Hildreth 2-in-1

by Denise Hildreth Jones

  “Does anyone look like they’re suffering around here?”

  “Well, I don’t call ten years of T-shirts living the high life. And third, my mother is one of the finest women you will ever meet. It would do you good to learn how to be half the woman that she is. No, it would do us both good.”With that, I passed her in the carved-out path and turned around to add one final thought.

  “Emma, I don’t care if you tell me anything about your experience. I might’ve been sent here for one reason alone today, and that was to let you know you need to remember how to live. You have four reasons upstairs. They should be enough to clean yourself up, make something out of your life, and do those things you were created for. Because I assure you this isn’t it. And if you need to figure out where to start, you would benefit from talking to my mother. She has a way of helping people see the good in themselves. I think you’ve forgotten that you have any.”

  She walked over to the door and opened it, making it clear she had tired of my dissertation.

  “I’m sorry to bother you. I hope you have a good afternoon.” With that, I walked out of the already opened door, and she slammed it behind me.

  “Well, that went well.”

  I needed a mandatory rest period. There was only one place that ever gave me real quiet—the Savannah College of Art and Design Library. I took my station next to the window, so I could keep my eye on who was coming and going up the street.

  As I opened up my satchel, I saw him. His bike was still blue and his curls still curly. He passed by the window, and just as I turned my head to watch his departure, he turned back and caught my eye and smiled a “I know you’re watching me but don’t want me to know” kind of smile. I returned a raised eyebrow and upturned lip. Cocky little something, aren’t you? I wasn’t even looking at you. I was just looking out the window trying to create an adequate opening for my first article. You need to get a job anyway and quit riding around the street like some troubled youth with nowhere to go.

  I began an Internet search to find out how I could get copies of the Miss Georgia United States of America program books. The Miss Georgia United States of America Pageant Web site opened to the playing of their theme song.“What a lady, dressed as royalty. With such grace, she has arrived. Can’t you see her magic and splendor? Isn’t this world greater for having her?”

  Ooh, bad rhyme, I thought to myself as the song continued. “Here she comes. Walking on air, she comes. Don’t you wish you were her? The lady divine, Miss Georgia United States of America.”

  “Ooh, so sad. So very, very sad,” I actually said out loud. I had heard the song a thousand times. Vicky walked through the house singing it to herself. But hearing it from a computer speaker solidified the fact that it truly was wretched.

  Searching the Web site, I found the past issues. Some poor soul had been forced to scan every page of every program book over the last fifty years. Grateful, I began the tedious search for Katherine’s picture. She would have to be somewhere before Victoria, who was crowned in 1976.

  I found her in 1972. I couldn’t believe it. Despite more than thirty years, she looked exactly the same, without the gray, of course. And the few laugh lines from a good life that had since formed around her eyes were undetectable in the photo. Underneath her picture it read “Katherine Powers, Miss Savannah United States of America, sponsored by the Savannah Chamber of Commerce.”

  Finding Katherine, I began to research the judges for her the year she competed. There I saw Mr. Randolph Cummings III himself. I began to scan through the years and learned that Mr. III was a judge from 1970 through 1992 . Then in 1993,Mr. Randolph Cummings IV came into the picture as a judge. I went back to Katherine’s program and looked at the auditors. Her auditors were Mr. Lyle Wilcox and Mr. Stanley Harvard. But looking through the programs from ’71 and ’73, Mr. Wilcox and Mr. Harvard hadn’t audited before or since. The Templetons audited from 1973 until 1996, and then a different set of auditors was used every year after that.

  My mind raced with a thousand questions. If the pageant was rigged, by whom? Was it by the directors, a rotund older fella named Mr. Carl Todd, or his daughter, Miss Carline Todd? Was it this Mr. III judge, who never seemed to go away? Or was it these one-time auditors? And were they fired for what they did that year? It was up to me to make this puzzle work. It was up to me to make it all work before Tuesday. Because by Tuesday, Savannah needed a story and Mr. Hicks needed a reason to fire me. I determined I would have mine; I only hoped that it wouldn’t afford him his in the process.

  The Atlanta phone book popped up on the Internet and pulled up Wilcox, Harvard, Pratt, and Dean. What could it hurt to call and ask for a meeting? The worst they could do would be to say no. I dialed right there on my mobile phone and heard a friendly voice.“Wilcox, Harvard, Pratt, and Dean,may I help you?”

  “Yes, hello. I was trying to reach Mr. Lyle Wilcox or Mr.Stanley Harvard.”

  “Oh,” she said, pausing.“Well, they have both retired, but Mr.

  Wilcox’s son, Raymond, and Mr. Harvard’s daughter, Suzanna, both work here. Would you like to speak to one of them?”

  “Do you mean they’ve retired from the company or have they retired, period?”

  “Well”—she dropped her voice to a whisper—“Mr. Wilcox retired about two years ago from the company and died immediately after his retirement. Mr. Harvard retired over ten years ago and just passed away last month. So, I guess you could say they have both retired, retired.”

  “Well, in that case, how about I just speak with Mr. Wilcox, Mr. Raymond Wilcox?” I said.

  “Oh, he’s in a meeting right now, so you can’t speak with him.”

  I decided not to remind her that she had just asked me if I would like to speak with him, so I went on to request to speak to Suzanna Harvard.

  “Oh,well, she’s in that same meeting. In fact they are all in that meeting. By the way, who is this?”

  “My name is Savannah Phillips. I’m from Savannah, Georgia, and—”

  “Oh, isn’t that cute. I bet you go around telling people you are Savannah from Savannah.” Her laugh was increasingly irritating.

  “Actually, no I don’t say that to anyone. You know what, I don’t think I’ll leave a message. I think I’ll just try back another time.” I hung up and decided to see if maybe Mr. Wilcox’s or Mr. Harvard’s wives were still living. Searching under their personal names, I could find no listing for Mr. Wilcox, but Mr. and Mrs. Stanley Harvard were in Buckhead. I picked up my phone to try again.

  “Hello,” said a voice from the other end.

  “Hello,Mrs. Harvard?”

  “Yes, this is she . May I ask who is calling?” she responded warmly.

  “My name is Savannah Phillips, and I am calling you from Savannah, actually,” I said, pausing to see if she would want to add anything of her own to my recent statement. She didn’t, so I continued. “I’m working on a story about the Miss Georgia United States of America Pageant. I know it has been a long time, but I saw your husband’s firm was the auditor in 1972, and I wanted to know if I could discuss that event with you.”

  “Young lady, that was a lifetime ago and an experience we don’t fondly recall. I’m not sure what you are working on, but I can assure you, you won’t find any information here.”

  “Well, I understand that it’s been a long time, and to you it probably isn’t even worth discussing. But what if I told you that what happened could still be affecting the pageant today? Would it matter at all to you then? I mean, I’m not sure that pageants matter at all to you. They don’t matter much to me myself. But—”

  “Pageants are of no consequence to me one way or the other. But whatever some women want to do is their own business. Stanley had nothing to do with those pageants. He only audited them for one year, and then he quit. So I don’t really have any information to give you. Are you some kind of reporter or something?”

  The way she said “reporter” had an air of sleaze to it. I had never tho
ught that people might see what I do as somehow less than ethical or necessary. But if they hadn’t met Gloria or read her work, then their only point of reference was the media they were forced to endure on 24/7 news. The kind that can make news from nothing during a slow news cycle.“Actually, I write human-interest stories for the Savannah Chronicle.” No point in her knowing that I had yet to write my first story. “I believe I have found something of interest to Savannah. It revolves around the year your husband was an auditor. I just wanted to come and talk with you about it.”

  “You and I have nothing to talk about.”

  “I’m not asking you to promise anything. I’m just asking for the opportunity to talk with you.”

  “This would be a waste of both of our time, young lady.”

  “Ma’am, I know I’m young, but I believe that everyone should have the opportunity to do their best in anything and be granted their due successes accordingly. I’m not a big beauty pageant person, but if that is a young woman’s dream, she ought to at least have the opportunity to pursue that dream fairly.”

  The other side of the line was quiet for a while.“I’ll meet you tomorrow at noon at the Buckhead Diner. Do you know where that is?”

  “Yes, ma’am. It’s my favorite restaurant in Atlanta, and I’ll be there by eleven thirty. I’m sure we’ll leave liking each other.”

  “Well, we will leave, but I don’t know how much we will like each other.” All that followed was a dial tone.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I parked Old Betsy a couple of houses down from 13 Oglethorpe Avenue, where Claire was waiting. We hadn’t seen each other since my fall break, when we had spent a morning catching up over breakfast at The Lady & Sons in the City Market. She was already looking tan, and it was just May. She looked like a real real-estate agent in her seersucker pantsuit and strappy pumps. I walked toward her and we greeted each other in the only acceptable way below the Mason-Dixon line—with a hug. A real hug. Not a half-pat or a half-tap. But a grab-you-and-let-you-know-somebody’s-got-you kind of hug.

  “Claire, I can’t believe how tan you are. It’s only May. When have you had time to lay out?” I asked her.

  “Savannah, where have you been? We don’t lay out anymore around here; that stuff will kill you. We use Tan Beautiful that they sell on TV. You just wipe it on, let it sit, and vavoom, you’ve got a tan. Looks natural, doesn’t it?”

  “It looks amazing. But I’ll stick to the real thing. What’s the joy of living this close to the ocean if you don’t ever lay out on the beach?”

  She laughed.“Wait until we hit thirty. Then you’ll be asking me what the number is to QVC.”

  I turned to look at the cute white house in front of us. “This is a charming place.”

  “You’re going to love it. It just came on the market yesterday.

  I heard some young couple bought it and want to rent out the bottom. Number 13A, that could be you,” she said as she opened the iron gate.

  “That would be amazing. You should see where my mother wanted me to move.”

  “Already heard and already have.”

  “This city is pathetic.”

  “This city is Savannah,” she said as she flipped on the light inside. We entered the quaint little apartment in the den area. Directly behind it was an open kitchen and a small area for a breakfast table. Down a small hall toward the back of the house was a bedroom and bath. All in great condition, with what appeared to be the original hardwood floors and moldings. “Isn’t this quaint?”

  “Yeah, it really is. What’s the rent?”

  “It’s eight hundred a month. It’s a little more than you said you could afford, but this is Savannah.”

  “Well, I think I could swing that. At least until I have to get a new car.”

  “Oh, that car will outlive you!”

  I laughed. “You’re probably right.”We walked through one more time and I checked out the closets, which were small but doable; and then tested the appliances, which were older but in good condition. “This really is great. I think it will be perfect. Do you think I have a couple of weeks, until I get paid?”

  “I can find out who the owners are and ask. I don’t even think they are moving in for another month. Heard they wanted to do a few renovations.”

  “Well, maybe it would work out perfectly,” I said as we made our way outside and headed to our cars.

  As we went to the other side of the street, Grant came walking toward us.“Well, hello, girls. What are you doing over here on this side of town?”

  “We could ask you the same question,” Claire chimed in.

  “Oh, I’m coming to check on my house. I just bought #13, the white one right up there,” he said, pointing. I simply watched another dream slip its way into the sewer that was quickly becoming my life.

  “You’ve got to be kidding—” Claire started.

  “Well, you must be doing well at the architectural firm.” I glared at Claire, who retreated. “It looks like a beautiful place.”

  “Yeah, times are good, I guess. I thought it was a great place, and Elisabeth loved it. We’re trying to rent out the bottom, though, so if you hear of anyone, let me know.”

  “We’ll do that,” I assured him.“Well, we’ve got to run.”

  “Yeah, me too. See ya’ll soon, I’m sure.”

  “I guess you’ll want me to look for something else,” Claire said in shared hurt as we watched Grant walk into his new house.

  “Yeah, that would be a good idea,” I said, opening my door.

  “We’ll find something. Keep your chin up.”

  “We’ve nowhere left to go but up. Call me.”And I drove away from my second lost opportunity at freedom.

  I could hear Vicky before I even entered the kitchen.

  “People are just tacky. Who would spend millions on a home and just put tacky right out in plain view? They’ll have to get rid of it. They didn’t get it approved, and they’ll have to get rid of it.” Vicky added the clanging of pots and pans along with her own jaws for effect.

  “Victoria, you don’t need to be involved in everyone’s business. When a person spends that much money for a home, they should be able to paint it purple and attach a helicopter pad on the top if they want to.”

  “Jake, that’s not how it works.”

  “Yes it is,Victoria. Whether you and your little fashion committee think it is fashionable.”

  “I don’t have a fashion committee. I have a historical review committee.”

  “Call it what you will, but you spend too much time in people’s business.”

  My mother was still grumbling like a food processor, preparing what looked to be spaghetti when I came in and sat on the stool by the island.“What’s all the commotion about?” I suspected this little ruckus just might prevent me from having to have any conversation about my day at all.

  The pots were clanging louder than had been heard in a good year.“Oh, you wouldn’t believe it, I tell you. People are just crazy.

  Just lack the sense God gave a pea turkey.”

  “What in the world is a pea turkey?”

  “Savannah, don’t bother me about the way I talk. You know good and well a pea turkey isn’t anything more than a pea turkey.”

  “OK. So who lacks the sense God gave a pea turkey?”

  She turned to stare at me,waving around a small frying pan in her left hand.“This couple down the street invited me over today to see how everything had been decorated since they moved in. They’re from South Carolina. What does that tell you?”

  I was sure at that moment my mother had ADD. Decorating and South Carolina had nothing to do with each other. In fact, most of what she said didn’t seem connected. She could change the direction of conversation as quickly as she changed the color of her hair.

  Why did it take me so long to notice things? Apparently, I had spent my life too preoccupied, and at that moment I needed to pay more attention to what was going on around me.

  �
�Savannah, are you listening to me?” I was surprised that she noticed I had wandered off the subject as well. Maybe I had ADD too. I didn’t think so. But who could be sure?

  “They’re from South Carolina.”

  “Oh, right. So you can just imagine where I’m going with this. I go inside, and their house is horrendous. I mean everything is Pepto pink. The walls, the trim, half the furniture.”

  “The furniture?”

  “Yes, and their poodle even looked like she was pink. It could have been the tones bouncing off of the walls, but by the time I left I thought my aubergine suit had turned pink.”

  I dodged the waving pan and added,“Well, aubergine is a variation of the pink-purple family.”

  “Savannah, stop. I know what color aubergine is.”

  “OK, continue.”

  “Now, anyway, beyond the house being horrendous, she told me they had just gotten a satellite. It had come in today. I told her that was great. That she would love it. That we had one as well. Then we proceeded to her patio and gardens.” Her eyes went so wide you would have thought she had seen a two-headed pink pelican.“Well, this, honey, was a satellite big enough to call in Star Trek, Alien Nation, and any other outer space extraterrestrial you would desire. It was big enough for E . T. to phone home, I tell you.”

  “Ooh, E . T., huh?”

  “Yes, and it had its own concrete slab. It takes up half of their backyard and can be seen from two different streets. All I said was, “Well, honey, I do believe that’s the largest television apparatus I have ever seen.”

  “Half the backyard?”

  “Savannah, small children could get overtaken by that thing. They could be snatched up by Galaxy Network and lost for eternity. But it won’t stay. I won’t allow it. They are in the Historical District, and that home is on the Register, and I’m not allowing some big canker sore—”

  “I think you mean eyesore.”

  “Thank you, I mean eyesore like that to exist in this city. Pretty soon people would be calling it artwork and hanging it off the sides of their houses. It wouldn’t end, I tell you. And then we would be known as the satellite capital of the world. I can hear the advertisements: ‘Come to Savannah, where you’ll get beaches, good food, and any channel in the galaxy.’Now that’s just not what I intend to let happen.” And with that, she turned back around to actually use the frying pan she had been torturing me with.