by Tamar Myers
“Homer, you didn’t!” I am ashamed to say my voice resonated with pride.
I left the shop in Homer’s capable, if somewhat stubby hands, and headed straight for the parking garage on King Street where I’d left my car. My real destination was The Market. While it was only three blocks from the garage on King Street to Percival Franklin’s stall, they are long blocks, and the day was already hotter than the previous. I reasoned that the parking garage off Concord Street would get me a tad closer, and when both temperature and humidity are in the nineties, a tad becomes significant.
Just walking to the garage made me dew, so like any good Southern belle, the first thing I did when I got in the car was to check the rearview mirror. Sure enough, melting mascara had fused my eyelashes together, and damp hair clung to my face like kelp left behind by low tide. The most dispiriting thing I saw, however, were the trickles of lipstick that had managed to find otherwise invisible lines.
After turning on the AC, I raked my lashes with a miniature mascara comb, brushed my hair back from my face, and using a tissue and a dab of hand lotion, obliterated those nasty lines. Then I smiled at the reflection in the mirror.
“You wouldn’t happen to have any perfume in your purse, would you, Mama?”
“Abby! How did you know I was back here?”
“I didn’t. Not when I first got in. But when I checked myself out in the mirror—well, you’re not invisible just because you want to be, you know.”
“But I’m all scrunched down, Abby. I’m practically sitting on the floor.”
The truth is, it was only after I smelled Mama’s fragrance that I noticed the thatch of gray protruding above the back of my seat. Still, had my petite progenitress not pulled stunts like this before, I might have been truly scared. And just for the record, I do lock my car. Mama has her own set of keys.
But if she wanted to dance, Mama needed to pay the piper. “I wouldn’t stay on the floor too long,” I said, “because the last time I looked there was a huge spider crawling across the floor mat.”
Perhaps that was mean of me, but it gave Mama a cardiovascular workout, one that she could use, now that she’s retired and considers cookie baking a form of aerobic exercise. Who knows, I may even have prolonged her life a little.
“Abby, you’re mean!”
I backed carefully out of my space. Towering SUVs on either side gave the impression that I’d parked in a gully.
“And hiding in someone’s car isn’t mean?”
“You’re not just any someone, Abby. You’re my daughter.”
“What is it you want, Mama?”
“I thought we’d have ourselves a nice mother-daughter day,” Mama said without missing a beat. “We could hit both the Citadel and Northwoods malls this morning, go to the Mustard Seed in Mount Pleasant for lunch, and then finish up our shopping at the Towne Center.”
“What? And skip all the wonderful shops downtown?”
“Or we could do that instead. There’s a sale on at Talbots’—”
“Mama, what is your real agenda?”
“Whatever do you mean?”
I stomped on the brakes and put my car into park. We were still in the garage and there was no one behind us, so it’s not like I endangered our lives. True, Mama was not belted in—she refuses to wear one in the backseat—but all those layers of crinolines make an effective airbag.
“Get out now, Mama.”
“Abby, I can’t believe you’re speaking to me this way, and after everything I’ve done for you. It’s not every mother who would go through thirty-four hours of excruciating labor to bring an ungrateful child into this world.”
“Mama, I keep telling you, it was thirty-six hours.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, Mama, I was there, remember? Besides, you could have chosen the epidural. So either you tell me what you’re really doing in my car, or you get to hoof it back to the house, or wherever it is you want to go.”
“Abby, I’m scared.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I smell trouble.” She meant that literally.
“Mama, I’m just trying to clear my name. And I’m not doing anything, except for gathering information. As soon as I have any concrete evidence as to who killed Amelia Shadbark—and maybe Evangeline LaPointe—I’ll go straight to the police. I promise.”
A car with Ohio plates pulled up behind me, and rather than give its occupants a bad impression of Charlestonians (they didn’t know I was from off) I put the car into gear and made a dignified exit from the garage. Mama must have smelled that there was a tourist vehicle behind us, because she turned and gave them an Elizabeth II wave. I’m sure it was her intention to pass me off as the chauffeur.
“Abby,” she said when we were on the street, “if I promise to keep my mouth shut—just be your silent shadow, so to speak—can’t I tag along?”
“But Mama, it could be dangerous—”
“Aha! So you admit it then, you’re digging up stuff that could get you in big trouble—the trouble I’ve been smelling.”
“I admit no such thing, Mama. Besides, let’s say that were the case, how could you tagging along do me a lick of good? Then I’d have to worry about your safety, which would only serve to distract me. The answer therefore is no. You cannot be my shadow.”
“Try and stop me, missy,” Mama hissed.
I knew mine was a lost cause. Like the War Between the States, it was over. I could accept defeat gracefully, and get on with the task at hand, or I could continue to fight a losing battle. Sometimes I think Mozella Wiggins is the female reincarnation of General Sherman.
“Okay, Mama, but I’m warning you—”
“Drive,” Mama ordered. “Let’s get on with the show.”
I led Mama through The Market—rather, I dragged Mama through the place. She wanted to stop at every stall and examine the merchandise. Christmas was only five months away, she whined. Wouldn’t it make sense to get a little shopping in ahead of the crowds?
“But I don’t want an I Love Charleston T-shirt,” I moaned. “Greg doesn’t want one either, and neither do the children.”
“Then how about a nice painting of Elvis and Jesus on a horse?”
I stared at the monstrosity. Jesus Christ and Elvis Presley were seated together on a golden palomino, riding off into a desert sunset. Elvis, who was in his pre-corpulence stage, rode in front, and Jesus, who had his arms around Elvis, rode in back. It was, of course, Jesus who held the reins. I suppose I could have seen the symbolism in that arrangement, had it not been for small figures of all Three Stooges and Marilyn Monroe in the background. They appeared to be chasing the horse; the Stooges with palm fronds in their hands, Marilyn waving a Confederate battle flag.
Connie Beth, the vendor, caught us staring. “That’s brand new. My Elmer painted that last night.”
“Your Elmer has quite an imagination,” I said kindly. It was no worse a lie than saying to the parents of an ugly baby, “Oh my, what a baby!”
“Abby, I’m going to buy it,” Mama cried. She seemed practically transfixed.
“Not for me, you’re not. Or for Greg.”
“Then I’ll buy it for myself.”
“If you do,” I whispered, “you have to hang it in your room, and never leave the door open as long as it’s there.”
Connie Beth’s ears were no larger than lima beans, but her hearing was apparently quite sharp. “Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” I said. “Come on, Mama. A shadow has to keep up.”
Mama spread her legs slightly, trying to dig her white pumps into the concrete floor. “Abby, I’m buying this lovely painting, and that’s that.”
“Suit yourself, Mama,” I said, and started to walk away.
“Hey,” Connie Beth barked, “is that any way to treat your mama?”
I turned. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. My mama ain’t alive anymore, and let me tell you this, lady. I’d give
anything just to see her one more time. I sure as shooting wouldn’t mouth off to her.”
Mama smiled and patted her pearls. “I bet you and your mother were very close.”
Connie Beth scowled. “I hated the woman—only that was then, and this is now. Believe me, if I could do it over again, I would. I’d be the best daughter I knew how.”
“You hear that, Abby? This nice woman would treat her mama right, if she had a second chance.”
“Oh brother,” I groaned. I did my level best, I really did, not to roll my eyes.
Connie Beth’s vision was as acute as her hearing. “I saw that look you gave me,” she growled. “You think that painting ain’t fancy enough for you, don’t you? You want to waltz on down to the next building and buy one of them ugly statues from that young black man, don’t you?”
“Well—”
“Then you ain’t heard the news,” she said triumphantly.
“News?”
Connie Beth’s handful of teeth punctuated her grin. “That young man ain’t there today. He was hit by a car.”
25
I felt as if the concrete slab floor of The Market was going to well up and smack me in the face. I staggered back against Mama and leaned on her for support.
“Percival Franklin is dead!” I cried. “And it’s probably all my fault.”
Connie Beth glowered at me. “I didn’t say he was dead. I said he was hit by a car. Happened right out there”—she pointed to the side of the shed—“last night, after closing time.”
“But I don’t understand. Surely we would have heard that on the news.”
“Abby,” Mama said gently, “we didn’t watch the news last night, remember? You went to bed in a snit, so Greg, C.J., and I sat around and played dominoes until—”
“Did the police arrest the driver?”
Now that she’d made her point, Connie Beth was no longer smiling. “No, ma’am, it was a hit-and-run—driver got clean away—but Lord, it was the awfulest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“You saw it happen?”
“I said it happened right out there, didn’t I?”
“Yes, ma’am. Would you mind describing it to me?”
“Well—are y’all gonna buy something from me or not? ’Cause I got me a business to run, you know.” Just for the record, although throngs of people were pushing past us all the time, not one person had stopped to give Elmer’s original artwork a second glance.
“Yes,” Mama said emphatically, “I want to buy this painting of Elvis and Jesus on the horse. The one titled Two Kings.”
I looked closer at the bottom edge of the velvet monstrosity. Sure enough, that’s what it was called.
“Why, that’s just plain sacrilegious,” I said. “Come on, Mama, we’ll go ask someone else about the accident.”
Connie Beth shrugged. “Suit yourselves, but there were only a couple of us still around then. I stayed late because business was so good, and Dharma—she’s the one three stalls down who sells the alligator poop jewelry—she saw it, but she’s off today. Dingo saw it—well, he heard it. Dingo’s only got one eye; the other one’s glass. Sometimes I think both of Dingo’s eyes are glass. You should see some of the junk he sells.”
“Like what?” Mama asked. “He’s not the one who sells those cute little wallaby backpacks, is he? And the aprons with the kangaroo pouches for pockets?”
“They’re made in China,” Connie Beth said through gritted, albeit sparse, teeth. “My Elmer’s paintings are one hundred percent American.”
“Indeed they are,” I said. Although I still had no intention of buying one of the hideous paintings, or even letting Mama buy one, I needed Connie Beth’s cooperation. I smiled pleasantly. “I can see that your husband has quite an eye for detail. I assume that you do as well.”
“Yes, ma’am. It was me them folks on the news interviewed. Did you know they don’t pay you nothing for being on TV?”
Mama fingered her pearls. “Are you sure? I read someplace that Barbara Walters makes millions of dollars, and those young people on Friends—”
I poked Mama’s cinched waist. “She means for being on the news,” I hissed. I turned back to Connie Beth. “That’s a real shame. I bet you were able to supply those news folks—and the police—with all kinds of information.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I cut to the chase. “What did you say?”
Connie Beth took an angry step back. “Ma’am, I ain’t telling you nothing unless you buy one of my paintings.”
I looked around in desperation. “Don’t you have anything smaller?”
She gave me the evil eye, but looked around as well. Finally she pulled a small painting, sporting a crude bamboo frame, out from behind a stack of velvet Elvises.
“Just got me this one. It’s on sale for two hundred dollars.”
I squinted at the thing, trying to keep an open mind. If she took down her poster of Gary Cooper, Mama might be able to hang this smaller painting on the back of her door. The subject matter wasn’t too bad, either. There was no Jesus in this one, or Elvis either. Just the Stooges and Marilyn, in a hot tub. Curly had a beatific look on his face, as did Miss Monroe. The piece was inexplicably titled An Ace Up Her Sleeve.
“Okay.” I fished out my debit card and handed it to Connie Beth. “Mama, I hope you like this one, because it’s your early Christmas present.”
Mama’s eyes were glistening with tears of joy. “Oh, Abby, it’s even prettier than the other one. I’ll treasure it always.”
I patted her arm affectionately and turned back to Connie Beth. “Now then, tell me about the accident.”
“Whatcha want to know?”
“Everything. What color the car was, which direction it came from, where exactly Mr. Franklin was standing when it hit him. I want all the details.”
Connie swiped my card through the machine and handed it back. “Well now, I didn’t exactly see the car that hit the young man.”
“But you said it was, and I quote, ‘the awfulest thing I’ve ever seen.’”
Connie cranked up the evil eye a notch or two. “I didn’t mean that liberally. I heard the accident. That’s the same thing, ain’t it? Anyway, I was the first one out there, and I called 911. That should count for something, shouldn’t it?”
“Absolutely,” Mama said. Even though it was my money being spent, she was vying for a discount. No doubt she hoped I’d buy her two of Elmer’s masterpieces.
I took out my debit card again and fingered it seductively. “How bad were Mr. Franklin’s injuries?” I asked. “Was he conscious?”
The evil eye was now all business. “Nope, he wasn’t conscious. And his leg was all twisted—kind of like a pretzel. You know, like them big ones you buy at the mall? I said to myself, you really are one lucky woman, Connie Beth, because just a few minutes later and that coulda been you.”
“I’m so thankful it wasn’t,” Mama said. She graced Connie Beth with her best greeting company smile. “You sure you can’t come down on the price of Two Kings? There’s a spot in our living room—just above the fireplace—that needs a really good painting.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “To replace that piece of horrible modern art my daughter has hanging there now.”
“Mama, that so-called modern art is an original Cezanne! It was painted in 1894.”
Sometimes Mama forgets that it is I who puts the bread and butter on her—make that my—William and Mary table. “Well,” she said, “he could have at least stayed between the lines. Your brother Toy painted much better than that when he was in second grade. I still have one of your brother’s paintings, if you want to put it up instead of that inspirational one.” She pointed to the Two Kings.
I wouldn’t say that Toy and I fight like cats and dogs, but there is definitely some rivalry going on between the two of us. For years I was happily married (at least I thought I was), busy raising two children, and involved in community affairs. Toy, who couldn’t compete with that scenar
io, spent his days out in Hollywood, California, parking cars at celebrity-frequented restaurants. Then, when Buford dumped me and my world fell apart, Toy saw his chance to zoom ahead. He got accepted into an Episcopal seminary to study for the priesthood. You try competing with a brother called “Father.”
As you may have guessed, I wasn’t about to replace a Cezanne with something Toy painted. I’d sooner have the Two Kings hanging on my wall. On the other hand, I’d rather have an appendectomy—without the benefit of an anesthesia—than purchase another of Elmer’s hideous creations. I certainly wouldn’t, even on pain of death, hang it on my living room wall.
“Which hospital did they take Mr. Franklin to?” I asked, as I reached for the wrapped painting of Marilyn and the Stooges cavorting in the tub.
“MUSC, I think,” Connie Beth grunted.
I grabbed the painting and Mama’s hand simultaneously. Although she did her darnedest to resist me, by trying to dig the heels of her pumps into the concrete floor, Mama is no match for my strength. Not when I’m properly motivated.
Mama was still complaining when we found the surgical waiting room at the Medical University of South Carolina. The grandmotherly woman in admissions had informed us that Percival Franklin was undergoing his second round of surgery, this time to staunch internal bleeding.
“His sister’s waiting up there,” she’d said, “and I think she’s alone. Maybe you could get her some coffee. And a Danish.”
Well, I’d brought the coffee and two Danish pastries, but Mama brought her attitude. “Abby, we won’t know what to say. We’ll be intruding.”
“Then we’ll just sit quietly.”
“But you don’t know if she likes black coffee, or cream and sugar.”
“That’s why I brought the works.”
“But Abby,” Mama whined, “I read somewhere that hospitals are the number one source of infection. Your odds of getting sick shoot up the moment you walk in.”
“Then don’t touch anything.”
We turned the corner. There were about a dozen people in the waiting room. Several of them were African American, but I had no trouble picking out Percival Franklin’s sister; she looked exactly like him—well, a female version, of course. Same high cheekbones, same fine-textured skin. She could be a model if she wanted. Perhaps she was.
