Estate of Mind

by Tamar Myers

  “Rowing machine?”

  “Oh, Abby, and the treadmills! Vincent has eight of them, and each one has its own large-screen TV. With cable!”

  I gave myself a good, hard mental slap. “This is a health club?”

  “The very best. Sylvester Stallone will be here at the dedication next month.”

  “But…but…what about that naked fluorescent woman on the sign out front?”

  “She’s not naked, dear. She’s wearing a leotard.”

  “You don’t say.” I hung my head in shame.

  “You know, dear, if you sign up with me we’ll get even another 10 percent off. We could row together—in different boats, of course, but side by side. Your daddy would have liked that.”

  I was dumbfounded. “But you’re going to Africa!”

  “Oh, Abby, do you honestly think the good Lord wants me to miss out on Sly? Besides, the bishop turned me down.”

  “He did?” My voice may have sounded gleeful, but my eyes were properly subdued.

  “The bishop said he thought I needed to pray about my decision a little more, so I did, and now there’s this.” She waved her arms.

  “Okay, Mama, I’ll join,” I heard myself say. After all, I was going to be very rich in just a matter of days—and when that time came, I’d buy Mama her own little rowboat, and possibly Sly Stallone as well.

  “That’s my girl,” Mama said happily. “Now you trot right on over there and apologize to that nice Mr. Dougherty.”

  I trotted obediently over but fudged on the apology. Varicose veins or not, Vincent Dougherty needed to know with whom he was dealing.

  “Remember, I wasn’t born yesterday,” I said, wagging my finger.

  “I can see that.”

  “And if you’re running such an innocent health club, why is your bouncer here keeping an eye out for tall women?”

  Vincent and Ed exchanged glances and then laughed. “I told Ed to keep an eye out for the job applicants.”

  “Voluptuous women who will look good in scanty outfits with bunny tails?”

  “I don’t care what they look like, Ms. Timberlake, but when they’re leading aerobic exercises in the five-foot pool, it might be helpful if more than just their heads showed.”

  “Your aerobics pool is five feet deep? Well, that’s height discrimination.”

  “Give it a rest, dear,” Mama said quietly.

  That was easy for her to say. At least she could stand on her tiptoes and tilt her head back to breathe. Five feet for me was a watery grave. Still, perhaps it was time to change the subject.

  “Well, tell your friend Marina to stop following me,” I snapped in desperation.

  Then I wrote a huge check that covered memberships for both Mama and myself.

  24

  I had barely enough time, and not nearly enough energy, to drive to Charlotte and back for my command performance at Her Majesty’s. A more generous person would say that Mama came to the rescue when she offered me her rose-colored taffeta dress, but Mama is substantially taller than I, and the cinched waist of the fifties-style garment aligned with my hips and wouldn’t close properly. Mama solved the problem with a large safety pin and a belt so wide it flattened the bottoms of my breasts and chafed my armpits. The starched crinolines that she insisted I wear under the skirt made me feel like a walking tent. It is for occasions such as this that God invented high heels, and I teetered and staggered my way back to the car like a little girl playing dress-up. I drove while Mama lectured.

  “Always start from the outside and work in.”

  “Of course, Mama. It’s hard to gnaw chicken bones without getting through the meat first.”

  “I was talking about the silverware. You may have as many as four forks. That funny little one that looks like a trident is for shrimp. Now remember, if there’s a little bowl of water by your place, it might be a finger bowl.”

  “Or a very weak consommé.”

  “Did you learn how to curtsy?” Mama asked anxiously. Just the year before, we’d had the privilege of meeting an English countess and had, with the best intentions, genuflected.

  “I am not curtsying to Priscilla Hunt.”

  “Oh, dear. Will you at least bow your head?”

  “Maybe—if she says grace.”

  Mama sighed. “Whatever you do, Abby, don’t take a bite until she does. And when she lays down her fork, you do, too. Just follow her lead, dear, and you can’t go wrong.”

  “What if she burps?”

  “Please, Abby, this is very serious. Our social position in Rock Hill could hinge on your behavior tonight.”

  “Then we’re in big trouble, Mama, because I plan to just be myself. If Her Majesty doesn’t like it, she can lump it.”

  Mama trotted out the biggest gun in her arsenal. “Your brother, Toy, always had impeccable manners.”

  “Toy ate like an animal.”

  “Abby!”

  “It’s true, Mama. Toy chewed with his mouth wide open and had both elbows permanently glued to the table. When he moved to California, didn’t he have to take the table with him?”

  “Toy had a lot on his mind, dear. He took your father’s death very hard. He was younger than you, after all.”

  “That’s true, but Daddy died thirty years ago. The last time I saw Toy—two years ago this Thanksgiving—he still ate like that. But, if you insist, I’ll do my level best to be just like him.”

  My passenger stiffened but wisely said nothing the rest of the way.

  Mama tapped her watch. “We must be early. What time do you have?”

  “Six o’clock on the button, Mama.”

  “But there aren’t any other cars.”

  “Maybe we’re the only guests invited.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Abby. The crème de la crème of Rock Hill society will be here. You can count on that.”

  We waited ten fashionable minutes, but no other cars as much as turned down the cul-de-sac. “Maybe you’re one crème and I’m the other,” I finally said.

  Mama tapped her watch crystal furiously. Then she tapped my watch, then the digital car clock. “When does the time change? It wasn’t last night, was it?”

  “That’s not until October, Mama. No, I’d say we were the only guests.”

  “But we can’t be! I mean, if no one else is here, how will they know we were?”

  “Oh, they’ll know, all right. Besides, think of it as an honor. Queen Priscilla doesn’t want to share us with anyone. Frankly, I’m flattered.”

  “You are?”

  “Absolutely. When those ladies in your Apoplexy Club hear that you were the only one of their number invited to this dinner, they’ll eat their hearts out with envy.”

  “That’s Apathia Club, dear. But do you really think so?”

  “Have good manners been on a decline since Father Knows Best went off the air?”

  Mama rolled her eyes. It was such a no-brainer question.

  “Of course.”

  “Well, I bet Mer Majesty is trying to make a statement that good manners are in again. And what better example of good manners could she find in this city than you?”

  That managed to cheer her up considerably, and she was fairly bouncing by the time we reached the front door of Priscilla Hunt’s house. I half expected Her Majesty to slam the door in our faces when she saw me standing next to Mama, but instead she flung it wide open.

  “How delightful to see you,” she said, positively beaming.

  Mama looked expectantly behind her and, seeing no one, curtsied hastily. “Oh. Yes. And it’s so good to see you, Mrs. Hunt.”

  “Good evening, ma’am,” I said and bobbed my head foolishly.

  “Call me Priscilla, please,” our hostess purred.

  “Call me Mozella,” Mama murmured. One would think she’d just been handed the key to the city.

  “Call me anything you’d like,” I said, “just say it with respect.”

  Mama glared at me. Then she handed Priscilla a bo
ttle of wine.

  Priscilla handled the bottle like I did the pair of panties I found in Buford’s and my bed, and which weren’t mine. “Thank you. This looks very interesting.”

  “It’s from Bolivia,” Mama said proudly.

  “Were you on a tour there?”

  “Oh, no. I picked this up at Harris Teeter. It was on sale. Who knew you could buy a good bottle of wine for just $3.99?”

  “Who knew Bolivia produced wine?” I muttered.

  Priscilla twittered politely. “William—my husband—is a connoisseur of wines. I’m sure he will find this fascinating. Unfortunately, he will be unable to join us tonight and sends his regrets. He was called away on business just this afternoon. Oh, well, you know how the corporate game is played.”

  “Do we ever,” I said. At least, I did. Buford often left town on a moment’s notice, and even when he was in town, many was the night when he worked straight through. That’s what he claimed, at any rate. Frankly, I think it odd that Mama spotted him in downtown Charlotte on a Wednesday, when on both Tuesday and Thursday he called me from Japan.

  Priscilla smiled, revealing the benefits of braces at an early age. To be honest, she was quite an attractive woman with regular features; a long, slender neck; and shoulder-length brown hair that was just beginning to gray. She was dressed in an off-white linen dress which, as I might have expected, didn’t dare wrinkle.

  “Please come in.”

  The second she stepped over the threshold, Mama began oohing and aahing like a teenage boy in a used car lot. You would think she had never been out of her house.

  Not that Priscilla minded. “Well,” she said, sounding quite pleased, “one does what one can with what is available.”

  “To some, more is available than to others,” I said, hoping to sound like a Chinese fortune cookie.

  “Abby!” Mama said sharply.

  Priscilla displayed her perfect teeth again. “Right this way. I thought we might have hors d’oeuvres in the drawing room.”

  We followed her into a large room with high ceilings, pale peach walls, and white crown moldings. The furniture was French, light but ornate, with lots of gilt and ormolu. Everything was in disgustingly good taste.

  Priscilla clapped her hands. “Please, sit.”

  I looked around for a throne and, finding none, opted to sit on a bergère, a chair somewhat lower than a fauteuil and with padded arms. The fabric, not original, was nonetheless a high-quality satin brocade in blue and gold stripes.

  “Would y’all care for some wine?” she asked. She glanced at the bottle she was holding. “Let’s see—we have a nice merlot here with a lingering fruity taste, or I have a crisp sauvignon blanc with herbal undertones chilling in the refrigerator.”

  “Would you happen to have any tea?” Mama asked. No doubt she wanted to keep her wits about her.

  Priscilla Hunt blinked. “Tea? Oh, yes, it will just take a minute.” She turned to me. “Would you care for tea as well? Or would you prefer a glass of milk?”

  On Mama’s behalf, I restrained myself. “I normally drink only yak’s milk. But since you don’t have that, I believe that tonight I’ll have the crisp wine with herbal undertones.”

  Mama glared at me. Priscilla, however, seemed unfazed by my rudeness.

  “I’m going to try the Bolivian merlot,” she announced.

  Mama beamed.

  “Manipulator,” I mumbled. I said it so softly, even my guardian angel couldn’t hear.

  “Well, if you’ll excuse me, then.” Priscilla disappeared into another room.

  The second she did so, Mama was all over me like white on rice. “Abby, how could you?”

  “How could I what?”

  “Mock her like that. And yak’s milk, indeed!”

  “But I do like yak’s milk.” Okay, I didn’t, but I had tasted it. Bob does the Rob-Bobs’ cooking and is forever experimenting with strange and imported foods.

  Mama snorted. “That woman is the epitome of graciousness. You would be wise to tear a page from her book.”

  “Gracious, smacious, the woman is a big phony.”

  “Abby, dear, the woman is elegance personified.”

  “Mama, like I said. This is all an act. This—,” I waved at the room, “—isn’t where she normally hangs out. She’s got a den, just like you or me. She sits in a La-Z-Boy recliner.”

  “Nonsense, dear.”

  “Mama, I saw it.”

  “You what? You mean you’ve been here before?”

  One should never lie, and lying to your mama is the worst kind of lying. On the other hand, it is wrong to hurt a mother’s feelings.

  “Well, I didn’t really see it, but C. J. did. You Know Who bought a Tiffany floor lamp from her, and C. J. delivered it.”

  “Our C. J.? The one who’s an egg short of an omelet?”

  “Please don’t mention it to either of them,” I begged. “From what I heard, it was a horrible experience for them both.”

  “Oh, Abby, tell me more!” Mama’s eyes were glistening with excitement.

  The web I was weaving was getting more tangled than my collection of pantyhose with runs in one leg. It was time to put a stop to it.

  Fortunately, I didn’t have to. Her Majesty materialized, bearing a silver tray that held our drinks. The paper cocktail napkins, by the way, were the soft, expensive kind.

  “If y’all will just excuse me for another minute, I’ll get the hors d’oeuvres. I hope y’all like seafood.”

  “Love it,” we chimed.

  Poof! Our hostess was gone. The woman had a knack for dramatic entrances and departures.

  “This tea’s from a mix,” Mama hissed, as soon as she realized we were alone. “You might be right about the recliner.”

  “Oh, go on.” I took a sip of wine. It was all I could do to swallow it. “I think the wine is from a mix, too.”

  “Too dry?”

  “It could strip paint off a door, and those herbal undertones go all the way down to China.”

  Mama giggled nervously. “Oh, Abby, you’re so bad. Who would have thought that You Know Who drinks tea from a mix? And I’ve just got to see that recliner before I leave.”

  “Maybe she doesn’t drink tea, Mama. Maybe—” I had to cut myself short. You Know Who had just entered the room, and she was bearing a silver tray piled high with sizzling rumaki. Those certainly did not come from a can.

  “The ones on the left are scallops,” she said. “The ones on the right prawns.”

  Mama, bless her heart, is as fond of shellfish as I am of liver, but she gamely helped herself to one of each. I, on the other hand, virtually cleaned out the prawn side of the tray.

  “So,” Queen Priscilla said, finally alighting on a veilleuse, a sort of glorified daybed, “what have you ladies been up to?”

  Mama smiled. Her fifteen minutes of fame had finally arrived.

  “Well, I’ve been thinking about being a missionary to Africa, you see—”

  “How wonderful!” Priscilla said, even as she turned to me. “And what are you up to—Allie, isn’t it?”

  “It’s Abby,” I said through clenched teeth. “And I’ve just been working.”

  Priscilla took a sip of Mama’s Bolivian merlot. “I bet you have. That wonderful little shop of yours must keep you awfully busy. Dusting those little knickknacks all the time. I can’t imagine how you find time to volunteer in a nursing home on the side.”

  “But I don’t—”

  “Abby,” Mama said sternly, “you never told me this.” She turned to the Queen. “I’ve been a member of the Episcopal Church Women for forty years. I don’t personally volunteer in nursing homes, but our group does many worthwhile things. One year, we made cute little baskets of toiletries for the homeless. I supplied the aftershave cologne.”

  Priscilla arched an imperial brow and sipped again. She was, of course, an Episcopalian, but the ECW was far beneath her playing field. Much better to write a fat check when, and if, the spirit mo
ved her than to associate with professors’ wives.

  Mama shrank under the inquiring gaze. “The homeless need to smell nice, too,” she said weakly.

  “How very interesting.” Priscilla smiled and turned to me. “Now, dear, let’s talk about you.”

  “But Mama does lots of other worthwhile things,” I said quickly. “She—well, last year she went off to be a nun.”

  Mama paled. “Abby, not here.”

  Imperial brows raised. “Oh?”

  “They wouldn’t take me,” Mama wailed. “They accused me of singing too much. Too much! Can you imagine that? And I did not wear curlers under my wimple! That was a bald-faced lie. Sister Margarita was jealous, that’s all.”

  The royal noggin nodded. “Jealousy can be a crippling disease. Believe me, I know all about that. Of course, with me, it’s not my hair that people envy.”

  “Oh, it wasn’t Mama’s hair that Sister Margarita envied. It was her tattoo.”

  Priscilla’s eyes widened while Mama’s closed. I struggled in vain to remove the foot from my mouth.

  “It’s a very small tattoo, and it’s discreetly placed where folks can’t see it.”

  Our hostess fanned herself delicately with a cocktail napkin. The woman has self-control, I’ll grant her that.

  “My, what an interesting woman you are, Mozella. What about you, Abby? Any secret tattoos?”

  “Oh, no, I’m too big of a chicken for that. I hate needles.”

  “Really? You seem like such a…well, spunky woman.”

  “I’m a wimp, a total coward. It’s Mama who’s the brave one.”

  “That’s true,” Mama said. “I cut my thumb on a broken glass once and drove myself down to Piedmont Medical Center. There was blood all over the place—ruined my best crinoline. Abby would have fainted dead away.”

  “Yes, I’m sure,” Priscilla said. She hadn’t even looked at Mama. “But I saw you bidding the other night at the church auction. You were anything but a coward, Libby.”

  “That’s Abby. And auctions don’t require bravery, just money. Besides, the painting didn’t go for all that much.”