Summertime on the Veranda

“I have to get some lye,” Port said, adjusting his brown fedora.

“Yes,” Magnolia replied, “and get the lavender scented lye soap. I like the way I smell after I bathe with the lavender lye soap.”

Port leaned up against the white railing of the veranda, watching the small breeze toy with the loose wisps of Magnolia’s dirty blonde hair. “In these kind of July afternoons, honey, I would grow lavender just for you.”

Magnolia winked Port’s way, baring her ivory teeth in a sly grin. With a snap of her creamy wrist, her lacquered fan opened exposing a Japanese print of a brown hummingbird spearing a cherry blossom.

“It’s a funny thing,” she began to say, “it can be as hot as a barbeque in Hell, but I will feel just as fine bathing in a tub of steaming water. Then, I sit out on the veranda.”

Port wanted her to continue. With his hands in the pockets of his buttermilk pants, he swung his glistening face toward Magnolia’s with an inquisitive smile.

She tilted her head and smiled again, away from him. A translucent rose had began to bleed under the thin skin of her cheeks. “Around five o’clock in the evening, after I get out of the steaming bath, I sit on the veranda. I feel like my skin is on fire. My fingers feel like cold milk but my arm is like hot chocolate.”

Port took his hat with his hand and wiped his forehead. “Like the boiling water we dunk the chickens in,” he said.

Magnolia was unsure how to retort while the blood drained from her cheeks. “Yes, yes I do believe.”

There was a hush over the veranda.

“Isn’t it time for the frogs to come out croaking?” she asked no one in particular.

“Magnolia, Magnolia,” Port chuckled, “It’s only 4:30 in the afternoon. And, I believe that I can say afternoon because, honey, it won’t get dark until late, late 9 o’clock. It will get pitch dark then. Damn dark.”

“Then, Port, you have a half an hour to find me lavender scented lye soap,” said Magnolia, clapping her lacquered fan closed.

Port tipped his hat and a pearl of sweat shimmied passed his lip.

“Okay then, bye bye now.” Magnolia backed toward the porch door waving her white gloved hand. “I have to get the water hot.”

Magnolia disappeared into the house, but before Port could leap off the last step of the porch she came back.

“Port, wait.” She held out her fist, stretching her arm as far as it went in front of Port.

“What’s this here?” he asked, his hands in his pockets and edging his sticky face toward Magnolia more and more.

She shook her fist without say a word, only smiling stiffly. Port did not comply.

“Here, here,” she insisted. Finally, he held out his palm. “These are dried lavender petals from Mama’s arrangement.”

In Port’s palm were about ten or twelve lavender petals, dried and with the texture of seeds. Their pallid violet-gray was admirable.

Port did not say another word as he concealed his hand with the lavender back into his pocket.

Tipping his head, there was a short shadow flashing over his brow from his brown fedora. Striding onto the path away from the house, Port periodically looked back at Magnolia as she backed into the house and heard the door lock behind her.