For Crying Out Loud

by Cathie Wayland

  “Ice cre—”

  “Bobby goes there everyday, Bernie. Every single day. For ice cream? You want me to believe it’s for sticky-sweet ice cream? No way. We saw him on the phone. On the phone, Bernie. Probably because his phone is like yours and won’t work here.” I writhed and hugged a couch pillow. “Ooohhh. Tomorrow is our last day. And after everything that’s gone on and everything I’ve said, you’re hungry?” My voice rose an octave with each sentence.

  “Now look, Michaela,” Bernie rose to her feet, squared her shoulders, and towered over me. “I believe you. I do. I do believe there are two little girls upstairs. I even agree with you that there is something decidedly fishy in this quaint sea-island town. But. We have plans for dinner at the clubhouse again, and we better get going right this minute before the crowd descends, and we have to sit outside in those hard, uncomfortable, creaking rocking chairs for an hour before getting seated. We can decide what we’re going to do after we eat.”

  “But—” I began but was squelched by a rambling, rumbling Bernie.

  “No. Now you listen to me. There is a Spanish-Mexican-Cuban-Guatemalan gardener, who works himself ragged around here that I have terrorized to the point that he only comes around when we’re not home. I cringe when I think about my verbal attack on the poor man.”

  “Well, he—” I tried to interject but the overbearing Bernie barged on.

  “And,” Bernie rumbled, “Vicki is a totally wacko trainwreck, I admit, but she’s as shallow as a puddle, and Lionel…he’s just a big-bellied, hairy chested, balding idiot.” Bernie put hands on hips and railed on. “And Melba…Melba needs help to turn the lights on when she enters a room. She is about as harmless and insignificant as they come.” Bernie was on a roll. “And just because there are two Amandas, well, what does that really mean? Hmmm?”

  “But…”

  “Oh, I’m sorry I yelled, Mike. But…I’m tired and hungry and this is almost the last day of our wonderful interlude here on this wonderful sea island, and right now I don’t care a hoot whether Vicki and Lionel are ‘Bonnie and Clyde’, or that Melba is certifiable, or that Bobby and Brenda are weird. Please. Let’s just go and have a wonderful meal. Okay?”

  “Okay. I just want to say one thing before we go. How do you explain away the two little Amandas? Two little girls…identical…side by side…and then Brenda and Bobby pretending that there’s just one Amanda. What are they hiding? Why? What’s going on? I mean, it’s a conundrum, Bernadette. A perfect conundrum. And it’s not right. It’s just not right. And you, of all people, know the law where minors are concerned. As teachers, we were told to report anything remotely suspicious when a child’s welfare was at stake. Right? So, I’m asking you. What should we do?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t a clue. I’m as perplexed as you are.” Bernie ran both hands through her hair, making it fluff up even more.

  “Ooooooh, I hate this.”

  “It’s only four-fifty-two. Let’s sit for half an hour and cool down. You read your book, and I’ll leaf through that magazine I picked up at the airport but never read. Once we’re calm and collected, we’ll go have a leisurely dinner. Then we’ll discuss our problem in a calm manner and decide what to do. How’s that sound?” Bernie flopped down in her chair and retrieved her magazine from under the stool.

  For thirty-four minutes, we kept to our own thoughts and activities. Twice the phones rang—the landline once for Bernie and my cell once for me. My Joe had misplaced his wallet, again, but found it wedged behind one of the couch cushions after I walked him through his day’s activities and discovered he’d spent most of the day on the couch watching the Military Channel. Then he spent another five minutes regaling me with a screw by bolt description of how a torpedo works and how amazing the ingenuity of our WWII Navy heroes was and how the kids today only have to push a few buttons on a computer.

  By her one-sided conversation with Jack, it didn’t take me long to catch on that Bernie was enduring an expansive narration from her spouse concerning the tractor tinkering he’d had to do on their son’s farm. She looked only too glad to be disconnected after almost ten minutes of sympathizing and empathizing and murmuring how sorry she was that his back now ached and his finger nails had grease in them that he couldn’t wash out.

  Needless to say, those conversations exhausted us, riled us, and just plain annoyed us…if that makes any sense at all. We sat in companionable silence for the next eleven minutes.

  When neither one of us could stand it one second longer, Bernie threw down her magazine, causing an ugly crease to appear on the lovely countenance of a pouty-faced but otherwise stunning Angelina Jolie, and sighed. “Okay. We’re as cool and calm as we’ll ever be. I’m famished. Isn’t it time we got ready and headed over to the clubhouse for one last, glorious dining experience?”

  I looked up from my book and grinned. “Yes, I believe it is.”

  “Good. Let’s get ready and go, for crying out loud.”

  “I agree. Just give me a minute—”

  “—To put on your bra.”

  I made a face. “Yes, Miss Smart-Ass.”

  “Watch your language, Missy. I’m older and smarter than you.”

  “Older, and smarter, and more opinionated, and resolute, and set in your ways, and impatient and sarcastic and…and…I hope you never, ever change.”

  “Of course I won’t change,” Bernie replied. “I am not one to mess with perfection.”

  “Just once, I would like to have the last word with you. I mean, you can’t even take a compliment.”

  “Can too,” Bernie muttered.

  THIRTY-THREE

  How does one explain the ability to maintain a friendship—even from long distance—for over thirty years? For over an hour, we shared memories over succulent shrimp and decadent pecan pie heaped with whipped cream. We smothered chuckles and snorts over the antics of near-by patrons. Bernie and I enjoyed our dinner, knowing it probably would be our last at this clubhouse restaurant overlooking a splendid green golf course dotted with palm trees near a luscious ocean beach. Time passes whether you want it to or not. You just can’t freeze the moment, no matter how poignant or funny, laughable or bittersweet.

  Our shared laughter lasted all the way home as I—just a bit tipsy—drove at a slow pace, talking non-stop about my beloved Gullah and alligators and all the fun we’d had. My reflections of the time we’d shared seemed to amaze Bernie.

  “You know, sweetie,” my dearest of dear chums said in a low voice, “I marvel at your tenacious desire to hold onto frivolous dreams and idiotic notions of how life should be.”

  I opened my mouth to protest but she went on. “I also admire you for your guileless childlike qualities.”

  Not sure what to say to that, I kept my mouth closed.

  “Yes,” Bernie grinned, “I have to say…this time has been a dream that I will remember for a very long time.”

  I sighed as I pressed my foot on the brake and rolled to a stop in our little parking space. I turned off the engine, pulled out the key, then looked at my friend. “Me, too.” Then I added, “I love Tequila Sunrises.”

  Bernie barked with laughter. “Mike, oh, Mike. Sweetie, you really need a part-time job. You haven’t enough to do; that’s why your imagination is running amuck.” She grinned at me as she hauled herself out of the cramped front seat.

  I was so relaxed that I played along. “Oh, pooh. I told you I have loads to do. My gosh. Taking care of Joe is a full-time job, what with laundry and more laundry, and even more laundry. Then there’s cooking, and cleaning, and keeping up with all his bizarre projects…I mean, jeez. He wears his best shorts to work in the garage and then wonders how he managed to make a hole in them, surrounded by a halo of grease. No, I don’t need a part-time job, Bernie. What I need is a vacation.” I slammed the door with a foot, punched in the remote lock, and careened up the walk to our stairway.

  “Vacation?” Bernie exclaimed right behind me. “You just had one.”


  I paused on the fourth step and wrinkled my nose. “You’re kidding. You call this a vacation? With all the stress and strain and work we’ve had to do in order to figure out what the mystery is? Whew. Bernie, Bernie, Bernie. You’ve got one very funny idea of what a vacation is like. My neck aches, my back hurts, and I’m tired of all this restrictive underwear. I have a sunburn, mosquito bites, and I’ve gained weight with all the great food.”

  Bernie cocked her head and gave me her famous ‘look’. “Oh, please…now who’s patronizing? This could have been and should have been a perfect holiday…and would have been had you refrained from letting your over-active imagination run helter-skelter.”

  “Listen to her talk.” I put hands on hips and sashayed across the deck to the front door. “You’re acting pretty poochie, Mrs. North.”

  Bernie groaned. “Oh, now don’t start with that silly ‘poochie’ business. You are the personification of one of your famous ‘conundrums’ you’re always talking about. You bounce from fifty-cent words that absolutely nobody uses or understands to these off the wall, made up words that only you can decipher. Come back to Planet Earth, Michaela.”

  I managed to unlock the door before Bernie started moaning that she needed time to think about her Christmas shopping list, and we entered, threw down our handbags, and collapsed onto our favorite seats. Bernie wasn’t finished haranguing me yet, however. “Sweetie…I really have enjoyed my time spent here. I meant it when I said it was the dream of a lifetime, and something I will treasure forever. Really. But…”

  “But?”

  “But…you have to admit that this obsession with kidnapped twins and crime rings and larger than life whacko neighbors from Vegas, and dim-witted old ladies, and gardeners who aren’t gardeners are, well…pretty damned far-fetched. Right? Am I right, Mike?”

  I wrinkled my nose, twitched, pulled on my blouse, groaned, then bounced up to waddle down the hallway. One minute flat, I was back looking as though my load had lightened. Bernie grinned, which, of course, made me smile.

  “Oh, Bernadette, wipe that malicious little grin off your smug face. My doctor said that any little stress can cause my body to react as though to an allergen.”

  That resulted in a loud, belching snort and a series of throaty chuckles that just wouldn’t stop. Bernie’s mirth was volcanic. I only glared at her. She raised a shaky hand and winced. “I-I’m s-sorry,” she stammered through another eruption of snorting laughter. “I know that you know that I simply adore you. You’ll never change, and that, in itself, is a miracle that must be preserved. You are a gem. A priceless gem.”

  I was rendered speechless for a nano-second, then, “Oh…yeah? Well…let me tell you a thing or two, Mrs. North. You…you are—”

  In that moment, the lights flickered off, on, and off again. When we were plunged into darkness, Bernie gripped the arms of her chair and let loose a chain of expletives. We both had been startled out of our skins.

  I grabbed a pillow and hugged it to my liberated chest. “Oh, Lord. Now what?”

  As our eyes strained to get accustomed to the darkness, I tossed the pillow aside, got up and started to grope my way to the front window. Of course, I bumped into the coffee table—nearly catapulting over it—and sent a Cap’n Ron Sightseeing Boat brochure and a take-out menu for the Sea Cow restaurant skimming across the laminate floor.

  “Mike. Be careful. You’ll break your neck if you don’t watch where you’re going,” Bernie croaked, struggling to stand as I pushed awkwardly against the ottoman at her feet in a vain attempt to maneuver around the coffee table.

  “I’m…trying…to catch them in the act…” I muttered between clenched teeth.

  “Who?”

  “Them.” I gritted. “Whoever. I sure as hell don’t know. But somebody…did this. Somebody—probably Lionel—cut our wires or pulled out a fuse, or whatever it is they do to do this.”

  Bernie lumbered to her feet and helped me regain some balance, then we both unlocked the door and stepped out onto the deck. I rushed to the far railing and leaned over, desperate for a glimpse of The Culprit.

  “Do you see anything or anybody?” Bernie asked, remaining beside the open front door.

  “No, darn it. There’s nothing out here but the stupid palmettos. Oh, and a couple of tree frogs. And a cat…yes, I see one of those damned feral cats, and…and…”

  “Come on…let’s get back inside where it’s safe.”

  “Safe? Safe from what…or whom?” My voice was swelling with excited anticipation.

  “Safe from the hordes of ravenous mosquitoes swarming around out here.”

  “Ohh…darn it all,” my voice shriveled like a deflating, two-day old birthday balloon.

  Bernie gave me a gentle nudge and I capitulated. “Let’s play a game… How ’bout Yahtzee?” she asked, grinning as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

  I just sighed. “Ohhhhh, all right…darn and double darn. I was hoping to finally catch someone in the act and solve this stupid conun—”

  “Please, don’t say that word again.”

  I sent my pal a look toxic enough to wipe out the dreaded Kudzu infestation in the entire state of Georgia.

  * * * *

  I have to admit it had been fun playing our game with only two candles for illumination. Difficult to do the final addition in such dim light, but fun, nevertheless. We went to bed earlier than normal, slept through the night, and awoke on our last full day at the condo to a dismal, overcast sky. I was disappointed. I’d hoped for one last excursion to the beach. Without much enthusiasm, I got up, padded to the bathroom, washed and donned some clothes. It was a major bummer.

  Bernie came shuffling in only minutes later, gave me a groggy smile, and went about her daily routine of fetching soda, bagel and cream cheese. She flopped down in her chair with the collected booty in her terry-robed lap and reached for the TV remote. “At least we have electricity again. This is the second time I’ve had to change that clock in my bedroom. Gets a little annoying…”

  “This is our last day, Bernie,” I moaned. “What’s even more annoying is we can’t go to the beach.”

  “Somehow I’ll get over the disappointment.”

  “We have to make our last day here special. What should we do? Another trip into Charleston…or Beaufort, maybe?”

  “God forbid…”

  “Ohh, Bernie…” I couldn’t think of anything else to say at the moment so put my concentration into spreading peanut butter on a piece of toast. After we ate our breakfast, we both headed for our prospective bathrooms to dress. I threw a few more ideas at her, and she fielded them like a pro, tossing out every one.

  Bernie was sitting on the deck when I finished my morning rituals so I joined her. She had her long legs propped up on the railing and a look of content on her face that belied our last-day woes. One eyebrow shot up as I lowered myself into one of the plastic chairs. “Nice and cool out here for a change,” she muttered.

  “Yeah…I’ll miss this…”

  “So will I…I’ve thoroughly enjoyed it here…”

  “Before we know it, it will be autumn…then Halloween…and Thanksgiving…Christmas…”

  “Slow down…I’m not in a hurry to have another birthday…”

  From across the rolling golf course, a small golf cart lurched into view. With two portly golfers, horizontal stripes and all, and two lurid-colored bags of clubs bouncing and clattering on the back, they made quite a spectacle on the normally peaceful and dignified landscape. After all the placid golfers who had come and gone just outside our place during the past two weeks, this duo caught our attention. In loud voices, they made bets on the odds of sinking their putts.

  The two golfers surveyed the green, looked all around at the condos encircling the course, squinted at the sky, and then stopped dead in their tracks to stare at us. Taken aback, we glanced at each other, then back at the golfers, and then we, too, began looking all around. We couldn’t imagine wh
at had captured their rapt attention. Their blatant staring became more than annoying.

  Both golfers stood straddle-legged, hands on bulging hips, and stared at our deck, transfixed by what? Our appearance? Eventually, one of the golfers belted out “What the hell is that?”

  “Do you think it’s obvious from that distance that I’m not wearing a bra?” I whispered.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Bernie muttered. “I doubt they are staring at you or your girls, of all things.”

  Somewhat incensed, and deciding that maybe my thin T-shirt wasn’t covering as well as I thought, I rose from my groaning plastic chair. Summoning as much dignity as possible, with arms folded across my chest, I marched inside the apartment, banging my elbow on the door handle as it swung shut behind me.

  Refusing to wrestle with my bra, I opted instead for a thicker T-shirt and made a hasty change. When I returned to the deck, Bernie was sitting up straight in her chair, staring out on the green.

  I stood beside Bernie’s chair and followed her gaze. The two morons continued to gape back at us. Bernie muttered, “Okay, enough is enough.” She struggled to her feet. “So, what are they staring at?”

  We looked each other up and down but didn’t see anything wrong or ridiculous, except maybe Bernie’s plaid capris. I craned my neck from side to side, but saw nothing out of kilter that would cause such rapt concentration from the motley duo on the green. Then, from my peripheral vision, I detected just the slightest movement. Startled, I poked Bernie and pointed. To our utter astonishment, two men in camouflage outfits perched in the enormous trees just beyond the deck, looking like an absurd scene in a grade-B war movie.