Mermaids in the Basement

by Michael Lee West

  I walked outside, to the end of the pier, and sat down. Gulls flew in and out of low clouds. Behind me, the pier shuddered as children ran back and forth. Suddenly I remembered something my father had once said, that Mobile Bay was a big, old nursery for oysters and baby shrimps. He’d even said that mermaids were born in these brackish waters. Once, my father had been whimsical. And I’d never even noticed.

  Reaching in my shirt pocket, I pulled out a yellowed obituary that I’d found in the trunk.

  * * *

  Point Clear Gazette

  OBITUARIES

  Richard Lance McGeehee, Jr.

  Services for Mr. McGeehee will be at 1 p.m. Monday, September 9, 1975, at Woodlawn Funeral Home in Fairhope, with the Reverend Earl McAfee officiating, followed by interment in the Fairhope Cemetery. Mr. McGeehee, 60, died at home early Saturday morning, September 7. The Point Clear native was born July 20, 1915, to Martha Neville McGeehee and the late Richard Lance McGeehee. Survivors include his wife, Isabella D’Agostino McGeehee, and his aforementioned mother, Martha Neville McGeehee, both of Point Clear.

  * * *

  In Honora’s study, she had a framed picture of Dickie Boy. He had a large, red face, the broken capillaries running across his cheeks like tiny estuaries, and his stomach jutted out so far he couldn’t button his jacket.

  One of the children bumped my elbow, knocking the clipping out of my hand. It caught the wind and twirled, then skidded down into the bay. I leaned over, reaching into the water, but the paper darkened, then melted into a wave.

  “Sorry, lady,” said the kid.

  I walked back toward Honora’s, leaning into the wind. Blue clouds were piling over the horizon, edged with polished nickel. The bay was thirty-one miles long and twenty-four miles wide, but its deepest part was only ten feet deep. When I reached Isabella’s beach, I stopped. Over the years she had brought in truckloads of white sand, and most of it had washed away during every hurricane season; but ivory traces still gleamed in the scrub pines and sea oats. I cut up the path, stepping onto her terrace, and pressed the bell beside her kitchen door. It rang out the first six notes of what sounded like “Hooray for Hollywood.”

  Isabella’s maid, Joquina, opened the door and gave me the once-over. “You probably don’t remember me, but I’m Renata, Honora’s granddaughter,” I explained, pointing next door.

  “Come on inside, then. I’ll see if she’s up to receiving.”

  Receiving? I thought, and rolled the word around on my tongue. I followed the maid into a large rectangular room that overlooked the water. This near the beach, I had expected spare, contemporary decor, but Isabella preferred a baroque style—heavy inlaid furniture, Flemish tapestries, puddled draperies. The maid disappeared into a hall, and a moment later I heard a hoarse, tobacco-drenched voice complaining about misplaced jewelry. A glass shattered, followed by a muffled curse.

  Thinking it might be several minutes before my hostess appeared, I hunkered down to examine a marble-topped Bombé chest with inlaid wood and gold-leaf trim; I had grown up with similar frippery at Chateau DeChavannes, but I preferred a more laid-back, casual style. I walked over to the terrace doors and stared out at the water, where a prop plane flew across the sky, towing a banner advertising happy hour at the Grand.

  Isabella appeared in the hallway, wearing freshwater pearls and a green voile pleated dress, which showed off bare, shapely legs. She reached up, adjusting lightly tinted Valentino sunglasses, then stepped over to me.

  “Renata, darling, so sorry to keep you waiting. Would you like some champagne?” Without waiting for a reply, she glanced over her shoulder and called, “Joquina? Fetch that bottle of Möet, and make it snappy.”

  I saw a shadow and glimpsed Joquina passing through the room. She opened the kitchen door, and I saw a vase of white tulips sitting on a black granite counter. The cabinetry was white and heavily carved. Amber medicine bottles were lined up in the window. Moments later Joquina appeared holding a champagne bottle, two flutes trapped between her knuckles. Without spilling one drop, she tilted the bottle over the glasses. She handed one to me, then to Isabella, who said, “That’ll be all, Joquina,” then saucily crossed her legs and tossed her head. “Wait, come back here, Joquina!” she called. “Why don’t you turn on a little music?”

  I gripped the champagne flute, studying the bubbles, wondering what else was in there. A moment later, the music started up, Jimmy Buffett singing “Stars Fell on Alabama.”

  “Is this a social call, or did you want more juicy gossip?” She lifted one manicured eyebrow and smiled, showing the barest glimpse of teeth. Her pupils were huge, eclipsing the green irises, whether from excitement or from the pharmacopoeia I’d spotted on the kitchen window, I didn’t know.

  “Both,” I said. “I found Dickie Boy’s obituary today, and I started thinking about our little talk the other night.”

  “It wasn’t little.”

  “May I ask a personal question?”

  “Certainly. Those are my favorite kind.”

  “Did you sleep with my father before or after Dickie Boy died?”

  “Beat around the bush, why don’t you.” She took a sip of champagne. “I adored your father, and I always will. We did have an affair-ette while he was married to your mother, but it didn’t mean a thing to either of us. Especially not to him, but he saved my life. I guess I did love him a little. Without his help, I wouldn’t have gotten away with murder.”

  She leaned forward, the pearls swinging. “Do you want to hear about it? Wait, pour us more bubbly. This is one of those sad tales that goes perfectly with Jimmy Buffett songs and alcohol. One must be drunk to appreciate the twists and turns of a love-gone-wrong story. If you’re sober, Renata, you’d have to kill me or jail me, so drink up, baby doll. Drink up. You’re going to be here awhile.”

  Chapter 27

  TILL DEATH DO US PART AND ALL THAT JAZZ

  Dahlin’, sit down and get comfortable, because I’m getting ready to tell you about love and death, and the best sex I ever had. Do you want something besides champagne? A piece of Mississippi Mud cake? Just tell me what you want, and if it’s a legal substance, I will make Joquina get it.

  Dickie Boy and I had gone to Chaz’s faux funeral over at the St. Louis Hotel in New Orleans. I sat in the courtyard, nursing a glass of tepid champagne, watching Chaz and Honora hold court in the Robespierre Room. The chandelier reflected in the mirrored walls, throwing light onto the guests in the receiving line. All of them were laughing and talking and sipping champagne. In the crowd, I picked out notable faces: a state senator, two famous artists, the Times-Picayune food critic. Enough doctors to raise the dead, and Chaz’s Civil War reenactment friends.

  Chaz’s horrible sister, Aunt Na-Na, stood on the far side of the room, sipping the planter’s punch and examining the gift-wrapped boxes on a long banquet table. Year-round, she wore black crepe and orthopedic shoes. She glanced my way, so I stood up and wandered around a spurting fountain, where a circular buffet had been set up. Do you want to hear about the food? I’ll tell you anyway. Iced Gulf shrimp. Miniature quiches. Finger sandwiches. Puff pastry shells with crabmeat. Champignons farcis de Paris. A sheet cake decorated like a tombstone. Lording over it all was an ice sculpture of an enormous melting casket. I remember the food because I’d poured a bottle of Benadryl into the planter’s punch. It was nonalcoholic, of course. I’d picked it because it was evermore fun to watch the teetotallers act like they were drunk.

  Naturally that’s where I found Dickie Boy, over by the punch bowl. He mopped a white handkerchief over his ruddy face, then ran his hand through that wild shock of lemon-colored hair. After he drained his punch glass, he sashayed over to the buffet and picked up a plate. He hadn’t yet seen me, but he looked positively jovial. He lived by stock market fluctuations, you know. At a party the previous August on Dauphin Island, I’d heard him talking about the Federal Reserve. He was standing with three silver-haired men, and they were all drinking champagne.
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  “Even though I partially blame Abraham Lincoln for the Civil War,” Dickie Boy said, “the man did say a few wise things. Like, ‘Little men do not gain by bringing down big men. And the Federal Reserve is full of midgets.’”

  The men laughed politely, then they got the hell away from Dickie Boy. I couldn’t believe he’d said such a thing. I mean, really. It was 1975. Plus, he was a Republican and aspired to the Fortune 500; but he was totally henpecked by his mother, Miss Martha. Later, I tried to attach myself to a group of her ritzy-fitzy Dauphin Island friends. Miss Martha, who’d been sipping champagne all night, cocked one eyebrow and finally introduced me as Isabella Lee McGeehee. Well, Miss Martha damn well knew that Bennett was my maiden name. I don’t know where she dreamed up Lee. But I decided to play along until a woman with gigantic diamond earrings said, “You aren’t by chance named for the Lees of Virginia?”

  “No, but I’m kin to the Leroys of Bayou Crapeau.” I smiled. I’d never said the word kin in my life. I turned to my mother-in-law and said, “So, which Martha is in your family tree—Washington or White?”

  That shut her up but good.

  Now Dickie Boy walked over to me and held a shrimp by its tail, offering me to bite it. I didn’t want fish breath at Chaz’s party, so I gave my husband a chilling look, then hurried off to the powder room. I locked myself in a stall and lit a cigarette. I’d met Dickie Boy in 1967 at one of Honora’s infamous dinner parties. She’d seated me between a portly, red-faced man and his bejeweled wife. The wife would not speak to me, but the husband told me his name was Dickie Boy McGeehee. His voice just reeked of oil money, and it turned out he was into offshore drilling and I don’t know what-all. In between the tomato aspic and the snapper en croûte, I saw a way to fix my life.

  We ran off to Mexico and lived in an apricot-colored villa while we waited for his divorce to come through. A few years later we bought the house next door to Honora, and I hired an architect to revamp it. Then Dickie Boy and I flew off to Italy. My marriage to Dickie Boy was a job, not an adventure; although sometimes it was a little of both. We were together because of my beauty and his money. Sex was just thrown in for a bonus. But that was all right; when it worked, it worked. Dickie Boy’s didn’t work half the time. But he’d gotten everything he’d paid for, and I got what I needed. We kept each other up, if you get my drift.

  When I stepped out of the powder room, Louie grabbed me from behind me and put his lips against my ear. “Hey, gorgeous.”

  “Well, if it isn’t the son of our dear, departed guest of honor,” I said, trying to sound bored. “Nice funeral.”

  “It’s not mine.” He laughed. I just loved hearing that laugh, and he had the most expressive dark eyebrows, shaped rather like magpie wings. “Let’s run off together,” he added.

  “Depends on where we’re going.” I glanced behind me, worried that a busybody from the faux wake would step out of the powder room and see us. Ever since Shelby had fallen through the ice, Louie had been drinking hard. When he visited Honora and Chaz, he’d walk over to my house, and I’d tell him about Dickie Boy’s ruined liver. Then I’d lecture him about the evils of alcohol while I mixed him a martini. Finally, I’d take him upstairs to my bedroom and screw the hell out of him. I knew he was sleeping with me to punish Shelby, but I flat didn’t care.

  “I can get us a room at the Royal Orleans.” He blew into my ear. “Or is the Big Easy not exotic enough for you?”

  “I’ve already got a room there. Oh, I just adore New Orleans. Do you know what I call it? The Big O, in honor of all the orgasms I’ve had in this city.”

  “Get ready for another one.” Louie grabbed my wrist and guided me around the corner, into the men’s restroom. Cold air blew around my face, and I smelled pine disinfectant and urine. He led me into a stall and latched the door. When he turned, I picked up his left hand and stared at the gold ring. “Why don’t you find Shelby and kiss her and put an end to our little affair? Why don’t you—”

  He silenced me with a kiss. Then he lifted my dress and put his face under it. After a few seconds, or maybe it was minutes, I laced my fingers through his dark hair. I’d always heard that bald-headed men had the highest sex drives, but Louie’s thick black curls were abundant. I suspected that more than testosterone flowed through his blood. Or maybe it didn’t flow there, but stayed in his nether regions.

  “Louie, honey,” I said. “You’d…better…stop…”

  He shook his head, and I gasped. The stall began spinning. I gripped his ears for balance and shut my eyes. From beneath my dress came Louie’s muffled voice. “Still want me to stop?”

  “Not unless you want me to kill you,” I said. “Wait, you and Chaz can have a father-son faux funeral. Any last requests?”

  “Stop talking,” he said.

  Earlier that year at Mardi Gras, we’d all come down to New Orleans. Shelby stayed home with the baby, although I suspected that she was still brooding over Kip. When push came to shove, he hadn’t saved her. If Gladys hadn’t been there, Shelby would have drowned. Anyway, back to Mardi Gras. Louie and I had the darlingest quickie in an elevator. He slid his hands under my dress, and we crashed against the control panel. Each button clicked, and I imagined them lighting up. He bit my nipple a tad too hard, and my elbow hit the emergency stop. While a bell trilled over our heads, he peeled down my panty hose. His fingers moved between my legs, and I thought the man’s talents were wasted on heart surgery. He would have been a world-class gynecologist.

  Now, he grabbed my hand and pushed it against his nether regions. I slid my hand back and forth. “What you got in there? A boa constrictor?”

  He flipped up my dress, and his head was framed by Italian silk. I felt like a teenager on prom night. Well, that’s not true. I never got to be a teenager, but I had a rather lengthy childhood. My daddy was a barber, but he used to chase fires. He kept a police radio at his shop, and whenever there was an inferno in Baldwin County, he’d run out of the shop, leaving a customer half shaved, and follow the engines. I loved to go, too. We’d stand across from the burning building, the heat pressing us back, and gallons of water streaming down into the blaze. There’s something real masculine about a fire—all those men lugging hoses, being hoisted up in mechanical buckets, thrusting into rooms with burning ceilings. The firemen looked small against the flames, and I remember hearing my daddy say that “pissing in the wind” took on a whole new meaning. After I became a famous actress, I specialized in setting men on fire and then putting out the flames with gasoline. Well, not literally, but you get my drift.

  The door to the men’s room boomed open. I held my breath as footsteps clapped across the floor. I heard a zipper unzip, and a man’s sigh, followed by the pattering of urine. I shook Louie’s shoulder. In one swift motion—and without dislodging my dress—he lifted me up by the waist. I balanced my high heels on the toilet, as if I’d gotten caught in restrooms a thousand times. This just galled me. Never in my life had I set foot in a men’s restroom; I had no idea how large those urinals were. Why, I didn’t even know they had cubicles. Yet here I was, making out with my best friend’s son in a commode room. It was crazy, and mean and exciting. I thought, Oh, my God. What am I doing?

  As soon as the man left the restroom, Louie unzipped his trousers. I slapped his hand, and he stepped backward, his shoulders striking the door, sending a shudder through the metal. With as much dignity as I could muster, I climbed off the toilet. Then I unlatched the door and walked out the door, my heels clattering on the tile. I stepped into the cool, empty hall. Nothing thrilled me more than playing hard to get, especially when the guy was hard.

  “Isabella? Baby?” Louie’s voice echoed against the tiled walls. I thought about hiding in the powder room until the wake was over; but then, farther down the hall, I saw a door leading to a lush green courtyard. I hurried toward it and stepped gratefully into the pungent darkness. It smelled of lilies, tuberoses, and Mississippi River musk.

  I pulled off my hig
h heels and walked in my stocking feet around the fountain. From inside the hotel, the band was playing one of Honora’s favorites, “Wonderful, Wonderful!” From here, I could see her on the dance floor, dancing with Shelby.

  Now, I will just tell you. That was the strangest relationship I’d ever witnessed. You would think that any mother would turn against her adulterous daughter-in-law, and for a little while she did, but after Shelby did the Big Nasty with Kip, she took up Catholicism, and Honora forgave all.

  They were more like a mother and daughter. I was a little jealous of them until Dickie Boy and I stopped off in Covington and I met Shelby’s family; then it all became clear. Her father was a judge, but all he did was kill poor little animals. Her mama was a faded beauty queen and a defecater. That’s right—I said defecater.

  Louie tried to get along with that wild, voodooing tribe. Mrs. Stevens may have been a former Miss Louisiana, but she was an abomination to humanity. I’d always heard that she wouldn’t leave her house, but thanks to modern medicine, she snapped out of it. She started traipsing around Covington in a blond wig. Well, she was practically bald from abusing Miss Clairol. Then she’d defecate in people’s yards. They’d be washing their supper dishes and glance out their windows, and in the dusky light, they’d see Mrs. Stevens squatting in the flower beds. It’s the God’s truth, I swear it. When I tell this story to people, they accuse me of making it up. “That’s just unreal,” they say.

  Mrs. Stevens wasn’t but fifty years old. They say the hair dye seeped into her brain. Whatever the cause, that woman had a big problem, and nobody tried to help her, least of all Shelby. Then Gladys got it in her head that it might help Mrs. Stevens if she spent the Easter holidays over in Point Clear. They carried that poor woman to the car, with her kicking and screaming. Louie gave her a sedative. After that visit she seemed to perk up, and Honora invited her back for a July Fourth picnic.