Gone With a Handsomer Man

by Michael Lee West

  She ignored him and kept wrapping him in tape. Once she started a project, she didn’t like to stop. Donnie’s arms twitched, but they were fastened tight. He watched her with a puzzled expression and tried to raise up. She pushed him down. Then she reached for the Coke bottle and took a dainty sip.

  “What you looking at?” she asked him.

  “Goddamn you, Ruby. Undo me. If you don’t, I’ll kill you.”

  While he talked, she poured the cola into his mouth. It spilled down his face, onto the mattress. A gargling sound rose up. He spit, and Coke spewed into Mama’s face. She turned the bottle upside down and shook out the last few drops. Then she grasped the bottle by its neck and beat the hell out of him. He screamed, his hips bucking up and down.

  “Hurts, don’t it?” Mama cracked the bottle on his nose. “Teach you to hit me again.”

  He screeched. I felt bad for him, but he had it coming. I opened my mouth, trying to move air in and out of my lungs. Each breath sounded like an iron door with a rusty hinge.

  “Teeny, we don’t have time for an asthma attack,” she said. “Pack your things.”

  My medicines were lined up in the kitchen window. I put them in a sack with a few clothes. We ran out to his station wagon. The engine backfired, then it caught. Mama turned onto the highway. I tried not to wheeze. Catching my breath was like climbing a mountain and getting slapped down by the wind. Every now and then, I’d reach the top, only to see another hill.

  I hollered when she sped by Aunt Bluette’s farm. “Teeny, we can’t live in this town anymore.” She sucked the back of her hand. “Donnie’ll hunt me down. He’ll kill me and you both. I’m sorry, baby, but you’re only eight years old. I can’t let you die. And we can’t go home.”

  I wiped my eyes. Home wasn’t Donnie’s triple-wide. It was my pink bedroom at the farm. It was Aunt Bluette’s hand on my cheek. Home was the place where all my scattered pieces came to rest.

  Mama pushed her foot against the accelerator, and we flew into the night, farther and farther from Donnie and Aunt Bluette.

  * * *

  Miss Dora and her man servant, Estaurado, showed up before lunch. He resembled a Spanish version of the Blues Brothers—sunglasses, hat, and a black polyester suit. He was tall and emaciated, with a pointy beard, and cast a spiky shadow along the floor.

  Miss Dora bustled around in a pink bouclé suit, her pocketbook swinging back and forth. Her hands and face were a violent shade of red. “Have you been in the sun?” I asked.

  “I’m a sight!” Her hand flew to her face. “You would not believe what I’ve been through. I stopped for lunch at Chez Cassie. I’m highly allergic to sucralose. That’s what makes things like Splenda so sweet. I don’t know how it got into my dessert—or maybe it was that latte I drank—but it did.”

  “Can people be allergic to that?” I asked.

  “Apparently so. The first time it happened, I thought I had a rash. And it didn’t hit me right away, so I never associated it with sucralose. After that, whenever I ate something with artificial sweetening, my symptoms got worse and worse. This time, I turned blood red and started itching. Even my ears swelled.”

  “You poor thing.” I studied her face. Her ears did look big.

  “Not everybody with sucralose allergies does this.” She reached into her purse, pulled out a gold compact, and studied her face. “The emergency room doctor blamed it on my quirky body chemistry. Well, I am allergic to just about everything. He pumped me full of steroids and told me to avoid artificial sweeteners like the plague.”

  “I wish I’d known,” I said. “I could have made your supper.”

  “You’re too sweet.” She snapped the compact shut, her bracelets clattering. “Estaurado, run and get Teeny’s clothes.”

  He twisted his head, as if trying to understand.

  She repeated her command with exaggerated slowness and Estaurado stepped into the corridor. “I have to be so careful with him, Teeny. He misunderstands every word I say. Just yesterday, he told me he was getting sick and threw out a foreign word, constipación. Well, I dosed him up with Ex-Lax. Little did I know constipación was the common cold.”

  “Get a Spanish dictionary,” I said.

  “Oh, I’ve got several. The man is just too literal—though I’m sure he’d say it’s the other way around.” She rolled her eyes. “Never mind him. I got into a huge fight with Bing Laden. But I got your clothes.”

  Estaurado returned with four bulging Hefty bags. “Su ropa, senorita.”

  “See what I mean?” Miss Dora rolled her eyes. “Now he’s mixing up ropes and clothing. Darlin’, I’m sure your pretty outfits are wrinkled to high heaven. When I got to Bing’s, everything you owned was laying in his front yard.”

  While she talked, she bustled around the entry hall, straightening pictures and rearranging knickknacks. “This place needs fluffing in the worst way,” she said. “It’s not formal enough.”

  I glanced around. If it had been mine, I’d have packed up the silver and the porcelain figurines and popped a fig cake into the oven. This house took itself too seriously. It needed the opposite of formal.

  Miss Dora pushed a fat white envelope into my hand and said, “Don’t spend wisely—squander it.”

  I pushed it back, but she grabbed my hand. “Keep it, darlin’. Only god knows what you’ve had to tolerate the last few months, engaged to that pussymonger. Speaking of men, I was supposed to meet a client twenty minutes ago.”

  Estaurado shuffled toward me and held out a box. “For you, senorita,” he said.

  He waved one hand, indicating that I should open the box. I pulled off the lid and saw six tiny figurines laying on a cotton strip.

  “What are they?”

  “Worry dolls, senorita.”

  “Why, thank you,” I said, touched by the gesture.

  His face dissolved into wrinkles as he smiled, and crooked front teeth pressed against his bottom lip.

  Miss Dora peeked over my shoulder. “You’re supposed to tell them your problems and stick them under your pillow. Speaking of troubles, I’ll be in a fine mess if I don’t leave this second. Tell you what, I’ll try to stop by later. Maybe I’ll treat you to an early supper.”

  “I’d enjoy that.”

  “See you then.” She lifted one hand and wiggled her fingers. “Come, Estaurado.”

  Miss Dora blew me a kiss and breezed out the door, into the corridor, with Estaurado bobbing in her wake.

  I squatted beside the trash bags. Inside the first one, I found a shoe box with a silvery key. It was my spare to Bing’s house. I started to throw it away, then I remembered Bing’s upcoming trip to Pinehurst. He went every summer to play golf. I’d planned to go too, and I’d lined up a dog sitter to feed and walk Sir twice a day. Maybe I could sneak over to Bing’s house and visit my dog. I could also get Templeton Family Receipts.

  I fit the key onto Miss Dora’s chain and dropped the pink tassel into the bowl. Then I pushed the Hefty bags next to the staircase. No need to unpack. I was leaving in the morning, what with Bing’s deadline. I hadn’t found an apartment, so I’d have to stay at a cheap motel until I found a job.

  As I started out of the foyer, my heel snagged on one of the bags, and a black sheath dress spilled out. Bing had bought it specially for our engagement party. It had a high neckline, fit for Sunday school or a funeral.

  “Shouldn’t I wear a peppy color?” I’d asked him.

  “Black is the new white,” he’d said. “And don’t let Dora say otherwise. That woman looks like a Mary Kay cosmetics trophy. The bitch suffers from pinkitis.”

  It was true. Miss Dora’s house was raspberry stucco, but the interior was pink as a cat’s mouth. The night of the party, Bing took me on a tour, pointing out paint colors. “This room is Baboon’s Ass Pink,” he said, waving at the guest room. He guided me down the hall, pointing at other rooms. “Vaginal Blush,” he said. “Nipple Nougat.”

  We made love in the pinkest bedroom. Then we cre
pt down the stairs, into the real world of Charleston and Miss Dora’s friends. Bing introduced me as Christine and said I was a gourmet cook. People were just as sweet as could be, asking about my china and silver patterns, which, thanks to Miss Dora, I’d picked out at Belk.

  I couldn’t have said why, but after the party, everything changed between me and Bing. We were just too different. I was bashful; he was outgoing. I would take food to a funeral and not tape my name to the bottom of the bowl. Bing craved recognition. Every time I drove by a billboard with his picture on it, or saw a Jackson Realty ad on television, I’d have to get a sugar fix.

  A few days after the party, I was watching the local news and one of Bing’s ads came on. I grabbed my purse and headed to the door. “I’m going to Piggly Wiggly to buy me some Easter Peeps,” I told him. “You want anything?”

  “God, what are you, the Swamp Queen?” Bing said. “It’s not ‘buy me some Easter Peeps.’ Just say, I’m going to ‘buy Easter Peeps.’ You don’t need ‘me.’”

  Now, barely two months later, the engagement was off. I pushed the black dress into the bag and walked to the kitchen. As I crammed chocolate cherries into my mouth, I tried not to think about Bing or his leggy girlfriends, but I couldn’t help it.

  I imagined shooting the women with a paint gun. No, that wasn’t mean enough. I wouldn’t feel satisfied until I’d force-fed them Good Riddance Blueberry Pie. It calls for sugar, Scotch whiskey, and 1½ cups of heavy whipping cream. Add 2½ cups of berries, along with 3 tablespoons of melted blueberry jelly and a dollop of Havoc—a blue, granular rat poison with a rodent-alluring flavor. The berries will mix right in with the fatal aqua-blueness of the pellets. Sprinkle more Havoc into the buttery homemade pie dough, adding a handful of chopped hazelnuts and dried berries. Flatten with a rolling pin, pressing it over the dough this way and that. Make a wish. Pray for an unwrinkled love life. Or maybe that’s the problem, maybe I’d stretched it too thin. But never mind all that. A pie like this calls for two crusts, top and bottom, symbolic of the missionary position—which, like pie, is easy to overindulge in.

  In real life, I would never make this pie. But I imagined how tart and sweet it would taste, and how it would ooze over the bone china plate. Come on, girls, I’d say, one bite won’t kill you. I’d sit back, watch them eat. Each forkful would deliver sweet explosions of flavor, texture, and death. I could see all the way to their funerals. They’d be laid out in mahogany coffins with leopard-spotted linings. Their dead selves would be dressed in formfitting black Dolce & Gabbana suits, also with a silk leopard lining. Instead of clutching little Bibles, they would hold Neiman Marcus shopping bags and iPhones.

  I would never kill a rat. What had a rat ever done to me? I’d use those live traps and call it a day. So I sure as hell wouldn’t poison those women. It’s flat impossible to poison skanks who never eat carbohydrates.

  eleven

  Late that afternoon, I walked through the house, admiring how the arched windows reflected on the heart pine floors. I passed through the dining room, and my feet hit a wet spot. I skidded sideways into a mahogany lowboy. A candlestick knocked over and rolled into a puddle of water. I looked up. A stream of water trickled through the chandelier. It hit the long table and streamed over the edge, pattering to the floor.

  I ran upstairs to see if I’d left a faucet running. I hadn’t. When I opened the closet above the dining room, I saw the problem. The air conditioning unit had frozen and the tray had overflowed, leaking water through the dining room ceiling. I put a punch bowl on the table to catch the drips.

  Before I could call a repairman, Miss Dora arrived with a bottle of predinner wine. When she saw the leak, she opened her cell phone and said, “I’ll take care of this.”

  Twenty minutes later, her HVAC men showed up. While they tramped up the stairs to investigate the leak, I opened the wine and we stepped into the garden. A breeze stirred the confederate roses, and golden light fell in long stripes across the lawn. In the back, the garden was hemmed in by an old brick wall, and in the center of it was a gate that seemingly led nowhere, except to other people’s backyards. Miss Dora said the gate was original to the house, and it had once led to a kitchen. In modern times, it had allowed Uncle Elmer to trim weeds on the other side of the wall.

  “How many more hours until the deadline?” Miss Dora asked.

  “Seventeen,” I said. “I don’t guess he’ll change his mind.”

  “No, he’s pretty steamed,” she said. “You did beat him up pretty bad.”

  “Seriously?”

  “He had a black eye and a huge punk knot on his forehead, maybe the size of a jumbo egg.” She lifted her glass. “I never knew a peach could do all that. It’s a versatile fruit.”

  “I’ll say.”

  “I remember when Bing told me he’d met you. It sounded like he’d said, ‘I met a possum,’ but he’d really said, ‘I’ve met an awesome woman.’” She waved her hand, shooing a fly. “Honey, did you have a clue he was seeing two women?”

  “Not at all. I knew something was wrong. I never guessed what.”

  “Because he’s good at cheating. I watched his slow work on his first wife.”

  “Bing won’t talk about her. What happened?”

  “Gwendolyn was a stockbroker. Worked all the time. They were married three years. She didn’t catch him cheating until the end, so don’t you feel bad. You can’t outsmart a professional liar.” She waved at a fly. “The Jackson men need to be cheating on somebody or it just isn’t fun.”

  I hadn’t thought of it in those bald terms, but it made sense. He’d needed me for homemade cakes and Sunday pot roast, not entertainment.

  Miss Dora clapped her hands, then opened them, revealing a dead fly. “Little bastard,” she muttered.

  The repairman stuck his head out the back door. “The unit’s fixed,” he said. “Call if you have any problems. And I’m real sorry about the parking situation.”

  “What situation?” Miss Dora asked.

  “Your housekeeper yelled at me for parking out front,” he said. “But I won’t do it again.”

  “What housekeeper?” Miss Dora cried.

  “I probably got it wrong.” The repairman shrugged. “Maybe it was a neighbor?”

  “What did she look like?” I asked.

  “Just a lady in sunglasses and a hat.” He scratched the side of his jaw. “Anyway, your unit is fixed. But you got a lot of damage to the dining room ceiling. If you need a good drywall man, just let me know.”

  “Absolutely,” Miss Dora said. “And thanks for coming on such short notice.”

  After he left, she poured another glass of wine. “Wonder who yelled at him? Have you seen any neighbors who fit that description?”

  “No, ma’am.” I hadn’t seen any neighbors, period.

  “Well, let’s don’t worry about it,” she said. “Let’s think about where we want to eat tonight. Carolina’s is just up the street. Or we could go to Magnolia’s.”

  “Whatever you want is fine by me.”

  “You’re such an agreeable girl. How could Bing treat you this way?” She took a sip of wine. “It’s a wonder how two sweet things like ourselves got taken in by conniving men.”

  “Bing can be charming,” I said, but that wasn’t the half of it. He was handsome and suave, from a fine Charleston family. When he’d showed interest in me, I’d felt like it was Aunt Bluette’s guiding hand. But it was just Bing acting Bingy.

  “Plus, he’s shallow,” Miss Dora said. “He probably loved you for a minute or two until infatuation wore off. And when it faded, he was stuck with a pint-size ball of fire.”

  “Is that how you see me?” I laughed.

  “Well, let’s just say you have the makings of a fireball.” She tilted her head. “If Bing asked you to come back, would you?”

  I pursed my lips. He and I were wrong for each other—that much was clear—but that didn’t mean we couldn’t become friends. Eventually.

  “Well?
” Miss Dora’s eyebrow went up. “Surely you don’t still love him?”

  “No, ma’am. I’m not carrying a torch or anything. But when I care for a person, it just won’t quit. It might be watered down, but it’s there.” I folded my arms and looked up at the sky. “Just like a part of me still loves Aaron.”

  “Who?”

  “My boyfriend who died—the one from my hometown. He drank too much alcohol at a fraternity party and stopped breathing.”

  “I had no idea.” Miss Dora reached across the table and patted my arm. “You need a vacation from troubles. I’m leaving for Savannah in the morning to look at an antique bed. Come with me. We’ll have fun.”

  I didn’t want to hurt her feelings, but I couldn’t stand looking at old furniture. Once I’d gone with Miss Dora to a mall where she’d taken hours to examine an eighteenth-century plantation desk. She’d pulled out every drawer, searching for chips and cracks.

  “I’m not supposed to leave the state,” I said.

  “That’s right. I keep forgetting.” She stood and weaved to the side. “Well, you can at least eat well while you’re on probation. Speaking of which, I had my heart set on crab cakes. Are you ready to eat supper?”

  “I’ll drive.” I led her into the house and reached into the crystal bowl for the tasseled key chain. It was empty. I picked up the bowl. Nothing. I bent down and looked under the table.

  “What the poop is wrong?” Miss Dora asked.

  “The house keys are missing.”

  “I’m sure they’re around here somewhere, darlin’. Have you checked the kitchen?”

  “But I remember putting them right here.”

  “Keys just don’t walk off.” She walked to the table, opened a drawer, and peeked inside. “Nope, not in here. But they’ll turn up. Unless you think the HVAC men took them?”

  “They wouldn’t do that,” I said.

  “Well, they’re good boys, but even the good ones have drug habits.”

  “Should I call a locksmith?”

  “Teeny baby, you aren’t thinking. This time tomorrow, you won’t be in this house.”

  “But I can’t lock up tonight.” I waved at the doors—each one had a double cylinder lock.