For Crying Out Loud

by Cathie Wayland

  Another snort followed by a cackle. “Don’t worry…I’m just highlighting the events so far…all truth and no fabrication…” More cackles, snorts, and wheezes.

  Time to change the subject. “Gorgeous outside…and there’s a breeze. I’m taking my coffee out on the deck—”

  “—Veranda.”

  “Veranda. Join me?”

  Bernie let loose one more titter and tossed the notebook aside. She replenished her drink while I poured my coffee, then we ambled out onto the veranda.

  “Gotta enjoy it while it lasts.” I sighed. “In another hour or so it’ll be hotter than Hades.”

  Bernie grunted. “Just how hot is Hades?”

  “I’m sure you’ll be able to answer that yourself some day.”

  We sat and sipped in silence for several minutes. Then a clicking upstairs made us both look up at the same time. “Upstairs,” Bernie mouthed, pointing with her chin.

  I nodded and we sat still, expecting one or the other of the adults to show. Neither appeared. Instead, a diminutive figure dressed in green shorts and a striped green and white top came very carefully on tiptoe—one step at a time—down the stairs. Little Amanda was grinning from ear to ear.

  “Well, good morning,” Bernie greeted the child. Amanda lowered her eyes shyly but came over to us. In one chubby fist was a Pop Tart with god-awful purple frosting. “Is that your breakfast?” Bernie prodded. The pixie nodded and took a huge bite, oblivious of crumbs cascading down her front.

  “Well, it sure looks yummy in the tummy,” I said as I leaned forward to smile at the little girl and brush off some of the crumbs clinging to her chin and shirt.

  Amanda’s eyes widened. “That’s what my mommy always said.”

  “Yummy in the tummy?”

  “Uh huh. She always said that…ev’ry time we had veg’ables.”

  I laughed and Bernie chuckled. Little Amanda giggled and took another bite from her pastry. I was just about to ask whether she was having a good time here at the beach when a sudden bang upstairs startled all three of us.

  “Amanda. Amanda.”

  Bernie’s head jerked up. “She’s down here, Brenda,” she called. “Don’t worry. We have her.”

  A clomp-clomp-clomp and Brenda appeared over the railing at the top of their stairs. Again her long, stringy hair reminded me of the Spanish moss hanging on the trees. She was breathing hard. “Amanda. You get back up here. You know what I told you about wandering outside.”

  Amanda’s round face seemed to crumple, and a lone tear snaked its way down a flushed cheek, past the tiny mole on the right side of her little chin. “No, Bwenda. I wanna stay here. I don’t wanna go back inside. I wanna stay with my gwammas.”

  Brenda disappeared for a second then reappeared on the staircase. Her chest was heaving and two spots of color stained her cheeks. “Amanda. Don’t you dare sass me. Now get back up here before I tell dada what you’ve done. You’re a very bad little girl. You’ll have to go to your room for some time out, young lady. I said hurry.”

  Amanda threw down the fragment of Pop Tart remaining, stuck out her very purple tongue at us, and dashed back up the steps. A great slam of the door and silence descended upon us like a shroud. I looked at Bernie, who had her mouth open in complete and unadulterated shock.

  “Well,” I exhaled. “What do you make of that pleasant little scene?”

  “That was nothing short of criminal. Imagine saying that to a baby who’d just come down a few steps to chat with the neighbors.”

  “Yeah…they keep a pretty tight rein on that little one. I mean…I sure don’t go for today’s cavalier way of raising kids…you hear about so many of them getting snatched while the mother’s back is turned for just a second…but…I don’t know…” I slumped in my chair and let out another long, drawn-out sigh. “I sure didn’t like Brenda’s manner. Wasn’t nurturing…or loving… My nieces are so good with their little ones…always kisses and hugs and fun little activities planned for them. And my Abby is always reading aloud to her kids and teaching them new games and things…jeez…poor little Amanda…”

  Bernie grunted. “Yes…poor little Amanda. I do not like that young woman.”

  “Me, neither…but Bobby’s nice…don’t you think so? I feel sorry for him, married to the likes of her and raising a child, too.”

  “She’s a witch…although we spell it a tad differently where I come from.”

  “Yeah, but you know…we may not have the whole story here. Remember the Amber Alert. Maybe Brenda is just a young, inexperienced mother who’s afraid of losing her child. They’re not at home, surrounded by familiar things…perhaps she’s just overly protective. Let’s give her the benefit of the doubt.”

  “Well, perhaps…but I still think it’s criminal.”

  “It wasn’t pretty. But she’s probably just over-heated and tired. Remember what Bobby said about Amanda being too freaked to go to the beach or pool? Brenda’s probably doing just what he said, ‘pulling her hair out’, trying to entertain the kid.”

  “They could play miniature golf,” Bernie muttered.

  “Oh, Bernie, stop it. They’re just a young couple who still needs some parenting skills. Too bad they don’t require you take a course before having a child.”

  “Okay, okay. I was just surprised at her tone of voice. I’ve seen so many abused kids in so many classes over the years, and…well, don’t get me started. I just didn’t like the way she spoke to her little girl, but, on the other hand, I’ve been known to raise my voice at my kids, too, so…well, maybe she’s got a headache with this heat, like you said. She’s over-weight and—and…well, over-weight is over-weight. Most of the world’s problems are caused by situations pertaining to someone being overweight. I have a theory…”

  I chuckled. “Isn’t everyone in America over-weight? I’m over-weight and feeling this heat, too, but I’m not snarling at everybody.” Bernie’s look took the wind from my sails so I leapt from the couch and clapped my hands once. “Okay. Enough said on that subject. What do you want to do today? We’re running out of days and should fill them to the nth degree.”

  “The ‘nth’ degree?”

  “That’s what I said. Let’s go to the beach.”

  Bernie’s face clouded over like Kansas during a thunderstorm. “Oh, Mike…isn’t there someplace else we can go? You mentioned something about an interpretive center or some such thing—”

  “Yeah, there’s the Interpretive Center…” I gave her the eye. “Or…we could go to the Serpentarium…”

  “Serpen-what?”

  “Serpentarium…which just means a reptile house with snakes and turtles and alligators—”

  “Oh, Lord. Here we go with the alligator thing again.” Bernie ran a hand over her face and groaned.

  I crossed my arms over my chest. “It’s either the beach or the Serpentarium. I’m giving you a choice. Which will it be? Come on…you’re an educator. You surely can’t be adverse to broadening your perspective. It’ll be good for you.”

  “Fine. We’ll go to your Serpentarium. But so help me God, Mike…I’d better not come any closer to a real live snake or alligator than a dozen yards.”

  * * * *

  Twenty-two minutes later we were pulling into the parking lot of the island’s famed Serpentarium. I hopped out of the car in high spirits while Bernie dragged herself out like a child on his way to the dentist’s. “C’mon, Bernie…this’ll be fun. Maybe I can get a picture of you petting a snake.”

  “Over my dead body,” she murmured

  We purchased our tickets, and I was happy to know we were in time to see the live snake demonstration. I’d witnessed it several times before with various grand-nephews and nieces and was excited about seeing Bernie’s reaction to a four-foot rattler being dangled in front of her face. Well, within her twelve-yard radius, anyway. It should be worth a few laughs. Lord knew I deserved them, seeing I’d been the butt of her needling and teasing for most of the vacation. Far too muc
h talk about butts during this trip anyway. And boobs, too, for that matter.

  Passing through the gift shop, we lingered in the main hall where a large pit in the center of the room offered the casual visitor a good view of over fifty thick-bodied brown water moccasins. I peered over the chest-high wall and couldn’t help an involuntary gasp as several of the venomous snakes writhed and wriggled in and over one another.

  Bernie took one look and shuddered. “Oh, my God,” she groaned. “What have I let you talk me into, this time?”

  Since the show was about to start, we made our way outside to a small, covered amphitheater where about a dozen people already had seats on the curved benches. The only seats left were right in front. I was tickled to death to have Bernie that close to the demonstration. I just hoped she wouldn’t make a scene or faint on me. My little amusement would backfire if she did.

  Bernie disappointed me. As the handler—a tall young woman in her thirties, dressed in natty khaki safari-like garb—lifted one snake after another and recited her spiel regarding habitat and diet and strength of toxicity, Bernie remained passively disinterested. True, her eyes never left the center-stage, but she didn’t moan or squeal or do anything remotely indicative of her squeamishness—much to my chagrin. My little sport hadn’t exactly backfired, but it hadn’t sparked any hilarity, either.

  After the show, we headed down the cement path to where open-air pits displayed more snakes and turtles. Beyond that, a fenced-in area housed alligators of all sizes, weights, and girths.

  An older gal, somewhere in her sixties or seventies, crouched on a high platform, overlooking the alligator pen and tossed raw chicken down to the hungry lizards. The sudden opening of giant jaws, revealing sharp, yellow teeth, was an awesome spectacle. I poked Bernie and grinned.

  “See? Alligators. Nice big, fat alligators…with mouths wide enough to swallow a horse.”

  “Humphf.” Was all she said.

  On our way back to the main building, we passed a pit that stopped us in our tracks. Half a dozen small trees grew from the center; trees whose branches seemed to be rippling and moving until we got a closer look. Snakes. Hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of black, brown, yellow and green snakes, all writhing and undulating and squirming. It was enough to make us sick. I began to itch all over.

  Bernie stared at the awesome sight—her eyes unblinking round orbs of awe and wonder and just plain, everyday, common variety horror. “Oh…my…God…” she breathed.

  I couldn’t think of anything suitable to say so just stood beside her, mesmerized by the gruesome display. Then I spotted something even more appalling. A turtle with a snake latched to its behind, trying to swallow its tail. “Oh, Bernie, look. The poor baby. I don’t think I can take another turtle being violated.” I looked around in desperation and spotted the gal in safari attire. “Ma’am.” I called, waving for her to come over. “A turtle needs some help here.”

  She came right over, sized-up the situation, gave a low grunt, then hefted her bare leg over the side, and jumped down into the pit of hell—as far as Bernie and I were concerned, that is. I know I let out a surprised little squeak as Bernie clutched her shoulder bag tightly against her chest, mouth wide open.

  The ranger—or whatever she was—stooped down, picked up the turtle in one hand and the snake in the other and proceeded to free the turtle from the jaws of death. Overhead, writhing serpents rolled and crawled and twined and undulated. Underfoot, more snakes curled and stretched and wriggled and slithered. It was a nightmare. I couldn’t believe a human being would actually be insane enough to let themselves get that chummy with a zillion snakes, even if they weren’t venomous. Like I said, it was a nightmare. If one—just one—of the loathsome creatures should slip off a branch and fall on her bare head or—worse—down her neck, I knew I would lose it and start screaming my head off.

  Nothing like that happened, however, and in less time than it took for me to tell it, the young woman-with-the-nerves-of-steel had separated the two reptiles and had rejoined us on the right side of the wall. “Thanks,” she said brightly and sauntered off.

  “We have to go,” Bernie hissed in my ear. “We have to go, now. Right now. And I mean, now.”

  I didn’t argue. I’d seen enough, myself, and knew I’d probably dream about this for nights to come.

  TWENTY-TWO

  I felt a little green around the gills as I turned on the ignition, backed out of the parking space, and pulled onto the two-lane road. Bernie chuckled. I glanced at her. “What’s so funny?”

  “You.”

  “Me? Why? Now what’d I do?”

  “I knew all along you had your little heart set on giving me a hard time back there at that hideous snake house.”

  “Did not.”

  “Did, too. But I’ll be truthful. I did have a hard time—can still feel slimy things crawling up and down my back—but. You be truthful, too. You got more than you bargained for with the turtle and snake incident. Right? You are as grossed out as I am. Right?”

  I winced. “Right.”

  I looked out the window at the passing scenery so unique to this part of the world and tried to clear my head of lingering visions of writhing reptiles when all of a sudden a thought hit me, and I let out a bark of laughter.

  Startled, Bernie turned and watched me shaking with mirth, my square hands tightly gripping the wheel. After a long moment she asked, “Now what’s so funny?”

  “Oh, n-nothing,” I hiccuped.

  “Oh, it’s something, all right. Let me in on the scathingly droll joke. I’m dying to know.”

  I glanced her way and chuckled again. “I was just remembering what Amanda said this morning when her mom yelled at her to come back up.”

  Bernie smelled something rotten in Denmark and wrinkled her nose. “Ohh-kay…and that was?”

  I grinned. “She said, and I quote, ‘I don’t wanna go back inside…I wanna stay with my gwammas’.” I wiggled my eyebrows. “‘Gwammas’, Bernie…grandmas in your language.” I tittered again, relishing the whole idea.

  Bernie sniffed, and pretended to be offended. “Cute, Mike, really truly adorably cute. You realize the word was plural, don’t you?” I just kept on grinning. “Good. As long as we both are on the same page, I can enjoy the little witticism. Just don’t bring up the ‘mommy’ incident and we’ll be fine.”

  I nodded then lifted my chin and peered into the rearview mirror. “Darn. I’m too old for a pimple.”

  “A what?”

  “A pimple…or, what refined seventh graders refer to as a zit. I’ve got one sprouting on my chin.” I thrust said chin at her. “See? Right on the right…same place Amanda has her mole…wish mine were a mole…or, maybe I don’t…seeing that moles sometimes turn nasty…”

  This was going where Bernie didn’t want to go. “Enough, already. So you have a blemish on your chin. So what? Put some astringent on it and it’ll go away. And, for your information, Amanda’s mole is on the left side of her chin…not the right.”

  “It is not. Amanda’s mole is on the right side of her chin. I remember thinking it was like Elizabeth Taylor’s beauty mark the first time I saw her that evening they were going out for ice cream. It’s on the right…right here…” I pointed to my own chin.

  Bernie forced a patience she obviously didn’t feel, probably recalling a recalcitrant student from bygone days, and smiled patronizingly. “No, sweetie…Amanda’s little mole, which is no bigger than a minute, is on the left side of her cute little pointed chin. There is even a slight cleft in said chin. And two dimples, one in each round cheek, make for a calendar-perfect face. She has dark brown hair cut in a pixie. She is no more than a yardstick in height. She is—”

  “Bernie. Quit it. I don’t want to argue with you over some silly mole…but…it is on the right side of her chin.” My head swam as another senior moment washed over me. “Or…at least…I think it is.” I exhaled a loud whoosh of air in frustration, gripped the wheel tighter, and grimaced
. “Ohhh, that’s what’s been tickling the back of my subconscious for the past few days. That blasted mole. I swear one minute it’s on the right side of her chin, and then…” I took a curve a tad too fast and had to concentrate to stay in my lane. “And then, the next time I see the child, the blasted mole is on the other side.” I stole a quick look at Bernie, who’d refrained from commenting or interrupting and was just staring out the window as though in a trance. “Bernadette.” I squeaked. “Say something. Please.”

  Bernie cleared her throat and drummed the fingers of both hands on the dash that was almost in her lap. “All right. I’m stymied at the moment so will not belabor the point. We won’t settle this by verbal fisticuffs. Let’s remember to look carefully the next time we see her and settle the matter then. Okay?”

  “Okay…if we ever do get to see her…the way Brenda keeps her under lock and key…”

  “We will…never fear…”

  “Yeah, Bernie is here.”

  “You got that one right.”

  “But…and I know this sounds loony, but…even if we see her again and determine, once and for all, which side the mole is on…well…it won’t explain these creepy senior moments I’ve been having…seeing the mole jump from one side to the other.” I sucked in a deep breath. “I’m almost be ready to believe there are two Amandas. Crazy, huh?”

  “You got that one right.”

  * * * *

  The days were flying by, and the paradox of mixed emotions ran high. Bernie and I had welcomed each morning, anticipating some new and wonderful adventure or other and had enjoyed our week in this sleepy beach town. But lurking in the recesses of our minds was the titillating though somewhat unsettling thought that an honest-to-goodness mystery was unfolding right under our noses and somehow we were just too daft to catch on.

  Because our time was running thin, Bernie agreed to my strident plea to go to the beach one more time. So, this afternoon we were returning to the sea, challenging all that was good and right and proper by squeezing into bathing suits specially designed and constructed to ‘go with the flow’.