Shine - Lauren Myracle [33]
A snapshot of Aunt Tildy:
Long brown hair streaked with gray, because she thought it was vain for a woman to color her hair. I remembered watching her peer at her reflection and tut, saying, “Lord, I’m not ready to look like my mama. I’m too young to look like my mama.” I suspected that if Aunt Tildy did get the gray covered, she’d be as happy as a kid blowing out birthday candles. But she would never. She had rules, and she was big on following them.
The next thing that came to mind was chores, chores, and more chores. Aunt Tildy just loved work, and she loved putting me to work. Christian didn’t have to do as much, because he was a boy. She did insist he make up his bed every day, though, and she made him clean whatever deer, squirrel, and rabbit he shot and brought home. “You kill it; you clean it,” she told him.
Next on the list? Country music. Aunt Tildy had a radio in the kitchen that she listened to all day. She didn’t sing along, because that would be “letting loose,” and she didn’t do that. She didn’t hug me much, either. I figured being prim and proper made her feel safe.
No, that wasn’t quite it. It was more like . . . like life was messy, with snotty noses and first periods and girls crying over the things girls cry about. Aunt Tildy didn’t like messes, and she would prefer to be prim and proper always, but if she absolutely had to step in the muck—if there was no one else to do it, and it had to be done—then she would.
Thinking about that side of Aunt Tildy dredged up other memories. Memories of Tommy. My personal monster-under-the-bed, only it lurked in my heart instead, snapping its sharp teeth when I least expected it.
The few times I tried to talk about it with Aunt Tildy, she just frowned and scrubbed harder on the pot she was scouring. And yes, it hurt, having her pretend it never happened. Aunt Tildy worked for Tommy’s daddy, and she wasn’t going to stir up trouble.
Anyway, nursing my wounded feelings was neither here nor there. What mattered were facts, not feelings, and the facts added up to a single, hard truth. Three years ago, Christian saw what Tommy was doing to me in our living room and did nothing. Aunt Tildy, on the other hand, made Tommy stop, and for that I would always be fiercely grateful.
That brought me to the last detail in my aunt Tildy collage. She was my strongest link to my mother. I was two when Mama died, so my memories of her were dandelion wisps fluttering out of reach. Warmth. Safety. A feeling of home.
Aunt Tildy was Mama’s older sister, and while she wasn’t my mother, she was better than nothing.
Anyway. Missus Marietta loved the rhubarb crumble we brought her. Aunt Tildy was sweet and told Missus Marietta I made it, when really I just did the crumble part. I like lots of brown sugar, so I added twice the normal amount. It looked so pretty when I pulled it out of the oven, the crumbly topping all golden and buttery and chunks of rhubarb popping out here and there, oozing their ruby red juice.
We visited with Missus Marietta for an hour, and I brushed her long silver hair the way she liked. She asked about Patrick, though she called him “that boy, you know the one,” and said it was a crying shame what happened to him.
“There’s folks in Black Creek who ain’t just mean, they were born mean,” she said in her quavery voice. Aunt Tildy started to reproach her, but Missus Marietta would have none of it. “Now, Tilda, I been living in these parts for near on ninety years. I know what I know.”
“But there are also people who are nice,” I ventured, surprised to hear myself saying it.
“Yes, there are,” Missus Marietta conceded. She gave me her toothless smile. “And all three of us are right here in this room.”
On the drive back, Aunt Tildy and I were silent. Just before we reached our house, her hand slid from the wheel, hovered over my leg, and patted me: two quick pats, and then right back to the steering wheel.
“You’re doing real good,” she said, keeping her eyes on the road.
“I am?” I said.
“At . . . at finally