Saving CeeCee Honeycutt (12 page)

I jolted, splashing lemonade on my shorts. “Murdered?”

Her voice had a venomous sting when she replied, “Yes. Murdered in cold blood. While I was out of town in April, my neighbor, the great gaping vagina otherwise known as Violene Hobbs, murdered it.”

I didn’t know what to think, much less say. A heavy silence fell across the garden as we stared at the patch of vivid blue sky the magnolia had once occupied.

Miz Goodpepper smoothed a stray lock of hair off her forehead. “Murdering anything is just plain criminal, but a Southerner murdering a magnolia? Well, that’s an unforgivable sacrilege against nature
and
the South. Violene Hobbs is the black widow of Savannah. Stay clear of her, Cecelia. Behind that drippy-sweet voice lies nothing but pure evil.” Miz Goodpepper let out a bitter, humorless laugh. “There aren’t enough years left in my life to cauterize the wounds that wretched woman has inflicted upon me.”

Without a doubt this was the most fascinating conversation I’d ever taken part in. I shifted in my chair to get more comfortable. “Why did she murder the tree?”

Miz Goodpepper poured herself more wine, swirled it around in the glass, then drank it down in one long, slow gulp. Her eyes narrowed to slits of blue as she tightened the belt of her robe with an angry tug. “She murdered that beautiful tree because she was worried a strong wind might come and blow it into her swimming pool. Now, isn’t that the most ludicrous thing you’ve ever heard?”

I had to agree.

“From the first day I met her, I knew Violene was a pea-minded idiot. I’ve known ferns with higher IQs than hers. But I still can’t believe she murdered that magnolia. I can hardly bear to think about it. That beautiful tree was a home to countless birds and squirrels. Oh, I wish you could have seen it. It was like breathing in a bit of heaven.”

She paused to finish off the bottle of wine and added, “But now after it rains, all I can smell is death. Have you ever smelled a dying tree after it rains?”

“No, ma’am. I don’t think I have.”

“Well, I hope you never do,” she said, spinning the mysterious green ring on her finger. “I can assure you it’s a smell you’ll never forget. Mark my words, one day all the wicked deeds Violene Hobbs has done will gather together and form a big black boomerang of karma that will spin through the sky and strike her down.” Miz Goodpepper closed her eyes and sighed. “I only hope I’m around to see it.”

I stared at my hands, not knowing how to respond. I’d never heard of a holy man named after a llama, I’d never heard of a great gaping vagina, and I didn’t know a thing about the black boomerang of karma. All I knew for sure was this: I had been plunked into a strange, perfumed world that, as far as I could tell, seemed to be run entirely by women.

I
woke the following Monday morning to realize I’d overslept. Oletta served breakfast promptly at eight-thirty, and it was almost nine o’clock. After dressing quickly, I scrambled downstairs. As I trotted down the hallway toward the kitchen, I heard Aunt Tootie talking to Oletta. “Cecelia won’t discuss her mother, and it worries me. I’ve tried several times to get her to open up, but she won’t. And she doesn’t show any signs of grieving. What should I do?”

I crept into the den, and hid behind the door. There was the sound of a cup meeting a saucer, and then Oletta said, “Miz Tootie, I’ve told you everything Cecelia’s told me about her momma. I have the feelin’ she’s not grieving ‘cause she ain’t sorted things out yet. That child’s been through a whole lot, and the dust ain’t even settled. She’ll grieve when she’s good’n ready. And when she does, then I believe she’ll open up. We was young when my pappy died. My sister, Geneva, wanted to talk about him all the time; it was her way to make sense of things—her way to heal. But me, I was a lot like Cecelia. It took me a long time before I could bring myself to talk about him. It ain’t my place to tell you what to do, but since you asked, I think it’s best you give Cecelia more time to adjust. Let the child feel happy and safe, then you can . . .”

I closed my eyes and leaned against the wall.
Why can’t Aunt Tootie just leave things alone?

The slap of the screen door sounded, and, thinking Aunt Tootie had left, I waited a minute and then walked down the hall. I entered the kitchen to find Aunt Tootie sitting at the table with the newspaper and a cup of coffee.

“Good morning, sugar.”

“Hi, where’s Oletta?”

“She just left for a dental appointment. I thought I’d take you out to breakfast. There’s a little diner I’m fond of. It’s a hole-in-the-wall place, but they make wonderful omelets and all sorts of pancakes.”

“Do I need to change clothes?” I asked, looking down at my shorts and blouse.

“You look just fine,” she said, folding the paper. “I’m starved, so let’s go.”

When we arrived at the diner it was crowded, mostly with businessmen in suits and construction workers wearing heavy boots. The smell of strong coffee and the sound of clanging silverware fi lled the air as we wound our way toward an empty table all the way at the back. A ballet of nimble-footed waitresses moved among the tables, taking orders and sliding them beneath the clips on a silver carousel above the cook’s window. Both Aunt Tootie and I ordered blueberry pancakes. But as good as they were, I have to say they didn’t come close to Oletta’s.

“When we leave here, remind me to stop at the post office,” Aunt Tootie said, dabbing her mouth with her napkin. “I’m running out of stamps.”

“Okay.”

Just as I swallowed the last of my orange juice, two men at the table next to ours began talking.

“A demolition company brought in a crane early this morning. The old Pemberton house sure was something back in the day.”

The other man took a gulp of his coffee and nodded. “I’ve never been inside, but my mother used to play with the Pemberton kids when she was a girl. She said the moldings were spectacular. Did a salvage company come in and take them?”

Aunt Tootie stiffened.

“I don’t know,” the other man said. “And if they didn’t, it’s too late now. By nightfall that house’ll be gone.”

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” my aunt said, turning in her chair. “I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation. Did you say there’s a wreckin’ ball at the Pemberton place?”

“Yes, ma’am,” one of the men said.

Aunt Tootie nodded her thanks and fumbled with her wallet, quickly tucking money beneath her coffee cup. “C’mon, Cecelia Rose,” she said, rising from her chair. I followed her as she rushed down a narrow hall toward a pay phone, but it was being used. She turned and was out the front door so fast I had to run to catch up with her.

When we reached the street, she said, “Hurry, get in the car.”

“What’s wrong?”

She fired up the engine and barreled down the street, passing cars and honking the horn. “That’s the house we saved from the wreckin’ ball. There must be some mistake. As of yesterday, we own that house. Sara Jane picked up the key last night!” she said, turning a corner so fast I slid across the seat.

I grabbed hold of the armrest and looked at her. “What are you going to do?”

“First thing I’ve got to do is make a phone call.” She pulled into a gas station and screeched to a stop. “Wait here,” she said, jumping from the car.

I watched her race inside the gas station and shove coins into the pay phone by the front window. She hadn’t talked for more than thirty seconds when she hung up and made another call. A moment later she pushed through the door and ran toward the car.

“All right, let’s go.” She tromped on the gas and zoomed away, the sun glinting across the windshield in blinding bursts of light.

“Cecelia Rose, we have become a throwaway society. Instead of honoring and preserving our past, we tear it down, shove it aside, and just go on our merry way. Well, I won’t have it. We have to stand firm for what we believe in. Only in the most dire circumstances should a structure of historical significance be demolished.”

She came to a jolting stop in front of a three-story brick house that sagged in on itself like a ruined soufflé. A statue of an angel stood off to the side of the front garden. Her nose was broken and her moss-stained eyes gazed toward a big yellow crane that had a steel ball dangling from its long arm.

“Oh, my word!” Aunt Tootie gasped, cutting the engine.

Parked in front of us was a black pickup truck. Two men were sitting on the tailgate, eating doughnuts and drinking coffee from paper cups. Aunt Tootie climbed out of the car. “Good morning, gentlemen. Who’s in charge here?”

One of the men, a big burly-looking guy, put down his coffee and slid off the tailgate. He had a dusting of powdered sugar on his chin. “I am,” he said, tipping his hardhat. “Grady Tucker.”

“Mr. Tucker, my name is Tallulah Caldwell, and I’m a board member of the Historic Savannah Foundation. We just purchased this house and—”

There came a deafening roar as the crane operator started the engine. The earth shook beneath my feet as the crane moved its wide steel treads toward the house.

Aunt Tootie raised her voice above the loud rumble. “You’ve got to stop. There’s been a mistake.”

“Ma’am. This house has been scheduled for demolition for a long time. I have all the paperwork in the truck. I’ll show you—”

“Mr. Tucker, you are not listening to me. We
own
this house. It is impossible to overstate the importance of this.” Aunt Tootie turned and looked at the crane—it was moving into position, the heavy black ball swaying. “Cecelia, you stay right here.”

To my astonishment, she turned and began marching across the yard, her chin held high, her handbag slapping against her hip. “Please, turn that thing off !” she called to the operator.

The foreman’s voice boomed. “Now, hold on! You can’t go up there. It’s dangerous.”

Aunt Tootie ignored him and kept on marching. He spit out a cuss word, lifted his fingers to his lips, and let out a sharp whistle. “Pete, stop the crane. Jesus Christ,
stop!
”

The crane slowed to a stop but the engine remained idling as the operator stood to see what was going on.

“Ma’am, now I mean it, come back here,” the foreman said, walking toward her and shaking his head.

Just as she turned to face him, a screech of tires sounded. Car after car pulled to the curb, doors flew open, and women of all shapes and sizes poured out. They came rushing across the lawn like a stampede of buffalo in flowery dresses.

“The demolition permit was revoked!” a woman wearing a pink dress called out, waving her arms in the air.

“That’s right,” said a woman with rosy cheeks and curly gray hair.

The foreman held up his hands like a traffic cop. “Whoa. Now, y’all hold on.” But the women had him surrounded and began talking all at once, pointing their fingers at the crane.

“You’re not to touch a single brick of this house,” a woman with tight silver curls scolded, her jowls shaking with fury. “Now, tell your man to turn that thing off !”

He looked over at the crane, made a motion with his hand, and yelled. “Shut her down, Pete!” The rumble of the crane’s engine wound down, then it stopped with a belch of blue smoke. The crane operator lit a cigarette, leaned back on the seat, and put his feet up. He looked like he was enjoying the show.

A police car pulled up and an officer strutted toward the house. “What’s goin’ on here?”

“I have a permit to tear down this house, but these women are—”

“No you don’t. I have the key to this house right here!” the woman in the pink dress said with anger in her eyes.

“Now, Mrs. Wells,” the policeman soothed, “calm down a minute. We’ll get this straightened out.” He turned and looked at the foreman. “Let’s see that permit.”

“I don’t care
what
permit he has,” my aunt said evenly. “We own this house and it’s not to be touched.”

When the policeman saw Aunt Tootie, he tipped his hat and said, “Well, good mornin’, Miz Caldwell.”

“Good morning, Doug,” she said pleasantly. “How’s your mother feeling? I know she had her gallbladder removed. I sent her flowers.”

“Yes, ma’am, and she sure appreciated ’em.”

Just then a tall man in a dark blue suit walked briskly across the lawn, a black briefcase swinging at his side. “My name is T. Johnson Fuller. I’m an attorney representing the Foundation. And you are?” he asked the foreman, who still had powdered sugar on his chin.

“Grady Tucker of Wilder Demolition Company,” he said, shaking the attorney’s outstretched hand. “This house is scheduled to be demolished today. I got all the permits in my truck, and—”

“Well, Mr. Tucker, I’m afraid there’s been a gross error. The city building department committed an oversight,” Mr. Fuller said, pulling papers from his briefcase. “An injunction to stop the demolition was fi led, and Judge Goodwin ruled in favor of the injunction. Yesterday this house was sold to the Historic Savannah Foundation, and . . .”

I clutched Aunt Tootie’s hand, marveling at all the hullabaloo going on just for a saggy old house. She stood, all prim and proper in her blue chambray dress and little straw hat, smiling as if this were a church social.

I don’t know, maybe I got all caught up in the excitement and it was just my imagination. But as strange as it sounds, when it became obvious there would be no demolishing, I thought I heard that old house let out a creaky groan, as if it were grateful to be saved from the grips of death.

Mr. Fuller set down his briefcase and pulled a card from the breast pocket of his jacket. “Why don’t you come over to my office so we can sort this out? I’m just a block from the courthouse.”

The foreman took the card and looked it over. “What time do you want me to stop by?”

“I’m heading back to the office now, and I’ll be there for the rest of the morning.”

“All right,” the foreman grumbled. “I’ll wrap things up here and be over within a half hour or so.”