Looking for Me (8 page)

As promised, Mr. Calhoun met me at the bank bright and early on Monday morning. In his hands was a perfectly typed business plan on the finest linen stationery I’d ever seen. We were led to a wood-paneled office where the bank manager was waiting—a tall, skinny man named John Hamilton.

Mr. Calhoun and I worked as a team, pointing out the highlights of my ideas and giving solid reasons that my business plan was sound. When the manager leaned back in his red leather chair and agreed to present my business plan to the loan committee, I swelled with so much happiness I thought I might pop. But that feeling of euphoria ended as fast as it had come when Mr. Hamilton said that he would do so
only
if I had a cosigner. Though Mr. Calhoun had warned me of this, I had honestly believed that if a banker heard my ideas, he’d jump at the opportunity to write me a big, fat check.

With my dream deflated and my ego in shreds, I rose from the chair. It was all I could do to shake Mr. Hamilton’s hand. When Mr. Calhoun and I left the bank, I stopped outside the front door and looked at him. “Thank you for trying to help me, Mr. Calhoun. I was wondering—do you think if I asked Mr. Hamilton for less money, he’d give me a loan?”

“Less money would only ensure your failure. If you don’t start a business out right, you’re doomed, Teddi. Remember what I told you about negotiating?”

“You mean about how it’s a game?”

“That’s right. This is only the first quarter.”

I fought back tears. “But if I can’t start a business with less money and I can’t get a loan for what I need, then how do I play this game?”

That question seemed to draw him up short. He studied me for the longest time. “I’ll give it more thought and see what I come up with. And you keep thinking, too.”

I shook his hand and walked across the parking lot. Plopping down inside my car, I let out a groan of frustration and pressed my forehead to the steering wheel.

For the next two weeks, I trudged through my job at the diner. I forced a smile with each cup of coffee I poured, knowing that my survival depended on the tips my smile might bring. The way I calculated it, every smile was worth about seventy-eight cents, a little more on Sundays. At the rate I was going, it would take over ninety thousand smiles to earn enough money to open my own shop.

There weren’t enough cups of coffee in my future to keep my dream alive.

Each day when my shift was through, I’d toss my apron into the hamper and head out the door with the newspaper tucked beneath my arm. I’d sit at the tiny kitchen table in my apartment and devour the employment ads, which were always filled with positions for bookkeepers, nurses, and of course secretaries, all of them offering Mama’s most coveted prize—
fringe benefits.

On a windy Tuesday morning, I was busy waiting tables when Mr. Calhoun walked in the door. I’d never seen him in the diner before, and as I watched him take a seat at a table against the wall, I prayed he’d come up with an idea of how I could get a loan.

Taking a deep breath and smoothing my apron, I approached his table. He smiled real friendly, but all he said was, “Good morning, Teddi. Two eggs over easy, wheat toast, and black coffee, please.” Then he snapped open his newspaper.

I served his breakfast, hesitating for a moment after I set down his plate, but still he said nothing. When he paid his bill at the register and left without talking to me, I knew it was over—there was no plan, no game to be played.

From the front window, I watched Mr. Calhoun cross the street and get into his car, and when he pulled away from the curb, I felt sick to my stomach. Slowly, I began clearing his table. He hadn’t left me a tip, not so much as a lousy dime. I piled his coffee cup and silverware onto the plate, and when I picked the plate up, an envelope with my name typed on the front was peeking out from beneath the paper place mat. I shoved it into my apron pocket, and when the breakfast rush wound down, I ran into the restroom, locked the door, and ripped open the envelope. Expecting to see a new business plan spelled out, one that would make my idea more appealing to a banker, I couldn’t unfold the papers fast enough. But when I saw what those papers really were, stillness settled around me—the kind of stillness that comes when you’re reminded of the powerful force that exists beyond your understanding.

I leaned against the wall and stared at the last page. On the bottom was a line with the name “Theodora Grace Overman” typed beneath it. To the right was another line. In a bold flourish above the word “Guarantor
”
was the signature of a man who would forever change my life: Preston J. Calhoun.

And now here I sat: Albert doing his repairs—slower than he used to but still with his trademark precision—and me in my small office that had once been Mr. Palmer’s. The shop no longer had the wooden sign above the door that read:
PALMER’S FINE ANTIQUES
. Instead there were slender gold letters painted on the front window that simply read . . .
TEDDI’S.

T
hough I had every intention of visiting my grandmother after work, I was still tired from my Kentucky trip. Deciding to take a quick nap on the sofa, I kicked off my shoes and closed my eyes.
Just a few minutes of rest,
I told myself.
Just a few
 
. . .

I woke with a start. My skirt was bunched around my waist, and threads of morning sun were weaving through my lace curtains. I sat up, feeling sweaty and disoriented when I looked at my watch. I’d slept for nearly ten hours. Eddie’s bladder was surely about to explode. After taking him for a long walk, I showered and fussed with my hair before climbing into my car.

Traffic was light, and within fifteen minutes the entrance appeared on my left. A pair of old oaks stretched their twisted branches over the lawn, and the border gardens were well tended. The grounds were lovely and serene, but no amount of beauty could ease the sadness I felt each time I pulled in to the driveway. This was the Audrey Clayton Home—last stop for a handful of Charleston’s most elderly citizens.

I never dreamed my grandmother would be one of them.

In the late summer of 1985, I had visited my family for a long weekend. On the morning of my departure, Daddy and Mama left the house for a Sunday breakfast meeting with neighboring farmers. When I lugged my suitcase out to the car, I saw Grammy sitting in the passenger seat. Attached to her glasses was a pair of oversize clip-on sunshades, and perched on her head was a red felt hat. I remembered the hat from an Easter when I was a child. It had been old then.

I leaned down and peered into the open window. “What are you doing, Grammy?”

“Well, not long ago I got to thinkin’ that in all my years I’d never set foot outside Kentucky. Last night at supper, you said how much you wished we’d come for a visit. So here I am.”

She was serious. In the backseat were a small suitcase and a tote bag filled with her favorite gardening tools.

My grandmother had loved Charleston so much that she stayed, claiming she didn’t want to go home until Christmastime. But in November she fell, breaking her hip and femur, neither of which had properly healed. Grammy shocked everyone by deciding to live in Charleston.

That’s when I found the Audrey Clayton Home. Italianate in style and built in the late 1880s, the house had been converted to an elder-care facility back in the 1960s. The main house offered the residents a feeling of home with its high ceilings, thick moldings, and arched doorways, but there was no mistaking the ever-present medicinal aroma.

I headed toward the yellow room, named for its sun-soaked walls and tall windows framed by floral chintz draperies. Miz Olson and Miz Fitzwater were sitting at a table having their morning tea. Though it was twenty past seven and both gals were still wearing robes, they were weighted down with multiple layers of jewelry: rhinestones, diamonds, and colorful gem treasures.

Miz Olson, who had been a Rockette back in the thirties, looked up. “G’mornin’, Teddi.”

Crystal-encrusted earrings, as big as walnuts, tugged at her thin lobes. One earring caught a ray of sun and threw a glint of light across the room.

“Well, look at you two, all glittery and glamorous this morning. Is there a special occasion?”

Miz Olson grinned. “It’s Beauty Day. Those sweet girls from Lindy Lane’s Beauty School are comin’ to give us manicures.”

“For free!” Miz Fitzwater added, resting her arm on her walker as if the weight of her bracelets were tiring her out.

I smiled. “Well, I hope y’all have fun.”

“We always do.” Miz Fitzwater waved, and the tinkling sound of her charm bracelet drifted through the air.

I passed the tiny library and turned down the hallway that led to the nonambulatory wing, a one-story brick addition at the back of the main house. While maneuvering around a cart piled high with freshly laundered linens, I saw a row of three brand-new wheelchairs lined up against the wall—the brightly polished chariots of the noble but failing aged. Dangling from the arms were large red tags printed with the words
LIMITED LIFETIME GUARANTEE
.

Yeah,
I thought,
now, there’s a safe guarantee. Limited lifetime. As if anyone living here needs reminding of how limited their lives have become.

I ripped off every one of those tags and crammed them into my handbag. As I turned the corner, I could see her partially open door. On the wall next to the doorjamb was a green plastic nameplate that read:
BELLE FORRESTER—ROOM 7.

I stepped to the doorway and peeked in.

And there she was, my Grammy Belle, sitting by the window in her rocking chair. Smack in the middle of the fault line of her final years, she was caving in on herself with each passing day. Arthritic, deformed knees peeked out from beneath the hem of her lavender robe, and wisps of white hair stood straight up from her scalp. On a small table next to her chair sat an open tin of cookies.

For a moment I stood and watched her, the way she examined a cookie before taking a bite. How she chewed with such simple joy that it made my heart ache. I waited until she swallowed, then lightly rapped on the door.

She looked up and smiled. Cream filling clung to the corners of her mouth, and her eyes grew huge behind the thick lenses of her glasses. “Teddi!” she said, brushing crumbs from her lap.

I wrapped her shrunken, brittle body in my arms and gave her a hug. “Good morning, Grammy.”

“You smell so good. Just like bitin’ into a fresh peach.”

“Where’d you get the cookies?”

“Won ’em at bingo last night. Have one, honey. They’re good.”

“Maybe later. Would you like to go for a ride through the gardens?”

Her face lit up. “Oh, I would.”

I helped her into the wheelchair, draped a sweater around her shoulders, and pushed her down the hallway. The electronic door opened with a
whoosh
, and fresh air rushed in, delighting my grandmother so much that she laughed. “What a
beautiful
day!”

As we approached the perennial garden, Grammy said, “You know what I just realized? I’ve only been on this earth for ninety-one planting seasons. Doesn’t seem like much when you think of it that way.”

I was caught so off guard by her statement that I didn’t know what to say. All I could do was bend forward and kiss the top of her head. When we reached a shady spot, I parked the wheelchair and sat down on a bench next to my grandmother.

“Lately I’ve been missing my peonies. Remember how many I had? Lord, I loved ’em all.”

Grammy slipped back in time and shared stories about her gardens, speaking of her flowers as if they were her children. Though she knew I had driven home to visit Mama over the weekend, she didn’t ask about it. I couldn’t tell if she was hoping to avoid the subject or perhaps had momentarily forgotten, so I decided not to say anything, at least not today.

While she told a story about planting tomatoes that segued into how, during a bitter-cold winter during the Great Depression, she’d stuffed newspapers between layers of her clothes to keep from freezing to death, I watched ribbons of light push through the trees and come to rest across her hands.

Grammy’s hands: It broke my heart whenever I looked at them.

When I was a little girl, my grandmother had been a sorceress of all growing things—the high priestess of peonies and a heroine to any hollyhock that ever knew the pleasure of her touch. I swear her hydrangeas put out blooms the size of cantaloupes.

I could still recall a summer’s day when I was no more than four years old. Grammy had taken me outside while she tended her garden. After spreading a blanket on the ground, she gave me a canning jar filled with pop beads so I’d have something to play with. Hanging her wicker basket over her arm, she disappeared into the riotous colors of her flowers. Then came the butterflies, and my grandmother told me all about them as she worked.

“See that one? That’s a cookie-dittle. And see that one over there by the fence? That’s a wise old bonnie-bow.”

When the butterflies moved deeper into her garden, I emptied the pop beads onto the quilt while my grandmother began cutting flowers. “Smell this one, sugar,” she said, pressing a bloom to my nose. “It’s a peony. I suspect this is what heaven smells like.”

Grammy encouraged me to sample the scent of every flower she placed in her basket. The more I smelled, the more I wanted to collect all that perfume. I took the empty canning jar and went from flower to flower, gathering each fragrance. I still remember the tenderness in my grandmother’s eyes as she held the jar in her callused hands and tightened the lid.

But she was dealt a cruel card, and the hands that had once created magic with a little soil and a handful of seeds now lay gnarled with arthritis in her lap.

We talked and shared stories until nine o’clock, and after wheeling Grammy back to her room and kissing her good-bye, I set off for town. The minute I unlocked the side door of my shop, I heard the rapid-fire clicking of typewriter keys echoing down the hall.

Inez was a spitfire, at typing and just about everything else. I had hired her three years ago, and from the day she began her job, it felt like she’d always belonged. Last month she turned fifty and had ushered in that milestone birthday by treating herself to a complete makeover. Her once salt-and-pepper hair was now fiery red and supplemented by a pouffy wiglet she bobby-pinned to the crown of her head, and her formerly nondescript eyebrows were drawn on in a way that gave her a look of perpetual surprise.

Albert and I still weren’t used to it.

“Good morning, Inez.”

She continued typing and raised her voice. “Nothing
good
about it. The copy machine is on the fritz, and the repairman can’t come till tomorrow. And you forgot to buy sugar and toilet paper
again.
We’re almost out of both.”

“Sorry. I’ll run out at lunch and—”

“I already took care of it, gave Albert money from petty cash. He just left for the store.”

“Thanks.” I looked at the old IBM Selectric. “I wish you’d let me buy you a computer. It’d be easier, and you could use it to keep track of inventory.”

“Forget it. They’re nothing more than a crazy fad. Besides, they’re ugly. I like my Selectric.”

“All right, have it your way.” Just as I turned to leave, I remembered. “Inez, when you’ve got a minute would you look up the price of the Limoges box that had the frog on the top? Then send a bill to—”

“Oh, let me guess.” She stopped typing and swiveled in her chair to face me. “Miz Poteet’s been at it again?”

“Ding-ding-ding, you win the prize. I caught her red-handed, right as she was shoving a sterling candlestick into her handbag. But she walked out with the Limoges box. I could wring her neck.”

“Well, at least you’re making an extra profit on her.”

“Extra profit?”

Inez’s eyes twinkled. “Last year I started adding ten percent to the bill for everything she steals.”

“Are you serious?”

“Serious as a train wreck. Anyway, I think it’s time to up the ante. Starting today I’m adding twenty percent.”

I leaned against the doorframe and thought for a moment. “I like the idea, but it might be unfair—”

“Baloney. It’s fair as hell.” Inez crossed her legs and gave a tug to the hem of her skirt. “Think about it. When people get divorced, there’s alimony. And what
is
alimony anyway? It’s money owed for years of torment. Just ask me, I should know. That’s exactly what Miz Poteet is giving you. She’s been stealing from you ever since you gave her that quote to design her living room.”

“I know, but I don’t understand why.”

“Because she wanted to tell her highfalutin friends that Teddi Overman redid her house, but she didn’t want to pay for it. So anyway, from now on I’m adding twenty percent. If she keeps this up, I’ll add thirty. Then we’ll be able to retire in five years and I’ll be driving a red convertible.”

“Well, I—”

Inez peered over the top of her glasses and grinned. “Think of it as designamony.”

“
Designamony?
”
I laughed.

Looking enormously pleased with herself, Inez swiveled her short legs back beneath her desk and resumed typing.

After placing orders for gesso, oil paints, and sheets of silver leaf, I opened the shop for business. While straightening a painting that hung above a Savonarola chair, I heard the phone ring. A moment later Inez called out, “Teddi, it’s for you.”

I walked into my office and leaned across the desk to pick up the receiver. As I listened to every word being said, my mind chanted,
Are you serious? Do you mean it
 . . .
do you really mean it . . . ?

The call was brief, and the moment it ended, I dialed my best friend. Listening to the phone ring, I wound the cord around my fingers. I was about to hang up when she answered. Olivia had a late-night kind of voice that made it impossible to discern if she’d just woken up or had just gotten home from being out all night.

“Olivia, can you meet me at Pernelia’s at one o’clock?”

“You
know
it’s my day off. I was sleeping in. This better be important.”