Mermaids in the Basement

by Michael Lee West

  Mrs. Stevens fell in love with Chateau DeChavannes. And do you want to know why? I’ll tell you why. Because the yard she loved to defile best was Honora DeChavannes’s. Once Chaz tried to call the police, but Honora stopped him. “Put that phone down,” she’d said. “There are no statutes for pooping in someone’s yard. She’s family, and we have to overlook certain things. Besides, it’s good fertilizer.”

  Now, watching Honora and Shelby dance across the room, I felt dizzy, and yes, I’ll admit it, a little jealous. Honora was my best friend. I slipped on my shoes and turned away. Not that I was always a party pooper—pardon the pun, dahlin’. Just last month, I’d been to an Irish wedding, and I’d danced until my hair was wringing wet; I stamped my feet to heart-thrumming songs like “Drowsy Maggie” and “MacLeod’s Reel.” I adored parties.

  On my way out of the courtyard, the music broke off. I could see into the ballroom where a few couples kept on dancing. Way off in the distance, I saw Chaz talking to an unfamiliar brunette. The band began to play “Autumn Leaves,” and Louie picked up his little daughter and led her to the dance floor. She put her little feet on top of his feet, and they shuffled around the room. He looked dashing, and I wished I’d stayed with him in the men’s room. Louie was a big talker, but I could have shut him up with kisses. Well, it was too late now. People were starting to gather at the edges of the dance floor, smiling at Louie and Renata.

  I left the pretend funeral and walked toward the Royal Orleans. Over the buildings, I saw a three-quarter moon, but it hadn’t set. I turned into a candy shop to buy pralines. When I made that movie with James Darren, I’d tried to describe these confectionaries to him. “What is a praline?” he asked. “Describe how it tastes.”

  “Oh, honey, they’re sublime,” I told him, holding out my hand and taking a pretend bite. “Imagine a crunchy explosion of sugar and pecans on the tongue. It makes you think of fabulous sex, world peace, and bull markets.”

  Inside the candy shop was a bald-headed man wearing a gold-leaf crown. A white sheet was draped over his shoulder. He held out his hand while the clerk counted change.

  “Are you pretending to be Julius Caesar?” I said.

  “No, Augustus,” the man said, giving me a withering look. He marched out of the shop, scurrying across the street to Antoine’s, his sheet flapping behind him. I doubted they’d let him in, but they did. My head throbbed. Champagne and sex always gave me a migraine. I needed coffee, but I was too tired to walk back to the hotel. Besides, I might run into Honora. If only I could find Dickie Boy. Sweetie baby, I’d tell him. Run on down and get me a café au lait and two Bufferin, please. And he would go, thrilled to do my bidding, although he liked doing his mama’s errands best of all. But I wasn’t one bit jealous. No, I was glad they had each other.

  After I bought pralines, I walked back to my hotel. I reached into the candy sack, broke off a piece, and slid the fragment into my mouth. Coming down the street was a man on a giant yellow tricycle, wearing a purple and green Harlequin suit. On his head was a pointed hat with a bell at the end, chiming along his shoulders. I turned my face up to the sky, my arms spread wide, and shouted, “I love New Orleans!”

  Soon as I got to my room, I stripped and filled the tub with hot, bubbly water. I soaked for a long time, washing off the scent of lovemaking. Sugar, I thrived on being bad. I invented the word. But I was also sweet, thoughtful, brave, and intuitive. I didn’t think Dickie Boy suspected a thing. I’d die if he had. Because I am not a cruel woman.

  I’ll tell you who’s cruel. Dickie Boy’s mama is cruel. One time she called me a “wanton woman,” and I swear I didn’t hear her correctly. I thought she’d said “wonton,” like what you’d order in a Chinese restaurant. You see, about a hundred years ago, she took elocution lessons to lose a hereditary lisp. My mother-in-law was a fe-male, with emphasis on the first syllable. All fe and no male, like a hormone imbalance. There was a whole lot wrong with the McGeehees, flaws that made you think of incest. Their genes probably looked like runes. Not only that, I hated to disappoint her, but I was neither hussy nor noodle. I just enjoyed sex—and not with Dickie Boy.

  I stayed in the tub until the water was cold and scummy, and I was puckered all over. Then I climbed out and wrapped myself in a towel. When I stepped into the room, a naked man lay stretched out on the bed, a haze of blue cigarette smoke drifting above him. For one second I thought it was a pervert, and I screamed. Then the naked man laughed.

  “How did you get in here?” I opened the French doors, and a breeze tousled my damp hair. It was one of those perfect moments, the kind that only happens in the movies.

  “I was just in the neighborhood,” Louie said. “Actually, I told the clerk that I was Mr. McGeehee, and he gave me a key.”

  “Well, I’m so glad you came.”

  “But I haven’t.” He bit down on the cigar and grinned. “Not yet, anyway.”

  “We’ll just have to remedy that, won’t we?” My voice sounded deliciously sultry. That’s because of formal singing lessons. My poor fire-engine-chasing daddy sacrificed a lot for me, but it all paid off in the end. Unfortunately he died while I was making It Happened in Venice with that damned Doris Day—she was overrated, if you ask me. Anyway, my daddy died and I never got to buy him a nice brick house like I’d promised.

  “Isabella, get over here, baby,” Louie said.

  I loved how he divided my name into four separate syllables—I believe that’s what they’re called. Anyway, he said it with a deliciously soft “I.” Hearing him say my name was like biting into a praline. I’d had lovers of nearly every nationality, and they spoke all kinds of languages, but with the exception of Dickie Boy, I liked the southern accent best.

  I let my towel drop. Louie crushed his cigar in the ashtray and opened his arms. A long while later, we got dressed and tried to figure out what to do next. Louie stood by the French door, brushing wrinkles out of his pants. Street noise drifted up, and I smelled fried oysters.

  “Why go anywhere?” I said. “But what about your wife? She’s probably worried sick. Maybe you should call.”

  “And tell her what?”

  “She doesn’t suspect anything, does she?”

  “Not one bit,” he said. “Let’s go outside and walk around.”

  “Are you crazy? A walk in New Orleans after dark?” I lit a cigarette, then tilted back my head and exhaled a plume of smoke. “Honey, listen. It’s not safe. You can get killed out there. It’s not like Europe.”

  “Every place has its wicked parts.”

  “Sweetie, this en-tire city is wicked.”

  “We’ll be fine.”

  “I can’t let you go out there alone. Just let me throw on some clothes. Don’t look like that. I’ll hurry.”

  I walked over to my Vuitton suitcase, riffling through silk dresses, blouses with plunging necklines, and skirts with deep slits up the side. “I wish you’d skip the walk and let’s just go to the bar and get gin and tonics.”

  “I can fix you a drink now.” He started toward the dresser, where I’d set up a minibar.

  “But there’s no fresh lime.” I swatted a mosquito.

  “No problem, we’ll buy one.” He lifted his jacket with the crook of his finger, then slung it over his shoulder.

  “Where you going to get a lime at this time of night in New Orleans?” I asked. But I was really thinking: What if we ran into someone from the party and they told Shelby and she hired a hit man? You can hire one in New Orleans for practically nothing. Although that was more Dickie Boy’s style.

  “I’ll get it from the bartender.” He winked, then stepped over to the door and opened it. “Listen, you don’t have to go. Just keep the bed warm till I get back.”

  “Louie?”

  “Yes?” He turned, one hand on the doorknob, his eyebrows raised expectantly.

  “I love you, sweetie. I just want to make sure you know.”

  “Go ahead and fix your drink. I’ll see you in a bit with the lime.�
�� He stepped into the hall. The door clicked shut behind him. I got up from the bed, leaned against the French doors, and gazed down into Royal Street. A taxi sped by, stirring up trash. A newspaper skittered over the sidewalk toward the antique shops. I saw Louie walk out of the hotel, into the street. I guessed the bar was out of limes. Or maybe he was leaving me. I wish I hadn’t slept with him. Well, I loved him. And I wished he was mine. I just had a flair for attracting men and mosquitoes. They both just ate me up. This was my gift, and my curse. But insects and beautiful women just couldn’t help what they did. We were driven by the instinct to survive. One was drawn by the smell of blood, the other was drawn by money. Somebody always got bit, and I felt sorry for them. Well, not too sorry. In fact, I didn’t feel one bit bad. Like a famous person once said, I forget who, If you can’t stand the mosquitoes, then get out of the swamp.

  Louie never came back. When I returned to the St. Louis Hotel, the party was winding down. I looked everywhere for Dickie Boy, but I couldn’t find him. We all thought he’d gotten mugged, even murdered. Then he showed up at midnight without one word of explanation. Naturally I didn’t ask, seeing as I’d done what I’d done. He was all swolled up and yellow from his liver problems. A doctor at Ochsner said it was cancer, but Dickie Boy and his mother preferred the diagnosis of cirrhosis by a general practitioner in Fairhope.

  Chaz suggested we have a round of drinks and do a party postmortem. Louie begged off and drove his wife and child across Lake Pontchartrain. Everything was fine until we wandered out to the pool, and Dickie Boy fell into the deep end. Okay, he didn’t fall. I pushed him. But it was an accident. Nigel and Chaz grabbed a giant net and fished my husband out of the water. Then everybody jumped in and began splashing, and before I could say Jack Robinson, the pool was full of drunken fools.

  I dried Dickie Boy with a tablecloth, then waited out front for the valet to bring our Mercedes. I squished Dickie Boy into the passenger seat, then sped away. He stared out the window as if downtown New Orleans was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen in his life, like he was trying to memorize it.

  “Where did you go, honey?” I asked.

  “Hmm?” he said, opening one eye.

  “Where did you go tonight?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, and rubbed his eyes. He seemed slurry-drunk. Then I remembered he’d been drinking the planter’s punch. “I went for a walk and got all turned around.”

  “That can happen in New Orleans,” I said and did not add: especially when you’re drugged.

  He put two fingers in his mouth, whisked them around a bit, and then pulled a hair off his tongue. I leaned over, trying to see what color it was. My hair was dark ash blond.

  “Hey, watch the road,” Dickie Boy cried. He nudged me toward the steering wheel.

  “You watch it.” I shot him a warning glance. “And don’t change the subject. I asked where you ran off to.”

  “I ran off?” His forehead wrinkled. “When?”

  “At Chaz’s funeral,” I prompted.

  “Chaz died?” His eyes rounded. “When?”

  “It was a party, and you know it. One minute you were eating oysters Rockefeller, and the next you were AWOL.”

  “I was no such thing.” His eyes opened wide. His irises were dark as chicory coffee, but the left pupil was off center, drifting back and forth. I hadn’t noticed this before.

  “Did you know you have a wandering eye?” I said, studying his face.

  “Oh, God. I’m so sorry, Isabella. I never meant for it to happen.”

  “That’s all right,” I said, genuinely touched. “Don’t apologize. You were probably born with it.”

  “I was?”

  “Wandering eyes can be hereditary.”

  “I guess they are. My daddy had one, too.” He settled against the leather seat. “You aren’t mad at me?”

  “Why, no.” I patted his hand. “It’s no big deal. It can be surgically corrected.”

  “Surgery?” He gasped.

  “Of course. See, the wandering is due to a short muscle,” I explained. I’d read all about this in Redbook. “The surgeons just pull the skin back, then they cut and splice. Somehow they lengthen it. I’m not sure how. You could ask Chaz.”

  “But he’s a brain surgeon…And you say they…make it longer?”

  “It’s the only way, dahlin’.”

  “Oh, my God,” Dickie Boy said, one hand rising to his mouth. “Pull the car over now!”

  “What’s wrong?” I guided the Mercedes into the breakdown lane, but he wouldn’t answer. As soon as I stopped, he flung open his door, leaned out into the road, and vomited. I began trembling, afraid the smell would trigger my gag reflex. (I had a weak one.) A few seconds later the smell drifted over, forcing me to fling open my door and vomit onto the pavement. If anyone passed us on the road, they’d think we were a matched set—the wife upchucking on one side, the husband on the other.

  After we got home, I helped Dickie Boy into the house. He kept weaving, banging along the stairway. “We’re almost there,” I said in a comforting tone. With my free hand, I flung open the door to the master bedroom, then guided him to the four-poster bed. I had designed this room to resemble Scarlett O’Hara’s lair in Gone With the Wind—I just loved that movie, even though my passion was French films with English subtitles.

  “I’m so sorry, Isabella,” he muttered, then fell backward against the mattress, his eyelids fluttering. Almost immediately he began to snore.

  “N’importe,” I said, pulling off his shoes, letting them drop to the burgundy and bone needlepoint rug. Then I took off his tuxedo. It was still just a little damp and smelled ever so faintly of chlorine. The whole time I undressed him, I whispered endearments. “Ma petit crouton,” I said, unbuttoning his shirt, dropping his cuff links into a crystal bowl on the night table. “Ma petit écrevisse,” I whispered, drawing the sheet over his naked body. “Ma chère amour.”

  “I love you, too, Mandy,” he said.

  My hand froze to the sheet. “You what?”

  He answered with a snore—he was out cold, drunk on champagne.

  “My name is not Mandy.” I viciously shook his arm. Tears pattered to the bedsheet. I brushed them away. He hadn’t heard me, he was sleeping and looked so innocent. They all did when they were sleeping: little boys grown into men, now at the mercy of their wives. I stared at the outline of his body against the cotton sheet. I thought about snipping his penis at the root or maybe shoving a dried pepper down his urethra. But he might come up swinging.

  Again, I shook his arm. His right eye peeped open. “Dickie Boy,” I began, “who is Mandy?”

  He didn’t answer. He just stared at me with those coffee-bean eyes, so much like Miss Martha’s, I wanted to cry.

  “Dickie Boy?”

  He answered with a snore. I shook him again, and he said, “Oh, yes, Mandy.”

  “Wake up and talk to me.” I pushed his shoulder. “Who the hell is Mandy?”

  “A hooker,” he said. Then he nodded off again. His mouth sagged open, and a ragged snort emerged from the back of his throat.

  Oh, my God. A hooker, I thought, pacing the room. I took a sleeping pill, then got into my nightgown and pulled back the covers. But I could not fall asleep. I leaned over and sniffed his hair and neck, but he only smelled faintly of chlorine. And if he’d truly been with a hooker, wouldn’t I have smelled cheap perfume? I didn’t have room to talk. Louie’s fluids were all over my body. I stretched out on my side of the bed and tried to collect my thoughts, but Dickie Boy’s snoring was earsplitting.

  I got up, rummaged in my gift-wrapping closet for strapping tape, and tore off two wide strips. Then I returned to the bedroom and, straddling his chest, I placed the tape over his mouth. Once more, I stretched out beside him and forced myself to relax. Dickie Boy rolled onto his side, away from me, and released a muffled snort. I’d just have to deal with him tomorrow. I shut my eyes and waited for sleep, but it didn’t come for a long time. />
  When I opened my eyes, I smelled something sour, like poor-quality goat cheese. The gold hands on the Meissen clock pointed to ten a.m. It wasn’t unusual for me to sleep late, but Dickie Boy was an early riser. I pulled up on my elbows, then glanced over at him. He was lying on his back. As long as I’d known him, he’d had a yellow cast to his skin, but today it resembled tarnished silver. One hand rested on his swollen stomach. The tape was still on his mouth, but foam and spittle had dried around the edges.

  “Wake up.” I shook his arm. His hand slid off his belly and hit the sheet. I blinked. Was he breathing? I didn’t see his chest move. I wasn’t a doctor. I was an actress. But I knew dead when I saw it. I leaned over him, and the stink of old cheese rushed up my nose, only it wasn’t cheese, it was vomit. And the only thing keeping it inside his mouth was tape. Dickie Boy wasn’t just dead, I had killed him. My stomach heaved, and I barely made it to the bathroom.

  For a long time I just lay there on the marble floor, trying to wrap my brain around the situation. Then I started to cry. Poor old Dickie Boy didn’t deserve this. Had he suffered in the night and reached for me? Thanks to champagne and Nembutal, I was out cold. If Dickie Boy had flailed, I wouldn’t have known. But why hadn’t he woken up, yanked off the tape, and vomited on the floor the way he always did? His mama had never trained him to puke in a toilet. No, she’d just let him vomit wherever he pleased and send a maid to clean up after him.

  Maybe Dickie Boy had passed out on champagne. Then he might not have woken up. I imagined the party food shooting out of his esophagus and hitting the tape, backing up in his throat until he stopped breathing.

  And it was all my fault. I had accidentally murdered him. Oh, if only I’d just let him snore. But now he was dead, and I couldn’t live with myself. As a murderess, I’d never have another peaceful moment. On the other hand, Dickie Boy had a rotten liver. He would have died anyway, and I had just hastened it along. But no, that was wrong. I wasn’t God, even if I was a bit of a goddess.