Temple Secrets: Southern Humorous Fiction: (New for 2015) For Lovers of Southern Authors and Southern Novels (8 page)

At five o’clock, a woman named Lynette arrives to replace Ava. Rose is the only person in the room. Closer to Rose’s age, Lynette is almost as wide as she is tall and wears a traditional white uniform. Her pantyhose rubs together as she walks and creates a synthetic swishing sound. Because of her height and width, she resembles a linebacker in drag. Rose likes her instantly.

“I’m one of those people who believes people in a coma can hear everything that’s going on around them,” Lynette says.

Lynette’s southern accent is as thick as her plentiful waist. To her surprise, Rose has missed hearing such a rich rendition of her native tongue. In the West, the language is crisp and to the point, seeing no need to waste its time. A southern accent, on the other hand, is in no hurry. Every syllable entertains the luxury of an afternoon stroll or a balcony evening on the front porch.

Lynette asks Rose if she would like to help give her mother a sponge bath. Rose doesn’t answer at first. How can she tell kind Lynette, that besides the earlier spittle removal, she can’t remember the last time she touched her mother?
Or Mother touched me, for that matter
.

Lynette encourages Rose to join her. She coaches her on how to move the wash cloth gently down her mother’s arms and hands and avoid the needles that force fluids into her aged veins. Washcloth in hand, Rose stands motionless, looking down at her mother’s body.

How can she be kind to someone who she could never please? Someone who didn’t know the meaning of kindness, perhaps because nobody ever treated her that way, either.

“Oh, sweetie, I know it’s hard to see your mama this way,” Lynette says.

Rose has never, in her entire forty-four years of life, called her mother
mama
or
mom
. The terms are too endearing. She always called her Mother or simply said, ‘yes, ma’am,’ like Old Sally and Queenie did.

Lynette swishes her way to Rose’s side of the bed. “Just follow my motions, sweetie,” she says.

Following her instruction, Rose glides the moist white washcloth down her mother’s slender arms sequined in liver spots. Colors she’s used in western landscapes. She makes a long, soft brushstroke of care across her mother’s skin. Skin does strange things as it ages. It loosens, puckers, spots and blotches. Rose notes the beginnings of this process on her own body. Thankfully, it doesn’t scare her. She has always felt older than her years. Growing up in the Temple household required a certain amount of toughness.

As Rose mirrors Lynette’s motions, she pretends she is someone like Lynette who genuinely cares about the person on the bed. To her surprise, the washing of her mother’s unconscious body carries unanticipated emotions for Rose. Hidden within the folds of discomfort is a secret longing for her mother’s touch. Perhaps this reaction is brought on by her fatigue, combined with the onset of hot flashes and all the memories that have been waiting for her here. Whatever it is, she is too tired to resist it. It’s like she’s been running away for twenty-five years only to end up at the same place.

Unexpected tears rush to Rose’s eyes.
More needed moisture,
she thinks. Like the droughts out west, she has had a drought of tears over the years. She takes a deep breath and welcomes the rain. Yet with the quickness of a sword cutting through flesh, all emotions cease, as her brother, Edward, steps into the room.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Queenie

After Queenie adjusts the seat and air conditioning vents so they’ll blow straight on her, she backs the Lincoln out of the carriage house and waits at the gate for Rose to join her. The drive up the South Carolina coast to her mama’s house will take thirty minutes, twenty if she has good luck with the traffic lights and is generous with the gas pedal. In the past, in return for use of one of the Temple cars, Queenie had to run an errand for Iris. Perks like cars and cash have always been at her half-sister’s discretion. But Queenie has other reasons for putting up with Iris. Reasons that nobody else knows about. Not even Rose.

Toilet paper is wrapped around the garden gate and thrown into the trees.
Good lord,
Queenie thinks,
we’ve become a college frat house.

The secrets have brought all sorts of undesirables to their doorstep. When she gets back she’ll remove the toilet paper so Iris won’t wake from her coma to complain. At least the crank calls have stopped. Calls plagued them all evening until Queenie finally called the phone company to have their phone changed to a restricted number. She taps the steering wheel, worn out from worrying that her biggest secret will end up in the classifieds, too. She’s also tired from getting up so early to get a first glance at the secret of the day. So far, several Savannah adulterers have been revealed, as well as a cross-dressing oil tycoon and a mentally ill banker. All deceased, and mostly forgotten, but still. Whoever is doing it likes to throw in a secret from the present-day every now and again just to keep people interested.

Meanwhile, not a single one of Iris’s so-called society friends visited her in the hospital. Not one. For a week, Queenie has spent every day at the hospital with Iris. Her only visitors were Violet—who stopped by every evening on her way home— and Spud Grainger, who stopped by twice a day, once in the morning before going to the Piggly Wiggly and then afterward to relieve Queenie. Although she has a hard time understanding it, she appreciates Spud Grainger’s loyalty to Iris.

Rose walks out of the house and latches the gate behind her. She looks tired. In an earlier conversation, Queenie and Violet discussed how difficult this trip back to Savannah must be for Rose. To come home after an absence of twenty-five years, her mother in a coma—a woman too stubborn to show any love—must be hard. Not to mention, seeing Edward again after all these years.

Queenie can’t believe he showed up at his mother’s bedside. When she called her half-nephew after his mother’s stroke, he seemed indifferent and inconvenienced. At least tonight he didn’t stay long. Just enough time to give Rose a prolonged sinister look before rushing off to meet someone at the country club. Queenie has never liked Edward. He acts more like a spoiled brat than a man. Edward and Rose are about as different as two siblings can be.

Rose gets into the car and buckles herself into the passenger seat, giving Queenie a faint smile.

“Seeing Mama will be good for you.” Queenie pats her hand. “You two have a special bond.”

“I’ve missed her,” Rose says. “I don’t think I realized how much until now.”

“She’s missed you, too,” Queenie says. “You’re family.”

Twelve years separate Queenie and Rose in age, but because of her mama’s influence, they have similar sensibilities flowing through them.

With Rose silent next to her, Queenie lets her mind wander. She has driven this route thousands of times and never tires of it. The Talmadge Bridge stretches across the Savannah River, a ribbon of concrete reaching toward the horizon. The water fans out in every direction and the late afternoon sun glistens across the grassy marsh.

Crossing this bridge suspends time for Queenie, as if the bridge itself is a timeline for her family. Her ancestors made this crossing, at first in boats, and her descendants will make this crossing long after she is gone. At the highest point, where the bridge arches upward, she feels weightless, a water bird soaring up and out on a heavy wind. She wishes this part could last longer. But then the bridge delivers her to the land on the other side, as waterways skirt off in different directions.

Her mama never learned how to drive a car. Her entire working career, Old Sally caught rides into Savannah with different maids and housekeepers who worked the same hours. A wide assortment of family and friends are available to call upon whenever she needs a ride. But for Queenie, learning how to drive a car was a statement of independence.

Daughters need their differences
,
even if their mamas are wonderful,
she tells herself.

As they near the ocean, Rose sits straighter. “So many memories,” she says. “You used to drive us out here all the time.”

“Mama loved bringing you and Violet to the beach,” Queenie says. “I think it gave us all a break from your mother.”

“Do you remember how we used to sing while we crossed this bridge?” Rose asks. Her eyes sparkle with recollection.

Queenie hums the melody of
Michael, Row Your Boat Ashore
. Her alto voice resonates, tickling her cheeks. Her hum becomes words and to Queenie’s surprise, Rose joins in on the chorus. After they finish, Rose smiles.

“That was wonderful,” Rose says. “I forgot how well you sing.”

“Violet is the real singer in the family,” Queenie says. “A few years back, the preservation society in Beaufort did a recording of her singing some of the old Gullah songs Mama had taught her.”

“I never knew that,” Rose says, her tone thoughtful.

For several seconds they ride in silence, until Queenie breaks the quiet. “I have a confession to make.”

Rose turns to look at her. “You know I love confessions,” she says.

“Well, sometimes I do more than sing when I cross this bridge,” Queenie says.

“Like what?” Rose asks, sounding intrigued.

“Sometimes I do a kind of primal scream,” Queenie says. “It’s a technique I read about in the
Psychology Today
magazine while waiting on your mother to finish a plate of yak.”

“Weren’t primal screams big in the 80s?” Rose asks.

“They’re still big for me. I do it whenever the frustration of living with your mother becomes too much,” Queenie says.
Or whenever the shame and pressure of keeping secrets becomes too great
, she thinks.

“I’m convinced if everybody screamed while crossing bridges, the world would be a better place,” Queenie continues. “Maybe we’d all break free of whatever holds us back. Maybe people right here in Savannah could break free of the past.”

It occurs to Queenie that maybe whoever is leaking the secrets to the newspaper is trying to break free, too, and get out from under Iris’s thumb. Once all your secrets are out in the open, nobody has power over you. She wonders if maybe it’s time for her to tell hers, too. Her lips tighten, as if they’ve already decided this isn’t a good idea.

“If I started screaming, I might not stop,” Rose says, leaning into the door.

“That’s everybody’s fear,” Queenie says, “but from my experience, you do it for a while and then you just get all tuckered out. It’s like sprinting to a finish line. Not that I know anything about sprints.” Queenie smiles and pats her thighs. “These old gals wouldn’t know what to do if I took off running somewhere.” Her giggle turns to a laugh.

“Has anyone ever seen you scream?” Rose asks.

Queenie grins. “Lord yes, honey. Sometimes a car full of people will pass me while I’m yelling my lungs out, so I just smile at them and wave. If they’re from Savannah, they probably don’t think anything of it. You’re allowed to be crazy here, as you well know. And if it’s tourists from out of state? Well, I figure I’ve just given them a good story to tell their friends when they get back home.” She gives Rose a wide smile.

“You are so much braver than I ever could be,” Rose says.

“It’s not about bravery. It’s about not caring what people think,” Queenie says. “Besides,” she begins again, “I may be responsible for Savannah being one of the premiere tourist destinations in the South. Maybe everybody’s heard of that crazy woman down in Savannah screaming her head off in her car while crossing that bridge, and they come here to see it for themselves.” Queenie cackles her signature laugh. “Hell, for all my efforts, I may be getting a key to the city any day now,” she adds.

When she opens her mouth and pretends to scream, Rose doubles over in the front seat trying to catch her breath. Her story has worked. Rose looks rejuvenated. Laughter does that. It’s like a secret elixir Queenie uses whenever life gets too heavy. And it gets heavy a lot.

After their laughter fades, they settle into a comfortable silence. The bridge is now in her rear-view mirror. Queenie likes the idea of having Savannah behind her, at least for a while. The road to the barrier islands gives her breathing room. She doesn’t have to worry what rich white people think about her out here. Different rules apply. You are judged by the quality of person you are, not by big houses and fancy cars.

Rose sniffs something in the air. For a second, she looks like Iris on the scent of a rogue fragrance. “Do you smell fried chicken?” Rose asks.

Queenie laughs a short laugh. “Well I don’t see any harm in telling Iris’s secret now,” she says.

“Mother has a secret?”

“Your mother has lots of secrets. Too many to get into right now. Of course your mama’s secrets never made it into that stupid book. That would defeat the whole purpose. That book is all about having power over prominent families in Savannah. But if they knew some of Iris’s secrets? Oh my. Now that would cause a stink.” Queenie chuckles, enjoying her pun.

“Tell me the one you’re thinking about,” Rose says, her eyes are bright with what could be mischief.

“Well, it seems your mother has a thing for Kentucky Fried Chicken,” Queenie says.

“Mother eats junk food?”

“Uh huh.” Queenie smacks her lips together, as if the secret is delicious.

“I thought she was on this strict diet and couldn’t eat anything except water buffalo or something.”

“The jury is still out about your mother’s special dietary needs,” Queenie says. “But it seems the Colonel’s secret recipe is the exception.”

“Are you saying Mother has been faking it all these years?” Rose asks. “What about the Gullah curse?”

“I’m not sure anymore,” Queenie says. “Mama doesn’t talk much about her spells. But if Iris is sneaking around eating KFC, she may be causing some of it herself.”

“It’s hard to picture Mother going to a fast food restaurant,” Rose says.

“Let me just say, I found a bucket of bones crammed under the front seat week before last. Picked clean like a buzzard had eaten them.”