Saving CeeCee Honeycutt (25 page)

While the three of us talked, Aunt Tootie kept glancing into Miz Goodpepper’s cart with a furrowed brow. “Thelma, honey, are you all right?”

Miz Goodpepper chuckled. “I read an article about detoxifying the body. It said to pour the carrot juice and sea salt into a bathtub fi lled with hot water. After soaking for twenty minutes, you’re to get out, take a steamy shower, and scrub with a loofah. Have you ever heard of it, Tootie?”

“No, I can’t say that I have.”

When the cashier started wringing up our groceries, Miz Goodpepper said, “Oh, and the Preparation H is for my skin. I was having my hair trimmed the other day, and everyone in the beauty shop was talking about how it smooths the skin and tightens the bags under the eyes.”

I had to look away. Between the duct tape she’d used on her breasts and now the Preparation H and the carrot juice, it was all I could do not to burst out laughing.

“Well, Thelma,” Aunt Tootie said with a crooked smile, “you’ve always been willing to try new things, bless your heart. You’ll have to let me know how it all works out.”

As we headed to the parking lot, Miz Goodpepper said, “I ran into Minnie Hayes yesterday. Isn’t she the sweetest thing?”

“She sure is. I haven’t seen her since Easter, but we talked on the phone awhile back and made plans to have lunch together. If I remember right, I believe it’s next Tuesday.”

Miz Goodpepper unlocked the trunk of her car and turned to my aunt. “Well, I’ve got a little bit of gossip. Minnie told me that two police cars were parked in front of her neighbor’s house a few days ago. And then a detective went door-to-door all the way down the street, asking questions and taking notes. Minnie didn’t have many details, but her neighbors are Augustus and Marilee Slade. Apparently something’s happened to their son. Do you know them, Tootie?”

“No, I don’t. I remember meeting them at a party years ago, but we’ve never socialized.”

Oh, my God! They’re talking about Lucas Slade’s parents.
I took in a gulp of air and stepped back.

“Did Minnie say what happened?”

“She didn’t know,” Miz Goodpepper said, lifting her bags into the trunk. “But she said something peculiar is going on. She tried to call Marilee several times, but Marilee didn’t answer. Maybe Minnie will know more when you have lunch. Anyway, that’s all the news I have to report. Glad to have you back in town, Tootie. I’m heading home to try my carrot juice detoxification,” she said with a laugh.

I forced a smile and tried to act casual. Aunt Tootie waved good-bye, and called out, “Have fun, darlin’.”

My stomach churned as we drove home, and I set my gaze out the windshield and thought to myself,
Stay quiet, CeeCee. It’ll be okay. Just hold on to the secret.

When we arrived home, Oletta was ironing in the kitchen. The warm smell of starched linen lingered in the air. Aunt Tootie headed upstairs with her shampoo and aspirin while I put away the groceries. I hovered in the kitchen, wondering if I should pull Oletta aside and tell her what Miz Goodpepper had said about Lucas Slade.

I chewed my fingernails and wandered from the window to the kitchen counter, and back to the window again.

The iron let out a
hiss
when Oletta unplugged it. As she set a stack of pillowcases into a laundry basket, she looked at me. “What’s wrong, child, you got ants in your pants?”

“No, but . . .” Words clotted in my throat. And it’s a good thing, because right then Aunt Tootie came into the kitchen.

“Oletta, have you seen my address book?”

“Did you take it when you went to Raleigh?”

Aunt Tootie tapped her forehead. “Well, of course I did. Now I remember, it’s in my handbag,” she said, heading out of the room.

Knowing this wasn’t the time to talk to Oletta, I went outside and sat on the porch steps.

Later that afternoon, while Aunt Tootie was on the phone in the den, I followed Oletta into the pantry. She hung up her apron, and as she took hold of her handbag, I reached out and touched her arm. “Oletta,” I whispered. “I need to tell you something.”

Her eyes widened when I told her what Miz Goodpepper had said. I didn’t know that colored people could pale, but Oletta’s face turned ashy. “Lord have mercy. Well, it’s time to tell Miz Tootie.”

I shook my head. “No, Oletta. Don’t do that.”

For a long moment we stood by the window in a slant of sunlight, not moving a muscle, studying each other. From the hook on the door I removed her sweater and draped it over her arm. She let out a slow breath, turned, and left for home.

The following afternoon, I brought in the mail and set it on Aunt Tootie’s desk. Among the magazines and bills was a letter from Mrs. Odell. I sat in a chair by the window and opened it, slowly deciphering her small, scratchy writing.

I took her letter and trotted upstairs just as Aunt Tootie was on her way down. “I got a letter from Mrs. Odell today. She liked the picture of the water lily.”

“I bet she did,” Aunt Tootie said, stopping to pat my shoulder. “You’re good with the camera, sugar.”

“Would it be okay if I went over to Forsyth Park? I’d like to take more pictures to send her.”

“Of course. Just don’t be gone too long.”

I promised to be home within half an hour, and went to my bedroom to get my camera and sunglasses. I wanted to wear my hat too, and when I pulled it from the shelf, Miz Hobbs’s brassiere came down with it. Why that brassiere held my fascination is something I honestly didn’t know. I sat on the bed and examined it closely. It was white and so stiff the cups stood up like twin mountain peaks.

I thought about the comments Miz Hobbs had made about my hair, how she’d murdered Miz Goodpepper’s magnolia, and how she used those disgusting words to refer to Oletta—“Miz Tootie’s nigger.” And the more I thought about those things, the madder I got. I stared at the brassiere and wondered what kind of person could think such an ugly thing—much less say it out loud. A dark loathing rippled though me, and with it came an idea that bloomed in my mind like a thorny rose. Maybe Oletta couldn’t get even with Miz Hobbs, but
I
would.

I folded the brassiere and shoved it into my pocket. With my hat on my head and my sunglasses in place, I grabbed the camera and headed out of the house.

On the corner of Gaston and Whitaker was the Georgia Historical Society; a stately, serious-looking building that evoked an abiding respect for the past. It was the perfect place to take a picture of something as ridiculous as Miz Hobbs’s brassiere.

I waited until no one was in sight, then I flung the brassiere over the large bronze sign posted in the yard and took a picture. Quickly I stuffed the brassiere in my pocket and retreated into the shadows of the trees. When the picture developed I let out a squeal. It was a triumph.

And so began my first real hobby—the photo exposé of the unpredictable escapades of Miz Hobbs’s remarkable traveling brassiere.

During the next few days, I wandered beyond the safe frontiers of Gaston Street and took Miz Hobbs’s brassiere to visit the highlights of Savannah. Along shady sidewalks I went, smiling inwardly with it shoved deep inside my pocket. I took the brassiere to Chippewa Square, laid it out prettily—with its cups standing at full attention—at the base of General Oglethorpe’s statue, and took a shot. I marched happily down Bull Street, where I secured the brassiere to a wooden Indian that stood outside the door of a tobacco shop, and quickly snapped a picture.

But my favorite picture came on a sun-sparked morning when I walked all the way to the Cotton Exchange on Bay Street.

The Cotton Exchange was a grand brick building that sat high on the banks above the Savannah River. In front of the Cotton Exchange was a regal, winged lion fountain that spewed a stream of water from its mouth. I climbed over the low iron fence, pulled myself onto the base of the lion, and hung the brassiere over one of its ears, making sure to keep the tips of the cups pointy. Laughter bubbled in my throat when I jumped down and took a picture.

Just as I climbed up to remove the brassiere, someone shouted, “Hey. What do you think you’re doing?”

I turned to see a policeman trotting toward me. I snatched the brassiere off the lion’s ears, lobbed myself over the fence, and took off.

“You stop right now!” he bellowed.

I blitzed my way down Bay Street to Whitaker, never once looking back.

I arrived home sweaty and winded. I wasn’t about to stop my chronicles of Miz Hobbs’s brassiere, but I knew I had to be a lot more careful. Already I had several photographs in a manila envelope hidden beneath my bedroom rug, and when the timing was right, I’d launch my secret campaign to drive Miz Hobbs crazy.

Then came the day when I overheard Aunt Tootie tell Oletta that Miz Hobbs had returned home from the hospital. I grinned like a Cheshire cat: at last the time had come. I needed a pad of paper and envelopes, but I knew better than to use Aunt Tootie’s fine stationery. So later that afternoon I walked to the five-and-dime and bought the plainest envelopes and paper they had. Then, when Aunt Tootie was out in the garden, I slid open her desk drawer, removed a page of stamps, and retreated to my bedroom.

The first picture I sent Miz Hobbs was the one of her brassiere lying at the base of General Oglethorpe’s statue. I composed a short note and took my time printing it out. The note read:

I tucked the note inside the envelope along with the picture, then skipped to the mailbox at the corner of the street and shoved it into the slot.

Every few days I wrote another note and sent it off with a corresponding picture. I’d have given anything to see Miz Hobbs’s face when the mystery notes arrived. I imagined her lips tightening into a little red circle as she ripped open the envelope, and I could all but hear the shriek she’d let out when she saw her brassiere flaunting itself all over Savannah.

Whenever I went for a walk, I shoved Miz Hobbs’s brassiere into my pocket in case the opportunity for a perfect picture presented itself. One day I was taking pictures of a flower garden on Habersham Street to send to Mrs. Odell when a police car came to a screeching stop at the curb. I froze when Earl, Miz Hobbs’s married boyfriend, climbed out and adjusted his gun holster. And there I was, camera in hand and Miz Hobbs’s brassiere in the pocket of my jumper.

But Earl never so much as glanced my way. He locked his cruiser, stepped onto the sidewalk, and headed for Dilly Ray’s Café. As I watched him saunter inside, my fear fell away and I knew I had just struck gold. The picture I was about to take would bring a thunder-clap to Miz Hobbs’s world.

Trying to look breezy and carefree, I ambled down the sidewalk, cupped my hands around my eyes, and peered through the restaurant window. Earl was sitting at the counter, smoking a cigarette and reading the menu. I waited for a few people to walk by, and when the coast was clear, I dashed into the street and placed Miz Hobbs’s brassiere on the rear bumper of his cruiser. Written across the trunk above the splayed-out brassiere was the single word I wanted to be in the picture: P-O-L-I-C-E.

I snapped the picture and hightailed it home, laughing the whole way.

Early the following morning I sat down at the writing desk in my bedroom and addressed an envelope to Miz Hobbs. After pressing a stamp in its corner, I pulled a pad of paper from the drawer and wrote:

I glanced at the clock and knew I’d be late for breakfast if I didn’t hustle, so I left everything on the desk and ran into the bathroom to take a shower. While shampooing my hair, I wondered:
Is Miz Hobbs going crazy when she receives her mail? Who does she think is sending the photos and notes?

I tingled with delight as I imagined the shocked look on her face when she opened my envelopes, and I laughed out loud as I toweled off and slipped into my robe. But when I padded out of the bathroom, my delight evaporated.

There, sitting on my bed with the note, photograph, and envelope in her hands, was Oletta. A dreadful silence seeped into the room. When she finally spoke, her voice was low and serious.

“So, this is your diploma of worth? You think this is something a fine young lady would do? I got worried when you didn’t come down for breakfast, so I came all the way up here to check on you. And what do I find?” she said, looking down at the items in her hand. “What are you doin’ taking pictures of a brassiere and writin’ notes to Miz Hobbs? What’s all this about?”

My legs grew weak as I crossed the room and sat in the chair, facing her. With my hands clamped between my knees, I fessed up. I told Oletta about Miz Goodpepper and the flying slugs—how Earl, the married policeman, had danced around the porch in his Zorro mask and underpants while swinging Miz Hobbs’s brassiere, and how, when Miz Hobbs ran down the steps, she slipped on a slug and cracked her head open. I finished my confession by telling Oletta I’d found the brassiere in the shrubs the night she and I had gone swimming.