Brightleaf (17 page)

We sit there letting this soak in, and finally Jimmy says he should probably go to the police and tell them about the yohimbe.

Then Jimmy stops. “Wait a minute. What if it was Eleanor’s castor bean that killed Ned?”

“He could be right about that,” says Terry.

Winslow says, “Well, now we know why the police were treating Ned’s death like a murder. They found spanakopita spiked with castor bean on his kitchen counter. Who would poison spanakopita? Some ruthless Greek grandma or somebody?”

I don’t tell them that Detective Metz told me it was yohimbe, but the truth is, Ned could have had castor bean in his system, too. I recognize Detective Metz didn’t tell me everything.

Vanessa says, “Castor bean. Sweet Jesus. I tell you who should go to the police, and that’s Eleanor. She needs to be locked in the loony bin.”

“Or locked in the bathroom, one,” says Mavis.

“Bathroom?”

“She ran in there a minute ago when she was doin all that blubberin. We could trap her in there and call the police.”

Eleanor
did
confess to a true crime. It also dawns on me that she maybe needed a little more than being told she was
all right
.

36

The Truth Hurts

The next morning, Mavis walks into the kitchen carrying Floyd and a bottle of peroxide. I’m sitting at the kitchen table reading the paper and drinking one last cup of coffee before I leave to pick up the preschoolers.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Returning Floyd to his near-natural color,” she says.

“But why?” I sip my coffee but accidentally take too big a gulp.

“So’s his old owner will find him.”

I choke, then cough so hard I have to hold my arms in the air.

“Catchin’ cold? Hope you got the consumption,” says Mavis, pursing her lips.

“Mavis!”

She can’t do this, not now.

I slowly say, “Mavis, you love Floyd. You can’t hand him over to an abusive perv–”

“Abusive pervert, my foot,” says Mavis. “I’m givin him back to Dr. D’s ex-wife, and you know it, Miss Mary Beth Green. What you done was nasty. Not only to Dr. D but to poor Floyd here. And to think I called you a hero.”

That last thing cuts me to the quick. There is nothing worse than someone who fakes being a hero. I lied, but didn’t mean to pretend I did something valiant. I’ve never seen Mavis this angry, but I should have expected it.

“Mavis, please don’t do this.”

“Tough titty.”

“Mavis, I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I’m really really sorry.”

“Yeah, baby. Me, too,” says Mavis. “Me and Floyd here was a team, we was partners, but the second I seen them signs Dr. D’s ex stuck up all over town, I knew. And I know what it is to lose a child. I know what that woman feels now that Floyd’s gone.” She will not look at me.

“Mavis, I–”

“You let me down. I thought you was a little more holy than me, what with your scriptures hangin all around and the way you’re so good to most folks. I was wrong.”

I want to tell Mavis that no, she was not wrong. I
am
good. She didn’t see how awful it was having the Jersey Guy behind me all those days. But seeing her anger combined with sadness tells me she’s right. I am not good. I cannot bring myself to tell the truth or do the right thing concerning Floyd. I can’t. I won’t.

I finally say, “Mavis, I know this won’t mean much to you, but I’m proud of you for doing the right thing, especially knowing how much you love Floyd. But I have a teensy request to make of you.”

Mavis looks at me. Floyd is sitting in the sink, still blue, with water running over his curly coat.

“Could you at least give me a few more days? I should be the one to tell Terry that I flat-out stole his dog when we were still strangers. Then we can give Floyd back to Jeanine.”

Terry might hate me, but at least Jeanine will leave him alone, and he can return to a normal life.

Mavis looks at me, thinking it over. Then I say, “For Floyd’s sake.”

She finally agrees. “For the sake of Floyd, here.” She lifts Floyd out of the sink, wraps him in a towel, and carries him to her room.

37

The Port-O-Let

I wake up in the middle of the night, and dearly wish the plumbing was complete. I hate using the port-o-let at night. This whole process has turned into sadism on the part of the plumbers. I grab the pink robe and creep downstairs, quietly opening the side door.

The night air is clear and almost cool. Now I’m grateful I got up, to experience this quiet, purple night. I breathe in the fragrant air of the nearby tea olive tree and give myself over to the night noises: a solitary rushing car, a distant siren, and a boatload of crooning crickets. I make my way to the plastic blue cubical, peeking inside to make sure no person
or animal
is in there. I step in, lock the door, and sit down in the moonlit stall. I close my eyes and open them. I notice a tiny blinking. I close my eyes and open them a second time. There it is again, and it’s coming from inside the port-o-let. I stand up, rearrange my robe, and step out, holding the door wide open so the streetlamp will shine in.

Then I see it; it’s so small nobody would ever notice it during the day, but there it is, a little red light blinking every few seconds in something like an air freshener stuck to the wall. I instinctively understand what this means: I am being filmed. I snatch it off the wall and put it in my pocket, sickened, but not surprised. Perverts lurk everywhere. I’d turn this over to the police, but then Detective Metz and everyone would watch it, me being one of the stars of this port-o-potty production.

I suddenly feel like someone is watching me. I cannot run fast enough up the side steps. I keep feeling like a hand will grab me before I get there. When I reach the door, my hand is trembling so much it’s hard to turn the handle. Then I hear a loud,
Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang!
It seems to go on forever. Either the house is falling down, or the person who planted the hidden camera is running towards me, full tilt, banging cymbals. Then silence. Floyd starts barking from Mavis’s room. I stand still, unsure if I should stay inside or go out again. Which is safest? Then I hear footsteps, running. Running away, down the front path. I walk out to the yard, and when the footsteps reach the streetlamp, I clearly see Manchild. I just stand there, doing nothing, and watch Manchild pound down the street pushing an empty wheelbarrow, until he’s completely out of sight. I tiptoe around to the front of the house, hardly believing my nerve, and up the front steps. Lights are already turning on throughout the house, and somebody hits the porch light. There on the porch, in front of the row of rocking chairs, is a king-sized pile of copper pipes. Enough to plumb a ten-room house. There’s a piece of paper fluttering in the breeze on top of the pile. I hold it up to the light.

It reads:
marrybeth I’m a honest man now cents that preacher fixt me. sorry for yer troubles. manchild

Mavis opens the door, and I hand her the note. She reads it and says, “What preacher? That rapscallion? The one that sent him to the hospital?”

I shrug and nod. Stranger things have happened.

38

Dr. Kelly

“Looks like our next caller is Mary Beth from Brightleaf, North Carolina. Hello, Mary Beth! You’re on the Dr. Kelly show!”

Here I am, lumping myself with all the morons in the universe by calling Dr. Kelly, but I could really use a pep talk. If Manchild can own up, so can I. And I know of no better individual to help me through this.

I say, “Hi, Dr. Kelly. This is Mary Beth. I’m actually calling for a girlfriend of mine.”

Dr. Kelly says, “Why doesn’t your friend call me herself?”

“Because she’s embarrassed.”

Dr. Kelly says for me to tell her what the problem is. So I say, “My friend thought this stranger was stalking her, so she stole his dog just to show him that two could play at that game.”

Dr. Kelly says, “Dognapping is a felony. Your friend doesn’t sound very intelligent.”

How dare she?

I take a deep breath and say, “She’s actually a smart lady but just got confused. She treats the dog very well but now has met the owner – the stranger she took it from – and has discovered he’s a nice man. A very decent man–”

“First of all, your friend is dumb as a box of rocks,” says Dr. Kelly. “No mature, intelligent person steals a dog to get even with a stranger. If you have a stalker, you call the cops. You don’t stalk back. Okay? Secondly, I don’t care how well she treats this dog. You must tell Cruella de Vil that the dog is not hers to keep. Thirdly, what were you going to say? That your friend wants to have a romantic relationship with a man she’s
lying
to? What a great idea! Not!” Dr. Kelly is getting really worked up. “Healthy relationships are never built on
lies
. Tell your friend she needs to come clean and stop thinking she can get away with being such a creepy bandit!”

“Creepy bandit?”

“If the shoe fits!” says Dr. Kelly. “You can tell your friend
I
said so!” Then, in a perfectly calm tone, she asks, “Does that help you?”

“I guess,” I say.

“Okay,” says Dr. Kelly, “Our next caller is Myrna from Hilton Head. Myrna, you’re on the
Dr. Kelly Show
!”

39

Confessional

Terry is here, pestering me with that serious look again.

“Mary Beth? Will you go for a drive with me?”

Mavis expects me to tell him about Floyd. And Dr. Kelly was right: I can’t build a relationship on lies. Ever since calling the show, I’ve been mustering up the nerve to tell Terry about Floyd and preparing for the worst. If he decides he doesn’t want anything more to do with me, I’ll deal with it.

It’s not like I’ve got a shortage of suitors. Not that any of my suitors, other than Terry, are so hot. If I went on
The Dating Game
and picked bachelor number two, with my luck he’d turn out to be Pol Pot.

“All right,” I say. “But it’s got to be a quick drive. The plumbers may need my advice on something.”

Terry starts the engine, and we drive slowly down Main Street, passing under a canopy of ancient elms, walnuts, and oaks. He turns off at Brightleaf City Park and pulls into an empty parking lot the size of a basketball court. A water fountain sits next to a big sign that details a map of the park and the hiking trail that leads to the river. The sign has a picture of a large golden tobacco leaf, a reminder that Brightleaf wouldn’t be here had it not been for the booming tobacco industry.

Picnic tables sit unoccupied under shade trees, and a breeze pushes swings dangling from rusty chains. Most likely the very swings Marcelle and I played on as children. On weekday mornings, the park is deserted, except for a handful of joggers. But after the school bell rings, it gets packed with children, moms, and babysitters. Today, a lone man jogs the perimeter of the soccer field to the left.

Terry unbuckles his seatbelt and turns toward me. He takes off his glasses, which gets on my nerves because now his eyes look itty bitty and half blind. Since I’m probably all blurry now, I can’t even roll my eyes because he won’t see it. I go ahead and unbuckle my seatbelt and face him, acknowledging that I recognize he’s in a serious kind of mood. I might-should even be scared.

Terry is sweating for some reason. He swallows and says, “Mary Beth, I’ve been honest about my life and hobbies at the risk of looking ridiculous to you…”

“I had to follow you to the Trekkie convention.”

He holds up a hand, nodding. Then he loosens his tie and says, “I wanted to invite you but didn’t know you well enough. I wanted you to like me for myself, the way I like you for yourself, quirks and everything.” He starts messing with the Swiss Army knife on his key chain. Flips out the bottle opener and shuts it. Then looks at me and says, “I need you to be honest with me.”

My fingernails are uneven, and I’d give anything for an emery board right now. I glance at Terry. He looks at me with a stony silence. Just come right out and ask: Did I steal Champagne, the pink stuff, Floyd?

“So I’m just going to come right out and ask you something—aware I might be risking our friendship,” says Terry.

I feel like screaming,
Just do it!

“Mary Beth, will you marry me?”

I hear it, but my mouth is already open, and my vocal chords have already been given clearance, and it’s just too bad for me that I end up shouting, “Yes! I stole your dog! And dyed him black!”

He looks at me without his glasses. He is silent.

Then he grabs my face with both hands and he kisses me on the mouth. He kisses me so hard I feel like he’s trying to kill me for all my badness. It doesn’t hurt, but I start crying anyway. Terry must think I’m silly for crying, but he keeps kissing me even when my tears roll between our lips. I’m definitely kissing him back, even though the gearshift is right between us, like somebody placed it there on purpose to prevent people from making out while sailing down the highway at eighty-five. Gearshift/console notwithstanding, Terry is holding on to me like any second I might go flying out the window. Now he’s squeezing my back, up and down my back, and oh, Lord, under my shirt. He’s kissing my eyelids, cheeks, and neck murmuring, “Mary Beth…I love you. I’ve loved you since you told me you lived in the urology clinic and ate chili out of bedpans.”

I can’t help but laugh. I wipe my tears with my sleeve. First I cry like a child, now I laugh like a drunk. I take a deep breath and retrieve my composure, but I think that I probably knew all that time, too. Why? Because when I first opened my eyes after sleeping in his office and looked right into his face, I thought I was still dreaming. I thought,
Here he is. The person I’ve been waiting for all this time, and he is going to kiss me
. But then I realized he was only my doctor. Then I realized it was the Jersey Guy, and that really burned my biscuits. But he was nice and calm, intelligent and friendly. And yes, he is a fine-looking man. And maybe it was because I felt so vulnerable at the time. He caught me in the curious combination of being both asleep and half-naked. And I trusted him. On the spot, I developed an involuntary crush on him the size of The Forbidden City, right there in his office. Yes, the Jersey Guy. One day I was hoping for him to die really quick; the next day I was inviting him to my home.

I forced him out of my mind, decided that lots of ladies probably get a crush on their doctors. And how stupid it is to take one look at a man and suddenly be
in love
. Anyway, Mary Beth Green does not foster crushes. She does not let her heart out of its crypt, much less out on her sleeve. And my heart would still be dead and buried if it were not for the honesty of this man. Honesty is what I love the most about him. Probably because it is something I suck at sometimes.

I’m trying to decide which base he’s gotten to. Does unfastening my bra count as second base? I hope that jogger can’t see us because it seems Terry might be inclining toward third base or even hitting a home run, based on the way he’s clutching me. He will not let go, like he’s drinking water for the first time after eating sand or fire. And I feel the same way, like a person who’s never been held in her whole life. And I never have. I feel like shouting, “Take me!” And I think of my grandmother, standing there next to the Lord in Heaven. And she’s arguing with the Lord, begging, “Can’t you stop them?” and the Lord saying something about Free Will.

Terry kisses my neck and unbuttons my shirt, right there in the City Park, in his Lexus. I guess it’s not enough to feel my breasts, but he’s got to take a look at them, too. He’s not wearing his glasses, so I’m not as embarrassed as I should be. No man has ever laid eyes on my naked breasts before, but then I remember Terry is a gynecologist, and he’s looked at zillions of breasts. Then I worry that he might be comparing me to all those other women, so I block that thought and think of my grandmother still standing there with her mouth hung open, and I say to her in my head, “Grandmother, you don’t need to watch this very un-Baptist moment, so you might as well cover your eyes. I want him to take me! To hit a home run right here in this Lexus.” Then I say it out loud, “I want him to take me all the way home.”

“What?” Terry pulls back. He’s breathing hard, and his face is flushed.

I give him my sexiest look, which I forgot he can’t see without his glasses, and whisper, “Take me home.”

He pauses, takes a deep breath, and says, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to, I mean…Okay, I’ll take you home.”

Wait. What just happened?

“No! Don’t take me home!”

But he’s picked up his glasses and is wiping them off already and setting them back on his face. And I don’t know how I ruined one of the best moments of my life. A man just told me he loves me, and not just any man. I told him I stole his dog, and he kissed me. We were making out! How did it all end so quickly?

He thinks I’m a slut.

“Terry?” Clicking my seatbelt in place and trying to fix my hair, I say, “I’m not normally like that, you know – fast. Just know that I’m not the way I seemed.” My goodness, my heart is still pounding from all that interaction. I’m embarrassed, too, because I really was all set to give it up right there in the parking lot, in front of joggers, school children, janitors, hobos, anyone who may pass. “Do you think bad of me?”

Terry shakes his head. “You said you wanted me to take you home.”

“Oh.”

When he pulls up to the curb in front of my house, I jump out before he does and walk around to the driver’s door. Terry rolls down his window. I take a deep breath and say, “We should do that again sometime.”

“Good,” he tries to say with a straight face. “Now, give Jeanine her dog back.” And he’s smiling.

Oh,
Redbook
. Eat your heart out.