“She was shot execution style, and through each eye. A professional job — one with a message.”
“When’s the last time ya’ll saw her?” Tanya asked, hoping to figure out a way for it to not be true.
“Three days.” said Sam.
“Been blowin her fackin phone up but no answer. Drove by her house about twenty times but all dark. No one’s home and no car.”
Searching for distraction, Birdie dug through her bag and handed Grace a travel pack of makeup remover wipes. She also produced a small container of PG Tips tea bags, something she never went anywhere without. Her hand trembled as she plucked a triangular bag from the Tupperware, and dropped it in the mug of hot water in front of her.
“For someone who doesn’t even own furniture, you’re awfully particular about your beverages,” Sam said, pulling a cup of black coffee between her hands to warm them.
“American tea is shit. Your burgers are good, but I’ll never understand how you can fack up flakes of tea in hot watah.”
Birdie was the wild child of the bunch. Born in Scotland, she was raised in Manchester by her Mum, who was busy with seven children to look after. Her mother was shell-shocked by child rearing. Since Birdie was the second youngest, and the only girl, her mother could hardly argue when Birdie announced at seventeen that she was going west to seek her fortune. It hadn’t occurred to her mum that “west” meant America. She’d been thinking Birdie meant Liverpool, 30 miles up the Manchester Ship Canal.
Even though she was just shy of 5’2”, Birdie was larger than life. Her style was soft punk tempered by her pixie-like girlishness. She had a mane of naturally curly hair that was twenty shades of red. Her skin, was white porcelain, dusted with freckles, and her eyes were a soft, warm brown. If it weren’t for her stylish frocks, Birdie would look like a petite, innocent cherub with the body of a slender, young boy. She had million dollar looks and a mouth to protect it.
“Did you ask anyone at the club if they’d heard anything? They must know something.” Tanya asked bringing the girls back to focus from the tangential chatter they had a habit of lapsing into.
“Just Gio the manager. He doesn’t know anything,” said Sam.
Birdie focused on her steeping tea and spat, “Fackin’ wide boy still made us pay house fees though.”
“What an ass,” Tanya’s eyes darted to the bar where one of her regulars, a longhaul trucker with no idea Tanya was born Tommy, was gesturing with his coffee mug. “Lemme do a round and I’ll be right back. Ya’ll havin’ the usual?”
Everyone nodded and Tanya was off.
Sam thought about the weird bubble that they lived in. Everyone knew each other by their stage names, and almost nobody had met, or even really knew of, each other’s families. The small tribe of women in the Denny’s that night were an exception to the rule. Their friendship had extended into the world of real names and family stories. Having to remain a secret part of each other’s lives made times like this almost impossible. There was no one to call for information.
“Do you think you can get the funeral details from your customer at the paper, Grace?” Sam asked. “I doubt the AJC will print it since she’s from Savannah.”
“I can check,” Grace said. “I don’t think I’m up for going, though. No offense, but I wouldn’t want my family to see a buncha strippers show up if I was . . .”
Sam nodded.
“Fack that!” Birdie yanked the teabag from her mug. “I’ve got to go. I loved her!”
“We all loved her, Bird,” said Sam, leveling her gaze across the table. “And how do you plan to get your no-driver’s-license-havin’ ass down there?”
Birdie lowered her chin. “Please, Sam?”
“Shit. I knew this was coming.” Sam folded the paper and tucked it into her bag.
“Please, please, please. I’m Catholic. I can’t miss it,” Birdie pleaded.
“Why are you only Catholic for weddings and funerals?”
“Not weddings. Does that mean ‘yes’?” Birdie scrunched up her shoulders and tilted her head.
“It means I’ll think about it, Birdie. We don’t even have the details yet, now do we?”
Tanya reappeared from her rounds and slid into the booth. “So, what’s the plan ladies?”
“I guess we wait.” Sam said.
CHAPTER 3
Three days later, Lena was buried in Old Bonaventure Cemetery. Its name meant “Good Fortune” in French . . . go figure. Overlooking the Bull River, which wound its way through the low coastal marshes, it was one of Savannah’s oldest and most famous burial grounds. Sam watched the wind blow the Spanish moss in a slow rhythm. The sunlight painted dappled patterns on the ground at her feet, and the stench of the paper mill mingling with the fetid smells at low tide filled the air.
Sam, Mary Jane, Grace and Birdie found a spot away from the intimate cluster of mourners around Lena’s grave. It was difficult to see what was going on across the flat graveyard. With no hills to perch on for a bird’s-eye view, they spied through the trees and headstones trying to catch a glimpse of something — anything really — that would give insight into Lena’s other life. Sam guessed that Lena’s family hadn’t known about their daughter’s dancing; and from the reserved, almost aristocratic, tone of the funeral, she was sure they wouldn’t approve or understand.
“This is bollocks,” Birdie pouted. “Lena was ours too. Why can’t we be over there to say goodbye to her?”
“Because we’re here,” Sam said. “If you loved Lena, then shut up. Don’t cause her family grief just because you want sit in the front row.”
“I just don’t think it’s fair, that’s all.”
Grace surfaced from her trance, “We’re all frustrated but this is how it has to be, Birdie. You can’t shove acceptance down someone’s throat. It just doesn’t work that way, and it never has to work that way for them. They just lost their daughter so I think upsetting them with our presence isn’t going to do any good. That would just be about satisfying our own selfish needs. So let’s just chill out. Okay?”
Mary Jane hoped her black wraparound sunglasses concealed her grief-splotched face. Loss was not a stranger in her life. The corrosive effect of her mother’s sudden death had led Mary Jane to slip her moorings at Georgia Tech’s ferociously competitive School of Computer Science. Bereft and alone, she had drifted sideways into full-time bartending at the Pussycat.
Something off to the right, across the clearing pulled her from her thoughts.
“Sooo, was she enough of a socialite to warrant photographers?” Mary Jane asked under her breath.
“That guy?” Sam said, “The one shooting the funeral? I dunno’. Think it’s the newspaper or the Feds?”
“Feds? Did you say Feds? That’s all I need is to be on another bloody Federal watchdog list!” Birdie spat.
“Keep your voice down cowgirl, we don’t need everyone in Savannah to know about your checkered past.” Sam muttered.
“Either way,” Mary Jane lowered her voice, “I think it’s important we don’t appear in this pictorial. Let’s chill in the car until the services are over.”
“I’ve got my camera in the car, how about if I get a shot of the photographer?” Grace offered. “It can’t hurt.”
Before anyone had a chance to respond Grace was halfway to the car, aerating sod with her heels.
Glad I wore wedges, Sam thought.
By aligning themselves behind the largest headstones, the girls successfully avoided the mystery man’s lens. Turning her attention back to the funeral proceedings, Sam studied Lena’s family. She imagined what her own family would do if the roles were reversed. Lena’s mother and father were typical old south in dress and mannerism. Both were clad in head-to-toe black. Her mother wore a lace veil, making it hard to see her face. Her figure was that of a 20 year old. Slender and fragile, she looked as though she would break if hugged too hard.
Lena’s younger sister Amanda stood front and center without cover of
veils or sunglasses to hide her face. She was five years Lena’s junior and was at the age where teenagers begin to break from their parents. In another year she would be off to college, or the Peace Corps or wherever it is the privileged young go to make their own way. She cried, unashamed, letting the tears roll down her face without wiping them. The funeral seemed cathartic for her; maybe she was the only person who grasped that funerals were meant for this specific reason. Not for stoics, or posers, but to try and begin the arduous process of letting go.
Her father sported silver hair in a very no-nonsense, part-on-the-side, trustworthy business haircut. His skin was golf-course tanned without looking sun-damaged. He was a handsome man, with a lovely wife and a beautiful daughter, living among Savannah’s elite. The family looked picture perfect from the outside, which probably meant big trouble behind closed doors.
Grace was back and shooting rapid-fire pictures of the photographer as well as two other men who had appeared across the clearing to the left. The new spectators were without cameras, but clear plastic spiral cords were visible running from their ears down into their shirt collars.
“OK, now you might want to make yourself scarce Birdie.” Sam whispered. “Did you get shots of the newcomers over there, Grace?”
“Yup. Got ‘em.”
Birdie was off toward Mary Jane’s car, parked on one of the winding Cemetery roads twenty yards up. Sam exchanged glances with the other two and reassured herself out loud “Before we head back tomorrow, we’ll come say our goodbyes. We can leave the bullwhip then.” The other two nodded solemnly and the group headed for the car. The closing chords of the Requiem Mass for Alexandra Chandler replayed inside Sam’s head. She wondered momentarily if the others could also hear their ghostly echoes.
* * * *
Early the next morning as they headed east along US-80, Birdie piped, “Forget about the fackin’ coffee houses, let’s get back to Bonaventure and make our peace with Lena.” Birdie was in a mood this morning, with her Manchester United cap pulled low and sunglasses securely in place, fighting a fierce hangover.
On the drive, Birdie hung her head out the window like an old farm dog. No one spoke. Reluctance to fight the wind for conversation, they were also feeling the heavy pressure of the city. The weather only accounted for part of Savannah’s weight; the other is the very real sense of the souls crowding the historic district, that make every breath labored. The girls all silently prayed Lena wasn’t trapped here, but had made her way safely across the river Styx.
Lena’s family plot was midway into the cemetery and off to the right near the site of the old Tattnall plantation house that had long since burned to the ground. It was easy to find, thanks to her grandmother’s large, intricately carved mausoleum that could be seen from some distance. Old Bonaventure had been closed to new burials for years, but Lena’s family, being old money, had purchased a sizeable piece of land for burial plots, ensuring future generations of Chandlers would be laid to rest with their ancestors.
Sam, Grace and Mary Jane emptied out of the car and headed towards the spot where Lena had been buried the previous day. Birdie stumbled out of the car and headed along the dirt road back towards the gate.
“Don’t go too far, Bird,” Grace called after her “This place is a maze. You’ll never find us again if you wander off.”
Birdie raised a hand in thanks without turning back and disappeared around a gentle curve.
The grave of Lena, a.k.a. Alex, wasn’t hard to find. Flowers exploded across the newly covered plot. The loose sod looked unnaturally out-of-place among the old tamped down grass. There was a photograph of Lena taped to the family headstone, over the spot where her name would later be added.
Grace slumped to her knees mumbling a prayer for Lena. Mary Jane stood frozen, fighting the pain. Her lips trembled in silent prayer. Sam sat down on the new, soft sod and quietly sang one of Lena’s favorite songs.
“I knew someday that you would fly away
For love's the greatest healer to be found
So leave me if you need to
I will still remember . . . “
Angel flying too close to the ground
Grace sobbed softly and laid her face against the grass over where Lena’s heart would be. Mary Jane sank to the ground, her head hung. Her back and shoulders shook and her mouth twisted open.
Fly on; fly on past the speed of sound
I'd rather see you up
Than see you down
Leave me if you need to
I will still remember
Angel flying too close to the ground
Sam buckled onto the grass, and finally let herself cry. The three held hands and laid there, holding vigil over Lena, or Alex, or whatever she wanted to be called.
Someone behind them cleared her throat. They turned, expecting to see Birdie. There stood Amanda, Lena’s younger sister.
“You must be Sam, Grace, and Mary Jane?” She asked with the same warm smile Lena was blessed with. Her eyes were swollen but warm.
Feeling like children caught in some unforgivable act, the three pulled themselves up.
Amanda put out her hands to stop them. “No, please. Alex would want you here. Please don’t get up. Can I sit with you for awhile?” Her voice was steeped in an old southern softness.
“Of course you can,” Sam stammered, “Are you sure you don’t want your privacy? ”
“No,” Amanda sighed, “I think too much unspoken is what’s gotten us into this mess in the first place. Alex told me all about ya’ll. How much she loved you. That you were her first true friends, not for her reputation, or her money, or anything. Just for her. She told me about the fun she had with you. She loved you like sisters. Which I guess means you’re my sisters too.”
The girls exchanged astonished glances. Never in a million years could they have guessed they would receive such a reception from anyone in Lena’s family. Not sure how their own families would react if the shoe were on the other foot, they each understood whole-heartedly the precious bond they shared.
They held out their arms to Amanda and the four held each other and cried.
“Gimme a TicTac,” spat Birdie, panting her intrusion.
They had almost forgotten the Bird, who had been unloading some of the Laphroaig 15 year-old single malt she had had for dinner last night.
“Birdie?” Amanda’s eyes squinted.
“Oh God, Love, I’m so sorry. I know better than to be froin’ up in a cemetery but I’ve got me a touch of food poisoning. And what the hell are you doing sitting there together like you’re at a damn picnic?”
Amanda’s face broke into a smile. “Was this food poisoning from a bad bottle of Scotch?”
“That smart mouth runs in the family, does it?” she paused, cracking a smile, “Tic-Tac, I said.”
Amanda laughed and the other three relaxed. It was always touch and go as to whether people were going to love Birdie or hate her. Should have known Lena’s sister would hit it off with her. Amanda handed Birdie some gum from her purse. “Sorry. Nearest thing I’ve got to a Tic Tac.”
Birdie started chewing, quietly grateful. She had probably been the closest to Lena of all, but she held her hard-boiled exterior in place to keep herself from going to pieces. Late at night, sitting in a warm bath in her downtown loft — that’s when Birdie would grieve. Safe behind locked doors when no one could hear her whimpers, she would have her own conversations with Lena. Never out in public, not even with her nearest and dearest. Birdie had her own way of coping with things, and that was that.
“Roight, you lot, up you get, NOW!” ordered Birdie. It was as if the gum had reenergized her.
The girls looked at each other trying to figure out whether or not Birdie was serious.
“I said GET UP GODDAMNIT!” she yelled, “I’m not SAYIN’ IT AGAIN!”
The familiar whistle of leather cutting air startled the girls into a wild scramble.
“CRACK!” the whip recoiled back to Bi
rdie.
“You know Birdie, some of us are trying to have a moment here, do ya’ think . . . WHAT THE HELL?”
“CRACK!” Again the bullwhip recoiled back to Birdie.
Lena’s signature move on stage involved her expert handling of a bullwhip. She could crack it so deftly, she’d snatch the cigarette out of someone’s mouth from ten feet away. Lena always maintained the persona onstage but would go into fits of laughter in the privacy of the dressing room. She never made fun of the men. It was just that dominatrix was so far from her true nature that it tickled her to assume the role. Those in need of gentle domination were drawn to her undeniable magnetism.
Birdie threw herself onto the plot and began ripping back a length of sod.
“Holy Mother of God! Birdie’s finally snapped and she’s gonna’ dig up Lena with her bare hands! One of you stop her!” Grace shrieked “Why don’t we carry Thorazine when we travel with her?”
Amanda looked horrified.
Birdie stopped her unearthing and started coiling Lena’s whip around her arm the way she’d seen Lena do it a million times before.
Silence.
The girls stared.
Birdie bent down, nestling the whip into the soil above where Lena lay.
After a moment she gently rolled the sod back into place.
She crossed herself with head bowed, and softly kissed the picture of Lena taped to the cold stone.
“I love you.”
CHAPTER 4
“Mom?”
“Hi, angel! Hold on a sec.” Sam heard her mom push the phone receiver against her breast to muffle the yell, “CLAUDIA IS ON THE PHONE. DO YOU WANNA’ PICK UP?” It was strange for Sam to hear her birth name, even from her parents, since everyone she knew called her by her stage name — Sam.
Her mother’s voice returned, “Your dad’s in his office. I think he’s picking up the other line.”
Tea Leafing: A Novel Page 2
