A Convenient Catastrophe, page 3
“Ahem.” Madame clears her throat, and I glance her way. She’s standing on the landing at the supply closet. There are about eight empty shelves and enough floor space in the closet to accommodate a twin bed. I covet that space, but Madame Bienve had her dance school upstairs before I had my café downstairs and had already claimed it for herself. And she’s not budging, not that I have much to bargain with. Free pastries hardly tempt her, and I can’t afford to pay her. She grabs a hand towel off the shelf and wraps it around the back of her neck. Her long, lean frame stands straight, disciplined. Seeing the scowl, the silent reprimand aimed at my curved vertebrae, I immediately bring myself to full height. Madame and I have some sort of unacknowledged competition. Who is more disciplined? More precise and structured? I unequivocally say it’s me, but that large closet would help my cause.
“Good morning, Madame.”
“It is one o’clock in the afternoon,” she corrects me before pirouetting on her heel.
Retreating to my office and kicking boxes to the side, I clear a path to the little walnut desk I snagged from Dad’s old house before it got sent to Goodwill. The drawers stick — one is even locked shut and I’ve yet to get a locksmith to make a key for it — and years of writing determinedly on thin papers have left behind dozens of nicks and marks. But it has character and has been around so long I imagine that some of those grooves belong to pencils my mother held. Plus it only takes up a small corner of the ping pong-table-sized room, and that’s all the space I can afford with the entire wall of filing cabinets and storage bins I had built. Sitting down, I gather the papers strewn across the top and bundle them together, tapping their edges for a nice, clean stack. For a moment I breathe good, clean, deep breaths with my hands folded together. Tap, tap, inhale, tap. I want to work. I want to log onto my computer and start a new PDF. Using Inventory to Maximize Profits. Ideas are rolling around in my head that I need to see in list format to think through, then I need to call a repairman to look at the ice machine, and then order new pastry molds. So many things! Regardless, I pick up the phone.
Helena has a cell phone, but Dad does not. He retired last October, and if I want to reach my dad at any time without Helena’s interference, I have to just hope he’s home. Unless it’s lunchtime, dinnertime, eleven o’clock A.M. on Tuesday, or nine o’clock A.M. on Saturday (his weekly tee times) he is most likely home. The trick is catching him there without Helena. She still has her condo over at Williamsburg West, but she spends a lot of time at Dad’s place.
It rings four times. “Hello, Sparkle.” He greets me heartily, his thin, feeble voice booming as much as possible.
“Dad. How’d you know it was me?”
He chuckles as if he’s pulled off an amazing trick. “Helena talked me into getting something called Caller I.D.” He enunciates the last few words as if introducing them to me for the first time. “Supposed to help eliminate those pesky telemarketing calls.”
“You mean help prevent you from picking up the telemarketer calls,” I say. “You’re still gonna get them.”
“Guess you’re right.” He chuckles again. “Can’t teach an old dog new tricks.”
I’ve no idea what that’s even supposed to mean.
“Hailey said you left a message on the machine yesterday.” I brace myself for the announcement. My dad has dated a bit in the years since Mom’s disappearance, but not much and never with anyone for over six months or so. If I’d given it much thought, I’d have said we were safe, but then he met Helena at the country club through Hal and Buffy Barrington. The country club is full of Buffys and Biffys and Trixies and Dickies. Buffy and Hal have been around since my parents were married, Buffy’s bifocals often aimed right at my family. I’ve despised her ever since the memorial service we had at the club where I overheard her telling another woman that my mother had been a “nonsensical sort of woman with her head in the clouds and not a care in the world besides herself.”
“I was calling to see if you had any ideas about what I could get Hailey for her birthday.”
Strange. Hailey and I always depend on Dad for a generic card and a ten-dollar check. He’s a creature of habit, my dad, but not an imaginative or extravagant one. I suggest CDs, hair products, or Converse tennis shoes, and Dad hangs up without a single word about any engagement or proposal.
The upstairs tapping starts again, like plumbing pipes in a New York City apartment building. I also hear the continuous chime of the front doorbell, the ting of metal utensils against ceramic plates, the scrape of chairs on the wood floor in the dining area. Lovely money-making sounds! Coaxing Otis from his bed, I force him out the back door of my office that leads to the small grassy area where he can relieve himself.
The Shops of Sandpiper Street are two blocks from the ocean. I’d been ecstatic to find this space available after the divorce when I decided to open The Final Straw. By that time, I’d been ecstatic to stop taking additional classes at the college three nights a week working toward a degree I’d grown bored and burdened by, ecstatic to stop working days at the Starbucks near the college, and ecstatic to stop sweeping dried up mud from Greg’s work boots off my bathroom floor. I was ready for a new life, cliché as a divorced café owner may be. Everyone thought I was better suited for a restaurant. “A real one that only opens in the evenings and has a long reservation list and a dark, boozy atmosphere,” Johan, my regional manager at Starbucks had suggested. “That Lemon Souffle’ you made for the Christmas party last year would draw crowds,” he’d predicted. “And, Omigod that jalapeno cheese dip thing you invented.”
But I’d opted for this instead. It sounded more normal, uncomplicated. I can honestly say I tried for normal. God knows I tried.
I lead Otis around on his leash until he finally agrees to stop smelling every blade of grass and get his business over with. Mr. Kent, who owns a bicycle shop next to the café, is outside his shop smoking a pipe and gazing out on the little slice of ocean we can see from our back doors. The day is clear but windy. The small slice of water I can glimpse is infused with whitecaps. Gulls holler in the distance, a lonely cry for my desolate mood. Mr. Kent is a dear. He once stayed with me when I accidentally locked myself out of the café after dark and insisted on following me home.
“Spring’s a-comin’,” Mr. Kent says. He always inhales the salty air and says “Spring’s a-comin’,” even when outside it’s twenty degrees.
“Indeed it is,” I reply, while I too take a big whiff of air like I’m some farmer with years of experience predicting the weather and the outcome of my crop.
Her nostrils filled with the permeating scent of sea spray and sandalwood, signaling the end of a wicked winter.
I shake my head, literally shaking off this annoying prose-forming habit. I’ve got real fiascos going down. I do not have time for this right now. Otis grows bored with his meandering and heads back inside to his bed.
“Stop in for a cup of coffee on the house sometime, Mr. Kent,” I holler over my shoulder before shutting the metal door that will close me back inside for the rest of the afternoon. Back to my PDF file, my ledgers, my calculator.
When I return to the front, the afternooners are being well taken care of by Cory, Jenna is in the kitchen, and the same mother and son I’ve been seeing for the last few days are at the bar. The little boy is eating one of my famous Pumpkin Maple Muffins and his mother is dabbing at the corners of his mouth with a napkin she’s twisted into a long corkscrew. Between dabs, she dips the napkin in her glass of water.
“So sorry about the mess,” she says, looking down at the scratched wood floor that’s now littered with crumbs. It looks like a dry-rotted sponge has disintegrated.
I wave a hand. “Glad to see him enjoying it.”
The boy keeps going at the muffin, ignoring us. He is about eight years old with adorable sandy blonde curls and freckles sprinkled across his cheeks like constellations. Most little boys that age have ears that trumpet out the sides of their heads like fresh blooms, but he has the most adorable little buds. The most astonishing thing about his appearance, though, is his wardrobe. He’s dressed like a World War II fighter pilot complete with khaki green pants, a leather bomber jacket, and aviation goggles affixed to his face making his little eyes appear bugged. I recall that the day before he had been wearing a superhero cape over red pants.
“I’m Margo,” his mom says to me. She could be his aunt or babysitter, but I don’t think so. Not the delicate way she wipes at his mouth and rubs a finger down the bridge of his nose, flicking it playfully when she reaches the tip.
I start to introduce myself, but the little boy turns his stool around and extends his hand. “Paulus,” he says, his face set in a serious expression as if we’re meeting in a board room to discuss company mergers.
“Paulus. What a neat name!” I speak like I’m on a children’s morning show.
“His name is Paul, after my ex-husband’s father,” says Margo. “He likes to go by Paulus.” She shrugs, indicating she’s been trying to make sense of it for years.
Paulus stares straight ahead and begins his explanation. “Paulus is derived from the Latin adjective meaning small. During the Classical Age, Paulus was used to identify the younger of two people from the same family that bore the same name. Since my paternal grandfather was named Paul, I am called Paulus.”
“Well,” I declare once he takes a breath. “It’s a great name, and I totally see your point.” There’s that kindergarten substitute teacher voice again. “I do the opposite with my name.”
Margo looks at me and blinks. She clearly wasn’t expecting a reply, much less a conversation. There’s a wariness in her eyes. I know the look because I wear it often myself. Margo has something she’s shielding. There’s something… a guardedness, perhaps?
“My name is Amethyst. But, I hate hauling that silly name around everywhere, so I just go by Amy.”
“The name Amethyst comes from the word intoxicated. At one time it was believed that the stone could offer protection from drunkenness,” Paulus says, looking straight ahead as if he’s reading the words from a teleprompter.
I follow his gaze, but there’s nothing in his view aside from a window. Deaton is outside on the sidewalk arranging discounted books on his racks. “Before the 18th century, amethyst was thought to be one of the most valuable gems.”
“Well,” I say with an air of authority, smiling at Margo. I hold my head up high as if I’ve just realized my importance.
Behind me, I can hear a group of Dance Moms chatting away. “There’s a Groupon for half off Botox at Serendipity Spa in Savannah,” one of them — Donna? — says. Their conversation seems even sillier than usual after the knowledge and information that have just spewed out of the mouth of Paulus.
I glance up at the clock. “I need to do some more work in my office. It was so nice to meet you, Margo. Paulus.”
“After the unearthing of extensive deposits in locations such as Brazil, amethyst lost most of its value,” Paulus says.
Three o’clock. A good time to call Mom. She should be home from work by now counting down the hours until Ian gets home. If he’s coming home. Ian’s unpredictable. Ian’s got a roving eye. Ian likes things that don’t belong to him. Hence, my mother.
Mom sounds happy and relaxed. She speaks breezily of the weekend and how they enjoyed a walk in the park together and Ian bought a little watercolor from a street vendor. “We went for seafood at a little shack on the docks and watched a movie on television,” she says. She sounds strong. I’m reluctant to burst her bubble of contentment, but I’d rather do it now than when Ian’s on one of his overnight “business trips” or the wind isn’t blowing in the right direction to ease Mom’s multitude of anxieties.
Hailey bursts through the door of my office. I realize I should have called Mom earlier before Hailey got out of school. I point toward the kitchen, asking with my hands if she can go help Jenna and Cory. She drops her backpack on the floor. “Mary,” I mouth, pointing to the phone before she walks out. Otis lifts his head from his pillow and eyes me, calling out my deception.
“Mom, I have to tell you about something that is going on,” I begin once the door closes behind Hailey.
“Mary!” She quickly corrects me.
“Mary.”
I replay the entire scenario from the night before, setting the scene. It’s something I do when talking to my mom. She’s an English teacher and appreciates a good story. I begin with Becky’s visit and the storm. I take her through how the door slammed when the little ballerinas headed home after a day of practice, how Deaton’s mom called him and told him about her cousin’s troubles, how his T was missing from his store name decal, how Otis refused to get wet, and how Hailey made chili. The story ends in a panic with the email message I was finally able to retrieve after hours of my phone’s taunting me with its spinning circle.
“Amy,” she says after a moment of silence. I imagine her hand at her neck, twisting the gold locket Ian gave her on their tenth anniversary. Not an actual anniversary, just a day that commemorates the day they made their decision — the day she went from being my mother Caroline Chadwick to Mary in a matter of hours. “Honey, you don’t have to do this,” she assures me.
“Oh for God’s sake, Mom. Mary! I’m not going to do this. But Helena’s opened the box. She’s determined.” I run my fingers along the top of my desk, fitting my nails in the grooves pencils and pens have left in the soft wood.
“There are over five hundred thousand people in Atlanta, sweetheart. I’m well hidden.”
She says this, but I can hear the rise in her voice. Even though I missed many years with my mom, I know her as well as I know myself. I know her moods, her gestures, her desires, and her fears. Being found is her second greatest fear. Losing Ian is her first. Being a bigamist and jeopardizing everything in other people’s lives doesn’t even register.
She was a nonsensical woman with her head in the clouds…
“It’s illegal to marry someone while you’re still married,” I hiss through clenched teeth.
“Your father isn’t married,” she answers breezily, as if we’re discussing whether he’s a Ford or a Chevy man.
Hailey comes back into my office and plops down on a box of paper goods. Conversation over.
“I need to hang up, Mary. I need to unpack boxes and spend a little time talking to Hailey before she heads out.”
My daughter blows a kiss toward the phone. “And she sends her love.”
Hailey loves Mary — the Mary that supposedly taught English Literature to me in school and took a shine to me. She calls her Aunt Mary. “Felt sorry for me because my mother died,” I had told her. This version of Mary moved to Atlanta many years ago and kept in touch with me, and now we’re as close as mother and daughter. My father believes this same story. He has never met Aunt Mary, obviously, but he sure appreciates how she has taken me under her wing all these years and still, to this day, keeps in such close contact with me and my Hailey. And even though my dad means the world to me and to Hailey too, as far as female influence and solidarity are concerned, it’s just Hailey, “Aunt Mary”, and me against the world. Always has been.
From where I was standing, I saw no other way.
“I wanted to tell you I’m going to dinner with Jarod and his parents,” Hailey mumbles while rifling through her backpack, intent on finding something. She produces a paper outlining how much a graduation cap and gown will cost and where to order them. Ninety-five dollars!
I walk her to the door and catch a glimpse of the backside of Madame Bienve as she’s leaving. Her backside is one long, straight stick topped with a small, round, tightly wrapped bun that looks like a doorknob.
“Everything all right out here?” I look around at the almost empty room. Napkins are wadded up and discarded on plates along with the remnants of bread crusts and cheese. Only two diners remain, and I doubt any last-minute stragglers are coming in this late. Sandpiper Street goes fairly silent and closes down around six. I give the nod to Cory to wrap things up before I retreat to my office again.
My laptop lid is open. I check my Unveiled email and read the audacious message again.
How dare she! What right does Helena Delgado have digging up long-buried bodies? Okay, so there wasn’t actually a body, but long-buried pain. Doesn’t she realize how much suffering she’s going to put us all through again, having to relive this tragedy? Is she even planning to tell us about it?
I get to the end, the part about the newspaper. Helena is the food critic for the Courier. “Food Journalist” she calls herself, though that might be a stretch. She always says rice instead of risotto, like they’re interchangeable. Sorely, I note that she has never offered to do a review of The Final Straw’s twelve different flavors of coffee or our Apple Butter Cinnamon Rolls, but she’s offered to ask a colleague to promote the advancement of an investigation agency owned by a supposed stranger. Her future daughter-in-law is a chef, for God’s sake, and she’s oblivious — and I’d thought Helena and I were friends. Friendly, anyway.
Otis is cleaning his front paws, seemingly intent on something in particular on the left one. “I don’t care,” I say to him. “She and all her friends at the Courier can drink the ink.” He keeps gnawing and moves over to the right paw, ignoring me. I remember the ninety-five dollar cap and gown, the six months of overdue bank payments, my car that has been acting up — trying to give me fair warning that it’s gonna rebel soon. No matter. I am not taking this job.
