This time Bernie sighed. “Yes, Michaela, I’ve heard of Bonnie and Clyde. Supposed to have committed countless murders and robberies in the 30’s. There was a great movie made in 1967, starring Warren Beatty and Faye Dunaway. Did you see it? I saw it twice. In the theater, that is.”
I slumped down in my chair and closed my eyes as though in pain. “Fine,” I mumbled. “I should’ve known you’d be a walking encyclopedia regarding movie trivia. How do you do it? You missed your calling. You should’ve been in the C.I.A.”
“Central Intel—”
“—No, Cinema Investigators of America,” I quipped.
The droning of a leaf blower drew our attention away from our bickering and the TV. Jorge was at it again. Bernie cocked her head to listen, then turned to me. “Sheesh. How often does he do that? Wasn’t he just here?”
“Yeah, he was. Maybe something interrupted him yesterday…”
“Or maybe someone complained that he wasn’t doing a good enough job.”
“I hope not. Seems to do a good enough job to me.”
“I have no complaints.”
“Me, neither.”
“Except for one. I’m too warm.”
“Yeah, it is muggy, isn’t it?” I sat up. “Oh, look. They’re rehashing the bit about Bonnie and Clyde. Look at the composite drawings. They l—”
“Hush. Now I want to hear.”
We listened while the announcer recalled how eye-witnesses described the perpetrators as having blond hair, black hair, red hair; as being tall, short, with and without mustaches, and so on. Bernie grunted. “Obviously they’re using disguises or people in Charleston are remarkably near-sighted.”
I chuckled. “It’s just like a movie.”
At that very moment, the condo lights blinked and we were thrust into semi-darkness. The TV snapped off.
“Power failure? What the heck.” I moaned, struggling to my feet, as if by standing, I could somehow bring back the electric pulse that cooled us and refrigerated our snacks.
“Great,” Bernie exhaled. “100 degrees outside and the power goes out. That’s really great.”
“Well…I guess it happens,” I shrugged and resumed my seat in the corner of the couch, propped up by two over-stuffed pillows. “Nothing we can do about it but wait it out. I’m sure the powers that be will fix it soon.”
“Oh, fudge,” Bernie grumbled.
“Hmmm, too hot for fudge…”
I saw Bernie roll her eyes even though I pretended not to look her way. “Well, it’s not too hot for shrimp and salad. I say we go to dinner,” she said, as if the thought of eating was somehow novel and unique rather than a mainstay of each day’s endeavors. “Do you have enough energy to go out?”
“Yeah…I guess. I can always summon enough energy to go to the Dockside.”
Through the large window of the sliding door, we could see Jorge gazing at his blower with a puzzled expression. Gathering the extra-long cord, he strode across the yard toward the next unit. Curiosity whetted, we leapt to our feet to watch what he did next. To our astonishment, he inserted the plug in the outside electrical outlet, and the blower burst into life. He went on with his duties with only an occasional glance over his shoulder at our darkened complex.
“Did you see that?” Bernie exclaimed.
“I certainly did. So, what is the meaning of that?” I shot out, hands on hips and tapping a foot as though addressing a recalcitrant sixth grader.
Bernie chuckled. “Well, Sister Mary Clancey, let’s not get our wimple in a knot. Like you said, they-who-are-in-charge will be duly notified and act upon it as quickly as possible. I say we go eat. By the time we get back, I’m sure we’ll have lights.”
“Let there be light,” I mumbled.
“Exactly.”
Engrossed with the delightful prospect of a delectable shrimp dinner at the Dockside, we grabbed our pocket books and ambled out of the condo, down the wooden steps, and into the warm, moist evening air—swatting mosquitoes like pros. I was already engaged in the thirty-eighth chapter in my series of discussions—or, rather, monologues—regarding alligators, Gullah, pirates, and Spanish moss. Bernie murmured occasional yet pithy comments now and then so I was satisfied. I knew she was listening and enjoying my tales, whether she showed it or not.
So committed were we in making seafood history, we paid not the slightest attention to our darkened unit. The fact that it was the only unit lacking illumination bothered us not. We couldn’t have cared less, confidant that ‘They’ would have the problem rectified by the time we got back. I mean, what did we know about fuses and wires and cables and such? Sheesh.
We were right. The TV was on and so were the lights when we returned from dinner. We hadn’t been inconvenienced in the least.
FOURTEEN
Morning arrived right on time. How delightful that the sun made its punctual appearance on the horizon every day. And even more delightful, Bernie was beginning to appreciate the magic of my South Carolina. Weeks before we’d even set out on this most amazing of escapes from our mundane, everyday lives, I’d regaled her with cautions and warnings and foreboding innuendoes concerning the dark and melodramatic history of the long-time residents of this Low Country.
Ghost stories hid in every glade, and mysteries hung like moss in the branches of the live oak trees. Strange goings-on and eerie howling emanated from unkempt cemetery plots and churchyards. Countless swamps, easy enough to enter, had too often swallowed the path, so that a confused intruder might wander around for hours or days or maybe even forever, in a fruitless search for a way out.
Yes, the Low Country was all of that. But. The only really truly accurate depictions of this wondrously sinister place were entrusted to the memories, however foggy, of the Schenonne Family. And it just so happened that the descendants of this renowned Island family had a little business on the side, where they carried upland tourists—excuse me, those ‘from off’—on fantastic treks into the Past, while regaling them with legends and myths and real-live ghost stories. I had painted this family so well that, even though she wouldn’t admit it, Bernie was hoping to meet one. She didn’t care if it was a fourth cousin, once removed.
Determined to demonstrate once and for all that my love of this place was sane and justifiable, I made reservations for us to take the tour. Perhaps I should rephrase that and put the words in caps or italics, for there needs to be noticeable clarification, careful distinction, and undying respect here. The sleepy beach town boasted at least three ‘tours’ from which a hapless visitor could choose, but only one could merit our undue attention. The Tour. As far as I was concerned, the only tour. In a bright turquoise van, no less.
I’d just replaced the phone in its cradle and turned to beam at Bernie. Bernie, on the other hand, just sniffed and drawled, “Okay…and?”
“Today at ten sharp.” I refused to let her cynicism pull my spirits down.
“Today? At ten? Sweetie, it’s 9:37.”
“I know, but we’re already dressed, and it only takes a few minutes to get to the place where we’re supposed to meet the van. Let’s go, kiddo.”
“As long as there’s no reference to the sanctity of inhaling the exhilarating essence of pluff mud—or whatever you call the stuff—I guess I can go for it,” Bernie sighed. “I’m not exactly thrilled at the prospect of riding about in a hideously garish extended van for hours on end with…well, a gaggle of loud, obnoxious tourists.” She sent me a pointed look. “Will we have to get out and do much walking around? I’m still recovering from the Charleston debacle.”
I shook my head, adjusted my bra straps and muttered how barbaric a contraption—emphasis on trap—the bra was and how much I would like to destroy the ones I owned. After a final twitch, tug and readjustment, I felt I could tolerate the confinement for the next few hours, for a good cause. I grabbed my purse. “Okay. Let’s go, girl.”
Bernie’s reluctance was palpable but she followed me to the car. We raced out of the resort comp
lex at a mind-blowing 19 miles per hour.
“It’s the posted speed,” I snapped, sensing Bernie’s condescension at my driving prowess. Hours later…well, about nine minutes that only seemed like hours…I nosed the car into the gravel parking lot of Mama Ethyl Mae’s Pit Bar-B-Q. The quaint establishment boasted a flashing pink neon sign, depicting a deranged pig sporting a chef’s hat and wearing a flowered apron.
“Lord,” Bernie muttered, “I have the feeling this is going to be a long day.”
“Oh, pooh,” I chided as I cast a suspicious eye at the sandy lot, noting that ours and one sleek little Toyota were the only cars on the scene—not counting the turquoise van—with just minutes until take-off.
As if on cue, a large, sunny, smiling gentleman in a Panama hat and wearing a bright floral Hawaiian shirt flung open the rusty screen door of the café. He allowed a middle-aged woman dressed in a smart black and white capris ensemble, cropped gray hair and over-sized glasses, somewhere between forty and sixty, to mince ahead, then ambled in our direction.
While the woman stood aside, a smirk on her dour face, he extended his right hand and flashed a toothy smile, shining with Southern hospitality and genuine warmth. We had no doubt this was our tour guide, the epitome of Old South, Low Country style and good looks. Low-slung, wrinkled Bermuda shorts—the fellow was a veritable world map—flared out from his generous thighs, and hairy, pink-skinned legs, stopped on command at the white crew socks pulled to the calf. Tan deck shoes, worn down at the heels, with frazzled tassels completed the image. His shirt buttons protested as he leaned forward to embrace us, first me then Bernie.
“Hey, y’all. Lookin’ for me? I’m Dixon Lee. My mama usually handles these tours, but she come down with a little sumpin’, don’ know what, nothin’ serious, but anyways, here I am, and I’m all yours for the next two and a half hours.” Dixon Lee boomed with good will and an ingratiating smile. He turned to Miss Sour Pickles and nodded. “This here is Miss Nicole Suzette Daniels, who will be accompanying us on our little jaunt.”
“Good morning,” Pickles puckered.
Our guide cocked his head and thrust his round chin our way. “And you are?”
“I’m Mike,” I lifted my hand in an affected wave, caught myself and blushed.
“And I’m Bernie,” Bernie said, trying hard not to add a sarcastic footnote. I shot her a severe warning glance; one crafted and well-utilized from my teaching days, which insisted she refrain from any snappy comeback that could get us stranded somewhere past the back and beyond of some forgotten bayou. Acerbic is Bernie’s middle name.
The gallant Dixon Lee flung open the doublewide van door—perfect for allowing women of stature to position themselves in comfort in the high-backed seats. Bernie and I climbed aboard and settled on the third seat, allowing Miss Sour Puss to commandeer the entire second row seats. Curious locals slowed their cars as they passed, noting the loading process, no doubt amused and entertained by who was paying Dixon Lee some outrageous amount of Yankee spending money for a tour of their own back yards. I could tell it pained Bernie that she was one of the aforementioned fools.
Dixon Lee flipped his hat, bowed, and flashed his toothy grin to all, squinted at the sun, nodded to the spirits and boo-daddies who haunted the region, and hauled himself into the driver’s seat. He left the parking lot on two wheels, spraying gravel and dust at the oncoming cement truck barreling down the two-lane road.
White knuckled hands gripping the armrest, I hissed, “This is going to be great…if we live long enough to see anything.”
Bernie pursed her lips and pawed through her bulging handbag for Excedrin and Pepcid AC, no doubt anticipating a wild and hot ride, bouncing along backcountry roads. Both items were absent, however, and the tour had officially begun. My pal sat back in resignation. I, on the other, hand, was beyond excited.
“Are you, by any chance, related to the Schenonne family here abouts?” I asked, leaning forward against my restraining seat belt.
“Yes’m, I surely am,” the ever-cheerful Dixon Lee replied. “My family can trace its holdings here back to the 1600’s. And I’m related to half the county.”
I shot Bernie a triumphant look. “Awesome.”
“We will, of course, be visiting Cassina Point, the home of Carolina Lafayette Seabrook, who married a Northerner,” Miss Pickles enunciated from her spot by the left window of the second row seat.
Dixon Lee’s head bobbed up and down. “We surely will, Miss Nicole.”
“It’s Nicole Suzette.”
“I beg pardon. Miss Nicole Suzette.”
I glanced at Bernie but kept my mouth closed. Sitting behind Pickles offered us the welcome opportunity of making faces at her pert little head.
“I believe Seabrook House was built in 1798,” Nicole Suzette articulated.
“No, ma’am…more likely around 1810.”
“I see. And didn’t Lafayette visit the plantation in the 1820s? I recall from my extensive reading on the subject that he named the owner’s daughter, Carolina Lafayette, after himself.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Dixon Lee’s voice had lost a tad of its enthusiasm. Bernie, on the other hand, was beginning to look like this tour might turn out to be a lot of fun, after all. Prissy-butts like Miss Nicole Suzette offered the world scope for the imagination—to borrow a phrase from Anne of Green Gables—and were often highly entertaining. I did, however, feel a bit sorry for poor Dixon Lee.
Dixon Lee narrated the journey at a pleasant Southern pace, pausing occasionally for significance and impact as he pointed out battle sites and scenes of mysterious crimes, recalled legends and myths. He delighted in lowering his voice, dripping with drama, as he described the frightening aspects of ghosts and spirits and haunts known to some locals as ‘boo-daddies’. I confess I was mesmerized by each tale, consigning each minute detail to memory, and reveling in the ghastly and ghostly enhancements of life in the swamps.
Bernie, by contrast, loved the color and the charm and the experience of walking among tombstones, and sitting in a private pew at the historic Presbyterian Church built over two hundred years ago. She was far less intrigued by the spirit world than I was. If truth be told, Bernie was more impressed by the cold lemonade and homemade Benet cookies that Dixon Lee produced halfway through our tour, than by any other highlight of the trip. That cautious, sometimes cynical “Show-Me-State” mentality, I guess.
Miss Pickles proved to be an unending source of entertainment. Bernie, fed up with the woman’s priggish superiority, decided to re-name her. Whispering, “Miss Motor Mouth” to me as we trailed behind our two companions, she made grotesque faces, which, of course, had me choking down convulsive mirth. The title suited the annoying woman better than Pickles since she couldn’t shut up. I decided to give the woman some competition. It’d be a challenge to match her penchant for knowledge, offering one trivial snippet after another.
Soon Dixon Lee, Miss Motor Mouth, and I vied for Historian of the Year, as our gaudy vehicle careened along gravel road and pitted asphalt. The temperature inside the van rose—whether from the glaring sun or the rapidly heating oral fisticuffs, is anyone’s guess. All I know is that after several hours of Southern charm and hospitality, not to mention the verbal diatribe—complete with a few choice tales that threatened to surpass Harry Potter with sinister sorcery and insidious intrigue—my dear comrade had had enough. When the turquoise van magically reappeared at our starting point, Bernie let out a sigh that should’ve been heard all the way to Fort Sumter.
Realizing that the meter had ceased ticking on our ghostly ancestral lowland tour, I tumbled from the van and offered profuse compliments to the ever-smiling Dixon Lee, who nodded, smiled, and nodded again. Bernie, on the other hand, took ages to disembark, pushing the door open further with a foot while fanning her flushed face with a folded brochure.
We waited as Miss Nicole Suzette handed over a neat twenty-dollar bill—no tip—shook Dixon Lee’s hand and turned on her heel to march to her c
ar. Bernie shrugged, opened her purse and doled out the cost of the tour plus a sweet tip for his good sportsmanship and trouble.
Dixon Lee tugged on the brim of his hat as we strolled past him toward the now-stifling Neon. We waved at Dixon Lee and he waved back. As soon as he’d entered the small café, I heaved a sigh of pure bliss. “I thought the tour was terrific. Didn’t you think it was terrific?” I stuck my pointy elbow in my pal’s ribs. “Well? Didn’t you?”
As I fumbled around for my car keys, Bernie stared off into the blurred green of shrubbery across the road. When I poked her again, she winced. “What?”
“I thought he was charming, and so knowledgeable…didn’t you? It was a perfect outing except for Miss Poochie. Sheesh. She got on my nerves. I wanted to throttle her so many times…but I think he really enjoyed being with us, and I learned some great new stuff and…Bernie. Bernie, are you even listening to me?” I demanded, a trifle cross.
“Huh? Yes, I, uh, agree…uh huh, you’re so right, “ she mumbled.
“Oh, and thank you for paying for it. You sure gave him a generous tip.”
Bernie wrinkled her nose and smirked. “I thought he handled Miss Know-It-All quite well. And Missy Motor Mouth, too, for that matter. I would’ve strangled her on Botany Bay Road an hour into our trip if it had been up to me.”
Her cute little word play hadn’t gone over my head, but I refused to give her the satisfaction by reacting to the jab. Instead I said, “Well, that was very sweet of you. I’m sure Dixon Lee appreciated the gesture. It’s gotta be hard being polite to tourists, day in and day out, especially if they’re anything like Miss Prissy-Butt.”
“But there’s something I just don’t understand…”
“What?” I asked a trifle impatiently since I still hadn’t found my keys.
“Well…why don’t they ever leave the condo?” Bernie’s eyebrows were in a knot.
“What? Who are you talking about? And what does that have to do with the tour?” I fired at her. “Are you suffering from heat stroke?”
For Crying Out Loud Page 8