Cathead Crazy

by Rhett DeVane

  A pair of twenty-something women walked by, their tanned midriffs exposed. One wore a jeweled navel ring. Becky and Hannah watched them saunter past, then shook their heads.

  “Did you order yet? I’m starved. Course, I’m always starved.” Becky rummaged in her handbag and withdrew a wallet as pink as the purse.

  “I was waiting on you before I ordered.”

  Becky jumped up. “I’ll tell ’em. It’s on me today.” She threw up a hand before Hannah could protest. “Don’t.”

  “All right. If you insist. Get me a regular-sized Greek salad and a large unsweet tea.”

  Becky returned shortly with two tall Styrofoam cups of mint-flavored iced tea and a cellophane-wrapped piece of homemade cake. “You should’ve been the one going to the counter. Hummingbird cake. Couldn’t resist it. Love the cream cheese icing. You’ll help me eat it so I only feel half as guilty, right?”

  Hannah tore a pink packet of artificial sweetener and dumped the contents into her tea. “Of course. Like you had to even ask.”

  “No sugar in our tea,” Becky said as she grabbed a packet of sweetener. “But by golly, we’ll suck down a slab of cake the size of Texas.”

  “Ma-Mae says they cancel each other out.” Hannah pointed one finger up. “And my mama’s always right. About everything.”

  Becky stirred her tea with a straw and took a long sip. “How is Miz Mae?”

  “Depends on which week you ask. Holding her own. We’re in a lull right now. It’s up and down.”

  “It’s her age, H. My mom’s doing the same thing, and she’s a bit younger than yours.”

  Hannah’s stomach started its familiar deep-pit burn. “Her last illness was pretty scary. I really didn’t know if she wanted to make it.”

  “Must be difficult for her. I mean, I have aches and pains at my age. Imagine being in your eighties. I can see why, when you add a sickness into the mix, she might want to throw in the towel.” Becky leaned closer. “How about you?”

  “I’m as good as Zoloft can make me.”

  “Who isn’t on something, anymore?” Becky’s brows flicked up and down. “I take mine right along with my vitamins and hormones. The maintenance is a beach, the older I get.”

  “It’s such a treat to see you in person. Feels like I haven’t talked to you in years.”

  Becky rested her chin on her hands. “I’ve been thinking of having an affair.” Her name sounded on the overhead speaker and Becky jumped up. “I’ll go. You sit.”

  So like Becky to deliver such a dramatic declaration, then torment her by not being available for an immediate explanation.

  Becky reappeared and doled out the food, napkins, and plastic utensils like a seasoned waitress. “Oops! Forgot the salt and pepper. Be back.”

  Hannah dribbled homemade creamy dressing over the best Greek salad in Tallahassee. Crisp Romaine lettuce topped by a mound of dilled potatoes, ripe tomato wedges, strips of sweet Vidalia onion and green pepper, two kinds of olives, feta cheese and anchovies. Hannah’s mouth watered in anticipation.

  “So,” Hannah said around a mouthful when Becky returned, “tell.”

  Becky’s expression: the picture of childlike innocence. “What?”

  “An affair?”

  Becky took a delicate bite of her cashew chicken salad sandwich and dabbed a dribble of mayonnaise from one corner of her mouth. “Not having an affair. Just considering having one.”

  “Jeez, Beck! Who?”

  “Haven’t picked one out yet. Though, I’m thinking—younger.” She nodded. “Definitely younger.”

  “Are you and Keith having—?”

  “Problems?” Becky considered the question. “No, not really.”

  “Then why?”

  Becky picked at a cashew that had fallen from her sandwich. “Maybe this is my midlife crisis.”

  Hannah noticed two more tanned skin-flashing women take a seat at the next table. Between cell phone calls and texting, the two continued to talk animatedly, their youthful, thin, sun-kissed arms gesturing with exuberance. Hannah forked a chunk of Hummingbird cake thick with icing and popped it into her mouth.

  “Do you ever feel like you’re invisible?” Becky asked.

  “Not sure what you mean.”

  “That’s what I mean.” Becky pointed to the younger women, to herself and Hannah, then sliced a portion of cake and jammed her fork into it. “Exactly that. Like you don’t really matter.”

  One of the canned-tan girls gave Hannah a bored once-over and resumed her animated conversation. Hannah recalled a favorite scene from the movie Fried Green Tomatoes, where actor Kathy Bates rammed the VW of a smart-aleck younger woman. If only…

  Hannah’s fork stopped midway between the paper plate and her mouth. “How depressing.”

  Becky stared at the women for a moment before turning her gaze to her friend. “I’ve felt it off and on since I turned forty and more often lately. It’s like people look right through me.” Her smile, wistful. “Remember when we were at FSU? We went out at least four nights a week. Not necessarily to party, just to see and be seen.”

  Becky picked idly at cake crumbs. “I can’t even remember the names of all the boys I dated, much less the ones I slept with.”

  “That was you, Beck. I was much more reserved.”

  “The last of the Vestal Virgins. Of course. Pardon me! How could you and I be so close, yet so different?”

  “Opposites attract, maybe?” Hannah considered ’fessing up about Marcus Motivano, and that she hadn’t been an unsullied bride. No need to shatter Becky’s image of her. Norman knew. Besides, times were different and that was all so many years ago.

  “Now look at us,” Becky said. “Two middle-aged old gals, married to men who fart and channel surf for fun, with kids who’d rather die a thousand deaths than agree with one word that comes from our mouths.”

  Hannah exhaled with a loud huff. “Wow. Thanks. I feel so much better about my life, now.”

  Becky leaned back and crossed her arms across her chest. “You’re always the bright idea girl. Tell me. What can I do?”

  “Take up a hobby?”

  “Hobby.” Becky’s tone fell flat. “If I start to paint or knit or decoupage, I’ll feel like I’ve gotten a new lease on life?”

  “That wasn’t exactly what I meant.”

  “I’m listening.” Becky cocked her head to one side.

  “It’s not like all the rest of the married people our age are breeding like rabbits, Beck. Sex isn’t exactly the main point in my life, for sure. I hardly have energy left after the kids and Ma-Mae. Norman only gets frisky about once a month, if that.” The recent animal-like romp crossed her mind. She decided not to share. “Don’t feel like everyone has this exciting sex life.”

  Becky chewed the end of her drink straw.

  “Think about it,” Hannah said. “Consider all you stand to lose if you have an affair. It might make you feel great for a while, but you’re as steeped in Southern-fried guilt as I am. Pretty soon, you’d be more miserable than when you started.”

  “Probably.” Becky inhaled and released the breath slowly.

  Hannah continued, “There are other people in this equation. Keith, the kids. If they ever found out . . .”

  “Hell to pay. I’ve thought about that.” Becky worked the drinking straw up and down in the plastic lid. The thrusting movement brought a sting of warmth to Hannah’s cheeks.

  “When Ma-Mae gets down, she tries to learn something new. Swears by it, or she used to.”

  “My learning a couple of new sex positions isn’t an option, I gather.”

  “Unless you plan to include your husband, no, I’d say it isn’t.” Hannah licked the last dollop of icing from her fork. “Can you believe me? I sound like some kind of morality teacher. Hard to believe I was a child of the seventies. Free love and all that.”

  “That whole thing was a crock. Love is never free.”

  “How profound.”

  Becky pushed her ha
lf-eaten sandwich aside. “I’ve got to come up with something new—some amazing activity—to make me feel alive again. Like I’m sexy and desirable. And it can’t be illegal or immoral?”

  “Pretty much.”

  Becky pursed her lips. “I may have to get back to you on this one.”

  Two days later when Hannah answered the phone, Becky’s high-pitched voice resonated with excitement. “Belly dancing!”

  “I don’t follow,” Hannah said. “And please don’t holler. It hurts my ears.”

  “The answer to my little dilemma, H! Belly dancing.”

  “I suppose—”

  “I’ve signed us both up. Beginner’s lessons. Tuesday evenings at 7:30, at the Women’s Club in Chattahoochee. I don’t mind driving over.”

  “Beck, I—”

  “You wanted to help me out? Here’s your chance. Besides, it’s great exercise. We don’t have to buy any special equipment to start, and it’s only eight bucks a lesson. If we hate it, we don’t go back. There’s not any kind of contract or anything. I checked.”

  A vision of the two of them twirling around in gauzy outfits and veils made Hannah giggle. Heaven help, they didn’t have to wear a jewel in their navels.

  “Admit it. You’re as intrigued as I am. What do you say?”

  Hannah considered. “Might be fun.”

  “Hey, invite Suzanne and maybe your sister. Helen might not want to drive over, but you could ask all the same.”

  No doubt Suzanne would take the opportunity to buy a new pair of shoes. “What the heck. Sure.”

  Becky squealed so loudly, Hannah had to hold the phone away from her tortured ear.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Hannah sat on the porch swing, a steaming cup of black coffee in hand, and searched the trees for the serenading songbird. She spotted it on one of the lower branches of a Japanese elm. To be such a drab gray and white fowl of average size, the mockingbird made up for its lack of flash with an amazing repertoire.

  “Sing it, baby,” she said aloud.

  One mimicked call resembled the high-pitched chirp of the purple martins that often circled above the neighbor’s yard. A cardinal’s staccato call sounded briefly in the lineup, but the rest were indistinct to her untrained ear. Where had the little bird eavesdropped? How many miles of forests and rivers had it crossed to bring the faraway songs to her backyard?

  If a huge celestial hand reached down and plucked her from the planet right at this moment, Hannah would have no reason to complain. She relished the juiciness of life, a rare moment of perfection. The gifts of being able to see the clear blue morning sky; hear the song of her favorite bird; smell the rich aroma of fresh coffee; feel the caress of the late spring breeze tickling the fine hair on her forearms—more than enough.

  Belly dancing. I’m going to take up belly dancing. Lord help. Hannah smiled and took an appreciative sip of coffee.

  Becky had always been the instigator. The Halloween when they toilet-papered old man Hardigan’s yard—the cranky butt-hole. The summer they thumbed a ride to Lake Seminole, five miles out of town, and three miles over the Florida/Georgia line. The time they played Spin the Bottle at one of Becky’s preteen birthday parties, and Hannah had ended up kissing Barry What’s-his-name right on the lips. The senior prom, when Becky got so aggravated with her touchy-feely escort that she insisted Hannah accompany her home, all the way from the high school gymnasium on spiked heels that had already rubbed blisters the size of dimes on Hannah’s feet.

  Wasn’t that what being a friend was all about, keeping each other’s histories? Laughing and crying and growing older while providing an honest mirror? Swiveling one’s ample hips to a Middle-Eastern beat?

  Hannah’s thoughts shifted to her family. Suzanne had devised the “share-the-mother-load” program after Mae had expressed her dismay at feeling like the rope in a tug-of-war contest. All of her children wished to spend time with her on Mother’s Day, but the logistics often became so tangled, the joy ebbed from the occasion.

  Hal and Suzanne had taken Mae to dinner and a movie the weekend before. Today was Hannah’s sponsored trip for lunch, shopping, and pedicures. After Saturday’s Mother-Daughter High Tea at Rosemont, Helen would load Mae up in her Lincoln Town Car for an overnighter with her family in Marianna. Helen had big plans to keep their mother for several days, but Hannah knew what would likely happen. Mae would become restless after one night away and insist Helen return her to Rosemont. Hannah wasn’t certain whether it was the security of routine, or Mae’s fear she might miss juicy tidbits of gossip. Either way, Mae rarely spent more than a day away from the group home.

  Mae wore the red and purple outfit usually reserved for the Rosemont Red Hatters’ Society. Her crimson straw hat sported an oversized purple bow and a silk rose. Completing the ensemble: matching earrings, a bangle bracelet, and a pin depicting a fat-butted woman in a purple and red dress.

  “Do you like my fire-engine red tennis shoes?” Her mother pointed one foot out. “Maxine bought all of her best friends a pair at The Wal-Mart last week. She got the purple socks there too.”

  “You’re festive, Ma-Mae.”

  “Ain’t no reason to be drab just ’cause I’m a little old lady.” Mae poked out her bottom lip.

  “By all means. You look great in bright colors.”

  Mae scribbled her name and departure time on the resident sign-out sheet. “We’d best get on with our business if we don’t want to miss our foot appointments. Where’re you taking me, anyway?”

  “I thought we’d ride up to Havana and have lunch. There’s this little café that has wonderful food, and today’s perfect for their patio.”

  “Good!” Mae clasped her hands. “I love those old-timey shops. I hope we can eat in time to poke around a little.”

  Hannah consulted her wristwatch. “Plenty of time. Won’t take that long to get there and it only takes twenty minutes to drive to Tallahassee from Havana.”

  The small town of Havana, Florida, boasted two signal lights on the main thoroughfare. On either side of the street, old brick buildings held an array of antique and specialty shops. Two eateries catered to lunch patrons.

  The Azalea Café entrance backed up to the one-way side street parallel to the busy main road. Masonry walls of the neighboring buildings provided a private garden dining area reminiscent of the New Orleans French Quarter. Thick ivy and waxy-leaved flowering jasmine vines covered the red bricks, and the overhanging branches of two Bradford Pear trees cast dappled shade over the cobblestone pavers.

  “How’s this table?” Hannah asked.

  “Suits me fine.” Mae lowered herself into a wrought iron chair. “Order for me, honey. You know what I like. Just make sure to get me a big iced tea. It’s early enough in the day, it won’t keep me up tonight.”

  “I brought you the pink sweetener you like,” Hannah said when she placed two tall glasses, utensils, and napkins on the linen-cloaked table.

  “We’ll save our calories for dessert.” Mae gave a conspiratorial wink.

  Hannah nodded. “I ordered a piece of homemade applesauce cake. Figured we could split it. But I can always get two.”

  Mae patted her stomach. “Lord, no. My pants are getting tight across the waist.”

  In a few minutes, a young man delivered two plates of dilled chicken salad sandwiches and spring greens with ranch dressing. “Enjoy, ladies.”

  The gentle breeze rocked the wind chimes in an overhead branch. In the distance, a train whistle blew.

  “Listen to that.” Mae closed her eyes. “That’s one thing I miss about home. I could sit out on my porch of an evening and hear the lonesome cries of the trains coming into River Junction Station.”

  Mae opened her eyes and looked at her daughter. “It’s things like that, that make me homesick.”

  “I’m sorry, Ma-Mae. I know you must miss the house.”

  “It’s the past I miss, honey.” Mae picked up a dill pickle spear and took a bite. “Like this pickle, her
e. Reminds me of when your daddy took up pickle-making. Those were the best darn pickles. This one comes closer than any I’ve had in a while. All crispy and full of flavor. Not rubbery like the ones you buy in the store.”

  “Memories are a good thing.”

  “And they get more and more precious, the older I get.” Mae chuckled. “I can recall things that happened fifty years back, better than I can yesterday.”

  “That’s normal, isn’t it?”

  “For someone my age, I reckon it is. I don’t believe it’s the Old-timer’s Disease, just yet. I still know my name and all that. One good thing about it: I can’t stay angry for very long. I can’t remember what I was worked up about!”

  Hannah and her mother laughed.

  “That can’t be a bad thing, Ma-Mae.”

  “If it’s something I want to stay upset about, I have to write it down. That way I can remind myself to get fussed up.”

  Leave it to her organized mother to make a list of things to stay pissed about.

  The waiter delivered a generous piece of cake with two forks. “You ladies let me know if you need anything now.”

  “You tell the cooks I surely did enjoy my lunch,” Mae said. “Don’t know when I’ve had a better pickle, like the ones my dear husband used to make. You tell ’em that, will you? This is my Mother’s Day outing, and I’m enjoying it like I was the Queen of Sheba.” She motioned across the table. “This here is my baby daughter Hannah, and she’s the apple of my eye. She’s a mama too, and she gave me two of the most wonderful grandkids a woman could ever ask for. We’re from over Chattahoochee way and . . .”

  The waiter listened patiently to Mae’s life history before politely excusing himself back to work.

  “Nice young man. Be sure to tip him big.” Mae dug into the cake with zeal, then gestured with her fork. “Take a bite of this, honey. Lord, I reckon I could eat cow crap if they put cream cheese icing on top.”

  “Me too.” Hannah knew this would be a day she’d save in memory, savoring it like the taste of fresh-baked applesauce cake.

  “I’m glad we’re doing all our walking first before we get our peddie-cures. I wouldn’t want to ruin our happy feet.” White flecks of icing dotted Mae’s grin.