Mermaids in the Basement

by Michael Lee West

  “I’ve got to have some kind of order in the class,” said Miss Lane. “Otherwise, it breaks down. And they don’t learn anything.”

  “I’ll talk to him,” said Mrs. Whitman, herding Robert out the back gate, into the driveway.

  At the next lesson, when Miss Lane put Robert with the mermaids, he climbed out of the pool and sat on the patio.

  “Robert, come back,” said Miss Lane.

  “I want to be a dolphin,” he growled, staring at her from under his eyebrows.

  “Okay, fine. You’re a dolphin. Now come over here with the mermaids.”

  “No.” Robert folded his arms. Miss Lane turned to her students. “Okay, everybody. Practice your breath holding for a minute. Starfish? You guys just blow bubbles. When I get back, we’ll do the butterfly.” She walked over to Robert and squatted beside him, talking in a soft voice. He wasn’t her kid: she had to be nice. She sat there for five minutes at least. Then she threw up her hands. All the other mothers stared and began to whisper.

  “Okay, Robert. You win. Go swim with the dolphins.”

  He scrambled to his feet and ran to the edge of the pool, where the toddlers were gathered. Robert leaped in, his hands clasped around his ankles, landing in a perfect cannonball. Water splashed all over my purple dress. After a second, Robert’s head shot up, his mouth spurting water, and he climbed out of the pool. He did another cannonball, causing the pool water to sway. The dolphins shrank back, holding on to the sides of the pool. Two of the little girls began to cry.

  “Little devil,” Miss Lane muttered. She put her hands on her hips and stared down into the pool. Robert squatted on the bottom, looking up at her, bubbles curving over his head.

  “Come out of there, Robert,” she called, but he shook his head. “I mean it, Robert.”

  He climbed out of the pool and jumped back into the water, sending a wave over the sides, spilling water onto the concrete. I saw him swim over to Renata. She stuck out her tongue, and pushed water into his face. He started kicking, sending droplets spinning into the air.

  I scooted my chair away from the pool, and so did the mothers. I don’t know how much time passed as I bent over the pillowcase I was embroidering, only half listening as Miss Lane turned back to the mermaids and clapped her hands. “Okay, class. Let’s all get in the water and—”

  “Miss Lane?” asked one of the dolphins, a black-eyed girl who’d just learned to swim.

  “Yes?” Miss Lane smiled.

  “One of the mermaids is on the bottom of the pool, ma’am.” The girl pointed. “Over in the deep end.”

  “Robert was holding her underwater,” said a dolphin.

  Her? I thought. Miss Lane put one hand over her eyes and scanned the water. I stood up and looked all around the pool for Renata. Then I looked in the deep end, and there she was, her hair moving above her like seaweed, arms stretched out along the bottom as if she was reaching for something. I screamed. Miss Lane raised her arms and dove into the water, her big legs moving like scissors. Then she surged upward, holding Renata’s body. It looked heavy, like Miss Lane was dragging a bag of cement to the surface. One of the mothers ran into the house to call an ambulance.

  “Somebody help,” Miss Lane cried. “Help me!”

  It took me and all of the mothers to heave Renata out of the pool. We set her down on the cement. Water streamed from her ears and mouth, it ran through her hair, out of her bathing suit, gathering in a puddle under the small of her back. Her eyes were closed, her lips were dark, almost smeared, as if she’d been eating blueberries. Miss Lane yelled for someone to call an ambulance, then she placed a trembly finger on Renata’s neck, feeling for a pulse. She got on her knees and put her mouth over the girl’s and breathed.

  “Is she all right?” asked one of the mothers. Miss Lane didn’t answer. I don’t think she heard. Suddenly Renata choked and spit out a plume of water. She sucked in a ragged breath. Then she began to cry.

  “Thank the Lord,” I whispered. Then I fell to my knees, hugging Renata. She felt cold and smelled of chlorine. The sirens cut through the air, moving closer and closer, blotting out the light, the other children’s voices, the half-drowned child. I was conscious of small things: the rise and fall of the siren, Renata’s flat chest moving, Robert Whitman’s screams as his mother switched his legs, my own lungs expanding and shrinking, drinking in air and never filling up.

  Chapter 35

  HONORA SAYS, QUE SERA SERA

  From inside my boathouse, I stared down at the empty beach, waiting for Renata to come back from her morning walk. She’d left her tennis shoes on the steps, and the red tin shell-collecting bucket was missing. Pelicans floated on the waves, the bay stretched out around them like a wrinkled ball gown. Zap pressed his nose against the screen, watching those pelicans.

  The wind shifted direction, and on the roof, the copper mermaid began to turn, the metal pole screeking. A breeze swept through the screen mesh, ruffling the envelopes I’d left stacked on the wicker table. Louie had dropped them into my lap this morning. “Where’s Renata?” he’d asked. “Getting her beauty sleep?”

  “No, she’s taking a walk. She’ll be back in a minute.”

  “I can’t wait. I’ve got to get back to the hospital. But since you and Gladys are hell-bent on dragging up the past, I decided to make a little contribution. Just make sure I get them back.”

  I fingered the blue ribbon that held the envelopes together. I didn’t ask him to explain; I recognized Shelby’s handwriting on the pale aqua stationery.

  “How’s Joie?”

  “She’s conscious.” He stared out at the water. “But she’s having trouble moving her left arm.”

  “Do they know if—”

  “If she’s got permanent damage?” He shook his head. “Not yet.”

  “I’m sorry this happened,” I said. “If only I hadn’t thrown that damn party. You aren’t still blaming Renata, are you?”

  He shrugged. “The police called. Your caterers passed their lie detector tests. The waiters, too. So I don’t know. I guess we’ll just have to wait and see what Joie tells us.”

  “Renata has nothing to hide,” I said, trying not to bristle.

  “Hope you’re right.” Louie stood up. “Well, I’ve got to run. Just give her those letters.”

  Now, the screen walls shuddered as a salty wind swirled through the boathouse. An envelope fell, and Zap ran over and gently bit one edge, then trotted over to me.

  “Such a little gentleman!” I said. He lowered his ears, inviting a pat. Years ago, Isabella had owned six Yorkshire terriers, and after Dickie Boy’s death, while she renovated her house, she stayed off and on in the Mimosa Room here at Chateau DeChavannes. It was named after the tree that bloomed outside her window. After she left, I had to send the rugs to New Orleans for fumigation. Those uncivilized dogs had ruined them.

  For many years she sold puppies to the crème de la crème of Gulf Coast society. Not that she’d ever intended to be a backyard breeder. She refused to spay or neuter any of her babies, so her Yorkie population grew. She charged outrageous prices for the puppies. She loved pitting the prospective owners against each other, creating a competition. Isabella lapped up the attention, making them court her with phone calls and letters and visits.

  Never in my wildest dreams did I suspect I would end up with a descendant of that tribe, or that Isabella would be dogless. Zap was born on December 21, 1998, the last puppy that Isabella bred. His ears wouldn’t stand up, and neither would his tail. Plus, he had a cottony coat. Isabella almost had him put to sleep, but I took one look at those intelligent brown eyes and that hairy face, and something hard melted inside my chest. I convinced her to give him to me.

  My wind chimes clinked, and the wind sent the papers spinning. Bending down to collect them, I heard my knees pop—old age and the ailments that go with it aren’t for sissies. Although I shouldn’t quibble. My eyesight is 20/20, and while I have a touch of the rheumatism, I’m able to open t
iny jars of capers and sun-dried tomatoes.

  I set the letters on the table, anchoring them with a conch shell, then glanced at the beach. There, in the shimmering haze, I saw a tiny figure in a gray hooded sweatshirt. She was holding a bucket, and when she bent down, the sun glanced off the metal. She didn’t seem to be in a hurry, so I figured I had a little while longer to work up my nerve. I leaned against the screen, praying for strength. I wasn’t sure what to say, or how much more she could stand to hear.

  I had a clear memory of those days after Bitsy turned up pregnant. Shelby and Renata moved back to New Orleans, leaving Gladys with me in Point Clear. It was a strategic move on Shelby’s part, to keep herself available to Louie. I struggled with my emotions, and my tendency to meddle; my loyalties were divided between Renata and my unborn grandchild. The adults could damn well take care of themselves.

  Now, all these years later, I didn’t feel right bringing up Shelby and Louie’s affairs. In fact, I was tempted to gloss over that crazy period. I stepped over to the table and lifted the shell, gathering the damning evidence. I could toss everything into the bay. I could dig a sandy hole and stick the letters inside. I could burn them in the barbecue pit. Instead, I sat down on the sofa, and the cushion gave off a sour, salty smell. The letters were out of order, and I began to rearrange them by postmark, when a small clipping fell to the ground.

  * * *

  Covington Citizen

  December 15, 1978

  EMMA STEVENS

  Services for Emma Stevens will be at 11 a.m. Thursday, December 16, at Bond Memorial Chapel at Gaston-Edwards Funeral Home, with Reverend Daniel McPeak officiating. Visitation will be from 5 to 9 p.m. at the funeral home. Mrs. Stevens, 57, died December 13 at her home. She was a local author. She is survived by her husband, Judge Thaddeus Stevens, of Covington; a daughter, Shelby DeChavannes; and a granddaughter, Renata DeChavannes, of New Orleans.

  * * *

  The obituary had left out a few pertinent facts. Judge Thaddeus Stevens had been driving Emma to her weekly appointment with the psychiatrist at Mandeville. A bee flew in the window and stung Thaddeus on the neck. He lost control of the car and smashed into a hundred-and-seventy-year-old live oak named Angelina. It didn’t hurt the tree or Thaddeus, but they were shaken up and bruised; since no bones were broken and no one was bleeding, they called a cab and went home.

  A week later, while Emma sat at the kitchen table peeling shrimp over the society pages of the Covington Citizen, she fell face-first into the shells. The doctor said it was most likely a blood clot. Gladys and I drove over to the funeral home. Louie and Bitsy were sitting in the back row. She was barely into the pregnancy, and already her face had thickened. Renata was sitting on the other side of the room with her mama and grandfather.

  Gladys and I walked up to the casket and paid our respects. I’d heard from Louie how he and Shelby had to buy a wig to cover Emma’s baldness. Her penchant for abusing hair-coloring products had taken a toll. She hadn’t just washed away the gray, she’d killed hair follicles. Now, the wig was crooked, and Gladys reached down and straightened it.

  We drifted over to Thaddeus and told him how sorry we were for his loss. Gladys started to cry, and he put his arms around her. “She was just getting better, too,” he said. “She’d stopped prowling around at night, doing what she was doing. And she’d joined Lakeside Baptist.”

  I drifted over to say hello to Louie and Bitsy. Then Renata ran over and grabbed my hand, dragging me to the row behind her mother. She wanted to know about Christmas, how many trees I’d set up, and if I’d put one in her room.

  The entire Sunday school at Lakeside Baptist walked in and surrounded the casket. Thaddeus got up to talk to them, and Gladys drifted over to me and Renata. From the corner of my eye, I saw Bitsy walk into the refreshment room and reach for a sugared doughnut. After a minute, Louie eased out of his row and sat down next to Shelby. He put his hand on her knee. I half expected her to move it. She didn’t.

  Over my granddaughter’s chatter, I heard Louie say, “She insisted on coming, I tried to stop her.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “I love you.”

  “Please don’t.” She bowed her head, and a tear hit the back of her hand.

  “I will always love you.”

  “Stop it,” she whispered.

  “I was drunk when I married her.”

  “Maybe, but somehow you got from Jamaica to Las Vegas.”

  “I never meant for it to be anything more than a fling. We got to Vegas and sat down to play blackjack. Those free drinks kept coming and coming. And I woke up married.”

  “I don’t want to hear this,” she whispered. “You could’ve gotten an annulment.”

  “I was so drunk, I wasn’t thinking straight. In my confusion, I worked it all out: my marriage to Bitsy canceled out your affair with Kip. I’d get a quick divorce, send her packing, and try to win you back.”

  “Didn’t work.” She looked up at him. “Did it?”

  “I’m sorry. I’ve got plenty more to tell you, but not in public.”

  “Why? Nothing you can say will fix this.”

  “Just hear me out. That’s all I’m asking.” He squeezed her hand. “Please. It’s all I’m asking.”

  She looked at a staircase that curved up into darkness. “It’s quiet upstairs,” she said.

  “You go first,” he said. “I’ll find you.”

  No! I wanted to shout. She stood up and tugged at the hem of her black dress. It showed her curves without being vulgar. Louie’s gaze dropped to her hips, then back up to her face. He squeezed her hand, and she walked past me without making eye contact. Her shoes brushed against the carpet.

  Renata was telling us about seeing Santa Claus at Maison-Blanche, but I couldn’t listen.

  Louie got up and glanced into the refreshment room. I looked, too. Bitsy had a beignet in each hand and was licking powdered sugar from her wrist. Louie walked in the opposite direction, then ran up the stairs.

  I lost track of time while I sat there, listening to Renata’s chatter. Over the child’s head, my eyes met Gladys’s. She shut her eyes, then shook her head, as if to say, What’s the use? From the ceiling, I heard a rhythmic bumping, and prisms on the chandelier trembled.

  Bitsy stepped into the room, wiping the corner of her mouth. She looked around for Louie, then walked over to my row and sat down next to Gladys. “Hello, Renata,” she said.

  “Hi,” Renata said.

  Louie entered the room, his cheeks flushed. I gave him a quick once-over, looking to see if he was unzipped or unbuttoned, but his clothes were immaculate. He sat down next to Bitsy and kissed the back of her hand. On the other side of the room, two Sunday school women stood in front of the staircase, chatting about the Christmas parade. Behind them, I saw Shelby duck into the powder room.

  Sometime after New Year’s Bitsy started spotting, and her obstetrician ordered her to bed.

  Her mother, Dorothy McDougal, drove down from Tennessee, and she was the strangest woman I’d ever met in my entire life, and that was including the late Emma Stevens.

  Then it was April, and Bitsy was not only out of bed, she was decorating her new Garden District house. Louie and Shelby were the talk of New Orleans. They had been spotted by my dear friend, Sister De Benedetto, at the Court of Three Sisters, feeding each other shrimp creole. Afraid the gossip would reach Bitsy, I invited Shelby and Renata to Point Clear; but my son drove over every week—sometimes more—and each time he left, I got a migraine headache.

  Bitsy showed uncommon strength after I received a poison pen letter that exposed her past. I want to say that Aunt Na-Na sent that letter, but I didn’t have a shred of proof. And if Shelby had known about Bitsy’s crimes, she would have told me. My new daughter-in-law’s old crime spree had been chronicled in several newspapers, including the Mobile Register and Times-Picayune, so anyone could have sent it. I won’t get into it, but the letter said that Bitsy had tried to kill her
first husband with a package of frozen baby back ribs. I feared for my son, so I drove over to New Orleans to confront his new wife.

  I came away from that encounter respecting that girl. She’d been railroaded by her rich in-laws and had lost custody of her daughter, but she’d found Louie. She had high hopes for this baby. It was a second chance. She told me about a newfangled test, something called an ultrasound, and it had shown the baby’s sex. She and Louie were having a son. Louis Charles DeChavannes III. They were going to call him Trip for short.

  “I am so thrilled,” I said, and I meant it, even though I knew this news would break what was left of Shelby’s heart, and it wouldn’t set good with Renata, either. I followed Bitsy upstairs, and she showed me the baby’s nursery, blue walls, watered silk draperies, a simple but elegant white crib, an antique rocking chair with deep cushions, and a French armoire already filled with sailor suits and hand-smocked blankets.

  On the way home, I swung by Shelby’s house and picked up Renata. I did not mention Bitsy or Louie. I invited Shelby to drive over to Point Clear when she was ready to collect her daughter.

  The sun was setting over Mobile Bay when I pulled up to my house. I found Gladys in the kitchen, fixing jambalaya. “Shelby loves Louie,” I said, “but it’s time for her to move on.”

  “I was thinking the same thing,” she said.

  “If only I could introduce her to a fabulous man.”

  “Just as long as it ain’t Kip,” she said.

  The next morning, Isabella and I sat in the boathouse, surrounded by cookbooks, planning my annual Easter Egg Hunt and Brunch. We drew up a guest list that included her old Hollywood crowd. We drank champagne and told dirty jokes and gossiped about everybody in Point Clear, all the while smoking low-tar cigarettes.