In the land of lard you don’t have to be told what’s for dinner; each offering has a distinct smell of its own. There is the fried-steak smell, the fried-pork-chop smell, the fried-green tomatoes, squash, or okra smell; and the greatest of them all, the fried-chicken smell. As for the smell of Victoria’s fried chicken, well, let’s just say it is so sinfully delicious that I am forced to call her Victoria when referring to it. My mother is in her element in the kitchen, where she dances around like a virtuoso in apron and high heels.
My first evening back revealed all things as they were: Dad at the table going through the mail,Duke at his feet,Thomas nowhere in sight; he rarely was. This world of mine was still mine.
I set the table and pulled out serving dishes. When all was ready, a yell went out for Thomas to come to dinner. Upon his arrival, we all took our usual seats—me across from Dad and Thomas across from Vicky. And there in front of us was a piece of heaven, a platter of fried chicken à la Victoria.
We also had fresh corn on the cob, butter beans, macaroni and cheese—and not that boxed kind either. Vicky would have needed rehabilitation if anyone in her home cooked something out of a box. The only thing she bought in boxes was cereal, and that only after my father took a liking to Frosted Flakes. If it wasn’t homemade, Vicky declared it wasn’t worth eating. This caused a bit of a controversy every now and then, but I’ll just leave that to the imagination.
No, OK, I’ll tell. One evening some new neighbors invited us for dinner. Vicky usually liked to have new families over to our house so she could supervise all culinary activities, but this couple was insistent that they cook for her after all she had done to help them get acclimated to the city.
Upon arrival,Vicky gave me a dirty look for having gum in my mouth.“Would you mind telling me where your trash can is?” I asked our lovely hostess.
She stopped putting ice in the glasses and pointed me in the direction of the pantry.“Sure, honey, it’s right over there.”
Vicky was standing next to me when I swung the pantry door open to get to the trash can. There, in full view,were boxes for just about anything you could imagine. There was macaroni in boxes, rice in boxes, soups in boxes, cakes in boxes—and the crowning transgression—entire meals in boxes.
Poor Vicky grew white as a sheet. She politely excused herself, grabbed my father, and pulled him into the half bath beneath the stairs.
I heard snippets of “I wouldn’t feed Duke . . .” and “. . . snowball’s chance in Dixie.”Then I heard a male voice say,“You will and you’ll like it.”
Dad must have been immensely clear, because she returned and we all convened at the dinner table, where Vicky sat staring at her plate. As our hostess passed her a perfectly acceptable meal, she asked, “Victoria, is anything wrong tonight? You look kind of peaked.”
Vicky came out of her trance long enough to say,“No, nothing’s wrong.” She then picked up her fork and let it slowly work its way through the food without ever bringing it to her mouth. My dad glared at her from across the table, but even that didn’t work. Finally she asked the lady, “So, how do you make this, this, this lovely casserole?”
“Oh, it’s really easy. In fact, I think I have another box of it in the pantry that I’ll give you to take home.”
Well, I honestly thought Vicky was going to expire right there. But with one more glance at my father, she ever so slowly put a minuscule amount of food on her fork. It crept to her lips, where she placed only the tiniest bit into her mouth. I was mesmerized.
When the first bite entered, she feigned chewing. The next thing I knew, her eyes were watering, and she started coughing and gagging and holding her throat. She jumped up and asked the lady, fist clinched around her throat. “What’s in here?” The poor hostess, horrified, ran to the trash can, pulled out the empty box with my chewing gum stuck on top, and began to read out loud every ingredient on the back.
When the lady got to an ingredient she couldn’t pronounce, Vicky said, “That’s it! I’m deathly allergic to that.”Waddling over to my father, still holding her throat, she grabbed his arm and feigned gasping,“Jake, you’d better get me to the emergency room immediately.”
My dad hadn’t budged and didn’t budge. He simply looked at her and said,“You can walk yourself home, get the car, and drive yourself to the emergency room. The kids and I are going to finish dinner with this kind family, and we will check on you when we get home.”
I don’t know if our poor hostess was more horrified by what she had done to my mother or by how my father was treating her. Her husband did his best not to break out in sheer hysterics, and I just sat back and enjoyed the drama. Thomas never looked up. He was still enjoying every bite of his boxed dinner. Vicky glared at my father, touched the lady’s arm gently, apologized, grabbed her purse, and waddled home.
When the door closed behind her, Dad looked at the sweet hostess about to collapse in tears and touched her arm. “Victoria has episodes like this quite often, but trust me, she’ll be back to normal, oh, I’d say by early morning. Now, let’s enjoy this excellent meal.” He looked at both of us, smiled a smile we knew all too well, and we stayed another two hours.
“Lord, we thank You that Savannah is home. We thank You that we can be together. We thank You for this meal we are about to receive and the amazing hands that so sacrificially and lovingly prepared it for us from scratch.” I thought it rather shameless to try to schmooze your mother through prayer, but I would take whatever worked.“Amen,”Thomas closed.
Vicky started right in. “Savannah, has Dean Hillwood let you know when you could expect to hear the results of the contest?”
Thomas was on that like a duck on a June bug.“Mom, did I tell you that I’m going to bring some of the guys home this summer? They haven’t quit talking about your biscuits since the last away game and—”
“Thomas, that will be great, but I was speaking to Savannah. She and I haven’t had time to talk in weeks. She’s been so busy.” She turned back to me.“So if you win, will you move to New York or try to stay here?”
I wiped my mouth and refolded my napkin. “There is something you need to know about the contest.”
“Tell your mother anything, darling.”
“I spoke with my dean before I left school, and he totally agreed and is supporting me. I hope you can do the same.”
“Now, honey, your mother loves you more than Dean Hillwood. I’m sure anything you do I will support.” My eyes caught Dad’s. I knew he would support whatever decision I made. As long as I was making an honest living and enjoying what I did, he would be happy for me.
“Well, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking over the last couple of months, and I’ve made some decisions for my life. I did receive the results of the contest.” Poor Vicky leaned in so far her chin was about to touch the gravy.“And I won, actually.”
“Oh my stars! I knew you would win,” she said with a little too much enthusiasm. “I just knew you would. You were created for this, Savannah. You are just going to be amazing! Oh, but you can’t move. Will you have to move? Surely you won’t have to move immediately, if you have to move at all. I mean, can’t you write books from anywhere?”
“Yes, I can write from anywhere.”
“Yes! Right! You could. You could write them from right up there in your bedroom.”
“Yes, I could, actually.”
“Oh my stars! Oh, well, let’s eat. Let’s just eat and eat and eat and then go get dessert and eat some more,” she said, laughing at her own delight.
“I’m not finished, Mother,” but she didn’t hear a word. I was forced to reach over and touch her hand.“Mother, Mother . . .”
“Oh, yes, darling, what is it? If you have something else to tell your Mother, just go right ahead.”
“I did win the contest,” I said, pausing to take a deep breath, “but I am not accepting the award.”
“You what?”
“I turned it down. But before you go off in the other direction, let me finish.”
“Savannah Grace Phillips, I cannot—” she began. Dad reached over and touched Vicky’s arm and nodded in my direction. She looked slightly perturbed but conceded.“Continue, Savannah,” she said through pursed lips.
“Go ahead, Savannah. We’re listening,” Dad said, softening his brow.
“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. I love to write. I really do. In fact, until this contest, I thought that really was what I wanted to do with my life. But when the opportunity came, something didn’t feel right.” I studied Vicky’s expression, but she offered nothing but staged melodrama.
“I can’t believe this! Something didn’t feel right,” she started.
“Victoria, let her finish.”
“Do please finish, Savannah,” she said, stabbing at a butter bean.
I looked over at Thomas for support. He gave me a wink and a smile.“It just isn’t right for me. I believe there is something else.”
“Something else? What? A street hustler? A Falcons cheerleader? Heaven help us all.”A brief clutch of her chest caused the entire table to flinch.
“I believe I have a different mission in life than to simply write novels. And that’s basically all I have to say.” I picked up my fork to eat my now-cold dinner. Then I let fly the arrow that would certainly strike with practiced precision.“Oh, there is one more thing. I want to live here, here in Savannah. And if I can, Mother, I’d really like to stay at home, at least until I can find an apartment.”
My,my,my, a verse and a chorus of “Sweet Beulah Land” could have been sung about that time. You would have thought the last five minutes were a distant memory by the light that came on in Vicky’s black eyes and the smile that crept its way back into position. I knew it was evil, but it was necessary. For a moment, my thoughts went to visions of the inevitable Vicky meltdown when I indeed found my new place. All could be certain she would die a thousand deaths, each of which we would suffer with her.
On the whole, the entire adventure went well. She offered a few brief groans, a few sighs, and a few,well, I’m not sure what they were, but they didn’t quite fit the gasp category. Dad sat meditatively across from me as well, never picking up a bite of food. Thomas looked up only between bites.
As the production came to a close, Dad got up calmly from his seat, kissed me on the head, and whispered in my ear,“I’m not sure what you are up to, but I know you have a plan.” I looked up and he smiled at me—that smile that is definitively Dad. Then he sat back down, content to finally eat his chicken.
I felt a hand on mine. I looked over at Vicky and saw tears coming down both cheeks. She just smiled at me, either out of pity or pleasure, I’m not quite sure, and patted my hand like she does. Then she said, “Eat your chicken, darling.” Even cold, Victoria’s chicken was still the best I had ever eaten.
“Jake, why don’t you and Thomas clear the table so Savannah and I can go for a walk?”
Dad hesitated, thinking I’m sure that the whole pat-on-the-hand, tears-in-the-eyes presentation at the table was a momentary diversion, and that I might be in for the reeling of my entire human existence. “Victoria, she’s a grown woman. You can’t make her decisions for her.”
She kissed him on the forehead and headed to the foyer.“Yes, but she’ll always be my daughter. We’ll be back shortly, I promise.”
She never asked me if I wanted to go for a walk, but I followed her to the foyer, and Duke followed close behind, both of us with our tails tucked between our legs.
“Grab your sweater. It might be cool,” she said. Vicky took her elegantly embroidered sweater from the coatrack by the door, and I grabbed my gray sweatshirt off the armchair. Duke seemed content to stay behind, but I made him come for protection. He and Vicky have issues. She’s had little regard for him since Dad refused to name him Magnolia.
As we walked down the stairs and turned the corner to East Jones Street, the air still held a slight chill, but I could feel the hint of summer in the distance. We headed straight to walk the squares.
It took an entire square for Vicky to get to the point of this excursion. We had taken only two other walks like this one since we moved to Savannah. One was the prerequisite birds-and-the-bees talk. I’m not sure how it ended. I just know that by the time she was through and I realized that she had participated in birds-and-bees behavior on at least two separate occasions—well, it absolutely rocked my world. Then there was the going-off-to-college talk: always be a lady,wear clean underwear in case you get in a wreck, don’t give your heart away, don’t talk back, and call home once a day. I obliged by calling three times a week. And I never understood the clean underwear part anyway, because after a wreck, who could be sure what was bad hygiene and what was simply a by-product of the wreck itself?
I had a feeling, however, that this conversation was going to be different. Why? Because for the first two blocks Vicky never said a word. She didn’t talk about the weather. She didn’t talk about the McCollums, who live next door, and their grandchildren,Penelope and Priscilla. She didn’t tell the latest gossip about crazy Mrs. Weitzer, who lives across the street, or dirty old Mr. Dickerson, who lives two doors down and has a habit of gazing through windows. She didn’t even talk about the new flowers planted around Lafayette Square. She didn’t talk about what was happening down at the Chamber of Commerce, where she served the city as director, or the coffeehouse. She didn’t talk about her latest recipe or award. She didn’t even talk about how glad she was to have both of her children home. No, for two solid blocks, my mother remained absolutely and miraculously silent. Then, it began like this.
“Savannah, I remember those countless times as I would rock you in the wee hours of the morning and stare into your precious face, dreaming of what you would become. For years I tried to make you me, but I realized some women weren’t meant to be like me,” she said, placing her hand daintily on her chest while I nodded in adamant agreement.
“I used to think you would be a great pianist, until I heard you play.”
That gave us both a moment of confirming laughter. “Ain’t that the truth.”
“Savannah, don’t say ‘ain’t.’”
“OK,” I said in mock appeasement.
“We tried you in ballet, and then we saw you dance.”
“Thank you for saving me,” I said, laughing again. We were coerced into stopping so Duke could take care of his business. We both stopped talking because it was hard to have any meaningful conversation with that going on.
“I don’t know why that dog has to do that,” she said, crinkling her nose and turning away.
“Because he’s a dog.”
“I don’t care. He should be more discreet. Out here where anyone can see. Did you bring something to pick it up with?”
“There is no way I’m picking that up!”
“That is the law around here, Savannah.”
“Well,you should have told me that before we started this thing.”
Victoria sighed in disgust. “I knew we should have gotten a lap dog.”
When Duke was finished, we picked up our walk and she picked up her thoughts.
“But when you brought home your first creative-writing piece in middle school, I knew then what you had been created for. I don’t believe I have ever read words more simple, yet profound, more compelling or endearing in my entire life.”
“That’s a bit overstated.”
“No, it’s not. You engulfed me with your story, and you made me cry at your ability to express yourself so tenderly yet with such strength.”
Duke yawned and shook his head.
“All that at thirteen?”
“Yes! You were a very gifted child.” Her use of the past tense gave me pause. “You got that from your mother. So I nurtured your imagination. You went into theater and writing. And I always believed that one day you would be one of the greatest writers of your generation—melodramatic,maybe, but phenomenal nonetheless.”
“Can you imagine, someone from our family melodramatic?”
“Well, they say every family has one.”
“Yes, they do.” I could not believe the poster child for melodrama had just labeled me the same.
“I’ve pictured your face in the bookstore windows and thought about how we could advertise your first book signing here in Savannah. Well, anyway, tonight, listening to you, I realized that your life isn’t about what I want. Your life is about doing what you believe is the absolute best thing for you.”
When we reached the edge of the Dueling Zone in front of the cemetery, Victoria stopped and turned to face me. The dueling zone was used years before for unresolvable conflicts. It had been avoided by us since our last flip-flop confrontation. Duke didn’t realize we had stopped until his leash extended fully and he was forced to come back or gag to death. Victoria looked down and patted his head. I thought about checking her temperature, her pulse, her latest psychiatric evaluation, but I figured this was one of those once-in-a-lifetime moments that just needed to be left as is.
“Savannah, everything in my life that I ever wanted I have achieved. I was crowned Miss Georgia United States of America.”
“Yes, you were.”
“I married the man I have always loved, and he has loved me better than I probably deserve,” she said hesitantly but not totally convincingly. I held my tongue.
“I have two children who are exactly what I wanted. I live in the city I adore. I have a job I love and the anticipation of something eternal beyond this world. I don’t need anything else except to see my children achieve the same happiness I have been fortunate enough to enjoy. If you find that in staying here and seeking out a new dream, then I will support you wholeheartedly.” And with that she kissed me and hugged me as only a mother can do.
Somehow Vicky made me believe her. How she could try so hard to secure my victory in that contest and not fight harder at this moment wasn’t clear, but she didn’t. And it felt genuine. She really seemed, at that moment at least, to want for my life whatever I wanted for my life. We would see.
“Thanks.”
“Well, we believe you will make the right choices because we believe in you. Now, let’s go home before your father thinks I’ve killed you and thrown you into the river,” she said, and she hooked her arm in mine.
As we headed home, I took in all the changes that had taken place while I’d been gone.“I see the Adamses repainted their house. When did they do that?”
“Oh, that was an issue. Jane Ann wanted a rich cream and her husband wanted a gray. They were both wrong; I thought yellow would be perfect.”We continued up the street, leaving the yellow painted-brick house behind us.