Mary Schramski - What To Keep

A black woman is standing on the back porch with her face pressed against the kitchen screen door and my heart is thumping into my throat.

“You shouldn’t use the Lord’s name in vain,” she says, and straightens a little.

“What? What do you want?” I ask, then step back and wonder if there’s a knife close by. I came into the kitchen this morning hoping to find coffee, maybe tea. But there was nothing. And now this!

The woman laughs and puts her hands on her hips. “Why, child, don’t you remember me? I’m Tildy Butler.”

Tight black curls lie in swirls close to her head. She smiles again and her teeth, very white and perfect, take up a lot of her unfamiliar face.

“Hope I didn’t scare you.” She opens the screen, comes into the kitchen. “I was going to call and then I remembered the phone had been shut down, so I thought, well, Tildy Butler, you are acting inhospitable. Then I decided I needed to come right over and see Miss Juliette.”

I take a step back and wish my heart would quit beating so hard. “Who did you say you are?”

She gives me an up-down look. “My, you look the same. A little bigger, but you’re still that pretty little blond child. How are you, Miss Juliette?”

“I’m afraid—”

“You don’t remember me? I was hoping you would. No one likes to be forgotten. I’m Tildy, your uncle’s housekeeper. I met you a long time ago. Remember?”

“Oh…yes,” I say, because I do remember that my uncle had a housekeeper, but I don’t remember this woman specifically.

She smiles, nods. “My, it’s good to have you back. My friend Sara found out you were in town through her brother-in-law’s son who works for the attorney who’s taking care of Mr. Grey’s things. I hear he’s a very nice man. She called me right away, told me I’d better get over here and help you out.”

I mentally follow the trail. “Oh.”

“Honey, it’s so good to see you.”

“Thank you.” I finally offer my hand, but she brushes it away and her arms go around me. She feels smaller than she looks and smells like lemons or bleach, maybe a mixture of the two.

“Honey, it’s been so long.” She pats my back then lets go, steps back.

“It has.”

“And what? You’re twenty now?” She laughs, her head back, her hand over her heart.

“More like forty.”

“Thirty-five years? Seems like yesterday. It’s about time you came home. I’m so happy I get to tend you and Magnolia Hall. Why, I’ve been missing you both.”

“What?”

“Why, honey, you can’t take care of the house all by yourself. This place needs me, like you do. Everybody needs some help now and then.” Tildy claps her hands as a child would, and through the screen I see a cardinal dart from the tree and disappear.

I blink. “I’m leaving soon, selling the house.”

“I’ve taken care of all the owners of Magnolia Hall, I couldn’t stop with you.”

She turns, goes out to the porch and comes back with a shopping bag and places it in the corner by the refrigerator. “Brought some food. Didn’t think you would have time to go to the market. Isn’t it a beautiful summer morning? You’re going to love it here.”

“I’m only staying until I can list with a Realtor,” I say again.

Her head turns a little like a dog hearing a high-pitched whistle. “I grew up in this kitchen. Know Magnolia Hall like the back of my hand.”

I suddenly realize I’m tired. I didn’t sleep well last night, between thinking about the wall, wondering how the hell I’m going to get it repaired when I don’t have any money or space left on my credit cards. Then, about one in the morning, I started wondering where I’m going to find another dealing job when I get back to Vegas. After all that, sleeping wasn’t an option. Besides, the house is noisy with groans and cracks—probably more structural problems.

“Mr. Grey always talked about your daddy. He was crazy about his brother. It’s too bad he couldn’t come home much. And then when we lost him, why it was like losing Charlotte all over again.” Tildy smiles, nods.

Charlotte. My mother would sit on the couch, full glass in one hand, cigarette in the other. She always described how my father’s family had canonized Charlotte, his sister. Charlotte this, Charlotte that, only because she died so young.

“I’m sorry about your daddy. Didn’t see him much after Charlotte passed, but we still loved him. Mr. Grey always said his brother needed to come home. Now his daughter has. How’s your mama? I knew her, too. Not well, but when they moved back to Greensville for that brief time, she seemed so nice. Very pretty, like a movie star.”

“She passed away a couple of years ago,” I say, then add, “liver cancer.”

Tildy’s eyes widen. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.” She leans forward. “My goodness, you’re an orphan now.”

I blink. I’d never thought of myself like that. But she’s right, I am. “Yes, I guess so.”

“That’s why it’s good you’ve come home. This is where you belong. Everything’s going to be all right now.”

It would take a million bucks to make my life all right, but I don’t say this. “This isn’t my home.”

Tildy crosses the room, digs through her shopping bag, pulls out a cooked chicken wrapped in plastic. “Thought I’d make some chicken salad. That’s always good in the summer. Cool, refreshing. When I heard Magnolia Hall was yours I was so thankful. Mr. Grey wasn’t much for contacting people. I told him he ought to call you, but he always said he’d do it later. Then it was too late for later.”

She opens the fridge, clucks her tongue, finds the plug and sticks it in the electrical socket. A giant hum grinds through the room.

“Thank the good Lord the electricity is on. You get it turned on?”

I shake my head. “No, the lawyer must have.”

“Nice man to be worrying about all that.”

“He’s getting paid as soon as I sell the house.” I look around, laugh. I’m standing in a strange kitchen, talking to a woman I don’t know, about people who, after this, I will never see again, and I’m jobless.

“See, you’re happy. My, Mr. Grey loved people to be happy at Magnolia Hall. And he loved this house like she was one of his relatives. So he’d want you to have her. You know he would.”

“I don’t know that. He hadn’t seen me in thirty-five years.”

“Honey, you’re family. That’s all that matters.”

Tildy walks to the large stack of paper plates I left on the counter last night, turns back and raises an eyebrow. “These paper things are for picnics, not dining in the house.”

“I picked up Chinese last night,” I say, but for a moment I feel like a kid who just made a mud pie on the kitchen floor.

Tildy lifts her brow again. “That’s no excuse. There’s beautiful china and silver for meals, especially supper. Mr. Grey would expect you to use the right dishes. They’re yours now.”

“I didn’t want to dirty the…” I stop, wonder why the hell I’m explaining myself.

“The blue-and-white morning dishes are what you should use when it’s not fancy.” She points to the cabinet in front of her. “They’re stronger than they look. You need to use the china, child. Why let it go to waste?”

“China! There are only two plates, from what I could see. Unless there’s more somewhere else.”

Last night I went through the cabinets and drawers. I found the kitchen immaculate but almost empty, like the rest of the house. An old set of pots and pans in the space by the stove, and dishes, two of each piece, were stacked neatly in the cabinet next to the sink.

“Quality, not quantity, is important. The best dishes are in the dining room.” Tildy raises her arms a little, as if she’s announcing this information to a crowd.