by Anne George
“Anything else?’
“I said that I was tall and blonde, but that’s the truth, Mouse.”
“And he asked you out.”
“Well, of course he did. A forty-five-year-old slender blonde with a good personality? Of course he did.”
“Slender?”
“He’s blind, Mouse. Like I said, I sort of lost my head.”
“And now your conscience is hurting you?”
Mary Alice looked at me, puzzled. “Of course my conscience isn’t hurting me. I’m just worried that I’ll say something about remembering World War Two.”
I swear talking with Sister is like playing ping-pong. I returned the serve. “Why would you say something about remembering World War Two?”
“Because I’m worried about it. I’ll for sure say something like, ‘Remember the air raid drills during World War Two?’”
“Why would you do that? How many dates do you ask if they remember the air raid drills during World War Two? Get real. It just doesn’t usually come up in a conversation.” I paused. “You really shouldn’t have lied to him, though.”
“I know. But it was such an opportunity.” She flicked something from her pants leg. “I think that was a flea. Has Woofer been on the sofa? Or Muffin?”
I jumped to the defense of my old sweet dog and of Haley’s cat, Muffin, who was staying with us while our newly married daughter, Haley, was in Warsaw. “Woofer and Muffin don’t have fleas. If it was a flea, you brought it with you.”
“Bubba doesn’t have fleas, either.”
Which was probably true. Sister’s cat spends most of his time snoozing on a heating pad on her kitchen counter. A normal flea would want a more challenging environment. I got back to the subject at hand.
“About the investment club. Are you interested?”
“Sure. I’ll bring Shirley Gibbs.”
“Your stockbroker?”
“The one I’ve told you about. She’s the one who told me to buy Intel stock when it first came on the market.”
“She’s a professional, Sister. The fun of the club is that it’s a bunch of amateurs learning about the market, talking about the stocks and reading about them. Of course we could check it out with her later about the stocks we’ve chosen. I doubt she’d want to come anyway.”
“Sure she would. We could decide what stocks to buy and Shirley could just nod yes or no. Besides, we’re going to need someone to buy the stocks when we decide.”
“That’s true. I’m not sure how these things work. I’ll check it out with Mitzi.”
That answer seemed to satisfy Sister. She got up to leave. “Okay, but did I tell you about the condoms?”
“What condoms?”
“Shirley was recommending condom stocks back when everybody thought they were just for emergencies.”
Condom emergencies? I decided not to pursue it. “I’ll mention it to Mitzi,” I promised.
I put down my sewing and followed her to the back door. “You have a good time tonight.”
Frown lines appeared between her eyes. “Do you think I ought to offer to drive?”
“Play it by ear.”
I stepped outside into the sunlight and watched Sister drive away. The large crape myrtle tree in the Phizers’ backyard was still in late summer bloom, the color of watermelon. The smocking could wait, I decided, and reached behind the kitchen door where Woofer’s leash hung. A good walk was what we both needed.
Woofer’s igloo doghouse is the best of things and the worst of things. I purchased it for peace of mind. Woofer is nobody’s spring chicken and I worried about him in his old doghouse. If the weather was very hot or cold, I’d bring him into the house which he really didn’t like very much. Woofer’s a yard dog. He can’t dig holes or bark at squirrels in the house. So, after reading the brochure about the igloo with its promise of warmth and heat, I was sold. So was Woofer. He moseyed in, sniffed around, figured he’d found dog heaven, and settled down. Even on beautiful sunny mild days, he has to be coaxed out, and for a few minutes he acts as if I’ve insulted him. So I don’t have to worry about him getting cold or hot. I have to worry about him forgetting how to move.
I coaxed him out with a couple of dog biscuits, put his leash on, and we headed down the sidewalk. The September smell of kudzu-covered hills and knotweed followed us and became mixed with the smell of cut grass; yellow butterflies were everywhere. I sniffed appreciatively. There was a tea olive blooming in someone’s yard.
We had strolled for several blocks and had turned to go back home when a white Buick LeSabre pulled up beside us. A handsome man who looked to be in his early sixties let down the passenger window and leaned over.
“Ma’am,” he asked, “what breed is your dog? He’s so unusual. All those colors.”
“Thank you. He’s a Norwegian possum hound. One of a kind.”
“So they have possums in Norway?”
“Must have.”
Woofer headed toward a utility pole pulling me along. The car followed.
“Ma’am?”
“What?”
“Anybody ever tell you you have a cute butt?”
“My husband told me this morning.”
“I’m glad to hear he appreciates the finer things in life.”
“He’s an appreciative man.”
“Right now he’d appreciate knowing there’s a cold beer in the refrigerator.”
“There is. And Milo’s sweet tea.”
“I’m appreciative.”
I laughed. “Get, you fool. I’ll be home in a few minutes.”
“I’ll be waiting.” He twirled an imaginary mustache and drove off.
I patted Woofer. “Your papa’s a nice crazy man, Woofer.”
Woofer wagged his tail in agreement.
Mitzi was out in her front yard picking a bouquet of daylilies as we went by. “Wait, Patricia Anne,” she called. “Take some of these.”
The flowers she brought to me were almost a rust color with a yellow throat.
“These are gorgeous,” I said. “What kind are they?”
“I don’t know. I got them a couple of years ago from a lady out near Wildwood shopping center who has a whole field of irises and daylilies. I wanted some that bloom late. They are pretty, aren’t they?”
“I’ve never seen any this color. All mine are orange or yellow.”
“It’s unusual,” Mitzi agreed. “Did you ask Mary Alice about the investment club? I saw her car at your house.”
“I did, and she wants to join. She also wanted to bring her broker.”
“She did?” Mitzi frowned. “A broker’s input would be nice, but wouldn’t we just figure the broker knew more than we did and not really study the stocks?”
“That’s what I told Sister, but she reminded me that we would need a broker to buy the stocks.”
“Connie said something about doing that through a bank. Some banker who Joy McWain knows has volunteered to help.”
I looked at Mitzi and grinned. “We’ve got a lot to learn, haven’t we? Do you know anything at all about the stock market?”
“Lord no. My checkbook isn’t even balanced.”
I thought about Sister’s condom stock. “It’s going to be interesting to see what stocks Mary Alice suggests.”
“I’ll bet they’ll be good ones.”
“Don’t bet the farm.”
I thanked Mitzi again for the flowers and hurried next door where there was a lovely man waiting who thought I had a cute butt.
Three
When I walked into the house, Fred was already stretched out on his recliner with the Birmingham News open, a beer on the table beside him, and Peter Jennings on TV. I put the flowers in a vase, and went in to join him.
“Hey,” he said. “What are we having for supper?”
“Your choice. Salisbury steak or stuffed peppers.” This was going to be a Stouffer’s night. I had, however, added some fresh lettuce to the salad left over from the night before.
“Stuffed peppers.”
I knew which he would choose. He’s easy.
“Did you and Woofer have a nice walk?”
“Some old fool accosted me. Said I had a cute butt.”
“Maybe old, but no fool. You want some of the paper?”
I took the Metro section and settled down on the sofa. This is my favorite part of the paper, the part that shows how eccentric, kind, sad, violent, and funny the people of Birmingham are. I guess it’s that way in every city, but Birmingham is still trying to live down its reputation from the Civil Rights’ movement of the 1960’s. Consequently, we miss no opportunity to show the world that we are nice people who shouldn’t be judged by the goings on thirty years ago of, as Sister claims, all those outside agitators from Mississippi and Georgia. Here is our symphony orchestra, we say. Cultured people have symphonies. Here are our colleges, universities, medical centers, museums, planetariums, botanical gardens, libraries. We are erudite, sensible people living in the most beautiful place God ever created among rolling mountains and rivers.
The lead story in the Metro section was about a minister’s wife who wanted to put wings on the tremendous statue of Vulcan that stands on Red Mountain overlooking the city. He would be our guardian angel, she declared. The story was accompanied by an artist’s rendition of the statue with wings.
The reporter had asked several people on the street what they thought about the idea. The answers ranged from “good idea” to laughter to “what would we do about his butt?” The latter question is a reasonable one since Vulcan, the god of the forge, symbol of Birmingham’s steel industry, wears an apron that covers only the part of his anatomy that no man would want to have hit by sparks. His prodigious, muscular backside moons the whole valley behind him.
Those of us who live under that moon are used to it and are startled when first-time visitors invariably look up and say, “My Lord! Look at that!” Then they want to go up to Vulcan Park to the gift shop and buy tee shirts and beer huggers with the rear view of the statue and “Buns of Iron” emblazoned on them because their friends in Seattle, Denver, etc. (just fill in any name) won’t believe this.
Well, at least when you’re at the park it’s a beautiful view from Red Mountain overlooking the city.
“There’s a lady here wants to turn Vulcan into an angel,” I told Fred. “Put wings on him.”
Fred didn’t even look up. “That’s dumb. Vulcan’s too much a man.”
“Men can’t be angels?”
“Not Vulcan.”
“Why not?”
“He just can’t.”
I suppose he considered this an answer. When I realized he wasn’t going to elaborate, I continued reading. It was a slow day, though. The only other story that struck me as unusual was one about Alabama ostriches being exported to China. Their meat had less fat and more protein than beef and their body temperature of 103.2 degrees was high enough to resist Chinese parasites.
“Fred?” I asked. “Did you know they grow ostriches in Alabama? They’re going to export them to China.”
“Sure. A bunch of them down around Demopolis.”
“You’d have to have a huge Brown n’ Roast bag and oven.”
“Hmm.” He turned to the next page.
Muffin had joined me on the sofa. I moved her aside, got up and went into the kitchen to get some tea. When I looked out of the window, I noticed Mitzi was sitting by her daylilies, not working in them, but just sitting, her head bent over as if she were studying something on the ground. Something was definitely wrong.
I went out to the chain link fence that separates us. “You okay?” I called.
She looked up, startled, and then smiled. “I’m fine.”
“The girls okay? The baby?”
Mitzi and Arthur have two daughters, Barbara and Bridget, who, like our children, have taken their time producing grandchildren for us. Bridget had recently given birth to Andrew Cade, though, the most beautiful child ever born according to Mitzi.
“They’re fine. Why?”
“You look sort of down.”
“Just thinking.” She picked up a trowel. “Wondering if there’s enough sun here for chrysanthemums.”
“It’s a good place.” It was, in fact, where she had had a big bed of them last fall. I remembered how many butterflies the bright yellow flowers had attracted. So this wasn’t what she was wondering about.
“I guess so.” Mitzi pushed the trowel into the dirt in front of the daylilies.
“Did you get some asparagus?” I asked.
“Yes. Thanks for telling me about it.”
“Sure. You’re sure nothing’s wrong?”
She smiled and shook her head. “I’m fine. Really.”
She obviously wasn’t, but whatever was wrong, she wanted to work it out by herself. She knew I was here if she needed me.
Fred was looking in the refrigerator when I walked back in, worrying about Mitzi.
“Tell you what,” he said. “Let’s go eat at John’s.”
“The Stouffers doesn’t suit you?”
“It suits me fine. I just decided I’ve got a hankering for some of John’s slaw.”
“There’s all sorts of stuff here I could fix.”
Fred closed the refrigerator. “I want fried snapper throats. I want slaw. I want key lime pie.”
“You want a bait of cholesterol.”
“You got it.” He patted me on the behind as he walked by. “Come scrub my back and I’ll take you downtown for some high on the hog good eating.”
“Fried snapper throats and slaw.”
“Doesn’t get much higher on the hog than that.”
And as simply as that, worry about Mitzi slipped to the back of my mind.
The neighborhood where Fred and I live was Birmingham’s first “over the mountain” neighborhood. It’s also the neighborhood where Mary Alice and I were born and raised. When we were growing up, if anyone asked where we lived and we said, “over the mountain,” everyone knew we were talking about over the crest of Red Mountain, below the statue of Vulcan. Now “over the mountain” stretches all the way into Shelby County over Red, Shades, or Double Oak Mountain.
When we were growing up, living over the mountain had a special advantage. Jones Valley, where Birmingham is located, was also the location of the great steel mills and foundries that were responsible for the city’s birth. Smoke-stacks poured pollution into the valley like coffee into a cup. It seldom spilled over the rim that was Red Mountain.
It’s surprising how many of us have lived in this neighborhood all of our lives. I walk Woofer and run into old childhood friends out walking their dogs or pushing grandchildren in strollers. There are bridge clubs and reading groups here that our mothers began decades ago and which are still going strong. But young people are moving in, too, delighted with the sidewalks and old trees. With the stability and the closeness of downtown Birmingham.
We drove over Red Mountain and down into Jones Valley in a deepening twilight. The sun’s rays no longer glinted off Vulcan’s rear end, but God forbid that we should miss such a majestic sight. Strategically placed spotlights lit up those buns of iron. Below the statue, the city sparkled, beautiful and bright. The mills have cleaned up their act. No more descending into a dark cloud as you come down the mountain.
We stopped at a red light at Five Points, the center of Birmingham’s nightlife. It was a warm evening, and the streets were already crowded with teenagers hanging out, business people who had stopped by a bar on their way home, as well as early customers for the many fine restaurants in this area.
“Mary Alice has a blind date tonight,” I said, noticing a couple going into one of the restaurants. The woman was much older than the man, maybe his mother. “He’s really blind, like can’t-see blind. She told him she was forty-five.”
“Should be an interesting evening. Did she tell him she was skinny, too?”
“Slender, I believe.”
We grinned at each other
. Fred has always said Mary Alice has the nerve of a bad tooth.
“She was hoping she wouldn’t forget and say something about World War Two.”
Fred laughed at this. “That’s not her biggest problem.”
“True.”
We left Five Points, passed University Hospital, and entered what I call “old” downtown. Malls and suburbs have done a number on it, but recently some of the buildings have been converted into loft apartments and condos, and businesses are moving back to serve the new residents.
John’s Restaurant has been a mainstay of downtown for over fifty years, constantly doing a brisk business. People come in from the suburbs for its good seafood at reasonable prices. Tonight was no exception, and we had to wait a few minutes for a table. As soon as we were seated, slaw and hot cornsticks were placed before us.
Fred slathered butter on a cornstick and practically inhaled it.
“Chew,” I cautioned him.
He chewed and managed to ask at the same time if there had been any messages from Haley today.
“Debbie got an e-mail. She printed it and said she’d bring it over tomorrow.”
“Anything special?”
“She’s happy.” She was also thousands of miles across the Atlantic Ocean in Poland with her new husband, Dr. Philip Nachman, who was teaching a seminar at the University of Warsaw. She’d only been gone a few weeks and there was a huge empty space in Birmingham, Alabama.
It was time to change the subject. I told Fred about the investment club Mitzi was helping to organize.
“Computers,” he said, leaning forward and reminding me of the man in The Graduate who told Dustin Hoffman, “plastics.” “You can’t go wrong with computers. We need to buy one ourselves.”
I couldn’t agree more. E-mail. I needed my own e-mail.
“We should have bought a bunch of Intel when it first came on the market,” he continued. “I don’t know why on earth I thought it was some kind of fly-by-night operation.”
Fortunately, the snapper and baked potatoes were put in front of us at this point. I’ve heard the Intel bemoaning before. Many times. Fred owns a small metal fabricating plant, and a customer of his in Atlanta had recommended Intel stock. Fred had considered it too risky.
