Monet Talks

by Tamar Myers

  “I’m sorry you can’t stay longer,” I said. C.J. put her hands on her hips and gave me the evil eye. Her bottom lip was trembling, but she didn’t say a word. Then, still without saying a thing, she grabbed her purse and stomped out the door.

  I must say that her silence unnerved me. I would have much preferred a stiff rebuttal, even one laced with Shelby stories. Just to make one hundred percent sure that I wasn’t in the wrong, I ran to the computer and typed “liger” in the search blank supplied by Google. The results came up immediately.

  “Holy guacamole,” I said aloud, “there is such a thing.”

  The big gal was right as rain. Due to a phenomenon biologists refer to as hybrid vigor, ligers—the offspring of a male lion and a female tiger—can weigh as much as a thousand pounds and, when standing on their hind legs, reach twelve feet in height.

  I dialed C.J.’s cell phone. She couldn’t have been gone more than two minutes, so she was definitely not indisposed. I hung up and tried again. Not having any luck, I did the only thing I could do, which was leave her a message, telling my dear friend how sorry I was for not believing her. I even went so far as to promise to believe all her future Shelby stories. Frankly, I hadn’t made such an insincere vow since I was confirmed at age fourteen.

  Depression either steals my appetite or makes me ravenous. That evening it made me hungry enough to devour both Lean Cuisines, a Hungry Man, and half a pint of Cherry Garcia ice cream. I tried to distract myself by reading, gave up to watch Last Comic Standing, and then, after an hour of not chuckling once, I turned out the light and fell asleep almost immediately.

  I dreamed a thousand pound liger, with C.J. astride, was roaming the streets of Charleston South of Broad. But I was the only one who could see the giant cat. My calls to police were cruelly mocked, then ignored altogether. Even my honeybuns, Greg, who had returned from McClellanville married to Caroline Gallentree, refused to take me seriously. The only person in the entire world to believe me, other than C.J., was Bob Steuben, who said he had an old family recipe for liger burgers and would be right over to help me catch the behemoth. Before Bob could get there, the ferocious beast leaped through my bedroom window—Greg and the new Mrs. Washburn were in the kitchen yucking it up—knocked me to the bed, and started clawing at my eyes.

  It was one of those dreams more real than reality, in part because I dreamed it mere minutes before waking, and when I did finally awaken, Dmitri was lying on my sternum, batting at my fluttering eyelids. It was a sport he’d engaged in on numerous other occasions. Still, it took me a couple of seconds to realize what was happening. Just before it clicked, I let loose with a bloodcurdling scream. Dmitri leaped into the air, landed on my chest, then tore from the room in a streak of orange. There are not many places in our house where a ten-pound cat can hide and not be found, but there must be at least one. Even a freshly opened can failed to do the trick.

  While my poor pussy pouted, I got on the phone to McClellanville. First I called Greg’s cell phone, but couldn’t get through. When I called the Gallentree’s landline, Caroline Gallentree picked up on the first ring.

  “Hey Caroline. Is Greg there?” Only Yankees (and recently arrived Southerners) identify themselves to folks they’ve met more than once.

  “Abby! I was just about to call you. I take it you haven’t seen Mark, then?”

  “Not since we rode to Clemson together last fall for the homecoming game.”

  “I was afraid of that.”

  My phone hand trembled. “Greg left a message late yesterday afternoon. Said he had engine trouble.”

  “Funny, because that’s what Mark said. And that he was closer to Charleston than to McClellanville, so he was spending the night with y’all.”

  “Well, he didn’t. Have you tried calling Mark on his cell?”

  “Only a million times. Always get the same answer: the party I’m trying to reach is out of his calling area. How about you?”

  “Same here. Caroline, what are the odds they both had engine trouble?”

  “What are the odds we’ll see a hundred pounds again—sorry, Abby. Damn them, Abby. Damn them all to hell.” She started crying.

  “Caroline, do you want me to come up there?” I crossed my fingers and prayed that she didn’t.

  “No, I’ll be okay. I just need to focus on what I do next. Should we call the Coast Guard, Abby? Mark’s boat isn’t in his slip.”

  “Doesn’t he have a partner?”

  “He has two employees, Jesus and Chico. They’re from Mexico. I called them both. Jesus said they never went out yesterday. Abby, have you checked with Greg’s partners?”

  “I just woke up. Give me five minutes and I’ll call you right back.”

  Skeeter and Bo Evans are Greg’s partners. They’re also his cousins. Bo fancies himself a lady-killer. Unfortunately, not many women fancy him. Nonetheless, when Bo’s done trawling for shrimp, he trawls the bars for women. Skeeter, on the other hand, is a family man with four children, three of them in braces and one bound for college. I chose to call him.

  He read his caller ID. “Abby?”

  “Skeeter, have you seen Greg?”

  “Not since Friday. Why?”

  “He didn’t go out in the boat yesterday?”

  “I don’t think so. He said he needed off—to be with you. So Bo and I decided to take the day off as well. I want to spend as much time as I can with my oldest before she goes away to school. Say, any word about your mother, Abby?”

  “No, not really. Thanks, Skeeter.”

  “Any time.”

  I called Caroline back. “His partner said he didn’t think Greg took the boat out. I’m going to drive over to Mount Pleasant and see for myself. Do you have my cell phone number?”

  “Yeah. Call me—promise?”

  “As soon as I find out anything.”

  When I hung up, I tried calling C.J. again. Still no answer. It was getting to the point where it was almost funny. First Mama, then C.J., then Dmitri, then Greg. Who was going to go missing next? Of course it wasn’t funny. Except for my first wedding day—and the seven or eight times since when I’ve almost gotten myself killed—this was shaping up to be the most stressful day of my life.

  Who should a stressed-out woman turn to? Yes, God is a good answer, but being only a lapsed Episcopalian, I ran straight into the arms of a good-looking unmarried man.

  Rob Goldburg gave me a long, hard hug, and then passed me over to Bob.

  “You look like hell, Abby,” Rob said. “What happened?”

  “Greg didn’t come home last night, and he wasn’t where he said he would be. C.J. is missing as well—at least she won’t answer her phone. Oh, and Dmitri is hiding somewhere in the house sulking. Can it get any worse?”

  They led me into their kitchen. “Tell us everything,” Bob said. “Don’t leave out a single word, but tell us between bites. I made a pigeon egg soufflé. It’s hot from the oven. I haven’t even taken it from its bath yet.”

  “A what and a what?”

  Rob laughed. “That’s what I said.”

  Bob was not amused. “For your information, fresh pigeon eggs are hard to get in Charleston. I had to put my order in weeks ago.”

  “He serious?” I asked.

  Rob rolled his eyes. “I’m afraid so. Do you know how many pigeon eggs it takes to make a soufflé? I don’t, either, but I can tell you it takes forty-eight bucks worth.”

  “That’s because I had to have them airfreighted from San Antonio. Orange juice or grapefruit, Abby? I’ve even got kumquat, if you like.”

  “Coffee, please.”

  “You take it like you like your men, right? Weak and white.”

  “I’ll take it strong and white this morning. Why on earth would anyone eat pigeon eggs?”

  “They have a rich, almost buttery taste, that’s why.”

  “They smell like a paper processing plant,” Rob said.

  “Look guys, I’d love to stay and give you my opinion, but
I’m headed over to Shem Creek in Mount Pleasant. I want to see if Greg’s car is parked anywhere nearby. But first I need to rake one, or both, of you over the coals.”

  “Uh-oh,” Rob said, “we’ve been outed.”

  “I outed myself years ago,” Bob said, “so she must mean you, Rob.”

  “Ha ha, very funny,” I said. “And yes, you are outed. Why didn’t either of you tell me that y’all made a phone bid on the Taj Mahal?”

  My buddies exchanged worried glances. For all their sophistication, suddenly they were now just boys caught with their hands inside a cookie jar.

  I tapped my sandal against their hardwood kitchen floor. “I want the truth, and I want it now.”

  “Careful, Abby, you’ll leave a mark,” Bob said.

  “Your floor has a better finish than that.”

  “He’s just worried you’ll make his soufflé fall,” Rob said with a smile.

  “Then maybe I should slam a few doors,” I said, but without a smile.

  “Uncle!” Bob boomed. “We were bidding on it because we wanted it for you.”

  “For me?”

  “As a birthday present,” Rob said. “You’ve got one coming next month, in case you haven’t remembered.”

  “I try not to. But why the Taj?”

  “Well, when we went to the presale viewing the night before, that’s all you could talk about. Most beautiful thing you’d ever seen, you said—like a million times. We got the hint. To make it more of a surprise, we stayed away from the auction and bid over the phone. But some jerk kept bidding against us.”

  “That would be me. So why did you stop?”

  “We love you, Abby, but not ten thousand dollars worth.” Fortunately, that line was delivered with a grin.

  “Well, thanks for the thought. And remember, whatever figure you stopped your bidding at, that’s how much I expect you to pay for my birthday present—when you do get around to buying it.”

  The look of terror in Rob’s eyes may have been staged, but it was priceless. “Yeah, sure thing, Abby.”

  “Okay guys, it’s been lovely, but like I said, I need to bop on over to the pleasant side of the Cooper to look for Greg’s car.”

  “We’d love to go with you,” Bob said, “but there’s the soufflé to consider. You understand, don’t you, Abby?”

  “Of course.”

  “Nonsense,” Rob said, “we’re going with you.” He grabbed a set of keys hanging from the tooth of a scowling wall gnome.

  “No fair,” Bob moaned. “The soufflé is going to fall without anyone even tasting it.”

  “That doesn’t have to be the case,” Rob said. “Bob, why don’t you stay and give it a test taste? I’m sure Abby won’t mind.”

  I didn’t, but I knew Bob cared. As much as he knows better, my homely friend lives in constant fear that his very handsome partner will suddenly become a raging heterosexual—in other words, Anita Bryant’s poster boy.

  “Let’s all three taste it, and then go,” I said.

  Rob glared at me while I smiled sweetly.

  “So,” Bob said, “who wants to go first?”

  I needed to get the show on the road, so I took the plunge. Actually, it was a series of stabs. The soufflé had a surprisingly thick crust on it, which has yet to be explained. It was, however, quite tasty.

  “Pretty good,” I said. “Does it have blue cheese in it?”

  Bob beamed. “I always knew you had sophisticated taste buds, Abby.”

  Rob barely licked what was on his spoon. “Funny, because I would have guessed dirty socks.”

  “You’re right as well! You see, this particular blue cheese is made in a very poor monastery in the Carpathian Mountains. The monks use old socks—clean ones, of course—to separate the curds from the whey.”

  “You’re kidding,” I said.

  Rob stared at his partner. “I’m afraid he’s not. Bob always blinks when he’s not telling the truth.”

  The phone rang, and Bob, who was the closest, glanced at the caller ID. “It’s blocked.”

  “Pick it up anyway,” Rob said. “I’ve got this feeling it might be important.”

  “Hello?” Bob said into the phone. Then his eyes widened as he turned to me. “It’s for you, Abby.”

  11

  I took the phone hesitantly. “Who is it?” I asked, one hand over the mouthpiece.

  Bob shrugged.

  “Hello?”

  I was greeted by silence.

  “Hello? Is anyone there? There’s nobody on the line!”

  “Sorry, Abby,” Bob said.

  “Was it a man or a woman?”

  “That’s the thing, I couldn’t tell. The voice was all over the place.”

  “Maybe an adolescent boy,” Rob said, and put his arm around my shoulders.

  “Could it have been a bird, Bob?”

  “A bird? I guess so. You mean like Monet, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Shoot, Abby, I should have said something to keep him—uh, or her—on the line.”

  “You didn’t know. But they know—they know where to call me. Guys, I’m being followed.”

  Rob squeezed my shoulder. “Sort of looks like it, doesn’t it? But don’t worry, darlin’, we’re not going to let anything happen to you. From now on Bob and I are sticking to you like glue.”

  “But not Goofy Glue,” Bob said. “That stuff can’t hold two pieces of paper together, much less suspend a truck from an I-beam like in those commercials.”

  “They’ll follow us to Mount Pleasant,” I said. “How am I going to look for Greg’s car?”

  “How do you feel about suitcases?” Rob asked.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’ll be right back,” he said.

  “He better make this quick,” I said to Bob. “I’m being followed by some maniacal kidnapper, and he wants to show off his new suitcase?”

  Rob kept his word, and was back in less time than it takes a Yankee to say the pledge of allegiance. He was pulling a very large suitcase in a floral tapestry design. He opened it immediately.

  “Hop in,” he said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Don’t worry, it has air holes all over the place. The center of each rose in fact.”

  “What the heck is going on?”

  “It’s the perfect way to sneak you out of here. I’ll open the garage door first and make a big show of loading the car, and then Bob and I will take off, presumably on a trip of some kind. They’ll sit and wait here, watching for your car to leave, but of course it won’t.”

  “I see—no, I don’t. What are you doing with a suitcase full of holes?”

  Rob blushed.

  “It was a fraternity,” Bob said. “You don’t want to know. Trust me.”

  I am not a claustrophobic person. I’m sure that is in large part because I’m such a small person. What is a tight squeeze for most adults is plenty big for me. But just the thought of being locked up in a suitcase, no matter how roomy it might be, gave me the willies.

  “I think I’ve seen too many horror movies, guys. This isn’t going to work.”

  The Rob-Bobs sighed in unison. “Somehow I’m not surprised,” Rob said. “Back in college when I had to—never mind. We could just stick you in the trunk when the garage door is closed. The trunk has a safety pull, so you don’t need to worry about—”

  “I’ll do it.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “But you have to put this suitcase on the backseat, not the trunk. Fill the trunk with other suitcases. That will make it look like you’re going on a long trip, and I get to see out.”

  “Not much, you won’t,” Bob said. “Whenever I—”

  “Never mind,” Rob said. “We’ll let you out as soon as we get over the bridge and into Mount Pleasant. You’ll be out of here in fifteen minutes, twenty tops.”

  I must admit that once I got in and found a comfortable position, it started to be fun. It was very much like playing hide-a
nd-seek, or reading under the covers with a flashlight. Confining spaces can actually be comforting, seeing as how they remind us of the womb. The trick to enjoying them is that one must be sure that an exit is in the offing. Therefore I chose to think of the Rob-Bobs—more specifically, my trust in them—as my birth canal.

  “Do you want to listen to some music?” Rob asked once we were buckled in and on the move.

  “Sure,” I said, speaking through a peephole. “Just as long as it isn’t rap.”

  “Rap isn’t music,” Bob said. “Music has to have a tune.”

  “There are millions of people who disagree,” I said.

  We didn’t listen to any music. Instead, the Rob-Bobs kept a running commentary on the cars they could see through the rearview mirrors. As I might have expected, Bob thought every other car was following us, whereas Rob didn’t see anything suspicious. Bob was right about one thing: there wasn’t much I could see, besides the back of their heads.

  Because I was literally in the dark, I didn’t react at first when I heard the siren. Fire, ambulance, or police, they seldom have much to do with me. It was only when I heard Rob swear like an Air Force plebe—which he was at one time—that I realized that the three of us were in potentially deep doo-doo.

  “Sir, do you realize you were going fifty-five miles an hour on that bridge?”

  “No, sir.”

  “The speed limit is forty-five.”

  “I am very sorry, sir. I did not realize it.”

  So far, so good. Rob was polite, without being servile. He was acknowledging his error, but not excusing it. There is a fine line one must walk at moments like that, and yet so much depends on whether the officer is having a good day, or his boxers are riding up and driving him crazy.

  “Mr. Goldburg, the fine for exceeding the limit by ten miles is—What’s in that suitcase?”

  “Uh—the suitcase?”

  “I just saw an eye.”

  “An eye, sir?”

  “There are holes in that suitcase, Mr. Goldburg, and I asked you a simple question.”

  I closed my offending eyes. So much for wanting to see, as well as hear, what was going on.

  “Yes, it is a simple question, one easily answered, I am sure—”