Drop Dead Divas, page 17
“Hm. I don’t remember that. All I remember is we always had enough to eat.” I looked back at the well-stocked refrigerator, then what she had said soaked into my rather fuzzy brain. “Why do you think you won’t be able to get any more food after six days?” I asked as I found a small plastic container that looked like it might hold pimento cheese. “Did all the stores close down?”
“They might as well have for all the good they’ll do me.”
It wasn’t easy opening the plastic container, and when I got it open with my one good hand, it held what looked like really old lasagna. I put the lid back on it and renewed my search. “Why do you say that?” I asked distractedly, my search for pimento cheese overriding my curiosity.
“Trinket Truevine, pay attention to me instead of food!” Bitty demanded in a tone that got my complete attention. “Did you even hear a word I said earlier?”
“How earlier?” I asked after my brain came up with no instant replay.
Bitty sat at the kitchen counter on one of the bar stools. She looked frazzled. Her hair stuck out at odd angles as if someone had been yanking on it, and her always pressed shirt looked like she’d slept in it, and she had a mysterious stain on the knee of her Capri pants.
“Never mind. You were probably so drugged you didn’t hear a thing. I’m broke. Ruined. Cut off. I have no money. Do you understand any of that? No money! My life is over. I have to give up everything. I’ll end up in a gutter somewhere, me and poor little Chen Ling, eking out an existence by begging for bread crusts on corners . . ..” She began to cry then, big tears that slid from her eyes, over her cheeks, and plopped into her lap without her even dabbing at them with an expensive handkerchief.
I tried to absorb what she had just said, but could find no good reason for her to be broke that would happen with such cataclysmic swiftness.
“Did the stock market go bust?” I asked. “Did Wall Street finally steal every bit of money and disappear to some tropical island?”
“Worse than that. Much, much worse than that.” She sobbed more loudly.
I straightened up, alarmed. “Did Congress sell America to the highest bidder at last? Do we now belong to China? India? Vanuatu?”
Bitty briefly stopped crying to ask, “What does Vanna White have to do with any of that?”
“Vanuatu. It’s an island near Fiji, I think. So answer me. Why are we broke?”
“Oh, you’re not broke. Just me. Just me, because . . . because I was in a hurry and did something stupid!” Tears flowed freely again.
I was understandably skeptical. To Bitty, being broke means having less than six figures in her mad money checking account.
“Unh huh,” I said. “How broke?”
“Ruined! I have only a few thousand left after paying the bills, and no telling how long that will last, and with nothing else coming in—I’m ruined!”
I sorted through that for a few seconds. “Why won’t you have any money coming in? You always have money coming in: dividends, oil lease payments, alimony, interest on bank accounts—what’s changed?”
Bitty sniffed, coughed, and wiped her wet cheeks with the heels of her hands. It was plain to see she was genuinely distressed, not just being melodramatic for a change. Or not being melodramatic for the sake of drama, I suppose I should say.
“Well,” she said after composing herself, “since Philip is dead, his attorneys said he’s no longer liable for alimony payments every month. Jackson Lee anticipated that he would one day try to get out of paying, and included a clause in our divorce agreement that stipulated that should he die, I would continue to receive a percentage of his estate every month up to but not exceeding our agreed-upon alimony payments. Should I choose to do so, however, I could always accept a lump sum payment in lieu of continued alimony.”
Poor thing. She sounded like a sixth grade student reciting a book report. I nodded at her encouragingly, and she took a deep breath, her voice only slightly quivering when she continued.
“So instead of sending a settlement proposal to Jackson Lee’s office like they’re supposed to do, they sent it directly to me. He didn’t even get a copy of it.”
“And you signed it without reading it,” I said when she gave me a wretched look that spoke volumes.
“Oh no. I didn’t sign the agreement at all. I put it with all the other stuff I save to give Jackson Lee once a month. It was the check I signed. It came in a separate envelope, you see, so when it said it was from the Philip Hollandale Estate, I figured they’d just moved the money into another account. I signed it and deposited it as usual.”
“So if you haven’t signed the agreement, what’s the problem?”
“Well, you know I can pretty well follow all that legalese talk lawyers use, but after I read the first page or two, I put the whole thing into the Jackson Lee basket. Since I didn’t finish reading it, I didn’t get to the part where it said that signing the included check would be construed as signing the agreement, and once the monies were deposited, it would end any further financial obligation on the part of the Hollandale estate. Damn them! You know it was that Patrice and Parrish who put the lawyers up to this trick!”
I didn’t doubt that for an instant. Philip’s mother and sister had always disliked Bitty. Parrish Hollandale had spoiled her son rotten in childhood, and even if all the stuff Bitty said about him and his sister didn’t have an ounce of truth to it, they were really unpleasant people. Parrish Hollandale was rumored to have given a ten thousand dollar garden party in celebration of the event when Philip and Bitty’s divorce became final. I also heard that Naomi Spencer was an honored guest at the affair. Talk about spite.
I closed the refrigerator door and joined Bitty at the breakfast bar. While I had no intention of trying to heft my aching body up onto the kitchen stool, I did lean against the counter right beside it.
“Bitty. Jackson Lee is a really smart attorney. You know he will go through those papers with a fine-tooth comb, and if there is even as much as a suggestion of a loophole, he’ll find it. You still have investments, you still have property, you still have loads of money in savings. There is no need for you to worry about starving to death or ending up homeless. Six Chimneys is paid for, isn’t it? Isn’t it? Well, see then, you’ll be just fine.”
“Taxes. State, city, federal . . . sales taxes, property taxes, all those taxes will eat up every penny I have in a very short time. You know they will.” Bitty sucked in a deep breath. “But I’ll hold on as long as I can. I’ll make up a new budget and get rid of every expense that’s not necessary. I’ll cut coupons. I’ll shop at Wal-Mart. I’ll pump my own gas. I’ll do my own cooking. I can read, so I can figure out a recipe, surely.”
I blinked. If Bitty did even one of those things the earth would probably wobble on its axis.
“You can’t cook,” was all I said, however. “You can’t even boil water without ruining a perfectly good pot.”
“You’ll teach me, won’t you, Trinket?”
I stood there with my mouth open. Then I said weakly, “Teach you to cook?”
“Sure. You can cook, can’t you?”
“Not with one hand.”
“But that will be perfect. You just tell me what to do, and I’ll do it. See? I’ll have to let Sharita know I won’t be needing her for a while. Maybe a year or two. For however long it takes to get through this.”
The prospect of Bitty learning to cook was daunting enough, but doing without money for a year or two? It would kill her. She wouldn’t know what to do. She’d be like a baby duck learning to swim in the middle of the Atlantic.
I didn’t have the heart to disappoint her, so I said without meaning a word of it, “I’ll teach you to cook, Bitty. Everything will be just fine. You’ll see. Jackson Lee will be able to figure something out before you have to start shopping at Wal-Mart, I promise.”
“Do you really think so, Trinket?”
God, I hope so, I thought, and said aloud, “I really think so. Now. Is there any pimento cheese left?”
Since all the pimento cheese was gone, I ended up eating Sharita's homemade chicken salad. It’s delicious, with pine nuts and small cut up grapes, big chunks of chicken and minced celery all mixed up with some kind of seasoned mayo that gives it an excellent flavor. I ate two sandwiches, then felt too full to have dessert, so limped back to my bed in the parlor.
Bitty was already there. She was walking much better, I noticed, and wondered if she’d taken another pain pill. Maybe her pills were less powerful than mine. She stayed awake and alert, if fairly goofy when taking them. I should probably call the doctor and ask for something not quite so strong. Not that my balloon ride hadn’t been fun, but I had obviously missed out on important events while flying high in my dreams.
“Where are the boys?” I asked. “Have they come home from Heather’s yet?”
Busy spreading a newspaper over her lap, Bitty nodded. “Oh yes. They’re all in the basement watching a movie. I said they had until midnight, then everyone needs to go home.”
“Well, they are certainly being quiet,” I observed. “I wouldn’t even have known they were here.” Bitty just nodded, and I noticed she had a huge pair of scissors in one hand. She wielded them across the newspaper in her lap with soft snicking sounds. Pieces of paper fell away in neat squares. I watched for a few moments before I couldn’t stand it any longer.
“What on earth are you doing?”
Bitty kept snipping, her focus on the paper. “Clipping coupons. I thought I might as well get started on saving our pennies. You eat hot dogs, don’t you?”
“Yes. You don’t, however.”
“Well, I will now. They’re like bratwurst or Polish sausage, right?”
“It depends on the kind you buy. Bitty. You have no idea how to make out a grocery list. You have no idea what you have in your pantry. Or your freezer. Wait until tomorrow. Sharita will be here and she can tell you what you need.”
“I’m going to need an envelope for these. So, when I go to Wal-Mart all I have to do is pay for stuff with these coupons, right?”
I rolled my eyes and sank back onto the cushioned comfort of two fat goose-feather pillows. “They also require green ones. You know. With the faces of presidents on them.”
“Oh.” Bitty looked up at me. “Then why am I clipping coupons?”
“Damned if I know. If you go to a Wal-Mart, I want to be there with my camera.”
“Trinket, you know I’ve been to Wal-Mart before.”
“Not to shop, Bitty. You go there with someone, not get a cart and go up and down the aisles looking for bargains, price-checking, comparing size to brand—that isn’t your style.”
“I can’t afford my style now,” she said, and there was something so vulnerable about her at that moment I couldn’t pick at her anymore.
“All right,” I said. “I’ll show you how to shop at Wal-Mart. Just don’t blame me if it turns out wrong.”
“How can it turn out wrong?”
I hated to even consider the many ways Bitty could get into trouble at a Wal-Mart store.
****
It was the fire alarm that woke me. At first I thought someone was shrieking, but even in my sleep-fogged and still slightly drugged state, it quickly became apparent that it was much more than that. For one thing, it had a whoop whoop sound like no shriek I’ve ever heard. For another thing, it was continuous, and even Bitty would have to draw a breath every now and then.
I leaped out of my bed too quickly, got dizzy, and stood there a moment before I decided I could walk without falling. So I lurched from the parlor into the hallway. A thick cloud of smoke drifted from the direction of the kitchen. It smelled suspiciously like burnt bacon. I expected a small grease fire, not an inferno. Foolish me.
In the kitchen, it boiled up from the state of the art stove like a black mushroom backlit with orange-red flames. Bitty beat frantically at it with a towel while it spread over the stovetop and licked a path toward the counters. Chen Ling came out from behind the breakfast bar like a pug missile, and shot past me toward the front of the house. Even the dog knew when it was time to abandon ship.
“Bitty!” I yelled over the alarm, “Where’s your flour or cornmeal?”
“Are you mad?” she yelled back. “This is no time to be baking!”
There was no time to explain the dynamics of a grease fire. I jerked open a couple of cabinet doors and found something that looked like flour. At the moment I managed to toss it over the worst of the flames, the fire department arrived. A good thing, because whatever was in the plastic canister flared up and shot sparks into the air.
Two firemen wearing helmets, boots, and asbestos jackets and pants barged into the house through the front door. One of them grabbed me and shoved me toward the still open door, while the other one attempted to remove Bitty. She bopped him on the helmet with a metal spoon and said something I was glad I couldn’t hear, but he merely picked her up and carried her out onto the front lawn where Chen Ling sensibly sat and barked at the big red fire truck. Bitty was unceremoniously dumped next to her dog.
I stood in the bushes next to the house and regretted wearing just a tee shirt and panties to bed. Thank heavens it was one of those really long tee shirts, but still—there I was, once more outside without proper clothing. Dreams can come true, it seems.
At any rate, moments later Brandon and Clayton were escorted downstairs and joined us on the front lawn, where they looked at their mother in bewilderment.
“What happened?” one of them asked.
“There’s something the matter with that stove,” said Bitty. “It started a fire!”
“They can do that when they’re turned on,” I said from the hydrangea bushes, and Bitty shot me a disapproving glare. I didn’t care. It didn’t take a genius to figure out she had been trying to cook. If nothing else, the charred sticks of bacon were evidence enough against her.
The boys were still confused. “Who turned on the stove? Was it an accident?”
“Your mother was trying to cook,” I said as I artfully arranged myself behind the thickest limb of blue snowball flowers. “I think she burned the bacon.”
“Trinket, I can speak for myself, thank you,” Bitty said in a very shrewish tone. “I do not need you to make up stories.”
“Were you trying to cook?” I demanded, and when she didn’t answer, I added, “See? I was right.”
After a moment, one of the boys—Clayton, I think—asked, “Aunt Trinket, why are you standing in the bushes?”
“I didn’t have time to dress. What took you boys so long to come downstairs? Didn’t you hear the alarm?”
“Oh, we heard it, but thought Mama had just forgotten the code again. She does that sometimes. A lot.”
Bitty sat down on a garden bench near a flowerbed that held dozens of pink vinca flowers and a huge blue gazing ball on an elaborate stand. Of course, she was clothed in a dressing gown and silk pajamas, so she didn’t have to hide in the hydrangeas like I did.
By now neighbors were out on their front lawns, too. Mrs. Tyree, who lives next door to Bitty, stood at the iron rail fence between their yards and peered over at us. “Are you all doing all right?”
Bitty, ever the gracious hostess, nodded and smiled. “We are doing just fine, Mrs. Tyree, thank you for asking. Lovely morning, isn’t it?”
“Yes, quite lovely. Not as quiet as usual, however,” Mrs. Tyree responded in a dry tone that made me laugh. She’s lived next door to Bitty for years and years and has seen just about everything in that time, I’m sure. Mrs. Tyree is elderly, dignified, and the epitome of a well-educated black woman. She reads voraciously, and in her spare time conducts tours through the Ida B. Wells Museum. I suspect she has more fun keeping up with Bitty’s antics than she does watching cable TV.
Across the street beyond the front of the fire engine, I recognized more neighbors. Richard Simmons—no kin to the bouncy gentleman with the exercise videos—wore a bathrobe, slippers, and carried his morning paper in his hand. People craned their necks to see what was happening on their street. It was still so early no one had left for work yet or gotten ready for the day, and they milled around in the brittle early sunlight that hadn’t had time to heat things up. Except for a few bugs and the inconvenience of the fire, it might have been as lovely a day as Bitty pretended.
Just about the time the firemen got the fire put out in the house, Bitty’s automatic sprinklers came on. I usually forget about those things, since they come on before I get up, and apparently, so had Bitty.
She leaped up from the garden bench as jets of water shot up from the ground like Old Faithful. They’re the kind of sprinklers that send out sprays of water in a rapid flow as they make a 360 degree turn to cover as much ground as possible. Since they’re every six feet along the water line, there is practically nowhere to escape them if you happen to be standing in the front yard.
Brandon and Clayton made a mad dash for the front porch. Since they were wearing some kind of athletic shorts like basketball players wear, it didn’t really matter if they got wet. Bitty made frantic circles looking for a way out, holding her hands in front of her as if to keep the pulses of water at bay. Chen Ling snapped at the water coming from the ground a few times, then beat a retreat to the shelter of the porch.
There was no way I was moving from behind the hydrangea bushes, not with all those people standing in the street. Besides, the water wasn’t so bad where I stood since the bushes formed a barrier of sorts. I’m tall enough that the water didn’t hit me in the face, either. Poor Bitty.
She staggered drunkenly around the lawn with her eyes closed against the water jets, her hands out in front of her like a blind person might do to keep from running into obstacles. I couldn’t stand it.
“Bitty!” I shouted. “Over here! Come over here!”
“Where?” she shrieked, and opened one eye in an attempt to find me. She looked nothing less than a drenched Cyclops in a lovely pink dressing gown, silk pajamas, and with bandaged feet stuck into white fluffy slippers.
That was the picture that made the front page of The South Reporter.
