Mermaids in the Basement

by Michael Lee West

  From the center hall, a curved staircase rose up to a Palladian window. The glass panes were old and bubbled, distorting views of the live oaks and sago palms. “Lovely,” I said.

  “Yes, but my late mother-in-law used to say this house is haunted.” She peered into the dining room, then turned and smiled. “I’ve never noticed any ghosts. And I’ve looked.”

  I laughed.

  “The house has been unlucky. But please, don’t tell Renata.” She stood in front of two long windows, backlit by afternoon sun. I longed to ask why the house had been unlucky, and for whom, but my nerve faltered.

  “It’s a gorgeous house,” she continued. “Although I must confess, I had little to do with the decor. That was my mother-in-law’s doings. I used to laugh at the way she fussed over the gardens, agonizing if the blue delphiniums clashed with the purple hydrangeas. When she had chandeliers and chiffoniers shipped from Austria and Normandy, I thought she’d lost her mind. The sheer pretentiousness of this house galled me.”

  “It looks like a small chateau,” I said. I kept twisting my head, trying to peer out the back windows to catch a glimpse of Renata. But I had a feeling that Honora DeChavannes would not be rushed. So I added, “And it’s so…fragrant.”

  “Well, that’s because of the flowers. I don’t normally have vases set about, but my granddaughter is here visiting. Well, you know that. Dahlin’, you look like you need a refill.” She pointed to my glass.

  I followed her into the kitchen, the terrier clicking behind, sniffing my trousers. While Honora refreshed our mimosas, I wondered how I might gently turn the subject to her granddaughter. However, if I asked straightaway, she might start quizzing me about the lurid tabloid articles.

  “Let’s go outside and see if we can find Renata,” she said, handing me a glass. She picked up the mimosa pitcher, and we stepped through French doors, our footsteps clapping on the stones, and turned down a path, where, at the end, ornate iron chairs faced the water. The terrier trotted ahead, toward a wooden dock, pausing to sniff the air. The wind blew from the southeast, smelling of seaweed. I looked around for Renata, but she had vanished.

  Honora and I sat down, sipping our drinks; but I couldn’t concentrate. The sun was dropping, and the water glowed with a coppery sheen. I spotted the dim outline of a red sailboat; I squinted, but it was too hazy to see the opposite shore. The wind shifted direction, and I heard a buoy clang. With one hand I groped in my pocket for my prescription sunglasses and put them on.

  “Well, it’s not Brighton or Southampton.” She smiled. “But the mosquitoes aren’t out, and it is lovely, don’t you think?”

  “Exquisite.” I raised my glass.

  “I’m just thrilled you located Renata. I’ve no idea where she’s gone.” She leaned back her head. “Just look at those clouds. Sometimes Alabama just breaks my heart—it’s so pretty, it just breaks my heart into little pieces.”

  I heard Renata before I saw her. Her footsteps pattered up the steps, then she came into view, pausing to brush sand from her feet. Her blond hair was abnormally short and wind-tossed. She glanced up, and I had a sense of falling into those eyes, silver with pewter lights. And those cheekbones—they were exotic. All my life I’d had a weakness for gray-eyed blondes. Unlike most women in the film industry, she wasn’t rail-thin; rather, she was small-waisted and quite curvy. If I were to pull this woman into my arms, she would feel soft and solid, not like fish cartilage.

  I grasped the chair to steady myself. Suddenly I couldn’t get my breath.

  “There you are,” called Honora, facing Renata. “Guess who just happened to be in the neighborhood?”

  Chapter 40

  PLANTING ZINNIAS

  What the hell are you doing here?” I asked.

  “Honestly, Renata,” said Honora, squeezing Ferg’s arm. “Where are your manners?”

  “Drowned,” I said, keeping my eyes on Ferg.

  “That’s not funny,” said Honora.

  “It wasn’t intended to be,” I said, trying not to look at him.

  Ferg stood up and pulled off his sunglasses. “What the bloody hell happened to your hair?”

  “A lady cut it off.”

  “On purpose?” he asked.

  Honora leaned over and picked up the Yorkie. “Time for us to scoot,” she told the dog. Her shoes clicked along the pier as she headed back to the house.

  “How did you find me?” I said.

  “I saw your picture in the National Enquirer.”

  “Well, you can just turn around and go back to Molly Bloom.”

  “I don’t want her,” he said. “I don’t even particularly like Ms. Vasquez.”

  “That doesn’t mean you didn’t jump her bones.”

  “I didn’t.” He stepped toward me. “I’ve been calling you nonstop for weeks. I’ve called Nags Head and your cell phone over and over.”

  “I lost my phone.”

  “Your grandmother has one, doesn’t she?” He swept his hand to the side, gesturing at the grounds. “I was out of my mind with worry. You could have called me.”

  “I did. Several times. The hotel always put me through to your voice mail.”

  “I never got your messages.”

  I stared down at the pier, the orange water slapping against the barnacle-crusted pilings. “That’s because I didn’t leave any.”

  “But why not?”

  “Because I didn’t get my picture taken with Esmé Vasquez’s hand on my leg. I didn’t buy an engagement ring. I’m not involved in a new Taylor-Burton affair.”

  “Things aren’t how they appear, Renata.”

  “The entire free world thinks you’re screwing her. A picture really is worth a thousand words. It’s worth more than your denials.”

  “It’s fiction,” he said.

  “I don’t know what to believe, Ferg. I’ve had it with lies and secrets.” I drew my finger across my throat. “Do you take me for a fool?”

  “No, Renata, I do not think you are a fool. But I cannot control the paparazzi.”

  He sat down, running one hand through his hair. It was just a little shorter than mine. “I’ve been true to you since the first day I saw you at your mother’s house. You were wearing diamond mermaids in your hair, and a black dress with a slit up the side. Look at me, darling. I love you. I would never betray you. But I cannot prove a negative. I can’t prove something that didn’t happen.”

  “I think the tabloids have unearthed a fundamental weakness,” I said.

  “In society?”

  “No, in you! When I saw that picture, I thought, What’s going to happen ten, fifteen years from now? Your midlife crisis will be in full swing.”

  “I only know that I adore you, and I wouldn’t risk losing you.”

  “Yeah, right.” I folded my arms. “So, how did the ring shopping go?”

  “Rather well, actually.”

  “That’s what the tabloids said.” I put my hands on my hips. “You know how I found out? My great-aunt showed it to me. She’s in a nursing home, and yet she knows all about you. I hope Esmé loves the ring.”

  “No, no, I bought it for you.” He stood up, digging one hand into his pocket. He dragged up a small black box. Then he dropped to his knees, opened the box, and plucked out a pear-shaped diamond.

  “Marry me, Renata,” he said.

  “Stop.” I shook my head and took a few steps back. Then I turned and jumped off the pier, into the old rowboat. It tilted to one side, and I grasped the sides. Two pelicans lifted gracefully from the water, into the tea-stained light. Leaning forward, I hastily untied the rope and slung it into the water. Then I picked up the oars and rowed until I was several yards from the pier.

  Ferg stuffed the ring back into the velvet case, shoved it into his pocket, then crouched down and started to jump into the boat. As if realizing that I was too far away, he turned toward the steps and ran down to the beach. He watched me for several minutes, then sat down cross-legged in the sand. “You can’t
stay out there,” he called. “You’ll get hungry.”

  “That’s too bad,” I called. “I need to diet anyway.”

  I lifted the oars, water pattering down. The boat skidded over a wave, then slowly began to revolve. Ferg picked up a stick and began to write in the sand MARRY ME. Then he turned. “So? What’s your answer?” he yelled into the wind.

  “Give a girl a minute,” I said.

  “If you don’t say yes in two seconds, I’m coming after you.”

  “Don’t do this,” I yelled. “You’ll lose your damn ring.”

  “Your ring.” He sprinted forward, kicking sand over the M in MARRY ME, then he charged into the water. A wave slapped over his knees, wetting his trousers. Then he dove. The water took him with a slap.

  I grabbed my oars and tried to maneuver into deeper water. He swam over to the boat, then heaved up, grasping the side. The boat tipped violently, then he rolled over the edge. He shook his head, and water sprayed onto the metal bottom. He lay there a moment, breathing hard, then he pushed his hand into his pocket and tugged at the box, working it out of the wet fabric. With two fingers, he opened the box and grabbed the ring. He walked over to me on his knees, the boat swaying.

  “Say yes, dammit. Say yes.”

  “Is this what I’ll have to tell our children?” I asked. “Will I have to tell them that Papa used profanity when he asked me to marry him?”

  “That sounds like a yes to me,” he said. He tossed the box over his shoulder. It splashed into a wave. Then he pulled me into his arms and slid the ring onto my finger. “I, Ferguson Lauderdale, promise to love you, Renata DeChavannes, for the rest of my life. And to always tell the truth.” He broke off and began kissing me. He drew back, water dripping into my face, and stared down at me. “Nothing but the truth, so help me God.”

  We sank down to the bottom. My foot hit something solid. I heard a clunk, followed by a splash. I wondered if I’d knocked an oar into the water. But it was a long time before we bothered to look.

  I awakened to the sound of whistling. It sounded like “Drowsy Maggie.” I sank deeper into the featherbed and remembered that Ferg used to whistle that song back in L.A. Then I remembered he was in Point Clear; but just in case I was dreaming, I felt the ring on my left hand. Then I grabbed the notepad beside my bed, uncapped my pen, and made revision notes for Hydrophobia. I wrote until my fingers cramped, and then I wrote more. Words fell down like water. I could swim in these words. I laughed, stretched my arms, and kept writing.

  The window was open, and the smell of pine and lilacs blew into the room. I heard Honora’s tinkly laughter, followed by Isabella saying, “Hollywood hasn’t changed one iota, except that the special effects are better.”

  I threw back the covers. I was still wearing my bathing suit from last night’s romp. Pulling on my jeans, I paused in front of the dresser mirror and licked my hands, trying to flatten the cowlicks. Tucked into the mirror’s rim, I saw the mermaid badge. I had the impression that Honora and Gladys knew more than they were telling, but I wasn’t sure how to extract the truth. I was pretty sure those two would not respond to badgering.

  Badgering, I thought, and reached up to the mirror, touching the little mermaid’s tail. Maybe I just needed to take another approach. I may have ruined my screenwriting career, but I could try and bait the women with a bad-ass story; I could make up one that put my daddy—or them—into a bad light. Honora would leap to his defense and set me straight.

  I slipped the badge into my jean pocket, then reached inside my tote bag for my mother’s old packet of zinnia seeds. I could still hear Ferg singing; but before I joined him, I had to do something. I hurried downstairs, into the conservatory. I found a clay pot, filled it with dirt, then opened the envelope and poured Mama’s seeds into my hand. I pressed them into the soil, sprinkled a little water over the top, and set the pot on a sunny table, next to the orchids.

  “There you go, Mama,” I said, and turned out of the room, into the hall. In the living room, the French doors stood open. The whistling was louder, and when I stepped onto the terrace, I saw Ferg. He was standing next to the iron table between Honora and Gladys, holding a platter of French toast. Tied around his waist was Gladys’s yellow ruffled apron. As he moved over to Isabella, she held up her plate and smiled at him.

  “Another piece of toast?” he asked her.

  “I’d love one.”

  He slid the French toast onto her plate, then stepped over to my grandmother. Behind them, a buffet was set up on a glass table with dolphin legs—a stack of gleaming china plates; silverware jutting up from crystal glasses; a platter of cantaloupe and strawberries, all studded with soft wedges of brie. Steam curled over two silver chafing dishes, and I smelled buttered grits and smoked sausage, the thick, spicy type that can’t be found outside the Deep South. On the other end of the table stood a bottle of Veuve Cliquot and a pitcher of orange juice, beaded in moisture.

  Zap barked, then shot out from under the table and ran over to me, jumping on his hind legs, putting his paws on my knees, his stubby tail a blur. Ferg turned. He stopped whistling and smiled. “Look who’s up,” he called.

  “Get you some of this delicious French toast,” Gladys said.

  “Isn’t he marvelous?” Isabella set down her plate and clapped her hands. “He can direct, he can write, he can cook!”

  With his free hand, Ferg pulled out a chair, its iron legs scraping over the stones, then bowed. When I sat down, he tilted back my head and planted an upside-down kiss on my lips. Honora and Isabella clapped, and Gladys put two fingers in her mouth and whistled. “Encore, encore!” Isabella cried. Ferg kissed me again, then grabbed a china plate from the buffet and set it down in front of me with a flourish.

  “French toast, madame?”

  “Please.” I smiled up at him.

  “We need more bubbles.” Isabella held up the empty bottle of Veuve Cliquot.

  “And music,” said Gladys, spooning grits into her mouth. “But not the New York harmonica!”

  “Philharmonic,” said Isabella.

  “Be right back.” Honora bustled into the house, trailed by the dog. A few minutes later the outdoor speakers crackled and I heard Lena Horne singing “Love Me or Leave Me.”

  “Perfect,” said Isabella, watching Ferg pile sugar-crusted French toast onto my plate. Gladys leaned forward and pushed the cane syrup across the table.

  “Grits, madame?” Ferg asked, biting my ear. “Coffee, tea, or—”

  “Me?” Isabella said, resting her chin on her hand, glancing flirtatiously at Ferg. “I take it y’all kissed and made up? Tell us all about it before Honora gets back.”

  “I heard that,” called Honora, walking out of the house with the champagne. She gently pinched Isabella’s cheek and added, “Can’t you leave anything to the imagination?”

  “Not a chance,” said Isabella, looking over at Ferg. “I’m at that stage in life where my imagination has a PG rating.”

  “Don’t look at me. I’m not telling,” he said.

  “Me, either.” I laughed and poured syrup over the toast. My hand wasn’t shaking. “You’ll just have to wonder.”

  “Such a pity.” Isabella sighed. Then she watched as I picked up a fork and cut into the French toast. She squealed and reached for my left hand. “Oh, my God,” she cried and grabbed my hand, holding it up. “It’s the infamous pear-shaped diamond. And to think I believed that damn National Enquirer.”

  “Told you not to,” said Gladys.

  “I didn’t believe it for a second,” said Honora, handing the champagne bottle to Ferg, then she stepped back when he popped the cork. She bent over to look at my ring. Isabella leaped from her chair and squeezed in for a closer look.

  “Goodness, Ferguson, how many carats?” said Honora.

  “Three.” He smiled.

  “The perfect stone,” Isabella said reverently. “Not too dinky, and nowhere close to vulgar.”

  “My, look how it sparkles,” said Glady
s.

  “What sparkles?” asked a deep, masculine voice. I turned, and my father stepped through the French doors.

  “Why, your daughter’s engagement ring,” said Honora. “Get over here and take a look.”

  For a second, a confused look crossed my daddy’s face, then it was replaced by a sardonic grin. He shook Ferg’s hand. “I’m Louie DeChavannes, Renata’s father.”

  “So nice to meet you,” Ferg said.

  “Nice apron,” Daddy said.

  “Yes, isn’t it?” Ferg lifted one lacy edge. “Would you like to try it on?”

  “I like this guy already.” Daddy laughed. Then he put his arm around Ferg’s neck and pulled him into a bear hug. “But I want to get one thing straight. You better take good care of my little girl. You hear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Any truth to those articles, boy?” Daddy tightened his grip. Ferg shook his head.

  “Didn’t quite hear that,” Daddy said, pressing his arm against Ferg’s Adam’s apple.

  “No, sir,” Ferg croaked.

  “Any news on Joie?” asked Honora.

  “She’s out of the hospital,” he said. “She’s still got some left-sided weakness. She has to walk with a cane.”

  “So sad,” said Gladys.

  “Faye took her to a rehab that specializes in CVAs.”

  “CVA?” asked Gladys. “She had a heart attack?”

  “No, CVA is a cardiovascular accident,” said Daddy. “It’s medical jargon for a stroke. All CVAs are strokes, but not all strokes are CVAs.”

  “Now I’m thoroughly confused,” said Isabella.

  “She didn’t actually have a stroke, but her head injury caused a brain hemorrhage,” he said. “The damage was the same damage as a stroke.”

  “Will she recover?” I asked.

  “The prognosis is good.” Daddy sank down into a chair.