by Anne George
Sister said she liked that name, but she and Bessie were a minority of two. The majority finally voted on The Birmingham Ladies’ Investment Club, the recommendation of Mary Beatty, the happily married mother of many.
“Stinks,” Bessie McCoy said, scratching her head through her crocheted hat.
While we were having this discussion, a man in a dark suit had come into the room and had sat down in a chair near the door. In his sixties, he had a George Hamilton tan that made the white fringe of hair around his bald head look like a halo. He was either courting melanoma on a regular basis or stopping by Rich’s cosmetic counter for self-tanning lotions every other day. My bet was on the latter.
Name decided on, though some of the women grumbled that it lacked originality, Joy introduced Alcorn Jones whose smile was as white as his hair. I made myself a mental note to try tanning lotion again. I had tried it years ago and ended up a streaked orange. And itching.
Sister, I noticed, who was wearing her H.M.S. Pinafore outfit today, had snapped to attention at Alcorn Jones’s appearance. I wondered how far across the Atlantic Cedric was by now. The point of no return? Fare thee well, Cedric.
“Good morning, ladies.” Alcorn Jones’s voice was deep and warm. “And thank you, Joy, for inviting me to the organizational meeting of the Birmingham Ladies’ Investment Club. You are embarking on a financial voyage that will be both educational and lucrative.”
The word lucrative got our attention, as did his next words, “Now, I’m going to help you get organized.” He paused. “You’re going to need to take notes.”
There was a scrambling in purses for pens and something to write on. This man meant business.
“First of all,” he said, “organize yourselves as a partnership. It’s easier, and that way each person is responsible for keeping up with her own taxable income.”
I wrote “Partnership, each own tax” in my little spiral notebook.
“You’re going to need at least four officers, a senior partner, a junior partner, a recording partner, and a financial partner, the person who will actually buy and sell the stocks.”
I scribbled this down, as did every other woman in the room. I glanced over at Sister. Every other woman but Mary Alice was taking notes. She was sitting there calmly taking the silver foil off of a Hershey’s Kiss.
“Connie,” I whispered, “switch places with me.”
Still writing, Connie moved into my chair so I could sit next to Sister.
“How come you’re not writing this down?” I asked.
“Because you are. Both of us don’t need to.”
I could feel my blood pressure rushing up like the red line in a thermometer. Some day, maybe some day soon, this woman was going to cause me to have a stroke.
“Each member should be responsible for following at least one stock,” Alcorn Jones said.
I wrote down “Each—one stock.” “Start writing,” I hissed at Sister. “Right this minute.”
Miss Chocolate Breath leaned over and whispered in my ear, “All he’s doing is repeating word for word what’s in the Beardstown Ladies’ book on investment clubs. Shirley Gibbs gave me a copy of it to study.”
I gave her a hard look. “You don’t study.”
“Okay, but you just listen. Now he’s going to tell us about the initial investment and the monthly contribution.”
Which he did. I wrote it down anyway. In fact, I took notes for almost half an hour.
“And a final word of advice,” Alcorn Jones said, “I recommend that your portfolios be well balanced. You should have stocks in at least five fields, technology—including communications such as computers—health, pharmaceuticals, proven retailers, and entertainment such as Disney.”
“Write that down,” Sister told me. “I don’t remember that being in the book.”
“The Southern Baptists are boycotting Disney,” Mary Beatty informed him.
“Hey!” Bessie McCoy spoke so loudly, we all jumped. “This club’s about making money, not morals.”
Alcorn Jones smiled easily at both women. “These are the things you ladies will have to work out.”
“Well, there are some things I won’t compromise on,” Mary Beatty said. “I’m laying that on the table right now.”
I figured Bessie McCoy had something in her purse to lay on the table that might change Mary’s mind.
The bank president glanced at his Rolex and declared that he was late for a meeting, and to feel free to call on him at any time, that his bank would handle our stock at a discount rate. With that, he disappeared through the door so quickly, I wouldn’t have been surprised to see a puff of smoke.
“Hey.” Sister turned to Connie and me. “This club’s going to be fun.”
“It’s almost lunchtime,” perky Joy said. “How about the same time, next week. It’ll give us time to think about what Mr. Jones said, and we’ll make some definite decisions then. Okay?”
Okay.
“I think you ought to be the financial partner, Mouse. You should have told them you tutor in math.”
“Wash your mouth out with soap.” The lack of sleep from the night before was catching up with me. I was fighting to keep my eyes open as we drove through Homewood.
“I’m hungry. Here,” Sister handed me the phone. “Call and see how many people are at your house and we’ll stop and get lunch for everybody.”
I dialed sleepily, and Debbie answered the phone.
“Hey, honey,” I said. “What are you doing there?”
“Brought you an e-mail from Haley. Lisa’s been catching me up on all that’s been going on. I can’t believe it.”
“None of us can.”
“Is that Debbie?” Sister asked.
I nodded.
“Ask her if my grandson is up to Chinese food today.”
“Your mama and I are on the way home. We’re going to bring lunch and she wants to know if you feel like Chinese. Who all’s there?”
“Lisa and Mrs. Phizer and me. And I’m feeling pretty good today.”
“Ask the others if it’s okay.”
“Chinese okay?” I heard Debbie asking. In a moment she told me, “Anything.”
“We’ll see you in a few minutes then.” I hung up the phone. “They said anything. Just three of them.”
“We can stop at the Hunan Hut and get some stuff from the buffet.”
Which we did. It was a mistake, though. The whole time I was putting food onto the Styrofoam plates, I had the eerie feeling that if I turned around fast enough I would see Sophie and Arthur sitting in the corner booth and he would be stroking her hand. Or I would see them walking across the parking lot, her leaning against him, him lifting her into the car. Damn, damn.
“I’m glad to get out of there,” I said as we made for the car, both carrying sacks. “Couldn’t you just see Sophie and Arthur in there?”
“No, but I saw Alcorn Jones with a girl young enough to be his granddaughter.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.” She sounded angry. “Him and his fake tan and capped teeth.”
This was so unlike Mary Alice that I should have noticed, but I was still caught up in the Sophie-Arthur memories. And I was looking forward to getting the e-mail from Haley. I know I worry too much about her, but Lord, she’s a long way from home.
When we came through the gate, we saw that Arabella Hardt had joined the group. She was sitting on the steps petting Woofer and moved over to let us by. The others were sitting at the table. Mitzi, I noticed, looked better; there was some color in her cheeks and her eyes were brighter. Arabella was the one who looked sick today. In fact, she looked as if she had been crying all night. Dark glasses hid her eyes, but not all of the puffiness. She had on some old denim shorts and a stained shirt that the Goodwill would have refused.
“Hey, Mama. Aunt Sister.” Lisa jumped up, gave me a hug, and took the sack of food I was carrying. “Ummm, this smells wonderful.”
Debbie took Mary Alice’s sack.
“We’ll put this out on the kitchen table,” she said. “We’ll call you when it’s ready.”
I sat in the chair that Lisa had vacated.
“I’m feeling better,” Mitzi said. “How did the meeting go?”
“Interesting.”
Mary Alice sat down. “Do you know a woman named Bessie McCoy, Mitzi?”
“Did she have on a crocheted hat?”
“Yep.”
“She always wears that hat. She got scalped when she was a child.”
“Scalped? Like with a tomahawk?”
Mitzi shrugged. “I’m not sure how it happened; I never asked. But she’s an artist. I’m surprised you don’t know her. Her stuff’s in all the banks. The kind of stuff you can’t tell if it’s upside-down or not. Why?”
“I think she’s going to keep the meetings interesting.” Sister gestured to Arabella. “Come join us, Arabella. You okay?”
Arabella stood up, came over, and said she was okay but had better be moseying along, that she had a lot to do.
“Stay for lunch,” I said. “We brought plenty.”
Arabella shook her head. “I just came by to check on Aunt Mitzi.”
“One egg roll?” Sister asked.
“Don’t think it would stay down. But thanks. I’ll see y’all later.”
Mitzi got up and followed her to the gate where they had a quiet conversation.
“She just found out her mother wants to be cremated,” Mitzi explained when she came back. “I think the reality of her death is just sinking in.”
“Poor child,” Sister said. “I know what that’s like, what with losing all my husbands so suddenly. It took days for it to sink in.”
“Maybe Cedric will outlast you,” I said.
She looked at me, puzzled.
“Cedric, the man to whom you have plighted your troth.”
“My troth isn’t plighted. Good Lord, Mouse.” She thought for a minute. “What’s a plighted troth, anyway? It sounds like a gum disease.”
“Are you engaged, Mary Alice?” Mitzi asked.
“Sort of.”
“Well, congratulations. Who to?”
“An Englishman named Cedric.”
I knew she didn’t remember his last name.
Fortunately, Mitzi didn’t ask. She sat down and held out a key.
“I promised that I would go pick out an outfit for Sophie. That’s really why Arabella came over here. She says she can’t go in the apartment.”
“I thought she spent the night there last night,” I said.
“She says she couldn’t. She ended up staying with a friend.”
Debbie opened the back door. “Lunch is on the table.”
“Patricia Anne?”
I knew what Mitzi was going to ask.
“Sure. I’ll go with you.”
“I’ll go with you, too,” Sister said. “You don’t want to pick out anything too pretty.” She pushed her chair back. “Come on. I’m starving.”
Fourteen
The University of Alabama’s medical center in Birmingham is an amazing group of hospitals. My children were born at University Hospital which, with the dental school, was at that time the whole university facility. Now there’s a hospital for, as Fred says, “whatever ails you.” Cataracts? The eye hospital. Heart? Cancer? Diabetes? Psychological problems? There’s a hospital for you. Are you a veteran? A child? You get the picture. In fact, UAB, its hospitals and clinics are now the financial backbone of Birmingham, taking the place held so long by the steel mills.
And patients and their families have to have places to stay, particularly those who are here for extended treatment. So around the perimeter of the medical complex, residential motels, hotels, and condominiums have sprung up. Sophie was living in one of the latter, a ten-story building of very elegant apartments. Most of them are occupied by permanent residents who work at the medical center, but some of them are for lease, for a pretty penny, I’m sure. Especially Sophie’s apartment which was one of four on the tenth floor.
Mitzi unlocked the door and we stepped into one of the loveliest rooms I had ever seen. Simply furnished, it was done in beige and white. A white carpet, beige and white plaid sofa, beige and white striped chairs. A few accents of turquoise in a pillow, a lamp, a geometric wall hanging. The walls were white, the draperies that covered the sliding door to the balcony the same beige and white stripe of the chairs. The dining and kitchen area angled off to one side and were set aside from the main room by two white columns.
“Oh, this is beautiful,” Mitzi said. “Look at this, y’all.”
We were looking and admiring. It was even lovelier when Mitzi opened the draperies and we were greeted by a view of the distant mountains and their many shades of late summer green. On the balcony were a chaise and a small table with two ice cream chairs. This, I suspected, was where Sophie had spent much of her time, probably even eating her meals there.
“I’ll bet Bill Bodiford decorated this,” Sister said. “He tried to put some of those wire chairs on my porch. I told him he had to be kidding. I like the colors, though.”
The apartment was designed for maximum privacy with the two bedrooms and baths on opposite sides of the great room. Sophie’s was the first one we walked into, and it was a mess. Drawers had been opened and not closed. In the lovely white bathroom, several cigarettes floated in the turquoise toilet.
“Damn,” Mitzi said. “You’d think the police would leave it in better shape than this.”
On the front wall of the bedroom was a window with vertical blinds. Sophie could lie here, I realized, and see the setting sun. Its rays were already striping the white carpet. There was also a sliding door that opened to the balcony.
Mitzi opened the closet’s doors and a light came on, illuminating the contents.
“She didn’t have many clothes,” Sister remarked. “I thought she had money.”
“She came here because she was sick,” I reminded her. “She wouldn’t need many clothes just to go to the hospital for treatment.”
“She was at the Hunan Hut with Arthur.”
I gave her a dirty look which she ignored.
But Mitzi wasn’t upset. “You’re right. There’s not much here to choose from.” She began to separate the outfits. “Tell me what you think.”
I didn’t want to say what I was thinking, that whatever we picked out was going to go up in smoke. “How about that gray suit?”
Mitzi took down a light gray suit and looked at it. “It’s real expensive, y’all. Look.” She showed us Sophie’s name embroidered on the back of the lapel. “It was made for her.”
Suddenly, Mitzi began to cry. I took the suit away from her and said, “This will do fine, Mitzi.” Dammit, that Arabella shouldn’t have asked Mitzi to do this.
“It’s an old suit, anyway,” Mary Alice added. “Look at the width of those lapels.”
“It’s just so sad that her life had to end this way.” Mitzi stepped into the bathroom, got some toilet paper, and wiped her eyes while I held the gray suit.
“Look at those lapels,” Sister repeated. “This one needs to go.”
“Well,” Mitzi said, blowing her nose. “This isn’t solving anything.”
“I guess not,” I agreed.
Mitzi rolled off some more toilet paper, stepped back into the bedroom, and took a deep breath. “You’re right. The gray suit’s fine. Now what about shoes and underwear?”
“For what?” Sister asked.
“Because you can’t get into heaven without underwear.” I aimed a slight kick at her but missed.
I laid the suit across a chair while Mitzi opened one of the drawers that lingerie was spilling out of.
“Oh, my,” she said.
“What?” I walked over and looked at a drawer brimming with silk: silk camisoles, silk panties, silk bras.
“Isn’t this beautiful?” Mitzi picked up a peach-colored camisole with a single rose embroidered on the front.
I felt the material
. “You couldn’t throw it in the washing machine, Mitzi.”
Mitzi looked up and actually smiled. “That’s true. Cotton Jockeys are hard to beat.”
Sister gave up on us, walked over to the nightstand, and opened the drawer.
“Get out of there,” I said when I realized what she was doing.
“I’m just looking.”
“For what?”
“Look at this.” She came over with a silver framed picture of a young Sophie, a man, and three teenage children. It had been taken on the deck of a boat. The family, dressed in shorts and swimsuits smiled into the camera. The boy, who must be David, was already taller than his father. Tan and handsome, he stood with an arm draped casually around each of his sisters’ shoulders, while his parents stood slightly away from the threesome, their arms around each other’s waist.
“They were a beautiful family, weren’t they?” Mitzi had come to stand beside us.
I nodded. “Arabella said her brother was killed in a car accident?”
“In college. There were three boys in the car. Two were killed. The other boy was hurt, terribly, but survived.”
“Were drugs or alcohol involved? Sue said they buried him the same day. She sounded like her parents were trying to cover something up.”
“Maybe, though who knows? Milton Sawyer was on the way up in the political world and if his son were on drugs and responsible for the death and injury of two others, it might have hurt his career. But I doubt that was it. I’ve always thought they couldn’t bear the thought of an autopsy on David’s body. He was the family’s shining star.” She paused. “I know that Sue never has believed David was on drugs. She says he was Mr. Clean, always.”
“And Arabella?”
“It’s one of the bones of contention between them.” Mitzi took the picture and looked at it. “They both adored him, but Arabella never thought he was perfect.”