Mermaids in the Basement

by Michael Lee West

  Ladies with snot-nosed children walked right by the table, not even glancing our way. Emma sent me to buy a box of pinwheel cookies, and we set them on the table. That drew a few people, mainly kids. Now and then she’d see one of her neighbors, but she was too shy to holler at them. They’d just pass on by, going out of their way to look in the other direction.

  “Now I know how the Invisible Man felt,” she said. “Don’t these ladies realize that I never did all those things in the book? I never cheated on Thaddeus! Why, I never left my house!”

  In the first book, Emma had told the truth but nobody believed it, and in the second one, she told lies and people thought it was the gospel. It takes a lot for a small southern town to cast aside its good manners. The politeness is buried deep. But Daughters of the Revolution was more than the good people of Covington could stand. Housewives thought the book was a tell-all, that Emma had faked her illness, that she’d sneaked out in the night and had snookered all their husbands. Some folks thought it was a attack on the DAR. Others thought it was a military book about a real war.

  Hair-pulling arguments broke out at bridge clubs and ladies’ cotillions, the women wondering who Emma had fornicated with. All over St. Tammany Parish, marriages were slung onto the rocks. Several churches had sermons about the evils of adultery. Emma’s books were pulled off the library shelves at the local card and stationery store. And in the courthouse parking lot, one copy was set on fire by unknown culprits.

  The Times-Picayune called the book “the romance novel that ate New Jersey.” Mr. Stevens handed me the paper, wondering if he should show her. I shook my head. Far as I could tell, New Jersey hadn’t been mentioned in that book. He burned the paper in the barbecue pit, then threw on some charcoal and grilled hot dogs. He’d planned to run for judge, but he’d laid them plans aside. He knew that book wasn’t true, but he took a lot of ribbing at the courthouse. He’d just laugh off the rude comments. “The girls and I are so thankful that she’s gotten her health back,” he’d say.

  One afternoon we was sitting in the front yard, watching the girls run through the sprinkler, when a beat-up Plymouth drove up and two boys throwed a headless mannequin into the yard. It had a sign taped to its chest—“Emma Stevens, Whore of Babylon.” The girls stopped skipping. One of the boys throwed out condoms.

  “Get out of my yard!” Emma yelled.

  “Slut,” hollered a boy. “Teach you to mess with my daddy.”

  The Plymouth roared off. I gathered up the girls, wiping their tears with my apron. Emma ran into the house, then marched out, holding the Royal typewriter. She lifted it over her head and threw it against a pecan tree as hard as she could. “And the truth shall set you free,” she said, then she walked into the house.

  And didn’t come out for the next ten years.

  Chapter 10

  LOVE AT THE FUNERAL HOME

  That whole night I lay awake in the New Orleans Room, going over Gladys’s story. It had shaken loose a memory of a green shotgun house near a park where people rode horses. Every weekend my daddy drove us across a long bridge, then he’d pull up to a red brick house. Grandfather Stevens squatted on the sidewalk and picked me up. He had silver hair and a nose shaped like a strawberry. Mama said he was a judge, and he decided who went to jail and how long they stayed. Everybody called him “the Judge,” even my mama.

  I remembered being led into Grandmother Stevens’s shadowy room and how the cigarette smoke burned my nose and I burst into tears. “Oh, no, I’ve made the baby cry,” said Grandmother Stevens. “She sure is pretty, but just take her out. I’m sorry.”

  While the grown-ups opened oysters in the backyard and drank sour-smelling drinks, I hid under the redwood patio table and hung on to my mama’s leg. Above me, my daddy and Grandfather Stevens laughed. They talked about hunting and where to buy the best oysters. I had no memory of anyone mentioning Abigail. I just recalled laughter and the clink of shells.

  Now, I turned over, pulling the sheets around me, watching the pear trees throw shadows on the walls. I was still awake when first light broke through the trees and birds started chattering. Maybe they were telling stories to their babies: You think I’m bad? You should have known my mother. She was real flighty. If a bird could tell her sad, secret history, then why hadn’t my mother? I pressed the pillow to my head and tumbled down into a sweet, sticky, dreamless sleep.

  I awakened to a loud, rhythmic banging, followed by Zap’s barking. Then I heard Gladys and Honora’s voices. I threw back the covers and sat up, tilting my head. The thumping sounded like a demolition crew, and it appeared to be coming from downstairs. It would be just like Honora to add another wing to the house, a shabby-chic wing. Then I remembered my father’s engagement party. It was this evening. The caterers were probably downstairs, setting up.

  I pulled on my blue jeans and a sweatshirt, then hurried down the curved staircase, into the kitchen. It was empty, except for Zap, who ran in circles, biting his stubby tail. When he saw me, he ran over, licking my feet. As I bent down to scratch his ears, I heard another thump. Zap barked and raced over to the wine cellar door. It swung open, and Gladys stepped out, her reading glasses dangling back and forth from the beaded chain as she hoisted an old steamer trunk into the kitchen. A moment later Honora appeared, pushing the trunk into the center of the room.

  “Did y’all just wake up and decide you had to clean the wine cellar?” I laughed.

  “We’re not cleaning,” said Honora. “We’re excavating. I thought we’d put the trunk in your room. Can you give us a hand?”

  “Ugh, it’s filthy.” Gladys reached for a dish towel and began swatting the cobwebs.

  “My room?” I stepped back as dust spiraled up. It wasn’t Honora’s nature to make a mess right before a party.

  “Gladys and I have discussed this,” said my grandmother.

  “Argued is more like it,” said Gladys.

  “This was Shelby’s chest,” said Honora.

  I knelt down and raised the domed lid. It creaked, then fine particles drifted up, backstroking in the light. Inside, the trunk was heaped with objects and yellowed papers. I picked up a lace shawl, and a gold necklace dangled from the fringe. Honora leaned over and pulled out an empty bottle of Dom Pérignon. “Consumed on honeymoon” was written on the label in faded ink. Beneath the bottle were water-stained invitations, newspaper clippings, and a hardback book, its pages stuck together. In the right-hand corner of the trunk, I saw a glint of old silver. I pulled out a small tarnished bracelet, the charms gently clinking: a tiny crab, pelican, mermaid, conch, lighthouse.

  “Shelby left it here when she and Louie were divorced,” said Honora. “I forgot all about it until Hurricane Danny. That was in 1997, the summer a fishing boat washed up into my yard. The wine cellar flooded, but Gladys and I managed to put the trunk on a shelf.”

  “Humph, it still got wet,” said Gladys. “Twenty-five inches of rain in seven hours. You should’ve known better than to dig a hole just to keep your wine bottles.”

  “It wasn’t my idea,” said Honora. “My mother-in-law cried for that wine cellar. A whole slew of architects and structural engineers told her not to add a below-grade room. But Solange DeChavannes believed that people who live on the Coast are a tough breed.”

  “And we are,” said Gladys. “Even though Hurricane Danny was wicked. It stalled over Mobile Bay for I don’t know how long. And wrecked our pier, too.”

  “No, that was Georges,” said Honora. “Danny crashed a tree into the boathouse. Both times the damn insurance company tried to get out of paying. We’re just lucky we didn’t float away. Renata, be a dear and grab the other end. I’d like to get it to your room before the party. It’s tonight, in case you’ve blocked that information.”

  I was only half listening. I couldn’t stop looking at the trunk. I ran my hands down the bumpy metal sides, then reached inside and pulled out an old Mobile Register clipping.

  * * *

  Thursday, September
18, 1966

  DeChavannes–Stevens Engagement Announced

  The Honorable Judge and Mrs. Thaddeus Stevens of Covington, Louisiana, announce the engagement of their daughter, Shelby Ann, to Dr. Louis Charles DeChavannes, Jr., son of Dr. and Mrs. Louis Charles “Chaz” DeChavannes of Point Clear, Alabama. Miss Stevens is a sophomore art history major at Sophie Newcomb College. Dr. DeChavannes is a graduate of Tulane University and Vanderbilt Medical School. He completed a four-year surgical residency at Rice Medical Center in Houston, Texas, and has been accepted as a cardiovascular fellow at the Ochsner Clinic in New Orleans. The couple is slated to be married at All Saints Cathedral in Covington on December 29, 1966.

  * * *

  “Let’s take a little walk, you and I.” Honora patted my shoulder.

  “Good idea,” said Gladys. “I’ll just clean up this old trunk.”

  I pressed the clipping inside the trunk, then I followed my grandmother outside. We didn’t speak until we’d reached the pier. I held her elbow as she climbed down the wooden stairs, then I said, “Thank you for unearthing that trunk.”

  “Don’t thank me yet.” She tucked her arm into mine. The tide was coming in, pushing seaweed onto the sand. My first apartment in Los Angeles had been located near a major thoroughfare, but after a glass of wine, I could pretend the traffic was a kind of surf.

  “I’ve really missed this place.” I reached down to pick up a tiny shell. “Mama and Daddy met here, didn’t they?”

  “No, they met at a funeral. Shelby’s sister had died. Gladys told you, right?”

  “Lord, did she ever. If Mama had lived, I don’t think she would have explained all that. It sounds freaky.”

  “I hate to say it, but you’re probably right. Shelby feared that she’d turn out like her mother, but she didn’t. She built a new life and beat the crazy curse.” Honora turned her face up to the sun. “Why dredge up these hurtful things? In fact, are you sure you want to hear the rest of it?”

  “You know I do. Tell me about the funeral.”

  “Well, it was 1966—Good Friday, as I recall. Abigail was a nursing student at Baptist Hospital. She was driving on the causeway, from Covington to New Orleans. Bringing Easter baskets to the children’s ward. Witnesses said her tire blew out, and she lost control of her convertible. It crashed through the guardrail, right into the Pontchartrain.”

  “That’s awful.” I shuddered, imagining those plastic eggs floating in the rough water.

  “A tragedy.” Honora patted my arm. “Abigail had been engaged to a vascular surgery resident at Ochsner. He was inconsolable. Two friends had to prop him up at the funeral. One of those friends was your father. Apparently he couldn’t take his eyes off your mother. He called me up and said, ‘I’ve met my future wife.’”

  I stopped walking and touched her arm. “Did he ever say why? I mean, was it her looks or something else? What drew her to him?”

  “You should ask him. You’ll see him tonight.”

  “But it’s his engagement party. I can’t mention Mama.”

  “Of course you can. How can you ever hope to create a lasting relationship with your Hollywood director until you make peace with your father?”

  “The only lasting thing about Ferg is that tabloid photograph.”

  “Then you’re going to punt him?”

  “Punt?”

  “You know, kick him out of your life. Free yourself to meet another man.”

  “With this hair?” I raked my hand over my scalp.

  “Yes, with that hair. It’ll grow. And you’ll find another man. That’s how life works.”

  “Not my life,” I said. “Not anymore.”

  “Talk to your father,” she said. “He might surprise you.”

  “I’ve tried. And he just freezes or makes a joke.”

  “Well, that’s true.” She shifted her gaze to me. “I don’t like to speak for Louie. But your mother had the most breathtaking gray eyes. Nowadays people can get that look with contact lenses, but in 1966, it was exotic. And she had a long blond braid that almost hit her waist.”

  “A Heidi braid?” I smiled.

  “Don’t be silly. She looked just like Glynis Johns in Miranda. Shelby had a solemn, watchful air. She wasn’t a nervous chatterbox, and she didn’t seem eager to impress me and Chaz. She possessed a maturity that was absent in girls of her era. Everybody was running around in miniskirts and go-go boots. Shelby wore Villager dresses. This set her apart from your father’s usual women.”

  “So Mama was old-fashioned?”

  “Nothing about her was old except her spirit.” Honora squeezed my arm, and we started walking again. “But that was from her difficult childhood.” Honora tilted her head. “When she and Louie got engaged, I gave them a fabulous party. I hired an orchestra from Mobile, and all of the guests danced on the lawn.”

  “What about the wedding? Did Grandmother Stevens go, or did she stay in her bedroom?”

  “No, she went. Gladys made sure of it. They sat together in the front pew. I thought Gladys was an aunt, not their housekeeper.” Honora glanced down at her watch. “We better head on back and get ready. The caterers should be arriving now—damn, I forgot to pick flowers!”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “Nonsense, I don’t want you digging in the garden. I want you to look gorgeous.”

  “That’s impossible.” I laughed and tugged at my hair. “Will you settle for gamine?”

  “Oh, poo. Just put on your pearls and an extra dab of mascara, and you’ll look splendid.”

  Chapter 11

  HONORA SAYS, THERE’S MORE I HAVEN’T TOLD

  Gladys had filled my bath, adding jasmine oil and fresh gardenia blossoms. I sat on the edge of the tub sweeping my hand through the steam. Then I slipped off my robe and eased down into the water. Zap pushed open the door with his nose, then trotted over to the tub, licking water off the tile. “Hello, gorgeous,” I said, then felt foolish for talking to a dog. There was a banker’s wife in Point Clear who kept a ferret in her coat pocket, and not only that, she dressed it up. If she wore a blue sweater, so did the ferret.

  As I sank into the oily water, my flabby old arms dislodged a clump of gardenia petals. I didn’t know where Gladys had found them, because my bushes hadn’t yet bloomed. I breathed in their smell, then peered over the edge of the tub. Zap grinned up at me, his pink tongue curling. “Where am I going to put you during the party?” I asked, and he cocked his head. I couldn’t believe I was talking to a damn dog. Well, I was just getting senile. But I didn’t know what I’d do without him.

  Soon I needed to show Renata her parents’ wedding pictures; but knowing my granddaughter, she would rather hear what happened after they got married. If her memory loss was a form of protection, then had I done her a disservice by dragging that trunk out of the basement?

  Shelby was gone, and I lacked proper guidelines. How much to divulge without causing pain? I scooted down into the water, feeling it ruffle around my chin, and breathed in the scent of gardenias. Whenever I thought about Louie and Shelby’s early days, I always thought about that gardenia bush that bloomed under their bedroom window in their old shotgun house near Audubon Park.

  I remembered a hot August night when Shelby and Louie drove over to Point Clear to watch the Perseid shower. I remember how happy we all were. Shelby was eight months pregnant, and her stomach curved beneath the blue voile dress. While shooting stars fizzled into the bay, she stretched out on a chaise longue and Louie massaged her feet. Chaz opened a bottle of champagne, and each time a star etched over the bay, we made a toast. We toasted the baby and the beautiful summer night. A while later, we heard big band music drifting up from the Grand.

  The next morning, Shelby put on a navy blue maternity suit and swam out into the bay. She rolled over and spread her arms, floating, the waves breaking over her dark stomach. Inside that belly, my grandchild no doubt turned somersaults in the salty amniotic fluid. On either side of Shelby, dolphins cut through th
e shallows, leaving behind little commas of foam. Closer to shore, another group of dolphins swam around their babies, keeping them afloat.

  Louie walked past me, wearing cutoff jeans. “Lovely day,” he said, then headed down to the beach. He waded into the water, then swam out to Shelby and drew her into his arms. I turned away, embarrassed that I’d witnessed such a private moment, but grateful that God had placed this much beauty in the world.

  A month later, Shelby went into labor. Louie called us at three o’clock in the morning from the Ochsner Medical Center. He kept stuttering, and Chaz said, “Slow down, what’s the matter?”

  “S-shelby’s in l-labor,” he said.

  Chaz and I got dressed and drove straight to New Orleans. When we arrived at Ochsner, Louie was sitting in the expectant father’s room, surrounded by empty Styrofoam cups, the type with little green leaves along the rim. When he saw us, he scrambled to his feet and wrapped one arm around Chaz, the other around me. “She’s been in labor eighteen hours, and she’s barely dilated,” he said.

  “Shelby’s a strong girl,” I said, trying to comfort him; but as the night dragged on, and the sun rose over New Orleans, I began to worry. Lamaze was all the rage in France, but here in the U.S., the mothers were strapped down and gassed. She was determined not to put drugs into the baby’s little system. Oh, how that girl suffered. I stood outside the delivery room, keeping an eye on Chaz and Louie. The door opened, and the RN brought out the baby, wrapped in a bloody receiving blanket. Louie ran over and pulled back the blanket, counting Renata’s fingers and toes. The nurse laughed and said, “Let me get her cleaned up first.”

  Above the door, a red light began to wheel, then a buzzer went off. “What’s the matter?” I grabbed Chaz’s arm. His eyes met Louie’s. The buzzer echoed in the corridor; nurses skidded around the corner and burst through the delivery room door. I caught a glimpse of Shelby. Her legs were in stirrups. The obstetrician, Ned Thaxton, was working between her knees, and his scrub suit was splattered with blood.