Bed & Breakfast

by Lois Battle

  “She was bent out of shape because I came home late last night,” Ricky said. “I mean, like, it’s vacation and she still can’t get it through her head that I’m an adult and I want to spend time with my friends.”

  “You might have the courtesy to give us a call when you know you’re going to be hours late,” Orrie said. “You know how your mother worries.”

  “Sometimes it helps,” Evie advised, “if you don’t approach the coming-home-late thing as a power struggle between parents and kids. If you could both just think of each other as roommates.”

  “Your roommate don’t pay your rent,” Jasper noted.

  “Dad might put up with that, but Mom never would,” Susan said.

  “Hey, I don’t have to tell my roommates when I’m coming home,” Ricky gave Evie a smug “gotcha” smirk.

  “But just out of courtesy, you might give the roommate a call,” Evie persisted.

  Cam felt as though she was underwater and didn’t have the strength to kick her way to the top.

  “Trouble with you kids is that you’ve had it too damned easy.” Jasper swirled the last of the bourbon in his glass. “Good food. Pretty women . . .” He looked at Evie, who gave him an “aw shucks” dip of her head. “Don’t see how anyone can be depressed.” Not to be thought ungallant, he turned to Reba and asked, “So what do you think of our fine state, Miss Golden?” and, without waiting for an answer, “This isn’t the best time of year to see it. You should come down in April or May, see those azaleas blooming.”

  “Yes, I’m sure it’s lovely,” Reba replied with a daintiness that made Cam bite her lip.

  The table fell quiet again. Orrie looked at his watch. “Mama, I don’t care what you say, if she’s not back in another twenty minutes, I’m calling over to the police station and asking to talk to Fred.”

  “She’ll be here,” Josie assured him, “I told you, Mrs. Beasley said she just went off with a friend.” She wondered how much longer she could go without being questioned about who this friend might be. “Dessert, anyone?”

  “Like, it’s okay for her to go off, but it’s not okay for me,” Ricky grouched.

  “Ricky.” Josie felt her temper about to snap. “Despite what Evie thinks, your parents are not your roommates. They’re not even your friends.”

  “They might be your friends in middle age,” Reba said, “if either of you has grown up enough to admit you’re not perfect.”

  “My daddy weren’t ever my friend,” Jasper said into his empty glass. “He was threatening to cut a peach switch and whup me right up till the day he died. Would’ve done it too, ’cept I was bigger than he was.”

  “Neither one of my parents would ever lay a hand on me,” Susan asserted. “You never hit your kids, did you, Grandma?”

  Josie opened her mouth to say no, looked at Cam, and closed it. “Well,” she stumbled, creasing her napkin with her thumbnail, “we didn’t have the same attitude toward it. Whippin’—I mean physical punishment—was an everyday thing when I was coming up. We didn’t think it was so awful. We expected it. And sometimes . . . well, sometimes, you just lose your temper.”

  “Parents aren’t supposed to lose their tempers. They’re the adults,” Ricky said. “They should set an example.”

  “Bullshit,” Cam muttered. “Just because you reproduce doesn’t mean you automatically become a saint.” She shut her eyes. “Mama, I think I’ll take that bourbon now.”

  Another silence fell. Josie said, “Why, surely,” and got up to go to the liquor cabinet.

  Jasper held up his glass. “Might as well give me a refill while you’re at it, Josie. Now what’s the plan here? We’re gonna finish decorating the tree?”

  “Yes,” Josie said, dipping into the ice bucket. “Cuba’s grandchildren decorated the lower branches this afternoon, but there’s still some to be done. Then we’ll open the presents”—Please, God, Lila would come through the door right now—“and then we’re going to go to Cuba’s church.”

  Jasper chuckled. “How we end up going to a nigger church on Christmas Eve is beyond me.”

  Josie stiffened. “Cuba’s choir,” she began.

  Reba felt as though cold water had just been hurled into her face. Not that she hadn’t heard the “N” word—in fact that last time she’d heard it had been when one black man had yelled it at another who’d taken his parking place near Broadway and 86th—but to hear it so casually tossed off . . . “Mr. Gadsden,” she began, rising from her chair, not knowing what she was going to say but knowing she had to say something. But suddenly everyone was speaking simultaneously:

  “Hey, Pops,” Ricky was shaking his head. “It’s not politically correct to—”

  “Daddy, I wish you wouldn’t—” Orrie warned.

  Evie pleaded, “Let’s not argue.”

  “You know, Jasper—” Cam began with a “let me tell you something, buster” belligerence.

  Reba’s voice cut in, loud and articulated as a Shakespearean actor’s pitched to the balcony, “Josie, can I help you with the dishes!”

  Another silence, broken by Josie saying, after a deep breath, “I wouldn’t think of it. I never let my guests help.” She touched Susan’s shoulder. “But you, miss, are wanted in the kitchen.”

  “Grandma, that’s sexist. How come you don’t expect Ricky to help?” Susan whined. “Aunt Cam, isn’t that sexist?”

  “Sometimes the safest place to be is in the kitchen,” Cam said.

  “Everyone has to help. You can each bring your plate into the kitchen,” Josie told them. “Then you can all clear out because I’d just as soon clean up by myself. Then I’m going upstairs to change and you kids can go upstairs and change too.”

  “I didn’t bring any other clothes,” Ricky said.

  “Ricky, I told you . . .” Susan started.

  “Fine,” Josie told him. “If you didn’t bring any decent clothes, then you won’t be going to the service.”

  Ricky shrugged. “Wasn’t planning to anyway.”

  Josie’s tone was acid. “That’s as I’d expected.” She reached to the center of the table and picked up the serving bowl. “Why don’t y’all go on into the living room. The old record player’s in there and Reba might like to hear some of Bear’s old seventy-eights.”

  “You should’ve seen Daddy dance,” Evie said, wiggling her shoulders. “He could really—what did he call it, Mama?—cut a rug?”

  “Yes, that’s what he called it,” Josie said tiredly, exiting to the kitchen. Jasper went to the sideboard to fix himself another drink, but everyone else picked up his or her plate and started to move into the kitchen. As she passed Reba’s chair, Susan whispered, “Grandaddy isn’t really hateful, he still just talks that way. It’s a generational thing.”

  Reba said, “I’m sure,” taking care to keep the sarcasm out of her voice.

  “No, it really is,” Susan said with conviction. “Grandaddy really likes black people.”

  “I’m sure,” Reba said again.

  “He likes them more than I do. Except for Miss Giffens. She’s my gym teacher. You remind me a lot of her.”

  “She’s Jewish?” Reba asked quizzically, gathering up Evie’s plate as Evie drifted to the living room to kneel beside Jasper, who was fiddling with the record player.

  “No. But she’s . . . I don’t know. You just remind me of her. And you don’t understand Grandaddy. He employs lots of black people. And not because the government says he has to, because he hates the government.”

  “Since your daddy’s going to be in the House of Representatives, that may pose a problem.”

  “No. You still don’t understand,” Susan persisted, “Grandaddy wanted Daddy to win. He bankrolled Daddy’s campaign.”

  This time Reba laughed before she said, “I’m sure,” but the look on Susan’s face was so strained that she put her arm around her. “Why do you think my mother’s gone?” Susan asked, sotto voce.

  “I think, just like your grandmother said, tha
t she was feeling a little bummed out by all the family stuff, so she took off with a friend for a couple of hours. That’s not the end of the world, is it?”

  “Not if she comes back soon,” Susan conceded.

  “Why don’t you go on into the living room?”

  “No, I want to help.” Susan trailed Reba into the kitchen, where Josie stood in front of the open refrigerator, staring at its contents as though she were looking at Guernica for the first time.

  She’d rearranged the shelves and contents several times that afternoon but it was a bulging mess. The turkey, massive and cold as a corpse, had pride of place. A large bowl of cornbread stuffing had been jammed in next to it, along with two cartons of heavy cream, milk, juice, cranberry-orange sauce, and a Jell-O-and-marshmallow mold she would never have fixed had it not been one of Orrie’s favorites. On the bottom shelf Saran-Wrapped crudites, olives, cheeses, fixings for salad, snapped green beans, creamed turnips, and a partially cooked sweet-potato casserole crowded by bottles of horseradish, homemade pickled okra, salsa, barbecue sauce, salad dressing, peach chutney, and corn relish. A bottle of wine was wedged in at an odd angle. Oranges and apples, a fresh pineapple, a package of cold cuts were crammed in higgledy-piggledy, along with a cream-cheese-and-salmon spread she hadn’t wanted to throw out but that seemed to have developed green-gray blossoms. It was a sin to throw away food, but where was she going to fit leftovers from the Lowcountry Boil? How could she organize it all? And if she couldn’t even organize a refrigerator . . .

  She glanced over at Cam, who was methodically scraping dishes into the sink. She understood that Cam’s afternoon napping had been a simple case of avoidance. Sometimes, when Cam was a little girl and they’d changed bases and Cam hadn’t been able to face a new school, she’d develop a tummy ache so she could spend the day in bed reading. Josie had been inclined to let her stay home, but Bear, whose motto was “No slackers or goldbricks permitted in this company,” would never let the children miss school unless they had a temperature above a hundred and two. Josie wanted to tuck her into bed now, sit down beside her, and say, “Your friend Reba told me you’re having some troubles. Please tell me.” Instead, she said, “Don’t put the shrimp shells in the garbage disposal, Camilla.” Cam nodded without looking at her. It was far from the reunion she’d hoped for. Cam hadn’t said a single intimate thing since she’d arrived, but, Josie thought, that was probably her fault. Having Cam brought to Lila’s party had been her first mistake, but she’d promised Lila she’d be there. Having Mrs. Beasley in residence hadn’t helped. And visiting Mawmaw had hardly afforded an opportunity to find out about Cam’s life. No doubt about it, she’d botched it. She’d tried to accommodate too many people, tried to cram in too many things. She looked at the butter dish in her hand and her voice quaked as she said, “I simply don’t know where to—”

  “Mama.” Cam’s hand was on her shoulder. “Why don’t you go upstairs and have a nice long bath and get dressed for church? Reba and I will clean up.”

  “I suppose.” Josie gave up, put the butter dish on the sink, closed the refrigerator, and moved toward the door, where she turned and ordered, “Don’t throw away the leftover shrimp. Just peel it and put it into a Tupperware bowl. I don’t know where you’ll find room in the refrigerator, but I can use it in something later.”

  “Mama, go take your bath.”

  When Josie was out of earshot Cam laughed and shook her head. “Don’t throw anything out. Darn it, patch it, use the bones for soup. Talk about your Depression mentality!”

  “You think Grandma’s depressed?” Susan asked.

  “Depression mentality means something entirely different,” Cam explained, taking a gulp of her bourbon. “You see, Susan, Grandma, even Jasper, they were part of another time. When they were growing up, people were actually worried about whether they could pay their loans, whether they’d have enough to eat.”

  Susan pulled up a stool, wrapped her hands around her bony knees, and muttered, “Ah-huh,” encouraging Cam to go on.

  “Don’t they teach you any of this stuff in school?”

  “Well, we were supposed to read The Grapes of Wrath which I guess is about all this Depression, but some people thought it was a Communist book so ...”

  Ricky, followed by Orrie, came into the kitchen. “Have you guys finally come to help?” Susan asked sarcastically, but Ricky and Orrie were involved in their own negotiations.

  “Oh, Jeee-eez, Dad.” Ricky rolled his eyes, laced his fingers together, extended his arms, and cracked his knuckles. “If you don’t want to give me the keys to your car, just say so.”

  “I’ll give you the keys. I just want you to promise me . . .”

  Not wanting to hear this exchange, Cam switched on the garbage disposal and pushed coleslaw and half-eaten potatoes into its maw, thinking it was a sad day when parents became frightened of their children.

  “Are you saying you don’t trust me?” Ricky bristled.

  “I’m just saying—”

  God help the Republic, Cam thought, Orrie’s supposed to guide the interests of the state and he can’t even stand up to his kid. Turning off the disposal, she heard the keys chink into Ricky’s outstretched palm. “I’m outta here,” Ricky called, slamming the back door.

  “Talk about feeding the mouth that bites you,” Reba whispered to Cam, then, in a louder voice, “Am I supposed to shell leftover shrimp, or what?”

  “I’ll shell them,” Susan volunteered. “Grandma taught me how when I was no bigger than a shrimp myself. See, you hold it by its tail, you pull off the legs, then you yank on it so ...”

  Orrie looked at the clock over the kitchen sink. “Anything I can do to help you ladies?”

  “Oh, Daddy, you know you break everything you touch in the kitchen,” Susan said.

  Orrie laughed. “That’s how my daddy taught me to avoid housework.”

  “I think we’ve got it under control,” Cam told him. “Just go on in with Evie and Jasper.” Then, catching his look, “Stop worrying, Orrie. She’ll be back.”

  “Well, if she’s not back in another twenty minutes . . .” He looked from the clock to his watch.

  “She will be,” Cam said. “Go pour yourself a drink and relax.”

  He nodded and shuffled off.

  “Daddy hardly ever drinks liquor. At receptions and all he just carries a glass of wine but he doesn’t really drink it. He hates liquor,” Susan told them. “You know, because of Grandaddy.”

  “Which grandaddy?” Reba asked.

  Susan shrugged. “Both, I guess. Aunt Evie says we’ve been a dysfunctional family from way back.”

  “That’s the heritage, sugar,” Cam said, snapping Susan’s legs with a dishtowel. “Try not to abandon it.”

  Susan grabbed the towel, they went through a mock tug-of-war, then Cam let go, causing Susan to wobble off the stool. “You know,” Susan laughed, regaining her balance, “I hardly remembered you, Aunt Cam, but I’m glad you’ve come home. Mother was all uptight about your coming.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Ah-huh. She thought you’d get into arguments with everyone.”

  “Yeah,” Reba said, winking at Cam, “your aunt Cam’s real cantankerous, always spoiling for a fight.”

  “What sort of arguments?” Cam pressed.

  Susan shrugged. “All sorts. Like maybe with Daddy, about girls going to the Citadel. Or the abortion issue. ’Course, Mother argues with Daddy about the abortion thing herself, but only at home. She can’t say anything in public because of Daddy’s—you know—official position. I’m not sure what I think.”

  Reba started to sing the Virginia Slims commercial, “ ‘You’ve come a long way, baby, to get where you’ve got to today . . .’ ”

  “I’ve decided I’m not going to have sex until I’m married,” Susan rattled on. “And I’m going to make sure that both of us are virgins. And as far as the abortion thing goes, I know I could never do that. I mean, killing a baby is an awful
thing to do. There’s this girl at school—”

  “ ‘You’ve got your own cigarette now, baby, You’ve come a long, long way,’ ” Reba sang louder. How could she shut this kid up. She was sure Cam was agonizing over her decision. The last thing she needed was half-baked babble about baby killers. She sighed and said, “I guess we really haven’t come a long way. Susan, I hope it’s not going to shock you if I have a cigarette.” She pulled a pack from the pocket of her skirt, knocked one out, and lit it, asking, “Should I go into the garden, Cam?” Cam shook her head.

  “Most of the girls I know smoke,” Susan said. “I don’t. Well, actually I do.” She waited to see what impact her confession would have. “But I don’t do it often, because I’m in training.”

  “Well, don’t do it,” Reba told her. “I’m glad I’m not a parent so I don’t have to set an example, because this is the single instance in which I’d have to tell you, ‘Don’t do what I do; do what I say.’ It’s a shitty habit, Susan. And I’m ashamed of it, but there you go. Nobody’s perfect.”

  Susan looked pleased, whether because an adult had openly admitted weakness or just because Reba had said “shitty,” Cam couldn’t guess. The raucous strains of a Dixieland band rocked out of the living room.

  “So this girl at school,” Susan went on, “Chantal is her name—she’s black and she’s on scholarship ’cause she’s real smart—she got pregnant and—”

  “How old is she?” Reba asked.

  “Sixteen.”

  “Case closed. Not old enough to be a mother. Not old enough to have sex in the first place.”

  “But since she did—have sex, I mean—and since—”

  “That’s an Original Dixieland Jazz Band 1936 recording,” Cam cut in. “Why don’t you two go into the living room and listen to it?”

  “What’s it called?” Susan asked.

  “ ‘Tiger Rag.’ Your Grandaddy Bear loved it. Oh, when he’d tie one on he’d have us all in stitches. He’d dance and play the harmonica. And the blues? He could croon the blues with so much soul . . .”

  “I hardly remember him,” Susan said. “ ’Cept he used to tell me to stand up straight and salute the flag, and he’d say things like ‘front and center’ when he wanted us to hurry up and get in the car. Mother didn’t like him much, did she? She said he was a bully and a tyrant. I remember once when we were at some kind of a parade he slapped Ricky’s behind because Ricky was acting up.” Judging by her expression, this was a memory Susan cherished. “I can’t really remember what Grandaddy looked like, but I remember his smells—cigars and shoe polish and some sticky stuff he put on his hair to slick it down. What was he really like?”