Dixie Divas

by Virginia Brown

  “It’s not like I can say, ‘Hey, why aren’t you dead?’ without him being suspicious,” she’d remarked thoughtfully.

  “I don’t know,” I’d replied, “that seems to be right in line with a lot of the things you say to each other.”

  That much is very true. As I’ve mentioned, their divorce had enough acrimony to fuel the local papers for well over a year.

  We came to the conclusion that Philip must be involved in something shady, or as Bitty said, “Larceny is his favorite activity next to having a hot young blond hum Dixie on Bobo,” and so decided not to let it worry us too much. However, Sanders was still missing and that might be cause for concern if he didn’t show up fairly soon. He isn’t known for straying far from home.

  Mama and Daddy got up early as always Saturday morning, and they went out to feed the legion of stray cats that stay in the old barn and supposedly keep the area free of mice and rats. It seems to me that the only thing getting scarce is twenty pound bags of cat chow, but maybe that’s because the mice and rats chew through the bags and eat most of it.

  It was one of those early February days that start out so nicely and too often end in storms and flash floods. Best to enjoy the sunshine while possible. I went out to the barn, stepping carefully to avoid cats. They crowded metal feeding pans with only an occasional spat.

  “Bitty’s coming to pick me up in a little while,” I said, and Mama looked up at me with a smile.

  “You’re going to a Diva meeting?”

  A little astonished that she knew about the group, I nodded. “It should be interesting.”

  Daddy said something that sounded like “At the very least” but I wasn’t sure.

  Mama went back to dipping out scoops of cat chow into metal pans, while Daddy turned on the hose and filled up shallow water bowls. Inside the barn, he’s built shelves around the top of the loft and covered them with strips of carpet. Wooden boxes hold soft cotton rags, and small cat-sized ladders climb up walls to reach all kinds of hiding places.

  Cats of all sizes, colors, and personalities come running when Daddy yodels, “Heeeeere, catty-catty-catty-catty-catty!”

  It’s an amazing sight. It’s like the horses running at Belmont when the gates open. It’s the greyhounds at the dog track bursting out of cages to chase the rabbit. It’s a 50% sale at Macy’s.

  With no children in the house, my parents have become nurturers to the animal kingdom. There are worse things to be. What worries me is who’s going to take care of them when my parents grow unable to do it. I have a feeling my name is at the top of the list. While I love dogs and cats, I’ve always thought of them in manageable numbers. Like one. Thankfully, my parents are also civic minded and work with the local humane society to spay and neuter. If not for that, there wouldn’t be a square foot of catless space left in MarshallCounty.

  “I’ll be home later,” I said when the cat pans were full and I had my parents’ complete attention again. “Is there anything I can pick up for you at the store while I’m out?”

  Mama patted my arm. “You just go and have fun, sugar. We have all we need here.”

  That seems to be very true.

  Bitty showed up at twenty ‘til eleven. She had the top down on the Miata and a scarf over her head, and wore sunglasses. The tangerine scarf was the same shade as her cotton tangerine blouse, cotton tangerine slacks, and tangerine shoes. The belt was a bright yellow with a sunburst buckle. I completely understood the need for sunglasses. I felt drab in my faded blue Lee jeans, long-sleeved green knit shirt, and teal windbreaker.

  “Is that some kind of uniform?” I asked as I got into her car, and she laughed.

  “Yep. I’m a sunshine girl. What’s in the cake pan?”

  “Mississippi Mud Cake.”

  “‘Atta girl. Something decadent and rich.”

  She turned up the radio to a golden oldies station and we blasted down Truevine Road to the rhythm of Jerry Lee Lewis banging out Great Balls of Fire.

  “You’re in an awfully good mood,” I said when we turned off Randolph onto Van Buren. “Just get an extra alimony payment?”

  “Nope.” She smiled so big the face-lift scars by her ears puckered. “I got to gloat at Trina Madewell about getting the Sanders house for the tour. That always makes me cheerful. She’s such a spiteful thing.”

  I turned in my seat to look at her. “You talked to Sanders? What’d he have to say about your ex lying out in his foyer?”

  “Well, I haven’t actually talked to him since we took that first batch of chicken and dumplings out there. I haven’t had the nerve to go back, not after seeing Philip laid out like a Thanksgiving turkey, and, as usual, Sanders hasn’t returned my calls.”

  That worried me. “Maybe that was Sanders you saw lying in the foyer?”

  “Good Lord, Trinket, I may be nearly fifty, but my eyesight hasn’t gone yet.”

  “You’re fifty-one.”

  “That’s nearly fifty from the other side. It’s just as close as forty-nine.”

  I couldn’t argue with her logic. “Don’t you think Sanders should have returned your calls by now?”

  “Not really. He doesn’t use the phone much, if at all. If you want to talk to him, you have to go out there. I don’t know why he even has the blamed thing if he won’t use it.”

  “Uh, when are you going back out there?” I wanted to know so I could be busy.

  “Next time I catch you off-guard.” Bitty knows me too well.

  Bitty took the left side of the Y that leads uphill to the Delta Inn just across from the railroad depot, downshifting but not quite coordinating correctly with the clutch. The Miata snarled a protest, she cussed, and then got it right. Whoever gets this car after she trades it in is going to need a new clutch, at the very least.

  By the time we parked between the Delta Inn and the former saloon-slash-whorehouse-slash-grocery store, I was sure I heard the car making strange noises under the hood. I hoped Bitty had the local tow truck’s number in her tangerine purse.

  I got out with my cake and looked at the store. Now it serves locally famous hamburgers, cheeseburgers, and homemade fried pies. It’s a two-story with a porch on the top that conjures up images of shady ladies waving to prospective customers as they stepped off the train. An addition to the right side houses the current owners. History seeps from walls, wood, and even the railroad tracks only ten yards away.

  The old railroad depot is even more impressive. While it’s been there since before the Civil War, it’s been burned, rebuilt, and added on to so that the original structure has changed a great deal. It’s a beautiful old red building, Victorian in style, emanating history, style, grace, and echoes of a life gone by. What a coup it’d be to get it on the Historic Register as well.

  As for the Delta Inn, it’s one of the loveliest structures in HollySprings. It was built in 1852, has three stories, white painted old red brick, and four white columns holding up a porch and balcony all the way across the front. Upstairs rooms have doors onto the balconies, and I could just visualize ladies in hoop skirts sipping morning tea and afternoon mint juleps outside their rooms while waiting for the next train. There’s a rambling garden at one side, with rose bushes, flower beds and huge holly trees, and several big dogs that look and sound ferocious but are really dangerous only to butterflies and ham hocks. The iron scrollwork gate is kept locked except for visitors.

  Bitty took a cardboard box from what can be referred to as a back seat if you’re inclined to be generous, and I heard the clink of bottles and recognized her contribution. California wine country has another month of good revenue.

  “Need any help?” I asked, but should have known better. Bitty’s always been able to carry her wine well. We walked up the cobblestone path to the front porch. Sweet-faced pansies in big concrete pots flanked the double doors.

  The hotel is in a state of renovation. Rayna Blue lives in the lobby, as she has for years. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen Rayna, but I recogni
zed her at once when she came to the hotel door to hush the dogs and let us in. She still looks a lot like she did as a young woman in her teens even though she’s fifty-one. Slender, with dark hair and big gold eyes, she’s about five-five and wears her clothes with an artistic flair. As an artist, she’s usually got a few paint smudges somewhere on her face or hands. Today she was paint-free and dressed in a loose black skirt and belted tunic top, with sandals on her feet. Big silver earrings tangled in her brown shoulder-length hair.

  “Trinket!” she said, and gave me a hug. “What’s it been, seven or eight years?”

  I hugged her back and handed her the covered cake pan. “Something like that. It was the summer your cousin Possum Perkins robbed the Merchant and Farmers’ bank at their drive-in window.”

  Rayna grinned. “Since he deposits his money in a tin can, he’s not that familiar with how banks work. It didn’t occur to him to un-tape the big For Sale sign from the back window of his truck. The cameras got an excellent view of his phone numbers written in black magic marker. Of course, he also forgot that his ex-wife works there as a teller.”

  3I remember that,” Bitty said with a laugh. “Possum was so surprised when the police showed up at his house later.”

  Rayna shook her head. “Possum drinks to excess. Bless his heart. Look who’s already here. You remember Cady Lee Forsythe and Deelight Tillman?”

  Since I remembered Cady Lee but not Deelight, I covered up my lapse with a smile and nod in their direction. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

  Cady Lee put her hands on her hips. “Trinket Truevine. I haven’t seen you since we were drunk on champagne in the back of Stewart Carmichael’s hay wagon.”

  “Good Lord. I’d forgotten about that. Stewart was drunker than we were, because he ran the mules and wagon into a kudzu ditch and couldn’t get us out. His daddy had to come with the tractor to get that wagon back on the road, so we rode the mules home. What ever happened to Stewart?”

  Cady Lee grinned. “I married him. We had three kids and an amiable divorce. We still play poker together every now and then, but only when my husband can make it. I married Brett Kincade the second time around. He was a few grades ahead of us. Do you remember him?”

  I shook my head. “Maybe if I saw him again.”

  Cady Lee had always been the school beauty, even back in elementary school. Back then she had soft brown hair and big brown eyes. Now she has ash-blond hair and big turquoise eyes. One of the perks of new technology. Stewart Carmichael’s family owns several farms, a meat-packing plant, and an oil refinery. They may have bought a senator or two as well. Last I heard, newly reelected Philip Hollandale owes a major portion of his campaign contributions to Carmichael influence. The Kincades own a chain of department stores. Cady Lee has obviously done well, in marriage and in divorce.

  She wore diamond earrings as big as a butter bean on each ear, had a marquis-cut emerald ring on her right hand, a wedding set that had to be at least fifteen carats on her left hand, and her nails were perfectly manicured. Cady Lee has a tan in the wintertime and it looks natural, so she probably spends a lot of time down on the coast. Biloxi is only about five hours away by car, but my bet is she spends her money across the Gulf on the Florida peninsula.

  Rayna set my cake pan on the oak counter of the check-in desk at the end of the gigantic lobby that makes up her living quarters. Pink marble forms three walls. The oak-paneled rear wall behind the desk has double doors that lead to her sleeping area. A lovely, curved staircase sweeps up the wall on the lobby’s east side, with a baggage room tucked beneath it. At the west end of the check-in desk is a single door that leads back to the former kitchen. Another door in the west wall leads to a former dining room, with the garden facing the street at the front of it.

  You’d think that a hotel lobby as a living room would be cold and stark, but it’s not. It has a homey feel to it, greatly helped by gigantic houseplants in waist-high pots that sit beneath a three-story domed skylight, several plush couches and chairs, and antique cabinets that house a television, VCR, DVD, and stereo. Rayna’s easel and paint supplies are set up in front of the east windows near a huge pool table. Cats wander in and out of the baggage room at will, where I saw several litter boxes discreetly waiting. A few cats perched in the front windows, and a tabby slept in a pot of elephant ears so big that two of the leaves would make a size ten ladies dress.

  Multi-colored aluminum streamers hung in glittery strips above a long table pulled to one side of the lobby. A row of feathered and glittered half-masks with peacock feathers lined one end, and strings of plastic beads swirled through brightly colored plates, and hung around the neck of a papier-mâché head in the table’s center. The grinning head wore a mask and a crown.

  Bitty took the case of wine to the kitchen behind the lobby and put most of it in the big side-by-side refrigerator. Then she set two bottles of white zinfandel on the check-in desk, and pulled the cork on the first one.

  “Here we go, ladies,” she said, and poured us each a glass.

  It was a little early for me to drink wine but this was a celebration. Of something, I wasn’t quite sure yet, but the decorations gave me a hint. We all five lifted our glasses in a toast.

  “To the Divas!”

  By the time the others arrived, I was nearly drunk on chocolate fumes, but prudently kept the zinfandel refills at a minimum. There were ten women, ranging from thirty-year old Marcy Porter to sixty-ish Gaynelle Bishop, with a few others I didn’t recognize at all. A cardinal rule is that no men are allowed to attend Diva meetings, unless they’re delivering something or are part of the entertainment. Even then, they must take a privacy oath not to reveal what they see or hear. So far, there have been no violators of that rule, for threats of reprisal are so grim and dire most men pale at just the mention. I also learned other interesting but more flexible rules.

  Membership in the Dixie Divas stays at an even dozen. No more, no less. Those who drop out, die or move are replaced by a majority of votes. Visitors are allowed to attend by permission of the hosting Diva since space and food may be a concern. Not all the meetings are held at the Inn. Whoever volunteers to play hostess is responsible for allotting members food to bring, but provides ice, dishes and cutlery, and decides the theme.

  This month it was Mardi Gras. Appropriate since Fat Tuesday was next week. We put on the masks and Mardi Gras beads, and ate our way through chicken salad, six different kinds of crackers and bread, and a couple of casseroles. Rayna had a huge crock-pot of red beans and rice simmering, and shrimp bisque that was as good as anything available in New Orleans. Desserts ranged from my Mississippi Mud Cake to a huge platter of iced brownies, and filled an entire end of the check-in desk.

  I was introduced to several people I didn’t know, and reacquainted with a few I’d known and forgotten. Deelight Tillman was one of the latter. Petite, with gray eyes and a shaggy mop of light brown hair, I just couldn’t place her. Over my second helping of red beans, rice, and chunks of andouille sausage, we went over the times and places in our past where we must have known each other. We weren’t having any success until we started naming siblings and their friends.

  Then it came to me. “I know,” I said. “My older brother Jack dated your older sister Deevine.”

  Deelight threw up her hands. “That’s it! Of course. I remember we all used to tease her by saying if she married Jack her name would be—”

  “Deevine Truevine,” we chorused, both emphasizing the first syllables, and then laughed.

  “With our surname of Grace,” Deelight said, “poor Deevine got a lot of teasing. It never seemed to bother her, though. I don’t know what my parents were thinking, naming her Deevine Faithann Grace, and naming me Deelight Joyann Grace.”

  Lifting my brow, I said, “You’re talking to Eureka Truevine, remember? Our parents must have been tippling too much of the church communion wine.”

  “You’ve gone back to your maiden name?” Deelight said in more of a
question than a comment, and I nodded.

  “It seemed to be the thing to do since I knew I’d be coming back home. Besides, Michelle is married, so having the same name as her is no longer important.” I paused. Maybe I’d done it just to eradicate all traces of Perry, which is foolish, since we do share a child together. I’d just been so blamed mad, at him, myself, and mostly my lack of foresight.

  “Well,” Deelight said, “Rayna kept her maiden name when she married Rob. Of course, if she hadn’t, she’d be Rayna Rainey.”

  “So now she’s Rayna Blue Rainey,” I said, and we both laughed.

  “Any grandchildren?” Deelight asked me after a few moments.

  “Not yet. Michelle’s in graduate school and her husband’s an engineer. They live in Atlanta.”

  Deelight being several years younger than I, she still has kids at home. We talked about all the things parents discuss, our hopes and dreams versus the realities, and how none of it really matters as long as our children are happy, well-adjusted people with good futures. Money never seems to be a big factor in our hopes for them, just their self-reliance and independence.

  “Trinket, come over here and listen to this,” Bitty said, appearing at my elbow and taking me by the wrist. “Gaynelle Bishop has a perfect idea.”

  “About what?” I asked as I allowed myself to be escorted close to the nineteenth century pool table where three of the Divas were chalking cues and spotting the eight ball. At least, I think that’s what they were doing. I’m not up on all my pool playing rules and terms.

  “Why, about Philip and Sanders, that’s what.”

  I stopped dead in my tracks. My eyes must have bugged out like goose eggs. “You told her?”

  By this time, Bitty’s Mardi Gras mask lay horizontal on top of her head, while the rest of us had removed ours. She looked at me in surprise, and peacock feathers bobbled in front of her left ear. “Of course. I can tell the Divas anything. What happens at the Inn, stays at the Inn.”