by Lois Battle
The ringing of the phone made her jump. She picked up the receiver, said, “Hello,” and heard, “Cam, babe, it’s me. I’m standing outside a liquor store that has a sign in the window that says ‘Wise Men Still Praise Him. Bourbon Discount!’ so I guess I’m here.”
Ten
“YOU, GIRL,” Cam said, adopting one of Mawmaw’s greetings, “are a sight for sore eyes.” She was so grateful to see Reba, she got a lump in her throat.
Reba said, “Likewise, I’m sure,” ran her fingers through her salt-and-pepper crinkly hair, pecked Cam on the cheek, and looked around the room. “Hey, this is more like it. This is classy.” She handed over a worn traveling bag made of carpet fabric. “Sorry about the unfortunate choice of luggage. Cheryl pointed it out when we were loading the car, but it was too late to repack.”
“Cam, is that Reba?” Josie called from the kitchen.
“Yes, Mama, come on in and meet her,” Cam called back, then dropped her voice. “After the introductions, let’s get out of here ASAP.”
“Gotcha,” Reba whispered. Cam put her arm around Reba’s waist and moved her into the room as Josie came in from the dining room. “Mama, this is my dear friend, Reba.”
Reba put out her hand. “I’ve heard about Southern hospitality, but a drop-in for Christmas really tests it to the max. I appreciate your taking me in, Mrs. Tatternall.”
“Why, you’re more than welcome, Reba.” Josie took Reba’s hand and held it, her smile of greeting broadening as she looked into Reba’s face. It was the sort of face that made you want to smile. Reba’s long upper lip and prominent nose ruled out any possibility of beauty, but her keen brown eyes with arched but unplucked brows, and mobile mouth hinted at a mischievous sense of humor. Her outfit was Secondhand-Rose, gypsy-style—Etruscan earrings, a purple cashmere sweater with a hole in the elbow topped with a velveteen vest embroidered with water lilies, scarabs, and hippos with jeweled eyes, a bias-cut vintage skirt with an uneven hem, and red, tooled cowboy boots. “Would you care for some tea or coffee?” Sensing a presence behind her, Josie turned. There was Mrs. Beasley, persistent as garlic breath. “This is my house guest, Mrs. Beasley. Mrs. Beasley, this is Cam’s friend, Miss—?”
“Golden. Used to be Goldinsky. My grandparents were in vaudeville. He was a clown and she danced with a troupe called the Floradora Girls. They changed their name when she changed the color of her hair,” Reba explained, offering her hand to Mrs. Beasley. Mrs. Beasley looked as though she’d just been asked to kiss E.T.
“Or maybe you’d like something to eat?” Cam suggested, trying to cover Mrs. Beasley’s slight.
Reba shook her head, stuffed her hands into the sleeves of her sweater. “I’ll just sit for a minute if you don’t mind,” she said, settling herself on the couch. “I spent last night in a really sleazy motel and didn’t get much sleep, and the last hour or so driving down here I had to turn the radio to a rock-and-roll station and hang my head out the window like a dog to stay awake.”
“Perhaps you’d like to go upstairs and take a nap,” Josie suggested.
“No, thanks, Mrs. Tatternall. Now that I’m here I’ll be fine. Just coming into town revived me. I thought, ‘Hey, this is more like it.’ Big old houses, stuff like old men’s beards hanging from the trees”—her arms flew out—“and nobody honking at me when I was driving slow looking for the address.”
“Well, Reba, we’re glad you’re here. And please call me Josie.”
“Okay, Josie. You know, I’ve been reading about the South since I was a kid. And when Cam and I went to see The Prince of Tides . . .”
Josie nodded. “Some of it was filmed just a few blocks away.”
“Anybody who writes about his family the way Pat Conroy does . . .” Mrs. Beasley began.
“Well, you write what you know, I guess.” Reba laughed, scrubbed her head with stubby fingers, and shifted gears. “This is a really lovely house, Mrs. Tatternall, I mean, Josie.”
“It was built in 1859 by a family who had a cotton plantation out on St. Helena’s Island,” Josie put in quickly. “It survived the war, but the family couldn’t pay the taxes, so a merchant from Massachusetts bought it. In the 1920s it fell into disrepair and was vacant for a time.” Seeing that Mrs. Beasley was still gawking at Reba, she rushed on. “My brother-in-law, Dozier, inherited the house next door, and this house came on the market about the time Cam’s daddy was retiring from the military, just when the city started to turn around, so we decided to buy.” Josie took a breath. “Forgive me. I’m sounding like a house-proud old woman.”
“Don’t stop,” Reba urged. “There’s still a part of me that’s like a fourth grader who likes to go on field trips. This is just the sort of story I was hoping for.”
“I do think a house is like a person,” Josie added. “Much more interesting if it has a history. And, as Cam has probably told you, we moved around a great deal because of my husband’s career, so finally having a house like this one was, well, almost a dream come true.” Josie’s voice had grown soft, and Reba nodded, her expression so curious that Josie was tempted to tell her more.
“All the years I’ve been coming here,” Mrs. Beasley put in, her voice querulous, “I don’t think you’ve really shown me through the entire house or told me its history.”
Josie turned to Mrs. Beasley. “I thought your niece was coming to pick you up?”
“She is, but she’s late.”
“Well, Reba,” Josie smiled. “If you’re really interested, I’ll be happy to show you around later. Just now, why don’t I take you up to your room and let you freshen up? If you’ll excuse us, Mrs. B.” She led the way to the staircase while Mrs. Beasley looked after them with the expression of an abandoned puppy.
“I can give you your own room tonight,” Josie explained, mounting the stairs, “but as Cam has probably told you, we’re going to have a full house tomorrow night on Christmas Eve. Cam’s sister, Lila, and her husband, Orrie, and their children are coming, and so’s Orrie’s father, Jasper, and Evie, Cam’s youngest sister. My housekeeper’s choir is giving a Christmas Eve concert, and if you’d like to come along to that you’d be more than welcome, though you shouldn’t feel obliged. Lila thought it would be a good idea to open our presents before we go to the concert. That way y’all can sleep in on Christmas morning, then, in the afternoon, we’ll have dinner. So, if you’d like your own room for tonight . . .”
“Oh, no. I’ll just go on in with Cam right now. It’ll give us a chance to talk. We’ll have a middle-aged pajama party.”
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like something to eat or drink?” Josie asked again.
“I’d just . . .” Seeing Cam make a face behind Josie’s back, Reba took the cue. “You know what I’d really like? I’d like Cam to show me around town. Will you be my tour guide, Cam?”
“I’ve been gone so long I probably won’t be any good at it,” Cam answered innocently, “but I’ll give it a shot.”
“Thank God you got me out of there,” Cam said as Reba pulled the rental car away from the curb. “Another ten minutes and I would’ve given that woman a piece of my mind.”
“You don’t mean your mother?”
“No, Mrs. Beasley. You meet a character like her and you feel like you’re in a Dickens novel. Thank God my father didn’t live long enough to go through the bed-and-breakfast trip.”
“But your mother’s great—really sweet without being sugary. Why didn’t you tell me she was so nice?”
Cam felt like an adolescent: pleased and flattered that her best friend admired her mother; frustrated that Reba hadn’t noticed some of the things that made Josie difficult. “I didn’t see much wrong with your mother the first time I met her, either,” she said, not altogether honestly. Being in the company of Reba’s mother was, as Reba had predicted, about as much fun as being stuck on a runway waiting for flight clearance. “Sure, Mama’s gracious, but she’s so . . .” Cam tried to lasso the right adjectives, but ended up sputtering,
“so depressingly domestic.”
“Well, women of that generation were expected to be, weren’t they?”
“The point I’m trying to make—”
Reba’s hand shot up from the steering wheel in a gesture of exasperation. “Stop trying to make a point and tell me where the hell we’re going.”
“To a drugstore. Keep on straight, then veer around the curve of the bay.”
“A drugstore?”
“I need to get one of those pregnancy tests.”
“Oh, shit, I’m sorry. I forgot.” She shook her head and snorted. “Who would’ve thought we’d be spending the Christmas holidays driving around a small Southern town looking for a drugstore to get a pregnancy test?”
“Yeah, life’s full of surprises.”
“Do you really think . . .”
“What else can I think? I’m five days late now.”
“You’ve never been that regular.”
“Okay, but five days!”
“It’s just stress. Sam leaves, things are rocky with your job, it’s the holidays, and you’ve been traveling. Not to mention the fact that you’re at an age when—”
“No. Something’s wrong. I feel sick all the time. I feel hungry but I don’t want to eat. Every time I go to the bathroom, I’m checking to see if I’ve started. It comes into my mind about a hundred times a day. I feel pains but I can’t tell if they’re cramps or gas.”
“Have you called Sam yet?”
Cam let air hiss out of her mouth as though she were a balloon that had been let go. “I’m not going to call Sam. Sam is living in another state. Sam’s gone.”
“You were the one who cut it off completely, you were the one—”
“Whose side are you on?”
“Are we into sides? It’s not like Sam treated you the way Cheryl treated me. I feel like roadkill stuck to the wheel of the car.”
“You know, I once knew a guy who was indicted for disturbing the peace at a demonstration. His lawyer begged him to cut his hair but he wouldn’t do it. Like he’d rather be convicted than make the smallest attempt at conformity.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well, were you wearing what you’re wearing now when you met Cheryl’s folks? Because you must’ve known . . .”
“Excuse me, but isn’t this an instance of the pot calling the kettle black? I don’t recall too many times when you’ve gone out of your way to conform. Cam, I’m pushing fifty. I don’t own a dress with a Peter Pan collar. I don’t own a pair of heels. I wear cowgirl boots winter and summer because my arches have fallen and boots hide my orthotics.”
“I didn’t know you wore orthotics.”
“Just one of the signs of advancing age that I stoically choose to hide, even from my best friends,” Reba said airily, turning to look out the window. “Hey, this is really pretty. And it’s so quiet. I just can’t get used to so few people on the streets.”
Why, Cam thought, am I arguing with Reba? “What you were saying,” she began after a pause, “about not wanting to put on a show for Cheryl’s parents? I remember getting up and going to the bathroom the morning after Sam and I first slept together and starting to reach for my makeup and thinking, ‘No. Let him see you the way you are.’ ”
“Your point being?”
“Until I met Sam I always made a show of honesty so I could protect all my little secrets.”
“No one is as secretive as the person who gives a show of openness. I should know.”
“I’ve always had trouble trusting, you know that. Especially with men.”
“Yeah, well, some people you shouldn’t trust with lunch money.”
“But Sam . . .”
Reba banged the steering wheel. “That’s what I’m talking about. You should call him.”
“Have you called Cheryl?”
“No. And I’m not going to. She can just stew.”
“So what the hell are you doing giving me advice?”
“Well, at least I don’t think I’m pregnant.”
“Watch out. Watch out.”
“What are you talking about? The chances of my being pregnant—”
“No, I mean watch out for the turnoff. The shopping center’s here on the right.”
“Cam, I can’t have a conversation while you’re giving me directions.”
“Turn. Turn. Turn. Right here! Go into that minimall. Drive to the back of the lot, near where they’re selling the Christmas trees. There’s a Revco.”
The parking lot was jammed. Reba drove up and down the aisles searching for an empty space. “Last time I was at a shopping mall was when I visited my cousin in New Jersey maybe ten years ago. Now I remember why I’ve avoided them, but hey, that reminds me, could I pick up a present for your mother here?”
“Just send a bread-and-butter gift from New York. There! See the black woman sitting in that green Chevy? She’s got her motor on. She’s about to pull out.” Cam rolled down the window, waved, and called, “Are you leaving?” The woman in the Chevy turned slowly, face haggard.
“She’s in shopping shock,” Reba said impatiently, about to drive on.
“No, wait,” Cam said. “The blonde in the red pants looks like she’s getting into the station wagon next to the Chevy.” The young blonde, juggling packages, wearing stretch pants that exposed more cellulite than mere nudity could ever reveal, let go the hand of a miserable-looking toddler, fumbled for her keys, threw in the packages, snarled at the kid to climb in, slammed the door, and revved the motor.
“God, it’s worse than the post office on April fifteenth,” Reba said as she shoved the gears into neutral and waited. “They’re like grunion throwing themselves on the beach.”
“Last-minute shopping always makes people miserable.”
“It’s not like they have to do it,” Reba reasoned. The side of her mouth went up in a devilish grin. “Or are you going to give me another lecture on the need for conformity?”
Cam twisted her head to look out the rear window. “Guy in a Honda,” she whispered in a Mission Impossible voice. “Pulling up right behind us. He’s about to . . . Go! Go! Go!” But it was too late. As the blonde backed out, the man in the Honda zipped around, missing them by inches, and pulled into the empty space. Reba slammed on the brakes. “Talk about your territorial imperative! And look at his face! He gives me a big ol’ smile and takes the parking place anyway.” They waited until the cautious woman in the Chevy got up the gumption to pull out. “Oh, boy. I need a drink,” Reba said as she turned off the motor. “And a cigarette.”
“C’mon. C’mon,” Cam urged, getting out and walking ahead.
Reba brought up the rear, looking around at the bustle of shoppers. “I feel as though I’m drifting through liquid TV—consumer cyberspace.”
“We’re just going in here,” Cam told her, pushing open the glass door to the drugstore, circling a table of jumbled cards, tree lights, and tinsel with a handwritten sign that said HALF PRICE! STOCK UP FOR NEXT YEAR!
“I think we’ll find it under ‘feminine needs.’ ” Cam muttered, scanning signs above the aisles.
“ ‘Feminine’?” Reba queried. “Shouldn’t it be ‘female’?”
“For God’s sake.” Cam strode ahead, came up short at the prescription counter, made a quick turn left, and called, “Okay. Got it.”
“Unfortunate placement, wouldn’t you say?” Reba asked, seeing the rack of condoms next to the pregnancy tests. “Trojan, Sheik, Ramses, Life Style, Class Act. Class Act?” She leaned closer, examining the package. “Hmmm. This one says it has a ribbed, tickling effect—should that be ‘affect’ or ‘effect’? And this one’s in Day-Glo colors. I gotta tell you, all this makes me feel very old. When I was in high school this was all behind the counter. All secret. Boys used to wait for a male clerk. And here they are, on display, in Day-Glo colors, no less. But the illegitimacy rate skyrockets. Go figure. And here”—Reba turned her attention to the right and touched another package—“is
the woman’s side of things. A bit more in touch with reality, even for Madison Avenue. There’s Confirm, FACT, EPT—and Quick Response!” She shook her head. “Wish they’d had these when I was in college. I had to buy a wedding ring at the dime store and go to a doctor for a pregnancy test.”
Cam caught her lower lip in her teeth. “Okay, Confirm is on sale for $9.95. I expect they’re all pretty much the same. Confirm it is.”
As they approached the cashier, Cam stopped, still chewing her lip. Reba handed her the car keys. “Go on, I’ll get it. I want to get some cigarettes anyway. Meet you in the car.”
Cam sat hunched forward, elbows on knees and head in her hands. The car radio was trumpeting, “For unto us a child is born, Unto us a son is given . . .” from the Messiah. Reba got in, switched off the radio, and asked, “Back to the house?”
“No. Let’s drive down to Bay Street. I need to look out at the water.”
The sky was overcast and a cool breeze came off the bay. Wooden swings were set at a comfortable distance apart on the promenade overlooking the water. Cam sat in one, hands tucked into her armpits, feet planted firmly on the pavement, rocking back and forth. To her right, small pleasure craft were docked near the tourist information center, behind her were an empty bandshell and lawn, the outdoor patios of restaurants, but she was mainly aware of the little playground to her left—whoops and squawks of delight, a woman’s voice promising, “Don’t be afraid, honey. I’m right here at the bottom of the slide. I’ll catch you.”
“Here ...” Reba was beside her, holding two Styrofoam cups. “It’s a Bloody Mary. Figured you could use it. Figured I could use it.”
“How’d you get them to let you carry it out here?”
“Ordered two drinks, ordered two Styrofoam cups. They looked the other way. Very civilized, I thought.”
Cam said, “I shouldn’t,” but took a long swallow.