Divas Are Forever

by Virginia Brown

  “Do you mean that as in, some people will do anything for more money, or as in, some people have great respect for what money can buy?” I asked.

  She thought for a moment. “As in some people will do anything for more money is what I really meant. You all know I have great respect for what money can buy. Sometimes I forget it’s not guaranteed as an endless supply, but I think I keep a fairly frugal perspective.”

  I stared at her. She wore diamond earrings the size of butter beans and had a ring on her finger that was worth enough to support a small town for a month. Her casual slacks and a light blouse cost more than I made in a month. Heck, her shoes cost more than my car was worth. But I didn’t say anything. It’d not only be a waste of my time, but would sound pretty petty when all things were considered.

  After all, it hadn’t been too long ago when Bitty had undergone a traumatic experience with a shortage of available cash flow. I’d half-expected her to start washing out her clothes in a Number 8 washtub and hang them on a line strung from one end of her kitchen to the other; or cook roadkill like Granny Clampett. I hadn’t expected her to shop at Walmart. The latter was her only concession to the reality of a budget most people would consider generous but she viewed as poverty. Walmart shares had shot through the roof on Wall Street after Bitty filled six or seven baskets and had to be talked down by Jackson Lee at check-out. Thank heavens for his tact and patience.

  “Sugar,” said Jackson Lee, “you do real well with your money. Most of the time. Just don’t sign anything without me looking over it first, okay?”

  “Oh, I learned my lesson about that the last time,” Bitty vowed. “Everything that doesn’t already go through your office gets sent there immediately. Which reminds me—do you have my latest bank statement?”

  “No, it went to your accountant. Is something wrong?”

  “Not really. Well, not yet, anyway. I just want to make sure the check I wrote out to the Daughters of the Confederacy posted. Lorene Campbell called to ask me if I’d sent it yet since they don’t have my name crossed off the list.”

  “List of what?” I couldn’t help asking. Bitty is on a lot of committees and fundraisers, and I don’t know how she has the time to get it all in between her shopping expeditions, her weekly massages by Rafael or Rio or whatever his name is, target shooting at the gun club, and hair and nail appointments. She also sleeps until at least ten every morning.

  “Contributors,” Bitty replied. “You know the governor proclaimed April as Confederate Heritage Month. There are memorial services for the Confederate dead and reenactments being held all over the state. Local chapters need funds to help with the reenactments and memorials.”

  I blinked a couple times. “You’re going to have another reenactment? The last one wasn’t enough for you?”

  “You do realize that it’s the one hundred and fiftieth anniversary of many battles during The War?”

  “Uh, I guess I do. Now, anyway. So every battle is going to be commemorated with another reenactment?”

  Bitty sighed. “No, Trinket, but some of the pivotal battles will be reenacted.”

  “And the purpose of this would be—what?”

  “You have absolutely no sense of history, do you.” She said it more as a statement than a question, and I let it go. Bitty’s history knowledge is mostly confined to local. Now, caught up in her justification for getting involved in another reenactment, she continued, “The Confederacy may not have been part of the United States for four years, but it’s still our country. Our history. Our heritage. Honoring those who fought and died in all our wars should be an annual event. I’ve realized that I cannot turn my back on our heritage because of Walter’s death and the trouble it’s caused. I have to honor it. He would have wanted that.”

  “Uh huh. Just so I know—you do realize we have Veterans Day every November? Fourth of July every summer? Memorial Day every May? Flag Day? Right?”

  “Yes, and now we have Confederate Heritage Month in Miss’sippi.”

  When Bitty narrows her eyes at me in a certain way, I know it’s time to shut up. I glanced over at Jackson Lee, who’d had the good sense to stay out of our discussion. So I smiled and did my best to look enlightened.

  “That’s good,” I said. “Really. So when and where are these reenactments? I don’t have to go, do I? Or wear anything hot, bulky, and likely to flip over my head at any moment?”

  “Good lord, Trinket. How much wine did you drink?”

  “Apparently not enough. I’ll be right back. May I freshen anyone else’s drink?”

  An entire vat of wine would not have been enough to prepare me for my dear cousin’s next, and might I add—quite insane—adventure. Sometimes Bitty outdoes even herself.

  Chapter 7

  “WHEN YOU TOLD me we were going to the museum, I thought you meant Holly Springs. I’m not going, Bitty. I already told you—I’ve had enough reenactments to last me a lifetime.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Trinket. You don’t have to do anything or wear anything. All you have to do is ride along with me.”

  “If I don’t wear anything, I’ll be riding along in the back of Rodney Farrell’s patrol car,” I observed. “Public nudity is prohibited.”

  Bitty narrowed her eyes at me. I thought about telling her she was making wrinkles that her $500 an ounce anti-wrinkle cream wouldn’t be able to erase, but decided against it. If I hadn’t already been trapped in her car with her, I might have risked it. Since I was, I didn’t.

  She sighed at my silence. “You’re being cranky, Trinket. Just sit back and relax. It’ll be fun.”

  “Put on your glasses, Mr. Magoo,” was all I said, and she muttered something under her breath. She hates wearing glasses. She snatched them off the dashboard and slapped them on the bridge of her nose. I’d be surprised if she didn’t end up with a black eye.

  “The reenactment won’t even be until June,” she said after a moment, and I felt more comfortable since she wore glasses and focused on the road unfurling ahead of us. Rain smacked against the Mercedes’ windshield in a steady rhythm. Leafy tree limbs whipped in the wind, and the tires hissed over the pavement with an occasional slurp.

  “Are you ever going to replace your sports car?” I asked to keep from discussing this latest trip down Madness Avenue.

  “Oh, I ordered another red one. I’m supposed to pick it up next week. I’ve just been so busy, I haven’t been up to Memphis yet. The salesman kept calling, and I finally said I’d come up. I’m sure you wouldn’t mind giving me a ride.”

  “Buying a car that expensive, they should deliver,” I said.

  “He suggested that, but I’d rather see it on the showroom floor first. Just in case there are any dings or scratches.”

  “Dings or scratches? This from a woman who stripped out the gears of one car last year, then put another one in the lake two months later?”

  “That last wasn’t my fault, Trinket, as you very well know.”

  I did know. That didn’t mean I wouldn’t tease her about it, however.

  “You’re averaging a new sports car every six months,” I said. “Detroit should love you. Or did you buy a foreign car again?”

  “German engineering is excellent,” she replied after a brief pause, “but I’ve been thinking about a Maserati for a long time and—”

  “No! A Maserati? Are you kidding me? I thought you were getting another BMW?”

  “Well, I thought about it. Then I considered that it might be bad luck. You know. After the last foreign car.”

  “Your Miata was built in America. It lasted you a lot longer than the BMW. I’m just sayin’ . . .”

  “Then you’ll be pleased to learn I bought a Cadillac CTS-V. Now are you happy?”

  “Ecstatic. Same color?”

  “Yes, it’s called Crystal Red.
Panoramic sunroof. Very nice.”

  “Life can go on now, I suppose.” I barely kept from rolling my eyes. “It’s nice to know the economic recession didn’t affect everyone.”

  “I’m doing my part to kick it into gear again. That’s the only thing that’s going to help, you know, is for people to spend money.”

  “Tell that to people who have been without jobs for a year or two. I’m sure they’ll be quite gratified to hear it.”

  “I know. Isn’t it awful?”

  “Where is it we’re going again?” I asked to get away from the depressing topic of people out of work and fiscal struggles. “The museum at Corinth?”

  “Yes. There was a battle there, and they’re planning a reenactment. I’ve been nominated to drop off all the club’s necessary forms. They have to get permission to go onto state-owned or federally owned battlegrounds.”

  “Y’all never heard of the internet? Forms can be filled out and filed online.”

  “I know. But their computer system is down, and sometimes a little one-on-one can be very helpful.”

  Knowing Bitty as I do, I realized she had to stay busy to keep from dwelling on things that were stressful. Having her son accused of manslaughter fell under that category, I’d think. And I had to admit that prowling around grassy fields full of ticks, fleas, and historical markers was a lot safer than investigating a possible murder. It occurred to me that Jackson Lee may be behind this latest diversion. He can be quite devious at times.

  So I settled in and decided to enjoy the day, soupy weather and all. Chitling was at the groomer’s, and I had the front seat all to myself. We reached Corinth in a reasonable time. I was astonished at how much the Mississippi town had grown just since my last visit.

  “This was a key point for Confederate and Union troops during The War,” said Bitty as she parked the car at the museum. “Since Shiloh is only twenty-two miles away, Corinth was a launching point for the battle at Pittsburg Landing. The reenactment is for the Second Battle of Corinth. It happened right after that awful carnage at Shiloh.”

  “Uh huh,” I said as I followed her into the Interpretive Center. Shiloh National Military Park is in Tennessee. Corinth Interpretive Center grounds in Mississippi is studded with cannons, barricades, and bronze statues and markers. A beautiful water feature stands next to a walkway into the center. I waited inside while Bitty spoke animatedly with the lady in charge of the reenactment. When their conversation ended, I followed Bitty back outside.

  “I need to get a sense of the scope of the reenactment,” said Bitty. She stopped at the trunk of her car, and the lid popped open. She took out rain boots.

  I got a sinking feeling. “Why are you putting on boots?”

  Bitty gave me one of those Duh looks, and I sighed as she said, “How do you think I’m going to give a report if I don’t view the grounds?”

  I was a bit stunned. “When did you decide nature walks in the rain and mud are a good thing?”

  “Since it was suggested I see the improvements done with my donations to Friends of the Siege and Battle of Corinth. Don’t be tacky, Trinket. We won’t walk long.”

  “Do you have a mouse in your pocket, Cochise? ’Cause there’s no we taking a walk.”

  “Don’t be so unpatriotic. This won’t take long, and it’ll make me look like I know what I’m doing.”

  “But I don’t have any boots with me,” I said. The rain had slackened to a fine mist. My hair felt like wet dog ears against the side of my face. “I’ll sink down to my knees in that muck. I’ll ruin my shoes and get your car dirty.”

  “I have plastic bags you can use.” Bitty stomped her feet into her boots, then lowered the lid to the trunk. She tied a plastic rain bonnet over her helmet hair.

  “The bags will get torn on ruts and weeds,” I protested.

  “They’re for after our walk. That way you won’t get mud in my car.”

  “Well, as long as you aren’t inconvenienced any—Bitty, I am not walking out there. It’s raining, and I don’t want to.”

  “You really do whine too much, you know.”

  “Yes, I believe you’ve said that a time or ten.”

  “All right then, just be that way. I’ll go by myself.”

  “Thank you. I will.”

  I leaned back against the car and crossed my arms over my chest and watched as Bitty set bravely off on her little jog around the area. There’s evidence of the long-ago battle left behind in indentations where once there were trenches and lines of soldiers. Grass covers all traces of death and desperation now, but grim reminders remain in the strategically placed cannons.

  While I’m interested in my local history, that interest only goes so far. I’m not as avid a scholar of all the dates and events as are others. Bitty, however, has a variety of interests that contradict her reputation as a bubble-headed blonde with too much money and time. Antiques are only one of her passions; she’s also caught up in the genealogy of our family and their participation in key historical events. The War—or Mr. Lincoln’s War, or the War of Northern Aggression—is just one major event. When properly motivated, Bitty can rattle off trivia concerning battles, generals, and depredations like my mother can list the ingredients in a Lane cake. So I often find my mind wandering when she’s on one of her enthusiastic rambles about the number of troops, who won the battle, and what the weather conditions were at the time. You can see my dilemma, I’m sure.

  Bitty wanted to show off all she knew about the Second Battle of Corinth.

  I wanted to get out of the rain and have a cup of hot coffee somewhere. Or wine. I wasn’t feeling that picky.

  So when I looked away for a moment at the sound of a train whistle, then I looked back, it was rather dismaying to realize that my dear cousin had disappeared from sight. No plastic-clad head was visible among the historical markers or trenches, no designer clothes and rain boots.

  I resigned myself to waiting longer than I had hoped. It’d be a lot dryer if I waited in the car, so I reached for the door handle. It didn’t open. That meant Miss Bubble-head had taken her purse and keys with her. Damn. I looked down at my shoes. Suede flats. Not exactly rainwear. I had two choices: Stay by the car and get wetter, or look for Bitty and get muddy and wetter. It didn’t take me long to decide to wait it out.

  About five minutes after that decision, it began to rain harder. Drops came down like fat water balloons. I retreated to the museum, but the door was locked and the sign said it was closed for the day. I huddled in the relatively dryer alcove outside the door and scanned the field that was getting blurred by rain. The temperature dropped a few degrees. April can be fickle.

  I made an executive decision to abandon my earlier decision, which meant I was going to end up muddy and probably pretty irritated. I stomped down the pavement as far as it went then struck out across the battlefield. Markers designated where Union troops had been entrenched and where Confederate troops had dug in for the duration. Cannons stood sentry, and earthworks snaked the green field. Bronze statues scattered across the fields like metal ghosts of long-gone soldiers. I barely noticed as I squished through wet grass and red mud.

  I’m not particularly a fan of mud, for a vast number of reasons. I don’t even do facials with mud. Its sticky, the red Mississippi mud leaves stains in clothes that never come out, and it is exceedingly unpleasant to wallow around in. I know this from experience. As a kid, I didn’t even like it. As an adult, I avoid it at all costs.

  Yet there I was, trekking over a wet battlefield in search of my dear cousin, globs of red mud attaching to my now-ruined shoes, and cussing under my breath about the necessity of being out in the rain and muck. I’m not a good sport at such times.

  As I crested a fairly high hill, I looked down into the valley of hummocks and saw Bitty. She was engaged in a rather earnest discussion with a slender b
oy in a gray hoodie. My brothers as boys were able to put their fingers in their mouths and emit a shrill whistle no doubt heard by ocean liners down in the Gulf of Mexico. All I could get out was a rather wet pfffft! It was heard by no one.

  So I tromped several yards down the slick hill, half sliding in places, irritation growing with each step. Bitty was oblivious to my approach. The boy with her looked up, however, and saw me coming. I’m not sure if it was my no-doubt scowling expression or he figured he’d be outnumbered, but suddenly he grabbed Bitty’s purse from off her shoulder and took off across the grass like he’d been shot from a cannon. Bitty screamed. I started running.

  I have no idea what I thought I could do to help. I’m not an athlete, and I don’t know any karate. All I know is kick and bite, and those aren’t always good options. I’ve learned that lesson the hard way.

  Bitty took off after the little thug, too, but her rain boots must have made it difficult to keep her footing. She ran like a two-year-old, feet flailing out to the sides, little arms pumping up and down, screeching, “Stop, thief!” as she floundered up a slope.

  I was too breathless to talk, so when I got close enough to her to touch her I reached out to let her know I was there. My hand slipped on her waterproof jacket, and instead of putting my hand on her shoulder I struck her between the shoulder blades. She let out another screech and tried to turn but slipped on wet grass and mud. My momentum carried me a few feet past her, so I couldn’t catch her before she slid back down the hill like it was greased. I stumbled to a halt.

  I peered down the hill through the pounding rain and saw her thrashing around in a rather shallow ditch. I looked up and saw the purse snatcher a good fifty yards away. He headed for an area of buildings I could barely see in the distance. I looked back down at Bitty and started my descent. Trees shadowed the area and dripped more rain on the ground; I half-fell down the slope trying to get to the bottom. I skidded the last three or four feet and landed almost on top of her. She made a gargling sound that I interpreted as “As last you’re here to save me.”