Saving CeeCee Honeycutt Read online

  Not long after that day, Momma began walking to the Goodwill store. She’d buy all sorts of old prom dresses and formal gowns, and if she happened to find any dyed-to-match shoes, well, she’d buy those too, even if they were three sizes too big.

  One afternoon I was lying on my bed, reading Stuart Little, when I heard Momma’s footsteps on the stairs accompanied by the rustle of paper bags—always a surefire announcement that she had struck gold during her Goodwill shopping spree. I heard her laugh, giddy with anticipation, as she tried on the newest addition to her wardrobe. Within a few minutes she called to me, “Cecelia Rose, come in here, darlin’, and see what I found.”

  I pressed my nose farther into the book and pretended not to hear, but Momma called again, and when I didn’t answer, I heard the sharp clickety-click of her high-heeled shoes coming down the hall. She threw open my bedroom door and exclaimed, “Will you just look at your momma! Isn’t she something?”

  She stood in the doorway, eyes glazed wide from her Goodwill shopping hangover. Then she gathered up the skirt of a raggedy old prom dress she’d just bought for a dollar and twirled into my room like a colorful, out-of-control top.

  “Oh, how I adore this shade of pink. It suits me,” she said, stopping to admire her reflection in the mirror on my closet door.

  I don’t know what Momma saw in that mirror that delighted her so much, but it sure wasn’t what I saw.

  She put her hands on her hips, looked over her shoulder, and waited for me to tell her how beautiful she looked. It was all I could do to reach deep inside myself and push out the words she so desperately wanted to hear. “You look nice, Momma,” I mumbled, embarrassed enough for both of us, then I lowered my eyes and went back to reading my book.

  “Don’t be sad, CeeCee. One day you’ll win a beauty pageant, and then you can wear all these beautiful gowns too. I’m saving them for you, darlin’. I promise I am.” She grinned and sashayed out of my room.

  Grateful that she’d finally left, I scooted off the bed and closed the door behind her.

  Momma started wearing those tattered old prom dresses several days a week. The more she wore them, the more of a spectacle she became in our town. Even the nicest of our neighbors couldn’t stop themselves from standing in their front yards bug-eyed and slack-jawed whenever she’d parade down the sidewalk in a rustle of taffeta. And who could blame them? With a neighbor like Momma, who needed TV?

  In school I was the skinny girl who had a crown-wearing, lipstick-smeared lunatic for a mother. Nobody talked to me unless they wanted an answer to a test question, and nobody sat with me at the lunch table—well, nobody except Oscar Wolper, who smelled like dirty socks and bore a shocking resemblance to Mr. Potato Head.

  After a while I didn’t pay much attention to my classmates. It didn’t matter what they said about my mother or what kinds of faces they made. I’d just walk in, take my seat, and keep my eyes glued to the blackboard. Besides, I always knew a smile would be waiting for me every Sunday.

  Two

  For as far back as my memory would take me, I had spent Sunday mornings with our elderly neighbor Mrs. Gertrude Odell. At eight o’clock I’d go down to the kitchen and watch for her porch light to go on; it was our signal that she was ready for me. The minute I’d see that light, I’d run out the door, across the yard, and up the back steps of her little brick house. Always she’d greet me with a smile, still with her thin white hair wound in itty-bitty pin curls, still wearing her nightgown and flowery snap-front robe that was frayed at the cuffs.

  “Good morning, honey,” she’d say as I stepped into her kitchen. “It’s a beautiful day that just got more beautiful.”

  Whether it was sunny, rainy, or even if a foot of snow had fallen overnight, to Mrs. Odell, every day was a beauty. I think she was just happy to have woken up on the top side of the earth.

  Mrs. Odell lived alone. She’d had a husband once, but he died a long time ago. We helped each other a lot: she made my school lunch each morning, and I pulled weeds in her garden and helped her lift things that were heavy.

  Our Sunday breakfasts were my favorite thing in the whole world. While I gathered silverware and set our places at the white enamel-top table that sat by the kitchen window, she’d shuffle across the green linoleum floor in a pair of broken-down, grandma-style shoes with mismatched laces and grill up a stack of pancakes. We’d sit down and have ourselves a feast while we listened to a church station on the radio. Mrs. Odell loved choir singing, and she’d tune in early so we wouldn’t miss it. Most times we’d catch the tail end of the day’s sermon, loudly delivered by an angry-sounding preacher. Every week it was like he was giving his listeners a big, finger-pointing reprimand.

  One Sunday while licking maple syrup off my fingers, I looked at Mrs. Odell. “Why is that preacher so upset? He always sounds real mad.”

  She took a sip of tea and thought for a moment. “Well, now that you mention it, he does sound a little crabby. Maybe he’s tired of reminding people to be kind to each other.”

  “Are all preachers crabby?” I said, taking a bite of my pancakes.

  Mrs. Odell chuckled. “I don’t know if I’d say they’re all crabby, but I think some do have a tendency to speak a little too forceful at times.”

  “Well, what I don’t understand is why people get all dressed up and drive to church so they can sit there and get scolded. Seems to me it’d be a whole lot easier for them to just stay home in their pj’s, eat pancakes, and get yelled at over the radio.”

  Mrs. Odell laughed so hard she cried. But I was serious.

  On my way home from school the following Friday, I heard the echo of a sharp whack-whack-whack rise above the trees. Up ahead, a man was hammering a sign into the ground in front of a local church. The sign was advertising a weekend fund-raising festival, and printed in bright red letters at the bottom were the words COME JOIN THE FUN—EVERYONE WELCOME. When I arrived home, I made up my mind that I’d go down there on Saturday morning and see for myself what all this church stuff was about.

  Before leaving the house the next morning, I put on a pair of old sunglasses and tied a scarf around my head. Thanks to Momma’s antics, even the adults in our town looked at me with something that was a cross between disgust and pity, so I tried to disguise myself whenever I ventured into town.

  The festival was a swarm of activity, and I sunk into the shadows of the trees to watch. My first impression was that pies seemed to help people be kind to one another a whole lot better than any mean-talking preacher. In fact, there were more smiles around the bake-sale tables than I had ever seen in one place. Even the most ornery, stern-faced men in our town turned all happy and grinned like fools as they looked over the long tables lined with homemade cookies, pies, and strudels. Even Mr. Krick, the owner of the local hardware store, who was just about as grumpy as a person could be, picked up a pie. Under the watchful eye of a little gray-haired woman who stood behind the table, he held it beneath his nose and breathed in the aroma.

  “Ida Mae,” he said with a goofy grin, “you’ve created a masterpiece. This elderberry pie has been blessed by the Good Lord himself. I’ll take it.”

  Ida Mae blushed and packed the pie inside a box.

  “Now, don’t you worry about that broken latch on your screen door,” Mr. Krick said, suddenly jolly. “I’ll stop by tomorrow morning and get it all fixed up.” He handed Ida Mae a five-dollar bill, told her to keep the change, and disappeared into the crowd.

  I made a mental note that if I ever needed help from a man I would make him a pie. I wondered if that’s why my dad didn’t come home much anymore. As far as I knew, Momma never once had baked him a pie.

  Beyond the bake-sale tables stood a line of game booths, but I steered clear of those when I saw a group of kids from my school. I watched from a safe distance as they threw balls, knocked over bowling pins, and won all sorts of prizes.

  Once I’d seen enough of the festival, I took a shortcut through the grass and walked by
the church. The door was wide open, so I climbed the steps and peeked inside.

  It was almost dark. The only light there was came from a vibrantly colored stained glass window on the farthest wall. Beyond the rows of polished wood pews sat an altar draped in a cloth of deep red, its surface filled with dozens of burning candles that glowed from inside tiny glass cups.

  Careful not to make a sound, I moved down the aisle. Three women were kneeling in the front pew, each one of them wearing a lacy square of fabric on top of her head. The women rubbed long beaded necklaces through their fingers, and one of them rocked back and forth to the rhythm of something I couldn’t hear. I didn’t know what beaded necklaces had to do with praying, but I guessed it was probably some secret code reserved exclusively for women.

  For several minutes I watched the scene before me, wondering if a beaded necklace had the power to help my mother. I wondered about it the whole way home.

  While walking around the side of the house, I saw Dad’s car parked in the driveway. Just as I opened the back door, I heard Momma’s voice burst through the air. “No. Get out!”

  “Damn it, Camille, calm down. We need to talk.”

  There was a furious jumble of words, ending with the sound of breaking glass. I ran across the kitchen and hid inside the broom closet. Above me I could hear the shuffling of feet, and then Dad’s words boomed through the house. “Camille, you’ve got to stop this. Now, sit down and—”

  Momma screamed, “Don’t come near me. I hate you!”

  The slamming of her bedroom door shook the house, and a moment later Dad pounded down the stairs. I stood stock-still in the darkness of the closet, and when he came into the kitchen, I held my breath. When the screen door slapped shut, I pushed open the closet door and peered out the window. As I watched my father get into his car and roar away, I decided to give the praying business a try.

  Later that night, while Momma was asleep on the sofa, I searched through a chest of drawers in her bedroom until I found the strand of pearls she kept tucked inside a pink satin pouch. After pulling an old doily from beneath a lamp and grabbing a Christmas candle from a box in the closet, I went into my bedroom and closed the door. I bobby-pinned the doily to my head, lit the candle, and got down on my knees by the window. Though I wasn’t sure exactly what to do, I gazed into the sky and rubbed the pearls between my fingers until they grew nice and warm.

  “Hello. My name is Cecelia Rose Honeycutt, and I live at 831 Tulipwood Avenue. The preacher on the radio said if we opened our hearts and asked, we’d be saved. He said it was that simple. So I’m asking, will you please save Momma? Something’s wrong with her mind and it’s getting worse every day. And while you’re at it, will you save me too? There’s nothing wrong with my mind, but I sure could use some help down here. I’ll do anything you say. Thank you. Amen.”

  I prayed for several weeks, counting off one pearl for each prayer. Every day I watched for signs of improvement, but Momma never got any better. There were sixty-one pearls on my mother’s necklace, and if something didn’t happen soon, I’d run out of prayers. One day it occurred to me that it was time to go directly to God. But I was a little worried about that idea.

  Is God like the principal at our school who stays in his office and talks only with the teachers? Will God think I’m too bold if I call on him directly?

  Though I was nervous about it, I decided I had nothing to lose, so I went ahead and prayed until I came to the last pearl on the necklace. But summer faded into autumn, and nothing in my life changed but the color of the leaves on the trees. Either God never heard me or had a whole lot more important things to worry about.

  On a warm October night I sat outside and rested against a maple tree. I gazed at the branches above me, and while watching the moonlight ride the copper leaves as they let go and swirled to the ground, I wondered about all the prayers I’d said.

  Where have they gone? Are they piled up in the corner of God’s doorway the way the leaves mound beneath the trees? Will God one day open the door and be knocked backward when all my prayers tumble in?

  When I went inside the house, I fi gured I’d said enough prayers to last a lifetime, so I tossed the doily and the candle in the trash, put Momma’s pearls back inside the satin pouch, and went upstairs to read a book.

  Books became my life, or maybe I should say books became the way I escaped from my life. Every day I studied my homework lessons until I knew them inside and out. And, in a strange, upside-down way, Momma’s craziness helped me learn more and rise to the top of my class. For every dish, saucer, or glass she threw against the wall, I’d add a book to my reading list. And every time she cried, I’d read an entire column of words in the dictionary. By the time I was eleven years old I’d read a whole lot of books and knew a ton of words.

  When the girls in my class raced home after school to play board games or make themselves up with their mothers’ cosmetics, I turned and walked in the opposite direction. Down shade-dappled sidewalks I’d go until I reached the Willoughby Public Library. I was happy sitting alone on the cool floor between the tall wooden shelves, but I’d be a liar if I said I didn’t long for a living, breathing girlfriend to talk with. Laugh with. Just be with. Every day I ached to hear my footsteps walk in rhythm with those of another girl. When that ache got to be too much, I tried to pretend I didn’t need anybody—including a mother.

  But my pretending ended on a windy spring day when I was twelve years old.

  When I came home from school and opened the front door, a cloud of gray smoke swirled into my face. I dropped my books and ran into the kitchen to find a saucepan burning on the stove. Coughing till I thought I’d choke, I grabbed a pot holder, put the scorched pan into the sink, and turned off the burner. After opening the windows and doors and fanning the smoke till the air cleared, I looked around to see how much damage had been done. Gooey cheese and burned macaroni were stuck to the stovetop and splattered on the cupboard doors, and the smoke had left a gray fi lm on the ceiling. While I stared at the mess and wondered how I’d ever clean it up, I heard Momma wail like her hair was on fire.

  I bolted up the stairs and found her sitting in the middle of her bed, wearing a red lace bra, a petticoat, and her tiara. She was crying so hard I could barely find her face behind all that blotched puffiness. Momma smelled real strange—like hair spray and Shalimar perfume mixed with urine.

  As I moved across her room, my heart went wild, like a bird beating its wings against a closed window. I wrapped my hands around the bedpost to steady myself. “What’s the matter, Momma?”

  Her face turned tragic. “Look at this,” she said, lifting her scrapbook.

  The picture she wanted me to see was a photograph of her smiling like a goddess in her white pageant dress. A green silk sash was draped from one of her shoulders to the opposite hip, and the words 1951 VIDALIA ONION QUEEN were written across it in glittery script. She was standing on a skirted platform framed by two wooden barrels overflowing with onions.

  “My life is here; this is my real life,” she whimpered, poking the picture with a stiff finger. She wiped her eyes, smearing mascara across her cheeks. “I was so beautiful and young.”

  Knowing that compliments always made her happy, I took in a breath and said, “You’re still beautiful, Momma.”

  Her chapped lips quivered. “You think so?”

  I nodded and tried to think of something to say that would bring her back to reality. “But Momma, winning that pageant wasn’t your life—it was only a day in your life—that’s all. Mrs. Odell says life is what we make it. Maybe you’d be happier if you adjusted your thinking a bit.”

  She looked at me with dilated eyes. “Who’s Mrs. Odell?”

  My stomach started to churn, sending a wash of bile into my throat. I leaned my forehead against the bedpost and took in a slow breath of air. “She’s our neighbor, Momma. She lives next door. Remember?”

  “Our neighbor is Colonel Braxton Griffin. He’s a direct descenda
nt of General Robert E. Lee and a fine Southern gentleman.”

  “No, Momma, please listen to me. There is no Colonel Griffin. Mrs. Odell has always been our neighbor.”

  She screwed up her face and looked at me like I was the one who was nuts. I had the horrible feeling that she had, once and for all, slipped over the edge. She began rocking from side to side, tears spilling down her cheeks.

  Breathe, CeeCee. Breathe. Please, somebody help me. Please, God.

  I walked to the side of the bed, sat down, and took hold of her hand. I could hardly hear my own voice when I said, “Momma. What’s my name?”

  She stopped rocking and stared at me for the longest time. The room grew quiet. The clock on her night chest ticked on and on. I swallowed hard. “Who am I, Momma?”

  The blank look on her face terrified me. As I was about to run next door and get Mrs. Odell, a small flicker of reality sparked in her eyes.

  “Momma, what’s my name?”

  “Cecelia Rose,” she blurted. Then she crushed the scrapbook against her chest, flopped forward, and buried her face into the bedspread.

  “You stay here. Everything will be okay. I’ll be right back.” I rose from the bed, walked down the hall on shaking legs, and drew a hot bath. While the tub was fi lling, I returned to her bedroom. One by one I pried her fingers from the scrapbook, helped her out of bed, and led her into the bathroom. Why, I don’t know, but Momma refused to take off her bra and slip. I didn’t have the energy to argue, so after I gathered a wad of tissue and wiped bubbles of snot from her nose, I let her sink into the tub while I sat on the toilet lid and began reading aloud from one of my Nancy Drew books.

  When Momma’s tears finally subsided, she looked at me with swollen, red-rimmed eyes. “Is Nancy Drew a friend of yours? I don’t recall.”

  My mouth dropped open in disbelief. I was so worn out by her illness that I wanted to scream. I stared at her, shaking my head. “I don’t have any friends.”

  “You have lots of friends,” she said, scooping up a drift of soap bubbles and blowing them from the palm of her hand. “They come in and out of the house all the time.”