Sis Boom Bah

by Jane Heller

  “Good-bye!” I said. “Good luck with the Glasserstein wedding!”

  And then I told the driver to step on it.

  When we finally reached Ray’s house, he was fast asleep with his head on my shoulder. I roused him, and the driver helped me get him inside the house. I asked the man to wait while I undressed Ray and put him to bed.

  “You’re not staying?” he said, his lids so heavy he could barely see me.

  “I can’t,” I said, stroking his arm. “I’ve got to go back to the cottage and relieve Fred. It was sweet of him to stay there while I was away, but I don’t want to take advantage of his generosity—or incur Melinda’s wrath. Besides, I’m hoping he’ll zip me over to my mother’s, so I can tell her what happened before she reads about it in the newspaper.”

  “Have you made up your mind?” he said.

  “About what, Ray?”

  “About you and me.”

  I smiled. “You mean about our going steady?”

  He nodded. “I want us to be a couple. I want us to go out every Saturday night, automatically.”

  “Sort of like a standing appointment with the manicurist.”

  “Exactly. The rest of the week we can stay here.”

  “Ray. I’m not moving into your house. Not so soon. We need to take this slowly. We only had our first kiss a couple of days ago. I’ve never even met your friends, your boss, your brother.”

  “But you love me.”

  “And what makes you so sure, wise guy?”

  “You admitted it last night in the hospital. I heard you. It was quite a speech.”

  “Ray Scalley! You let me think you were asleep!”

  “Sorry, but I did squeeze the L word out of you, didn’t I? The point is, you love me and I love you, so why should we live apart?”

  I bent down and placed my cheek against his. He hadn’t shaven in days—we were way beyond a five o’clock shadow here—but it didn’t matter in the least. “Because it will be wonderful between us, whether we live apart or not,” I said. “Wonderful getting to know each other. Wonderful sharing experiences. Wonderful building a history together. And someday, if we still feel the way we do now, I will move in and we’ll get married and spend the rest of our lives riding around on your motorcycle. Okay?”

  There was no response.

  I picked my head up and looked at him. His eyes were closed and his mouth was hanging open.

  “Oh, I get it.” I laughed. “You’re playing your little game again, just so I’ll make all kinds of incriminating declarations about—”

  I was interrupted by—drowned out by—his snoring.

  “See you tomorrow,” I whispered, kissed his forehead, and slipped out of the room.

  Fred was sitting on my bed playing solitaire when I staggered wearily into the cottage at nearly ten-thirty.

  “Who’s winning?” I asked.

  “Debbie! You’re back!” he said, jumping up to give me a hug. “How was the trip?”

  “Well, there were a few glitches, but basically I accomplished what I set out to accomplish. Sharon’s safe and sound in Boca; Ray is bruised but alive in Stuart; and Barry’s shark-bitten and laid up in a hospital in Nassau, soon to be moved to a local jail cell.”

  “Doesn’t sound like much of a vacation.”

  “It wasn’t, although I did get to do the limbo. How was everything here? Any problems?”

  “Just one: I hated lying to your mother while you were gone.”

  “Then let’s stop the lying right now. If you don’t mind running me over to her house—my car’s dead—I’ll break the news of ‘Sharon and Deborah’s Excellent Adventure’ in person, and that will be that.”

  “What if she hates me?”

  “She won’t. I’m willing to bet that once she gets over the shock of it all and realizes how instrumental you were in helping her daughters, she’ll be very grateful.”

  “From your mouth to God’s ears. Are you aware that your mother has eyes the color of the—”

  “—Florida Marlins’ uniforms, yes, and what a beautiful analogy you’ve come up with, Fred, but it’s late and she goes to bed at eleven, so I suggest we get going.”

  “Deborah! Fred! What in the world are you two doing here at this time of night?” said my mother, looking pleased but a little bewildered by our appearance.

  “Can we come in?” I said tentatively.

  “Of course.” She ushered us into the living room and offered us some tea, which I refused but Fred did not. He did not refuse the cholesterol-free macaroons she offered him either.

  “Well, I’m back at the cottage,” I began. “And since the Pontiac is out of commission again, Fred was kind enough to drive me over here. So I could have a visit with you.”

  “Deborah, dear. I can see that you’re upset. You and Ray had an argument and you left his house in a huff, is that it?”

  “No. Ray and I are very happy, Mom. Happier than I imagined. The truth is, I wasn’t staying at his—”

  “This is so exciting, having both my daughters in the throes of passion at the same time. Which reminds me: I haven’t heard a peep from Sharon since she and Barry flew to the Bahamas. I wonder if he’s gotten down on his hands and knees and proposed to her yet.”

  “Oh, he’s gotten down on his hands and knees all right,” I said, envisioning the police’s strip search after they fished him out of the water. “But the marriage plans are definitely off.”

  “Off? Did you talk to your sister?”

  “Yes.” I took a deep breath. It was now or never. “Do you, by any chance, have your nitroglycerin handy, Mom?”

  She arched an eyebrow. “Why are you asking me that? What’s really going on, Deborah? Give it to me straight.”

  I gave it to her straight, minus the part where Sharon and I slapped each other. When I had finished, she was speechless.

  “Mom? Say something. Please.”

  “Yes, Lenore. Say something,” Fred urged, fanning her with his paper napkin.

  “I can’t. I’m still taking this in,” she replied, her face becoming flushed and blotchy. I prayed her blood pressure wasn’t going through the roof.

  “You’re telling me that Sharon wanted to marry a man who murdered two people?” she said finally, trying to make sense of what I’d recounted.

  “Yes, Mom. That’s what I’m telling you.”

  “And that Dr. Hirshon, my cardiologist, was prescribing vitamins that were sand?”

  “Yes, Mom. But Barry said—and I quote—’It’s harmless. Comes right out in the bowl with everything else you eat.’ Such a charmer.”

  “And that nobody in this town—a town where everyone knows everything about everybody—suspected the doctor of being a con man?”

  “I’m afraid he fooled a lot of people, Mom. He and Barry.”

  She retreated into her speechless mode. Fred asked her if she wanted him to call 911. She said, “Not yet.”

  “Look, Mom. The great thing is that the bad guys got theirs and Sharon and I are safe,” I said in an effort to calm her. “What’s more, after surviving such a traumatic experience, she and I are close now, closer than we’ve ever been. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? For the two of us to end our bickering and forge a real bond? Well, that’s what we’ve done.”

  “And nearly got yourselves killed in the process.”

  “True, but maybe we needed more than a lecture from you to get our act together. Maybe we needed a brush with death to make us realize how much we care about each other. Boy, you would have been proud of us out there on Barry’s yacht, Mom. When push came to shove—and I do mean shove—we stuck together.”

  She sighed. “So there won’t be any more silly spats between you?”

  “Nope. We’re through with that kind of childish behavior.”

  “No more nonsense about her men and your career and whatever else you fought over?”

  “No more. We’ve achieved closure on our issues.”

  “No more lyin
g to me?” She glared at Fred.

  “Not unless Debbie authorizes it,” he replied, winking at me.

  She reached for the tissue tucked inside the sleeve of her blouse and blew her nose.

  “Are you crying, Mom?”

  “Yes,” she said, dabbing at her eyes. “I was thinking ahead to Thanksgiving.”

  “Why? It’s eight months away.”

  “I know, but it’s my favorite holiday. I was picturing the whole family sitting together, enjoying the turkey and the stuffing and the gravy and the mashed potatoes and the creamed onions and the—”

  “I’m up on the menu, Mom,” I said, so exhausted at that moment that I wasn’t sure I could wait for her to get to the string beans, the biscuits, and the apple pie with vanilla ice cream. “Where are you going with this?”

  “Where I’m going, as you put it, is that if you and Sharon really have kissed and made up, this will be the first Thanksgiving in memory that my girls will be on speaking terms. That’s reason enough to look forward to it, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is,” I agreed. “I’m looking forward to it too.”

  “So am I,” Fred chimed in. “You both will love my daughters and their families, and vice versa. If not, we’ll all make the best of an awkward situation.”

  I slept until noon. I might have slept longer had I not heard the commotion outside my door. I peeked out the window and saw a handful of reporters and photographers and TV satellite trucks camped outside. Obviously, the sheriff’s office had gone public with the story of Barry’s capture.

  I crept into the kitchen, not wanting the media to see me in my ratty nightgown, and called Ray.

  “How’s the leg?” I said when he answered.

  “I miss you,” he said. “When are you coming over to babysit me? I’ve already been on the phone to the office, to tell them I’m taking the rest of the week off, so I’m free to just lie here and have you wait on me.”

  “Which I’ll do with pleasure. But first, there’s the matter of these people who are hanging around the cottage. Would you happen to have heard if there’s an article about our escapades in the paper today?”

  “Front page in the Stuart News and the Palm Beach Post. My neighbor brought both papers to show me. You’re famous.”

  “Not again.”

  “Yeah, but this time you’re the hero. Both Frank Gillby and Avery Armstrong are quoted in the articles as saying how you helped break the case. Gillby credits you with tipping them off to the link between Hirshon and Shiller. ‘A courageous woman,’ he calls you in the Post piece. ‘With an inquiring mind.’ ”

  I laughed. “I’ll have to thank him, thank everybody involved in the investigation. Did the articles mention you, I hope?”

  “Yup. They both misspelled my name though. One called me Roy, and the other dropped the e in Scalley.”

  “Some nerve. Any other juicy tidbits in the articles?”

  “There’s the stuff about Joan Sheldon; how she left a long letter in a safety deposit box with chapter and verse about the vitamin scam, the Bahamian connection, the works.”

  “Poor Joan. Nursing is such an admirable profession. Why did she have to get greedy?”

  “Who knows. Speaking of nurses, there’s a great quote in the Stuart News from a nurse at Martin Memorial. She wouldn’t let them use her name, naturally, but when she was asked if she was surprised that Jeffrey Hirshon had been leading a double life, she said: ‘Not really. He was a cardiologist, after all.’ ”

  “I guess she’s had a few run-ins with cardiologists.”

  “No kidding. So am I going to see you today?”

  “Absolutely. I do have to get my car serviced though. Yours is still here too, don’t forget. Maybe I can have them towed on the same flatbed truck, right next to each other. How’s that for togetherness?”

  “Not bad. But I’d rather you were here right next to me on my flat bed.”

  “Then how about this: if my mother’s not using the Delta 88, I’ll borrow it and stop by later.”

  “Great. Hey, before you hang up, I want to tell you something.”

  “What?”

  “My leg hurts like a son-of-a-bitch. I’m missing a whole week of work during our busiest season. And whatever’s wrong with my car will probably cost me a healthy chunk of my salary to fix. But—and here’s the important part—I’m so happy I don’t know what to do with myself.”

  “Must be those drugs they gave you in the hospital,” I teased.

  “I’m serious, Deborah. All of a sudden, I’m waking up in the morning with a ridiculous grin on my face and a sort of gut feeling that, after the long, tough stretch I’ve had, it’s finally gonna be my time.”

  I smiled, knowing just what he was talking about.

  Epilogue

  We were expecting twenty-two people for Thanksgiving—a big crowd compared to our usual holiday gatherings. Sharon wasn’t the least bit stressed out about it though, as her dining room table comfortably accommodated twenty-six, and her party-planning skills were well-honed, thanks to the hundreds of weddings she’d coordinated over the years.

  In fact, it was as a result of one of her weddings—the Teitelbaum wedding, to be specific—that she met Doug Scalley, Ray’s older brother, a scant ten days after our return from Nassau. As chance would have it, she had accompanied the groom to Doug’s Boca store in Mizner Park, in search of suitable attire for the forthcoming nuptials. While the groom was in the dressing room, trying on tuxedos, and she was at the counter, checking out cummerbunds, Doug, himself, put in an appearance at the store. Noticing his physical resemblance to Ray, she asked if he was, indeed, Ray Scalley’s brother. When he said yes, she pounced. They’d been hot and heavy ever since.

  At first, Ray and I were a little queasy about their relationship, given Sharon’s previous fiascos. But as the weeks wore on, we resigned ourselves to it, decided to take the position that she and Doug were adults and that whatever happened between them was their problem.

  Besides, Ray and I were so much in love, so consumed with each other, that it wasn’t hard to lighten up and let our siblings run their own lives. I was still living in the cottage on Hutchinson Island and Ray was still living in his house in downtown Stuart, but we were beginning to discuss marriage, so certain were we that we had a future together, so certain was I that I had found my partner.

  On the professional front, I no longer needed the keeper’s job with the Historical Society and was free to move out of the cottage whenever I chose. You see, I had gone back into the biz, back into the wacky world of daytime drama.

  It was Helen who had set things in motion, naturally.

  “It’s Woody,” she said when she called one night. “Our old boss has just signed on as the head writer of Santa Monica, a new soap produced out of L.A. Rumor has it, there’s a huge budget for the show. They’re launching in September. Interested?”

  Interested? How could I not be? I’d assumed that Woody would resurface; it had just been a question of when. But to hear that he was on top again, heading up a new soap, a big-budget soap at that, was better than I’d hoped for. On the other hand, Ray was better than I’d hoped for, and there was no way I was trading my happiness with him for another crack at an Emmy. “I’m interested in the show and it would be fun working for Woody again, but my home is in Florida now, Helen. I’m not going back to New York.”

  “Who asked you to? Tell Woody you want to be a script writer instead of a breakdown writer. Script writers live everywhere. We never laid eyes on ours, remember?”

  “Yes, but I don’t have any experience writing scripts.”

  “Please. You could write them in your sleep. And another thing to keep in mind: script writers make more money than breakdown writers. Look, here’s Woody’s number at the studio, Deborah. You can do what you want, but I’m calling him the second we hang up.”

  I called him the next day. I had the job the day after that. I sold the Pontiac the day after that and bought a Lexus th
e day after that.

  My mother was enjoying equally good fortune. She felt well enough to resume her work as a mediator, and returned to small claims court with renewed vigor. Her friendship with Fred continued to surprise and delight her. He had become such a devoted companion to her that she invited his four daughters to fly down from Michigan and join us for Thanksgiving, along with their husbands and children.

  Even Norman was bringing a guest—a fellow cadet whose parents were both in rehab and, consequently, not up to cooking a turkey with all the trimmings.

  Yes, we were going to be twenty-two for dinner on Thanksgiving. We were going to eat ourselves sick and laugh at each other’s jokes and watch entirely too much football. I had every reason to approach the occasion with genuine optimism for a change.

  Ray and I were the last ones to arrive at Sharon’s McMansion that fateful Thursday afternoon. She greeted us at the door with hugs and kisses, and told me she adored my dress. (It was the same shmatte I’d worn to my mother’s birthday party back in February, the one she’d likened to a tablecloth.)

  Doug came up right behind her and gave Ray and me a rousing hello. He was a taller, thinner, more animated version of his younger brother, as lively as Ray was laconic—a sort of Ray on amphetamines. I was very fond of him, but he was a bit of a provocateur and a tad smug—the kind of person best taken in small doses.

  “Everything looks lovely, Sharon,” I said. She had decorated the house with Pilgrim memorabilia as well as Horns of Plenty.

  She thanked me, asked me how the job was working out, and hurried off to the kitchen to check on the food.

  Ray and I joined the others in Sharon’s family room, where my mother introduced us to Fred’s relatives. His daughters seemed pleasant enough, although one of them whispered to me that Fred’s will was not contestable, and that neither my sister nor I would get a dime in the event that he married my mother and then kicked the bucket. I nodded and moved on to Fred’s sons-in-law, each of whom was engrossed in the football game on Sharon’s big-screen TV and rather apathetic about our getting acquainted. As for Fred’s grandchildren, they were outside swimming in the pool, with Norman and his friend serving as lifeguards.