I’m going to stomp you into the pavement, you little sucker!” screamed the woman who was too ladylike to say butt only moments before.
I took off after Amber in a full-speed run, which wasn’t so easy in flip-flops. But the long-legged maniac in heels was so close to the little fella, I was certain he could smell her Altoid. Obviously, she could run as furiously as she could wave. Her sundress flowed behind her as if created for such activity. And her head was back, Forrest Gump–style. I declare I heard the Chariots of Fire sound track playing in my head.
The thief rounded a corner, and a couple men from the store across the street got into the chase. But no one could keep up with Wonder Woman. As if in slow motion, I saw her hand reach out and grab his ponytail, a rebellion he would live to regret for the rest of his adult life. That and the fact that the crotch of his jeans flopped around his knees, preventing a long stride. He clung to his waistband and her purse with equal measures of desperation.
She yanked him to the ground in one tug, hiked up her skirt, and sat on top of his chest like she was The Rock in a cage match. The three of us in pursuit reached them and doubled over trying to catch our breath, while Amber barely panted . The top of the rather unintelligent youth’s wide-eyed head stuck out from one side of her flowing sundress, and his tennis shoes pointed out the other. He wriggled in vain. Her knees pinned his arms, and she perched her hands atop her rather wee waist.
“Who’s your mama, young man?” None of us were quite sure what information she sought from this kid who would just as soon whip out a gun as look at you.
He screamed a response anyway.“You are!”
“I’m not your mama!” She slapped him upside the head with her hand.
“Ow!” I said, before he could let out a holler. But his holler followed shortly thereafter. He squirmed some more.
“You may as well forget about getting away from me!” She snatched her pretty little brown and pink bag from his hands. “I could give you a karate chop right in your throat and maim you for the rest of your existence, you little creep . Think you’re going to steal my purse?” She finally tried to rise . The two out-of-breath gentlemen quickly found their composure and swooped over to help the damsel, who obviously didn’t need it but accepted theirs with her Julia Roberts smile and rapidly returning manners.“Oh, thank you. How sweet.”
The bewildered youth tried to stand, but before the two men could grab him, the crazed queen grabbed him by his ponytail and pulled him to her side. “No sirree, little fella.” Her six-foot frame towered over his prepubescent self. “You are going with me, and we are going to find your mama!”
So she really did mean,“Who’s your mama?” She brushed off her skirt, flung her bag back over her shoulder, and thanked us for our assistance, albeit nothing more than emotional.
“How . . . did you . . . run like that?” I asked, still leaning and panting, as she dragged this weary roamer back up the side street.
“Oh, number-one sprinter in track and field. If he’d have gone for distance I’d have never made it.” She flashed that smile and winked.
Really. She was probably number-one in the Boston Marathon as well.
She tugged at the boy’s ponytail, and I knew no one would ever be so glad to see his mama compared to the Mary Poppins that had a hold of him right now. Amber Topaz, Director of Tourism, was about to give him a tour of Savannah, in a way he had never experienced.
“I know you think I’m impotent,” she said underneath her breath to the poor thief . The gentlemen fidgeted and darted their eyes downward at the sound of those words. “But you’re about to see how potent I am, little boy.”
“She meant incompetent,” I assured the gentlemen.
They still looked scared.
“And she got a 4.0,” I told them. “Go figure.” I followed the perfectly coiffed and statuesque beauty who had a death grip on a ponytail and tried not to laugh. No doubt these two wouldn’t be running to another woman’s rescue anytime soon.
And every person on this street now staring out of windows and gawking from street corners knew for certain they would never try to steal the handbag of one Miss Amber Topaz Childers, the reigning Miss Savannah United States of America.
I myself kept my eyes out for a black van.
The crab cakes had lost their cakiness, the salad its crispness, and the hot tea . . . well, it wasn’t so hot anymore . The message light on my cell phone still blinked. In the commotion I had left all of my possessions at the table.
“Darling,” came the voice on the message, “I’m so sorry we didn’t talk yesterday . The events here just went so quickly I didn’t even have time to grab my floss. But you’re never going to guess who’s having me on their show tonight. I’m going to be on Rita Cosby from FOX News. I would love for you to come watch. She’s just the cutest little thing. Anyway, I missed you last night for dinner. And I want to see you today. I love you. Make sure you eat, darling. Call me if you get time. Or just stop on by. I’m not going anywhere.” She concluded with an annoying giggle.
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.