Mermaids in the Basement
Michael Lee West
For Annabel Arnett
I started Early—Took my Dog—
And visited the Sea—
The Mermaids in the Basement
Came out to look at me—
—EMILY DICKINSON
Contents
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Renata Dechavannes Says, One Size Fits All
Chapter 2
A Redneck Mullet Isn‘t a Fish
Chapter 3
A Phone Call to Dublin
Chapter 4
A Sacrifice to Cupid
Chapter 5
Honora Dechavannes Says, Everybody Loves a Scandal
Chapter 6
Welcome to Alabama
Chapter 7
A Pretty Face
Chapter 8
Grits and Revelations
Chapter 9
Gladys Boudreaux Says, It All Started with a Bear
Chapter 10
Love at The Funeral Home
Chapter 11
Honora Says, There‘s More I Haven‘t Told
Chapter 12
Party Girls
Chapter 13
Woman on Top
Chapter 14
String of Pearls
Chapter 15
Circe‘s Bowl
Chapter 16
A Cup of Chamomile Tea
Chapter 17
Marriage, Murder, Cover-Ups, and Affair-Ettes
Chapter 18
Artifacts
Chapter 19
Gladys Says, This Is How It Started
Chapter 20
It‘s Honora‘s Turn to Talk
Chapter 21
Hunt Scene
Chapter 22
Sportsman‘s Paradise
Chapter 23
Tears of a Hundred Lovers
Chapter 24
Rescue
Chapter 25
Just Outside the Garden of Eden
Chapter 26
Möet in the Morning
Chapter 27
Till Death Do Us Part and All That Jazz
Chapter 28
Shanghaied
Chapter 29
Honora & the Civil Wars
Chapter 30
Hollywood Informer
Chapter 31
The Patron Saint of Water
Chapter 32
Half an Oyster Shell
Chapter 33
The Mermaid Badge
Chapter 34
Gladys Tells a Story Called “sirens”
Chapter 35
Honora Says, Que Sera Sera
Chapter 36
Empty Nest
Chapter 37
Gladys Says, I Dreamed of Black Water
Chapter 38
Louie Faces the Music
Chapter 39
In the Birdcage with Isabella and Ferg
Chapter 40
Planting Zinnias
Chapter 41
Louie Says, It‘s the Champagne Talking
Chapter 42
Swimming with My Father
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Other Books by Michael Lee West
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
* * *
March 2, 2000
The National ENQUIRER
Exclusive report!
Esmé Vasquez Lures Director with Siren Song
Gossip Swirls on the Set of Ulysses
“Enquiring” minds want to know if man-eating actress Esmé Vasquez, 27, merely has a taste for Guinness, or if she is on the prowl for a new boy toy. Last week, Vasquez was spotted at McKenzie’s, a popular Dublin pub, with award-winning director Ferguson Lauderdale, 38 (see full story and color photos on pp. 24–25). Scottish-born Lauderdale has been on location in Ireland since last September, filming a big-budget remake of James Joyce’s Ulysses. Vasquez, who snagged the role of Molly Bloom, recently split with her latest love, a German-born underwear model. Known as a “serial onset seducer,” Vasquez has been romantically linked with her costars, notably Tom Cruise, Jude Law, and Leonardo DiCaprio. Lauderdale reportedly has an ongoing relationship with screenwriter Renata DeChavannes, 33, the stepdaughter of the late Randolph “Andy” VanDusen of VanDusen Films. Lauderdale and Ms. DeChavannes have cowritten several screenplays, including last year’s hit Bombshell.
In an exclusive interview, an unnamed source reported that Vasquez and Lauderdale spent three hours at McKenzie’s Pub. “Mr. Lauderdale bought a round of drinks for everybody,” said the source. The couple reportedly ducked out of the pub after midnight. The insider added, “She was all over him, but he seemed to like it. In fact, they seemed to click.”
Unfortunately, the same thing cannot be said for Lauderdale’s ambitious project. Ulysses has been plagued by injuries, foul weather, script problems, overworked vocal coaches, and rising tension between cast members. Originally budgeted at $122 million, the costs have reportedly risen to $215 million. Last month production was halted for over a week after a food poisoning incident, when the cock-a-leeky soup was laced with angel dust. Lauderdale was reportedly hospitalized with hallucinations.
Noted for risk-taking and genre-jumping, Lauderdale made his directorial debut in 1997 with the independent film Just Walk Away, René, collecting accolades across the globe. His career went into high gear after filming big-budget hits, most notably The Clone, Made in Japan, and the mega-grossing Bombshell, which earned three Academy Awards, including Best Director, and raked in over $1.8 billion in ticket sales, making box-office history.
Last spring, after Bombshell snagged five Oscar nominations, Lauderdale announced his plan to film Ulysses. Variety reported that Esmé Vasquez had beat out Nicole Kidman for the much-coveted role of Molly Bloom. Vasquez, who is barely fluent in English, is best known for her simmering roles in art house films (Mile High Club; Miss Bubbles’ Bed and Breakfast) and a small but memorable role as the lost Chihuahua, La Bonita, in the popular animated film It’s a Dog’s Life. Last year, Vasquez lashed out at the tabloids via an interpreter when she was voted “Hollywood’s Worst Boob Job.”
Vasquez’s publicist attempted to release a comment but could not find an interpreter.
* * *
Chapter 1
RENATA DECHAVANNES SAYS, ONE SIZE FITS ALL
If I had not read the cover story in the March 2, 2000, National Enquirer, it’s doubtful that I would have gone to Alabama and ruined my daddy’s engagement party, much less sent the bride-to-be into a coma. Just for the record, I don’t go around hitting other women, even if they are all wrong for my daddy; I don’t read tabloids, and I certainly would never steal one, yet that’s exactly what happened.
For the past six months, I’d been staying at my late mother’s cottage on the Outer Banks of North Carolina, eating salt water taffy, forgetting to shave my legs, and plotting my next trip to Ireland. Days ago, my sweetheart, Ferg Lauderdale, had called from his Dublin hotel room, and, in between sneezes, he’d mentioned that he’d lost his sweater at a pub. “Could you pop a cardigan into the mail, love?” he asked. “Or better yet, could you deliver it in person?”
After we went through our five-minute ritual of saying good-bye, I drove to Jockey’s Ridge Crossing, where I bought a pound of pecan divinity at the Footgear, then looked at a flying pig whirligig at Kitty Hawk Kites. Finally, I wandered over to Black Sheep, an eclectic wool store that sold dhurrie rugs, Flemish tapestries, Aubusson pillows, cashmere sweaters, and assorted one-of-a-kind clothing.
A bell tinkled over my head as I ducked into the store. A woman with short gray curls and
horn-rimmed glasses sat next to the checkout desk, dipping French fries into catsup. She directed me to a polished maple display table that was piled high with cashmere. I hadn’t seen Ferg in five weeks, and the notion of hand-delivering a care package was quite appealing. I selected three blue crew-necked sweaters that were exactly the color of his eyes, and a heavy, oatmeal-colored cardigan with deep pockets.
“Don’t forget to look at our fifty-percent-off counter,” called the clerk, lifting a plastic cup.
Tucking the sweaters over my arm, I wandered to the sale bin. A white poncho was spread out like gull wings over a half-price bolster pillow. With one hand, I lifted the poncho, and the macramé fringe, which was knotted with aqua beads, clicked and swayed. I had an image of myself wearing this poncho to Ireland. I’d jump into Ferg’s outstretched arms and wrap my legs around his waist—well, maybe I wouldn’t leap, and I certainly wouldn’t do any sort of leg wrapping. A salt water taffy binge had left me with ten, or maybe twenty, extra pounds.
Setting down Ferg’s sweaters, I slipped the poncho over my head, taking care not to snag my dangly seashell earrings in the fringe. The poncho felt a bit snug, and on my way to the three-way mirror, I caught the clerk’s attention and said, “Does it come in a larger size?”
“I’m afraid not. One size fits all,” said the clerk. “Unfortunately, that doesn’t mean it flatters all.” She waved her hand, knocking over the plastic cup. Ice and cola slid across the glass counter, then cascaded over the sides, pattering against the industrial-grade carpet. The clerk threw down several paper sacks, then bustled off to the stockroom for a mop.
I parked myself in front of the mirror, glancing over my shoulder, trying to see if the poncho covered my rear end. It didn’t. Grasping the fringe, I tried to stretch the garment over my elephantine self. My head jutted out of the poncho, resembling the handiwork of a South American head shrinker.
I turned away from the mirror and bumped into a hospitality table that held a coffee urn and Keebler oatmeal cookies. A thick stack of fashion magazines and tabloids toppled to the floor. I hunkered down, gathering them into my arms, and happened to glance at the cover of the National Enquirer. It was upside down, but I recognized the couple in the photograph.
The laughing, dark-headed woman was Esmé Vasquez, the star of my sweetheart’s new film. Her tight black pants showed the outline of aerobicized thighs. She leaned sideways, her breasts spilling out of a V-necked blouse, a smoky topaz necklace shining against bare skin. Her manicured hand gripped a man’s thigh—Ferg’s thigh. He was wedged against her, gripping a pint of ale. Behind his familiar wire-rimmed glasses, his eyes held a bemused expression.
I’d helped Ferg select those glasses after he’d stopped wearing contact lenses. His hair looked shorter and redder than I remembered. If he’d altered his hairstyle, what else had changed? The old Ferg had coppery, ropelike natural curls that sprang out all over his head. I remembered how he used to sit on the floor between my knees, a towel draped around his shoulders while I shaped and scrunched his hair with my unglamorous, unmanicured hands.
Me, I was the antithesis of all things Hollywood. One year ago, when he gave his acceptance speech at the Academy Awards, the camera had panned over to my row. I started to shrink down, but I was seated next to Susan Sarandon, who’d been nominated for best supporting actress in Bombshell. Susan grabbed a handful of my black gown and held me aloft. Later, when we made the party rounds, she pointed to my feet—one navy pump, one black. I waved my hand, and explained that the shoes were Prada, identical twins except for the color: the navy kid leather was almost black. I had borrowed them from my late mother, a self-professed shoe-a-holic. When Shelby VanDusen fell in love with a shoe, she bought them in multiple colors. “Just go barefoot,” Susan suggested, “unless you’re trying out for Fashion Victim of the Week in the tabloids.”
“But I’ll get my feet dirty,” I said.
“That’s all right, love,” Ferg said, handing his statue to Susan; then he swept me into his arms. He smiled. “I’ll carry you.”
I always thought his hair went with his smile, a wide-mouthed, open grin. I’d worked with him three years, lived with him for two; but the longer I stared at the picture, the more alien he seemed. If it wasn’t the camera angle, only one explanation made sense: I had never really known him. He was a stranger with even stranger hair.
In less than four minutes, my own hair was about to undergo a radical transformation, and not by choice.
Chapter 2
A REDNECK MULLET ISN’T A FISH
Leaning against the hospitality table, I studied the grainy tabloid photo, my seashell earrings clicking violently. The shakes had started months ago, after my mother and stepfather had died in a plane crash off Nantucket. Trying to keep my hands steady, I shoved the National Enquirer under the poncho, then hurried into the dressing room and bolted the louvered door. Taking a deep breath, I lifted the poncho and yanked out the tabloid.
Vasquez’s publicist attempted to release a comment but could not find an interpreter.
Comment my foot, I thought, and tented the magazine over my face. “Breathe,” I whispered to myself, then wiped my eyes. Back in Hollywood, it was common knowledge that Esmé Vasquez wouldn’t speak English—not because of a learning disability, but because she thought a language barrier was cute. During interviews, she’d laugh and twirl her hair and say, “No comprendo.” However, I’d watched her audition for the role of Molly Bloom. She’d put on a wig and a nubby vintage suit. When she spoke, I listened, transfixed. Later, a reporter from Variety said, “Good God, man. Vasquez as an Irish woman?” Ferg defended his choice. “She nailed her lines,” he told the reporter. “She summoned the voice and essence of Molly Bloom.”
When it came to Hollywood, I myself was a bit foreign. I’d been raised in New Orleans and coastal Alabama, to be exact. My paternal grandmother, Honora DeChavannes, used to say that I possessed more “hell” than “belle” in my backbone. Although she still lived in Alabama, I could almost hear her slightly nasal voice, chastising me for falling apart over a tabloid story. “Shame on you, Renata DeChavannes!” she’d say. “You aren’t a wilted gardenia, you are crabgrass! You are kudzu!”
Well, I’ll just tell you. Sherman may have burned the South, but kudzu will engulf it. Maybe I’d been away from Alabama too long, but it seemed to me that one could be weak and weedlike. Then I wondered if Ferg preferred women who spoke with strong accents, because I spoke (and thought) with a heavy southern drawl. Back in L.A., people still asked, “Where are you from?”
Now I leaned against the louvered door and slid down. “Siren Song?” I whispered to myself. “Gossip Swirls on the Set?” Did the alliteration mean something? I threw down the magazine and started to jerk the poncho over my head, then I felt a bolt of pain as the tassels and beads snagged in my hair and left earring, and also in the dressing room doorknob. With one hand, I reached up and gingerly patted my earring. It was entwined with hair and threads. Afraid to move, I shifted my eyes toward the mirror. The poncho covered the left side of my face, and white yarn zigzagged through my hair, around the earring, then stretched in a taut line to the doorknob.
The clerk heard my cries and came running. The doorknob rattled, then the clerk began tugging the door. With each jolt, the macrame tightened, yanking my head and ears. “No, stop!” I cried. “Get away from the door.”
I explained that I was hogtied, then reached up to grab my earlobe, trying to keep the metal hook from ripping through the plump flesh. The clerk’s face appeared over the louvered door.
“Oh, dear,” she said, clucking her tongue. “You’re in a fix.”
“Maybe you should call the fire department,” I suggested.
“I can handle this.” She dropped to all fours, displaying surprising agility for a woman of her vintage. She slid under the door, reached into her pocket, and whipped out pinking shears.
“No, not that,” I said, cringing.
“Just a sn
ip or two,” she said, and with a flourish, she cut me loose, neatly bisecting the poncho. Unfortunately she also chopped off several inches of my hair. On the left side. I peered into the mirror, thinking she’d given me a one-sided mullet, the favored hairstyle of redneck southern males.
“Shall I cut the other side, too?” She waved the shears.
“Just cut my throat and be done with it.” I stared down at the carnage.
“I’ll just go find you a hat. You can’t go outside in this condition.” She bustled off. I picked up the tabloid and stuffed it into my tote bag. On my way out of the shop, the clerk said, “Wait, I found you a hat! And do you still want to buy those sweaters?”
“I’d rather have my hair.” I tugged at the shorn locks. Then, blinking back tears, I reached into my bag and pulled out the tabloid. “But this will do instead.”
“Wait!” yelled the clerk. “Put that down. I haven’t read it yet!”
“Weight broke the elevator down,” I said and charged out the door, tucking the stolen magazine under my arm, thinking the worst was over. Unfortunately, it was just beginning.
Chapter 3
A PHONE CALL TO DUBLIN
I drove home in a daze and bolted from the car. My purse banged against my legs as I ran over the dunes, onto the beach. Choking back tears, I stood at the water’s edge.
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