“Careful, hon,” Vicki yelled in his general direction. “Don’t forget that Rogaine is highly flammable. Recollect what happened last summer when y’caught your head on fire. Ohooeee. That sure was a sight.”
Vicki then turned her attention back to us. Too weary and discombobulated to do anything but gape at the pageant of smoke and fire and color and sound, we just stood there with mouths open. We’d just driven all the way to Charleston and back, hiked blocks and blocks—all in blistering, Sub-Saharan heat—but nothing compared to the spectacle in progress in our own backyard.
Furious and more than a tad frustrated, poor Lionel clomped up the wooden stairs to his deck, clueless to the additional horror he imposed on the innocent bystander. Someone really needed to have a frank and serious talk with him about where polyester material goes when thwarted in the attempt to conceal well-endowed buttocks.
I managed a surreptitious glance at Bernie then wished I hadn’t. The open disdain she had all over her pink cheeks was enough to cause the giggles to well up in me. Putting a hand over my mouth, I jerked my head toward Vicki then raced up the steps to our deck, where I collapsed onto a chair. I heard Bernie mumble something about Charleston, heat, and my need of a bathroom.
“Well, y’all must have had quite a day,” Vicki’s shrill voice commiserated. “Sure is hot enough to boil taters. I spent my day at the pool…readin’.”
When Bernie said, “Oh?” I almost laughed outright. Then she added, “What are you, uh, reading?” She couldn’t quite keep the disbelief from her tone.
A shrill giggle, then, “Oh, you know…one of them trashy romances where the girl’s skin-tight dress is fallin’ off her shoulders on the cover, and her hair’s floatin’ in the wind ’cause there’s always a breeze, an’ it looks like her boobs is gonna fall out any minute. Say. Did y’hear that an alligator was seen in the lagoon—”
“No—”
“I saw one last year but haven’t this year, yet—”
“Too b—”
“—And honey, ohmigawd. Have you seen the couple to the west of our place—”
“N—”
“—She has absolutely no fashion sense whatsoever. My gawd. I’d die before going out in public like that.”
Doubled up with suppressed laughter, I left the chair, leaned over the railing and peered around the building to watch Bernie’s reaction to the amazing Vicki.
“Awful.” Bernie’s voice dripped irritability and impatience.
“Oh, I agree. And, dear little Melba.” Vicki tossed her frizzy red head. “Do you know I just happened to be lookin’ out our window, and I saw her—Melba, that is—lookin’ through the trash cans, takin’ trash out instead of puttin’ it in. Isn’t that the most disgustin’ thing you’ve ever heard?”
“Actually, no. Well, it was nice chatting with you, Vicki, but nature is calling.” And with that, my friend made her way up the steps and found me doubled over, convulsed with mirth. She glared at me. “Why haven’t you opened the door, for crying out loud? I need to use the bathroom and I’m exhausted.”
Of course it took me an interminable length of time to find the damn key. I could hear Bernie’s breathing getting heavier and heavier until she exploded. “You would think by this time it would cease to be a surprise to you that you need a key to enter this place. I mean, for crying out loud, Mike. What’s with this ritualistic search and discovery every time we want to go inside? I mean, again and again and again… Why didn’t you keep the key under that blasted seashell?”
“After thinking about it, I decided it was too obvious a place. So there.” I stuck out my tongue, opened the door, and made an exaggerated motion for her to enter. She sauntered in, threw her purse onto the table, and marched into her bathroom. I, on the other hand, dashed for my bathroom in order to rip off the bra that I’d endured for more than six excruciating hours. Only then could I relax, allowing my ‘girls’ the luxury of unrestricted bobbing and swaying. In less than a minute, we both were back in the living room feeling much better.
“I need a drink,” Bernie announced.
“You and me both. A Pepper or a hard lemonade?”
“Neither. Give me a Smirnoff, please.”
I got our drinks and joined her on the couch. She accepted hers gratefully, took a long swallow then sighed. “Oh, that’s good. That’s really good.” She eyed me, brows in a knot, as I reached for my purse and started rummaging in its cavernous maw. “Jeez Louise, Mike, do you really need that big of a purse? What have you got in there?”
I sniffed. “Nothing but what’s essential. Let’s see…Kleenex, moist towelettes, Chap Stick, wallet—oh. And two Piggly Wiggly receipts…loose change—how’d that get down there—a comb, my cell ph—”
“Enough. Please. I get it. I get it. Sorry I brought it up. I now fully comprehend your difficulty in retrieving a simple set of keys. You need to downsize, sweetie.”
“I’ve tried. No use. I really need this stuff.”
“Then use the blasted seashell.”
“Too risky.”
“Then wear the damned key around your neck.”
“Uh huh…good one.” I yawned, put my bare feet up on the coffee table and tugged at my over-sized T-shirt that had bunched up behind me. “Gosh I’m glad to be free from that binder.”
Bernie looked at me with a slight shake of her poofy head. “Well, at least, sweetie, your boobs don’t land in your lap when you flop down on the sofa. The curse of ‘Cooper’s Droop’, which is how we laughingly referred to boobs at waist-length when we were young and perky.”
This time it was my turn to look askance. “Excuse me? I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of ‘Cooper’s Droop’.”
“Oh, you have, too. We talked about it all the time…”
“When?”
“Back when we were in our twenties.”
“Did not.”
“Did, too.” She frowned. “Somehow, though, it’s just not as funny or weird looking as when we were young. Imagine that…”
Above us a door slammed. I rolled my eyes heavenward. “Well,” I shrugged and stretched. “We know they’re home. Weird because we usually can’t hear anything from the neighboring units. My brother-in-law says the walls are well buffered or something. That young couple sure must be active.” I took another swallow of my hard lemonade.
Bernie nodded. Then a smirk danced across her face. “You are something else.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just that you are quite the accomplished social drinker, aren’t you?”
I made a face. “Well, yes, as a matter of fact, I am. My doctor told me when I was in my forties I needed to take a glass of wine before bed to alleviate stress. And now I thoroughly enjoy my hard lemonades and an occasional light beer.”
“Ohhhoo…2% wine coolers and light beer. And sometimes two in one day. It’s amazing…utterly amazing…how decadent and worldly you’ve become with gloriously liberating age. I can see that you revel at living on the edge.”
“I like martinis, too,” I returned.
“Oohhooo…I’m impressed.”
I refrained from further commenting and picked up my paperback instead.
That’s when Bernie’s cell phone made the ridiculous message alert squeak.
“Ohh, darn.” She scooped it off the table, took one look at it, and grunted. “It’s Molly.” Her blue-gray eyes were as beseeching as an old bloodhound’s. “May I, uh, use your phone to call her since mine only can offer text messages?”
I grinned. “Sure. Give her the house number so she can call you here whenever she wants. Doesn’t cost anything for in-coming calls, and you have an extension in your bedroom. Don’t know why we didn’t think of that alternative earlier.”
Bernie’s hound dog look evaporated. “Thanks. You’re a dear. I’ll do just that.” She exchanged her phone for mine, punched in her daughter’s number, and sat back in her chair. “Hi, hon, it’s mom. Got your text. You know my phone i
sn’t working here. From now on, call this number…”
Tuning out Bernie’s conversation with her distraught daughter, I reached for my tote and pulled out the cute little handmade cloth doll and held it up to admire the detail. I couldn’t wait to see the expression on little Amanda’s face when I gave it to her. Bobby and Brenda certainly wouldn’t mind the sweet, thoughtful token from the older gals downstairs. Smiling and quite pleased with myself, I leaned back and closed my eyes. Amanda’s heart-shaped face came to mind, but something wasn’t right. I couldn’t put my finger on it; couldn’t quite wrap my mind around it. Damn. Why was I having these senior moments? I was way too young for senility. And, no way I’d broach the subject with my dear comrade, as it would just give her more grist for her mill.
I decided this would be a good time to soak in my tub.
ELEVEN
It was past seven in the evening. After my long soak in the tub and Bernie’s even longer chat with Molly, we hadn’t budged from the plastic deck chairs, alternating between reading and quipping, and drinking from tall glasses of sweet tea that had replaced the hard lemonades and Smirnoffs. When the mosquitoes began their mass exodus across our front lawn to the promised land of our veranda, well, we decided it was time to go inside. Jeopardy was on, anyway, and we both relished the heady euphoria of correctly answered questions.
We watched our television game show and again were impressed by our own quick wit and keen intelligence—and this after having been retired from teaching for eons. We answered question after question—correctly, mind you—before the flustered contestants could even open their mouths, let alone buzz their buzzers. It was a source of constant amazement to us that each of us was so richly endowed with personal traits that went unnoticed among the general public. Our past principals certainly hadn’t appreciated us to the full extent. But, alas, great women often go unrecognized in their own time.
We were aroused from our reverie when a howling whir and a billowing cloud of pine needles and lawn debris announced the bi-weekly arrival of Jorge and his meticulous clearing off of sidewalks and decks and lawn furniture of dust and feathers and worse. Going about his work with the diligence of a qualified and competent maintenance engineer, Jorge moved about the units, eyes averted, rarely engaging any of the neighbors with a glance or grin. He was the soul of propriety…courteous and efficient, attentive to the details of his job, yet unobtrusive. He was what every woman looks for in a husband…hard-working and delightfully closed-mouth.
My sigh must have been audible because Bernie stirred. “You tired?” she mumbled through a yawn.
“Not enough to go to bed, if that’s what you mean,” I replied via my own yawn. “You?”
“Hmmm, just relaxed. Haven’t had my snack yet.” Bernie yawned again, almost swallowing herself. “What about you?”
“I’ll stay up a little while longer. Can’t go to bed on an empty stomach, either.” I shifted and yanked on my shirt for the umpteenth time.
Attention diverted by the messages scrolling across the bottom of the television screen, we sat up straighter. “Ugh…heat’s here to stay,” Bernie murmured as area temperatures rolled along the message line. Then came an announcement for a new comedy show, followed by an ad for the Piggly Wiggly—referred to by the locals as ‘The Pig’—another Amber Alert for the missing twins, and then back to weather.
“Those missing twins sure have—” I started to say when a sudden pounding on our door startled us both out of three years of life expectancy. I bounded to my feet and headed for my bedroom, calling over my shoulder that I was bra-less and therefore couldn’t answer the door. Summoning the fragments of energy she had left, Bernie stumbled to the door and peeked through the peephole.
I watched from the shadows of the hallway as she opened the door. Bobby from upstairs. A wide grin pasted on his fuzzy face. Bernie returned his smile, albeit with raised eyebrows.
“Well, hello,” Bernie said.
“Hi. Sorry to disturb you guys, but…” he paused, looking rather embarrassed. I wondered what was up.
“But?” Bernie prodded.
He flushed crimson. “Oh. Sorry. I hate doing this,” he grimaced, “but Brenda’s right in the middle of making cookies and discovered—the numbskull—that she didn’t have any eggs. So…I was wondering whether we could, uh, borrow two eggs? If you had any to spare, that is. Don’t want to take your last ones. I’ll go to the store tomorrow and replace them, and—”
Bernie held up a hand. “Whoa. I’m sure we can spare you a couple eggs. Wait just a sec.” She left him swaying on the deck and retrieved the eggs, which he accepted with a sheepish grin and downcast eyes.
“Thanks. I’m really sorry about this—interrupting you, I mean.”
“Like I said, it’s no problem. Tell Brenda to give us a sample and we’ll call it even-steven. Okay?”
He chuckled. “Sure. She makes great cookies, too. Packed with nuts and chips and stuff.” He brandished the eggs over his head. “Thanks, again. See you tomorrow.”
As soon as she’d closed and locked the door, I stepped away from my hiding place. “Well, that was weird.”
Bernie tossed her head. “Just Bobby…from upstairs…needing to borrow two eggs. Seems Brenda’s baking cookies and didn’t have any.”
“Yeah, I heard. But baking cookies at this hour?”
“For heaven’s sake, Mike. You look like I’d said the girl was hawking Avon products on the roof.”
“But who’d ever want to bake cookies at this hour?”
Bernie shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. I remember being a young mother, having worked a full day at school, deciding to bake something as late as nine o’clock—just because I was finally alone and could do something in absolute, blessed silence. It’s really not that strange, sweetie.”
“Hmmm,” I frowned, not sold on the idea.
Bernie returned to her chair and put her feet up on the ottoman. “Almost bedtime. I don’t think I’ll eat anything after all, and I think I’ll really sleep good tonight.” She sent me a gravid look. “It’s been an incredibly emotionally exhausting day.” My eyes shot darts of disdain so she changed the subject. “Say, Mike…a thought just struck me. I know we’re not particularly fashion mavens, couldn’t care less what we’re wearing most days, but…well, I couldn’t help but notice something…”
I fetched a sugar-free cherry Popsicle from the freezer and sat down. “What?”
“Our neighbors,” Bernie thrust her chin upwards. “Don’t you think they seem a bit miscast for this place?”
“Miscast? In what way?”
“Oh, I don’t know. It’s just…well, bike rentals begin at $10 an hour, and there isn’t a menu item at any restaurant less than $9.95—and that’s only a hot-dog…”
“Well, yes, I know, but—”
“Beach-front houses go for a few grand for just a week, and I’m sure the second street in isn’t that much less. And, these condos are going for a pretty hunk of change, too, sooo…”
“So, what’s your point?” I interjected with some annoyance as my cherry Popsicle painted pink stripes down my wrist.
“My point is,” Bernie retorted, “that our upstairs daddy is wearing last decade’s flip-flops, and they’ve seen better days. And didn’t you notice Brenda was a bit of a slob, by anyone’s standards, with those polyester stretch pants and throwback T-shirt from a love-in somewhere back in time when you watched Mod Squad ?”
I choked, releasing dribbles of pink Popsicle from the corners of my mouth. “Mod Squad?”
“Well, Hawaii Five-O, then.”
“Oh, please.”
Ignoring me, Bernie continued. “And the little dolly, so cute and all, yes, but I’d swear mom bought her outfits at a garage sale from the 50-cent table.” Before I could utter further protest, she held up her hand. “I know, I know…I sound like an uppity snob, don’t I? But I’m serious here and not trying to be impertinent.”
“Okay…but you do sound rather
poochie—”
“—Poochie? What the hell does that mean?”
“It’s my word for snobbish, uppity, putting-on-airs, etc. etc.”
“Oh, for crying out loud, woman, you’re an English major.”
“I know. I coined that word and now it’s mine. Poochie. Take it or leave it. I know what I mean.” I shrugged, tossed the Popsicle stick at the trashcan, missed, and lumbered to my feet to dispose of it properly. “Anyway, I sort of agree with you. Was wondering about it myself, actually. There is something funny about little Amanda’s chin, too. Can’t put my finger on it, but it’s there. The whole lot seem like, like…well, like green peas in a sea of garlic mashed potatoes.”
Bernie rolled her eyes. “That’s probably the stupidest thing I have ever heard you say, but—and I admit this grudgingly—I think I understand.”
TWELVE
The next morning I was itching to go to the beach. Here we were, a few streets away from the ocean, and my dearest of chums would rather watch Turner Classic Movies and eat chips and dip. Well, I enjoy my share of chips and onion dip, too, but come on. It’s the beach, for crying out loud. The beach. With its miles and miles of blissfully warm saline water in which one can float and drift to her heart’s content.
“Bernadette. Time to get up.” I called from the kitchenette. “It’s a beautiful day and we should go to the beach—sound side, of course. Before it gets too hot…before it gets too crowded…before what little energy we have dissolves…bef—”
“Enough already,” echoed from her bathroom.
Four minutes later, she shuffled into the living room, wearing her wrinkled terrycloth bathrobe and slippers that made muted little taps as she walked. She stuck her upper body into the refrigerator, rummaged through its contents, and then reappeared with a diet Dr. Pepper. She frowned at me. “The beach? Again?”
“What do you mean, ‘again’? We’ve only been once.” Her eyes sent electric currents my way. “We’ll go to the sound. It’s calm. No waves. You’ll love it. Very relaxing and safe. Families take their toddlers there. Okay?”
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