Virgie was most happy to be of any help and it was no inconvenience since she had, as a habit, spent much of every Saturday with her friend since the wreck. One day she brought a bag full of navel oranges from the valley, spent the entire time watching TV, peeling and eating oranges. Another day she brought a bag of peanuts, sat shelling, eating raw peanuts—one pod after another—reading a novel, sometimes out loud for
Margaret’s benefit. And, Virgie could nurse a cup of coffee for the better part of a day. It had to start off hot, but, from then on, temperature made no difference. Waitresses would come to her table, ask if she wanted a refill to heat up what she had.
“No. I’m fine, thanks.”
It was a social drink—something she did when she got with people—so she sipped and talked. Her dentist got after her about the continual sugar wash that habit provided her teeth, but Virgie felt everybody deserved one vice. And, since she didn’t square dance anymore, coffee was her security blanket, her pacifier, so to speak. She could do almost anything while carrying a coffee cup in her hand. When she was a young woman, it had been iced tea. Now, it was coffee. But, she had noticed tea didn’t seem to create the plaque coffee did.
“Oh, well . . . if my teeth last as long as my body, what does it matter. I’d say, that’s the height of efficiency—teeth and body parts, all playing out at the same time.”
33
“I had inherited a very nice little table from my great-aunt, my daddy’s aunt. She had become a widow early in life, had had only one child who died at three years of age of rheumatic fever, approximately seven months after my great-uncle died. She lived out the rest of her days in a very large and quite old, two-story house in a little Louisiana town. Mom, Dad and I went there about twice a year to visit—once in the summer and once around Christmas to deliver our presents to her. It was the only time my parents permitted me to drink eggnog with cognac. She was a sweet character, sat in her rocking chair next to the window smoking a small pipe while the wood stove hardly made a dent in the winter air. She cured her own ham and bacon which were almost always what she gave her family in return at holidays. The bacon was so much more thickly sliced, the hams, so much more succulent and tasty than what we could get at the grocery.
“When my daddy and his cousins went as children to visit Aunt Rachel, if they grew a bit too randy, she’d threaten to lock them in her smoke house. Dad said it was an idle threat none of the kids took seriously, but, out of respect for her, they always toned things down. Daddy had cared a great deal for the woman who had
had salt and pepper hair for as long as he could remember. Kept it combed straight back, pulled into a bun at the nape of her neck using strands of her own hair in place of rubber bands. She was quite tall, about five feet eleven inches and most thin; wore opaque hose rolled down with garters practically every day and laced-up, black-leather heels. She, usually, wore a plaid apron over her calico dress, the collar of which was always pinned with a large, safety pin so as not to expose all that she didn’t have should she need to stoop over. And, in bending over, her dress, invariably, rode up and her slip—‘silks’, as she called her underwear—would hang down about an inch. All these things, though not particularly appealing in fine society, endeared her to her family.
“Aunt Rachel, in spite of living out in the woods, was well-known for miles around—especially, amongst the men. They all had heard of Mrs. Rachel Beauharnais Champagne since she had a real gift with retrievers and, even, bloodhounds. She bred, raised and trained them to hunt. Folks in the nearer cities knew and purchased ‘Miz Rachel’s animals’. They were big, healthy, strong and tireless.
“Dad used to tease her, said her dogs were so well trained, ‘All she has to do is open the door. In 30 minutes, they bring home hams cured and glazed and deer steaks wrapped in butcher paper.’
“My aunt’s dogs were big, healthy, strong, tireless and she had them trained in a very special way that almost everyone appreciated: they never barked at people . . . just animals. People seemed to bore them. And, if asked to, she could train them, specifically, to bark at
whatever animal one might have a need for them to bark at. She was gifted.
“Once this guy from Houston—she said he was a real handsome ‘dude’—drove up to her house, stepped out of his little metallic-blue, steel gray sports car . . . what he called a Sunbeam Tiger. He was overjoyed with the little car which he’d recently had overhauled. Rache said the gent clearly had a good job.
“While he didn’t come right out and tell her what it all cost him—she said she thought he would have told her, if she’d asked—he did go into considerable detail about how it had to be gutted to meet his own personal emissions standards and that it would be tweaked, again, in the near future so it got better gas mileage. Aunt Rache said that was what clued her in that he had a substantial income . . . being out in her neck of the woods in a car that couldn’t do better than 8 miles to the gallon.
“He said it had a V8, 5000cc engine with roll bar attachments tucked behind the front seats . . . ‘hardly noticeable at all.’ Cream and beige interior upholstery, light brown carpets and authentic wood on the dash.
“My aunt said it looked like it was moving even when it was idle. ‘A right smart little car . . . that Sunbeam Tiger.’ according to Rache. It had ‘Sunbeam’ in chrome across the front of the hood . . .
“‘ . . . a small car with a big heart’ the dude told her. ‘ . . . a legitimate Tiger, not some converted Alpine.’
“‘Sounded like he spat when he said the A-word.’
“He’d had mild flairs added to accommodate slightly larger tires, had the front lowered to improve handling and give the machine a more aggressive look.
“‘ . . . to improve eye appeal.’ he said.
“This handsome dude was taller than she was . . . taller, even, than Mr. Champagne had been . . . blonde, dressed in a fancy suit, coat open and flying with the wind. Smiling in a most beguiling way, he stuck out his hand to shake my aunt’s. She said she nearly dropped her pipe, not just because he was so unlike most of the men who came around looking for dogs, but because he managed to fold himself up into such a tiny car.
“‘And, he had to really like bein’ in that car, ’cuz he was dressed just like the seats . . . creams and beiges, shiny, brown leather shoes, light brown socks . . .’
“My aunt noticed such things.”
“‘ . . . a silk tie in blues and yellows and an orange-jeweled tie tack.’
“He told her he wanted to see what she’d charge to train one of her dogs to hunt dahl sheep.
“She told him, ‘If you can bring me a dahl sheep, or at least its scent, I’ll train ’er.’
“Aunt Rachel told my dad the man was just teasing. The man told her he had heard so much about
her, was in the neighborhood, just wanted to meet her. She told my dad the chances of him ‘jus’ happ’nin’ ta be in the neighborhood’ were as likely as him ever bringing her the scent of an Ovis dalli dalli. It was true, however . . . he did hunt animals all over the world, even acted as guide for other hunters, mostly dove and quail in Mexico . . . had to leave his guns, once, at a Russian airport when they wouldn’t let him fly out with them. But, he was quite able to train his own dogs. He did tell her he knew he’d be sending her some business. That was fine with Aunt Rache. Quail and dove she could do. Eeezy-breezy.
“Once a lady from Shreveport brought her dachshund so Aunt Rache could train him to hunt rats. That, she could do, also. Only one problem resulted: he no longer wanted to jump up and curl in the woman’s lap. Being pretty fast on her feet, Aunt Rache told her she wouldn’t want the animal in her lap, anyway, after gnawing on rats all day. The woman, not only paid the fee my aunt charged, but mailed an extra gratuity some months later. For the first time in years she’d slept through the night without being awakened by the skittering of tiny feet across he
r bedroom floor. No longer were holes developing in her rug in the hall. In fact, she was, now, seriously thinking about throwing the old rug away and buying a new, more expensive one. She considered the new rug and the cost of training her pet a fine investment.
“That’s how, in the little backwater town of Louisiana, my aunt survived. And, she attended Mass whenever the church doors were open. She was fluent in Cajun French which necessarily laced her English with a
definite accent. She never wore makeup and she still used a hand pump to bring water up to the house and a piss pot under her bed at night. Her ears had been pierced as a child and they always had some simple wire jewelry dangling.
“She told me that, ‘Jus’ ’cause my man’s no longer with me at night, sleepin’ alongside me in the bed, don’ mean I shouldn’ get dressed up. Don’ matter what I’m wearin’, if I got my earrings in, I’m dressed.’
“I regret Carey was never able to meet her. She died the summer before I started my first and only year in college—cancer. I think, if anyone could have straightened Carey out, Aunt Rache could have.”
*
“Aunt Rachel had a lot of really nice antiques that she started giving away when she perceived her days were numbered. It wasn’t that the doctor had told her so. She just felt it, somehow. And, she wanted the pleasure of seeing her things presented to those she wanted them to go to. She gave me the little table. I guess I polished it three times a week. In spite of its years . . . well, it’s amazing what lemon oil can do. And, when Carey and I set up house, I put it at the front door for setting things on prior to leaving—purse or books or casseroles to Mom and Dad or cookies, whatever. And, a bowl for keys so we didn’t have to spend the last ten minutes searching before leaving the house.
“Carey came in from work one evening. I was in the kitchen. He called to me from the front hall, said something about an office party coming up that he wanted to attend. Said they were giving out awards for commissions made that year and a dance was to follow. I was in the middle of cooking—frying chicken as I recall with batter up to my kazoo—and, only half heard most of what he was saying. I did think I heard him say—no, I know he said it was going to be around a Hawaiian luau theme and everybody was to dress accordingly.
“He asked me to iron him a shirt, went to the bathroom, took a shower. He was out of there before I could get the mashed potatoes on the table. Never did tell me what that night out was about, but he rarely did.
“As for the office party, I didn’t have anything the least bit resembling a luau, and, since I had just three months left before the baby came, I didn’t feel I could justify buying anything much. But, I did purchase an inexpensive, cotton-rayon blouse to go with some Bermuda shorts I already had. It wasn’t bad—fern fronds and birds-of-paradise printed on it. When Carey got home the evening of the party, he said he wasn’t going to change; he’d just wear his suit from work.
“Well, Maggie, you want to talk about gullible? When I got into my ‘costume’, ready to go, he looked at me and said,
“‘Is that what you’re wearing?!’ He had a bit of a grimace on his face . . . as though he were in pain.
“I said, ‘Well . . . yeah. You think I should have
gotten something better?’
“I was totally befuddled by his attitude. He had hardly been around to confer over my attire. But, seeing him in his suit and me standing beside him in Bermuda shorts and Hawaiian shirt did look a bit incongruent.
“He said, ‘Well, there’s no time to change, now. Didn’t you see the invitation?’
“‘Invitation?! What invitation?’
“‘The one I left here on the front table. I left it here so you’d be sure to see it. You, probably, pushed it off on the floor while you were dusting your aunt’s precious furniture.’
“I know, Margaret, if it had been there, I’d have seen it.
“Carey looked around on the floor, under the table, and there it was—under the table.
“‘Too bad you don’t mop the floor like you dust that table or you would have found it.’
“He was fit to be tied. And, I was really, really not wanting to go to that party. The invitation said the occasion was to be a formal/semi-formal affair. He left the house in a huff, got in the car and sat—waiting for me to get in. I started to say I could change into something else as quickly as possible, but he cut me off. I really didn’t have any formal or semi- in maternity wear so it didn’t matter that he was in too great a rush for me to
change.
“‘We’re already late. You didn’t read the time, either, I guess. Weren’t you listening at all when I told you about it the other day?’
“‘Yes, but you didn’t mention anything about the time. I thought I had guessed it pretty close.’
“The only people there, including my husband, who were nice, cordial toward me were the bosses and their wives. They were standing in the receiving line and so courteous. I can tell you, Maggie, I cried the entire length of that line. It was humiliating. At first, it was just tears I struggled to hold back with absolutely no success. By the end of the line, I was sobbing huge, deep sobs and Carey had no kind words for me. When he had shaken the last hand, he left . . . left me standing in front of the chief cost accountant’s wife, knowing not what to do, but able, only, to weep in large, gasping breaths. I felt so ashamed.
“It’s rather interesting: the fact that the big bosses and their wives had been the ones to show sympathy only made my mortification the harder to bear. Had some of the other ‘lesser’ wives gathered around, shielded me, consoled me, I would have felt some camaraderie. The bosses’ positions, being among the ‘Untouchables’, the upper echelon, made me feel only the more pathetic.
“The head accountant’s wife held me close—my head buried in her shoulder—and took me to the restroom. One thing I can say about myself, Mrs. Carlie Lynette Olftersen: no matter what my mood, I can always appreciate pretty things and that restroom was elegant with a capital ‘E’. It smelled so wonderful . . . hand lotion—for free—on the lavatory and tissue . . . nice, strong, full-length doors for each cubicle and large mirrors . . . beautiful wallpaper . . . lovely upholstered divan where we two deposited ourselves . . . a uniformed attendant who helped with a damp compress.
“The attendant, not knowing anything about what had taken place outside her domain, looked down at me, my head still buried in the woman’s shoulder and surmised understandingly, ‘Pregnant.’ . . . thinking that explained fully my overwhelming grief.
“Me . . . I was thinking: ‘This should be the beginning, yet it seems so much like the end.’
“It pained me that my tears might be spotting that most gracious lady’s expensive, elegant evening gown. And, I thought,
“‘How lovely that she and her husband have made it together, successfully, down their road in life. Me and my husband? We’ll be mediocre, at best.’
“When the good wife and I decided I was enough composed, we returned to the ball room where Carey was waiting very near the outside door. He was ready to leave. He hadn’t made enough commissions, anyway, to receive an award. The lady walked me over to him, kissed me lightly on the cheek, told me to let them hear from me . . . let them know about the baby’s birth.
“‘Herb and I want to give a gift, but we’ll wait till
you know whether it’s a boy or girl.’
“Carey drove us home without a word, got out of his clothes, got into bed. I got my pillow and cover and went to the sofa.”
34
“Carey took one of his turns in his attentions toward me. For no explicable reason, he began to show more tenderness, more concern about me and the baby’s birth. I was around eight months pregnant, feeling really heavy in the belly. And, I was big! The doctor, early on, suggested I might be carrying twins, but I think he said that to all the girls. My legs
stayed swollen most of the time. I’m sure I waddled when I walked, as well as the best of them. Must have made quite a sight since I’d gained more weight than my doctor wanted me to. It wasn’t really bad, but he took me off all salt . . . tuna without salt, cucumbers without salt, tomatoes without salt, cabbage without salt. Yuk! And four glasses of milk a day grew a bit ropey so I sneaked in some cocoa and sugar. Fruits were eezzy-breezy, and I did stuff myself with a lot of bread to get all the salt-less stuff down. He said water retention scared him silly—blood pressure, toxemia and all. And, boy, did my skin itch. Nobody told me cocoa butter could help. My doctor was very good, so I’m surprised he never mentioned it. I guess he thought some things a woman should just know.
“He did an interesting thing during examinations. He measured the baby in his own way by placing one big hand under my breasts at the top of my baby bump,
which had long since developed into this huge, hard, mobile mound. He placed the thumb of his other hand on one side of my overly developed cervix just above the pubic bone and his four fingers on the other side. His touch felt so wonderful—like when you massage a sore muscle. Only then did I realize how much discomfort my body had been living with for so many months.
“It comes on, gradually, and your body adjusts, but, there comes a time when it yells,
“‘Enough, already!’
That’s what my body had been saying when he lightly squeezed those hugely stressed muscles connecting my uterus to bone. You don’t even know the pain you’re in until some lovely man applies a little pressure to poor, over-extended muscles and ligaments. Only one thing was wrong: he did it for less than a minute, then, moved on.
Camp Matigua: The Lost And Forgotten Page 18
