For Crying Out Loud

by Cathie Wayland

  By this point Bernie’s eyebrows were a furry caterpillar. Common courtesy or not, I guess she’d had enough of our inane prattling about the restaurant. Brenda must have been on Bernie’s wavelength because she nudged Bobby and he grimaced. The look he sent her was sharp enough to cut gristle, and suddenly we were interlopers in some internal family struggle.

  “Uh, you guys have fun,” I said for want of something lighthearted to break the razor-sharp friction emanating from the young couple. “I’m Mike, by the way—short for Michaela—and this is Bernie, uh, Bernadette.”

  Bobby recovered his mask of congeniality and smiled. “Hi, Mike and Bernie. I’m Bobby and this is Brenda.”

  “And your darling little girl is Amanda. Melba told us about you.” I finished for him. “And Amanda and I met earlier. Curiosity brought her half-way down your stairs.”

  He ruffled the tot’s short bob. “She’s my little Tadpole. Aren’t you, Amanda?” The tot peered up at him but didn’t smile. Bobby’s lips formed a smile but his eyes narrowed. With a quick glance at Brenda, he scooped the child up in one sinewy arm and grabbed Brenda’s elbow with the other. “See you.”

  We watched as they disappeared down the remaining flight of stairs, straining to catch the low murmuring coming from Brenda. A couple of loud slams from a car’s doors, and silence once more descended upon our little domain.

  “Yuck.” I muttered. “The thought of ice cream right now makes my stomach turn.”

  Bernie only grunted, raised her legs, and once more propped them against the railing. Bed sounded good. I was sure I’d sleep tonight and was pretty sure Bernie would, too.

  “You know—” Bernie started to say when my cell phone rang. I struggled out of my chair and picked up. “Hi, Joe.” I glanced at Bernie and she made a face and mouthed, Thank God, it isn’t mine. She shifted her legs to a more comfortable position. We’d only just begun our getaway and our husbands had been hounding us. What else is new?

  NINE

  I awoke to sunlight streaming through my partially closed Venetian blinds. Another day in what I believed was the next best thing this side of Heaven. Punching my pillow and turning to lie on my back, I offered a prayer that my dearest buddy would feel the same. I wished she could see it through my rose-colored glasses, but all she saw was a flat piece of swampland, filled with mosquitoes, gators and snakes, and sea and sand and more sand. The only beach she’d ever been to recently was Myrtle Beach, and, in my humble opinion, that was a nightmare-come-true. Crowded, commercialized to the hilt—awful. Give me the peace and quiet of my little beach town anytime. During the peak season, it was crowded enough.

  I rolled out of bed and hustled to my bathroom. Eight minutes later, I puttered about the kitchen, waiting for my pal to show. Just as I expected, the kettle was blowing steam when Bernie finally shuffled in. “G’morning,” I greeted her, as she made a beeline for the Dr. Pepper. “Hope you slept well. I sure did. Slept like a log.”

  Bernie yawned. “Yep. Had a great sleep. So. What’s on the agenda for today?”

  “Charleston?”

  “Charleston?”

  “Charleston. See the Market, eat, maybe take a buggy ride around the Battery or Rainbow Row.”

  “Well…okay…”

  “You don’t sound too enthused.”

  “No, I am. Really. Let me have a Pepper then we’ll talk.” I stepped aside so she could retrieve her drink of choice from the fridge. She popped the lid, poured a tall glass, and sat down at the round glass dinette table. I made a face.

  “It’s really none of your business, you know,” Bernie chided.

  “What? What’s none of my business?”

  “Oh sure, like I’m not supposed to see that you think you’re the adult here drinking instant coffee while I’m a soda freak.”

  “If you’re trying to pick a fight, forget it,” I sniffed, “because we’ve got better things to do today.”

  “Fine. So, let’s get dressed and see Charleston. I’ve only been once and that was for just a few hours, years ago. You know how to get us there?”

  That pushed my button. I scowled. “Yes. Sheesh. Give me a break, will you? I’ve been to Charleston a zillion times.”

  “Were you driving?”

  “Well…no…but that doesn’t matter. It’ll be a piece of cake.”

  “Uh huh…” Now Bernie made a face.

  I decided to change the subject. “D’you know what my Joe did?”

  “No, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”

  “He did laundry.”

  “Ooookay…”

  “Do you know how many times I’ve told him not to touch the laundry?”

  “No, b—”

  “If I’ve told him once, I’ve told him a million times. He took our sheets off the bed—the dark blue, 500-count set I bought at Belk’s that cost an arm and a leg—and added bleach. Bleach. Then—get this—he asked whether they’d had white spots on them. White spots. Of course I told him, ‘no, they had no white spots on them’, and then he sounded really, really contrite and made me feel like the guilty one. Me. Oohh. Men. Annoyingly wonderful and wonderfully annoying, at the same time.”

  Bernie swallowed a mouthful of Dr. Pepper, choked, coughed, then broke out into a cackle of laughter. I glowered but she slapped the table and chortled. “Oh, Lord. I can just picture your Joe examining the spotted blue sheets—500-count, no less—in complete and total bewilderment. Oh, Lord. I haven’t laughed this hard in years.”

  For some reason, I didn’t share my friend’s humor. I pursed my lips and turned on the faucet to rinse out my coffee cup. Bernie made a hasty retreat to her room to get dressed.

  Exactly one hour and thirty-seven minutes later found us in the Neon and on our way down Highway 174…to Highway 17…to Charleston. Since I exuded confidence, Bernie settled back to enjoy the ride. She fiddled with the air vents until she had the AC aimed right where she wanted it then rested her knees against the glove compartment door. I bet times like these she wished she were five feet two.

  We made good time and traffic was co-operating—that is, until we reached the outskirts of Charleston. I could feel my eyes narrowing to a squint and knew the facial tics would soon betray my growing nervousness. I didn’t have long to wait.

  “What’s with the twitching eye?” Bernie asked.

  “Nothing…except…”

  “Except?”

  “Well…here’s where it gets tricky. I want Meeting Street…the Visitors’ Center…where I’ll park…” I gripped the wheel tighter and leaned forward. “There.” I hooted. “Visitors’ Center. But that’s Calhoun. Where’s Meeting Street?”

  “I don’t know. Have they misplaced it?”

  “Don’t be silly. It’s here…somewhere…”

  “Just follow the signs.”

  “I am.”

  “This lane is a right turn only. Move over.”

  “Someone’s behind me.”

  “Put your blinker on, for crying out loud.”

  “It is.”

  Bernie closed her eyes as we swerved over into the left lane.

  “We made it.” I chortled. “And there’s Meeting Street. I found it. I did it. I did it!”

  “I thought you said it was a piece of cake.”

  I gave her a withering look. “Oh, please. It was a piece of cake. I got us here, didn’t I?”

  Bernie smiled even though I knew all manner of epithets were crawling up her throat. “Yes, you did, sweetie. I’m very proud of you.”

  I beamed.

  We got out of the car, making sure we had purses and sunglasses. Of course I had on my perky pseudo-Southern pink hat. I thought I looked cute and didn’t know why Bernie wouldn’t wear one. With her blond complexion, a hat should’ve been a given. On the other hand, when you’re five foot three you can get away with ‘cute’. I guess it’s virtually impossible when you’re looming this side of six feet.

  We’d taken only five steps when a male voice spoke f
rom behind. “Had some trouble switching lanes back there, didn’t you?” We both turned—my face a darker shade of pink than my hat. “We were right behind you,” he continued. “Some pretty quick maneuvering on your part. Wasn’t very well marked, was it?”

  I winced then smiled and tried to recover a shred of dignity. “No, it wasn’t very well marked. Sorry if I cut in front of you.”

  The stout gentleman shook his head. “No problem. We got here, didn’t we?” He took his equally fleshy wife’s arm and sauntered ahead of us.

  Bernie looked down at me and grinned. “Don’t worry about it. I don’t think you cut in front of him…too badly, that is. I didn’t hear any screeching of tires or squealing of brakes. Did you?” I shook my head. “And he’s probably from up North and will never be down this way again, so don’t give him another thought. Let’s go. I’m melting. This heat is insane, and it’s getting hotter by the minute.

  We walked the short distance to the elevator, rode it to the ground floor, disembarked and headed for the Visitors’ Center. Blessed coolness greeted us as soon as we stepped inside. We gave a collective sigh then went straight to the ladies’ room. Perspiring heavily, I had to wrestle with my slacks and undies and struggle some more just pulling them up again. At this rate it’d be noon before we got started.

  Somewhat refreshed and ready to go, Bernie followed me through the center—ignoring the dizzying array of maps and brochures—through the gift shop and out the door. Blinding sunshine smacked me in the face, and I was thankful for my wide-brimmed, floppy hat. I felt sorry for Bernie’s bare head, but at least she had on sunglasses. The glare was already unbearable and we’d only walked a dozen feet.

  Two blocks down Meeting Street and the last of Bernie’s patience evaporated. “Michaela. Just how far do we have to walk?”

  I craned my short neck to squint up at her. “Oh, uh, just a few more blocks, th—”

  “A few more blocks? We’ve already walked two.”

  “Uh, I know…sorry…Joe and I always park at the Visitors’ Center. I-I know it’s a rather long walk but—”

  “Rather long? It’s a hundred and ten degrees out, the humidity is somewhere off the charts, I’m almost sixty, over-weight, have bad feet and a bad back, and you’re making me walk a mile?”

  “I’m sorry…I really am…I never thought…I mean…Joe and I are as old and decrepit as you and we do it…’though I must admit we do it spring and fall…never in summer, but…well…it’s not too far now…do you want to go back? We can go back, get the car, and see if we can find a closer parking space…” I wanted to sink through the sidewalk.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re being utterly ridiculous. Of all the ridiculous things to suggest. Of course we’re not going back now. But I won’t forget this…if I live to never forget it, that is.”

  “I’m sorry,” I mumbled. “I’ve been here a hundred times. Joe does his thing with the USS Yorktown—he’s on the board, you know—and we always come down here, and we always park at the Visitors’ Center and, er, walk. I guess I just didn’t pay attention to any other potential parking lots. I was just so relieved that I was able to drive here without Joe and…”

  Bernie’s shoulders slumped and she let out a long sigh. “Oh, don’t look so crestfallen. Jeez. It’s all right…I’ll live…I hope. But please tell me we’re almost there.”

  “Oh, we are, we are. See? There, across the street. There’s the Market.”

  The light changed and I led the way across the street, jostling the crowd of tourists like a pro. As soon as we entered the open-aired building, Bernie relaxed. Out of the sun’s glare, it was decidedly cooler. The vendors had enough wares to feast your eyes upon, and soon she was no longer dwelling on aching feet and protesting back.

  The hand-woven Gullah baskets were wonderful, and I watched as Bernie picked up a few, only to cringe at the prices marked on the little stickers. Beautiful and worth every penny, she still couldn’t allow herself the extravagance. Her Jack would’ve had a coronary if he saw the amount they were asking. I know my Joe sure would have.

  Her initial delight soon waned, however, as the stalls continued in a never-ending row that extended the length of several blocks…or so it seemed. After twenty minutes, Bernie’d seen enough.

  “Mike,” she hissed, pulling on my sleeve. “Mike, I’m getting claustrophobic. Isn’t it time we went to lunch?”

  I nodded although my attention focused on a display of handmade cloth dolls. The elderly lady who’d made them was leaning toward me, in hopes of snaring another gullible customer. “Aren’t these the cutest things you’ve ever seen?” I flipped over a tiny price tag and grinned. “Very reasonable, too. Think little Amanda would like one?”

  Bernie wrinkled her nose. “Oh, indubitably. What toddler wouldn’t want a cute, handmade, overpriced, colorfully clothed little rag doll?”

  Ignoring her cynicism, I plowed through the display in search of the perfect doll.

  Bernie was about to complain further when her cell phone rang out its whimsical tune. Since she couldn’t get reception at the condo, she snatched it from her handbag and answered. “Molly,” she mouthed to let me know it was her twenty-four-year-old daughter. A teacher like her old mom, Molly was still recovering from her first year teaching second grade. School was starting in two weeks, and she was in the depths of misery and despair, having just sprained her ankle so badly that she was couch-ridden and told to keep it elevated and iced. There wasn’t a thing she could do but sit and watch inane TV shows. She was pulling her hair out and had already called her mom half a dozen times.

  While Bernie had her ear to her cell phone, listening, sympathizing and commiserating, I resumed my search through the handmade rag dolls. I picked up one doll after another, examining them like I would fresh vegetables. After seven minutes—I counted them—Molly was mollified enough—no pun intended—to let Bernie go. Dripping perspiration now, she’d lost all patience with the too close, too warm, too historical hysteria. Her gray eyes pleaded with me to leave. Not saying a word, she glared and tossed her ever-expanding shock of hair with ever-expanding impatience.

  I grinned, nodded, selected a doll, and paid the tourist-weary vendor. Clutching my treasure, I twisted my neck from side to side and inhaled deeply. “Well, I’m through. Now what? A carriage ride?”

  “Lord, no. Now, it’s time for lunch.” Bernie countered as she shifted from sore foot to sore foot, shorts sticking to sweaty skin, glasses fogged so much she couldn’t see.

  I knew the thought of trudging blocks and blocks in the intense Charleston heat to the little car was enough to make her want to cry. Only the promise of food could raise her spirits enough to continue her charade of amiability.

  Nothing captures our interest and enthusiasm quite as much as eating, so with the carrot dangling before our sweaty noses, we tripped up the brick sidewalk to my favorite barbecue joint. A tad dark…redolent with smoke…but with cushioned benches and oodles of AC. Heaven on earth. We plopped down without ceremony into the massive wooden booth and accepted menus from an eager young man in an apron. I adored Sticky Fingers and hoped Bernie would be satisfied with my choice of establishments.

  Before we knew it, we’d devoured every shred of our lunch—gnawed the bones, inhaled the seasoned fries—and cleansed sticky fingers with moist towelettes. I tried to be blasé about the six-block trek to the car, but Bernie read right through me and behaved like an inmate on death row.

  “Just call the paramedics and get it over with,” Bernie moaned as we plodded our way up the streets in historic, downtown Charleston. “Yep, you sure do know how to show a friend a good time.” Just a tinge of sarcasm. “I mean, if I had known you were going to park the car in Charlotte and then make us walk to Charleston, I might have objected.”

  Too hot to counter that snipe, I just pulled the brim lower on my hat and kept walking.

  After an endless march to the mirage-like Visitors Center, we almost collapsed when a delicious
chilliness swept over us as we staggered inside. We both made a pathetic portrait of womanhood-gone-sour, and were old enough to know better.

  Smart and jaunty had been reduced to withered and drooping, and I’m talking about clothing here, not female attributes. Smudged mascara and flushed faces told the tale of a bold endeavor brought to its knees by the realities of nature and gravity.

  An eternity later, we dropped onto the too-warm car seats, too worn out to say a word. All we could think about was hard lemonade and cool salsa dip awaiting us back at the condo. Sweet, vacant Melba had most assuredly put out an APB advising local authorities that Marlene and Gwen had left early in the early morning for a little jaunt to the big city, but had yet to return.

  Such is life.

  TEN

  One hour and forty-seven minutes later, we arrived on the home scene. Vicki and Lionel were coaxing a meager flame from their smoldering brazier. At least two pounds of richly marbled steak awaited the char. While Lionel blew on the ash-laden embers, Vicki happened to look up, saw us, flung back her shoulders and snapped to attention, almost clocking Lionel with her astonishing boobs, clad today in bright yellow lycra. Gravity is a wondrous and remarkable element of nature, except when it wrecks havoc upon the female figure after fifty-some years of battle. Vicki had indeed put up a valiant fight, but the dear gal had already lost the war with gravity. Yet she seemed oblivious of what the strife had cost her.

  “Well, hey, y’all.” Vicki shrilled as we lumbered up the walk from the car. “Where y’all been all day?”

  Without waiting for our reply, Vicki sashayed across the pine needles, kicking up dust and pine cones as her flip-flopped feet snapped, snapped, snapped in cadence with her bouncing progress in our direction. Away from her watchful eye, Lionel was now free to handle the fire in a manly manner, and quickly—one eye on his wife’s back—directed a potent squirt of fire starter on the tiny anemic flame. Within seconds, billowing smoke engulfed the hapless Lionel as he coughed and swore and flailed his arms in a mad effort to suck in some air. Glancing over her shoulder, Vicki hooted.