“What?” Jac snaps at Vangie.
“You know she’s had trouble letting go of Daddy. Was that really necessary?” Vangie scowls.
“It wasn’t necessary for her to intrude on Savannah’s choices, either. You know, if she’d get control over her life, and worry about her own happiness, she wouldn’t be so inclined to monitor ours. Nothing’s ever good enough for that woman.” Jac rips another pile of weeds from the rosebushes, chucking them at the ground. “Clean this, sweep that, ‘keep up with the Joneses,’ prim and proper, spit and polish, worry and fuss over stuff that doesn’t even matter. No wonder Daddy died of a heart attack.”
“That’s enough, Jac,” Vangie warns, slinging a wad of dirt and weeds at her, the soil clinging to Jac’s white t-shirt.
Jac grabs up her pile of rosebush invaders, retaliating, she lobs the brown and green mess at Vangie. It splatters across her bright yellow sundress.
“I thought y’all would have outgrown this years ago.” Savannah falls into an age-old familiar position, between the two, her arms outspread holding them off, their hands swatting across her body at each other. “You two stop it!”
The rise in her voice causes Luka and Zoey to repel down the ladder from their tree house, wondering what all the excitement is. Still in their church clothes, the two wear adorable matching winter white dresses.
“What’s going on?” Luka asks, the first to descend, eyeing Vangie and Jac, her innocent face concerned at the mud on their shirts.
“Nothing baby,” Vangie says, wiping the soil from her sundress. “Mama and Aunt Jac just got into a little mud fight, that’s all.”
“That’s it,” Zoey chimes, “both of you in time out.” Her tiny finger points to the chairs on the back porch, having suffered such punishment herself after several mud battles with Luka.
Zoey’s furrowed, disproving brow coupled with her sentiments fully delivers in breaking the tension, sending Jac, Vangie and Savannah into belly laughs. Happy to have entertained them, Zoey giggles and snorts, running to Savannah’s open arms, hers seeming to be the best choice as she is unsoiled.
Luka, the elder of the two siblings, is not so easily convinced. Her arm leaning on her mother’s shoulder, she further investigates, “Is everything okay, Mama?”
“Yes baby,” Vangie consoles her. “You know how you and Zoey have your moments? Where you get a little upset with each other?” Luka nods, her face still drawn and concerned. “Well, sometimes Aunt Jac and I have those moments, too.”
“But you’re sisters. You still love each other, don’t you?” Luka asks.
Jac brushes the dirt from Vangie’s sundress, a show of good faith. “We’ll always be sisters, Luka. Just like you and Zoey. And I’m always going to love your mama. And you.” Jac taps her finger off Luka’s nose, causing her to smile.
“And me. You love me too, right, Aunt Jac?” Zoey jumps from Savannah’s arms into Jac’s, mashing her dress up against the mud and grass still clinging to Jac’s t-shirt.
“Zoey!” Vangie calls, her motherly mind catapulting to the dainty, white dress her daughter wears, the thought of mud stains daunting.
“Yes. I love you to the moon.” Jac cuddles her up. “A little dirt never hurt anybody,” she attempts to ease Vangie’s worry.
Zoey pulls away, proudly inspecting the mud glob on her white dress. Shrugging, she says, “I think it looks better that way.”
“Who’s ready for some sweet tea?” Buffy returns from the house, setting a loaded tray on the picnic table under the shade tree. Luka and Zoey race to the table for their helping of the sugary beverage. “Ooh,” Buffy says, “what happened to your dress, Zoey?” She diligently dabs a linen napkin at the silky material.
“Oh Nana,” Zoey says, “don’t you know a little dirt never hurt anybody.”
“Sounds like you’ve been talking to your Aunt Jac.” Buffy chuckles. “I’ll get some water. Nana will have you fixed up in a jiff.” She finally looks over at her daughters, still perched on their knees in front of her rosebushes. Vangie’s and Jac’s mud-smudged clothing draws her attention. “I won’t even ask,” she says, shaking her head and waving her hand at them, returning to the house.
“Do you
ladies,”
Savannah begins, stressing the term, “think we can enjoy some tea without throwing it on each other?”
“Ask the ol’ weed-slinger.” Jac giggles, pointing to Vangie, impressed with her edgy spirit.
Vangie laughs, her cheeks slightly blushing from her less than ladylike behavior. “I believe I can refrain,” she says. Savannah stands, offering her hands to them, helping them up.
Buffy returns from the house, the
Savannah Sun Times
Sunday edition in her hand, a jug of water in the other. “Saw your column this morning, Savannah. It’s very good,” she approves, laying the newspaper on the picnic table.
“‘Taking Out The Trash
by Savannah Bondurant,’” Luka reads the title slowly, her first grade literary skills gaining ground.
“Very good,” Savannah compliments, patting Luka on the back.
“You’re the garbage reporter, Aunt Vannah?” Zoey inquires innocently.
Savannah chuckles. “Something like that, Miss Zoey.” She talks out of the corner of her mouth, “Especially if you ask some of my reviewers.”
Jac, within earshot, always has her sister’s back. “Everyone’s a critic, huh?” she pipes. “Tell them to take a stab at it, if they think they can do any better.” Jac quickly picks up the newspaper, swiping it out from under Vangie’s hand. “Elders first,” she taunts playfully.
“What’s it about?” Vangie asks. “The number one cause of couples arguing over who’s going to take out the trash,” she presumes, knowing Savannah writes a marriage column.
Luka giggles. “Mama gets on Daddy all the time about the trash at our house. She says, ‘Payton, that trash isn’t going to take itself out.’”
“And Daddy says, ‘Well, I guess you better take it out, then.’” Zoey giggles and snorts. “Then he gooses her bottom and takes that trash right out the door.”
Buffy marvels at her comedic granddaughter, working around her animated arms, diligently tending her mud-stained dress.
“You bet he does,” Vangie adds. “Your daddy’s no fool. He knows dinner doesn’t make itself either.” She eyes Jac, who reads through the column.
“It’s a metaphor,” Jac says, “for letting go of the baggage we accumulate from past relationships.” She looks up from the paper. “I like it, Savannah. That’s pretty clever.”
“I’d like to take all the credit, but I had some help with the hook,” Savannah says.
“Brody,” Jac concludes. “Has he been married before, too?”
“Yeah.” Savannah quickly follows up at the discretion of her mother’s and Vangie’s glances. “It was a clean separation. No kiddos. They just drifted apart. Kind of like Jack and I.” She shrugs. “It’s nice, actually, to have someone to relate to.”
“I don’t know, Savannah,” Buffy begins, “you know what they say. If a man can’t make one marriage work, how do you expect him to make it work with you?”
“I’m not marrying the man, Mama. I’m just getting to know him.” Savannah sits down across from Jac and Vangie at the picnic table.
“And just how well have you,” aware of the youthful ears lingering, Jac rephrases her otherwise blunt inquiry, “come to
know
him?”
“Not that well, Jac.” Savannah smiles at her, diverting her eyes.
“Ah, but you want to…so say your eyes.” Jac grins.
“I think you two should get as much tree house time as you can before we have to leave.” Vangie shoos Luka and Zoey from the table, her own non-virgin ears now piqued with interest.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. We know.” Luka says. “Little ears need not apply.” She and Zoey race away to the ladder, scooting up into the wooden playhouse.
“You like this guy that much?” Vangie returns to the conversation.
“I think
lust
would be the operative word,” Jac corrects, to which Savannah agrees notably considering her empty bed of two years.
“You girls and your conversations. I thought
sex,”
Buffy whispers the one syllable word, “was something only boys obsessed about.” She sits down at the table, secretly interested and apparently not too terribly offended.
“I’ll have to say, the man definitely stirs my loins,” Savannah confirms.
“Stirs your loins?” Buffy says, her eyes wincing.
“You know, Mama.” Savannah fans herself with her hands at the thought, her voice growing molten. “When you see a man and instantly you react. In here,” she says, gesturing to her lower abdomen. “It’s visceral. You just want to…ahh!”
Vangie and Jac giggle, mocking her with simultaneous, “Ahhs!”
“See! They know exactly what I’m talking about,” Savannah declares.
Buffy shrugs, unfamiliar with such a feeling. “Maybe I don’t have any loins.”
Savannah nearly chokes on her sweet tea. “Loin check,” she says. “Okay, so you know the movie
Australia.
With Hugh Jackman?”
“Yes,” Buffy acknowledges encouragingly, having watched and enjoyed the movie.
“The bucket scene. That part where Hugh Jackman dumps the bucket of water over his glorious naked torso,” Savannah takes pleasure in drawing out every adjective. Vangie and Jac
ooh
and
ahh
with sheer mention of the image, their loins effectively stirred. “If that scene doesn’t stir your loins, Mama, then you may not have any.”
“Hmm…” Buffy says, neither confirming nor denying whether Hugh Jackman was successful in stirring her loins.
“Well then, what’s stopping you?” Jac asks, alluding to her physical attraction to Brody. “You’re a free woman. Look at the way you go after your career.” She wields the newspaper, Savannah’s column facing out. “You use words in here I can’t even spell, let alone know the meaning of.” Jac grows loud and animated. “You’re fearless and driven in your profession, baby sister. You would be wise to take the same approach in your personal life.”
“Easy,” Vangie attempts to soothe Jac.
“I’m not mad at her,” Jac points out. “I just want her to know and see what I do now.” Jac looks at Savannah, her hand thumping off her chest, wishing she could give her younger sister all the experience and wisdom that slowly accumulates with age. “I’m six years older than you, Savannah. And I know I can come off as preachy sometimes. It’s just that I’m so proud of you. And I don’t want to see you make the same mistakes I have. It took me years to be authentic. Years to forget about what everybody else thinks. Who gives a shit about pomp and pretense.”
“Jacqueline,” Buffy whispers reprimanding, wishing she would care at least enough to watch her language before the neighbors hear her. Further biting her tongue, Buffy knows to whom Jac’s last sentiment is aimed, having defined the majority of her life on the rigors of pomp and pretense, likely pushing such standards on to her daughters.
“Quit second-guessing and explaining yourself,” Jac continues. “And quit feeling guilty and sorry for Jack. You owe him nothing. You two tried…it didn’t work out. Now it’s done. Move on. Call up that hunky
gym boy
Brody. Let him put the fire out.”
“What fire?” Vangie asks innocently.
Jac and Savannah laugh. “The one in her loins, brainiac,” Jac quips.
“Oh!” Vangie giggles, recalling, followed by another less exuberant, “oh,” thinking how her advice to their younger sister may vary.
“But, you want to know the thing that really gets me?” Jac asks, her eyes falling on Buffy, attempting to keep her jaw-gaping Mama in the conversation.
“Of course.” Buffy indulges sarcastically. “Why stop now?” She watches her outspoken eldest daughter, wondering how it is that she is the mother, yet always finds herself educated by their conversations.
“We wouldn’t even be having this discussion if we were men. It would simply be understood…
boink
anybody you want!” Jac does maintain some resolve in her choice of verbiage in respect to Buffy. Throwing her arm out in Savannah’s direction, she continues. “In fact, by some
man code
standard, I’m sure it’s a post-divorce prerequisite. If you had testicles, Vangie and I would be relegated to pour a six-pack down your throat, drag you out to a strip club and buy you all the lap dances you can handle. And we wouldn’t think twice about explaining ourselves.”
Savannah jumps up, running for the house.
“Where are you going?” Jac calls after her.
“Apparently you scared the bejeezus out of her, too.” A wide-eyed Vangie fans herself with her linen napkin, Jac’s brusque discourse indubitably adding to the Georgia heat.
“Oh my. I just don’t know about you, Jacqueline,” Buffy exhausts, grabbing up a cube of ice from her tea, rubbing it around the back of her neck, equally feeling quite hot under the collar.
“I need to find a pen and paper,” Savannah calls back to them, inspired for her next column. “You’re a genius, Jac!”
Chapter Seven
Later that Sunday evening, after having caught the Pittsburgh Steelers televised midday game with Jac and Vangie, keeping their father’s tradition alive, Savannah writes in her column from her outdoor office—her back porch. Thoughts and ideas flood her mind, all inspired by Jac’s previous declaration that women should take the lead from their male counterparts in neglecting the urge to defend themselves and their actions. She nibbles at the inside of her bottom lip while her fingers tap away at her keyboard, furious in their attempt to keep up with her stream of consciousness.
In her post-shower loungers, she is garbed from head to toe in Victoria’s Secret PINK line. The cozy, cotton Pillowtalk Tank and checkered pajama bottoms provide great comfort to her form, nestled against the cushy wicker recliner parked in front of her table. She twirls her freshly washed, wet and naturally kinky hair between her fingers, having great difficulty keeping her mind on the task at hand. That pesky little thing, or big thing rather,
gym boy
Brody McAlister consistently interrupts her train of thought.
Her cell phone vibrates, an incoming text message. She rolls her eyes, hesitant to view the message, suspicious that it could be Jack, yet again inquiring of her whereabouts. Giving in, she picks up the phone.