Grace, Grits and Ghosts Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Introduction

  Temple Secrets

  The Mail Slot

  The End

  Gullah Secrets

  Country Obituary - #1

  Country Obituary - #2

  River Reunion

  Scarlett and Rhett Redux

  The Secret Sense of Wildflower

  Other Books by Susan Gabriel

  Grace, Grits and Ghosts:

  Southern Short Stories

  Susan Gabriel

  Grace, Grits and Ghosts: Southern Short Stories

  Copyright © 2015 by Susan Gabriel

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by Elizabeth DiPalma Design +

  Author's website: www.SusanGabriel.com

  Also by Susan Gabriel

  Fiction

  The Secret Sense of Wildflower

  (a Best Book of 2012 – Kirkus Reviews)

  Temple Secrets

  Seeking Sara Summers

  Young adult

  Circle of the Ancestors

  Quentin & the Cave Boy

  Nonfiction

  Fearless Writing for Women:

  Extreme Encouragement & Writing Inspiration

  Available at all booksellers

  in print, ebook and audio formats.

  Introduction

  When I became a writer twenty years ago, I swore that I would never, ever write southern fiction. Perhaps it was because I had more than a few odd southern characters in my gene pool that I would have liked to forget. Like many with young and rebellious spirits, I wanted to divorce myself from the South and from its sometimes backward ways and write literary fiction set in other locations. Distant places I’d only visited, instead of the ones I’d been rooted in. And, like many of us, what I set out to avoid is exactly what I found myself doing.

  My “never say never” moment happened in the middle of the night one summer many years ago (about six years after I’d made that promise) when a character by the name of Louisa May “Wildflower” McAllister started talking to me out of a dream. I heard her voice as clearly as my own. Since I am a writer, and also a Southerner, I figure I get to be a little crazy, so I hesitated only momentarily before I started writing down what she told me and continued to do so in the weeks and months that followed.

  Over a decade later those writings became a novel, The Secret Sense of Wildflower. To my delight, the book was given a starred review by the esteemed Kirkus Reviews, which named it to their Best Book of 2012 list. I also have a short story by the same name, the last story in this collection. The Secret Sense of Wildflower is considered southern gothic, or southern historical fiction, although any true Southerner would call it normal, everyday life.

  One of the things that makes southern fiction “southern” is its sense of place. Not only are the characters quirky and sometimes bigger than life, but they are also grounded in the landscape. Throw in a crackpot, an old wise woman and a preacher, and we love it even more. We southerners, those born-and-raised like me, as well as transplants from all over the world, love our countryside.

  Abandoned houses, cemeteries, eccentric relatives, even murderers and rapists show up in southern gothic fiction. These tales contain flawed, bigger-than-life characters—characters who are quirky, intense, and often commit a necessary sin to set them firmly on the path to seeking redemption. Or not.

  Southern gothic fiction is packed with mystery, rooted in the landscape where the South itself is a character that is haunted by the past. Ghosts show up to remind us of our history, and perhaps our need to transform it.

  The eight short stories in Grace, Grits and Ghosts: Southern Short Stories are set in the southeastern United States and have their share of quirky, poignant and deep characters.

  Temple Secrets takes place in a mansion in Savannah, Georgia and is narrated by Queenie, the funny half-sister of Iris Temple, a prominent Savannah matriarch. Please note that it is also the only story in my twenty-year writing career that contains several occurrences of flatulence. Forgive me. I kept trying to edit it out, but—like Iris—it refused to go away. This short story is also adapted from a longer work, a novel by the same name. Novelists, like me, frequently create a short story from a longer work, just as short story writers often turn one of their short pieces into a novel.

  The Mail Slot is set in another old mansion, this one past its glory days, in Atlanta, Georgia. The main character, Allison Whitworth, fears leaving her house. As a former psychotherapist, my stories often have characters with interesting psychological traits. This story came to me during a writer’s workshop with Marge Piercy.

  The End was first published in Cease, Cows literary journal, and is a piece of flash fiction, a short, short story. After I experienced a hot flash in the middle of the night, I awoke to write this flash fiction (no pun intended) told by a man who just turned fifty. I get some of my best characters from dreams.

  Gullah Secrets takes place in the 1960s on an island off the coast of South Carolina and is told in the voice of Old Sally, a Gullah woman whose mother was a slave. This is also a story pulled from the novel, Temple Secrets, so you will read about some of the same characters you met in the first short story in this collection.

  Country Obituary - #1 is another work of flash fiction and takes place in the fictional small town of Jacob’s Ridge in North Carolina. I wrote it specifically for this short story collection after being inspired by an obituary in our small town newspaper.

  Country Obituary – #2 After reading Country Obituary – #1, you may find this obituary especially poignant. I created these characters from my imagination, however they feel like they might have lived right down the road. I wish I’d known them in real life.

  River Reunion is the newest short story in the collection and is more representative of what I like to think of as the new South. The characters—four women in their seventies—have already been through the rough stuff and are well on their way to transformation. I hope you love these gals as much as I do.

  Scarlett & Rhett Redux is another flash fiction story, told by a male narrator who comes upon an elderly couple pushing a baby carriage. Something similar happened to me, although I came across them on a walking trail in the North Carolina mountains. I changed the setting to historic St. Augustine, Florida, simply because that's where my imagination wanted to go with it. This story is an example of southern humor.

  The Secret Sense of Wildflower (a short story based on the book by the same name) is historical fiction, set in the Appalachian mountains of 1940s Tennessee. It is narrated by a resilient and courageous 12-year-old girl nicknamed Wildflower as she comes of age and faces danger, death and new life.

  With the exception of the three years I lived in Colorado, I have lived in the Southeastern United States my entire life. I grew up in Knoxville, Tennessee, in the foothills of the Great Smoky Mountains. Then as an adult I lived in Charleston, South Carolina for fourteen years. After Hurricane Hugo’s devastation, I went searching for higher ground and ended up in Asheville, North Carolina.

  Since 2009 I have lived in the small town of Brevard, NC, nestled in the arms of the Blue Ridge Mountains, a place known for waterfalls, forests and hiking trails. A place that houses not only a fine liberal arts college, but an intern
ationally renowned music festival. A place with mountain bikers, white squirrels, and a squirrelly character or two. I study them all to get new material for my stories.

  Some may look disdainfully at the South’s sleepy little towns. But in a nation that is sleep-deprived, stressed-out, and searching for answers, a little slower pace makes sense. It’s true, we have a different rhythm here. It is the rhythm of waterfalls, mountain streams and walks by the river, of a front porch welcoming locals and visitors alike to ponder their place and purpose on earth.

  It wasn’t until I left the South that I realized how deeply southern I am. I love shade. I love moss growing on trees, and the warm, humid breezes that flow along the southern coasts. I love people who take the time to ponder, mosey, and sit a spell. I am one of those people.

  As I sit here overlooking the Blue Ridge Mountains, located in one of the most lush and bio-diverse areas in the world, I invite you to read these stories and let the land speak to you. Even if you’re not from around here, you will catch a glimpse of a special place. A place where Native Americans thought the story of creation began. A place that gave birth to the third oldest river in the world. A place that I love and call home.

  I hope you enjoy Grace, Grits and Ghosts: Southern Short Stories. Please consider letting me know what you think by writing a review on Amazon and Goodreads. Or you can email me. I'm easy to find. Either way I’d love to hear from you.

  --- Susan Gabriel

  Temple Secrets

  (a short story based on the novel)

  Iris Temple had been threatening to die for three decades and most of the people in Savannah who knew her, wanted her to get on with it. Queenie looked up from the crime novel she’d hidden within the pages of Southern Living magazine and took in the figure across the sun room of her half-sister, Iris Temple. Everything about Iris spoke of privilege: the posture, the clothes, the understated jewels. Not to mention a level of entitlement that made Queenie’s head ache. An exasperated moan slipped from her mouth before she could catch it.

  Iris’s gaze shifted to Queenie and her eyes narrowed, the adjoining crow’s feet forming a close-knit flock. The look delivered the message that even though Queenie was solidly middle-aged, she was to be seen and not heard like a child.

  As Iris Temple’s companion for the last thirty-five years, Queenie lived the lifestyle of a Temple, instead of a Temple servant like her mother, grandmother and great grandmother. With the precision of a Swiss clock, Queenie was reminded daily that she was not a true Temple—though they shared the same father—any more than Sunny Delight orange drink was considered real orange juice. She was simply a watered-down Temple—albeit several shades darker.

  Every morning, Iris studied the local newspaper in the lavish sun room facing the prominent Savannah square. Wicker furniture with rich fabrics mingled among antiques and tropical plants, as gold elephants the size of laundry baskets offered their polished backs to hold Iris’s porcelain teacup.

  Focused on the society section, Iris licked her lips as though relishing the fact that the Temples were one of the elite Savannah families. Her photograph appeared in the newspaper with a regularity that her bowels rarely achieved. As if on cue, Iris’s stomach gurgled and she shifted her weight onto one hip and rose ever so slightly to produce the noxious result. Queenie might have felt sorry for Iris if she were treated more kindly. Instead, she bit her tongue to keep from saying:

  Iris, honey, they say humans pass gas 14 times a day, but you hold the Guinness Book of World Records!

  For years, Iris Temple’s unpredictable illnesses, usually of a gastrointestinal nature, manipulated everyone around her. Just last week, a stomachache had canceled a Daughter’s of the Confederacy charity event and gas pains dismantled a family reunion planned for over a decade. Any societal unpleasantness was quickly dissipated with a severe attack of acid reflux, followed by an acute bout of flatulence, guaranteed to clear any gathering. To what did Iris Temple attribute these ailments? Gullah voodoo.

  Within seconds, the odor’s flight path reached Queenie and she held her breath as Iris turned the page.

  “Oh my word, listen to this,” Iris said, oblivious to her own fumes. She waited for Queenie to raise her eyes and then began to read.

  “Miss Iris Temple, of the Savannah Temples, will be hosting the 20th annual charity bazaar for the Junior League on this coming Saturday. The grand matriarch, also known as Savannah’s grandmother--” Iris balked and looked as though she’d swallowed something bitter. “Savannah’s grandmother? Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

  “Oh, I’m sure it is, Iris,” Queenie answered, all the while thinking, never mind that you have only one grandchild you’ve never even met and don’t have a nurturing bone in your body.

  Queenie anticipated what would follow: Iris’s angry letter to the newspaper on gold embossed Temple stationary that would insist the reporter be dismissed, and Queenie ordered to deliver the bad news.

  Voodoo or not, most people—including Queenie—considered Iris Temple a first class fake. What she blamed on folk magic was merely an excuse to bring the fancy families and institutions of Savannah under her control.

  And if that doesn’t work, there’s always that damn ledger, kept in a safe deposit box at the bank, Queenie thought. A ledger that documented hundreds of secrets about different Savannah families. Secrets their great-grandfather Cyrus Temple had begun collecting before the Civil War, and that every Temple had contributed to since.

  Well, not every Temple, Queenie thought. Iris has never asked my thoughts on anything, never mind what I’d like to put in that secret book.

  Iris had noted every affair of prominent men, their illegitimate children, mental illnesses of wives, and any dishonest money dealings she’d ever been privy to. According to Iris, Queenie had two entire pages devoted to her. Given the Temple family’s inclination to lie if it benefited them, Queenie questioned how many of those so called secrets were true.

  Lunch was served in the dining room, a room that could easily pass as a stage set for a BBC mini-series. Iris sat at the head of the elongated table while Queenie took her place at the far end of the mahogany monster, a safe distance away from any future gastrointestinal distress.

  “Did you call the restaurant about tonight?” Iris asked.

  “Yes, Iris, it’s all been arranged,” she said, already bored with the litany of questions sure to follow. Meanwhile, Queenie nibbled on what passed for grass but was really watercress and glanced at her half-sister seated at the other end of the table.

  Only you, Iris, would counteract a voodoo curse by following a strict diet consisting of no sauces, no spices, and no intermingling of foods. You might as well eat the Temple Book of Secrets!

  Part of Queenie’s job as Iris’s assistant was to make certain that chefs in downtown establishments followed her strict dietary restrictions. Queenie knew chefs didn’t like to be told what to do. But if any failed to meet Iris’s requirements, Iris made sure they never worked in Savannah again.

  “And did you tell them about my special condition?” Iris’s pinkie finger saluted the chandelier as she ate a bland-looking soup. “You know how delicate I am,” she added. “Fragrances make me nauseous.”

  “Yes, Iris. I made them aware,” Queenie said, thinking Iris was about as delicate as a piranha.

  Fragrances included perfumes and scented body powders, soaps, shampoos and detergents. Every maître d’ in town had been alerted not to sit Iris next to anyone who might fall under the scrutiny of her superior olfactory system.

  After swallowing another mouthful, Iris asked, “What about the Catholic charities meeting tomorrow?” She forked in some salad sans dressing.

  “I’ll see to it, Iris.” Queenie had to resist rolling her eyes. It would be more of a charity for Savannah if Iris didn’t show up, she thought.

  For the privilege of living in the big house as Iris Temple’s companion, Queenie cringed at the price demanded of her. Among other things
, she was required to arrive thirty minutes early to every meeting of the Junior League, the Daughters of the Confederacy and any other event that Iris Temple was scheduled to attend to ensure that they were fragrance free. On those days, Queenie felt like little more than a trained bloodhound, sniffing at the heels of Savannah’s elite. More than once Queenie had approached prominent Savannah residents to request they go to the restroom and scrub off expensive perfumes. This seldom went over well, leaving Queenie to feel darker than she already was.

  Queenie knew how the rich women of Savannah felt about her. She had overheard their whispers, their cutting remarks about her color, her place. No matter what she did, they—like Iris—would never see her as legitimate. They would never see her for the woman she was. And of course they never considered the burden Queenie carried because of Iris’s insistence that she play Prissy to her Scarlett O’Hara, simply to have a decent existence.

  Yet deep down Queenie knew she was as entitled to her life as Iris was, as well as what their daddy left behind when he passed over.

  “I smelled one of those horrible dryer sheets yesterday,” she began again, her nose upturned. The clicking of Iris’s spoon against the soup bowl competed with the grating sound of her voice.

  Queenie sighed. Besides listening to the incessant demands of her half-sister, the worst part of her job involved the periodic sleuth for scents as she strolled the affluent Savannah square where the Temple house stood. During this surveillance, she made certain the housekeepers in the area weren’t using scented dryer sheets. Otherwise, said housekeepers risked losing their jobs and their employers risked having their secrets revealed. Secrets Iris had told them were stored in the bank vault.