Free Saving CeeCee Honeycutt by Beth Hoffman Page A

returned the plate to the table. She walked in with a tray in her hands and set it on the table. Silence fi lled the room as we considered each other.
    “Are you Oletta?”
    “Umm-hmm.” From a gleaming crystal pitcher she poured orange juice into a glass and set it on the table with a loud thunk . “This is a fine home,” she said, leveling her dark eyes on me. “And fine homes have rules . And one of them rules is wearin’ shoes to the table.”
    I looked at my bare feet and felt my cheeks flame.
    Her voice softened a bit when she said. “Just remember for next time. Okay?”
    I nodded.
    “Now, sit yourself down so I can serve breakfast.”
    Oletta placed a starched white doily on the plate in front of me while I pulled out a chair and sat down. On top of the doily she set a bowl covered by a dome-shaped silver lid. Next she set out two small glass bowls that looked like they were carved from ice; one was fi lled with raspberries and the other with brown sugar. With a pair of silver tongs she placed a frosted cinnamon roll on a small plate. Her eyes bore a hole right through me when she hooked her finger through the handle of the domed lid and lifted it to reveal a bowl of steaming hot oatmeal. She replaced the lid with a sharp-sounding ting , turned, and left the room.
    Oatmeal.
    I remembered a blustery cold morning back in 1963. I had walked into the kitchen to find Momma standing at the stove. Steam rose in the air, and beads of moisture dripped down the windowpane as she frantically stirred a pot. When she saw me in the doorway, she smiled and told me to sit at the table while she finished.
    A few minutes later she ceremoniously placed a bowl of oatmeal in front of me, propped her hands on her hips, and smiled. “I made a special surprise for my sweet little honey-bunny. Happy birthday.”
    I peered into the bowl in disbelief. Sprinkled on top of the lumpy oatmeal were chunks of broken candy canes, and if that wasn’t bad enough, Momma had topped it off with a sprinkle of paprika and three shriveled-up green olives. I stared into the bowl, stupefied.
    But worst of all: it wasn’t my birthday.
    I pushed that memory aside and gazed out the window at Aunt Tootie’s garden. Mounds of creamy-white flowers billowed over the edge of the brick patio like runaway soapsuds. I thought about Mrs. Odell—how much she loved flowers—and me. Next thing I knew tears flooded my eyes. I pressed my palms to my cheeks and tried to grab hold of myself, but I was powerless to stop the avalanche of emotions that crashed in on me.
    Coming to Savannah was a colossal mistake. I didn’t fi t in and I knew I never would. I buried my face into my hands, let out a muffled sob, and wondered how much it would cost for a bus ticket back to Willoughby. I had fi fteen dollars shoved inside my suitcase, and I’d use that to get as close to home as I could. I’d walk the rest of the way if I had to. I didn’t know when I’d ever felt so low or cried so hard. Probably never.
    I was startled when something pressed against the bare flesh of my arm. I looked up to see Oletta standing next to me with a scowl on her face as she tapped a box of tissues against my skin. I took one and blotted my eyes.
    “What’s the matter with you, child?”
    I blew my nose. “Everything’s the matter with me.”
    Her eyebrows lifted into high arches. “Everything? Well, that’s a whoooole lot.”
    I don’t know what happened, but my hands began to shake, and my scalp felt like it was on fire. Something deep within me let loose, and I broke wide open. Before I could stop myself, I told Oletta about Momma’s Goodwill shopping sprees, her fits of rage, and how my dad had walked out on us. The more I told Oletta, the more I cried, pulling one tissue after another from the box she’d set on the table. I couldn’t believe all the things I heard myself say.
    What are you doing? Are you crazy? Stop it, CeeCee. Shut up. Shut up.
    But my mouth had disengaged