My purse rested on one of the glass tables that flanked each side of my bed. I knew what was in there; I just wasn’t sure it was for me to hear.
It has to be OK, I assured myself. She would want her work continued. I took my purse and retrieved the tape recorder, popping the tape out. Side A was clearly marked, but there was no other labeling of any kind. Odd for a woman who could have won the Savannah Labeler of the Year Award.
A scratching and sniffing noise at the door distracted me. I cracked it open to see Duke wearing a look that cried, “Rescue me. Bring me into your sanctuary. Save me from the wicked throes of men. Purge me from this madness.”
I opened the door wider and he ran straight to my bed, perched his hairy body on my cream coverlet, and sprawled himself out where his back paws reached my duvet. I made him scoot over and proceeded to rewind the tape.
I pushed play, and that voice, that unfamiliar voice, the one I had heard in my head for years,was more commanding than I had ever imagined. The tape began with questions of the interviewee’s past. I listened intently. The woman who responded to Gloria’s questions seemed familiar, but I couldn’t place her voice. “So, tell me,” Gloria asked, “When did you begin competing in the Miss Georgia United States of America Pageant?” For a moment I thought the other voice would betray itself as my mother’s. But when the answer came, it was certainly not the voice of Victoria. This was driving me crazy.
Apparently, the lady Gloria was interviewing was there to tell the tale of why she believed the pageant was rigged the year she competed.
“Can you tell me the events that led you to your conclusions?”
The lady paused before saying in a soft and kind voice, “You know, Gloria, I really don’t think I want to talk about this. It’s been a long time, and I’ve moved past this. I really don’t think it’s necessary to go over such silly events. I hope I haven’t wasted your time.”
Gloria responded just as kindly, “Of course not; here, I’ll just cut this off . . .” And with that, the tape went dead. I tried both sides. There was nothing else.
I leaned back against Duke almost afraid of what I held in my hand. Downstairs resided not only the queen of pageants, but the queen of the Miss Georgia United States of America Pageant. If this pageant was rigged—if it had ever been rigged—I needed to know. She needed to know. Everyone needed to know.“But who cares about pageants anyway?” I said to Duke. He put his head on his paws.“They’re silly. They have no value. You prance around the stage in your skivvies. You wear heels of inhumane height. We’re just going to put this back inside my purse here and forget we ever even heard such nonsense. Gloria was right not to pursue such a silly story. That’s not a human-interest story. That’s silliness. Don’t you agree?” His expression said he did.
I walked into the bathroom to brush my teeth. In the mirror, a little bit of mildew in the bottom of my shower caught my eye.
Two hours later, Thomas found me. “What’s wrong with you now?”
Some of my hair had come loose from its knot on the back of my head, and I blew it out of my eyes.“What do you mean, what’s wrong with me? There’s nothing wrong with me. Does something have to be wrong with a person simply because they want to have a clean bathroom?”
“Chill, Homer.”
“Just because you’re totally comfortable living in filth doesn’t mean I am. Bathrooms carry more germs than Duke’s mouth. Ever thought about that when you step into that shower of yours?” I finished off the grout in the far corner of the bathroom, underneath the farthest cabinet. Then I sat down, took off my rubber gloves, and looked up at Thomas, giving my hair one more quick blow.“There, I’m through.”
“You are your mother’s child.”
“Why in the world did you say that?”
“Because Dad has more money than—”
“Do not say God; that’s totally sacrilegious.”
“I was going to say Bill Gates.”
“No, he doesn’t.”
“Well, more money than most, and Mom refuses to have anyone clean her house.”
“She doesn’t think anyone can do it as well as she can.”
“That’s sick. Why would you clean your own house when you could afford to have someone else clean it?”
“Thomas, I’m way too tired to talk about our mother’s issues. She does it because she is a control freak. And besides, someone might try to steal her tiara.”
Thomas began staring at Duke’s mouth.“Did you know dogs’ mouths are supposed to be one of the cleanest places known to man?”
“You are here why?”
He came over to kneel down beside me. “To say good night. You can deny it if you want, but between dinner and now something happened. No one cleans the bathroom for pleasure,my dear Vanni. Especially you. Are you sure you don’t want to tell me what’s wrong?”
“There’s nothing wrong,Thomas,” I said, standing up in front of him.“I simply wanted to take a shower in a clean one, that’s all. Now if you’ll excuse me . . .”With that, I closed the door on his perfectly positioned nose.
“OK. Whatever you say. But I’m just two floors down,” he hollered. I heard Duke pad after him.
After a nice long, hot shower, bed captured me. Reading would be nice, but sleep was persistent. Dreams of tiaras, big hair, spiked heels, and that voice held me captive. Everyone in my dream had that voice. I woke up one time in the middle of the night with fists flailing, trying to prevent someone from wrapping a sash around me. By the time morning came, I was simply glad to have survived the night.
Sunday in the South means church. Sunday in this house, even if we lived in California, would still mean church. I hadn’t been to our church in months: Babies had been born, people had been buried, and marriage vows had been spoken, and no doubt Vicky knew about each one. But bless her heart, I hadn’t given her enough time to tell me what she had been doing,much less what anyone else had been doing.
Mother descended the staircase as though it were a runway. She had brought back hats on Sundays in Savannah. And everything always matched. Today she had chosen a pale blue ensemble trimmed in cream, her feet adorned by lovely Via Spigas in cream as well. She was accessorized with pearls this morning, and the whole grouping was topped off by a beautiful cream hat encompassed by a stunning pale blue bow, accentuated in the center by pristine blue silk hydrangeas.
Dad looked sharp in one of his navy suits, white crisp shirt, and light blue tie with white polka dots. He only wore suits on Sundays anymore. He wouldn’t even wear them on Sunday if he didn’t feel one should wear one’s very best to church. Mom thought one should look divine. I chose pleasant;Thomas settled for doable. In fact, I don’t know how he got past her, in his wrinkled no-pleat khakis, flip-flops, and stretch-cotton shirt sleeves rolled up, but he did. He pulled off flip-flops on a Sunday! In fact, he pulled off a million things I never could.
I wore a simple black skirt and white blouse. Feeling rebellious, I let the blouse hang outside of my skirt. I pulled my shoulder-length hair back in a sleek ponytail, about the only way I wore it anymore, valuing the thirty minutes it saved me by not having to blow it dry. I debated wearing flip-flops but didn’t desire war. A pair of black mules completed the look, and I was off to accomplish the day.
Dad and Vicky left about thirty minutes early so she wouldn’t miss greeting anyone. Through the years, many in the city have thought of my father as a pushover when it comes to Vicky. This perception is usually reversed when they meet him. Dad was the one who let her know that we would travel thirty minutes to Tybee Island to go to church, because he thought it was best for the family. Pastor Brice’s church has a little bit of everything; it is an integrated place of culture and worship. My dad believes that you should worship in places where all people are accepted.
“If you only see people there who look like you, you’re missing what you’ve come for,” he told us.
Mother loved the church but felt that as the head of the Chamber of Commerce she should attend church in one of the historical churches downtown. “You are more than welcome to attend any church you want,” he said, “but you will attend it alone. The kids and I are going to Pastor Brice’s church, with or without you.” Today, Sister Victoria is one of our church’s official greeters.
Thomas and I got to spend some time together on the ride over. He opened the door to his 1995 Jeep, a gift for graduation—not new of course, but nice nonetheless. “Glad to see you’re learning how to be a gentleman.”
“Glad to see you’re still too chicken to wear flip-flops.”
I slid into the car, and he closed the door. Dad didn’t even buy new cars for himself, so he sure wasn’t going to buy one for us. He knew you lost ten thousand dollars by driving a car off the lot, so he made sure the ten thousand was lost by someone else before he drove it away. It wasn’t by frivolousness that he had retired at forty. Now Vicky, she would pay extra just so she could have it.
The Jeep was unusually clean.“Did Mother make you take her someplace?”
“No, things were growing in the back, so I figured yesterday was a good day to get it cleaned up. You just lucked out,” he laughed.
“No, I would have just driven myself. What else did you do yesterday?”
“Well, me and Jeff Bryson—you remember him from Louisiana?”
“Yeah, sure . . . no, I honestly have no idea.”
“You know, the guy from New Orleans who goes to The Citadel with me? He came home with me last summer for a couple of weeks. He won Mom over because he told her Savannah was far more beautiful than Charleston.”
“Oh yeah, I remember.”
“Well, he was here visiting his girlfriend, Mary Thomas, who went to Saint Vincent’s and now goes to the College of Charleston. I went with them to the beach to surf and hang out. After your meltdown, we went to City Market to listen to a jazz band. I got so sunburned, though, I could hardly sleep,” he added. “What did you do?”
“It wasn’t a meltdown. My bathroom needed cleaning.”
“Was it the apartment thing? Because I’m not ever leaving.”
“Why should you? Free room, free laundry.”
“Don’t forget the food.”
“No, how dare I forget the food.”
“Why would you leave?”
“If you have to ask, you wouldn’t understand.” I knew he would continue to think it was the apartment that had me troubled. No one else needed to carry the burden of that tape until it was clear what it was really about. Not even Thomas.
We pulled up to the church just a couple of minutes before service started at ten. You could see Vicky’s brim a mile away. She greeted us as she had every Sunday for the last thirteen years, straightening our shirts, spitting on her fingers to flatten one of Thomas’s cowlicks. We often went in one of the other entrances just to avoid her spit and shine, but because we had parked in the front of the church today,we had to go through the front entrance.
“You two go get a seat and sit quietly.” As if that thought would be lost on us in some way. We just smiled and did as we were told. Wonder what would’ve happened if, instead, we had chosen to stand in the back and carry on loud conversations, just to prove we were too inept at coming up with such a conclusion ourselves.
Inside, Thomas and I hugged necks, said hellos, and sat down about midway back on the left-hand side. Vicky and Dad sat on the second row on the right-hand side. The music started, and no one saw their seat again for almost forty-five minutes. The music rocked the house, then came down to a soothing pace. Each song gave me a reason to rejoice, reflect, or respond. Some clapped, some stood silent, others raised their hands in a form of surrender, but each responded in the way that expressed his own heart.
When the special song was over, Pastor Brice took the platform in his usual unpretentious way. He acquired his congregation’s respect without demanding it. Today’s message was titled “The Life You’re Looking For.” For the next forty minutes, Pastor Brice made it clear that the direction for our lives could be something we’ve yet to discover. Then he told us what was necessary in a person’s character to achieve the ultimate destiny for his or her life. I listened as if every word was spoken directly to me. I felt as if he had followed me around for the last two months, cataloging my life and culling a message from my mayhem. But somewhere between his reading of the Scripture and his final point I felt a calming, even an assuring, that the decision I had made was necessary for wherever I was going.
After a magnificent meal of roast and potatoes, Vicky was sitting in wait. “OK, let’s go. I want to show you your new apartment.”
I eased myself out of the chair and followed her reluctantly to the front door.“Don’t get too excited. There are no guarantees that I’m going to move into this apartment.”
“You’re going to love it. I promise.” And she took off out the front door and across the street. I had barely closed the door behind me when she turned around in front of a townhouse almost directly in line with her own front door, flung her arms wide open, and declared,“Ta-da! Isn’t it perfect?!” I sat down right on our top step.“Savannah, get up . You’re going to love this.”
I got up and walked over to the Mini-Me. It was made with brick, just like her house; had an iron railing in front of the door, just like her house; and had ivy growing halfway up the wall, just like her house. The only difference was the red front door.“Why didn’t you pick the one next to it?” I asked as I stood beside her.
“Its door is black.”
“It didn’t have as much charm. Come on, Bett loaned me her MLS key.” Bett Thomas is the only real real estate agent in town.
Others try, but she’s the master.
“Of course she did. But there is really no reason for me to see this, Mother. I’m not going to live across the street from you. I may as well not move out at all.”
“Oh, OK. Well, good, let’s just go home then,” she said, turning her little three-inch heels around quicker than she could rename a street Victoria Valley Drive.
“Is that what this is about? Did you do all of this so I would stay home? Well, get your hiney in that house and show it to me then.”
“Savannah! I’m going to have whiplash if you keep spinning me in circles like this.” She opened the door.
The place was breathtaking. It had plantation shutters, hardwood floors, built-in bookcases, and a newly remodeled kitchen and master bath. It had three bedrooms and two baths. And it was simply perfect.
As she closed the door behind us, I stood my ground.“Well, if I was even willing to live across the street, it wouldn’t matter, because I couldn’t afford this place anyway. It’s probably $1,500 a month.”
“Actually, it’s $2,500 a month,” she said,“but I’ll help you pay what you can’t afford.”
“How would that have me independent and making my own way?”
“Savannah, give me a break. You’ll be living by yourself. I won’t even bring you dinner, unless we have tons of leftovers.” She smiled. We walked back through our front door.“Well, I think it’s perfect, and if you let it go, you’ll be sorely disappointed,” she said to my back as I dragged myself up the stairs.
“It won’t be the first time,” I called back. I spent the rest of the evening in travail over the fact that I needed a story. She and Dad went up the street for a Bible study, allowing me to use that time to get a snack and head back upstairs.
Duke and I conversed about the Abercorn address and relocation. He was all for it. And the thoughts of how nice it would look decorated did have a certain appeal.“I would technically be out on my own.” Duke panted in agreement. “No one would have to know Vicky was supplementing the rent. It would look nice with some furniture and my bedroom suite.” Somewhere between choosing toile or damask,we both surrendered to sleep. And somewhere in the middle of the night,Vicky slipped me a lovely sample of a new-address acknowledgment for one Savannah Phillips at the address across the street.