I feel nervous and excited about seeing everyone. I’m sure I’ll have to answer a million questions since all of Savannah Township will have heard about the divorce by now. Mamma is an insufferable gossip, but the thought of seeing her again warms my heart. I just hope she hasn’t reverted back to the old Mamma of yesteryear that I once knew and feared. Either way, it’ll be nice to see her warts and all.
94
The landing was smooth-thank God-and as we taxi down the runway; my thoughts keep drifting back to Jack. My feelings vacillate from anger, to longing then back to anger then to longing again. I imagine him in action, charming the high thread count panties off that preppy customer and swing back to anger. I wonder if he slept with her? I wonder if he sleeps with all his customers?! The nerve of him acting like I’m the slut. He’s like a super man whore!!
The plane finally comes to a complete stop and amongst the clickety clack of the seat belt buckles, I grab my purse. And though I’m tempted to thieve the mini pillow I think better of it.
As I stroll down the tarmac, I feel butterflies. I can’t believe I’m home. I feel like a totally different person. I mean, I haven’t been home, not to mention on a plane, without Bernie in more than ten years.
Invigorated, I stroll through the airport in my gloriously unabashed singledom. I hold my head up high as I pass a bunch of doting, arguing, and utterly bored couples and feel fierce and proud of my independence. At the end of the walkway I spot a withered old man clutching a bright bouquet of pink carnations. He has on his Sunday best and is, oddly enough, smiling at me with arms outstretched. I turn, assuming it’s some sort of mistake and behind me, shuffling at a brisk pace, clutching her walker for dear life, is the sweetest little old woman who looks about a hundred on a good day. Her crinkled skin is glowing and flushed and her stockings have a long run up one leg. I step aside and watch her approach her husband with tear-filled eyes. I get a lump in my throat the size a dinosaur egg and in that very moment I feel more alone and sad than I have ever been. That was supposed to be Bernie and me. It was supposed to be forever, through thick and thin, till death. I make my way to the airport bar and slump down onto a stool. So much for my fierce independence.
“I’ll have a strong drink. Preferably one that doesn’t taste like lighter fluid,” I declare with a frown to the middle-aged woman behind the bar.
She shoots me a knowing look. “I know just what you need darlin’; make you forget that man ever existed.”
“Is it that obvious?” I say with a furrowed brow.
“Oh, yeah,” she exclaims with a raspy voice, as she pushes a basket of unshelled peanuts in front of me.
Moments later my Bloody Mary arrives, which seems like just the perfect drink for the moment somehow. It’s tangy and spicy and the heavy dose of vodka gives me a dulled sensation I desperately need.
There are black and white photos of old movie stars adorning the walls, and voices tinged with Southern accents, which fill me with a mixture of nostalgia and anxiety. I suck down the remaining blood red concoction, pay, and head for baggage claim where my luggage circles the conveyor belt all by its little lonesome. Bernie thought the little orange ribbon that still adorns the handle would differentiate it from the hundreds of other black rolling bags. He was right. Immediately ripping the ribbon off, I fling it to the ground. I know I’m littering but it feels good. I suddenly remember I still have my wedding ring to contend with. Twisting the plain gold band from my finger, I spot a musician outside playing for tips. He has blonde dreadlocks and looks to be in his early thirties. He hasn’t pulled in much in tips for the day, so I drop the ring into his upturned hat. I feel invigorated as I gaze at my naked finger with its atrophied tan line. When I get home maybe I’ll do the same with the engagement ring that’s been sitting in the safe deposit box for years. Or maybe I’ll hock it and take a cool vacation.
Either way, this shedding myself of everything Bernie feels pretty darn good. And the vodka haze isn’t hurting matters either.
95
I spent all of two minutes in line till a cab pulled up by the curb. “3471 Magnolia Street in Savannah, please,” I say to my East Indian cabbie.
“I know just where that is, Madame,” he says with a gold-toothed smile and a tip of his driver’s cap.
Wow, such service. I feel like I’m being chauffeured in a Rolls Royce rather than a vinyl-seated yellow and black eyesore. I’ve sure missed Southern hospitality. My phone chimes its annoying message reminder. One from Evvy checking how my date went and wondering if I got any of John’s bodily fluids on the dress. Pervert. The second is the professor asking me if I’d like to have dinner with him sometime. Hhmmm…sticky. Probably not wise to date your tenant. Though I did kind of open the door for it. Unintentionally. And the third is Jack thanking me for the meatball sub that he apparently fished out of the trash bin. Not sure know how I feel about him right now. Shutting my eyes, I settle on a quick catnap. Zzzzzz….sleepy.
96
“Madame, we have arrived,” Abdullah the driver announces in his thick accent as we pull into the driveway. “This is quite a palace, very first class indeed,” he exclaims with relish, wobbling his head from side to side.
We wind down the long drive lined with the monstrous elm trees Grandpa planted that luckily didn’t die when the Dutch elm epidemic hit years ago. The effect is quite lovely. The long row of trees with their foliage now changing colors to rusts and reds. Sunlight filters through the leaves as we drive towards the house, and I get a nostalgic pang. A longing to get under the covers in my bedroom. It’s still painted in pastels from my high school days. I went through a Miami Vice phase and everything was that bright blue and pink, and Don Johnson was my newest man crush. Barely trailing behind Bruce Willis.
I spot Daddy’s Buick parked in front of the garage, so I’m hoping that he’s home. If not, bet they still keep the key hidden underneath that ugly gnome in the backyard. Today’s Thursday so I know that Mamma’s at her bridge club. Though “gossip club” would be a more suitable name.
As we pull up to the front door, Abdullah asks, “Shall I take your bags inside, Madame?” He has kind eyes that are so dark they’re almost black, with deep circles under them.
I hand him the fare plus a hefty tip. “Just up to the porch is fine. Thanks, that was the nicest taxi ride I’ve ever had.”
The driver looks as if he would be blushing, but his skin is too dark to tell. “Thank you, Madame, you are too kind.”
He delivers the bags then drives away, trailing dust behind him.
Pushing the doorbell twice, I tap my foot and wait impatiently. No answer. I press the glowing button a third and forth time to no avail, so I decide to try my newfound handy dandy B&E trick to unlawfully enter my parents’ home. Heck, I need the practice. Mamma would definitely not approve. Fishing in my bag, I find a safety pin and a credit card, and just as I’m inserting the card, I hear my Daddy’s voice.
“Liza, what in tarnation are you doin’?” I turn to see him smiling his big, Daddy smile with his hands on the hips of his mud-splattered overalls. Immediately dropping my illegal activity I bound towards him, attacking him with a huge hug and kiss. The lump in my throat is trying its darndest to make me cry. I eek out, “Oh, Daddy. I didn’t realize how much I’d missed you till just this very second.”
He beams. “So what are you doin’ home? Not that I’m not thrilled down to my bootstraps. But we weren’t expectin’ ya.”
“I’m going to some shindig at the Gainey’s.”
Daddy gives me little squint and scratches behind his ears. He always does that when he’s trying to remember something. “Aren’t those the folks that own the big mill and that peach cannery?”
“The same.”
Daddy gives me a wide smile and teases, “Movin’ up in the world, eh darlin’? And mighty quick too, I might add.” He wraps his thick arm around my neck as we walk inside the foyer. “Now seriously though, Liza, I’m sure sorry about that dumb ass hus
band of yours,” he says with a twinkle of humor in his eyes. “I have to say though, I never did like him much; always struck me as kind of a pansy.” He gives me a light jab on the arm as if we’re in on some joke together and I suddenly feel lighter about the whole thing.
“Yeah. And he had the worst breath all the time, Dad. Like he was rotting from the inside out or something…disgusting really,” I respond with a devilish grin.
We continue Bernie bashing for a bit, which feels petty yet great, while Daddy makes us chocolate milkshakes with homemade ice cream from Annie’s on Begonia street. Beck and I used to walk there every Saturday after we got our allowance. She would get rainbow sherbet because she said it was less fattening, and I would get chocolate peanut butter and savor every smidge of it. Beck would always take a bunch of licks of mine, but still be all self righteous about watching her girlish figure. No wonder she was always Mamma’s favorite—those two are peas in a pod.
“When’s Mamma due home?” I already sound more Southern to my own ears, which makes me cringe.
“Well, you know your Mamma; once she starts clucking with those hens of hers there’s no tellin’. I’d give her a call, but she refuses to carry that darn cell phone. I don’t know about you, Liza, but I’m still hungry. How about a fried egg sandwich?”
“How about a coupla half boiled and soldiers?” I say, pulling up a stool across from him at the breakfast bar, slurping my milkshake.
I watch him boil the water and gingerly drop the eggs in with a spoon. He then lathers up both sides of the bread with a generous helping of tub margarine and browns them in a skillet. The kitchen is still filled with light even though it’s late afternoon, and the old glass in the windowpanes have a wavy texture that I used to love to run my hands across when I was small. I remember the year Daddy turned the back door into a Dutch door for Mamma’s birthday. She’s always been fond of a cool breeze but incessantly worried about critters getting inside. He would come home everyday after work and fiddle on that thing still wearing his starched white shirt and stripped suspenders.
“So how’s the old practice, Daddy? You still goin’ in?”
“Sometimes,” he says with a shrug.
Daddy was a brilliant trial lawyer in his day, and he still consults on a volunteer basis for pro bono cases.
“Doesn’t seem like anyone needs an old man’s opinion anymore.”
“Aw, Daddy. I’m sure that’s not true. Hey, you know I moved into a new place,” I counter, changing the subject from what seems like touchy territory. “Right in the city by Boston Commons Park. And I’ve even made some friends in the neighborhood.”
He gives me a conspiratorial look as he sets down a shot glass with my egg sitting inside it on a small plate surrounded by soldiers. “I know it might be rotten, but I’m actually glad you’re gettin' a divorce. I always thought you needed more time to sow your wild oats,” he adds as he hands me the baby-sized, silver teaspoon I used as a little girl.
“Well, I don’t know how much sowing I’ll be doing, but it’s kind of exciting…and scary…and fun…and scary.”
“Well, if you ever decide to move back home with your Mamma and me, we’d love to have you.”
“The hell we would!” Mamma cries out as she waltzes into the kitchen dangling a peach-colored felt hat from her dainty fingers; a maroon feather sticks out of the silk band with flourish. She has quite a vivid hat collection; they fill up an entire closet in the guest room. “We are not lettin’ our daughter move home and live the life of a spinster with her aged parents,” she exclaims and gives me a light kiss on the cheek. I can feel her thick Mary Kay lipstick has left its apricot remains behind. “You’re here for the Gainey Gala, right?” Mamma asks with her eyes wide and sparkling mischievously.
Nothing gets past her.
“As a matter of fact I am, and I won’t even begin to try and figure out how you knew that.”
She gives me a wink. “Us old gals have our ways.”
97
We spend the rest of the afternoon chatting outside on the back porch, with a pitcher of Country Time. The wicker chairs have new green gingham cushions, but they are still just as comfortable as they were when I was growing up. Mamma fills me in on how Uncle Ralph, who ran the mortuary, left his wife for a twenty-year-old stripper; and all the other big scandals the town has had over the past week. She rambles on for some time as I take in the surroundings. The freshly shorn grass, the rusted lantern that’s been hanging from that post for as long as I can remember, all remind me of growing up at Walnut Hill. Slumber parties out on the lawn under pitched tents come to mind; that lantern being our sole source of light for late night treks to the bathroom.
Once the gossip fest concludes, I curl up for a nap on the chaise lounge. And as I doze off to the chirping of robins, I can’t help but feel like I made the right decision in hopping that plane early. There’s no place like home. My thoughts drift from Jack to John to Bernie and then back to Jack until I finally give in to my heavy eyelids.
98
I spring awake completely disoriented until I realize that I’m on my parents’ back porch. It’s twilight now, with the faint and comforting sound of crickets chirping. I’ve got a thick patchwork quilt draped over me, so they must have gone to bed and decided to let me sleep. Good thing, too, since I’m a cranky bitch when my slumber’s been disrupted.
I teeter up the long flight of stairs to my room. The familiar look of the late eighties color scheme makes me feel like I’m in a gaudy hotel in West Palm Beach. Lying on the twin bed, adorned with the “My Little Pony” comforter I begged and pleaded for endlessly at eleven, I gaze out the window for what seems like an eternity. Wishing for sleep, my thoughts race, and a thick feeling of doom comes over me as I contemplate my future. There is something so intensely terrifying about new, uncharted territory and the possibility of failure. I mean heck, I could end up like Eddie. No one sets out to be homeless, but I’m sure somewhere along the way they just make the wrong choice and wind up spiraling out of control. As the anxiety rushes through my veins like icy water, I vow to find a career and stop distracting myself with men. I’ll go to this party with John but that’s it—no more dates and frivolity till I’m officially a working girl. Well, not that kind of working girl, the non-smutty kind.
The sun breaks through the darkness so I give up my battle with insomnia, get dressed in a jumpsuit and sneakers, and go out for a brisk walk. There’s a damp chill in the air, and the neighborhood looks almost spooky in the early morning light. There is so much history here that it’s somehow palpable. Remnants of the slavery days still linger in this place, and you can almost smell and taste the pain and suffering people must have gone through. I’ve heard criminals smuggle people into countries now and use them as slaves. Scary stuff.
Hey, maybe I’ll work undercover to prevent human trafficking… like a secret agent! Yeah! I could go undercover and infiltrate some secret society or something, and come back with all sorts of information that would keep the country safe. But I don’t suppose there are many Dunkin’ Donuts in faraway lands. And I think you have to go through some training, which probably involves being tortured by some military type with a crew cut. I’ve never been too good with authority figures, so me thinks my career in espionage might not blossom after all.
As I approach what we used to call the “haunted house” as kids, I realize that someone’s fixed it up and there’s a yuppie special parked in the driveway. The old cedar siding was replaced with powder blue clapboard, and the house no longer looks like a set piece from To Kill a Mockingbird. I’ve heard that’s happening a lot these days—people going into nice neighborhoods and fixing up rundown properties and “flipping” them. Maybe I could do that! I could take out a loan and buy some distressed properties and spiffy them up. Though I’ve never been very handy, except that time I tiled the fireplace of our townhouse with some tumbled stone, but didn’t realize I had to use grout so it looked pretty makeshift. Nobody had t
he heart to tell me until our old college friend Randy came into town and made a mockery of it. Needless to say, my “do it herself” tool belt got tucked away in the closet; never to be seen again.
Well, I guess it will just come to me when the time is right, like a bolt of an arrow or however that saying goes. Then I’ll know what I’m supposed to do with the rest of my life…I hope.
99
Home sweet home. Mamma looks like she’s fresh out of the bath and has globs of cold cream lathered on her face as I enter the kitchen. She turns towards the door, surprised. “What in tarnation’ are you doin’ up so early?”
“Exercising,” I reply nonchalantly and help myself to a tall glass of milk.
“Mmmhhhmm. Good thing, too. Gotta shape yourself up to snag that boy; the good ones are hard to come by at your age, Liza. Usually they’re all taken by now, or if they aren’t, there’s something gravely wrong with ’em. But that John Gainey. Wooowee, what a catch!” she says dramatically with a cackle of glee. “I just cannot believe he is interested in you. I mean he could have his pick.”
Kabamm! I wasn’t expecting that one, so it hit me right in the stomach, then boomeranged back and whacked me again even harder. I stand speechless, mouth agape just wide enough for a passing fly to seek shelter.
Mamma looks up from dipping her loose-leaf tea strainer. “Oh, I’m sorry, darlin’. I suppose that sounded nasty, but you know I didn’t mean anything bad by it. It’s just that, well, you know what I mean, Liza,” she says batting the air dismissively.
Eye Spy (Liza Radley Housewife Detective Chronicles) Page 21
