Isle of Palms (29 page)

Jim talked nonstop and I listened, eating and trying to remain sober enough to give comments and consolation worthy of his troubles. When it seemed that Jim had talked himself out about Gary, I thought I could use a bit of fresh air. I was getting very sleepy. Must have been the Cosmos
and
the wine combined. I was doing heavy listening, most of the drinking, and not much talking. In my mind, I seemed fine, but I knew it would probably be a good idea to go to the ladies’ room and pinch my cheeks to wake up.

“Jim? I’ll be
rat
back.
Don’ge’up.”

Jim stood anyway, the consummate southern gentleman, and as I stood I realized I was unfortunately as drunk as a coot.

“Are you all right?”

“Fine,” I said and pointed my finger toward him for assurance.

By the grace of heaven, I wobbled to the powder room and sat on the toilet, intending to use it. The last thing I remember thinking was that a short power nap of five minutes would clear my head.

“Miss Abbot? Miss Abbot? Are you in there?”

I woke up midsnore and nearly fell on the floor. I could even hear the noise from myself and was mortified that I was snoring like a three-hundred-pound hog.

It was the officious but concerned voice of the hostess who had been sent by Jim to rescue me. Apparently, I had indulged in a forty-five-minute session with the netherworld and Jim had been a little worried.

“Okay! Yeah, I’m good!” I called out to her. “I’m fine!” I added. “Fine!”

I could see her spike heels under the stall door. She wasn’t moving.

“Are you sure? Do you need anything?”

I sat up straight and pinched my face to get the blood moving to my cheeks. I needed an excuse quick.

“Um . . . you wouldn’t, um, havatampon, wouldja?” Good one!

“Sure. You poor thing! I get horrible cramps too! I know just how you feel.” I heard her rustling around, opening and closing a cabinet or something.

Her hand appeared under the door and I took it from her. “Thanks,” I said, “I’ll be
rat
out. Wouldja please tell ma husband I’m ’live?”

“Sure! Take your time,” she said. “Glad you’re okay.”

I heard the door open and close. She was gone. I left the stall and looked at my face in the mirror over the sink. Cosmetic salvage was desperately needed. I brushed my hair, wiped the mascara from under my eyes, reapplied lipstick, then stared myself down in the mirror to measure my sobriety and knew I was in big trouble. I washed my hands, cursed myself to hell and back for being so stupid, and began my return through the bar and back to the table. I thought I felt much better. Stupid, but better.

From ten feet away, I saw Arthur. He and Jim were chatting away like old friends.

“Don’ Ah know ya fra, fra somewher’?” That was a pretty funny opener, I hoped. I thought I had got that out of my mouth without slurring too much. Very good so far. I took my seat and the now charming and attentive Maurice snapped my refolded napkin, handing it to me to drape over my lap, pushing in my chair a little. I smiled serenely and tossed my hair. Why did I do that? I hate hair tossers!

“Thought we lost you there, Anna. You okay?” Jim said.

“Hello, Anna. Your
husband
and I were discussing our favorites in the world of blue cheeses.”

“Na ma husband. See?” I sort of turned my arm in midair to show him my ring finger and my body followed. I was heading for the carpet when the strong arm of Arthur scooped me up and plunked me back in my chair.

Arthur was smirking from ear to ear, as was Jim, and they both looked at each other, shaking their heads. Jim shot me a stern
Get a hold of yourself
grimace.

“Thanks,” I said, “sorry.” I struggled to regain some grace. I wasn’t doing as well as I had hoped.

“Anna?” Jim said in a voice that betrayed both his trepidation and his determination to carry on. “I said that I thought we might enjoy a piece of the Chiabro D’Henry. It’s a Sardinian sort of fruity cheese and maybe a slice of the French Fourme D’Ambert.”

“And
I
said,” Arthur said, “that I thought the Canadian Chaput Brique with the Rougerus from France were smoother and silkier.”

I stuck my leg out from under the tablecloth and Arthur had little choice but to give my flailing limb a hard stare. Jim, watching me dig my hole deeper, could do nothing but look to the heavens for guidance.

“Namarried,” I said, with what I was sure was the irresistible smile of a temptress.

Jim jumped out of his chair and grabbed Arthur by the arm. “We’ll be right back, Anna. You just sit here like a good girl.”

They hurried away and I couldn’t have cared less why they did or where they were going. Arthur liked my leg. I was sure of it.

Maurice had cleared away the dishes and the space in front of me was empty. It seemed to me there was no reason why I shouldn’t just rest my poor heavy head on the table for a minute or two. Hell, my hair was clean. Surely no one would mind.

Hair of the Dog

HEARD something piercing and offensive. Was there a hatchet in my forehead?
Ring! Ring!
A telephone. Instinct kicked in. Kill the intruder. I was buried deep in sleep, and still I reached out from the tangle of sheets and grabbed the receiver.

“Sleep well?” said the male voice with a hint of humor.

“Who is this calling at this ungodly hour?” The hatchet had moved. It was in the back of my head.

“It’s Arthur, your wake-up service. You asked me to call you this morning and make sure you got out of bed early because you have things to do. Remember?”

Okay. I had no memory of that. In fact, the last thing I did remember was coming back from the bathroom at the restaurant. After that—black hole. Jim must have brought me home. I had been severely over served. I wondered how many apologies I needed to make.

“Oh, God, I am so sorry. You must think I’m a total drunk.” Now was that the way to win a guy’s heart or what? Give him something to tell his momma about the nice girl he just met. Remind him about your alcohol blood levels.

“No. I think you’re single. Am I right?”

“Oh, God!” I buried my head under the covers and bit the back of my hand, remembering what a jerk I had been. It was hot under the covers.

“And, I think you’re not accustomed to drinking wine.”

“I’m not.”

He had a great phone voice. It was breathy. Musky.

“And, I think you have great legs.”

“Thanks, but that’s small compensation for my shame and humiliation. Just tell me, did I have to be carried out on a stretcher?”

“Oh, Anna. No! You left willingly and in a very buoyant state. I mean, you were sleepy and waving around a little, but overall your performance of ‘New York, New York’ was relatively on key. The patrons loved it!”

“Tell me you’re lying . . .”

“ ‘These little town blues ...’”
He was singing.

“Shoot me, okay? Just shoot me and put me out of my misery.”

“I thought you were pretty wonderful. And this Jim fellow is a decent guy. I mean, he told me how he had basically given you a brain dump of some major bad news and all. That’s enough to make
me
drink. You were
married
to him?”

I knew he was asking the obvious. “It’s a long story. Jim’s great.”

“Yeah, he seems like it. Okay, so I’ve done my job. You’re up, I take it?”

“Yeah, I’m up. Thanks. Really.”

“Okay. Say listen, if you ever want to go to, I don’t know, an AA meeting or a movie or something . . .”

“Very funny. AA indeed. A movie? Maybe.”

“Sunday?”

“Well, my daughter’s coming home from school and I haven’t seen her in six months, but . . .”

“Oh, okay, no problem.”

He was going to hang up. He thought I wasn’t interested.

“No! I was going to say, why don’t you come over on Sunday afternoon around five and we can barbecue something or cook some shrimp.”

“Great! Sounds good!”

“Great! Do you need my address?”

“Hardly. May I just say how fetching you look in your Carolina T-shirt?”

I looked down and sure enough the rag was bunched up on my body. “I want to die.”

“I’m just teasing you—Jim was the one who helped you undress.
I
had the good manners to leave and go back to work.”

“Arthur?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks. I’ll see you Sunday.”

I hung up, crawled out of bed, and staggered to the shower, checking my living room. No sign of Jim but the couch was a wreck. He must’ve gone out to get a newspaper.

While the water ran hot, I took three aspirins and drank two glasses of water. I looked in the mirror over the sink and stuck out my tongue, which I was positive had been replaced by a sweat sock. I brushed my teeth to a fare-thee-well, said a good Act of Contrition to assuage my guilt, and got in the shower, letting the water run over my head. What an idiot I was! Never in my life had I done anything so asinine! Never again!

Obviously, he had seen me in some stage of undress. I cringed, fully aware that my abs (and most definitely when inert) weren’t exactly off the cover of
Shape
magazine. I could only imagine that he had seen me in the least flattering of all poses—caked spit and lipstick lodged in the corners of my mouth, mascara and dried-up crud around my eyes, breath that could make a bulldog break his chain—God in heaven! Who knew? Had he seen my cellulite? Did I really sing? Shit! I couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket!

I began to giggle. Well, I told myself, if he called you this morning and wanted to see you again, maybe it’s not a total loss. At least I knew he had seen me at my absolute worst. I was musing about Lucy’s face and how her mouth would hang open like a trapdoor when I told her this story. Perhaps it was better left untold.

Emily! What time was it? I wrapped a towel around myself and checked my alarm clock. Eight-fifteen. Okay. Her plane arrived when? Noon. I called Jim on his cell.

“Don’t stress! I’ll pick her up and bring her straight to the house! Do you want a decaf cappuccino? I’m stopping by Starbucks.”

“Caffeine, please, yes, and a plain glazed Krispy Kreme doughnut.”

“How’s the head?”

“Fine,” I lied. “I took a shower.”

“Okay. See you in a few minutes.”

I hung up, threw on some clothes, and looked around the house. Well, it was small and it wasn’t over decorated, to be sure, but it was mine. Ours. Emily and me. My sweet baby girl, the same one who let the f-word slip on the phone with me, but the straight up the middle South Carolina girl whom everyone adored was finally coming home and her momma couldn’t wait to throw her arms around her!

I decided to put flowers in her room and took my shears from the kitchen drawer. There was some honeysuckle by the shed and I could cut a small branch of pine, I thought as I looked around the yard for something worthy of a welcome. Snipping a bit of this and that, I heard a trunk slam shut and looked up to see Miss Angel. She was going somewhere. She had to be seventy-five years old but you could never have known that by the way she moved.

“Good morning!” I called out and started walking in her direction. “Isn’t it a glorious day?”

“Well, good morning yourself, Miss Anna! And yes, ma’am! It sure is beautiful! How’s everything? You cutting flowers?”

“Well, sort of. I haven’t grown much to cut yet! But listen! My daughter’s coming home today from Washington and I am so excited for her to see our new house!”

“I imagine so! Well, that’s fine! Now, you come on tell Angel. Who’s the man who slept over last night?”

“Oh, no biggie. Just my ex-husband.”

“Your ex-
who?
You done lost your mind?”

I couldn’t tell how she meant that, so I said, “Oh, no! It’s not like that! He’s gay.” I didn’t want her to think I had some guy in the sack all night.

She set her jaw so that her face showed neither shock nor humor and looked at me dead serious. It was clear she didn’t know what to say. Time stopped. Then, rather abruptly, she said, “Come ’eah, see my baskets.”

Well, okay, I had given her more detail than she had asked for, but for some peculiar reason Angel was the kind of person I thought required the blunt truth if you were going to be friends. I had never made it a habit to discuss anyone’s sexuality, especially mine and surely not Jim’s. On the other hand I didn’t want her to think I just sort of slept around, either, because I didn’t.

I followed her to her car and she reopened the trunk.

“I’m thinking about getting me a minivan,” she said. “Holds more. Besides, this old thing is so low to the ground, I can’t see nothing coming. All them killer folks in them big SUVs, gone too fast, talking on they cell phones . . . ’Eah, look at this.”

She pulled out a stack of rectangular baskets—one that looked like a desk tray to hold printer paper or catalogs. The next size was for magazines and the largest one could hold newspapers. Then she pulled out a box of baskets, all of them the size of a small box of tissues.

“Miss Angel! These are so smart! I mean, you can really use them! They’re wonderful!”

I had said the wrong thing again.

“What you mean, ‘really use them’? Of course you can use them!” She shook her head and continued. “See them little squares? You put a four-inch potted plant in each one and line them up on your windowsill! I got them in all sizes to fit any kind of plant!”

“They could hold brushes too,” I said. “And combs. And the big trays could sit on glass shelves and hold bottles of shampoo or conditioner, lined up like little soldiers.”