CHAPTER 20
Later, Tink and I were sitting on the front porch swing, waiting for Daddy and Teddy to come back with Uncle Earl, when a man wearing a blue bow tie and lugging a large camera strolled up the path. He was a stick-thin brown-haired man with more freckles than I’d ever seen. “I’m the photographer from the Charleston Evenin’ Post. This the Waldrop place?” he asked.
“Yessir,” we answered. Tink got up and touched her camera as she inspected his. From the hungry look in her eyes I immediately sensed that his was something she was itching to have.
He must have recognized the same expression, because he smiled at Tink and informed her, “It’s a Graflex Speed Graphic four-by-five press camera . . . in case you were wonderin’.”
“A Graflex Speed Graphic four-by-five press camera,” she repeated as if she were storing it in her memory. “Is it an awful lot of fun . . . bein’ a real photographer?” she asked.
“Generally, I find it enjoyable. An interested individual oughtta possess immense patience and an adventuresome nature.”
“I’ve got that—the adventuresome nature at least,” Tink responded confidently.
He smiled again. “Your folks inside?”
Tink stood, went over to the door, and hollered through the screen, “Photographer’s here . . . says he’s from the newspaper, Mama!”
“The newspaper? Comin’!”
I’d never seen Polly run, but from the sound of her shoes clicking on the wood floor, I could tell she was doing just that.
He and Cousin Polly chatted, and when he left to go get more equipment from his car, Polly informed us, “He’s from the Charleston Evening Post. Can y’all believe it? Wants pictures of the house too.” She touched her hair and fingered the collar of her polka-dotted blouse. “Suppose I should go make myself decent.” Polly’s eyes fell on Tink. “You too, Theodora. Go put on a pretty dress.”
“No, thank you, Mama, I’m decent enough,” she replied.
“Suit yourself . . . Can y’all believe it?” Polly ripped open the screen door and practically danced into the house. “Photographer from THE Charleston Evening Post is here, y’all!” she yelled, emphasizing the word the.
“She’ll be puttin’ on airs for the next ten years,” Tink confided.
Because I knew it was true, I had to laugh.
SOON, SMILING GUESTS began spilling out of their cars and alongside others who’d traveled on foot they made their way toward Cousin Polly and Them’s house. Several entering guests were invited by the bow-tie-wearing photographer to pose. I studied my cousin Tink as she examined his every move.
In what felt like no time at all, the inside of the house was as packed as a can of sardines, causing some folks to pour outside onto the wraparound porch and into the big backyard, where there were two gazebos and blooming flowers galore. Cousin Polly had put on quite a show—not for Earl but for herself and the neighbors, Auntie Rita gossiped.
One of the colored maids moved in and around the crowd, offering little finger foods, including my favorite, deviled eggs. I grabbed two. Just like Mama’s, they were sprinkled with paprika. I stuffed one whole into my mouth, and the second was right behind it. Boy, was I hungry for some real food. And for that reason, I headed to the kitchen.
Another maid was pulling a pie out of the oven, and a platter of sliced ham was on the table.
I eyed the ham. “I’m ’bout starvin’,” I told her.
She sat the hot pie on the counter, then inspected me. “I seen you ’round here a few times b’fore. You Miss Tink’s cousin, ain’t ya?” she asked.
“Yes ma’am, Gabriel.” I tried to recall her face but couldn’t.
“Almost growed up, huh?”
I shrugged. “Spoze. I just turned twelve.”
“I could make you a sandwich,” she offered. “Think that might could keep ya from starvin’ for a spell?”
“Yes ma’am, it surely might. Thank you.” I gazed at her. She looked to be as old as Auntie Rita, and her black maid’s dress was old too. A net covered her gray hair, and her white apron was soiled from cooking. Something about her finally rang a faint bell inside me—and I remembered a time or two I’d seen her here before.
She poked around inside the refrigerator. “Mayonnaise or mustard?” she asked.
“Both, please.”
She motioned at the kitchen table and chairs and ordered, “Sit down, young mister.”
I did as I was told. “What’s your name, ma’am?” I asked.
“Auntie.”
“No, I mean your real name,” I told her.
“Johnnie Dove . . . That’s two words. Johnnie Dove Victory. But I’m called Dovey by most.”
“Pleased to meet ya, Mrs. Victory.”
“You mean that or you just sayin’ it ’cause I’m fixin’ to save ya from starvin’?”
That made me chuckle.
“The man they’s havin’ this party for, he was a flier, weren’t he?” she asked.
I beamed. “My uncle Earl . . . yes ma’am. Shot down more than a few Nazi planes. He’s a gen-u-wine American war hero.”
“Mighty kind of ev’ryone to celebrate his homecomin’,” she commented. Then she abruptly stopped what she was doing and gazed through the window. There was still noise all around but somehow it felt quiet. “My son was in the United States Navy,” she revealed. “Served out yonder in the Pacific. Even got hisself a Good Conduct Medal. Last letter he sent said soon as the war got done, he was gonna move to San Francisco and send for me and his daddy. He falled head over hills in love with California . . . Only spent a few days there but claimed it got in his blood.”
“Is that where he is now?” I asked.
“No, child. He’s gone.”
“Where?”
“To heaven, I hope. Got killed out in New Guinea . . . You heard of New Guinea?”
“Yes ma’am. I think it’s near Australia.”
She nodded in agreement. “That’s right. I never even knowed there was sucha place ’til . . .” Her voice trailed off. “Last time he was seen alive, he was helpin’ carry wounded American soldiers to safety. Then, accordin’ to what his friend wrote us, there was a big explosion and he was gone. Makin’ things worse, only thing they found was his dog tags . . . but his body ain’t never been located.
“I finally gived up prayin’ on that. Woulda been nice, though, to have a proper burial with a fancy stone grave marker. That way I could go sit there, bring him a few flowers, talk to him kinda like I used to when he was a li’l boy. I’ll never forget the evenin’ when the telegram came, nearly cried m’self blind. Sometimes durin’ my dreams I still hear that knock on the door and the man’s voice sayin’ ‘Western Union.’”
It felt like a cloud of sorrow had floated into the room. “Sorry, ma’am. What was his name?”
“Homer Lee Bartholomew Victory. Lord have mercy, he was handsome in that navy uniform. Pleaded with him day and night not to enlist, but he was deaf to our words.” She hesitated for a moment before continuing, “Sure was proud to be in the United States Navy, though.” She pressed on her eyes, the way people do when they’re trying to keep back tears. “He was our onliest child, a real good boy, my Homer Lee. And Lord, was he smart. Had a college scholarship to Claflin over in Orangeburg, but the war changed all that. Miss him somethin’ awful.”
“Sorry, ma’am,” I repeated.
She sighed deeply. “Forgive me, son, for carryin’ on,” she said when she placed the sandwich and a glass of lemonade on the table in front of me.
“It’s okay, ma’am.”
“Wan’a sweet pickle? They’s fresh and crisp.”
“Yes ma’am.”
She studied my face. “You a right nice young fella, ain’t ya?”
“Mostly,” I told her, and took a huge bite from my sandwich.
“Nice talkin’ to you,” she said, then chuckled before adding, “Then again, mostly all you done was listen. So, thank you for list’nin’ to an old woman go on and on.”
“You’re welcome, Mrs.—” As usual, I’d forgotten her name.
“Mrs. Victory . . . Johnnie Dove Victory, mostly called Dovey.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Victory. And I’m real sorry about your son, Homer.”