The Ming and I

by Tamar Myers

  “And effort,” I said.

  “Exactly. Making new friends is like dating. You reveal just bits and pieces of yourself at a time, and hope the other person doesn’t run off screaming.”

  I had to wonder what Mama’s dating years were like. How many guys had she sent running, and was Daddy ever among them? The only time I ever sent a boy running was that time when I opened the front door to get the newspaper, forgetting that I was in the middle of a mud facial. You should have heard Larry Janz scream.

  Shirley Hall, however, seemed delighted to see me. “Come on in, Ms. Timberlake! Sorry I’m not dressed for company, but I’ve been relining my kitchen shelves.”

  “Please, call me Abby.”

  “Then you call me Shirley.”

  I nodded gratefully. I never know what to call folks who have their initials along with a diploma.

  “When did you move, Shirley? Isn’t this the same address that’s listed in the phone book?”

  “Yes. I mean, no, I haven’t moved. I’ve lived here on College Avenue for the last twenty-two years. Why?”

  I couldn’t imagine relining shelves unless it was absolutely necessary, and told her so. She laughed.

  “Well, when I got done cleaning my oven—”

  “You cleaned your oven, too?”

  “Every Monday, like clockwork,” she said cheerily.

  I wasn’t about to run away screaming, but these were not bits and pieces I wanted to hear. I cleaned my oven last January, but only because I couldn’t decide if the black lump at the back was a chunk of meat loaf or something worse.

  Shirley had me sit on an immaculate white sofa that was every bit as big and puffy as Anne’s. Where was I when the decorating police decreed that white sofas were in? Well, too bad, I was perfectly happy with my pumpkin orange sofas.

  “Goose down,” Shirley said.

  “What?”

  “It’s much softer than foam rubber.” She giggled. “It feels good on my bottom.”

  I shuddered at the thought of hundreds of geese having their tummies plucked just to pamper Shirley’s ample tush.

  “You wouldn’t believe how hard it is to find a sofa in this style and with this fabric that has goose-down filler. I spent three days looking up in Highpoint, North Carolina, before I found this style, and then I had to special order the upholstery.”

  I shuddered at the thought of having so much free time on my hands.

  “Care for a glass of fungus?” Shirley asked.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  She laughed merrily. There was something to be said for merry friends. Wynnell could be a bit of a grouse sometimes.

  “It’s called Manchurian tea,” she explained, “but it’s really just a big old fungus. Sort of a pancake-shaped mushroom.”

  “You make tea out of it?”

  “Heavens, no. The tea is what the mushroom grows in. You make a new batch every week, and while the new mushroom is growing, you drink the liquid from the old one. Four ounces every morning on an empty stomach. Although sometimes,” she giggled, “if I need a little mid-afternoon pick-me-up, I’ll drink a second dose.”

  “Why? I mean, what does it do for you?”

  She bounced up from her end of the white sofa. “Oh, it’s practically a miracle drink. It does just about everything but wash your windows.” She chuckled. “I do those myself—every other week.”

  I wanted to gag.

  “Look,” she said, doing a pirouette like a first-year ballerina, “don’t I look five pounds thinner?”

  Than what? “Absolutely,” I said.

  “You see, it speeds up your metabolism and the weight just drops off. It also erases wrinkles, turns gray hair brown, eliminates age spots, boosts your immune system, gives you extra energy, and heightens your sex drive!”

  The last thing I wanted was to look even younger and be horny. The boosted immune system and extra energy, however, I could go for.

  “My, my,” I said politely.

  “You want to try some? Only two deaths from it that I know of, and they most certainly weren’t following directions. You can tell if it’s gone bad by its taste.”

  “What’s it taste like?”

  “Vinegar mostly. You see, besides the tea you put in brown sugar and vinegar.”

  I went for it. I tossed back a juice glass full of the brew. It wasn’t bad, perhaps a bit slimy, and with a slightly vinegary aftertaste.

  “I feel better already,” I said.

  She laughed again. I know it is wrong to stereotype people, but Shirley had the sort of tinkling, jolly laugh I associated with overweight women.

  “Now you’re being silly. It takes a couple of months to get the full effect. Would you like to take a mushroom home with you?”

  “Sure, why not?” As long as it didn’t get into a fight with Dmitri, I was all for having another pet.

  She bounced off into the kitchen—a testimony to extra energy—and I followed. The mushroom, which inhabited a four-quart Corning ware bowl on her kitchen counter, resembled a shiny plastic pancake, except that it was taupe instead of golden brown.

  Shirley scrubbed her hands as thoroughly as a surgeon and dried them on paper towels.

  “You have to keep it in a sterile environment, otherwise it will act as a growing medium for whatever bacteria it comes in contact with. Never, ever put it on a counter where there’s been raw chicken.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I hear you loud and clear.”

  “Now look here.” She fished out the pancake, which flopped about like a rubber bath mat held on end. “You see, a baby always grows on top of the old one.”

  I watched her detach the so-called baby from its mother. The two were connected in numerous spots. It was like watching footage of conjoined twins being separated. Carefully she placed the detached baby into a gallon-size freezer bag and slid the mama back into her bowl.

  When she was through she washed up again and handed me two sheets of paper. “This tells you all about it, and how to care for it. Follow the rules exactly, Abigail, or you might get sick.

  “And here.” She handed me a plastic jug, the kind Mama buys her orange juice in. “Take this with you. There’s enough Manchurian tea in there to last you until you can harvest your own. Just remember to take it on an empty stomach.”

  I promised that I would, and I meant it. The stuff hadn’t tasted that bad, but after having viewed the mushroom close up, there was no way I could keep its byproducts and food down.

  We sat and visited for a while longer. She really was a delightful person. Her only drawback was that she disliked the South. Of course, I should be horsewhipped for having asked her the question in the first place. It was very unsouthern of me.

  “I’m afraid you’re not going to like my answer,” she said.

  “Nonsense. This is a free country, isn’t it?” I was expecting her to complain about the heat and humidity, possibly even the size of our bugs.

  “The South is culturally dead,” she said.

  “What do you mean? Winthrop brings in performing artists all the time. We have community theater and concerts right here in Rock Hill. Even a terrific museum. And if that’s not enough, you can find anything in Charlotte—even things that are banned in Boston.”

  “That’s not what I mean. I mean intellectual life—the life of the mind.”

  I still didn’t get it. “There are oodles of writers living in the area. Dori Sanders, Gwen Hunter, Mignon Ballard, oh, and that frizzy-haired blonde—I forget her name—who thinks she’s a mystery writer.”

  She shook her head, no longer looking jolly, but dejected. “That’s not it. I mean that people don’t engage in deep, intellectual conversations. There’s no sharing of ideas—one-on-one. I don’t feel challenged.”

  “Ah, I see. Well, Shirley, in the South good manners are very important, and it is considered bad manners to contradict someone, unless something very important is at stake.

  “But close friends can agree to disagre
e. I have many stimulating conversations with my friends.” Suddenly I wasn’t feeling quite as bereft of friendship.

  Shirley sighed. “I guess I don’t have any close friends then. Not here. Back home in Yosilanti—that’s just outside Ann Arbor—I had plenty of friends. You might even say I was popular. But now look at me. Twenty-two years at Winthrop and in Rock Hill, and what do I have? Just a mushroom, for chrissakes.”

  “Now that you’re retired, why are you staying?” I asked gently.

  “Inertia, I guess. It’s too much trouble to move. Besides, I’ve been away too long—things will have changed. At least here I know my way around. Where to find things on the grocery shelves. Where to buy gas.”

  “Well, maybe we can be friends,” I said, although I was no longer quite so sure, mushrooms and plucked geese aside.

  She smiled. I could see the spark again.

  “Thanks, Abigail. Maybe we could do dinner sometime. Go to a movie and discuss it afterward.”

  “I’d like that.” I could always make excuses later.

  “That’s why I agreed to serve on the board of the Upstate Preservation Foundation, you know. I thought I might be able to make friends with the other board members, or even some of the docents.”

  “And?”

  She laughed, this time nervously. “They’re all a bit strange.”

  “Gloria Roach,” I said needlessly. Her bad Yankee influence was wearing off on me.

  “Yeah, and the others. Take Miss Lilah—such a grande dame, but she’s penniless, you know.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Oh yes. Why do you think she puts on all those airs? Cream of the crop, indeed. If people only knew.”

  “Shirley, dear, in the South breeding takes precedence over bucks any day.”

  “Yes, well…” She glanced out the window and then back at me. “Not everyone is who they seem.”

  “You mean Anne Holliday, don’t you?”

  She didn’t bat an eyelash. “Exactly.”

  “The Queen Mum act, those awful hats—who would have thought?”

  “Certainly not me.”

  “I can understand her position, but playing a Baptist tippler, that’s carrying it too far, isn’t it?”

  “Beyond the pale,” Shirley said, wagging her head solemnly.

  “At least old Mr. Rose knew what he was getting into, if you’ll pardon the pun. He saw a horse and thought he could turn it into a winner.”

  “Kind of like Black Beauty,” she said, and plopped back against the plump softness of her plucked feathers.

  I sucked in my breath. It had suddenly dawned on me that Shirley had no idea what I was talking about.

  “How tragic for a nun to have her life turn out this way,” I said softly. “And all because the bishop died in her arms.”

  “Really?” She sat bolt upright, a Pillsbury dough girl on a Pillsbury doughboy couch.

  “Absolutely. He was blowing up balloons for a church picnic, and he inhaled when he should have exhaled, and well…His last word was screeeeech. Then he fell right into her arms.” I said it all with a straight face, thanks to C.J.

  She waved her chubby arms impatiently. Apparently balloon-blowing bishops didn’t interest her.

  “But a nun? You said she was a nun?”

  I fixed an image of Julie Andrews in my mind. There was no need to lie about that.

  “Definitely a nun. And a great singer, too.”

  “The kind of nun that wears a habit?”

  “Wimples instead of flowered hats.”

  She giggled. “And takes a vow of chastity?”

  That was a bit of a stretch, even for Julie Andrews. “Your all-around basic nun,” I hedged.

  “Totally awesome,” she said. Her ex-students would be proud of her.

  I stood up slowly, stretched casually, and yawned. “Well, I better be going.”

  She popped to her feet with remarkable agility. “Don’t forget to take your fungus home with you. It might get a little carsick—it’s very sensitive to its surroundings—so I suggest that you sing to it. You know, lullabies, that sort of thing.”

  My brother, Toy, unlike Mama, can’t carry a tune in a suitcase. He sounds worse than a long-tailed cat on a porch full of rockers. I, however, have inherited a pretty decent set of pipes. Still, I would feel a little foolish singing to a mushroom.

  “Won’t the radio do? You know, easy listening, that sort of thing? Of course, no hard rock.”

  Shirley frowned. “It’s the radio waves. Sometimes they have bad reactions.”

  I crooned Righteous Brothers tunes to the fungus on my way home. Halfway through “Unchained Melody” I thought I saw the freezer bag twitch. No doubt the fungus was writhing in agony. So much for my good pipes.

  22

  I fed Dmitri and I fed the fungus. It was much easier feeding Dmitri. He is fourteen years old, and for the last ten of those years he has refused to eat anything except for one particular flavor and brand of dry cat food.

  Although the fungus was no more fussy, it took awhile to boil up its brew, let it cool, and then slip the rubbery sucker into its new home. To the best of my knowledge the mushroom had survived my singing, but I wasn’t sure I was going to survive touching it, so I was immensely relieved when Wynnell showed up.

  Because she was off duty, my friend felt free to wear a getup that had yet to receive its stitches. All the pieces—and there were at least ten of the brightly colored patches—were held together by safety pins. Another patch served as a head scarf, and yet another, suitably pinned, as a handbag. In all fairness, it was a striking and innovative ensemble.

  “Did you get Greg’s message?” Wynnell asked.

  “Mama told me. And he left a brief message on my machine. And I mean, brief—five words. ‘Sorry, Abby. Call your mother.’ I don’t know why, but Greg hates talking to machines.”

  “Men!” Wynnell said sympathetically. She’s been happily married to the same man for more than thirty years, but she’s a loyal friend.

  “And it’s not like he isn’t used to machines,” I whined. “He talks on the police—”

  “Lord have mercy!” Wynnell shrieked. “What is that?”

  “That’s my ticket to eternal youth. It’s a giant fungus, and you drink the fluid that it’s been sitting in all week. It’s guaranteed to turn you into a whole new woman.”

  “I like the woman I am,” Wynnell said stoutly. “Is this thing alive?”

  “I certainly hope so. I plan to name him Freddy.”

  “Well, I think he’s disgusting.”

  “He’s only a plant, Wynnell. A mushroom. You like mushrooms—I’ve seen you eat them.”

  The eyebrows fused. “In a salad or on a burger. Nothing that big and ugly. If your Freddy starts hovering over Charlotte, I’m getting out of town. Where on earth did you get him?”

  I told her about my visit to Shirley. While we chatted I summoned the courage to remove Freddy from the refrigerator and slide him into a Corning ware bowl. I wanted to just dump him straight from the bag, but Shirley was adamant that I lay Freddy gently on top of the solution. “He needs to breathe,” she said. Thank God I didn’t need to burp him when he was done feeding.

  Wynnell was gratifyingly interested in the details of my visit to Rock Hill. Her daughter, Estelle, had attended Winthrop as a history major, and Wynnell was pretty sure that Dr. Shirley Hall had been one of her professors.

  “The woman’s a Yankee, isn’t she?” Wynnell asked.

  I shrugged. “So many people are these days, it’s hard to tell.”

  Wynnell’s eyebrows locked together in a frown. “I don’t know why they hired her in the first place. A Yankee woman teaching southern history! Estelle said this woman doesn’t even like the South, so what is she doing here?”

  Normally I try not to encourage my friend’s regional prejudice. I refused, for instance, to sign her petition that the state of North Carolina (Virginia is already a lost cause, in her opinion) erect a
fence along its northern border, and require visitors from north of the Mason-Dixon Line to show their passports when entering. The fact that Wynnell got more than three thousand other folks to sign was a bit unsettling. This time, however, she had a valid point.

  “Did you know she’s retired?” I asked, living dangerously.

  “What? And she’s still here?”

  “Not only that, but she claims not to have any friends in the area. That’s what’s so odd. Of course, Anne Holliday doesn’t have any friends, either, and she stayed on after Old Man Rose died.”

  “That’s different. At least the woman is from Dixie.”

  There are times when I should have my lips stapled together, and this was one of them. But Wynnell is my very best friend, and I had to tell someone who would believe me.

  “Trixie Dixie,” I said. “Before she met Rose, Anne Holliday did tricks for a living.”

  “She was a magician?”

  “For some, I imagine. Most of the time it was probably routine. She was a prostitute.”

  The hedgerow eyebrows arched up to meet her scalp. “No kidding? How did you find out?”

  “Straight from the horse’s mouth.”

  “Wow,” she said, “and this woman’s on the board of the Upstate Preservation Foundation?”

  I nodded. “Of course, the others don’t know. She only told me because she wanted to make sure I understood that the real Anne Holliday was not the churchgoing tippler with a garden on her hat, but someone to be reckoned with. The real Anne has been around the block several times.”

  “I’m sure she has, and all in a night’s work. But why did she need to impress you?”

  “Because she thinks she has something on me.” I filled my friend in on the unfortunate disappearance of my notepad, and its subsequent reappearance in bits and pieces.

  “Someone’s framing you,” she said solemnly, “just as sure as you’re a picture that needs hanging.”

  “Could it possibly be her? Trixie Dixie, I mean?”

  Wynnell closed a pin that had come open in a strategic place, thereby sparing me a glimpse of her unmentionables, which in her case really are unmentionable. No word in English exists that adequately describes the undergarments Wynnell makes with the scraps left over from her outfits.