“I am … question is, are you?”
“Of course, dear. Well and truly medicated. Now hurry up, or we’ll be tardy …”
What was I, back in school?
“… and this is not the kind of event where a late entrance is considered fashionable.”
“Event?”
Mother made a little cluck with her tongue. “Oh, Brandy! At my age, I’m the one with an excuse for being forgetful—you promised you’d go with me!”
“Go … where?”
“The Red Hat Social Club luncheon! Remember? The guest speaker is one of the Keno twins!”
Well, I had forgotten—or rather banished it to a corner of my mind. The idea of dressing up in a red hat and purple dress was not my idea of a good time, particularly on the heels of a long car trip.
I said hopefully, “I thought you meant you just needed a ride. How can I attend? Don’t you have to be, you know, uh …”
“Old? Why, yes, dear thing, an incredibly ancient fifty! And I know you don’t qualify, but didn’t I mention it?”
“Mention …?”
“This is mother-daughter day! And I’ve told simply everyone that you were coming back, and would be with me. Brandy, every chapter in Serenity will be there!”
“Why not take Peggy Sue?” Vaguely I recalled either Peg or Mother mentioning that Sis was a Red Hat, too.
“She and I are in different chapters,” Mother said. “She’s going to sit with her own group. Now shake a tailfeather!”
I guess I was going. Half sarcastically, I said, “How can I attend? I don’t have a red hat!”
“Ah, dear girl, don’t you know your mother by now? I think of everything.”
She disappeared in a swish of purple fabric and a bobbling of fake fruit.
All too soon she had returned, from the kitchen, saying, “Luckily I found some paint out in the garage … I do hope it’s dry.”
Mother handed me a straw hat that I remembered from some play she’d been in, when I was a kid; she had revamped the nineteen-hundreds-looking affair with bright red paint, which was tacky in more ways than one.
“What,” I said, “no fruit?”
Mother put her hands on her hips. “Fruit is strictly optional, as is the purple dress. Now, if you don’t want to go, don’t. I am perfectly willing to call a cab and go and be humiliated.”
My own humiliation in the worst, wackiest “Red Hat” imaginable did not occur to Mother. She had always lent her theatrical production touch to apparel, makeup, and other everyday matters, forgetting that what looks good to an audience past the footlights might seem bizarre in what I laughingly like to refer to as “real life.”
Long ago I’d lost every battle over Mother’s homemade “solutions” to various fashion crises; now was simply not the time to change my ways.
“I’m coming,” I said, dutiful daughter that I am.
Anyway, why not attend a Red Hat meeting, and see what I’d be doing with my free time in about thirty years? Don’t laugh (or cry)—that’s how Peggy Sue wound up, right?
But I had enough dignity left to say, “Just give me a few minutes, Mother,” and went out to the car and retrieved some things.
When I returned, Mother was cuddling Sushi in her arms. I wasn’t sure how she would take to Soosh; it had been a number of years since a pet had invaded the house … and a high maintenance one at that.
“Look, dear,” Mother said, beaming, “the little darling—unlike you—likes my outfit.”
“Sushi’s blind, Mother … she can’t see your lovely ensemble.”
Mother held the dog out, inspecting her. “I thought something was strange about those eyes.…”
Oddly, Mother’s eyes and Sushi’s looked about the same.
Then Mother shrugged, clutched the dog against her chest, and sighed, “No matter … we’re all damaged goods around here.”
In the upstairs bathroom, I ran a brush through my shoulder-length golden-blond hair (L’Oreal Preference; you can usually find coupons) and applied a little Rimmel makeup (at least it was British, even if it didn’t look as good on me as on Kate Moss).
I put Sushi in her bed next to the tub, left a bowl of water (diabetic dogs get really thirsty), and shut the door.
“Let’s take my car, dear,” Mother suggested when I came back downstairs. She had found a big lighter purple purse somewhere, which actually went well with the purple frock. “Automobile engines are like people, you know—if they sit too long doing nothing, they wind up dead before their time.”
Even medicated, Mother had no shortage of such words of wisdom. Anyway, it sounded like a plan.
At the end of the drive was a freestanding garage, with an old, heavy door you had to open yourself. If things hadn’t changed, the keys to the ancient pea-green Audi would be waiting on its dashboard—and they were. That careless key security had made sneaking out of the house in the middle of the night and taking the car so beautifully easy, way back when.
While I drove downtown, Mother informed me Serenity had six chapters of the Red Hat Social Club, and over twenty thousand in the entire country (I feigned interest), and that each chapter had its own “darling” name like Better Red Than Dead, and Code Red Hat, etc.
When Mother and some of her friends who belonged to a mystery readers’ book club—Mother “adored” Agatha Christie—had tried to join various chapters around town, each in turn was told that all the chapters were closed to new members.
Whether she and her fellow eccentrics suspected they had been turned away for any reason other than no-room-at-the-inn, Mother didn’t say.
What she did say was: “At any rate, we just started our own chapter, turning our little readers’ group into ‘the Red-Hatted League.’ That’s a Sherlock Holmes reference, dear.”
“I know, Mother.”
At that point Mother launched into a detailed comparison of the relative merits of Basil Rathbone and Jeremy Brett as the great Baker Street detective, making a good case for each.
I parked in a packed lot adjacent to the Grand Queen Hotel, which at eight stories lorded over its loyal subjects, the surrounding riverfront buildings. The view of the Mississippi from the top-floor ballroom (where the luncheon was being held) was breathtaking. For a small town. In the Midwest.
The wealthy publisher of the Serenity Sentinel had saved the Queen (named after one of the founders of Serenity, Nathan Joshua Queen, and an ancestor of said publisher) from the chopping block, giving her a face-lift to the tune of three million dollars. People came from all over the nation just to stay in one of the many “theme rooms”—from the serene Grecian-spa bedroom to the way-out moon room, complete with space-capsule bed.
That such funky fantasy suites had nothing to do with the Victorian wedding cake of a building that housed them bothered no one, particularly not the Sentinel publisher, who was even richer now than before.
By the time Mother and I reached the ballroom, the luncheon was getting under way; we were among the last to arrive, but we weren’t late. Several hundred hats bobbed in a sea of red as the ladies were served what appeared to be chicken salad (not my favorite). Only a few women, however, were wearing purple dresses (good call), and daughter day or not, hardly anyone seemed my age.… Maybe they had to work.
While we were standing in the doorway looking for our table, pretty-pretty-pretty Peggy Sue came over, maybe glad to see us, or maybe just feeling obligated. Her red hat was a pillbox, à la Jackie O, but a new number, not something Mother had dredged from the basement or attic for house-paint conversion.
Her skirt and jacket were a lavender Ralph Lauren (and not the Blue Label), though her brunette hair was in the same shoulder-length flipped do as in high school, sprayed to where you could bounce ball bearings off it.
“I was beginning to think you weren’t going to make it,” she said with a forced little laugh. Even when she was being pleasant, Peggy Sue buried a kernel of criticism in her words. Suddenly her eyes widened to where the
y were almost the size of Mother’s magnified orbs: our homemade hats had just appeared on Peg’s radar, alarming unidentified objects.
But Sis did have the good grace not say anything—it wasn’t like such “fashion statements” from Mother were unheard of.
Anyway, Peg gave me a cursory embrace, and said, “Great to see you, Brandy. Thanks for being a good sport.”
This seemed to be a reference to my red hat.
“Your group is seated over there,” Peggy Sue said, pointing in the opposite direction from where she’d come—which was no surprise. Somehow I had the feeling that Peg had been involved in the seating arrangements.
My expression must have conveyed that, and Peg said, “I do wish we could sit together, but you know how it is.”
Actually, I did know.
But Peg was gracious enough to walk us over to the table, even taking me by the arm and asking, “How was your trip?”
“Pretty boring. Interstate, mostly.”
Sis gave me a canned smile. “That’s nice. Well, I’ll see you two later.”
And she vanished.
We had been deposited at the table where the other members of Mother’s chapter were eagerly awaiting our arrival. The friendly, motley crew consisted of a retired schoolteacher (I had her in fifth grade), a widowed nurse, a homemaker (who might as well be widowed because her husband had Alzheimer’s), and a divorcée (she left her husband immediately after their fiftieth wedding anniversary party, and I mean that night).
These were Mother’s dearest friends (you needn’t know their names, just yet), and I didn’t mind spending an hour or so with them, and hearing stories (sometimes more than once) about how they did things in the olden days.
I took a pass on the chicken salad and waited for the main course. Then I realized, too late, after they took away the plate, that that was the main course. Next thing I knew I was staring down at a big slice of chocolate cake.
Chocolate on an empty stomach is a no-no for a migraine headache sufferer, which I am (thank God for Imitrex). So I removed myself from temptation and went off to find a bathroom.
Weaving around the tables took me by Peggy Sue, where she sat with a clutch of longtime, so-called friends.
I despised these women, each of whom had at one time or another betrayed my sister. The ringleader of the cattiest clique this side of the Mississippi was Robin (wearing the stodgier side of Anne Klein); she once stole Peggy Sue’s fiancé, then threw him over. Lana (looking silly in Lilly Pulitzer—where’s a palm tree when you need one?) had had my sister kicked off the Pom-Pon Squad (at the time called Pom-Pom, before anyone realized it meant “whore” in the Philippines) for being “too fat,” which had sent Peggy Sue on an anorexic cycle. And my “favorite,” Connie (hiding her heft under a voluminous Eileen Fisher dress; it wasn’t working), had once spread a vicious rumor that my sister was pregnant, when Peggy Sue studied in France her freshman year of college.
I had heard all of this—and more—as a kid listening at the top of the stairs, or with one ear to closed doors, when Peggy Sue went crying to Mother. Why my sister still cared about what these middle-aged over-Botoxed bitches did or thought or said was a mystery that even the Red-Hatted League’s Holmes couldn’t have solved. Rathbone or Brett.
When I paused at their table, Peggy Sue smiled in her frozen way and said, “Brandy! You remember my friends …?”
I bestowed my sweetest smile on them. “Why, of course. I’ve heard so many interesting stories about all of you, over these many years.”
Several pairs of eyes narrowed—of those smart enough to perceive the dig—while Peggy flashed a glare, as if to say, “Don’t make trouble, Little Sister.”
Robin turned her Cruella face toward me. “I understand you’ll be living here again. Moving back in with Mother? How sweet.” Her smile was sly, knowing.
“Yes, and I’ll be looking for a job,” I replied, then asked innocently, not missing a beat, “Do you think your husband could use a secretary?”
Her hubby, Mel, ran the biggest auto dealership in Serenity. And was the biggest letch.
“Why … uh, I … don’t …” She managed an embarrassed smile, then said, “I don’t really keep track of such things.”
“No problem,” I replied, then crinkled my nose, Bewitched-style, cute as heck. “I’ll call him myself.”
I let Robin chew on that and headed for the ladies’ room, which proved deserted, everybody but me busy snarfing down that rich cake. I was drying my hands when the door swished open. I half expected Peggy Sue, come to admonish me for being “not very nice” to her supposed friends, but it was even worse.
“Hello, Brandy,” the woman said. She held her ground by the door, and was clearly not here to pee.
“Jennifer.” I threw the paper towel in the bin.
She was slender and pretty and two years younger than me, with thick auburn hair, a porcelain, doll-like complexion, large green eyes unblinking in her pale face, her thin lips a red lipstick slash; she wore neither a red hat nor a purple dress—just a smart periwinkle suit.
“I’m here with my mother,” I said.
“I’m with mine. Spotted you talking to Peggy Sue.”
“Ah.” That’s me, always ready with the smart comeback.
“I just thought,” she began, clutching her black purse like an oversize fig leaf, “as long as you’re back in town …”
Bad news travels fast.
“… we’ll be running into each other …”
Not necessarily. I wouldn’t be shopping the better boutiques.
“… and we might as well get this over with.”
She really was quite beautiful; why would her husband have cheated on a ten like her with a seven and three-quarter like me, I’ll never understand.
Well, okay—the sex.
And a guy at his high school class reunion, which his wife chose not to attend, who runs into his old steady, might make a sad mistake.
So might the old steady.
I noticed her hand shaking a little as she toyed with a button on the jacket of her suit.
“I just wanted to say,” she continued, “that I don’t hold a grudge. What happened just … happened.”
I had no words. None.
“You just came along at a rough patch in our marriage—it could have been anybody.”
Gee, thanks.
“And, anyway, Brandy, Brad and I are doing fine now. I have no intention of causing a scene, here, today … anywhere, ever.”
I nodded.
“That doesn’t mean I forgive you, of course, for what you did.”
Of course. But Brad’s forgiven.
She raised her chin; was it trembling, just a little? And I’m happy to say that my marriage is stronger than ever.”
Not “our” marriage—“my” marriage.
I really could think of nothing to say, except, “Was it really key to your happiness, calling my husband and telling on me and ruining what I had?”
Which of course I said only in my head.
“Well,” Jennifer sighed with a half smile, “I’m so glad we had this little chat. Good luck on your new start. Sorry if you thought Brad might be a part of it.”
She wheeled and left.
I had to admit, what Jennifer did took guts. I felt about as cheap as my $49.99 cotton dress and Dutch Boy–painted red hat.
As I returned to my table, all eyes were on me, looking for cat scratches, maybe. Thankfully the after-luncheon program was about to begin.
Stepping to the center-front dais was Mrs. Lindel, evidently in charge of the day’s historic mother-daughter Red-Hat citywide event; she was a trim, energetic, perpetually cheerful woman in her sixties who, like Mother, had been active in community theater since I was in diapers. Her red hat was by far the most … What, you’re not interested? Okay, be that way.
The upbeat Mrs. Lindel, however, was looking a little down in the dumps as she spoke into the microphone. “Ladies …” She had to r
epeat this several times before the crowd—eagerly anticipating the featured guest from the popular Antiques Roadshow program—quieted. The excitement was palpable, the suspense excruciating—which Keno twin could it be?
“As you know, Mr. Keno is in our little corner of the world for a Des Moines taping of the Roadshow,” she said. “He was gracious to make time for us in his busy schedule, but unexpected production demands made it necessary for him to cancel at the last minute.”
Oh. Neither Keno twin.
“He sends his best and his apologies.”
The latter half dozen or so words were barely audible over the moans and groans.
Mother, who always projected well, said, “Well, shit!”
Laughter followed—everyone in town knew my mother (and most knew her favorite swear word), though a mortified Peggy Sue, glancing our way, didn’t seem to realize how well received and even cathartic Mother’s little outburst had been.
“However … however,” Mrs. Lindel continued, “we have a wonderful substitute speaker, Clint Carson, who moved here recently from Boulder, Colorado. Many of you already know Mr. Carson, and are familiar with his antique shop in Pearl Button Plaza. So, without any further introduction, let’s give him a warm welcome and a big hand!”
And she began clapping wildly to rouse the crowd.
I’d bet Mrs. Lindel had the man waiting in the wings like an understudy ready to go on, should something go wrong with the featured guest. The substitute came out (stage right) to polite applause, and the director returned to her seat.
Clint wasn’t bad on the eyes: tall, slender, youthful, yet old enough to have some gray in his brown ponytailed hair. He wore a black Stetson, a tan and brown plaid western shirt, and dark slacks. I couldn’t see his feet, but I was betting on tooled leather boots.
“Good afternoon, darlin’s,” the man drawled into the mike. “I’ve never seen so many pretty faces—not to mention hats—all in one little ole room.…”
I was thinking, Lame, but then noticed that the women all around me apparently liked this chicken-fried blarney, some even giggling.
Carson began to talk about his love of antiques, and I looked over at Mother, to see if her disappointment had been placated. Unlike the women surrounding us, who were eating this up, Mother’s head was lowered, the wide-brimmed hat mostly covering her face. Her normal outgoing self seemed to be shriveling, as she withdrew into herself, in a way that often signaled a bout with the blues.
Antiques Roadkill Page 2