Six
Wednesday, late night
On a Delta jet
Destination: Myrtle Beach International Airport
“Would you please turn that dumb thing off?” Mabel pleaded, a nod indicating Gretta’s iPhone. “You’re not supposed to have devices turned on anyway.”
“Just a minute. I want to find out who gets kicked off.” Gretta was viewing a webisode of a reality show that she’d saved to her phone. The two sat near the front of the jet and spoke in spurts of conversation that took place between commercials. Mabel Jones was not only Gretta’s housemate but also her best friend, and good-naturedly tolerated Gretta’s affinity for news and sports and reality TV. But right now she wanted to talk and that was difficult to do in fifteen-second intervals.
A slim southerner with short and sassy red hair, Mabel sat in stark contrast to Gretta, a New Yorker with untouched peppery grey hair. Mabel’s southern accent sounded sleepily sweet compared to Gretta’s Northern nasal twang. Despite their stark differences, it was rare to see one of the women doing something without the other. And, now they were both flying to Myrtle Beach with two suitcases, one carryon bag, and one case of Moon Pies, also carried on. Gretta obviously had something important to say, and Mabel wanted to know what it was. She waited patiently for the next commercial break so that she could talk to her roommate without interruption. She wondered if the body had been identified as the missing mother, but didn’t want to give Gretta the satisfaction of asking. As it turned out, she didn’t have to.
“Cindy got the ax. She didn’t really want to own a bakery anyhow. She didn’t even know how to make a puff pastry.” Gretta removed her Bluetooth, wrapped it in a wrinkled Kleenex, and dropped it in her handbag. She followed suit with the iPhone, except it went into a leather case instead of a tissue.
“Great,” Mabel said. “Now will you please tell me whatever it is that you started to tell me this morning? Before we missed the bus?”
“We need to talk about the trip,” Gretta finally said.
“This trip?”
“Of course this trip!” Gretta snapped, her irritation apparent above the hum of jet engines.
Turning sideways in her seat, Mabel squinted at her friend. “Just say whatever it is that you want to say.”
Gretta sighed loudly. In the dramatic way of the soap opera actors, she calmly stated the unthinkable. “I have a son. He is forty-seven, married, and has a child. He lives in Charleston, South Carolina with Gold Digger, and I haven’t seen them in many years. Charleston is only a few hours’ drive from Myrtle Beach. Charleston is the oldest city in South Carolina, don’t you know. Very historic.”
Mabel’s mouth fell open for a beat. She and Gretta had been roommates at Great Wings for three years, and she had never heard about a son. “You have a son? And a grandchild? Who is the gold digger?”
“It’s, well, a long story.” Gretta’s eyes went moist and she stared out the plane’s window even though it was night and there wasn’t yet much to see. “After his divorce from his first wife, he married a total tramp. She just wanted his money, and I told him so at the wedding. I told him that he’d be crazy to go through with it. Unfortunately, Gold Digger was standing right behind me at the time. She started bawling and got too upset to go through with the ceremony. After all the guests left, she asked me if I was glad that I had ruined their wedding day and I told her yes. And I told her that she looked like a damned raccoon with all that black eye makeup running around her eyes, which apparently was the wrong thing to say at that moment, because she started wailing again. And Tommy, my beautiful Tommy, he told me to apologize and accept the woman he loved or he would not be my son any longer.”
“So you were happy about ruining the wedding.”
“Of course. I was thrilled. I figured it would give Tommy a chance to rethink things.”
Mabel circled a hand, as if trying to pull the rest of the story from her best friend. “So what happened?”
“I told him that I would never apologize to a strip dancer who was about to ruin my only child’s life. He argued that she had danced to work her way through college and that it wasn’t a total nude place—the girls had to keep their bottoms on—and that it had been a long time ago. So I said, once a tramp, always a tramp. He turned his back on me and walked Gold Digger out. Even though the wedding was off, the guests ate all the food anyway and most of them left the presents they’d brought. Tommy and Gold Digger got married by a judge a week later. I found that out from his best man, who was a witness at the ceremony. I haven’t seen Tommy since.”
“How long ago was that?” The story sounded like a made-for-TV-movie. For a microsecond, Mabel wondered if Gretta was confusing television with reality. She’d read somewhere that the beginning stages of Alzheimer’s disease could do that to you.
“That was over ten years ago, and no, I’m not going nutso,” Gretta said, reading her friend’s mind. She wiped her eyes with the back of a spotted, veined hand. “He sends me a card twice a year. Mother’s Day and Christmas. But we don’t talk.”
A director’s cut of Tommy as a toddler flashed through Gretta’s mind. He was a healthy baby with a lopsided grin. Years later he blossomed into a tall, skinny and fair-skinned child who always had a row of freckles across his nose during the summers. Back then she had played such an important role in his young life. He sought her approval on everything he did. But now she’d been discarded, like a worn pair of athletic shoes. He didn’t need her any longer.
“Okay.” Mabel figured her roommate would respond to logic. “My opinion is that you are a stubborn old witch, and you need to make amends with your son. We’re going to be at the beach anyway. We’ll take a day off the scheduled activities, rent a car, and go see him. For that matter, we can go during the free day, when there’s nothing else scheduled. We’d talked about renting one of those beach umbrellas with the chairs and hanging out on the beach. But a trip to see your family will be way better.” Mabel frowned for a moment, imaging the family drama. “Well, way more interesting at least.”
“Might be a good idea. I’m not big on the beach, anyway.” Gretta fidgeted with her hearing aid and returned to staring out the tinted window. “Too sandy.”
Mabel smiled. Gretta had wanted to be talked into a reunion with her son. After all, who else was going to keep Gretta’s life straight if she didn’t? Digesting the revelation, she turned her attention to the flight attendant who was telling everyone to close their tray tables and return their seats to the upright position. They were approaching Myrtle Beach and, as the plane banked for a turn, they saw miles of sparkling lights that lined a curving strip of ocean.
Seven
Thursday
Myrtle Beach, South Carolina
The day began with breakfast when a poker game of five card draw broke out and the ante was one cantaloupe slice or two prunes. Burt ended up the big winner, but he was polite enough to donate his winnings to Mabel since rumor had it that she was constipated from traveling. Even though Burt was the resident prankster, he could still be gracious. He presented the prunes to her on a small plate adorned with a sprig of parsley. She gave him a Moon Pie in thanks.
After breakfast, the group embarked on a trolley tour of Myrtle Beach. They learned all kinds of fascinating—or useless, depending upon the opinion of the recipient—trivia such as the fact that Kings Highway was originally an Indian trail long before the first Europeans settled in the area in the early seventeen hundreds, and that George Washington had once used the route by stagecoach. Ethyl Froogin nodded in agreement with the historical facts of Myrtle Beach like a knowledgeable student listening to her teacher state the obvious. Gus, meanwhile, was concerned about much more pressing issues at hand, such as losing his cantaloupe to Burt during the poker game at breakfast. It wasn’t the loss of the fruit that bothered him, he kept grumbling, it was Burt’s sneaky bluff.
Those who paid attention learned that, prior to the nineteen hundreds, the beach area
s were virtually uninhabited. But less than a hundred years after Burroughs & Chapin Company built a railroad and began developing the area as a recreational resort, it claimed spots on several surveys as the nation’s second favorite family beach destination. At the turn of the century, an oceanfront lot could be had for about one hundred dollars, if the buyer agreed to build a home on the property. Current market value on the same lots—the few that remained—were about a million dollars. South Carolina’s Grand Strand was one of the fastest growing metropolitan areas in the United States, and they were smack dab in the middle of it. At the back of the trolley, Gretta waved her hand at the seemingly exorbitant property values. She’d been more engrossed in a morning news show on her iPhone rather than the live sights passing by on either side of the trolley.
Leading her group on the city tour, Sherwood almost felt like a real tour guide and was thankful that Jane had given her a package of information on the area. She’d studied hard and paid special attention to the historical factoids and trivia. Luckily, her group was into trivia. They’d probably get it all wrong back at Great Wings, when they’d relay tales of their bus trip to the neighbors who hadn’t gone. But for now, their collective eyebrows shot up with interest each time she threw out a particularly interesting morsel of information.
“Holy Toledo!” Gretta shouted to nobody in particular. “The price of coffee beans has just gone up another six cents a pound! Those options traders are creating havoc with the market.” Reflections of her mobile phone’s small video screen flickered on the surface of her thick, low-hung bifocals.
As usual, nobody replied to Gretta’s sudden outburst. Although a few passengers did murmur that a cup of hot coffee would taste good.
Several blocks and one short term bonds update later, the Virginia group climbed off their trolley to stroll along Ocean Boulevard. Aromas of hot French fries and funnel cakes mingled with the sea breeze. Bright neon signs on the storefronts hawked tee shirts, henna tattoos, souvenirs and hookah pipes. A clump of her residents hit the smoke shop to find out what a hookah was, and Burt emerged with one hanging on a lanyard around his neck. The others turn turns puffing on it. They completed their downtown tour with a walk on the boardwalk, Myrtle Beach’s mile-long wood and concrete path that meandered between the beach and a row of oceanfront shops and eateries. Sherwood was going to point out to her trivia-loving group that the boardwalk had cost the city nearly seven million dollars to construct but they were too spread out to hear her. She told Freddy instead.
“Hey, I’m just glad that some of that money went into benches and shade canopies,” he joked. “This group adores benches.”
“And shade,” Sherwood agreed. “They love their shade.” She was having fun and so far, the day seemed more like vacation than work.
Once they were rounded up and shuttled to the mini-golf for their scheduled tournament, the group told Sherwood they wanted to skip the golf and just go for the refreshments. Named Mayday Miniature Golf, the course had a real airplane crashing into the fifth hole. It was a Lockheed PD2, the kind that had chased submarines during World War II. Her seniors thought that was pretty neat. Another factoid score for me, Sherwood thought. Even though their bodies had tired out, their minds were still absorbing as much as she could throw at them. Maybe they’re actually beginning to like me. Fueled by a rush of confidence, Sherwood convinced everyone to play the mini-golf tournament by reminding them that it was already paid for. And that there were benches at every single hole. An hour and much good-natured jostling later, Gus’s four-person team beat out Burt’s team by one point for the win. Gus had used his own putter. Gripping the trophy in triumph, he forgot to complain about his earlier poker loss.
After the tournament, Freddy returned his human cargo to the Sea Shell where they just had time for a shower and change of clothes before they had to be back on the bus to depart for dinner – an all-you-can-eat buffet served in a building that was touted as South Carolina’s largest nautical museum. Unfortunately, it was so large with several dining rooms and numerous buffet lines that two of the Great Wingers got lost and ended up eating with a family of five from Ohio. Fortunately, the restaurant manager was notified by the concerned father, who notified the bus drivers of six motorcoaches, who notified their six respective group leaders to find out who was missing two passengers. Sherwood did a head count, which wasn’t easy since her group was returning to the buffet tables for seconds and thirds and deserts. After realizing it was her two passengers who were lost, she told Freddy, who told the manager, who returned the pair to her able hands. As she rounded everyone up when they’d finished eating, she spotted Maggie trying to cram cookies, a baked potato, and grapes into a large handbag. Ultimately, after she realized that it wasn’t all going to fit, she took only a cluster of seedless white grapes. They were carefully wrapped in three unfolded napkins.
“You’re not supposed to do that,” Ethyl scolded.
“Why not?”
“Because this is an all you can eat buffet.”
“Yeah, not an all-you-can-haul-out buffet,” Smith added.
“Well, I could’ve eaten more grapes if I wanted to,” Maggie had told them. “What difference does it make if I just take them instead?”
***
A bus greeter dressed in western wear hopped on their bus as soon as they lurched to a stop in the theater’s bus parking area. The Great Wings group was welcomed, told where the rest rooms were located, given badges to wear that would identify them as motorcoach travelers, told to watch their step inside the theater, escorted to the side motorcoach entrance, given programs and plastic souvenir cups good for a free drink, and finally seated. They took up two and a half rows of one section. Thursday had been a whirlwind, the type of a day that was really a stamina test for the seniors. Their bodies were pleasantly tired and their stomachs agreeably full. Cushy theater seats welcomed arthritic bones, and it felt good just to sit down.
Before the show began, an on-stage emcee welcomed all the bus groups. Like a school pep rally, each section tried to out-cheer the others when their name was announced. There were church groups, senior groups, a retired postal worker’s group, and a family reunion.
Freddy and Sherwood sat on the end of their row, next to the aisle, for easy exit. About fifteen minutes before the show’s end, Freddy told Sherwood, he would join the other bus drivers in the parking lot. That was so the bus engines could be warming up, the air circulating, and the thin plastic candy wrappers removed from the floor, Freddy explained. It was in the bus driver’s manual, which Freddy’s father had written, and Freddy was following instructions to the tee. He was thoroughly enjoying learning the ins and outs of the group tour industry, and he definitely wanted to manage the family business one day.
Overhead, the Alabama Theater lights dimmed indicating the main show was ready to begin. A twelve-member band on the darkened stage started with a flourish and the thick curtain slowly rose. The buzz of voices quieted when the music deepened into the kind of bass where vibrations worked their way beneath one’s rib cage. Burt rubbed a hand over his chest, hoping the booming music wouldn’t throw his pacemaker out of whack. Gretta turned off her iPhone. Maggie munched on some grapes. Several seniors removed their hearing aids. The Great Wingers had nestled in to enjoy the show.
The first half of the show sped by in a blur of glitter, dazzling dancers, spot-lit singers, and funny short skits. Afterwards, the master of ceremonies hawked a few goods from the gift shop and the lights were turned up for a fifteen-minute intermission. Several hundred visitors steadily made their way towards the restrooms, where almost immediately a line formed at the women’s room entrance. Sherwood wove among her residents to see how everyone was doing.
“Too loud,” Gus said. “My ears are ringing.”
“They need to turn the volume up,” somebody else said. “I couldn’t hear a damn thing!”
“Fabulous!” Mabel and Gretta said in unison.
“Pretty much like all th
e other shows I’ve been to,” Ethyl added, popping one of Maggie’s grapes into her mouth. “I mean, if you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all. Anyone want a grape?”
“No, thanks,” Burt said, walking up behind the women. “I’d just eat it.”
“You know, Susan would have played a tape or video of the show during our drive here, so we’d know what to expect,” a Great Winger complained. And Sherwood had thought they were done with the whining and bitching.
“Maybe,” Sherwood said. “But then the show wouldn’t have been a surprise, now would it?”
“Surprises are overrated.” The resident shrugged her nose upward into a wrinkled forehead. “Well, Susan would have made sure we had seats in the center section. Not off to one side, where you have to see everything in profiles,” the woman said, dismissing Sherwood with a wave of her hand as she worked her way into the restroom line.
Cringing, Sherwood didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at the irony of it all. She’d had nothing to do with the itinerary, anyway. Everything had been set up months ago, before she’d ever even heard of Great Wings. But it would do no good to tell them that. She could take it. Shoulders upright, she climbed the stairway to the balcony. Hopefully, there wouldn’t be a line for the restroom upstairs and she wouldn’t have to hear any more biting remarks from her residents. She’d discovered that a big majority of them had knee or hip troubles and would avoid stairs if given a choice.
On the lower level, Mrs. Storrey caught up with Smith when he exited the men’s room. She was one of the few who actually enjoyed climbing stairs and was ready to move upward. “Smith, you want to sit up in the balcony with me for the second half? I can’t see a thing. I think the seats in front of me are occupied by basketball players.”
Mayhem in Myrtle Beach Page 5
