A Charleston Short Story

Early Saturday morning, our phone rings.  I hear Abe talking to a customer about a job and walk to the door of the kitchen ease dropping. He is telling Abe his elderly neighbor lady was climbing an extension ladder in hopes of fixing her eve, and her wants Abe to help her out before she falls and hurts herself.

I hear the voice out of the ear piece, “Abe, thank you for this.  The last thing we need is Mrs. Columbo to break a hip. The address is 44 Rutledge Avenue.”

“See you as soon as I can get ready,” and Abe hangs up the phone.

Before Abe hangs up the phone, I have the address scribbled on a scrap paper. 

“Sadie.” Abe calls to me. I step back to the counter in the kitchen where I am back to washing breakfast dishes.

“Yes, dear, I wrote the address right here.” I dry my hand and pick up the note wavy at him.

“Why don’t you go along with me on this one.  She lives alone and she may feel more comfortable dealing with you.” Abe moves to the table away from where I am standing.

“Pack us both some sandwiches and a large Thermos of tea.  It’s going to be hot in the sunshine.  I may end up on the roof most of the afternoon.” He turns to face me squarely.

“Ok, I am happy to tag along if it makes you feel better.” I move toward him and slip my hand around his strong waste hardened by hard work. “And I had your lunch ready. I’ll add a sandwich for me.”

Abe’s is gifted in all phases of construction and his name is throughout most of the area, so a call like this isn’t that unusual. I am not sure of his misgivings about going alone.  Perhaps it is the intimidation of downtown Charleston that’s got him edgy.  I am happy to do what I can, and I am glad for the diversion.  

As we step out of his 1945 black Ford truck with his wooden truck bed full of tools, we are a sight to behold. Abe’s in his baggie dungarees and old work shirt and me in a warn cotton house dress with my hair tied up in a ponytail.   We aren’t dressed for this society, but then again we aren’t arriving for afternoon tea.  I have a copy of The Yearling by Rawlings tucked under my arm, hoping to read as I wait.  Abe knocks on the door.  Again, much louder.  The elderly lady can be heard stirring, moving toward us down her piazza.      

As she opens the door to the street, she, too, is donning a cotton dress though of nicer fabric and much less warn.  Her simplicity puts me at ease.  

“Good morning, Abe, sorry to keep you waiting.  I am a bit slower moving that I used to be.  My neighbor told me you were coming.  Is this your wife?”  She glances a quick look sideways at me and then back at Abe.

“Yes, she is planning to wait on me to finish.  I am hoping ma’am she’ll be no trouble to you here.”

“Not in the least.  She can sit on this jogglin’ board here on the piazza.” Mrs. Columbo motions to the bench, then extends her hand to mine in a tender shake.  “I am Teddi.  And you are?”

“Sadie, ma’am.”  I notice this side porch is shady and comfortable.  The jogglin’ boards are common in Charleston and while nothing more than a long, painted wood bench, it’s a perfect place to read. And more importantly out of the hot sun.

Mrs. Columbo goes outside with Abe to show him the house eve that needs repairing. I sit and and anticipate getting lost for a few hours, Shortly, I hear Mrs. Columbo disappear inside the house.  In the background the clanging of the extension ladder folding out and the sound of Abe’s hammer places my husband busy at work.  In a few moments, all the peripheral noises fade and I am engrossed. My arm hair prickles. I gasp and recoil.  Mrs. Columbo is standing at my feet with a faint smile. It’s all so unexpected.

“Sadie?  Sorry to startle you.  I should have given you fair warning. You look as if you are enjoying your book, but wonder if you’d like to cool off inside with some sweet tea?”  She cocks her head with raised brows and I get the impression she’d like to chat.

I pause for just a moment. “Yes, ma’am.  That would be nice.”  I decide aggravation at the interruption is not worth hurting this woman’s feelings. I stick my bookmark into my place and pick up our lunch paraphernalia, following obediently. I am sure Mrs. Columbio is used to giving orders and especially to those in a lower station such as myself. As I stroll along toward her entry door, I wonder what this might be about. I have never been in one of these grand houses. And briefly, I consider what it must be to live here all alone.        

The cool air brushes my face and awakens me. She’s a overhead fan with all of the piazza windows open allowing the air to flow throughout the house.  She points for me to put my things down on an antique mahogany entry table convenient to the front door and leads me through a double-cased opening into an exquisite parlor.  A light blue slightly curved sofa with a tuft back sits to one side of the fireplace and two floral upholstered chairs sit opposite completing the arrangement.  The perfect place for guests to visit.  In front of the sofa is a unique Art Deco table ornamented with wood geometric shapes.  So much finery to take in as I breathe the scents and wait for instructions.    

“Please, sit.  I know it’s a striking living room.  My late husband was into filling this house with beautiful things.  He loved to entertain, but apart from the family I have done few parties since he left us.”  Mrs. Columbo stares into space for a moment and then came back to our current reality.  “Today, of course, I am pleased to have you as my company.”  With that, Mrs. Columbo rises to her feet and exits without even a word. 

At least she trusts that I wouldn’t take anything and she’d be right.  Theft is not one of my vices, but if it were there are many valuable items.  The art work, the Tiffany lamps, and some artful figurines atop the mantle.  I cannot help but stare as I wait on my eager hostess.     

In minutes, Mrs. Columbo returns with a tray she sets on the coffee table.  She is offering me Italian wedding cookies and two glasses of sweet tea filled with chipped ice. The glasses are dripping with condensation. Ice.  A luxury because it must be delivered every morning by truck.  We pay for our milk delivery, so ice is simply not affordable except on special occasions. I grasp a glass in my warm hands wanting to lift it to my forehead and neck.  I don’t dare give into my inclination lest she be offended.  I take a sip and find drinking the delicious brown liquid is enough to cool me.      

“I keep a maid, Myrna, but she’s off today.  Since Clarence’s death, I need her very little.  Our neighbor next door agreed to use her on her days off.  She makes my meals ahead and cleans this house.”

As she speaks, she peers over her tea glass, her eyes a faded blue.  Her face is lined with wrinkles, but I detect her fine features, a beauty even in her late years.  She carries herself befitting of downtown society, in my limited opinion having never been intimately connected to Charlestonian society.    

I lowered my glass and smiled.  Time for some small talk, after all I am sure that is why I am here. 

“Were you born in Charleston, Mrs. Columbo”

“Lord no!  My husband is not of the Charleston Columbo’s.  We are both Italian Yankees from Boston, though we have lived here for nearly 50 years now.  My local friends wouldn’t tolerate my claim to be a Charlestonian.  That right is by birth alone in this town.” She hands me a small china plate with two powdery cookies on it. “My Clarence found me at a dinner party while he was attending Harvard.  And from that evening, we were inseparable.  We were married in Boston after he finished his degree and he brought me to Charleston as a young professor of history at the College of Charleston.  After 30 years at the college, he rose to vice president of the college.  Sadly, we remain the “Damn Yankees” who came to stay in this town.  I think they have never fully forgiven us.” 

I attempt to hide my shock at such a fine lady using profanity.  I try to conceal the blood rushing to my cheeks. I am not used to such talk. My eyes are laughing, but I try to maintain decorum. Lord knows, Abe needs this job and I’d hate to mess things up with due to something I blurt out to Mrs. Columbo. She doesn’t seem to notice my reaction.

“Clarence’s been gone nearly 2 years now.  We bought years ago just after moving here.  This house holds so many memoires, most happy. Regardless, I want to die here.  I believe I am left to care for her.” She lifts her hand outward in reference to the room. “And I take this very seriously.”

Perhaps that is why she was on a ladder scaring her neighbor to death.

“Are you from the area?”  She asks just before raising her tea to her lips.

“I am from Chicago and met Abe while he was visiting a friend.  He’s the Charlestonian.  But, I am sure the islands are still different from down here on Rutledge.  In so many ways, its still very cast, isn’t it, family heritage and birthright.” Sharing as a way of asking without posing a question about her time here. 

“We had a few friends through Clarence’s association with the college and our attendance at Grace Church.  Over time, trust developed.  We were not one of them, but tolerated and were invited more and more to things.  It helped our Boston accents faded with time and we took on some of the local vernacular.  But I fear my accent isn’t Bostonian or Charlestonian, rather a flat speech without identifiers.  Adjust the accents, get nothing!”

We both laugh and now that she mentions it, I think she is right.  She’s neither southern or northern in her manner of speaking. Poor Mrs. Columbo, the south can be brutal to outsiders. And as the outsider, I feel her war wounds fighting to belong here.  

After a few more minutes of getting to know each other, she returns the tea tray to the kitchen and I stand to observe Mr. Columbo’s portrait over the fireplace.  He had steady eyes and a warm smile.  I am sure he must have been a solid man.  The fact she refuses to leave their home is evidence of a deep respect for his memory. 

Mrs. Columbo comes in slightly behind me as I gaze upward at the bigger part of her life.

“He was my other half, dear, and I am so alone.  Our valleys were deep, but our foundation was strong.  I have so enjoyed having someone to talk to, Sadie, please say you will come back for tea again, promise me?”

“You mean without Abe working on you’re roof?”

“Of course.  I’ll have Myrna make us chicken salad and we can drink tea and chat about things.”

I smile and my eyes fill with moisture at the prospects of our friendship.

And that is how our weekly afternoons visits began. 

(TO BE CONTINUED)

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.