Mermaids in the Basement

by Michael Lee West

  When Daddy and Bitsy walked into the room, Mama said, “I’ve seen you do this a thousand times. It looked so easy. But it’s impossible!”

  “There’s a trick to it,” he said.

  “An art,” said Mama. On the pocket of her shirt, “THE RAW BAR—NEW IBERIA, LA” was printed in blue letters. When she turned around, the back of the T-shirt was plastered with a 1940s cartoon woman—a big-breasted blonde in pink high heels. Above the blonde’s head, in bold red letters, was “Give It to Me Raw.”

  “It’s no big deal.” Daddy laughed, then shrugged.

  “No big deal to you, maybe.” She threw him a pair of man-sized gloves.

  Using my elbows for leverage, I hoisted myself onto the table and watched my father pull on the gloves.

  “I get the first oyster,” I said, swinging my legs back and forth.

  “She likes to suck them from the shell,” Mama told Bitsy. “Of course, I do, too. On Sunday afternoons Louie used to shuck a whole sack of Louisiana oysters. And I swear I ate them as fast as he could open them.”

  Daddy gave Bitsy a guilty glance, then picked up the knife. Bitsy peered into the ice chest, then stepped back when Mama threw in a handful of cornmeal.

  “To make them happy,” she explained. “Do you eat them raw?”

  “Actually, no,” Bitsy confessed.

  Mama’s eyes blinked open wide. “We’ve got to fix that. Don’t we, Louie?”

  “Mmm-hm,” Daddy said, not looking at either woman. He laid one hand over the oyster, anchoring it, then pressed the knife into a seam, rocking the blade. His wrist flexed up and down, and the hinge gave way. The oyster opened, and Daddy ran the knife under the glistening oval, cutting the thick cord of muscle. Then he presented the oyster to me.

  “I’m starved,” I said, touching my lips to the shell. With a greedy slurp, the oyster disappeared.

  “Look at that child.” Mama laughed.

  “Mmm,” I hummed. Then I stretched out my hand. “More,” I demanded.

  “No, this one’s for Bitsy,” said Daddy, already cracking open another oyster. “Got any sauce, Shelby?”

  “Coming right up.” She opened the ancient humpbacked refrigerator, setting out a lemon, a jar of horseradish, a plastic jug of catsup. Standing on her bare toes, she reached into a cupboard and snatched a bottle of Tabasco and a box of saltines.

  Daddy strained, and the shell popped apart. He ran the knife around the edges, then held it up for his new wife. “With or without sauce?” he asked.

  “Wait, how do I do it?” Bitsy laughed. “I won’t choke, will I?”

  “Nah,” I said, holding my empty shell up to my mouth like a doll’s teacup. “Just suck it up like this.”

  “She’s not going to do it,” Mama said, giving Bitsy a doubtful look. “Here, put it on a cracker for her.”

  “That’s the sissy way,” I said.

  “No, it’s not,” said Daddy.

  “Is too,” I said, poking him with my shell. “You said it at Granny Honora’s. You said it when I was a little baby girl.”

  “You still are,” Mama said.

  Daddy was still holding out the shell. Bitsy touched her mouth to the oyster, then hesitated, her silver charm bracelet tinkling.

  “Go on,” Mama said.

  “If you don’t eat it, I will,” I said.

  Bitsy opened her lips and tried to draw it into her mouth, but the oyster didn’t budge. She tried again, making an exaggerated slurping noise, and this time it slipped halfway into her mouth. The rest of it hung on the edge of her lip, dripping juice onto her white blouse.

  “It looks like a booger,” I said, then fell sideways on the counter, laughing. “Oooh, look at her.”

  “She looks fine,” Daddy said, then he reached out and pushed the whole oyster into her mouth. She chewed, her eyes watering, but she didn’t spit it out.

  “Atta girl.” Daddy patted her shoulder. Still chewing, she tried to smile. Then she held up her arm, clenched her fist, and made a muscle.

  “My turn!” I yelled.

  “No, this one’s for your mama.” He held out another oyster. Mama snapped it right up, then wiped her lips with the back of her hand. She hopped up on the counter next to me, entwining her legs with mine, and picked up an unshucked oyster. “Remember that spring we were in Destin and a crazy man robbed McDonald’s? He was disguised as a giant oyster.”

  “I remember that,” I said. I took a cracker and dipped it into the sauce. “Daddy, give me another one.”

  Daddy grabbed another oyster out of the ice chest and opened it. He waved the shell in front of my mouth. I leaned forward and the oyster disappeared. Then I turned to Mama and held out the shell. “Here’s your prize,” I said.

  “Thank you.” Mama took the shell and turned it over and over.

  “Can you show me how to open them?” she asked Daddy, then hopped off the table. She stood very close to him, their arms touching.

  “Okay,” he said, stripping off his gloves. She pulled them on and wiggled her fingers, laughing because her hands were so small. Daddy handed her the knife. “Lay the oyster on the table, and press your palm over it, like this.” He stood behind her, pushing his large hand over hers. A troubled look crossed Bitsy’s face. The knife rocked back and forth, as Daddy showed my mother how to work at the sealed edges.

  “I’ve got it, I’ve got it,” Mama said, her tongue touching her upper lip. Daddy let go, and she awkwardly ran the knife under the lid, severing the cord. The oyster broke apart—one half empty, one half full.

  “Like a pro,” said Daddy.

  “Wait,” Mama said. She yanked off the gloves and reached for the Tabasco, unscrewing the green cap. A red drop of hot sauce hit the oyster dead center. She held out the shell, smiling up at him. “Just the way you like it,” she said.

  Chapter 33

  THE MERMAID BADGE

  Honora bought a mermaid weathervane and hired a man to put it on top of the boathouse. To celebrate the new doodad, Gladys served lunch on the terrace—artichokes vinaigrette, shrimp étouffée on white rice, French bread, and pecan pie. While the mermaid spun on the roof, the wind blew away the clouds, and sunlight bounced on the waves. I ate two helpings, causing Gladys and Honora to laugh. “You sure don’t eat like somebody with a broke heart,” said Gladys.

  “That’s not one hundred percent,” said Honora, reaching for another slice of bread. “After Dickie Boy died, Isabella lived on pralines and champagne. And gained eighteen pounds.”

  “But was her heart broke?” Gladys laughed.

  “I’m just pointing out that we all react differently to stress.” She slid another piece of pie onto my plate. Then she bit her lip. “I wasn’t going to say anything, but—”

  “You want to know if I’ve weighed myself lately?” I laughed. Lord, but it felt good to be around Gladys and Honora, where the most pressing problems were calories and cocktail time.

  “Actually, no,” said Honora. “Have you seen the engagement ring story in the Hollywood Informer?”

  I nodded and set down my fork. “Na-Na showed it to me.”

  “Why, that old witch,” said Honora. She leaned forward, her sapphire necklace swinging. “Honey, have you heard from him?”

  “No,” I said, failing to add how many times I’d called but failed to leave a message, or that when and if I did, I was going to break up with him.

  I picked up my fork, cut into the pie, and stuffed the hunk into my mouth. I wondered if I could be a food writer.

  “Well, he can’t call here,” said Honora. “My phone number has been unlisted ever since Chaz died.”

  “Were you scared of perverts?” asked Gladys.

  “No, Confederate widows,” said Honora, smiling at me. “Don’t fret over your beau. You’ve only been here a few weeks. That’s not long.”

  “Long enough to put Joie into a coma and to dig up unbelievable dirt on my mother,” I said. “And for my boyfriend to buy his new love a diamond.”


  “There you go again,” said Honora. “Dame Doom. You shouldn’t dwell on the past or the future; rather, live in the moment.”

  “How very Zen,” I said.

  “It works. It’s one of life’s secrets, and it will get you through many a crisis. I always think of it like rock climbing. You move from stone to stone. Minute to minute.”

  “I can’t do that,” I said. “My mind goes off in a hundred directions.”

  “You must cultivate it, darling. And it doesn’t happen in a day, or even a year. It’s a process. It takes practice to not focus on the bad.”

  “I like to embrace the dark side.”

  “Are you not even allowing the possibility of a positive outcome?”

  “No.”

  “Silly girl.” Honora got up from the table and clicked to the dog. “I still think you should call him—if nothing else, just to hear the truth. Sometimes not knowing is the worst. Well, if y’all will excuse me, I’m just going next door to check on Isabella. I haven’t heard a peep from her today. Anyone want to join me?”

  “I’m still working on this pie,” I said.

  “I might have me another piece, too,” said Gladys.

  “Save room for supper, my piglets,” she said, scooping Zap into her arms, holding him like a human baby. “We’re having my famous crab cakes with disgustingly dangerous home fries and bittersweet slaw.”

  “I’ll have room,” said Gladys.

  “Catch y’all later,” said Honora, walking around the pool house. Gladys reached into her pocket and drew out a small fabric disc. She slid it across the table. It was aqua and showed a mermaid diving into the ocean. Stitched above her in bold red letters was “CHAMPION SWIMMER.”

  “Does this jog your memory?” asked Gladys.

  “Not a bit. Was it Mama’s?”

  “No, yours. Louie gave it to you.”

  “Daddy? That’s odd. Looks like I’d remember.” I rubbed the badge between my fingers.

  “You would have, but you had a accident, baby. A swimming accident. I want to say brain damage—that’s what everybody thought, but praise the Lord, you got all right. When you got better, you didn’t remember anything that happened before. That’s why everything’s so sketchy. And because we shielded you.”

  “Brain damage,” I said, pushing away from the table. “That explains why I’m such a goofball. What happened, Gladys?”

  “Let’s just call it a lack of oxygen,” she said. “Pure and simple, a lack of air.”

  Chapter 34

  GLADYS TELLS A STORY CALLED “SIRENS”

  After Bitsy turned up pregnant, Honora invited me, Shelby, and Renata to come stay in Point Clear with her. I got the Mardi Gras room, which reminded me of Emma Stevens’s kitchen, and Shelby and Renata took the “Bay View,” which was all done up in blue and white. Years ago, long before all this trouble happen, Shelby used to sit in Louie’s lap, and he’d rub his face in her hair and say, “You’re a siren.”

  The first time Renata heard him say this, she went around the house making police and fire engine noises. She was just a child, she didn’t know it was driving everybody crazy. She did that when she got upset. Now she was doing the same thing at Point Clear. Going around the house, making noises and calling herself a siren.

  Honora pulled that child into her lap and said, “Baby girl, let’s get one thing straight. A siren isn’t just a loud sound, it can be a beautiful sea nymph.”

  “What’s a nip?” asked Renata.

  Honora put the child down and rummaged in the shelf. She pulled out a thick picture book that had mermaids in it. “This siren has a woman’s head and the body of a crow,” she explained. “It certainly isn’t their beauty that lures men, is it? No, it’s the sweetness of their song.”

  Renata looked up with those huge gray eyes, then lowered her eyebrows. Now that her hair was turning blond, it made her dark eyebrows look unnatural.

  “The word siren means ‘entangler.’” Honora tapped a picture of two mermaids. “It says right here that they are daughters of Achelous, a river god, better known as the old man of the sea. The siren represents the danger of being lulled and distracted. The danger is a loss of attention, a lapse in concentration.”

  Renata nodded.

  “Because sailors needed to pay attention to the rough seas,” Honora continued, as if the child understood. “Water can be dangerous or dull,” she added. “But the real danger is not falling in love.”

  I was listening to all this, and I blurted out, “Falling overboard is a danger, too.”

  “Only for the poor swimmers.” Honora laughed. “But the worst thing of all is the siren’s song. If it gets you, then you risk becoming so entranced, you’ll lose consciousness. The water nymph embodies all of the qualities of the sea when it’s out of control.”

  I just rolled my eyes. If I lived to be a hundred, I would never understand rich people.

  Days went by, and Shelby was too heartbroke to get out of bed. Renata, she wouldn’t stay in her bed on account of her sleepwalking. We made her sleep in a life jacket, but she just untied it. Next thing we knew, she’d be out of that bed. We’d rush out of the house and find her standing on the diving board.

  When Louie drove up to see Renata, Shelby told him that she was scared Renata would fall into the bay, or even Honora’s pool. He didn’t want the child to be frightened of anything, and neither did Shelby. Hoping to get to the bottom of the sleepwalking, they took her over to a doctor in Mobile. He put the child on a mild sedative and said she was reacting to all the changes in her life.

  Then they called a pool company and had them put a plastic cover over the pool. Next, they put a lock on Renata’s door and a fence around the pier. Louie thought it was a good idea to put the little girl in swimming lessons two mornings a week at Miss Lane’s Water Academy. During the first lesson the child learned to swim.

  One morning Shelby and Honora were in Mobile, so I drove Renata to her lesson. Miss Lane had curly red-blond hair and was built like a linebacker. Her pool was shaped like what you’d see on TV. It had blue tile, black lines on the bottom, a big diving board, and two kiddie pools. She divided the students according to age. The toddlers were called starfish; the three-to four-year-olds were shrimps; ages five to six were dolphins; everybody over age six was a mermaid.

  One of the students, a dark-eyed little boy, didn’t want to be a mermaid; he wanted to be a dolphin. His name was Robert Whitman, and he wore baggy blue swim trunks. The other mothers talked about Robert’s mother and suspected the woman had dumped the child in the swimming academy while she went shopping.

  “But mermaids are the very best swimmers,” Miss Lane explained to Robert, putting her thick arm around him. “Younger kids are dolphins!”

  “I don’t care,” said Robert, shrugging away from her hands. “Boys can’t be mermaids.”

  “Sure they can,” Miss Lane said. “Mermaids are sirens of the sea. No one really knows if they were male or female, you know. They sang to sailors, and their voices were so sweet, they caused major shipwrecks.”

  “I won’t be one.” He folded his arms and jutted out his chin.

  “Then you can be a merman.”

  “There’s no such thing.” He glared at Miss Lane.

  “You never know what’s in the ocean, Robert. You just never know.” Miss Lane pointed at the wrought-iron table. “I guess your lesson’s over for today. Have a seat.”

  He walked around the table and sat down on the patio, his bony legs sticking out of his blue swim trunks. Miss Lane marched to the pool, clapping her hands. “Okay, students, line up in the deep end. We’re going to practice our breath holding.”

  She slid into the blue water and swam over to the children. Treading water, she explained what she wanted them to do. It was her own version of dead man’s float. The reason I knew is because one of the other mothers quizzed her about it, and Miss Lane said that she was writing a book about how to improve upon the basic strokes. And while she w
as at it, she’d renamed them.

  “Watch me,” she told the students. She inhaled, her cheeks filling, then her head dipped into water, face-first. Her hair fanned out, moving around her shoulders. Bubbles gathered on the surface, but Miss Lane kept her head down.

  One of the kids said, “Is she alive?” I didn’t know; I couldn’t hold my breath that long. Another game they played was called Tea Party. This is where the children took a really deep breath, then tried to sit on the bottom of the pool, holding imaginary teacups and pretending to drink. The last one to come up for air was the winner. I did not like Renata to play, even though she loved that game best of all. In just a few lessons, she’d learned every stroke and could hold her breath forever.

  Miss Lane raised her head, and water streamed down her face. “Now,” she said, eyeing the children. “Now, it’s y’all’s turn.”

  When the lesson was almost over, she let the kids splash and play. When Robert’s mama showed up, Miss Lane took her aside and said they needed to talk. “He was a little uncooperative today,” Miss Lane said. “I’ve divided the class according to age and ability. Robert’s such a good swimmer, I put him in the mermaids. And that’s where the conflict comes in. He wants to be a dolphin, but he’s too advanced for them. I told him he could be a merman, but that didn’t work, either.” Miss Lane smiled, showing how patient she was.

  “Robert?” Mrs. Whitman called. She shielded her eyes with one hand. “Is this true? You don’t want to be a mermaid?”

  He shook his head, and he shot Miss Lane a hateful stare. I wondered if she would tell Mrs. Whitman how Robert bullied the little kids.

  “I’m sorry about this,” Mrs. Whitman said. “But I wonder, is it really necessary to use labels?”

  “Well, yes,” Miss Lane said. “It is. This way the children aren’t pigeonholed as good or bad or intermediate swimmers.”

  Mrs. Whitman nodded, but it was clear that she was upset. “What could it hurt if he’s a dolphin?”

  “It’s really not fair to Robert or to the younger swimmers.” Miss Lane gazed at the pool. A few of the advanced students were playing Marco Polo, and the ringleader was little old Renata. Her body moved underwater like wrinkles. I was so proud of her.