high-pitched and scratchy with age, and her accent is pure Lowcountry, peppered with dropped consonants and abbreviations.
Cooper clears his throat. “Yes, ma’am. We’re here to see the Grannie.”
She cocks her head. “Grannie? You buckruh ought to recognize I can’t be your kin. Run along now and find your own relations.”
Jack’s brow furrows. “What’d she call us?”
I huff. “It’s the Gullah word for white people. God, haven’t you learned anything after eight summers down here?” I whisper.
Cooper flashes his warm and honest smile. “Yes, ma’am, we know you’re not our grandmother, but our friend sent us here to get some help.”
The old woman gingerly steps out onto the porch in a floral housedress and thick orthopedic shoes. “Who sent you here?”
Jack steps forward and lifts his bandaged hand. “Maggie. She said you could fix my hand.”
The woman crosses her withered arms in front of her chest. “I don’t know no Maggie. You best get a move on, and don’t mess with my bottle tree. Don’t think I don’t know about you comeyah , trying to steal my bottles for a vacation keepsake. Though I should let you and watch what happens.” She cackles and turns back toward her door.
No! She can’t leave. For some reason I can’t explain, I need her to stay. Lurching forward, I stand next to Jack. “But ma’am, we’re not comeyah .” I call, repeating the Gullah word for a newcomer. As much as I doubted Maggie for dragging us here, now that I’ve seen this lady’s kind face, I’m sure she’s the one to help us. Now I’ve just got to convince her.
She stops and turns, hitching a gray brow.
“Cooper’s family has lived on St. Helena’s forever, so they’re as close to binyah as you get,” I say, thumbing my hand in his direction. Her face softens, so I continue. “Our dad’s family is from here, too. We visit him every summer. My brother Jack’s hurt, and we really need your help.” I lift his bandaged hand again.
The woman grips the doorjamb to stabilize herself and calls across the yard, “What’s wrong with him?”
“I’ve got a burn, and it seems to be getting worse,” Jack answers.
She narrows her gaze. “Worse?”
He nods. “Yes, ma’am. It’s blistered and pretty painful.”
She sighs and waves us up to the rickety porch. “Well, come on up here and show it to me. And be quick about it. I’m ninety-seven years old. I can’t stand here all day.”
I’m shocked. I mean, it’s obvious she’s old, but I’d never guess that old. She seems way too full of spunk to have lived for almost a century. But then again, maybe it takes a lot of spunk to get that old.
We follow the path to the house and bound onto the porch, which is probably a dumb move, seeing as the floorboards are likely to crumble under our feet. The woman settles into one of the old wooden rocking chairs and points her crooked finger toward the one next to her, directing Jack to sit.
“Thanks so much for your help, ma’am.” He sits on the cracked seat and holds out his hand. Grateful that Jack knows how to be polite and drop his attitude when it’s important, I place my messenger bag on the porch and sit in the third chipped chair, while Cooper sits on the splintered floor next to me.
She takes his hand in hers and slowly unwraps the bandage with her gnarled fingers. “So you’re Jack?” She squints up at him through a cloudy blue cataract in her right eye. Her veiny hand shakes as she unwinds the gauze, but it’s clear she’s done this a million times.
“Yes, ma’am. Jack Guthrie. And this is my twin sister, Emma.”
“Twins, eh? You don’t look alike. My name’s Cordelia Whittaker, but you can call me Miss Delia.”
Cooper leans toward her, extending his hand. “And I’m Cooper Beaumont.”
Ignoring Cooper’s gesture, she tenses and grips Jack’s hand instead. “Beaumont?” she asks, staring at Cooper. Jack whimpers, but she doesn’t seem to notice, focusing
Cooper clears his throat. “Yes, ma’am. We’re here to see the Grannie.”
She cocks her head. “Grannie? You buckruh ought to recognize I can’t be your kin. Run along now and find your own relations.”
Jack’s brow furrows. “What’d she call us?”
I huff. “It’s the Gullah word for white people. God, haven’t you learned anything after eight summers down here?” I whisper.
Cooper flashes his warm and honest smile. “Yes, ma’am, we know you’re not our grandmother, but our friend sent us here to get some help.”
The old woman gingerly steps out onto the porch in a floral housedress and thick orthopedic shoes. “Who sent you here?”
Jack steps forward and lifts his bandaged hand. “Maggie. She said you could fix my hand.”
The woman crosses her withered arms in front of her chest. “I don’t know no Maggie. You best get a move on, and don’t mess with my bottle tree. Don’t think I don’t know about you comeyah , trying to steal my bottles for a vacation keepsake. Though I should let you and watch what happens.” She cackles and turns back toward her door.
No! She can’t leave. For some reason I can’t explain, I need her to stay. Lurching forward, I stand next to Jack. “But ma’am, we’re not comeyah .” I call, repeating the Gullah word for a newcomer. As much as I doubted Maggie for dragging us here, now that I’ve seen this lady’s kind face, I’m sure she’s the one to help us. Now I’ve just got to convince her.
She stops and turns, hitching a gray brow.
“Cooper’s family has lived on St. Helena’s forever, so they’re as close to binyah as you get,” I say, thumbing my hand in his direction. Her face softens, so I continue. “Our dad’s family is from here, too. We visit him every summer. My brother Jack’s hurt, and we really need your help.” I lift his bandaged hand again.
The woman grips the doorjamb to stabilize herself and calls across the yard, “What’s wrong with him?”
“I’ve got a burn, and it seems to be getting worse,” Jack answers.
She narrows her gaze. “Worse?”
He nods. “Yes, ma’am. It’s blistered and pretty painful.”
She sighs and waves us up to the rickety porch. “Well, come on up here and show it to me. And be quick about it. I’m ninety-seven years old. I can’t stand here all day.”
I’m shocked. I mean, it’s obvious she’s old, but I’d never guess that old. She seems way too full of spunk to have lived for almost a century. But then again, maybe it takes a lot of spunk to get that old.
We follow the path to the house and bound onto the porch, which is probably a dumb move, seeing as the floorboards are likely to crumble under our feet. The woman settles into one of the old wooden rocking chairs and points her crooked finger toward the one next to her, directing Jack to sit.
“Thanks so much for your help, ma’am.” He sits on the cracked seat and holds out his hand. Grateful that Jack knows how to be polite and drop his attitude when it’s important, I place my messenger bag on the porch and sit in the third chipped chair, while Cooper sits on the splintered floor next to me.
She takes his hand in hers and slowly unwraps the bandage with her gnarled fingers. “So you’re Jack?” She squints up at him through a cloudy blue cataract in her right eye. Her veiny hand shakes as she unwinds the gauze, but it’s clear she’s done this a million times.
“Yes, ma’am. Jack Guthrie. And this is my twin sister, Emma.”
“Twins, eh? You don’t look alike. My name’s Cordelia Whittaker, but you can call me Miss Delia.”
Cooper leans toward her, extending his hand. “And I’m Cooper Beaumont.”
Ignoring Cooper’s gesture, she tenses and grips Jack’s hand instead. “Beaumont?” she asks, staring at Cooper. Jack whimpers, but she doesn’t seem to notice, focusing
Similar Books
