Mermaids in the Basement Page 9

  She pointed me toward the kitchen, gave my bottom a pat, then turned back into the living room to keep the party moving. I didn’t get that gene, but I hoped to acquire it. As I pushed open the door to the butler’s pantry, I spotted Joie. She gripped a paper towel roll in one hand and a cell phone in the other. The phone was bubble-gum pink, all trimmed with rhinestones, or maybe it was diamonds. When she saw me, she clicked off the phone and snapped off a paper towel.

  “I got sidetracked, but I knew you’d find me.” She handed me a towel, then shoved her lilliputian hand into my face. “See the ring your daddy gave me? An old-fashioned Tiffany setting suits me just fine. I don’t remember how many carats, but it’s not vulgar in the least.”

  “Daddy has excellent taste in jewelry,” I said, fingering my chocolate-stained pearls.

  “Yeah, he does. Did you know that we saw Bombshell on our first date?”

  “Really?” I said, trying not to seem impressed, but I was flat-out bowled over.

  “Yes! Isn’t that cool? He told me you helped write that movie with your boyfriend. Is he still your boyfriend?”

  I blinked.

  “Well, listen, if you dump him, I wouldn’t blame you one bit. Some men just have roving eyes. Better to find out sooner than later, is my motto. And you don’t have to tell me about your father. I know all the stories. Now that he’s older, he’s quieted down. In fact, he’s ready for us to marry and start a family. Although I’m not eager to have kids. Have y’all made any other movies?”

  “Some independent films.”

  “Indy what? Is that, like, a rehab thing, like in codependent? Never mind, I’m not really into movies. But I’ve been wanting to talk to you and get your opinion. See, I haven’t decided if I want to be a summer or a fall bride. My birthday is September fourteenth, and I don’t want to get married anywhere near that date. Or Christmas. Christmas is the worst time of year to have an anniversary because you get shortchanged on gifts. You know how men just hate to shop? They’ll buy you a combined Christmas-anniversary gift every year. Ditto for birthdays and anniversaries. You might want to keep this in mind, unless you’re breaking up with…what’s his name again?”

  “Ferg.”

  “Oh, I just don’t see how he could cheat on you. Because you’re such a doll. Honora said I’d love you, and you know what? I do! Isn’t that wonderful? Oh, just listen to me blathering. And here I’ve ruined your pretty outfit.” She shoved the paper towel into my chest, then turned back to the granite counter and plucked a chocolate-covered strawberry from a tray.

  “Please don’t eat that,” I said.

  “Don’t worry. I can eat anything I want and never gain an ounce. My smallness has other drawbacks. I never learned to drive a car. I’m not teasing. I can’t see over the steering wheel. Thank goodness men prefer tiny women.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “Why, no. It’s true. Men worship tininess.”

  “No, I mean, you do drive, don’t you?”

  “Never in my life. I know it sounds odd, but I am really too little. And besides, I just don’t like the pressure. It’s got too dangerous to drive in New Orleans, or anywhere. Before my daddy died, he made me swear that I wouldn’t go near I-10. So he hired me a driver, and that was the end of that. Want me to get you something to eat? I swear, I could eat my weight in chocolate-covered strawberries.”

  “I wouldn’t advise it.” I folded the paper towel into a crown and set it on her head, then I ducked out of the room. I stopped by the grand piano and listened to a man in a tuxedo play “Moon River.” A champagne cork popped, followed by applause. After a while I stepped onto the patio. The wind swept through the oak trees. The air felt cool and smelled salty. Over by the water, I saw bars of light whirling from the spidery Mobile Bay lighthouse. It lent an eerie glow to the Spanish moss—which wasn’t a parasite, like most people thought, but it did cause damage by blotting out sunlight. Just like gossip, it spreads small seeds into the wind and takes root.

  It was eight o’clock. So that meant it was two a.m. in Ireland. I wondered if Ferg was sitting in a pub. If so, I would read all about it in next week’s tabloids. I hated a liar more than I hated a cheat, and Ferg had sworn that nothing was going on. I eased back into the house, climbing the back stairs up to my room. Then I sat down on the bed and pulled the phone into my lap, dialing Ferg’s hotel. The line made a strange, potty sound. The operator answered in an alert, cheerful voice and said he was sorry, but Mr. Lauderdale had a Do Not Disturb notice until seven a.m. Did I wish to leave a message?

  I did not. I went back downstairs. When I opened the kitchen door, I smelled oysters en brochette. Joie was sitting on the counter, leaning against my father’s right arm. She tossed her head and laughed at something he’d just said, causing the tassels on her scarf to swing back and forth.

  “Are y’all hiding in the kitchen?” I asked.

  “Best place in the house.” Daddy winked.

  “Mind if I join you?”

  “Sure, babe.” This was how our conversations usually went, no more than two or three syllables, although with everyone else, he was quite talkative. I remembered how he’d loved to mingle at parties, and I found it odd to see him hiding in the kitchen. But maybe Joie felt intimidated. Honora had invited the crème de la crème of coastal Alabama and every southern state that touched it.

  The butler’s pantry door opened, and Honora and Gladys swept into the kitchen. “I’ve been looking everywhere for y’all,” said Honora. “The mayor wants to meet Joie.”

  “How many mayors are here?” Joie laughed. “I’ve already met one.”

  Honora leaned over the counter and began rearranging the tray of oysters en brochette, stuffing parsley around the edges. Joie watched for a moment, then tucked her small-boned hand into the crook of Daddy’s arm and smiled up at him, her heart-shaped face smooth and radiant.

  “Louie, baby, we better get out there and mingle. After all, we are the guests of honor.”

  “Indeed we are.” Daddy smiled, his head tilting to one side. As he led her out of the kitchen, the pendant lights picked out gray hairs. He looked handsome and distinguished, every inch the successful heart surgeon. I wondered what had shaped him, what had made him into a self-absorbed god. Had Honora been a doting or a neglectful mother? Would either extreme have made a damn bit of difference?

  Before the door whooshed shut, I saw Daddy and Joie step into the living room, waving to a few guests. I fought an impulse to pull him back.

  “He looks like a toad with a baby tadpole,” Honora said.

  “Tadpole, hell,” said Gladys. “She’s a shark.”

  “I never realized that Louie was that huge,” said Honora. “It looks like he’d squash that poor girl during sex.”

  “Not if she’s on top,” said Gladys.

  Chapter 14

  STRING OF PEARLS

  The party was showing no signs of slowing down. Honora dragged me into the living room and introduced me to the former lieutenant governor of Mississippi. Then she pulled me over to meet members of the garden club. Even though it was clear that they had heard about the National Enquirer, several ladies acted confused and wanted to know if the engagement party was in my honor. It was a silly, southern ploy to acquire information, but my grandmother wasn’t fooled.

  “No, it’s for Louie.” Honora smiled. “Renata’s boyfriend is in Ireland. He’s bringing Ulysses to the silver screen.”

  “But, sugar,” said a lady in a green dress, “didn’t Arnold Schwarzenegger immortalize that role?”

  “No, I’m talking about James Joyce’s Ulysses,” said Honora.

  “Oh, that’s right,” said the lady in the green dress. “Arnold starred in that Conan movie.”

  “Wait,” said a woman with cake crumbs on her chin, “I saw Ulysses way back in 1955. Kirk Douglas was just divine.”

  “That was Homer, not Joyce,” I said, and all of the women stared.

  The cake-crumb lady turne
d to Honora and said, “I thought the book club was going to read Joyce.”

  “Joyce Carol Oates,” said Honora.

  I was looking around for my daddy and Joie, but I couldn’t see them anywhere. Faye was pressing the short man against a table. His shoulder knocked against the fishbowl; it tipped sideways and rolled over, spilling water and the fish to the floor. On that side of the room the conversation dimmed, and several people turned.

  “Ooooo, just look at it flopping around. Somebody step on it, quick,” yelped Faye.

  I bolted across the room and scooped the fish into my hands, then rushed to the kitchen. Honora was right behind me. She filled a Pyrex bowl with tepid water and set it on the counter. I dipped my hands into the bowl; the fish spurted between my fingers, listing on its side a moment, then began to swim in tight, angry circles.

  “I’ve got a bigger vase in the garage,” said Honora.

  “I’ll get it,” I said. “Just tell me where to look. You get back to the party.”

  “Look on the shelves, way down on the bottom row. Get the great big brandy snifter.” She opened a cupboard, pulled out a whisk broom and a dustpan, then headed back into the living room.

  As I cracked open the garage door, I jumped a little when I saw Joie. She stood next to Honora’s Bentley, cradling a platter of chocolate-covered strawberries, her pink cell phone tucked between her chin and shoulder. “I love you, Billy,” she crooned, popping a berry into her mouth. “Nobody but you. And don’t you worry, baby doll, I’ll see you real soon.”

  When Joie saw me at the top of the staircase, she slapped the bejeweled phone shut.

  “I was just looking for a vase,” I said, and started down the steps, acting as if I hadn’t overheard the conversation. All I had to do was fetch the vase, make a little small talk, and return to the party. But I couldn’t. I had my grandmother’s meddling gene, and there was no going back. “By the way,” I said, “who’s Billy?”

  Joie looked up at the ceiling, then staggered backward. Honora had painted the ceiling black, to match her Bentley, and here and there she’d hung cast-off chandeliers. Only my grandmother would decorate her garage. Joie reached for another strawberry and slipped it into her mouth.

  “Don’t let me interrupt your snack,” I said, kneeling beside the shelves. I wondered if she’d found Isabella’s tainted berry—or berries, if Honora’s prediction was accurate.

  “I’m sure you’re wondering about Billy,” Joie said, then bit into another strawberry. “He’s my…You know what? I don’t have to explain what Billy is. It’s none of your business.”

  I didn’t respond; I grabbed the fishbowl and cradled it in my arms. Giving Joie a wide berth, I circled back toward the stairs.

  “You’ve no idea who Billy is,” she cried. “You’d die if you knew.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “That’s not all you are, darlin’,” she said in a tipsy, slurry voice. She raised a strawberry to her mouth, but her aim was off, and the berry glanced off her cheek and hit the concrete floor. She reached for another and held it over her head. “Take my advice and go on the Atkins Diet before it’s too late. Because you’re over thirty, at least, you look it, and if you don’t get control of your figure now, that’s it, you’ll never be thin. When you die, they’ll have to get you a plus-sized casket.”

  “I resent that,” I said, trying not to laugh. “I wear a size eight. That’s hardly endomorphic.”

  “I know what that means.” She put her hands on her hips and blinked.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” I said, “a fish is waiting for me.”

  “What fish?” She blinked. “Are you speaking in code?”

  “Fish is a four-letter word for fish. As in goldfish.” I couldn’t believe my father saw anything in this overwrought child-woman. Had he lost his mind? More to the point, what kind of school would allow this pea-brained woman to teach? I thought of at least ten insults, but growing up in Hollywood had taught me to choose my battles and to keep my powder dry. But nothing my father had ever done made a bit of sense. I started up the stairs.

  “What four-letter word?” she called. “Oh, I get it. You’re just trying to change the subject.”

  “As I said, fish has four letters. You ought to know that, Joie.”

  “What are you getting at?” She pushed the last berry into her mouth and bit down. Then she set the empty platter on the floor.

  “Someone knocked over Honora’s fishbowl. I’m just trying to save the poor creature.”

  “Are you making an allegory, or whatever? Fish out of water? Shattered lives?” She opened her mouth, revealing a chocolate-streaked tongue. “Wait, don’t go. I’m not finished talking to you.”

  “Too bad,” I said. “Because I’m finished with you.”

  She let out a strangled cry and grabbed my collar; I felt her tiny fingernails scrape the back of my neck, digging into the flesh. The pearls cut into my throat, and my head bowed. She yanked them hard, and the strand rolled over my Adam’s apple. Gripping the fishbowl with one hand, I reached up blindly with the other, groping for her fingers.

  “Stop it, Joie,” I cried in a raspy voice.

  “No,” she said. “You stop.”

  The necklace broke, and my pearls hit the steps, pinging across the concrete floor. Still gripping the bowl, I threw out my elbow, and it hit Joie’s shoulder. Her mouth opened, and she toppled backward. She didn’t fall far, just two steps, and she landed on her hips.

  “Well, thanks a lot,” she cried, and yanked her dress over her right knee. I didn’t see any blood, just a red spot on her shin.

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  “No, but I will be, just as soon as you get your gigantic self out of my face.” She licked her finger and rubbed it over her knee. “But go ahead, tell the world what you think you heard. I don’t care.”

  I set down the vase and eased down the steps and began gathering loose pearls, dropping them into my pocket. “Are you sitting on any pearls?”

  “What if I am?” she snapped. “Don’t worry, I’ll buy you a new necklace.”

  “These pearls are sentimental,” I said. “My father gave them to me.”

  She rolled her eyes and scooted to the left. Several pearls rolled out like freshly laid, lilliputian eggs. She reached out and grabbed them.

  “Here, take my hand,” I said. “Is your knee okay?”

  “Oh, shut up. Get away, don’t touch me.” She held out her hand, the pearls rolling on her palm. “Take them gently, no grabbing!”

  I could imagine her speaking this way to her third-grade students. I gingerly picked up the pearls. “Come on, let me help you,” I said.

  “No, just let me sit here a minute, Miss Know-It-All. I’m truly sorry about your necklace. I’ll look around and try to find stray pearls. Like I said, I’ll even buy you a new strand. And I know it won’t be the same, but it’s the best I can do.”

  I scooped up another pearl. I didn’t trust her to pick them up. In fact, I just didn’t trust her at all. I couldn’t decide if I should pull my daddy aside and tell him about Billy, or if I should just let it go. He was a grown man, and surely it wasn’t my place to tell him that he’d picked the wrong woman—again.

  “So, can you just leave?” Joie cracked open her Judith Leiber bag and pulled out a lipstick and tiny mirror.

  After I rescued the fish, I wandered outside and found Honora and Gladys sitting on the stone terrace. “Come on and sit with us,” Honora said, petting the Yorkie’s head. “I was just telling Isabella about the Mayfields.”

  “It’s juicy,” said Gladys. “Apparently the mother was a skank.”

  “Faye was especially fond of portrait photographers,” said Honora. “And she had many suggestive pictures taken of Joie. When she lived over in New Orleans, she dabbled in voodoo. And she stalked two prominent women.”

  “Surely not,” I said.

  “No, Faye herself told it. She has to be the center of attention, even if
she’s ruining her reputation. A lot of people dismiss these stories because Faye isn’t a drinker, and she doesn’t smoke. Except for decorating herself with jewelry and haute couture, she seems rather normal—until she opens her mouth. She can’t carry on a normal conversation without bending it in her direction.”

  “Has Daddy heard these stories?”

  “He’d never admit it to us,” said Honora. “Besides, Faye has fooled him. She flatters and cajoles and pampers. Louie eats it up. Surely in a past life, he was an emperor. Because your father understands the language of a good merlot, oysters en brochette, and Italian silk suits. He prefers women who burp their men.”

  “And Joie does this?” I said, trying to imagine it. The girl who’d broken my pearls hadn’t seemed like much of a nurturer.

  “Honey, oh, honey. She can do it with a smile and never lay a hand on him. She’s a pro, just like her mama. But she’s also quite gifted in the laying on the hands, if you get my drift. Or so I’ve been told.”

  Isabella stepped out of the house, gripping a white coffee mug, and sat down next to me. The smell of bourbon drifted over.

  “Fab party, Honora,” she said.

  I tipped back my head, then glanced toward the buffet. The mound of strawberries had diminished, thanks to Joie. I hadn’t noticed any other dazed guests, but then I’d consumed several glasses of champagne, and I was feeling a tad groggy myself. The night air felt cool and refreshing, and a low mist blew over the water. I wondered if I should mention the mysterious Billy.

  “Find a cute man and talk to him.” Honora pushed my arm. “Go on.”

  “That’s the last thing I need.” Southern men were emotionally stunted. Most were helpless. Why on earth would I want one? Unlike my father, if Ferg was hungry, he’d fix a sandwich; but my father would give the women a sheepish look and say, “I’m starving. Will you fix me something, and a drink too? Bring it to me on the patio.”

  Not only did my daddy expect pampering, he was vulnerable to flattery. When his patients or the hospital staff praised him, he believed every word, never thinking that they might have secondary gain. Ferg saw through the bullshit of Hollywood. He had built-in radar for silly, phony goo-goo talkers. He focused on his work. But then, he’d hired Esmé Vasquez to play Molly Bloom, and despite her acting skills, she had a reputation. Maybe deep down, he was more like my father than I’d thought. I heard a shout from inside the house. Turning around, I saw guests squeezing through the French doors. “Probably another broken bowl,” said Honora, hoisting herself from the iron chaise longue.