Monet Talks

by Tamar Myers

  “Did he crash it by himself?” I asked. “I thought only couples were allowed.”

  “Maynard’s a ventriloquist. He took a mannequin. He had it—he calls it Sheila—strapped to his shoes.”

  “Very funny.”

  “Bob’s not joking, Abby. They won a trophy for best-looking couple. They would have won another one for best dancing, but one of Sheila’s feet came loose and dragged around the dance floor. At a very slow pace, of course.”

  “I don’t believe you guys, but thanks for trying to cheer me up.”

  “That’s what friends are for, Abby. And quit worrying so much about that stupid prank—because I’m sure that’s what it was. When I was in college, we went into town and borrowed a toilet from a plumbing store, which we then put in a fountain in the middle of campus. But first we stuck an effigy of the college president on the john.”

  “When he says ‘borrowed,’ he means swiped,” Bob boomed, which got the entire room’s attention.

  Rob frowned at his partner. “Anyway, you shouldn’t worry about your alarm, either. It wouldn’t hurt to get the number changed, but I bet anything it was a simple case of forgetfulness. It happens to me all the time.”

  “Amen to that,” Bob said, at only slightly diminished decibels.

  “Yeah?” Rob said. “Well, I’m still trying to forget what you served me for supper last night.”

  I waved the waiter back over.

  One might think it would be hard to plan such an elaborate charade with a live husband in the house, but Mama and I managed to pull it off. It definitely helped that Greg works hard outdoors all day and generally isn’t interested in going out unless I drag him. We told him we were going to an opera at the Gaillard, and when he politely asked the name of the production, I told him “The Man from La Mannequin.” He told us to have a good time and went back to watching a taped baseball game.

  We’re not stupid; we changed into our ball clothes at the Rob-Bobs’. Rob has acted in community theater from time to time, and he fancies himself an expert at stage makeup. When he was through trying to turn Mama into a 102-year-old woman, she looked like the victim of a hit-and-run graffiti artist.

  “Don’t you think those lines on her face are a little wide?” I asked gently.

  “Maynard said they use only candlelight, because it makes everyone look good. If I made Mozella’s lines any thinner, they wouldn’t show up.”

  “Maybe if she was on a stage,” Bob whispered in my ear. He was in charge of plastering my short but very thick hair to my head. He’d run out of mousse halfway through and switched to Vick’s VapoRub. At least my sinuses weren’t going to bother me.

  “I heard that,” Rob said. He turned and gave me the once-over. “Abby, your hair isn’t the only thing that needs flattening.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment. But I’m sure that when I put the tux jacket on, you won’t even notice.”

  Bob sighed. “My two favorite people—all dressed up and ready to knock Charleston dead.”

  “Careful,” Rob said. “Some of those people there tonight might be closer to death than you think. Some of them played with God as a child, and from what Maynard says, some of them are richer. Are you good at mouth-to-mouth, Abby?”

  “Only with Greg.”

  The doorbell rang. Bob ran to get it and returned a moment later with C.J. loping along behind him. To my astonishment, the big galoot was wearing a purple ball gown and matching high heels.

  “So I was thinking,” she said, as she teetered into the master bedroom, “that we could all chip in and buy Abby another mynah. It wouldn’t have to be a Gracula religiosa, of course, but Abby’s not very observant and she’d never notice—” She lumbered to a stop. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t know you had company.”

  “We don’t,” Bob said. “It’s only—”

  “Mrs. Cotton Crustopper,” Rob said, bowing to Mama, “I would like to present Jane Cox—C.J., this is Mrs. Crustopper and her escort for the evening, Reginald Stiles.”

  C.J. offered Mama a mitt the size of New Jersey. “I remember you. We sat beside each other at the Daughters of Fine Lineage Hat and Chat Luncheon last summer.”

  Mama looked stunned. We both knew that C.J., despite her country-bumpkin persona, had relatives as inbred as the best of them. But I’m sure neither of us dreamed that she belonged to the Daughters of Fine Lineage and was a member of the St. Ophelia Society to boot. She’d never talked about any of it.

  Rob came to Mama’s rescue. “Miss Cox, I’m afraid Mrs. Crustopper has a touch of laryngitis tonight.”

  C.J. scratched her chin. “Granny Ledbetter has this surefire treatment for laryngitis, but it involves a possum, and I don’t know where to find a possum in Charleston on such short notice. But Cousin Orville swears that a big rat will work just as well—if you add a little extra sugar—and I know where to find plenty of big rats.”

  Mama opened her mouth to say something, but Rob shook his head ever so slightly before laughing a bit too loud. “Ha! Ha! Please forgive Miss Cox. Always joking, this one.”

  “But I’m not joking. If you don’t have time for me to bring back a big rat, two little rats might do. I saw some in the alley when I parked my car. It will only take me a minute to catch—”

  “Rats?” Bob barked. “In our alley?”

  But C.J. was looking at me. “You look awfully familiar, Mr. Stiles.”

  I smiled and shrugged.

  “Ooh, I remember now. I dated your brother, Stacy. We only went out a couple of times, then the cousins came to town and we all went to see a 3-D movie at the Imax, and then, just because Cousin Orville and Cousin Alvin had to be carried out on stretchers, your brother dumped me.” She sighed. “But you don’t look like that type, Mr. Stiles. I mean, to dump a girl for no good reason.”

  I shook my head.

  “And you’re certainly cuter than your brother.”

  I smiled wanly.

  “Ooh, I had an idea. If Mrs. Crustopper isn’t feeling very well—no offense, Mrs. Crustopper, but you usually talk up a storm—maybe we could go to the ball by ourselves, Mr. Stiles.” She had the audacity to wink at me.

  I couldn’t stand it a second longer. “C.J., it’s me, Abby!”

  C.J. blinked. “Huh?”

  “Abby Washburn—your boss and best friend.”

  “Good one, Mr. Stiles. But Abby has a squeakier voice, and she isn’t as tall.”

  That did it. That hiked my hackles so high, I was even taller than Stacy Stiles.

  “For your information, missy—”

  But Rob had grabbed me with a lobsterlike pinch on the elbow and was steering me into the bathroom. “Keep your cool, Abby,” he whispered. “If C.J. doesn’t recognize you, then y’all are a cinch for getting into the ball.”

  “Yes, but she’s hitting on me.”

  “Take that as a compliment, Abby. I certainly do. Who knew I was so good at stage makeup? Although frankly, I’m still not attracted to you. No offense intended.”

  “None taken. But Rob, Mama will never agree to stay behind, and you can bet your rococo she isn’t going swallow any rat potion—sugar or not.”

  “Don’t worry, darling. Just play along.” He dragged me back into the bedroom. “Hey folks, sorry about the interruption. I had some urgent business to discuss with Reginald here.” He slapped me on the back so hard that I appeared to leap forward. Right at C.J.

  “Ooh, Mr. Stiles,” she said, rubbing her hands together in anticipation, “have you agreed to be my date?”

  “Shame on you, C.J.,” Rob said, surprising me with his sharpness. “You’re engaged to Abby’s brother, or did you forget?”

  She looked Rob right in the eye. “Of course I didn’t forget, silly. But Toy had to stay up in Sewannee this weekend. Seminary students have to do a lot of studying you know.”

  “In that case,” Rob said, before I had a chance to speak, “Mr. Stiles will be glad to include you in his party.”

  “Party? D
oes that mean Mrs. Crustopper will be coming with us?”

  Mama’s eyes gleamed. “You’re darn tooting,” she in a voice I’d never heard before.

  And so the fatal die was cast.

  4

  It was a fine summer evening, appropriate for Charleston’s finest to strut their stuff.

  And strut C.J. did. Meanwhile Mama bumped gamely along while I, of course, pushed. I had no objections to being a gay man, even one taller than myself, but you would think C.J. could have at least given me a hand at the curbs. She is, after all, nearly twice my size.

  By the time we got to the hall I was perspiring so profusely I worried that my mustache might fall off. All this sweating was a new experience, I assure you. As a Southern woman, I had hitherto only glistened, or, at the very most, dewed.

  I will confess to being a mite disappointed when the couple taking tickets at the door barely gave ours a glance. “Be careful on the stairs,” the man said. “Someone spilled a glass of punch.”

  “I’ll be taking the elevator,” Mama said in that strange, nasal voice she’d adopted.

  “There’s punch in that, too. And you’ll have to mash the ‘close door’ symbol twice.”

  “And pray that it doesn’t get stuck,” the woman said.

  “It better not,” Mama said. “I’d hate to be stuck in an elevator with these two.”

  We were a touch on the late side, even by Charleston standards, and as soon as we got inside, the sounds of a mediocre orchestra could be heard wafting up the stairwell along with the smell of spilled punch. Immediately C.J. began tapping one of her monstrous purple pumps.

  “That’s ‘Begin the Beguine,’” she wailed. “It’s my favorite song.”

  “Then I think you two should dance to it,” Mama said, still vocally a stranger.

  “But we have to take you down in the elevator and—”

  “Nonsense, dear. You run along with Mr. Stiles—who, by the way, looks to have quite the dancer’s body—and trip the light fantastic. I don’t mind taking the elevator alone.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Quite certain. Now off with the two of you,” Mama said, dropping the nasal tones as she adopted a pseudo-English accent. “Cheerio, hip-hip-hooray, and all that sort of rot.”

  C.J. needed no further encouragement. She grabbed my hand and literally pulled me down the stairs. Thank heavens we missed all the wet spots. Without asking my permission she dragged me out into the crowded dance floor, propped me up against her bosom, and began to sway in countertime.

  “Isn’t this so romantic?” she cooed.

  I turned my face so I could see around her breasts. The room was filled with dancing couples, the men holding the women at a discreet arm’s length, but my senior prom was more romantic. There had been nothing done to disguise the fact that we were in the basement. The walls were beige, the floor was covered in black-and-white-checkered linoleum, and the only decorations I could spot—if indeed that’s what they were—were a pair of silk ficus trees badly in need of dusting. Despite all the people, the room gave the impression of bareness. Even the orchestra had been sequestered behind a plain white screen, lest they gaze upon the faces of the socially privileged and have to be put to death.

  My clueless employee has an insatiable appetite, and it wasn’t long before she maneuvered me over to the refreshment table. It was yet another disappointment. Instead of a cloth, the table was covered with paper that had been ripped, not cut. A plastic punch bowl in a faux cut-glass pattern served as the centerpiece, but it was almost empty. The sandwich plates looked like they’d been picked over by a flock of buzzards, and there were less nuts in the nut tray than there were on the dance floor.

  C.J. grunted. “I knew I should have come straight here. No offense, Mr. Stiles.”

  I grunted as well. It seemed like a manly thing to do, and unless I’m sorely mistaken, a good grunt is supposed to be worth a hundred words.

  C.J. pressed my head deeper into her bosom. “Ooh, I’ve always loved a man who could grunt like that. Do you scratch as well, Mr. Stiles?”

  “Argh?”

  “Absolutely.” She sighed deeply. “If only my fiancé, Toy, would grunt and scratch himself. But oh no, just because he’s studying to be an Episcopal priest, he thinks he has to have decorum. Who’s he trying to kid? That’s what I want to know. You ought to see his family. His mother is locked in a 1950s time warp, a real head case, if you ask me. Wears a mountain of crinolines under her full-circle skirts, just like Donna Reed, and never, ever goes without her pearls. I bet she showers in them. And then there’s Toy’s sister. Whew—now there’s a whack job!”

  I pushed free of her bosoms and ripped off my fake mustache. “That is enough, C.J.!”

  She had the gall to grin. “Yeah, maybe I did get carried away. Sorry for calling your mama a head case, Abby. You know how much I like her.”

  “You knew it was me all along?”

  “Of course, silly. You said so yourself back at the Rob-Bobs.”

  “But you acted like you didn’t believe me.”

  “I was getting back at you, Abby. You and Mozella really hurt my feelings, you know. How come you didn’t tell me you were coming here tonight?”

  “Well, because, uh—we didn’t want you to get in trouble.”

  At twenty-four, she’s half my age, but that didn’t stop her from regarding me sternly. “You didn’t want me causing the trouble, isn’t that it?”

  “Yes, but coming here wasn’t my idea, I swear. Mama—oh my gosh, where is Mama? I haven’t seen her since we left her upstairs by the elevator. C.J., you’re a head taller than anyone else, can you see her?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t, Abby.”

  I slapped the fake mustache back on. “Keeping looking, C.J., while I run back upstairs.”

  “Try the elevator,” C.J. hollered as I vaulted up the stairs one step at a time.

  But Mama was nowhere to be found in that building. We even checked the shrubbery outside. In desperation we called the Rob-Bobs, who said they hadn’t heard from her since we left for the ball. It was with a sinking heart that I called Greg.

  He picked up just before the answering machine would have switched on. “Hey, hon,” he said, “can you make this quick? The score is tied and the bases are loaded.”

  “Mama’s missing.”

  “That’s nice. I’m glad you’re enjoying the opera. Talk to you later.” He hung up to the distant sound of cheering.

  “Well?” C.J. demanded,

  “He’s in a sports fog. Unless it involves beer and pork rinds, he’s beyond reaching.”

  “Cousin Oglethorpe is like that. Once he got into football fog and didn’t move for days. His wife hooked him up to a long plastic hose—she attached it to his you-know-what—and put vitamin pills in his beer, which she fed him through a tube—”

  “C.J., this is not the time for Shelby stories!”

  “Sorry, Abby. Do you think she walked home?”

  “Rolled, maybe. Mama doesn’t walk unless she has to. But if we split up—I’ll walk—we’ll spot her on the way to my house.”

  “Will do, Abby.”

  But Mama was nowhere to be seen, even though we covered every possible route. Finally, with mounting dread, I grabbed one of C.J.’s oversized mitts and dragged her into the house. My dearly beloved didn’t even bat one of his enviably long lashes. It wasn’t until I shut off the TV that he stirred. Even then it took a second or two for him to withdraw from his sports-induced coma. (Funny how this type of coma does not prevent the ones experiencing it from jumping up and down and hollering from time to time.)

  “Is the opera over already?” he asked.

  “We obviously didn’t go to the opera, Greg. Is Mama home?”

  He shrugged. “Hon, do you know if we have any more pork rinds?”

  “I don’t know. What day is it?”

  “Saturday.”

  “In that case, we don’t. The pork rind fairy doesn’t come ag
ain until Monday.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “I’m sure she isn’t,” C.J. said. “Back home the pork rind fairy comes on Sunday, but down here…”

  C.J. may have been dead serious for all I know. But while she fed my husband one of her infamous Shelby stories, I checked every room in the house. No Mama. I also checked the phone for messages.

  “Greg,” I called, running back into the den, “she’s really missing.”

  “Cute, Abby, but don’t you think you and C.J. are running this pork rind fairy bit into the ground?”

  “I’m talking about Mama!”

  “Mozella?”

  “She was supposed to take the elevator, and we were going to meet her in the basement, but she never showed up. And there’s no sign of her wheelchair, either.”

  “Mozella?”

  “Greg, look at me.”

  “I’m looking.”

  “What do you see?”

  “Uh—a beautiful, sexy woman?”

  “With a mustache?”

  “I didn’t want to say anything, hon, in case it was a hormonal thing.”

  “Greg! It’s a obviously a fake.” I ripped it off for the second time that night. Any semblance of a real mustache I might have had was pulled out by the roots.

  My husband stared at me, taking in my tux and plastered locks for the first time. He seemed at a loss for words.

  If only C.J. could be rendered speechless. “Granny Ledbetter had a handlebar mustache,” she said. “Once it got caught in her spinning wheel—”

  “C.J.!” Perhaps my tone was too harsh, but it brought Greg fully to his senses.

  “Hon,” he said, jumping to his feet, “why are you wearing a tux? Do I want to know?”

  I spilled my guts. Fortunately, being a small person, it wasn’t messy. When I was through, Greg read me the riot act, but since he’s a kind and generous man, that too was tolerable. Well into the night we called everyone Mama knew, even her friends back in Rock Hill. But no one had a clue as to her whereabouts.

  Finally, about two A.M., my dear sweet husband, the ex-cop, coaxed me into breaking the law by taking one of Mama’s prescription Xanax. Just as it was taking effect the phone by our bed rang.