Mermaids in the Basement

by Michael Lee West

When Mama said, She can’t talk, it struck a chord. The way I saw it, my family talked so much, I didn’t need to. In the past, when I’d given them the silent treatment, it always got my daddy’s attention. He’d bring me coloring books and candy, and he’d talk real sweet to Mama. So I decided I’d stretch it out, make the silence last.

  Three months later, I still hadn’t talked, but my family had gotten used to it.

  The day of Papa Chaz’s faux funeral, I sat on the front porch in Covington, waiting for Mama and Daddy to get dressed. Daddy couldn’t find his onyx cuff links, and Mama’s hair was conspiring against her. She stood in front of the pier mirror, trying to pin her hair into a chignon. It made me sad to watch her. If she knew what the gossips were saying, she would stop primping and break that mirror over my daddy’s head.

  Early this morning, Gladys had dropped me off at the New You Salon, where Mr. Pierre was supposed to sausage-curl my hair, then glue on little white flowers. It was torture in more ways than one. Pierre turned me over to a sad-eyed girl. While I got a shampoo, I also got an earful of slander. On this particular morning, it was directed at my family.

  “Are you going to that faux funeral over in New Orleans? It was written up in the paper as the event of the season,” said a woman with black pointy eyeglasses. I did not recognize her. She was having her hair frosted, and wet purple strands protruded from pinholes in a tight rubber cap.

  “Indeed not,” said a woman in pink curlers, who reeked of permanent solution. I didn’t know her name, but I’d seen her at the library, ripping out dessert recipes from Betty Crocker.

  “The gall of Dr. DeChavannes,” said the woman with purple hair. “Didn’t his mother die an appalling death?”

  “Wait, which Dr. DeChavannes are you talking about? There’s a whole slew of them. But Dr. Louie is the cute one. He lives right here in Covington.”

  “I’m referring to the brain surgeon, the one who lives near Mobile. I don’t see why he has to come all the way to New Orleans to throw this ridiculous party. Why can’t he do it in Mobile? Anyway, it was his hoity-toity mother who died.”

  “It was shocking.” The frosted woman leaned forward. “A botched hemorroidectomy. That’s what killed Solange DeChavannes.”

  “Killed by a pain in the butt.”

  “I wonder if Judge and Mrs. Stevens will be attending the party.”

  “The judge might go, but Emma won’t. Not the way she shuts herself up in that house. Why, I think she’s ashamed to show her face.”

  “She ought to be.”

  At this, I raised my head and blinked. What had Grammy Stevens done? Water and suds streamed down my neck. These fool women were talking about my people! What did they mean, botched hemorrhoids? What was that? My great-grandmother, Solange DeChavannes, had died before I was born. She’d died on the operating table. Daddy said her heart had stopped beating.

  The frosted girl peered into the mirror, nodding at her reflection. “Wonder if that actress is invited. What’s her name?”

  “Isabella D’Agostino McGeehee,” said the woman with purple hair. “I was visiting my auntie at the Ochsner Clinic last week, and I saw her and young Dr. DeChavannes kissing in the parking lot. In broad daylight, too.”

  “Are you talking about our very own Dr. Louie DeChavannes? The one who’s married to Judge Stevens’s daughter?”

  “Yes.”

  “But she’s gorgeous.”

  “So’s Isabella.”

  “Were they kissing or…”

  “Why, alley cats have better sexual etiquette. Louie had his hand up her blouse. And her hand was heaven knows where.”

  “I bet I know.”

  “Tacky, tacky, tacky.”

  “I’ll never use Louie DeChavannes for a doctor.”

  “Not unless you need a heart surgeon.”

  “Honey, he needs one.”

  “Maybe he should see a gynecologist.”

  The women giggled, and I rose all the way up. Suds skidded down the plastic cape, pattering onto the tile floor. Before I could eyeball the women and tell them to shut the hell up, the shampoo girl firmly pushed my head down. Her fingers were wet and cold. She got right into my face. “Move again and I’ll break your little neck,” she hissed, eyeballing me. “You’re getting crap all over me.”

  I tilted back my head. My eyes smarted with tears. They fell down the sides of my face, mixing in with the shampoo. The girl twisted the faucet, and water spewed out of the hose, pounding onto my hair, drowning out the women’s voices.

  Now, inside our living room, a crystal bowl shattered, followed by my mama’s cries, and I spun around, pressing my face against the screen door. “That was Waterford!” she sobbed.

  “I know it,” Daddy said. “And I’m sorry. I’ll buy you another.”

  “It’s irreplaceable,” she said in a heartbroken voice.

  “Stop being dramatic, Shelby.”

  “Stop breaking my crystal.”

  He ignored her and yanked out a desk drawer, flipping it upside down. Coupons, stamps, pencils, and money pattered to the floor. “What did you do with my caduceus cuff links?” he said, slinging open another drawer.

  “Look in the bedroom, on my dresser. And stop throwing things on the floor!”

  “If Gladys kept things in order, I wouldn’t have to. What am I paying her for, anyway?”

  “You won’t be paying her much longer,” Mama said through her teeth.

  “Hey, this move to New Orleans was your idea,” Daddy said. “Not mine.”

  He rushed down the hall, turning into their lavender bedroom. A minute later, he charged out with the cuff links. He got them a thousand years ago for being in medical school. In our house precious objects dissolved into the air and irons burst into flames. We were always rushing, yet we were always late.

  Mama grabbed her pocketbook from the table and hurried onto the porch. Her high heels clicked over the planks. Two years ago, after she’d fallen through the ice and caught that bad cold, her appetite had perked up. Her green dress was a tad too tight, and her hips were lumpy beneath the silk. From behind she looked like a parakeet that’s eaten too much millet, and it hurt my heart to look at her.

  “There you are, Renata.” She smiled down at me. “You look so pretty! Mr. Pierre outdid himself, didn’t he? Let’s go wait in the car for Daddy.”

  I stood up and shook out my petticoat. Then I walked bow-legged down the oyster shell driveway.

  “Shelby?” Daddy’s head poked out of the door. His eyes were the color of burnt caramel. “You got my car keys?”

  “Never saw them,” she called, then crossed her arms over her chest. She squeezed herself into the passenger seat. I climbed into the back, my organdy petticoat frothing around me. A few minutes later, he hurried out of the house with the keys and jogged down to our blue Thunderbird convertible. He wanted to put the top down, but Mama wouldn’t let him.

  “Can I at least roll down my window?” he asked.

  “Suit yourself.” Mama shrugged.

  Daddy drove through a tunnel of live oaks, past white raised cottages with galleries, past yards full of crape myrtles, blue hydrangeas, and banana trees. From the radio, a jazz station was playing somebody called Miles Davis, “I Fall in Love Too Easily.”

  The T-bird was Mama’s car, and it didn’t have a decal on the windshield. She didn’t like to drive across the causeway. It was the longest, scariest bridge in the South. If your tire flattened or your engine stalled, you were out of luck, unless you made it to a crossover. It used to be one bridge, but now there were two, running side by side—one went into New Orleans, the other headed to St. Tammany Parish. If you stared cross-eyed at the farthest point on the horizon, the bridges ran together.

  Daddy pulled up to the tollbooth, lowered his window, and handed the man a dollar. “Y’all have fun in Sin City,” the man said, winking at me.

  “We’ll try,” said Daddy. In the seconds before he closed his window, I breathed in the heavy air—salt,
catfish, shrimp, sunlight, and pine trees. Louisiana was in the middle of a dry spell: long, broiling hot September days, the heat pressing down like a fist.

  Traffic was light today; but the empty Causeway seemed to buckle and writhe, shimmering at the edges. The choppy water spread around the bridge in a dizzy pattern, the waves slapping against the concrete piling. Across the water, New Orleans was hidden in frothy, low-lying clouds.

  I sat up on my knees and stared out the rear window. St. Tammany Parish dropped away into a swirl of green-black pine trees, the edges blurred like the watercolors I painted at school. I turned around and flopped onto the seat, then I started playing a game called I-Am-Blind. I’d learned it at school. My teacher, Miss DuBois, had blindfolded everyone in the class, then passed around mysterious objects. “Smell them, children,” she instructed us. “Feel them.” Into my small hands she dropped something cold and bumpy—was it a guava or a dead bullfrog? I couldn’t tell.

  “Think hard, Renata,” Miss DuBois said, her knees popping as she squatted beside my table. “Put yourself in a blind person’s shoes. Your object is green. What does that color smell like? Does it have a flavor?” I knew what she was getting at; she was hoping to increase our appreciation of the world and to stimulate our imaginations—something I myself did not need. I squeezed the object. My thumbnail sank into ripe flesh, and I felt something cold and squishy ooze out. With a gasp, I dropped the horrid thing. It hit my desk with a sickening thud. Miss DuBois sighed and pulled off my blindfold. She held up an avocado. “Is that what you imagined?” she said. “Well, is it?”

  I shook my head.

  “Things are not what they seem,” said Miss DuBois.

  Daddy steered with one hand resting on the bottom of the wheel; the other hand reached back to smooth his hair. It was very dark, with a bluish tinge—European hair, Mama called it, the dreamy kind that was evermore falling into his eyes. He cracked the window, and warm air poured into the car.

  Mama’s bun came loose, and her hair blew forward. “Please, Louie,” she said.

  “What you pleading for, baby?” Daddy’s voice was kind, but it was an act. He knew what she wanted—for him to slow down and roll up the window and unbreak her Waterford bowl.

  He swung the Thunderbird into the passing lane and accelerated around a yellow Cadillac. Hunched over the wheel was a hook-nosed, white-haired woman who honked her horn and gave us all a dirty look. I wanted to say, It’s not my fault, lady. He’s a wild man. We can’t do a thing with him.

  “Please roll up your window. I’m about to blow away.” Mama clawed hair out of her eyes. “I give up,” she said. “I just give up.”

  “About time,” said Daddy. He sighed as if she’d asked him to give up something precious—gumbo, po-boy sandwiches, bourbon in his Coca-Cola. He pushed a button, and the window buzzed shut. “Satisfied?” he asked.

  “No, but it’s a start.” Mama slapped her dress, trying to knock out the wrinkles. She wouldn’t look at him.

  Daddy hit his brake, swerving around a dead seagull. One white wing flapped up and down in the wind. Mama shut her eyes, and I knew what she was thinking. Every time we crossed the Pontchartrain, she worried that our car would skid out of control, then burst through the guardrail, trailing a plume of smoke. I imagined the trajectory of our car—a flash of baby blue metal hanging in the sky for an instant before it smashed into the water. The car would sink slowly to the bottom, spinning around and around. Inside, the three of us would be trapped, trying to stem the flow of water as it poured in through the vents. We banged our fists on the glass and screamed. By the time they sent divers, it would be too late, we’d already drowned.

  Halfway across the Pontchartrain, I saw blinking red lights. Daddy tapped the brake, and the Thunderbird slowed down. I stood on my knees and looked out the rear window. The bridge stretched out into the haze. Then I saw a green dot creep down the bridge as if pulled by string. It got closer, and I saw that it was a station wagon. It was moving fast.

  I whirled around, looking at my daddy. He wasn’t paying attention to what was behind us, and neither was Mama. They looked straight ahead as a wooden rail swung down, blocking the road. On the other side of the rail, the traffic was starting to pile up. Then our highway broke apart, rising straight up into the sky. A sailboat glided through, listing to one side. Down on the boat, a man in a red-and-white shirt turned around and waved at the cars, as if to say, Thanks for being patient, guys.

  Turning back to the window, I saw the green station wagon barreling toward us, and I sucked in air. I thought I saw the driver, a woman with a beehive and eyeshadow that matched her car. One arm dangled out the window, her cupped hand playing with the wind. Singing to herself, not a care in the world. If I could see this car coming, then surely my parents could see it, too. I twisted my head and looked back at them. They were watching the sailboat. I opened my mouth to warn them, but I remembered I’d taken a vow of silence. I wasn’t sure I could talk if I wanted. I coughed, then made a low humming noise. Still, my parents didn’t turn around.

  “Daddy!” I screamed. “Look out!”

  I spun around and sprang forward, my arms extended, and landed on the padded console. Mama jumped. Daddy stared down at me and said, “What the—”

  “Behind you!” I yelled. He twisted around. His eyes widened when he saw the station wagon. Mama turned, too, then she screamed and pulled me into her lap. “Holy Mother of God,” Daddy said. The little man who operated the gate ran out into the road, waving his arms above his head. I heard tires squeal, and the station wagon skidded sideways, stopping inches away from our bumper.

  The beehive lady got out of the station wagon and staggered. From inside her car, a baby started to scream. She put her hands on her head. “Oh, shit! Are y’all all right? I’m so sorry!”

  Daddy leaned out his window. “You almost hit my car,” he yelled. “You could’ve killed my family.”

  “I said I was sorry,” yelled the woman.

  The little man rushed forward. “Lady, get back in your vehicle and tend to your baby.”

  “Damn, that was close,” Daddy said, rubbing the back of his neck.

  “Renata,” Mama said, putting her hands on my face. “You talked.”

  “It’s about time,” Daddy said.

  I arched my neck, toward the windshield, and watched upside down as the bridge snapped back together. Then I sat up. Daddy pressed his shoe against the accelerator. The T-bird started moving down the Causeway. Lake Pontchartrain spread out gray and choppy, full of sailboats and pontoons. Daddy said it was shallow, but it looked bottomless to me. Mama shut her eyes. Her lips moved as if she was whispering a secret to herself. I wondered if she was praying; although she might be cursing. She sometimes did that when she thought I wasn’t listening. She shifted in her seat, green silk against blue leather. I looked past her, toward tollbooths and flashing lights, and something broke loose in my chest. The Causeway was ending. Mama peered out the window at the dusky, churning water. “I wish we didn’t have to cross it again.”

  “Well, you’ve got to,” Daddy said without looking at her. “No two ways about it. Just drink lots of funeral champagne, darlin’.”

  He glanced over at me and smiled. “Hey, Renata, girl. You ready for this silly old funeral?”

  I nodded. Just as long as it wasn’t a real one, I thought.

  “Oh, come on now,” he said. “Don’t clam up. Let me hear that pretty voice of yours. Now, I’m going to ask you again. Are you ready for the party?”

  “Yes, Daddy,” I said.

  “Well, let’s go,” he said, and the car lurched off the Causeway, plunging through sunlight and dappled shade, curving toward the dark heart of New Orleans.

  Now I shut the scrapbook and ran into my grandmother’s house. I couldn’t wait to tell Honora what I’d remembered. She was in the kitchen, hanging up the phone. “Don’t panic,” she said, turning to me, “but that was the police. They want to interview you this afternoon.�
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  “You mean interrogate,” I said.

  “Come on.” She grabbed my elbow and steered me upstairs. “We’ve got work to do.”

  Two hours later, I walked into the police station with Honora on one side, Gladys and Isabella on the other. I wore an old-fashioned hat because they insisted that someone with a punky haircut might appear capable of bludgeoning their future stepmother-in-law.

  Detective Bass led me into a blue room and gestured to a white Formica table, all surrounded by metal chairs. A young man in a white polo shirt was setting up a video camera, pointing it in the direction of the table. As I sat down, I noticed an acoustic tile ceiling and a small mirror on the left-side wall. With a sigh, the detective sat down in a chair and opened a fat notebook. “Ready?” he asked. I nodded. He read off questions in a stilted voice, and I truthfully answered each one. I felt calm, and for the first time in weeks my hands weren’t shaking. During my years in Hollywood, I’d attended meetings at MGM, Caliban, and VanDusen, and I suppose listening to studio executives had toughened me a bit. A police interrogation seemed rather banal.

  After it was over, and we were headed back to Chateau DeChavannes, I started to crow about my calmness. “I can’t believe how cool I was,” I told them. “I even impressed myself.”

  Isabella laughed. “You weren’t so brave,” she said. “I slipped you an Inderal.”

  “A what?” I cried.

  “Oh, don’t look shocked. It’s just a little old blood pressure pill. I put it in your Diet Coke. It will cure stage fright every time. But you can thank me later.”

  Chapter 26

  MÖET IN THE MORNING

  The tropical storm hit during the night, but the next morning sunlight spilled down the beach. I walked down to the Grand, to drop off several designer handbags for my grandmother—a lilac Chanel and a straw Kate Spade. I left them in the Birdcage Lounge, and as my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I glanced around, hoping I’d see Isabella. She often came down to the Birdcage during happy hour. But this morning the bar was empty except for two men in knit golfing shirts.