Eye Spy

by Jenna Mattison

  “Wasn’t that just heaven on earth!” Mamma says, glowing with satisfaction. “Now, Liza, I want you to sit down here with me while we wait for our massages and tell your old Mamma everything.” She pats the seat next to her on the fuzzy sofa.

  I sit and reflexively begin telling her all about Bernie and seeing his bare butt in the air that fateful day. As I recount the story I get teary and my nose runs. I wipe it carelessly onto the sleeve of the white, waffle weave spa robe embossed with the Ritz emblem.

  Mamma pats my back every now and then and says, “there, there,” which I never quite understood the logic behind but somehow, someway, it works. Especially coming from Mamma with the slow-as-molasses way she has of stretching out each and every syllable.

  After I blubber on about not being as desirable anymore, Mamma firmly grabs me by the shoulders, looks into my eyes and says, “Liza, you were always the most beautiful girl in Savannah. Those dopes at the Miss Georgia Peach Pageant just couldn’t see it ’cause you’re not blonde and snub nosed. The old crows. Now I don’t want you to think for an itty-bitty second that any of this was your fault. Some men just need to stray. It’s in their nature. I just got lucky that your daddy never was the type, bless his heart. He has been true blue since the day we met. And that’s just the kinda’ man we have got to find you someday. But for now, we’ve just got to get you past this unpleasant time.” She gives my hand a firm squeeze and the massage therapists arrive as if on cue.

  I cry through most of my massage from sheer relief. Something about being able to talk to Mamma about all of this is so comforting. I can’t believe how close to her I feel after just a few hours together.

  It’s funny how years of distance can be bridged through a cucumber-scented room.

  60

  After being buffed and polished within an inch of our lives Mamma and I head up to our suite. As we enter it’s as if I’m a princess in some fairytale and I’ve become royalty after years of being a peasant sweeping ashes. The room is draped with silk fabrics of various elegant patterns that all seem to somehow compliment each other. The carpet is so plush that I feel an inch shorter. And the bedding looks fit for a queen.

  “Well, isn’t this just the cat’s meow!” Mamma declares, still a bit lit up from the complimentary post massage champagne. She plops herself down—face first—on the bed and laughs heartily. I’ve never seen her act this silly since I was nine and we went to Auntie Lil’s cabin in Arkansas without Daddy. She drank slow gin fizzes from noon on and sat on the wraparound porch chatting with Auntie’s friends all day. Once she even jumped into the swimming pond with a sarong and came out with nothing on but her polka-dot panties. That was the one and only time I felt like Mamma actually liked me, ’cause she used to braid my hair whenever I asked and went out on the paddleboat with me. I feel like we’re in that cabin all over again, only now there’s six hundred thread count sheets and room service.

  “This is amazing, Mamma. I should get divorced more often.”

  She props herself up on her elbow and gives me a frown. “Don’t be glib, darlin’. This is a new time for us. I feel like I’m makin’ a new friend.”

  I give her a half smile. There’s a deep fear inside me that this new-found attention might just be fleeting. “Mamma, I’m going to read for a bit if you don’t mind,” I say, recognizing Mamma’s nap face.

  Besides, I’m dying to dig into that family crest book.

  “Of course not, darlin’. I’ll have a wee nap. Wake me when you’re done.”

  I grab the book, close the French doors to the adjoining sitting room, and plop myself down at the carved mahogany desk. As I thumb through the first few pages I try and recall the pattern. I remember a short sword…or maybe there were two? But that’s about all I could make out except for something obscure beneath the sword and some writing around the rim that looked liked the word “art,” surrounded by some other foreign words. Maybe Latin? I flip more pages hoping something will jog my memory.

  After a spell, my eyes feel crossed from studying so many intricate coats of arms. I probably need to get the note from Jack with the actual drawing to reference. Plus my internal clock tells me it’s time for fuel. I tiptoe back into the bedroom and lightly tap Mamma on the shoulder.

  “I’m starved,” I whisper as she snores softly.

  She pulls up her silk eye mask, smiles brightly, and replies, “Let’s explore the hotel, shall we? I’m sure they’ve got some fancy restaurant where they serve escargot and little nibbles.”

  We make our way down to the hotel lobby where I spot a dimly lit lounge with button-tufted, brown leather wingback chairs, and lots of polished wood and brass. The air is thick with the smell of robust cigars.

  “Mamma, can we eat in there?”

  She gives me an odd look and shrugs. “Whatever my baby wants.”

  We order caviar and pâté and lots of other decadent small plates. The meal is filled with laugher as we sip our extra dirty vodka martinis.

  “I’ll never forget that night that I locked your Daddy out of the house for flirting with Clarisse Barnes during the ice cream social at St. John’s. Wooowee, that man can hold a grudge. He still reminds me that he got thorns in his backside and had to sleep shiverin’ next to my hydrangeas.”

  “I can’t remember ever hearing you and Daddy fight. I just thought that husbands and wives never fought. I avoided it like the plague. I never said a word to Bernie about things that were bugging me.”

  “I’m sorry, sugar. Your Daddy and I just came from a generation that believed you didn’t argue in front of the children. Maybe that wasn’t such a healthy way to do things, but there it is,” she says with a shrug of her dainty shoulders. She takes a big gulp of her martini and adds, “I’m so sorry, Liza.”

  “It wasn’t your fault, Mamma. I have a feeling Bernie would’ve cheated no matter what.”

  We continue chatting for a bit, while Mamma takes all the blame for everything bad that’s ever happened to me in my entire life, and it all just starts to feel forced. I’m a bit tipsy now and a wee bit irritable. It suddenly seems like the bar is too full of well-soled men in their fifties wearing Brooks Brothers and talking too loudly. The cigar smoke is coiling ominously all around me, and someone’s playing the saxophone badly in another lounge. I suddenly snap.

  “Listen, Mamma, you can’t just come down here…or up here, rather, after all these years and act like the new winner of the Best Mom Contest and expect everything to miraculously be perfect, because, well, things have not been perfect for a really long time. And I still haven’t forgiven you for slapping me in front of all my friends the day I got lost at the carnival and for reminding me almost everyday that I wasn’t your favorite. So thanks very much for this fancy schmancy hoo haa, but Rome wasn’t built in a day, okay!” I managed the tirade without taking a single breath.

  I can barely make out Mamma’s face through the cloud of cigar smoke, but judging from her slumped posture I’ve most likely squashed her hopes of becoming my new best friend like an overripe grape.

  She sets down her drink with a shaky hand and declares; “I guess I’ve deserved that for a very long time. And just so you know, even though it’s no excuse, that was a slap of relief not anger. I know that must be hard for you to understand…” She fans herself and laughs nervously. “Well, I thought I was gonna skate by, but by God, darlin, you’ve called me to task. We’ll just take this one day at a time then, Liza.”

  She suddenly looks very small and frail and every bit of her sixty years, which makes me feel protective of her. I put my hand on hers, give her a smile and exclaim, “Let’s blow this pop stand shall we?”

  Mamma signs the tab while an older, distinguished-looking gentleman in a red tie gives her the once-over. He catches Mamma’s eye and she smiles coyly, flashing her ring finger as a signal that she’s spoken for. The red tie guy snaps his fingers as if to say, “Aw, shucks.” The whole exchange is so cute it makes me grin. I’d always thought of her a
s kind of A-sexual, as I assume most people do of their mothers. But apparently, Mamma’s one hot mamma.

  61

  As we walk through the front door of the Dry Dock Café near Harbor and Sixth, I spot the back of Jack’s head in a corner booth. The restaurant is an old school seafood joint serving American fare and has the kind of breakfast menu that boggles the mind—four pages of eggs in every combination possible. Mamma’s decided she can’t leave town without meeting my partner since she finds all this detective stuff so fascinating.

  As we slink into the booth with its dark green pleather seats, knocking knees under the faux wood Formica table, Jack looks up and smiles. “Well, hello ladies. Mrs. Radley, I presume.” Parella takes Mamma’s delicate hand and gives it a peck.

  She giggles like a schoolgirl. “Why, Mr. Parella, Liza never mentioned that you were so charmin’.”

  Jack shoots me a look. “Well that’s not surprising. This little girl of yours is one tough cookie.”

  I give Jack the thumbs down sign. “Speaking of cookies, where's the waiter?”

  I motion for the waiter as I nonchalantly ask Jack if he’s still got the calligraphy note, but don’t go into any further detail as to not alarm Mamma. He luckily has it stashed in his wallet and offers it to me without further discussion. Score.

  We order our respective breakfasts, then Mamma promptly begins grilling Jack about his background, parents, etc., etc., etc., ad nauseum. Whether he went to private school and all the things that southern moms think are so important in a potential “catch.” I can tell that with each answer, Jack is falling deeper into the unmarriable pile. Which is fine by me, since I have no intention of marrying him, or dating him, for that matter. The actual breakfasting is pretty quiet. Once Mamma has ruled out Jack as a future prospect, she really has no use for idle chitchat. Parella gobbles his cheese omelet and hash browns, seemingly clueless as to his utter failure as husband material. I suddenly feel protective of him and blurt, “Jack was shot in the line of duty!”

  Mamma looks up from her Belgian waffle and arches an eyebrow. “You don’t say.” She scoots in closer, obviously intrigued, thinking that she may have misjudged her prey.

  “Yeah. That’s why he retired and started Eye Spy,” I declare, grabbing an uneaten orange wedge off of Jack’s plate.

  Mamma leans in a bit further, batting her bright green eyes. “Well, it must’ve been a pretty severe injury to cause you to retire at such a young and virile age,” she purrs, patting him on the hand. “Do tell, Mr. Parella. Don’t leave a gal guessin’.”

  Jack shrugs. “Not really that big of a deal.”

  I give him a small shove with my elbow. “Come on, Jack. Don’t be bashful.”

  “Really. It was nothing, just a flesh wound…”

  “Don’t be a tease...”

  “It’s kinda embarrassing actually…”

  “Oh, come on already, stop being so secretive!” I shout, a little too loud.

  “FINE! I was shot in the nuts, okay!... The nut I should say, ’cause it only grazed my other ball.”

  Mamma’s expression is one of absolute horror. Our waiter seems to have overheard the entire exchange as he refreshed our waters and can barely refrain from laughing out loud.

  “Well, thank you very much for sharing that with us, Mr. Parella. Now I know more about you than I ever presumed I would over an introductory breakfast. My goodness.” Mamma picks up the dessert menu and fans herself.

  Jack excuses himself to the restroom and pays the bill before meandering back to the table. We all exchange niceties, pretend that Jack’s nether regions were never discussed over omelets, and part ways. Mamma amiably hails a cab to the airport since it’s morning rush hour and the drive back would be murder. We share our first tear-filled goodbye since I was seven leaving for Pine Trail Camp, then Mamma and her movie star shades ride off in a yellow checker taxi.

  As amazing and enlightening as her visit was, I was ready to see her wave goodbye and get on with things in the real world where Mommy isn’t there picking up the tab. And I’m sure I’m going get an earful from Jack, so I better just bite the bullet and head to Eye Spy.

  I walk, since it’s a storybook gorgeous autumn morning. It’s the kind of day when the sun shining on the waxy green leaves of the Boston ivy makes everything look fresh and alive. If I wasn’t feeling so bitter about men, I might even say it’s the perfect kind of day to fall in love. But instead, I’m thinking it’s just the right type of day to catch a cheating bastard. Luckily, we’re going back to Mr. Bentley’s office for a snoop around tonight, after hours. I’ll get to try out some more of my newfound skills. Cool.

  62

  As I arrive, the shop door is propped open and Jack is sitting on the stoop with a frosty beer.

  “A little early for a cold one, isn’t it, champ?” I ask.

  “It’s not everyday one makes a complete bozo out of oneself in front of a total stranger they were tryin’ real hard to impress.”

  I step back surprised. “You were trying to impress Mamma? Why on earth…?”

  Jack shrugs sheepishly. “She’s your Ma, Liza. I just wanted her to think I was a stand up guy.”

  I plop myself down next to him. “You are stand up, Parella. In my book you’re tops, kid.” I give him a playful jab to the chin, then reach into my purse for his present. “Here, I got you something. Just ’cause I think you’re a swell sort of guy.”

  Jack gives me a quizzical look, opens the bag, and pulls out the horribly wrapped package.

  “I know the wrapping’s not much to look at, but you should consider yourself lucky. If it was my handiwork, it would be even worse.”

  He unwraps it gingerly and examines the snow globe expressionless.

  “It’s Fenway Park. Wind it up at the bottom, it plays a song.”

  The twinkly version of “Strangers in the Night” fills the small corridor of the front stoop.

  “I love old Frank’s version, but this is swell too,” he says and smiles. “This might be the nicest gift anybody ever got me.”

  I guess he likes it. I give him a smile and a little playful shove with my shoulder. “It’s just to say thanks for looking after me.”

  He smiles back at me, leans in closer, and whispers in my ear, “Wonder what kinda present I woulda gotten if I’d actually put out.”

  I give him a much harder jab this time. “Neanderthal. Had to make it smutty, didn’t you? You couldn’t just have a nice, clean, Disney moment with me.”

  “I don’t do Disney, Toots,” he declares with relish as he stands and heads into the shop. “And don’t think this little trinket means you’re off the hook. You’ve got some more makin’ up to do for this morning. Big time.”

  What an infuriating pooh.

  I yell from the doorway, “I’m looking at apartments now so I’ll see you and your pompous ass later.”

  He gives me a dismissive wave and heads towards the storage room.

  Aargh. Infuriating sexy man.

  63

  The first apartment is two blocks from Eye Spy in a charming yet urban neighborhood. It’s basically comprised of a row of brownstones with the original fire escapes and facades. Anne’s meeting me so that I don’t end up in a slum or a brothel.

  It’s nice to know my friends have so much faith in me. She’s late so I decide to snoop around back. I notice a tan metal shed, tucked away in the side yard that I’d like to try some of my B&E handiwork on.

  Practice makes really good, I once heard.

  There’s a small padlock, which looks like a pretty simple mechanism. I dig out a metal nail file from my bag and realize that I have never actually had occasion to file my nails outside of my bathroom. At least this thing is finally getting some use. It seems I’m hidden from prying eyes, so I go for it, inserting the pointed tip of the file where the key would normally go. I jiggle, then slide it from side to side, and presto! The lock pops and I have instant access to some poor unsuspecting soul’s storage unit
.

  What a high.

  I know I should just put the lock back on and walk away, but my curiosity gets the best of me so I slide open the door a crack to get a peek inside. I can barely make out the faint outline of a bicycle and what look like some stacked terra cotta planters. I open the door a bit further and stick my right shoulder and head inside. I can’t make out much, since there’s only a small ray of sunlight filtering in through some holes in the metal siding, and my body’s blocking the doorway. I hear rustling. I can’t make out where it’s coming from…maybe something or somebody is trapped in here!

  How crazy would that be, if I just happened to stumble across someone…or maybe even a bunch of people. Slaves maybe, like a human trafficking sort of thing I saw on that show Law & Order once….

  “LIZA!” A woman’s voice shouts. I jump, slamming my head on the inside of the shed. “Liza, what in the world are you doing in there?” As I pull my torso out through the door, I see Anne tapping her foot and eyeing me with a mixture of worry and mild disgust. “You have spider webs all over your hair.”

  “How did you know it was me?”

  She looks down at my Uggs.“Duh. Sorry I’m late, but Rachael decided that she should be allowed to wear lipstick to school because all the other eight year olds are doing it. She threw a terrible tantrum and I made her wash her face with Irish Spring.”

  Anne is doing her version of frazzled. She’s perfectly groomed in a navy blue cashmere twin set with perfect French manicured nails, except a lock of hair has fallen from her ponytail. She’s always had the look of a sorority sister/Ralph Lauren spokes model and it suits her nicely.

  “Wow. I wasn’t allowed to wear lipstick till the junior prom. Kids are scary these days. And Irish Spring. Whoa, you really went medieval on her.” I add the last bit, mocking.

  Anne replies in absolute earnest horror, “Don’t I know it!” She brushes the errant lock of hair behind her ear, and regains her composure. “Okay, so enough of that, I’m not here to vent my Mommy problems. I’m here to find you a quaint pied-à-terre.”