Mom’s no yokel. She deep-sixed the ‘make her feel guilty’ strategy and zeroed in on my Achilles’ heel. “I’ll pay you,” she said. “Fifty bucks.”
That certainly grabbed my attention. I wasn’t in any position to turn down the chance to earn money, no matter how distasteful the job. “Deal,” I said, silently cursing the fact that I wasn’t independently wealthy.
“Fabulous!” Mom said. “Your sister will be so grateful. I’ll tell her to bring them over to your place around nine.”
Delbert, my big black and white tomcat, (named for the awesome Delbert McClinton) shot me the evil eye. There was no mistaking his opinion of that particular plan. “Okay,” I whispered to him, “I’ll take care of it.”
“Mom,” I said, “that is simply out of the question. Last time they were here Jaelyn frisbeed six brand new Blue Ray discs off the balcony, and the boys attempted to give Delbert a bubble bath with that twelve dollar bottle of shampoo you bought me for my birthday.”
I could almost hear Mom shudder over the phone. Alas, I knew the shudder was directed at Delbert, not at my sister’s kid’s hi-jinks. Mom is absolutely terrified of cats. It’s nothing personal, just that when she was a kid, her pet kitten went mad and attacked her.
“Then you can keep them at their house,” she said, “That’s preferable anyway. Don’t forget, now, nine o’clock Friday morning. Don’t oversleep.”
Like that was going to happen. Knowing Mom she’d call at seven-thirty Friday morning to make sure I was awake and that I remembered my promise. Wrong: she called at seven fifteen.
“Morning, darling,” Mom said when I finally pulled the pillow off my head and answered the phone. “Rise and shine, dear. It’s a gloriously beautiful day. I’d love to join you and the children this morning, but, alas, I have an important interview with Mayor Mongan. I’m so envious because I know that you’ll have an absolutely wonderful time with the little angels.”
Angels? Charli’s kids? If I hadn’t still been half-asleep I would have laughed myself into a stupor. Instead, I mumbled to her that I was awake, clunked down the receiver, and promptly dozed back off until eight-thirty. That time it was Charli who called to roust me out of my cozy little nest. I stumbled to the shower, scalded myself clean, tossed on cutoffs and a vintage Dixie Chicks tee, then, still groggy and completely oblivious to what was in store for me, I practically flung myself to the wolves of the universe.
John and Charli live in Glenvar’s most hoity-toity, snob-infested neighborhood, which, for God only knows what reason, is called “The Oaks of Stableford Manor”. Believe me, it sounds better than it is. Basically, it’s just your typical subdivision, more than slightly upscale, but we’re not talking mansions or anything. That doesn’t stop some of the people who live in ‘The Oaks’ from considering themselves to be above everybody else in town.
(Town: Glenvar, Virginia, population twenty thousand, give or take a few hundred. Plenty of fresh air, good schools, lots of parks, gorgeous mountain scenery, too many people who know your business… Think of a citified Hooterville, but without the pig. Pigs are against the law in Glenvar. Llamas and chickens, however, are allowed.)
Oaks Neighborhood Alliance Group (ONAG, for short) is the name of the homeowner’s association and the people who run it are so militant in their beliefs that we call them the ‘Lawn Nazis’. They like to say that they have to set the standard for the rest of us, so they’re always trying to persuade the city council to pass a bunch of stupid laws. Just last month they lobbied for a statute outlawing the parking of pickup trucks more than ten years old inside the city limits, and another one banning yard ornaments, in particular those plastic pink flamingos.
The way I figure it, they have every right to decide how they want to run their neighborhood, but to tell me that I can’t have a pink flamingo or two standing in my yard (not that I have a yard) is going about six peas past a pod. Thank goodness cooler heads prevailed, and both ordinances were voted down by City Council, three to two.
I parked my not-as-bad-as-it-looks, used-to-be-candy-apple-red, sixty-nine Mustang on the street in front of Charli’s house and trudged up the sidewalk. Charli greeted me at the front door with a cup of gourmet French vanilla coffee and a cheese danish, my favorite. It was bribe food, but who am I to complain?
“Come on in,” she said, “the kids are in the family room watching an educational video.”
As usual, Charli was immaculate. Ash blonde hair perfectly coifed, her make-up perfectly understated and elegant, playing up her best features. Grey and black linen dress perfectly pressed and looking like it had been specially tailored just for her. She looked like, well, like a perfect almost thirty-year old clone of our always-elegant mom. And people wonder why I have an inferiority complex.
I took a gulp of the coffee and scalded the bejeebers out of my tongue. Tears welled up in my eyes and my nose immediately turned into a faucet. I thought of begging off the babysitting duty, wondering if I could file for workman’s comp, but bravely carried on, in spite of the agonizing pain.
“Where are you off to?” I asked Charli.
She gathered up her purse and keys and kissed the kids goodbye. “Here and there. I’m just going to get a haircut and have my nails done, maybe browse in the bookstore. I’m supposed to meet Dicey Ward at Albertino’s for lunch at twelve-thirty. She just returned from a ten-day cruise and I imagine she wants to brag about it. If I’m not home by two, you’ll know I crawled under the table and died of boredom.”
I chuckled, despite of my still stinging tongue. “I doubt you’ll die of boredom over Dicey’s trip tales. Embarrassment, perhaps, but definitely not boredom.”
Dicey Ward was Charli’s two-doors-down neighbor and a Glenvar legend. A few years back she was one of those mousy, lost-looking southern belles whose only goals in life were a spotless house, a winning bridge hand, and cooking up the perfect mushroom soup-based casserole. But when her husband died of a massive and unexpected heart attack, Dicey shocked the heck out of everybody.
She went back to school and graduated first in her law school class. Next, she started what was to become a thriving legal practice specializing in criminal defense, and became a major force in the local legal community. As if all that wasn’t enough, she bleached her hair platinum blonde, spent a chunk of her inheritance on a face-lift, (and judging from her body, invested in a few other assorted operations as well) took to wearing designed-for-shock-value clothes, and found an unending series of pretty young men to escort her around town and provide other, um, services.
Charli rolled her eyes and grinned. “You’re probably right about that. I know way more about Dicey’s sex life than anyone ought to.”
“Well, tell her I said ‘hey’. And don’t worry about a thing. We’ll be just fine.” Actually, I wasn’t totally convinced about that, but no one ever said I wasn’t a cock-eyed optimist.
Charli left but a few seconds later she was back inside. “I almost forgot. Come out front with me. I need to show you something before I leave.”
We stepped outside to her beautifully manicured front yard. Charli pulled me over to the flowerbed that straddled her property and that of her neighbor, Frank Billingham.
“See that light white line in the mulch?” she said. “Whatever you do, don’t let anyone cross it.”
There was a faint smudge of white spray paint squiggled across the oak bark mulch. I edged my sneaker forward and scuffed at the line.
“Don’t do that!” Charli grabbed my arm and jerked me away from the flowers.
“Geez, Charli, don’t freak out over it. All I did was touch it. You act like it’s poisonous or something. What’s it there for anyway?”
Charli closed her eyes and massaged her temples. “It’s supposed to mark the property line. Frank drew it yesterday and told me that if anyone goes across it he’s going to call the police and have me arrested for trespassing.”
“You’ve gotta be kidding.”
“I wish,”
Charli said. “The man’s gone completely off his rocker over this.”
“Why? What did you do to him?”
“Nothing! Well, it was something, but I just don’t see why he had to turn it into such a big deal. The boys were playing basketball and their ball accidentally mashed one of Frank’s precious begonias. They’re some sort of fancy-schmantzy variety and I guess he paid big bucks for them. Anyway, I told him I’d replace it, give him the money, whatever he wanted, but he wouldn’t listen to a word I said. He just stood there in his yard screeching horrible things at me. Jaelyn was petrified, so I yanked her up, stuck her in the car and, without saying another word to him, drove off. He was still standing there screaming when I turned the corner.
“About an hour after we got back from the grocery store, a messenger delivered a letter from Frank’s lawyer saying that if anyone stepped across the line in the mulch they’d be guilty of trespassing, and that Frank would call the police and swear out a warrant. So, whatever you do, don’t you or the kids go near it.”
“That’s outrageous!” I said. “You ought to get a restraining order of your own or something. Teach him a lesson. If you get him mad enough, maybe he’ll move.”
“No, Marty. Like it or not, Frank and I both live here. I’m not going anywhere and neither is he. The best thing to do is to just lay low until he calms down, then I’ll try to talk to him.” Charli glanced at her watch. “I better scoot or I’ll be late for my hair appointment.”
She slipped into her car and turned over the engine. As she backed out of the driveway she rolled down her window and pointed at Frank’s line. “Remember, don’t let anyone go near it.”
“I won’t,” I said. “Don’t you worry about a thing.”
What’s that saying about famous last words?
3
It didn’t take long for the kids to get to me. It’s not that they were bad or anything, it’s just that they’ve got so much energy. Being the fun-loving, extremely nice person that I am, I tolerated it long enough to be on the brink of sainthood, but with Charli’s kids even Mother Teresa’s Canonization would be in jeopardy. Since it was only ten I knew something had to give, and fast.
I corralled Kevin and Adam as they scooted past me, brandishing wooden spoons at each other. I don’t know why Charli bans plastic swords and guns; her boys still manage to play endless games of cops and robbers.
“Hey, guys,” I said, “let’s go outside.”
Kevin, the oldest, who is the spitting image of his dad, and is already a total babe-magnet, smiled up at me. “I wanna go for a walk,” he said.
A walk. I rolled it over in my mind, scanning for the pitfalls. It had definite possibilities. We’d be outside, no weapons - imaginary or real - were involved, and the kids would be getting exercise instead of parked in front of the tube, one of Charli’s pet causes. Sounded like a winner to me. After that, I’d feed them lunch, put Jaelyn down for her nap, and let the boys play outside.
Heck, this baby-sitting stuff was getting easier all the time. I entertained a brief fantasy of starting up a child-care center and raking in buckets of money. Then Adam took away Jaelyn’s stuffed rat, she screamed in that especially irritating way only a tiny girl can manage, and I snapped out of it.
“Okay,” I said, steering them toward the door. “Let’s take a walk.” But not before I said a couple of industrial strength prayers for good measure.
It was a beautiful late June day, one of those low-humidity, pleasant-temperature wonders that make people forget what summer in the south is really like. The ‘Oaks’ was alive with the sounds of kids playing, minor carpentry, and lawn mowing.
The neighborhood swimming pool was packed. We loitered outside the fence and watched enviously as teenager after teenager tried to out-do each other off the high dive. I almost wished that I had the guts to take the kids inside for a quick dip, but Charli didn’t quite trust me to watch them closely enough, and I can’t say that I blamed her. After a few more minutes of pool envy, we moved along, spending about forty minutes wandering up and down the cul-de-sacs, collecting rocks, feathers, and, in Jaelyn’s case, cigarette butts.
As we rounded the corner, headed back to Charli’s house and the backyard swing set, I saw what was making the incredibly annoying noise we’d heard for the last minute: a tow-truck hauling my beloved Mustang down the road, the front end dipping so low that the license plate scraped the ground, sending sparks flying everywhere.
I screamed and dashed off in hot pursuit, the three kids trotting along behind me as fast as their little legs could go. It was no use. The tow-truck made a left and my car disappeared from view.
I bent over and hung my head between my knees gasping for air, thinking that I really needed to get myself in shape, and trying to remember what color the tow-truck had been so I could track down my car. When I finally sucked in enough air so I could speak, I screamed and, maybe, I might even have cussed a little. Then I remembered the kids. Bad language is not only a big no-no in the family babysitting list of rules and regulations, but it also goes against Mom’s standards of proper behavior for a well brought up southern woman. The kidlets were sitting on the curb, staring wide-eyed at me.
“Are you all right, Aunt Marty?” Kevin asked.
“No, honey,” I shrieked. I stopped myself and attempted to gain a little control so I wasn’t breaking the city law against excessive noise pollution. No use in getting myself arrested or in scaring the poor kids to death. “No, I’m not all right. Someone took my car. Why would they do that? Why?”
Kevin’s skinny shoulders bobbled up and down. “Maybe they’re going to give you a new one.”
I plopped down on the curb next to him and patted him on top of the head. His snow-white hair was cut so short it felt like velvet. “I sort of don’t think so, but it’s a good thought.”
“GET OUT OF MY YARD!” The man barked it so loud that I nearly wet my pants. Jaelyn screamed and clung to me, a look of sheer terror on her sweet little face. Adam and Kevin jumped up and darted into the street. I panicked, thinking they were going to get hit by a car, and chased after them. Thank God nothing was coming. The four of us turned and gaped at the man who raged at us.
He was like a rabid bulldog circling in for the attack. His face was screwed up into a fierce, terrifyingly evil expression. A vein in his temple throbbed, standing out in stark contrast to the smooth baldness of his head. It was Frank Billingham, Charli’s next-door neighbor, the mulch-line drawer, and the current president of ONAG.
I felt like popping him one. “What the heck do you think you’re doing, scaring these poor children like that? Are you nuts? All we were doing was sitting on the curb.”
Frank was so enraged that he almost glowed. I pulled the kids to me and tried to shield them with my body. Jaelyn trembled with fear and the boys cowered tightly against me. About that time, a black BMW glided around the corner and into the driveway of the house we were in front of.
“I don’t care what you were doing,” Frank screeched, “you have no right to be on my property. You were defacing it and decreasing its value.”
My jaw almost hit the ground. He was obviously deranged. “Mr. Billingham, with all due respect, sir, I don’t see how our sitting on the curb for five minutes is going to affect your property value.”
He lunged toward us, his eyes wild and his fists clenched into tight balls. “It will, believe me, it will. You have to be vigilant. If you give an inch, people’ll take a mile and before you know it, my whole yard will be destroyed. And the neighborhood will be covered with eyesores and blights. Like that monstrosity of a car I had towed away.”
I should have known. Frank has always had a vendetta against vintage automobiles. He was the one who stirred up that big pickup truck controversy, mainly because John and Charli own an old truck that appears to have seen better days. Even though John keeps it in the garage most of the time, it drives Frank nuts. Just the other week he’d been on Charli’s case, telling her that t
he truck was an eyesore and that it devalued his property.
"My car is not a monstrosity!” I said, backing the children up a few steps. “It's a classic. Well, it will be a classic as soon as I get enough money to have it repainted. But that’s beside the point, Frank! You had no right to have it towed. There’s no law saying I can’t park on these streets. They’re public property.”
“Wrong! You’re dead wrong about that, Missy. It’s against the neighborhood charter. I’ve told your sister that time and time again. This is a private neighborhood with private streets, and that thing you call a car is not allowed. Not allowed!”
He lunged again, this time coming even closer to us, causing my heart to pound like a timpani. I ran through my options, searching for an escape plan. He had maybe three inches and fifty pounds on me, but I was at least thirty years younger. Of course, he wasn’t trying to protect three small children, either.
“Okay,” I said, continuing to scuttle the little guys backwards until we were on the opposite curb. “You win. I’m sorry we touched your property. I’ll be more careful in the future. I’ll make sure I park my car in Charli’s driveway, not on the street. Will that satisfy you?”
I don’t think Frank heard me. Either that, or he didn’t like my attempt at detente. He shook his fist at me and called me a few choice names. I bit my tongue so hard that it almost bled, but no way was I going to get into a down and dirty verbal brawl with him, especially in front of the kids. Mom and Charli would have killed me.
The driver of the black BMW climbed out of his car and hustled toward us. I glanced over at him, then did a double take. He was the best looking man I’d seen in at least a year.
“Is there a problem here?” he asked.
“You just mind your own business, Zagle,” Frank said. “This ain’t got nothing to do with you.”
“Frank, I don’t know what’s going on here,” the man said, his voice calm and reassuring, “but it looks to me like the children are frightened. If there’s a problem between you and Ms. Sheffield, perhaps you should deal with it when the little ones aren’t around.”
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