For Crying Out Loud

by Cathie Wayland

  Ignoring her, I picked up my sack, glanced in the mirror to be sure my hair wasn’t still sticking up in half a dozen places, and marched to the door, paused, reached into the bag and retrieved one of the peaches. Taking two steps backward, I set the fruit on the counter and made a face at my cohort. “There. Two’re enough. Okay. I’ll only be gone a minute. Don’t go anywhere.”

  “Where would I go, for heaven’s sake?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. Just don’t go.”

  A dozen steps brought me to Melba’s door. I could hear the faint voices of talk TV. She was watching her shows, of course. The only thing she seemed to do, poor thing. Taking in a deep breath—I was nervous and didn’t know why—I knocked on her metal door. It took forever before I heard shuffling footsteps approaching.

  “Who is it?” Her flute-like voice called out.

  “It’s Mike, Melba…from next door…Bernie and I have a couple of fresh peaches if you’d like them…”

  There was a clicking as locks were turned, and then the door swung open to reveal a darkened room and a flickering television set. Melba was still wearing the flowered dressing gown and the terry cloth slippers. She looked at me like I was an auditor from the IRS.

  “Hi, Melba. We thought you might like some fresh peaches…from that wonderful fruit and vegetable stand…with the colorful sign…past Botany Bay Road…you know…” I winced at the sound of my own inane rambling.

  Melba’s round face brightened, and she stepped back and motioned for me to come inside. Since that is exactly what I’d hoped she would do, I crossed the threshold. It took a while for my eyes to adjust to the dimness, however, so I stood there helpless for a full minute before setting the sack on her already crowded counter. Then my eager eyes swept the room.

  Her place was a nightmare. Not only was the small kitchen counter hidden beneath stacks of dishes and boxes of various foodstuffs, there were magazines piled high on the floor. Stacks and stacks of back issues of several ladies’ magazines…Family Circle…Women’s Weekly…Cosmo—Cosmo? Anyway, there were newspapers and magazines and paperbacks everywhere. Downright claustrophobic.

  “Would you like a tour?” Melba asked, her voice trembly with excitement.

  A tour was the last thing I wanted but knew I had to do if I was to get any information, so I said, “Oh, that would be nice.” and followed her down a dark hallway to the bedrooms and bathrooms that were a mirror image of our own.

  “This is my bedroom,” Melba twittered as we stepped into the smaller of the two rooms, done in several shades of pink and rose.

  “Oh…you don’t use the master bedroom—the bigger of the two?” I was surprised.

  She tittered as though that idea was extremely funny. “Ohh, no…no…that room is used for storage…my nephew…his apartment is so small…and he and his lovely wife collect things…Jessica is such a talented little gal…makes lovely ornaments for Christmas…and she can knit…I do love a person who can knit, don’t you?”

  Nonplussed, I said, “Uh, huh.”

  “And this is my bathroom…” She pushed open the door and switched on the light. “I chose lavender for the color…my nephew painted it for me…wasn’t that sweet of him?”

  “Uh…” I was rendered dumb after seeing a reflection in the mirror of a ghastly specter from my childhood. Hanging on the closet door was one of those old-fashioned, archaic, torture devices that my own Aunty Bea had used whenever my cousin Penny had had a stomach ache, a head ache, a pimple, an F on a test, an eyelash in her eye—whatever. A large, red rubber water bottle with a long white hose attached—its prime responsibility: the giving of an enema—hung in mute testimony to our not-too-distant uncivilized, barbaric and primitive Past. Something I dreaded more than the Plague when I was a child, visiting my aunt and cousin. Something, thank God, my own mother had never ascribed to. And here it was, hanging in all its glory, silent yet mocking, reminding me of terrible deeds done for terrible reasons. I shuddered.

  “You cold, dear?” Melba asked sweetly.

  “Huh? Oh. No, no, I’m not cold, ’though you do keep your AC a tad cooler than we do. You, uh, you’re right about the color,” I prattled, “Lavender is a pretty color for a bathroom…really pretty…”

  “Can I get you something to drink, dear?”

  “Uh, no, thank you, Melba. I can only stay a minute.”

  “Why didn’t Sylvia come over with you?”

  “Syl—oh. Bernie, you mean. Well, uh, Bernie was in the bathroom…getting ready…we’re, uh, going out…” I brightened. “But she sent her love along with the peaches. Hope you enjoy them. Gotta run. We’ll visit longer another time.” And with that rather lame exit line, I hurried to the door and let myself out. In seconds, I was behind our closed door and breathing hard.

  Bernie, still sitting on the over-stuffed chair with her feet on the ottoman, looked at me, one eyebrow raised. “Well? How was it? You were gone longer than I expected. And why so out of breath? Did poor Melba scare you?”

  “Don’t be silly,” I snorted as I flopped down on the couch and put my feet on the coffee table. “Oh, Lord…it was awful in there…really awful. Stacks of newspapers, and magazines, and about a million paperback novels, strewn everywhere…junk and more junk…and I could hardly breathe…and—oh my God. Bernie. In the bathroom…in the bathroom, she had one of those archaic rubber hot water bottle thingies they used for enemas hanging on the door. Oh, it was ghastly, I tell you. Ghastly. Dear God, my Aunty Bea used to have one hanging on her d—”

  “Please, spare me the details,” Bernie barked. “Just tell me what you found out.”

  I stuck my tongue out at her and slumped back further into the cushions. “Well…I didn’t really find out much of anything, except…”

  “Except?”

  “Well…she uses the small bedroom as her room…and keeps the master bedroom for storage…don’t you think that’s a bit strange?”

  Bernie pondered that for a moment then nodded. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I do.”

  I sat up as a surge of excitement geysered. “You know. Now that I think of it, all that malarkey about her nephew needing storage ’cause his apartment is so small is…well, it’s suspicious…suspicious, I tell you…mighty suspicious…a conundrum…”

  Bernie snorted. “You think everyone and everything is suspicious. For crying out loud, Mike. To hear you go on, you’d think this sleepy little sea-island town was a hotbed for Al Qaeda.”

  It was my turn to snort, and I did. Loudly. “Oh, Bernadette. That’s a gross exaggeration, and you know it.” I pulled at my T-shirt and adjusted a bra strap. “Don’t you think it’s funny that her nephew has all this stuff that he just can’t seem to find room for at home so has to store it in the small apartment of his dim-witted, elderly aunt who is so vague she doesn’t know what day it is half the time?” I sucked in a ragged breath.

  For once, I’d rendered Bernie speechless. She stared at me for a full minute then shook her head in disbelief. “Okay, okay…let’s say, for the sake of argument, that Melba’s nephew is using her…for what, I haven’t the foggiest. But, for the sake of argument, I will agree with you that said nephew using her master bedroom to store stuff is, well, is pretty weird. But—”

  “I knew it.”

  “But. That’s as far as I’ll go. I mean, it isn’t a crime to use your dithering old auntie’s place for free storage. And we may be doing the fellow a disservice. He may be paying the old gal some rent. She’s getting money from somewhere, and it certainly could be from him. Maybe it’s his way of saving her some pride…paying her to store stuff for him and his wife. Don’t you agree?”

  I closed my eyes and groaned. “Okay…yes…I agree you make sense. Still, it’s more fun to see it my way. Be honest, Bernie…wouldn’t you like to solve a real mystery like the heroines in books do?”

  Bernie had the grace to grin. “Well-l-l…sure. I guess I would. Only if it’s a real, honest-to-goodness mystery, though. I sure as hel
l wouldn’t want to be the laughing stock of the county just because I had a few random suspicions…like some doddering old busy-body.”

  I sighed. “I’m right, you know. This complex seems to be wallowing in intrigue. Just think about it. There’s Vicki and Lionel who are the absolute personification of criminality, due, most likely, to a lifestyle of accelerated spending.” Bernie snorted. “And then,” I glared back at her, “there’s Melba with the not-so-up-and-up nephew. Oh. And how about Jorge?”

  “Jorge?”

  “Yes, Jorge.”

  “What’s so suspicious about poor, hard-working Jorge, for crying out loud?”

  “He’s always around…in the background…watching…observing…pretending he’s so humble and subservient…”

  Bernie exploded into laughter over that. I let her get it all out of her system before continuing. “Fine. I won’t bore you any more with my keen observations. Just you wait, however. Time will tell…time will tell…and I’ll prove to you just how keen an intelligence I have. Keen, I tell you. Sharp as a tack.”

  Bernie laughed so hard at that I thought she’d need Depends. “Ohh, and don’t forget Dixon Lee,” she wheezed. “Remember the stories he told on the tour about the spirits and mysteries and swamp gas and strange goings-on. We have more clues than we can keep track of, and they’re piling up into one huge mound of suspicion. Am I right, Miss Marple?” Bernie leaned over and nudged my foot.

  “Well…okay…” I relented, “maybe you’re right. Maybe I am letting my imagination run away just a bit. But…then again…what if there is a shred of truth somewhere in all this strangeness?” I grabbed a couch pillow and hugged it. “There’s something about little Amanda’s beauty mark that bothers me.”

  That innocent remark had Bernie doubled over and shaking from spasms of uncontrolled cackling.

  NINETEEN

  We’d dropped the subject like a spoiled potato after Bernie needed almost the entire box of tissues to mop her tearing eyes from her obscene fit of hilarity. We’d been quiet, sitting for the past hour, reading our respective novels. There’d been no more conversation, no utterances of any kind…just the quiet complacency of understood friendship and a comfort zone that belied the years. Until, that is, I could contain my suppressed excitement no longer and blurted out, “So. What’re you wearing?”

  “What?”

  “What’re you wearing?”

  Bernie glanced down, rolled her eyes, and whined, “I’m wearing a sleeveless cotton blouse with little red and blue squares—”

  “Bernie. I mean this evening. What’re you going to wear over to Vicki and Lionel’s barbecue? Sheesh.”

  She made a face. “What I have on…”

  “You are? Not me. I’m changing into something cute and sassy.”

  “So you’re going to strap on a brassiere for the occasion?”

  “That’s hilarious. I’m soooo glad you’re soooo amused by my underwear challenges. Give me a break, will you? We have to look presentable.”

  “Why?”

  “Wh—oh. For crying out loud, Bernadette. Snap out of it.”

  Bernie grinned at my frustration, enjoying her innate ability to aggravate me with little effort. It had ceased to become a challenge. “Okay…sorry…I’ll change,” she mumbled, the grin playing at her lips. “However…if we’re going to socialize with these people simply because we want information, well…isn’t it rather hypocritical to pretend anything else?”

  I squirmed a little in my chair in anticipation of having to don the bra. Or, perhaps, it was plain downright, unadulterated annoyance. “No, it isn’t,” I grimaced. “Of course we’re going for some information—that’s a given. But we also have to put our best foot forward. We still have to be polite.”

  “Just in case we are absolutely and totally mistaken about them and would be mortified if they suspected that we suspected… Is that it?”

  I rolled my eyes at that one. “Oooooh. Yes…that’s it. Get into the spirit of this thing, will you, Bernadette? We’ll go over, eat their barbecue—”

  “—Texas barbecue—”

  “—Texas barbecue…and smile and be polite and have a good time.”

  “And eat too much and laugh too loudly and be so damn clever they’ll be astounded by our social prowess. Yet, all the while, we’ll be snooping around with eagle eyes and bloodhound noses.”

  “You got it. Right on target, missy.” I grinned then stuck my tongue out at her.

  * * * *

  Since the evening had already been planned and plotted, and Bernie didn’t feel like wrestling with her swimsuit, we had the remainder of the afternoon to check out all the tourist traps. Visa and Mastercard in hand, we strode to the trusty Neon for yet another ramble into the tiny town. Demonstrating how familiar every thing and every place was to me, I drove up and down lane after lane toward the busy shop, just across the bridge that connected the beach—a barrier island in itself—with the main island. Popular with the tourists, it featured a wealth of desirable oddities.

  The building was long and housed three separate departments: a clothing shop, a general store, and a gift shop filled with lamps and scented oils and framed pictures of the area’s hot spots. Pulling into a parking space, I cut the engine and grinned at Bernie. “You’re going to love this shop. If I had money to burn, I’d buy a ton of stuff from here.”

  Bernie squinted at the display window and grunted. “Looks to me like typical souvenir shtick. You know…unique items that demand purchase, beckoning the easily impressed with extraordinary beauty and originality, and then morph into something totally awkward when you put them on your mantle in Missouri. They should have named the souvenir shop, What WAS I Thinking?” She made a face and released a long sigh of resignation.

  “Oh, pooh,” I wrinkled my nose. “You’re full of hot air.”

  “Well…wallowing in it, at least.” Before I could respond to that quip, she added, “I want to get Molly a T-shirt.”

  “Great.” I nodded, glad that she was showing some positive spirit for a change. Leaving the car, we pushed through the door to the clothing shop and right away I spied something I liked. I pounced on a gaudy T-shirt featuring two over-the-hill, dumpy, matronly-looking ladies in swim attire. The slogan said, ‘Girls’ Day at the Beach’. “Oh, Bern, this is wonderful. Look. Isn’t this just the cutest thing?”

  Bernie raised her eyebrows and looked at me like I had my blouse on backwards. “No, sweetie…I think it’s sadly lacking in the whimsically droll department. Can’t you find something a tad more subdued?”

  “Oh, Bernie. You’re no fun. Let’s buy one apiece to wear around, proclaiming our scandalous independence.”

  She gave me a withering look. “No way, darlin’. And anyway, they don’t have my size.”

  That challenge inspired me to rummage through the stacks to make sure. They didn’t. The sizes ranged from small to medium. No larges; no extra-larges. The frazzled saleslady followed us from stack to stack, straightening, re-folding, and giving us the evil eye.

  We drifted into the general store, then into the gift shop, where Bernie saw several items that might be worthy of closer inspection. I mean, who wouldn’t want a half-naked mermaid perched precariously on a dried starfish?

  A dozen curiosities appealed to me. “My sister would love this,” I gushed, holding up a sturdy little pelican with a limp fish in its beak, which had me anticipating one less Christmas present to purchase in six months.

  Next, I was slathering on half a dozen potent body lotions, sniffing myself over and over, and trying to decide which I liked best. In a matter of minutes, I smelled like a citronella candle gone rancid, and neither the mosquitoes nor Bernie could stand to be next to me. Bernie had the grace to tell me so.

  “Lord, Michaela, you smell like a brothel on Mardi Gras.”

  I sniffed my arm. “Oh, jeez…I do stink like a bordello. What will people think? Do you think people will wonder what I do at night?” I tried to keep my voi
ce this side of a wail.

  “Don’t fret, sweetie, it’s not that awful. Really. You know how I like to tease you. You smell just fine…well…not too bad, anyway.”

  Of course I didn’t buy that consolation, and feeling like a disappointed child, replaced the smelly stuff on the shelf where it belonged. “Damn. I know better than to do that. Happens every time I go to Bath and Body.”

  “It’s okay. Honest. And anyway, the cheap stuff always wears off quickly and before you know it, you’ll be welcome back in public.”

  We spent fifteen more minutes just wandering through the shops, then I announced we had one more store to visit. Bernie complied, having selected two shirts for Molly but nothing for herself. She paid for her purchases and followed me out of the cool store into mind-numbing heat. Of course my little car was a veritable inferno.

  Bernie began fanning her face. “God, it’s hot in here. Believe it or not, I am almost tempted to suggest we go to the beach.”

  My heart leapt with joy. “You are? Th—”

  “I said almost tempted. Heat stroke does evoke peculiar reactions in women of a certain age, you know.”

  My heart plummeted to my ankles.

  The second shop was okay, though not Bernie’s or even my taste. Over-flowing with outlandish creations created by local artisans, it reminded Bernie of the annual Art Fair at the high school, where treasures appeared on display, only a mother could appreciate. The stuff was funky and eccentric and far-out, but not for her.

  I did like the homemade jewelry, however, and spent a good ten minutes ‘oohing’ and ‘ahhing’ over chunky necklaces and bracelets and dangling earrings that would’ve bounced off my ‘girls’. Bernie’s snide remarks about aboriginal art and ostentatious efforts by talent-impaired artisans were lost on me as I picked up one bracelet after another. Sensing my arty nature coming to the fore, she urged me to hurry, saying that we needed time to bathe and nap before our big night out. I capitulated, bought a pair of earrings made out of ‘sea’ glass that Bernie insisted had never seen the ocean, and left the store.