I sat down in a chair and put my head between my knees. Last night, while under the influence of a dead man’s Phenergan, I must have burned my manuscript and then somehow poured the ashes into a FedEx envelope, which I’d inadvertently addressed to Esmé “SKANK” Vasquez.
But what had I sent to Caliban Films?
Chapter 5
HONORA DECHAVANNES SAYS,
EVERYBODY LOVES A SCANDAL
I never dreamed I’d turn into a little old lady who carried a dog in her pocketbook. I’d known people like that, and to tell the truth, I found it a tad eccentric. Yet here I was, Honora DeChavannes, an eighty-year-old dog worshipper, sneaking my Yorkie into Fairhope, Alabama’s premier salon.
I shifted in the blue vinyl swivel chair, then peered down at my oversize Kelly bag. The object of my affection, a six-pound Yorkshire terrier named Zap, peeped back at me, watching the beautician touch up my white roots.
Zap’s nose twitched, then he barked. Candice, my beautician, hunched over and started barking, too. Candice had a nose ring and a snake tattoo on her upper right arm, but could she ever do hair. She scowled at Zap. “That damn Yorkshire terrorist is gonna bite me one day.”
“He’s not a terrorist,” I said. Zap showed his teeth, then dove back into the Kelly bag, emitting warning growls.
“I don’t know if I should show you this, Honora.” Candice opened a drawer, sending plastic curlers crashing to the floor, and pulled out a magazine.
“Show me what?” I asked, wondering if she was going to show me a new hairstyle. For weeks, she’d been trying to talk me into a short cut like Halle Berry’s old look, but I just didn’t have the bone structure for it. Candice held up the magazine. “I’m sorry to report this, but your granddaughter’s boyfriend is a front-page scandal.”
“What’re you talking about?” I put on my reading glasses and glanced at the cover. It showed a redheaded man with round John Lennon glasses being squeezed up one side and down the other by a pretty (if tarty) black-headed woman. I’d never met the man, but I knew about him. Ferguson Lauderdale was Renata’s sweetheart.
Several women leaned out of their hair dryers to listen. “Why, I don’t know what you mean,” I said, trying to catch Candice’s attention and make her hush, but she sashayed between the swivel chairs, flashing the tabloid at every customer. People in Point Clear, Alabama, loved a good scandal, and a lurid one was even better. The hairdressers turned off their blow dryers, and all of the customers stopped talking. I was tempted to pour a little Frivolous Faun on Candice’s head.
Mrs. Jennings, the owner of the shop, was sitting in the chair beside me; she craned her neck and stared at the picture. “Honora, do you really know this guy?”
“She certainly does,” said Candice, holding up the magazine for all to see. “This is a picture of Ferguson Lauderdale, everybody. He made that hit movie last year. I’m sure y’all have seen it. Raise your hands, anybody here who hasn’t seen Bombshell? I didn’t think so. Well, anyway, Ferguson is—or maybe I should say was?—in love with Honora’s granddaughter.”
“I remember Renata,” said Mrs. Jennings. “The last time she visited Honora, I gave her highlights. The most stunning gray eyes I ever saw, except for her mother’s. Lord rest her soul, Shelby was gorgeous. And she had natural curl to die for. But good hair won’t protect you from love troubles.”
“You ought to know,” I snapped, but Mrs. Jennings just laughed. She’d just gotten married for the fourth time, and to a much younger man who gave scuba lessons at the YMCA.
“And so do you, Honora. So do you. Why, I remember when your husband Chaz died. You were burning something in your barbecue pit. I could see the flames from my shop.”
“Candice, honey?” I glanced up at my beautician. “Can we hurry this up? Because if you don’t, I am going to use a curling iron on Mrs. Jennings’s tongue.”
“Now I know the answer to that blind item that ran in last week’s Star,” Candice said, digging through a pile of magazines beside the dryers. I leaned back in my chair and squinted down at the tabloid.
“What does Renata’s boyfriend see in that Spanish harlot?” Mrs. Jennings reached into the space between our chairs and patted my hand, her way of letting me know that my secrets were safe with her—at least, until I left her shop.
“I know,” said Candice, walking back to my chair. “Renata’s gorgeous.”
“And talented,” I said, leaving off the neurotic nail-biting and her tendency to overindulge in all things chocolate. On the other hand, she adored Ferguson, and losing him would be a harsh blow. “She has no idea that she’s beautiful,” I added.
“It helped having Shelby and Louie for her parents.” Mrs. Jennings smiled. “And you for the grandma-ma!”
“Oh, pooh.” I waved my hand; but to be perfectly honest, Renata hadn’t been a pretty newborn. She was what my late husband, Chaz, would call an F.L.K. He’d been a neurosurgeon, and I still remembered the medical lingo. F.L.K. stood for Funny Looking Kid. Renata’s daddy had been one, too. True, they’d transformed, but only on the exterior. Not that Renata cared about such things.
I opened my bag and reached under Zap for my wallet. Then I passed around my granddaughter’s pictures. While the beauticians ooh’d and ah’d over her eyes and cheekbones, an argument broke out over her hair color. Candice said it was a level 6; Mrs. Jennings said it was a 7.
“I would love to give Renata a few strategic highlights,” said Candice.
A little strategy was just what I had in mind, but I wasn’t sure where to begin. If I weren’t so old—and if I could take my Yorkie with me—I’d fly over to Ireland and hunt down Mr. Lauderdale. I would just love to shake that boy really hard, or give him a tongue-lashing. It would be worth breaking bones to knock sense into that Scotsman. Not that I was a stalker or the meddlesome type. Heaven forbid I should stoop that low. I’d never stalked anything, man or beast, not even asparagus (did I ever tell you about the time Euell Gibbons was my houseguest? No? Well, I’ll just save that for another time). That said, I had been known to interfere in matters of the heart. Which was not the same as stalking.
I slid out of the chair and grabbed my Kelly bag, then hurried toward the back door. Zap ducked his head, and only his topknot was visible. “Wait, Honora,” Candice hollered. “Don’t run off, I need to rinse you.”
“I’ll just have to rinse myself.” I stepped out of the shop into the windy March afternoon. I reached inside the bag and patted Zap, who was digging in the bottom of the purse, making odd little growls, then I hurried out to the Bentley.
When I got in the car, I set the bag on the seat, and Zap hopped out, wagging his stubby tail. He glanced at the bag, then at me. That dog knew the routine better than I did. Every time I went to Fairhope—or just anywhere—I took an extra pocketbook, maybe a Jackie O Gucci or a Dior saddlebag, and I tied a little notecard to the strap: “Free to Good Home.” Then I released it into the wild. That was how I thought of it, releasing designer handbags into the wild. Today, I’d planned to give up this green ostrich leather Kelly bag. It was very dear, and I loved it. But I was in no shape to set foot in public, what with my hair and all. My friend Isabella believed that I was crazy to release handbags. She couldn’t understand that the handbags were better off being loved and used by a stranger than collecting dust in my accessory closet.
“That’s just plain silly, Honora,” Isabella would cry. “Sell them on eBay! You’ll make a small fortune.” I tried to explain that it wasn’t the money, that it was the joy of giving away a Gucci. Hoarding it on a shelf in my closet only led to a handbag’s decline. Well, it really did. They lost their shape and acquired odors.
I drove home and swung the Bentley through the gates. Gathering the Yorkie into my arms, I hurried into the house, thinking about that article and wondering how Renata was holding up. She had just lost her mother, and now she’d lost her sweetheart. She was my only grandchild—well, the only legitimate one. Considering my son Louie’s libi
do, only the Lord knew how many little DeChavanneses were running around greater New Orleans and the Gulf Coast, if not the entire American South. Maybe the world. I just didn’t know.
I felt terrible because I hadn’t called Renata in weeks, mainly because I’d been planning a big engagement party for her daddy. Louie was getting married for the umpteenth time, and after all Renata had been through, well, I just didn’t have the heart to explain. Her relationship with my son was, at best, stilted—but Louie held me at a distance, too. Both Renata and I had been much closer to Shelby. Long ago I had made her a promise that if anything happened during her globe-trotting, I would bring Renata back to Point Clear and attempt to fill in the missing pieces of her childhood.
When I made a promise, I kept it. I might take my time, I might get distracted, but in the end, I would come through. Inside the house, I snatched the portable phone and dialed the cottage in Nags Head. Then I reached up, patting my head, and wondered if the dye would rinse out or if my hair would just break off.
Renata’s answering machine clicked on, and I listened to her voice, wondering what in the world I’d say. Probably it was best to keep it light, something like, I am thinking about you, call when you get a chance; but what came out was, “Come home, Renata. You may not have much of a family left, but we love you. And—well, your mother wanted me to tell you some confidential information. Things she meant to tell you. Even if you don’t want to hear it, I’d still love to see you. So please, my darling, come home to Point Clear.”
Chapter 6
WELCOME TO ALABAMA
I’d just broken one of my ironclad drinking laws, which was never to order an old-fashioned anywhere except in the Deep South, much less thirty-five thousand feet above it. Another was never to exchange sad stories on airplanes, but it looked as if I might smash that rule, too.
From my seat in row five, seat A, I tried to ignore the panicky redheaded woman beside me. The poor thing had downed her second gimlet and had ordered a third. While she waited for the stewardess, she raked magenta fingernails through her hair, which was extremely short and had been dyed a violent, almost hurtful shade of mahogany. Then she reached into the seat pocket and pulled out the laminated US Air safety brochure with its cartoonish illustrations.
“God, I hate flying,” she said, fanning herself. “Any minute now we’re going to crash.”
“No, we’re not,” I said in a soothing tone. I had an emergency Xanax in my purse, but pure selfishness prevented me from offering it. I might need it later. In the latest tabloids, Ferg and Esmé’s romance was being compared to the infamous Burton and Taylor affair. I had seen the magazines at the airport bookstore. Ferg and I weren’t engaged, but didn’t our three years together count? Well, no. Not in Hollywood, and not around Esmé Vasquez.
Now I straightened my floppy black hat, hoping my hair wasn’t visible. Stop dwelling on the past, I told myself. Engagements and marriages broke up every day; people fell in love and died in plane crashes. It wasn’t bad luck, it was just part of the phenomena we call life.
During a two-hour layover in Atlanta, I wandered into a gift shop and stood in front of the candy counter, trying to decide between Skittles and Reese’s Pieces. My gaze wandered over to the magazines. The old National Enquirer was prominently displayed, showing the infamous thigh-squeeze. I paid for the Skittles and Reese’s Pieces, then hurried out of the store, bumping into a pudgy tourist with a camera dangling from his sunburned neck.
“What am I—invisible?” he cried.
“I wish,” I muttered.
His eyes narrowed. For a moment, I thought he might slap me. Instead, he raised his camera with one hand and snapped my picture. I apologized, then hurried toward the escalator, toward my gate. The plane was already boarding, and I stood in line, eating Reese’s Pieces. When I finally boarded, I was happy to see that my seatmate was an attractive middle-aged woman in a navy business suit. During the short flight, she worked on her laptop. I did not order an old-fashioned. The stewardess threw down little bags of pretzels, then offered lemonade or bottled water.
Before the plane landed in Mobile, the cabin seemed to fill with pungent aromas: chicory coffee, mildew, Tabasco, and Jax beer. Once you inhale the air in the Deep South, you’ll never forget it. Maybe it’s the moss and brackish water, but the entire region gives off a seminal odor.
Honora stood by the gate, a Louis Vuitton bag slung over her arm. “Darling!” she cried in a Barbara Stanwyck voice. “Over here.”
I wrapped my arms around her, pulling her close. “I’m home,” I whispered.
“Yes, my darling, you are.” She patted my arm.
Two women wearing Talbot pantsuits stepped over to me and shook my hand. “We feel like we know you, Renata,” they gushed, slinging their Aigner handbags. “Your boyfriend must be a fool, chasing after that silly woman. She was just horrid in that dog movie. Well, anyway, God bless you. And God bless your sweet little mother, too.”
Mother? I thought, then smiled. Honora kissed the women good-bye and escorted me to baggage claim, chitchatting about the Bay Cotillion Club and how she’d just finished the latest John Grisham novel. In typical Honora style, she slipped in a recipe for a five-mushroom tart, then moaned about a strange fungus that was blighting her Siberian irises.
“Don’t try to distract me.” I laughed, happy to be distracted from my own sordid troubles. “Who were those women in the terminal, Honora? What did you tell them?”
“Hardly anything at all.” She smiled. “You would’ve been proud. I left plenty to the imagination. Speaking of which, I need your ideas for my party. The forsythias have stopped blooming, but you should see my lilacs. They’ll look regal in tall crystal vases. We’ll just put key limes or maybe brussels sprouts in the bottoms to anchor the stems. Oh, won’t it be lovely to have everybody together again?”
I let that pass, because having “everybody together” was impossible. Once, I’d dreamed of bringing Ferg to Mobile Bay and showing him around my grandmother’s gardens, taking him floundering along the shore, feeding him authentic southern food. My fantasy had included my mother. All my life, she had tried to make up for my father’s lack of interest. In the weeks following her death, I’d hoped to grow closer to my father, but he became even more distant. That was saying a lot. I hadn’t thought I would make it after my mother died; losing Ferg this soon after her passing was more than I could stand. Not wanting to upset my grandmother, I turned my head, as if admiring the view, then reached up and wiped away tears.
By the time we’d gathered the luggage and found Honora’s Bentley in the parking lot, I was dripping wet. Perspiration slid down the tip of my chin. A warm, gasoline-smelling wind rushed up my nose. Beneath my floppy hat, I could almost feel my damp, butchered hair starting to curl and fray.
This morning, when I’d left Nags Head, a chilly breeze had wafted off the Atlantic, and I’d grabbed a heavy wool turtleneck. Here in Alabama, it was practically summer. On the Southern Living map, the state had three different gardening zones. Mobile Bay, along with the entire Gulf Coast, was a subtropical Zone 8, which basically meant that everything grew larger: roses, tomatoes, termites.
My grandmother drove her car around the concrete loop, taking up two lanes. She paid the attendant, then headed toward the Eastern Shore. “Do you want to just go home, or shall we sightsee?” she asked. “We can swing by the USS Alabama. You’re here in time to see the Festival of Flowers, too.”
“Let’s go home,” I said.
“Fabulous idea.” Reaching into the backseat, she pulled out a wicker picnic basket. Inside were two crystal glasses, a cold, preopened bottle of Dom Pérignon stuffed into an insulated bag, a tiny Evian bottle, and a tin of Tabasco pecans.
“Will you do the honors?” she asked. “Just water for me. At my age, I can’t talk my way out of a DUI. Are you starting to cool down? Add a little ice to your champagne. Speaking of ice, I just reread Dante’s Inferno.”
She leaned forward and
twisted the air conditioner knob, then turned up the radio. While Simon and Garfunkel sang “Bridge over Troubled Water,” Honora chatted about the weather. “In the last two weeks we’ve had cold snaps and heat waves. Gladys says that when the humidity rises, the tree frogs speak in tongues. Doesn’t that sound just like her? She can’t wait to see you…don’t worry about that water, darling. I’ve changed my mind. Be a dear and fix me a teeny glass of champagne.”
“Why didn’t Gladys come with you?” I poured a glass of Dom and handed it over. Gladys Boudreaux had been my nanny, but now she worked for Honora.
“She’s dog-sitting. I swear that woman never ages,” Honora said. “And she’s older than me! She’s thinking of taking a Pilates class.”
She took a sip of champagne, then began to hum. I started to relax. She hadn’t mentioned the tabloid, and I wondered if she’d forgotten about it.
“By the way,” she said, “I burned that heinous picture of Ferguson. I burned the whole damn National Enquirer, and I took great pleasure in it. It’s Dantean, the depth people will sink, just to sell a story. But that’s just one example of the modern world gone awry.”
I poured a dollop of champagne into my glass, and the bubbles tickled my nose. When I was a small girl, I’d felt seasick, listening to Honora’s swaying sentences, but now they soothed me in a way I could not explain.
“Don’t fret,” she said. “I won’t badger you about Ferguson.” She fiddled with the radio until she found a station playing the standards. When Julie London started singing “Cry Me a River,” my grandmother sighed. “Oh, I do miss the fifties, even though we didn’t have good antibiotics back then. Now, we have better drugs and desserts. That reminds me, there’s a new bakery in Fairhope that makes key lime pies with a nut-and-candy crust. The beignets are sweet and dense and chewy. Just the way you like them. Perfect with chocolate almond coffee. We’ll go there tomorrow or the next day. I thought about having that bakery cater your daddy’s party, but I’d already hired the Grand Hotel.”
Mermaids in the Basement Page 3