Mermaids in the Basement

by Michael Lee West

  I lay very still on the floor and drew up a plan. The police would call this a suspicious death, maybe even a homicide. It would make all the papers. They would turn it into a three-hankie story. I simply could not go to jail—not that I didn’t deserve it. But behind bars, I would shrivel up and die. And that would make two unnecessary deaths.

  Pulling myself off the floor, I reached for the telephone on the marble bathroom counter. Dickie Boy had a phone in every room so he wouldn’t have to rush to answer it if he was on the toilet. I dialed Louie’s house in Covington. He loved me. He would know what to do. He would smooth this over. When he answered, I made my voice sound light and airy. “Dahlin’, I need to ask a favor.”

  “What’s up?” he said.

  “Can you come to my house?”

  “Now?”

  “Yes, it’s an emergency.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I can’t tell you over the phone. You’ll just have to trust me. Louie, you know I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t a life-or-death matter. Please hurry.”

  I hung up and checked on Dickie Boy. His body was turning darker by the minute, and rigor mortis was setting in. Soon, his whole body would harden. I wondered if his penis might be affected, and I lifted the sheet. Dickie Boy’s privates were buried in fleshy grooves, his manly parts resembling a bird peeping out from its nest.

  I was waiting on the front porch, smoking my thousandth cigarette, when Louie’s blue T-bird pulled into the driveway.

  He got out of the car—he bought a new one every year. “What’s going on?”

  “It’s hard to explain,” I said. “Let me just show you. Come on inside.”

  He followed me into the house, up the carpeted stairs, into my Scarlet O room. Dickie Boy lay motionless in the bed. Two pieces of tape still covered his mouth. Well, I hadn’t known what to do with it.

  “Is he sick?” Louie crossed over to the bed. He felt for a heartbeat, then pressed his ear to Dickie Boy’s chest. Finally he raised up and pulled the tape off Dickie Boy’s mouth. Vomit oozed down his chin.

  “I didn’t mean to hurt him,” I said. Funny, but with the tape gone, Dickie Boy looked peaceful and not like a victim, like he’d died natural.

  “Hurt him?” Louie lifted Dickie Boy’s right eyelid. His pupils were huge. “He’s dead. What the hell happened?”

  “He, he, he—” I broke off, my chin working up and down. I was fixing to discombobulate. It was hard to believe that a little piece of tape could cause so much trouble.

  “Why is there tape on his mouth?” Louie asked.

  “He was snoring.”

  “It looks like he might have choked on vomit.”

  “My thoughts exactly,” I said, and nodded, wondering if I could hire a smooth-talking lawyer and get out of it.

  “Should we call the police?” I asked. “Jail will be horrid, but I deserve punishing. Unless I can find another way to pay my debt to society.”

  “You’ll look good in stripes.” Louie squeezed my hand.

  “That’s not funny. Oh, this is terrible.” I pulled my hand away and clapped it over my face. No matter what I told Louie or the police, I knew they wouldn’t understand. They would look at the dead man and know he didn’t put that tape on his own mouth. They’d wonder if it was premeditated murder or second degree. During the trial they would show pictures of how the tape had left a sticky sheen around Dickie Boy’s mouth. When they put me on the witness stand, I’d tell how his snoring had kept me awake. The jury wouldn’t know that he’d done worse to me, that he’d taken up with hookers. They would see only a spoiled white woman in pearls and a Hattie Carnegie suit who didn’t want to lose beauty sleep.

  “If only I hadn’t taped his mouth,” I said. “If only I’d slept in another room.”

  “It’s too late for if-onlys,” Louie said.

  “Hand me that phone,” I said. “I’m calling the police.”

  “You won’t necessarily go to jail. This is involuntary manslaughter. You might get a suspended sentence, maybe a few years probation.”

  “Probation?” I sucked in air. “Maybe if we just cleaned him up a little. Then it won’t look so bad.”

  “Are you asking me to be an accomplice?” Louie asked. “To help you stage things?”

  “Better to reshape the truth than go to prison. I’d just as soon die! And besides, Dickie Boy was a sick man. I don’t know for sure that he choked on vomit.”

  “I know,” said Louie.

  “If you’re not going to help, then you might as well leave. I’ll clean him up myself. But if I go to jail, I am telling all that I know, and I do mean all. Got it?”

  “You wouldn’t,” Louie said.

  “Desperate people do all kinds of desperate things,” I said.

  I sat in the last row at Eastern Pines Funeral Home, watching Dickie Boy’s mama hold court beside her son’s casket. The lid was open, showing his upper body, but I couldn’t look at him. Louie didn’t come to the funeral. I hadn’t heard from him since the afternoon he’d helped me with Dickie Boy. The funeral home was crammed with too many flowers and mourners. Miss Martha greeted each one. Over the humming air conditioners, I heard snatches of conversation.

  “Died in his sleep.”

  “Went peaceable.”

  Fools, I thought. If it was this easy to get away with murder, then the end of the world was near.

  Two months after the funeral, while I was getting my roots touched up at Salon le Mer, I heard that Louie and Shelby were getting a trial separation. Kip was just tickled to pieces.

  “Honora is threatening to cut Louie out of her will,” Kip said, teasing my hair. “It’s all because of me, you know.”

  I made no comment. The little braggart was the best colorist on the Gulf Coast, and I couldn’t afford to alienate him. But I was just stunned that he knew all about Louie. Honora hadn’t mentioned it to me, and I was just next door. I felt like she’d had a party and left me off the guest list.

  After Kip combed me out, I tipped him and drove over to the bakery and bought an Italian cream cake. Then I hurried over to Chateau DeChavannes. “I just heard about Louie and Shelby,” I said, putting the cake into her arms.

  “That g.d. Kip,” said Honora.

  “Are they really getting a separation?”

  “I’m afraid so. I would’ve told you, but you’ve been distraught over Dickie Boy’s passing.”

  I let that pass. “But didn’t they just buy a gorgeous house in New Orleans?”

  “Yes.” She set the cake on the counter, then pulled a knife from the drawer.

  “What happened? Did they have a fight?”

  “Shelby caught him having a fling.”

  “Oh?” I said, trying to resist the impulse to put my head between my knees. That damn Louie. He’d told Shelby all about us. I wondered if he’d mentioned Dickie Boy. If Shelby knew the truth, she would call the police. And they’d exhume my husband’s body. I’d get slapped in jail with check forgers and hookers. Maybe Dickie Boy’s hooker, Mandy, would be my cell mate.

  “It was a patient’s wife.” She cut a slice of cake and plopped it on a Limoges dish.

  “What?”

  “I was shocked, too. The patient was from McComb, Mississippi. Louie was sleeping with his wife. She was quite young and pretty. Shelby walked into his office and caught him on an exam table with the woman.”

  Tit for tat, I thought. Or should I say tit for tit? I was furious with Louie. He’d been two-timing both me and Shelby. But I shouldn’t complain. Louie had changed the course of my life, and even though he was a rat, I owed him my freedom. I might never find love, but then again, I’d never be forced to wear stripes unless they were in fashion. And dahlin’, that means a lot, if not everything.

  Chapter 28

  SHANGHAIED

  * * *

  Point Clear Gazette

  EASTERN BAY SOCIAL BUZZ

  by Miss Mary Katherine Jamison .

  Mrs. Honora DeChavannes
will host a garden party on Saturday, June 21, 1978, honoring the recent marriage of her son, Dr. Louie DeChavannes, to Bitsy Wentworth DeChavannes. Dr. Louie is a noted cardiovascular surgeon at the Ochsner Clinic in New Orleans. The bride, a native of Crystal Falls, Tennessee, is an interior designer. After a belated honeymoon trip to France, the couple will reside in Jefferson Parish, Louisiana.

  * * *

  I flopped down on the bed, reading the article, hoping it might open up and convey the details I had forgotten—and the ones omitted by Miss Jamison. I did know that my parents got a divorce after Papa Chaz’s faux funeral. In February 1978, Papa Chaz himself died. At the real wake, I’d heard whispers that he and my grandmother had been arguing the day he’d died, and to this day Honora would not speak of it; but during the funeral my mama and daddy reconciled. They would have remarried if Bitsy Wentworth hadn’t come along the following spring.

  It had been years since I’d thought about Bitsy; I could remember my dislike for her better than I could recall her face. But I did have a memory of her long, swirly blond hair. It was striking and unforgettable. Almost all of Daddy’s women were light-headed.

  I carried the article downstairs and started looking for my grandmother. I couldn’t remember the garden party, but she’d kept detailed records of every event, right down to the canapes and vintage of the wines. I found her in the sunroom with Gladys and Isabella. My grandmother tipped a watering can over a blooming dendrobium, its bowed stem heavy with white blossoms. Gladys and Isabella were discussing Grandmother Stevens again. “The first time she pooped in Honora’s yard, we all thought a Saint Bernard had done it.”

  “She always did eat too much bulk,” said Gladys.

  “I don’t believe this,” I said. “Y’all are making this up.”

  “Well, it’s true,” said Isabella. “If Emma Stevens were alive today, we could DNA her poop; but she’s dead. You’ll just have to take my word for it.”

  “But it doesn’t make sense,” I said. “How could an agoraphobic ex-beauty queen overcome her fears and traipse around people’s backyards?”

  “She did more than traipse,” said Isabella.

  “It was drugs,” said Gladys. “Those doctors in Mandeville gave her strong medicines.”

  “It’s true,” said Honora. “One pill made her sleepwalk.”

  “And one made her defecate,” said Isabella.

  “Well, it made her overcome certain inhibitions,” said Honora.

  I walked over to my grandmother and handed her the article. She tilted her head and made a humming noise. “I was wondering when you’d find this.”

  “What was so special about Bitsy? Why did he dump my mama for her?”

  “It was the circumstances that surrounded your father at the time—surrounded all of us. It had been a rough few years. First, your parents went through that tumultuous separation and divorce. Then Chaz…died. And I don’t know, it just did something to Louie. He worshipped his father.”

  “But I thought Mama and Daddy got back together at the funeral.”

  “They did.” She set down the can and walked over to the wicker sofa. She patted the cushion, inviting me to sit beside her. “Those two had a star-crossed thing about funeral parlors.”

  She leaned toward the coffee table and opened a shell-covered box, then pulled out a cigarette. She didn’t light it—fifteen years ago she’d quit smoking—but she just held it between her fingers. “Your mama and daddy helped me settle Chaz’s estate. Aunt Na-Na was causing trouble. She wanted to sell this house and divide the money amongst the surviving DeChavannes. But Louie made her back off.”

  She laughed, shaking her head. “He and Shelby couldn’t keep their hands off each other. I was thrilled. I babysat you a lot that winter. They spent a weekend in Destin, and Louie asked your mother to remarry him. In the middle of this tentative reconciliation, they planned a trip to Jamaica.

  “I think they were going to get married on the beach. Gladys and I were going to babysit you. Anyway, right before your parents left, you took bronchitis, and Shelby backed out of the trip. So Louie went to Jamaica alone. And got shanghaied.”

  “I sort of remember that,” I said.

  “Yes, but there’s more.” Honora gave me a penetrating stare. “Do you want me to continue? Because it’s painful.”

  “I can take it.” I nodded.

  “All right. But when I’m finished you may never speak to me again. You may think I’m too crazy to be your grandmother—and in a way I probably am. Yes, I probably am.”

  Chapter 29

  HONORA & THE CIVIL WARS

  The day Chaz died, I found out that he was having an affair with a woman Civil War enthusiast he’d met at one of those reenactments. Her name was Francis Baylor. She called me long distance from Valdosta, Georgia, and broke the news that she and Chaz were lovers.

  At first, I thought she was referring to another Chaz—Dr. Chaz Breaux, a Point Clear gynecologist—but he wasn’t interested in the Civil War. When I caught my breath, I said, “Why are you telling me this? Do you hope I’ll leave my husband? Or has he promised you that he’ll leave me?”

  “No, I thought you ought to know the truth,” said Francis Baylor.

  “No, you didn’t,” I said. “What’s the real reason? Is he trying to break it off?”

  “I’m not saying,” Francis snapped.

  “Well, maybe he’ll change his mind. I’d love to chat, but I’ve got something burning in my oven.” I hung up and wandered in a daze out to the garden. When I spotted the red wheelbarrow, I knew what I had to do. Grabbing the handles, I pushed the wheelbarrow into the house, leaving a muddy swath up the back staircase. When I reached Chaz’s closet, I gathered all of his custom-made Confederate uniforms, including his antique guns and newspapers and doodads. His collection was the finest in Alabama, if not the entire Southeast. It had cost thousands of dollars and had been written up in Southern History Illustrated. When I’d found every last thing, I pushed the wheelbarrow onto the far side of the terrace and piled all of the pricey costumes and artifacts into the old, shell-lined barbecue pit. Next, I doused everything with Jack Daniel’s and lighter fluid, then I struck a match.

  It was a cold, crisp February afternoon, and the sun hung low over the water. The flames were reportedly seen from several points on the bay, including the USS Alabama over in Mobile. Fire engines roared up to the gate, but I wouldn’t let them in. I told them I was barbecuing a pork roast, and the last time I’d checked, it was perfectly legal to cook in one’s backyard. I demanded they leave at once. Then I went into the house and poured single-malt whisky into an iced tea glass. I was Catholic, and the idea of divorcing Chaz was abhorrent; but I didn’t think I could live with him.

  Somebody called his office and reported the flames. He rushed home, took one look at his charred relics, and his face turned purple. “Damn you, Honora! What did you do?” he screamed.

  “What did I do?” I raised my eyebrow, watching as he took the pool net and tried to fish out a jacket with gold bouillon fringe. Then I hurried into the house and locked the door.

  An hour later I peeked out the kitchen window and saw him lying face-down on the terrace, still clutching that incinerated jacket.

  One good thing came out of that funeral: Louie and Shelby fell back in love. Then, like I already said, he went by himself to Jamaica and dropped off the face of the earth. He called a few weeks later and said he’d gotten married to a woman he’d met on the trip.

  “Hurricanes give more warning than you,” I said, but he just laughed. If he and Shelby had been on the verge of reconciling, how—and why—had he jumped up and married someone else?

  The phone call had originated from Las Vegas, of all places, and in the background, it sounded like a party was going on. “But I thought you were in Jamaica,” I said.

  “I was. But I took a little side trip to Vegas,” Louie said. Then, to someone in the background, he whispered, “Stop that, Beauty.”

&n
bsp; “Stop what?” I asked.

  “Not you,” said Louie. In the background a women shrieked. Actually, it sounded like two women, possibly three, but I couldn’t be sure.

  “Honey, you’re scaring me,” I said. “Who’d you marry?”

  “We met in Montego Bay.”

  “But I thought you and Shelby were back together.”

  “I know, I know. My plans changed. That’s just how life is.”

  “You’re not still punishing her over that thing with Kip?”

  “Hell, no,” he said a beat too fast. “Listen, I’ve got to run. I’ll call you back.”

  I fixed a large glass of sweet tea and gulped it down. Then I walked upstairs into my shuttered bedroom and stretched out on the chaise, a wrung-out washcloth over my eyes. I wondered if I’d imagined the call. For weeks after Chaz had died, I’d imagined all sorts of things. One time I thought I heard something pass under the bedroom window—burglars, or even a peeping Tom. I climbed out of bed and opened the shutters. Five thousand frogs were madly hopping across the grass, scampering to the bay. The next morning I looked everywhere for those frogs, but I couldn’t even find tracks in the sand. I wondered if I’d dreamed it.

  Now I prayed I was suffering an auditory illusion, that I had misunderstood the whole conversation with my son. Perhaps Louis had said carried rather than married. No, I’d heard correctly. An impromptu announcement from Las Vegas, accompanied by screaming, could mean only one thing: my baby boy had been nailed by a hustler.

  I wondered how Louie would explain this so-called marriage to Shelby. I had no intention of breaking the news—or her heart. Lust was one thing, love was another; but a Las Vegas wedding to a stranger was pure-dee insanity. He’d been raised better.

  I waited two days for my son to call, the whole time imagining his new wife. Naturally I envisioned a woman with parakeet green hair. When he was in medical school, he had dated a woman like that. The more I pondered this matter, the more heartsick I became.