The Girls of August

by Anne Rivers Siddons

  “If it were a snakebite, I’d already be dead. Besides, I saw it. It was definitely a bee.”

  “It makes no sense. None at all,” Rachel said, glowering.

  “I brought some Benadryl with me,” Barbara said. “Stay here. I’ll go get it.”

  After an hour’s delay, determined not to let something as minor as a beesting spoil our reconnaissance expedition, I said from my hammock perch, “OK, I think I’m ready.”

  Barbara looked up over her interior design magazine and said, “You’re not going anywhere.”

  “That’s right. Today we’re taking it easy. Gin and tonics at lunch. I’m cooking. A nap in the afternoon. Tomorrow, we’ll see. But you, Mrs. McCauley, are going to take it easy.” Rachel was a very effective drill sergeant.

  By the time I fell into bed that night, my foot was sore but noticeably better. As I dozed off, faint optimism soothed me. No more stomach flu, I thought. No more vomiting. No more insect stings. No more nothing but a good time. Surely we could make that happen.

  And then, in the middle of the night, during a pretty decent dream in which Mac and I were planting a seaside garden composed solely of giant ruby flowers, my bed collapsed. Stunned, I spilled onto the floor, cracking my chin hard. Barbara and Rachel came running in, their hair and pajamas and Rachel’s eye mask all asunder.

  “What in blazes happened?” Rachel asked.

  “Looks like the leg plumb broke off,” Barbara said, bending down and retrieving it. “Baby!” she yelled.

  “No use,” Rachel said, helping me to my feet. “She’s not here. You all right?”

  “Yeah, I think so,” I said, confused because sleep still swaddled me, yet a part of my brain was wildly awake.

  Barbara studied the leg, frowning. “It’s just an old bed. And an old leg. It wobbled loose. See?” She showed us the end that fit into the post. “It needs to be replaced. That’s all.”

  “Well, Maddy,” Rachel said, studying the leg, “you sure are having more than your fair share of bad luck.”

  “Where am I going to sleep?” I wondered aloud, looking at the lopsided bed.

  “With Baby? She’s never there anyway.” Barbara started laughing.

  “No. Bricks!” Rachel snapped her fingers. There’s a pile out by the Third Eye. We’ll just stack them up and make a leg.”

  That’s how the three of us found ourselves outside, in the dark, in our pajamas, sifting through a spider-filled pile of bricks on a nearly deserted island in a dark sea. Rachel was in charge, tossing aside two for every one we kept. Barbara and I both had just about all we could carry when Babs whispered, “Ho-ly shiiit.” She pointed toward the trees.

  “What?” Rachel asked, bent over, rear in the air. We both followed the line of Barbara’s finger and spied, in the cloud-shadowed moonlight, two amber eyes staring at us from the cover of the hammock jungle. Whatever animal they belonged to let out a low, slow growl.

  We screamed, dropped the bricks, and ran. We stumbled up the steps and nearly flew through the door, which Rachel locked and then flung herself against, as if the animal sought to burst in.

  “Oh my God,” Barbara said, leaning over, catching her breath, “that was a freaking bobcat!”

  “It sure as hell was,” I said. I had never seen a bobcat, but it seemed logical.

  “Jesus.” Rachel jiggled the door handle, made sure she had securely locked it. “Is Baby safe? Out there wandering around like a yard dog?”

  Barbara started laughing. She flopped onto the couch and held her sides. “Oh God, oh God, oh God!”

  Rachel and I exchanged bewildered glances.

  “What…if…,” Barbara choked out between guffaws, “Baby got…eaten by a…bobcat!”

  I sank down next to her, suddenly convulsed. “Why, Teddy would be beside himself.”

  “Yeah, poor tail-chasing Teddy,” Rachel choked, doubling over. “Here lies the third Mrs. Teddy Patterson, mauled to death by a bobcat while she wandered a desert island naked as a jaybird, in search of younger tail.”

  We all guffawed and finally I said, trying to catch my breath, “It’s really not funny.”

  “Oh, she’s all right. She’s holed up somewhere all safe and sound. Our Baby isn’t a roughing-it type of girl,” Barbara said.

  “You’re right.” I nodded. I felt the laughter die and remembered the intensity of the bobcat’s eyes. So beautiful. So scary. As the adrenaline rush ebbed, a leaden fatigue took its place.

  “So, I guess it’s the couch for me.”

  “Nope,” Rachel said, pointing at the bookcase. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of books in the first place.”

  “Great idea! We’ll get you back in the bed come hell or high water,” Barbara said, tousling my hair.

  And that’s what we did. We made a fourth leg out of books. I shimmied in Jude the Obscure between The Birds of South Carolina and a children’s book about a farting dog.

  “This must be Baby’s,” Rachel said when she handed it to me.

  With the bed level and secure, we admitted that we’d had enough excitement for one night. Barbara and Rachel went back to their rooms. I snuggled between my sheets, and when I closed my eyes and dozed off, my dreams were filled with wild, yellow-eyed animals gazing at blue water under purple, moonlit skies.

  * * *

  I was soundly asleep, at peace with my dreams, when, deep into the night, a sharp scream pierced my consciousness. In my groggy state, at first I thought all the animals must be bounding through the jungle, a Tiger Island stampede, but as the layers of sleep evaporated, I realized that what I was hearing was the sound of feet hitting the floor. I switched on my bedside light, tried to get my bearings, and hobbled out of bed and into the hall.

  Barbara rushed out of her room, screaming, arms flailing, and slammed her door.

  Rachel burst from her room, crying, “What the hell now!”

  Barbara pointed to her bedroom with one hand and kept her face covered with the other.

  “It’s horrible,” she cried. “They’re attacking me!”

  “Nobody is attacking anybody,” Rachel said as she and I ran to Barbara’s room and cracked open the door.

  “Dear God!” I could barely believe my eyes. The window screen was gone. A huge swarm of insects was pouring into the room and circling her bed in a black maelstrom. Some of the bugs were enormous. We shut the door and pulled Barbara downstairs and into the kitchen, where we examined the damage.

  She had suffered a couple of savage bites on her face and many small ones all over. She looked as if she had smallpox, chicken pox, measles, and leprosy. I sat her down at the kitchen table and applied ice-filled washcloths to the bites. Rachel ventured back upstairs to see if the screen was on the porch. She returned moments later and retrieved the flashlight from the pantry.

  “It’s in the fucking yard,” she said. “How did it get in the fucking yard?” She headed for the front door.

  “Watch out for the bobcat!” I yelled, and then tried to hide how freaked out I was by plastering a silly grin on my face, because Barbara was badly shaken. The last thing she needed was for me to lose it.

  “Here,” I said, pouring her a glass of wine. “Drink this. Keep the ice on your face. I’ll be right back.”

  I ran upstairs to retrieve the calamine lotion I’d brought with me at Mac’s insistence, but first I checked Baby’s room. She was gone and the bed hadn’t been slept in.

  Something surely isn’t right here, I thought as I returned with the calamine. “This stuff isn’t going to make you any prettier,” I said, “but it’ll stop the itching.”

  Barbara knocked back a healthy slug of wine. “I swallowed one,” she sobbed. “It was a big one. I think it was a June bug.”

  Rachel returned, carrying the screen. “I can’t imagine how it ended up out there.”

  “Baby’s bed hasn’t been slept in,” I said, my concern deepening. Seemed like trouble was befalling us all at once.

  “Do you think she�
�s fucking with us?” Barbara asked, still trembling.

  “I don’t,” I said slowly as I smoothed the calamine over Barbara’s bites. “Of course not. She’s not a bee whisperer or a bobcat conjurer.”

  “I don’t like this at all,” Rachel snapped.

  “In the meantime, what do we do?” Barbara gingerly touched her swelling face.

  “Well, I’ve shut the window in your room,” Rachel said. “So I’m going to go in search of bug spray. I think I saw some in the vanity in my bathroom. I’ll crack open the door and shoot the spray in, fogging the place. By morning they should all be dead.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” I said. “And Barbara, just bunk with me tonight. Me with my swollen foot and you with your swollen face.”

  Barbara nodded, laughing and crying at the same time.

  “You two go on to bed, you limping, swollen fools. I’ll take care of this mess,” Rachel said.

  “You sure, Rach?” I asked.

  “Shhh, not another word.”

  I helped Barbara up the stairs and into my bed. The wine worked wonders. She fell asleep in no time. I lay awake, listening to Rachel cuss (“Die, you damned bastards!”) and to the hiss of the bug spray can she emptied into Barbara’s room. I heard her wash up in the bathroom and then patter into her bedroom.

  When I was sure all the crying and cursing and spraying had ended for the night, I drifted back to sleep. And this time I did not dream.

  * * *

  The next morning, as the three of us sat around the kitchen table drinking coffee, eating stale pound cake topped with thawed frozen blueberries, and watching Barbara slather on more calamine, Baby waltzed down the stairs and into the kitchen. She must have slipped in sometime after we’d finally gone to bed for the last time.

  She looked at Barbara and then ambled over to the fridge, where she surveyed its contents. I noticed her legs were scratched up to her knees.

  “What happened to you?” she asked.

  “Bugs,” Barbara said between swollen lips.

  “A bee in my shoe,” I said.

  “Hmmm.” She retrieved the milk and proceeded to pour herself a huge bowl of cereal. “Teddy and I noticed they were bad this season. But, you know, if you keep the doors and windows shut and turn on the overhead fan…”

  “Yeah,” Rachel said, shooting her a long, don’t-tread-on-me look. “You’d think that would do it, wouldn’t you?”

  “It’s just common sense.” Baby leaned against the counter and began to eat.

  Rachel’s dark eyes flashed. Something, I knew, was about to break, and my days of running interference were over.

  “You know what common sense is, Baby?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Really? And we’re supposed to accept—as if we’re a bunch of stooges—that a bee finds its way into Madison’s shoe all by itself? And somehow a bed leg is so loose that it tumbles over? And in the middle of the night, Barbara’s screen falls out of its own volition? Really?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Baby set her bowl on the counter and started to walk out. Rachel stood, blocking her path.

  “Oh, I think you know exactly what I’m talking about!”

  Barbara and I exchanged glances. I couldn’t believe that Rachel was actually accusing Baby of these various mishaps. “Now, Rachel, you can’t possibly believe that Baby put a bee in my shoe.”

  “The hell I can’t!”

  Baby crossed her arms. She lifted her face and tried to look Rachel in the eye, but she was no match.

  “What do you want, Rachel?”

  “I want the truth.”

  Baby stamped her foot. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Leave me alone!”

  “Tell us the truth, Baby, or I’m going to tell Teddy about your fling with that handsome Gullah man.”

  Baby sneered. “My affair! Go ahead. He won’t believe you because there is no affair.”

  “When I get done, little girl, I’ll have him convinced you’re fucking everything on this island. And you know I can do it. You may be his latest piece of tail, but I’ve known that man for over twenty years. Don’t even tempt me.”

  Barbara pushed her chair back and said in her cool schoolteacher’s voice, “Baby, we don’t care what you did. That’s over. Except we could have been hurt really badly.”

  I shot Barbara a horrified glare. “Oh come on,” I said, but she ignored me.

  “I mean, look at me, Baby. I look like I have smallpox. Plus, that damned bobcat could have jumped through the window and mauled us all. Where on earth did you get him?”

  “Ladies,” I said, “this is nuts.”

  “Bobcat?” Baby looked truly confused.

  “Yes, Baby, bobcat,” Rachel said. “How did you manage to stage that?”

  Baby grabbed her hair, the way a child does before a full-throttle tantrum. “I don’t know about any stupid bobcat!”

  “But you do know about the bee and the bed and the bugs. Don’t you, Baby?” Barbara’s voice was a perfect mix of kindness and admonition. “You need to tell us so that we can get past this and move on.”

  Barbara was really good. Rachel was an attack dog, but Barbara was the soft feather with a poison-tipped quill.

  “Baby?” Barbara said, all soft and motherly. I couldn’t look at her because her voice was soothing but her face was a calamine- and bite-pocked mess.

  “What, what, what?” Baby yelled, and then she burst into tears.

  Barbara stood, reached out, and hugged her.

  “Now, now,” she crooned.

  Baby pulled away.

  “I didn’t do anything wrong! Have I been really hurt and pissed after you two ganged up on me? Yes! But I would never hurt anybody! For your information, I’m a pacifist. That’s why I learned Arabic!” She was hiccupping through her tears.

  “What does speaking Arabic have to do with being a pacifist?” I asked. Now I was the one who was profoundly confused.

  “Because,” Baby said as if speaking to a moron, “if someone has declared a holy war on you, perhaps the best thing to do is learn their language so you can talk to them! You think I’m stupid but I’m not,” she screamed. “And Teddy loves me for my brains. Not for my money. He’s got his own money. I will never be Melinda Patterson, God rest her soul. I’m just me, Baby, and I love Teddy with all my heart.”

  Rachel scrubbed her face with her palms and said, “OK. So you didn’t do any of these shenanigans?”

  “No!”

  “The wind was blowing hard last night. It just blew the screen out, caught it like a sail,” I said.

  “That bed leg has been loose for a while. I told Teddy to fix it, but I guess he forgot. I’m sorry, Maddy. That must have been quite a fright.”

  “And the bee was just wrong place, wrong time,” Barbara murmured.

  “Shit,” Rachel said, recognizing defeat.

  “OK, Baby,” Barbara said. “We all could have handled things differently. And we’re all going to say we’re sorry. I’ll start. I’m sorry. Rachel?”

  Rachel glared at Barbara. Clearly Rachel thought Barbara had lost her mind, even though it was clear that Baby had not been the culprit, that indeed there had been no culprit. Barbara mouthed, “Do it!”

  She looked away and shook her head.

  “We all make mistakes,” I said, “and it looks like this one was a doozy. I’m sorry, Baby.”

  “Yeah,” Rachel said, putting one arm behind her back and crossing her index and bird fingers, “me too.”

  Barbara shot her a brief smile and nodded her thanks. “Do you forgive us? Can we just move on?”

  Baby sniffled. “Yeah. Of course.”

  “Here,” Barbara said, handing Baby a napkin. “Now wipe your nose and go get dressed. We’re going to do something with our day.”

  Blowing her nose and still sniveling, Baby obliged.

  Until we heard the bathroom water run, the three of us remained silent, cautious. But as soon as we
heard the creak and whoosh of old pipes and the burping of the rusty water, we let loose.

  “Damn it,” Rachel said. “I feel like a shit heel. How did you do that, Barbara? Make it all right after we just about accused her of attempted murder?”

  “That,” I said, nodding at Barbara, “is twenty years of dealing with seventh-graders.” I looked at her and beamed. “Good job!”

  “Yeah, but in this case, we’re the seventh-graders and she’s the adult,” Rachel said. “Since I was the one spearheading the accusers, I’ll go clean up Barbara’s room.”

  “You will do absolutely no such thing,” I said.

  “Absolutely not. I will clean up my own room myself.”

  Rachel’s eyes settled on me and I read them right: Everything in her dwindling days mattered. I relented. “All right.”

  So we waited. Barbara poured herself a glass of wine. Rachel reached for the broom and dustpan that were tilted into the space between the fridge and counter and went upstairs. I popped open a bottle of fizzy water. It felt cool and soothing going down. Only a handful of minutes passed before we heard Baby’s footsteps on the stairs. We stayed silent. She walked into the kitchen, her face freshly washed but still blotchy from the tears.

  “Where’s Rachel?” she asked.

  “You just missed her.”

  “She’s in my room, cleaning up the bug carnage.”

  “Oh,” Baby said. “Well, I need to go help.”

  “Not sure that’s a good idea,” Barbara said, pressing the cool wineglass against her swollen face.

  Baby turned on her heel and marched out of the kitchen, saying, “Nope. If I’d put that screen in right in the first place, it would have never blown out.”

  Barbara dropped her head into her hands. “Oh, God.”

  “What’s wrong, Babs?”

  “She just keeps proving us wrong. I wish we’d been right. It would feel so much better than the guilt.”

  I started laughing. “Oh, I’m sure she’ll do something that outrages us. Probably before nightfall. And then the universe will be back in balance.”

  Barbara smiled and reached for my hand. “Merci beaucoup, cher ami. I’d kiss you except I’m hideous.” She smoothed back her hair. “I’m going to take a shower, get this junk off my face, and wash my hair. And then, Madison McCauley”—she looked determined, set jaw and all—“we’re rebooting this vacation.”