the past thirteen years, I don’t think Dad has lost a customer. Judge Hoddicks, Jake’s most loyal patron, is in every morning at eight, and Mr. and Mrs. Leonard Culpepper, who live above the coffee shop, follow moments behind. The Culpeppers have two decafs with no sugar and extra cream. They firmly believe that caffeine after seven a.m. will keep them awake.

  Jennifer, Hope, and Karen from the Legislative Plaza next door pick up their usuals around eight thirty, before they head into the office. They get cappuccinos later in the day at that other coffee shop, the mere mention of which is not allowed at Jake’s. But they wouldn’t miss seeing my dad at the beginning of their day for anything.

  Most everything in the Savannah Historic District, besides restaurants and that other coffee shop, closes around five. My father’s main business comes from his square alone, and he figures when they are gone, he can go home too. Dad is home no later than five fifteen. Oh, and he is closed on Sunday. He, like Chick-fil-A, operates by the motto “After six days of work, everyone needs a day of rest.”

  As my face registered with old friends, there were hugs all around. Louise and Mervine, twins who came out of retirement to work with Dad, stopped midpour, abandoning countless customers.

  “Mervine, this child is too thin. Savannah Phillips,” Louise continued,“sit yourself down while we try to find you some food.” They flitted around the counter that separates the tables from the back offices, storage rooms, and Coke machine, leaving their customers to fill their own cups.

  Richard, one of the sweetest men I know and Dad’s right-hand man, was standing behind the counter refilling a couple of obvious tourists’ cu
ps when he heard Louise’s commotion. Richard’s sixty-five years showed only faintly on his dark skin, as gray had begun to infiltrate his coarse black hair. He grabbed me and hugged me the way only Richard can, hugging me so hard it would take hours before I would breathe correctly again.

  “Savannah Phillips, I can’t believe you finally got out of school. I thought you were going to stay until they made you leave,” he told me, his beautiful smile lighting up his face.

  “You didn’t hear, Richard? They did kick me out. Vicky came by and told them unless they changed the color of the brick on campus, she wasn’t going to pay the rest of my tuition.” Richard laughed with me as I pulled up a chair at the counter.

  Since the death of notorious Savannian Jimmy Williams, my mother has done more for Savannah’s architectural integrity than anyone in recent history. Jimmy Williams is the man from the acclaimed book Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, a book that put Savannah on the map for things many like my mother would rather have kept off. He came into this city bringing his own demanding perspective and rather extravagant taste and colorful lifestyle. Prior to his death he purchased and restored seventy-two homes. The publication of his story caused this city’s tourism to increase by 46 percent.

  Since Williams’s death,Vicky, a member of the Historic Review Board, started a program in conjunction with the Savannah College of Art and Design, a co-op in which the students work with the city on the restoration of historic homes and landmarks. They have beautifully restored more than fifty of the downtown-area homes, turning them into museums of Savannah’s history and stores reflecting Savannah’s taste and style.

  Vicky also helped to pass a law that banned changes on the outer structure of any home in the Historic District without those changes first being approved by the city. It passed easily in the state legislature. The only thing that still rankles her is that some modern buildings were grandfathered in, including one up the street that she refuses to drive by,walk by, or discuss. She wanted to have them torn down, but no one was brave enough to tackle that one. She is this city’s greatest lobbyist and advocate. She is the government’s greatest thorn. But Savannah loves her. I think one day she’ll run for mayor. I also think she does most of this in hopes that someone will write a book about her. Then she can say, “Jimmy Williams may have increased tourism 46 percent, but I, Victoria Inez Phillips, increased tourism 54 percent and didn’t have to murder a soul to do it.” Not that a few of us haven’t died a thousand deaths in the process.

  “Your mother will eventually learn that not everything requires her opinion,” Dad said as he appeared from the back room, Coke in hand, and pulled up a chair next to me at the counter. His six-foot-one frame is still sturdy at the age of fifty-three, a brief eight years older than my mother. He was probably considered “fine” when he was young, though I can’t say I’m comfortable ascribing that kind of adjective to my father.

  “Well you can dream in Technicolor if you wish,” I pronounced, “but as long as there is breath in ol’ Vicky, there will be a helpless victim on the other side of her opinion.”

  “Dreaming in Technicolor is something I do often,” he said, laughing that genuine laugh I have grown to love. None of that fake southern stuff just to make you feel good. Jake only laughs if it’s funny. He also cries when his kids make him proud and lights up like a fifteen-year-old schoolboy when Vicky enters the room. “But you don’t need to talk that way about your mother. And it is ‘Mother,’” he added. Dad got up to wipe off a table that had just been vacated by two businessmen. “What’ve you been doing this morning?”

  I stopped for a moment to watch him in this environment that he loved. He looked happy. “Oh, nothing much really. Just rode around for a bit to see what has changed.”

  “You look mighty nice to have been just riding around,” he said, giving Richard a wink.

  “Oh, well, I’ve been trying to look a little more professional. You know, with graduating and everything,” I said, apparently unsuccessful in my attempt to convince anyone, including the two women who had just come out of the back room with a banana and a muffin.

  “Do you have a busy morning?” Dad asked.

  “Nope.” I pulled a book out of my bag and waved it around.

  “I have a little time to kill before lunch.”

  “Well, we could use an extra pair of hands round here,” Richard said.“Why don’t you go grab an apron so you don’t mess up your new look?”

  I gave Richard my best woeful sigh and put the book away. Then I headed to the back of the store, grabbed an apron, and proceeded to fill cups.

  Above the counter at Jake’s hangs a blackboard that features daily pieces of wisdom or, as my father calls them, “Thoughts for the Journey.” Some folks take these little thoughts to heart, like the one that read,“A man who works hard is guaranteed success.” Dad said he saw more activity on the square that day than he had seen in years. Or the other that had people falling all over themselves trying to live right: “Live righteously and rewards will seek you out. Live like the devil and misfortune will pursue you.”

  Some people, like Vicky, take the ones they like and leave the ones they feel don’t apply. She was especially offended the day Dad had written,“A quarrelsome wife is like a constant dripping.” She thought he had it up all day, but he only put it up when he saw her come out of the courthouse and head over toward the shop.

  “Are you calling me ‘a constant dripping,’ Jake Phillips?”

  Dad simply smiled, removed her hands from her hips, wrapped his arms around her defensive body, and whispered in her ear,“No. You, my love, are a consistent nurturer.” To this day, whenever Vicky begins her constant dripping, Dad, or any of us nearby, lets her know that she is consistently nurturing that which has been nurtured enough.

  Today Dad’s thought for the journey read, “Anxiety in the heart of man can make him depressed, but it takes only one nice word to make him happy.” Surely I had caused enough anxiety for the entire population of Savannah already that morning, making this a justifiable penance. So for the next three hours, Dad and I determined to get rid of everyone’s anxieties with a nice word. We complimented suits, hairdos, grandchildren’s pictures—we even complimented things that really shouldn’t have been complimented at all, like Mrs. Taylor’s new wiry-haired, rat-looking dog. When it came through the door, Duke ran to the other side of the counter where he would be safe from such a rodent. Dad made over that dog until Mrs. Taylor was beaming from ear to ear.

  By the time the morning and midmorning rushes had cleared, depression had vacated the streets around Jake’s Coffeehouse. I was even feeling better myself.

  As I walked to my car, I could feel the heat challenge the coolness of my skin. Crawling into the black car and its warming conditions made me dread what the actual summer would hold. I pulled out of my parking place and was forced to stop as a group of ubiquitous tourists made their way across the street in front of me.

  They give themselves away too easily what with their visors, hanging cameras,walking shorts (which no one should be walking in), sneakers with crumpled-up socks, and even colored socks with loafers. Fanny packs and guidebooks usually finish off the colorful ensembles. Some visitors take the opportunity to wear hats they aren’t brave enough to wear in their hometowns. And everyone over fifty has a jacket on, just in case our 100-degree, humidity-filled afternoons might turn into a chilled breeze. Tourists keep Savannah alive, however, and they love to try locally owned places like Jake’s, or Clary’s Café, the restaurant I was aiming for before this flock of poorly attired geese stopped me.

  Clary’s is perched directly across the street from my house. Paige and I have patronized Clary’s for their BLTs since I can’t remember when. We have been friends since my second week at the Massie School. We were paired up for a history project in Mr. Gilbert’s class, and the rest, as they say, is . . . When I left for the University of Georgia, she stayed here in Savannah to go to the Savannah College of
Art and Design.

  I parked my car beside my house, crossed the street to Clary’s, and arrived inside to, no surprise, Paige’s absence. Paige was always late, whether it was fashionable or not.

  Her parents—Sheila,my mother’s best friend since childhood, and Patterson Long—own a beautiful antique shop on Abercorn Street right across from Saint John the Baptist’s Catholic Church. Paige doesn’t care much for antiques, but she is one of the most skilled painters I have ever met. I would’ve commissioned her to create the cover for my first book, had my original dream still been intact. Paige has been selling paintings since she was in high school. Her parents, out of sheer pride, put her first paintings up in their store. By the time she graduated college, she was so popular and had sold so many paintings, she opened up her own little area in the back of the antique shop. But Paige had recently declared at least partial independence by moving into her own apartment in the Lafayette Building—right next to her shop on the square.

  Paige entered Clary’s in total Paige style: out of breath.“You are not going to believe what happened.”

  “Try me,” I said, leaning back in my chair and knowing I was in for an interesting narrative.

  “I got pulled!”

  “You got pulled?”

  “Yeah! There he was. Mr. I-don’t-have-anything-better-to-do-than-pull-over-people-for-no-reason Millings.”

  “He does need a life.”

  “He needs a mint. Have you smelled that man’s breath?” she asked as her entire face contorted in horror.

  “Can’t say I’ve gotten that close.”

  “Well, hold on to your hat, Hannah; it won’t be long,” she said, flipping her hair, which was really too short to flip.

  “Did you flash him a smile? Offer him money? Bribe him with a portrait?” I laughed as I took a sip of the chocolate shake my favorite waitress, Helen, set down in front of me the very moment of my arrival.

  Paige slumped back in her chair. Then, as if getting a second wind, she sat up, patted me on the arm.“So, how did your meeting go?”