by Tamar Myers
I glanced at the slip of paper on which I’d written the number of Aunt Lula Mae’s house. I wasn’t about to walk around carrying a complete copy of her will, so I had jotted the number down on the Heritage pad. I’ve been known to transpose numbers, particularly phone numbers, but this one was easy to remember. It was only one digit away from my ATM PIN code.
“Maybe I’ve got the wrong number, Mama.”
“Well, there’s only one way to know, dear.” Mama charged up the steps like a platoon sergeant in a World War II movie and rang the doorbell.
The concerto continued unabated, so Mama rang again. The third time I rang. Finally the music stopped, but no one answered the door. Mama tapped her foot while she rang three more times.
Finally the door opened a crack. “I don’t push my religion on you,” a young female voice said, “so don’t push yours on me.”
Mama gasped, then giggled. “We’re not Jehovah’s Witnesses, dear. We’re Episcopalians.”
The crack widened enough for me to see a gray eye. “I’m an Episcopalian too,” the girl said, “and we don’t go from door to door.”
“We’re not here to sell you religion,” I said soothingly.
“Well, whatever it is you’re selling, I’m not buying any.” The door closed.
That did it as far as Mama was concerned. She would have leaned on that bell all day, if need be. The woman has stamina. Mama claims she and Daddy won a dance marathon, that they were on their feet eleven days straight. She told me this after Daddy passed, and although I can find no one to verify this, I am not surprised—if the marathon folks had been able to provide Mama with fresh starched crinolines on a daily basis, clean pink frocks with cinched waists, and a dancing hairdresser.
The door opened wide enough for me to see a pair of large gray eyes behind the chain. “Go away or I’m calling the police.”
“You do that, missy!” Mama hissed. “You’ll see!”
The gray eyes blinked. “Who are you, and what do you want?”
I pushed Mama gently aside. “Is this the residence of the late Lula Mae Wiggins?”
The chain came off, and the door opened to reveal a strikingly beautiful woman. She was tall, and her tight jeans came practically up to her armpits. A full mane of dark hair framed an ivory face of flawless complexion. But it was the enormous grays, now regarding us with the frankness of youth, that made her so stunning.
“Miss Wiggins is dead.”
“I know. So, is this—I mean was this—her residence?”
“I asked you before, who wants to know?”
I smiled. I was finding the girl’s cheek more amusing than annoying. Had my own daughter, Susan, spoken to me that way—well, that’s another story.
“My name is Abigail Timberlake. I’m Miss Wiggins’s niece.”
That seemed to startle her, but she was quick to recover. “Who’s the pushy one?”
Mama’s hand flew to her pearls. “Why, I never!”
“The pushy one, as you so aptly describe her, is my mother. Miss Wiggins’s sister-in-law. Now do me the courtesy of answering the same question. Who are you?”
“I’m Amanda.” She moved to one side and motioned us in.
We stepped into a cacophony of pinks. A pearl pink sofa and armchairs on a deep rose carpet clashed horribly with salmon pink walls. A bubble-gum baby grand piano, a painted fuchsia chandelier, and peony pink drapes screamed at each other in the discordance. The plethora of pinks made me want to puke.
Mama shook her head in amazement. “Oh, Abby, you have work to do here.”
Amanda leaped in front of Mama like a denimclad gazelle. “Excuse me?”
“Excuse you what, dear?”
“What did you mean about her having work to do here?”
“Well, this is her house now. You really don’t expect—”
“Her house?”
“That’s what I said, dear. Her aunt left it to my daughter in her will.”
“You sure about this?”
“Of course we’re sure,” I said, moving Mama gently aside like she was a dog who wouldn’t sit when commanded. “Now, Amanda, how did you get in here, and what are you doing here?”
“I have a key. I was practicing.” She pointed to the piano.
“We heard you,” Mama said. “You were a little slow with the bass, don’t you think?”
The gray eyes clouded. “Are you some kind of an expert?”
“Well, I know this piece—”
“I wasn’t making any mistakes, ma’am,” the gazelle said through gritted teeth. “This was my recital piece last term at Juilliard. I got top marks.”
Mama rolled her eyes. “You don’t say.”
“The Juilliard?” I asked, pushing the pesky poodle aside yet again.
Amanda nodded. “I’ll play it again, if you’ll promise not to interrupt.”
“I’d love that!”
Amanda bounded over to the piano and plonked herself down on the padded pink bench. But before she could strike the first note, there was the sound of a key turning in the front door.
We turned and stared.
11
The woman standing in the doorway stared back. She was an African-American, of medium complexion, her black hair sculptured and moussed into an elaborate tiara of loops and swirls. She was wearing a bright orange smock over a pair of faded blue jeans. The smock bore a logo of a smiling bumblebee, over which were embroidered the words Busy Bee Cleaners. Under the logo was a name: Moriah Johnson. In her right hand the intruder still held the key, in her left hand a plastic bin full of brushes, paper towels, and a variety of spray bottles.
“Can I help you?” I asked calmly.
Miss Johnson, if indeed that was her name, glanced from me to Mama, to Amanda, and back to me. “Who are you?”
“I think the question is, who are you?”
The cleaning woman gestured with her chin. “You can see who I am. Moriah Johnson of Busy Bee Cleaners. I don’t see any labels on you.”
It was time to stop being so paranoid and mind my manners. I extended my hand. Moriah pocketed the key, and we shook.
“I’m Abigail Timberlake, and this is my mother, Mrs. Wiggins, and this young lady, we’ve just learned, is Amanda—uh, I don’t believe I’ve learned her last name.”
“Gabrenas,” Amanda said.
Moriah nodded at Mama and Amanda but didn’t offer to shake their hands, nor they hers. “I don’t suppose you folks would mind telling me what you’re doing here.”
“Not at all, dear,” Mama said, and turned to me proudly. “My Abby inherited this house from her Aunt Lula Mae, and Miss Gabrenas here was just about to butcher my favorite concerto.”
Amanda gasped. “Why, you old bag!”
I gave Mama a warning glare and turned back to Moriah. “Turnabout is fair play, right? So what are you doing here?”
“I clean here.”
“I can see that, but why? Surely you know that my aunt passed away. In fact, she’s been dead for several months.”
Moriah nodded. “Dust still settles, doesn’t it? And no one told me to stop.”
“The agency still has this house scheduled? Who pays them?”
The maid shrugged. “That’s not my business, ma’am. I just do what I’m told.” She looked me in the eyes. “And I do it well.”
“I’m sure you do. How many times have you been here since my aunt passed on?”
“I come every other week—so maybe five times altogether. But like I said, ma’am. There’s still always something to do.”
There was no point in arguing. “Yes, well, you tell the agency that I’m discontinuing the service. Or should I call them?”
“No, ma’am, I’d be happy to tell them.” She looked around the room again, her eyes resting briefly on Amanda. “Well, I best be going.”
“Sorry about the mix-up,” I said and saw her out. Moriah was halfway down the stairs before I remembered. “The key!”
“Ma’am?”
“The house key. You forgot to give it back.”
“Ma’am, the agency gave me the key. They said to never let it out of my sight.”
“That may be,” I said patiently. “But my aunt’s dead now, and I inherited everything, including that key. I would like it back.”
Moriah had the audacity to sigh as she reached into her smock pocket. “Take it, then. I’ll just tell the agency to deal with you.”
“You do that.”
Moriah slapped the key into my open hand. “You better be who you say you are.”
“I am indeed.”
The maid turned without another word, took the steps two at a time, and strode down the street, the plastic bin banging against her thigh. As I watched her disappear, swallowed up by clumps of tourists, I couldn’t help feeling like an ogre.
“Well, fiddle-dee-dee,” I said to comfort myself.
I didn’t have much time for self-loathing, however, because just as I turned to go back inside, the front door opened and out stormed Amanda. The door slammed behind her.
“Your mother is nuts!” she practically screamed.
“She does tend to get on one’s nerves.”
“No, I mean really whacked. That women belongs in an institution.”
“Well—”
“I did go to Juilliard, you know. And I really do know how to play that Tchaikovsky concerto.”
“I’m sure you do. It sounded beautiful to me.”
“It did?”
“Like heaven. So, Amanda, do I take it that you no longer go to Juilliard?”
She let out a long breathy sigh, the likes of which can be only be produced by someone for whom adolescence is a recent memory, and plopped on the concrete steps at my feet. “Yeah, I had to drop out.”
“Why, if you don’t mind my asking.”
Amanda crossed her long legs. “Well, since you’re asking, I might as well tell you. Your aunt was my benefactor.”
I felt a tightness in my chest, along with a reluctance to pursue that line of questioning any further. “What do you mean by benefactor?”
“She was the one paying for my schooling.”
“You’re kidding!”
“I kid you not. In fact, it was even her idea that I apply.”
“How did you two meet?”
“She was my piano teacher. Ever since the first grade—or was it the second? No, I was six when I started playing.”
I shook my head in amazement.
“What’s the matter? Don’t you believe me?”
“Well, it’s not that—I mean, did my aunt even play the piano?”
Amanda laughed. “Now you’re kidding, right?”
“I’m afraid I didn’t know my aunt very well.”
“Boy, I’ll say! Lula Mae was one of the best classical pianists in all of Georgia. She may not have been professional, but she was really good. She drove up to Atlanta all the time to give concerts. You really didn’t know that?”
I hung my head in shame. Fortunately, with my short neck, it didn’t have far to go.
“Wow! I thought everyone knew about Lula Mae Wiggins. And you’re her niece!”
“We weren’t a close family.”
The gray eyes locked on mine. “So then why did she leave everything to you?”
“Because I’m her only living relative—blood relative that is. Well, except for my brother, Toy. But he’s becoming a priest, albeit an Episcopal priest, and they don’t have to take a vow of poverty. Still, it wouldn’t hurt him any. That man knows how to waste money like a teenager wastes brains. Uh, no offense intended.”
“Bullshit!”
“I beg your pardon!”
“You and your brother were not Lula Mae Wiggins’s only blood relatives.”
“My daddy is dead,” I said coldly.
“Yes, but Moriah Johnson isn’t.”
“What?”
“The maid, the woman you just ran out of her house—I mean, your house.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Geez! You don’t know very much, do you? Moriah Johnson is no maid. She wore that getup every time she came to see your aunt.”
“What are you saying?”
Amanda smiled triumphantly. “Moriah Johnson was your aunt’s niece, too. I guess that would make her your cousin, right?”
“Oh, my.” I sat down beside Amanda. “Actually, she wouldn’t be my cousin, since she was only my aunt’s niece by marriage. In fact, she wouldn’t be a blood relative at all.”
“Hey, you’re not prejudiced, are you?”
“I like to think I’m not. Are you?”
“Hell, no. I just don’t like to see you taking your stuff out on Moriah. She’s okay, you know? Your aunt really liked her.”
“Tell me about my aunt.”
“Like what do you want to know?”
“Anything and everything.”
Amanda lifted both legs and stretched them in front of her. They were easily twice as long as mine.
“Let’s see. Well, you knew your aunt was married, right? And that her husband wasn’t white?”
“Yes. But I only recently found out, only yesterday, as a matter of fact.”
“Hmm. Did you know that your aunt’s husband, Kevin Johnson, left her?”
“He did? I guess I just assumed that he’d died.”
“Well, he did. A couple of years ago from cancer. But he left your aunt a long time before that.”
“Do you know why?”
“No. I was just a little girl then.” Amanda stretched her arms and arched her back. Her left hand came so close to hitting my face that the fine hairs on her arm tickled my nose.
I recoiled and then smiled graciously. “You realize, don’t you, that I might well sell this house.”
“Yeah, that’s what my mom says. She says I ought to get used to the idea and start practicing at home. But it’s more peaceful here.”
“I see. I take it you and your mom don’t get along very well.”
“We have our issues. That’s Mom’s word. Anyway, if you ask me, she’s jealous of my relationship with your aunt—I mean what we used to have—well, you know what I mean.”
“Yes.”
“Lula Mae didn’t bug me about things,” Amanda volunteered. “Mom’s always on my case.”
“That’s part of the job, dear.”
Amanda snorted. “Yeah, but it isn’t my fault Lula Mae died. And it’s not my fault Mom can’t afford to keep me in school.”
“There is just your mom?” I asked gently.
“Yeah, my dad died when I was just a baby. Mom works as a waitress over at the Pirate’s House Restaurant, but she can’t afford a place like Juilliard. And let’s face it, I’m not good enough to get a full scholarship. So, Mom wants me to get a job. Does that suck or what?”
“It has got to be a huge letdown. I bet just living in New York was exciting.”
“Yeah.” Her face lit up like an ember fanned by a gentle breeze. “You know, a lot of people think New Yorkers are rude, but they aren’t. No more so than people here or anywhere else I’ve been. I guess New Yorkers just seem that way because they’re almost always in a hurry. But when you get to know them…” The ember died.
“You’re homesick, aren’t you?”
She struggled to a standing position like a colt getting its first legs. This gazelle, when down, was not a graceful creature.
“Well, I gotta be going. I promised Mom I’d look for a job. But no waitressing! There’s an opening at Penney’s at the mall. What do you think?”
“I hope they let you model. If so, you’ll sell a ton of clothes.”
“Thanks!” she said. Then, because she was once more a gazelle, she bounded gracefully down the steps and disappeared into the humid lushness of Savannah.
I watched her go with envy. Oh, to be that young and nimble again! I did a clumsy pirouette on the step. The point was to convince myself that I still had it. Instead I stubbed my toe
, tripped, and almost tumbled down the stairs. I might well have broken my neck.
Fortunately only my pride was hurt. Directly across the street from my new house was Forysth Park, and sitting on a bench facing the house was the cute guy Mama thought was Tom Hanks. I waved feebly at him, and he waved back. Then much to my relief he got up and walked in the direction Amanda had taken. It was only then that I realized that I had forgotten to get the key back from the girl.
A wise Abigail would have bounded, gracefully or not, back into the house and checked on Mama. The very fact that I had been able to have a halfway decent conversation with Amanda was cause for suspicion. Mama was clearly up to something.
But it was spring, the sun warm on face, and the sound of bees buzzing about the azaleas hypnotizing. Too short to technically sprawl across the steps, I reclined along the width of one and let the cares of the world fall away. How blessed I was to have a loving if meddling mother, two healthy children, good friends like Wynnell and C.J., a hunk like Greg Washburn hankering after me, and money. Lots of money.
The green stuff may not buy happiness, but it does buy security. Take it from one who has seen both sides of the financial coin; I’d rather be rich and lonely than poor and lonely any day. And thanks to Aunt Lula Mae, whose steps I now graced like a less than life-sized sculpture, I was rich beyond belief—and apparently about to become richer.
I was dreaming about an extended cruise on one of those smaller ships with the la-de-da clientele when I heard familiar voices and smelled the stench of a cheap cigar.
“Miss Timberlake?”
I opened one eye.
“Ralph Lizard. We met yesterday afternoon outside Dewayne Kimbro’s office.”
I sat. “And that’s Raynatta with an A and a Y, right?”
The platinum plaything nodded, pleased at the recognition. She was wearing spandex leopard-print slacks and a black halter top. Her breasts billowed ominously above me, and I prayed that the restraints would hold. One sneeze, brought on by spring pollen, and I could be smothered in an avalanche of mammary glands.
Ralph puffed on his cigar, although mercifully the breeze had shifted and the smoke now blew the other way. His black nylon shirt was unbuttoned almost to the waist and showed through the cheap fabric of his white slacks. He wore no socks, and his ankles were every bit as shiny as his pate.
