Suicide Supper Club

by Rhett DeVane

  Abby half-expected her mother to step up behind her. The contents looked the same. Her mother’s god-awful canary yellow skirt and matching jacket, the line of carefully-pressed pants, blouses and dresses, sensible shoes in basic tones, a few handbags—pale for spring and summer, dark for fall and winter—wrapped in plastic, belts that had come with the pants, barely-worn navy sneakers, and one pair of elastic-waist jeans. Other than that flick of canary yellow, so much blue!

  Overwhelming. Abby couldn’t bear to look at her father’s side of the closet. She shut the door.

  Like this closet, the remainder of the family home remained frozen in time. In the kitchen, she had created space for her meager utensils. Her clothes—the few she owned—hung from a rolling plastic rack in the study.

  Even her mother’s Lincoln Towncar had sat idle until Abby finally relented and sold it to a man from south Georgia. The battery was dead as a doornail, but after a jumpstart, the car ran fine. Plenty of people from Chattahoochee offered to take the aging gas-hog off her hands, but she couldn’t take passing it on a daily basis or seeing it parked by the drugstore uptown.

  Abby weaved through the meager path, from room to room, opening doors and bureau drawers. The dust made her sneeze. Maybe she should start somewhere more benign. She left the house and walked a few feet to a block building in the backyard. The key hung above the door on a concealed hook. She wiggled the lock until it complained, then forced open the door. No wonder her mother had considered the shack off-limits after her father died. She closed her eyes and leaned against the door jam.

  Always a bit messy even in good times, the out-building had morphed into a sucking black hole of discarded stuff. Her gaze roamed from disintegrating boxes dotted with mouse droppings to piles of gardening utensils and opened sacks of fertilizer. Vintage hard-sided leather suitcases, crates of albums, and rusted tools she couldn’t begin to guess the use for. A narrow pathway wide enough for one person wound through the room: the only place she could see the concrete floor. Worse than the house!

  Abby slammed and locked the door. Maybe it could be Chattahoochee’s time capsule, opened decades later and studied for its relevance to life in a small Southern town.

  One word summed up her life: Constipated.

  She glanced down at her faded T-shirt and hole-pocked shorts. And when had she turned into such a slob? Somewhere along the line, she had stopped shopping at the mall and favored thrift stores. A Timex was as good as a Rolex. Over-the-counter brands replaced pricey makeup. Why waste fine linen on a card table?

  At least she was frugal, not cheap, frugal. She drove an aging Honda. It ran well, got great gas mileage, and best of all had no payment booklet. Credit cards, when used, were paid off each month. Abby could have been the poster child for debt-free living. Terribly un-American, but less stressful.

  Her one indulgence—high-speed internet access and a nice laptop. A few monthly bills waited. Five minutes online and she would be caught up. No stamps, no fuss. The rest of her life might be for shit, but this she could handle.

  She ditched the cleanout project and settled in front of the laptop. When the computer slowed to a crawl, Abby panicked. She picked up the phone and dialed her next-door neighbor. Their stupid mutt of a dog pooped regularly in her front yard—huge, amazing piles she would’ve sworn came from a mastiff. But their fourteen-year-old son was an accomplished computer geek, complete with dark-rimmed glasses held together with a Band-Aid at the nose. The poor guy’s name caused him more than his share of angst.

  “Hey, it’s Abby. Is Mason busy? My laptop is hacking and spitting. I really need it to work today.”

  Within moments, the front door swung open and Mason Dixon rushed in, his face flushed. If he could’ve had lights and a siren, he would have. “Wha’sup?”

  “All I did was try to get online and it froze up. I think I killed it.”

  His brown eyes flickered to meet hers for an instant. “Possibly some old registry files clogging up the works. Have you cleaned out spy ware or run a disk clean-up?”

  “I don’t know how to do that, and I don’t really want to know.” Abby shoved away from the desk. “Have at it, Mason. Call me if you need me.”

  She kicked a stack of hardback novels on her way to the laundry room. A lizard jumped out and dashed to safety. Why did everything in her miserable life need to be cleaned out?

  Choo-choo Ivey stood at the stove stirring chicken liver and cooked rice into a mushy paste. “Who would have ever thought I’d be spending my golden years cooking for a dog?” No choice. Charlie’s ancient poodle had to eat. Though why did she bother? The dog would turn her nose up at a sirloin.

  The one living thing that shared her space looked up with milky eyes: Prissy, a half-blind, half-deaf toy poodle with nappy off-white hair. Most days, Choo-choo wished Charlie’s little darling had gone with him. When Choo-choo tried to pet her, Prissy snapped and snarled. Choo-choo understood. If it was socially acceptable, she would snap and snarl too. The two of them were bound together in heartache, each disappointed by who they had been stuck with.

  That lovely room-sized oriental carpet? Had to carry it to the landfill because of the poodle’s failing bladder. Then the darn dog shifted affections to the master bathroom throw rug. Better, actually. At least it fit into the washer. As soon as she put it back into place, Prissy peed on it again.

  Choo-choo used a mortar and pestle to grind the dog’s daily medications—one for arthritis, one for anxiety. Charlie had just tilted Prissy’s head back and popped the medication onto the back of her tongue. The times Choo-choo had tried, she practically had to shove her hand to the ankle-biter’s stomach. A second later, the dripping pill got yakked to the floor. All Choo-choo had to show for the effort was a saliva-slick hand and elevated blood pressure.

  “I should be living in one of those fancy assisted living places where they cook for me,” she said to the dog.

  Prissy lifted her lips and showed a line of yellowed teeth. Charlie had called it a smile. Choo-choo doubted that.

  Assisted living facilities. No matter how good, they all had That Smell—a blend of disinfectant and body emissions. Too many memories of Charlie’s final days. In spite of volunteering for Hospice and helping Elvina Houston keep up with details of everyone’s lives, sadness settled into a worn spot and festered. After fifty-five years, two months, and six days of marriage to the same sweet bear of a man, the grief of losing Charlie had carved a hole in her soul.

  One morning several months after her husband passed away, Choo-choo had studied her reflection in the mirror. Worry lines between her brows. Deep, comma-shaped crevasses like parentheses around her pale lips. Unkempt hair. No make-up. The saddest expression, like those on the faded art prints hanging in her daughter’s old room: ragamuffin moppet children with wide, doe-brown eyes that echoed abandonment, only hers were more downturned.

  “If Charlie Ivey could see you now, he’d be displeased with what an old frump you’ve become,” she had said to her reflection.

  That same morning, she made an appointment at the Triple C Day Spa and Salon for a cut, perm, and style. No color. Old ladies with dyed boot-black hair flew all over nature’s idea of graceful aging.

  The next day, Choo-choo took a field trip to Tallahassee for a complete beauty makeover, over two hundred dollars of skin care products and age-appropriate makeup. Then on to Dillards for three pantsuits, two church dresses, a pair of black pumps, and her first ever pair of blue jeans.

  The Lincoln was two years old, and barely had the new smell worn off. The house was paid for, and not too big. Other than a few small luxuries, like fine dark chocolate, Choo-choo needed little. No need to go hog-wild.

  The sound of Prissy’s toenails dancing on the tile snapped her to attention. She frowned at the overcooked mush. Nearly burned! Maybe if she added a little canned gravy . . . “I’ll have your breakfast in a moment.”

  The poodle lifted her head, sniffed, and tap-tapped out of the kitchen. Cho
o-choo hadn’t even put the mush in the dang dog’s bowl yet.

  “Everyone’s a flippin’ critic.”

  The same thing happened every day. Twice. Prissy would sniff her bowl of prepared delicacies, snort, and walk away. Choo-choo found the bowl half-empty later, so she knew the dog ate. Just not in front of her.

  At least this morning held a bright spot—the mid-week visit to the Triple C Day Spa and Salon. Good thing. She was beginning to look as nappy as the dog. She could wash her hair, but it hurt to hold her arms above her head for very long, and afterwards, she looked like who-shot-Sam.

  Eighty-eight years took a lot out of a person’s body. Her favorite nurse practitioner in Tallahassee called it a case of “The Dwindles,” a little of this and a little of that. Acid reflux, anxiety, high blood pressure, arthritis, insomnia, nasal allergies, water retention, an occasional bladder infection. A walking medical dictionary.

  Choo-choo looked at the marks along the doorframe of the cupboard. Snips of black lines. Her daughter’s growth recorded on one side, rising up and up. Hers on the other. One of the few fun things she shared with Jackie. Choo-choo’s side stayed at a consistent five-foot five inches, but it had been years since she had backed up and measured against her younger self.

  Osteoporosis had curved Choo-choo’s spine like a pine sapling bent to strong winds as if her body was attempting to roll into the same fetal position in which it had originally arrived. The nurse at her doctor’s office had measured her as five-foot one, last visit.

  Choo-choo imagined herself as a wilting Southern Magnolia bloom: fading slowly. A little brown around the edges. Still creamy white in the middle. Dropping one petal at a time.

  Choo-choo pulled into the gravel-paved side parking lot and paused for a moment in awe of a restored mansion. Once the home of Colonel Beau and Betsy Witherspoon and only son Jake, the stately Greek revival-style home now served as the heart of Chattahoochee. Nothing within a three-county radius escaped scrutiny and detailed dissection. Choo-choo dared not miss a single installment.

  She imagined corseted women in wide-bottomed dresses strolling the grounds with matching parasols to preserve their peaches and cream complexions. Handsome well-appointed men sipping mint juleps on the shaded porch with groomed hunting spaniels sleeping at their feet. She left out the part about the numerous black household and grounds workers. That whole slavery thing was a nasty blight on the South.

  The white columned house tucked between towering stands of short-needled pines, dogwoods, mimosas, and ancient Spanish moss-draped live oaks. Cicadas called from the thickets. Birds flitted between the greenery.

  The lower level of the mansion housed the business—expansive hair and nail care salon and massage therapy treatment rooms, and a staff kitchen/lounge area. The owner—a New York City transplant—had a private office off the kitchen, and seamstress Evelyn Fletcher’s workshop took up a large room adjacent to the reception area.

  Instead of passing through the massive front doors, Choo-choo chose the delivery entrance. Company comes through the front door. Friends come in the back. Choo-choo helped herself to coffee.

  Elvina Houston glanced up when Choo-choo emerged from the kitchen. From her position behind the antique mahogany reception desk, Elvina kept the appointment books, monitored supplies, and watched The Young and the Restless. Elvina ran the town. Knew it all: births, deaths, illnesses, scandals, divorces, engagements, anniversaries. “Morning, Choo-choo. Hope that’s still good. Mandy can make it so strong it will take the hair off your chin. If it’s too much, I can start another pot.”

  Choo-choo took a sip. “I like strong coffee. At my age, I need all the lift I can get. Besides, if it cures chin hair, Mandy could bottle it and sell it to women past menopause. I’d buy a case.”

  “Know what you mean.” Elvina motioned to a high-back upholstered chair beside the desk. “Sit for a bit. Mandy’s last one was a little late, so it may be a few minutes before she gets to you.”

  Choo-choo settled in. She spoke with Elvina at least four times a week by phone. Amazing they still could find new things to discuss when they met face to face.

  “Heard they’re starting a yoga class at the Women’s Club on Monday nights,” Elvina said.

  “Yoga? In this town? I can’t imagine it would go over well.”

  “Lady who’s going to lead it is driving all the way over from Tallahassee. She looks to be about fifty or so, and really nice.”

  “You thinking about signing up, are you?” The mental picture of Elvina Houston sitting cross-legged on a pillow with a blissful expression on her face was almost too much.

  “Me? Oh, no. I walk for exercise. But it would be right up your alley. Do you a world of good.”

  Choo-choo had just taken a large sip of coffee and almost shot it from her nose. “Me?”

  “You’re always hunting for something new to do. And if you go, it will encourage more ladies to try it. Anything that’s helpful for balance has to be a good thing at your age, Choo-choo.”

  Who was Elvina kidding? She had to be pushing eighty, if not over.

  “Only thing you have to do is show up in stretch pants, with a pillow for your behind. Joy Harris—that’s the instructor—told Mandy that she’ll have plenty of those roll-up floor mats.”

  “I can barely move now, Elvina. How do you expect me to tie myself up in knots?” Choo-choo stopped, squeezed her lips together before adding, “What are you aiming for me to do, kill myself?”

  Stylist Mandy Andrews appeared at the threshold and waved Choo-choo back. She stood and brushed the wrinkles from her skirt.

  Elvina punched numbers into the phone handset. No doubt, a call to one of her many minions in the little-ole-lady hotline. “It’ll take more than yoga to kill you, Choo-choo Ivey. You’re tough as a box of ten-penny nails.”

  Chapter Two

  Eight weeks before suicide

  Monday

  Abby McKenzie sat in her car and took a deep breath. For years, she had avoided the Chattahoochee Women’s Club. Each time she drove by the building, the same feelings washed over her like dirty, splashed theme-park water. No matter that her ill-fated storybook garden wedding was years past. Nothing like coming home to a sweet little love nest, only to see your cherished new husband in the arms of . . . someone else.

  Not that this building had anything to do with that.

  With its dark green shutters, the pristine white structure appeared more genteel family residence than clubhouse. On either side of the entrance, rows of azaleas and dogwood trees lined the cement walkway. In the spring, the fuchsia and white blooms transformed the simple building into a Southern showplace. Now, in the late summer, the heat and extended drought made every living thing appear dusty and droopy, Abby included.

  Abby waited for a moment to see if anyone else would show. What was she thinking? She looked ridiculous in stretch pants, and would no doubt be the joke of the group. Heck, she could barely bend over and touch her knees, much less curve herself into some absurd pretzel.

  Blame Choo-choo Ivey for this. Her and her mulish civic enthusiasm. Three times in less than two days, Choo-choo had stopped by the office, yakking about the new yoga class and how she was going to be there for sure. And how Abby needed to get out and do something other than work and go home.

  Anytime someone suggested a thing might do her a “world of good,” Abby worried.

  Maybe Choo-choo was right. Lately, Abby found herself waking at odd times of the night, obsessing about some bizarre predicament one of The Young and the Restless actors had gotten herself into. Abby spent more time online with the baby boomers women’s forum than she did speaking over the hedges to neighbors. Other than the casual banter with the patients who came and went from Dr. Payne’s office and the occasional visits to Mandy for haircuts, the only time she ventured out was when there was absolutely nothing left to eat in the house.

  Not to mention the lack of physical activity. No small wonder her butt challenged the
seams of her scrub pants. All she did was sit, sit, sit. Her body was merely adding padding in the most-used place.

  A white Lincoln pulled to the curb behind Abby’s Honda. Choo-choo Ivey emerged, resplendent in lime green stretch crop pants and a shirt that read “Om—Where the Heart Is.”

  Choo-choo walked up to the Honda’s window and leaned down. “Well, knock me over with a feather duster. I never believed you’d actually come.”

  Abby shrugged. “Mondays aren’t a big night for television, so I figured what the heck.”

  “Did you bring a cushion for your rear? If not, I have an extra.”

  “I grabbed a throw pillow from the couch. Guess it will do.”

  Choo-choo stuffed a chenille Hello Kitty pillow into a matching carryall and hit the remote lock on her key fob. The Lincoln’s lights flashed a coy wink.

  Abby got out. She didn’t lock the old Honda. Any petty criminal low-down on his luck enough to make off with her piece of crap car deserved pity. It was dependable, but not much to look at, and certainly not flashy enough for a wildcat joy ride with your hoodlum friends.

  “I have the key.” Choo-choo dangled a skeleton key from one finger. “Let’s go on in and open up. Joy should be here soon.” Choo-choo led the way to the fern-lined front entrance, then teased the old lock until it clicked open. “Understand she’s really good with any kind of ability level, or, in our case, lack of.”

  “Got that right.”

  Choo-choo flipped on a bank of light switches. The expansive room stood empty, save for a scattering of ladder-back chairs along the walls. It even smelled the same as Abby remembered: a blend of floor polish, air freshener, and a hint of cinnamon. If buildings held memories, this one hosted the gentle ghosts of time-honored casseroles, laughter, and fellowship. Abby’s recollections of her actual wedding event were happy, only the aftermath provided the stain.

  “Hello?” a soft voice called out from the doorway behind them. A willowy woman stood at the threshold with an oversized neon blue rolling duffle bag in tow.