“Isn’t that right, Viola?”
I realize with horror that Henry has been asking me questions. I wonder how long I have been in the dark place this time.
“I’m sorry?”
“You’re from New Orleans.”
Where once was polite acknowledgement — with a bit of sarcasm from Carmine — there is now complete attention. All eyes sans Henry gaze upon me, filled with a look I have come to abhor. Pity.
I offer up a comforting smile and shrug. Sure, lost my house and everything in it. Car was found seven blocks away. Chimney saved me from blowing into the good state of Mississippi, after which I got this blistering sunburn while sunbathing on the roof for two days. No biggie. Needed a vacation anyway.
Of course, I say nothing. I don’t want to discuss it. Any of it. But the questions fly fast and furious.
“Did you ride it out?”
Yes, had to, my job at the newspaper demanded it.
“Did you lose anything?”
Yes, everything.
“Everything?”
Yes, everything but my good looks. The attempt at humor fails miserably.
“Where are you living now?”
Two hours west in Cajun Country. In a potting shed if you ask my mom.
Again, not even a smile.
“What do you think of Bush and FEMA?”
At this point, I’ve had enough. I don’t want to think about Bush, can’t bear to hear him speak anymore. And FEMA owes me money. More than anything, I don’t want to talk about Katrina!!
“Where are we heading first?” I ask Henry over the cacophony of questions.
Henry explains how we are all checking into our hotels in the Bentonville area for the night and then meeting back in our respective lobbies for a quick overview of the historic downtown and then dinner. I ask him about his family — and yes, I’m repeating myself — but the rest of the van seems to get the idea that the conversation is over. They stop talking to me and I study my press packet for the rest of the trip.
We arrive at my hotel, a chain but lovely with a stone fireplace in the center of the lobby. I marvel at rocks; we have none in South Louisiana. Just mud. I caress my hands over the quartz and swear I can feel the vibrations. New Age people say I’m blessed, everyone else says I’m crazy, but rocks have always spoken to me in one way or another. Most of the time it’s to say, “Take me home,” and I always oblige. My chest hurts as I wonder where all those crystals and rocks I’ve gathered over the years have ended up.
“There’s an indoor pool,” Irene says, breaking my thoughts. “Wanna grab a swim tonight?”
I take one look at the luscious pool with its emerald waters and neighboring hot tub, two sights that would have normally enticed me to indulge, no hesitation at all, but I want nothing of it.
“I’m not a swimmer,” I lie to Irene.
As Irene heads down the hall to the elevators, I take one last look at the pool, swallowing hard to lodge the lump choking my breath. The wet opera singer waves to me from beside the water.
Chapter Three
A geology lesson in third grade started my rock fascination. When my crazy Uncle Jake who lived in northern Alabama found out, he decided I needed to know where “rocks grew.” In all honesty, it was a chance for he and my Aunt Mimi to get me away from “Sin City,” my hometown of New Orleans where not only care forgot but Christian living as well. Or so they thought. I explained that everyone I knew attended church, but Uncle Jake muttered something about idol worship and the Pope.
My family didn’t attend church. My parents were liberal college professors who claimed religion was a crutch for the ignorant. The fact that she and Aunt Mimi are related baffles the mind.
Days in Wedowee, Alabama, were filled with saying prayers, grace and thanking the Lord for every little thing, even Uncle Jake catching that seven-pound bass in the Fayette County Lake. I didn’t mind because in between church youth meetings and Sunday service, I got to visit the stalactites and stalagmites of nearby DeSoto Caverns, where Aunt Mimi ran the gift shop.
One day, Uncle Jake took me on the tour.
“The best part is coming,” Uncle Jake said in his funny accent, making me wonder for the umpteenth time how Aunt Mimi married a man so distant from my sophisticated mother, a Shakespearean studies professor who spoke like the people on the news and sometimes, when extolling the comedic complexities of Beatrice in Much Ado About Nothing, for instance, would actually sound British.
“How could it get any better?” I asked Uncle Jake, gripping the piece of quartz I had purchased in the gift store, a lovely stone that had beckoned to me the moment I had walked into the establishment. Glistening and smooth, the stone burned warmly in my palm.
“Just you watch,” Uncle Jake whispered.
And then they turned off the lights.
It was darker than any night I could remember, so black nothing anywhere was visible. I waved my hand in front of my face to make sure. Zip.
“There is absolutely no light in this cave,” the tour guide informed us. “People who have lost their way in here many years ago were known to go crazy after just a few hours.”
I could certainly see why. The darkness seeps into your brain, snuffing out whatever light existed in your consciousness.
It freaked out the other tourists, but I loved it. The darkness covered me like a blanket and vibrations of humanity appeared everywhere, charged by the humming of my crystal. I couldn’t see, but rather felt the presence of others, comforting souls who seemed to float by, touching the top of my head like a loving parent. When the lights came back on, the humming stopped.
I later told Uncle Jake of my experience which initiated intense prayer sessions with everyone they knew, arriving at the house to lay hands on me and “wash the demons away.” There was nothing comforting about their clammy hands on my head, nor peaceful with their talk of the devil and “evil lurking in an innocent child.” My crystal disappeared as well — no doubt Uncle Jake or Aunt Mimi hid it or brought it back to the cave.
I couldn’t return to New Orleans fast enough. I called my mother to fetch me days earlier than planned. She acted put out because of her summer school schedule, but she arrived anyway, explaining to Uncle Jake and Aunt Mimi that she needed me at home.
Aunt Mimi suspected, and as my mother was putting the car in reverse to back out of the driveway, came running over to the passenger’s side, placing something cool in my palm. “So you’ll remember us fondly,” she said, looking sad as she released the stone.
I cried all the way home. The church people had freaked me out but Uncle Jake and Aunt Mimi were the first concerted attention I had received from family. They loved me despite my lack of intellect (unlike my sister’s high IQ) and sophistication (unlike my brother’s beauty and suaveness), and I more than likely hurt their feelings. Plus, I desperately wanted to return to that cave.
They never had children, lived out their lives in northern Alabama which meant I never saw them again; my parents certainly didn’t want to visit. When Uncle Jake died, we didn’t go to the funeral and later Aunt Mimi checked herself into a nursing home somewhere near Branson, her favorite vacation spot. She resides there to this day. I really need to visit.
I thought of them both the first night after the storm, after hours of blistering heat on the roof and no rescue, when darkness so intense fell upon us and TB curled into a ball and cried himself to sleep. I embraced the blackness that night, seduced by a night filled with stars and the quiet lapping of the water against the side of the house.
I hear that sound again and wake with a start. I’ve been dreaming about water again. Even though in my dreams the floodwaters stretch out for miles, smooth as a sheet of glass, peaceful and calm, I awake sweating.
I check my cell phone. Five minutes to six. Crap. When did I fall asleep?
I throw on fresh clothes, checking them to make sure the Goodwill smell has been washed off, and attempt to tame my wild curls that inflate like a balloon when it’
s humid. The Ozark mountain air must be helping for my waves of hair appear almost normal. I quickly add some eye shadow and mascara to accent my deep brown eyes my mother claims are too small and apply a touch of powder to cheeks my mother labels pasty. I give myself a harsh look, reminding myself that I’m not that bad looking. Since Katrina I’ve lost weight and can now fit into a size ten, first time since high school, and I still have my tan. I almost hear my mother responding, so I grab my cute new hippie purse I found at Salvation Army and rush down to the lobby.
This time, I avoid looking at the pool.
Irene is there waiting, talking to a tall, thin woman in jeans and a top reminiscent of the seventies with long brown hair captured in back by a multi-colored clip that matches her shirt. She notices me and smiles and I instantly warm.
“You must be Viola,” she says with a Southern accent, pronouncing my name like the instrument. “I’m Winnie Calder.”
“Yes, I am.” I offer my hand. “But it’s Vi-o-la.”
Most of the time I let it slide. People are always mispronouncing my crazy name, but Winnie feels like a friend and I figure she won’t take offense.
She doesn’t. “Sorry,” she says with a laugh. “I never know how to say that name. I always got it wrong when I was studying Twelfth Night in high school.”
“My mom teaches Shakespeare at Tulane,” I say with a shrug. “She prefers the tragedies but I have a twin.”
Winnie laughs and I know my first impression was right on. She’s going to be fun. “Don’t tell me you’re a cross dresser too.”
Irene appears lost in this conversation so I explain how Viola and her twin Sebastian become shipwrecked in Twelfth Night and Viola wears men’s clothing to protect herself while she searches for Sebastian. It’s a great play, one of my favorites with Viola assisting Duke Arsenio to woo Olivia while Olivia falls for Viola, who’s really a girl in love with Duke. My mother, on the other hand, thinks Shakespeare’s comedies are like religion, something to keep the ignorant entertained.
Henry arrives and we all pile in the van. Since Richard was the last stop on the way in, he’s the first to be picked up. So, naturally, he’s in the front seat. Irene hangs back and whispers to us under her breath. “That man will find every excuse to be in the front. You just watch.”
Winnie laughs, and when Irene makes no attempt to enter the rear of the van, opens the side door and crawls into the back seat. I wonder if sitting in the second row, which takes little effort in and out of the van, will be Irene’s MO as well. Just for fun — or possibly because I’m feeling desperately out of place and in need of a friend — I join Winnie in the back.
Of course, I stumble once more, snagging my purse on the second-row armrest, which sprays the belongings all over the back floor. I ungracefully swing my butt to the seat and pull my shirt down which has risen above my waist exposing my lovely white interior. I would laugh if this happened once and a while, but unfortunately it’s my MO.
Winnie helps me gather the contents of my purse and is about to remark on the incident — or ask just why the hell I’m in the back to begin with — when I interrupt, asking, “So, where are you from?”
“No place Mississippi.” She laughs heartedly. “Some place I’m sure you’ve never heard of.”
She’s probably right but I pride myself on knowing the South. It’s my travel writing specialty, although mostly because I can’t afford to go too far afield. “Try me.”
“Duck Hill.” She pulls it out long and slow for emphasis, so it emerges like several syllables instead of two. I don’t know if she’s doing that on purpose or it’s her accent hanging thick. She pauses, watches my face, a smirk lingering a few seconds away.
“Okay,” I finally answer. “You got me.”
Winnie laughs and it feels good to hear it. I suddenly realize how starved I am for female friendship, the kind where you meet up for margarita specials, talk for hours and laugh in ridiculous ways, margarita salt coming out your nose.
“It’s tiny.” She leans in close and whispers, “Our claim to fame is we instigated the anti-lynching bill in Congress.”
I winch. “Not exactly a tourist destination, I guess.”
“Hard-ly,” she replies in a singsong fashion. “But I live outside of Oxford now. I met my husband at Ole Miss and he got a job as the planetarium director at the local science museum. I write and raise kids — both the human kind and the ones that bleat — and he plays geek to other people’s kids.”
“Sounds cool.”
She shrugs. “Can be. You have any kids?”
I shake my head, wondering if Lillye would be the age of one of hers if she were still alive. Pushing that thought deep inside — I’m weary of being depressed and the thought of having fun with another human being is too enticing — I keep the mood light.
“Just me. I got rid of my husband.”
Winnie bends her head to one side, studying me. “I hope that was a good move.”
“Oh yeah,” I say with the same slow Southern style, which makes us both laugh. Yep, we’re definitely on the same wavelength.
“What are you girls talking about back there?” Richard calls out from the front.
“You, of course,” Winnie answers.
“We want in on the jokes,” Richard demands.
She turns to me and rolls her eyes.
“Have you traveled with him before?” I whisper.
“Twice.” Winnie’s eyes widen as she shakes her head. “If they would have told me he was on this trip, I wouldn’t have come.”
“Really, what are you two talking about?” Richard asks again.
“How much we love traveling with you, Richard,” Winnie yells out, and I can’t help laughing. “Where are you going next? I want to make sure I go too.”
Richard completely misses the sarcasm and spends the rest of the trip to downtown Bentonville relating his travel writing itinerary for the next few months, a full schedule of hiking in Sedona, Civil War history in Virginia, a quick trip through Washington, D.C. to do a piece on a Smithsonian building being refurbished and then on to China. He pauses when he gets to the last destination, waiting for us to ooh and ahh. When we fail to give him the right reaction, he explains how he nabbed this impressive trip overseas and the big-name publication he’s selling the article to. I giggle watching Winnie mentally log this information, shaking her head back and forth like those dogs you place on windshields.
“Oh goodie, we’re at the Walmart Museum,” she interrupts when Henry pulls next to the five and dime that Sam Walton owned almost fifty years prior, the launching point for the international phenomenon which made Sam and his offspring billionaires.
Henry pauses outside the building that is now closed and gives us a history of Sam Walton, how he started working in retail with J.C. Penney, then owning a Ben Franklin Store franchise known as Walton’s 5 & 10. Inspired by the success of discount chains, he offered a similar business practice to the folks at Franklin, who turned him down. Walton then went on to start his own chain of discount stores in the neighboring town of Rogers and, as they say, the rest is history.
“I’ll bet those Franklin guys are shooting themselves in the head,” Richard says with a laugh, and Winnie rolls her eyes again. Irene never looks up, her head bent on her Blackberry.
What’s cool about this story is that the Waltons (I keep hearing John Boy saying good-night) have remained in Bentonville, as has the main operation of Walmart. Sam encouraged his business partners to open sites in Bentonville as well, so the sleepy little northwest Arkansas town became a booming entrepreneurial hub.
I never liked Walmart, mainly because the aisles are too crowded and you have to fight the hoards of humanity looking to save money and live better. But Walmart arrived on the Gulf Coast way before the feds did and ended up donating eighteen million dollars in relief supplies. After Henry mentions Sam driving a beat-up pickup truck because a fancier car would be impractical for hauling his hunting dogs, and the ne
w green initiatives Walmart has begun, I have a new appreciation for the conglomerate. However, I still don’t want to shop there, prefer the ole mom and pops.
We tour the rest of the quaint town with its central square, old homes and biking trails, then get a glimpse into Compton Gardens which, Henry assures us, we will be able to tour on the last day. Sam’s daughter Alice Walton (“Goodnight Alice”) collects art and is planning a world-class art museum in the upcoming years. We’ll get a sneak peak of that as well, right before catching our planes home.
When we arrive at the restaurant the rest of the party is waiting inside, including Carrie and Alicia, two young and painfully thin PR women working for the Wallace Group, and a bespectacled couple from Wisconsin consisting of a newsletter journalist named Stephanie Pennington and her photographer husband, Joe.
“Yeah, right he’s a photographer,” Winnie whispers to me when the husband is introduced.
We make seven journalists, if you count the faux photographer, and three PR professionals. Everyone looks practiced and at ease and I wonder if they smell newbie emanating from my pores. I pat my clothes to make sure everything is in place and take a deep breath. I so want this to work out.
Jack Wendell, the owner of the restaurant greets us enthusiastically at the door, leading us to the back room and a massive table set aside for the travel writers. I don’t know who is gladder to see whom, Jack meeting us or me meeting a free meal. Although I do wonder why we are eating seafood in northwest Arkansas. Irene has no hesitation bringing that up.
“Why a seafood restaurant? I always bypass seafood if I’m more than six hours from the sea.”
The frank question takes the wind out of Jack’s sails, but like a good promoter he steadies himself. “Good question. But because of our great new airport, we fly everything fresh in from the Gulf. I guarantee you it will be as fresh as anything within hours of a port.”
“Will see,” says Irene with a know-it-all smile.
We all grab seats and I feel like the new kid on the first day of school, awkward and self-conscious. I wonder if I’m out of my league. I keep an eye out for Winnie but she’s busy hugging Carmine.
A Ghost of a Chance Page 3
