Mermaids in the Basement

by Michael Lee West

  Love,

  Renata

  P.S. Thank you for the beautiful Swatch you and Bitsy brought me back from Switzerland. It is so cool.

  February 2, 1984

  Dear Louie,

  I’m sorry that Bitsy left you, but these late-night phone calls have to stop. I can’t decide if you don’t remember that California is in a different time zone or if you’re drunk. I am also sorry to hear that you are on tranquilizers and antidepressants. In some ways I think you have reverted back to the little boy with big eyebrows. I just want to shake you! I want to say, Stop wallowing in self-pity and bitterness. I know these are tough words, but Louie, maybe this is a chance for you to evolve into the man and father you were meant to be. I have faith in you, buddy.

  Shelby

  October 3, 1985

  Louie,

  The next time you call Renata and burden her with your problems, I will be forced to take drastic measures. No little girl should be forced to listen to how you literally screwed up your marriage to Bitsy. Renata doesn’t understand, and when you cry, it worries her. She is having nightmares. So if you can’t help yourself, think of your daughter.

  Shelby

  January 14, 1986

  Louie,

  No, I will not divulge the location or phone number of Renata’s new school. You’ll just get on a plane and fly over and continue being a disruptive force. She wouldn’t be at this new school if you hadn’t shown up drunk at the old one, blabbering about lost loves. Why must you keep dumping our burdens on her?

  I have talked to Honora about this, and she says you have lost your mind. And no, I haven’t told her where Renata is going to school. So please stop badgering her! If I told her, you would charm and beg it out of her. Go on, keep threatening to take me to court, but you’ve got to know that you helped create this situation. It isn’t permanent unless you want it to be. I will not keep Renata away from you forever. I’m not trying to punish you. I am just protecting her. You know how I feel on this subject.

  I am counting on you to pull yourself together. In the meantime, I will send your birthday cards and presents to her. Please get help.

  Shelby

  June 21, 1986

  Dear Louie,

  Honora tells me that you are just about back to your normal self, and I thought I’d write you a little note. We will be spending the summer in Nags Head. So, if you’d like to drive up and see Renata, you are welcome to stay with us. Just let me know. I have already invited Gladys and Honora, and Isabella may join us, too.

  I’m sorry that I had to get tough, but I didn’t know what else to do. I hope you don’t blame me. Anyway, I’m so happy that you’re feeling better.

  All best,

  Shelby

  I stretched out on the bed, trying to piece it all together. My thoughts were chaotic. It was as if I had assembled the ingredients for a layer cake, but someone else had whipped it together. I hadn’t known that my mama had banished my daddy. I’d just assumed that he wasn’t interested in me. After Mama married Andy and we moved to L.A., I felt odd and out of place. My southern accent not only set me apart, it turned me into a spectacle. When Andy took us out for lunch at the Polo Lounge, I tried to order grits.

  “Grist?” asked the puzzled waiter.

  “Well, what about iced tea?” I asked him.

  Andy VanDusen leaned across the table and in his nasal voice, said, “Just bring the little lady a Shirley Temple—no, bring her two.”

  I showed up at school wearing a hand-smocked lilac dress, all embroidered with little grapes. “It’s so Napa!” Honora had said when she presented me with the going-away outfit. She also gave me black patent leather Mary Janes. This was the late 1970s, and all the girls were into vintage mishmash, better known as the Annie Hall look. The only Annie I knew about was from a cartoon, Little Orphan Annie. I had never seen a Woody Allen film, much less heard of him. Mama bought me a new, hip wardrobe that included one of my stepfather’s vintage ties and a little turned-up felt hat; but around my school, I was known as Baby Jane and the Grape of Wrath.

  Hoping to turn me into a California girl, Mama sent me to an exclusive girl’s camp in Colorado. I returned with a stomach ailment, giardia, a pear-shaped protozoan. They said I got it from drinking contaminated water. Honora insisted that I recuperate at her house, because my father was a doctor, and even if he didn’t practice pediatric medicine, he had access to the finest brains in the South.

  I recuperated on Honora’s side veranda. My father visited weekly, bringing Bitsy, who was enormously pregnant. She taught me how to stencil ivy and morning glories on the wooden floor. She would sit on the floor beside me, pillows tucked around her stomach, and show me how to hold the paint-brush. Her hands were swollen, and it must have been difficult, but she never let on. She gave me her charm bracelet and braided my hair. Halfway through the project, I was well enough to leave Alabama and go whale watching in Maui with Mama and Andy.

  When we got back to L.A., I heard that Bitsy had lost her baby. It was Honora, not my father, who’d broken the news about my half brother. She told me that an emergency cesarean had saved Bitsy’s life, but it was too late for the baby.

  That Thanksgiving, Andy’s private jet flew me down to New Orleans. Whenever I’d step into the living room, Louie and Bitsy would abruptly stop talking. I wondered if all the painting we’d done had hurt the baby. Years later, it was almost a relief to find out that she had caught him with another woman, that I had not killed my little half brother.

  After Bitsy left him, I had no recollection of any phone calls, or of my father coming to my school; however, I did recall that my mother jerked me out of the private school in Malibu and sent me to a new one on the Mendocino coast.

  A year passed, and I still had not heard from him, and I begged to visit him. For reasons my mama wouldn’t make clear, she refused to send me to New Orleans, insisting that I spend my summer vacation with Honora and Gladys. I never saw my father, and whenever I mentioned him, Honora changed the subject and took me around her gardens, walking through dappled sunlight, the ice tinkling in her gin and tonic, cigarette smoke curling above her head. “Dahlin’, if you want your hydrangeas to produce lush blue flowers,” she’d say, “then you need to take rusty nails and hammer one at the base of each plant.”

  I didn’t care about hydrangeas; I wanted to know when my father was coming over. But she just pulled me over to her herbs and, pulling scissors from her pocket, demonstrated how to snip chives (“Fabulous when sprinkled over alfredo”), and then we’d move into the oregano bed (“Marvelous in marinara”). Finally, our pockets bulging with fragrant greenery, we’d head back to the house.

  Years later, Honora, Gladys, and my father flew out to California for my high school graduation. Mama and Andy had a party at the Malibu house, with its sweeping views of the coastline. They got on my nerves, telling everyone how I’d been accepted by six colleges, including UCLA and Stanford. They were disappointed that I’d chosen the University of Mississippi, but it was the best place for a writer. My father made a toast to Ole Miss and rabble-rousing women, and everyone cheered.

  Mama’s eyes met Daddy’s, then he raised his champagne flute. It could have been the shifting coastal light, but I could have sworn that something passed between them. She swept her fingers under her eyes, then flung open the glass doors and hurried out. I set down my glass and squeezed through the crowd, onto the terrace.

  “Oh, Mama.” I put my arms around her. “Please don’t be sad. I’ll be in Faulkner country.”

  “I’m not. Really, I’m happy for you. It’s just that I’m losing my best friend.”

  “It’s the empty nest syndrome,” I said.

  “It’s more than that.” Mama’s bottom lip trembled.

  Daddy came outside and squeezed my mother’s hand. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll take good care of her.”

  “Please, Mama,” I said, pressing my cheek against hers. “It’s time for me to leave the n
est. Please let me fly away.”

  Now, I stuffed the letters into their envelopes, then walked on my knees over to the trunk. Stuffed into the right pocket was a travel itinerary—a deluxe guided tour to Egypt. The outer envelope was dated “October 31–November 18, 1999.” Inside, I found an aqua note.

  Dear Honora,

  I am still trying to get Renata and Ferg to go with us to Egypt, but he’s stuck in Ireland, and she’s having trouble with her screenplay. Personally, I think she’s overworked. But she told me she was thinking of coming down to Point Clear to spend a few days with you and Gladys. Andy says to tell you that he knew Ferg would be famous even before he won that Oscar. But he is also the most levelheaded young man we’ve met. He will be a loving, steadying force in Renata’s life. I went to all those extremes to protect her, but she managed to absorb the negative vibes. I never said anything negative about Louie. Renata would have felt it as a criticism of herself, and that poor girl doesn’t just have low self-esteem, I don’t think she has any at all.

  Right now we’re at Nags Head. We’re flying out of JFK on Halloween. Won’t that be fun? When I get back from Egypt, I plan to spend a few weeks with Renata at Nags Head, filling in the missing pieces—painful as it will be, it’s time for her to know the truth so she can bond with Louie. He needs someone to look after him.

  I hope all is well with you and Gladys. I am hoping Ferg and Renata get married soon, because I am looking forward to being a grandmother. I am predicting that Louie is going to make a fabulous grandpa.

  Love,

  Shelby

  P.S. Enclosed is our itinerary, with dates and a list of our hotels and phone numbers in case of emergency. Naturally there won’t be one—but you never know.

  XX OO

  Chapter 37

  GLADYS SAYS, I DREAMED OF BLACK WATER

  Last Halloween, Renata flew from Raleigh to Point Clear. Honora and I met her at the airport, then we went out to lunch at the Grand. That evening Louie came over and opened oysters on the dock, tossing the shells into the water. We ate on the terrace, all surrounded by orange candles. We’d dressed Zap in a bear costume, and I swear, he knew it. He strutted around that patio growling and carrying on.

  “Mama and Andy should be boarding their plane in about an hour,” Renata said.

  “I’ve never been to Egypt,” said Louie. “And I don’t want to go, either.”

  That night I dreamed I was on a jet plane, flying over black water. The tail fell off, and then the plane dropped. Instead of sinking, it floated, water lapping onto the carpeted blue bottom of the plane.

  Next morning, I got up and turned on the TV to hear the Sunday news. It was All Saint’s Day in New Orleans, and I wished I could’ve been there. While I was making coffee, a man on CNN interrupted the program. Wolf Blitzer started talking—just his voice came on, mind you, not his woolly cuteness, and in the background they showed a picture of the ocean, a helicopter flying over dark gray water, its shadow rolling over waves and debris.

  I looked out the window. Honora was still out in the bay, taking her morning swim. I reached behind for a chair, telling myself to hold on, no need to panic, plenty of airplanes flew to Egypt from JFK. From the TV, Wolf Blitzer kept on talking, but I only heard “All 217 passengers feared dead.” And they wouldn’t know what happened until they found the little black box.

  Honora walked up to the back door and pulled off her rubber swimming cap, what they don’t sell anymore. Then she raked her fingers through her hair and wrapped a towel around her bosom, tucking it under her armpits. She stepped barefoot into the kitchen, leaving a trail of water. When she saw me, she stopped.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked. Water ticked against the floor. “Why are you crying, Gladys?”

  All I could do was shake my head. From the TV, Wolf was still talking, his voice circling like a white death moth. Honora sat down on the sofa, listening to Wolf. One hand rose to her mouth, and her eyes filled. “What was Shelby’s flight number?” she asked. “I don’t know where I put that itinerary.”

  “Renata might know,” I said.

  “Where is she?”

  “Upstairs sleeping,” I said. “Should I waken her?”

  “Not yet. It may be the last decent sleep she’ll ever have.” Honora got up and crossed the room in three steps, her bare feet slapping against the tile. She turned up the TV. “We’ve got to find out if Shelby was on that flight. And even so, people miss flights all the time.”

  Please, Lord, please don’t let them be on that plane. Don’t take Shelby and Andy. Don’t take anybody. You don’t have to, Lord, not that I’m trying to tell You how to do Your job, but I can’t take this.

  Honora heaved herself onto a bar stool, leaned across the counter, and dragged the French-style phone into her lap, along with a notepad. In Renata’s handwriting, “Flight 900” was wrote down in bold black letters. It didn’t say Egypt Air, but I had heard Renata say that name. The VanDusens were going from New York to Cairo, and they’d hired an Egypt specialist, something with an ologist at the end of it, to show them around the pyramids.

  Honora stared hard at the pad. I leaned over, put my arms around her wet self. She started shaking and pushed her face into my neck. “This is not happening.”

  The phone jangled, startling Honora so bad, she spun around and knocked it to the floor. It hit the tile and jangled. From the receiver came Louie’s voice, “Mama? Renata?”

  Honora slid off the stool, lifted the receiver, and let out a ragged sigh. “Oh, Louie,” she said, then her mouth sagged open, but no sound came out. I couldn’t hear what he said, but on the TV Wolf was talking to a bald-headed man from the FAA and he showed a diagram of a 767. They were speculating about the crash.

  “Gladys?” Honora held out the phone. “He wants to talk to you.”

  I pressed the receiver to my ear. I said, “Yes, sir?” but what I meant to say was: I am so sorry. This is wrong, a nightmare, it shouldn’t of happened. But maybe we shouldn’t give up hope.

  “Where is my daughter?” he asked.

  “Sleeping, sir.”

  “All right, then. I can tell that Mama’s getting ready to be hysterical,” he said. “Can you give her a pill? There’s Valium in the medicine cabinet. Give her two, now, then put her to bed. And turn off that damn television.”

  “Yes, sir. But what if Renata wakes.”

  “Don’t say anything. Don’t let her watch the news. Just hold everything together until I get there.” He paused. “What is Mama doing now?”

  I cut my eyes at Honora. She was stretched out on the floor, her eyes closed. She had that pale, Irish skin. I used to tease her, used to say she was the whitest lady I ever saw. It looked like she’d painted her face with milk. You could not be that pale and live. But I said, “She’s laying down.”

  “Well, give her that Valium, and I’ll be there soon.”

  I did what he said. I shut off the TV, then reached around back and unplugged it. Then I drugged Honora and laid her out in her dark bedroom. Renata never did wake. She always was a hard sleeper, she craved it. All around me the house was quiet, except for the tick-whoosh of the ice maker. From outside I heard shorebirds and the ringing buoy.

  I went into the kitchen and straightened the cookbooks, nothing like a good cleaning to keep my mind’s eye from wandering. But some things were hard to tamp down. You could straighten your house a lot easier than you could tidy up your life. And Renata’s life—all our lives—would never be the same.

  It was almost eleven a.m. when Louie arrived. His face looked haggard, eyelids all puffy like they’d been chigger-bit. I had kept my promise not to watch the news, but I was champing at the bit to find out. “Have they found any survivors?” I asked.

  “Not yet.” He dropped into a chair, covered his face with his hands, and began to squall. All this time, he’d loved Shelby. He thought he’d get her back one day, maybe when they were old and ready for the retirement village. I pulled his dark curly head t
o my bosom, and said, “You go on and cry, Louie, just go on and cry.”

  Two weeks later, Renata rented a car and drove back to Nags Head. I didn’t blame her for not wanting to fly anywhere. She’d told her boyfriend to stay in Ireland, but he flew to North Carolina and met her at the cottage. I was glad she wasn’t alone. Me and Honora were having a tough time facing up to Shelby’s death. We could not believe that she and Andy was gone. I kept thinking they would walk through that kitchen door and holler out, “What’s cooking, Gladys?”

  Louie was obsessed with the crash. He told us that two flight recorders showed a normal flight until the autopilot was turned off. The plane had took off from Kennedy, then rose up to 33,000 feet, and flew normally for about thirty minutes before it fell into the Atlantic. Louie said it crashed about sixty miles south of Nantucket. It simply dropped off the NY radar screens. At daylight, a merchant marine training ship spotted a cushion and human remains.

  Louie said—and I’m quoting—the plane had experienced trouble during a previous flight with the hydraulic system. The relief copilot had disengaged the autopilot and pushed the plane into a steep dive, praying to Allah at supersonic speed. The captain returned from the lavatory and yelled at the pilot. “I rely on God,” said the copilot without one trace of emotion.

  “Those poor people,” I said. Renata had lost her mother and stepfather, but she had also lost her past and future. All those things had gone into the ocean with Shelby.

  “At least Andy provided for Renata,” said Isabella. “She’s an heiress. She won’t have to work again.”

  “She don’t care about money,” I said.

  “Don’t be silly, Gladys.” Isabella laughed.

  “What she wants,” I said, “can’t be got.”

  She wasn’t the only one. Louie stopped by and told us about three other flights that had crashed: TWA 800, Swiss Air 111, Egypt Air 999. All three had tooken off from JFK. “How can three seemingly intact jetliners leave JFK,” he said, “and except for Swiss Air, meet their doom in exactly the same spot, all within a few years? Makes you wonder if someone is loosening bolts.”