Yankee Doodle Dixie Page 2

  I lift Isabella out of the car and her little cheek is red and lined from the last few hours it spent burrowed into the rough-hewn material of the car seat. She wraps her arms around my neck, her legs around my waist, and glances around in the darkness. Her voice is scratchy. “Where are we?”

  “Kissie’s house,” I say, and rush back to the warmth.

  When we step inside, Kissie reaches out for Issie who gladly goes straight to her. “How’s Kissie’s lil’ baby doin’? Is she all right this evenin’?” Kissie uses her baby voice whenever she speaks to Issie who, at the moment, is a big mess of strawberry-blond curly hair swirling every which a way around her face. Kissie tucks it behind her ears and heads straight down the hall with Issie on her hip. I know what she’s doing. She’s looking for a rubber band. She did the exact same thing to me as far back as I can remember when my hair became a muss. Issie and I could pass for twins if you compare our baby pictures. Not so much for Sarah. She’s a Satterfield through and through. No one in my family has thick straight brunette hair and eyes as blue as a Hawaiian lagoon.

  Ponytail holders are something Kissie keeps a plenty of around her house. That’s because her hair still hangs down her back. She always wears it in a braided bun, or “plat” as she calls it, on top of her head during the day, so most people have no idea her hair is that long. Kissie refers to her color as “butterscotch.” She’s part black, part white. Maybe even fifty-fifty. The truth is, sixty years ago, in Memphis, Tennessee, she would never have been accepted by the whites, so she had no choice but to live as a black. I mean that with no judgment. Black folks treated me with more love than some of the people in my own family.

  Kissie married a black man named Frank and gave birth to a little girl they christened Josephine or Josie for short. That poor baby died of pneumonia when she was only three years old. Kissie doesn’t talk about it all that much but there’s a picture of Josie in a large ornate frame hung above the couch in the living room, in between one of her mother and another of me. She kicked Frank out years ago. He preferred spending his paycheck at the dog track over in West Memphis rather than on her or their monthly bills.

  To me, she’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known and she treats me just like I’m her own child. Her real name is Kristine “Krissie” Phillips King. When I was little I couldn’t pronounce my Rs so I started calling her Kissie. Now everyone she knows calls her Kissie, all because of me. Even her own brother calls her by her nickname.

  It would be impossible to guess her age. Between her flawless complexion and her razor-sharp mind, not to mention an agility that would rival someone half her age, Kissie is as healthy as I am. In fact, I’ve never known her to be sick a day in my life. She’ll talk about her “sugar” every now and then but I can’t remember the last time she’s even complained of a cold. And speaking of complaining, that word doesn’t even belong in her vocabulary.

  Sarah heads straight for the cut-glass candy jar in the tiny living room. I try to stop her but Kissie’s already got the top in her hands. When I clear my throat, Sarah’s arm has disappeared from sight. She looks back at me, pleading, “Please. I’m hungry.”

  “It’s one in the morning, sweet girl. The backseat of my car is covered in Goldfish, and you had a big dinner.”

  She shrugs her shoulders, tilts her head back and shoots Kissie a wily grin. Kissie is absolutely no help. “Cain’t she have one piece, baby?” I roll my eyes in defeat, which tickles Kissie to no end and she bursts out laughing.

  No one on earth has a belly laugh like hers. It comes from deep, down in her gut. When you’re least expecting it, she’ll let it out and it’s the most contagious sound on earth. I can’t think of another laugh that gets me going as fast as hers—and like clockwork, despite the late hour and exhaustion, I’m chuckling and smiling along with Kissie and Sarah.

  The candy jar sings as Kissie replaces the lid. That jar has been stuffed to the brim with a mixture of Brach’s hard candy and Hershey’s Chocolate Kisses since I was wearing pigtails, a hairdo Kissie thought more of than Mama did. After Kissie had spent a half hour “platting” my hair just so, Mama would undo the pigtails. “That’s so common,” she’d say, in her thick Mississippi drawl. “A high ponytail looks much more refined.”

  Now Kissie disappears into the kitchen and I can hear her pulling food out of the fridge. Her fondest expression of love is cooking for the ones she cares about most and before I know it the smell of bacon is wafting through the house. People in Memphis have known about her culinary skills for years. That’s actually how my grandmother came to hire her. She was catering a party once and when Grandmama put one of Kissie’s cheese dreams in her mouth, she begged her to come cook for Granddaddy and her. That was back in the early fifties and she’s never worked for another family a day in her life.

  She has this little noise she makes while she’s cooking. It’s a soft grunting actually, with a hm, hm, hm sound that she repeats in threes over and over. It’s quite endearing, most of the time, unless she’s disgusted with something or someone. Then it turns into an irritated chant. I’ve been on the other side of that peeved hm, hm, hm a time or two and my preference is to stay this side of it—lest I find myself in line for a big talking to.

  Like the time Virgy and I tiptoed home at four in the morning shortly after we got back from Ole Miss one summer. Daddy was out of town and Kissie always stayed at our house when he was gone. Even though we were twenty-one years old, Kissie thought it highly inappropriate for a girl to get home at that hour. The beep of the burglar alarm alerted her that we were back and here she comes huffing and puffing down the hall, wearing her favorite pink nightgown. She didn’t even bother throwing on her housecoat. Her hair was hanging down her back and she smelled like Jergens lotion and Vaseline. “Where you been, chile? Hm, hm, hm. Hm, hm, hm. Hm, hm, hm.”

  Virginia and I looked at each other and tried our best to keep from giggling. We were slaphappy and quite toasted from the Long Island iced teas we consumed at Bob Wilder’s booth at the Memphis in May Barbecue Festival. There was no hiding it. She could smell it on us a mile away.

  “You think you can git away with such drunken foolishness?” she said, madder than a hornet’s nest. “What do you think those men are gonna do when they see you like this? Huh? They’ll be takin’ advantage of you is what they’re gonna do. Hm, hm, hm.”

  Virgy said, “No, Kissie. We’re not those kinds of girls. We just kiss.” She pinched my arm behind my elbow where Kissie couldn’t see her.

  “You just kiss? And then what? You think they don’t want a feel? Those men will be tryin’ to git whatever they can. They’re just like a dawg. They git off one and then git on another. You young ladies needs to be comin’ on home at a decent hour. Hm, hm, hm. Hm, hm, hm. Hm, hm, hm.”

  “Don’t be mad at us,” I told her. “There were lots of girls at the party. We weren’t the only ones.”

  “Till four A.M.? Nice girls don’t do that. You hear? You lucky your Daddy ain’t here, Leelee.”

  Back then, Virginia and I dismissed her as being old-fashioned. Now that I’m a mother, I know she was exactly right.

  * * *

  It’s after three in the morning by the time I slip under the covers in Kissie’s spare bedroom. As is always customary with Kissie, we stayed up talking and rehashing the events of yesteryear until I could hardly hold my eyes open another second. I heard for the three hundredth time the details of my grandmother’s, as Kissie calls it, “beautiful death.” “I fetched your Grandmama a fresh gown when I knew she was goin’ down fast,” Kissie always explains. “She was layin’ there like an angel. Nary a wrinkle on her face.” We talked about Daddy’s death, and started to discuss Mama’s, too, but I just couldn’t bear to go there again. Breast cancer took her when I was only eighteen. Not a very good way to start college.

  For a second I think I’m in my bed in Vermont; the sheets feel like a continental glacier. After a decade sleeping next to a hot-blooded man, I�
�m still not used to facing the ocean of a bed alone. Baker is gone forever.… Peter is gone for … I curl into a ball for warmth and relax into the mattress. I’m asleep before my weary mind can usher in another thought.

  Chapter Two

  Only a tiny bit of morning light has seeped into the room when I’m awakened by the sound of my cell phone vibrating on the bedside table. Issie is sleeping sideways next to me, her feet pressed into my back. When sleeping over at Kissie’s, the girls and I have no choice but to share a bed; her house has only one spare bedroom. Sarah’s in with Kissie, who never wakes up before nine anymore unless she has to be somewhere. After sixteen hours of driving and very little sleep, even the sound of Virginia’s voice is not enough for me to rally. I can barely eke out a whispered hello.

  “Hey.” There’s not a trace of oomph in her voice, either. “I saw my missed calls from you this morning. Sorry. John and I went to a movie last night and I left my phone in my coat pocket.”

  “I tried the home phone,” I say softly, ducking my head under the covers so as not to wake Issie.

  “You know we don’t ever answer that. Why are you whispering? Where are you, anyway?” she says, part Memphis drawl, part itching curiosity.

  I’m too tired for the surprise. “I’m at Kissie’s.”

  “YOU’RE AT KISSIE’S? Why on earth didn’t you let me know you were coming home?” Virginia’s voice could be heard clear across the room.

  Issie stirs slightly. “Shhh. Issie’s sleeping right next to me.”

  “Oops.”

  “The reason I never called is because I wanted to surprise you.”

  “I thought you weren’t coming for another month.”

  “The movers had an opening and they slid me in. You won’t believe how I’ve started to calm down. I’ve been back in town only a few hours and I feel like it’s all just been a bad dream. Like all I ever needed to do was click my ruby slippers together and it’d finally be over.”

  “What about the Yankee Doodle?” she asks. That’s her nickname for Peter. Having heard me babble about him like a teenager for the past eight months, she knew leaving him would be bittersweet. I couldn’t wait to tell her about the kiss though.

  “That’s a long story. I want to tell you about it in person. But Virginia, I’m home!” I say it a little too loud, but clamp my mouth tight, paralyzed at the thought of having to entertain Issie on this deficient amount of sleep should she wake up.

  “Thank. God.”

  “What time is it?” I whisper even softer.

  “Six.” Virginia’s children are early risers. They inherited that from their father.

  I roll over away from Issie and cup my hand over my mouth. “Six? I just went to bed three hours ago.”

  “Can you meet at the club today for lunch?” Virginia whispers back.

  “I’m no longer a member, remember?” I say, half bitterly, referring to my charming ex-husband who terminated our membership.

  “Oh for goodness sakes, I’ll buy your lunch.”

  “I’ll pay you back.”

  “Like I’m really worried about that.” Virginia is very generous. She’d give me her last Coca-Cola, even if she were hungover and dying for it.

  “Do you think Alice and Mary Jule are free today?” I ask her.

  “They’ll have to cancel their plans if they aren’t. How about meeting at one? That’ll give you some time to go back to sleep. Where does Kissie live anyway?”

  “You know where Belmont turns into McGavock, before you get to Sycamore Cemetery?”

  “You better get out of there!” she practically yells. Up until now most of our entire conversation has been at a whisper.

  “Relax. I’m fine. She has iron on all the windows and doors.”

  “You’re a lot braver than me.”

  “Nothing is going to happen.”

  “Fine, then. I’ll see you at one, Fiery. Bye.”

  Virginia nicknamed me Fiery a long time ago. I was the only one in our class of forty girls with red hair. That was back when people would say, “I’d rather be dead than red on the head.” The neighborhood boys brutally teased me about it so much when I was little that I grew up hating my red hair and my freckles. Not to mention my curls. I’d have given just about anything to be Marsha Brady with her stick-straight blond hair and tan skin. Now everyone wants red hair. Go figure.

  * * *

  The last time I’d stepped foot in the lobby of the Memphis Country Club I was married to Baker Satterfield and living the life I’d always wanted. Or thought I’d always wanted. Now, I’m walking in the door a single mother of two little girls wondering where in the world I’m going to live and how I’m going to support them.

  My three best friends are sitting at a small round table in the corner of the Red Room when I arrive. Hard to believe, but the last time I laid eyes on them was last summer, May I think it was, when they surprised me after Baker left. Mud Season in Vermont was in full swing and the three of them showed up at my door with wallpaper and paint, ready to help turn my dank, Teutonic inn into a Southern showplace straight out of the pages of Veranda.

  As is the custom, I’m late, terminally ten minutes as usual, and my Coca-Cola is waiting for me—half poured in a bar glass with small square ice cubes—and the other half still in the bottle. I run right up to the table and squeeze each of them hard enough to leave a bruise. It’s a wonder all the other women in the room don’t ask us to hush. Between squeals and waltz-like hugs, we’ve created quite a commotion, and to make matters worse, my Coke bottle tips over as I’m slipping my arm out of my jacket. Johnson, the waiter, comes running over and mops up the spillage with extra red linen napkins.

  “I’m so sorry, Johnson,” I say, and try helping him with the mess.

  “Don’t worry about this, Miss Leelee. It’s just good to have you back.”

  “Well, thank you. It’s good to be back.” I hug him from the side and hang my puffy white ski jacket, one of the few purchases I made in fourteen months of living in Vermont, on the back of my chair. It was in this very spot, nearly two years ago, that all three of these girls tried talking me out of moving. Naturally, that small detail has long been brushed under the rug. To be in Memphis at this very moment, with Virginia, Mary Jule, and Alice, is heavenly enough to make me forget all the turmoil I endured.

  Alice jumps right in. Even before “How are you?” or “How are the girls?,” she gets straight to the point. “How’s Peter?” she asks, though when she says it, it sounds more like a declaration. “What is going on with y’all?” She sips the last of her diet Coke and chews on a couple of ice cubes. I can’t help noticing how pretty her hair looks. She’s one of the only women I know who doesn’t highlight her hair. It’s plenty blond enough naturally.

  “I asked her that on the phone this morning. She says it’s a long story.” Virginia puts a freshly buttered melba toast to her lips. Her French manicure glistens from the reflection of the light overhead.

  “Oh good, Leelee. I knew something was going to happen,” Mary Jule, the hopeless romantic of the bunch, says and rapidly claps her hands together.

  I take a deep breath. “Well, I have to say, it surprised me. Remember how I told y’all that he wouldn’t talk to me once I decided to move back home? He’d come in to work, head straight into the kitchen and start drinking wine with Pierre?” I can’t help but remember the sullen look on Peter’s face as he sipped merlot with our maître d’.

  As I spoke, all three were leaning in toward the center of the table with their arms resting in front of them.

  “Well, this went on the whole week before I left. He hardly said two words to me. He’d cook all the meals for the customers and then leave immediately after the restaurant closed.”

  “So not like him,” Mary Jule says.

  “I know! Anyway, the morning I was leaving, Roberta, Pierre, and Jeb fixed a beautiful breakfast for the girls and me. Pierre even went out and bought us gifts—how sweet is that? But Peter
never showed up to say good-bye. They all tried to act like it wasn’t weird or anything but I knew they thought it was strange. After all, we had worked side by side in the inn together for eight months, and he never shows up to at least tell me good-bye?”

  “He was devastated. He knew he was losing you, shoog, and he was beside himself,” Alice says, consolingly.

  “Well, as it turns out, after I told the other three good-bye, which was very, very sad, let me tell you, I stopped at George Clark’s gas station to fill up my tank one last time. Remember he’s—”

  “The gossipy gas station owner. We stopped there to fill up Jeb’s pink Mary Kay car,” Virginia reminds me, referring to my multitalented handyman who not only swept my chimneys and raked snow off my roof with some Yankee contraption called a roof rake, but tended to his own proprietorship, Jeb’s Computer World. His pink Mary Kay car was a hand-me-down from his mother. They continued to split it for advertising, though, Mary Kay on the driver’s side and JCW on the other.

  “Oh yeah,” I say. “Well anyway, my tank was full, and as I was pulling away from the pump I saw this person walking straight up to my car. At first I wasn’t sure who it was because his cap was pulled way down over his head and it was snowing like crazy but the closer he got I knew it was—”

  “Peter.” Alice purses her lips together and nods her head.

  Just that second, Johnson walks up to the table with a pad in his hand, ready to take our order. “Good afternoon, ladies.” His voice is extra cheery.

  “Not now, Johnson,” Alice says, and shoos him away. “We’re all dying here.”

  He holds up both hands, palms out. “No problem, I’ll come back,” he says, with an amused grin.

  “Oh Johnson,” Mary Jule calls after him. “Please don’t mind us. Leelee had a Casablanca moment and she’s giving us the blow-by-blow.” Alice can be embarrassing sometimes but she never really means to be short. Johnson’s already moved on to the next table and seems unaffected.