“You’re an amazing lady, Katherine Owens,” I said. “And I’m sorry for your loss—not the pageant, but Mr. Owens.”
“To have a love like we had, Savannah, I don’t deserve anyone’s sorrow. I just hope you find someone to love that way in your lifetime.”
“After today, there isn’t any other option.” I reached out and wrapped her in a hug.
“Don’t settle for the Ishmael,” she said in my ear, “when you can have the Isaac. In anything, Savannah.”
I held on for a moment longer. She let me go. I tried to blink away my tears. “I’ll come see you soon.”
“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.” I watched her go. The real story had found me.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Before I walked into the paper, I took a moment to take in my city. It was different to me somehow. It took a moment, but I began to appreciate the fact that it wasn’t really the city that had changed; it was me. I wasn’t Betty anymore; I was Savannah. Savannah from Savannah.
I had somehow grown into myself, grown into the things about me that I liked and the things I had refused to see. The things that I had respected about myself and those denied would both have to be accepted. They were all me—the good, the bad, and the Vicky. They all made up Savannah.
As I made my way back to my prosaic world, even it didn’t seem quite as flat as it had when I left. I tried to envision amazing things happening within my makeshift cosmos. But first, a stop by the ladies’ room.
The voices coming into the bathroom after me were obnoxious and giddy.“She about got her prissy little behind fired, is what I heard,” one of the voices said. “Every time I see her headed to Mr. Hicks’s office, I just leave. I can’t believe he hired her in the first place.”This must be the always-invisible secretary of Mr. Hicks.
And the prissy little behind was undoubtedly the one now trapped in this stall.
“Well, don’t be too hard on her,” said the other, a very sweet, lovely young maiden.
“Oh, she needs somebody to set her in her place. Her mother thinks she rules everything around here. She’s even trying to make my parents get rid of their satellite.”
OK, girls, hurry it up. I looked through the small crack and noticed they were painting their faces.
Miss Two-Faced Tilda packed up her beauty makeover kit as my legs began to shake from the extended squatting period, then added,“Well, she’s met her match with me.”
Finally, they left, only to be replaced by a new visitor who headed to my stall. The hand pushed hard on my unlockable stall door, forcing me to fall firmly onto the very toilet seat that up until then had successfully been avoided.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I heard a somewhat familiar voice say.
By then, my tumble signaled the automatic flusher, which plunged with such force I was sure I would end up somewhere the far side of New Jersey or it had just sucked a hickey on my hiney the size of Texas. Reaching for nonexistent toilet paper to wipe off every rudiment of germs, I moaned in agony.
“No paper?” came the voice next door.
“No.”
“I’ll send you some.”
“That would be nice, because if you don’t, I’ll be forced to use this toilet tissue attached to my shoe.”
I saw her hand come from underneath, bearing enough toilet paper for a small country. “It ain’t quite that big,” I said, and we both just died laughing.
I had less than two hours to complete my story. People came and went by my prefab world, but everyone could tell I was too busy to talk. Even Curly Locks left me alone. I saw him peek his head around the corner once around lunchtime, but I didn’t look up. After the last couple of days, I needed a day off from conversation in general.
At one forty-five, the final page printed off. What needed to be redeemed was hopefully complete. I headed up to Mr. Hicks’s office to turn in my story. His secretary was missing in action again. Mr.
Hicks, however,was working diligently at his desk, so I knocked on the open door. He looked up and invited me inside but never looked up.
“Got another story ready, Savannah?”
“Yes, sir. I hope it will repair what I screwed up.”
“I’m sure it will,” he said still engrossed in what he was working on.“So what’s your next article going to be about?”
I’m almost certain that my heart stopped beating and my blood stopped flowing through my veins. It was really true: I was going to have to work this hard to come up with a story every week. What in the world had I been thinking? This workaholic, crazed individual would never allow a moment’s peace. I gathered myself enough to say,“You’ll have to wait and see.”
“Meet me in front of your dad’s store as soon as you can,” Claire said from the other end of the line.
“Why?”
“Because the apartment above his store has just been purchased and the new owner wants to rent it out.”
“The Culpeppers’ place? Dad never even said they were thinking about moving.”
“Well, they moved out about two weeks ago. Mrs. Culpepper needed a little extra care and couldn’t handle the stairs any longer.
They sold it for not much more than they paid for it. I heard they really like the buyer and didn’t want a long drawn-out process. But the new owner asked to remain anonymous, because they feared people might think they had taken advantage of the Culpeppers, when really the Culpeppers felt like they were keeping it in the family.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter. You know I can’t afford something on a square. Those are the most expensive properties in the city. Your front yard’s a square, for crying out loud. Look some more; this won’t work …”
“Savannah Phillips, don’t you hang up on me. Get down here now and at least look at this place.”
“Well, meet me around back then. I don’t want Dad to know anything yet.”
I met Claire around the corner in front of the Lucas Theater. The Lucas Theater is Savannah’s gift to the fine arts. Mr. Lucas built a number of theaters through the years in the South. But the one in Savannah is the only one that bears his name. After a ten-year restoration project, it reopened in 1998. I would tell you that Mother had something to do with it, but unfortunately, someone else thought of it first. However, the rumor floating around town says they stole the idea from her. One can only imagine how such rumors get started. As for me, my imagination is vivid and often accurate.
Across the street from the Lucas Theater is the Olde Pink House. The eighteenth-century mansion-turned-restaurant is a designated National Landmark and is, of course, pink. Its claim to fame is that the Declaration of Independence was read there for the very first time, and it’s pink because the scored stucco was never removed and the color of the red brick is bleeding through.
Grant and I used to eat regularly at the Olde Pink House. He always ordered for me. He would hold my hand across the table and share his thoughts about life, his childhood memories, his dreams for the future. We had a regular table, from which I could see the Lucas Theater marquee, clearly in the winter and more partially in the summer, when all the leaves have taken their places on the trees. The last time we ate there it read, “Savannah Chamber Orchestra, June 28.”
Claire touched my arm, returning my thoughts to the present, and we headed to the back of Dad’s store, where stairs went up to the apartment.“So how can I make my rent payments if the owner is anonymous?” I asked her, not caring who owned it as much as whether I could afford it.
“They have an escrow account set up down the street at the SunTrust Bank. You’ll just go there and pay to an account number each month.”
We climbed the stairs. Despite thirteen years of memorizing every line of this entrance, I had never climbed the stairs to the Culpeppers’home. Claire opened the door. It was perfectly laid out and pristinely kept. It had old refurbished hardwood floors, high doors, and beautiful moldings. There was a living room and dining area, and in the back was the kitchen with wha
t seemed to be brand-new appliances and a built-in breakfast area. One more flight of stairs took us to the two bedrooms, separated by a small hallway. The master was a little larger than the second bedroom, with an incredible master bath and a claw-foot tub haloed by a curtain rod that allowed one to draw the shower curtain all the way around. The other bath was ideal as a guest bath . The place was perfect, and perfectly out of my price range, I was sure.
“Claire, how in the world do you think I’ll be able to afford this on my salary?” I asked, still perturbed that she would even show me this place.
“Well, that’s what you’re not going to believe. The owner got such a good deal, he’s only asking $850 a month. Do you think you can swing that? This is the deal of a lifetime. If you don’t take it, I’m going to!”
“There’s no way this place is $850 . You just didn’t hear him right . This place has to be at least $1,850 . You’d better go back and tell him he gave you the wrong price.”
“I checked and double-checked, and he assured me that the rent was only $850. All he wanted me to do was find someone who would take care of it and not ransack the place with wild parties, like those that go on everywhere else around here.”
“Well, I won’t even get a paycheck for another two weeks.” I ran my hand up the trim of a doorframe.
“Well, it gets better. And stop looking at me as if I’m some lying girl from lower Savannah. He said that he was so concerned about the kind of person that lived here, he would rather hold it for the right one than rent it for the sake of renting.”
“Is there a candid camera about to pop out on my head?”
“No, silly. I told him I had a wonderful friend who had moved back to town and is one of the best southern girls I know,” she said, smiling a ridiculous smile, “and she is looking for a place, and this would be perfect for her. He told me to just let him know what you thought. So, what do you think?” she asked me, grinning that “I already know what you’re thinking but I’m going to ask you anyway just to be totally obnoxious” kind of grin. “You love it. I know you love it.”
“Yes, I love it,” I said, laughing. If there had been furniture, I would have flung my body on it in total disbelief. But since there wasn’t, I just twirled around in absolute amazement at my good fortune. As I did, my eyes landed on something familiar. A tennis ball. A drool-encased tennis ball. The common bond between man and dog. A man and dog I knew very well.
The box on the top step declared my Tan Beautiful had arrived. I planned to try it that night, but when evening fell and I remembered the fright of tomorrow, a small spot of mildew in the far corner of my shower ruined me for two good hours.
When I finally got ready for bed, I remembered my Tan Beautiful. It recommended using gloves for application, but I didn’t have any. So I just slathered myself from head to toe and went to bed expecting to wake up looking like I had spent the last week on the beach.
Sleep came easily after my two-hour workout. But somewhere in the wee hours of the morning, I began to smell smoke. It seemed faint at first, then it got stronger and stronger. I jumped out of bed and ran though the hall toward the door, screaming, “Fire! Everyone get up! Get up,THE HOUSE IS ON FIRE!”
Dad was in the hall in no time. Mother came out trying to tie a robe around herself all while carrying her mother’s pearls and her own wedding album. She started screaming for Dad to wake up Thomas. We all started running down the stairs trying to find out where the smell was coming from, but none of us could see any smoke. We searched and searched, but the smell just wouldn’t leave me. Mother scurried around the house trying to retrieve all of her priceless possessions. She threw things out windows and the front door and ran around snatching up baby booties and crowns boxed in acrylic.
Dad and Thomas were walking around with a fire extinguisher when, somewhere in the hubbub, I caught a sniff of myself.
I was the fire.
Tan Beautiful was the fire. I was the one that smelled like fire.
I put out a call far and wide for everyone to come into the foyer. Each one ran in frantically from different directions, Mother in her high heels with an eye mask perched atop her head, Dad and Thomas skidding to a halt in the foyer, Duke on their heels, convinced this whole escapade was a party. I simply stated,“There’s no fire.”With that I turned around and headed up the stairs.
Dad panted as he leaned over double, “Savannah, how do you know there is no fire?”
“Just trust me on this one, Dad, there is no fire.”With that the stairs carried me back to my asylum. I’m sure it took my mother three hours to retrieve everything she had thrown onto the sidewalk, and I’m certain Dad kept looking for the fire anyway. I myself went to bed with the declaration that no other living, breathing soul would ever know the truth about that moment.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
I woke up early and headed downstairs to begin what I was sure would be my Wednesday and Friday routine—at least until I moved and could read the paper alone at my own breakfast table. Duke was waiting at the door. Since I had returned home, Dad had an excuse not to walk him.“Why should Duke be walked twice?” he asked. Duke merrily led the way out the front door, and I saw the paper resting safely between the iron railing and the boxwoods, perfectly placed by a hurried paperboy.
About the time we hit the sidewalk, I spied Grant’s image two blocks down, coming my way. I did a one-eighty, ducked, and tugged at Duke’s leash to follow. I climbed the stairs in a crouched position and headed safely back inside. As I closed the door quietly, I tried to catch my breath.
“Good boy, Duke,” I said, reaching down to pat his head and feeling nothing.“Duke!” I screamed at the end of a leash that disappeared to the other side of the door. I opened the door just a crack. Duke was staring at me in disgust. I opened the door and snatched him in as quickly as possible. Then I waited. Duke sat by me, stoic and calm, while his master was fidgety and anxious.
“It’s really nothing,” I assured him.“We’ll leave in just a moment. It simply didn’t feel like the right time.”
After a good ten minutes, Duke and I headed to the park where we nestled ourselves on the closest park bench. It still gave me chills to see my picture on the front page of section B with my name underneath, knowing my mother had nothing to do with it. Duke was thankful for the breather, and I strapped his leash around my ankle and began to read the second and final part to my first human-interest story.
I tried to savor it, knowing I’d experience this first only once. For all the pain of the week, I had come to realize how little I had appreciated first things. My first kiss,my first love . . . even my first public failure. These moments pass too quickly,moving from magic to familiarity. So I read slowly and appreciated every dotted i, comma, and period.
I owe this city an apology. But first, I must apologize to the woman who was the subject of my Wednesday column. To act as if it was my right to tell someone else’s story was presumptuous and arrogant. It is a privilege to know a person; it is an honor to know her story. And it is a treasure to be given a person’s time, which is what you offer me on Wednesdays and Fridays. Wasting it with thoughtlessness was inexcusable. I assure you, if you would entrust your time to me once more, I will handle it with grace and caution.
I have learned a great deal over the past twenty-four hours. I have learned the real human-interest story I sought had nothing to do with the story that I spent days investigating. There is much even for me to learn about my treatment of those entrusted to me. In a way, Savannah’s beauty queen was entrusted to me, and I failed her. In desiring to help her fly again, I clipped her wings instead. I hope she will forgive me.
I’ve also spent the last twenty-four hours asking myself many questions about loss and disappointment and defeat. No one wants anyone to see his or her failures. And by exposing another’s, I lived my own. The lesson was hard. But the outcome will hopefully make me more aware—aware that failure and loss, when accompanied by a true desire to learn, is of
ten the necessary road to achieving a dream.
We experience loss every day. I lost a book deal because of a misguided attitude. I lost a good human-interest story because of arrogance, and I almost lost this opportunity to commune with you, right here on these pages, because my failure tempted me to throw it all away.
My greatest failure, however, was the misconception that another’s loss paled in comparison to my own. A fine lady taught me that one. She caused me to realize that even if the dream isn’t yours, the death of it is no less significant.
This beautiful city boasts at least two women who know the secret of weathering loss. One stands on the corner of one of our squares, selling books and dispensing smiles. Katherine Owens has faced the loss of a dream and the loss of her love. The loss of a dream introduced her to the man of her dreams. And the loss of that man propelled her into yet another new dream. She could have wallowed in her world of disrepair. But she knew, even on dark nights, that opportunity awaited her. And morning always showed up. Mrs. Owens will tell you that to lose is only to begin something new, to discover something you would have missed had success taken you down a different path.
The other woman has taken on challenges I would never have the courage to face myself. My mother has loved her husband and children, breathed life into this city, and found jobs for people in whom she’s seen hidden potential, and all this after losing her own greatest dream. Yet Victoria Phillips refused to allow that loss to define her future, and as a result, her life has touched the lives of all of us who live here, and none more than mine.
We experience loss in families, in football games, in the stock market. But what if in the midst of those losses we could remember the successes? What if in the moment the marriage seemed to be crumbling we grabbed hold of each other and remembered the wedding day, the birth of our children, the sharing of dreams, the telling of secrets, the love that we’ve made, and the heartbreaks we’ve shared? Could focusing on the fulfillment of the past allow us to realize that today’s conflict will pass as well?
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