by Linda Lovely
How bad could it be? So what if I’d have to mince around all night like a Geisha with my legs and feet confined in a tail? Could be worse, much worse. Madonna. Tarzan’s Jane.
“Thanks,” I said as she handed me a long, no peek-a-boo garment bag. “Let’s go inside so I can get a good look at what you’ve done to me. How about you? What are you wearing?”
“You’ll love it. But I’m not trading. Besides, your mermaid costume wouldn’t fit a robust figure like mine.” Mollye ran her hands down her sides like she was channeling Beyoncé.
Uh, oh. Did Mollye mean my costume wasn’t large enough to fit her or was she saying it was plain skimpy?
It didn’t take long to find the answer. Skimpy was too generous an adjective. It made me rethink my aversion to a Madonna, or even a Tarzan’s Jane outfit. Either would have provided more coverage. The mermaid’s sequined strapless bra was paired with sequined undies smaller than the lace hanky Grandma Hooker used to carry. Attached to the undies, the gauzy tail would afford onlookers, willing or not, a peek-a-boo look at bare skin from my ankles all the way up to my hoo-ha.
I stripped and shimmied into the costume. Good grief, my boobies and hoo-ha would glow in the dark. The gauzy tail ended in a rubber, fan-shaped fin that made plopping sounds with every move.
“I can’t wear this.” I shook my head. “Un uh. No way. I’ll put on one of Aunt Eva’s plaid flannel shirts, wear that stained canvas hat of hers, and carry a rifle. I’ll come as Eva, Great Plaid Coyote Hunter.”
“The heck you will,” Eva said as she entered my bedroom. “That’s my costume.”
“How can it be your costume, Eva?” Mollye laughed. “You wear that all the time.”
“True, but it’ll give me an excuse to carry my peacemaker. I hear tell there may be trouble tonight.”
Eva finally gave my mermaid attire her full attention and cackled like one of her egg-laying hens. “Perfect. Won’t be a man at the party who doesn’t approve. But it’s a good thing your daddy won’t be here. You look gorgeous. Sexy. Go for it.”
Mollye pulled a long, blonde wig out of another bag. “If you’re really into modesty, you can wear this. Us blondes have more fun.” She patted her thick blonde hair that was streaked this week with bright green. I was surprised she hadn’t picked orange for Halloween.
“Bet these curls come all the way down to your butt-crack,” Mollye added as she shook out the wig. “Not that your butt-crack shows. At least if you don’t bend over.”
Moll and Eva joined in another round of guffaws. “Oh, don’t be a fuddy-duddy,” added my friend, who’d accurately nailed the fact she couldn’t squeeze into my mermaid suit. At five-foot-six, Mollye had me by two inches, forty pounds, and at least two cup sizes. I was curvy, but my friend’s bazooms measured in double-D territory.
Moll was right about one thing. I really did envy her costume. She’d transformed herself into a fruit basket. Perfect for a vegan, though I had to admit, apropos for my zany friend, too. Her pullover costume boasted puffed out cloth apples, bananas, pears, and oranges. The fruits protruded hither and yon. She even had a matching head dress.
“I’ll invite the boys to pinch and see what’s ripe.” She winked. “See my earrings? Strawberries and grapes. I’ll carry some real apples and invite any male of interest to take a bite.”
With a magician’s flair, Moll pulled one last item from her tote bag. The glittery, half-face mask perfectly matched my fishy sequin scales. “Almost forgot. If you want to wimp out, you can go incognito. Leave the mask and wig on to keep the men guessing and drooling.”
The fake hair and mask would help. A little. If only I could skip the whole evening.
Too bad I’d promised Aunt Eva and Carol I’d oversee the caterers and make sure no one went hungry or thirsty. Paint would take care of the alcoholic beverages. He’d already set up a tent offering several flavors of ’shine from his Magic Moonshine distillery. I wondered if it would be staffed by the same sexy barmaid who served as a model for the artwork on his truck. If Mollye’s bosoms were cantaloupes, hers were...okay, stop, not her fault. Poor woman probably suffered from a bad back. How could she not?
I hoped this party would bring in money for Carol’s campaign. Allie Gerome gave barrels of free newspaper ink to Wade Reece, Carol’s opponent in the governor’s race, while a super PAC paid for ads and radio spots to sell the creep in all of South Carolina’s major markets.
All the ads repeated Wade’s ridiculous allegations ad nauseam. They painted Carol as a Second Amendment foe, eager to confiscate every six-shooter in South Carolina. Why? Because she opposed public school teachers packing heat in the classroom. Of course the ads failed to mention Carol had her very own concealed carry permit and her son loved to hunt.
I sighed. I’d do what I could to help make Carol’s fundraiser a success. Maybe I’d down a few shots of Paint’s white lightning to stay warm. This fish-out-of-water would need all the help she could get to make it through an evening dressed in plastic wrap.
How low would the temperatures drop tonight? And how hot would matters get for Zack and Carol if those unwanted guests showed up?
FOUR
Keeping the buffet tables fully stocked doesn’t normally require total concentration. But with my feet straight-jacketed by my tail, I was forced to mince back and forth balancing trays. If I didn’t watch it, I could easily arrange my own face-plant without any assistance from a billy goat.
Spending way too much time staring at my feet, I had limited opportunities to admire the gathering’s ingenious costumes. Still I saw enough to know my attire would not take top honors as most revealing or outrageous. Udderly was packed. If anything, our estimate of two-hundred guests was low. The majority had come fully costumed. The rest made half-hearted gestures at the come-in-costume request.
I saw several raccoon look-alikes. Probably wasn’t their plan but that’s what happened when they appropriated their kids’ Lone Ranger masks. Tiny masks on huge faces. A few folks had even dug through dusty attic chests to resurrect Nixon masks complete with trademark jowls and bushy eyebrows. All the Nixon imposters seemed obliged to parrot the line: “I’m not a crook.” If I heard it one more time, I’d scream.
By six o’clock, our Friday night gathering was already packed. Yet, I had no problem picking Paint out of the crowd, even though his face was entirely hidden. Who else would come as a bright red can of spray-paint, complete with a nozzle on top of his head? He approached me and tugged on some gadget near his ear, a puff of air fanned red streamers around his head.
“Oh, my little mermaid, come paint the town with me,” he murmured.
“Don’t think so,” I replied. “I fear your aerosol might be plugged.”
“I’m sure we can find several ways to fix that.”
“Leave my Lovely of the Sea alone,” a deep, easy-to-recognize voice commanded. Definitely Andy, though his head-to-toe beagle uniform with wagging tail provided excellent camouflage.
“Hi, Andy. Hi, Paint. What are the two of you up to?”
“I know what I’d like to do. Dump Andy and cavort down yonder in Eva’s pond with a mermaid,” Paint said.
The beagle punched the paint can’s arm. “Hey, give Brie a break. By now, she’s probably been hit on so many times she feels like a piñata.”
“Ooh, bad pun.” I laughed. “You didn’t answer my question. What nefarious activities are you two planning?”
“We’re about to open our Udderly Haunted Barn of Horrors,” Andy said. “Most people seem to have chowed down and are ready for some fun.”
“I’ll join you right after Carol’s talk. ARGH is sponsoring tonight’s fundraiser. Since I’m ARGH’s treasurer, the least I can do is pay attention to what Carol has to say.”
Andy’s eyebrows hitched up. “How did you get roped into being treasurer?”
I sighed. “You know wh
at they say about never missing a meeting? You get volunteered. Since I’m a one-time banker, Eva offered my services when the last treasurer retired to Florida. Actually, I don’t mind. I really believe in ARGH’s mission. Did you know Lilly co-founded the group?”
Paint chuckled. “I still remember her campaign to name the group ‘Ardon for Responsible Growth Here.’ Lilly argued ARGH was a perfect acronym since she wanted to scream ‘argh’ each time she listened to county council bozos defeat any attempt to plan ahead.”
I chuckled. “Yep. My aunts always had a decided preference for names that would draw a laugh. Udderly Kidding Dairy? But they never suspected I’d wind up a vegan when they championed my cheesy name. Brie was their compromise between Bridgette and Marie, my grandmothers’ names.”
“I like your name,” Andy said. “It suits you.”
I shrugged. “Better than a lot of names they could have paired with Hooker.”
Mollye sidled up to Paint and Andy and linked arms with them. “You mean like Happy?” She’d been eavesdropping. Sometimes I thought her large metal earrings were cleverly disguised listening devices.
“Carol’s about to give her spiel,” Mollye said. “Let’s head over.”
“We’ll visit you boys in a bit. Can’t wait to see how people react to our handiwork. Make sure Mollye gets the full treatment. She deserves a good scare. Payback for picking my costume.”
Paint’s gaze roved from my tail to my mask. “Mollye, you have our undying gratitude.”
Mollye took a little bow. “My pleasure, gents,” she said, then squeaked like a mouse in a trap when I pinched her rear-end ripe fruit.
Before the program began, Moll insisted we first visit the “honcho” table so she could pay her respects. I followed along even though I’d already completed my “howdy” duties.
Mollye gave the guest of honor’s costume a nod of approval. “Love the pack-of-cards theme, Carol.”
The candidate, decked out as the queen of hearts, laughed. “Wanted a tie in with Zack’s Sin City Aces. Too bad the only costume I could find for him was a Joker.”
The woman seated next to Carol stood and hugged Mollye. Linda Rodriguez was Carol’s passionate campaign manager. Every time I saw her I admired the striking contrast between her bronzed skin and that cloud of fluffy white hair.
“Hey, Moll,” Linda said. “Good to see you. Sure I can’t talk you into serving on the board of Ardon’s League of Women Voters?”
“Nope, nobody can fill your shoes,” Mollye countered.
The brief dossier Eva’d provided made me inclined to like Linda even before we met. Born to immigrant apple pickers in Ardon County, she’d worked like crazy to get a Ph.D. in biology and join Clemson’s faculty.
I cocked my head as I considered what I assumed was Linda’s biology-inspired costume. Was she a germ or an enzyme?
Mollye next greeted Phil Owens, who co-founded ARGH with Lilly, and Bob Codner, the current president. Aunt Eva and I were in talks with the two men about ARGH serving as trustee for an Udderly conservation easement.
“What’s this?” Moll teased Phil, as she tugged on the fake corn silk that spilled around his neck like a stringy ascot.
“I’m an ear of corn.” He smiled. “No shucking allowed.”
The former pilot made one very tall ear of corn. A lean, fit hiking enthusiast, the only clue to his age—seventy—was his silver hair.
Moll next turned to ARGH’s president. “Hey, Bob, how come you didn’t come in costume?”
“I did,” he answered. “I’m a lumberjack.” He put one hand on his hip and another on his head and twirled to show off his plaid wool jacket and frayed jeans.
“What a coincidence that you wear that same costume every day.” Moll chuckled.
“Hmm, now that you mention it.” Bob’s brown eyes twinkled. He was in fact a modern-day lumberjack who owned a large timberland tract and saw mill.
With Moll’s greetings out of the way, we searched for vacant seats at one of the picnic tables. Most people had finished eating but were still swilling Magic Moonshine. That encouraged periodic eruptions of raucous laughter. Carol had her work cut out to get them to pay attention.
“Did you spot Zack’s jilted high school honey or that Fred Baxter fellow?” I asked Mollye.
She craned her neck to scrutinize faces, at least the ones not covered by masks. “Nope, haven’t seen hide nor hair of Pam or Fred.”
“You still owe me the complete story. You’re a virtual encyclopedia of old scandals.”
“Your history lesson will have to wait. The program’s about to begin.”
Linda tapped the microphone on the mini-stage and the distinctive screech and whompf of irritated electronics focused the attention of all but the very hard of hearing or totally soused.
“Thanks for coming,” she said. “We appreciate your support of our distinguished candidate, Carol Strong, who, WHEN elected, will drag our state into the twenty-first century. Let’s put our hands together for South Carolina’s next governor.”
Loud applause erupted as Carol came on stage and hugged her campaign manager. Though both women were average height and weight, the similarities ended there. Carol’s skin was so white it almost looked translucent. Whenever I glanced at her well-toned arms, I could easily trace a fine network of blue veins. While I doubted the sixty-year-old’s mahogany red hair was natural, it was well done, and provided a perfect foil for her flashing blue eyes.
“I hope Linda’s fortune-telling skills are on the money.” Her honeyed voice invited listeners in. “Usually the Republican primary decides the election in this very red state. Like many of you, my vote would have gone to Republican primary winner Martin Kelly, if he hadn’t died.
“But, after Wade Reece was forced down our throats by a strident minority, I decided to run as an independent.”
She paused to scan the quieted audience. “Wade wants to let big oil drill unfettered off our coastline despite warnings of potential disasters and pleas from our shrimpers and tourist meccas. He’d open our state parks and wilderness areas to logging and mining, and run an oil pipe through the middle of a wildlife sanctuary.”
She gave the crowd time to digest her words, then added, “What we don’t need are dinosaurs like Wade Reece.”
A generous round of applause prompted Carol to smile.
Once the clapping tailed off, she raised the mike again. “We’re here tonight because we think South Carolina deserves a brighter—”
“Shut your traitorous trap, bitch.”
I turned toward the commotion. A black hearse sped down Udderly’s drive, flinging gravel before fishtailing to a stop.
For a moment, I was confused. A hearse? It certainly fit with our Halloween theme but why did it have little Confederate flags stuck on the front fenders? It looked like a redneck’s request for a last ride.
A man leaned out the passenger side of the hearse, holding a bullhorn. The interloper wasn’t alone. The hearse was trailed by two motorcycles and a beat-up truck flying an oversized Stars and Bars.
“Deviled ham! Who is that guy, Mollye?”
“Chester Finley. Shows up at every political meeting and jabbers nonsense. He’s the reason County Council imposed a time limit and started using that obnoxious clock. They don’t even bring it out if he isn’t there. Chester’s one of the CAVE men—Citizens Against Virtually Everything.”
I watched Chester bring the megaphone back to his lips. “You shame your Confederate relatives, trying to steal our God-given property rights and our guns.”
Okay, his “traitorous” epithet was simply a warm up.
I was glad the bullhorn mostly hid the man’s snarling mouth and wild eyes.
“You have no right to tell us true natives what we can or can’t do on our land,” he yelled. “Our forefathers shed their blood for this land,
and there’ll be more bloodshed if you try and—”
Before he could suck in a breath to finish, Carol’s supporters started yelling back, drowning him out. “Get out of here.”… “Who do you think you are, the Ku Klux Klan?”… “Native? Come off it. Was your grandfather a Cherokee?”
I saw movement. Zack ran toward the hearse, looking more like a linebacker than a quarterback. He jerked the passenger door open and tried to grab Chester’s bullhorn.
“If it ain’t the bitch’s bastard. Too bad you didn’t die in that car wreck.”
Chester lashed out with a booted foot. The kick connected with Zack’s thigh and pushed him off balance.
Zack quickly regained his footing and grabbed Chester’s leg, pulling him out of the hearse. The burly loudmouth staggered as Zack snatched the bullhorn.
Chester saw his chance and sucker-punched Zack in the nose. On autopilot, the quarterback returned the favor. Yowzer. Was that bone I heard cracking?
The CAVE men riding the motorcycles started to dismount, and two men jumped from the bed of the truck that brought up the rear. What in blazes? Were we going to have an old-fashioned brawl?
Lights flashed as people snapped pictures. Wouldn’t be long before this went viral on YouTube.
“Zack, stop!” Carol shouted into her microphone. “He’s not worth it. Let him go.”
Zack released the handful of shirt he’d used to haul the cretin to his feet. Then a gunshot got everyone’s attention. Had to be Eva. A minute later my aunt stepped from behind the hearse and into my line of sight.
“Zack, let him go. Chester, get your sorry hide back in your daddy’s hearse. You and your little buddies get off my property. Right. Now. If you’re here another minute, the next body your father picks up for embalming might be yours. I figure your hunk-a-junk truck broke down again. Did you even tell your daddy what you were planning when you borrowed his funeral home hearse?”
“Lesbo bitch,” Chester screeched as he bent to pick up his bullhorn. The man’s jeans slipped lower on his hips giving everyone an unwanted view of his butt crack and Spiderman briefs. While one hand swiped at the blood oozing from his nose, the other hitched up his trousers. His butt cleavage thankfully disappeared along with his Spiderman jockeys.
