I was wiping a canning lid dry as Mama said, "Oh, Lordy, she'll be wanting her buttermilk and cookies, just when I'm elbow deep in hot tomatoes. Mazie, you take Miz Peach her vittles."
Well, she might as well have said, Mazie, go fling yourself into Hades lake of perpetual fire. No way, no how did I want to trudge up those stairs. Oblivious to my terror, Mama quickly prepared a tray. Truly, I recognized the measure of trust Mama conferred on me to carry out such a responsibility. Yet I stood trembling like a rabbit hiding in a brier patch.
Mama held out the tray. "Move along, girl."
I shook my head, speechless with fright.
Mama's face took on that fetch-me-a-switch look and I knew disobedience would meet with swift and sure punishment to my backside. Caught between the certainty of a whipping and the fear of the unknown, I gripped the tray and turned toward the hallway staircase. Up and up, each creaky step I rose, conjuring images of what horrible sights would meet my eyes at the top. My brothers took fiendish delight in scaring me with Aunt Peach stories on hot summer nights. She ate small children, finding skinny colored girls especially to her taste. She rode a broomstick by the light of the full moon, casting wart spells on the hapless town folk. My knees knocked imagining Aunt Peach's monstrous face.
I almost reached the final stair when the bell clanged once again. The buttermilk wobbled, but by some heavenly deliverance, did not topple. My feet shuffled over the polished hardwood floor as I neared the open doorway. I tucked my chin toward my chest and focused on the glass and cookies on the tray, hoping to avoid seeing the horrors of bats and skeletons dangling from the ceiling.
The clanging stopped as I edged inside. "Well, it's about time," croaked a reedy voice. "You may place my refreshment on this table."
I stole a look across the room. The frail, white woman seated in a cane back rocking chair didn't meet my witchy expectations. Small of body and dressed in layers of lace and gauze, Aunt Peach resembled a fairy more than a witch-a very, very old fairy. Thin pale skin stretched over fine cheekbones, enhanced by a touch of rouge. Fluffy white hair puffed on her head like a cloud. Sky blue eyes tracked my progress toward her.
As I set the food on the doily-covered round table, her trembling fingers reached for a cookie. In that moment I very much doubted her ability to ride a broom in the midnight sky. In fact her hand shook so badly trying to raise the glass of buttermilk; I dashed to her assistance and held the rim to her dainty lips.
She sipped and waved it away. "Blast and double blast," she said. "These days I'm only fit for playing Methuselah. Will you bring my shawl from the foot board, please?"
Courage to explore my surroundings grew as the witchy warnings dissolved like smoke. Aunt Peach inhabited a room more round than square, the top of my imagined castle, eight sided with windows all around. Sheer curtains, dipped in tea for color, hung in swaths at each frame. The room smelled of lilac water and old books, for there were many of them scattered about. One bookcase could not contain them all. They covered two tables, lined the floor next to the bed, and lay stacked against the floorboards. An oak armoire and battered trunk held her clothes and belongings.
I turned in a circle, enraptured by the walls. Instead of fussy landscapes or pictures torn from catalogs, tall posters covered every available space. Women with long, flowing hair embraced muscular men dressed in tight pants. A fine lady in a blood-red gown lifted open hands and gazed forward with great, haunted blue eyes, eyes that reminded me of...
I turned and stared at Aunt Peach. The poster lady's eyes winked back at me in the aged face.
Her lips lifted in a half-smile. "They said of my Lady Macbeth, Peach Knight fascinates and captivates with a powerful portrayal of ambition gone mad. Personally, I considered Portia my greatest role."
My only points of reference for posters were those that hung outside the Luther movie house. I asked, "Was you in picture shows, Miz Peach?"
She scowled. "Picture shows. Mere shadows on a wall. I should say not." Her voice grew stronger. "I was in the theater. Flesh and bone and voice and spirit bringing the age-old classics to life. Picture shows, indeed."
I found the shawl she requested and brought it back to her, gently tucking it around her narrow shoulders. Despite the summer heat, her tired bones took a chill.
She gazed up at me with speculation. "What is your name, child?"
"Mazie, ma'am. Mazie June McDonald."
Peach held out her hand. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss McDonald."
I stared at her hand offered in respect and refinement, as I'd seen folks do on Sunday mornings with the pastor. But never had anyone offered such a greeting to me, the forgotten last youngin' of the sprawling McDonald clan. Sweet warmth filled my belly like sorghum on fresh cornbread.
I grasped Aunt Peach's hand. "Howdy, ma'am."
Her head shook and she whispered in instruction, "Pleased to meet you, ma'am."
I repeated, "Pleased to meet you, ma'am."
She smiled and set her chair to rocking. "Tell me, Mazie, have you ever heard of William Shakespeare, the Bard of Avon?"
)
