by Anne George
“What did you think of Tammy Sue?” she asked me, putting her coat back on and ignoring the fact that Mitzi had jumped halfway out of her chair.
“Very nice.”
Sister nodded. “We’re going to get along fine.”
“You haven’t told her about the wedding yet, have you?”
“We’re going to tonight.”
“Be sure to tell her she’s going to be a bridesmaid.”
“I will. Bye, Mitzi.” A wave and she was gone.
“She’s wonderful,” Mitzi said admiringly as the door closed behind the karate kid. “I wish I had half of her energy.”
“She may have met her match with Tammy Sue, Virgil’s daughter. The sunflower bridesmaid dresses may be on their way out.” I shivered. “Why don’t we go in the den? I’ll light a fire.”
“Are you feeling all right?”
“Just no sleep, I think. But will you check this knot on my head? Can concussions take a couple of days to show up?”
Mitzi ran her hand carefully over the bump and then looked at the pupils of my eyes.
“Are they supposed to be dilated or undilated?”
“Dilated, I think.”
“Well, these aren’t my reading glasses, but they look okay. Why don’t you put on your reading glasses. That ought to magnify them.”
Which I did and was pronounced normal.
“Why don’t you go curl up on the sofa with a book,” Mitzi suggested. “I’m going to the store. Do you need anything?”
I needed sleep. I shut off the ringer on the phone and sacked out. One of the great pleasures of being retired. I miss my students, I’ll admit, but tutoring math a couple of mornings a week at the local middle school helps. I wish someone had clued me in to math thirty years earlier, though. One answer. One. I was grading research papers. Footnotes. Bibliographies. English grammar. And the math teachers were checking one answer. Of course I had become very good friends with Beowulf and Walt Whitman. No small perk.
When I woke up, I felt loggy but better. The rain was still pelting the skylight, so taking Woofer for a walk was out. I checked the phone. No calls. I was convinced that Mary Alice would have had a dozen. I swear she belongs to every club in Birmingham and is on the board of the museum, the botanical gardens, and the Humane Society. You name it. I belong to an investment club that meets once a month, and she belongs to it, too.
I fixed a peanut butter and banana sandwich and sat down to watch The Price Is Right, but I couldn’t concentrate on it. I gave up and turned it off when a woman overbid on a pickup truck by ten thousand dollars. My Lord. What did she think it was made of? Gold? I went to the desk and fished out the list of things to do for Haley. I should buy something special for the baby. But what? Something they would see when they walked into the house that would let them know how thrilled we were about our granddaughter.
A rocking chair? I’d look while I was at their house and see if there was a rocking chair just the right size for holding a baby to nurse her and, later on, to read to her and rock her to sleep. I was daydreaming so hard that the phone’s ring startled me.
“Hey, Aunt Pat,” Debbie said. “You okay? You sound out of breath.”
“I’m fine, honey. Just thinking about buying Haley a rocking chair to rock the baby in. Maybe have it there in the house when they come in.”
“That’s a great idea. I’m wearing mine out.”
“Is Brother okay?”
“He’d be better off if the twins would leave him alone. They think he ought to play with them.”
The twins, Fay and May, are almost three. Two-month-old Brother would have to grow up quickly to protect himself.
“Each of them had him by a leg last night pulling him across the floor.”
“My Lord!”
“He seemed to be enjoying it. Henry sat them down and explained that Brother is not a doll, though, and that they could hurt him.”
“I hope they listened.”
“I’m sure they did. The novelty of having a baby around just hasn’t worn off.”
Novelty?
“Where are they now?” I asked. I’m sure I sounded fearful.
Debbie giggled. “Asleep. All of them. Listen, Aunt Pat, I called for a couple of reasons. One is that y’all were at the Alabama Theater last night, weren’t you? Mama told me she had tickets.”
“In the front row. You’ve heard about the man getting killed? He fell in the orchestra pit right in front of us. It was horrible, Debbie.”
“Well, that’s what I wanted to know. On the news this morning they said he died of a heart attack. Then on the noon news, they said it was a murder.”
“Your mother was by here earlier and informed me the man’s gizzard was cut out. I think that classifies as murder. Why? Why do you need to know?”
“Well, they said his name was Griffin Mooncloth. That’s not your usual everyday name. And I talked to him yesterday. He had an appointment with me this afternoon at three.”
“Really? What was it about?”
“I don’t know, Aunt Pat. He called and left a message and when I called back he just said he needed some legal questions answered and made the appointment.” She paused. “He said it wouldn’t take long, so I figured it couldn’t be too complicated.”
“I hope he wasn’t planning on changing his will.”
“I hope not, too. Tell me what happened.”
The story got shorter each time I told it. It reminded me of teaching. For first-period classes you had more than you could cover. By last period, with the same material, you had time left over. In my version to Debbie of Griffin Mooncloth’s death he was stabbed and fell into the orchestra pit. Period.
“Then we left,” I ended.
“Hmm.”
I could hear a tapping noise. “Are you hitting your teeth with a pencil?” I asked.
“Guilty.”
“Well, quit it. Your mother’s got a fortune invested in your teeth.”
“True.” The noise stopped. “What did he look like, Aunt Pat?”
“I wasn’t paying much attention to him until he left the Elvis chorus line and fell forward. That’s what they were doing, that chorus-line kick all together and he kept coming. He didn’t look too good then.”
“Young? Middle-aged?”
“I’d guess thirtyish. Why?”
“I don’t know. It’s just that he sounded so nice on the phone.”
“You remember Dusk Armstrong? She identified him. Said he was in a dance class with her in New York. She can probably tell you about him.”
“She’s here in Birmingham?”
“She was in the show last night. Beautiful.”
“Always has been.”
There was a moment of silent agreement.
“Aunt Pat? The other reason I called was because I got a strange message from Marilyn. Some of it was garbled, probably talking on her car phone. All I could make out was ‘Debbie, don’t tell Mama.’ Have you heard from her?”
Marilyn is Mary Alice’s oldest child. Her father was Will Alec Sullivan, the chinless husband. Fortunately Marilyn has a beautiful chin. In fact, she is a beautiful woman, tall like her mother, but thin, elegant. She lives in Pensacola, where she has worked most recently as a financial planner. She has had some fairly long-lasting relationships with men but says she’s not interested in marriage. Ever. Somehow I believe her.
“I haven’t heard a word from her, honey. Let me know what she’s up to.”
“I will. Love you, Aunt Pat.”
“Love you, too, darling.”
Just as I hung up the phone, the doorbell rang. Most unusual. Nobody comes in our front door.
I looked through the peephole and saw a man drenched by the rain. He was running his hands through wet, dark, curly hair, scattering raindrops. I left the chain on the door and opened it.
“Yes?”
“Mrs. Hollowell?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Charles Boudreau, Mrs. Hollowel
l. I’m here to impregnate your niece.”
“You’re what?” Surely I hadn’t heard right.
“Oh, God,” he said, a look of pain on his face. “I’m too late, aren’t I?”
Five
The man looked to be in his late thirties. He was well dressed, and while I stood there with my mouth open, he pulled a bright white handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the rain from his face. Or maybe it was tears.
Surely he hadn’t said he wanted to impregnate my niece. Maybe the music from the Cock Fight group the night before had damaged my ears. I tapped them and said, “What?” again.
“I’m Charles Boudreau, Mrs. Hollowell. Marilyn’s beau.”
Not boyfriend. Beau. Men hadn’t been beaux in my lifetime. Was he putting me on?
“Has she mentioned me?” He had the most beautiful eyes I had ever seen, a dark, soulful brown with lashes that any woman would kill for.
“Not that I remember.”
“Is she here? In Birmingham?”
“Not that I know of.”
He reached in his pocket and handed me a damp business card across the chain on the door.
“Well, if she shows up, will you please tell her that I’m at the Tutwiler Hotel and that if it’s not too late, I’m ready and willing. Not just willing but thrilled. Anxious. Ecstatic.”
I glanced at the card. Charles Stewart Boudreau, Attorney, Boudreau and Associates, Lafayette, Louisiana.
“I’ll tell her, Mr. Boudreau.”
“I thank you mightily, ma’am.”
I swear he gave a slight bow before he turned and headed back toward the red Nissan parked at the curb, walking slowly as if the sky weren’t pouring buckets of rain on his head. He looked so bedraggled that, for a moment, I considered calling him back and fixing him some hot chocolate.
Never let a stranger in the house, my common sense said.
But he looks so pitiful. I waffled.
The man is nuts. What kind of a person comes to the door announcing that he’s there to impregnate your niece?
A nutty one, I agreed. Best not invite him in.
I went into the den and dialed Debbie’s number.
“Have you ever heard Marilyn mention a Charles Boudreau from Lafayette, Louisiana?” I asked when she answered.
“Seems like the name’s familiar. Why?”
“He’s here to impregnate her.”
“At your house?”
“I’m not sure where the event is supposed to take place. But he’s staying at the Tutwiler. We’re to tell her that he’s ready, willing, thrilled, anxious, and ecstatic.”
“What?”
I repeated the adjectives, adding that he was also afraid that it was too late.
“What does he mean by ‘too late’?”
“Trust me. I have no idea.”
“Maybe she’s already pregnant, and this is what I’m not supposed to tell Mama.”
“Could be.”
“But Marilyn is the sensible one, Aunt Pat. She wouldn’t do anything like just up and get pregnant like I did.”
“You thought it out, honey. You wanted children and the UAB sperm bank was a good solution. You had no idea that Henry would show up in a couple of years.”
“True. And if I hadn’t done it I wouldn’t have my precious girls.”
“Let’s not even think about that. But listen, if you hear from Marilyn, let me know. In the meantime, I’m not going to mention this to your mother.”
“I won’t, either. She’d be down at the Tutwiler grilling Charles Boudreau.” Debbie paused. “He sounds Cajun, doesn’t he?”
“He may be. He has gorgeous, dark eyes.”
“Marilyn has always found great-looking men.”
“You haven’t done so bad yourself.”
“True. Well, let the good times roll, Aunt Pat.”
We both hung up laughing.
I brushed my teeth, combed my hair, and slapped on some lipstick, the minimum I figured I could get away with if I were hit by a truck on the way to Philip’s house. Every woman in the world knows you have to wear clean underwear in case you are hit by a truck, but the lipstick may be a Southern thing. You want to look pretty when the firemen unhinge your door with the jaws of life, and the paramedics rush you to the waiting helicopter for the trip to Carraway or University Hospital. The condition of your underwear might be questionable by that time but, by damn, your lips would be Shimmering Coral, and there’s something to be said for that.
The rain hadn’t slacked at all. At this rate, Village Creek would be over its banks in time for the TV weather people to announce it on the five o’clock news. One of them would be standing under a huge umbrella with rain popping against it. “Looka there,” they would exclaim excitedly, pointing to the debris toward the rushing creek. Years ago the city bought the houses that were threatened by the flooding, but it’s still a favorite TV shot. I’ve seen a reporter standing there pointing at a floating foam cooler while lightning zapped around him. “Looka there.”
I got my old yellow vinyl poncho with the hood from the hall closet and ran to my car. The poncho is not the outfit I would want to be wearing if I were pulled from my car after the proverbial collision with the proverbial truck. In fact, I think it makes me look like a commercial for frozen fish sticks. But this was a poncho day.
Philip’s house (it was going to take me a long time to think of it as Haley’s, too) is not far from Mary Alice’s in a part of town called Redmont. It’s a beautiful old section of Birmingham atop Red Mountain, overlooking the whole city. The steel barons built their homes up there. From their windows they could see their mill furnaces lighting up the valley at night. Philip’s grandfather, who had built his house, had not been one of the industrial barons but had founded one of Birmingham’s first banks and had handled the steel accounts very well. His father and his uncle Philip (Mary Alice’s second husband) had carried on in their father’s footsteps in the bank. But the younger generation had sold it. Sister and Debbie had gotten a pretty penny from the sale. Debbie had been a child and has never been the type to be impressed with wealth, but Fred laughed until he cried when Sister burst into our kitchen fluttering a check and declaring that, as God was her witness, she would never go hungry again.
“You’ve never missed a meal in your life,” he snorted.
“And now I never will, thanks to my darling Philip.”
At the time she was married to her darling Roger, who was richer than Philip.
I pulled into the circular driveway and looked at the house. Dark brick, it was a generic large house, fitting no specific type of architecture. On a rainy day like this, it seemed downright gloomy, and I thought of the contrast between this and the house Haley and Tom had owned. It had been all white with splashes of bright colors, orange kitchen chairs, abstract paintings. She sold it a month after Tom had been killed and had moved into an apartment. Now I studied this house, trying to figure out some way to make it more inviting and homey. I smiled. A swing set in the front yard would do wonders.
As I was getting out of the car, a new Mercedes pulled up behind me and Yul Brynner got out. We both dashed for the porch.
“I saw your car,” Sister said, as I unlocked the door. “I was on my way home.”
I looked back at the Mercedes. “How’s your new car doing?”
“I miss my Jag. I may have to swap this one in—I don’t care if it does help the state’s economy.”
Sister had hit a mailbox with her beloved Jaguar a couple of months earlier (she swears it was all my fault), and Virgil had talked her into buying the Mercedes because it was made in Alabama. Him being able to talk her into something was the first clue I had that she was really serious about him.
“Did you have a good workout?”
We stepped into the dark hall. I pulled my yellow vinyl poncho over my head, trying not to scatter too much moisture.
“Let’s just say that if a big man came up behind and grabbed me, I could pick him up and th
row him into tomorrow.”
“That sounds good.” I looked around for a place to put the poncho, finally laying it on a throw rug just inside the door.
Mary Alice nodded and glanced around. “I don’t remember this place being so gloomy. I swear I’ve been to parties here and it looked good and smelled good.”
“Well, Philip’s been living here by himself for years since Lorraine died, and it’s been closed up for seven months.”
“Even so.” She sniffed. “Haley’s going to have her work cut out for her. It smells terrible.”
“Just musty. Let’s turn the heat up.” I went down the hall to turn up the thermostat, and Sister followed me, pausing to look into the powder room.
“Yuck. Black. And come look at these deer on the wallpaper, Mouse. Aren’t they dead?”
There was a reassuring click as the furnace came on. Good. I joined Sister in the powder room and looked at the wallpaper, tan and white deer lying in a dark green woods.
“They’re just resting,” I said. “They’ve had a hard day gamboling through the forest.”
“Gamboling, hell. They’re dead as Bambi’s mother.”
“No they’re not. Besides, there’s no blood.”
“It’s on the side we can’t see, like that Moonflower guy last night.”
“Mooncloth.” I shivered. “Come on, let’s get some tea.”
Sister followed me into a very nice kitchen. Windows on two sides allowed a wonderful view of the valley and, when Vulcan was back on his pedestal, Haley would be able to see him, too, the majestic side view.
“Have you talked to Virgil any more about what happened?” I searched in vain for a tea kettle and finally filled two cups with water and stuck them in the microwave.
“He said they don’t know anything else.” She held up the two boxes of tea bags she had located and looked at me questioningly.
I pointed to her right hand. “Lemon Zest.”
“Probably old as the hills.”
“It’ll be warm, though.” I had worn a heavy blue sweater over a T-shirt, but I was still cold.
“What are they doing?” I asked. “Talking to all the Elvises?”
The microwave dinged and we took our tea to the kitchen table. Below us, Jones Valley and the city of Birmingham were shrouded in rain and fog.
