Monet Talks

by Tamar Myers

  “I use Hi-N-Dry! In my opinion they’re the only establishment that can do a decent job of pressing silk. Most cleaners leave shiny areas—never mind. Who was my European-American blonde competition?”

  “Abby, you shouldn’t be making fun like that.”

  “I’m not. I’m trying to prove a point. If we qualify every American except for white ones, aren’t we then saying that white is the norm? There may be more of us, but that doesn’t make us the gold standard. An American is an American. Adjectives divide.”

  “Well, I don’t agree. But anyway, the gorgeous blonde is George Murphy.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “That’s what he said. Here’s her phone number, and Mr. Johnson’s.”

  More voices alerted us to the fact that the door was about to swing open. On impulse I dragged Wynnell into a stall. To avoid the problem of two pairs of feet being visible, I hopped up onto the toilet seat.

  “The trouble is she knows she’s cute,” Voice One said. “Thinks she can get away with anything. You should see how messy their house is.”

  “She’s just so tiny!” Voice Two said.

  “Abigail this, Abigail that, that’s all Harry seems to say anymore,” Voice One said. “He’s absolutely smitten.”

  “Linda admits she’s jealous,” Voice Two said.

  “Why that little bitch Abigail!” Voice One said. They both laughed.

  “Why I never!” I said, but Wynnell has lightning-quick responses and covered my mouth almost immediately.

  “What was that?” Voice One said.

  “I think someone’s in there,” Voice Two said. “Anyway, I warned them. I told them getting a Chihuahua puppy was like giving your heart away.”

  The second they closed the restroom door behind them, Wynnell and I came tumbling out of the stall like a pair of acrobats. She was the first to recover.

  “We’re taking this back to the alley,” she said, grabbing my arm.

  “Why don’t we just join the Rob-Bobs?”

  For the record, Wynnell is eight inches taller than I and probably outweighs me by a good sixty pounds. I barely got a glimpse of the Chez Fez kitchen on my way to the rear entrance. But the glimpse I did get included about a dozen belly dancers standing around, spooning couscous into their mouths.

  “Does this mean I get the bald one, too?” one of them yelled.

  In the alley, Wynnell propped me up against a brick wall. “Abby, I know that Rob Goldburg and Bob Steuben are close friends of yours. I’m fond of them as well. But they’re human like the rest of us.”

  “I can’t argue with you there. What’s going on, Wynnell?”

  “I’m not suggesting they kidnapped Mozella. She could identify them and then they’d have to—” She let go of me with one hand and made a slashing motion across her throat. “Of course if it came to that, I’m sure they’d hire an expert to do the job for them, and your mama wouldn’t feel a thing. Come to think of it, there’s any number of Yankees who would be only too glad to do that kind of work for free. After all, Mozella was—I mean, is—the quintessential example of the Deep South; gracious to a fault, and as eccentric as they come.”

  I squirmed out of her reach. “What on earth are you talking about, Wynnell? Are you on some new medication? Has C.J. been giving you samples of her granny’s home remedies again?”

  Wynnell’s unibrow formed a hairy V. “I wish I didn’t have to tell you this, Abby. Bear in mind that I’m only the messenger.”

  “The message, please!”

  “Not only did John Norman identify Bubba Johnson and George Murphy as your top contenders, but there was a telephone bidder as well.”

  I’d forgotten that Auction Barn allows telephone bids, provided the caller is preregistered and agrees to pay a one-hundred-dollar nonrefundable deposit. This ensures serious buyers, who may preview the items to be auctioned. However, most folks enjoy the excitement and atmosphere of an in-person auction, so phone bidders are rare.

  My knees felt weak. “Are you saying the phone bidder was one of the Rob-Bobs?”

  “Bingo.”

  “Was it Rob—never mind, I don’t want to know. They’re like the Bobbsey Twins, or the Robbsey Twins, take your pick. I’m sure they’re in it together. But why didn’t they tell me? They know I’m tracking down the finalists who bid against me. This is bizarre, Wynnell.”

  “That’s why I couldn’t tell you in front of them. Abby, I think you should stay away from them until we find your mama.”

  “To heck with that. I’m marching right back in there to confront them.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “You just try and stop me.”

  She tried, but to no avail. For the record, after kicking her in the shins I immediately apologized.

  Alas, the Rob-Bobs’ curtained cubicle was empty, except for a busboy who was flirting with the belly dancer, who was back on duty.

  “You chased them off,” she growled, “and we had ourselves a deal.”

  “I did no such thing.”

  “Everything was going just fine until you showed up, claiming to be their friend.”

  “Which I am.” I started for the front door, but she grabbed my arm and spun me around.

  “You think you’re special with them expensive clothes and that la-dee-da accent. Well, welcome to the real world, sister. In the real world we fight for what’s ours. Ain’t nothing handed to us on a silver spoon.”

  “You mean tray, don’t you? A spoon doesn’t hold that much.”

  “Bitch!”

  “Ladies,” the lad said, “I’m all for a catfight, but can we do it after my shift? Say four o’clock this afternoon at my place?”

  “Where do you live?” the belly dancer asked.

  “He’s jailbait,” I said helpfully.

  “I’m old enough to drive,” he whined.

  I dashed out front. The Rob-Bobs were nowhere to be seen. Wynnell, however, was limping around the corner, having come directly from the alley.

  “I’m sorry, again,” I said.

  “Abby, I was only trying to look out for you.”

  “I know, and I appreciate it. Say, do you want to come with me to interview Bubba Johnson?”

  “At his mansion?”

  “I don’t know, I haven’t called him yet. I assume he has an office somewhere.”

  “Hmm. If it turns out that he’s at home, I’ll come. I’ve always wanted a peek inside one of those mansions.”

  “What about your clothes? Don’t you need to go back for them?

  “Nah. I was wearing a dress that I’d outgrown anyway. I kinda like the Casbah look. And these curly-toe shoes are much more comfortable than you’d think.”

  I rang the number Wynnell gave me. It was Bubba Johnson’s office, but when I identified myself as the owner of the Taj Mahal birdcage, I was told Mr. Johnson was at home and that he’d been hoping I’d call. I called him there and was told to come by the servants’ entrance off the alley.

  “The servants’ entrance!” I said with righteous indignation. “Can you believe that?”

  “Welcome to the real world, Abby.”

  I drove, taking Society St. over to East Bay. A cruise ship towered over the Customs House, and I felt a longing in my belly. Ever since moving to Charleston I’ve wanted to take a cruise—to anywhere—just as long as it started and ended in my hometown. What a luxury it would be to not have to worry about missing connecting flights, or airline strikes, and how wonderful it would be to know for a fact that I would be sleeping in the world’s most comfortable bed the night I disembarked.

  “Dang, I wish I were on a cruise right now,” I said aloud. “No worries, unlimited gorging—I could live my life on a cruise ship. Did you know, Wynnell, that people actually do that? You can buy an apartment aboard a cruise ship, and never have to get off.”

  Wynnell pursed her lips. “You know Ed and I have never been able to afford one. I don’t think I’d like to do it if I could. Our neighbors went o
n one. Maynard, that’s the husband, died halfway back from Hawaii. The power to the morgue went out, and they had to store him with the blocks of ice they use for those fancy ice carvings at the gala dinner. Everybody complained about the lack of sculptures. It was just awful for Lydia.”

  We rode in silence until we came to Market Street. That double intersection was clogged with tourists who believe that since they are on vacation they are immortal. While Wynnell prayed audibly, I cursed softly. I am pleased to say that we made it across without the loss of life.

  I never get tired of looking at Rainbow Row, made famous by the musical Porgy and Bess, and that day I got plenty of time to enjoy the brightly painted houses, stuck as we were behind a horse-drawn carriage. Just when I was about to blow a gasket (as was my car), Wynnell reminded me how fortunate I was to live in the world’s finest city.

  “If you had all the money in the world—and sometimes it seems like you do—would you want to live anywhere else?”

  “No. The sea air, the lush semitropical gardens, all this history—there’s no place else in the world like it.”

  Immediately the horse pulled over to let us pass. Soon after that we were fortunate enough to find a parking space near the corner of Stolls Alley and East Battery, directly across from the Charleston Yacht Club. Do you see the benefits of extolling the glories of the Holy City?

  But even benefits from above are dispensed sparingly to the very stupid, like myself. Bubba Johnson had described his house as “the big brick one with white pillars and lots of fancy trim.” Since he made it sound so obvious, and didn’t offer more specific information, I didn’t think to ask for his house number. Trying to match his house to his description was like trying to identify a bowling ball by its three holes. Finally Wynnell and I resorted to climbing on the seawall for an overview. One of the mansions did seem to be marginally more impressive than the others. The smallest one, by the way, probably exceeded ten thousand square feet.

  “I’ll be danged if I’m going around to the service entrance,” Wynnell declared with surprising vehemence. “I want all these tourists to think I’m company.”

  “You’re dressed like a Gypsy who’s lost his guitar. Give it up, Wynnell.”

  She would not. To the contrary, she opened the splendid wrought-iron gates and sauntered up the walk like she was the Queen of Sheba. I trotted after her at a respectful distance. But as we mounted the steps I edged past her.

  “Let me do the talking,” I said.

  “Could I stop you?”

  “I mean it. This is serious business.”

  “Yes, your majesty,” she said without a trace of irony.

  There wasn’t any bell—at least not that I could see—so I rapped with a bronze ring hanging from the jaws of a life-size bronze lion head. I could feel the thuds reverberating under my feet. After eons of time had passed, and every tourist in Charleston had a chance to see us being shut out of this grand house, the brass-plated massive oak door creaked open, perhaps less than an eighth of an inch. It was impossible to see in.

  “Go to the service door,” a voice rasped.

  “She has an appointment,” Wynnell said.

  “Go around back to the alley.” The monstrous door closed with a thud that was felt all the way up to Columbia.

  “Well, that bites,” Wynnell said bitterly.

  “We’re disgraced in front of dozens of people we don’t care about. We’ll never be able to show our heads in Charleston Society again.”

  “Unlike you, I haven’t had the opportunity. But if I did, I wouldn’t blow it by going in drag to the most coveted event of the year.”

  “Don’t even start blaming me for Mama’s disappearance. I’m blaming myself too much as it is.”

  “Sorry, Abby. I’m not blaming you. To be honest, I’m just jealous that you ladies didn’t invite me to go with you. How come C.J. was invited and I wasn’t? You’re my best friend, for crying out loud.”

  It is always awkward when someone considers you to be their best friend but they’re number two or three on your list. To be honest, Greg and Mama notwithstanding, I’d have to say Rob Goldburg is my very best friend, my confidant. Then maybe Wynnell—or maybe Bob. It isn’t cut-and-dried.

  “It wasn’t like we meant to exclude you,” I wailed. “It just sort of happened. Besides, C.J. wasn’t invited at all. She crashed Mama’s little party, and much to our surprise she has deep Charleston connections that go back centuries. Prick C.J.’s finger and you’ll get royal blue.”

  “You’re talking about our C.J.? Calamity Jane from Shelby with the whiskered granny and the Ledbetter cousins that belong in Ripley’s Believe It or Not?”

  By then we were back on the sidewalk. “That’s her. She presents herself as such a yokel, and so over the top with her Shelby stories. If she were a fictional character, I’d find her unbelievable.”

  “You know what they say—the truth is stranger than fiction.”

  We arrived at a service entrance that was another brass-plated door. It would have looked nice on your run-of-the-mill mansion in, say, the South Park area of Charlotte, North Carolina. This one had a bell, which I let Wynnell buzz. That the dear woman took a bit of her frustration out on that bell was clear when the door was yanked open.

  “We have ears, you know,” a uniformed maid snapped.

  “And we have feelings. Why the back door?”

  “Are they white?” It was the same raspy voice we’d heard in front.

  “Yes,” the maid said.

  A man appeared, as she disappeared. He was dark skinned, with a short natural Afro that was streaked with white. Although he was dressed in a polo shirt, slacks, and a pair of comfortable-looking moccasins, he had the air of a wealthy man about him. I knew at once he was Bubba Johnson.

  “My mother was a maid in this very house,” he said. “She spent her entire life going through back doors. I made a vow when I was a kid—maybe just ten years old—that someday I would own this place, and all the white folks would have to go through the back door.”

  “But that’s discrimination,” Wynnell said. “I’ve never made anyone go through my back door, and Abby here has an African-American cousin.”

  He looked at me with bemusement. “Is that so?”

  “Actually, she’s a second cousin. But definitely a blood relative.”

  “I’m sure I have one of those, too,” he said with just the hint of a smile. “Come in.”

  We stepped into a mud room, and then into a large breakfast room, beyond which I could see the makings of an industrial-size kitchen. French doors and floor-to-ceiling glass windows in the breakfast room offered a view of a spectacular garden. A brick walk, flanked by tightly clipped boxwood, led to a large fountain set against a brick wall traced with creeping fig. On either side of the walk in lush profusion grew camellia bushes, cycads, and a species of dwarf palm with strikingly blue fronds. But it was definitely the fountain that was the eye-catcher.

  “That’s Leda and the swan,” I said aloud.

  “Very good,” Bubba Johnson said.

  We shook hands.

  “What’s that girl doing with the swan?” Wynnell asked. “Swans can be dangerous.”

  “The swan is raping her,” I said. “It’s from the poem by William Butler Yeats. After being raped, Leda produces an egg that contains three babies, two boys and a girl. The girl is Helen of Troy.”

  “I thought that was a movie with Brad Pitt.”

  “Same Helen,” Bubba Johnson said. “Would you ladies care for something to drink? A little sweet tea, maybe, or something stronger if you like.”

  “Something stronger,” Wynnell said without a second’s hesitation. My friend is strict Southern Baptist, but only at home.

  “Name your poison. I have just about everything.”

  Before Wynnell could open her mouth we heard a thundering crash in another room, and seconds later the door to the kitchen was flung open by the maid. Along with her came the stench of ammonia
so intense it stung my eyes. Adding to the assault on my senses was a shrill, high-pitched noise at mind-boggling decibels. It was like listening to the Vienna Boys Choir while on speed—not that I’ve done a whole lot of that, mind you.

  “Number fifty-two toppled,” the maid said between gasps.

  “What the flock!” Bubba Johnson ran to the door, the maid at his heels.

  Not wanting to appear standoffish, Wynnell and I ran after them. What we witnessed that morning was so astonishing, it almost defies description. Lying on the floor of what should have been a dining room were dozens of overturned birdcages. Inside the cages were dozens, maybe hundreds, of chirping birds. A quick glance around the room informed me that the toppled cages had just seconds before been stacked from the floor to the twelve-foot ceiling. Other stacks of cages covered the walls like three-dimensional wallpaper. And there were stacks of cages in the middle of the room as well, although a number of them had been knocked to the floor.

  It is hard to say how many birds had been liberated by this unfortunate event, or how many were flying free to begin with, but the air was filled with them. It was also filled with floating feathers and falling excrement. Wynnell and I were content to stand in the doorway and stare.

  Bubba Johnson turned and saw us. “Get the hell out of my house!” he roared.

  9

  “What was that all about?” Wynnell asked, badly shaken.

  I was balancing on the seawall again, this time trying to look into Bubba Johnson’s front windows. No luck. The heavy drapes may as well have been walls.

  “I don’t think he was lashing out at us,” I said. “He was just upset about the cages falling over.”

  “No, I meant what’s with all the birds? That’s more than just a hobby. That’s even more than a business. Do you think it’s some kind of fetish?”

  “A fetid fetish? I think you mean obsession. It’s definitely that. It’s a danger all collectors face. I knew a woman who collected Raggedy Anne dolls and memorabilia. She finally had to declare bankruptcy. At that time, she had over five thousand dolls and was thirty thousand dollars in debt.”