The Memory Thief (3 page)

“I gotta T-shirt in the trunk. It’s an extra-small, too, that’s why I ain’t give it out yet,” Sissy said, and laughed. “We
never had no extra-small person work here before.”

Hannah took that prized T-shirt and held it loosely. An old ache returned, as real to her as the burn of steam as she reached
across hot buckets for the soap Cora held out. It was uncertainty, that pain that settled in her chest and tightened her lungs.
It was the constant wondering, summed up by the simple question her mind was always whispering:
Is it a sin?
Would God still want her if she wore a T-shirt, if the rules of modesty were broken and fresh air cooled her steamy arms?

She thought about Mother, working furiously at home organizing supplies for the children that passed through the downtown
shelter. Before they even left home, she had contacted the shelter and asked them what they needed most. Immediately after,
she began soliciting corporate donations. And once she settled in and toured the shelter, she started writing letters asking
for help from her Yankee friends.

It was her gift,
organizing
. And within a few weeks, the living room of the shack had been turned into a closet. With stacks of pajamas donated from
department stores. Diapers from local grocery stores. Little baby blankets from her church sewing circle.

Hannah knew what Mother would say. Standing in the middle of projects to be organized, Mother would give her a memorized,
automatic response. She wouldn’t have time to consider—even as she worked in her own polyester sweat-box—the ninety-two-degree
heat. There were children in the world forced to live naked. What did it matter if she was a little hot?

Hannah held the T-shirt up, saw how it would fit her perfectly. The length falling just to the waist of her kool-lots. She
felt the smooth, cool cotton. And imagined how well it would breathe, letting air flow through it and over her skin. The heat
seemed to burn more than usual. Like hell sat under her skin.

She thought of Father. As he worked, somewhere downtown, being paid for his genius. She thought of the sermon, about honoring
the Sabbath, that they recently attended. Afterward they stopped for gas at a little station where the owner pumped it himself.

“It’s not a sin,” Father said. “For that man to be pumping gas today. He’s doing it because he needs to feed his family.”
Then he reminded her about David, about how he ate the holy showbread meant only for priests. “God doesn’t want his children
hungry.”

That was Father’s gift:
mercy
. He followed all the rules himself. But not only did he manage to pardon when others around him didn’t—sometimes he found
value in it.

Mother’s way was easier. She never asked questions or raised doubts. Long ago, she had swallowed the rules. They were the
bones that held her up. But on that ninety-two-degree day, Hannah chose mercy. From the heat. From the sweat. From the polyester
that trapped it all inside.

It was the first time she had ever worn a T-shirt. She was sixteen years old, and how she longed for a mirror at that moment.
Looking down at herself, she saw things she normally only saw in the shower. Like the fact that she had a waist. One that
was normally hidden in the boxy drape of a high-collared men’s-style shirt. But in an extra-small T-shirt, the lines of her
body were clear. She was narrow at the center. The hourglass God had designed her to be. And there was something else. Something
that made her blush and quickly look away. Only to look back down again. She had breasts. Round, full, womanly breasts. They
were still covered. But they were no longer hiding.

She put the long apron on and noticed her skin. The nakedness of her arms, all the way up to her shoulders. They were the
color of milk.

“Gonna wash some buckets or stare at that apron?” Sissy called.

Hannah headed to the corner, where Sissy showed her how to take a steel-wool pad and a drop of soap, and scrub the tin bucket
out.

“We don’t fry nothin’ here,” she said proudly. “They ain’t a drop of hot grease you gotta worry ’bout. Just scrub it, rinse
it good, and set it in the rack to dry. Easiest dishwashin’ job you’ll ever come by.”

The buckets were practically clean, having already been emptied of leftovers. There were some bits of corn or potato occasionally
stuck to the side. But nothing that required any muscle to remove. Hannah washed them quickly.

“I knew you were good,” Cora said approvingly. “Now come over here and let me teach you ’bout the steampot.”

On the stove sat two of the largest pots Hannah had ever seen. She watched as Cora filled them with water and seasonings, then laid coils of sausage, little new potatoes, and halved ears of corn inside.

“I’ll let that get to cookin’,” she said. “Then later I’ll add shrimp, mussels, and oysters. It don’t take but a minute for
that stuff to cook. When the shrimp pinks up and the mussels open, it’s time to spoon it out.”

Cora rang the dinner bell, a rusted old cowbell that hung from the ceiling on a rope. She gave it three sharp bangs, then
motioned for Hannah to bring her some buckets. As she filled them, Hannah smelled the ocean.

“Well, we’re set now,” Cora said, taking two buckets to carry. She motioned for Sissy and Hannah to pick up two as well.

Five picnic tables, gray with age, sat in a half-moon shape. The tables were interesting enough, with holes cut in the middle
of each and trash cans beneath the holes for people to toss shells into. But what really caught Hannah’s eye that evening
was the tree.

Hannah had noticed them in the distance before, but she’d never been so close to an old twisted live oak. Not like the oak
trees of her home, with straight trunks and mitten-shaped leaves. Live oaks were different. With thick squatted trunks, and
massive branches writhing and coiling out. Like the way a small child would draw a tree with scribbled curly lines. Most were
veiled. Draped with sheets of Spanish moss, gray and weeping. Antiquing the trees to match the town, like another dusty Civil
War relic.

“Quit gapin’ at that snake tree and drop them buckets down so you can go get more,” Sissy yelled.

Hannah jumped, set her buckets down and returned to the kitchen for more. She carried buckets out, two by two, and collected
money from everyone that Sissy told her wasn’t staying in the motel. But she kept her eye on the tree. And decided that Sissy
was right. It looked like snakes. Dozens of them curling out from a center nest. Except the tree was beautiful, in a way that
snakes would never be.

Once the tables were full, some ate on the hoods of their cars, pulled as close to the shade of the oak as they could get.
Cora went from person to person, saying hello and asking about family and friends. The whole service took forty-five minutes.
From tossing the raw shrimp in the pot to serving the last table.

“Only do it once a day, same time every day,” said Cora. “I ain’t never been nobody’s short-order cook. They can eat what
I fixed when I fixed it or not. I started it to feed my travelers anyhow. But turned out the locals were hungry, too.”

“C’mon, Hannah,” Sissy called out. “Number Six checked out a couple hours ago. I’ll show you how to git the room ready.”

Hannah followed her inside the motel and down the skinny hallway.

“No maid cart. You gotta carry your own supplies and haul the trash and laundry out. But when folks are stayin’ here, ain’t
much to do for the daily cleanin’. Just make their beds and wipe down the sinks and such. It’s when they check out that the
room gets a good goin’ over. And we treat for roaches and sand fleas at every checkout. This is a clean motel. But that don’t
mean some of our travelers ain’t draggin’ in their own bugs.”

There was a locked closet in the middle of the hall. Sissy took a key from her pocket and opened it to reveal shelves of bleach,
a vacuum, glass cleaner, trash bags, and pesticide spray. She pulled out the bleach and gave it to Hannah with a pair of long
gloves.

“Best git the worst part out of the way,” she said, nodding toward a toilet brush. Hannah pulled her gloves on, trying to
look confident.

“Let me know when you’ve finished that. Shouldn’t be too bad, just a man. Much worse with families. The things kids can do
to a bathroom would shock most folks. And try not to get bleach on your T-shirt. Only extra one we got.”

Sissy unlocked Number Six. Hannah walked inside, turned on the lamp, and looked around. Brown plaid curtains, various shades
of mud squared against one another, hung heavy over the one window. There was one bed, standard size, with more brown plaid
covering it. Next to the bed was a brass lamp with an embroidered shade, little purple violets twirling across it. It seemed
out of place among all that brown plaid, more like something Mother would enjoy making than a motel lamp. A mirror and dresser
stood opposite the bed. There was no TV or phone. Instead a card invited guests to a central lobby, across from the front
desk, to watch TV or make local calls. There was another card, this one framed on the wall nearest the bathroom.

Welcome to Cora’s Steampot Motel, where the rooms are clean and supper is free. This is our home. And for a night or two,
it is yours as well.
A small scripture was printed at the bottom:
I was a stranger and you welcomed me… Matthew 25:35.

Hannah jerked her head away, like she did when she saw nasty words carved into bathroom stalls. She was used to being around
people that didn’t know any scripture at all. But she had never been around someone that used it casually, like in a motel
greeting, almost as if the words were their own. Scripture was holy, only spoken in church and whispered in prayer. Hannah
was amazed that something holy could ever be placed next to common words like
Steampot Motel
. She wondered if that could ever be right. She wished she could ask Mother.

Hannah was overly generous with the bleach, pouring it until she had to use nearly a whole roll of paper towels to dry the
floor. She had never cleaned a bathroom before. Never seen Mother clean one, either. That was Inez’s job.

Inez was the old lady that Mother hired to clean their house every day. It was a woman’s place to clean her home, Mother admitted,
and she insisted on that. But with her constant volunteering, and the sewing that always needed to be done for the shelters,
she gladly hired daily help. Nobody but Inez had ever cleaned any of the four bathrooms in their beautiful brick home.

Inez was an eighty-year-old widow. She didn’t have any retirement, or children to care for her. Mother said letting her tidy
the house and scrub bathrooms was a gift to her. “It allows her freedom,” Mother said. “She can still earn her own living.”

Hannah knelt and inspected the space behind the toilet and the wall, looking for hidden filth. She thought again of Inez,
and what she must think of them. Making mess after mess and never cleaning it themselves. Of course Mother didn’t lie; Inez’s
job meant freedom. But as Hannah reached her hand to wipe away scum, she knew Inez’s job meant something more.
Humble
was the nice word.
Desperate
the true one.

Cora stood in the doorway. “Smells good and bleach-y. The bedroom’s left, but Sissy can show you later how we like it. I’ve
saved you a bucket; you can eat it and then git home quick. It ain’t safe to ride that bike in the dark.”

After eating, Hannah slipped off the T-shirt and put her blouse back on.

“Keep it,” Sissy said, when she saw Hannah hang the T-shirt by the aprons in the kitchen. “You’ll need to wash it up before
next shift.”

Hannah held the shirt in her hand, unsure of what to do.

“I’ll git it clean,” Cora said. “Don’t bother your momma with extra
washin’. I gotta run that load of towels from Number Six through anyway. Be careful goin’ home. Traffic picks up this time
of day.”

But it wasn’t traffic that worried Hannah as she pedaled home. The sun was beginning to set, and it occurred to her how long
she had been gone. She’d never spent the entire day away from home before. As she walked into the shack, it didn’t surprise
her to see Mother frown.

“Where have you been? Your father is out looking for you. I was against that bike from the beginning, and now I see I was
right. It is not safe, especially when you haven’t the sense to come home at a decent time.”

Hannah looked around the room. There were stacks of clothes piled up to her waist. Bethie was turned and sorting them.

“I’m sorry. I found a job today, helping out at a motel and restaurant. I’ve been so busy that I didn’t think about the time.”

“You took a job? Without asking me?”

Father walked in, smiled when he saw Hannah. Mother’s jaw was tight, her eyes narrowed, as she studied Hannah. How her hair
was tumbling in tangles around her, little curls twisting around her temples. How her face was pink and happy. Maybe even
pretty.

“You look unkempt,” she hissed.

“It’s the steam,” Hannah said, her hands going up to her hair. “They make steam buckets there, and the steam does a number
on my hair.”

“Go groom yourself.”

“Wait,” Father said. “Tell me where you’ve been.”

“She has a job. Your father has taken us to eat at the best restaurants in Charleston. We’ve gone on every historic tour possible.
What could you need money for?”

“Nothing. I’ll quit.”

“Bethie and I could have used your help, you know. I have four laundry baskets full of clothes that I still need to wash and
make look like new for the shelter.”

“Why do you have a job?” Father asked.

Hannah shrugged her shoulders. “Saw a sign today, and I don’t really know why, I just decided to see if I could work there.”

“This isn’t like her,” Mother whispered, her hands covering her mouth. “Maybe we should go home.”

“Everybody settle down,” Father said, and sighed. “Hannah, you should’ve called. You worried all of us. You’ll wash up all
that laundry tonight. But you can keep your job if you want. As long as you go to church, too.”