All the Single Ladies

by Dorothea Benton Frank

  I went back inside Kathy’s apartment, where Carrie was struggling with a clear tape dispenser whose tape kept sticking to itself.

  “Grrr! I hate these things,” she said, shaking a wad of tape away.

  “Yeah,” I said, “you lose the edge of the tape and you can never find it again.” I dropped the boxes to the floor. “Okay, so how can I help?”

  Suzanne said, “Her clothes. I went through her closet and there’s a ton of clothes in there with the tags still on them, including a pile of brand-­new nightgowns. Why don’t we take all the stuff that’s used and put it in boxes and all the clothes that aren’t used in others? You know, separate them?”

  “Great idea,” I said. “The used clothes, depending on how used, could go to a consignment shop or to Goodwill? Right?”

  “Exactly!” Suzanne said.

  Carrie asked, “Could you use the nightgowns at Palmetto House? Maybe someone might need them?”

  I thought for a moment about all the really old ­people who were bedridden whose families rarely came to visit them. It would surprise the negligent relatives to find their grandmothers in fresh new gowns and let them guess where they came from.

  “Absolutely! We have all these supersweet older ladies who would love a new gown!” I said. “I mean, it’s not like their daughters visit too much or ever bring them anything useful.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Suzanne said, stopping and putting her hands on her hips. “Is that what goes on?”

  “You have no idea. Listen, usually family comes on the weekends and they bring cookies or maybe some DVDs or magazines. Sometimes flowers. But not everyone shows up on a regular basis and a lot of them come empty-­handed, with no concept of what their mother or grandmother might need. And they don’t ask.”

  “Well, good grief,” Suzanne said. “We’ve got clothes and books and all sorts of things here . . .”

  Before Suzanne could finish, Wendy appeared through the door that joined the hallway and her part of the house.

  “I thought it might be a good idea for me to put stickies on the few things that belong to me, you know, so there’s no confusion.”

  “Good idea,” I said, stepping across the living room but not making eye contact with her.

  “We were planning on coming back tomorrow with two men and my van to take everything,” Suzanne said.

  There was the spool bed, an older slipcovered sofa with crocheted afghans over its back, and some throw pillows strewn about. A small coffee table, a club chair and ottoman, an end table and some lamps. But the prize pieces of furniture were a gorgeous chest-­on-­chest and a beautiful linen press in the bedroom. I watched as Wendy attached the sticky yellow squares to those exact two pieces and my eyebrows must have shot up to the ceiling. I said nothing.

  “That’s it,” Wendy said.

  She shot me a prissy smirk and left, closing the door behind her.

  “Did you see that face she made?” I asked.

  “I’ll bet she knows we’re onto her,” Carrie said.

  “I’ll bet she doesn’t,” Suzanne said. “She’s not that smart.”

  “I’ll bet y’all five dollars that furniture isn’t hers,” I said.

  Suzanne’s eyes narrowed and she said, “You’re on, but tell me what you’re thinking.”

  “I don’t know but I just can’t understand why anyone would furnish a rental apartment with furniture that’s so much nicer than what she has in her own house.”

  There was the briefest moment of silence while they pondered the question. Suzanne spoke.

  “Why indeed?” she said.

  “Because it isn’t hers at all,” Carrie said.

  “You’re right,” Suzanne said, running her hand across the patina of the chest-­on-­chest. “I’m not a furniture expert but I’ll bet you this is worth a pretty penny.”

  “Before they retired my mother and father were antiques dealers,” I said, and pulled my cell phone from my purse. “I’m going to shoot a picture of this and the linen press and send it to them. They’ll know if they’re worth anything.”

  I was clicking away and Suzanne and Carrie were stunned.

  Carrie was wide-­eyed by then and said, “Ladies? We might have a genuine situation on our hands.”

  “I’ll let you know what my parents think as soon as I hear back from them.”

  That evening I sent those pictures to my mother and she called me right away.

  “Where did you find this furniture?” she asked.

  “In a friend’s apartment. What do you think?”

  “Well, they are both English. Walnut. Nineteenth century. I’d say 1860. Maybe earlier. There’s a lot of it out there, which brings the value down somewhat, especially these days when everyone wants new. I mean, what’s wrong with ­people? I’d much rather have an old chest-­on-­chest like this one than some junk made from particleboard and faced with laminate.”

  “Me too. Do you think they’re worth like a ­couple of thousand dollars or more?”

  “Sure. They might be worth tens of thousands, especially if they are polished up and all the handles are secure and original and so on. You have to look at them carefully, the joints and everything. Why? Is she going to try and sell them?”

  “I don’t think so. She was just curious and so I told her I’d ask you.”

  I didn’t want to tell her the whole story about Wendy and the bracelets and how we thought she was stealing from Kathy’s meager estate. Even though I was all but convinced Wendy was a liar and a thief, I knew five minutes of full disclosure with my mother would result in an hour of inquiry. I didn’t have the strength.

  “Uh-­huh, well good luck. The antiques market is deader than Kelsey’s cow.”

  “No one has money anymore.”

  “Amen to that. Do you hear anything from Marianne?”

  “Not a word.”

  “Well, it’s very peculiar not to call your mother. Anything from her father?”

  “Zero. I saw pictures of his new bunker on Facebook. He’s trying to promote his business.”

  “Dear Lord, Lisa! What are you doing on Facebook? Aren’t you a little long in the tooth for that kind of thing? And isn’t it dangerous to put your life out there on the Internet?”

  “No, and I don’t know what you mean by ‘that kind of thing,’ but it’s actually sort of fun to reconnect with old friends.”

  “If you say so. Here, you want to talk to your father? Alan? Alan? He was here just a minute ago. Where did he . . .”

  There was a beep in my ear as the extension phone picked up and next I heard the voice of my father.

  “Hi, princess!”

  “Your daughter is inviting ax murderers into her life on the Internet.”

  “Hi, Daddy. No, I’m not.”

  “That’s a good girl,” he said. “We both know your mother likes to exaggerate things.”

  “I do not!”

  “So how’s life treating you? You coming down this weekend? I’m thinking about grilling a big bass. You can’t grill a whole bass for two ­people, you know. It’s too much work and it’s a sin to waste food.”

  Last year, my father bought a small Green Egg grill and suddenly his evil twin “the Chef” was unchained and released into the world. He had become the guru on dry rubs and the various advantages of brining turkeys and all species of fowl. When he wasn’t watching football or golf. And on a side note, I loved when he referred to me as a girl, something the rest of humanity did not do.

  “I’ll have to let you know because I might have to work.”

  “Well, the sooner you can tell us the better,” he said.

  “We could invite Copeland and Andree Bertsche, you know,” my mother said. “They’ve had us for dinner three times.”

  “We could. We could. I like them. Co makes a mean
martini.”

  “Well, let’s call them!”

  “Okay, you two,” I said. “It sounds like you have an alternate plan. I’m going to go back to my laundry now. The washer just beeped.”

  “I really wish you had a man in your life,” my mother said.

  “Why?” I said. “Then I’d have more laundry.”

  There was silence from the other end as my parents wondered for the billionth time how anyone could survive without a partner who was sworn to love you and take care of you until death came creeping along to snatch one of you from the other. We hung up and I thought to myself, It wasn’t that I had anything against commitment. I didn’t. I just hadn’t felt the pressing need or had the opportunity to change my life.

  I called Suzanne.

  “Hey! You busy?”

  “Nope. I just got home from dinner. My grandmother Miss Trudie and I have a date at the Long Island Café every week.”

  “Love that place.”

  “Me too. She loves the flounder and it’s easy for her to manage getting in and out of there with her cane. She still has her big white Cadillac from 1985. It only has thirty thousand miles on it. We use it to go out on the town, but I drive it. We call it Gertrude’s Land Yacht.”

  We giggled because who wouldn’t?

  “I’d love a picture of that!”

  “Yeah, it’s a pretty crazy sight all right.”

  “How old is she?” I asked, even though it was none of my business, but who still had their grandmother at Suzanne’s age?

  “Ninety-­nine and she still has all her beans. She’s a pistol.”

  “She sure sounds like it. Most ­people that age have some kind of cognitive issues and usually some mobility issues too. She must be amazing.”

  “She is. She still has perfect hearing.”

  “You gotta be kidding me.”

  “Nope. She can hear a dollar bill drop across the room. Listen, back in the thirties she used to be a wildly popular chanteuse. She played piano and sang torch songs in the finest places in Charleston.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep. We still have some of her newspaper reviews. She was a real character.”

  “That’s unbelievable. So, does she live close to you?”

  “I’d say so. I live in her house on the Isle of Palms.”

  “That’s close!” I said, and laughed.

  “Well, it’s no palace but it’s comfortable. She lives upstairs in three rooms, I’m across the hall if she needs me. It works out great. We put an elevator in like ten years ago. Carrie’s ensconced in one of the guest rooms downstairs.”

  “Miss Trudie. Wow. I’d love to meet her sometime.”

  “Well, are you working Sunday?”

  “Not so far.”

  “Great! Come over! I’m closed on Sunday, so I thought it might be a good time to start sorting through Kathy’s stuff. I’ll have it all here in a day or two. Hey, did you show the pictures to your folks?”

  “Yep, and my mother thinks the chest and the linen press might actually be worth more than a few thousand dollars,” I said.

  “Wow. I think that Wendy’s a lying sack of you know what.”

  “I couldn’t agree more. We will get to the bottom of it somehow.”

  “I hope so. But even if we do find out that she’s absolutely lying, then what?”

  “We will figure that out too! Hey, how do you feel about dogs?”

  “Love them. Why?”

  “I’ve got one. I know this may seem nervy to ask . . .”

  “How big?”

  “She’s little. Under twenty pounds.”

  “Does she bite, jump on you, or pee indoors?”

  “Never. She’d rather die than embarrass herself.”

  “Then bring her! Miss Trudie will adore her! Is she pretty calm?”

  “Oh, yeah. She’s totally mellow.” Unless she smells skunk, I thought.

  “Then bring her! We’ll have fun with her! And hopefully get through some boxes.”

  She gave me her address and we hung up. Well, I thought, I’ve been invited to join the Unpack the Boxes Club. And Pickle was welcome. Cool.

  After breakfast on Sunday morning, I looked at Pickle, who had eaten one pancake and a strip of bacon. She had that worried look. I knew it wasn’t in her best interest to eat pancakes and bacon but she loved them. So, on that rare occasion when I made them, I’d make tiny ones for her. But no butter and syrup. Or for me either, only because there was none in the house. I was waiting for coupons.

  “Pickle? Let’s brush your hair. We’re going out to the beach! You want to go to the beach?”

  She began her dance of abandon, a combination of running backward, stopping to run in a quick circle, and then a bark and more moving backward until we reached the spot by the back door where I hung her leashes. Then she sat quietly, waiting with a pounding heart while I attached the retractable one to her collar. Pickle was going to the beach and she was thrilled.

  It was hot outside but what else was new? I’d given up looking at the thermometer. All it did was depress me. I turned over the engine of the car, blasting the air-­conditioning, and got out again to let Pickle water the grass. She sniffed around and found a spot to leave her visiting card.

  “Good girl!”

  I would’ve sworn my dog was smiling when she hopped in the backseat and I looked at her in my rearview mirror. She was in the passenger seat opposite me with her tongue hanging out, panting a little but positioned like royalty in her special doggie seat. She was simply adorable.

  We took our time driving slowly in the beach traffic across the causeway. Every weekend hundreds of ­people came to the islands for a swim and a megadose of vitamin D, and they slowed traffic to the point that travel time was easily doubled or tripled, especially if the drawbridge opened. But it was the kind of delay I didn’t mind at all. Usually there were a few sailboats with their sails unfurled, gliding across the water. They were beautiful to watch. To my right and left were fields of sun-­soaked spartina, as dense as the pelt of a mink, each blade long and green, drinking up the brackish water in the salt marsh where it grew. Great numbers of snowy egrets peeked in and out of the marsh grass. When they lifted into flight they looked like a band of angels. No, I didn’t mind the delay at all.

  Eventually I crossed the Ben Sawyer Bridge onto Sullivans Island. The fire department’s sign announcing the date of their annual fish fry was to my right. And there was another sign warning about public consumption of alcohol and the fine you’d have to pay if you were caught. The fine was as wacky as the law was ill-­conceived. Why one thousand and forty dollars? Why not eleven hundred or a mere one thousand? And truly, when it was over a hundred degrees, there was nothing in all this whole wide world more appealing than a freezing-­cold beer. I guessed the Town Fathers felt Sullivans Island’s society of residents and guests could no longer rely on their own common sense and decorum and that they must be policed. When I was a younger woman there was no such law and beer drinking never resulted in mayhem. In fact, the overserved usually dozed off and woke up sunburned. The island’s dog laws were even worse.

  I made a left on Jasper Boulevard behind a long line of cars and we inched along like an army of ants until we reached Breach Inlet and crossed another small bridge onto the Isle of Palms. I looked in amazement at all the expensive cars ­people were driving. Every third car was German or a superexpensive SUV. Not that I wanted either one but I couldn’t help wondering how all these ­people could afford the luxury. Could they all be that successful?

  “Nah,” I said out loud, and then to Pickle, “they’re probably in debt up to their eyeballs. They ought to know what I know about how your world can change in a flash with just a few wrong decisions. Right?”

  Pickle barked in agreement.

  “Well, at least we have eac
h other,” I said, and smiled.

  Suzanne’s house was right across the street from the ocean. I pulled up in the driveway, got out, put Pickle on her leash, and gave the place a good look. It was an old clapboard house, a classic island cottage with a deep screened porch and a red tin roof. This was my favorite style of beach house. The front steps were made of white-­painted risers and thick boards that had been lacquered black. The simple handrails were forged of black wrought iron and the screen door had the silhouette of a loggerhead turtle incorporated into its design on the bottom, giving the entrance an old-­fashioned Lowcountry signature.

  I’d live with my grandmother too if she had a house like this, I thought.

  The French doors that ran the length of the porch were all wide open and three ceiling fans were spinning on full speed, creating a breeze. Was it possible there was no air-­conditioning? Suzanne must have heard my car door close because she met me at the entrance before I could ring the bell.

  “Hey! I’m so glad you’re here!” She leaned down and offered her palm to Pickle, who held back for two seconds and then leapt forward and licked it furiously. “Sweet girl!”

  “Yeah, that’s my dog playing hard to get.”

  “She’s precious! Y’all come on in. Would you like a glass of iced tea?”

  “More than anything on earth,” I answered, and followed her into the house, through the living room, where there stood an old Steinway grand piano, and finally to the kitchen, where a television was playing on mute. “Great house! When was it built?”

  “Thanks. It’s sort of falling down here and there. I think it was built around 1910. The house isn’t worth much, but the dirt? The dirt under the house is pretty special.”

  The screen door slammed again and Carrie sailed in with a box of Krispy Kreme donuts.

  “They’re still warm!” she said. “Hey, Lisa!”

  “Hey,” I said. “I’m here to help sort through Kathy’s stuff.”