When our former principal, Mrs. Carrington, got up to address the crowd—all dressed up in Sunday clothes—everyone instinctively stopped the chatter to give her their undivided attention. Everyone but me, that is. To think I was sitting at a luncheon, given in my honor, to bid me farewell was an out-of-body experience to say the least.
“Ladies, ladies, may I have your attention, please?” Mrs. C. announced into the microphone on the small podium at the front of the Red Room, and peered at us from over her reading glasses. I couldn’t believe she still wore those on the tip of her nose. She had not changed one bit and it felt like we were back in school. Out of habit, everyone at the luncheon who went to the Jamison School respectfully stood up for her. I know she got a big kick out of it because she responded according to custom: “Young ladies, you may be seated,” and everyone laughed out loud. Alice had come up with the idea of inviting her and Virginia thought it would be a hoot to have her emcee the luncheon.
“We know why we are all gathered here today. But it’s quite hard to believe we have to say good-bye to one of our own. Most everyone in this room, just like me, has known Leelee Williams Satterfield since she was a little girl. It is an honor and a privilege to stand up here today and give a toast to her past, her present, and her future.” Her voice climbed and she held her tea glass high in the air.
Everyone raised their own glasses and Mrs. Carrington added, “And remember, we expect you back home for many, many visits.”
I can barely feign a smile.
Seated right next to me was Kristine. To this day I think of her as my true mother. She came to work for us when I was only six months old and she worked for Grandmama for ten years before that. She knows more about Daddy’s side of the family than Daddy did. When I was little I couldn’t pronounce my Rs so Kristine became Kisstine. In time I dropped the -tine and changed it to -issie. Now, because of me, almost everyone she knows calls her Kissie.
The clapping seemed to last forever until Mrs. Carrington interrupted to say, “And now we have a very special treat for you. Some of Leelee’s best friends—and may I just take this opportunity to say some things never change—have gone to great lengths to entertain us all. Ladies, the stage is all yours.” She motioned her arm toward the back of the room.
The old familiar music of The Bob Newhart Show came out of nowhere and all heads turned around to see Alice, Virginia, and Mary Jule marching up the center aisle in between the tables. Each one was wrapped up in a heavy red plaid jacket, a lumberjack hat with earflaps, a scarf, gloves, and big chunky boots. Sticking out underneath the jackets were long peach-colored taffeta dresses. My bridesmaid dresses—only now with the added bonus of hoop skirts underneath. Very funny, girls. For their bouquets, they each carried Log Cabin syrup bottles with dead flowers poking out of the tops. As they made their way to the front, they pulled out handfuls of fake snow from their coat pockets and proceeded to throw it around the room. My guests were brushing it off their clothes and picking it out of one another’s hair while the three nincompoops laughed hysterically. One thing was for sure about my best friends. They weren’t going to make any bones about the fact that they thought this whole Vermont idea was ridiculous and each one of them was ready to kill Baker Satterfield.
Once they got to the front of the room they stood side by side with the edges of their hoop skirts touching. “Raise your glasses for a toast,” Virginia bellowed out to the crowd. All three pulled the dead flowers out of their Log Cabin bottles and raised them in the air. “To Leelee, the soon-to-be Yankee.”
That earned her some laughs from around the room. After they set their syrup bottles on the floor, Virginia ran over to the side of the room where a pile of red and blue pom-poms lay. She dramatically threw two to each girl and then bopped back to her place in line. They huddled together and then came out cheering.
Virginia yelled out first. “Give me a V.”
“Give me an E,” shrieked Alice.
“Give me an R,” shouted Mary Jule.
“Give me a mont,” all of them hollered together. “What’s that spell?”
“Cold weather,” Alice yelled.
“What’s that spell?” Mary Jule belted out at the top of her lungs.
“Snow,” Alice answered, and then screamed, “WHAT’S THAT SPELL?”
“Maple syrup!” Virginia shouted.
Virginia and Alice dropped down on all fours. Mary Jule climbed on top of their backs and raised her pom-poms in the air. “Yaaaaay, Leelee! Hope you and Baker are practicing your Northern accents.” Then she climbed back down and they doubled over and laughed uncontrollably. Most of the people at the luncheon giggled and the rest forced a smile. Y’all are somewhere between nuts and ridiculous.
“Don’t be mad at us, Leelee, we really do love you,” Mary Jule said, and then looked straight at me and mouthed the words “I’m sorry.”
Alice got herself together and took the microphone. “Okay, y’all, oops sorry, I mean you guys. In all seriousness, our best friend has decided to move far, far away to somewhere up there.” She pointed up to the sky and shook her finger. “Much to our horror, but whatever. But to show you how much we love you, Leelee, we’ve put together a toast.”
I’m thinking they rehearsed it for hours, because their delivery was in perfect time and by memory. They alternated verses and recited the last one together.
Here’s to Leelee, our faithful, forever friend
From K through college, hours we would spend
Gabbing on phones, they grew out of our ears
Staying up all night talking, after too many beers.
A crazy cohort, a character, a damsel in distress
Part Lucy, a lot Daddy’s girl, Leelee you’re a mess
A lover of laughter, she’s got a truly infectious giggle
Don’t sit with her in church, or you’ll be in a pickle.
We all love our music, whatever would we do
Without the Beatles or the Stones, and the Beach Boys, too
“Turn up the radio someone!” She never misses a chance
To twist, jerk, or pony, Leelee’s always ready to dance.
Gracie is her third daughter with whom she’s obsessed
Come on now, Leelee, may we humbly suggest
A person she is not, though you treat her as such
A fur coat for a dog? Now that’s a tiny bit much.
She’s a wonderful mother, a happy devoted wife
Baker and the girls are the true loves of her life
Never did we expect to see our best friend go
Life won’t be the same, we’ll be missing you so.
Although you’re moving far away from here
You’ll never be a Yankee, not in a million years!
You’re a real Southern belle from Memphis, Tennessee
With a heart that—GOD FORBID—will never stop whistlin’ Dixie!
After the applause from the toast died down, and I got up to give each of them hugs, the girls took their seats at my table. Mrs. Carrington pulled down a projector screen, dimmed the lights, and closed the curtains. Everyone sat back to watch the “This Was Leelee Satterfield’s Life in Memphis, Tennessee,” video. The Beatles’ “In My Life” began in the background. “There are places I remember . . .”
Kissie reached over and took my hand in hers. Her heart had been broken in two when I told her the news. The last thing she wanted was for me to leave Memphis, although she, like Mama, ascribed to the notion that a woman’s place is with her husband. “Ooooh, baby,” she said, “why Baker wanna git so far away from home? You not s’pose to live anywhere takes your family three days to travel. I’ll sure ’nuf miss you when you’re gone.” Not as much as I’ll miss you, Kissie, not nearly as much. When my first little baby picture came on the screen Kissie looked over at me and the tears were already in her eyes. That’s all I needed to see, and through the rest of the video I never turned off my own faucet of tears.
With each picture that flashed I started reminiscing about what home meant to me. There were Mama and Daddy all dressed up in front of our church with Mama holding me in my christening gown right next to my grandparents. Daddy and me at the father-daughter dance, Mama and me baking cookies.
Pictures flashed of Kissie lighting my birthday candles and Kissie fixing my hair at my wedding. There was Kissie holding Sarah and Isabella as newborns. She had been there for me during every milestone of my life. And here I was right next to her—all eighty years of her—with her old veined hand in mine. My sweet Kissie looked gorgeous all dressed up in her cream Sunday suit and hat to match.
There were pictures of my age-seven dress-up party where Alice was Florence Nightingale, Virginia was Huck Finn, and Mary Jule was Mary Poppins. I, of course, was a ballerina. I’ll never forget that pink tutu Mama made me wear with itchy sequins on the bodice and the straps. Kissie put my hair up in a tight bun, and when I saw those photos I could still feel the hairs around my temples pulling, and smell the Adorn Mama sprayed all over my hair making it stiff to the touch. I can still see her now covering my eyes with her left hand and spraying with her right. All I wanted was to be Glenda, the Good Witch of the North, but Mama made me be a ballerina.
I looked around the room and everyone was engrossed in the video. Mary Jule was seated on the other side of me and I leaned over and whispered in her ear. “Can you please kidnap the girls and me?”
She put her arm around me and whispered, “You know I would if I could.”
I had forgotten all about the picture of Mary Jule and me standing in front of the Mid-South Coliseum, age eight, holding up Monkees posters. I remember our mothers going outside during the concert to smoke after the screaming had finally gotten to them.
Next up was a picture of Alice and me around ten years old, all dressed up in our English riding habits and holding up ribbons in our hands. Alice was sitting on the other side of Kissie. I leaned over and whispered, “Why did we give up horses?”
“Cheerleading,” she said, and leaned back in her seat.
Then came a picture of Virginia and me at the sixth-grade science fair when we won the blue ribbon for hatching chickens in a homemade incubator. That event marked our big debut in the Memphis Commercial Appeal with the caption reading: “The first chicken was christened Columbus after another famous first.”
The very last picture was of Baker, Sarah, Isabella, Princess Grace, and me on the back porch of our home looking like we were the happiest family on earth. I remember when the picture was taken. We were the happiest family on earth.
I had no choice but to follow my husband. Baker is a good husband. He let me have children. He doesn’t get mad when Gracie poops in the house. He lets me shop for clothes wherever and whenever I want. Sure we have issues just like everyone else but nothing so terrible a little romp in the sack can’t fix. He always wants to make love. My friends hardly ever do it these days. Lots of women tell me their husbands never want them anymore. Mine wants me.
I was Mrs. John Baker Satterfield, a name I had wanted since the tenth grade. I’d show him a devoted wife. I’d be right at his side in Willingham, Vermont. One day, I knew Baker would finally come to his senses, drop the dream of being an innkeeper, and take me home! I was sure of it.
Our family picture remained while the music faded into silence. Within moments the applause returned and everyone resumed their conversations.
I sat frozen in the dark of the warm, familiar room, unable to move my eyes away from the screen.