by Anne George
“Are you sure it’s the same one?”
“Hard to believe. But I hope so. I’ve often wondered about that poor child. The boys, and the girls, too, used to tease her, saying, ‘Clarissey may, Clarissey may not.’ Then one day she handed in a paper that just had ‘Claire Needham’ on it.”
“She’d had enough.”
“She’d had more than enough.”
“Well, bless her heart, she’s a knockout now. I’m going to look Delta up. Don’t you think my hair would look good like that?”
“You mean black?”
“Why not?”
I’ve learned it’s best not to answer these questions. “Let’s go find Bonnie Blue,” I said.
The floor of the gallery was crowded, but people were gathered in groups so it was easy to move around. I spotted some of Abraham’s work against the far wall, and we worked our way over. Bonnie Blue wore a bright blue caftan and was standing guard over her frail old father, who was sitting in a chair with a glass of champagne in his hand.
“Hey, y’all,” Bonnie Blue said. “This is my daddy, Abraham Butler. Daddy, this is Patricia Anne Hollowell and Mary Alice Crane. They’re sisters.”
Abraham Butler tilted his head back so he could study us through the bottoms of his bifocals. “Can’t be.”
“We were born at home,” Mary Alice said. “Same mama, same daddy.”
“No, no. It’s just surprising to see two such beautiful young ladies in one family.”
Behind him, Bonnie Blue rolled her eyes and made a shoveling motion.
“Why, Mr. Butler.” Mary Alice beamed. “What a nice thing to say.”
“Call me Abe,” he said.
I love the way old Southern men flirt. It’s an art form I’m afraid is dying out and which, when it is gone, will leave the world less fun. Even men in their sixties like Fred haven’t mastered it. Chances are the younger men would have learned from the old masters if they had realized how wildly successful it is. I’ve always figured this as part of Mary Alice’s fascination for older men.
“Abe,” she said, taking the hand that wasn’t holding the champagne. “Now, you just call me Mary Alice.”
Bonnie Blue looked at me and grinned. “You want some food, Daddy? Patricia Anne and I are going to go get some refreshments.”
“Just anything,” Abe Butler said.
“Me, too,” said my sister. “And bring me some champagne.”
“They’ll be busy a while,” Bonnie Blue said as we headed across the gallery to the food table.
“Which one is Mercy Armistead?” I asked her. “Mary Alice knows her, but I don’t.”
“You can’t miss her.” Bonnie Blue looked around. “She’s got red hair she wears in long curls kind of like Miss Pitty Pat. Sort of strange-looking, but pretty. But when Daddy and I got here she looked like the Bride of Frankenstein. You remember that movie?”
“The one with Elsa somebody that Charles Laughton was married to?”
“Yeah. The one where her hair stands straight out. I expect Mercy’s still somewhere trying to comb it.”
“What happened?”
“Some kind of curling mousse she used.”
“I’ll bet it was the extra curly. I bought some by accident once and it was like glue.”
“You poor thing.” Bonnie Blue grinned, running her hand over her elegant modified Afro. “That’s Mercy’s husband, Thurman Beatty.” She motioned toward a large, blond man who looked to be in his early forties and who had the thick neck of a professional athlete. He was walking around with a bottle of champagne, filling glasses.
“I remember him!”
“Sure you do. Mr. Roll Tide. Yeah, Alabama.”
“He was great.”
“Sure was.”
Fred would have loved seeing Thurman Beatty. Mention the name, and he still goes into a harangue about how Thurman was gypped out of the Heisman.
“And that’s Mercy’s aunt Liliane Bedsole.”
I looked around.
“The old lady with the stiff face,” Bonnie Blue added. “And orange hair.”
Aunt Liliane was easy to spot. She was talking to a middle-aged man dressed in a jacket that was so red his face and bald head glowed pink.
“How many face-lifts do you reckon she’s had?” I asked, looking at Aunt Liliane.
“I doubt she closes her eyes to sleep.” Bonnie Blue giggled. “That’s Ross Perry, the art critic, she’s talking to. He’s writing a book about the Outsiders. He’s been over to the house to talk to Daddy.”
We had reached the refreshment table.
“Would you look at this!” Bonnie Blue said. “I think I’m going to have to splurge tonight.” She took a plate and helped herself to strawberry cheesecake, pecan pie, and blueberry trifle. “Fruits and nuts,” she said. “Not too far off my diet.”
I had just eaten a big supper, but everything on the table looked delicious. I took some strawberries dusted with sugar. Bonnie Blue eyed my selection thinking, I knew, anorexia. So I filled the plate up with little quiches and nuts and sandwiches. Mary Alice liked to eat off my plate anyway.
“Hey, Bonnie Blue. Where’s James?” We turned and saw Thurman Beatty standing behind us.
“He’ll be here in a little while.” Bonnie Blue introduced us. “My brother James and Thurman played football together,” she explained.
“Best tight end Alabama ever had.” Thurman held out the champagne bottle. “Y’all got glasses?”
“Not yet.”
“I’ll get you some, then.” He disappeared for a moment and then was back with two fluted glasses and a big grin. “Ladies.”
I’m allergic to alcohol, but I took the glass for Mary Alice. I probably would have taken it, anyway, Thurman Beatty was so charming. Maybe I shouldn’t write the younger generation off just yet.
“Where’s Mercy?” Bonnie Blue asked.
“Around. Wheeling and dealing.” Someone called Thurman’s name. “Tell James I want to see him when he gets here.”
“He’s a pretty good tight end himself,” Bonnie Blue said, watching him walk away. I agreed.
Mary Alice had found a chair somewhere and pulled it up beside Abe Butler. They were deep in conversation when we came up. I handed her the champagne and told her she could eat off my plate.
“Thanks,” she said, not even looking my way. I took the strawberries, put the plate on her lap, and walked around the gallery, munching and admiring.
Quilts can hold their own in any art gallery or museum. The ones I particularly admired that night were what the artist called “story quilts.” Appliquéd, embroidered, and even painted on the patchwork quilts were historic figures or scenes of family life such as a picnic or children playing in a yard. I yearned for one called “The ’60s” with Martin Luther King and John and Robert Kennedy greeting Freedom Riders as they got off a bus. From the window of the bus, Rosa Parks looked out with an expression of surprise on her face. I checked the price and discovered that the Outsiders were learning the value of their work. Which was as it should be. I would just have to take the lady’s name and start saving my money.
“Finding what you want, Mrs. Hollowell?” Claire Moon stood beside me.
“Everything’s beautiful, Claire. Do you work here?”
“I’m Mercy’s assistant.”
“Do you like your work?”
Her pale face became animated for the first time. “I love it.” She smiled. “Mercy is an artist herself, you know, probably better known in Europe than here. That’ll change, though.”
“But she grew up here in Birmingham?”
“Her mother did, and Mercy visited a lot. Birmingham is Thurman’s home, though.”
“And he’s delighted to be here after being dragged all over the globe for years.” The speaker who had come up behind us was a tall, thin woman with delicate features and reddish gold hair pulled back into a single long braid. She reminded me of a young Vanessa Redgrave.
Claire Moon introduced us
and I congratulated Mercy on the gallery and the showing.
“I’m proud of it,” she said. “But Claire did most of the show.”
Claire looked startled and pleased. “Oh, Mercy, you know I didn’t.”
Mercy put her arm around Claire’s shoulders. “Now, Claire, you’re the one who located most of these artists.” There was a slight pause before the word artists. Enough to catch my attention and dim the smile on Claire’s face. Enough to make me immediately defensive.
“I’ve never seen more beautiful art,” I said. “I think it’s a shame the Outsiders’ talents aren’t appreciated more.”
“Of course.” Mercy Armistead looked straight at me with eyes not green, not brown, but an amber color somewhere in between.
I gave her back my schoolteacher look, which still works like a charm.
“Well,” she said, “let me mingle.” She patted Claire on the shoulder, said “It was nice meeting you, Mrs. Hollowell,” and disappeared into the crowd.
“So much for folk art,” I said, watching Mercy greet a couple who had just come in.
“She’s really very nice, Mrs. Hollowell. She’s just still in a tizzy because there were so many last-minute things to do. The caterer was late, and she was in a rush to get ready. And then her hair got all messed up with people already beginning to arrive.” Two vertical lines had appeared between Claire’s black eyebrows.
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “I guarantee you everybody here is impressed with the exhibit. Come let me show you the quilt I’d love to buy. All I need is a line of credit from AmSouth Bank.”
The lines disappeared and she smiled. “It must be one of Leota Wood’s.”
“Does the gallery get a certain percentage?”
“Forty, usually. Mercy needs the money like she needs a hole in her head, though. Her father is Samuel Armistead, the movie producer.”
“Claire, Claire. Claire.” To my surprise, Claire was suddenly airborne and hoisted over a large black man’s shoulder. “Where’s the hooch, Claire, the real stuff? Thurman says you got some.”
“Jack Daniel, Claire. Mercy’s got it hidden somewhere. Here, James, throw her to me.”
James tossed the squealing Claire lightly into Thurman’s outstretched arms. “Now throw her back.” Bonnie Blue’s brother was a giant of a man dressed in a conservative dark suit and a Mickey Mouse Christmas tie.
“No! I’ll tell.” Claire’s white face showed a tinge of pink. I could tell she was enjoying the game, that it was a familiar one.
Thurman set her down. “Bourbon, Claire. A man’s drink.”
“Looks like you’ve already been into it.”
Thurman moved to pick her up again.
“No!” She jumped back, straightened her dress, and ran her hand over her hair. “I’ll get it for you.”
“My man!” James slapped Thurman on the shoulder and they followed Claire through a side door.
Mary Alice was cruising the room and Bonnie Blue was showing one of Abe’s paintings to a prospective buyer when I got back. I thanked the old man for the picture Bonnie Blue had given me and told him how much I admired his work.
“You got any extra plywood?” he asked.
I told him I didn’t, but that I would be on the lookout for some.
“Plywood paints good,” he said. “Don’t bend like canvas.”
I told him I could see that was an advantage.
“Cardboard’s okay. You got some, I can use it.”
I nodded and looked around for Sister. My feet were beginning to hurt.
“A drink would be nice,” Abe said.
“What?”
He held up his glass. “Champagne.”
I took the glass and started for the refreshment table. On the way, I spotted Sister admiring Leota Wood’s quilts and made a detour.
“You said you were buying my Christmas present,” I said. “I want that one.” I pointed to the one titled “The ’60s.”
Mary Alice went over and looked at the price. “I’ll tell Fred,” she said.
I assured her I wouldn’t hold my breath.
She looked at the glass in my hand. “For Abe,” I explained.
“Lord, he’s inhaling that stuff. Someone’s going to have to carry him home.”
“His sweet chariot has just swung low,” I said. “His name is James.”
Mary Alice looked at me. “Patricia Anne,” she said, “that was so bad.”
Actually, I thought it was kind of clever.
“Come look at these wood carvings,” she said. “They’re little totem poles made out of chair legs.”
We worked our way through the crowd. I spotted Mercy talking to her aunt Liliane Bedsole, the woman with orange hair. I poked Sister in the back. “I met Mercy. I got the impression she doesn’t think the Outsiders are such hot artists. I wonder why she’s opening her gallery with a showing of their work.”
We had arrived at the wood carvings. Most of them were charming, brightly colored single figures. Some of them, however, were definitely sexual. And humorous. The artist had painted expressions on the entwined figures’ faces that said plainly, “Well, how about this!” On nearly every carving was a small pink “Sold” tag.
“Those pink tags are why. It’s going to be a sellout.” Mary Alice picked up one of the figures. “Does this remind you of Bill?”
“In your dreams.”
“Sure it does. I’ve got to have this.” Sister turned the carving over and looked at the price. “Wow.”
“Claire Moon said Mercy didn’t need money.”
“And you said Claire was one of your advanced students?” Sister opened her purse, took out her checkbook, and patted it fondly. “Ha! Ask me, the girl hasn’t got biddy brains.” And with that, my sister proceeded to buy two carved chair legs which kept falling over and which the artist swore were a pair.
Three
Fred was sound asleep when I got home. I undressed quietly and went into the den to read and wind down. By the time I slipped in beside him, he was snoring slightly and it was almost one o’clock. I snuggled against him and didn’t know anything else until I heard the sound of the shower. Seven-twenty. I yawned and turned over, trying to will myself back into the dream I had been having, which had been a good one and which was already gone. No use. I was awake.
I turned on the TV to see what the weather was going to do and got the local news. “An apparent heart attack,” the announcer was saying. As I leaned over to get my robe, I glanced at the screen and did a double take. Mercy Armistead was smiling at me. I grabbed the remote and turned up the volume.
“Ms. Armistead’s body was found by her husband, former football great Thurman Beatty, at the gallery Ms. Armistead owned and where she had hosted a gala opening just last night.”
Fred came into the room with a towel around him.
“Mercy is dead,” I said.
“Are you quoting Shakespeare or just making a statement?” Fred did a playful bump-and-grind strip.
“Get dressed,” I said. “A lot you know about Shakespeare.”
He grinned and stepped into his shorts, making a little flipping motion as he pulled them up.
“The woman whose gallery we went to last night. Mercy Armistead. She had a heart attack and died.”
“How old was she?”
“I don’t know. Mid-thirties, maybe. Her husband’s Thurman Beatty.”
“Good Lord!” The mention of Thurman Beatty’s name got Fred’s attention. He sat down on the side of the bed. “Was she all right at the party?”
“Seemed to be. I never met her before.”
“A heart attack?”
“That’s what they said. An apparent heart attack.”
“That’s awfully young.” Fred was thinking the same thing I was. That was the age of our children. He got up, went to the closet, and took out a shirt and pants. I reached over and got the phone and dialed Sister’s number.
“Hello,” Bill Adams said.
&
nbsp; I looked at the clock. Seven-thirty. That answered that question.
“May I speak to Mary Alice, Bill?”
“She’s still asleep, Patricia Anne.”
“Well, tell her Mercy’s dead and to call me soon as she wakes up.”
“Mercy’s dead. Got it.” There was silence for a few seconds.
“Bill?”
“Just looking for something to write with. There’s nothing here to write with.”
“I’ll call her later,” I said. “Bill’s at Sister’s,” I told Fred, who by now was buttoning his shirt.
“Are you surprised?”
“Nope.” I started to get up. “You want some cereal?”
“I’ll get it and I’ll get you a cup of coffee. How about that?”
“How about you put the towel on again.”
He laughed and headed toward the kitchen. “You missed your chance.”
I went into the bathroom, automatically put the toilet seat down like every other female in America was doing that morning, splashed some cold water on my face, brushed my teeth, and was back in the bed by the time Fred arrived with the coffee.
“You think Mercy’s death would be in the paper?” I asked.
“What time did she die?”
“I don’t know. They said Thurman found the body at the gallery.”
“Depends on how early it was. I’ll stick the paper in the kitchen door for you.”
“Thanks.” I sipped coffee while Fred ate cereal. “You want to go Christmas shopping tonight?”
“We need to, don’t we?”
Pictures of wars, floods, and famines flashed across the TV screen while we sat in our small bedroom and talked of children and Christmas presents. Keeping the world at bay. Keeping our fingers crossed.
“I’ve got to go,” Fred said. “The traffic’s going to be impossible.” He leaned over and kissed me. On the way out of the door, he turned. “Dying in your thirties is so unfair.”
Tears sprang to my eyes. I was thinking about Mercy, of course, but I was also thinking of our son-in-law, Tom Buchanan, who was thirty-four when he died. “Yes,” I said.
