Free Temple Secrets: Southern Humorous Fiction: (New for 2015) For Lovers of Southern Authors and Southern Novels by Susan Gabriel Page B

“I have a confession to make.”
    Rose turns to look at her. “You know I love confessions,” she says.
    “Well, sometimes I do more than sing when I cross this bridge,” Queenie says.
    “Like what?” Rose asks, sounding intrigued.
    “Sometimes I do a kind of primal scream,” Queenie says. “It’s a technique I read about in the Psychology Today magazine while waiting on your mother to finish a plate of yak.”
    “Weren’t primal screams big in the 80s?” Rose asks.
    “They’re still big for me. I do it whenever the frustration of living with your mother becomes too much,” Queenie says. Or whenever the shame and pressure of keeping secrets becomes too great , she thinks.
    “I’m convinced if everybody screamed while crossing bridges, the world would be a better place,” Queenie continues. “Maybe we’d all break free of whatever holds us back. Maybe people right here in Savannah could break free of the past.”
    It occurs to Queenie that maybe whoever is leaking the secrets to the newspaper is trying to break free, too, and get out from under Iris’s thumb. Once all your secrets are out in the open, nobody has power over you. She wonders if maybe it’s time for her to tell hers, too. Her lips tighten, as if they’ve already decided this isn’t a good idea.
    “If I started screaming, I might not stop,” Rose says, leaning into the door.
    “That’s everybody’s fear,” Queenie says, “but from my experience, you do it for a while and then you just get all tuckered out. It’s like sprinting to a finish line. Not that I know anything about sprints.” Queenie smiles and pats her thighs. “These old gals wouldn’t know what to do if I took off running somewhere.” Her giggle turns to a laugh.
    “Has anyone ever seen you scream?” Rose asks.
    Queenie grins. “Lord yes, honey. Sometimes a car full of people will pass me while I’m yelling my lungs out, so I just smile at them and wave. If they’re from Savannah, they probably don’t think anything of it. You’re allowed to be crazy here, as you well know. And if it’s tourists from out of state? Well, I figure I’ve just given them a good story to tell their friends when they get back home.” She gives Rose a wide smile.
    “You are so much braver than I ever could be,” Rose says.
    “It’s not about bravery. It’s about not caring what people think,” Queenie says. “Besides,” she begins again, “I may be responsible for Savannah being one of the premiere tourist destinations in the South. Maybe everybody’s heard of that crazy woman down in Savannah screaming her head off in her car while crossing that bridge, and they come here to see it for themselves.” Queenie cackles her signature laugh. “Hell, for all my efforts, I may be getting a key to the city any day now,” she adds.
    When she opens her mouth and pretends to scream, Rose doubles over in the front seat trying to catch her breath. Her story has worked. Rose looks rejuvenated. Laughter does that. It’s like a secret elixir Queenie uses whenever life gets too heavy. And it gets heavy a lot.
    After their laughter fades, they settle into a comfortable silence. The bridge is now in her rear-view mirror. Queenie likes the idea of having Savannah behind her, at least for a while. The road to the barrier islands gives her breathing room. She doesn’t have to worry what rich white people think about her out here. Different rules apply. You are judged by the quality of person you are, not by big houses and fancy cars.
    Rose sniffs something in the air. For a second, she looks like Iris on the scent of a rogue fragrance. “Do you smell fried chicken?” Rose asks.
    Queenie laughs a short laugh. “Well I don’t see any harm in telling Iris’s secret now,” she says.
    “Mother has a secret?”
    “Your mother has lots of secrets. Too many to get into right now. Of course your mama’s secrets never made it into that stupid book. That would defeat the whole purpose.