Dixie Divas

by Virginia Brown

  Don’t get me wrong. I’m not anti-cat, either. I always had kittens when I was young, and as an adult, I had a cat that lived to be twenty and a half years old. Since she died, I’ve steadfastly refused to get another pet. It hurts too badly to lose them.

  Anyway, we did another run-through before my parents trusted me with their care, and we went inside where Mama gave me another list of Things To Do for Brownie. My head started to whirl and a dull thud spread from behind my eyes to my temples. Brownie eats homemade dog food on top of his special dry dog food. Boiled chicken breasts and long-grain rice only. No salt, no preservatives, and only a little of the broth with all the fat strained and discarded.

  “I froze a two-week supply,” Mama said, and when I staggered at the implication, she smiled. “Just in case of the unexpected. He has digestive problems. And he’ll eat around the pills if you don’t watch him, so you can either dip it in plain no-fat yogurt for him or in the chicken broth, and if that doesn’t work, use the pill shooter. He has his own right here in this basket. Oh, and don’t let him eat anything he’s not supposed to eat. It could kill him. He ate so many terrible things when he was young, hairbrushes, razor blades—half of your father’s dental bridge once—I fear it’s done a great deal of damage to his intestines and bowel.”

  When I glanced down at Brownie, he looked up at me with anxious eyes and drooping ears, one paw held up, the very picture of a pathetic sufferer. He reminded me of one of those old paintings people went crazy over back in the seventies, of big-eyed, soulful dogs, cats, and kids that made you cry just looking at them. But I know better.

  This is the same dog I’ve seen leap four feet into the air to try and snag a bird winging past or a squirrel off a tree limb, and I’m not buying the pathetic pretense.

  So I looked at the neat little plastic containers of Brownie’s chicken and rice to go on top of his dry dog food—that can only be purchased at a vet’s for three times as much as you’d pay for dog food in Wal-Mart—read the list of his medications, and was very glad I hadn’t gotten a job yet. This was obviously going to take up all my time.

  “And I’m sorry,” Mama was saying, “but I just didn’t have time to put you up some meals while I’m gone. There’s meat and frozen dinners in the freezer, and cans of soup in the cabinet.”

  “I’ll manage. If I get too hungry, maybe Brownie will share.”

  “Of course, he’ll sleep with you at night. He likes to burrow under the covers. I’ve been told it’s the dachshund in him. Apparently, the breed used to go into rabbit and weasel holes after their prey.”

  “Now, we might have a problem there. I don’t want a dog on my sheets.”

  “Oh, he’s clean. Besides, I usually just throw an old bedspread on top of our bed and he gets under that. I left a quilt in your room for him to use. Sometimes he likes to bunch it around him. Let’s see, is there anything else I’ve forgotten to tell you?”

  I waited patiently. I knew where keys were, had phone numbers, schedules, pharmacy and doctor numbers—“Which of the vets do you prefer?” I asked.

  “Any of them at Willow Bend are wonderful, even that new vet. Quite a charming young man. Brownie took right to him.”

  I narrowed my eyes. Suspicion is an ugly thing, but it seemed there was some kind of conspiracy going on.

  However, Mama didn’t say anything else about the new vet, just gave me phone numbers of church ladies in her Sunday School class if I decided I needed prayers. Those would definitely come in handy.

  Finally, there was nothing left to write down, remember, or show, and we all sat down to a light dinner of grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup. They’d be up at four, probably. I’d sleep until six if I used ear plugs.

  A sense of energy bubbled in them, and they laughed about the least little thing, looked at the brochures of the Delta Queen and tried to figure out exactly where their stateroom would be by looking at the outside of the river boat. I sat and watched them for a while.

  It’s funny, but I felt like I used to feel on Christmas Eve. Not when I was a kid, but when my daughter was four and five, old enough to know about Santa Claus, and young enough to still believe. Her excitement, the sense of wonderment and magic, had always been in her eyes.

  That wonder and magic sparkled in my parents’ eyes right now.

  “I won’t be able to sleep a wink tonight,” Mama said, and Daddy leaned close and said something in her ear I was glad I couldn’t hear, and then they both laughed.

  “If you two lovebirds are through with dinner,” I said, getting up from the table and taking dishes to put in the dishwasher, “I’ll clean up, then go upstairs. It’s been a long day for me, and I think I’ll read a little before I turn out the light.”

  I saw immediately my long explanation was completely unnecessary. They hadn’t heard a word. That made me smile. Crazy kids.

  As I’d suspected, I woke up at five-fifteen and turned off my alarm clock. None was needed. Even upstairs, I could hear the excitement below. For one thing, Brownie had obviously seen the suitcases. He’s not a completely stupid dog. In fact, he’s quite the little survivor. From the time he showed up in an ice storm, looking pathetic and shivering, he’d insinuated himself into their lives and hearts quite firmly. And most of the time, I think he’s really a sweet, cute creature. Except when he’s constantly barking, as he does the minute he sees suitcases. He relates suitcases to people going away. For a dog, I think that’s a pretty good connection. I’ve worked with hotel employees who wouldn’t be able to figure that out. Bless their hearts.

  “So,” I said when I’d dressed and gone downstairs, raising my voice to be heard over the incessant barking, “is anyone ready to take a voyage on the Delta Queen?”

  Mama just laughed, and Daddy grinned. They had on coordinating clothes again, Mama in sharply creased navy pants with a navy and yellow sweater over a white turtleneck, and Daddy in navy Dockers with a yellow shirt and navy sweater. Brownie wore a navy and yellow sweater on his indignant little body, barking furiously at the suitcases sitting in the hallway.

  I rolled my eyes and reached for a bottle of aspirin Mama keeps over the sink. Three cups of coffee and a cinnamon roll later, I followed them out to the car. Daddy had gone out early to feed the cats so I wouldn’t have to, and Mama fed Brownie and held him in her lap and stroked his head and told him she’d be back soon. Brownie whimpered, playing it up for all he was worth.

  I felt like doing the same.

  It was still early, but behind the morning fog, I saw the pale glimmer of sun that promised a nice day. Daddy opened the trunk of Mama’s car to load suitcases, and saw the big basket of muffins and jellies from Sharita’s I’d hidden in it. They were both delighted, as I’d known they would be.

  Daddy stopped Mama’s big 1995 Lincoln at the curb in front of Bitty’s house. Just as I got out to go up to her door, it opened and out she came, wearing one of her elegant pantsuits and a matching fringed cape. She also wore a black canvas sling across her body.

  “Did Bitty break her arm?” Mama asked, startled.

  “Not yet,” I replied, giving Bitty a fierce look she totally ignored.

  “Aunt Anna, Uncle Eddie,” Bitty said, sweeping toward us with a beaming smile, “aren’t you both so excited? Going to New Orleans on a river boat—that’s just so romantic!”

  After the first bubbling minute or two, Bitty got into the car, and Daddy finally addressed the subject I knew he’d been dying to since she’d come waltzing down the sidewalk.

  “Did you get a chimpanzee, Bitty?”

  “Of course not, Eddie,” Mama said, “It’s one of those Star Wars dolls. A Wookie or Yodo or something. Isn’t it?”

  “It’s a pug,” Bitty said before they could offer another insulting guess. “A very expensive dog.”

  Mama squinted.” It’s alive?” She sounded doubtful and vaguely alarmed.

  “Girl, someone saw you coming. Get your money back,” Daddy advised.

  “I did
n’t pay for Chen Ling. She belongs to someone else. I just borrowed her . . . I mean, I’m taking care of her for a few days.”

  “Come to think of it,” Daddy said, glancing into the rearview mirror when he stopped at the corner, “it does look kind of like a chitling.”

  Until he said that, I hadn’t realized just how much Daddy and I are alike at times.

  “Chen Ling is her name.” Bitty pulled the canvas edges of the sling back, and Mama, who had been looking over the back of the seat, made that sound people make when they see cute babies.

  “Oh, just look at her! Why, Bitty, she’s absolutely precious. Isn’t she, Trinket?”

  “Precious,” I said. “Just precious.” And actually, looking at her again, I have to admit it’s the kind of face that really grows on you. There’s something about those big eyes and nose like a closed accordion. Of course, the fact that she wore a bib, and Bitty had her in some kind of outfit that I swear looked like a ballerina’s tutu, just made her look like a homely baby. On her own, she’s quite cute. In an exotic, drooling kind of way.

  Bitty beamed at the praise, and I realized she’d found another distraction. I envy her that ability. I really do. My solution to a problem is to lie awake at night worrying it to death. Then I resurrect it in the morning, chew it over, approach it from different angles, and if I’m lucky, find an answer before I expire from sleep deprivation.

  Bitty pretends it doesn’t exist. With other people, that solution would end in disaster. Not her. Most of the time, something happens to smooth out the difficulty, and she’s happily on her way, unaware—or pretending to be—how close she came to utter catastrophe.

  So by the time we got to the river bluffs in Memphis that morning, Bitty had talked about the dog, the approaching pilgrimage, how chunky Marilee Thompson was getting since she’d hit that time of life, and a buffet luncheon she’s planning for April 1st. Daddy and I mostly stayed out of the conversation, he no doubt from abject boredom, and I in a sort of hypnotic trance at the amazing propensities of women in our family to completely ignore the unpleasant. My twin sister Emerald has successfully ignored the unpleasant all her life. Maybe I had been found under a cabbage leaf, after all.

  The Delta Queen is one of those huge, gracious river boats that truly summons the flavor of an era gone by if you overlook all the modern conveniences. The closest I’d ever been to a river boat before was the mock-up of one at MudIsland, a nineteenth century reproduction of gamblers in string ties and jaunty bowlers, and elegant ladies in satins and silks. MudIsland is a spit of land just off the WolfHarbor on the Memphis river bluffs, accessible by a tram. The name is inelegant, but the museum, and the reproduction of the Mississippi River all the way from its mouth near Canada to where it spills out into the Gulf of Mexico, is really nice. Kids love to walk in the flowing water that’s ankle deep, and then say they’ve walked across the Mississippi River.

  After verifying their tickets and checking luggage, the line that had formed at the gangplank to the huge paddle-wheeler began to embark. We were allowed to go with Mama and Daddy to look at their cabins since it was a chartered cruise and we’re family. I have to say, I’ve rarely been so impressed with accommodations. Their stateroom had a window with white wooden shutters and stained glass over it, a very comfortable bed draped in what looked like an antique quilt, brass lamps with milk-glass shades, and a spacious bathroom.

  I set the basket of muffins and jellies on the beautiful mahogany dresser placed against one wall as Mama went excitedly from one new discovery to the next. A brochure listing daily activities and points of interest where the river boat would be docking lay on a small silver tray next to the bed. Bitty read aloud, “‘Relax in the cozy comfort of the Betty Blake lounge—’ I wonder who she was? Anyway, it says you can sip tea in the Forward Cabin Lounge then join in rollicking fun—are you going to do that, Aunt Anna? Oh my! All their furnishings are antique.” Bitty looked up at me with glittering eyes. “A vintage calliope in the Texas Stateroom.”

  “We have to stay home,” I said, “and this is a chartered cruise.”

  “They’re stopping in St. Francisville. Have you ever been to St. Francisville, Trinket? They have the most gorgeous old plantation homes, dripping in Spanish moss, filled with antiques . . . . ”

  Fortunately, the river boat gave a short blast of its whistle, and by the time I removed the brochure from Bitty’s hand and got her and Chitling to the stateroom door, another blast or two had sounded. There was a flurry of kisses and well-wishes, a reminder to call me when they got to New Orleans, and I hustled Bitty out of their room and down the hallway to the exit.

  “Lord, Trinket, stop pushing,” Bitty said when we stood out on the old cobblestones made decades before the Civil War. “I’m going to drop Chen Ling.”

  “Chitling will bounce. Besides, she’s in a sling and you’ve got a death grip on it.”

  We turned with our backs to the sun to wave at Mama and Daddy, who’d come out to stand at the rail and wave. Daddy had his arm around Mama, and they both looked so sweet and familiar and excited that tears came to my eyes. I sniffled. Bitty handed me a tissue, which was surprising since I’m usually the one prepared for such situations.

  “They’ll be back in a week,” she said, and I nodded.

  “I know. They just look so . . . happy.”

  “That’s because they are. Now come on. I have no intention of standing out here on these uneven cobblestones in my heels. It’s a wonder people don’t break a leg on these things.”

  Once we were back in Mama’s car, and Bitty had the dog out of the sling and seated on her lap where she could look out the window, I said, “We can’t take that dog into The Peabody.”

  “That’s ridiculous. They already have ducks in the lobby. If they allow ducks, they should allow dogs.”

  “I suggest you take that up with the general manager. Unless the policy has changed since I was employed there, dogs are not allowed.”

  “Oh. Do you know I’d forgotten you used to work there, Trinket? That was what, back in the eighties?”

  “Right after they reopened. Then a year or so later Perry got transferred and we moved to Jackson. And after that, we moved to North Carolina. And after that, we moved to Virginia. And after that, we moved to Arkansas. I think Idaho was next—or was it Oregon? I can’t recall.”

  “Perry was a serial employee when you met him. You shouldn’t have been so surprised that he didn’t change after you got married.”

  I looked at her incredulously. “Are you giving me marriage advice?”

  Bitty blinked in surprise. “No, not at all. Just making an observation. Oh honey, I didn’t mean anything mean by saying that. In fact, I’ve always thought it a shame that you got married with blinders on.”

  “I’m not sure that explanation is an improvement,” I said, but I knew what she meant. It’s true. I was so gullible I didn’t suspect a thing when I married a man with a great set of abs and the work ethic of a hobo. True to her nature, Bitty married expecting things to work out in the long run. And the odd thing is, they usually did. Maybe not the way she expected, but certainly in her favor.

  “So what’s with you and Jackson Lee?” I asked as I pulled out onto Riverside Drive and drove along the curving road built atop the lower bluffs. Expensive homes and apartments line the upper bluffs looking over the Mississippi River.

  “Cybill Shepherd has a house right here somewhere,” Bitty said, “and so does that man who was married to Liza Minnelli—I can’t remember his name. Jackson Lee is my attorney, so what are you asking?”

  “Cybill Shepherd’s house is farther down, and David Gest was married to Liza Minnelli. I just think Jackson Lee is very nice, very smart, and very protective of you.”

  “He better be at five hundred dollars an hour. But he is a sweet ole thing, isn’t he? Stayed with me until the police left, made sure all the doors were locked and I felt better, then I nearly had to push him out the door. Oh Lord—do you think he
was on the clock all that time?”

  Sometimes I could just shake Bitty. She can be so obtuse, that I have to wonder if it’s not something she does on purpose.

  “Probably not. I’d be surprised if you ever get a bill from him.”

  “Don’t be silly, Trinket. I always get a nice bill from Brunetti and Brunetti. I think there’s another name in there, maybe another Brunetti, but it’s fairly new so I don’t remember. Oh, this is Beale Street. Turn left.”

  Reluctantly, I turned left. Then I decided it’d be up to the management at The Peabody to inform Bitty that no animals are allowed in the lobby, and not to stress myself over it at all. Let her find out the hard way.

  Of course, the lobby waitress who brought me a mimosa without the champagne and Bitty one with extra, thought Chen Ling was just “the cutest thing ever,” and there shouldn’t be any problem at all as long as that precious darling stayed in the sling and didn’t chase the ducks once they came down to the fountain. I wanted to ask if that was current policy, but sipped my orange juice instead. There are times it’s just best to let things go.

  Even as early as it was, a little after nine-thirty, the lobby had quite a few people sitting in chairs or on couches positioned around marble top tables. At one end of the lobby is the five-star restaurant named Chez Philippe after the patriarch of the Memphis family who owns the hotel and quite a few other properties around town. At the other end, up marble steps, is another restaurant that serves a kind of blended cuisine, very modern and very delicious, with its own chef. Chez Philippe has a chef who’s been there for years and is known worldwide for his dishes. Jose was there when I worked at The Peabody back in the mid-to late eighties.

  The name Chez Philippe reminded me of Bitty’s Philip.

  “I don’t suppose the results of the autopsy are out yet,” I said as Bitty fed Chen Ling a piece of dog biscuit she’d apparently brought in her purse. She shook her head.