When the courthouse came into view, I was shocked at what I saw. In a part of the nation known as the Bible Belt, Savannah’s church- or cathedral- or synagogue-going population is probably right up there with the likes of Nashville. The name of God is mentioned in most conversations and everyone knows of Him, believes in Him, or knew of Him at one time or another, or at the very least attaches His name to their profanities.
But today, in Savannah, Georgia, church had come to the square. As I scanned the mass of people, most were stretched out, lying with their faces touching cement or the very dust of the earth. And a sound was rising from every corner . Wright Square was enveloped in prayer . The sound of it was overwhelming and amazing. And as if on cue, every prostrate pilgrim rose and began to sing the anthem of ages past, of saints and sinners alike,“Amazing Grace.”
I caught sight of Thomas and Dad, apparently headed to the same place I was.
“Brought church to the square today, huh?”
Dad smiled and responded.“Sounds like it, doesn’t it?”
We met up on the corner. As the final chorus ended I caught Dad’s eye . We each paused. Moments like this weren’t textbook, even for the South. None of us rushed it . Who would want to? For or against, some moments in life required everyone’s respect . This was one.
“Are y’all going inside the store?”
Dad wrapped his arm around me. “Yeah, I wanted a cup of coffee and it’s free at my place. But let’s go in the back. I don’t want anyone to think I’m open.”
Dad opened the back door. The aroma of coffee was so ingrained into the very wood that even on days when it wasn’t being brewed, Jake’s smelled like coffee. Even the hole where the dishwasher was supposed to be smelled of coffee.
“Did your dishwasher man take off with your cash?” I asked.
Dad shook his head, unable to hide his slight frustration.“Who knows? I’ve tried to call him three or four times, but he still hasn’t responded.”
“Didn’t you see him on your outing last night?”
“No. He didn’t show up there either.”
“Mervine and Louise will want a raise.”
“And you can bet they’ll let me know about it too.” He laughed. He put on a pot of coffee and Thomas sat on top of the stainless steel worktable that rested in the center of the room . Duke tried to join him, but lost his footing, only to end up in a pitiful clump on the stamped concrete floor.
“Duke, you’re pitiful, ol’ boy.” I patted his head but refused to pat his boo-boo. “So what did y’all do all afternoon?”
Thomas curled his feet up under him as if he were ten and turned his ball cap around backward. His green eyes became expressive with his recounting of their “picnic on the grounds.”
“We ate and told old stories. Mother told me things about her life when she was growing up, stories I don’t think I’ve ever heard.”
I tried not to act all that interested and turned around to fix myself a Coke.“Like what?”
“Like about how she would go out behind her house and smoke when she was little.”
I turned back around in amazement. “No way! Victoria Phillips never smoked.”
“Oh, yes she did! But if you told anyone, she would deny it.”
I sat down beside him on the table . The coffeepot began spattering and sputtering, and the fresh aroma of coffee began to take over the aroma of yesterdays.
“There is no way our mother, Miss No-Cigarettes-No-Alcohol-No-Nothing-but-Coffee,would ever have smoked.”
Dad poured his cup of coffee while looking amused at our exchange.
Thomas added.“She did, I swear! She said she could have even been addicted.”
Dad laughed out loud.
“She could not!” I slapped Thomas on the arm and went back to my Coke . Duke looked up once again just to make sure we hadn’t changed our minds about inviting him to join us on the table. Dad poured his coffee and leaned against the side of the counter by my Coke machine.
Thomas took my Coke from my hands and took a sip big enough to force me to have to get more.“Yes, she could have. She said it herself. You’ll have to get her to tell you all about it. It is hysterical.” He jumped down off of the table.
“What else did she tell you?”
“Oh, lots of stuff. About her parents. About how her mother started going to church when they moved next door to one . How their lives changed. How she felt when they died. All those kinds of things.”
“Well, sounds like a nostalgic afternoon. Mine was pretty interesting too.”
“That’s nice, Savannah. Okay, Dad, let’s go back. Mother’s going to be singing a special.”
“Heaven help us all.”
“Plus the judge is working around the clock to make sure this monument stays. And I wouldn’t mind catching another glimpse of that Ms. Austin lady . That woman is—” Dad gave him a playful slap on the back of the head.
I tried to hide my hurt at their lack of interest by pouring myself some more Coke.
Thomas turned around to look at me. Hiding my feelings from him seemed a wasted effort. He took no notice of them anyway. “Are you coming with us, Vanni, or heading back to your hole?”
I raised my right eyebrow at him in total disgust at his disregard for my choice to have a life.“No thanks. I really need to get home and start putting together my story.”
“Whatever you say.”
Dad locked the door behind us and put his arm around me to walk down the alley and back to the square.“Did you have a good afternoon?”
I stopped to ponder my tea-stealing stranger. The thought of her made me smile. “I had an interesting one, to say the least.”
“Good, I’m glad . We missed you though. Your mother was disappointed.”
I knew what her disappointment was: extreme sighing, dramatic chest clasping, pouty red lips.
I gave in. After all, this square was my story.“Well, let’s go see what the crowd out there is up to, shall we?”
“Yeah, let’s do.”
The size of the crowd seemed double that of yesterday. Apparently most people had Sunday off. Except for the lawn boy, the schoolteachers who weren’t even going to let their minds rest today, and Mr. Fisher. But a large portion of Savannah’s workforce seemed to be standing shoulder to shoulder, making clear their passion toward a monument of ancient truths.
Judge Hoddicks came out of the courthouse about the time we made it to the end of the square. Even the newsmen who sat through the hymn rose to take note of Judge Hoddicks’s arrival.
The judge cleared his throat as he stood behind the makeshift podium. Beside him stood a distinguished-looking gentleman with smooth, dark skin and hair sprinkled with gray, suggesting wisdom.
His tiny gold-framed glasses and steady eyes solidified his importance. I paused and tried to determine who he was and why he was here . Then I saw the familiar figure beside him. He saw me at the same time and tried to hide his white smile beneath his chocolate skin while acting dignified and important.
So it was clear now: Judge Tucker from Mississippi had indeed come to support his old friend. I was certain Gregory had come along for the sheer entertainment value of it all.
Judge Hoddicks introduced Judge Tucker to the captive audience. Well, at least one was truly captive. After giving an uninformative “update,” he motioned to someone in the crowd. For a brief moment I expected my mother to heave that monument atop her back and follow. But instead I watched as Ms. Austin headed his direction. She had traded her cascading ponytail for cascading curls that reached midway down the back of her brown sleeveless top.
Her lean legs covered in matching slacks followed the judges and my partner in legal battles, Gregory, up the stairs.
“That’s her,” I mouthed.“ACLU lady.”
His face made it clear he didn’t mind following her at all. And I suspected that every man within a two-block radius—maybe except for Jake—wished at that moment they were an old judge or a young law clerk from Mississippi.
My mother looked as if her mind was processing a thousand things . Which wasn’t any great phenomenon because she did usually have trouble focusing on one thing at a time. Her appearance, in contrast to the raven-haired beauty, had never before looked quite so unkempt. Granted, her level of unkemptness would pale in comparison to most people’s, because on a good day she was Queen-of-England caliber. In other words, she looked like a normal woman on a Saturday . The rushed makeup job . The not-going-to-iron-because-it’s-Saturday wrinkled clothes that had been lying in the floor, but looked remotely clean . The hair-will-do syndrome.
But on Vicky, well, let’s just say it wasn’t pretty.
Her blue suit was extremely wrinkled. And the two stains from yesterday had apparently been poorly attacked with some Shout wipes, only to leave water marks and were now joined by three new stains. Her makeup looked reapplied and was nearing the “hard” arena. Her hair had lost its “edge” and was now teetering on the squashed, might-need-a-wash brink. And this was my mother. Sitting in front of that monument, with as much pride as a mother watching her child graduate from college after three previously failed attempts, was my mother.
It was obvious she hadn’t seen herself in a mirror in two days. Because if she had, she would be like any common criminal who holds up their handcuffed arms to shield their face from the cameras. The wide-brimmed hat, in a complementary shade of blue, had replaced the umbrella and averted a few prying eyes.
“Does she know how horrible she looks?”
“Savannah, your mother doesn’t look horrible. She looks,well, she looks alive.”
“Oh, that’s a new line . Try that one on her and then hand her a mirror and see whose going to need the new apartment. And another delicate matter I’ve been pondering . . .”
“And what would that be?”
“How does the woman go to the bathroom?”
“Very well actually.”
I punched his arm.“You know what I mean.”
“Ever heard of a Porta Potti?”
“There is no way.”
“Trust me, there is a way.”
“Victoria Phillips would not use a Porta Potti in the middle of a Savannah square.”
“You don’t know your mother like you think.”
“Please tell me I was adopted.”
“It’s never too late.” Dad began to head in her direction.“Now come tell your mother hello.”
“I will later. I’m not into crowds.”
“You mean you’re not into uncomfortable,” he said, leaving me to myself. My rather uncomfortable self.