“I like chocolate, and I’ve never shared an ice-cream cone with a man.”
“There’s always a first time. And with you—that’s an everyday occurrence. Go with the sherbet. Chocolate is way too messy. Save that for the day when you take your four children under the age of five out for a treat.”
S
INCE ARRIVING IN
S
AVANNAH,
J
ESSIE HAD STAYED IN THREE DIF
ferent places. The past week, she’d been sleeping on a discarded mattress hidden in some dense bushes a couple of blocks from Sister Dabney’s church. It was an isolated spot, and no one bothered her. Next to the mattress was a small metal box she found near a furniture store. Inside the box, she kept the leather pouch and a few bits of stolen food.
Sister Dabney’s house was the only place Jessie had found to get a home-cooked meal. However, the preacher’s world had many strange rules. One dealt with the blue rocker on Sister Dabney’s front porch. The rocker was off-limits to Jessie. It wasn’t a big deal. Jessie didn’t mind sitting on the steps, as long as she had an apple or a banana in her hand.
One evening while Sister Dabney was rocking back and forth, Jessie sat on the front steps eating an apple. Sister Dabney suddenly called out, “Jessie!” so loudly that the girl jumped. “Get up here and sit in this rocker!”
Jessie gave Sister Dabney a puzzled look.
“Why should I do that?”
“Because it’s your destiny in God!”
Jessie obediently came over to the rocker.
“Get rid of that apple core,” Sister Dabney ordered. “This chair is for seeing, not eating.”
Jessie took a last nibble, tossed the core onto the grassy weeds that covered the front yard, then sat down. Dabney gave the chair a shove.
“I’ll have to help you at first, but later you’ll be able to rock on your own.”
“I can do it,” Jessie replied, grabbing the arms of the chair and pushing off with her feet.
“You just think you can.”
Jessie rarely argued with Sister Dabney. It only made her more confused. The older woman kept her hand on the back of the chair, moving it back and forth. Jessie let her feet dangle without touching the porch.
“Close your eyes,” Sister Dabney said.
“I’m not sleepy.”
“I don’t want you to go to sleep, at least not yet. You have to be able to see while you’re awake before you can see while you’re asleep.”
“Okay, but I can see a lot better if my eyes are open,” Jessie replied in a matter-of-fact tone of voice.
“I can do that, but most folks can’t, including you. Start seeing by closing your eyes. It grows from there.”
“But—”
“Close your eyes!”
Jessie squeezed her eyes shut for a few seconds, then popped them open.
“Keep them shut!”
She closed them again. The chair rocked rhythmically back and forth.
“What do you see?” Sister Dabney asked in a softer tone of voice.
“Nothing. You believe in God. That’s why he gave us eyelids. So we can give our eyes a rest.”
Sister Dabney didn’t respond. She continued to rock the chair. Jessie rested her head against the back of the chair and tried to relax. An evening breeze brushed across her cheeks. If this went on much longer, Jessie might be able to take a short nap.
Suddenly, her head jerked forward.
“Don’t let it get away!” Sister Dabney said. “Stay with it.”
Jessie grabbed the arms of the chair so hard her knuckles turned white. The scene raced across her vision and then faded. She took a deep breath.
“Can I open my eyes?” she asked in a subdued voice.
“Yes.”
Jessie opened her eyes. Darkness gathered about the house. Sister Dabney reached over and turned on the bare yellow lightbulb.
“What did you see?”
Jessie hesitated.
“Tell me,” Sister Dabney said. “There’s a reason behind the rocker. Don’t try to hide it from me.”
“I saw you lying on the ground with your eyes closed,” Jessie answered soberly. “Were you sleeping? Are you going to be okay?”
Sister Dabney stared hard at her. Whenever she did that, Jessie felt uncomfortable, as if the woman preacher was looking inside her skin.
“Can I spend the night with you?” Jessie continued. “I don’t want to go back to my aunt’s house.”
“If she says it’s okay,” Sister Dabney replied.
“Uh, it won’t be a problem. She left for Jacksonville this morning and isn’t coming back until tomorrow. All I have to do is make sure the cat gets fed. I did that before I came over here.”
Sister Dabney shook her head.
“The devil is the father of lies. Remember what I told you down by the river. He wants you, but he’s not going to get you! Get in the house.” Sister Dabney shooed her with her hands toward the front door. “You can sleep on the couch in the living room, after you take a hot shower and I wash your clothes. While you get clean on the outside, think about getting clean on the inside.”
L
ATE-SUMMER AFTERNOONS IN
S
AVANNAH COULD BE STIFLING HOT
and humid, but today an offshore breeze swept away all hint of swelter. I felt the refreshing wind on my face when I left the office and walked across the parking lot to the car. I paused to take in a deep breath. Even a half mile inland I could sense the purifying presence of salt in the air.
I fixed a fresh salad with baked chicken for supper, and Mrs. Fairmont and I ate on the veranda. The circulating fan over the wrought-iron table supplemented the pleasant breeze. While we ate, we watched Flip play in the courtyard below. I told Mrs. Fairmont about the invitation from Zach.
“You have to take advantage of evenings like this,” Mrs. Fairmont said. “When I was a girl, we’d go to the ocean islands for picnics. After supper, we’d eat ice cream, just like you’re going to do. Most ice cream was homemade. My father would buy block ice on the way, and one of the house servants would turn the crank while we ate.”
“Did everyone get to eat ice cream?”
“Yes, this was a couple of years after the end of the Civil War.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“No, prejudice was real. Fortunately, my father and mother were more enlightened than most. Everyone in our household was treated with kindness and respect.”
Mrs. Fairmont spent the rest of the meal reminiscing about her childhood outings to the beach. At times like this it took only a few questions from me to bring out the stories. The way she described ice cream made with fresh strawberries threatened my allegiance to chocolate. She paused and looked away as an unspoken memory played across her mind.
“Those were happy days,” she said with a sigh.
“You’ve treated me with kindness and respect,” I said.
Mrs. Fairmont smiled. “You’re not a household servant.”
“I want to be.”
“I know. And my father would have enjoyed you a lot.”
Before I could ask why, the doorbell rang. I went to the foyer and opened the door to Zach. Alongside the curb was the motorcycle with sidecar attached. Since I always wore a dress or skirt, the sidecar was the only way I could travel by motorcycle.
“Mrs. Fairmont is on the veranda. Do you want to talk to her while I go downstairs for a minute?”
“Okay.”
I went to my apartment to collect a few items to throw in a beach bag. When I returned to the veranda, it appeared Mrs. Fairmont had taken up the story where I’d left off.
“Your father sounds like a remarkable man,” Zach said.
Mrs. Fairmont nodded. “He was very well read. I wish I’d gotten more of his intelligence to pass along to Christine. But we all make choices about what to do with the gifts and talents we have. I think Tami is getting the most out of her abilities. Don’t you?”
“Please don’t make Zach critique me,” I said, picking up on the conversation as I rejoined them on the veranda. “He’s already too quick to point out what’s wrong with me.”
“I am?” he asked.
“And I need it,” I added quickly.
Mrs. Fairmont stared at us for a moment. “I think eating ice cream is a good idea for both of you.”
“I won’t be late,” I said.
“Enjoy yourselves.”
Zach and I left the house. I stopped to lock the front door behind me.
“Am I that mean?” Zach asked as we walked down the steps.
“No, it came out wrong. Mrs. Fairmont was telling me how kind her family was to their employees.”
“You’re not my employee. You work for Maggie Smith and Julie.”
“I know. That’s not the point.” I stepped around the motorcycle. The helmet I used was sitting in the sidecar. “Let’s take Mrs. Fairmont’s advice and concentrate on ice cream.”
There was a microphone in each helmet, but we didn’t talk as we rumbled across the cobblestone streets of the historic area. We turned onto a paved road.
“Are we going to Tybee Island?” I spoke into the microphone.
“Is that okay?”
“Yes.”
The silence resumed, but it wasn’t quiet in my head. I replayed Zach’s comments. As soon as we crossed the bridge onto the island, Zach pulled into a beach shop that advertised “Homemade Ice Cream.”
“I doubt it’s really homemade,” he said as we took off our helmets.
“I’m sure it will be great,” I responded, trying to sound cheerful.
We entered a store that offered the typical collection of beach toys and novelties. Large inflatable animals hung from the ceiling; racks of suntan lotion were at the front of the store. The ice-cream display cooler was beside the cash register. The cashier was a teenage girl with multiple piercings and a bored expression on her face. A man was buying a pack of cigarettes. She handed him his change but made no eye contact with us as he turned away.
“We’d like some ice cream,” Zach said.
The girl sighed and walked over to the cooler. There were six varieties that included chocolate and orange sherbet. While Zach peered into the white tubs, the girl twirled one of several posts inserted into the side of her nose. I tried to remember if she’d washed her hands after handling the previous customer’s change.
“What would you like?” Zach asked me.
My desire for ice cream was at an all-time low.
“Uh, orange sherbet, please, in a cup,” I said, deciding it was the best way to avoid the girl having direct contact with a cone that would touch my lips.
“One dip or two?” the girl asked in a tired voice.
“One.”
The girl ran her fingers through her hair, picked up a metal scoop, dug out the sherbet, and plopped it into a cup.
“Spoons and napkins are down there.” She pointed toward the other end of the cooler.
Thankful that I could select my own spoon, I inspected three spoons and picked the one that looked the whitest. Zach ordered a single scoop of vanilla in a cone. I watched with revulsion as he casually accepted the cone from the girl’s hand. Her fingernails were painted dark purple, making it impossible to tell if they were clean or dirty. Zach reached for his wallet and handed her a twenty-dollar bill. She placed the bill in the cash register and counted out Zach’s change on the counter. He stared at it for a moment and then pushed it toward her.
“Keep it,” he said.
The girl stared at Zach for a few seconds. Tears pooled in her eyes. She sniffled and reached for a tissue beneath the counter. She blew her nose, which had to be hard to do with all the metal paraphernalia impeding air flow. She couldn’t have been more than eighteen. Suddenly, I saw her in a different light. She was a person, not a collection of artificial holes, metal posts, and garish colors.
“Thanks, but I can’t keep it.” She wiped her eyes and pointed at a surveillance camera. “My boss wouldn’t believe me if I told him you wanted me to have the money.”
Zach took out his wallet again and handed her one of his business cards.
“Tell him to call me if he has any questions.”
The girl stared at the card for a moment.
“You’re a lawyer?”
“Yes.” Zach motioned to me. “She is, too. And you can become whatever God wants you to be.”
The girl stared at him for a moment and then turned away. Outside, Zach took a big lick of his ice cream.
“Do you think I helped her?” he asked.
“At least you tried.”
Zach sat on the motorcycle seat. “I ignore people all the time. But there was something about her that made me stop and ask if there was something I could do or say that might help her.”
“You’re a good man. All I could see was how messed up she was.”
Zach turned on the motorcycle.
“Eat a bite, then we’ll go just around the corner to finish.”
A few hundred feet from the store, Zach took a side road. The pavement ended and gave way to sand. I recognized the area. We’d been here before. Zach turned down a driveway with no house at the end of it and stopped the motorcycle. We walked into a clearing where the charred foundation of a house remained.
The house had been destroyed by a fire and never rebuilt. A rickety pier with many missing boards extended out into the water of Tybee Creek. In the distance I could see cars crossing over the bridge to the island. The store where we’d gotten ice cream wasn’t visible. There was a gazebo near the edge of the water. Only a few flecks of white paint remained, and the wood was covered by untamed vines. We sat on the steps of the gazebo with a few inches of separation between us. Julie’s prediction of a romantic sunset accentuated by orange sherbet wasn’t coming true. My sherbet was rapidly turning into orange goo, and the sun hovered like a yellow ball in the sky. Zach’s ice cream was now safely beneath the lip of the cone. I didn’t mention the likely presence of germs from the girl’s dirty hands. God would eradicate germs on Zach’s behalf.
“I’m sorry for what I said at Mrs. Fairmont’s house,” I said. “You’ve encouraged me a lot during the past year, even when I was less deserving than the girl at the ice-cream shop.”
“But I’ve hurt your feelings, especially about the job situation.”
I stretched my legs out in front of me. “A woman’s feelings are more complex to navigate than the marsh on a moonless night. You’ll go crazy trying to sort them out. I know you gave me an honest opinion about the job. I’m the one who hurt you.” I glanced over and met his eyes. “And I didn’t take the job with Maggie and Julie because I don’t want to be around you.”