Dixie Divas

by Virginia Brown

  Bitty took a sip of bourbon and said, “Because I caught her with her hand down his pants one night. It was right after he was first elected senator, and we’d all had a lot to drink, but I’d never drink so much I’d put my hand down my brother’s pants. I love Steven, but not that way.”

  “What on earth did they say when you caught them?”

  “Something stupid like she was helping him adjust his trousers. I was so shocked, I didn’t listen that closely. Anyway, Philip said I’d let my imagination run away with me, that of course he wouldn’t ever do anything like that, and I believed him because I wanted to. Ever since then, though, Patrice has hated me.” Bitty smiled. “She’s just sure I’ll tell everybody she and Philip played hide the sausage together.”

  “Isn’t she divorced?”

  Bitty nodded. “Three times. Well, technically only twice, because her first husband killed himself before their divorce was final.”

  Not wanting to linger any longer in the dynamics of the Hollandale family circle, I said I had better go home. “I have to pick up Mama and Daddy at the airport tomorrow.”

  “It’s been a week already? Everything just flies by, doesn’t it. Isn’t that right, precious?”

  Of course, the last was directed at Chen Ling, who’d been left home alone while we went to Philip’s funeral, and demonstrated her distress by eating two pillows and an antique doorstop. My amazement didn’t stem from the dog’s dietary choices, but from Bitty’s calm acceptance of them. After all, this is a woman who values antiques so highly they became the major issue in her last divorce.

  “When are you taking Chitling back to Luann Carey?” I asked, though I’d begun to feel the probability of that ever happening lessened each day.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Bitty said vaguely, and broke off a piece of high-priced dog biscuit that Chen Ling sniffed at before turning her face away. “She doesn’t thrive in an atmosphere of so many other animals, I think. Lately, I’ve noticed she hasn’t been eating well.”

  “You don’t think it might be because pillow stuffing and wood chips are a bit filling?”

  “Chen Ling didn’t actually eat all that, Trinket, she just expressed her separation anxiety with a nervous reaction. She’s high-strung.”

  I looked at Chen Ling, who stared back at me rather haughtily. Two lower front fangs stick out over the top of her upper lip, if a dog can be said to have lips, and her flat little nostrils flare slightly. She only has one upper tooth, that tucks in somewhere between the lower two. Drool often seeps from the space where her upper and lower jaws don’t quite meet. It saturated a bib embroidered with her name and Chinese pagodas.

  “And who told you all that nonsense?” I asked Bitty in reference to the separation anxiety that I knew she wouldn’t have come up with on her own. “Luann Carey has ulterior motives, I’m sure. It’s not everyone who’ll take in an old dog with a severe underbite and bow legs.”

  Bitty’s chin came up in much the same manner as when she’d faced Patrice Hollandale. “In the first place, Chen Ling is not old, she’s mature, and in the second place, her underbite only adds to her charm, her bow legs are genetic to her superior breed, and last—Luann Carey said nothing about separation anxiety. It was Dr. Coltrane.”

  Mention of Dr. Coltrane made my stomach do an annoying flip. I stuck my face into my bourbon and branch even though I’d lost interest in its reviving effects.

  “Which reminds me,” Bitty continued, “you two were thick as fleas on a hound dog at the St. Patrick’s Day party. What’s going on?”

  “What a lovely analogy. Did you learn that phrase down at the Farmer’s Co-op?”

  “Never mind that. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I found you two together all cozy and friendly. You’ve been holding out on me, Trinket.”

  “No, I haven’t. Well, maybe a little bit. Only because I forgot to mention it, though.”

  “Right.” Bitty rolled her eyes in disbelief. “So, how long has this been going on?”

  “Nothing’s going on,” I said quite firmly. “Mama’s dog sucked down my emerald earring, and I had to rush him to the clinic a few nights back. That’s all.”

  I’d already decided I had no intention of telling Bitty about my scruffy clothes and straw in my hair, much less my thinking Dr. Coltrane intended to kiss me. It was just too embarrassing. I have a tendency to dwell on these things and relive them. Bitty turns her embarrassing incidents into victories or entertaining stories. I like her method better, but have never mastered it.

  “And?” Bitty lifted a freshly waxed eyebrow.

  I stared at her. “And what? That’s it. End of story. I’ve been pawing through dog poop the past few days in the hopes my other earring might show up, but all I’ve gotten for my efforts is nauseated.”

  “Well,” Bitty said after a moment, “just tell me when you’re ready. I have some excellent edible body paint and panties, and lotion that gets really warm when you apply friction. I’ll be glad to give them to you, since I’m certainly not using them right now.”

  As the words edible, panties, and friction in the same sentence conjured up images certain to haunt me, I went on the offensive. There’s no better distraction from an uncomfortable topic of conversation than to give someone an opportunity to talk about themselves.

  “So how’s it going with the foot doctor? Have you talked to him since last night?”

  Of course, Bitty recognized my ploy. It’s probably in the Southern Belle’s handbook. She smiled. “As a matter of fact, I have. Jefferson and I are going to dinner tonight down in Oxford.”

  “Well, aren’t you just too-too.”

  “Aren’t I?”

  “I’ll hear all the details tomorrow, I hope. I should be back home with Mama and Daddy by noon. Unless their flight’s late.”

  “Don’t they have round-trip cruises on those river boats?”

  “Probably, but Mama and Daddy wanted to spend a night in New Orleans anyway, and I imagine a week away from home has exhausted them. They’ll come dragging off that plane.”

  As so often happens, I was wrong. Mama and Daddy came down the long corridor of the airport to where I waited at the security gate, laughing and looking energetic. I have to admit, I felt a twinge of envy. I know; it’s terrible to envy your parents such a thing as complete love and trust in one another, that comfortable security that only good marriages have. It isn’t that I want to take that away from them or anything, it’s just that I wish I could have found that kind of magic. From my observations, it’s rare. Maybe like finding an ivory-billed woodpecker, an extinct bird that hasn’t been spotted in sixty years. There are rumors it exists, but too often prove to be false.

  Anyway, all the way home they chattered and laughed about their trip, told stories about other passengers and some of Daddy’s former co-workers, then their sojourn on Bourbon Street. Mama’s eyes got big when she talked about the men dressed as women who looked better than most women, even if they were dressed up like floozies.

  “Why, one of them looked just like that pretty little blond girl I see on TV all the time. She used to be so sweet, but now she wears all this leather and lets her rear end hang out of her black drawers—didn’t she used to be a Mouseketeer? I bet her mother and Mickey Mouse cringe every time that child’s on stage.”

  I thought about the Britney Spears male stripper at the Diva meeting, and found it hard to keep from laughing. Mama might think it a hormone imbalance again.

  As expected, Brownie was deliriously happy to see his regular caretakers return. He spun around in circles barking frantically until Mama picked him up and talked softly in his ear. Then he melted into her embrace and stared up at her with adoring eyes, one paw quivering.

  Since I’d already ratted him out about the earring and our dash to the clinic, and I could now relinquish all responsibility for his care, I thought him quite endearing.

  “Little horror,” I said affectionately, but he had eyes only for my parents. A defection I did
n’t mind at all.

  Bitty called late that afternoon to be sure my parents had made it home safely, and said she wanted to come out for a visit and hear all about their cruise. I relayed that information to my parents, who were quite pleased at the prospect of having fresh ears for their stories. Before I had a chance to ask Bitty about her date with Jefferson, she had one of her melodramatic moments.

  “Are you alone?” Bitty asked, her tone lowering, and I rolled my eyes.

  “Bitty, I just told Mama and Daddy that you’re coming out for a visit. You know I’m not alone.”

  “For heaven’s sake, Trinket, you know what I mean. Go into another part of the house where no one can hear you.”

  “Is this international espionage? I’m not up to it right now.”

  “There’s been a Sanders sighting.”

  “Hold on.” I took the cordless phone into the formal dining room and pulled closed the pocket doors. “Did you see him?”

  “No. Melody Doyle’s cousin Serena saw him. You remember Serena? Used to be pretty until after that fourth child. Now she looks like a giant spider sucked all the blood out of her. Just skin and bone. No more life than a dead fly.”

  “Bitty, sometimes you frighten me.”

  “Anyway, Melody mentioned it to Cindy Nelson—they go to yard sales together—and Cindy mentioned it to me when she called to talk about us being on the evening news.”

  “Who’s on the evening news, you and Cindy?”

  “Of course not, Trinket. The news coverage of Philip’s funeral. As a senator, his murder has gotten national attention. Cindy saw the shots of us on the news last night and this morning. We’ll be on again tonight, too.”

  My head got light, and I pulled out a dining room chair and abruptly sat down. I stared at the polished length of pecan table and saw where I’d missed a few places when dusting.

  “News? Us? As in me and you?”

  “Good Lord, Trinket, what’s the matter with you? Don’t you watch the news? I’d have thought someone would have told you by now. My phone hasn’t stopped ringing all day. We look quite good. Nice shots of us.”

  “Tell me these shots are of us walking sedately into the chapel or out to our cars.”

  “Now why would they want to show that? The newscaster starts saying how many people showed up, dignitaries and things like that, the camera shows us talking to each other, and then it goes to a shot of Patrice plowing into that marble sink.”

  “Font,” I corrected distractedly, my mind immediately going to my foot stuck out to trip Patrice Hollandale and the possible ramifications of that act.

  “Anyway, that’s not what I called to talk about, though you may want to watch the news in a little while. Serena Sawyer said she spotted Sherman Sanders walking down Highway 4 just yesterday, and the police are out looking for him everywhere between Holly Springs and Snow Lake. Now maybe we can get him to sign those papers.”

  “And find out what really happened to Philip,” I said.

  “That, too. Isn’t this nice? I think things are going to work out just fine. Isn’t that right, precious?”

  Since I knew the last had to be directed toward Chitling, I asked, “How reliable is Serena Sawyer if she’s had all the life sucked out of her?”

  “Well, just because she staggers around like a zombie doesn’t mean her eyesight’s gone. She’s got four boys, each less than a year apart. That’s enough to suck the life out of anyone.”

  I felt sure that had to be true, and spared a moment of gratitude for my only daughter.

  Then I said, “I hope Sanders is able to clear things up, though he may not know anything at all, or want to tell it if he does.”

  “Well, he’ll just have to tell. That’s all there is to it.”

  Since Bitty usually gets her way, I was sure Sanders will end up telling everything. But I cautiously said, “I hope so.”

  “I’ll pick you up at ten, though I may be running a little late if Chen Ling’s tummy is upset again.”

  “Pick me up for what?”

  “Have you been listening at all, Trinket? Sanders has been seen. You know as much as he loves The Cedars, he’s got to be staying out there, or at least close by keeping an eye on it.”

  “I’m not going back out there, Bitty.”

  “It won’t take long at all.”

  “Then the police can go check it out.”

  “For heaven’s sake, Trinket, do you think Sergeant Maxwell cares one fig about getting The Cedars on the historical register? That’s all I want, for Sanders to sign that authorization and application, and then if he goes to jail The Cedars won’t be bulldozed for some car lot!”

  I sighed. Trips to Bitty World can sound logical, but more often than not leave the visitor knee-deep in trouble. I know this. Yet I heard myself say, “All right, but if he’s not there—”

  “We’ll leave immediately,” Bitty promised.

  When we hung up, I laid my head down on the dining room table and thought about the years I’d spent in the hospitality industry and all the unexpected crises that could and did pop up. There were occasions when occupied rooms were given to guests before the original guests were checked out, so bellmen stumbled into intimate situations none of them appreciated. Before the advent of the key card, keys broke off in locks, were left on restaurant tables, dropped down elevator shafts, and once, became lodged in the private area of a guest’s body. Don’t ask. Drunk guests had sex in elevators and passed out for the next passengers to find. You wouldn’t believe things guests—and a few employees—have been known to do in hotel swimming pools despite the obvious presence of security cameras.

  Yet all that I’d encountered in my years paled in comparison to Bitty’s latest escapades. I should have realized earlier that she’d had a lot of time to perfect her ability to make insanity seem logical. At least temporarily.

  I heard my father call me about the same time the grandfather clock chimed six. Ah. The evening news. My parents may want me to fill in a few details I’d felt best to leave out when telling them about the senator’s funeral. I went in to the living room and sat down in a chair close to the TV.

  Wouldn’t you know it? We rated the lead story. What I’d thought was sunlight had been strobe lights from TV cameras trained inside the chapel doors to highlight departing dignitaries and mourners. Of course, it’d caught the squabble between Bitty and Patrice, though it went by much faster than it’d seemed to then. Bitty came off as cool and calm, Patrice as a berserk harpy, which must certainly delight Bitty. While the cameras didn’t detect the presence of my foot in Patrice’s path, I knew the exact moment of impact. Patrice’s headlong rush turned into an arm-wheeling attempt to stay upright. She looked like a deranged pinwheel, and I freely admit I felt a certain amount of satisfaction in that.

  After the funeral clip segued into a story about obesity in the South, Mama said, “I’m glad you tripped her. I never did care much for that girl.”

  I didn’t ask how she knew. Maybe it was my smile that gave me away.

  When Bitty got to Cherryhill at five after ten the next morning, I was still sitting at the kitchen table with my third cup of coffee and the remnants of a cheese and bacon omelet. Mama and Daddy were out at the barn reacquainting themselves with the cat crowd, and I was dressed, fed, but definitely not ready to go. I eyed Bitty with what I hoped was a disapproving glare.

  “This is insanity,” I said. “No good will come of this,” I said. “There will be trouble,” I said.

  Bitty waved away my objections and poured herself a cup of coffee. Chen Ling squatted on the kitchen floor like a grumpy Buddha. She wore a plaid sweater and jaunty cap. Bitty wore a plaid sweater and jaunty cap. I wore Lee jeans and a gray pullover sweatshirt with Ole Miss on the front. If I ever get another dog, it will surely be the worst-dressed canine in Holly Springs.

  “Where are Aunt Anna and Uncle Eddie?” Bitty asked.

  “You must have parked out front. They’re serving buffet at the Che
z Cat café. Is that redundant?”

  “Probably. But it has a certain rhythm. Are you ready?”

  “No. But I can see that no amount of reasoning will persuade you to give up this crazy notion.”

  “You’re quite perceptive. Isn’t that right, precious?”

  “If that dog ever answers,” I said, getting up from the table and putting my plate and cup in the sink to wash off, “she’ll probably tell you her name is Chitling, not precious.”

  “Chen Ling. You’re only trying to irritate me, but it won’t work. This is just something we have to do.”

  “This is just something you want to do. The police are probably out there as we speak.”

  “Then why are you so ill-tempered? As long as I can get Sanders to sign these papers, and the police have Philip’s murderer, we’ll all be happy.”

  “Except Sanders,” I said, then added, “and poor Tuck. Maybe the mule.”

  “I knew you were an animal lover.”

  Sometimes Bitty makes my head hurt.

  The police were not, of course, at The Cedars. That would be far too easy. Bitty parked her car in front of the house, I immediately handed over Chen Ling, who hadn’t liked riding in my lap anymore than I’d liked her riding there since she also seems to have a weak bladder, and we got out. It was a nice day, with a brisk wind, lots of sunshine, and bursts of spring color popping up everywhere. Except in Sanders’ yard. Ruts had dried into hard clay. Chickens must have flown the coop since there wasn’t even a feather lying around. Fields stretching on each side and behind the house sported a carpet of yellow buttercups and white dogwood.

  Oddly, the house seemed to have settled in on itself like a tattered lady, sunlight picking out faded paint and flaws. The front doors were shut and probably locked. All windows closed up tightly. The porch lantern creaked back and forth as far as the tether chains allowed.

  A sudden loud bang made Bitty and I both jump and squeal. We grabbed each other, with Chitling squashed in between us. A good thing, or my boobs might have put out Bitty’s eyes. I’ve been wearing a new bra that has underwires and a lift that defies gravity.