by McNay, Dan
There was a blue flannel shirt on the men’s rack that caught her eye. She went to look. It was soft and untouched. It didn’t look like a soul had ever worn it. It was obviously expensive. It was too soft, some kind of special cotton or something. Harvested from baby cotton plants? Were there designer flannel shirts? It was a warm color of blue and big enough to get lost in. The few high rollers she had as customers in her prime would ask her to hang around after. She would wear their shirt. If they were real nice guys and she didn’t mind staying over, she’d order up room service for breakfast and fuss over serving them. All in their shirt. It was odd. It was only what she did on the job. They thought it was sexy. At home, she had silky negligees to lounge around in – her inner baby doll working. The only thing missing from this shirt was the scent of aftershave or someone’s odor she appreciated. What had John used? It was probably Old Spice or something dumb like that. You could always add the scent yourself, but that was a little nuts. The shirt was hers. She could see herself sleeping in it. And with the sleeves rolled up, maybe raking leaves. She had property now. She could rake leaves if she wanted.
She looked through the costume jewelry in the glass case for something conservative and demur. It was all old lady stuff, large and gaudy and cheap looking. Daydee had jewelry. Some of it valuable. The brooch she had found at a place like this with all real stones she had reset in earrings and a necklace and a ring. All of it too high powered to wear to church in a little town. There were other things that the men had given her. You held on to them because there was some elegance to them and if you were really hard up, you could always sell them. Like bonds in a safety deposit box. It suddenly occurred to her that she hadn’t seen her mother’s jewelry box. That wasn’t like her not to still have that old little girl white padded box. All that stuff her mother had never let her touch. She wondered what it would look like now. It was probably hidden somewhere in the apartment. Or crazy Winston had taken it for safe-keeping. She’d look around when she went home. The lamps were easy. Bland and matching. If they all worked she was set up. The price was so good that she splurged on a set of cow salt and pepper shakers. They even helped take everything out to her car. You couldn’t get that in New Orleans unless you were related to the clerk.
Chapter five
She sat in the lawyer’s reception area for a half hour before he would see her. He really was the grumpiest person she had known in years.
“You will need to make an appointment in advance in the future. I cannot interrupt my day like this.”
She sat down uninvited.
“Well, what can I do for you?”
She told him about the necessity of putting the apartment building up for sale and how her real estate agent had explained how a sale in probate might work.
“So, who is the agent?” he asked.
When she told him, he turned away from her to look out the window. What was there to look at? It was a quiet little town’s Main Street. A car went by. A woman came out of the hardware store.
“She is my ex-wife.”
“She told me that you were on the Board of Directors for the bank that held the mortgage.”
“Did she tell you I was a crook and a bastard as well?”
“Well, now that you mention it…” was what she wanted to say. But lying seemed a better option. “She didn’t say anything like that. She didn’t mention to me that you two were ever married.”
He turned back to her.
“You know she is homosexual?”
“I didn’t ask her.”
“Well, just watch out.” He wasn’t really looking at her. There was something on the bookshelf beside her. His son’s photo.
“The bank,” he was saying, “makes its loan decisions separately from board actions. I can’t help you there. I will make a motion for the probate court to agree to a date for the sale foreclosure. You will have to find a buyer.”
“Your son?”
He nodded.
“Good looking guy.”
“They grow up and fly away. He loves his mother.”
“Grandkids?”
He rubbed his nose.
“I don’t know.” Edward finally looked at her. “Perhaps you could find out for me. I could put in a good word with the loan officer.”
“Sure,” she said.
Boy, she thought. She got up. He didn’t. That was something she really missed from the south. There wasn’t a man in New Orleans that wouldn’t stand for you when you stood. He was growing on her, but she was still going to look around for a lawyer less grumpy.
* * *
Daydee found her mother’s jewelry box under the bed. As if that was a secret place that no burglar would think of checking. Like the coffee can in the refrigerator. She sat on the edge of the bare mattress to open it. The jewelry box was one made for a child, padded with a little ballerina that popped up and turned to the melody that played, if it was wound up. She didn’t wind it up. Her mother had guarded it her whole life. Daydee hadn’t been allowed to touch it. Even as a teenager. She wondered why she had hung on to the original box that she must have gotten as a child. She laid out the jewelry. There was nothing really there. A couple of slight chains of plated gold. A few rings and the pair of earrings that her mother had told her once were too valuable for a child to try on. They weren’t even for pierced ears, but with those horrible clips that pinched your ear lobes. It was all junk.
Daydee had a large emerald that a client had given her. She tried to imagine her mother’s face being shown something like that. She probably wouldn’t believe it was real.
The emerald was for a week at the guy’s house in Tallahassee. He was a nice guy. Going home with him was easy. She thought she knew exactly what to expect. Big house. Lots of evidence of a woman’s touch. He was really into guns and had a shooting range in the basement. Besides the sex, all they did was shoot at targets. She had never used a gun before. He told her she was a natural. It did seem really easy. When it was time to go back to New Orleans, he gave her the ring. Said it had been his wife’s. On the way to the airport, he told her that his wife had shot herself one morning without a note or anything.
She never wore it. It was valuable but the gift giving was such an off-handed gesture. Much the same as all the presents she was given here as a child. Things picked up from the drugstore at the last minute. Her whole life. God. Her mother had taken the jewelry from her aunt and great-grandmother’s belongings when they had died. There was a brooch she recalled seeing her aunt wear. Even the older stuff was all costume stuff.
There was a story a girl had told her long ago. She had been one of Ringer’s other girls. Daydee’s first and only pimp when she had arrived in The Quarter. They were all stoned one night. The girl’s mother would trust her with her jewelry as long it was returned the next morning. The story had been about how the girl had screwed it up. All about regret and lost trust and falling from grace. All the story meant to Daydee was a wish on her part to be able to fall from grace with something. There was absolutely nothing to screw up here.
Giving her mother’s jewelry to the Goodwill would be for the best. She might keep a few of the older women’s things as keepsakes. There were a pair of good church-going earrings that were her great-grandmother’s. There was a simple small cross on a chain. The Spanish girls all wore them. Maybe she would keep that, but not wear it. It would probably burn her flesh if she put it on. It was for a young girl anyway. Like her great-grandmother at twelve in that big rich girl’s house.
Why didn’t she hate her aunt and great-grandmother? They weren’t mean to her. When her mother parked her at their house on the farm, both women just ignored her most of the time, except to make her lunch. They were both just old and preoccupied. And not really very smart. What was there to hate?
* * *
Daydee overslept on the morning of the funeral. She threw on slacks and her new flannel shirt. It was cool and overcast for a summer morning. A thunder storm seemed to be on
its way. The service was already underway when she arrived at the office. It was too late for any last-minute corrections. She hoped everything was set up properly for them. Jack wasn’t to be seen. The vault wasn’t where she had left it, so she assumed it was in the ground. There was the little railing around the grave and the casket had been lowered. The aunt and the man’s son were standing beside the widow. The minister moaned on and on. There was a four-man veteran rifle salute team in old uniforms. Nobody else. The widow looked upset. She kept her distance, so she wouldn’t interrupt anything. She didn’t want to listen to the guy anyway. They were always so morose or angry. She was hoping Jack would be better than that. She was taking Winston to church tomorrow. The salute team raised their rifle and fired into the air.
It occurred to her that there might have been times when Jack opened the grave, changed into a suit, performed the ceremony and then changed back to close the grave. That was probably the case at her mother’s funeral. Had someone paid him for it? She reminded herself to ask. These guys here were all so noble about stuff like that. She hoped he was coming back shortly to close this one.
Everyone wandered away to leave the widow alone at the casket.
What had happened with her father’s death? Had Jack just brought the casket out and buried it without a service. Nobody cared about him. He was just a crazy guy who was a lot of bother.
The widow joined her son and then walked over to where Daydee was standing. When she reached her, Daydee offered her hand, but it was ignored.
“We are all so sorry for your loss.”
“And who are you?” The woman’s jaw was set.
“I represent the cemetery, ma’am.”
“You’re the runaway.”
“Not much of one anymore,” Daydee said.
“This is the way you dress for a service?”
“I’m sorry, I was just here to make sure everything went smoothly. I didn’t want to intrude.”
“Since when does anybody need an invitation to a funeral?”
“I don’t know, ma’am. It was a lovely service.”
“Thank you,” she said as coldly as she could muster. She walked back to where the limo was waiting.
What fun, Daydee told herself.
* * *
They were late for the church service. Winston had appeared at her front door, sweaty in his black suit and tie. He looked morose. His hands were trembling. The suit was tight and showed its age. They drove to the church slowly, as if he was going to a funeral that he was going to hate. He asked if he looked all right three times. He was shaking all over as they climbed the steps to the front door. It was a regular looking white clapboard Midwest church with a steeple and columns. It was Presbyterian, not that she knew any differences between them. She had thought that the Presbyterians and the Methodists were upper class and the Baptists and Pentecostals were farmers and stupid, but she knew that was probably wrong. It was just the way it was in this little town. Most of the congregation were already seated in the pews. Jack was up in front in his minister suit. He was so good looking. Blonde with some gray, and a square jaw. The women probably came just to look at him. A few heads turned when they came down the aisle, but then more and more people were looking back at them. They were looking at her, she knew. But all their faces made Winston quake even more. He pushed them into the first available pew and sat down.
Jack looked directly at her and smiled. The nick in his ear was odd. It was something you could have fixed she thought. Daydee spotted Sarah, her skinny English realtor, and nodded. A wave would be too much, especially in front of the whole congregation. Jack started the introduction to his sermon. They were asked to bow their heads and pray. Winston put his face down over his two hands like a child would do. Daydee had never really prayed in her life. Well, maybe once. She watched the others. Everyone else had their heads bowed, no one noticed her. Jack had his eyes closed.
The prayer ended and he started his sermon. His was an instruction in God’s grace or something like that. She was getting a little sick. The sweaty sweet smell of Winston’s aftershave, and an overbearing perfume from behind her soon were overwhelming. The church was stuffy and she could also smell the Liquid Gold they used to polish the wooden pews. Nausea swept over her like a wave. She had to get out of there. She got up carefully. Winston looked at her, stricken. Patting his hand, she started back toward the entrance, holding the gagging at bay. There had to be a restroom. She rushed in, found a stall and lost her breakfast. It still continued after there wasn’t anything left. She dry-heaved for a bit, before she could stop. This was shit. She hadn’t even been drinking last night. She didn’t think she could go back out there any time soon. There was a little window that she managed to open. The air helped. She went to the old spotted mirror to see if she could fix anything. Her lipstick was gone, but she wasn’t sure if she could reapply it. Her hand was shaking now. The door opened and Sarah and another lady came in. Daydee wet a paper towel to dab at her face.
“Are you all right?” the other lady asked.
Daydee nodded.
“You have it bad,” the woman said.
Daydee looked at Sarah.
“This is Jack’s wife,” Sarah said. “This is Diane. She runs a lot of the church things, helps the shut-ins, the young mothers…”
“I was just using the restroom,” Daydee told them.
“The restroom echoes out into the main hall. We don’t know why. The church is old. We should put a sign on the door or something.”
Diane impressed Daydee as a nervous chicken sort. Her short curly bob of blonde hair added to her slightly frenzied look.
“So the entire service heard me?” Daydee asked Sarah.
“If you need any help at all, just ask,” Diane said. “My morning sickness was horrible each and every time. I swore the last time was it for good.”
Daydee went out. Sarah and Diane followed her. Sarah gave her a shrug of her shoulders before returning to her seat. Diane seemed to want to escort Daydee back, but Daydee shook her head at her. Diane patted her arm. Heads were turning. Winston looked and then got up and came back. He was white.
“Can we get out of here?” Daydee asked him.
He nodded and they left the church.
They were in front of her building in no time. Winston scratched his head.
“Maybe I should come by to help you cover up that graffiti.”
“I’ll take care of it,” she said.
“I mean it, I can help,” he stammered. “So, who is the father?”
She got out of the car.
“Wait, would you go with me again?” he asked. “There’s another church nearby we could try out.”
“Let me think about it.” She was going to be sick again, so she went in.
* * *
Why wouldn’t you know? She looked at herself in the bathroom mirror. The shower had felt good, there didn’t seem to be any more nausea right now. Her period wasn’t always on time. Pigging out usually made her grow thick. She was too old. She felt her belly, but it didn’t feel any different. Her nipples were tender and swollen. The gift that keeps on giving. It had to have been that last night before they arrested him. He was nervous and excited, ready to bounce off the walls. She hadn’t been able to get anything out of him about what was going on. No drinking really, which was unusual for him. And he wanted to jump on her bones. That was what the allowance was for, wasn’t it? He did ask her if she wanted to go to Rio. She had told him sure. They made it to Rio, she guessed.
She would have to write him.
She could get rid of it. At sixteen, there had been no hesitation. That was right after she got to New Orleans and she had no idea who the father was. One of the boys in Paris. She couldn’t even remember a possible father then.
This was hers. To keep or not to keep. John could know or didn’t have to know. There should be some money coming out of all of this, though it didn’t look too promising right now. The cemetery could be a liv
elihood. Live here the rest of her life? It could be a good place for a child. Like all of those other kids here that she went to school with. She could wait tables again.
It was hers. It was growing sweetly, warm and blind, tucked away, inside.
* * *
The next morning, she ate breakfast and threw it up and sipped water from a glass for a bit. She showered and started off to find paint to cover the graffiti and a very large box of soda crackers. That was supposed to help, wasn’t it? There was an envelope on the porch in front of her door. No name or address and it wasn’t sealed. Inside was a typed letter to her, unsigned.
I don’t know what to say. You frustrate the hell out of me, like a machine that keeps breaking down. I am not brilliant, far from it. But I do pride myself on having some intelligence. Yet I am used to people thinking I am a moron. I think it is my voice that causes that impression. My own brother thought I was a moron and he was infinitely smarter than me for forty years. I have, however, spent 30+ years as a trouble shooter. I can take a machine which does not work, figure out what is wrong with it, and usually fix it. Sometimes I have to call an expert to help fix it (technician, computer programmer, mechanic, etc.) I listen to you and watch you and feel you have problems. The few times I have spoken to you, I feel like I am beating my head against a brick wall.
You may think that what you are doing is acceptable here. I disagree.
You dress and act like a prostitute. Plain and simple. It just doesn’t fly here.
I understand that you don’t like criticism. I’m not fond of it myself. But some criticism is constructive if we are only smart enough to put our egos aside and learn from the criticism. I have worked hard over my life to keep my ego in check. I have not always been successful, but I have tried.
I wish you good luck, but I thought you should hear the truth.
There wasn’t a signature. She smiled in spite of the scariness of it. Yep, you called that one, whoever you are. Was this because of the graffiti or a love note to go with it? It sounded like it was someone she had talked to at least. That narrowed the field. Crazy.