by Tamar Myers
Eric’s homemade scone tasted like I would imagine a lump of Carolina clay might taste. I forced down three bites and covered the remainder with my napkin.
“You don’t like it?” he said.
“Tiny person, tiny tummy, but you are some kind of cook!” I said it with enough enthusiasm to make it sound like a compliment. I’ve had to go this route before when faced with ugly babies, and it has always worked.
“Thanks. I can give you the recipe if you want.”
“That would be lovely. Would it be possible to have your aunt’s phone number and address as well? I’d like to talk to her about some concerns I have with Golden Tiger Exports.”
“No prob,” he said. “She travels a lot, but she’s home this week. Why don’t I give her a call now and introduce you over the phone?”
Why not? Some of my best decisions have been impetuous ones. Then again, so have most of my worst ones.
8
When I returned to my shop I saw immediately that a small, but very vocal, herd of female tourists, dressed in wrinkled shorts and faded T-shirts, had taken over. It is women like these who are the bane of our non-mercantile citizenry. We are a conservative city, and save clothing such as this for gardening, or the beach—certainly not for shopping.
And we do not move in herds. Nor do we ever shout to each other, all the while pretending that the shop owner and her assistants are incapable of hearing our critical comments.
There are fine ladies and gentlemen that we welcome as visitors to our beautiful historic city, and then there are the tourists. The latter come in degrees of refinement—or lack thereof. Those toward the bottom of the scale climb our front steps and peer into our windows. They open our gates and wander into our gardens; they even pick our flowers. I suppose those acts might even be forgivable, depending on the age of the transgressor, or some other mitigating factor. However, when they park in spaces that are clearly marked reserved, that takes the red velvet cake!
I tried to slip unobserved to the back room, but before I was even halfway there I felt a huge hand clamp down on my shoulder. “I’ll be with you in just a minute,” I said as I tried to pull away.
“Abby, it’s me!”
I pivoted. “Cheng! You’re back.”
“Only I’m not Cheng anymore; you can call me C.J. again. In fact, that’s what I insist you call me—unless I’m drunk; then you can call me a cab.”
I grabbed her oversized paw and pulled her into an alcove formed by two armoires and a highboy.
“What are you talking about?”
“When I was home just now—back in Shelby—I learned that the story about my Chinese father was totally false. Ditto the one about my Russian mother. I’m as American as lingonberry pie.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Aunt Nanny got drunk one night on some clover wine and confessed that the story about the touring Chinese students with their Russian interpreter—that was all made up. I was really their baby all along and they just didn’t want to admit it because they weren’t married.”
“So Nanny Ledbetter is your honest-to-goodness mother?” I’d met Nanny, and could attest to the fact that she was the salt of the earth. As for Billy, he’d been pushing up daisies for some time, and was no doubt adding some salt back to the earth.
“Yes, but I’m not speaking to her; she’s a liar.”
“But she’s a very sweet, gentle woman nonetheless.”
“Don’t nag me, Abby—please.”
“And then there’s her rather unusual DNA to keep in mind.”
C.J. giggled. “Ooh, Abby, you’re such a tease. You always make me feel better—no matter what.”
“Is that so? Then how about taking a ride with me out to the Old Village of Mount Pleasant.”
“Sure thing. When?”
“Now.”
“But then who will mind the store?”
“Wynnell—if I ask her right.”
“Abby, I hate to have to tell you this, but Wynnell just went home.”
“She what? Is she ill?”
“She said that she’s sick of tourists mocking her accent. One of them called her a ‘lil’ ol’ honey chile,’ so then Wynnell called the tourist a Yankee Doodoo Dandy, and then it kind of went downhill from there.”
“Down hill?”
“Don’t worry, Abby, I pulled them apart before any second punches could be thrown, although if you ask me, Miss Yankee Doodoo Dandy had it coming to her. If she follows through with her threat and sues, I’d be happy to testify on Wynnell’s part.”
I hugged the big lug affectionately. “Thanks C.J., you’re a trooper.”
Not too many years ago one had to cross the Cooper River on a bridge constructed out of—what appeared to be, at any rate—giant metal Tinker Toys. Now one can practically sail over on an eight lane highway suspended by cables; in fact, the South Carolina Department of Transportation proudly proclaims that the Arthur Ravenel Bridge is the longest cable-stayed bridge in North America.
When I first visited Mount Pleasant as a little girl, traveling with my family on our way to the beach, it was a sleepy village of fishermen and their families. Our initial glimpse was not of buildings, but of marsh grass waving in the harbor breezes. Now visitors are welcomed by waves of hotels and office buildings, and the “it factor” that brought development is no longer there. The charming village is now bursting at its seams with retirees “from up the road a piece,” and the roads are so congested it takes twice as long to get anywhere as it did ten years ago.
The core of Mount Pleasant is known as the Old Village, but unfortunately even some of the old is being replaced by new. The smaller homes on the oak-and palm-shaded streets are being snapped up by the wealthy. The small homes are then razed and replaced by much larger ones. And since these new homes conform to stricter building codes regarding the flood plain, they’re built on stilts. Of course not every small home owner wants to sell. As a result, some of the nouveau riche of Mount Pleasant literally look down on their neighbors.
Lady Bowfrey lived in one of these elevated monstrosities that was sandwiched between two cinder-block homes that seemed barely more than cubicles by comparison. There was an elevator in the middle of the concrete pad, beneath the building, and we were instructed to take it to the third floor. That, we soon learned, was because the front door had never been used, and appeared to be stuck shut due to dried paint.
When the elevator door opened it was immediately clear why Lady Bowfrey never used the stairs. Without a doubt Eric’s aunt was the largest woman I had ever laid eyes on. If I had to guess, I would say that she weighed six hundred pounds at the very least. She met us in a motorized wheelchair that was larger than some energy-efficient cars I’ve seen on the streets lately.
“I can read your mind,” she said without a preamble.
“Excuse me?”
“Even though it’s fine print, I know exactly what you’re thinking. So here are your answers: three hundred and fifty-four, and because I want to clear up any misunderstanding regarding my nephew, I’ve already taken the liberty of calling Gold Tiger Exports and giving them a piece of my mind—believe me, I chewed them out good. As a result, they will be refunding you the full amount, plus they will plan to ship you another commode, one equal in value to the first. And don’t forget that my nephew, young Eric, will be delivering the rosewood one that he signed for, to your shop this afternoon. Do you have any questions?”
C.J. raised her arm and waved her hand like an excited schoolgirl who’d gotten her first right answer at the end of the term. “Me, me, me! I’ve got a question. Ask me?”
Lady Bowfrey regarded C.J. through hooded eyes. I noticed that the imperious figure was decked out in a black silk kimono, embroidered with red and white cranes, and that she wore a pair of Kelly green chopsticks tucked into a neat bun of auburn hair. Her hair color, by the way, came from a bottle.
“Yes?” Lady Bowfrey asked C.J.
“What is three
hundred and fifty-four? At first I thought that might be your weight, but then I thought what a silly goose I was, because Cousin Tatum Ledbetter back in Shelby weighs more than that, and she’s much smaller than you. So then I thought that if I added the words hundred thousand to it, I would get the amount you paid for this house, but Abby has a friend who lives two blocks over and she paid a million and a half for hers, and it’s smaller than this and didn’t eat up nearly as much marshland. Which leaves me just one question—well, for now at least—did you yell at Gold Tiger Exports for selling illegal ivory?”
“C.J.!” I was shocked, appalled, and proud—all at the same time.
Lady Bowfrey whipped a chopstick out of her do, and using it like a conductor’s baton, jabbed the air with it. Her quick, precise movements punctuated each syllable of her staccato speech.
“We haven’t even met, you rude woman. How dare you insult me inside my own home? Please tell me that you are not Abigail Timberlake.”
C.J. giggled. “Of course I’m not. Our Abby is—”
“Then leave my home at once.” C.J. flashed me a questioning look. “Go,” I whispered. “I’ll be all right.”
“You hurt one hair on her tiny little head,” C.J. said to Lady Bowfrey, “and I’ll be all over you like red on rice.”
“The expression is ‘white on rice,’” Lady Bowfrey sneered.
“No ma’am, not back home in Shelby. You see, Granny Ledbetter was slicing some tomatoes one day—”
“Skedaddle,” I hissed. “Please!”
When she was gone I apologized for my friend’s shocking behavior. “She’s been going through some big changes lately,” I said.
“I think that’s called life,” Lady Bowfrey said as she stabbed the green lacquered stick back into her bun. From what I could see, she managed to get it precisely back into its original hole on the first try.
“True,” I said. “But she’s in the middle of divorcing my brother, the priest, then she gets arrested for ivory smuggling, and then just this week she finds out that she isn’t Chinese, like she thought she was. That’s a lot of stress.”
“This woman is your friend?”
I nodded. “One of my very best.”
“Have you ever considered the fact that she might be nuts?”
“Without a doubt she is. But then again, who doesn’t have a friend or relative who’s a bit on the strange side? I dare say that your nephew, Eric, dances to some rather original tunes.”
Now that Lady Bowfrey was no longer conducting, her hands were folded across a surprisingly flat chest, and resting atop an enormous stomach. Her eyes narrowed for a second, which I chose to interpret as a smile.
“Eric is a fool. He’s the late Lord Bowfrey’s youngest brother. My husband died of leukemia last year; now I’m all young Eric has. I suppose I could throw money at him and let him waste his life entirely, doing things like smoking pot—but I refuse. Since he has traveled a bit, and has a broad education, I thought the least he could do is run my shop for me. You see, I love the idea of owning an antiques store, but I have physical limitations.”
“I understand.”
“You do?”
I smiled reassuringly. “Mama has a friend whose knees have given out. One has been replaced, and she’s about to have the other done. But she says—and everyone who’s had it done backs her up on this—if you’re going to have both knees done, have them done at the same time, because its not the surgery that’s painful, but the physical therapy that follows.”
“Why I never!”
“Then you still have time to get them both done together.”
“It’s not my knees, you idiot! You just assumed that because I’m slightly overweight. If you must know—which, of course, you don’t—at times I have trouble catching my breath.” She proceeded then to pant; I wasn’t sure at first if it was a demonstration, or if the symptoms were real. “There,” she finally gasped, “you see what you’ve done?”
“I’m sorry,” I mumbled. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have come. In any case, I should be going now. Thanks for seeing me, Lady Bowfrey.”
“You’re leaving?”
“I really need to get back to my shop.”
“But you can’t go—not just yet. I mean, I don’t often get visitors; not ones I like, at any rate, Abby…may I call you that?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “You have a lot of chutzpah, but you’re not Looney Tunes like your friend from Shelby. And I don’t mean to sound like a whiner, Abby—I eschew self-pity—but life can get very lonely for us shut-ins. Because of my income level I can’t even get Veal on a Wheel to come out and serve my meals. Abby, sometimes I feel like I’m in solitary confinement.”
“Veal on a Wheel? I know you’re only joking about the name of a fine organization, but please, do not associate it with veal. Do you know what terrible conditions veal calves have to endure just to be on someone’s dinner plate? They’re taken from their mothers as newborns; they’re never allowed to sit or lie down, run or even walk, so that their meat remains tender; and they’re fed an iron-poor diet so that they become anemic in order that their meat will be a pleasingly pale color.”
“Oh, I know all that. But consider this: those calves would never have even been born in the first place were it not for the purpose of becoming veal on our dinner plates. So which is better for them, not to have lived at all, or to have lived with a few restrictions? And bear in mind that these calves have no expectations.”
“I believe the same thing was once said about human beings born into slavery.”
“You see, Abby, you are so delightfully gutsy. I think I’ll keep you.”
“I beg your pardon?”
9
As a friend. One can never have too many friends, can they?”
“It sounds like you collect them.”
When she laughed, Lady Bowfrey’s eyes disappeared altogether, and her jowls shook. With her mouth open that wide, I noticed for the first time that she had the tiniest teeth I’d ever seen on an adult woman. To be brutally honest, they reminded me of the front teeth of a kitten, the ones found between the incisors.
“Abby,” she sputtered at last, “but you and I are collectors, are we not?”
I felt the need to get out of the house. Without as much as touching me, Lady Bowfrey was beginning to suffocate me.
“My companion is waiting for me outside,” I said.
“Her? Late her wait; she was rude to me. Remember?”
“C.J. is rude to everyone, and then you get used to her.” I inched back toward the elevator.
“Well, I doubt that I ever could. Besides, don’t you want to know what I said to the management of Gold Tiger Exports about them buying and selling banned ivory?”
“Yes, of course.” The elevator doors were still open and I stepped gratefully back onto the platform.
“Abby, please don’t go!”
“I really have to.”
“You’ll make me angry if you go.”
“Ta ta, cheerio, and all that sort of rot,” I said breezily, whilst exercising my false bravado.
But when I finally got back to the safety of my car, my hands were shaking like those of a drunken televangelist come Judgment Day.
“Abby, I have an idea.”
C.J. and I were seated on the deck at Coconut Joe’s on the Isle of Palms. A sheet of clear plastic protected us from the winter wind, but it wasn’t cold enough to warrant the management turning on the outdoor heaters for the noon lunch crowd. I will admit that I’d been staring judgmentally at a smattering of tourists, but understandably so. Tourists cavorting in swimsuits on the beach in South Carolina in February? Come on, give me a break. We’re not Miami!
“They’re going to freeze their nipples off,” I said.
“That’s nice, Abby. Did you hear what I said? I have an idea.”
“Unless maybe they’re from Canada. Remember when—before gas prices got to be so ridiculous—it seemed like half the tourists used to be Canadia
n? The other half was from elsewhere in South Carolina, and the third half was from Ohio.”
“That’s three halves, Abby; there can only be two halves of something.”
“I know; it was just a joke.”
“Unless you’re Cousin Ripley Ledbetter from up in Shelby, North Carolina. He was born with a third butt cheek, only it wasn’t on his bottom, but across the top of his skull. When he was growing up the other kids used to call him ‘fathead’ and ‘wiseass.’”
I shook my head. “Sorry, C.J., but this Shelby story makes even less sense than some of your others. I mean, if the fat was on his head, what made it a butt cheek?”
“Trust me, Abby, you don’t even want to know—although I’ll give you a hint: his own mother once called him a potty-mouth.”
I groaned. “That would be a very crude reference for a cozy novel—although perhaps I’m being unduly prudish in my judgment, given the anything goes aspect of family hour television these days.”
It was C.J.’s turn to shake her massive head. “I swear, Abby, I love you bunches, but sometimes you make less sense than a congressman preaching ethics.”
“Touché, ma chérie. So please, just tell me your idea.”
“It’s very simple, Abby. You just put an ad in the Post and Courier, under the antiques and collectibles section, and then sit back and wait to see who takes your bait.”
“Uh—that’s a brilliant idea, C.J., but just whom am I fishing for, and what the heck am I using as bait?”
C.J. sighed. “Ooh, Abby, I keep forgetting about the difference in our respective IQ points, on account of you’re so well-spoken for a person who is merely above average in intelligence. You would be fishing for ivory collectors and, of course, the bait would be ivory.”
“Of course.” I was a bit miffed at my pal’s remarks, and rather than respond immediately, I decided to cool off for a moment by turning my attention back to people-watching. As if on cue, a rather cadaverous, yet extremely flabby, woman appeared on the sand dressed in a thong bikini. Her buttocks—she had only two cheeks—hung down on either side of the thong like the twin jowls of a bloodhound. With every jaunty step she took, they swung to and fro, proclaiming to all who saw her that here walked a self-confident woman of a certain age, one who knew no shame. It was all I could do to keep from running after this clueless soul and offering to buy her a beach cover-up.