by Rhett DeVane
A good laxative—what her best friend, the late Piddie Longman, had referred to as “a good cleaning out”—often took care of it. Elvina tried that, twice. If anything stagnant still remained inside her colon after this morning, it would come out bleached-white and begging for mercy.
For the life of her, she couldn’t fathom why the twitchy sensation had lodged up under her skin and refused to budge. Sure, if she watched too much news, it could bring on one of her blue spells. But overall, life wasn’t so bad.
Elvina rested on a wrought iron bench beside the Piddie Davis Longman Memorial Daisy Garden. Every day since May of 2001, Elvina had come to the spot behind the Witherspoon mansion to talk to her deceased friend. At first, she worried someone would call the authorities and she would be carted off—kicking and spitting in a starched straight jacket—to the nuthouse on West Washington Street. Doomed to be medicated, shocked silly, and God-only-knows what.
Wasn’t her idea, this daily gab session. It was the grief counselor’s over in Tallahassee.
Hard to fathom. Piddie had been gone for over ten years.
The daisies over Piddie’s patch still bloomed, though the relentless summer heat had taken its toll. The stems grew leggier by the day, and Elvina had staked them in thick bundles for support. Soon Jake would pull the faded plants and prepare the bed for the winter with mulch and pine straw.
Elvina smiled. Each time she needed a few words of wisdom, Piddie’s voice whispered in her ears—like the brush of a moth’s wings against silk. “Spring comes every year, ’Vina. It’s all this big circle, going ’round and ’round. You ain’t gonna stop it, so you might as well get yourself easy with it.”
“Morning, Piddie.” She dug into her smock pocket and grabbed a handful of peanuts.
“I got a full day today, and I ain’t going to be back out here ’til tomorrow,” Elvina called out to the squirrels chattering in the live oak above her. “Got to work, then I’m driving over to Tallahassee to visit Sabrina. So you want some of these nuts, you best roust yourselves out of that cozy nest and get your little fuzzy butts on down here.”
Two squirrels clambered down the tree trunk and paused to study her for a moment before launching themselves through the air and onto the bench. Elvina liked to think they were the same squirrels she had made friends with in the first year after Piddie’s death, but she knew better. How long did gray squirrels live, anyway?
The smaller one—with the deformed back leg—hopped beside her and sat up on his haunches. “Morning, Gimpy. God might’ve given you a bad deal of a leg, but you don’t fail to be the first one when the feedbag is on, do you?” She held out a nut and the squirrel snatched it.
The second squirrel hunkered down and inched closer.
“No need to be shy. You know I ain’t gonna hurt you.”
Squirrels tended to be a bit jumpy. Suppose if she was always worrying about being picked off by a red-tailed hawk or shot at by a kid with a B-B gun, she’d be a bit nervous too. Not everyone shared Elvina’s high opinion of squirrels. They were bad about chewing wires and wood trim and most everything on a house. Most folks viewed them as rats with better P. R.
She laid a pile of nuts on the bench and brushed the shell dust from her hands, then directed her words toward the flower garden. “Piddie, I’m here early today. The heat takes it out of me. Cool weather can’t get here soon enough for me, I’ll tell you.”
She shifted to alleviate the cramp in her lower back.
“I have got to get Evelyn to fashion me a pillow for this bench. That is, if I can tie her down long enough. That daughter of yours got this big order for some autumn vests and jackets, from a little exclusive boutique in Tallahassee. She’s been busy as a bee in a tar bucket. She’s here when I come in around six, and doesn’t leave until way in the evenings. Joe has gotten to where he brings her supper every day and makes her take a break to eat a bite with him.”
Oblivious to her banter, the two squirrels made fast work of the pile of peanuts. A third joined them. Every now and then, one would pause and study her with its head cocked to one side.
“I got this most unsettled feeling, Piddie. You used to call it a rabbit running over your grave, though I never did understand what the heck that was supposed to mean. When I found out about Sabrina and that awful wreck, I assumed that was it. You know I am somewhat psychic-al. Still, the feeling didn’t pass, even after I did my colon purging. What in the world do you reckon it could be?”
Only one thing to do with a crisis of the unknown: visit Lucille Jackson, wife of the esteemed Reverend Thurston Jackson of the Morningside A.M.E. Church. The little black woman possessed the clearest earthly connection to the Almighty of anyone Elvina had ever known, short of Piddie.
When Elvina first moved to Chattahoochee from Miami following the death of her husband Clyde, she had not been a church-going type. Up until that point, her idea of worship had been sitting hand in hand with Clyde, watching the sunset over the last of the dying surf.
Now she attended church every Sunday, not that she considered herself a religious sort. Piddie prompted that habit, and it stuck. Besides the Triple C, the local churches formed the cornerstones of the communities—black and white—and a person could tune into anything by attending services.
Every other week, Elvina drove her gold Delta 88 down Wire Road to the sanctuary where Lucille greeted her—as she did all comers—at the double wooden doors. Elvina marveled at the simplicity of the building: an elongated room with time-polished pine floors and three rows of pews without benefit of cushions. Reverend Jackson’s pulpit stood at one end, centered beneath a crudely carved depiction of Christ on the cross. Three rows of wooden benches held the choir.
Over time, the thick, paned windows had been replaced one-by-one with jewel-toned stained glass, the results of love offerings and hours of bake sales, car washes, and fish fries. Other than a community gathering room and a playground for the children, little had changed at the small church.
On that first Sunday, Elvina noticed the sense of peace that wrapped around her when she sat next to Piddie and Lillian on the first pew. One of the main differences between a white church and a black church, as far as Elvina could fathom: in a white church, a lot of folks came to be seen. In a black church, most folks came to see.
If Elvina had to pick the one thing she liked most, it would be the singing. All that swaying and clapping and such! Elvina had tried to maintain an air of composure at first, then allowed herself to get drawn in. Before she knew what happened, her hands flew up, and she praised with the best of them.
Some Sundays, a tall, stout young woman led the choir, and Elvina marveled at the fact the roof didn’t go spinning into space. When Chiquetta Wilson opened her mouth, a voice larger than a host of angles flew out. Elvina’s eyes watered with sheer emotion.
Even now, Elvina could close her eyes and hear Chiquita’s voice echoing through the garden as it had the day of Piddie’s memorial service. It had been a bold, uplifting song—“Oh Happy Day”—not the usual funeral dirge. The ladies of the Morningside A.M.E., dressed in bright prints, circled the garden as Chiquetta, resplendent in scarlet, belted out the old spiritual. The crowd joined in. If Piddie was hovering nearby—Elvina knew she had been—she was pleased with how everyone had carried out her last wishes for an upbeat and colorful celebration of her earth-time.
The women of the Morningside A.M.E. provided the inspiration that led Elvina to her profitable sideline, designing hats to match Evelyn’s custom-made dresses. Elvina wished more white women would embrace the trend. The women of color adored their hats. Before Easter, Christmas, weddings and other special occasions, Evelyn and Elvina worked at a frenzied pace to keep up with orders for seasonal dresses with coordinating headwear.
Elvina sighed. Ten hat orders waited inside—paid in full by ladies anticipating the Christmas holiday rush. Hours of work awaited.
But somewhere in her schedule, Elvina would have to fit in a visit to her dear friend Lucille.
Choo-choo Ivey blinked and allowed her eyes to grow accustomed to the dim green glow of the hall nightlight. She glanced at the digital display on the clock radio by the bed. Three thirty in the morning.
“What is this? Some kind of witching hour or something?”
Prissy shifted slightly, raised her head and growled. The poodle grew even surlier if anything disturbed her beauty sleep. Not that it made much difference. Bless her little shabby heart; age had not been kind to her.
“Oh, hush up. Not like you don’t sleep all dang day, anyway. You’re lucky I even let you up here.”
Blame Charlie for that. He had allowed Prissy to rest at the base of their queen-sized bed from the time she was a pint-sized puppy. Cute and sweet, then. Bad mistake now. Not only did Prissy snore, she gnawed her toenails in the middle of the night. And she farted. Silent, putrid gusts that curled the fine hairs in her owner’s nose. Choo-choo should enjoy the company now that Charlie’s side of the bed lay empty. It was a scrambled blessing.
Choo-choo stared at the ceiling for a few minutes. Willed herself to fall back to sleep. Fat chance. Once her eyes opened, it was done. Might as well get up. Heaven forbid she should further disturb the princess.
The wee hours had proven to be the worst since Charlie’s death. No problem filling the days; someone always needed something. Run errands. Visit the elderly—she thought of this as anyone other than herself. Sit with a Hospice patient. Attend club meetings. Drive to Tallahassee for one of many doctor’s appointments or clothing sales. Get the car serviced. Call Elvina Houston.
Somebody should come up with an insomnia network, one where she could pick up the phone and dial in to connect with the other unfortunates whose bodies believed sleep was optional. Choo-choo imagined houses similar to hers with lighted bedrooms: people reading novels, visiting virtual chat rooms, ordering gewgaws off the home shopping network, watching reruns of Gunsmoke and infomercials and being ticked-off at their snoozing neighbors. Even prescription sleep aids held no relief. Choo-choo had tried several. She would fall into a deep sleep, only to awaken at chicken-thirty.
What use was her life, anyway? She took up space and breathed air someone younger and more productive needed. And her natural optimism was all but shot. Beaten down, like rock carved by a trickle of water. Day after day. One drip at a time. She hated herself for sinking lower. Fought it with everything she had left. Which wasn’t much.
After a stop by the bathroom, she shuffled to the kitchen. Choo-choo heated water for chamomile tea, then flipped through her music selection to find the Natural Massage CD, the same one Joy used for background music. The sound of harps and trickling water filled the den.
A hot cup of soothing herbal tea, then meditation. Maybe a few of the yoga stretches. Connect with something higher. Like the floor.
Choo-choo repeated one of her father’s favorite sayings: “C’mon, little Choo-choo. Get your engine started.”
Her father had always used analogies related to his profession. How he loved those trains. Choo-choo remembered the times she had been allowed to sit in her father’s broad lap as he maneuvered the powerful locomotive to switch long lines of boxcars at River Junction Crossing. The engine’s vibration rang through her bones and made her giggle.
As a toddler, Choo-choo had been guarded and deliberate. She had waited to walk until she could take more than a few steps. She spoke all at once in full sentences without bothering to try out a few words at a time. Her parents worried she might be a trifle dim-witted. She wasn’t.
Choo-choo had been the youngest: the caboose, her daddy’s favorite of five—the others, boys. Now deceased. With no engine to pull her along, no still-living sibling boxcars between, and nothing but hills to climb stretching far into the horizon, this caboose rolled slower and slower.
Prissy stumbled into the den, blinked twice, then let out a string of barks and growls.
“Prissy. It’s me, you old fool. Hush up! You’re ruining my meditation.”
The poodle tilted her head, barked twice more, farted, and walked into the kitchen. Sure, the little rat would eat now. No need to give her human caretaker the satisfaction of witnessing it. Choo-choo glanced toward the ceiling and held her palms together.
“Charlie Ivey? If you can hear me . . . Please, please ask God to send me and that dog to different parts of heaven.”
Sheila Bruner blamed the lack of rain for Glenn’s recent ill humor. The ongoing late summer drought made everybody a little more mean. Fish ponds sucked dry, lawns turned crisp-brown, and the once-wide Apalachicola River narrowed to a shallow muddy strip.
May God forgive Glenn for his anger; the ruddy swelling low on one cheek made Sheila’s reverent smile lopsided.
Poor Glenn. If he didn’t get out on the water at least once a week, all that edgy pent-up stuff came out. Something about floating alone in his small boat, watching a cork bob beneath the river willows, and drinking a few beers, transformed him into a happier person. That and meetings with his hunting club.
The boat sat idle now, its battery terminals laced to a trickle-charger. Even if Glenn wanted to risk navigating the Apalachicola, a bent propeller from its last encounter with a submerged cypress stump prevented an outing.
Sheila flipped on the Weather Channel. That stubborn low-pressure system trapped the moisture. Clusters of green floated across the radar image, a few minor storms that might spit rain, barely enough to settle the dust. And it would take a monsoon to refuel the river. People prayed for a hurricane, or at least a soaking tropical system, like hoping for an illness to get rest in a hospital bed. Florida’s underground aquifer kept North Florida from serious supply worries. Beneath layers of limestone, the submerged reservoir ran clean and clear, less affected by the whims of nature. Even so, Sheila tried to conserve. The washer only ran with a full load. But Glenn hated to see dirty laundry in sorted piles, so Sheila hid it in plastic containers neatly stacked in the garage until she had enough to justify using the water.
If it was up to her husband, the household wouldn’t recycle either. Two large plastic bins held rinsed cans, bottles, and plastics. No odor, no mess, no leftover food juices, no stale scent of beer. As long as she kept it spotless, Glenn tolerated her attempts to promote green living.
Sheila stepped from the back door and studied the hedges. The makeshift kitty house wasn’t visible unless she moved the lower branches. Good.
“Buttercup? Oreo?”
The leaves parted and the orange tabby peeked out. A second little head appeared. In the past few days, the kitten had grown noticeably and its round blue eyes opened. Soon, she would help it transition to a slurry of chicken or turkey baby food mixed with goat’s milk.
She scooped Buttercup in one hand and Oreo in the other and held them to her cheeks. How could anyone dislike animals? Kitty love came without strings, or bruises.
Sheila set them down and watched the two attack a shallow pan of goat’s milk. The kitten stepped into the liquid and slurped. Buttercup took breaks between laps to lick milk froth from the kitten’s face and head. Though Sheila still used a dropper to make sure it received enough nourishment, she allowed the older cat to help the baby learn about eating from a dish. The sooner Oreo became independent, the better. Already Glenn questioned her frequent nightly bathroom breaks, on the nights he wasn’t passed out cold.
When he said, “You have the smallest dadgum bladder,” she had countered with “It’s a female thing, honey.”
The mention of women’s issues curtailed further inquiry.
After the cats fed and rested, Sheila took a few minutes to entertain them with a toy fashioned from one of Glenn’s broken reed fishing poles, a length of string, and a few feathers culled from a hand-held duster. Buttercup launched through the air in wide arcs, and Oreo followed the bouncing fluff and batted it when Sheila brought it closer to the ground.
She laughed and her breath caught. The ribs were still a little sore, and this last blow had landed in the so
ft spot over her left kidney. At least she could cover up her midsection for yoga class. Heavy makeup would mask the fresh bruise on her cheek, not such a bad one.
Things could be worse. Much worse.
Chapter Three
Seven weeks before suicide
Monday
Abby McKenzie unfurled a purple, jelly-rolled sticky mat into the air and allowed it to land before straightening the edges. Around her, the yoga class members settled in.
“Sheila . . . hon? You need to lay off the blush. Your cheeks look like a Kewpie doll’s.” Loiscell rested a hand on her friend’s shoulder.
Sheila’s fingertips touched her camouflaged left cheek. “Is it too much? I’m trying out this new kind. It’s a little thicker, and a little redder, than the last one I bought. Guess I should’ve put it on in better light.”
Abby leaned over and took a close look. “You should take advantage of being young enough not to need a lot of cover. When you get closer to fifty, you won’t be caught dead without make-up. I don’t like to wear it, but I look like death warmed over if I don’t.”
Choo-choo joined them. The elder’s new yoga mat—hot pink to match the trim on her carryall. “Especially when you reach my age. Takes a couple of pounds of spackle to keep the buzzards from circling when I leave the porch.”
The women laughed. Since the first yoga class, more ladies had joined. But the core group of four—the self-proclaimed “Yoga Rat Pack”—stuck together, their mats lined up in a tight cluster.
“Anyone heard how Sabrina’s getting along?” Loiscell asked.
Choo-choo and Abby exchanged glances, then Abby yielded to Choo-choo’s seniority. Choo-choo unwound her yoga mat. “Elvina went over to see her the day after surgery. Sabrina was pretty doped up, but doing okay besides that. Elvina says Sabrina’s gotten a lot of visitors, and she’s not getting much rest. God knows, it’s next to impossible to sleep when you’re in the hospital anyway.”