Lord have mercy. If she starts getting interviewed, she might just run the rest of our lives from the sidewalk.
I picked up my book. Maybe if I could actually finish reading it, I could find some solace from a quiet, confident man. He didn’t say much. But he meant what he said . Maybe I would try that. Not speak often, just speak wisely.
I took back to the streets of Savannah. The United States Courthouse and its activities drew onlookers to the square as magnetically as Frodo’s ring drew others to darkness. As I approached the square, I noticed that a small lectern with microphones perched all over it stood nearby.
What a grand scene. The backdrop is truly one of the most majestic settings in Savannah. The stately building is made of Georgia marble and is only three stories, but it takes up an entire city block . The front reads “United States Post Office and Courthouse” and was built in 1898, but the post office was closed years ago. Remnants of it exist in the prestigious foyer, however, where empty, aged boxes line the front wall, their secrets locked up forever.
The sidewalk that spreads out in front of the courthouse is lined at the street with fresh flowers and tall evergreen trees. Black iron poles are evenly distributed from one end of the block to the other, as if they were hitching posts for horses in an era that whispers down back alleys and lives on in women’s conversations.
The building can be entered from huge arched doorways at the far left and right of the building. Under each arch, two large swinging glass doors with aged brass trim and handles usher people into the world of security guards and metal detectors, as it has been since the building was turned over to the Federal Courthouse.
Six large windows line up between the two brilliant arches. Above each arch, on both the second and third floors, architecturally timeless balconies indicate the judges’ chambers. In front of the building, part of the sidewalk expands into a half moon, where the monument of the moment and my mother made their stand.
Judge Hoddicks came out of the imposing right front doors and descended the marble stairs.
Every journalist, even those who had been catnapping only moments before, rushed the podium, yelling questions and waving microphones in total pandemonium as the judge prepared to speak.
He raised his sixty-eight-year-old hand to quiet the crowd. It worked. I searched for a glimpse of my mother, but the crowd from this morning had probably grown by fifty or so. Judge Hoddicks tapped the microphone. I could hear just fine even at this part of the square. He spoke.
“Ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for being here . We just received word from a federal judge who says this monument, like the ones before it, violates the Constitution’s ban on government promotion of religion.”
The crowd went crazy. Some were cheering, others were booing, and the reporters started screaming questions as if Judge Hoddicks might actually start answering them. He raised his hands again. His piercing blue eyes scanned the swarm of reporters and flock of pilgrims.
“Please, ladies and gentlemen, I am not through. The order informed us that we have exactly six days to remove this monument, or it will be removed for us.”
The onslaught started all over. Standing back in amazement, I found myself interested to watch this moment in history unfold around me. Even little children too young to have convictions of their own beyond food and TV preferences were out here yelling the convictions of their parents.
“I know, I know.” Judge Hoddicks started again. “This is a very emotional topic for us all. But please know that I will be petitioning the Supreme Court to stop this order from being enforced. As details become available, I will keep you informed. All I ask is that each party in this extremely passionate issue respect each other . Thank you.”
Judge Hoddicks walked over to the vicinity of the monument and my mother. The reporters followed him until he returned to the steps of the courthouse and vanished inside.
The journalists turned their attention to my mother. Sergeant Millings stood in the background, slapping his nightstick against his leg.
“Mrs. Phillips, Mrs. Phillips! How long will you be out here?’
“As long as it takes.” She grinned from ear to ear.
I can’t wait to see that.
“Why are you doing this?” another hollered above the rest.
“Because this is our heritage. And I want it for my children, for my daughter—”
Please don’t . . .
“—Savannah, or Savannah from Savannah as she is known here, and for my son, Thomas, who works with our wonderful Judge Hoddicks.”
I am certifiably ruined.
I prayed for a quick end. Lightening. Earthquake. Sergeant Millings’s bullet. I would have even settled for a dart through the chest. But the woman had found a television camera willing to record and a crowd willing to listen. It was a full fifteen minutes before the reporters returned to their trucks or their naps.
And me? Well, my next human-interest story had found me. Right on Wright Square.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The reporter couldn’t hide his admiration for the raven-haired, expensive-handbag stranger. I, too,watched her closely. Her gestures were few but graceful. Her laugh was feminine and seemingly genuine. And her rapport with the journalist made them seem lifelong friends. Before he could ask his final question, she patted his arm and departed into the courthouse.
I turned to leave when the sight of two young lovers heading my way distracted me once again. Since I found out my longtime-love, Grant, was getting married, and not to me, something inside me had begun to notice the expressions of love. And these two were virtual CliffsNotes. Looking closer, one face seemed awfully familiar. Grant. I ducked behind one of the trees but kept an eye wrapped around the trunk of the live oak. I knew our paths would cross now and then. In 2.2 square miles of history, it’s inevitable. But why did it have to be today?
Seeing him walking up the street in khaki shorts and a T-shirt, brown leather flip-flops generating Savannah’s only breeze, the overwhelming feeling of loss rushed through me again . To lose one of your best friends, who also happens to have the name you hope to share for the rest of your life, is hard for any young woman.
Of course our relationship dissolved over years of drifting apart. But I had been so self-absorbed that the drifting was lost on me until I found myself clinging to a piece of driftwood and watching the Titanic go down. But here was proof . We had drifted so far apart that this flaming redhead had easily docked her little long-legged self right between us . This was the first time my eyes had seen her . The child had hair as auburn as a Southern sunset. It was strikingly beautiful, in a ratty sort of way. A tad poofy. I pulled the ends of my stick-straight mane around to inspect it. I noticed a split end and stuck it in my mouth to try to chew it off. It was that or the fingernails.
She was so tall, and leggy and anorexic. Poor child probably didn’t even eat. Couldn’t hardly keep her pants up. She had an ample bosom. I was certain they were fake, and instinctively crossed my arms in front of my chest. Paige and I had already determined before we even saw her that she had to be fake. Any girl who goes to an all-girl college could have nothing better to do than sit around and inject things into herself.
I called her a prepackaged Barbie who would probably be a “four-foot-eleven, forty-five-year-old mother of two,” if relieved of all her processed beauty.
Paige declared I was talking about my own mother.
I told her not to compare my mother to this woman . That the only thing not real on Vicky was her hair color. Of course we knew that was a lie.
I tried to reach Paige on her cell. She didn’t answer. As they came down the street, I gradually scooted around the tree to keep myself hidden.
“Who you hiding from, Savannah?” The voice ran down my spine like ice . Turning around wasn’t necessary to know Mr. Curly Locks himself had entered the square.
“Shh. I don’t want Grant to see me.”
“Who’s Grant?”
“Non
e of your business. Now would you please go away and leave me alone?”
“Oh, an old boyfriend.” His eyes scanned the square, stopped. “Well, old boyfriend looks like he has a new girlfriend.”
“Fiancée, actually. Now get!” I said holding on to the trunk.
He kicked out the kickstand on his blue bike and made it evident he wasn’t going anywhere.“Do you know what you look like?”
“A woman annoyed? Because that’s what I am.”
“No, a girl who’s seen one too many bad Charlie’s Angels flicks.”
“What do you know about love?”
“I know it doesn’t usually involve hiding behind a tree, chewing on your hair.”
I spit my hair out of my mouth . Then I noticed Grant and little Merry Sunshine were walking into the vicinity of my mother. “It was!” I turned to glare at him.“Yes it was love! But not anymore.”
“Looks like the new lady’s getting to meet your mother,” he said, nodding in their direction.
I turned and watched in horror as the love of my life introduced his flaming redheaded future squaw to the woman who, by all intents, purposes, and DNA, was my mother . Vicky leaned over and hugged Grant and then—ugh!—hugged the woman next to him.
“Ooh, looks like they might get invited to dinner.”
I turned back to my thorn.“Do you take pleasure in my pain?”
“Pain?! You’ve got to be kidding.”
“No. I’m not kidding. Now would you please take your little bike and your little mind and your little self and go away?”
“You are going to have to see them eventually.”
“I’m going to have to do a lot of things eventually, but I would prefer not to have to do all of them in one afternoon. Now get! ”
He placed his perfectly tanned hands on his handlebars, using the most beautiful part of any man—his arms—to lift his body onto his bicycle. His khaki shorts revealed nice legs, but I refused to look.
“Well, I’ll see you Monday.”
“Yeah, yeah, Monday! And if you want to know, Mr. Smarty Pants, my dog can get ice out of the ice maker all by himself.”
He crinkled his brow, contemplating the sheer looniness of my statement.“What are you talking about?”
“Are you still here?” I asked, lifting my hands and bobbing my head.
“You are so odd.” I could hear him riding away and turned to notice that he was looking back at me as well. Before I knew it I had stuck my tongue out at him. I was walking in the land of the mature today, for sure. So much for becoming a woman of few words and great wisdom. He threw his head back in laughter, almost running right into a ninety-year-old woman walking her dog. I threw my head back in mimicked disgust.
My mother was now alone. She had even ditched the umbrella, as the towering building now shielded the great summertime aggressor. But there were two who weren’t alone. I watched the hand-in-hand lovebirds as they walked up Bull Street . How fitting. He slipped his arm around her waist to pull her toward him, the same arm that had pulled me to him a thousand times. Sickening. My eyes wanted to turn away, to escape from the memories. But they couldn’t. They were held captive by recollection, the recollection of a love let go . That flew away, and unlike that stupid saying, never flew back home. Of course my bird feeder was empty and rather nasty, so who would blame the poor bird for finding someone more willing to feed it.
Action near the lovely slab of marble resumed, seizing my attention and relieving it of pathetic metaphors and poor misguided notions.
“You are wasting the taxpayers’ money and the people’s time, and on top of that you are alienating people who don’t share your beliefs, virtually attacking them in their own city.”
The voice that responded belonged to the woman of high- heeled mules and now-rumpled blue suit.“Honey, if anyone knows the people of this city, I do.”
“Do you really?” I watched as the alluring raven-haired woman walked over to my mother in some rather sharp-looking black open-toed sling-backs.
“Yes, I do really.” Mother tugged a tad at her chains.
Her adversary inched closer. “If there ever was a time that cities across this nation needed to operate in unity, it is now.”
“Are you calling me divisive?” Mother asked, getting as close as her leash would allow.
“Misguided maybe.” The beauty stopped within striking distance of my mother. And by the look on my mother’s face, that might not have been such a wise move.
Red flashing lights atop television cameras helped Mother regain her composure.“Well, honey, I’m sorry you feel that way, but your litigation could be considered just as misguided and divisive, depending on whom you ask.”
I wondered if intervention might be necessary. I searched the crowd for a suitable arbiter. Sergeant Millings leaned against the side of the courthouse, picking his nose. No option existed but one . Me. So I marched my flip-flop-clad feet into the combat zone.
Now, the last thing I wanted was to be on the evening news for a situation that I honestly cared nothing about. So, I tried to stay calm. I laughed a half laugh as I approached, trying to make mother cool down and back off. But then, she had to speak.
“Oh, Savannah darling. I was wondering when you were going to come see your mother.” She squealed, reaching out to me. I stayed beyond her reach, preventing her from stroking my head.
Why do mothers stroke their children’s heads? Is it a reflex? Is it a vitamin deficiency? Is it a superiority complex? It’s the same way a man greets his golden retriever: “Look at my baby; isn’t he a good boy?” So I just left her there. Arms extended and hands moving in a pitiful stroking motion through the air.
The stranger tried to place my face . The craziness of her line of work probably had her encountering a thousand unknown faces.
“Hey, Mother . Why don’t you calm down?” I said this under my breath while trying to grin at both the cameras and the striking stranger. “She’s just trying to do her job, like you’re trying to do, well, whatever it is you’re trying to do.”
“I’m making a statement, Savannah.” Mother dropped her hands, most definitely using her outside voice.
I continued to whisper, hoping it would be infectious. “Yes, ma’am, I see that you are.”
The whispering didn’t catch on. And Mother turned her attention toward the stranger instead of me.“A statement that apparently this young lady needs to hear!”
The other young lady spoke just as loud. “It’s one I’ve heard, ma’am, a thousand times by a thousand different people and in a thousand different ways.”
“Well, you obviously didn’t get it!”
I looked at the dark-haired lady. “Sorry, she takes everything that happens in this city very personally.”
“Savannah, don’t you dare apologize for me to this woman. She has an agenda just like I do, just wrapped in a different package.” Mom’s voice turned snide for a lady in expensive shoes and a designer suit.“She chooses subtlety. She sneaks up on you. I choose a forward march.”Well, it would have to be a forward march in place, apparently. The chain only extended so far. I expected Amber to appear any moment and inform our new tourist of her need to “Tear down this wall!”
“Yes, Mother, you do.” I agreed. “Anyway, this will be fought in the courts . We don’t have to fight on the sidewalk.” I gestured to the sidewalk I desperately desired to melt into.
“Savannah, think what you will, but this is where battles are won—not in courtrooms, but in the daily lives of sacrificial, everyday, ordinary people.”
In twenty-four years I had never heard my mother describe herself as ordinary. Replaying the speech in my mind, I wasn’t certain if she intended the adjective for herself or the situation in general. But it was a milestone nonetheless.
Raven spoke again. “You’re right, ma’am. This is an issue people are willing to fight for. And it is an issue people have died for. And I am here to fight for the people who need a representative. We are g
oing to fight civil-liberties violations any time and any place we see them occurring . The Bill of Rights will be protected as long as we have a voice . We are here doing the noble thing . You are here trying to take people captive once again to the prison of narrow-mindedness.”
“Young lady,”Vicky said, tugging at her chains like Duke on a leash, spotting FooFoo the cat,“we are not violating anyone’s civil liberties . We are simply trying to make it clear that we have a voice. That there is a right and wrong. That this nation was built upon laws that were intentional and clear, and we are going to stand up for them, whether that interferes with the agendas of others or not.”
I wasn’t sure why I was still there. If I had it my way, I would be sitting in a park, reading a book, looking forward to going home and eating roast and potatoes or pork tenderloin and wild rice. Instead I was standing in the Savannah heat, surrounded by reporters (my least favorite of all people, though I was one myself ), a mediator between my temporarily insane mother and this interesting visitor . Trust me, this was not my idea of how to spend a Saturday.
About the time Vicky was to go at it again, raven-lady’s cell phone rang. “Ms. Austin,” she answered with undue calm. “Yes. Okay. Hold on one moment.” She turned her attention back to us. “If you ladies will excuse me, I’ve got to take this call. I’m sure we’ll see each other again soon.”And with that she left us alone . Well, as alone as one can be with television cameras, photographers, sojourners, a crazy white woman, and a gigantic slab of marble.
CHAPTER NINE
My reunion with my mother could have been spent debating why it had taken twenty-four hours for me to actually come see her. But that didn’t appeal to me, so I chose another option.
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