Merry stares at me defiantly for a moment. I’m rather glad, on one hand, to see that she has a backbone. On the other hand, things will go much more smoothly if she simply does what I tell her without arguing.
“You said you knew everything about me,” she says.
“You said I didn’t,” I counter.
She shrugs her shoulders. “Ask my mom or grandma when we get to my house. They never seem to have gotten the memo that Betty is a loon. They’ll probably give you a signed copy of her book if you ask.”
The title of Merry’s aunt’s book, in case you’re curious or have a cruel streak like mine, is POPPINS! Why You Should Never, Ever Explain Anything. I don’t blame Merry for not wanting to say it out loud.
“You don’t know how long your aunt has been doing her show?” I ask.
“No,” Merry says, like she couldn’t care less. But her cheeks are bright red.
“I do,” I offer helpfully. “Eighteen years.”
As I said, I know a great deal about Merry and everyone in her life.
Betty Answers asks her radio caller, “Why does your husband need to know everywhere you go and everything you do, Jenny?”
“He doesn’t, I guess, but I don’t really mind him knowing. You know? I think it’s awful nice that my husband cares where I am and what I’m doing and all that.”
Jenny sounds indistinguishable to me from the other people who live in this vicinity. She was clearly born and reared nearby.
“What’s the problem, then?” Betty Answers asks.
I happen to know that Betty spent her childhood here, too, but she’s completely inflectionless. No one would ever guess that she was a mountain girl like Jenny if they happened upon The Betty Answers Show while driving through the area, scanning channels.
“He thinks I spend too much money.”
“Is it really his business what you spend, Jenny?”
The caller hesitates. I imagine her setting a heavy kitchen table, in one of these wooden houses we keep passing, on one of these tree-shaded mountain lots that flash by outside our windows. Jenny is likely waiting for some down-home fare to finish cooking in the oven, for her husband to come through the front door and shout, “Honey, I’m home!”
“Yes, I think so,” she finally says, “because I’ve never had a job, and he pays all the bills.”
“Have you ever thought of getting a job, Jenny?”
“Why, yes! That’s why I called you. Your housecleaner is in my prayer group, and she said you’re looking for someone to paint your living room. I do a real nice job painting and all. I tried the number she gave me, but it said to call this one. I didn’t know I’d be calling in to your radio program.”
Betty clears her throat before she replies. “Oh, that’s nice, Jenny. You can go ahead and leave your number in my voicemail. Listeners, The Betty Answers Show will be right back after a short commercial break.”
I turn the volume low. “Your aunt Betty doesn’t answer her home phone?” I ask. I knew this fact, but I’m curious to see how Merry explains it.
“Aunt Betty doesn’t get nearly enough calls to her program to fill the air time, so she never picks up the phone at home,” Merry says, as if it’s neither fine nor wrong, but simply true. “Her home message says to call another number between nine and eleven on business days, which is when they do the show.”
“What about family? If you call her at home, does she answer?” I ask.
Merry shrugs. “Same rule applies.”
“Do you ever call in to the show?” I ask.
“No, sir.”
“What about your mother?”
Merry blushes anew. “Yes, sir. She can’t say she’s related to Betty, though. It’s another one of my aunt’s rules because she doesn’t go by her old name at all. Plus she says it wouldn’t look good to the audience to have her sister calling her on air for advice all the time.”
“The audience might wonder why she doesn’t call her at home instead?” I can’t help but ask.
“I suppose so. Mom pretends she’s just a regular old caller, and they only know each other from their on-air talks over the years.”
“Your mother calls for advice?” I have to admit that I find this quite fascinating, like driving by a gruesome car wreck.
“She has called the show asking advice and giving updates about me for years now, ever since the show began. Veteran listeners sometimes call up just to ask about me.”
“Really?”
“Yes, sir. I suppose they’ve heard so much about me while I was growing up, they wonder what’s going on now. Aunt Betty runs a highlight tape every year on my birthday. It’s sort of sweet, in a weird way.” Merry’s blush is at its reddest.
“They feel invested in what happens in your life, like Truman from The Truman Show?” I ask.
“I suppose so. Except in that movie, everyone was lying to Truman, the poor sucker.”
After a few more twists and turns in the road, Merry points to a scenic overlook ahead.
“Do y’all mind stopping a minute so I can collect myself before we get to my cabin?” she asks.
I slow to a crawl and park where she requested. I step outside to give Merry some space.
The view is quite lovely. There’s a little village in the valley below, where the houses look like hand-painted toys, and there’s a white church and an old-fashioned storefront downtown, with tiny cars parked outside, and a handful of miniature cows grazing in a field just out of town.
The scene reminds me of my extensive model train collection, which I’ll unfortunately have to get rid of soon. Mr. Pershing added to it every birthday and Christmas, to the point where I could no longer fit it into my room. Then he gave over a large attic space to house it, with murals painted on the walls to enhance the illusion of villages, and hills, and streams, and even a little lake.
As the son of his longtime maid, I grew up in Mr. Pershing’s home. I began to handle some of his sensitive correspondence when I was only twelve and apparently considered too young to know what was really being said. I handled sticky matters for him even earlier—my whole life, I guess I might say with some truthfulness. I used to pretend he wasn’t at home when tiresome visitors called, I snuck vodka into his lemonade while my mother wasn’t looking, and I pretended he’d been out walking with me for the exercise his doctor ordered, when really he’d lounged in a hammock hidden by trees at the bottom of the back garden.
The old man has done far more for me. In addition to gifts like the train set, he provided me with a wonderful home and the best education money could buy.
It was my mum’s dying wish that I help Claude Pershing to the end, since he had done so much for us. Of course, I couldn’t refuse her, no more than I could refuse him. As this project is the last use I can ever be to either of them, I won’t shirk my responsibility, nor complain about it more than is strictly necessary.
I don’t fear developing the family hemorrhoids, obviously, because I’m not a blood relative. But I confess that I always wished, with my entire heart, that Mr. Pershing was my father. The selfish old goat.
Merry smiles over at me with dewy eyes when I get back inside. “It’ll be hard to leave my people, but it’s about time I got out of here. You’re like a genie, or an angel or something, Fritz.”
Her trusting expression makes me exceedingly uncomfortable. I don’t need more emotional complications on top of what I’m already juggling. I start up the car again.
“Or something,” I say under my breath.
I thought I understood Merry’s situation because I had collected as many facts about her history, her family, and her friends as I could. I should have realized that everything would be more complicated than it seemed from afar. Things always are.
I secretly wished she would refuse to come with me. I certainly didn’t foresee how quickly she would leap at this chance, how desperately she would want to change her life once she knew she had the option.
“When do I need to get myself down
to that beach house?” Merry asks when I park in her cabin’s driveway.
“We’ll drive down today,” I say.
“Today?” she ratchets up her twang to an almost intolerable level.
I unbuckle my seatbelt, but Merry stays put.
“You know, that paperwork didn’t look very official,” she says, excruciatingly slowly. “No offence to your lawyer skills, but I always thought that wills were supposed to be way more formal. Maybe I shouldn’t trust it at all.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t.” I feel a glimmer of hope that she’ll refuse to come with me.
“Phil might not give me my job back, even if I went there right now,” she says, staring out the window.
“Would that be such a loss?” I ask.
“I love cooking, and I love the people who work there, and I love the people who eat there…”
“What about Phil? Do you love him?” I’d never ask a new acquaintance so personal a question in ordinary life, but this situation is surreal, and Merry seems to take it in stride anyway.
“Yes,” she says, sounding a bit equivocal. “I don’t believe he could make food taste so good if he wasn’t a good person.”
“So you’re in love with him because he’s a competent chef?” I ask. I also volunteer an opinion: “That’s a stupid reason.”
“No,” she says. “I’ve known him most of my life…”
“That’s so much better,” I say.
She laughs a little and smacks my arm. “Shut up,” she says.
“He’s a horrible bully,” I helpfully point out.
“He’s more than that,” she says. “But he can be that, too. I know it. The way he shouted at Amy Jo yesterday and stared you down today—which just about made you pee your expensive pants—well, I sometimes wonder if Phil and I really are meant to be together.”
“But he cooks well and you’ve known him for quite a long while,” I say, reaching for my door handle.
She grabs my arm to keep me in place. “Wait a minute. Back at the restaurant, you said I’d be able to save my family from financial ruin if I got that inheritance.”
“I did.”
She studies me. “Is my family having money troubles?”
“Indeed they are,” I answer.
“You know that, but I don’t?”
“I told you, I know everything.”
“It’s all those eBay auctions and QVC, isn’t it?” she asks.
I don’t answer; frankly, I have already shared more than I should. But between you and me, Merry is partially right. There’s also the online gambling and various lotteries. I know from some investigative digging that they’ve had to surrender all their credit cards, so at least they can’t dig themselves in any deeper while Merry is away.
“I suppose that would make my choice for me if I was on the fence,” Merry says. “My small wages can’t help with real money trouble. I’ll go with you and do my best. And even if I fail, at least I’ll have an adventure. I’m way overdue for one of those! I’ve never even seen the ocean.”
“Never?” I ask. It’s so hard for me to believe. She lives only six hours from our Topsail Island destination by car and closer to other beaches. I think of all the first-class traveling I have done over the years, accompanying Mr. Pershing throughout the world…it almost makes me feel guilty.
“No, sir,” she says.
“If you like the ocean even half as much as your father, you’ll be glad you made the trip,” I say.
She looks toward the house, and I follow her gaze to see two women peeking out a front window.
“When Amy Jo came in and hugged me, I realized how hard it’d be to tell my mom and grandma that I’ll be leaving them for a while. When I went away to college, and mind you, they’d seen that day coming for years ahead of time because Aunt Betty and I had been reminding them, they still acted like it was such a shock to their systems they almost keeled over.”
“You can help them save their house if you earn that money, Merry. It’s already in foreclosure,” I say before I can stop myself. I’m not technically authorized to disclose those kinds of details, and nudging her toward taking the bargain means I’ll be stuck with her for perhaps months on end.
She nods thoughtfully. I find it exceedingly strange that she appears to trust everything I say.
Victor often teases me about my innate skepticism; he says I must have had my frown lines since infancy. I honestly don’t think Merry and I could be any more different from each other.
“How long will I be gone?” she asks.
“That depends. Maybe a few days if you hate it and give up. Maybe three months if you get through all your tasks. Frankly, I haven’t the slightest idea how long this will take,” I admit with a sigh.
“Well, I’m going to try my hardest,” she says with a stubborn determination that reminds me of her father. “So I better gear up for the long haul. But it’ll take me all day just to pack my clothes.”
“We’re not bringing your clothes,” I tell her, looking down briefly at her Dollywood T-shirt. It suggests its inspiration in more ways than one: Merry’s accent, her breasts (though thankfully only a fraction of the infamous pair), and her disarmingly easygoing manner are all reminiscent of the iconic country singer.
She looks down, too. “These are my jammies, by the way, so you don’t need to be so snooty. I suppose you sleep in a three-piece suit?”
I don’t admit to her that I do happen to wear very posh pajamas. Victor got me in the habit by blowing his budget on a sumptuous silk button-front pair a few Christmases ago that he’d seen me admire in a shop window. I have become hopelessly addicted to good loungewear as a result. Last time I visited my favorite store, I almost splurged on a velvet smoking jacket. It was shamefully expensive, but I would’ve bought it if Victor hadn’t balked at the price tag.
I’m afraid that Victor judges me for spending too much because he’s never had much at all. He lives in a studio apartment across the street from Claude Pershing’s grand house, where I have always resided (and most of my belongings still do), in London.
“You’re kidding about me not bringing my clothes along, right?” she asks.
“No, I am most certainly not kidding.”
“You expect me to run around naked?”
I suppress a shudder. “No. Your first task is to cooperate through a makeover, all expenses paid. We’ll visit shops on the way down to the island in order to get you some new things.”
“My clothes aren’t fancy enough, I suppose?” she asks.
“Well, we’re not going to a fancy place. The island is virtually unpopulated during the off-season. It’s cold and wet and quite miserable.” I rub my eyes, trying to get the image of the ocean out of my head.
“Why won’t my old clothes do, if it’s so bad there? I have some pretty things.”
I raise my eyebrows to this, which I realize is rude, but I can’t help it. Perhaps if she hadn’t said purdy.
“You’re reminding me of the man on TV who teases people about their outfits, the one whose partner has a skunk stripe in her hair. I only saw it once, and I thought I liked it at first, until they made fun of some clothes just like mine,” she says.
I take a cleansing breath before replying. “Listen, Merry, this is the first task of several. It is by far the easiest, as it simply involves shopping for new clothes. If this seems too difficult, we may as well give up right now and save ourselves the frustration of going any further.”
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t do it,” she says, a touch petulantly, and I am grateful that I never had a little sister. I watch her face while she seems to consider the matter: it makes a slow and alarming trip from skepticism to jaunty confidence, while mine travels in the opposite direction.
“Alright, I’ll go for it,” she says. “I’ll get some new clothes and shoes, and it’ll be fun. I’ve never had two nickels to spend on clothes, but if it’s on my late dad’s dime, I’m game. We’ll get you some new things, too,
Fritz. Something beachy. OK?”
I stare at her a moment. “I also made an appointment for you to get your hair slashed off,” I say. “I mean styled.”
“You did? Well, hmmm. OK.”
“OK?” I expected a fight.
“I’m probably overdue,” she says. “But why bother with a makeover if there’s no one there to impress?”
“There aren’t many people on the island, to be sure, but a tidier look will help you make the best possible impression, which may help you accomplish your other tasks.”
She looks down at her scuffed kitchen clogs.
“I have always been a jeans and T-shirts sort of girl. My grandma has worn old-fashioned print dresses ever since I can remember, and my mom does, too. My grandma makes them out of huge reams of fabric. I used to think they were pretty because I heard people complimenting them. I was around ten when I realized that those dresses were just the kind of thing that’s hard to ignore, so people can’t help saying something, and so they give a compliment. That couple on television would laugh hysterically and throw the dresses in a garbage can.”
As merely the son of her father’s maid, I had nothing but the best of everything throughout my entire life, while Merry grew up never enjoying a single benefit of being his actual child. If the tables were turned, I’d be quite irked, to say the least. I’m glad that Merry will have something nice for a change, though I don’t relish the idea of being the one to take her from before to after.
“I bet you like to shop,” she says with a knowing expression.
I blink at her. Merry is an odd combination of implicit trust and spunk, of formal and familiar. I have been discomfited in the past by American women who have tried to kick my ass in litigation and then acted overly playful with me afterward, as if we were puppy littermates who might bite each other’s ears one moment and romp happily together the next. She addresses me as sir, yet in the short time that I’ve known her, Merry has already taken the liberty of hitting me and insisting that I shut up.
“You think I like to shop because I’m gay?” I ask pointedly.
“No!” She turns a pretty shade of red. “Because you’re dressed so nice.”
Help Yourself Page 4