For Crying Out Loud

by Cathie Wayland

  Annoyed and aggravated with the oppressive heat, Bernie couldn’t wait to get home. After staggering up the stairs to our condo, it was all she could do to control her sarcasm as I fumbled once again for the key. I was relieved when a door shutting upstairs accompanied by the sound of footsteps drew her attention away from my frantic search.

  Bobby clattered down the steps, wearing a wide grin. He raised a hand when he saw us. Bernie nodded and returned his smile. “Hi, Bobby.”

  “Hey, there. Looks like you gals went shopping.”

  Bernie held up her plastic sack. “Yes. Two T-shirts for my daughter back home…a little something to remind her of how much I enjoyed my vacation.” I snickered and she grimaced, but Bobby wasn’t listening anyway. “And Mike got some earrings,” she added as an afterthought.

  He chuckled. “Cool.”

  “You guys headed for the beach?” My pal’s question sounded innocent, but I knew better.

  His face clouded a little. “No…no, uh, we don’t go to the beach.” Bernie’s eyebrows rose half an inch and he rushed on. “A-Amanda is terrified of the ocean—can you believe that? Totally freaked her out when we took her the other day.” He laughed and stuffed his hands in his pockets in obvious discomfort.

  “Oh, that’s too bad. Sheesh. And here you are at the beach, no less. How ’bout the pool? Just across the street and pretty neat looking, if you ask me. Sure are a lot of kids enjoying it,” I offered.

  He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I know, but…believe it or not, the pool freaks Amanda just as much. Poor Brenda is pulling her hair out keeping the kid entertained.” He laughed again then shrugged. “Well, gotta go. I’m off to the grocery store. Can I get you guys anything?”

  “No, thanks. We’ll be seeing you.” Bernie smiled and pushed me through the now-open door ahead of her. “Hurry,” she hissed. I picked up my pace and she slammed the door shut behind us. “Whew. That was the be all to end all.”

  “What? What’s gotten into you?” I huffed, tossing my purse in a corner.

  Bernie dropped her purse and sack on a dinette chair, yanked open the fridge, selected a Fuzzy Navel wine cooler, then fell into her favorite chair. “Seriously. Of all the far-fetched stories I’ve ever heard, that one takes the cake. Who does he think he’s fooling? I could read him like a book.”

  I reached under my shirt, fumbled and twisted, then succeeded in removing my bra, which I tossed on the couch. With a sigh of relief, I strolled to the refrigerator, retrieved a cold bottle of Busch Light, and collapsed onto the couch. “Ahhh…I’m beat.” I took a long swallow, sighed again, and then had the grace to look at her. “So…what were you ranting and raving about?”

  It was Bernie’s turn to sigh. “Didn’t you hear what Bobby said out there?”

  “Yeah…something about Amanda hating the beach…so?”

  She shook her head in absolute disbelief at my obtuse remark, and I felt a sliver of compassion for poor Bart Heilbronner pass through me. “Michaela,” she enunciated like the ex-schoolmarm she was. “Have you ever heard of parents spending the kind of money it takes to come here, with a child who is mortally afraid of the ocean—or water of any kind—and then remaining holed-up in their quarters for lack of anything to do?” She sat forward. “Well, have you?”

  That got me. “Gosh…when you put it that way…no.” I sat up. “So, why? Why did they come here, then? Why? It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “That’s what I say. Why, indeed? I mean, for heaven’s sake, there’s bike riding and miniature golf, not to mention the kiddie playground by the pool…or just plain walking around the resort. Plenty to do, yet they hang inside, watching TV, coming and going at odd intervals and seemingly only to the ice cream shop… Strange…mighty strange…”

  We each pondered that dilemma for the next few hours as we showered then went to our rooms for a lie-down. I was too tired to think about the barbecue looming on our horizon. Right now, it seemed too difficult to even think about breathing, let alone smiling and coming up with clever and witty repartee.

  Surprising, therefore, that we both awoke from our naps feeling refreshed. Bernie blamed my remarkable energy upon waking on the delicious anticipation I felt for our upcoming snoop-fest. To tell the truth, I couldn’t keep from babbling on and on about nothing and singing snatches from Broadway plays. It was enough to cause one to drink. And I’m not referring to diet Dr. Peppers, either.

  At three minutes to six, dressed in stylish capris, we left our unit and made our way over to the next complex. Vicki and Lionel had their front door wide open, and cute little napkins and a platter of nibbles already waited on their deck. Believe it or not, the appetizers looked pretty good.

  Vicki saw us coming and met us as we stepped onto their veranda. “Well, hey. Lionel, honey. They’re here. C’mon and have a seat. I dusted off the chairs just a minute ago. What can I get you t’drink? We have beer, wine coolers, and iced tea.”

  “A wine cooler sounds great,” Bernie said with her best smile.

  I bobbed my head. “Yes, that sounds good for me, too.” I’d been perched on the edge of a chair but bounced up. “May I help you, Vicki? Please.” I saw Bernie wince at the blatant eagerness in my voice. I had to cool it a few degrees or I’d give myself away.

  Vicki didn’t appear to notice, however, and just smiled. “Why, y’sure can. C’mon.” With a wave of her brightly painted fingernails, she ushered me into their apartment. I glanced at Bernie over my shoulder and had the audacity to wink. Bernie just made a face.

  Lionel pushed through the storm door at that moment, bearing a plate of raw pork steaks. He leered at us and stomped down the steps to his Weber grill, where he proceeded, with much fanfare and a loud, slightly off-key rendition of ‘Home On the Range’, to initiate his Texas barbecue. Tempted, I almost asked if he planned any more excursions to our electric panel thingy, but kept my mouth shut instead. No point casting aspersions.

  I returned to the deck with two frosty bottles in my hands and a glass under each armpit. “Here,” I said under my breath. “Take this.” I rolled my eyes and bit my lower lip. “Ohmigod, Bernie…” I hissed, “it’s exactly—”

  “Well, isn’t this nice.” Vicki’s shrill voice interrupted my piece of scandalous revelation. “I think this is just so nice,” Vicki’s voice percolated. “I’m so glad you could come. I just adore parties, don’t you? Any excuse for a party, I always say. I could party all day and all night.”

  Bernie looked up from pouring her wine cooler into the glass I’d provided from my left armpit. “I enjoy a party or two myself. Your appetizers look delicious, Vicki. Did you make them?”

  Vicki jiggled up and down, causing her opulence to bounce along with her. “Ohh, I did, I did, indeedy. I got me one of them books on entertainin’ and copied out some of their neat little tidbits. I hope you like ’em. Those over there are made with pimento cheese and those…” she pointed one long red fingernail, “are made with cream cheese and green olives.”

  I reached for one of the latter, popped it into my mouth, and rolled my eyes. “Ummm, goo’,” I said around a mouthful.

  Bernie chose one of the pimento rolls and bit into it. Her eyes widened. “Mmm, nice, Vicki…really nice.”

  Our neighbor beamed. Her happiness was short-lived, however, when we all noticed an increasing number of mosquitoes crashing our little party. With a loud moan, Vicki picked up the tray. “Darn little buggers. Let’s take this here party inside where we won’t be bothered by them nasty critters.”

  Bernie and I left our chairs, each carrying a glass and bottle, and followed our hostess into her apartment. Vicki shut the storm door but left the main door wide open for Lionel. “Poor baby,” she clucked, “I hope he isn’t bein’ tormented by them horrible bugs and chewed alive. He’s so brave, standing out there by that hot grill, just a grillin’ away. He does love to make the meat.”

  I know my eyes widened at that, and Bernie shot me a pointed look. Bernie had enough trouble keepin
g her own mouth closed without having me say something sarcastic to light her fuse. I mean, we were guests, for crying out loud. And our hostess meant well. I was now a firm believer that the size of one’s bust was not an indicator of one’s cerebral capacity… But… But, still and all, dear Vicki was putting on a good show. One glance at Bernie’s face and I had no doubt she was beginning to see our Vicki in a whole new light, too.

  TWENTY

  My feelings toward mosquitoes took an upward swing that evening. I blessed them for being the cause of our admittance into Vicki and Lionel’s inner sanctum. My brief sojourn inside earlier had allowed only a glimpse of the kitchen and living room—enough to whet my appetite.

  Crammed in a ten by ten space was a sofa, two recliners—all leather—three tables with decorative lamps and knickknacks, a display cabinet exhibiting all manner of exquisite ornaments, and a vase big enough to bathe little Amanda in. And every bit of it expensive. Now that we were inside, I knew I’d have a chance to use their bathroom, thereby getting a peek inside at least one of the bedrooms.

  Sitting on the sofa beside Bernie, I did my best to chat about our excursion into Charleston, the tour, and various other outings. Bernie, of course, was at her glib best, describing our adventures as only she could. She had us in stitches with her piquant descriptions of personalities and locales. And she was a social studies major, no less. Do wonders never cease? But it was Vicki who stole the show. I nearly choked on my cream cheese and olive appetizer when our hostess bounced up and down in her jeweled flip-flops then pranced across the room to retrieve a large photo album. “Would y’all like to see pictures of our first house?”

  “Sure,” Bernie murmured. “In Columbia?”

  Vicki rolled her eyes and giggled. “Ohh, no. Lionel and I met in Vegas. I was workin’ as a cocktail waitress at Sam’s Town.” She must have read Bernie’s and my confusion because she giggled again. “That’s a casino. It’s not on The Strip but it sure is a magnificent place. Always filled with oodles of people from all over—even Canada.” She opened the large binder to the first page and pointed to a much younger, much sexier version of herself. I swallowed a nervous giggle and refrained from looking at Bernie, who was doing her best to appear interested in the collection of snapshots of a wilder time and place.

  “Here’s my sweet teddy bear-of-a-man. Isn’t he just the cutest thing? He had hair in those days. I sure did love running my little ol’ fingers through that head o’ hair of his.” Another giggle. “And here’s me with Wayne Newton. Y’all know Wayne Newton?” We nodded. “He was such a dream back then. I sure did love to hear him sing. I’ve driven by his ranch more’n a hundred times.” She sighed like that was a little bit of heaven, right here on earth.

  It was somewhat of a relief when Lionel brought up the sizzling pork steaks, and we gravitated to the table in the little dinette. Vicki had made very attractive place settings that even Bernie couldn’t criticize. She’d laid out dark blue place mats, with red, white, and blue paper plates, cups, and cutlery, and bright red napkins. The centerpiece was a cute little paper boat with white sails. I made a mental note to ask where she’d gotten them.

  The pork steaks were, well, pork steaks. I guess they were good by the way Bernie, Lionel and Vicki were consuming them, shoveling in one bite after another. I wasn’t that fond of pork steaks, finding them too fatty and greasy for my taste, but I cleaned my plate all the same. Vicki had made a wonderful potato salad with dill pickles and radishes and some seasoning I couldn’t make out. It was different from the potato salad I made but I thought it delicious. I made another mental note to ask for the recipe.

  Vicki also had soft yeast rolls, a congealed salad full of vegetables, and a plate piled with slices of cantaloupe. Believe it or not, I was enjoying the company, the conversation, and the food. But I couldn’t wait to go to the bathroom.

  Finally, after we’d pushed away from the table, groaning that our stomachs couldn’t take any more, I asked to use the little girls’ room. Vicki grinned at me and waved her hand. “Well, sure, honey. You oughta know where it is.” I smiled, nodded, and sprinted down the hall, pausing to sneak a quick peek inside the first bedroom.

  It was an office cum guestroom and filled to capacity with desk, futon, shelves, computer, printer, telephone, television, and radio. Heaven knew what was jammed inside the closed closet.

  I was disappointed to see that the master bedroom door was closed, and of course I wouldn’t dream of opening it so had to be content with using her prettily appointed guest bathroom. It was decorated in blues and greens with an inordinate amount of mermaid paraphernalia scattered about. It was very apparent that Vicki loved mermaids. The wallpaper depicted mermaids frolicking in a foamy sea; the soap dish and candle were in shapes of curvaceous mermaids; the guest towels had embroidered mermaids on them; the shower curtain had a vivid nautical scene starring nude mermaids; even the light fixture was one buxom mer-gal. It was hideous and at the same time, entertaining. Yet, it almost made you want to rush, having so many voluptuous sea-women staring at you from every corner of the small room. It was giving me the willies. I wished I could show Bernie but knew that would be too obvious. I’d have to pray that Bernie’d need to use the bathroom before we left.

  She didn’t—much to my dismay. After another hour and a half of teasing banter and congenial conversation, Bernie and I thanked our host and hostess for a wonderful meal and a great get-together and bid our adieux. Vicki and Lionel walked as far as the yard between our two complexes, chattering all the while about how delightful we were, and how much they hoped we’d be renting #215 again soon. I reminded Vicki that since my sister and brother-in-law owned the condo, I’d most likely be down sometime in the near future. Bernie, however, told them that she’d not have another chance in a long time to repeat this little getaway—much to her dismay. A consummate actress, my Bernie.

  This time I had my key ready and opened the door to our unit in record time. Bernie gave me a look of approval and I smirked, “Hah. See? I can find the key when it’s all I have to handle.”

  We each grabbed something to drink then sat down to unwind before heading to bed. Bernie sighed, screwed up her face, and then sighed again. “Well. Whew. So. What did you think about all that?”

  I proceeded to describe all that I had seen in the office and guest bathroom. Bernie listened then offered one raised shoulder in a half-hearted shrug when I finished. I gaped at her. “So?”

  “So…”

  “Don’t you think their stuff was a bit out-of-this-world in the price department?”

  Bernie wrinkled her nose. “Not especially. I mean, their stuff was nice, but not so nice that I was suspicious or anything. Just looked like the kind of stuff people with their means would have.”

  “A Fab-something egg? Filigreed in gold? Here?”

  “Faberge…”

  “What?”

  “Those eggs…they’re called Faberge—from Russia—and, yes, they are very expensive.”

  “See? Who’d leave something as exquisite as that in a glass case in a beach house? I mean, sheesh. Who’d have one in their town house even?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t and maybe you wouldn’t, but Vicki obviously would and does…hence the glass case filled with fine pieces.”

  “But here?” I was incredulous. “And Vicki? The gal who reads, and I quote, ‘them trashy romances’? You talk about inconsistencies with the couple upstairs but what about Vicki and Lionel acting like Li’l Abner and Daisy Mae and collecting fine art?”

  “To each his own, Mike. So they have an eye for beautiful art…”

  “You should’ve seen her bathroom…”

  “Her bathroom?”

  “Oh, yeah. It was decorated in modern mermaid. Everything—and I mean everything—had a mermaid on it or was in the shape and form of a mermaid. It was so gaudy and…and…cheap. I mean, I bet it was all really expensive and everything, but cheap looking, sort of like Vicki, herself. Too much, too loud, too
bright, too glitzy.”

  Bernie laughed. “Oh, come on.”

  I made a face and sank lower in my seat. “Okay…but…it just wasn’t the kind of stuff I’d expect in someone’s vacation home. You know?”

  Bernie picked at a hangnail. “Fine, but that’s still not enough to incriminate them. You heard Lionel talking about his computer job. He’s apparently good at what he does and has made a few bucks along the way. Enough, anyway, to own a home in Columbia and the condo here.”

  “Yeah,” I muttered, “but just the same…they had too much expensive junk crowded in that tiny condo for just a vacation getaway. And they said they don’t rent it out. Just makes me feel funny about the whole thing.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  Morning dawned on the eighth day. It was incredible to think that our little escapade was winding down. We’d had so much fun laughing, crying, sniping—sending pointed quips to one another like die-hard politicians—that it depressed me to think it would all come to an end sooner than we wanted. I woke up feeling great but the joy was raveling along the edges. As they say, ‘this, too, will pass’. Oh, fudge.

  When I straggled into the living room, Bernie, for once, was already sitting in her favorite chair with her slippered feet propped up on the ottoman. She had her omni-present glass of diet Dr. Pepper and was writing in a spiral notebook.

  “Good morning. You’re up before me. Sleep okay?”

  Her head snapped up and a grin spread across her face. “Uh huh,” she smirked.

  “So, what are you writing?”

  “Oh…nothing much…just a few notes about our vacation so far…but, damn. It’s hilarious, if I do say so myself.”

  “Oh, that’s just dandy,” I muttered as I set about getting my coffee ready. “I can only imagine what you’ve said about me.” That produced a loud snort. “Oh, come on, Bernie. Be nice. You better not be saying things you shouldn’t. Remember what they say. Never put in writing what you don’t want to see printed on the front page of The New York Times.”