All the Single Ladies

by Dorothea Benton Frank

  “Stealing from a dead person is about as low as you can go,” Suzanne said. “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely certain,” Carrie said. “Look, they weren’t worth a fortune. I bought them in Asheville from some little artist’s gallery. But they were one of a kind.”

  “You should tell her you want them back,” I said.

  “Oh, right,” Suzanne said. “She’ll just say Kathy gave them to her.”

  “Exactly,” Carrie said. “I knew I didn’t like that woman the moment I laid eyes on her.”

  “That’s totally disgusting,” I said, and suddenly a familiar face appeared across the dining room. “Wait! Y’all! Isn’t that Paul, the tree-­hugging, organist, sensitive guy Kathy dated?”

  They both turned as inconspicuously as they could to verify the sighting.

  “Yes. It’s him all right,” Carrie said. “Should we ask him to join us?”

  “Oh, please, no,” Suzanne said. “I’m already exhausted. I can’t be nice to anyone new.”

  “To be honest? Me either,” I said.

  But I was already in the soup because Paul made eye contact with me. I smiled in a way that I hoped would say, Glad to see you again but don’t come over here.

  “He saw you, right?” Suzanne said.

  “Yeah, but he’s not moving toward us. He’s sitting at the counter.”

  “Good,” Carrie said.

  I looked at them and wondered why they didn’t like him.

  Carrie, who was more sensitive, said, “I just want to be in my misery with you and Suzanne. I don’t want to share.”

  “That’s pretty much how I feel too,” Suzanne said.

  “So? Y’all? What about the landlady and the bracelets?” I said. “The thing that’s bothering me is that if she’d take those, what else did she take?”

  “It makes me ill to think about it,” Suzanne said. “I think I’d better get over there pretty quickly or she’ll have a yard sale with Kathy’s personal possessions. Not that Kathy probably had much to leave behind.”

  “It’s all so unbelievable,” Carrie said. “Look, I can help you, you know. All I have to do with my time is fight with lawyers and my idiotic ex-­stepchildren.”

  “Oh, them. Dear Mother. Any news?” Suzanne said.

  “The little darlings had the judge freeze my bank accounts,” Carrie replied.

  “Why would they do that?” I said.

  “Because they think they’re entitled to every dime I have,” Carrie said.

  “Why do they think that?” I asked. I knew Carrie’s husband had passed away recently but I didn’t know all of the details, only that his children were giving her a hard time.

  “Tell her, Carrie,” Suzanne said.

  Just then the waitress returned with our tea. A waiter followed her and put everything we had ordered in front of us. My mouth began to salivate. It was a Carb Fest.

  Carrie broke off a piece of the waffle, popped the yolk of her fried egg, dipped the waffle into it, and took a bite.

  I waited. Suzanne nibbled on her sausage patty.

  “It’s a rough story,” Carrie said. “Why did I order all this food? Y’all go ahead and start. Cold pancakes aren’t as good as hot ones.”

  I poured a liberal stream of maple syrup on and around my pancakes and took the biggest bite I could manage, hopefully without looking like I was going for some kind of competitive eating title.

  “I lived with John for over seven years before we finally got married. He dropped dead on the altar.”

  I swallowed funny, nearly choked, and started coughing. With a totally straight face, Suzanne slid my glass of water to me, which I sipped while I tried to catch my breath.

  “I told you it was a rough story. Heart attack,” Carrie said. “You okay?”

  “Fine,” I said, recovering. “On the altar?”

  “Yes. Can you imagine what that was like? All the kids were whipping out their smartphones and taking pictures? Oh God! But we had already signed our marriage license, so we were technically married.”

  “So then why is there a problem?”

  “Because his kids are so greedy. I’m fighting for common-­law rights. I mean, seven years is a long time. Right? His daughter is saying the marriage is invalid because it was unconsummated. She should only know the things I did to her daddy.”

  “Good grief!” I managed to say. I mean, what was the right response to that?

  “Unfortunately, North Carolina doesn’t recognize common-­law marriage,” Suzanne said, adding, “I could eat pancakes every day for the rest of my life.”

  “Me too. And weigh nine hundred pounds,” Carrie said. “Anyway, there’s an awful lot of money at stake and my lawyer says he’s happy to litigate.”

  “I hate lawyers,” Suzanne said. “They’re always happy to litigate and send you the bill.”

  “Amen,” I volunteered, even though my single experience with a personal lawyer was twenty-­five years ago when my darling husband, Mark Barnebey, left me right after our daughter Marianne was born. Mark was in Montana now, living off the grid, building bunkers, preparing for doomsday. “Well, I can help you clear out Kathy’s apartment too. If you’d like. We have a steady supply of boxes at Palmetto House.”

  “That would be great,” Suzanne said. “You’re right. We’re going to need a lot of boxes, I’m sure.”

  “Maybe we should take a ride to Miss Wendy’s after we eat and do an inventory, you know? So we can see how big of a job it’s going to be?” Carrie said.

  “Excellent thinking,” Suzanne said, and looked at me. “Want to come?”

  “Sure,” I said, “why not?”

  “I’ll call her. I still can’t believe she took—­”

  “Believe it,” Carrie said.

  Suzanne called Wendy, who said to come whenever, that she was home. Right after we ate, we paid the bill, got in our cars, and drove to Charleston.

  Wendy’s house was on Wentworth Street downtown, close to East Bay Street, in the historic section of Charleston. It was a classic Charleston single house, built over two hundred years ago of tiny handmade bricks, wide thick planks of wood, and other materials by hands with skills that no longer existed. The shutters with their scores of tiny louvers, the brass door knocker, and the doorknobs appeared to be original to the house because the shutters were so sturdy and the doorknobs were so low. But if they were reproductions someone had done an amazing job of making them authentic to the period. Her flower boxes were filled with bright green asparagus fern that tumbled out over the edges while pretty pink and white begonias poked their heads straight up through the needles and thorns stretching toward the sun for sustenance. What can I say? The witch had a nice house.

  We were standing on the sidewalk, waiting for Wendy to answer the door.

  “Maybe the doorbell is broken,” I said when it seemed an inordinate amount of time had passed.

  Suzanne nodded and used the large knocker several times, letting the heavy hammer fall against the mounded bed for all it was worth. It gave off a thunderous sound and I was sure that if there was a living soul inside, the door would open momentarily. It did.

  “Sorry,” Wendy said. “I was in the back of the house on the second floor and I didn’t hear you. Come in!”

  She had changed her clothes and was now wearing tan capri pants, ballet flats, and a big white cotton shirt, à la Audrey Hepburn, Katharine Hepburn, or what’s her name from An American in Paris. Leslie Caron! That’s who. I wondered how many closets of clothes she had. The bracelets had been removed.

  We stepped inside the dark foyer and it took a moment for our eyes to adjust.

  “Come with me and I’ll take you to Kathy’s apartment. Would y’all like a cold drink of something? I have iced tea and, well, water, and that’s it, I’m afraid. I don’t get a lot of company.
”

  Because you’d go through their purses when they’re not looking, I thought.

  “I’m fine,” Suzanne said.

  “Me too. But thanks,” Carrie said.

  “I’m fine too,” I said. “We just wanted to get an idea of how much . . .”

  She squinted her eyes at me, obviously debating saying something sharp.

  “Of course!” she finally spat out. “Why else would you be here?”

  What a stinker she was! She led us to Kathy’s apartment, which was actually an ancient kitchen house that had been attached to the main house with a narrow hallway at some point in its history. There was a locked door on either end of the hall to allow privacy and I could see through the window that there was an outside entrance too. A few steps made of the same tiny bricks as the house led up to a narrow porch. It was completely charming.

  “I’ll just let y’all in. How long are y’all going to be? I have things to do.”

  “Just a few minutes,” Suzanne said.

  I thought, Wow, her mother must have weaned her too early.

  Wendy opened the door and moved aside. We stepped into a small living room with bare heart-­pine floors, and an uneasy spirit permeated the space. It was too still. To the left there was a tiny, neat Pullman kitchen concealed by curtains, pulled back over hooks as though the cook had just stepped away. In the rear of the apartment was a sparsely furnished bedroom and bathroom. I was focused on the wrong things. Instead of trying to figure out how much time we needed to pack up how many boxes, I was riveted on Kathy’s personal possessions. Her toothbrush in a cup. Her towels neatly folded over a rod. Her bathrobe hung from a hook on the back of the door. I had to turn away or I was going to lose it.

  The spool-­post bed was covered with a handmade quilt, probably a family treasure, and comfortable-­looking pillows were piled high. Kathy’s framed photographs covered tabletops and the mantelpiece. Books—­scrapbooks and novels—­were stacked on shelves and everywhere under tables and in corners. And snuff bottles. She must’ve had a hundred of them or more. Some of them were quite beautiful. All her furnishings were evidence of a life lived rather well. In a strange way it felt like Kathy would walk in the room any second, happy to see us all. We’d plop ourselves down and start talking about anything and everything. Except that she wouldn’t.

  Suzanne and Carrie seemed to be having similar thoughts, but after a few questions, the ever-­practical Suzanne summed it all up.

  “Well, if the furniture was hers I think we can do this with my van, two men, and three trips to the beach and back. We’ll be back tomorrow? Are y’all free?”

  Carrie said, “Well, you know I am.”

  And I said, “I can help after two o’clock.”

  We had a plan.

  Chapter 3

  Life Goes On

  At one thirty, my cell phone rang. As always, I hoped it was Marianne. It was Suzanne.

  “Are you still coming over this afternoon?” she said.

  “Yep. I was just finishing up here. I was gonna run home and change and then meet y’all downtown? How does that sound?”

  “That sounds perfect. And if you have boxes . . .”

  “Got ’em! I’ll load up my car.”

  Margaret and Judy had been stockpiling boxes for me. Needless to say, there was continuous headshaking among us over the terrible reality of Kathy’s death.

  “The poor thing,” Judy would say. “I still can’t believe it.”

  To which Margaret would add, “What a shame.”

  So when I asked them for the boxes they offered to help me carry them out to the car. We were standing in the parking lot then, my car jammed to the roof, and I was thanking them.

  “Y’all are the best,” I said.

  “You’re the one who’s the best,” Margaret said. “This is definitely above and beyond your job description to help her friends, but you know that.”

  I just shrugged my shoulders and looked up at the sky.

  “It got personal,” Judy said. “Didn’t it?”

  “Yeah, it did,” I said. “Look, when somebody lives to a hundred and then they die, it’s okay to go.”

  “And this ain’t okay,” Margaret said.

  “You got it. It makes me really mad,” I said.

  “I agree,” Judy said. “If helping them move her things can make you feel better, then go for it.”

  “I agree,” Margaret said. “Hey, sometimes life just stinks.”

  “Yeah, it does,” I said. “But not all the time.”

  “Thank the Good Lord for that,” Judy said. “You working tomorrow?”

  “No, not so far,” I said. “Y’all call me if you need me, okay?”

  I got in my car thinking that I could use the extra hours of work, but at that moment I was concentrating on trying to honor Kathy Harper’s life, hoping to become the third wheel who was missing. I hated to admit it, but a part of me was doing this so I could get something out of it for myself. Did anyone ever do things completely altruistically? I thought for a moment and quickly decided yes. ­People did charitable things all the time. But if you acknowledged that being charitable made you happy, was it altruistic? Did personal satisfaction or a sense of pride negate the good that was done? Certainly seeking recognition for your good works seemed to devalue them on some level. But we were all only human. I’d been taught from the cradle of my parents’ arms—­such as they were—­that we were all sinners, victims of the frailties of existence on this earth. There’s no guilt like a parent’s guilt. Carol and Alan St. Clair could teach a class at Notre Dame about it.

  “Face it, babe,” I said to myself out loud, “you’re not a living saint.”

  So, I put my ego where it belonged and I resolved to help Carrie and Suzanne. If friendship evolved from it then so be it. That would be lovely. If it didn’t, then at least I had done something to help. That’s what I told myself. I used to be that girl who made friends so easily, never worried about a date for prom, and didn’t sweat that some sorority would want me as a sister. But after a failed marriage and a colossally failed business to boot I counted my blessings and didn’t torture myself wishing for things that would probably never come my way. Though I had to believe that friendship was not too much to want.

  And my bankruptcy? Okay, here’s the short story on that. Around ten years ago I had this idea for a business model that was just way, way ahead of its time. So I took out a home equity loan for the maximum they would lend me and rented space for a yoga studio and juice bar. I had been teaching yoga off and on for years and I began experimenting with juices because they made me feel amazing. And, it’s probably important to share that I was seeing this guy who was vegan. He was a bass player in a wedding band and, well, inappropriate. But over time he encouraged me to stop eating animals, and slowly but surely I felt wonderful physically and crystal clear mentally. In fact, I felt the best I had ever felt in my entire life. It was hard to make an argument against the facts. I became quite the enthusiast for organic vegan food. I’m completely over that now. Aside from a little juicing now and then and a few planks and downward dogs, I had fallen back into a secular lifestyle.

  Anyway, I spent the money building the interior of a gorgeous studio. We had locker rooms with showers that gave the experience of standing in a bamboo rain forest and a retro-­looking juice bar with tables made of blond wood of Scandinavian design and pale blue chairs. I had newspapers from all over the country delivered every day and every magazine under the sun that related to yoga, fitness, and vegan living. I had charging stations for cell phones and mixes of whales singing, Native American drum recitals, and Peruvian flutes. You could take a class, shower up, have a fabulous juice, read the paper, and then be on your way. I offered every single ser­vice I could think of for the classic busy woman who wanted to get healthier. I hosted lectures and book signings. I
had a registered nutritionist on call and I even had this sort of avant-­garde doctor from the Medical University who would take hair samples from clients, analyze them, and tell the clients what vitamins they needed. And there was a kinesiology expert on call as well to realign your electromagnetic field and an astrologer to discuss your destiny. Basically, I built it, nobody came, and I went down the tubes. When my inappropriate boyfriend left me for a bartender, I went back to eating bacon. I should’ve opened a nail salon or a micro pub. Seriously. Now there were yoga studios all over the place.

  Looking over the side of the Ravenel Bridge at the container ships below, I watched the sun-­dappled water sparkle all around. It was very hot but the humidity wasn’t too high, making the heat infinitely more bearable. I was still thinking about the fact that Wendy was wearing Kathy’s bracelets at the funeral and I wondered if Suzanne or Carrie would say anything to her about it. Between them, Suzanne and Carrie had enough nerve to confront a starving grizzly bear on its hind legs. It was hard to believe that someone who looked as respectable as Wendy—­minus the surgical adjustments and enhancements—­could do something so downright sleazy.

  I found a place to park on the street and walked the short distance hauling as many boxes as I could carry. I decided to use the kitchen house entrance that had been Kathy’s instead of ringing Wendy’s bell. There was less opportunity to knock something from a table and I didn’t want to make small talk with her anyway. I let myself in. Suzanne and Carrie were there wrapping up Kathy’s kitchen equipment in newspaper.

  “Hey!” Suzanne said. “Boy. Did she ever have a lot of stuff in these cabinets! Let me take those from you!”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I’ll go get some more.”

  I went back outside to my car and brought back another load of boxes. As I returned through the courtyard, I saw Wendy staring at me through the windows. She had a strange look on her face. I wouldn’t say that her mouth was twisted into a snarl exactly, but it was the expression of someone defiant and angry, not a good combo. Her bitterness was showing. I had to ask myself how a woman who lived in such a beautiful home and who obviously enjoyed all the benefits that come with money and privilege could do something so low. I was convinced of her guilt. It bothered me so much then that I wanted to confront her about the bracelets myself. What was the matter with her?