2 Double Dip

by Gretchen Archer

  “I’ll look into it, Cyril.”

  “Now, Mr. Bunker.” I sat beside him. “Have you ever seen this man?”

  “No.”

  “You don’t want to see him now, Cyril,” my grandmother said. “He’s laid out on a slab at the morgue.”

  “Granny!”

  She shrugged.

  “Are you sure, Mr. Bunker?” There were thousands of images of Matthew Thatcher in the Bellissimo system to choose from, and I gave Cyril more than a hundred chances to recognize him.

  “Nope.” “No.” “Don’t know him from Adam.” “Still don’t know him.” “Sorry.” “Is he a singer?” “Never seen him.” “Now, him I know.”

  I woke up. “What?”

  “Go back one.”

  I went back one. It was Matthew Thatcher back in his LeeRoy Maffini days. Without the nose job, with auburn hair.

  “He’s a preacher.”

  “He’s a dead preacher,” my grandmother said.

  Mother spread out a bright yellow tablecloth that smelled like summer and insisted we all wash our hands. She put out a platter of chicken salad and pimento cheese sandwiches, a dish of miniature sweet pickles, and a plate of toffee cookies. She had vanilla Ensure for Granny Dee and Cyril, a thermos of coffee for Daddy, and a cold Dr. Pepper in a bottle for me, a drink I loved as a child, a drink she had to drive to Sissy’s Shell Station on Turkey Holloman Road to buy, and a drink I hadn’t touched since college.

  My father said, “You’d better enjoy this while it lasts.”

  “I’m going to milk it for everything it’s worth, Daddy.”

  “That’s my girl.”

  Cyril Bunker ate slower than he talked. “It’s these teeth,” he said. “Like trying to eat with rocks in your mouth.”

  My grandmother suggested he lose them, because we were practically family. She wallowed all over the word family.

  Between bites, Cyril managed to identify McKinley Weeks, the church emissary who’d attached himself to Bea at the old people’s slot tournament last week (“Another preacher,” Cyril said) and Jewell Maffini, who’d started all this mess, because she’d been my mark a lifetime ago (two and a half weeks ago) when No Hair made me go to the Mystery Shopper tournament instead of moving. If I’d never seen this woman’s picture, maybe Bradley Cole and I would still be together.

  “How do you know her, Cyril?”

  “Well. I found a cookie jar. It was in the year of our Lord nineteen aught nine.”

  Oh, dear Lord.

  “No,” (“nnnnnoooooooooooooo”) “it was nineteen and eighty-nine.”

  Dodged that eighty-year bullet.

  My mother called about supper before the poor old guy finished.

  Cyril, in his early sixties, on his way to his lawyer’s office in Montgomery to sign the last of the paperwork selling the Tilda Reyes quilted luggage line to a soft-goods manufacturer in LaGrange, Georgia, stumbled out to his old dog shed and into an overlooked cookie jar full of hundred dollar bills. Early for his meeting, the cash burning a hole in his pocket, he made a pit stop at Jupiter’s Gold Casino, just outside of Montgomery, where he met Jewell Maffini. He never made it to the meeting with his lawyer. The next day, he came to know Jewell in a carnal way—my grandmother angrily scooted her chair away from him with that, but she must have forgiven him, or forgotten, because after she woke up from her catnap (head tipped back, mouth wide open, snoring), taken during the grisly drawn-out details of Cyril’s carnal education of Jewell, Granny scooted back in—and it was on the afternoon following all the carnal business, at a Double Diamond Dare slot machine, when Jewell convinced Cyril it was wrong to sell the Tilda Reyes line to foreigners. Cyril didn’t think Georgia was a foreign country, to which Jewell brought up all that is right and holy in Alabama. Football. Dogs versus Tide. He couldn’t argue with that. Cyril made the mistake of telling her, football notwithstanding, that if he didn’t sell the line, he couldn’t keep his property up, the taxes alone were killing him—and here he launched into a forty-minute diatribe about Amy Carter, only child of Rosalyn and Jimmy Carter—and the next thing the poor old guy knew, he was locked up in Beehive, Alabama, in therapy from twelve to fourteen hours a day.

  I really needed to know about the therapy, but I really wanted to get back to Biloxi, and Granny Dee and Cyril really, really needed their meds.

  My father walked me to my car. He told me he believed, with everything he had, that one day soon, when the time was right, I’d bring him a baby to bounce on his knee and call him Papa.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Bright and early the next morning, I stomped to the foyer to shoot the elevator control pad because it wouldn’t stop buzzing. I was wearing a T-shirt and yesterday’s makeup. I thought I’d grabbed my robe, but I was trying to get my sleepy arms into the sleeves of a pillowcase.

  “David.” She hobbled right past me—jewel-encrusted platinum and polished-wood walking stick—and into the living room. She surveyed my beautiful home with indifference. “Where do you sit in here?

  There were three hundred places to sit.

  “Anywhere you’d like, Mrs. Sanders.”

  “I’d like coffee.”

  Baylor was standing in front of the closed elevator doors. “Sorry,” he mouthed. Then he waggled his fingers around his head, indicating he’d tried to call.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “She thinks I’m her new assistant.” He made crazy circles.

  “Are you speaking to me?” Bianca had settled herself in the middle of my marshmallow sofa. “Are you speaking of me?”

  “No, Mrs. Sanders.”

  I stumbled to the kitchen and started a pot of coffee.

  “Artesian water!” Bianca shouted.

  “You bet!” I held the carafe under the tap until it was full.

  The elevator dinged again. The doors parted and a wardrobe entered—a rolling rack stuffed with clothes and a cart on wheels stacked with shoe boxes on its heels. The elevator doors closed. I wondered what would come out of the elevator next. Giraffe? Marching band? Bradley Cole?

  From the kitchen, I could see the back of her bottle-blonde head, her good foot, going ninety-miles an hour, and a plume of smoke curling into the air. I poured us both a cup of coffee, stumbled in, served her, then sat a comfortable distance away and waited.

  “This casino event, David, the slots affair.” She used my Vietri saucer for an ashtray. “Surely you don’t imagine I’m going to let you humiliate me again.”

  “What slot affair, Mrs. Sanders?”

  “The large tournament.” She rolled her eyes at out-of-the-loop David. “They’ve asked me to help,” she said, “and of course, I agreed to.”

  “What, exactly, Mrs. Sanders, have you agreed to?” What have you signed me up for, Bianca?

  “David.” She tapped ashes into my dishes. “My husband needs me and I will not let him down.”

  I held up a finger. “Excuse me.” I took off down the hall. I couldn’t poke my phone fast enough. I said, “Start talking,” when he answered.

  “Davis,” No Hair said, “plain and simple. We need you if you’re up for it.”

  “She wants me to be her at the slot tournament.”

  “I know.” He sighed. “I know.”

  I spent the next two or three minutes behind the closed door of Bradley’s closet, my face buried in his shirt sleeves. Her husband needed her and I could not let him down. If I wanted to keep my job. I didn’t need to sit around here thinking anyway. I trudged back to Bianca.

  “I do not have all day, David.”

  “It’s Davis.” My coffee had cooled.

  “You could use some lessons in hostessing.”

  I’d left her alone for all of five minutes. I smiled. Sipped my tepid coffee. “It
was nice of you to bring the clothes here, Mrs. Sanders. I’m glad you felt like getting out.”

  Bianca took a deep and shaky drag off her second cigarette on my brand new white sofa in my brand new condo. “This coffee is dreadful.”

  “Would you like me to go get you coffee, Mrs. Sanders?” Baylor, guarding the clothes, asked.

  “I’d like you to stand over there and pretend you’re not here, young man.” She snapped at The Help. “I’m here to talk to David.” She turned back to me. “The ice cream dip event.” She lowered her voice. “I want Richard to be very, very impressed. Do you hear me, David? I want you on top of your game.” She stubbed out her latest cigarette. In my Vietri saucer. Again. “The tippy top. Do you understand?”

  I understood. Bianca missed her husband. His three-week journey would be complete at the start of the tournament and she was hoping if I looked like a million bucks, he’d run to her. (Sick, really, if you think about it too long. Or at all.) I also understood that as her foot had healed, she’d come down with an increasingly dire case of cabin fever, which was why she was here. And lastly, sadly, I understood long ago that I was the closest thing to a girlfriend Bianca had.

  “So this is where you live, David?” Bianca looked down her nose.

  “It’s Davis. And yes. I’ve only been here a few weeks. Would you like me to show you around?”

  “No.”

  Work things out with Bianca before I get home.

  She turned at the elevator and used her cane to point to a Louis Vuitton garment bag. “Your funeral attire.” She dug into her Prada bag and extracted a folder. She placed it on the demilune table beside the elevator. “This is from Marketing.”

  Funeral?

  * * *

  I sat down at my computer. I had two cyber chores before I left for the funeral, neither of which I wanted to start, much less complete. I flipped a mental coin, and went with the creepiest one first. I knew how to dress up as Bianca and work a crowd. I’d learned how to walk, sit, drink, smoke, criticize, whine, converse, and flirt as Bianca. And then there was the other list: Don’t hug, guffaw, or commit to anything. Don’t sign autographs. (My handwriting was “heinous.”) Don’t slouch like a teenage boy. Don’t eat hors d’oeuvres. Don’t scratch, tug, or sneeze. Ever.

  One thing I didn’t know how to do as Bianca, or Davis, however, was emcee an event, and the Double Dip tournament was three full days of mistressing ceremonies. I zipped through an hour of Mr. Microphone-at-his-finest video. I jotted down some of his better lines and got a bead on the timing and attitude of it all. I rehearsed in my pink polka dot bathrobe with a round hairbrush.

  Next, I went back in time to 1994, to the Chi Chapter of the Delta Delta Delta Sorority at the University of Mississippi at Oxford. There she was—cute, blonde, pearls—Mary Harper Hathaway. Something was off, way off, and I’d known it since the afternoon of Banana Pudding Day when, in preparation for my dinner with Bradley, I’d tried to catch up on his case, but what I caught was Mary Ha Ha hanging out with the plaintiffs and their lawyer, Jerry McAllen.

  No way she should have been anywhere near them.

  I smelled a rat. Then took a four-day nap.

  The microscope accessory on my laptop was just the weapon I needed for rat hunting. I put it to good use examining the other pledged faces for any trace of the woman I knew as Mary Ha Ha, but nothing popped. It wouldn’t be a stretch to think that the sneaky bitch who’d saddled up to Bradley Cole (and made my life a living hell) had visited a plastic surgeon or three through the years (Facelifts R Us), but still, I think I’d recognize her wide, flat forehead, her jagged hairline, her round face. Nothing. So, what sorority did the really smart girls pledge back then? Search engine (Google), search engine (Bing), search engine (Topsy), where I hit pay dirt. In the mid-nineties, brainiacs went Kappa Alpha Theta. And there she was. Kimberli Silvers.

  Mary Harper Hathaway and Kimberli Silvers were both born in Jackson, Mississippi within months of each other: different sides of the tracks, different high schools, same college. They both received undergraduate degrees (BAs in History and International Relations, respectively) in 1998, they both moved to Boston, Massachusetts, where they graduated with law degrees from the Northeastern University School of Law three years later.

  In the twenty-five years these young women walked the same paths, I couldn’t find a hint of them crossing. I poked around in the Boston Globe digital annals long enough to find what appeared to be their only documented interaction, and it was a tragic one. Mr. and Mrs. Robert Hathaway, III, and their only child, Mary Harper, died in the fiery crash of a Cessna Caravan Turboprop, piloted by Mr. Hathaway, forty-seven, owner/operator, seven minutes after takeoff from the Plum Island Airport (2B2), four hours after Mary Harper received her law degree. An unidentified passenger, also aboard the failed flight to Jackson, Mississippi, was ejected from the plane before impact and found, still buckled in the seat, seventy yards away from the fuselage, then rushed to the trauma unit at St. Elizabeth’s.

  I’ll be damned.

  To: BCole@GrandPalaceBiloxi.com

  From: davis@davisway.com

  Attachments

  Bradley. I put the condo on the market for $120,000.

  I found the real Mary Harper Hathaway. The woman you are/were working with is named Kimberli Silvers. It’s all attached.

  I love you, Bradley,

  D

  He’d call. The condo appraised at one-point-two million, not one-point-two dollars.

  I dragged the Louis Vuitton hanging bag down the hall, then lobbed it across the foot of the bed. I unzipped it, then zipped it right back. Eventually, I had to unzip it again. I sprayed my hair blonde, then stuffed it into a ridiculous hat.

  * * *

  The sun was waning on the cool cloudless day as the city of Biloxi bid farewell to Matthew Thatcher.

  Beach Boulevard was closed for a quarter-mile on both sides of the Bellissimo; traffic was rerouted through the streets of downtown Biloxi. The city’s Casino Hopper buses shuttled mourners. General public admission was granted to those wearing RIP Thatch T-shirts, a profile silhouette of him emblazoned on the back, available in seven colors at temporary kiosks set up on every street corner in zip code 39530. Two counterfeit T-shirt dealers had been ordered to cease and desist. Even in death, Mr. Microphone was bringing in Bellissimo bucks.

  The quarter-mile, seven-lane, circular entrance was bumper-to-bumper Bellissimo limos on the inside lane, the entire fleet, drivers at parade rest beside their vehicles. A massive black hearse was parked under the porte-cochere, directly beneath the outdoor chandelier. Also massive. The only spots of color were the running-board lights of the limos, the braided red tassels on the porter’s shoulders, and Matthew Thatcher’s canary yellow Porsche 911 Carrera, on display in front of the fountain. The Porsche wore a fifteen-foot spray of red roses. The flowers dripped off the front end, arced over the car, then spilled to the ground off the back. Eight million exterior lights had been darkened for the occasion, the towering marquee’s scrolling message board being the only exception which could be seen a mile out to sea. It flashed Godspeed Matthew Thatcher.

  All eight entrance doors were held open for me by the red-tasseled porters. Baylor, head bent respectfully, was at my right elbow. Bianca had dressed me in head-to-toe Christmas red (Chanel), in a short, cap-sleeve dress with a slit all the way up one leg. It looked like it had been airbrushed on; I couldn’t breathe. On my feet, five-inch red patent stilettoes, with a four-inch-thick ankle strap featuring—I swear to you—a clunky gold horse bit. On my head, a five-pound study in mesh and silk that cast a foot-wide cylindrical shadow on me, flopped over both my ears, and had a huge red tulle bow on top that was twice as large as my actual head. I wore Dior crystal-studded sunglasses and chocolate diamonds set in gold. The dark diamonds dripped off both arms, three fingers, from arou
nd my neck, and dangled from my earlobes to my ribcage.

  I thought this was a humiliatingly loud and inappropriate (for the occasion) follow-up to last week’s pornographic blue number I’d been photographed in. Bianca insisted it would wipe the offensive blue images from the public’s mind, and I couldn’t argue with that. This getup would wipe the public’s mind clean altogether, then boggle it for years to come.

  I stepped into the lobby, a 20,000 square-foot glass-domed conservatory, to see uniformed Bellissimo employees on the left and right, carving a pathway to the casino. I recognized every uniform—housekeeping, various restaurants, Security detail, casino cage—because I’d worn most of them at one time or another. There were at least a thousand Bellissimo employees holding up the lobby walls. Most were staring straight ahead, some shuffling restlessly, some whispering. (About my crazy red hat, no doubt.)

  The casino took my breath away. I stepped in, tore off the sunglasses, and my other hand flew to my mouth with an “Oh!” Cameras clicked unmercifully. The only light in the casino was from the 3,800 slot machines. They’d each been set to their top-payout displays, triggering 3,800 blinking yellow jackpot lights. The effect was that of a meteor shower or the finale of a fireworks display. An 80,000 square-foot laser show. Behind red velvet ropes the T-shirted grievers stretched as far as I could see, a gold glow on their sad faces and T-shirts.

  The only other light in the room was a single spotlight, aimed at an elevated stage in the middle of the casino floor, illuminating a microphone stand. At its base, a silver urn full of Matthew Thatcher. Two floor easels displaying economy-car-sized portraits of him held spots on stage right and stage left.