Saving CeeCee Honeycutt (33 page)

I pretended to laugh.

“So where’s your friend?”

“In the living room with Aunt Tootie.”

I was about to lead her down the hall when she turned and left the kitchen without me. Her hat didn’t cover the bald spot on the back of her head from where she’d gotten stitches, and her scar looked like a pink zipper. The sight of it made me feel bad, but not bad enough to go and join her in the living room.

All these visitors made me remember something Momma had said several years ago. She’d been more distraught than usual about her life in Ohio and was on a rampage when I got home from school. After smashing a coffee mug against the refrigerator, she looked at me and cried, “Being in the North isn’t living—it’s absolute hell. Northerners have no idea what
real
living means, and they don’t know a damn thing about etiquette or hospitality.”

What triggered that outburst I’ll never know, but as crazy as Momma sometimes was, I now recognized that her statement held more than a grain of truth.

During one of my visits to Miz Goodpepper’s house, she had pointed out a camellia bush in her yard and told me it couldn’t survive above the Mason-Dixon Line. She said camellias needed warmth to thrive and bloom. And now I wondered if my mother, Camille Sugarbaker Honeycutt, had been like her flowering name-sake.

When my father plucked her from the warm Georgia soil and drove her to Ohio, did she begin to wither when they sped across the Mason-Dixon Line? Was she geographically doomed?

I wondered about it so much that one night, when Aunt Tootie and I were alone in the den, I asked her what she thought. She put down her cross-stitch and looked at me thoughtfully. She neither confirmed nor denied the possibility, but what she said was, “There’s no doubt in my mind that certain temperaments do better in some climates than others. And if, from now on, you happen to think of your mother when you see a camellia in bloom, well, I’m sure she’d be tickled pink.”

The first week of Mrs. Odell’s visit melted into a blur of luncheons, teas, and visitors at the door. Everyone seemed to be enjoying her visit to Savannah. Well, everyone but Oletta.

Shortly after Mrs. Odell’s arrival, I noticed Oletta had grown quiet. Though she shuffled around the kitchen making meals and baking like she always did, she didn’t say much. If anyone asked her a question, she’d answer, but not once did she initiate a conversation.

One afternoon, Aunt Tootie, Mrs. Odell, and I were sitting on the back porch having lunch. Oletta had made a creamy chicken salad with walnuts, grapes, and slivers of crisp celery that she served on a pillow of fresh greens. When she came out to the porch to refi ll our water glasses, Mrs. Odell beamed up at her. “Oletta, I’ve never tasted such wonderful chicken salad. Is there whipped cream in the dressing?”

Oletta nodded.

“Well, it’s just heavenly. Would you mind sharing your recipe?” Oletta never even looked at Mrs. Odell, and her voice was cold and flat when she said, “I don’t give my cookin’ secrets away.”

Aunt Tootie’s face flushed, and I sat slack-mouthed. But Mrs. Odell never missed a beat when she said, “I don’t blame you one bit, Oletta. Good cooks should protect their recipes. Forgive me. I shouldn’t have asked.”

After we’d finished lunch, Oletta cleared the table while the rest of us wandered into the garden. The way Oletta banged the dishes together was something she’d never done before. Aunt Tootie glanced toward the house and furrowed her brow as she watched Oletta carelessly pile the dishes on a tray.

Mrs. Odell, who didn’t seem to notice the racket, stood at the far side of the garden and fussed over some red flowers that had bright yellow centers. “Oh, these have such happy little faces.”

Aunt Tootie grinned. “Would you like a bouquet for your bedroom, Gertrude?”

“Oh, I would.”

“I’ll get my snips.” As she headed to the house, Aunt Tootie put her arm around my shoulders and said, “Come with me.”

When we were out of Mrs. Odell’s earshot, Aunt Tootie slowed her stride and whispered, “Oletta hasn’t been herself, and I believe I’ve figured out why. Sugar, you’ve been spending all your time with Gertrude, and I have the suspicion that Oletta’s been feeling a little shoved out.”

“But I love Oletta.”

My aunt smoothed her hand down my back and leaned close to my ear. “I know you do, and she loves you too. Ever since you came to live here, the two of you have been like peas in a pod. You’re every bit as important to Oletta as she is to you. Try to give her a little attention. It’ll do her good.”

While Aunt Tootie gathered her basket and garden snips, I wandered into the kitchen. Oletta was washing dishes and didn’t look up when I pulled a towel from the drawer and started drying. Though I was standing right next to her, she acted like I wasn’t there. When the dishes had been dried, I put them away while Oletta tidied the kitchen.

With a wet sponge in hand and her lips pressed tight, she worked her arm in a furious circular motion as she scrubbed the counter. “Why ain’t you outside with your friend?”

“Because I want to be with you.”

“Suit yourself,” she grumbled, working the sponge so hard it began to shred. “Don’t make no never-mind to me one way or the other.”

I wasn’t about to give up, so I sat at the table and leafed through the newspaper, hoping that when she was done she’d decide to talk to me. At the bottom of the third page I noticed an article about Martin Luther King. Knowing how much Oletta admired him, I cleared my throat and read aloud: “‘Dr. Martin Luther King delivered a speech at the Southern Christian Leadership Conference last week ...’

As I read the article, Oletta stopped scrubbing the counter. She came and sat across from me, listening intently, occasionally nodding her head. When I finished reading, I folded the paper and looked at her. “He sure sounds like a smart man.”

“Yes, he is. Thank you for readin’ it to me.” She pushed herself up from the table. “I got somethin’ for you,” she said, pulling a covered tin from the top of the refrigerator and handing it to me. “I made ’em this morning.”

I pried off the lid, and when I saw what was inside, I felt awful. While I all but ignored her and went for a morning stroll through Forsyth Park with Mrs. Odell, Oletta had made me chocolate chip cookies. I looked into her eyes and said, “Thank you, Oletta.”

“I put walnuts in the batter too, just how you like.”

I took a big bite of a cookie and groaned. “You’re the best cook, Oletta,” I said with my mouth full. And when she smiled, I stood up from the table and hugged her. “You’re the best cook and the best friend I’ve ever had.”

Before leaving for home that afternoon, Oletta handed me a pad of paper and a pencil. “Sit down and write something for me, will you?”

I did as she asked, poised with pencil in hand, wondering what she was up to.

Oletta crossed her arms over her chest and gazed out the kitchen window as she dictated: “Cut up two boiled chicken breasts—no skin. Chop three stalks of celery, half a small sweet onion, and a handful of grapes. Put all that in a bowl and . . .”

I smiled to myself as I wrote out Oletta’s chicken salad recipe. When I finished, I handed her the paper, and she placed it on the kitchen counter next to Mrs. Odell’s saccharin bottle. She seemed enormously pleased with herself, and for the first time in more than a week I heard her humming a tune as she hung her apron in the pantry and gathered her handbag and sweater.

Together we walked out the front door, down the steps, and along the shady sidewalk to the bus stop. When the bus slowed to a stop and the door swung open, Oletta hoisted her handbag over her shoulder and said, “See you tomorrow, child.”

Just as she planted her feet on the first step, I blurted, “I love you, Oletta Jones.”

She stopped and turned. Her face was so serious I wondered if maybe I’d done something wrong to speak such a thing in public.

The corners of her mouth edged into a smile, and from her lips came the words I’d longed to hear. “Oletta Jones loves you too.”

M
rs. Odell wandered into the kitchen. She had just risen from a nap, and the hair on the back of her head stood up like wisps of damaged feathers.

“Did you have a nice rest, Gertrude?” Aunt Tootie asked, walking out of the pantry.

“Yes, thank you, I did.” Mrs. Odell seemed a bit embarrassed when she glanced at the clock. “Oh, my word, I slept for nearly two hours. I had no idea.” She looked at the basket of peaches on the table and said, “Oletta, would you like some help?”

“That’d be nice, Gertrude. Thank you.”

Mrs. Odell slipped an apron over her head, not bothering to tie it closed behind her back. She pulled a knife from the drawer and eased herself down across the table from Oletta. “I’ve always liked peeling peaches. When I was a young girl back on the farm, my grandmother would make pies and . . .”

While Mrs. Odell, Oletta, and Aunt Tootie talked about peach pies, what to add to the grocery list, and how quickly the summer was coming to end, I sat quietly and listened as their chatter lifted into the air, gilding all four corners of the kitchen. And as the sweet aroma of the fresh peaches mingled with the sound of their voices, I folded the memory into myself, feeling a peace I’d never before known.

When Mrs. Odell finished slicing a bowl of peaches, she wiped her hands on a towel and said, “Oletta, I’m sorry, but my arthritis is acting up. I have to give these old hands of mine a rest for a few minutes.”

Oletta nodded. “I appreciate your help, Gertrude. Thank you.”

Mrs. Odell stood at the sink and washed her hands. “Tootie, would it be all right if I used the telephone? I’d like to call my cousin Adele.”

“Of course,” Aunt Tootie said. “Please feel free to use the one in the den.”

Mrs. Odell thanked her and headed out of the kitchen. I don’t know how long she was on the phone, but when I closed my book and climbed down from the stool, it seemed like she’d been gone for a long time. I ate a peach, asked Aunt Tootie if she’d please add chocolate ice cream to the shopping list, and wandered down the hall. Mrs. Odell wasn’t in the den, so I headed for the stairs to see if she’d gone to her bedroom.

As I stepped into the foy-yay, I saw her from the corner of my eye. She was standing in the living room looking out the front window. Her hands were clasped behind her back and a ray of sunlight revealed far more scalp than hair on her head.

“Mrs. Odell?”

When she didn’t answer, I stepped around a chair so I could see her face. Her skin was pale.

“Mrs. Odell, what’s wrong?”

“I have no place to go,” she whispered.

Her words and the look on her face frightened me. I touched her shoulder. “What do you mean?”

A blue vein pulsed at the side of her temple. “No house, no furniture, nothing.”

I helped her into a chair and covered her hands with mine. “Just stay here. I’ll be right back.”

I bolted down the hall and skidded into the kitchen. “Hurry! Something’s wrong with Mrs. Odell.”

Aunt Tootie, Oletta, and I rushed to the living room and huddled around Mrs. Odell. “Gertrude, what is it?” Aunt Tootie said, taking hold of her quivering hands. “Do you feel sick?”

Mrs. Odell shook her head, but her voice was pained and brittle when she told us what had happened.

“I called Adele to see if any of my mail had arrived, but her son, Roy, answered. He told me he’d stopped by to see his mother last Wednesday, and when she didn’t come to the door, he let himself in.” Mrs. Odell looked from me to Oletta and then to Aunt Tootie.

“He found Adele in the living room, sitting in a chair in front of the TV. Dead.”

Aunt Tootie gasped. “Oh, Gertrude!”

“The doctor told Roy it was a stroke. Roy knew I was here in Savannah, but he couldn’t find where Adele had put your phone number.” A tear leaked from the corner of Mrs. Odell’s eye. “I can’t even go to the funeral, she’s already been buried.”

Aunt Tootie pulled up an ottoman, sat down, and rested her hand on Mrs. Odell’s knee. “Did Roy say anything else?”

“He said I was welcome to live in Adele’s house if I wanted to.” Mrs. Odell absentmindedly kneaded the hem of her dress with the saddest expression I’d ever seen. “I’m a foolish old woman,” she said, lowering her head. “I never dreamed something like this would happen.”

Oletta let out a long sigh and eased herself into a chair. “So what you gonna do, Miz Gertrude?”

“Roy is such a nice man. He offered to drive up here and get me. But I don’t know a soul in Florida. When my stay here is through, I guess I’ll take the bus back to Ohio.”

Aunt Tootie scooted closer. “But with your home being sold, there’s no reason for you to go back, is there?”

Mrs. Odell’s lips quivered. “I have to. That’s the only place I know. There are some apartments for senior citizens in Willoughby. I’m sure I’ll find something.”