Yankee Doodle Dixie (5 page)

Issie and Sarah are in the next room watching
Sesame Street.
Sarah’s not too happy about it but cable is not a service to which Kissie subscribes. “When are you going to get cable? You’d love it.” I have to raise my voice so she can hear me over the crackles and pops from the sausages.

“What do I need cable tee-vee for?” she hollers back.

“The Food Network for starters.”

“The network stations are all I need. Long as I can watch my stories during the day, I’m just fine.”

I fold the want ads in half and open up the rental section, grab a pen, and join her in the kitchen, which quite honestly is almost too small for the both of us. Glancing around the room it dawns on me that it could fit inside most of the closets of the homes built today. Despite their age, the avocado-green appliances still sparkle. And you could eat off any of the shelves in her fridge. “I thought you loved staying up late watching TV,” I say, nestling into a corner near the sink.

She answers me without turning around from her stove. “Now that Johnny Carson’s gone, I don’t care all that much about it, to tell you the truth. I read my Bible at night anyway.” Kissie’s is a tattered and worn old King James version and even with her tenth-grade education, she seems to have an inherent grasp on all of the Bible’s great truths. It’s beyond me how she understands the Old English language but she does. “After Jesus comes into your heart, that Bible goes from black and white to color,” she’s always telling me.

With the morning sun streaming in through the window over her kitchen sink I can’t help staring at her complexion. You’d never in a million years know she’s eighty-one. That’s one attribute the black lady has hands down over the white lady. Here I am, almost thirty-four, and wrinkles are already cracking my face.

Nothing looks too promising in the rental section, further adding to my dismay. “How long can we stay here?” I ask her, sighing heavily.

Kissie whips her head around. “What kind of question is that? My house is your house, Leelee.”

“I know. But you have your own quiet life. Sarah and Issie make plenty of noise—”

“Listen here.” She waves her spatula in the air as she emphasizes her words. “You’ve been through a ha’d time. You can stay here long as you need to. I’mo always take care of you and your little girls.” Kissie turns back around tending to the sausage—apparently the matter is settled.

Tears pool in my eyes. Standing in her kitchen, smelling her cooking, feels as good and safe as any moment I can ever remember. The stress of the last fourteen months, for right now anyway, has evaporated along with the water in her grits. I have a sudden urge to hug her so I walk up and reach my arms around her waist from behind, dissolving into her fat back. She taps my left arm with her free hand. “You’ve always been my baby, Leelee. Just cuz you’re older don’t mean that’s going to change. Kissie’s here to help you get your business straight. Why don’t you go sit down at the table and make those calls? You’ve got a plenty to do this mornin’.” Giving her one more squeeze—my arms won’t even fit all the way around her—I leave the kitchen in search of a phone book.

So what’s the first task at the top of my list? Actually, that’s an easy one—Sarah needs to be in school … yesterday. Besides that, we need a house to live in and all the utilities turned on, a new checking account, new health insurance, new telephone service and of course, I need a job. With so much ahead of me, I’d like to cave under the pressure but somehow I decide to take it “one step at a time.” Maybe I do need to see a therapist. I’m beginning to sound like one. After all, who wouldn’t feel completely overwhelmed if the chores on their plate were stacked as high as mine? Just as I start to wonder how I’ll ever clear them off Tootie Shotwell’s toothy smile pops in my head, and my pride takes over. I will balance that plate high above my head and in one hand, by gosh. I will not allow someone like her to cause me to crash and break into a million pieces.

Both of Kissie’s telephones are antiquated, rotary dials. One hangs on the kitchen wall and the other rests on a portable telephone table, with an extra long cord that reaches all over the house. I find it in her bedroom and after searching through one of the phone books tucked in the slot on the phone table, I dial the number to the Jameson School. While talking to the admissions director it’s clear that they are not at all open to Sarah entering this close to the end of the year. She can make the move over in the fall, the woman says, provided she passes the admissions exam, but not now.

I try to convince her again that it’s only for three months—and I’m an alumna to boot. She doesn’t relent a bit, instead suggesting a few private tutors who could assist Sarah until the fall. I can’t bear to tell her that I’m homeless, jobless, and on a budget … a budget that does
not
include private tutoring. Instead I politely say thank you, like any trained Jameson girl would, and put the phone back in its cradle.

I start to consider how much a tutor might cost—it can’t be all that hard to come up with—when a brilliant idea suddenly comes out of nowhere. Why can’t I homeschool Sarah? Surely I can manage teaching kindergarten for three months. Adding the thought of living with Kissie for a while and having her around to take care of us makes the idea so lovely that the more I think about it, the better it becomes. I grab my cell phone and run out to the car to call Virgy. It’s a topic that might be better discussed away from Kissie. I sit down in the front seat and dial her number.

“I’ve got a great idea,” I say, as soon as she answers.

“What?”

“First off, I called Jameson and there’s no way Sarah can start until the fall.”

“I’m not at all surprised,” she says bluntly.

“It kind of makes me mad, actually, after Daddy paid for thirteen years of tuition.”

“Oh forget it. You’ve got plenty of other stuff to make you mad. What’s your great idea?”

“I’m thinking of homeschooling,” I say, feeling more and more proud of myself.

Silence.

“Are you there?”

“I’m here,” she says.

“Why aren’t you saying anything?” I say.

“Because I’m trying to remember when you went back to college for a degree in education.”

“
Virginia
.” I’m nervously tapping the steering wheel.

“What?”

“There are only three more months left of school. It’s
kindergarten,
” I tell her.

“Do you honestly think you’re the homeschooling type?”

“Maybe.”

“Poor Fiery. She’s temporarily lost her mind.”

“I have not. What’s wrong with homeschooling?”

Virginia’s back to the silent treatment.

“I’m serious.”

“Dogwood Elementary is supposedly a real good school out in Germantown. Just rent yourself a house near there. Or send them to Germantown Elementary. Either one.”

“What do you have against homeschooling?”

“Nothing. It’s … it’s just not for me. I can tell you that,” Virginia says.

“It might be for me.”

“Tell me something. How are you going to support yourself and homeschool Sarah? Don’t you have to get a job?”

Upon hearing the
J
word, the reality of my life screeches back in and swaps places with the denial that has been taking up residence for years. “Details, details,” I say with truthful resignation.

“Details, details,” Virgy’s voice mocks back at me.

I lean back against the headrest and sigh. “I’m getting mad at Baker again.”

“See, I told you that you had plenty to be mad about.”

The idea of living with Kissie seems to be fading fast. I would have lived with her, though, despite what anyone else says or thinks. “Why don’t you go with me today to look for a rental house?”

“I wish I could but I don’t have a sitter. I doubt you’ll want three extra little children tagging along with us.”

“Probably not.”

“Just call me when you get back. Will Kissie keep Sarah and Issie or do you need to bring them over?”

“They can stay here.”

“Okay, get going and call me later. I can’t wait to hear all about it.”

I hang up with Virginia and sit in the car a moment longer. The more I think about it, she’s right. Considering the small amount of money Baker sends every month, I do have to go back to work. And heaven knows I’d never want to be the cause of Sarah being unprepared for first grade at Jameson. Homeschooling probably is not the most realistic option. Okay. Decision made. I will rent a house in Germantown and put Sarah in school. She started kindergarten at a public school in Vermont; I suppose she might as well finish the year at one.

When I get back inside, Kissie’s left arm is wrapped around Issie who is hanging on her hip. She’s holding a fork in her right hand, scrambling eggs.

“How is Kissie suppose to cook, baby girl?” I say, reaching out for her.

Issie moves over into my arms while Kissie finishes. By the looks of the food she’s preparing, you’d think she’s feeding the whole neighborhood. Besides the eggs, pancakes, sausage, and grits, there’s a big bowl of fruit on the counter.

“Will you please put cheese in my eggs?” Issie says.

“Of course I will, baby.” Kissie has to turn sideways to get past us on her way to the fridge. “Y’all sit down. The table’s already set.”

I put Issie at one of Kissie’s dining room chairs but not before covering the seat with a kitchen towel and a couple of the old phone books she never throws away. “Breakfast is ready, Sarah,” I call, as I’m getting Issie settled. She runs in and finds her own spot at the table.

Once all the food is ready, Kissie places the feast, which is on big platters, in the middle of the table. After she’s finally seated at the head of her table, she asks Sarah to say grace and we bow our heads.

“God is great, God is good, let us thank Him for our food. And for Kissie,” Sarah says, in her cherubic prayer voice.

I raise my head and notice Kissie’s head is still bowed. “And Lawd,” she says, “I thank you for bringin’ my babies home safe. Please help Leelee today. She has so much ahead of her and needs that peace that surpasses all understandin’. And please Lawd, bless my body so I can have the strength to always be a help to her. In Jesus’ name I pray. A-men.”

“Amen. This looks delicious,” I say, spreading my paper napkin across my lap. “Thank you for making this beautiful meal. Isn’t Kissie the best cook in the world?” I look over at the girls just in time to grab the bottle of maple syrup out of Sarah’s hand. She has just poured half a cup onto her plate and her pancakes are now floating. As I’m dripping the syrup on top of Issie’s pancake she says, “I sure miss Gracie. When are we gonna get another puppy, Mommy?”

“You said we could get one as soon as we move to Memphis,” Sarah adds. “And we’re in Memphis.”

“I said we’d get one as soon as we’re settled. It wouldn’t be fair to Kissie to bring a dog into her house.”

“Why? Don’t you like dogs?” Sarah asks Kissie, with a big bite of pancake in her mouth and syrup dripping off her bottom lip.

“Honey, please don’t talk with food in your mouth,” I say, and pat her lips with my napkin.

Kissie, who has enough food on her plate to feed all four of us says, “I like dogs. I just don’t have a place to put one. There ain’t a fence in my backyard.”

“We could build you one,” Sarah says, innocently.

Once Sarah’s comment sinks in, Kissie explodes in hysterics. Her hearty, infectious laughter bubbles up from the depths of her gut—a window to her inner joy. She lightly slaps the table. Already I’m grinning with her. “You gonna build Kissie a fence? That’s so sweet, baby.” I’m sure the image of Sarah and me operating a post-hole digger is better comedy than anything she sees on TV.

“Then why don’t you get a hamster?” Issie says, with a squeal. “You could keep his cage in your bedroom.”

Kissie nearly falls off her chair. That one little remark from Issie puts her over the edge and she holds her stomach, rocking back and forth in her spot at the table. I’m forever amazed at her ability to derive joy from the smallest of things. She calls it the “Fruit of the Spirit” and says that I can have it, too. All I need to do, she says, is dedicate my life to the Lord.

Of course it’s impossible for me to watch the tears streaming down Kissie’s face and not double over myself. And hearing my daughters laugh along with us reminds me of how Kissie describes heaven. “There’s gonna be music with singin’ and dancin’, and lots and lots of laughin’,” she’s always telling me. “The Lawd gonna make sure of that. Heaven gonna be full a’ all the things that make us happy.”

*   *   *

Summer had barely started when a man dressed in a business suit rang our front doorbell. My parents, who weren’t home that day, had taught me never to answer the door by myself so I followed behind Kissie into the foyer. She peeked through the side window aligning the front door and instead of opening it she paused and looked at the floor, as if she was considering not answering at all. Several moments passed before she finally cracked the door, using her body as a shield between the outside and me.

From the sound of Kissie’s voice I knew something was horribly wrong. “There’s a speed limit on this street,” she said, muttering
“hm, hm, hm”
over and over, as if she were disgusted with the person on the other side of the door.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” a male voice said. “She ran out in front of me.”

Panic crept all over me, an emotion I had not yet felt as an eight-year-old. I clutched Kissie’s waist. “What’s wrong? Kissie, what’s wrong? Is it Daisy?” A ten-pound white fur ball with big black eyes, she was a birthday gift from Daddy—a Bijon from the litter of one of his clients.

“Wait just a minute, baby,” she said, turning around. “I’m tryin’ to talk.”

“Can I help you? I feel terrible about this,” the man said.

“Just leave her right there on the step. No, second thought, wait here, please. I’ll be right back.”

Kissie grabbed my hand and pulled me along with her.

“What’s wrong with Daisy? What’s wrong with Daisy?” When Kissie didn’t answer, I started to wail. I tried collapsing on the floor but she wouldn’t let me. She held on to my hand and dragged me out to the garage, searching through a pile of rubbish. When she spotted a box, she held it with her left hand, all the while clutching my hand in her right so tightly; it would have been impossible for me to move, impossible for me to run away to the front porch. When we got back into the house, she instructed me to sit on the couch in the den and not move a muscle. The tone of her voice was stern. It confused me, but because of it I minded her. I could hear her in the entrance hall, whispering to the stranger. “If you put her in the box, that would help us quite a bit. I don’t want my little white girl to see her dog layin’ there dead.
Hm, hm, hm.
”