by Cathy Lamb
“I keep all bad plants away from my pigs,” Olive said. “Can’t lose any of them. I think Dr. Judith had a headache today. She may be in menopause.”
“Pigs can go into menopause?” I asked.
“Yes,” Olive nodded. “And I think that Faith Sue may be gay.”
“A gay pig?” Rowena asked.
“About ten percent of the animal population is gay,” Kenna said. “I remember learning that in medical school. Not in medical school exactly, but when we were drinking at night at the pubs.”
“I think we should talk about summer flowers,” Lorna said. Malvina shrunk beside her. I would try to talk to her tonight. See if she spoke coherent English as she did when we were younger and in school together. Back then she was fun and chatty, super athletic.
“I think we should also talk about how my friend Lulu called me and said that The Arse and The Slut are at Molly Cockles tonight,” Rowena said, tapping a foot, shaking her red hair out.
“I thought they had the kids,” Olive said.
“They did. But they left them at home because tonight is their anniversary.”
“Their anniversary?” I asked.
“Probably their anniversary of their first fuck,” Rowena said. “Look at me. I said the f word. I apologize, ladies. It’s the anniversary of their first shagging.”
“No problem,” Kenna said. “When I told one of my patients today he was going to have an operation on his appendix, he said, ‘By fuck, I won’t let you take it!’ and I said, ‘By fuck, if you don’t, you could die,’ and he said, ‘Bollocks. Fuck it, then. Go ahead and cut it out.’ ”
“Can we move right along to a discussion of summer flowers?” Lorna humphed. “Every year I watch my zinnias bloom. I have them in neat beds, in rows, all in order. I even color categorize.” Lorna droned on. And on . . .
Rowena paced the room. Caged tiger woman, ready for blood.
Olive said, “Let’s not get arrested. The only person who can take care of my edible pets is me.”
“If there’s blood, I will be medically required to help,” Kenna said. “I am warning you of that, Rowena.”
Gitanjali said, “I think there be revenge tonight. I center myself first. Calm. Bring peace. Serene. Rowena, hold your hands out to me.”
“Summer flowers are a gardener’s delight,” Lorna bit out. “If everyone can focus—”
I noticed, once again, that Lorna rarely looked at Gitanjali. Don’t look at her, she’s not there, no one different should be in the room. Wrong skin color, wrong origin, wrong religion.
I had grown to strongly dislike Lorna.
“That’s it. I’m done.” Rowena turned on her heel and grabbed her purse, her red hair a pissed-off mane behind her.
“Where you going, peaceful friend?” Gitanjali said, standing up. “I coming!”
“You know where I’m going. To take revenge on The Arse and his slut.”
“Come on, everyone! Let’s support a fellow gardener,” Olive hollered. She grabbed her bag. It had a pig on it. “Together against weeds, together against cheating husbands.”
I grabbed my bag and drank the rest of my wine. Going to the pub would certainly be more fun than staying here with Lorna. “I’m in.”
I noticed that Malvina laughed and scurried on out right behind me.
“Hello, Malvina.”
“Hello, Charlotte! Can I ride with you?” She snuck a glance back for her sputtering mother. “This will be so exciting!” She darted ahead and climbed into my truck.
I shut and locked the doors of the truck before Lorna could waddle in, her thick body thunking down the steps. She was yelling at Malvina, “Get out of that car this minute, Malvina!”
Malvina giggled. “Hurry, Charlotte, go!”
Molly Cockles Scottish Dancing Pub was filled with people and a rock band. The rockers wore kilts and black T-shirts with cutoff sleeves. Most of them had tattoos and Mohawks.
“They are sexy, aren’t they, Charlotte?” Malvina giggled and grabbed my arm. “I read about men like that in my books. I love books.”
“Not bad.” I preferred my own Scot. The Scottish Warrior who may only love me as a sister. How depressing.
It did not take long for things to become troublesome. On my watch, five seconds.
Rowena charged right up to The Arse, hips swaying, high heels tapping, sitting at a table with The Slut, and said, “Bald man, arse, I need my child support money.”
The Arse was shocked. He said, “Rowena, what are you doing here?”
Rowena said, “I’m here to plant a sunflower on your scrotum. What else would I be doing? Give me the money.”
“I don’t have it.”
Rowena glared at The Slut and said, “Slut, you’ve taken my husband and he won’t pay up for his kids.”
“Don’t call me Slut,” the woman protested, flushing red. She had white-blond hair and a lot of makeup. Her cleavage was out and about. She might as well have taken her bosom off and put it in the middle of the table next to the salt for all to admire.
I do not like to place blame when people divorce. There are many valid reasons to shut a marriage down, but what should not happen is a third party deliberately trying to take a husband or wife away. Like Breasty Bubbles here.
Rowena put her hands on the table. “I’ll do what I want, Slut Bubbles, as you did what you wanted when you took my husband.”
“The marriage was over,” The Arse said.
“I didn’t know that,” Rowena said. “All I know is that you’re a combination of a narcissist and an insecure little boy. You’re selfish and unthinking. Your brain is flat, your personality drivel and drabble, your character nonexistent.”
“If you don’t like him, why are you mad we’re together?” The Slut protested. “Why so jealous?”
“You can have him, Slut Bubbles,” Rowena said. “But don’t think you can make my life miserable while yours is so perfect. Don’t think you can cause my kids pain that they will never recover from and walk away. Don’t think you can break up a family and then trot off on bonking vacations and tell each other what a miserable and pathetic person I am who you feel sorry for in the midst of your bonking joy. Don’t think you can cause devastation, then walk away and be free of all responsibility to start a new bonking life.”
“This man is having a midlife crisis. He wants to be young again,” I said, trying to be helpful. “In two years he’ll be pasty, potbellied, and more hairless on top than he already is. Rowena, once you get over your anger, and you will, you will realize that The Arse leaving is a gift. You don’t want to have to take care of this weak man as he grows old, his aches and pains, his complaints because he never became who he wanted to become, his lack of appreciation for you, his poor performance in bed.”
“I don’t perform poorly in bed!” he protested.
I studied The Slut for the truth. Her head was down.
“Yes, you do!” Rowena roared. “That was one more thing I had to put up with. Limp penis.”
She tipped the table and The Arse’s and The Slut’s food—the lobster, the garlic bread, the salads, the wine that The Arse said he could never afford for her—went sliding right . . . into . . . their . . . laps.
I hate being laughed at. I was laughed at in school in Seattle for having a Scottish accent and for being impossibly socially awkward. Laughing at someone is mean.
Then I thought of how Rowena had told me how she was barely making it, her payment to the bank for her house was overdue, she had twenty-one pounds in her purse, hadn’t paid the electricity bill or gas bill in two months, and her husband wouldn’t send the money he owed her.
Couldn’t help myself. I laughed.
Olive said, “I believe that was deserved, due to past behavior.”
Malvina gushed, “I never knew that Garden Ladies Gabble Gobbling Group was going to make me an accomplice to mini-assaults.”
Kenna said, “Cheating on your wife, if you study the research, has very poor
health results, balding ex-husband. You’re at a higher risk of heart attack and high blood pressure.”
Gitanjali said, palms upward, “Apologies can heal wounds. You should reach out with your shadow, no not shadow, that not right word, reach out with your sorrow—”
“You . . . You . . .” The Arse started, all huffed and puffed up. I noticed he had a bump of a gut.
“How did you handle that bump gut when you were married, Rowena?” I asked. “It can’t have been sexy, that thing rubbing up and down on you.”
The Arse’s mouth dropped open as he gaped at me, then he put a hand to his gut.
“It wasn’t,” Rowena roared again. “It was like being rolled by a rolling pin.” She then tilted her head back and mimicked the sounds her husband made during sex—gasping, groaning, moaning.
The Slut said, “Why, I never! You bitch!”
Do not call the wife of your boyfriend a bitch.
It would be fair to say that Rowena won the fight when The Slut flew at her with all that cleavage out and about. Rowena, who is strong and was pissed, knocked The Slut across the table next to them, as the first table was already tipped, and landed on her. That table collapsed and Rowena laid flat on The Slut.
The Slut struggled and swore. Rowena managed to grab a lobster off the floor and held it on The Slut’s face.
Gitanjali said, “Take but a moment for spirit centering—”
Olive said, “I would have eaten that lobster.”
Malvina said, “Go get her, Rowena!”
There was screaming and swearing. I dare say the women were the center of attention. The Arse tried to separate them, but Rowena sat on The Slut’s stomach and clocked The Arse in the face. He fell back.
After a delightful minute, allowed for revenge purposes only, I grabbed Rowena, along with Olive, and The Arse grabbed The Slut, who came up kicking, blouse undone, the bosoms out. They were fake.
Gitanjali said, “A peace to all who here. Let us be the loving—”
“Not much blood!” Kenna said triumphantly. “I don’t have to treat anyone.”
“I have to go to bars more often,” Malvina gushed. “I think I’ve been missing out, indeed.”
The Arse shoved and pushed the screeching, spitting Slut out, vowing that Rowena would “regret this, bitch.”
Rowena pushed her red hair back, straightened her shirt, then said to the owner, her cousin, “I apologize, Kevin. Lost my head, that I did.”
“No problem, luv. I understand.”
“Here. I’ll get the table and chairs back up.”
We helped clean things up and tossed the food in the trash so the waitress didn’t have to do it. Rowena grabbed a mop, and when all was well again, the Gobbling Fighting Garden ladies sat down.
We had a few drinks, even Lorna, who had come stomping in a few minutes later, face flushed. Lorna and Malvina danced only after Lorna had had too much to drink, which Malvina encouraged.
When Lorna slurred out, “London. Spaghetti. Curtains and Candy. I spy a girl with a married dandy,” I knew the fun would begin for them.
As my cottage was almost done, I would need to buy a few pieces of furniture to hold me over until I could make Toran fall in love and lust with me or until the blond bomb showed up and ruined everything and I had to run her over.
I worked in the morning, then put on my jeans with the rope belt, a blue T-shirt with science beakers on it, and my white blouse over that. No one would notice the slight blueberry stain on the collar.
My first stop was an antique shop.
Antiques have stories. As a storyteller, I relate to them. Who owned them? What were the owners’ lives like? Did they meet their soul mate? What did the owners endure that life threw at them, like a sword to the gut? Who did they love? Who did they hate? What was their greatest accomplishment and most glaring failure? What quirks and idiosyncrasies did they have?
I bought a sleigh bed, the curves elegant slopes. I also bought a dresser for my bedroom. The dresser had a mirror, but it also had handles in the shapes of horse stirrups. Humor in an antique! I bought a wardrobe with long, carved doors. It reminded me of the wardrobe in Narnia, the books that Clan TorBridge-PherLotte read together.
I bought three side tables for the family room. Where would I put my tea and books if I didn’t have tables?
I bought an antique sideboard for the entry with legs that were carved in a swirly design, and I bought a tall, wide oak bookshelf that I would use in the kitchen for my cookbooks, candles, and extra plates and glasses.
After those purchases, I headed to a more modern furniture store. I bought a long, blue plush couch in an L shape. I bought two chairs in red, the type that seats two people each, both with ottomans.
The store owners said they’d bring the furniture to me. Next stop, the light shop. I needed lights. I like lights. I bought eight lamps from Light Us Up.
Two had crystal bases and white shades, which I’d use for my bedroom; two had bases with a Scotsman and a Scotswoman in traditional Highland dress, which I’d use for my library; two were tall and normal, with white shades; and two were small with red shades and a bagpipe base that I would use in the kitchen.
I envisioned myself reading and writing in one of the red chairs, a blanket over my lap, glasses on, tea in hand, Silver Cat plus my other four cats wandering around, wearing my bunny slippers that Bridget gave me.
I thought of that image.
I groaned.
Frumpy Boring Cat Woman, that’s who I was.
That’s who I am.
Meow. Hiss.
Boo.
I decided to picture myself in a red negligee sitting on the red chair waiting for Toran to do a strip tease in front of me. His red and black kilt would go flying, his tartan sliding off his massive chest. He would toss me over his shoulder and carry me upstairs while singing a smooth, Scottish romance song about “his woman.”
Much better.
Dear Charlotte,
As you know, I was called to Molly Cockles last night because of the ruckus.
After a short chat, Rowena’s husband, Gareth, and his girlfriend, Chrissy, who also goes by the name Bubbles, as you know, but who Rowena calls The Slut, have decided they will not be pressing any charges against Rowena.
I did inform Gareth that Rowena told me he is behind on his child support. I told him he needed to pay up immediately, and that I personally would be notifying the office for child subsidies that he was in arrears. Gareth wrote a check when I was there. I asked if that brought him up current, and he said no, so I ripped the check up and we went through the process again. And, indeed, a third time.
I further told Chrissy (Bubbles) that though Rowena did dump the table on her, and there was a squabble, she started it by taking a woman’s husband away from her, the father of her children, and I could not possibly charge Rowena, as she was provoked. I told her I had no patience for home wreckers.
I must say that I thought it was sisterly of the rest of you ladies—even Lorna Lester!—to get on the bar as backup singers for Rowena when she sang, “I’m Going to Rip His Manhood from Him.” I had never heard that song, and I was told later she made it up on her own. Impressive, though violent, poetry.
Sincerely,
Chief Constable Ben Harris
A friend of your parents. May your father’s soul rest in the palm of God.
PS I am going to invite Gitanjali to dinner once again. She did seem to be pleased with the china cup and saucer with the hand-painted flowers that I bought her, so I decided to take the advice you gave me in the village the other day, about how she loves elephants, and buy her a full tea set with elephants. I drove to Edinburgh and found the perfect one. It only took seven hours of searching, but I do believe it will bring a smile.
Dear Chief Constable Harris,
I would have to agree with you that Rowena does have a special talent in making up poetic, though violent, songs. Which is why I enjoyed singing the songs she wrote for us on
a napkin, including, “I Want My Ex-Husband to Lose His Function” and “That Man Has a Wobbly Dick.” The lyrics were so simple, all could join in, and many did.
I am pleased by the wide variety of plants and flowers growing here in Scotland. It is an endless state of interest and entertainment to me. I have bought three books on Scottish flowers and I can hardly wait to read and study them each day, along with their Latin names.
Did my advice for your hydrangeas prove helpful?
Charlotte
PS I am sure that Gitanjali will be well pleased with the elephant tea set.
It was time for me to move into my cottage. Stanley I and Stanley II were finished, and they had done a remarkable job.
I had cleaned it all day, vacuumed and dusted, and arranged all the furniture.
I would move in tomorrow, my mattress arriving in the morning.
Toran and I hardly spoke at dinner.
We hardly spoke the next morning.
I was miserable.
He helped me move my suitcase and a couple of boxes to my house. I had trashed the suitcase I’d duct taped. I carried Silver Cat. She slept on my bed and followed me around the house and even up to my office next to Toran’s.
Toran stood with his hands on his hips and took it all in, the new kitchen with the white cabinets and white tile backsplash, the refinished floors, the white wainscoting, the antiques, the blue couch, the lights. “I like it.”
“I do, too.” I will miss you. I have adored every minute of living with you, Toran.
“You designed it well. I like the paint colors, yellow and white.”
“Me too. Cheerful.” I am aching. Can you see my aches?
“Lots of light here.”
“Let there be light,” I muttered. Please. Let’s have dinner together. And breakfast and lunch and brunch and snacks and chocolate.
“I like the way you kept the beams as they were in the bedrooms upstairs.”
“Yes. My mom liked those beams. She liked the tree it used to be, though she felt bad for the tree.” How am I going to live here without thinking of you every minute?
