Mermaids in the Basement

by Michael Lee West

  “I’m going in there,” said Louie. He pushed open the door, but a squatty nurse blocked him, screaming about the room being a sterile environment.

  “That’s my wife,” said Louie.

  “Is she all right?” I asked the nurse.

  Ned Thaxton’s head rose up between Shelby’s thighs. He hollered out that Shelby’s uterus had prolapsed, and she was hemorrhaging. He needed permission to do an emergency hysterectomy.

  “Do what you have to,” said Louie. “Just save her.”

  “It might not come to that,” Ned hollered back. “I’m doing everything I can.”

  The nurse began to close the door, and Ned bent back down to his work. Before the door closed, I saw that they’d tilted Shelby’s head toward the floor, with her feet pointed toward the ceiling. A nurse swabbed Shelby’s stomach with a brown antiseptic. Chaz said it was Betadine. Somehow Ned Thaxton stopped the bleeding and put her back together. But she could never have another baby.

  After they’d settled back in New Orleans, Shelby’s daddy, Judge Stevens, found a woman to sit with Emma, then sent Gladys to New Orleans to be the nanny. I remember she planted red tulips in the front yard, and a gardenia bush. Every sunny day, the two women strolled the baby down to Audubon Park. Shelby put her whole heart into mothering that child. She’d hold the baby in her lap, staring with unabashed love into Renata’s dark, monkeylike face, but I knew she saw nothing but beauty. Money was tight in that household, but Shelby made certain that her baby’s life was rich in other ways. She got a library card and checked out children’s books; she took the baby to the French Market and taught her child the name of every fruit, vegetable, and flower.

  One day I drove over to New Orleans to see the baby, and while we sat on the floor, helping Renata stack her blocks, Louie rushed into the house, his handsome face split into a smile, saying he had a surprise. He’d bought them a cottage over in Covington so Shelby could be near her people. Her bottom lip trembled and her eyes filled. Louie thought she was overcome with joy. He started to put his arms around her, but she pushed him away.

  “What’s wrong?” His eyebrows slanted together.

  “I know you meant well, but I don’t want that house,” she said. “Is it too late to back out?”

  “I signed the papers last week. It’s ours.”

  “I refuse to live in Covington.”

  “But it’s where you grew up.”

  “I belong in New Orleans with you.”

  “I thought you’d be so pleased. And it’s not that far, just a little drive across the Pontchartrain.”

  “It’s not little. My sister died on that bridge.”

  “Baby, I know. But I just don’t want to raise Renata in New Orleans.”

  “I hate Covington.” She was crying so hard, she was having trouble breathing.

  “Just give the house a chance, that’s all I’m asking. If it doesn’t work out, we’ll sell it.”

  “Louie, please. Don’t do this.”

  I hated hearing them argue like that. And I was shocked by Shelby’s hatred of her hometown. Louie tried to sell the house; but he’d paid too much for it. Prospective buyers kept making low offers. It sat empty for six months, with Louie checking on it every week, driving back and forth across the lake, and falling in love with the area. Meanwhile he was paying the mortgage on the Covington house, and also paying rent on their little shotgun house near Tulane. Finally, when a woman in their neighborhood was beaten to death by a drug addict, he put his foot down.

  “We’re moving,” Louie said. “And that’s the end of it.”

  But it was just the beginning of the end. Love can twist back on itself; and no matter what you do, no matter how hard you work to repair the damage, it’s never quite the same. All that’s left is the memory of a hot summer night, of stars tearing loose from the sky, of gardenia blossoms breaking away from tender flesh and blowing heaven knows where.

  Chapter 12

  PARTY GIRLS

  From my grandmother’s terrace, I watched waiters from the Grand Hotel spread out like a battalion. Men in white uniforms marched through the rooms carrying champagne flutes on silver platters. Bars had been set up at three strategic locations, including a wine-tasting area in the glassed-in conservatory. Here on the terrace, the caterers arranged food on a long, skirted buffet table. The air was heavy with the mingled scents of Sterno, citronella, and brackish water.

  I hadn’t eaten all day, so the minute the caterers left, I grabbed a plate and started at the left end of the table. Boiled jumbo shrimp lay in a pinwheel pattern on a deep bed of crushed ice. My hand hovered over the design while I tried to decide if my love for shrimp outweighed the worry over messing up the concentric circles. Deciding that it did, I took some and moved down the table, reaching for less artistic compositions: canapes, sushi, crabmeat-stuffed eggs, and smoked honeyed chicken wings. At the end of the buffet, I saw a mound of chocolate-dipped strawberries. Since I didn’t have room on my plate, I slid a berry into my mouth.

  “Save me a strawberry, dahlin’,” said Isabella, walking up. She wore dangling onyx earrings, and her black dress was slit up the side. Her hair was pinned into a shiny knot.

  With two fingers I removed the berry and twisted it by its stem. “This is my first. But not the last. I can’t resist food art.”

  “Only a fool would resist beauty.”

  Maybe it was due to my pre-party glass of Veuve Cliquot, or it could have been my frayed nerves, but I felt wicked. I dangled the strawberry above my head, then bit down and flung the green cap over my shoulder.

  “That looks like delicious fun. But I have a better idea.” Isabella picked out a strawberry, then slid her other hand into her pocket and pulled out a tiny blue pill. “Valium,” she said, and deftly pushed it into the berry, then turned back to the buffet and slipped it onto the mound. “Wonder who’ll get it?” she whispered. “Or maybe I should do another one?”

  “Don’t do that,” I hissed.

  “Oh, lighten up. I always insert a little fun into parties. One time my late mother-in-law ate a psychotropic deviled egg.” Isabella giggled. “I stuffed it with Librium. And one Thanksgiving, I put ipecac in her oyster dressing. Another Thanksgiving I slipped Ex-Lax into the sweet potatoes.”

  “You should be ashamed.” I blinked down at the buffet. All the strawberries blended together. Until she’d hidden the Valium, I’d been on the verge of challenging Isabella to a strawberry-eating contest. I heard a familiar bark, then turned back to the French doors. Honora stepped onto the terrace, hugging the Yorkie to her chest. He wore a small tuxedo, with a white bow tied in his topknot.

  “I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” she called, extending one hand. “Your father and Joie have finally arrived.”

  My hands started trembling; a shrimp rolled off my plate and hit the ground. I wasn’t looking forward to seeing my father. He had a way of using humor as a barrier, and even though he never failed to make me laugh, I always felt a little sad, too. Long ago I’d lost hope of repairing our father-daughter relationship.

  “I’ll take that plate,” said Isabella.

  “Be good,” I told her.

  “Not for a million dollars,” she said. “But I might consider it for five.”

  Honora pulled me into the living room, cutting a serpentine path through the crowd. The Yorkie’s ears swiveled like tiny satellite dishes, as if tracking conversations. “Louie’s in a cheerful mood for a change,” she said, then squeezed my hand, indicating that she was speaking in code, one she’d perfected for parties and public functions. It was a language I’d learned from birth. Behave yourself, said the code. Don’t needle him, and don’t you dare mention his heinous baby pictures. Above all, don’t reveal your shock when you meet Joie.

  She towed me into the living room, over to a green marble desk with gold dolphin legs, where my father was popping the cork on a ’63 Dom Pérignon. Foam gushed down the sides of the bottle, and he deftly blotted it with a white l
inen napkin. Beside him, a short, birdlike blonde turned and smiled.

  “You must be Renata,” she said in a breathless voice. She tugged at a zigzaggy scarf then extended her hand. “I’m just so pleased to finally meet you!”

  “My God, what happened to your hair?” Daddy said. Still gripping the champagne, he pulled me against his shoulder. I smelled Aramis, Dial soap, and Irish whiskey. At fifty-nine, Louie DeChavannes still turned women’s heads. He pushed back a lock of iron-streaked hair.

  “It’s the latest style in L.A.,” said Honora.

  “Actually, it’s not,” I said.

  “Well, I think it’s stunning,” said Joie. Now her voice sounded unnaturally high-pitched, like she’d been breathing helium.

  “Icebergs can be stunning,” said Daddy.

  “So are stun guns!” Joie giggled. “Listen, I’ll see y’all later. I’ve just got to get me a chocolate strawberry.”

  A former Alabama state senator clapped my father’s shoulder. “How’s the heart business, Louie?”

  “Can’t complain,” said Daddy, his eyes tracking Joie. “How’s politics?”

  “Crooked as the Mississippi River, and just as polluted,” said the former senator.

  While Daddy made the introductions, people streamed into the room, toward the bar, pushing me against the fireplace. A waiter glided by, and I took a flute. Then he melted into the crowd, holding the silver tray aloft. I stood on my toes and searched for my father. The ex-senator said something, and my daddy threw his head back and laughed. I drank my champagne, then had turned away from the fireplace to set my empty flute on a table when the bride-to-be crashed into my shoulder, dumping a plate of chocolate-dipped strawberries against my black dress.

  “Oh, no! I was just bringing Mama over to introduce you. Now look what I’ve done.” She stepped back as the crushed berries slid down the front of my dress. Then she waved one hand at an older blonde. “Mama, run and get her some club soda.”

  “Hi, I’m Faye Mayfield. Joie’s mama?” The woman was dressed in a black, voluminous dress, and she spoke with the same squeaky voice as her daughter. She grabbed my hand and shook it, her gold bracelets clattering.

  “I’ve ruined your pretty dress,” cried Joie. “Is it a Betsey Johnson or a Cynthia Rowley?”

  “I’m not sure what it is.” I glanced down at the stained bodice. I couldn’t remember which year I’d bought it, much less the designer’s name.

  “Hold on, sweetie. I’ll fix you right up.” Faye held up one hand, and I blinked at the sudden flash of diamonds and aquamarines.

  She elbowed her way through the crowd, working her way over to the bar. I started to look away when I noticed a diminutive bald-headed man. His eyes were level with the counter. Faye didn’t seem to notice him. But he’d noticed Faye. He gave her the once-over, then reached for his scotch, his Rolex sliding around his tiny, hairy wrist.

  Joie frowned at my dress. “I’m just mortified,” she said.

  “That’s all right, Joy.”

  “No, no, it’s not Joy!” Her tiny eyebrows slanted together. “It’s Joie, like the toile du joie fabric.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Well, that’s all right. Lots of people screw it up. I don’t know what’s keeping Mama. I’ll just go get a paper towel. Don’t you move!” Joie fluttered off, her small, apple-shaped buttocks moving beneath the clingy dress.

  Honora was working her way over to me, trailed by my father, who was holding the Yorkie. Now that’s odd, I thought, until I saw that Honora was clutching a damp napkin and a bottle of soda.

  “Baby girl,” said Daddy, “I’ve told you time and again not to play with your food.”

  “Can’t resist,” I said.

  “Here, let me clean you up,” said Honora, then she gave my father a sharp look. “Step back a little. Don’t let Zap lick the chocolate.”

  “Is the little fellow allergic?” Daddy laughed.

  “For your information,” Honora said through her teeth, “chocolate has caffeine. And even small doses can be fatal. I should think a cardiologist would know these things.”

  “I’m a people doctor.” Daddy winked. “Not a vet.”

  “Too bad.” She lifted one eyebrow and continued to scrub my dress.

  Just a few feet away, Isabella was holding court with several young men. “Hollywood casting directors taught me to be strong,” she told them. “Also, I had great legs. That helped.”

  “You were an actress?” said a man with blue eyes.

  “You haven’t heard of me? If not, then shame on you! You have missed some great romantic comedies starring me, Doris Day, Jim Garner, and Rock Hudson. Everybody said I’d never make it in Hollywood ’cause of my round face? It just didn’t lend itself to the silver screen. Hollywood’s idea of beauty leaned toward the classic, not the cherubic. Of course, I looked into surgery, but the doctor explained he could not change bone structure. Well, they couldn’t in those days. Now you can change anything, even eye color. But the doctor suggested that I lose weight. So he wrote me a prescription for Dexedrine. It just made my head spin and my heart race something awful. But within days my cheeks began to deflate. I went off to film a movie with Rock Hudson, and everybody told me how gorgeous I looked. Well, it was true.”

  Daddy switched Zap to his other arm, and leaned closer to me. “The real story is, the pills turned Isabella’s brain into a sieve and she forgot her lines. The director lost his patience, and the next thing you knew she’d been replaced by Doris Day. So she flew down to Alabama and helped Honora plan dinner parties.”

  “How come I’ve never heard this story?” I asked him. “You’re making it up, aren’t you?”

  “Nope, it’s true. Just ask Honora.”

  “It’s ancient history,” said Honora. “And you’re rude to bring it up.”

  “It’s the truth,” said Daddy. “What we need is more champagne. Can I get you ladies a drink?”

  “Not me,” said Honora. “A good hostess never drinks until after the party’s over.”

  “You and your rules,” Daddy said, but his voice was kind. He placed Zap in my grandmother’s arms, then winked at me. “How about you, babe—another glass of champagne?”

  “Think I’ll pass, too.”

  “Maybe you should rescue that little man from your future mother-in-law,” said Honora, nodding toward the bar. “She’s just insulted him by making a reference to pygmy goats.”

  Chapter 13

  WOMAN ON TOP

  After Daddy left, Honora lowered her voice. “Poor Louie has a penchant for choosing odd mothers-in-law. Faye cleans up nice, but she’s still rough around the edges. She worked at Mayfield Seafood Cannery when she caught the owner’s attention. Old George Mayfield got her pregnant—he was married, of course—it was the talk of Pensacola. His wife went to her grave claiming that their Mexican divorce wasn’t legal and that Joie was illegitimate.

  “But that’s Pensacola gossip. How’d it reach your ears?”

  “Because of the drumbeats, dahlin’. The South is full of drumbeats. Now that Faye’s a widow, she’s gone wild, and there’s no telling what kind of stunt she’ll pull tonight. And she’s famous for pulling them.”

  “It’s a fabulous party, Honora, and nobody’s ruining it.”

  My grandmother had a knack for building unique menus and guest lists. So far, I’d spotted a Louisiana artist, a TV chef, and politicians from Louisiana and Alabama.

  “I’ve had better,” she said. “I don’t know, something’s off-kilter tonight. Maybe I’m getting too old for parties.”

  “That’ll never happen,” I said. It was easy to think she hadn’t aged. She was still a beautiful woman, and her mind was younger and quicker than mine; still, I couldn’t help but notice that she walked slower these days.

  “I’d always hoped your father would retire in Point Clear, but he’s a confirmed New Orleanian. You’d never know he was raised in this house. Personally, I think the Eastern Shore is too quie
t and elegant for him. I don’t suppose you’d someday want this house?”

  I wasn’t sure how to answer. Her home was beautiful, but it was far too grand. The taxes and upkeep would send me to the poorhouse. Her forehead wrinkled, as she glanced toward the French doors, which stood invitingly ajar, so that guests could wander onto the rock terrace. Across the bay, lights glimmered, and the moon floated low between the Spanish oaks.

  On the other end of the room, Isabella’s voice was rising. “I live next door to Honora,” she was telling the men. “Have you ever built a house? Well, I’ll tell you, it’s not for the fainthearted. It’s one of life’s big stresses, right up there with death and divorce. I nearly lost my mind. All those decisions nearly broke me. I mean, really. Who pays one bit of attention if doorknobs and hinges match? But for an old-age nest, it’s all right.”

  “You’re not old,” said one of the men.

  “That reminds me,” I said, turning back to my grandmother. “Don’t eat the strawberries. Isabella tampered with them.”

  “Damn her.” Honora rolled her eyes. “What was it this time, Ex-Lax or Benadryl?”

  “Valium.”

  “I’m shocked. Normally she hoards nerve pills.”

  “She only put it in one. At least, that’s what she said.”

  “And you believed her?” Honora made a face and stopped scrubbing my dress. She glanced toward the foyer, into the dining room, where faux clouds seemed to waft on the dining room’s tall, barrel-vaulted ceiling. The butler’s pantry door swung open, and a harried caterer shot out, holding a tray of puff-pastry hors d’oeuvres.

  “Maybe you should run upstairs and change clothes,” she said.

  “I didn’t bring anything dressy enough. And besides, at the rate people are drinking, pretty soon they won’t notice.”

  “I don’t know. Drunk people might mistake the strawberries for blood. A stampede might break out. We could end up on CNN. You need more napkins.”