Sweet Tea: A Novel (2 page)

“D
id you kill her?” I nervously picked a clump of mascara from my eyelashes and wiped it on my black jeans. Then I flipped the snap at the waistband open to keep my pants from digging into my waist so I could breathe a little easier. My heart, a firecracker about to blow. I didn’t want her to be dead, but I didn’t want her to be alive in the same state of mind she’d been, and I felt insurmountable guilt about those feelings.

Cece placed her finger above Mama’s upper lip. “She’s alive.”

The firecracker sizzled out. My breath a steady pace.  I followed Cece into the kitchen. Dressed in sweat pants and an NYU t-shirt, no make-up and her dark hair tied back with a rubber band, she still looked better than I did at my very best.

The toaster handle popped up and she pulled out two pieces of bread. “Want some?”

I shook my head, no. “Don’t you worry about anything?”

CeCe seemed so steady. Too steady. “I think you’d make a better surgeon than an actress,” I said. “You could probably perform open-heart surgery with a slice of cherry pie next to the operating table without so much as a wave of nausea.” 

Cece buttered her bread and spoke without meeting my eyes. “You’ve got to be just as disciplined to be an actress as you do a doctor. It’s just different that’s all.” 

Suddenly, Mama’s voice trailed in. “
I’d
like some toast please.”

Cece grinned. “Sure, Mama. Butter or jelly?”
                Mama acted as if nothing had happened. Like she never sacrificed our Thanksgiving dinner to the worms and grubs in the front yard so the Lord would save our souls. Even if Mama was in her right mind, I believed the Lord had already forgiven me when I was ten and baptized behind the pulpit at Landon Baptist Church. Though I hadn’t been there for some time, now I feared my relationship with God might be in jeopardy.    

I hadn’t been picking up around the house as much as I should have. My constant scheming about keeping CeCe from pursuing her dreams so I could find mine would not make God proud. I figured my thoughts about sex most definitely didn’t sit right with God. Sometimes I wanted to shake Mama and say, “What kind of clock makes you tick?” It sure isn’t a Rolex. Maybe a Timex—an old one. One that got splashed in the kitchen sink too many times. 

Although CeCe took care of most things, she had no inclination of trying to find a way to fix Mama. As far as she was concerned, Mama was . . . as Mama is, and always would be. CeCe didn’t want to upset Mama, and I didn’t want to upset CeCe. Although she never said it, I believe she planned to let Mama’s broken clock tick until its time would no longer be counted. And neither would my plans for a future.

Finding a way to leave home after high school without worrying about what would become of Mama consumed my thoughts. I was next in line to care for her, and though it was only fair to CeCe, I couldn’t bare the thought of taking on that task. I suppose it seemed selfish, but it was more than that. Being a caretaker didn’t come natural to me; it frightened the hell out of me.   

When the Monday morning after Thanksgiving rolled around, I wondered if Mama had taken a bath yet? It wasn’t like her to wallow in filth. She spent more time in the bath than a bar of soap, but I wasn’t going to be the one to suggest she get in the tub. I needed to get myself ready for school. I had to look just right today.

“Have you heard Mama run the bath yet?” I asked CeCe.

“Nope.” She answered, while scrubbing the kitchen table as if she hoped it would change colors. “She went to bed after me last night. Hopefully she took one after I fell asleep.” She waved her hand in front of her nose. “By the way, what kind of shampoo are you putting in your hair? Last night I sneezed about ten times when you rolled onto my side of the bed.”

“Jonzie gave it to me,” I said. 

CeCe looked at me funny. “You sure it’s for humans? Knowing Jonzie, it might be some type of dog shampoo.”

“No! Jonzie found a bunch of it in her basement. Her Daddy used to work for a big fragrance company. He has boxes and boxes of samples.”

“Did you check the expiration date? I think it may have gone bad.”

I shrugged. “Maybe we could save up for bunk-beds, then your nose won’t be so close to my head.”

CeCe kept scrubbing. “Don’t worry, you’ll have the bed to yourself soon enough.” 

Though I would have loved to have the bed to myself, I’d rather share it with CeCe for five more years than let her go away and leave me alone with Mama.

Just then, the bathroom door creaked open and Mama stepped out. I could see her clearly from the kitchen. There were no twists and turns in the trailer like there had been in our house. Just one straight hallway of metal covered in taupe-painted drywall, with a portrait of our family hanging crooked from a skinny nail halfway down.

Daddy would have been sad if he knew our portrait no longer sat on the fireplace mantle. He loved our house. He built it especially for our family. I remember him saying he made sure to build it big enough so we would never have to move. The only thing reminiscent of our old house now, was the flowerbed Mama made on the small plot of grass on the side of the trailer. 

Dressed in her uniform, all fresh and clean, she said, “Good morning, girls.”

Cece and I breathed identical sighs of relief. “Morning,” we said.

Mama smoothed the sides of her hair while she sucked her lips inward, staring into the air as if it were a mirror. “What a beautiful fall day it is.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” CeCe said. “It sure is a beautiful day.”

She grabbed a couple of chocolate chip cookies from the cookie jar and waved goodbye. “Don’t forget to wake Luke up.” She slipped out the front door like any other Monday. But I knew it wasn’t any other Monday. It was one Monday closer to the anniversary of Daddy and John Lennon’s death.

Each year when the anniversary drew near, John Lennon’s face plastered every station on the television. I would often dive across the living room floor rushing to change the channel before Mama saw it. We all knew if Mama saw Lennon’s fans clutching their candles while they sang
Give Peace a Chance
in Central Park, there would be no peace for us.  

I feared that one day I would find Mama at the bus stop holding her own vigil right in front of the Woodlane Trailer Park sign. Candles surrounding her hollering, “Olivia come sit with me in honor of your daddy.” I know Daddy loved John Lennon too, but I know he would not have approved of Mama taking it to this extent. But she didn’t respond to any of our reasoning.

One year, she bought a bunch of Lennon’s posters, rolled them up, stuck them into the ground and lit each one on fire. I nearly died when the neighbors called the police on her, who had become aware of Mama’s quirks, and they didn’t make a big issue of it. I wished God would take December 8th
off the calendar like some hotels did with the thirteenth floor. That particular year topped them all.

* * *

After staying late at school to make up an algebra test, I stepped off the bus at the entrance to the Woodlane Trailer Park. My boyfriend, Mattéo on my mind, I wasn’t paying attention while I walked. Instead, I was imagining what it might be like to go all the way with Matt when I tripped on a crack in the middle of the road. My loose-leaf binder fell from my arms and tumbled to the ground. I bent to pick it up, and a blurred vision of what appeared to be Mama caught my eye. She strutted toward me like a model charging the runway.

“Olivia, darlin’,” she yelled, waving her hand in the air. Wrapped in a stylish black fur coat that hung to her ankles, a red hat and shoes, she spun around as if photographers were snapping her picture.

I nearly swallowed my gum and then peered over my shoulder to make sure no one else saw her. It was one thing when the older neighbors witnessed her strange behavior. But I couldn’t bear any remarks from the trailer-trouble on the bus.

“Well . . . what do you think?” she asked.

“Mama, where in the world did you get that coat?”

She pulled the collar to her neck and closed her eyes in ecstasy. “Don’t ya love it?”

“Well, yeah, it’s beautiful.” I took my glove off and touched her sleeve.

She grinned and raised her penciled eyebrows. “It’s a mink! I got one for you, too.” She held her hands in the air like the hostess of a game show. “Come on, I’ll show ya.”

I followed a few feet behind her and caught sight of Miss Ruth and Bubbles Clayton on their patio. The nosiest two ladies in the neighborhood. I heard them gossip about Mama many times. They said things like, “Cassandra Travis is as nutty as a pecan pie.” Or “Cassandra Travis’s mind is one quarter short of a dollar.” I tried to think of Mama as an eccentric widow, or a woman who walked to the beat of her own drum. Comments like that made it harder.

A neck brace held Miss Ruth’s head straight in the air, and she sat like a statue glued to her chair. It must have tortured her not to be able to turn her head to follow us.

“I think that woman’s a Russian spy,” Mama whispered in my ear.

“Good thing we’re not Russian,” I nervously joked.

Mama covered her mouth and giggled. “You’re so funny, Olivia.”

Seemed Miss Ruth was aching to catch a glimpse of one of our family members doing something unorthodox so she had something to gossip about. I heard her chair scrape across the concrete patio as she hobbled along to get a closer look.

Mama opened the front door and I stepped inside and gasped. Five fur coats lay across our couch: a short white one with a zipper and hood, a mid-length silver, a full-length silver, a brown one, and a short black mink. All of them resembled those Aunt Nadine wore in some of the Christmas portraits she’d sent us.

Mama pointed to the mink. “Go ahead, try it on.”

I pulled the coat off the sofa and caressed its silky fur against my cheek. I’d never touched a fur coat before. I inhaled the scent. It reeked of
Channel No. 5. I was only familiar with the fragrance because Aunt Nadine sent a bottle of it to CeCe when she graduated high school; however, I knew she didn’t have any left.

Mama stepped in front of me, took the coat from my hands and wrapped it around me while I slid my arms through the sleeves.

She giggled like a schoolgirl. “Look at you! That shiny, black mink brings out the golden highlights in your hair—and your eyes—they look like two lost pennies that have just been found. You look beautiful, Olivia.” She pointed toward the hallway. “Go see yourself.”

Excited, I rushed down the hallway to the bathroom, closed the door, and stared in the mirror. Turning from side to side, I admired my reflection. I grabbed a brush from the vanity and ran it through my hair. I felt glamorous, even a bit taller, and I looked smart. However, I reminded myself it was more important for me to sound smart.

After moving to Woodlane, I worked extra hard at that. My plan: to rid myself of all traces of my southern accent while establishing an
extensive vocabulary
. My guidance counselor said it would help my future. I agreed. Having been the best speller in my class since grade school gave me a head start. If only I knew where I was headed. 

My moment in La-La Land ended when the front door slammed and CeCe screamed, “Oh my Lord! Where’d these coats come from?”

I rushed out from the bathroom, still dressed in the mink. CeCe’s jaw dropped.

“That’s right,” Mama said, and tossed her dark waves over her right shoulder.

“What’s right?” CeCe asked.

“Thank the Lord,” Mama said.

“For the coats?”

“Of course. The Lord gave us these coats!” She held out the long silver one toward CeCe. “This is fox. Go ahead, try it on.”

“I don’t want to try it on.” CeCe pushed the coat back at Mama. “It’s barely cold out now and it only lasts for a month or so, anyway.”

Mama dangled the coat at her hip. “I had a fur coat many years ago—when I lived in New York City—your great-grandma gave it to me.” She shook her head. “Only, I have no idea what happened to it. I’ve wanted another one ever since.”

Both CeCe and I gazed up at her, and at the same time said, “But Mama, you’ve got five!”

She ignored us. “Just put the coat on, CeCe.”

I wondered why CeCe didn’t want to try it on. Did she think she’d like it and have to give it back? Did she think Mama would want us to wear them out together and pretend we were sisters? She did enjoy pretending she was younger than her age and often put on our clothes and pranced around the house fishing for compliments. Aside from that, I wondered what great-grandma she was talking about.

She pushed the coat toward CeCe’s arms. “Go ahead.”

I caught a sparkle in CeCe’s eyes. I could tell she was dying to try the coat on.

“Come on, now!” Mama coaxed. “Put it on.”

CeCe put on the coat and stroked her left arm with the palm of her right hand, then straightened up and shoved her fists into the pockets. She wore that coat as if it were custom-made.

Mama jumped up and down. “You’re gonna need a coat like this when you become famous. All movie stars wear fur coats.” She picked up the white jacket with the hood. “Try this one on, Livy. It’s rabbit.”