by Tamar Myers
“You signed up as well?”
“Yes, but I still have a right to grumble. This is America.”
I didn’t bother to excuse myself.
I must say that the food was excellent. It was prepared inside the grand dame’s house and rushed outside under sterling silver domes. Nothing was ever too cold, or too warm, or lacking. It was the first buffet that I’d attended where I didn’t feel like I had to hunt around to find a “good piece,” or else feel guilty that I’d taken the last recognizable serving of that particular selection.
Not that I got much of a chance to actually eat. My new mother trotted me around the tables, proudly introducing me to a bazillion folks, none of whom seemed to care a stuffed fig’s worth about meeting me. I got the impression that Dora, bless her heart, had outlived anyone who remembered that she had a daughter. Either that or the real Clara van Aswegen’s contemporaries had moved away to larger towns, seeking opportunities that a sleepy fishing village in that day couldn’t provide.
The only person who showed any interest at all was the indomitable Lady Bowfrey. When Dora brought me over, the self-proclaimed empress with the chopsticks in her hair snapped her pudgy fingers. The music stopped abruptly.
“Clara,” she said, letting the word roll off her tongue almost like a European would. “Welcome home.”
I had the urge to curtsy, but wisely refrained. “Thank you.”
“How long will you be staying?”
“Well—I—”
“She’s on her way to see the Dalai Lama,” Dora said. “It’s all very hush-hush, but when this particular assignment is over, you’ll be retiring, won’t you dear?” She put her arm around my shoulder and squeezed.
Lady Bowfrey closed one eye and regarded me with the other, which was now as round as a marble. “The Dalai Lama? I hope you’re not involved with this free Tibet nonsense. You know, of course, that Tibet never was anything other than a province of China. All you have to do is look at a map to see that.”
“I beg to differ. The Tibetan culture is distinct: first of all, the language is Tibetan, not Mandarin—”
The round eye narrowed. “Really, Clara, perhaps you should limit your conversations to subjects upon which you are qualified to comment.”
That did it; that hiked my hackles—petite as they might be. “Miss Bowfrey, is it possible that your defense of Communist China is predicated on the fact that you do extensive business with them?”
Until that second I was unaware that virtually everyone in the tent, waitpersons included, was paying avid attention to our conversation. Now I could feel their eyes boring into my back. I tried to take a deep slow breath, but all the available oxygen had already been sucked from the air.
“You will not call me ‘Miss,’” the grand dame hissed, as loud as an overheated boiler, one that might explode imminently. “In fact, you will never call me anything again, because you will leave this tent!”
Although she was unable to rise to her feet in her majestic and righteous wrath, Lady Bowfrey flung a great arm in the direction of the nearest tent flap. The movement of all that flesh created a small breeze, and a lifelong desire to refuse that third piece of Domino’s pizza.
Dora’s arm slipped from my shoulder. “My daughter isn’t herself today,” she said. She spoke so softly that the folks nearest the buffet tables rose in their seats in order to better hear our conversation. “She flew in from Quito, Ecuador, last night; she’s suffering from jet lag.”
“Foolish woman,” Lady Bowfrey said scornfully to Dora. “How stupid do you think I am? Quito is in the same time zone as Charleston. Therefore you shall leave as well. I don’t know what sort of scam the two of you are pulling, but I sure as heck can tell bad stage makeup when I see it. Whoever did this shouldn’t even be allowed near a high school play.”
Wynnell had been lurking within easy earshot, and I glanced over to see her reaction. As I suspected, the poor dear was crushed. Absolutely humiliated. I looked away quickly, so as not to draw attention to her, but alas, some folks were already making the connection.
“You’re despicable, Miss Bowfrey,” I said, and grabbing Dora by an arm, dragged her out of the tent and away from the sideshow that one exceedingly wealthy newcomer had managed to create in an otherwise still very pleasant town.
Wynnell joined us on a run, her head down.
My heart broke for Wynnell. I honestly thought she’d done a masterful job. What’s more, she’d passed the “Bob test” with flying colors. To be so cruelly exposed in front of a hundred or more people was just more than she could bear. Before we even got back to Dora’s house she was crying so hard I had to help her walk. When we got there, we made her lie on the sofa, with her head elevated, while I called Ed and Dora made us all cups of herbal tea.
Ed, bless his heart, was Johnny-on-the-spot. He was also a very convincing liar, or else he too didn’t know who I was. At any rate, after he and Wynnell left, I stayed long enough to have a second cup of herbal tea while I tried to comfort poor Dora. The Wednesday morning breakfasts had been the highpoints of her weeks. They were the only thing she looked forward to anymore—except for Heaven.
Dora told me that she was a Presbyterian born and bred. She told me that her church was only two blocks away. However, lately the Presbyterian Church seemed to have gotten a mite too liberal in its views, so she was thinking of joining the Mount Pleasant Episcopalians. What did I think about homosexuals?
“I think that some are tall, some are short, some are fat, some are thin, some are kind, some are mean—” My phone rang. “Excuse me, Dora.” I turned away for a modicum of privacy. “Greg, this isn’t a good time.”
“Hon, turn on Charleston Chats right now.”
“Huh?”
“The talk show; you’re on it.” He hung up.
I must admit that my brain misfired a few times, but within a crucial thirty seconds I managed to convince Dora to turn on the nearest television. The timing was perfect.
“Welcome back to Charleston Chats,” a young beautiful black woman said. “I am your hostess, Keesha Pinckney, and today I’m talking to Pagan Willifrocke, private eye extraordinaire. Pagan has been on a secret assignment to ferret out a possible gang of ivory smugglers. Pagan, tells us specifically, how you set about doing this.”
And there indeed was Pagan Willifrocke with her flowing blond tresses and her movie star good looks. She had the temerity to toss those locks and smile coyly before beginning her breathy explanation.
“Well, Keesha, I knew that contraband ivory—lots, of it—was entering the Port of Charleston. I just didn’t know who the mastermind was. Then I read an ad in the Post and Courier that seemed as if it might have been written by the mastermind herself. So I agreed to meet this person for dessert at Poogan’s Porch.”
I gasped.
“Were you wired?” Keesha asked.
“You betcha.”
I staggered to the closest chair. It was already taken by Dora, so I sat on the armrest.
“Would you mine playing that tape for us?”
“I’d be delighted.”
PAGAN: “What shall I call you?”
ME: “The name is Sweathog.”
PAGAN: “Good afternoon, Miss Sweathog. I understand that there will be certain consequences if I cross you. Can you please elaborate? By the way, I don’t handle pain well. What’s the best I could hope for?”
ME: “Hope to die.”
PAGAN: “Oh my, I see that we’re getting down to the nitty-gritty right away. In that case, do you head up the ivory smuggling ring?”
ME: “Yes.”
PAGAN: “Please tell how you operate.”
ME: “Once I sell this shipment, then I’ll turn to my supplier, and he’ll turn to his source, which is the poacher.”
I couldn’t push the Off button fast enough. “Uh—that wasn’t who you think it is,” I said to Dora. “Miss Sweathog—what kind of childish stunt is that?”
“Why Abby, that was
you!”
“No way, José! I mean, how can you be sure?”
She eyed me warily for the first time. I could almost hear her heart race as she leaned away from me in the chair.
When I called Greg back he told me the boat was still docked in Shem Creek and I should meet him there. Since I was only five minutes away, I expected him to waiting for me—or at least for the cabin door to be unlocked. Understandably, then, I rapped rather sharply on the glass pane with my car keys.
Booger opened the door. “Yes, ma’am?”
“Hey, Booger,” I said as I tried to slip past him.
Booger blocked the door with his sturdy frame. “Whoa there, little lady. We ain’t buying none of what you’re selling today.”
“I’m not selling anything, Booger; let me in.”
“Sorry, ma’am.” He started to close the door.
It’s a little known fact that Booger and George W. were twins separated at birth, and therefore only God and a stick of dynamite can get them to change their minds once they’re made up. When I saw that door starting to close, I knew I had no choice but to act. Despite the fact that I was wearing a skirt, I threw myself at the space left open by his knock-knees. My head made it though, as did my shoulders, but alas, my hips acted as bumper stoppers. To any slightly inebriated tourist who happened to be strolling along the dock that morning, it might have looked as if a bowlegged deckhand was riding a squat pony—backward.
Of course at that very moment Greg came charging up the stairs that led from the hold. “What the heck?”
Booger struggled to turn around, and in the effort stepped on my foot. “This woman just barged in here. You think she’s a terrorist?”
Greg stared me in the eyes. “Yes,” he drawled. “I believe she is.”
By then I was all the way inside and on my feet. “I am not a terrorist!”
“Booger,” Greg said. “Close the door and prepare to cast off. We’ll take this one out to the Gulf Stream, give her a life vest, and if the sharks don’t get her, she gets a free ride all the way up to the coast of Scotland. Did you know, ma’am, that they can grow palm trees on the coast of Scotland thanks to the Gulf Stream?”
“Greg,” I screamed. “It’s me, Abby!”
My beloved laughed merrily, but poor Booger was blown away. “What the heck is going on?” he said. His expression reminded me of C.J.’s cousin Orville, who got his head stuck in a window fan for a mite longer than he’d planned.
“It really is my Abby,” Greg said, enfolding me in his arms. He smelled like a combination of diesel fuel, ship’s paint, and fish, but with a slight overtone of Liquid Plummer.
“Well I’ll be dippity-doodled and hornswaggled,” Booger said. “And here I thought you was just some pushy old lady trying barge her way in.”
“And now,” Greg said, “you know that she’s my old lady, right?”
“Right.”
“Booger,” I said, “if I weren’t a lady, I’d punch you in the nose.” I caught my breath. “So guys, what gives? Why are you still in port?”
20
Greg and Booger, bless their hearts, had not gone to sea that day because they’d had too much to eat at the Seewee Restaurant on Route 17N the night before. The Seewee, named after a now tragically extinct Indian tribe, serves up the best home cooking south of Norfolk and north of Jacksonville. A fried grouper, a fried flounder, a chicken fried steak, and two basketfuls of hush puppies were no match for the boat’s new plumbing. Once the men got everything shipshape again they collapsed in front of the TV, and that’s when Gregory heard my voice on local chat TV.
“Booger,” Greg said when we were caught up, “seeing as how the morning’s shot, and the tide is running against us, and the wind’s picking up, why don’t we just call it a day?”
“Nah, this ain’t nothing. Besides, we caught ourselves a huge mess of shrimp that time we took Jimmy Estes out with us, and the weather was a lot worse than this.”
“Okay, let me put it another way: I don’t want to go out.”
“But we’ll lose money!”
Greg shook his head and sighed. “Abby, hon, I’m sorry.”
“That’s all right, dear.”
“No, it’s not,” my husband said, and turned back to his cousin. “Look, Booger, give us ten minutes. And stay inside. If I see the whites of your eyes, I’ll punch you in the nose myself. Is that understood?”
Booger nodded, whereupon Greg took my hand and led me back on deck. Although there was enough of a breeze to raise whitecaps on the distant harbor, the sun felt good on my cheeks. The screams of the swooping sea gulls was music to my ears. In many respects, it was a typical day at Shem Creek—but it was not.
Greg held me tightly for a long time. Then, releasing me slowly, he looked into my eyes once more.
“Abby, what are you up to this time?”
“The truth?”
“The whole truth, and nothing but.”
I gave him an edited, nutshell version, before they cut and pasted snippets so the interview would sound the way Pagan Willifrocke wanted it to sound. My beloved knew me well enough to fill in the blanks and construct the unedited version on his own.
He hugged me again when I was through. “Don’t panic,” he said tenderly. “First of all, she never used your name, which is a good thing for her. Because since she took your words out of context, she’s made herself open to a lawsuit. But the really good news is, Abby, that your voice isn’t that recognizable over TV.”
“It isn’t?”
“You sound disappointed.”
“Maybe a little bit—well, you said to be honest.”
“That’s exactly right. You see, I recognized it right away, and I think that your mother would have—but Booger didn’t. I called my aunt after I called you. She’d seen the show as well. She hadn’t a clue what that little stunt was all about. She said it bored her to tears.”
“Greg, why would Pagan Willifrocke record me like that? Do you think she’s somehow connected to Mr. Curly? To the real smugglers? Or does she just walk around with a microphone in her blouse?”
Greg laughed. “You know, as strange as it might seem, I’d bet dollars to Krispy Kremes on the last one. She was scheduled to appear on the show, and didn’t have anything juicy to talk about, so she was taping everything she could. That woman is a publicity hound pure and simple. Trust me—she’ll go far one of these days.”
“You think she’s pretty?”
“Heck no; she’s gosh darn beautiful.” Actually, Greg’s language was a bit more emphatic than that. Since I prefer instant karma over the slow variety, I delivered a sharp kick to his shins.
“Ow! What was that for?”
“Watch your language when you’re talking to a lady, even if she is your wife. Besides, I’ve seen Pagan close up. Her legendary bosom contains more petroleum by-products than the Exxon Valdez spill, and yes, her hair color is natural—to some species of dried prairie grass.”
“Why Abby, I think you’re jealous of my relationship with someone I haven’t even met.”
“See that you keep it that way, tiger.”
His response was a kiss that nearly removed my tonsils.
The problem is that Greg trusts me too much. Okay, I suppose I could cop to being too hard-headed, but I won’t. Greg’s advice (he knew better than to order me to do anything) was to drive straight home, scrub off all traces of Carla van Aswegen, and eat a nice lunch while I watched All My Children. It was, in fact, good advice, and for once I fully intended to follow it, but life got in the way.
The name of this little roadblock was Mama. She’d been gone so much lately that when I walked through my own front door, I nearly had a heart attack to see another woman standing in my living room, dusting the shades on my floor lamps.
“Ack!”
“Why Sadie Sue,” Mama said, “it is about time you showed up.”
I patted my chest. “You about gave me the big one, seeing you standing here.”
>
“Why on earth should that scare you, Sadie Sue? I live here, remember?”
I eased my tired bottom into the nearest chair, a genuine Louis XIV. “Mama, are you feeling all right?”
“Of course I am. It’s you I’m worried about. You look a trifle peaked. Isn’t all that supposed to be behind you?”
“Mama,” I whined. Here I was, forty-eight, and still uncomfortable about certain things with my mother.
“Well, you don’t look very happy for a woman who’s spent the last sixty-five years in heaven.”
“What?”
“Frankly, dear, you’re a bit of a disappointment.”
“Mama, what in heaven’s sake are you babbling about?”
“Why that’s just it, dear. On your deathbed, Sadie Sue, you promised to take one peak at Heaven and then come back and tell me if it was worth playing for. So what’s the deal, did they keep you there until it was time—Oh, no you don’t, Sadie Sue! I’m not going anywhere with you!”
Mama turned as white as her famous meringue, and I got the distinct feeling she was going to faint. In a flash it all made sense to me: my minimadre was thinking that I was her long since deceased great-aunt to whom, I’ve been told, I bear a family resemblance.
“Mama!” I shouted. “I’m not your great-aunt Sadie Sue—I’m Abby! I’m your daughter.”
But it was too late. The chain of events that precipitate a proper faint had already been set in motion. I could no more reverse them than I could stop a baby from being born. All I could do was try to minimize the damage to her noggin—and my floor.
I rushed over to Mama and threw my arms around her just as she was going down. She might be an itty bitty woman, but I’m even ittier, so the two of us ended up half on the floor and half sprawled across a sofa cushion I managed to pull off as we made our final descent. She was, of course, on top of me. By the time I pushed free of her, she came moaning back to her senses.
“Abby, is that really you?”
“As big as life, Mama, and twice as ugly.”
