The Glass Is Always Greener

by Tamar Myers

  Mama’s eyes flashed. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

  “Because,” I said, “Chanti comes to Charleston sometimes, and sometimes you’re invited to the same functions, and I didn’t want you to—”

  “Why Abigail Louise!” she declared angrily. “How dare you treat me like I’m a child? Besides, this woman deserves to have the fecal matter forcefully ejected from her person, preferably with a fast-moving foot. The first time she came down I took her as my guest to my book club—the Blue Stockings—and she referred to Bob Steuben as ‘my son’s unfortunately effeminate roommate’—and this is after they had been legally married in Massachusetts.”

  I stared at Mama with a mixture of admiration and horror. It made me proud to see her stirred up over injustice, but the perpetrator of that injustice was just a few yards away, and since Mama already had her claws out, putting the two women in the same room was perhaps not such a good idea. A smart Abigail Louise would have driven away and rethought her next move. But I was tired, and no one has ever accused me of being a brainiac.

  “Just remember that this is her home, Mama. Plus she’s mourning the death of her sister.”

  “I’ll just bet that she is,” Mama muttered.

  I shocked Mama by opening Chanti’s front door and just walking in. I didn’t ring the bell, nor did I knock.

  “Hello?” I called.

  “You!” Chanti said, swooping out of nowhere.

  “You’re sitting shivah, right? Rob said that one isn’t supposed to knock; one just comes in and offers condolences. Chanti, my dear, I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  “I just bet you are. And for the record, I don’t follow all the old customs; I don’t sit shivah. If the door was unlocked, it’s because I forgot to lock it. That’s all.”

  “Now that we’re here,” Mama said, “we may as well sit down. I don’t suppose you still have the coffeepot on. The coffee they serve at the hotel—”

  “This isn’t a restaurant and I’m not a waitress.”

  Mama settled into a high-backed armchair upholstered in red Chinese silk. “Of course not, dear. A waitress would be far more pleasant. Listen, when you get the coffee, please put in a lot of milk and at least two packets of sweetener. But not the pink stuff. Did you know that there is a certain percentage of the population that cannot taste the sweet factor in that stuff at all? In fact, it tastes bitter to some of us. Abby, how does that pink stuff taste to you?”

  “It’s okay.”

  “Oh, I find it bitter as well,” Chanti said, thereby knocking the socks off me.

  “What do you prefer then?” Mama asked.

  “The yellow packets.”

  “You know, I haven’t tried those yet. I still use the blue.”

  “You must try the yellow! Here, I’ll get you some. How many did you say? Two?”

  “Yes, thank you. And a lightly toasted bagel would be nice. Maybe with some cream cheese and raspberry preserves.”

  “Will some Entenmann’s cheese Danish suffice instead?”

  “That would be lovely.”

  And then just like that, the much despised, and despising, Chanti Goldburg waltzed off into the kitchen to wait on my minimadre. Or not. Most probably not. Why should she? This couldn’t be good. I stewed on that for a few minutes, perhaps far too long.

  “Mama,” I said at last, “we have to get out of here before she gets back.”

  Chapter 21

  Don’t be silly,” Mama said. “It would be rude to just sneak out.”

  “Mama, that woman can’t stand you. She’s going to do something to your food.”

  “Now you’re being ridiculous,” Mama said. “How would she poison only me? What if you happened to eat it too?”

  “Okay, so maybe she won’t poison the food, but she might spit on it—all of it.”

  Mama made a face befitting just such a situation. “Nonsense. You watch too many of those college gross-out movies, Abby. Nobody does that in real life.”

  “Oh, you don’t think so. You don’t think that the White House kitchen isn’t instructed to spit on the food of enemy heads of state before serving it at state dinners?”

  “Who told you that? Some Democrat?”

  Actually, I’d thought that one up myself—just that very second. And if they got a very sick kitchen worker to spit into the food, it might even influence the way negotiations went. Darn, but I was good. If the CIA wanted to hire me, they best hurry and get in line.

  “Shhh, here she comes.”

  Chanti entered with a tray bearing the coffee items. Due to the fact that she was smiling, I didn’t recognize her. I jumped to my feet.

  “Abby Timberlake,” I said.

  Chanti’s laugh may have been forced, but even then it was as beautiful as the song of a nightingale, or a babbling brook, or a babbling nightingale—take your pick. “My but you’re a clever sprite, Abigail. Isn’t she a treasure, Mozzarella?”

  “That’s Mozella,” Mama snapped.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry, dear; I’m absolutely dreadful with names. Please accept my apology.”

  I could see Mama take a deep heroic breath. “That’s quite all right, Chanticleer. I have the same trouble with names.”

  “Chanticleer? Isn’t that the name of a chicken in one of Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales?”

  “More specifically,” this little sprite said, “it was a rooster. But isn’t it nice that the two of you have at least a little education?”

  Chanti fixed me with a glare that, if properly focused, could have warmed up the coffee nicely. “My name is Chanteuse.”

  “Well, you did start it,” I said. “Anyway, we didn’t come here to discuss literature or nomenclature, or sip coffee—no matter how delicious; we came to discuss your Aunt Jerry’s two safes.”

  “Her what?” Chanti said.

  “You heard her,” Mama said. “You may be a sight older than you let on—”

  “As are you, I understand,” Chanti hissed.

  “Biddies, please,” I said, and dropped my Danish so that I could clap my hands. Then I clapped them over my mouth. “Oops, I meant to say ladies.”

  “The hell you did,” the biddies said in unison.

  I pretended to ignore them. “Yesterday afternoon your brother Aaron and I went over to your sister’s house and looked around a bit.”

  “How did you get in?” Chanti demanded, her chin thrust forward. “You must have broken in. I’m the only one who has a key.”

  “This is America,” I said. “How else?” Perhaps I was a bit too smug. Yes, surely I was. After all, she was a grieving sister.

  “Huh? What is that supposed to mean?”

  “They either found it under the mat, over the lintel, or somewhere around a flowerpot,” Mama said somewhat more kindly.

  “Humph,” Chanti said, “that’s still breaking in. But go on with your story. You didn’t take anything, did you? Because that was Mama’s good china, and I’m supposed to get that—what’s left of it, at any rate. Same thing goes for the silver, even though it’s not my pattern. But you can have all that crap in the safes, because that’s just what it is: crap. The stones are glass and the metal is—well, I’m not sure what it is. They’re the kind of rings you can buy for ten bucks in the gift shops at the beach.”

  “No way,” I said. “These may have been copies of jewels, but they weren’t those so-called fashion rings.”

  Chanteuse laughed again, and this time it was most definitely not a pleasing sound. “I was with her when she bought most of those. Heck, I even bought some of those and then gave them to her when I got tired of them—which was like when I took them off to wash my face, or changed my clothes, whichever came first. They’re only meant to be viewed from a distance; so you can’t wear them if you have a dinner date, for instance, or if you’re playing mah-jongg.”

  “Why that’s just silly,” Mama said. “Why would anyone buy something so—”

  “Fun?” I said. “Mama, would you lik
e to share why it is you wear starched petticoats that make your skirt stick straight out like an open umbrella?”

  “Why Abigail Louise, you’re just like Aaron Burr!”

  “So there you have it,” Chanteuse said, as she passed a plate of pastry around, “it’s all just costume; it’s really less than costume jewelry. It’s only pretend.”

  “Then why did she keep it in a pair of safes?” I asked.

  “Yes, why?” Mama said, before taking a big bite out of a scrumptious-looking cheese Danish. Maybe it’s because she keeps her waist cinched tightly with wide belts, or maybe she’s been blessed with a fifteen-year-old boy’s metabolism, but in any case, she eats like a lumberjack and never gains an ounce. I, on the other hand, can look at a photo of pancakes in a magazine and feel my hips commence to swell.

  “Ah, the safes,” Chanti said. “I was wondering when you’d get to that. Julio installed them. That was back in the seventies.”

  “Julio?” I said. “Are we supposed to know who that is?”

  “Beats me,” she said. She started to pour. “Tell me when to stop.”

  “Stop,” I said. “Tell us who Julio was.”

  “One of a long string of lovers. A very long string of lovers.”

  Mama sighed. “Your sister must have been a happy woman.”

  “Mama!”

  “Sorry, dear,” she said. “You know that I loved your daddy very much, and Lord knows I was always faithful to him. Always. Even when—well, never you mind. But sometimes I wonder what it might have been like to lie in the arms of another man, to feel another man’s kisses, to have another man—”

  “Good grief, Mama, would you please stop it? Nobody wants to hear this.”

  “Au contraire,” Chanteuse said smugly, “I find it quite amusing. I tell you, Mozella, the French say that sexual variety is our birthright. Or is it the Spanish who say that? Anyway, under no circumstances should you believe that the time for erotic discovery has passed you by. European men adore older women. That said, a woman with your classical good looks, and who has kept herself in top form, as you have obviously done, could own the day at any beach along the Riviera.”

  Mama dropped what remained of her Danish on her plate. “Are you pulling my size two petite leg, Chanti?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Abby, did you hear that? We’re going to France!”

  “No, Mama, we are not going to France. I am quite happy with the man I’ve got, and my generation was smart enough to do our—call it what you will—before we had flab and back hair, so I’m not interested in squeezing the Charmin, no matter how charming the accent.”

  “Abby, that is so disgusting. Chanti, dear, please excuse my daughter’s vulgarity; it certainly was not the way she was raised.”

  “I hear you,” Chanti said. “It’s the same way with my Rob.”

  “As long as I’m being rude,” I said, “I’d like to interrupt long enough to ask about this Julio. Why did he install two safes?”

  “Oh, we’re back to that, are we? If you must know, then, Julio was Colombian. The safes were for drugs.”

  “Like aspirin,” Mama said. “Now shush, Abby.”

  “Not aspirin,” Chanti said. “Cocaine. Julio was a drug runner. You probably don’t want to know how he brought in the drugs.”

  “I do,” Mama said.

  “Did it involve condoms?” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “Then I have a good idea,” I said. “I’ll explain it to her later. Tell me, did your sister know about this?”

  Chanti gave me one of her trademark withering looks. “How do you think I know about this? Of course Jerry knew. I keep telling y’all: Jerry and I were very close. Why doesn’t anybody believe me?”

  “Do you want the truth?” I said.

  “Of course,” she said.

  “Yes,” I said, “but do you want the company truth, or the plain unvarnished truth—or, in other words—the real truth?”

  “Just tell me, damn it!”

  I swallowed; first a bite of cheese Danish, and then a lump of trepidation. “The reason that no one can believe that you two were close is because you have the personality of a frozen codfish. It’s hard to imagine you being close to anyone.” I swallowed again. “That was the company version. Hee hee—just kidding about that. But seriously, Chanti, you do strike me as being formidable, whereas your sister was very approachable.”

  “But you hardly knew her!”

  “That’s right, I didn’t. Yet she was nice to me from the start. No preconceived notions of who I was, no judgments levied against my life partner.”

  “Well, I should say not! You’re married to a very handsome heterosexual man. If my son was married to a beautiful heterosexual woman, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

  “Honestly, Chanti,” I said, “you’re so shallow that if the sun came out for fifteen minutes you’d dry up and disappear.”

  “Huh? I don’t get it,” she said.

  “Good one,” Mama said.

  “The other people in your life have their own wants and needs,” I said, “and they aren’t always going to line up with yours. Learning that won’t necessarily make you happy, but dwelling on the differences between your expectations and what they’re likely to deliver is guaranteed to make you miserable.”

  The tears welled up in her eyes. Whereas I am definitely an “ugly cry,” Chanti was a “heart-wrenching cry.” What I mean is, here was a beautiful, well-dressed, older woman, who normally exuded extreme confidence, suddenly reduced to the most vulnerable and pathetic stance a person can assume. Before there were times when I’d been tempted to punch her in the knee pits in order to bring her down a notch or two, and now my instinct was to hug her.

  “Life is s-so hard,” she blubbered.

  “There, you see what you’ve done,” Mama said, and beat me to the hug. That was actually a very good thing, because Chanti was a rather tall woman, and being fashion-forward, was wearing heels that put her somewhere up in the stratosphere. Mama, of course, always wears pumps and thus is consistently three inches taller than yours truly. Had I hugged Chanti, I might have snatched my head away in acute embarrassment; enough said.

  “What’s going on?” a male voice boomed.

  Three heads swiveled.

  Chapter 22

  Bob!” I cried joyfully. “You’re just the person we’ve been talking about!”

  “I bet you have,” he said.

  Bob Steuben is Rob Goldburg’s one true love, life partner, and business associate, but he is also the thorn in Chanti’s flesh, the one that had just reduced her to tears. How fortunate she was that I had just gifted her with such powerful words of wisdom: pearls, rubies—she got the works! If only the universe had been this generous, and timely, with me when I was in need. Not that I’m complaining, mind you—okay, maybe a wee bit. I’m just saying that there was no Abigail Timberlake on hand when Buford announced that he was trading me in for a silicone-enhanced bimbo half my age named Tweetie.

  “Oy vey,” Chanti said, and started to turn away.

  “Oh no, you don’t,” I hissed. Incidentally, hissing without an S is a skill that I’ve learned from Agatha Award–winning novelists, and it can be quite intimidating. It worked on Chanti.

  “But he’s ruined my life.”

  “I’ll cloud up and rain all over you if you don’t get over there and give him a hug. I mean it. I may be small, but I can tan your hide till it won’t hold shucks.”

  Chanti, bless her heart, grinned. “I don’t know what the hell you just said, but all right.” She walked over to her son-in-law and gingerly put her arms around him. “Hey Bob.”

  “Hi Chanti.”

  She put her arms around him properly. “Just one little thing, Bob. In the South we say ‘hey’ or ‘ha’; not ‘hi-ee.’ ”

  “So,” Mama said, as we were pulling away from Chanti’s house in her leafy Myers Park neighborhood, “all’s well that ends well. Right, Ab
by? Franklin Roosevelt said that, I believe.”

  “He may have, Mama,” I said, “but Shakespeare said it first. And what is it that ended so well?”

  “Why just everything! We can cross Chanti off your list of suspects, and she’s going to be pleasant to Bob from now on, thanks to you.”

  “Mama, what Toy says is true: you don’t need rose-colored glasses, because your irises are already tinted that hue.”

  My peripheral vision has been waning in recent years, but it was still good enough for me to see Mama stiffen in her seat. “Why that little whippersnapper. I should tan his hide till it don’t hold shucks—and Abby, you stole that line from your daddy!”

  “Nah, I merely borrowed it,” I said.

  “Don’t you get smart with me,” Mama said. “Remember that it was me who birthed you.”

  “Yes, seventy-five years ago.”

  “Don’t be silly; that’s my age—wait just one cotton-pickin’ minute! Hey, no fair tricking a senior citizen! There should be a law against that. When I get home I’m going to write to President Obama.”

  “Perhaps you should try writing Senator John McCain instead. He’s closer to your age. He might relate to you better.”

  “Abigail!”

  “Yes, Mama?”

  “You’re incorrigible.”

  “Yes, Mama, I am.”

  “Abby?”

  “Yes, Mama?”

  “The cop is behind you again.”

  “Very funny, Mama.”

  But since Mama can’t duplicate the sound of a siren—believe me, she’s tried—I soon looked in the mirror—and then immediately pulled over. Fortunately, by then we were out of sight of Chanti’s house.

  I asked Mama to get my license out of my purse while I arranged my lips into a pleasant formation and lowered the window on my side of the car. But when I snuck a peak in my side view mirror, I nearly had the big one.

  “Oh crap,” I squeaked.

  “What’s wrong,” Mama said.

  “Remember Tweedledee and Tweedledum down in Charleston? Well, Charlotte has its own version: Wimbler and Krupp.”