by Julie Smith
“Alberta’s niece is a regular clown.”
Talba was afraid she’d gone too far. “Years of working with kids—lose your sense of humor, say good-bye to your sanity,” she said in the general direction of upstairs. “Sandra Corey, at your service.”
“Edwina Murphy to me,” Royce said. “Hey, Eddie, want to whip us up some eggs and grits, maybe a little boudin?”
“Okay on the eggs and grits—I don’t know if I can do boudin on short notice. How about I ask my mama how tonight, make you some tomorrow?”
“It’s a deal.”
“Royce Champagne,” Suzanne said, “you are not coming to the table without taking a shower. Hi, Sandra, nice to meet you.”
Talba was glad Suzanne hadn’t called her Eddie. She wasn’t crazy about appropriating her boss’s name.
She went down to the kitchen and found grits, eggs, and bacon, which ought to substitute nicely for boudin, and some bread for toast. She made more coffee and offered some to Adele, who was working at her kitchen office.
Absently, the older woman accepted a cup and then turned back to her checkbook, which she appeared to be balancing. “Those two!” she said, shaking her head and looking at her watch.
Suzanne came down first, now wearing a hint of makeup. She poured herself a cup of coffee as Talba started the eggs. “’Lo, Mama Dell. I heard that. We only sleep late to avoid the Whore of Babylon.”
Whoo, Talba thought.
“She already gone, by the way?”
“I presume,” Adele said, “you aren’t talking about your sister-in-law.”
“My, uh—oh, Luce. Somehow I don’t think of her that way. More like a niece.”
“In that case, Kristin, who I find a very lovely young woman, has gone to work. You’ve heard of work, right?”
“Hey, Royce,” Suzanne yelled, “coast is clear!” She turned back to Adele. “If you don’t think what I do is work, maybe you should come with me sometime. See what a difference feng shui can make in a house.”
“My family’s lived in this house for twenty-two years. We like it like it is, thanks.”
Royce joined them, actually smelling fresh and soapy, his wet hair slicked down, a loose shirt covering his torso, the same old ripped shorts tickling his knees, beat-up running shoes on his feet. He gave Adele a kiss. “Mornin’, Granny Goose.”
She gave him a swat, the first sign of affection Talba’d seen in any of these people. “Mommo to you, young man. Tell your wife to button her lip about Kristin—she’s probably gon’ be your stepmother.”
Talba, who was now serving the eggs, looked up to see Royce roll his eyes. “Now isn’t that just charmin’.”
Adele, sitting in one of those desk chairs that spins on command, executed a one-eighty, so that she faced the starving masses. “You two need an attitude adjustment. You are here as guests of your father and me. If you do not learn to accommodate your father’s wife, I can’t be responsible for what he might do. She’ll move in, and neither one of us will tolerate unnecessary strife in Lucy’s life. Lucy loves the girl and she needs a female role model the worst kind of way.”
Talba cut her eyes at Suzanne, who hadn’t missed the fact that she was the target of Adele’s barb. Her fresh rosiness had become a red-hot flush.
“Aren’t we jumping the gun, Mommo?” Royce said. “They’re not even engaged.”
“How stupid can you be, Royce? Hear this: They soon will be. And you are gon’ have to adjust to it.” She rose and left the room.
“Oh, hell,” Royce said. “Forget breakfast. I’m going to work.”
Suzanne shrugged. “This is delicious. Alberta cooks her eggs too hard.”
Chapter 5
Fortunately, no one but Adele wanted lunch that day, and taking pity on the new kid, she made herself a tuna fish sandwich. The afternoon was running, running, running—five loads of laundry, eight sheets and sixteen pillowcases to iron, beds to make, bathrooms to clean. Talba had to stay till well past four—and then well past five—to feel she’d done a good enough job to warrant a second day. She had only a moment to snoop, and that was in Buddy’s night table, where she found a vial of Viagra, a box of condoms, an excellent collection of sex toys, and a gun nestled amid the happy clutter of true love. Buddy came home shortly before she left and went upstairs with a curt nod. She was just walking out the door when she heard him roar, “Can’t anyone take a crap around here?”
Good timing, she thought, and closed the door behind her.
At home, Miz Clara was dozing in her rocking chair, wearing her old blue slippers and no wig. “You look like death warmed over.”
“Mama, I’m in no mood. I’ve got to go lie down.”
“Ain’tcha got a date with my baby?” Sometimes that was Talba, sometimes Sophia, but this time she meant Darryl.
“Can’t do it,” she said. She’d phoned to cancel on the way home. She kicked off her shoes and threw herself on her bed, wondering if her body was ever going to be the same. Two hours later, she woke from a deep sleep, teased into consciousness by a black cat purring in her ear, a white one nibbling her toes. “Don’t bite, Blanche,” she snapped, and forced herself to go forage for food.
Her mother had made chili. Miz Clara had already eaten, but she sat down across the old black-painted table from her daughter, having first poured her a glass of Chardonnay—an unaccustomed attention. “Ya gotta either drink or read the Bible if ya gon’ clean houses,” she said, “and I know ya mama raised a heathen.”
“Have some wine with me,” Talba said. “I’ve got to talk to you.”
“Why, I b’lieve I will,” said Miz Clara, who never drank unless invited, and then only one glass. She retrieved the wine, which she’d already put away, and poured a glass for herself. “My baby have a hard day?”
“Mama, I’ll be honest. I don’t know how you do it.”
“I got my systems.” Miz Clara looked like the Cheshire cat.
“What would you think about sharing? Along with some recipes.”
“Recipes! They want ya to cook?”
“You don’t have to?”
“These people are animals.”
Talba considered it. “Well, one of them is,” she said, thinking of Buddy. “Jury’s still out on the rest. How do you do it, Mama?”
She meant the question literally, and Miz Clara took it that way. “First of all, ya gotta start at the top. If ya do the floor and then the chandeliers, what’s gon’ happen?”
Talba didn’t know, but apparently she wasn’t required to. Miz Clara answered herself. “Ya gon get a second coat of dust on that floor. Have to clean it twice. See what I mean?”
Talba’d never considered the effects of gravity on dust—this was actually very educational. “Ya gotta look for cobwebs while ya up there—most housecleaners don’t even notice ’em. But they up there; they up there catchin’ dust, holdin’ dust, makin’ everybody sneeze. Get them cobwebs and the room’s gon’ be a lot cleaner already. They gon’ like that.
“Another thing. Clean the windows before you do any other heavy stuff. Why? Because the whole house looks cleaner when the windows are clean. Right away, they gon’ be impressed.”
“Oh, good. Alberta doesn’t do windows.”
Miz Clara nodded, satisfied. “Ya gotcha work cut out for ya. And here’s a little insider tip—ya want to impress men, clean they windows. Ya want to impress women, make those mirrors shine. Spend extra time on the glass stuff—quickest way to impressin’ a new client.
“Now here’s somethin’ real important. Never touch they guns.”
“Funny you should mention that—I found a gun today. In the drawer with the sex toys.”
Again, Miz Clara nodded. “Sometimes they be in there. Drugs, too. Lot of folks keeps they drugs in there. Here’s somethin’ I notice. Folks rich enough to have an everyday maid—specially ya judges, ya city officials, folks like that—they got drugs all over.
“They don’t have the least little fear about
the po-lice or the law. What they paranoid about’s people turnin’ on ’em.”
Which I fully intend to do, Talba thought, and was momentarily disappointed that she hadn’t found drugs. But the moment passed—a private stash wasn’t a news story and the cops were probably already bought, anyhow. She needed something a lot better than a little pot.
“Ya don’t never find no loose change in those kinda people’s houses,” Miz Clara continued. “Guns, though. I find ’em everywhere—under the mattresses, under the chair pillows. Once I come across one in a kitchen drawer, all tangled up with a corkscrew. Like to scared me to death. Dangerous? Whooee! But don’t touch, whatever ya do. Folks is funny about they guns.”
Unfortunately, you could have an arsenal in your closet and it still wouldn’t be illegal. But Talba was glad for the advice. A gun was the last thing she wanted to touch.
“And they get dusty, too,” Miz Clara said. “People forget they have ’em. Best ya can do, just tickle ’em a little with a feather duster kinda thing—only they ain’t made out o’ feathers no more. Another thing—don’t go in no cabinets—tha’s where people keep they good stuff. They weddin’ china, Aunt Bertha’s antique tureen, stuff like that. They keep it put away ’cause it might get broken if they didn’t. And you don’t want to be the one to break it. Don’t touch nothin’ in a cabinet.”
That applied, Talba thought, to the maid without benefit of P.I. license. In her job, it was cabinets or quit.
“Anything else?” she asked.
“Under the bed. Whole lots o’ dust collects under the bed. Gotta get under there and chase it. Be surprised what else ya find there. Ya got rubber gloves?”
“Why?”
“You find out.” Miz Clara laughed like she’d had a lot more to drink than one puny Chardonnay. “Oh, yeah. You find out.”
Talba didn’t want to find out. “I’m going to bed—I’ve gotta cook ’em some boudin in the morning, but I’m too tired to ask you how to do it. Can you remind me in the morning?”
“Boudin? That ain’ nothin’. Ya just put it in the pan, tha’s all.”
“That’s it? Do you turn on the gas or anything?”
“Lord, child, I gotta draw ya a picture? Add a little water, cook it low—takes ’bout twenty minutes. Oh, and throw the casin’ out.”
“Before or after I cook it?”
“After. Heat’ll break it.”
That was what she was after—Talba’d never understood how boudin began as a sausage and ended up on your plate all soft and mushy.
She slept a solid ten hours and needed every minute of it. She’d promised Eddie she wasn’t going to plant anything on Buddy, but she only half meant it. She wasn’t going to plant drugs, of course. But to her mind, there was no substitute for the occasional tiny receiver/transmitter, available at certain Internet spy shops she knew about. Of course, she could get thrown in jail if she were caught, and Eddie could get sued and fined, but where Angie was concerned, he might be lenient about that part. However, she wasn’t about to get caught. She slipped a couple of bugs into her jeans’ pocket and set out for the salt mines.
Buddy himself met her at the door, still tying his tie and smelling of shaving soap.
“Young lady, you just don’t know how close ya got to bein’ fired ya first day on the job. Hadn’t been for Adele, your ass’d be outta here.”
Talba’s heart thumped. Maybe he’d Googled her or something—she was famous as the Baroness de Pontalba, even had a website with her picture all over it and newspaper stories prominently mentioning her day job.
“As it is, my ass is burned—not to mention certain delicate other parts.”
What the hell was he talking about?
“Think about it,” he said, and stood aside to let her in. “When you cleaned my toilet, did you forget anything?”
“Oh, shit!” She knew immediately what he meant—she’d sprayed on the bowl cleaner and let it soak, but she hadn’t come back to swish it around and flush it away. Buddy must have flushed the toilet himself—at a highly inopportune time.
“Now there’s no need for profanity.” Buddy went on into the kitchen. “Just be more careful next time.”
She followed him in, pleading. “Oh my God, Judge, it’ll never happen again.”
He’d now poured his coffee, and turned to face her, holding the cup. “It does, you and Alberta are both history. Ya hear me?”
“Yes sir. I promise.”
She turned to dig the boudin out of the refrigerator, but Lucy bounced in before she could hide her face, which was in danger of displaying unseemly mirth. “Sandra? Sandra, you’re my hero—swear to God, you shoulda seen Daddy dancing around.”
“That’s enough out of you, young lady.” Her father’s voice banished all thoughts of girlish giggles—on Talba’s part, anyhow.
“Oh, Daddy, don’t be such a dork.”
Enter Adele. “Sandra. I have to speak to you about something.”
“Done,” the judge said.
“Miss Adele, I swear to God it’ll never happen again.”
“Better not.”
Kristin was next, followed closely by Royce and Suzanne, who for some reason had decided to rise at a decent hour. Kristin looked ready to take on the board of Bank One—all ninety-nine pounds of her—but the other two looked like they’d had about two hours’ sleep.
“Hey, Kristin. Hey, Royce,” Lucy said, ignoring Suzanne as if she were a piece of furniture. “We’re not having boudin, are we? I hate boudin.”
“Young lady, goddammit! I’ve about had enough out of you,” her father said.
Kristin shot him a “go easy” look and Suzanne said, “Do you really think we care what you hate?”
Kristin stood. “You leave her alone.” She moved a step closer to the girl.
“You shut up,” Suzanne said. “You aren’t a member of this family. Who needs your mealy little Pollyanna mouth? I’ll be putting up with the no-neck monster when you’re just one of Daddy Buddy’s fond little memories. He’s got lots of those, haven’t you, Daddy Buddy?”
Daddy Buddy! Talba was thinking. And Tennessee Williams. She recognized “no-neck monster” as Maggie the cat’s favorite endearment for kids. She’d landed straight in the second act of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, complete with Burl Ives, and Suzanne seemed to know it. Why else would she have quoted from the play?
“You don’t get to call me that!” Lucy shouted. “Only Royce.” Well, that explained that, but, except for the fatal cancer, these people were six characters who need search for their play no longer.
This is surreal, Talba thought, and caught Kristin giving her a sympathetic glance, though she was the one who’d been insulted. The petite blonde looked at her watch. “Oops. Time to go.” Talba guessed she was used to it. “Run you to school, Luce?”
Buddy said, “Wait a minute, sugar tit.”
“Daaaaady!” Lucy wailed, dying of embarrassment.
The judge got up and kissed his sweetie. “I’m comin’ home for lunch,” he murmured. “Join me?”
Please God, not a nooner, Talba thought. Some things simply cannot be endured.
“Love to, darlin’, but I’ve got a meeting with Gary Blancaneaux. The state senator.”
“Watch ol’ Gary—they don’t call him Groper for nothin’.” He patted her bottom as she click-clacked smartly out the door, an adoring Lucy more or less clinging to her coattails.
As soon as they heard the front door snick, Talba served the eggs and boudin. And Buddy became a firebomb. “Suzanne Champagne, you will not speak to my friends like that in my house! And Royce, you will control your wife, you lily-assed pansy, or I swear to God I’ll toss you both out to beg on the street.”
He threw down his napkin, strode out, and headed upstairs. Royce, red-faced, followed as soon as his father was far enough ahead that he didn’t have to talk to him.
And then Adele followed, saying, “I just don’t seem to have much appetite.”
Which lef
t Suzanne. “Well, I do,” she said, and Talba gave her an extra helping.
“Bet you’re wondering,” Suzanne said, “how I can eat with all this going on around me?”
“No, ma’am.” I’m trying to stop shaking in my shoes.
“Meditation. You’ve got to be serene to live in this house. That, and practice. Daddy Buddy’s little chickies come and go. He blows up, Royce backs down. Lucy pouts and mouths off.” She shrugged. “You get used to it.”
Talba profoundly hoped she got the goods on the judge before she had the opportunity to get used to it.
She had three goals before lunch, to which she wasn’t looking forward—getting every window in Judge Champagne’s suite sparkling clean, planting a bug in his office phone, and pillaging at least half his files. If she got that done, she could work on Adele’s mirrors.
As it happened, she did get the bug planted and the office windows done, but there was no time to rummage files if she was going to get the beds made by noon. Since most courts recessed at noon, she figured Buddy’d be home by twelve-fifteen, at which time she’d have a toothsome lunch waiting. Anything to buy time.
Entering the third floor sanctum, she saw that both of the younger Champagnes had long since departed, leaving a room that stank of alcohol and dirty clothes. More laundry to do. After straightening the bed, she tossed the noisome garments in the hamper and worked her way down, entering the kitchen exactly on time. Adele was working in the garden, having exchanged her church-lady dress for a pair of baggy khakis. Talba tapped the window and waved at her.
The older woman smiled, looked at her watch, and came in. “Gardening keeps me calm,” she said. “I’ll just go up and change for lunch. Can you manage by yourself? There’s plenty in the refrigerator. But no sandwiches—Buddy likes a hot lunch.”
