Saving CeeCee Honeycutt (37 page)

Maybe I’d write him a letter and tell him just how right he was. Not anytime soon, but one day.

From the corner of my eye I saw Miz Obee working her way across the patio, happily gathering beads from Miz Hobbs’s broken necklace. She dropped them, one by one, down the front of her dress.

Everyone pretended not to notice.

Later that evening, after we’d all said good night and headed for bed, I stood at my window. The Spanish moss hung from the trees like miles of torn green lace, and far below, the yellow-and-white-striped canopy appeared to float in the air, as if suspended by the buoyant memories of a day that had surely reached the height of garden party infamy. Off in the distance a candle flickered from a table on Miz Goodpepper’s porch. A fleeting ghost of white moved across her lawn, and a moment later I heard the squeak of a spigot followed by the splash of water. By the thin light of the moon I watched her lift a glass to her lips and take a slow sip of wine. After pinning up her hair, she pushed her robe off her shoulders. It slid down her body and pooled at her feet like buttermilk. A moment later she stepped into the tub and lowered herself out of sight.

On top of my chest of drawers sat the photographs I’d taken at the party. Carefully I tucked each picture around the mirror frame. From an envelope in the top drawer of my dresser, I removed the picture I’d taken of Lucille and Rosa at their Friday street picnic and slid it alongside the others. I pulled the ribbon from my hair and draped it over the top of the mirror, weaving it around the pictures. When I was done, I stepped back to admire my creation. It looked like a wreath.

From one woman’s face to the next I went, studying each smile. And as I did, a strange, nameless feeling brushed over my skin. I walked across the room and pulled my mother’s scrapbook from beneath the mattress. Dried-out sheets of protective fi lm crackled as I leafed through the pages—pages that, like my mother’s dreams, had become smudged by the passage of time. I turned to the picture of her standing on the pageant platform. Momma’s eyes gleamed with hope and promise, and her brunette hair tumbled across her shoulders, lush and shiny. Her perfect white dress was as crisp as a brand-new day, and twinkles of light sparked from her tiara. And, of course, there was that silly green sash she had coveted so much, draped from shoulder to hip: 1951 VIDALIA ONION QUEEN.

Carefully I pulled the picture from the scrapbook. After blowing off a few specks of dust, I took it across the room and leaned it against the mirror. And there they were, all the women in my life. It struck me that, other than Momma and Mrs. Odell, I hadn’t known any of them at the beginning of the summer, yet every single woman had pressed her fingers against the pages of my Life Book, making her own unique, indelible impression.

I turned and gazed into the sky. The night was as thick as spilled ink, and high above the trees I could see the faint twinkle of a single star.

“Hi, Momma,” I whispered. “I hope you made it to heaven all right. Is it pretty there? Do you have a girlfriend to talk with? I figure you already know this, but I live in Savannah with Aunt Tootie. I used to get annoyed when you’d talk about the South all the time, but now I understand why you loved it so much. Mrs. Odell is here too. Did you know that? I start school tomorrow, and I’m a little worried about it. I don’t know how things work up there in heaven, but if you can, please send me some good luck. Good night, Momma.”

I wasn’t very tired so I curled up in bed with the book Miz Goodpepper had given me. But as wonderful a storyteller as Eugene Field was, his words failed to hold my attention. Every paragraph or two I’d glance over at the photograph of my mother, feeling an odd sense of wonder, as if it were the first time I had ever seen it.

I’d never know why those turbulent storms had raged in her mind, or if, on that brilliant June day, she had slipped her feet into her red shoes and danced into the path of that truck with the intent of freeing herself from a life that had become unbearable. In my heart I wanted to believe it was an accident—that maybe she’d seen something across the road that delighted her, and for a brief, blindingly bright moment, she forgot where she was and what she was doing. I’d like to believe the policeman was right, that it happened so fast she didn’t feel a thing.

For the most part I had begun to make peace with the life I had back in Willoughby. But like a deep bruise, the memory of Momma’s final day jolts me whenever I bump up against it.

I suspect it always will.

So much about my mother’s life and death would forever remain a mystery, but as I lay in bed, sifting through memories of her, there was one thing I knew for certain: even during her wildest moments, when fireworks flashed in her eyes and her hair stood on end, Momma had loved me.

It was with that thought that I sat up, slid open the top drawer of my night chest, and removed the pink satin pouch. Momma’s necklace slid into my hand, and I held it beneath the lamplight, admiring its soft luster, and how, when I squinted my eyes, I could see the tiny imperfections in each pearl. Like I’d done so many times before, I smoothed them between my fingers until they grew warm. And I remembered the story Momma had told me—how the oyster had yawned and a grain of sand had lodged in its mouth, eventually becoming a pearl. At the time I had thought it was just something she’d made up, but years later I read a book about the wonders of the ocean, and sure enough, my mother had told me the truth. It was her version of the truth, but the truth just the same.

I turned out the light and lay my head against the pillow, breathing in the fragrant night air, liking the feel of my mother’s pearls in my hand. And just as I drifted off to sleep, I heard her words float in with the breeze,
“It’s how we survive the hurts in life that brings us strength and gives us our beauty.”

I
could hardly believe it. Who was that girl in the mirror? From side to side I turned, a goofy grin on my face, as if I were rehearsing for a toothpaste commercial. But I couldn’t help it. This was the first time in my life I felt proud of who I was, and, well—maybe even a little bit pretty. Oletta had washed and pressed my new blouse to perfection, the plaid patterns of my kilt matched exactly from one pleat to the next, and the buttons of my new red blazer gleamed in the early morning light like a row of lucky pennies. As I ran my fingers over the Rosemont School for Girls crest that was sewn to the breast pocket of my blazer, I felt like I was dreaming.

After adjusting my knee socks and folding over the tops, I tied the laces of my new saddle shoes into perfect bows.

“Okay,” I said to myself, taking one last look in the mirror. “This is it, CeeCee—the biggest day of your whole life. Don’t mess it up.”

I took a few deep breaths, squared my shoulders, and headed downstairs.

Aunt Tootie, Oletta, and Mrs. Odell were talking in the kitchen. When I walked in, they turned and looked at me.

“Oh, Cecelia Rose. You look positively adorable,” Aunt Tootie said, getting up from the table. She smoothed her hands over the sleeves of my blazer and plucked a tiny piece of lint from the lapel.

Mrs. Odell reached out and took hold of my hand. “CeeCee, I can’t tell you how happy I am to witness this day.”

Oletta poured a glass of orange juice and handed it to me. “When I got up this mornin’ and looked out the window, I knew the Good Lord himself sent you a nice cool breeze and some sunshine for your first day at school. I believe this will be a mighty fine day for you, child.”

I sat at the table, sipped the orange juice, and wondered what my first day would be like. But more than anything I wondered if Dixie McAllister would be waiting for me at 7:45 like she’d promised.

I was surprised when Oletta served breakfast at the kitchen table and not in the breakfast room. I was also surprised when Aunt Tootie pulled out the extra chair and asked Oletta to sit down and join us, which she did with a wide smile on her face.

And there we were—Aunt Tootie, Mrs. Odell, Oletta, and I—all having a casual breakfast together like a real family,
my
real family.

When the hands of the clock moved to 7:40, I gathered my notebook and headed for the front door. I checked myself in the mirror one last time as Aunt Tootie, Oletta, and Mrs. Odell paraded down the hall, looking anxious and wringing their hands. One by one they wished me luck: Aunt Tootie with a kiss and Mrs. Odell with a hug. Oletta looked at me real serious, smoothed her hand over my shoulder, then winked a slow, gentle kind of wink.

I smiled, said good-bye, and was relieved that they let me walk outside by myself and didn’t stand on the front steps to watch.

My veins pulsed with excitement as I pulled the door closed.
Is this really happening? Am I, CeeCee Honeycutt, about to walk to a new school with a brand-new girlfriend?

I took a deep breath, turned, and looked toward the sidewalk. Then my stomach plummeted, and my smile fell away from my face. My worst fear had come true: Dixie McAllister wasn’t there.

I stood on my toes and looked up and down the sidewalk. A few men dressed in suits hurried by, swinging leather briefcases at their sides, and crossing the street by Forsyth Park was a spry old woman walking her dog, but Dixie was nowhere to be seen. Then from around the corner came a quick burst of laughter, and my heart skipped a beat.

But it was only two girls whizzing by on bicycles.

I searched the sidewalks and chanted,
“Please, Please. Please. Oh, God, please have her be here.”

Knowing I had to leave for school or I’d risk being late, I slowly walked down the steps and opened the wrought-iron gate. When I turned to pull it closed, I saw Mrs. Odell, Oletta, and Aunt Tootie peeking around the fringed edge of the living room curtains. Heat rose to my cheeks. They knew Dixie hadn’t kept her promise. I pretended not to see them watching and tried my best to look happy, as if it didn’t matter that Dixie wasn’t there.

After securing the latch on the gate, I turned and stepped onto the sidewalk. And right there, sitting on the low stone wall, partially hidden by the foliage of Aunt Tootie’s front garden, was Dixie. She was hunched over, elbows on her knees, reading a book.

When she looked up and saw me, relief washed over her face. “Hi, CeeCee. Am I ever glad to see you! I was worried you went to school without me.”

I all but fell to my knees with gratefulness at the sight of her—my new friend who was wearing a brand-new uniform exactly like mine and a smile as wide as the new day.

“Are . . . are you kidding?” I sputtered. “I couldn’t wait to see you again.”

Dixie stood, gathered her book, and surprised me when she stepped forward and laced her arm through mine. “I was so excited I left my house early. I’ve been sitting out here since seven-thirty. CeeCee, have you ever read
Murder on the Orient Express
? Oh, my gosh, I can’t put it down.”

“Yes,” I said, nodding furiously.

She babbled about how much she adored our new uniforms and how she couldn’t wait to see what our reading list would include. As we crossed the street—Dixie all but running as if to keep her feet in pace with her words and me feeling dizzy with an insane kind of gladness—I glanced over my shoulder. And there they were, Aunt Tootie, Mrs. Odell, and Oletta, still hovering at the living room window. The vision of them nearly split my heart open.

As the sunlight raced across the brilliant Savannah sky, the day unfolded like a beautiful yet painfully wrapped gift. Momma had left this world and set herself free, and in doing so, she had set me free too. As much as I missed her and wished I could hear her laughter one more time, I believed she was out there in the big bright
somewhere
, watching me, cheering for me. Loving me.