Temple Secrets: Southern Humorous Fiction: (New for 2015) For Lovers of Southern Authors and Southern Novels (15 page)

“Does she have anything to say to me?” Rose asks Old Sally.

Old Sally listens for a long time, her face unable to mask her disappointment. Iris must be telling her things she can’t or won’t repeat. In response, Old Sally begins to hum an old Gullah melody to calm Iris.

But Queenie can’t imagine anything calming her half-sister while in this paralyzed state. Seconds later, the machines in the room scream out in alarm. Lynette rushes toward the machines but then stops. She looks at Iris and then back at them.

“Do something,” Rose begs Lynette.

Lynette’s expression reveals her helplessness. “I can’t. Miss Temple has a
do not resuscitate
order.”

“She does?” Rose asks. “That doesn’t sound like Mother.”

“Edward had her sign some papers a few months ago,” Queenie says. “I delivered them to Bo River’s office myself.”

At the time, Queenie wondered why Edward would make his mother sign such an order. Perhaps he was preparing for a moment exactly like this, so his mother’s death wouldn’t drag out.

Iris’s eyes dart around the room, as if finally realizing what is going on. The women join hands again without Old Sally saying a word. They circle the bed and hum again. Queenie imagines a circle of light and goodness calling her half-sister home. When that doesn’t seem to work, Queenie imagines a bucket of the Colonel’s secret recipe chicken in the center of the circle. To her surprise, Iris begins to calm. Queenie smiles briefly and wonders what would get her to go toward the light. She imagines Denzel Washington calling her home to the Promised Land and smiles. Although Oprah would be tempting, too.

Old Sally sits at Iris’s side holding her hand. Perhaps her mama is encouraging Iris to let go, and telling her that everything will be okay. Rose has tears in her eyes. Queenie leans closer to Rose. She can’t even imagine having to say goodbye to her own mother and pushes this thought away. Finally Iris closes her eyes. Queenie waits for them to pop back open, but they don’t. Then just like on the television shows where the patient flat lines, the urgent sounds of the machines become a single tone.

After Lynette turns off the machines, the room goes silent. She looks at her watch. “Time of death, 11:54 p.m.,” she says.

Old Sally releases Iris’s hand and moves to a chair in the corner. She rests her head in her hands.

“What is it, Mama?” Queenie asks. “Iris has crossed over, right?”

“It didn’t work,” Old Sally says.

“What do you mean?” Rose asks.

“Iris’s transition,” Old Sally says. “I wasn’t able to help her complete it.”

“You mean she’s not dead?” Queenie asks.

“She be dead all right,” Old Sally says. “But her spirit be stuck in the in-between world.”

“Does that mean I still have to run errands for her?” Queenie asks. The other women turn to look at her. “Just asking,” she adds.

Iris’s body gets the last word with a final, triumphant hiss of gas.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Violet

Miss Temple would want me to use the silver serving dishes instead of the China,
she thinks.

Violet has worked since six a.m. preparing food for the funeral reception and still has things to do. Every edible sea creature known to Savannah is spread out on the kitchen counters in serving dishes that she is now covering with cellophane to store. A knock on the kitchen door pulls her away from the task and she opens the door to find Spud Grainger holding a plastic bag full of fresh scallops.

“I couldn’t have done this without you,” Violet says, giving him a quick hug.

“Happy to help,” Spud says, but he doesn’t look happy at all. In the other hand he carries several posters pulled from the ornate iron work surrounding the house.

“You look exhausted,” Violet says, feeling worn out herself. She hasn’t had time to consider how Spud might be affected by Miss Temple’s death.

“I’ve been up all night,” he says.

In a suit and bow tie, Spud is already dressed for the funeral later this morning. For his sake, she hopes there isn’t a scene. If polled by Savannah’s upper class, Miss Temple’s approval rating would be in the negative numbers. However, popular opinion appears to be changing. At least a little. Two posters she pulled off the gate yesterday had a different message and portrayed Miss Temple as a kind of folk hero.

Spud helps Violet carry the serving dishes to the spare refrigerator next to the laundry room. In the last bit of space she stores the scallops to prepare later.

“Would you like a cup of coffee?” Violet asks, putting the posters in the trash.

Spud accepts her offer. “Iris would hate all those terrible signs on the fence. Does anybody know who’s putting those secrets in the newspaper?”

“We have no idea,” Violet says. “We were hoping it would stop after Miss Temple died, but they haven’t.”

Spud takes a seat at the table. “Iris would be so disappointed about how the Temple legacy is being tarnished,” he says.

Thirty minutes before, Rose and Queenie left the kitchen to get ready for the funeral and Violet was looking forward to some uninterrupted time. She has a thousand things to do, but she can tell Spud needs to talk.

Ten years ago Spud began delivering Miss Temple’s exotic meat—bringing only the best cuts, trimmed to perfection, carefully wrapped in single servings—as if Miss Temple herself might receive these gifts. But since her employer rarely stepped into the kitchen, Spud began coming to see Violet. Not in a romantic way. He is old enough to be her father. Perhaps that was part of the initial draw, since Violet never had one.

After pouring him a cup of coffee, Violet cuts two slices of banana bread, a small one for her, a bigger piece for Spud. She sits at the kitchen table, almost expecting her chair to still be warm from when Queenie and Rose were there.

Violet has often thought that more healing goes on around kitchen tables than in churches. At least it always felt that way at her grandmother’s kitchen table when Violet was a girl. Meals were celebrations that not only included good food, but laughter, tears, singing, love, and conflicts—all aspects of life. To Violet, kitchens are where community happens.

In a way it makes sense that her dream is to open a tea shop and bakery in downtown Savannah for an even bigger community to enjoy. But her dream can wait. She returns her attention to Spud.

“What were you thinking about all night?” Violet breaks off a piece of banana bread and eats it. It’s delicious, if she does say so herself.

“Mostly memories,” he says. “The time when Iris and I were together.”

“How did you meet her?” Violet asks. She’s curious why she never thought to ask this before.

Spud smiles and pauses like he’s gathering his thoughts.

“I played saxophone in a small jazz band called the Grainger Quartet,” he begins. “We played local clubs and wedding receptions and various engagements with the Savannah Historical Society.”

Violet has never heard this story and it seems important for Spud to tell it.

“I first laid eyes on Iris in the mid-seventies at one of our gigs for the Historical Society.” He looks out the window into the garden, as if reliving the moment. “Her presence captured my imagination, the part that’s prone to improvisation. She was older, of course, and a privileged member of Savannah. Iris was everything I wasn’t supposed to want or have. Perhaps that was part of the attraction.” He turns away from the window and smiles at Violet. “Love doesn’t always abide by the rules of social order,” he concludes.

“My grandmother worked here then. Did you ever meet her?” Violet asks. “She goes by the name Old Sally.”

Spud narrows his eyes, as if searching the past. “I do remember her. She was very regal looking.”

Violet likes to think of her grandmother as regal.

“Whenever my quartet played one of Iris’s events and we were on a break, we went to the kitchen and your grandmother fed us,” Spud says. “She took a liking to me. One time she asked if she might have something of mine to add to some kind of collection.
Something small,
she said. I didn’t really understand why she wanted it,” he continues. “But I didn’t want to refuse her. She was quite persuasive, if you know what I mean.”

You have no idea
, Violet thinks. And if her grandmother’s personality isn’t persuasive enough, there are always her spells.

“The only thing I had on me that night was a box of brand new saxophone reeds,” he says.

Violet remembers a small rectangular box with gold lettering. “Oh, that’s where those came from,” Violet says with a laugh. “My grandmother collects things. I always wondered what those were.”

“I’m sorry, I’m confused,” Spud says.

“It means she chose you,” Violet explains. “She kind of watches out for certain people. People that she feels need her for one reason or another.”
“Well, I was always struggling in those days,” Spud says. “Then it seemed my luck changed. Maybe that was your grandmother’s doing,” he adds with a chuckle.

“Maybe,” Violet says.

“Is she still alive?” Spud asks. “That must have been forty years ago.”

“Alive and well,” Violet says. “We just celebrated her 100th birthday last January.”

“Impressive,” Spud says. He pets his mustache. “Next time you see her please tell her how much I appreciate her looking out for me.”

Violet promises she will as Spud straightens his tie again.

Several years ago, Violet counted how many times Spud straightened his tie over coffee. The result was seven, but today he seems to have doubled his efforts.

“My quartet played for Iris’s daughter’s wedding reception,” he begins again. “I can’t remember her name.”

“Rose?” Violet asks.

“Yes, Rose,” he says. “We played 50 minute sets, with a 10 minute break to rest our lips and grab a smoke. Rose was marrying a young man from somewhere out West. I remember this detail because it was the first and only wedding my quartet played where the groom wore a cowboy hat. I don’t think Iris liked that. She always worried about appearances in those days.”

Violet doesn’t tell him that Miss Temple probably died with the same concerns, the
Book of Secrets
being her biggest worry. She glances at her watch. Violet won’t have time to go to the church now, with all she has left to do, but maybe the graveside service.

“Oh my, Iris was beautiful in those days,” Spud continues. His gaze drifts. “I wasn’t so bad looking myself. People used to say I looked like James Dean.”

He turns his profile for Violet to see the resemblance. She nods, even though she has no idea who James Dean is.

“I never deluded myself into believing that I had anything to offer Iris,” he says, sadness showing in his eyes. “I’ve been replaying the past for days now, ever since you called to tell me that Iris had passed. The news hit me hard, Violet. I couldn’t even work the next day.”

She reaches over and squeezes his hand, and he returns the squeeze.

“What I keep remembering is that first time we got together,” Spud says. “Can I tell you about it? I’ve never told anyone before.”

“Please do,” Violet says. She has to admit she’s curious. She can’t imagine her former employer in the throes of a passionate love affair. It’s hard to imagine Miss Temple passionate about anything except perhaps elevating the Temple social status.

“It was after her husband, Oscar, died. Iris was planning a charity house tour, and I came here to talk about the music. She asked if I wanted tea and when I said yes, I was surprised that she went into the kitchen and made it herself. For some reason your grandmother was gone.”

“I didn’t think Miss Temple ever stepped foot in the kitchen,” Violet says.
Except for leaving her critiques,
she thinks.

“Well, I’d never had anything other than sweet iced tea in my entire life,” Spud says. “So when she served me a cup of hot tea from a silver tea service, I had no idea what I was doing. I’d watched enough British movies to know how to hold up my little finger when I drank from the fancy cup,” he says, with a laugh. “Can you believe I was that naïve?”

Violet touches his hand again. “I can relate to being naive. It took me years to get used to the day-to-day excesses of the wealthy,” she says. “Especially while Jack and I watched every penny.”

Spud nods, like he’s watched a few pennies himself.

Violet imagines what a handsome man Spud must have been earlier in his life. Photographs of a younger Miss Temple always surprise her. At times, even Miss Temple looked softer and prettier.

Spud continues with his story. “Iris and I were in the sunroom when she asked me if I was familiar with the free love movement. I can’t say I had any idea what she meant. It’s not like Savannah had hippies in those days. But that was the first time I realized that Iris wasn’t just a Temple, but a woman with desires.”

His eyebrows rise as he lowers his head. “Since I was much braver back then, I asked if I could kiss her. Keep in mind I was a musician. Who was I to think I could kiss someone like her? Savannah bowed at her feet.”

Violet’s face grows warm with the thought that Miss Temple would not like her housekeeper and cook knowing something so intimate about her.

“Afterwards, she led me upstairs to her bedroom,” Spud says without looking up. He stops here, as if, as a gentleman, he has gone far enough. Then he looks at her. “She refused to call me Spud, you know. She called me Henry. She said the name Spud, sounded common, like a French fry.”

They laugh. Violet can imagine Miss Temple’s inflections while saying this, the emphasis on
French fry
. However, her actions are much harder to visualize. In a way, Violet wishes she had known this side of Miss Temple. The side that allowed herself to be swept away by a jazz musician.

Violet touches his arm. “How long did it last?” she asks.

“Several months,” he says. “In order to keep it private, we spent weekends on Hilton Head at a bed and breakfast. Those times were some of the happiest of my life.”

His eyes redden, and he pulls a handkerchief from his suit jacket.

“Why did it end?” Violet asks, genuinely curious.

“Iris called it off,” he says, blowing his nose. “I’ll never forget the day her letter arrived, telling me that our love affair was over. She threatened to sue me for everything I had if I ever told anyone, and I haven’t told a soul until now.”