“We were young,” said Honora. “Time is a bitch.”
I bent closer. Honora wore a black one-piece suit and a black straw hat. Her skin was pale, and her large breasts spilled out of her cleavage into a V. Mother’s yellow polka dot bikini barely covered her dainty parts. Her long blond hair was pulled into a ponytail, and it streamed down her right shoulder. Gladys wore a pink floral housedress and looked grumpy. Isabella D’Agostino wore black sunglasses, a red two-piece, and all of her jewelry. Her hair was pulled back with a red geometric scarf, and she held a cigarette in her left hand. Isabella had always fascinated me. She was a native of Fairhope, Alabama, but she’d gone to Hollywood in the 1960s and gotten famous. She’d enjoyed brief popularity costarring in romantic comedies alongside Doris Day, Rock Hudson, and James Garner. Isabella specialized in playing stodgy, insufferable bitches, but at the height of her fame, she came home to Alabama, married a wealthy Alabama man, and abandoned her career.
Finally I said, “Who took the picture?”
“Why, you did, baby doll,” she said. “You did.”
Honora shooed me upstairs to the New Orleans Room, with its muted yellow walls and lilac silk curtains. On the night table, Gladys had set out ice water in a crystal carafe, along with pecan pralines wrapped in cellophane and tied with a purple bow. My luggage had been unpacked. My clothes were neatly stacked in the drawers, with rose petal sachets tucked between the layers. A white cotton nightgown with pink ribbons was laid across a chair.
As I got ready for bed, my head swirled with brandy, shrimp creole, lost love, tabloid stories, and my father’s baby book. After my parents were divorced, Honora had apparently taken my mother’s side. “You’d think Shelby and Honora were mother and daughter,” Daddy would complain.
When I’d gotten older, I’d demanded to know what had happened, but my mother would always put me off, saying she’d explain one day. In some ways her life and mine seemed to begin after she married Andy VanDusen and we moved to California. Every summer, she sent me to Point Clear, Alabama, to visit Honora, but I rarely saw my daddy. Louie was a cardiovascular surgeon in New Orleans, and a gifted one. He blamed his absences on his profession. Honora refused to accept my father’s lack of interest and badgered him with phone calls and letters, setting up father-daughter dates. Louie would promise to pick me up at four p.m., and I would sit on Honora’s marble staircase, my petticoats itching my legs. Outside, through the beveled glass doors, the sky would change from blue to gray to navy, then black. The whole time, Honora would be calling his answering service and every hospital and bar in New Orleans.
If he’d been left to his own devices, I wouldn’t have ever seen the man, but he was more afraid of angering his mother than he was of being a terrible father. He would eventually show up—sometimes with a woman, sometimes alone, and always full of I’m-sorrys and plausible excuses. He’d bring a bouquet that he’d hastily bought at Delchamps, or a couple of helium balloons painted with garish cartoon faces and printed with inappropriate greetings, such as “Get Well Soon!” or “Congratulations on your baby boy!” His every gesture said, See? I’m trying to love you, trying to pay attention; but my cruel, childish self knew that he longed to be elsewhere.
I only heard from him at Christmas, and I was always the one who phoned. On my birthdays, I received a gift and a card, but I recognized Honora’s handwriting. For my sixteenth birthday, he’d presented me with a pearl necklace that my grandmother had personally selected, but I treasured those pearls. Honora described my daddy as loving but neglectful. He was a workaholic, a backsliding Catholic, and a sports fanatic. He had season tickets to the Saints games and never missed a home LSU game if he could help it.
Me, I despised golf, tennis, soccer, football. If it had a ball, you could be sure I’d hate it. I preferred to read Nancy Drew or to rearrange my grandmother’s majolica dogs, or to help Gladys plant herbs or deadhead the five-acre rose garden. Not only that, my mother and Honora dressed me in pastel voile. My wardrobe must have been a subliminal blow. My big, dark, masculine father holding an ugly, squirming baby girl, dressed head to toe in ruffles. I knew this was true, because I had seen pictures. I really was an odd-looking girl-child. My mother’s dainty features had blended unhappily with the thick, Gallic DeChavannes bone structure. I was only five feet four, but I had enormous feet with little crooked toes shaped like overripe blueberries. My fingers were fat, and I had a broad, ugly chin; but the finishing touch was the famous teardrop DeChavannes nose, which was too big and witchy for my childish face.
After my father’s third marriage broke up, I stopped going to Alabama, and I spent blissful summers at Nags Head. I would introduce myself to the summer children—and later, to boys—as Renata VanDusen, eliminating the DeChavannes. However, my mother refused to let me drift away from my daddy’s people. She invited my grandmother, Isabella, and Gladys Boudreaux to join us at the Outer Banks.
People often mistook us for a real family, and we never corrected them. The fact that Mama had been married to Honora’s son didn’t matter to Andy. Anyone my mama loved, Andy automatically loved, too. Honora, Gladys, and Isabella would roar up the sandy driveway in the old Bentley that resembled a tank. Andy would put on an apron and boil a pot of crabs. He and Isabella would exchange gossip and tell outrageous stories about famous actors.
“Let’s toast Hollywood,” she’d say, raising her drink.
“To Hollywood,” Andy would say, clinking his glass against hers.
“Are you sorry you left Hollywood?” I asked her.
“Me?” Isabella laughed. “Not one little bit. Why, if I hadn’t retired, I wouldn’t have returned to Alabama, and your mama wouldn’t have met Andy.”
“Let’s drink to fate,” he said, raising his glass. “Fate and true love and happy ever afters.”
Chapter 8
GRITS AND REVELATIONS
The next morning I examined my haircut in the bathroom mirror. Short, cowlicked hairs stuck out of the left side of my head, making me think of an old movie, Ryan’s Daughter. I resembled the actress Sara Miles after the Irish villagers had whacked off her hair for sleeping with the peg-legged (but gorgeous) English officer. The right side of my head looked the same as always, a sort of dark blond, shoulder-length Bride of Frankenstein.
I found scissors in the vanity drawer and went to work on the lopsided Mohawk. Then I squirted grapefruit-scented mousse into my palm and rubbed it over the spiky tips. Satisfied with my handiwork, I changed into gray sweatpants and a white cotton shirt that smelled faintly of Ferg—Aramis, tobacco, and single-malt whisky.
On my way out of the room, I bumped into the carved French dresser, overturning a silver picture frame. It was an old photograph of me and my daddy. I looked to be three or four years old. I wore a stiff, frilly pink bonnet that tied under my chin.
Tilting the picture closer, I searched for details. Inside the bonnet, dark blond bangs covered my eyebrows, and my eyes held the same fierce glint that I’d seen in my daddy’s baby pictures. He was kneeling beside me, his hands gripping my chest, as if restraining me; perhaps he was steadying himself. Parked between us was a straw Easter basket, brimming over with green shredded cellophane grass, all of it dotted with pastel eggs, jelly beans, and Elmer’s Gold Bricks.
I traced my finger over Daddy’s hair, a 1970s style with heavy bangs that fell over his eyebrows. His smile was crooked, sardonic, and utterly familiar. I was looking at the photographer, but my father was staring at something or someone just off to the side. Behind us, the sun hovered over Mobile Bay, staining the water orange. Oh, Daddy, I thought. Why couldn’t you love me? What did I do wrong?
I set the frame on the dresser. Reaching into my tote, I pulled out my mother’s aqua letter, leaving the small packet of seeds; I slipped it into my pocket and headed downstairs for coffee. Gladys and Honora were sitting at the cherry table, morning sun spearing through the beige floral curtains. My grandmother traced a bottle of Elmer’s Glue along the edges of a whit
e card. Gladys lifted a coffee cup and turned a page of the Mobile Register. Next to her elbow was an untouched bran muffin and an eviscerated grapefruit half. She wore the same frayed chenille robe that I’d given her in 1975; but Honora was dressed in a beige Chanel suit. I glanced over her shoulder, watching her press the white card into her book. It was the invitation to Daddy’s party.
PLEASE JOIN US FOR COCKTAILS
In Honor of
Dr. Louis DeChavannes and Miss Joie Mayfield
Friday, March 14, 2000
Seven O’Clock
at the home of Honora Hughes DeChavannes
394 Scenic Highway
Point Clear, Alabama
RSVP
She glanced up, scowling. “Goodness, your hair is so short,” she said. “Did the rats chew it off in the night?”
“Well, I think it’s cute,” said Gladys. “Did you go to an all-night salon and get fixed up?”
“Good morning, lovelies,” I said, pouring coffee into a donkey-shaped mug. For the first time in days, my hand was steady. Coming back to Alabama was going to be a tonic.
“It makes your eyes show up,” said Gladys.
“I wouldn’t go that far,” said Honora. “Renata, let me call Salon du Jour. A few highlights around your face would make a world of difference.”
“There’s nothing to highlight.” I tugged at the ends of my hair, then carried my mug over to the table. I sat down and glanced at Honora’s book. “What’s that?”
“The invitation to your father’s engagement party.” She tilted the book in my direction.
“Nice paper, but the wording is cryptic,” I said.
“Isn’t it though?” Honora smiled, then laid the book out in the sun. She got up from the table, pausing to smooth down my hair, then pulled a bulging black Hefty bag out of the pantry and dragged it over to the door. Zap shot out from beneath Gladys’s chair, head ducked, and trotted over to the bag and lifted his hind leg.
“Don’t you dare pee on my designer handbags,” Honora scolded, and he slunk off.
“Are you still releasing pocketbooks into the wild?” I asked.
“They’re handbags, not pocketbooks.” Honora opened the refrigerator, shifting a few bottles, then reached for a yellow plastic squeeze lemon. “If you won’t let me call the beauty parlor, then squirt lemon juice on your crew cut and go sit in the sun for a few years.”
“I haven’t had breakfast.” I yawned.
“I’ll bring you a bowl of Special K.”
“I was hoping for cheese grits and sausage.”
“How about a omelet?” Gladys asked. Zapper stood on his hind legs, his dark eyes watching her hands. She pinched off a piece of muffin and dropped it on the floor. The Yorkie snapped it up.
“She’d be better off with Slim-Fast,” said Honora. “With hair that short, the girl needs diversionary tactics. Like cheekbones.”
“Or a wig,” said Gladys, throwing down another hunk of muffin.
“Don’t you want to look fabulous tomorrow night for the party? Of course you do. So, run on outside and douse yourself in lemon juice. Gladys will bring you a healthy breakfast. I’d love to chat, but I’m late for my canasta game.” She glanced at her watch, a vintage Cartier Tank. “Where is that damn Isabella? She was supposed to be here fifteen minutes ago.”
My grandmother tugged at her suit, then picked up a beige Ferragamo bag and slung it over her wrist. “Did I hear Isabella’s car drive up, or did I imagine it? She’s going to make us late.”
“No, I’m afraid she’s here.” Gladys rolled her eyes.
Zap spun in circles, then trotted over to the French doors. He stood on his hind legs and sniffed as the doors whooshed open, and Isabella D’Agostino McGeehee stepped into the room. The breeze stirred her long paisley skirt and sheer, bell-sleeved blouse.
“You look like a Roberto Cavalli model,” I called.
“I’m tall enough for one,” she said. Tossing back her long blond hair, she strode over to me, her alligator pumps clicking on the limestone floor. She gripped my elbow and air-kissed my cheeks. “You look pretty damn good for someone who’s in the middle of a scandal.”
“Thanks.”
“Tell me all about it, dahling.” Isabella smiled. Back in the late 1950s and early ’60s, her full curvaceous lips had bewitched American and European film audiences. Then she gave it all up and came home to Alabama to marry the very rich, but sickly Dickie Boy McGeehee.
“Y’all don’t have time for chitchat,” said Gladys.
“Just one question for Renata. Has Honora filled you in about your father and his new lady love?” Isabella raised one dark blond eyebrow. “Her name is Joie Mayfield; and when you meet her, do take care how you pronounce her name. You say it like the French textile, toile du joie.”
“You make her sound like a tart,” said Honora.
“She is one,” Isabella sniffed.
“Joie is a perfectly respectable third-grade teacher over in Pensacola. And she isn’t a gold digger, either. Her daddy was one of the wealthiest men in the Panhandle. He owned M. B. Mayfield Produce and Seafood.”
“But isn’t she about five years old?” Isabella lit a cigarette.
“In dog years,” said Gladys.
“Well, you’ve got to admit that it looks odd when any twenty-something girl shows up on the wrinkled arm of a fifty-nine-year-old man,” said Isabella. “I bet Louie’s taking Viagra like M&Ms.”
“Maybe she’s feeding it to him.” Gladys laughed.
“We’ll discuss this later.” Honora pointed to her watch. “I wanted to release a couple of handbags before the canasta game, but now we don’t have time.”
“I’ll make time.” Isabella pointed to the Hefty bag. “Grab your booty, and let’s go.”
After Isabella and Honora drove off, I gathered up the squeeze lemon, then wandered outside to the sunny terrace and sat down in the chaise. I had a view of the narrow beach, where sandpipers ran along the surf. Farther out, a blue heron stood in the shallows.
Gladys stepped onto the terrace, gripping a black tole tray. She set it down with a flourish on the iron table. I leaned over, breathing in the fatty aromas. Melted butter skated over the grits, next to fat, red sausage hunks. Two biscuits lay open like clamshells, each half drizzled with cane syrup. The little Yorkie ran over to the table, lifted one paw, and sniffed. He gave an impatient snort, then danced around my chaise, his pink tongue sliding between his incisors.
“You doing all right, baby?”
“Not really,” I said, then I burst into tears. “Oh, Gladys, I’m so worried about Ferg. I waited so long to find him, and I’m afraid he’s gone.”
“Don’t cry, baby.” She drew me into her arms. “No man is worth all these tears.”
“You don’t know Ferg.”
“I know you.” She stepped back, squeezing my shoulder. “And you are your mama made over. You will find a way to get over this.”
“That reminds me,” I said, and pulled my mother’s letter out of my pocket. When Gladys saw it, her hand slapped against her bosom, feeling for her reading glasses, which hung from a beaded chain.
“Your mama always meant to tell what happened to her and Louie.” Gladys looked off toward the bay, then reached up and wiped her nose. “She meant to explain, but she was fierce about protecting you.”
“Protect me from what?” I asked.
“Pain, honey. Nothing but pain. It goes back to her girlhood. She and her sister had burdens no children should have. Shelby swore that you wouldn’t be pulled down by her mistakes.”
“Whoa, hold on, Gladys. I think you’re confused. Mama didn’t have a sister.”
“Yes, she did.” Gladys nodded. “An older sister named Abigail.”
“You’re getting Mama mixed up with somebody else.” I reached for the bowl of grits, wondering if she’d suffered a light stroke.
“I’m not mixing up a thing. I’m just trying to fill in the background. Shelby’s childhood mark
ed her. And it shaped how you was raised.”
“If Mama had a sister,” I said, spooning grits into my mouth, “she wouldn’t have hidden her, she would have told me.”
“She wasn’t hiding her. Abigail died before you was born.”
“This doesn’t make sense. I would have seen that name in the family Bible.”
“Abigail was in the family Bible. The one at your Granddaddy Stevens’s house over in Covington. I know this for a fact. See, before I raised you, I raised your mama and Abigail. And I also took especial care of Shelby’s crazy mama.”
“Wait a minute, back up.” I waved my spoon. “I’m confused. First, you tell me I’ve got a dead aunt and then you say my mama’s mama was insane?”
“I know it’s a lot to take in. But the important thing is this: if Shelby had told you about Abigail, then she would have been forced to tell you the rest of the story. Your mama’s big fear was that she’d turn into her mama.” Gladys slipped her hand around my shoulder. “Hearing it from me won’t be the same. Your mama would have told it better, and truer; but she can’t. That leaves me, baby. I’m ready to talk—if you’re ready to listen.”
Chapter 9
GLADYS BOUDREAUX SAYS,
IT ALL STARTED WITH A BEAR
I came into Shelby’s life in 1954, after my husband, Dolph, shot a black bear up near the Mississippi state line. Two witnesses seen it happen, and they wrote down my husband’s license tags. By the time the police and game warden showed up, Dolph was long gone from those woods. And so was the bear. A week later they tracked Dolph to our shotgun house. He was sitting on the porch, cracking pecans for a pie I was making. The police didn’t give him time to put on his shoes. They handcuffed him and then threw him against the squad car. Split his lip and blacked both of his eyes.
“What bear?” Dolph kept saying while they punched him. “I don’t know about no bear.”
Mermaids in the Basement Page 5