by Tamar Myers
“I’m not saying that I have much hope for it either. But what else can I do? If by the time Greg gets home tonight I don’t have some plausible explanation, he’s going to be one unhappy camper.”
“Uh—Abby, I don’t think we’re talking about the same thing.”
“No, I hear you. I really do. Every time I get in a tight spot, rather than waiting to be rescued, like any sensible woman would, I come out charging, rattling my saber.”
“Would you be willing to rattle that saber in her direction?”
“What?”
8
Rob’s mom. We did tell you she’s coming to visit, didn’t we?”
Oops. Maybe we weren’t on the same page. “How long is she staying?” I asked. That was the most important question. I can take Greg’s mom just about as long as it takes a fish to spoil. Any longer than that and we both get into rotten moods.
“Six weeks,” Bob said.
“What?”
“Rob’s sister, Rachel, and her husband are going on a South Pacific cruise. Rachel usually looks in after their mother—not that she needs a lot of care—so I can’t blame her for wanting a break. But Abby, the mother lives entirely on her own, and is completely capable of looking after herself. The only reason Rachel is so involved is for her own peace of mind. But in that case, why doesn’t she just hire a live-in companion? She can certainly afford it.”
“Holy guacamole.”
“Abby, what will I do? The woman hates my guts. She blames me for turning her son gay. Never mind that he came out decades before we met.”
“What does Rob think of this extended visit?”
“He’s worried to death. He won’t say anything about it, but I can tell. He’s never been so solicitous. If I didn’t know his mother was coming, I’d think he was having an affair. Abby, what shall I do?”
We were stuck at a traffic light behind an SUV that bore a perplexing variety of bumper stickers, including honk if you love noise and silence is golden. I took my time in formulating a response.
“Use what you’ve got,” I finally said.
“Great. I have a receding hairline, a bit of a gut, and arms and legs like matchsticks.”
“You have a keen intellect, a love of classical music, and you’re a whiz in the kitchen.”
“I am? Abby, I thought you hated my cooking. You’re constantly thinking of new excuses not to eat with us.”
“True—and I mean that in all kindness. But Bob, it isn’t your cooking per se, but those ghastly ingredients you use. Emu meat, duck embryos, locust butter—the kind of stuff they make you eat on Fear Factor.“
“Abby, emu is becoming very popular. It’s low in fat, high in protein—”
“But not ordinary, right? And that’s what Rob’s mother likes; ordinary food. And she listens to elevator music, not the classics. So here’s the deal: turn your dial to the classical music station and start cooking the weirdest—I mean most exotic—dishes you can think of. If you have any doubts, call me. I guarantee you that she’ll be packing her bags again within a week.”
“But where will she go?”
“Where not? The woman has more money than God and Fort Knox put together. Last year she went on four cruises, by herself. And you know she has more friends up in Charlotte than she can shake a stick at. Cousins, too.”
“Six.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“She went on six cruises.”
“I stand corrected. So you see, Bob, the only reason Rob’s sister checks in on her mother every day is because it makes her—the sister—feel good. If you play your cards as I suggested, you can get Mrs. Goldburg to leave on her own account. Rob won’t be able to blame you for that—for just being yourself.”
Bob leaned over and kissed my cheek. You’re the best, Abby. I have a great new album, Bland Bach (Sonatas for Sleeping By). And I think I’ll start by cooking some haggis. Do you know what haggis are, Abby?”
“Please don’t remind me.”
The light changed, and just past the intersection we turned right and into one of Mount Pleasant’s unfortunate strip malls. Leeburg’s Gym occupied what used to be a bowling alley. To the left was Bubba’s Chinese Buffet, and to the right was Sweated in by the Oldies, an upscale clothing consignment shop. One could fill up on Moo Goo Gai Grits, pretend to work it off, and then buy a set of larger clothes, already broken in. The American dream in only three stops.
Sure enough, all the parking spaces immediately in front of the gym were taken. But as luck would have it, a car parked right in front the restaurant pulled out, drove twenty yards, and began to cruise the lot, waiting for someone in the gym to depart for the clothing store. We gladly took their spot.
Luck held with us and we located Marvin Leeburg at the reception desk. He smiled when he saw us, revealing teeth that only a dental supply company could make.
“Hi,” I said, “I’m Abby Timberlake, and I believe you already know Bob.”
I could see how Rob would find Marvin attractive. In addition to perfect teeth, he had a strong profile, a thick head of hair, piercing blue eyes, and sported the Yasser Arafat beard that is so popular these days.
“Hey,” he said. I could tell that he didn’t remember Bob, but I think he recognized me.
“Mr. Leeburg, I was wondering if I might have a few minutes to discuss antiques with you.”
His scowl was slight but unmistakable. “I don’t solicit at your place of business, so please don’t solicit at mine.”
“I’m not here to solicit, sir. It’s just that Bob here says you have an awesome collection of antique canes. I know this is very forward of me, but I was wondering if it would ever be possible for me to see them.”
His scowl melted. “Well, why don’t you step into my office. We can talk in there.” He called to a young man with a mask of freckles who was helping a vastly overweight woman regain her self-esteem. The lad trotted over to cover the reception desk.
We followed Marvin into a long, narrow room that had undoubtedly once contained shelves of rental shoes. The lingering odor of feet only just overcame the smell of cheap Chinese next door.
“Please, have seats.” He gestured to a pair of folding chairs. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“We’re fine,” I said, before Rob had the chance to request rare Tibetan teas picked from inaccessible Himalayan ridges by virgin monkeys wearing Hermès scarves and Versace sunglasses.
He nodded. “I have over three hundred canes in my collection,” he said. “I know that sounds like a lot, and it is, but once you start collecting, it can become an obsession. It’s like I live and breathe canes. I go to as many shows as I can. Forget what I said before. If you have something really special to show me, I might be interested.”
It’s hard to stay on one’s toes when they are so tiny. “Uh—yes, I do have some canes. As a matter of fact they came from a storage shed sale on Johns Island. I believe you bid on that lot yourself.”
He didn’t even blink. “Yes. Didn’t have much hope for it. But you say there were some canes? Any nice ones?”
“Mouthwateringly nice.”
“Do you mind describing some?”
“Dark. Fine grain. Handmade.” I felt like I was describing fudge.
“I assume your intent is to resell them?”
“Certainly.”
“May I have first crack at them?”
“Absolutely, that’s why I’m here. Mr. Leeburg—”
“Please, call me Marvin.”
“I’m a relative newcomer to this business. At least when it comes to cane collecting. I was wondering how it is you knew to bid on that storage shed? I had no idea there were canes in there, or anything else in there for that matter. I mean, the shed could have been empty.”
“What else was there in the shed? If you don’t mind my asking.”
“Junk.” I’m sure that answer would have cleared a lie detector test. Nobody in their right mind would consider a dirty gym bag
containing a skull to be anything but trash.
“One man’s trash, another man’s treasure,” he said.
I keep my bottle-brown hair short. Nonetheless I reached up and tugged on what little bangs I have. If folks kept reading my mind, I would have to grow my hair long, possibly even wear a scarf. A Hermès scarf, of course.
“Touché.”
“As a matter of fact, that’s how I started collecting canes. When I was a young boy I inherited a walking stick my granddaddy always used. And I mean always. When he wasn’t leaning on it, he was whacking me with it. The old codger was so mean he’d fight a circular saw with one hand and a camp meeting of wildcats with the other. Anyway, when the cane finally ended up in my possession, the first thing I did was run over to the nearest Dumpster and toss that sucker in. Well, somebody knew it was worth something. The next thing I knew, there was a front-page article on it, with a photo, in the Post and Courier. It said Granddaddy’s walking stick—the same one he used to beat me with—was also a blowgun.”
“What?” Bob and I chorused. His bass and my soprano sounded pretty good together.
“The staff was hollow. It also unscrewed to make two sections. The top section contained little darts. Poison-covered darts from South America, the kind some Amazon tribes use for hunting. The poison comes from frog secretions. At any rate, the bottom piece was the actual gun. Well, I did some checking with relatives—my mom was dead by then—and learned that Granddaddy was in a so-called import-export business that never actually imported anything. He spent most of his time away from home, and a lot of it in Europe. Especially during World War Two. My uncle Bart, mom’s older brother, said he’d heard a story that his father was an American spy whose mission it was to kill Hitler. Of course he didn’t kill Hitler, but that doesn’t mean the story isn’t true. In fact, it made a lot of sense to me; a lot of things started falling in place.
“To make an even longer story shorter, I was able to buy the cane from the guy who found it in the Dumpster, but I had to top several other offers. But ever since I got that cane back, I’ve been fascinated by them. Unlike paintings, or statues, canes were actually used by the previous owners, and a lot of them—if they could speak—would have real tales to tell.”
Bob, bless his Yankee heart, knew a tale when he heard one. As interesting as the poison dart cane was, its story had neatly diverted us from the question I had posed. Why did Marvin Leeburg bid on the shed, and did he have any inkling it contained canes?
“I saw the ad for the locked trunk sale,” my friend said, “but I passed. It didn’t seem that exciting—maybe just some lawn chairs and an old backyard grill. I’m with Abby; what made you think there might be canes?”
Again Marvin’s gaze held steady. “I didn’t. But I have Saturdays off—one of the perks of being owner—and I try to get around to as many sales as possible. I even hit the yard sales if I’m up that early. You know what I mean; you have to get up at five these days to make it worth your while. If you’re not there when they lay out the stuff, you might as well stay home.” He paused to scratch his stubble. “You fish, Mrs. Timberlake?”
“My husband’s a shrimper. He likes to stay on land on his days off.”
“Not ocean fish,” he said. “I mean pond fish. With a bamboo pole—Granddaddy whipped me with that too—and a bobber. Used to love to fish like that as a kid. Especially if the water wasn’t clear and I couldn’t see beneath the surface. That way you never knew when that bobber was about to jerk and you had something on the line. Maybe something really big and special. Been trout fishing, where you can see the fish, and that isn’t the same. Well, that’s what the locked trunk sale felt like to me. I love those things. But you were the lucky one this time and caught the fish.”
His explanation seemed quite reasonable. The thrill of the hunt is something every dealer I’ve ever known well has admitted. One even said it was like going on safari, not to a game park where you knew there’d be payoff, but to some obscure dark jungle where at any moment a leopard could leap down from the branches. This dealer, by the way, had just acquired a Bengal cat, a rare breed that is descended from the Asian leopard cat, and seemed to have leopards on the brain.
I stood, and Bob hastily followed suit. “You’ve been very helpful, Marvin,” I said.
“But don’t you want to set up a date to see my collection? You could bring the canes from the auction with you.”
Silly me. More and more it seemed like I had elephants on my brain. Literally. Youth is wasted on the young, and so are active brain cells.
“Certainly,” I said. “How about Thursday evening?” Frankly, I was satisfied that Marvin was who he presented himself as, and that a visit to see his collection could wait until after I’d extricated myself from the jam I was in. By Thursday I’d have the entire mystery tied up with a bow, and if the ribbon was long enough, I’d tie up Tweedledee and Tweedledum as well. The nerve of them to threaten me with an ape’s skull!
“Sorry, no can do. Not unless you’re into watching Survivor, the South Pole.“
I’d forgotten that was on. It was, in fact, my favorite show. Greg’s too. We had a tradition: I’d make a huge bowl of white cheddar popcorn, he’d whip up a batch of chocolate martinis, and then along with Dmitri, our cat, we’d curl up on our California king-size bed, pull up the drawbridges, and utterly relax. It was not the kind of thing we could, or would, share with someone else.
“Forgot about Survivor,“I said. “Tell you what. Here’s my card. Call me sometime and let me know when it would be convenient for you.”
“How about breakfast tomorrow?”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m taking the morning off—have to see my chiropractor. I live on the Isle of Palms, oceanfront. We could have breakfast on my deck and watch the container ships come in.” Since Marvin Leeburg could read my mind, reading my face was child’s play. “Rob is welcome to come as well.”
“That’s Bob,” my companion said, clearly annoyed.
“Yes, of course. Well, Mrs. Timberlake, how about it?”
Breakfast by the sea, watching ships and dolphins, what could be nicer than that? Given all the stress I had on my plate, salt air might just be the tonic I needed. Of course Bob had his own shop to run, so it wouldn’t be fair to ask him. But I wasn’t about to breakfast with Marvin Leeburg without a chaperone present.
“My last name is Washburn, by the way. Timberlake is my professional name. Mind if I bring a friend?”
“Not at all. The more the merrier. Real coffee or decaf?”
“Definitely real, and stiff enough to stand a spoon in.”
He smiled and handed me a card bearing his address. “Eight o’clock.”
“Abby, I can’t believe you did that,” Bob said, the second we were out the door.
“Did what?”
“Agreed to meet that horrible man for breakfast.”
I tugged him by a spindly arm until I was certain we couldn’t be overheard by anyone inside. “Why Bob Steuben, shame on you. That’s not like you at all—calling him a horrible man.” I paused just long enough to allow curiosity to take over. “What’s so horrible about him? I found him both attractive and pleasant.”
“Abby, he was all over you like white on rice.”
“He was not! I mean, was he?”
“Totally. If Greg could have seen him, he would have punched that bundle of muscles in the nose. With both fists.”
“Greg knows other men flirt with me—well, sometimes they do. Bob, it almost sounds like you’re jealous.”
I’d meant my tone to be affectionately teasing, and vaguely ambiguous, but it didn’t appear to have gone over that way. “Jealous? Of what? Maybe Marvin Leesburg tries to come off as charming, but he’s really just smarmy.”
“For what it’s worth, I’m not in the least bit interested in his smarm—I mean, charm!”
“Abby, who’s your guinea pig?”
“My what?”
“Because if
I were you, I’d take a canary instead. That’s what they carried down into coal mines to see if the air was safe to breathe.”
“Mama doesn’t know it yet, but she’s going to be my canary.”
9
On the way back into Charleston, with a game plan in place to foil his partner’s mother, my friend was much more relaxed. In fact, he was positively ebullient. To say that Bob babbled excessively is to be kind in the extreme.
I learned all about his life growing up on the poor side of Toledo, the scholarship he won to Kent State, and the fact that he was married. Fortunately, we had just exited our sky-scraping bridge when he dropped that bombshell on me, otherwise we might have ended up in the Cooper River, inadvertently feeding next year’s crop of shrimp.
I slammed on the brakes. “You’re what?”
His face was ashen. “I can’t believe I told you,” he whispered.
“Are you serious?”
“I wish I wasn’t.”
“Does Rob know?” I had a gut feeling he didn’t.
“Not yet.”
I pulled into the parking lot of an apartment building. “Why not? Who is she? How long have you been married? Details. I want details!”
“Her name is Carol. We got married right after college. I hadn’t come out yet—not even to myself. I thought that maybe the feelings I had for men would stop if I got married. But they didn’t. Abby, I really tried—and Carol was such a nice girl—but I couldn’t…you know. I never even was able to get things off the ground, so to speak. We separated two months later and applied for an annulment. It was a mutual decision, but then suddenly she changed her mind and said divorce was against her principles.”
“She’s still in love with you, isn’t she?”
“Yes. But Abby, it’s been years. From what I hear from family back home, Carol’s been mooning around like I jilted her at the altar just yesterday. My mother still has hopes that we’ll get back together.”
“Did you love Carol?”
