Arts & Spice

Jessica was in town visiting us for the first time in forever. Once she turned eighteen, she left Homewood, Alabama for Nashville. She was a true country music girl. My brother and I, on the other hand, we just liked sports. Any and all. Of course, we were much younger so we didn't care she left, and we didn't care to know why. We just liked sports. Having a little brother made me a tomboy, which worried my family.

"My, both of you have gotten so big!" Was the first thing she said. "How old are you now?"

"Jess I'm only 11, not even a teenager," I replied rather blunt.

"Yes, but almost." We smiled. Then we talked about what I was into these days: still baseball, still skateboarding. She seemed disappointed. Make up? No. Hair? No. Not even clothes and shopping? Not even that. And your brother? Still playing ice hockey.

I took her to the backyard to show her my latest make-shift skate ramp. I used an old hot tub the neighbors were just going to throw away. Then when I was about to show her new aerial tricks, she asked me to please don't. It made her too nervous. I sighed, and went back to the house.

Two days later we were out in the ally, throwing a frisbee. Jessica walked around the corner to see what we were doing. She just sat and watched us, she didn't care for sports too much. I threw the frisbee up and the wind caught it, sending it flying down the street. My brother went to chase it down. Leaving Jess and I alone. She stood up, brushing off her boot-cut jeans. It was the middle of summer, the hottest part of the year, humid too, and she was in jeans. I had on pink camouflage shorts and a white tank top. My mom made me wear a 'trainer bra' and I hated it. Its straps shown on either side of my tank, and I had my pink converse high tops. They matched my shorts, and I hated it.

"You wanna see something cool?" I picked up my skateboard, she looked concerned. "See that hill? They just paved it over. It's pretty steep but It's fun to go down."

"All by yourself?"

"I'm not a baby."

I made my way to the top, looking down, Jessica had put her hands over her mouth. I put the board under my feet and was ready to take off but my brother was shouting something so I looked up. He had recovered the frisbee and thrown it toward me. Out of instinct to grab it as it flew by, I jumped up and my skateboard raced down the hill. I missed the frisbee, my brother shouted 'such a girl'. So I stuck my tongue out at him and ran to find it.

"Look you must have rang the doorbell with that throw," I yelled down to him as it swirled around someone's porch.

"I've perfected my aim," he replied.

The sun had fallen rather quickly from the sky, suddenly it was very dark. Only one street light worked. My brother and I walked up the to the foot of the stairs. It seemed old and creepy. The concrete steps were cracked and the thin metal railing ran up the middle and zig zagged unevenly. It was painted an awful green, but it chipped.

We worked our way up, cautiously, and to our surprise, the porch was covered by a large California sized king bed. Perfectly made. My brother pointed out to where the frisbee had landed, and went down to go get it. Then a porch light flickered on so I knocked to be polite. The door creaked open and I peered inside. It smelled of moth balls and seemed very old lady by its decor. On the couch in the living room were two very old men. I was too frightened to step into the house, so I leaned in without moving from the porch.

One man was in a hospital gown, very old, very grey. He was hunched over in a wheel chair. At first I thought he must be dead, but then he slowly moved his head to look at me, then slowly moved it back down to its original place. I swallowed hard. My brother came up beside me with the frisbee. I was too frightened to step inside the house. The other man was equally old, but he was black and wore an old police officer uniform. My brother tugged on my shirt to say let's go. I turned around and he was already half way down the stairs. Before I even took one step, a cold hand grabbed my shoulder. My heart must have stopped, I was pale in the face. I glanced at the hand and my eyes followed it up the arm to the body that it was attached.

It was an old woman, but not as old as the two men. She wore thick round glasses and was very plump. But her face was friendly. She had very short grey hair that curled and rosy cheeks. I said a very weak hello just to break the silence.

"May I help you?" Was her reply. I shook my head. "Then may I ask why you're on my porch?" My body went limp, everything was numb.

"I-I uh I…" I stuttered. She glared out of the top of her glasses. "I was just getting my frisbee. It flew up here in the wind." I spoke very fast.

"Honey why didn't you just say that?" Then she removed her hand. I ran down the stairs without saying another word. My brother was long gone. I walked down the street about two or three houses down before I looked around to cross the street.

"Mind if I tag along? I'm afraid I don't get out of the house much." It was the lady from the house. "As you can see, I'm very old and well, most of my friends have already passed away." Was this really happening? Granted it was odd, but I found comfort in her smile. I stepped out of the middle of the street and stood by her. She took my hand.

"My name's Addison Lace, but you can call me Addie L." I found comfort in her smile. After I said it, I realized that it was silly to keep the L, but it was a double name.

"Is that how you cross a street miss Addie L?" I had started to just walk out. "No ma'am." I felt embarrassed, she knew it too. "Walk me through how it's done, properly."

"Well, first you should look both ways." And we did. "Then you can cross, but not all the way." We stopped at the grassy median. "And you have to look both ways again, just in case." I heard sirens but didn't seen anything so I stepped out. Then the fire engine rounded the corner. We waited for it to pass. Then looked both ways again. More sirens, we waited and sure enough came an ambulance. I didn't think twice about where they were going until I heard the old lady gasp. I saw my shadow in front of me but it should have been behind since the the street light was in front of me.

The ambulance and fire engine were stopped at the old lady's house. She had already left my side, walking back. She didn't look both ways in the street. I followed slowly, keeping my distance. Back at the foot of the stairs, I saw uniformed men carrying a stretcher. A white sheet covered the face of a body. I turned around and went home.

The next day I went back over to see the old lady. A moving truck was parked in the street. The door was wide open but this time I wasn't afraid so I invited myself in. The two old men still sat in the same spot. The one in the wheel chair look up at me, then moved his head back down. The black old man faced straight ahead, never moving. His eyes were shut. His hands rested on a walking cane. The next room was a kitchen. Never had I seen so many paintings in my life. From floor to ceiling, paintings covered the walls. This trend continued in the other family room. I could feel the old lady's cold hand on my shoulder.

"Who painted these?" I asked.

"Tim Bourgondon."

"They're beautiful."

"I know." She smiled. I felt a tear run down my cheek and I knew he was the man who died last night. Then from that moment on, I spent the rest of the summer with her. Her name was Carroll Lynn Baker Knight. But she let me just call her Miss C. I guess I looked at Tim Bourgondon's painting too much, because she bought me a canvas and paints. She would draw the layout of the picture then I would go back and color it in. By August I could do the whole thing by myself.

When school started in the fall, I always had too much homework to do the paintings. Still I went to Miss C's house to do my work. When I would finish my arithmetic and grammar, she would be prepping for diner. No one used the pool anymore, and after a lot of begging, she drained it for me to skate in. On weekends she'd sit in a lawn chair, sipping tea, just watching me in the pool. Eventually I broke all my boards. In October I turned 12 and two weeks later she had a birthday too, but she wouldn't tell me how old she turned.

"I'm too old," she would say.

When it had become too cold to sip tea outside and skate, we began using the weekends to cook. She taught me to make hot breakfasts, sandwich lunches, and soup diners with rolls. Once I had gotten really good at those, she started telling me old secret family recipes. I had to cross my heart and swear to never tell anyone how to make them.

On Christmas break, my parents wouldn't let me go see Miss C. They called it family time. Three days before Christmas Eve, I stayed up really late until everyone had gone to bed. Then I snuck into the kitchen and made all the hot breakfasts Miss C taught me. Oatmeal, French toast, pancakes, eggs, bacon, muffins and green tea to drink. I set the table, then fell asleep. My mom woke me up the next morning asking who did this. I did.

"Who taught you?"

"Miss C."

"The little old lady you visit everyday?" I nodded. Then she gave in and let me see her. I told Miss C about me making breakfast. She thought it was splendid. We spent the rest of day painting. On Christmas day I brought her cookies, the secret family recipe she taught me. Miss C had also gotten me a gift. It was make up. She said that when January came along, she'd teach me how to use it. I didn't take it home with me. I didn't like it. In January, the old black man in the police officer uniform died. I didn't learn how to use make up.

"Why did he always dress like a cop?" I asked as the men with the stretcher took him out of the house.

"Well Addie L, he wasn't right in the head. He thought he was a cop." I didn't know what that meant. I just went into the kitchen to preheat the oven.

In the spring, I didn't sign up for soccer. My parents were thrilled. Miss C had taught me to be a girl. To paint and cook and use make up, not play sports. When my brother wanted to throw ball or skate, I said no. I'd rather be at Miss C's learning new spices or how to apply blush to my cheeks. When school let out in May, I could paint more. Miss C started replacing Tim Bourgondon's artwork with mine. I had quit using his as guide lines and created my own. In the mornings we would sit together outside. Miss C sipped her tea, and I painted the surrounding nature instead of skating in the pool. Then we would go inside, and make lunch. She got everything out of the pantry for me and I'd assemble the sandwiches. One for me, one for her and then I'd take some over to my parents and brother. In the afternoons I'd do both of our make up. Soon she showed me a hair straightener, curling iron, and blow dryer. A month later, Jessica came to visit again. It had been a full year.

"How is your soccer team?" She asked.

"I don't play anymore."

"Really…well how is skateboarding going?"

"I don't do that anymore. All my boards broke."

"Oh, what do you spend your time doing now?"

"Miss C taught me to paint, to cook, to do make up and hair. We sip tea together." Jessica didn't ask who Miss C was, she was just happy to hear me doing girl activities. I did Jessica's hair and make up. We baked cookies. Then I painted her the sunset. I forgot to go over to see Miss C that day. And the next. When I finally went to her house, the old man in the wheel chair had died. She was more devastated over him than the black man. I made her meals for a week, but didn't stay over in-between. After a while, I stopped going altogether.

I got sick in late August right before school. It was the chickenpox. My mom made me tomato soup and grilled cheese everyday and I drank lots of Gatorade. To help me feel better, my dad bought me a new skateboard. During the day when they both were at work, and my brother at school, I'd sneak out of my window to use it. I had forgotten how to do tricks, so I just went up and down the sidewalk.

One day, my parents started arguing. And they didn't stop for a few days. My mother always look tired and sad. My father was never home. My room began to bore me, seeing it everyday. I wondered how Miss C was. I wrote her lots of letters, each with a small picture. On my mother's way to work, she'd drop them off in her mailbox. She never wrote me back. I liked watching Bugs Bunny while eating my tomato soup with grilled cheese.

"Are you fighting because I'm still not well?" I asked my parents. I couldn't hear the cartoon over their raised voices.

"Of course not." Then they continued. I went into my room and snuck out the window. I don't like them fighting. I had made up my mind to run away. So I went to Miss C's house. I knocked on the door but no one answered. I laid on the bed that make up part of her porch, and that's where I feel asleep. I worried my parents sick, they didn't fight anymore. When I had finally gotten better, my brother broke his arm in ice hockey. October came again, and I turned 13. Two weeks later, I knew Miss C had her birthday. I went and knocked on her door but she didn't answer, so I wrote her a letter.

At Thanksgiving a mailman returned all the letters I had written to Miss C. Each envelope was stamped with a 'wrong address' in navy blue ink. I left in the middle of our meal and beat both fists on her door. I kept hitting it until my knuckles were bright red and sore. I found myself crying, making my eyes sting in the cool fall air. I gave up, I was done.

Years passed. I stopped doing my hair and make up, refused to cook or paint. When I started high school, I tried out for every sport and made all the varsity teams. On spring break of sophomore year, I flew out to Nashville to be maid of honor in Jessica's wedding. Since I was 16, I went by myself. She was surprised to see my hair in a bun and no make up. She picked me up from the airport and I wore denim shorts with a grey pocket tee and white converse. Jessica hired people to fit me to a dress, and do my hair. I did my own make up to make it mild. She asked me to bake the secret cookie recipe Miss C taught me, but I lied and said I forgot it.

"You don't seem like the same teenager I knew three summers ago."

"Things change." She gave me an odd look, I had said it bitterly.