For Crying Out Loud

by Cathie Wayland

  Still sensitive about her disastrous encounter with the crashing waves earlier in the week, Bernie suffered occasional flashbacks about mooning the beach-goers on that fateful day she was swept off her feet, kicking and clucking. I agonized over the prospect of her hating the ocean, since she knew I knew she was opinionated and had a tendency to establish and maintain immovable notions and obstinate ideas. And stuck to them. Tenaciously. Yet, my bosom—oops, that word again—friend agreed to approach the mighty ocean with the Queen of Sea and Pluff Mud one more time since the fateful departure day was all too rapidly approaching.

  Right on cue, I popped from my bedroom, flip-flopping across the living room’s laminated floor, beach bag clutched close to my chest. I was again a fashionable vision in black and netting, beach hat smooshed down on my head, sunglasses perched on the end of my sunburned nose. The faint aroma of Coppertone wafted across the room as I began the litany of ‘thou shalt take it to the beach or do without and suffer the consequences’.

  With well-honed disregard, Bernie hauled herself out of her favorite chair and, sighing, shuffled with blatant resignation toward the front door. You can only do so much with a swimming suit at our age, and there are reasonable limits to modest coverage. Bernie’s cover-up started at her chin and cascaded to her knees. Add an over-sized beach towel, cavernous beach bag filled with dire essentials, a hat, sunglasses, and sandals, it was almost more trouble than it was worth. At least to that Missouri gal.

  From around the corner of our condo, Jorge appeared in a cloud of noise and dust, his ever-present blower and extension cord in tow. He nodded to us, eyes averted, trying not to stare—probably trying not to laugh. Dutifully, Jorge went about his business, neat brown uniform reflecting the intense heat and humidity. Bernie and I waved at him, but he seemed engrossed in the task at hand as he climbed the stairs toward the upstairs units.

  “Ready?” I chirped.

  Bernie grunted an affirmative, and we, the troublesome duo, dragged all our paraphernalia toward the tiny Neon.

  Somehow sensing my buddy’s preoccupation with humidity, blistering beach sand, and rogue waves, I refrained from chattering and we rode in silence for a couple minutes. Until I couldn’t stand the silence a second longer.

  “Bernie?” I dared to venture into her reverie. “Are you having fun?”

  “Hmmm?” she responded noncommittally.

  “I’m just wondering where you are. You’re obviously not here with me. What’s up? You’re not fretting about going in the water are you?”

  “Hmm, no…no, it’s not that. Nothing, really…just watching Jorge…and thinking…” Bernie shifted in the miniscule front seat, attempting in vain to cross and uncross her legs.

  “Good. This time you’re going to love the ocean. I promise.”

  After the now-familiar ritual of choosing a parking spot, usually the easiest place to park regardless of proximity to the target, Bernie and I rolled out of our seats, blinked at the Sahara-like sun, and scanned the sandy shore for a likely spot to pitch the beach umbrella. Wherever we went, we seemed to cause a scene. Why was that? Beach-goers already engaged in their own sunny activities stopped to stare at us, and nudged each other. I tried to fool myself into believing it was due to their unquenchable interest in a couple of mature, well-preserved women. I preferred to think of us as women who embraced Mother Nature; reminiscent of intrepid gals like Jane Goodall or Amelia Earhart. I refused to believe their interest was indicative of a devilish delight in seeing a veritable comedy routine entering from stage left.

  As soon as we waded into the gently rolling ripples of the sound, I was relieved to see Bernie begin to relax. It appeared she would not be wrestling with Dame Neptune today, or be subjected to never-ending humiliation. And I…I was in my element as I melted into my noodle, one with the sea, bobbing and floating, unencumbered by gravity, head tilted back, blissfully happy. Naturally, this would be the moment Bernie, of all people, chose to discuss our self-imposed mystery challenge.

  “I’m still wondering why Bobby and Brenda are here,” she mused.

  “Ummm…me, too.”

  “Utterly ridiculous, if you ask me.”

  “Umm hmmmm…”

  “They could have spent the money somewhere else.”

  “Ummm…”

  Bernie sighed, splashed a little, hoping to elicit a more articulate response from me, but I continued to ignore her. Another sigh, louder this time, and still I gave no reaction to the less than subtle cues.

  Eyes closed, floating languidly, I’d hung out my official ‘do not disturb’ sign. No use trying to get through to me now. She’d have to try later when I regained consciousness and returned to the real world of mystery and intrigue and a vacation running amuck.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Why is it always much harder going home from doing something fun than the process of getting there? Does that make any sense? By the time Bernie and I dragged our sodden carcasses out of the car, we both looked like we’d taken an active part in the digging of the Panama Canal. Stringy, salt-encrusted hair, sandy feet, sunburned ears and noses, squinty ‘aviator eyes’, and insatiable thirsts made up our deplorable countenances. In short: we were a mess.

  And we were exhausted. We were rattled, therefore, when we noted the other car in our small parking lot parked in what I’d considered my spot for the last eight days. I was a little vexed at having to park in another spot, farther away from the path leading around to the stairs. “The nerve of that person.” was uttered through pursed, sun-chapped lips.

  “I wonder who it is? Somebody visiting Bobby and Brenda? Or, of course, sweet Melba could be having company…” Bernie mused.

  “Maybe it’s her beloved nephew, bringing more stuff for her to store.”

  “Or it could be the upstairs unit next to Bobby’s…it’s been empty this whole week. That’s who it is…just another vacationer…”

  We trudged up the wooden steps, praying that we wouldn’t bump into anybody, desperate for showers and some clothes first. Luck was with us. We made it to our door without seeing anyone, and I had the key in my hand, much to Bernie’s warped titillation.

  Showering in record time, we reunited on the veranda, frosty glasses in hand, and settled in the plastic deck chairs to relax, enjoy the arrival of early evening, and to make snide remarks about various unwitting golfers who appeared on the sixteenth hole from time to time.

  “You know…this really is the life,” Bernie sighed.

  I was in the middle of swallowing a mouthful of hard lemonade so could only grunt.

  “It’ll take a bit of concentration to—” Bernie stopped as the sound of a door opening next door alerted us to Melba’s presence. We both lowered our legs from the railing and sat up straighter, ready to par with Her Royal Vagueness. We were surprised when a man appeared, followed by a simpering Melba. He stopped in his tracks when he saw us—looking, for all the world, like a four-year-old caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

  “Hi,” Bernie said with one of her most ingratiating smiles.

  The man—somewhere in his thirties, I’d guess—was rendered mute for several seconds. It was Melba who cracked the silence. “Ohh, Billy…here are Donna and Kristen…my dear friends from next door…we’ve had such good times together…wonderful neighbors…hello, dears…” She beamed at us like a Sunday school teacher pleased with a correctly recited verse.

  “Hi, Melba,” I added to the burgeoning conversation.

  “I’m Bernie and this is Mike,” Bernie offered.

  The man had recovered somewhat, donned a mask of civility and took a step forward. “Hello. I’m Bill Thomas…Melba’s nephew. Enjoying your stay here on the island?”

  We nodded and Bernie replied, “Oh, it’s been a blast. Packed a lot into one week already and hope to fill the remaining days just as well. Do you live here on the island?”

  He scrunched his face—a facial tic he’d been demonstrating for the past few minutes—and shook his head. �
�No. I live in Mount Pleasant.”

  “Near the Yorktown,” I interjected, for the inane reason that I felt the urge to show off my enormous base of knowledge.

  He smiled, the tic doing its thing, and Melba twittered, “Billy sells antiques and has his very own shop…don’t you, dear? And he’s very good at what he does, aren’t you, dear? Tell Marcia and Susie what you do on your days off.” She took hold of his arm and hugged it. “Tell them about your hobby, dear.”

  Bill, or Billy, made a face, gently disengaged his arm from his aunt’s grasp and sighed. “Oh, auntie…they don’t want to hear about all that. Now you be a good girl and walk me to my car. Jessica and I will be back next weekend, and we’ll all go out to dinner…maybe to the restaurant at the clubhouse. Would you like that?”

  Melba’s head bobbed up and down. “Ohh, yes. That would be lovely, dear.” She glanced at us. “Maybe Cathie and Theresa would like to join us?”

  Poor Bill recovered from that one in record time. I was trying to swallow the convulsive giggles levitating up my throat and was relieved when Bernie took reins in hand. “Oh, thank you, Melba…that sounds lovely. Unfortunately, we won’t be here next weekend. We’re sorry to say that our vacation is coming to an end. We leave Thursday. But thanks, all the same.”

  Before Melba could utter another word—her face had clouded over like the prelude to a summer storm—Bill had firmly taken her arm and pulled her along with him as he descended the stairs. With only a quick nod in our direction and a terse good-bye, they disappeared beneath the deck and were around the building and out of earshot.

  “Hmmm, interesting…” Bernie muttered.

  I skewed my chair around to face her. “What? What did you think?”

  Bernie made a face, took a sip from her drink, lifted her legs onto the railing, and sighed. “He was strange…”

  I sat forward. “How strange? What do you mean, strange? I mean, I thought he was strange, really strange—did you notice that facial tic he had? Sheesh. If that doesn’t spell out nervousness I don—”

  “Michaela. Stifle it for a minute.”

  That put a cork in my bottle of enthusiasm, and I bit my lower lip, sat back, and waited for Her Royal Glibness to resume.

  Bernie grinned. “I just don’t want you to get so worked up. Yes, I thought his behavior decidedly strange and a tad on the down side of nervousness.” She chuckled. “Reminds me of Mr. Manheim… You, of course, haven’t forgotten him…took your side in everything…” Now her grin was malicious. “I was under the impression that he had a serious crush on you—”

  “Ted Manheim? The seventh grade math teacher? You’ve got to be kidding. Teddy was bald and portly and wore checkered shirts with plaid pants. You think he had a crush on me? You are way out of your mind, Mrs. North. Way out. I never once gave you or anyone else the impression that Ted Manheim and I were interested in one another. Not once.”

  “Well, all I can say is that it’s a good thing your Joe came along or you could’ve been married to Ted.”

  “Ohh, Bernie. You ma—”

  “Yooohooo, Christine? Virginia? Are you still up there?” Melba.

  We both sat up, waiting for our plump, floral-robed neighbor to climb the steps to the deck. We remained silent as one faltering step after another made its way up the stairs. After an eon of waiting, she emerged, face flushed from the exertion, curly hair reminiscent of orphan Annie, jewels of perspiration crowning forehead and enhancing upper lip. She beamed when she saw us still in our deck chairs.

  “Oh, hello…so glad you’re still here…thought you said you were leaving…your vacation is almost over…so sad to have to say good-bye…”

  “Your nephew on his way?” Bernie asked.

  Her eyes glistened and her head bobbled up, down, from side to side. “Ohh, yes…Billy is gone…I do miss him…love it when he visits…but next week…next week, Jessica and he will come and we will go out…we will go to that lovely restaurant by the clubhouse…where they have those darling little golf carts…I do love seeing the men driving those darling little golf carts…women drive them, too. They are so cute, don’t you think? Compact yet plenty of leg room…and airy…quite well ventilated. I’ve always thought I would like one…to drive to the grocer’s and back, don’t you know…but Billy says—”

  Bernie cut in, exasperated with Melba’s ramblings. “That’s great. I’m glad to hear your nephew is coming back next week. I’m sure you’ll enjoy your time with them, and next week’s not so far away. Anticipation is half the fun.”

  Melba nodded, did the hula wave, and headed for her unit. Three steps then she stopped and turned to face us again, smile bright as a light bulb. “Do you know what Billy brought me this time? It’s an amazing thing. I have never seen anything so amazing. He bought it and then couldn’t find anywhere to put it…so silly…just like his father…Martin was forever buying things they didn’t have room for…used to make my sister so angry…though Eunice never got really angry…she was so tenderhearted, my Eunice…but Bil—”

  “Melba.” Bernie interrupted. “What is it—this amazing thing your Billy brought over?” Bernie twisted in her chair, transmitting a very suggestive look my way so I made every effort to appear keenly interested, too. Melba glowed with the kind of pride a mother has for a beloved child. It was clear as glass that she doted on dear Billy, and dear Billy could do no wrong, was the apple of her eye, a shining star, a man-among-men, and every other cliché in the book. I held my breath and waited to hear what the amazing it was. The glassy-eyed look on Bernie’s face almost made me erupt into giggles.

  Melba rolled her eyes and sighed. “That precious boy brought one of those computer machines with a darling little mouse and a printer that will print anything you want in color and…” she inhaled, exhaled, and rolled her eyes again. “…And he told me I could use it anytime I wanted. Isn’t that nice?”

  Bernie smiled and nodded. “Yes, Melba, that sounds like a lot of fun. Will you use it?”

  The older lady giggled, tossed her fluffy head from side to side. “Oohh, no…no, I don’t imagine so. It’s far too complicated for me. The dear boy tried to show me how, but I’m afraid I didn’t quite get past how to turn the amazing thing on. I’m just too old, I think.”

  “Oh, Melba,” I spoke up. “It’s really very easy. Bernie or I could walk you through it again, if you’d like. I think you’d have a lot of fun using it.”

  “Ohh, I don’t know…”

  “Are you hooked up to the Internet?”

  “The what, dear?”

  “The Internet.”

  “I have a hair net in my bathroom, dear, but no inter-net…not that I know of…”

  “Uh huh,” I said, not wanting to belabor the issue. I glanced at Bernie whose bemused expression hadn’t altered. “Well, you think about it. If you change your mind, you let us know, and we’ll be more than happy to help you.”

  Melba cocked her tousled head, shrugged, then turned in a rustle and flurry of caftanned glory. “Ohh, no, dear…I don’t like those things and don’t plan to use it. My goodness…whatever would I do?” She was halfway to her unit when she twirled around on the tips of her slippered toes. “But I do thank you. You’re both such dears. Bye-bye.” She opened her door then turned again. “It is an amazing thing, though, don’t you think?”

  “It certainly sounds like it. But if you’re not going to use it, why did he haul it over and go to the trouble of setting it up?” Bernie asked even though I was fairly sure poor Melba hadn’t a clue, and Bernie knew this but was just baiting her.

  The old gal’s pale forehead puckered then cleared. “Oh, I don’t know, dear…he’s such a thoughtful boy…always looking out for his dear, old auntie…thinks I’m lonely…but between you and me, I think my sweet boy just needed the room…his apartment is so tiny, don’t you know, so he brings the things he can’t keep to me…and I put them in my spare room. I don’t mind…I’d do anything to help him, and he and Jessica have so much to
do just minding their little shop, and they both have so many other little interests to keep them busy…Jessica does crafts, you know…she makes such wonderful Christmas ornaments and can knit beautifully. Have you seen her crocheted pillows? She has sold them in the Market in Charleston. Have you ever been to the Market in Charleston, dears? I must take you there sometime…you would love to see all the sweet things for sale…I know…I have been to Charleston ever so many times…”

  “That’s great, Melba…we’ll do that sometime. Well, thanks for telling us about the latest surprise from, uh, Billy. We’ll talk to you later.” We both beamed at her and waited as she smiled, patted her downy head, and finally disappeared into her apartment. Once she was safely behind her closed door, we let out collective whistles.

  “Well…that was interesting.” Bernie said on an exhalation of air.

  “I’ll say. Sheesh. That old gal can sure go on and on and on and—”

  “Michaela.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Planning to eat later at the clubhouse, we fetched snacks, replenished our drinks then retreated to the couch and chair to begin untangling this mess we seemed to have gotten ourselves into.

  “Jeez.” Bernie exhaled as she reached for a handful of peanuts. “My head is swimming with questions and thoughts and random accusations. I mean, okay, even the least perceptive landlubber would realize that darling Melba is being manipulated and maneuvered by her slick ‘nephew’. I mean, really.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Gosh, these peanuts are good.”

  “Yeah, nice and salty.”

  “Remember to get more next time we go to the Pig.”

  “Sure.”

  A minute of silent ruminating and masticating went by before a sudden dizzying thought whacked me on the side of the head.

  “He’s never anywhere but here.” I announced, almost spilling my drink. I shook my head and gasped. “Ohmigosh, Bernadette. That’s it. I’ve got it. It’s him—uh, I mean, he.” I glanced at Bernie, saw her look of utter stupefaction, glared at her, then added rather petulantly, “Stop staring at me as though I’d suddenly announced my intention of joining a convent, for crying out loud.”