Aunt Sookie & Me

by Michael Scott Garvin

  The loitering boys stood up straight with stiff backs and puffed chests anytime Constance strolled up the sidewalk carrying her school pack. If Constance was anywhere in sight, the denim roughens scrambled, adjusting their baseball caps and tucking in their unpressed shirts. From my hiding hedge, I learned when Pretty strolled by; boys looked right past the ordinary to catch a glimpse.

  After Aunt Sook and I completed my daily studies, I kept a watchful eye on the hands of the clock over the fridge. At half past two, I’d hurry back to my hiding spot in the myrtle and hunch low out of sight. Peeking through the pickets, I’d wait for the rumble of the dusty yellow bus down Digby, returning all the children back home. The line of boys and girls would file out of the bus onto the sidewalk. When Constance White emerged, she’d wave to the departing bus, and she and the other girls would giggle as they ran off for home. Every boy turned to watch Pretty skip by as she disappeared down Digby Street.

  From atop the shingled roof on a fine Sunday morning, Savannah looked like some lovely imaginary land. I’d climb through my open window and scale the steep pitch to take my spot. On some mornings, the early light painted the town like a watercolor souvenir. It seemed to me, out past the hedge, Savannah was a wondrous place.

  Rising high above the green canopies of the magnolias, clanging bells chimed from the brick steeples. The glimmering, gold dome of city hall rose taller than the tallest tree, and the turrets and cupolas of the old Victorians reached into the bluest sky. Below me through the magnolias, I watched the families dressed in their Sunday best on the way to church services. The distinguished men politely tipped their brimmed hats to their neighbors. The lovely ladies of Digby wore the finest fashions of the day. They donned white lace gloves and clutched their purses on their forearms. As the neighbors strolled to their chosen churches, Sook’s rows of happy sun flowers peeked over the picket fence, heavy headed, nodding in the breeze to all who passed. From my perch, Digby Street appeared to be a mighty fine place, indeed.

  On one particular Sunday, Annabelle was below, grazing in the front yard. When she spotted me high above, she tilted her head to the sky and began a whining cry, calling up to join me. She released a long, aching wail like the loneliest train whistle. I shushed her, but Annabelle’s persistent bawling was beginning to work on Sookie’s already-frayed nerves.

  From inside the house, Sook hollered, “Shut up, you gawd-damned goat!”

  But Annabelle’s cries continued.

  I called down to her, “Hush up, or you’re gonna get yourself beat.”

  But a determined goat wants what she wants, and there was no silencing her. She hopped atop an abandoned tire in the yard; her grief-stricken wails only grew louder.

  Sook’s voice threatened from behind the screen, “I’m giving you fair warning. If I have to come out there, there’s gonna be a heavy price to pay.”

  But Annabelle paid Sookie’s threats no mind. The passing neighbors eyed the wailing goat suspiciously over the fence as they walked along the sidewalk on their way to Sunday service.

  Finally, Sookie busted through the screen door, brandishing a broom. “OK, you gawd-damned goat! It’s a fine day for dyin’.” Sook took full wide swings at Annabelle, frightening the weeping goat off into the back yard.

  I hollered down, “Sook, you sure are mighty spry when you need to be.”

  The old woman searched about the yard.

  “Up here!” I called, waving my arms. “I’m up here!”

  She followed my voice to the top of the shingles. “What in tarnation are you doin’ up there? You’re likely gonna fall and break your neck.” Her quivering hand sheltered her eyes from the morning sun.

  “I’m just doin’ some thinkin’.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yessum. I’ve decided when I get my bicycle, I’m gonna scout out the local Savannah Baptist church.”

  I waited for any response.

  “Sookie, I know you ain’t got the slightest inclination, but I’m gonna take myself to the church next Sunday on my new bike.”

  The old woman stood below, scrutinizing me. “Is that so?”

  “Yessum.”

  “I thought we had ourselves an agreement and determined that you’d stay put on Digby?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I answered. “The Baptist church is six blocks on the left.” I pointed to the modest stone steeple down the road a way.

  Sook mumbled low to herself and shook her head. “I ain’t too crazy ’bout you running loose in town, but I reckon I can’t stand between a soul and its salvation.”

  “I’m planning on going to service next Sunday morning.”

  She hollered back, “Fine, but you gotta ride directly there and straight back. No detours! And remember to latch the front gate when you come and go. And never bring around any missionaries sniffing for money. I won’t abide charlatans under my roof.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She continued, “And you’ll travel directly to the church and directly back here?”

  I laughed. “Yessum.”

  “Well, praise the Lord!” Sook started shuffling back to the porch. “Sister Wainwright, if you’re wantin’ breakfast, you know how to heat up your own skillet. But you best hurry before the almighty raptures your ass right off my rooftop,” she added. “And why don’t you clean those gutters, while you’re up there?”

  Sook went back into the house, singing a gospel hymn,

  “There ain’t no grave that can hold my body down.

  There ain’t no grave

  Can hold my body down.”

  I laughed, calling out to her, “Sookie, you’re a blasphemous creature.”

  From inside the house, she bellowed,

  “When I hear that trumpet sound,

  I’m gonna rise right out of the ground

  Ain’t no grave

  Can hold my body down.”

  I sat on the roof’s peak and suspiciously eyed the big, blue sky, watching for any sign of my savior’s return.

  Dixie McAllister’s noggin was created for displaying a proper hat. Her bony skull was miniature and compact, and her sculpted, platinum hair was teased high to the heavens, perfectly formed to display a brimmed pillbox or bonnet. Her two miniscule ears sat unusually low on the side of her head, and her long, elegant neck carried her skull with a graceful composure.

  “For the likes of me, I ain’t sure how Dixie can hear from them little ears of hers,” Sookie commented. “They look like two teeny-tiny corn dodgers.”

  Come Sunday mornings, Mrs. McAllister showcased another new, exquisite headpiece from her vast collection. As she, Carl, and the twins strolled to church service, I waited on the front porch, eager to see the newest creation adorning her head. The vast array of hats sparkled with gems and sequins, piled with lace and netting, silk flowers, ferns, and feathers.

  Sookie complained, “Those McAllister’s could feed two more sets of fat-headed twins with the money Dixie spends on such wanton luxury.”

  I replied, “I think Mrs. McAllister looks absolutely divine.”

  In the late evenings, we’d hear Carl scolding his wife from their open kitchen window: “Woman, you’re going to land us in the poor house with all your frivolous spending.”

  Dixie countered, “Carl, I have my position in the community to uphold. Do you want me to go strolling down Broughton Street in a cotton picker’s frock?”

  Every week, we overheard the same bickering from their window. Nonetheless, with giddy anticipation, I anxiously awaited Dixie’s newest extravagant purchase every Sunday.

  All the fine ladies of Digby Street arrived on their front porches, dressed to the nines, leaving for church services. Like on some Paris runway, the elegant women promenaded along the sidewalk in their finery, under the shade of the magnolia trees. I watched in awe from our porch swing while Sook concentrated on her crossword puzzles.

  I gushed, “Isabelle Atkinson looks simply stunning today.” Admiring Mrs. Birchard’s new fur stol
e, I commented, “Sook, Betsy’s chinchilla wrap is absolutely dreamy.”

  Sook griped, “If I had my druthers, I grab me a lawn hose and spray them all down. I cannot abide such garish pretension.”

  On the morning of Old Man Curtis Cleveland’s funeral, Dixie arrived on her front porch wearing a marvelously massive black headpiece with satin bows and a pile of purple mesh. Tall, lavish, purple plumes of feathers rose from the center of her creation, like some dark crow’s nest on a pirate ship.

  Sitting on our front porch, Sookie muttered under her breath, “Dixie looks like a gawd-damned fool.”

  As for me, I thought Mrs. McAllister looked splendid.

  She strolled onto her porch and down her front stoop, balancing the glorious vessel atop her tiny skull. Dixie bent low, ever careful that the extravagant dark plumes missed the porch’s gutter.

  Carl nervously guided his wife to the car and assisted Dixie into the passenger seat of their Cadillac—cautious not to disturb a single feather—and off they went to Old Man Cleveland’s funeral service.

  Sookie commented, “If poor old Curtis ain’t dead yet, the horrific sight of Dixie’s gawd-damned hat will certainly finish him off.”

  It had been just days earlier when Sook actually had predicted old man Cleveland’s passing. It seemed as if my aunt Sook could see clean through the walls. She sensed something was gonna happen well before it came to pass. On the clearest day, she’d stand on the front stoop, sniffing the air like a hunting hound, and then declare, “It’s fixin’ to rain.” Within the hour, a perfectly fine blue sky would turn black as night, open wide, and pour water from the heavens.

  Sook remarked the week before our postman, Wilmer Crane, had croaked, “Poor Wilmer don’t got long on this earth.”

  On the following Tuesday, sure enough, the news arrived that Mr. Crane had gotten run over by a horse-and-buggy tour on Market Street.

  Sitting at the supper table one evening, I asked Sook if she could foretell what the future held for me. She instructed me to switch off all the lights and pull the window blinds closed. Sookie shut her eyes tight and rested her open palms on the kitchen table. I sat near her side, on the edge of the seat. She remained silent for the longest while until a low rumble started rolling in her throat. Her mouth went slack, and her head dropped back, then violently jerked forward.

  I nearly jumped from my skin and reached for her hand. “Sook, are you OK?”

  She rocked back and forth in the wooden chair. A low, mournful sound repeated in a rhythmic pattern, like an Indian’s beating drum. Finally, she lurched toward me with her eyes still squeezed shut and spoke out loud, “I can see it all as clear as day.”

  Her eyeballs moved about below her closed lids.

  I gulped. “What is it, Sook? What can you see?”

  She spoke, “It’s all comin’ to me.”

  “What?”

  Suddenly, she jumped, frantically reaching into the air in front of her, like she was searching for something lost in the dark. “Yessum, I can see danger.”

  “Danger?” I asked. A lump lodged in my throat.

  “Yessum, I see terrible danger.”

  “What is it, Sook?” I swallowed hard. “You can tell me. What can you see?”

  She mumbled some gibberish and then replied, “Missy, I can see, if you dare pedal your bike anywhere other than Digby Street, you’re gonna be in awful danger.” Sook opened her eyes and took a casual sip of her coffee.

  I shook my head and cracked a grin. “Sook, I ain’t never witnessed such cruelty.”

  I reckon I had imagined that my aunt was going to drive me down to Sears and let me choose my own bike from rows of brand-new shiny bicycles. Instead, I found a rusted-out Schwinn on the front porch one morning. I washed it down with a lawn hose, greased its joints, and changed the two rubber tires.

  Sookie walked from the screen door and announced, “I’m plumb tuckered out. I believe I’m gonna sit for a spell.”

  “Thank you kindly for my bicycle, Sook.”

  She backed her rump into the rocker. “You ain’t wasting no time. You gonna hit the pavement?”

  “Yessum.” I fought with the rusted chain. “I’m thinkin’ now that I got wheels, it’s time I start venturing out past the gate.”

  She grumbled low, like she was arguing with herself.

  “I’m thirteen—old enough to go out by myself.”

  “Poppy, folks out past our gate aren’t as kind and gentle as me.”

  I grinned.

  “They’re spiteful by nature. They’ll cut ya rather than look at ya.”

  “Sookie,” I replied, “that ain’t true.”

  “It is, I tell you.” She wrang her quaking hands. “Just where are you proposing to go? Remember our agreement?”

  “Yessum. I think it’s time that I spread my wings.”

  “Spread your wings? Pffft! Missy, you can spread your wings as far as Digby Street. But if I catch you wanderin’ off any further, I’ll clip them wings, and you’ll be grounded.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I tried to disguise my beaming grin.

  Sook offered a final warning, “If you end up behind bars, I ain’t posting your bail.”

  “OK. It’s a deal!”

  CHAPTER 6

  It don’t make a lick of difference where a dusty Greyhound bus dumps you; all Baptist folk are cut from the same sacred cloth.

  Sitting on the wooden pew in the back row of the Savannah First Baptist Church, I watched the congregation receive their anointed dosage of God’s holy tonic. Except for their fine, tailored threads, this congregation didn’t look no different from the God-fearing Baptists back in Mountain Home. It seemed to me that it don’t make a lick of difference which pastor preached behind the pulpit. Their sermons were all the same: the Almighty was returning from heaven, and he was none too pleased with folks’ sinful ways.

  The red-faced preacher raised his arms high into the air, reaching to the heavens, warning that the Lord’s rapture was soon at hand. From his heaving, anguished mouth, tiny spits of saliva doused the praising congregation sitting along the front pew.

  His voice lifted into the rafters. “Brothers and sisters, hold tight to your babies! Bring them close to your breast—hold them tight!” Wiping slopping sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief, he turned up the burners with blazing fire and brimstone.

  The Holy Ghost simmered inside the small church. Seasoning his sermon with alternating hallelujahs and amens, the minister reminded us, “There is no greater measure of a community’s compassion than how they nurture their youngins! To all the fathers in our blessed congregation, the most noble gift you can give your children is to love and respect their mommas! And mothers, heed my words; it’s far easier to raise a child strong in faith rather than repair a broken man and woman in the eleventh hour!”

  The ladies of the choir waved their hankies in praise.

  “Prepare yourselves!” The plump preacher warned the hushed congregation. “Our Lord Savior is returning for his faithful flock. His chariot is quickly approaching.” Clutching to both sides of his pulpit, he asked, “Are you ready for our Lord’s return? Have you laid a solid foundation for your children?” He pounded a clinched fist, causing the grand old ladies of the congregation to jump from their powdered skin. “Judgement day is growing near.” He shouted out into the hushed sanctuary, “Will you be ready to answer our Savior’s call?”

  The saved among us all rose up rejoicing, “Halleluiah!”

  The silent sinners shrunk small in the rows of pews, nervously studying the floor.

  The collection plate was passed down the rows of pews, and the ladies choir led us in What a Friend We Have in Jesus.

  The bouffant beauties fanned themselves with folded papers, while folks sufficiently moved by the spirit blabbered in an unrecognizable tongue. A few seniors who had the good fortune of bad hearing decreased the volume of their hearing aids and napped soundly until the pastor’s closing prayer.

 
; The only other soul sitting with me in the back pew was a young lady with pretty brunette pin curls arranged along her forehead. When our eyes met, I returned her nod with a smile.

  She was a wisp of a woman with pretty, delicate hands that gripped tightly to her small leather-bound Bible, like it was the last buttered biscuit in the skillet.

  After service, as the congregation emptied the pews, she walked up to me.

  “Good mornin’, young lady. I’m Donita Pendergast,” she said. “Are you new to our little congregation?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m Poppy. Poppy Wainwright.”

  “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Poppy. Welcome to our church. Did you enjoy Pastor Nance’s sermon?”

  “Yessum. He don’t sweat as much as the preacher back at Mountain Home, but he gets himself just as worked up.”

  She cracked a grin, and laughed. “Yes, he certainly does.”

  “I do believe you have the prettiest pin curls I’ve ever seen,” I told her. She touched them nervously like no one had ever complimented her before. “They are splendid.” I moved in closer to examine the perfectly placed ringlets. “My wretched hair won’t hold a curl. It’s straight as straw.”

  “I think your hair is just lovely,” she commented. “Where is Mountain Home? Are you new to Savannah?”

  “Yes, ma’am. My grandma recently passed over the river Jordan. I’ve moved from Arkansas to come stay with my aunt Sookie.”