He laughs. “No, ma’am.”
Somehow, I thought that was going to be his answer. If I replace it, Mom will complain that it’s not the same and she’ll want the old one put back. If I have it repaired, she’ll notice something’s different and want the old pieces put back. If I have it restored, it’ll cost me a lot of money. “Where can I get a second opinion?” On the upside, all three options will make Mom happy because she’ll get to see Simon more often.
“I’m in the business of giving my opinion, but you’re free to find someone on the internet.”
I guess that means he’s unwilling to suggest anyone else.
“If I were you, I’d get a plumber out here first, before some of those pipes rust out.”
The plumbing definitely needs repair. The knot in the crook in my neck gets tighter and it’s so humid my dusty silk blouse starts to stick to my skin. “I’m afraid to ask, but what about the electrical wiring?”
“I noticed the hundred-foot extension cord.” He chuckles as he shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans, his thumbs hooked over the tops and pointed at his fly.
Not that I look.
“There are two outdoor power posts, one on either side of the house. One’s about ten feet out from the library window.” He takes a hand from his pocket and points. “Making that one there about thirty feet closer than the kitchen.”
Yeah, I know. I’m bad with measurements.
“You should probably have an electrician come out, just to be on the safe side.”
I half-jokingly ask, “Are we going to burn to death in a fiery inferno?”
One corner of his mouth kicks up. “I doubt it will be an inferno.”
That’s about as reassuring as his smile, and I’ve gone from half joking to half panic.
“Y’all should be fine.” His smile turns to a grin, the same one he wore when he told me that I was sitting where “we laid poor old Jasper out.” He rocks back on the heels of his boots and adds, “The outlets will likely blow a fuse before throwing sparks.”
Fuses? Throwing sparks? “Tell me you’re kidding.”
“Partly.”
“Which part?”
“The throwing sparks part.”
What does that mean? “So, will the fuses likely blow, or are we going to die in an inferno?”
He stares at me for several moments like I’m slow in the head. “No… sparks. I was pulling your leg.” I must look as skeptical as I feel, because he adds, “I’ve worked on this house for close to twenty-five years now. I said y’all should be fine.”
“Twenty-five years and the house is falling apart?” His brows lower over his eyes. “No offense.”
“Uh-huh.” He adjusts the brim of his hat. “It was always feast or famine with Jasper and restoration. When he could afford me, he’d call, and we’d get to work on his latest project.”
That would explain why some parts of the house are more time-warped than others. “Why didn’t he hire someone more affordable and get the bathrooms fixed, too?” I know that’s probably rude, but I’m genuinely curious.
He shrugs. “You get what you pay for.” He answers my next question before I can ask it. “We’re standing on one of the restorations I did for him.”
I glance up and down the veranda, looking for cracks and peeling paint, but there are none. In the light of day, it’s in beautiful condition. The wrought iron is shiny black, and the crisp white balustrades and railing look as I imagine they did when the house was built.
“That side”—he points to his left—“fell off about three years ago.”
Of course it did. “How much to get someone to check the pipes for leaks? And the electric, just to be on the safe side.”
He shakes his head. “I’m not an electrician or a plumber.”
“Can you suggest someone?” I ask before I remember he isn’t in the suggestion business and I should try the internet.
“Sure.” There’s a heavy crash like someone dropped a part of Great-grandmother’s bed. “I’ll give you some names before I leave,” he says over his shoulder as he walks into the house.
I follow behind him and sneeze only twice as I quickly move to Great-grandfather’s room across the hall. My memories of this room are more vivid than those of other rooms. The furniture isn’t as massive as I recall from childhood memory, but it does conjure visions of Henry VIII. The focal point is the imposing half tester bed with leaping stags carved into the head- and footboards. The half tester is held up with two carved posts and adorned with a big set of antlers.
By the time I was born, Great-grandfather was long dead, and this is the room Mother and I always used when we visited. I remember being terrified that the two posts would snap and the tester would smash me flat in the middle of the night. Or that the antlers would fall off and run me through. Mother used to laugh and tell me stories of when she used to jump and roll all around on the bed as a kid.
That did not reassure me.
This room is the mirror opposite of the one across the hall but is definitely more suited for a man. The walls are covered with faded murals portraying men hunting everything from deer to ducks. Over the black marble fireplace hangs a big painting of a white horse named General, according to the writing on the dusty frame. No portrait of a wife or family. Just a horse.
I move to the windows looking out at the backyard, overgrown hedges, and the garçonnière beyond. The glass is wavy and in dire need of a cleaning, but I can catch glimpses of sunlight like tiny pieces of tinfoil bobbing in the lazy bayou. Here and there I can see remnants of the past that have yet to be completely taken over by kudzu and honeysuckle. At one time, Sutton Hall was a working sugar plantation with all that implies—but, of course, we don’t talk about that. There are a lot of things we Suttons don’t talk about.
A white wrought-iron bench tilts to one side in the overgrown garden below, and a tall rusted pipe sticks up from a crumbling fountain. All that’s left of the original kitchen, to my right, are a big iron pot and a decaying brick foundation.
As I look out, I feel neither the familial pride nor the longing that Mother feels about this place. I see a sad past gone to ruin, and I wonder why someone would leave a bench to rust in the elements.
Behind the garage I can see the cobblestone path that leads to the cemetery and towering white tombs. Mother will want to go to those tombs and pay a visit to the glorious dead. I’m not a scaredy-cat like Lindsey, but I’m not looking forward to it. I don’t want to think about Mother dying or get into a discussion about what she wants engraved on her tombstone. I don’t want my memories of our time at Sutton Hall to be overshadowed by the talk of death.
“The boys tell me you’re a love expert.”
I turn toward Simon as he enters the room. I knew it was only a matter of time before the news got out.
“They want to ask about your tips for impressing women.”
“They or you?”
One corner of his mouth turns up. “I got that part covered.”
I’ll just bet he does. I hold up three fingers and count off the basics. “Take a shower. Bar nuts aren’t a dinner date. Don’t call your ex-girlfriend a bitch until at least the third date.”
“You get paid for that?” he scoffs as he shakes his head. “Shoot, you need to come up with something that their mommas didn’t teach them a long time ago. No offense.”
“Uh-huh.” I raise my fingers once more. “Brush your teeth,” I count off. “Squirrel is not a protein choice. Don’t date your sister.”
He raises a brow. “Or marry your first cousin.”
He got me on that one. I laugh and raise a fourth finger. “Never swim in your own gene pool.”
“I’ll let the guys know your expert tips.” He points to the room across the hall and changes the subject. “The furniture is ready to go downstairs. Do y’all want to paint the room before we set it up?”
“Mom says no.” I don’t feel like an expert on anything anymore. Least of all
on dating. “She wants to keep everything the same as she remembers.”
“I should have guessed.” He chuckles. “Y’all Suttons cling to your clutter. At the end of the day, you can’t take your hoarded treasures with you to the grave.”
“I don’t really know my family.” The room is filled with oversize furniture, but I wouldn’t call it cluttered. Not like the back staircase. “But they don’t seem to be hoarders.”
“Have you been in the attic?”
“Never.” As a child, I was scared shitless just looking at the closed door. Coming back as a savvy, well-traveled, educated adult, I still find it spooky as hell. I don’t believe in spooky stuff, but after last night, I’m not a nonbeliever either. “Is it bad?”
“I wouldn’t recommend going up there without a pith helmet and camp shovel.”
I look up at the ceiling, and I think I can safely predict that I won’t be climbing the stairs at the end of the hall anytime soon.
“Jasper had a running catalog in his head of every last thing crammed up there. That fireplace screen Ms. Patricia’s asked about is probably hidden in a chest or hanging from the rafters.”
“Maybe she’ll forget,” I say, even though I know Mom will forget what she had for breakfast before she forgets about that screen.
“Some folks say the Suttons are short on common sense but have long memories. That was true with Jasper.”
“What folks?” Did I just say “folks”? I never say “folks.” It sounds so… folksy. Then again, I never thought I’d say the f-word either. Welcome to my new life.
“The old families still living in the parish. The Guidrys.” His boots stir up dust as he moves to the windows and looks out. “The Browns at Roselea. My folks are still in the big house at Sugar Hill.” He looks off in the distance and places his hand on the window casing. “Ms. Patricia probably remembers my maman, Mazie Landers. They’re about the same age and Maman remembers every one and ’em.”
I lean a hip into the footboard and cross my arms beneath my breasts. “Mom has Alzheimer’s. Her long-term memory is better than her short-term, so she might remember.”
He drops his hand and slowly turns toward me. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“That’s why we’re here.” I unfold one arm long enough to point in the cemetery’s general direction. “She wants to be buried next to Grandmother.”
“Of course,” he says, as if I’d told him water is wet and money is green.
“I hope that isn’t for a while, but no one knows. She could live for five more years or pass away in six months.” I drop my hands to my sides and shake my head. “This house will fall down around our ears if we last more than five years.”
“Nah. The wood rot isn’t that bad.”
“Tell me you’re pulling my leg again.”
“You’re in bayou country. Can’t get away from wood rot.” He points toward the hall with his chin. “It’s just about empty over there. Do you want some of this furniture moved into that room?”
My brain is still on wood rot, and I mentally shake my head. I hadn’t thought about moving things around up here, but the windows are better in Great-grandmother’s room, and the view’s better too. I like throwing open the double doors and walking out onto the veranda. Especially now that I know it’s not going to collapse.
We stand side by side, his shoulder on the same level as my ear, and stare up at the half tester. One of the men could get an eye poked out, and I don’t even know if I have homeowner’s insurance. “It’s heavy.”
“Several hundred pounds, for sure.”
“Do you want to move it?”
“Do you want to sleep on it?”
I glance at him. “If it’s moved, will it fit back together, solid like it is now?”
He shrugs. “Sure. Why not?”
“I don’t want to get impaled in the middle of the night.” What if it has wood rot or the screws are stripped? I’d be alone, pinned to the mattress or smashed like a pancake, Mom’s snores cracking the plaster walls and reverberating from the monitor, and no one to hear my screams. “Will bolts fall out if I roll around and shake the bed?”
“Mais.” He looks at me out of the corners of his eyes, which seem to turn deeper green when he asks, “What’re you planning, tee Lou Ann?”
10
Mom says periwinkle. I see red.
SOMETIME DURING dinner, Raphael reappeared in his cage. I wonder where he’s been hiding out and if he’s responsible for the shredded roll of toilet paper in Mom’s bathroom.
“Where have you been?” I am very careful not to startle him as I slide my hand inside his cage and place his water crock in the brackets. His eyes are closed, and I gingerly pull my hand back out. “It took half a bottle of Lysol kitchen cleaner to get rid of your little gift in the kitchen.” He yawns and sticks out his creepy pink-and-black tongue. “If you do it again, no more tasty seed sticks for you.” His beady eyes open and stare right at me. “Pretty bird,” I lie, so he won’t get uppity before I can finish feeding him. Down the hall, Mother’s television is blasting out game shows; Lindsey is in her room upstairs. Once again, I am left to deal with this crazy bird on my own. He watches me as I hang his food bowl. “Such a nice boy.” To prove me wrong, he screeches like I’ve plunged a knife into his naked breast.
My wrist bumps the cage as I jerk my hand out. “You’re an asshole, Raphael.” I firmly close the cage door and make sure it’s shut tight this time. No more nocturnal flights for him.
I follow the sound of Mom’s television, hoping to spend a little time with her before saying good night. She and Lindsey set up her room earlier while I worked. And by that, I mean Lindsey set up her room earlier while Mom pointed and ordered her about.
Mom sits on the side of her four-poster bed wearing a lacy black nightgown; her hair falls down her back in rich brown waves. A rumpled bag of Pirate’s Booty is next to her right hand. Minus the popcorn, the room looks like an old bordello with rich red-and-gold bedding and fancy pillows. “The House of the Rising Sun” plays in my head as the scene is indelibly burnt in my brain.
“There is one letter p,” Pat Sajak announces from a big TV sitting on the walnut mantel.
“Peter Piper!” Mom yells out.
I don’t tell her that’s three p’s. “How do you like it in here?”
She shakes her head. “No fireplace screen.”
After everything that was moved in here for her, she’s still complaining about that stupid fireplace screen. I’m tempted to tell her Wynonna stole it in hopes she’ll eventually move on. Oh wait, I’m talking about my mother, who hasn’t moved on from the loss of her kitten heels years ago.
“I can’t change the channel.” She points the remote across the room and jabs at the buttons with her finger.
Without saying a word, I take the remote from her hand and turn it the right way. I don’t want to embarrass her, so I say, “That remote is tricky.” Her brow is creased as she stares at the television control, and I add, “I get it mixed up all the time.”
“Do you need glasses?”
“No.” I shake my head and ask through a yawn, “Do you want me to braid your hair, so it won’t be tangled when you get up?”
She nods, and I grab a brush and a hair elastic from her nightstand. When I was young, I brushed her hair for hours while we watched TV together. “Remember when I gave you side buns like Princess Leia?”
“Who?” she asks, and reaches for Booty.
“No one.” I slide the elastic around my wrist and brush the tangles from her long, dark hair. “Do you want me to take you to get your ends trimmed?”
“G,” she calls out around a mouth filled with popcorn.
I glance at the television. “Paris is for lovers.”
“What?”
“I solved the puzzle. Paris is for lovers.”
I part her hair as she changes the channel to Hollywood Squares. I guess she doesn’t like that I guessed the answer.
�
��That John Denver is a handsome man.”
It’s John Davidson, but who cares? She laughs at a joke Paul Lynde makes about a mini pig, and I wonder if she really gets it or is just laughing along. She is so engrossed in the game show and her popcorn that I wonder if she knows I’m with her, braiding her hair like I used to.
I lean to one side and smooth her hair with my hand. My neck pinches, and I slowly move my chin to my shoulder. “Crap. Ouch.”
“Don’t curse.”
I guess she knows I’m here. “Sorry,” I apologize, even though crap isn’t a curse word. Not like shit, anyway. “My shoulder hurts.”
“Call the foxy doctor,” she says without taking her eyes from the television. “He’ll give you something.”
“Simon? He’s a house doctor.”
She licks a sprinkling of powdered cheese from her lips. “He comes to the house.”
“He restores houses for a living.”
“Yep, that’s right. Not many doctors come to the house these days.”
“ ‘Squeezed and pulled and hurt my neck.’ ” I mutter a quote from Rain Man.
“Call the foxy doctor.”
“He’s performing an emergency appendectomy.”
“I always wanted to marry a doctor,” she says as she flips through channels before settling on an old episode of Family Feud. “That Peter sure is handsome.”
I glance at the television as Richard Dawson asks the Brown family, “Name something you blow.”
“A job interview,” I say, before I forget that I’m not supposed to answer.
Mom glances over her shoulder and gives me the stink eye. “Periwinkle,” she yells, and returns her stinky eyes to the television.
“A red light,” the contestant answers.
“Periwinkle.”
By the time I slide the elastic from my wrist and finish Mom’s hair, she’s yelled “Periwinkle” six more times, and I want to stab my brain.
“Periwinkle.” That’s seven, and I can’t take any more. My head hurts, my shoulder aches, and I feel the f-word bubbling up inside me. I don’t want to lose it. I recognize the warning signs, and I don’t want to do anything that might provoke Rattlesnake Patty into baring her fangs. I kiss her cheek good night.
How Lulu Lost Her Mind Page 10
