Pulling the covers from my head and hugging my pillow, I looked out the window to see what action Abercorn held this morning. Not much. A few joggers passed, tugging at me to join them. As I washed my face, the silence caught my attention. Eight a.m. on a Saturday in the Phillips’s house usually boasted far more activity than seemed to be developing this morning.
My sneakered feet walked out of my bedroom and stopped on the landing. The bed was made in Mom and Dad’s bedroom. Nothing new. Vicky never left her bed unmade. She blames the habit on one unforgettable experience before she married when she left her apartment messy and the maintenance guy saw her underwear on the floor.
“So, Savannah, whatever you do, always pick up your panties, always make your bed, and don’t call strangers to come fix your toilet.”
I can honestly say, in all my life adventures, those three occurrences have never run in tandem.
No lingering smell of chocolate gravy and homemade biscuits lured me to the kitchen. For a moment that fear of ages past gripped me. It first captured me around eight years of age, the fear that the Rapture has taken place and I alone inhabit the world. I had searched the house and yard desperately but found no one. My recent dip into the Left Behind series only increased that fear. This morning, I stifled the desire to scream loudly or run up and down the street, knocking on the doors of the most holy people I knew.
Somehow my heart steadied itself and made its way out the front door for a jog and some tilling time. My iPod played my CeCe Winans library. About halfway up Bull Street toward Forsythe Park, Granny Daniels, one of the godliest ladies I know, came walking out of her house right into my path. I stopped right in front of her. Grabbed her with both arms and gave her a big ol’ bear hug.
“So good to see you this morning, Granny Daniels.”
Trying to catch her breath from my assault, she grabbed her chest.“Well, Savannah,my Lord, child, you look like the Rapture’s come and you’re the only one left.”
“Oh, that’s funny!” I said through my nervous laughter of relief.“Wouldn’t that be awful?”
She extricated herself from my hold and started walking up the street.“Tell your parents hello for me.”
“I will. See ya tomorrow.” The heaviness of my trepidation lifted, and I increased my pace . The smell of mothballs stayed with me long after Granny Daniels left. I’ve never been certain why she smells like them so, though rumor has it she heard they kept snakes away. As far as I know, not many snakes make their way up to the homes of Savannah. Mothballs would be my weapon of choice, however, if I knew they would keep water bugs away. I stared at the ones on the sidewalk, struck down by morning joggers.
The smell of mothballs makes its way into just about everything that comes out of Granny Daniels’s house. She once fixed us a big ol’ pot of fresh garden-picked butter beans, and Vicky threw them out, because they, too, smelled like mothballs.
And like her odor, her authenticity is just as impossible to miss.
You can hear it in the prayers she prays when you sit in front of her at church. Or see it in the weathered Bible that rests on the table by her weathered recliner. But it shows most vibrantly in her letters, which go out at graduations and weddings.
Mine arrived on a Sunday. She slipped it into my palm with a “piece of money,” as she liked to call it. She let me know her prayers had followed my mother and father “everywhere they have ever been” and that me and Thomas were in her prayers too. Then she reminded me that there was a “work” for me to do, and that I needed to “live humble and never let pride have no place in your heart.”
Then she apologized for her handwriting and asked me to pray for her. So today, I remembered and did some tilling time for Granny Daniels too.
Tilling time is my time to pray, reflect, and listen. I set aside the first moments of the day to get my mind (or soil, as Pastor Brice defined it) focused on an eternal perspective in a temporary world. Duke and I usually till together . Well, to be honest, God alone knows what Duke thinks about while we jog, except I can say he’s a hard one to hold when any four-legged female passes by. But Dad must have taken him this morning.
So, between my conversation with Paige and my run-in with Granny Daniels,my steps seemed lighter . Today was bound to be a lovely May day.
I paused a moment on a park bench to enjoy the stillness of the dissipating spring. A ball flew through the air and caught my attention. Joshua. But he wasn’t alone. He was accompanied by a beautiful golden retriever.
He never told me he had a dog.
Come to think of it, he’s never told me much of anything.
I watched as the boy and his dog played catch. Joshua hardly stopped laughing as he called out to “Shelby,” who was clearly a girl. It’s not hard to tell these things . They played . They tumbled. I spied. It was weird. I felt like an intruder. But I couldn’t turn my gaze . Then I watched in amazement as he held up his finger at that dog and yelled “Bang!” and she fell right to the ground like she was dead. Then she high-fived him. But the be-all and end-all was when he turned his back and that dog grabbed his leg with her paw and tripped that grown man.
Unbelievable.
Well, Duke ain’t worth much compared to that. All he does is chase a ball and lie around waiting for food to fall from the counter or ice to fall from the ice maker.
I didn’t know he had a dog. He knew my dog . Then, he and Shelby packed up and headed home. I watched. Shameless, I know, but I did it anyway.
I love to walk the streets of Savannah, and the day was too flawless to drive for my morning fix. After a shower I grabbed a book and headed for Dad’s shop, which harbored my McDonald’s Coke machine. Dad had it installed for me shortly after the cheerless discovery that no McDonald’s existed in the Historical District.
The enjoyable route to Jake’s runs up Abercorn Street past Lafayette Square (which holds the Hamilton Turner Inn), then past the Colonial Park Cemetery (which holds a few Hamiltons and Turners itself, I’m sure). I don’t hang out there much; sister don’t do dead people. So usually I hang a left at West Harris and then a right on Bull, which deposits me at Wright Square with York Street and State Street completing the four corners.
It’s amazing how a place you know so well feels so excitingly new some mornings. Even though I’ve passed the same antique stores, women’s clothing stores, restaurants, and corner cafés probably a million times through the years, some days the city just feels different. New, fresh . . . dare I say inspiring? Today felt that way. At least it did until I passed Bull and realized things were, new, fresh, and definitely inspiring to someone . Wright Square was as active this morning as it was yesterday.
Crossing York Street, I couldn’t see Mother, even though I was certain she was there. She probably started her day off with coffee at Dad’s and then wandered back to relieve the pitiable creature who endured the elements of the evening. I crossed to the opposite side of the square in front of the Chatham County Legislative Offices because it kept me away from the fray.
I gazed up at the two iron banisters flanking the French doors to my apartment above Dad’s store and assured her it wouldn’t be long ’til Mama was home. One more paycheck, one simple conversation with Vicky, and it would be mine. I entered Jake’s through the back door so I could get straight to the Coke machine.
Louise and Mervine, the two twins who had worked with Dad since the day he opened eleven years ago, had their backs to me as I entered . They came out of retirement “because your dad was so sweet and cute,” they confessed. In fact, all of Dad’s employees have worked with him since he opened. Never lost a one.
Oh, well, there was that one.
When Dad first opened Jake’s, Mother decided she would be the hostess. Dad assured her a coffee shop didn’t need a hostess. She assured him it did. She lasted four and a half days. She was fired with these words: “Lady Wisdom builds a lovely home; Lady Fool comes along and tears it down brick by brick.”
I think it was the fool part that got her. She grabbed her Louis Vuitton satchel, because we all know you need one to be the hostess at a coffee shop, and the entire place held their breath until the clicking of her Stuart Weitzman heels could no longer be heard from the other side of the square. Remarkably, the place didn’t fall apart.
“What are you two doing?”
“That crazy man hasn’t gotten here with the dishwasher yet,” Louise said, swinging her head around and wiping her face with a suds-covered hand.
I fixed a cup of ice and poured a Coke. Duke ran to my side, chomping at the pieces of ice that fell. “I’ll deal with you later.” I wagged a finger at him then turned my attention to the Madge wannabes up to their elbows in Palmolive.“I thought Mr. Ron was bringing the dishwasher this morning.”
“So did we. But all we’ve got is a hole.” She pointed to the space where the machine used to be. “So, you’re looking at the dishwashers.” Mervine just looked up and smiled.
“Well, maybe he’ll be here shortly.”
“I’m sure he will, or I’ll hunt him down and strap his behind to this sink.”
I gave them each a kiss and headed to the front. Richard greeted me with a wink as his black eyes did their customary dance. His dark hand extended a refill to the customer who sat at the window.
Duke returned to me affectionately with his wet mouth.“Give me a high-five, Duke.” I grabbed his paw and lifted it to touch my palm. He jerked his leg from my grip.
Dad laughed. “You can’t teach an old dog new tricks. Don’t you know that?”
“Well, I’m going to. Duke can’t do jack.” I patted his cute but uneducated head. “You should have taught him how to do more than just retrieve people’s trash and chase a ball.”
“What else does he need to know?”
“Something more than he does, that’s all I know. And you could have left him with me this morning. I would have brought him in.”
“Oh, well, we’ve been here all night.” Dad poured some coffee for a kid on the other side of the counter who looked too young to be drinking coffee.
I walked over and set my latest reading material down on top of the granite. It would take a good afternoon to be finished with Peggy Noonan’s book on Ronald Reagan, When Character Was King. Duke followed me to the counter,walking more slowly than usual, as if his night might have been better spent with me.
“What do you mean we’ve been here all night?”
Dad returned the coffeepot to its warmer. “I mean, I wasn’t going to let your mother sleep outside by herself.”
I started laughing and slapped the counter.“Oh, you’re good. You had me going there for a minute. But you weren’t thinking when you added the mother-slept-outside part.”
“Think what you will Savannah, but she did. And so did I. And so did Duke. Didn’t you, Duke?”
Duke looked up at him, tucking his tail between his legs and scrunching closer to my chair . Maybe he wasn’t completely stupid after all. I mean, the poor creature was forced to spend the night outside with a woman who loathes him because he’s not a lapdog named Magnolia.
“Wished you’d stayed with me, huh?” His tail wagged as he looked up in acknowledgment of his great error. I turned my attention back to my Dad.“And what did you sleep on, may I ask?”
He headed back into the back room.“You may, and I brought sleeping bags.”
“You are too much. So,Victoria Phillips, theVictoria Phillips, former Miss Georgia United States of America, head of the Chamber of Commerce turned City of Savannah Diva, spent the night, outside, in a sleeping bag, with no way to take a bath, redo her makeup, or change her clothes. And you think I’m going to believe that?”
“Go see for yourself.”
“I will. I’ll just go see for myself. Come on, Duke.”We headed outside to peer across the square. He was reluctant but came when he realized my arms were free of sleeping paraphernalia. It was necessary to move in closer because my petite mother was easily swallowed whole by the crowd, which was definitely larger than yesterday’s. People sat around talking; reporters stood in front of cameras . We stopped to watch a kid too young to drink coffee take his place in front of a news camera to deliver the latest information.
“Standing here in front of the United States Courthouse on Wright Square, in the heart of Savannah,we are waiting on the latest order to be issued from the federal courts on whether this monument, like many before, and I’m certain many after, will get to stay or have to go. At the center of this case is a federal judge by the name of Judge Hoddicks. He brought in the structure late Thursday afternoon, after most courts were closed and people were headed home from work. He is fighting this on the legal end, and Victoria Phillips, the head of the Savannah Chamber of Commerce, is fighting this on the human-rights end along with hundreds of other crusaders. She has been here all night. Many others have gone home to shower and return to work, but she remains, looking exceptionally fresh, I might add. And totally capable of staying until this battle goes one way or the other .Now back to you, Sarah, in the studio.”
The camera quit rolling and he plopped down in the grass and took a long swig of his coffee.“Why do I always get the gigs where you have to stay outside?” he asked his cameraman.
About that time the people parted enough for me to catch a glimpse of my mother. She sat on a rolled-up sleeping bag in the same blue suit she had had on yesterday.
At no time in my twenty-four years had I ever, until that exact moment, seen Vicky in the same outfit two days in a row.
Trying to stand back among the others, not wanting her to see me, I observed that she did look exceptionally well for having spent the evening outside. I managed to spot a small stain on the bottom left-hand side of her jacket, and her makeup looked a little tired, but her hair was perfectly fixed. But if she stayed here much longer her hair would probably start to look more like her outfit. I wouldn’t put it past her to change her hair to match her outfit, even though she’d become a tad more cautious since the hair-breakage-on-the-pillow incident.
She was talking to Sergeant Millings. And he didn’t look really happy. Nothing new. He always looked rather constipated. Of course, he was afraid of my mother. Weird, as she was always exceptionally nice to him, in spite of his customary ability to annoy. Maybe the oddity of niceness was enough to freak out the former Sears security guard.
He stood there, legs spread, one hand on gun, free hand on hip. That stance shouldn’t be allowed in public. He was letting her know something clearly and adamantly, until a rather looming federal agent who stepped out of the courthouse tapped him on the shoulder.
“You have no jurisdiction here.”The federal agent’s booming voice carried all the way to my ears.
“This sidewalk is my responsibility, young fella.” I was glad Sergeant Millings hadn’t called the six-foot-six man “little fella.”
“No sir . We’re in front of a federal building, which makes this my jurisdiction.”
Mr. Looloo would not give up. “I’ll have you know that this sidewalk has been a part of my jurisdiction since before you could spell ‘bubba.’ So, either you go back inside that courthouse or I’ll be seeing you in court.”
“I think you should remember that the courthouse is my jurisdiction too.”
“Are you threatening me?” Sergeant Millings asked, hand shifting on his gun. A few gawkers stepped back.
“You need to take your hand off your gun, sir .Now.”
He shifted his hand casually to his belt buckle, as if it were all his idea. “I’ll have you know I’ve already issued Mrs. Phillips here an Order to Disperse.”
“You have not!” Mother protested.
Millings pulled out a notepad. Scribbled on it. Ripped it out and handed it to my mother. “I have now.” She refused to take it.“Not taking it, Mrs. Phillips, doesn’t change the fact that it’s an order.”
“Wanna bet?”
The federal agent reentered the conversation.“Sergeant Millings, why don’t you and I go have a talk with Judge Hoddicks and see what we can come up with.”
“We’ll go talk to whoever we need to, sonny, to get you off my sidewalk.” He turned his attention back to my mother.“You have until Friday,Mrs. Phillips. If you’re not out of here by Friday at five p.m., I will cart you off to jail.”
Mother stared a hole into him, causing him to back into the federal agent, who pushed him back toward my mother. I just prayed she wasn’t within reach of his gun.