by Kitty Margo
“He shoved the pitchfork away and said that if I told anybody what had happened that day, he would burn my parent’s house to the ground with them in it.”
Oh, no. When Teddy Knox threatens you, you take it to heart. “He would do it too.”
“I know he would. So, I locked the doors and pulled all the curtains and didn’t leave the house until my parent’s returned three days later.”
“You poor thing,” Maggie cried.
“Do you think Teddy Knox killed me to keep me from telling anyone that he tried to rape me?”
“After what you just told me, he would be a prime suspect as far as I’m concerned.”
Chapter Twenty Six
Irene
After dinner in the dining room and a late night comedy show for adults only in one of the lounges, we returned to our cabin to find Barbara Jean and Herman going at it. And I do mean going at it. We are talking asses in the air and believe me seeing two geriatrics naked as a jaybird is a sight that will be burned into my psyche for all eternity.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I turned my back to them and shouted, “Why are you in here rutting like wild boars instead of doing the nasty in Herman’s room?”
“Because he’s sharing a cabin with his grandchildren and seeing us do the rumpy bumpy would probably scar each and every one of them for life.” Barbara Jean actually had the nerve to sound annoyed by my interruption.
Rumpy Bumpy?
“Now, if you don’t mind, could we please have a little privacy?” she wheezed, gasping for breath.
When I didn’t immediately respond, she added, “You saw for yourself today how fickle life can be, so I intend to grab life by the balls from now on.”
Had Herman changed his name to balls?
“I don’t doubt for a minute that they won’t be scarred. Hell, I am,” I snapped, grabbing two blankets from the closet to go up on deck and sleep in a lounge chair under the stars in 90 degree weather.
Maggie was thrilled because she could smoke all night, but I was hot as hell, uncomfortable, and aggravated beyond reason that there was so much bumping and grinding going on in our room that we couldn’t even get in to pack and put our luggage outside the door to be picked up and taken off the ship. Therefore, we would each be lugging a large suitcase, plus a carry on, off the ship ourselves the following morning. Needless to say, we were pissed.
~*~
Exhausted from spending the last two nights in lounge chairs, without air conditioning, we were less than thrilled to be confronted by cameras the second we debarked. However, we weren’t the only ones. Practically every passenger was being besieged by newsmen and women from all over the world.
A reporter shoved a microphone in Maggie’s face and asked, “What is your name and where are you from?”
“Maggie Moore from Pine View, North Carolina.”
“What compensation do you feel you deserve for the nightmare you experienced onboard that ship, Maggie?”
“Free cruises for life and at least a $500.00 onboard credit per cruise,” she replied without hesitation.
“What is your name and where do you call home?” the reporter turned to me, almost sticking her microphone in my mouth. If you ask me she was acting a little too big for her britches.
“Irene Spenser and I’m also from Pine View.”
“What recompense do you feel you deserve for being booked on the cruise to hell, Irene?”
“I kinda like Maggie’s idea.” I tried to push past her, but there were cameras and news crews blocking every direction.
After a brief pause, the intrepid reporter continued, “This is McKayla Turner reporting live from Miami, Florida.” Then she turned to me with fake sympathy written all over her face. “What happened out there, Irene?”
Was she kidding? “Surely you must have heard by now that a microburst caused the disturbance on the ship?”
She smiled sweetly and winked off camera. “Yes, I did hear that, but I was hoping you might give our viewing audience your opinion.”
“I don’t have an opinion. If the experts and engineers say it was caused by a microburst, who the hell am I to doubt them.” I would agree to anything as long the word ghost wasn’t mentioned.
“Was anybody hurt?”
I was steadily looking for an opening in the crowd. “I personally only saw one man with a broken arm and a few other minor injuries.”
“How bad were the other injuries?”
Didn’t I just say they were minor? The others were immediately airlifted to a medical center. “Minor,” I repeated. “Meaning a few scrapes and bruises.”
“Did it scare you?”
Shitless. “A little.”
“Were you on the ship or on the island during the event?”
“I was in the cabin with Natalie.” I pointed to Maggie. “Maggie was on the island.”
“Natalie who?” Damn! Did I say Natalie? “Where is Natalie from?”
One look at Maggie’s creased brow assured me that I had. The reporter pulled out a list of passengers and was scanning it furiously. Surely there had to be at least one Natalie onboard. Nope. I could tell by her expression that there was not a single one on her list.
“Natalie who,” Mckayla repeated. “I don’t see a Natalie listed.
“That was her… um… nickname,” I stammered. “She’s someone we met in the dining room. I forgot her real name.”
“I see.” She didn’t look at all happy with my response. It was almost like she was sniffing the air, smelling a story. “I can pull the records from the dining room and find out who sat at your table. That won’t be a problem.”
Shit!
Maggie shouldered me aside and stood in front of the reporter. “Irene Spenser, you can’t recall what you had for breakfast this morning let alone something that happened four days ago. We didn’t meet Natalie in the dining room, honey. We met her in the smoking section. Don’t you remember?”
“Oh, yes,” I agreed readily to the lie. Maggie has always been quick on her feet. “Of course. Now I remember.
“Give me just a minute here.” Maggie put a finger to her chin and pretended to ponder. “I know she told us her real name, but I can’t for the life of me remember what it was, can you, Irene?”
“No. I wish I could.”
The reporter exhaled heavily, as though she had wasted valuable camera footage on two absent minded old biddies, before cutting her losses and switching gears. “Were you afraid to leave the island and board the ship again, Irene?”
“Not at all,” I assured her. “The ship had been checked out thoroughly, so I wasn’t afraid. Plus, that island was hotter than the fiery pits of hell.”
Then she turned to Maggie, “You were on the island when the ship started rocking. Is that correct?’
“No, actually I was in the air parasailing. I saw the whole thing from above and, believe me, that ship rocking from side to side was an amazing sight to see. I’m just thankful the microburst didn’t come down on top of me. Why, it might have blown me straight in to Cuba and I have never cared for Castro and his politics.”
The reporter just stood there speechless, while Maggie proceeded to give several lengthy reasons for her strong dislike of the former president.
Chapter Twenty Seven
Maggie
The bus trip home was more subdued. We were all exhausted from eight days on the high seas and most of the passengers were napping, except Natalie, of course. It’s a pity ghosts don’t sleep. Lord knows I had to help her cross over before she drove me slap crazy.
“Are you asleep, Maggie?” Natalie was about two seats up peering closely at a long black hair protruding from a mole on a middle aged, very well made up and distinguished lady’s face.
“Yes,” I lied.
“Would you just look at this poor woman?” She shook her head sadly. “She’s not unattractive. Every hair is in place, her eyebrows are perfectly drawn on, yet all you notice when you look at her is this inch long hair
sticking out of her chin.” Her hand kept disappearing into the woman’s face. “Damn! I wish I could grab hold of it and pull it out.”
I shrugged my shoulders. Sure, it was unsightly, but I wasn’t going to lose any sleep over it.
“You should tell her,” Natalie urged.
“Surely you jest.”
“No, not at all.” She was as serious as a heart attack. “Wouldn’t you want someone to tell you?”
“They wouldn’t have to.” I settled back and closed my eyes. “I tweeze mine every few days. I refuse to traipse around with chin hair the way some women gallivant from pillar to post with a full mustache.”
“I thought you said you were asleep.”
“I am.”
“You shouldn’t lie to ghosts when you know they have the wherewithal to make all types of unpleasant things happen to you,” she warned.
“You have already destroyed a woman’s parlor, the bathroom on the bus, caused several people to suffer broken bones, and almost capsized a ship. What more destruction did you have in mind?”
She had no answer. She only glared at me.
When next I opened my eyes, she was hovering right in front of me. “Stop doing that before you give me a freaking heart attack.”
“I’m just curious about something.”
“What, pray tell?” Obviously there would be no nap for me. “It’s not like I have anything better to do than satisfy your morbid curiosity.”
She put a finger to her lip and leaned over to look at the part in my hair. “How is it that you are almost 60 years old and don’t have a grey hair on your head?”
“To begin with, I am only 54. That is 6 years away from 60, meaning I am closer to 50 than 60 thank you very much.”
“Touchy, touchy,” she giggled.
“And to answer your question I am just lucky, I guess.”
“Huh!” she giggled. “Lucky that Lady Clairol makes a root touch up kit.”
“I have you know that I have never once put any type of color on my hair,” I informed her rather indignantly.
She was like a dog with a bone. She couldn’t let it rest. “Then how is your hair jet black at your age?
“My age?” I was about to grow weary of people referring to my age. “I heard on some talk show just last week that 60 is the new 40.”
I could tell by the twinkle in her eyes that she didn’t buy that new age crap any more than I did. 60 is 60. Cutting her eyes toward a sleeping Irene, who had a smidgeon of white roots glowing against her auburn hair, she whispered, “The poor thing would have solid white hair if she didn’t color it, wouldn’t she.”
“I heard that, you twit.” Irene sat straight up and gave the spot where she thought Natalie might be hovering the skank eye. “I am not ashamed to admit that I have my roots done every six weeks like clock work. I wasn’t lucky enough to be born with Cherokee blood like Maggie.”
This was news Natalie could sink her teeth into. “You are part Cherokee, Maggie? Why didn’t you tell me? I have always been fascinated by Indian culture.”
“Fortunately, mind reading is not one of my gifts.”
Ignoring my sarcasm, she almost bounced up and down with excitement. “My dad and I have visited Town Creek Indian Mound several times to learn about the Pee Dee Indians and their culture. Have you ever been there?”
“No.” Irene said. “What is it?”
“It’s a prehistoric Native American archaeological site near Mount Gilead, North Carolina,” Natalie informed her. “You should go.” Then she turned to me, “Have you been, Maggie?”
“Yes, I’ve been several times and enjoyed it each time. The guides there are very informative. But, before you erroneously believe that you are in the presence of a full blooded Indian, I must confess that I am only about one eighth Cherokee.” It was easy to see that I was proud of every drop too. “My mother lived to be 77 and only had a few grey hairs when she died. So, I guess you could say we come from a good gene pool.”
“The Cherokee must have good skin too, because you don’t have a wrinkle on your face. You don’t even have those fine lines radiating out from your lips like most smokers do.”
“Why, thank you, Natalie.” I closed my eyes with a smile on my face. She might not be so bad to have around after all.
~*~
It didn’t take long to discover that Lisa was not cut out to be a tour director. Her nerves were frazzled and there were no games, no bags of candy being passed around, and she didn’t even offer to put in a movie on the ride home. I would hazard a guess that this would be her first and last tour bus experience.
If that wasn’t bad enough, Barbara Jean was crying nonstop and back to being as bitchy as ever because she missed her Herman, who was on an airplane headed back to his hometown of Nashville.
We had stopped at Cracker Barrel for supper. Let me tell you something. Folks on tour buses surely do love them some Cracker Barrel. We were sitting out front in rocking chairs waiting for the others to pay when Barbara Jean marched up and stood in front of Irene with her hands planted on her hips. You can believe our jaws dropped clear to the floor when she looked at Irene and said, “You’re hired. Now that I think about it, I do need some extra help.”
Irene jumped up right there on the porch at Cracker Barrel, twerked a few times, and shouted, “Praise the Lord, I never have to go back to Miss Nellie’s again!”
If you have never seen a middle aged woman twerking, trust me, you don’t want to. The bus driver, who had pulled up to the curb, slanted his rear view mirror to the side so he wouldn’t have to witness her rear view.
“Irene, sit your ass down and quit making a spectacle of yourself,” I hissed. But she wasn’t about to calm down.
“Maggie do you realize what this means?” She giggled. “No more wiping somebody else’s butt.”
She had a good point. I allowed her to continue her revelry without any more interruption from me.
~*~
With our bellies full, we pulled back into the Sleepy Inn to spend the night. I wondered if Psychic Lucinda could tell us anything else about what happened to Natalie. It only took 15 minutes to convince Irene to go this time.
We took our seats in the waiting room awaiting our turn. I found a chair by the window and Irene sat on the sofa with a lady about our age. Of course Irene, trying to be neighborly, turned to speak. Well, Lord help us all, if the woman didn’t start shrieking and throwing her head back on the couch in a crying frenzy. Honey, I kid you not, what followed was a full blown wailing and gnashing of teeth. Irene probably crapped her pants she was so scared. Poor thing.
Now Irene has never been one to tolerate drama well. That’s probably why she’s been single as long as she has. I immediately motioned for her to trade seats with me, since I handle emotional issues much better than she does.
We switched seats and I put my arm around the lady’s shoulders. “What’s wrong, honey?”
“You wouldn’t understand,” she cried so pitifully she had us all tearing up.
“I might.” I pulled a tissue from a box on the end table and wiped her cheeks. “Nothing can be as bad as all this.”
“You wanna bet?” she spat.
No she wasn’t trying to get loud and me only trying to help. Being the good Christian that I am, I decided to give her one more chance. “Tell me, sweetie. I might be able to help.”
“My husband left me for another man,” she shrieked. “So, there! Are you happy Nosy Nellie.”
Ouch. That had to sting in the most sensitive places. She had every right to be touchy.
“He said that he had wanted to be a woman all his life and the Caitlyn Jenner TV special made him realize that he was not getting any younger. So he tweezed his eyebrows, shaved his legs and underarms, grew his hair long, and went out and charged a new wardrobe of women’s clothes on our American Express, mostly bras and thongs. Now my husband frequents gay bars.”
I wanted to ask if his taste in women’s apparel was as on p
oint as Caitlyn’s, but I thought better of it. “You want him to be happy and lead a fulfilling life, don’t you?”
“Hell no! I want him home with me where he belongs.” She shook her head in disbelief. “Here’s what I don’t understand. We had a great sex life. I mean great. He never left me hanging, and I could tell that our lovemaking was very satisfying for him as well. So, why does he want to be a woman and cut off a part of him that brings us both so much pleasure? I just don’t understand this at all.”
I wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, however I had watched the Caitlyn Jenner special as well. “I believe being transgender runs deeper than just physical pleasure. I think it’s more about feeling like you are trapped in the wrong body and the day to day struggle of hiding who you really are from the world.”
“Even if that were the case, I could never do what he has done to our kids. They will be devastated and probably ban him from their lives forever.” She buried her face in her hands as sobs shook her slender body. “Our grandchildren love him so much. Now they will be so confused over grandpa suddenly becoming their grandma. It will no doubt scar them for life and I just don’t know how he could knowingly hurt them so badly.”
She didn’t want to hear the truth, she was still in too much pain. It would be months, or possibly years, before she was able to carry on a rational conversation about her husband’s life choices.
Thankfully, Lucinda chose that moment to open the door and lead the distraught woman into her office.
I exhaled the breath I had been holding and dug through my in dire need of a good cleaning out purse for my phone. A few minutes later, I was online scrolling through The Pilot looking at obituaries as I like to do at least twice a day.
Irene glanced over the top of her phone and asked in that annoying way she has. “Obituaries?”
“Yes.”
“Heaven help us if you missed an opportunity to walk through the funeral home doors when they were open.” She grinned trying to be humorous, yet failing miserably.