Poison Ivory (17 page)

Mama gasped indignantly. Had it not been so dark, I think she would have moved to another tree altogether.

“Why Abigail Louise Thunderbake! Somebody should wash your mouth out with soap. Buford and I have done nothing of the kind. I would
never dishonor your father’s memory. How dare you suggest that I would, and then set yourself up as a long-suffering saint who is able to move past such a horrible offense for the sake of your children?”

“Well, if you two weren’t ‘getting it on,’ so to speak, what were you doing going out all the time, and even spending the entire night together?”

In the distance something howled. It was probably a coyote—they’d been moving into the area in greater numbers over the last decade—but if so, there was definitely something wrong with it. The mournful sound began on a canine register, then soared so high that birds roosting in neighboring trees began to twitter. I can’t imagine that a banshee, should such a creature exist, could sound any more eerie.

Mama grabbed my arm. “What
is
that?”

“I’m not sure. Mama, I’m sorry I hurt you. I was just basing my conclusion on what I could observe.”

“But you didn’t see me in bed with that awful man, did you?”

“No, but you flirted with him, like he was Rhett Butler and you were Scarlet O’Hara.”

“Exactly. But didn’t Scarlet manipulate Rhett into giving her what she wanted?”

“Sort of; he walked away at the end.”

“Which is what Buford did with me, and that’s exactly what I wanted.”

“So what did you manipulate him into doing?”

“Oh Abby, I can’t tell you; it’s a birthday surprise. Darn it all, see what you made me do.” Mama burst into tears, something I’ve never known her to do since the day Daddy died. Even at his funeral she remained dry-eyed for the sake of the little ones.

I felt so awful upon hearing my mother cry aloud that I would have gladly jumped from the tree and into the mouth of a howling banshee. Not having one immediately available, I too burst into tears. Thereupon hearing me blubber, Mama returned to my arms, whereupon the two of us sobbed until we could no longer breathe and had to blow our noses on our sleeves like elementary school boys

Of course sleep was out of the question. Several hours further into our ordeal we heard something stamping in the bushes directly beneath us.

“Wild boar,” I whispered to Mama.

She squeezed my hand and nodded.

Then the stamping creature emitted a very humanlike moan. It’s quite possible that my ears were playing tricks on me, so I wouldn’t stake my life on what I heard next—or, come to think of it,
anything
that I heard that evening. At any rate, I’m ninety-nine point nine percent sure that I heard the creature below say, “Help us, please. We’re the last of the Srotideypoc.”

I sat, frozen with fear, unable to think or react for a long, valuable stretch of time. The stamping resumed, then I heard it move away from the tree,
and then farther away until I could hear it no more. Later on, once just before dawn, I heard the devilish screams of the creature to the left again.

It was the sound of that creature that woke me with a start. Slumped against me, cradled in my arms, was my lightly snoring minimadre.

“Mama, did you hear that?”

“Huh? You mean that crow?”

“That wasn’t a crow, Mama. That was the thing we heard last night.”

Mama gestured skyward with her chin. She was a bit on the grumpy side. In all fairness, she is
not
a morning person, never has been. Plus, if she was anything like me, she had to pee like nobody’s business.

“There’s a crow right up there in that tree, Abby, just looking at us. Probably wondering which one of us he wants for breakfast.”

“Okay, so maybe it was a crow that I just heard, but what about last night? Golly, I’ve never been so ding dang scared in my life. Have you ever heard such an unearthly sound?”

“As a barred owl?”

“That wasn’t any kind of bird, Mama. I’d be willing to bet my business on that.”

“Oh darling, you don’t remember Paw-Paw’s peacocks, do you? Those things could shriek like banshees.”

“Shhh, Mama! Something’s coming now.”

M
ama listened obligingly for a second, then glommed onto to me like germs on a day-care doorknob. In keeping with the bird theme, now that the sun had risen we were sitting ducks up there on the fallen tree trunk. There really wasn’t much higher for us to climb without getting snarled in the branches, and since we couldn’t even tell which direction the new sound was coming from, jumping off the trunk could well be the wrong move. Instead, like the pitiful cowards that we ultimately were, we hunkered down together, our arms tightly around each other, our eyes tightly closed.

While the latter sounds like a childish response to danger, there may well be an evolutionary basis for it (I read somewhere that some animals also close their eyes when danger is unavoidable). After all, it certainly removes that “someone is watching me” factor from the predator’s mind. On the hand, I can certainly understand why someone might prefer to see a Srotideypoc before
feeling its hairy hands as it grabs you for its much sought-after mate.

“Oh, Mrs. Washburn,” this Small Hairy One called. “Is that really you up there?”

I opened one eye. I shut it, said the quick prayer of a lapsed Episcopalian, and then opened both eyes.

“Mr. Curly!” I shrieked.

“Lord have mercy!” Mama screamed. “Holy crap,” she screamed again, as she slipped from my arms and subsequently from her perch.

Thank heavens it was indeed Mr. Curly beneath us, and not some diminutive prehistoric remnant with overactive follicles. I’d never paid a lick of attention to Mr. Curly’s biceps, but Mama said he caught her as easily as if she was a feather pillow, and then set her down on the forest floor as gently as if she was a crystal chandelier.

“He smells like Chrome,” she whispered after I’d been hoisted to the ground. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“It’s a men’s cologne. By Azzaro. Honestly, Abby, sometimes it’s
you
who’s way behind the times. But anyway, isn’t he just to die for? That is what you young folks still say, isn’t it?”

“Ladies,” Mr. Curly said, “is something wrong? Besides the obvious, I mean?” He not only sounded chipper, but looked fairly dapper, all decked out, as he was, in khakis and a matching safari vest.

“My mama thinks you smell nice,” I said.

“Abby!”

“Well, it’s true. And as neither of you are married, and since he just rescued you—well, I think we could dispense with a courtship altogether.”

I said it with a smile in my voice. It was meant in a lighthearted way. Believe me, I would rather eat a bowl of cream of maggot soup on a TV reality show than have my mother marry a man who’d been responsible for me going to jail, even for just a few hours.

“Mrs. Washburn,” Mr. Curly said, sounding not one bit amused, “I am already married, thank you very much. And as it happens, the woman I am married to is the light of my life.”

“Oh darn,” Mama whispered.

If the man heard my randy mama’s comment, he didn’t let on. “What in the name of all that’s good are you two doing out here in the middle of the wilderness? Is this some kind of game I’ve wandered into?”

“Game?”

“One of those reality TV shows. Like the
Amazing Race
—now that’s a TV show worth watching.”

“Unless you’ve missed an episode of
All My Children,
” Mama said, “and we need to catch up on Soapnet.”

“That’s why God invented TiVo,” I said.

“No you don’t,” Mr. Curly said sternly. “I’ll have no taking of the Lord’s name in vain in my presence.”

“It was only a harmless joke,” I said.

“He’s right,” Mama said. “You are sacrilegious far too much, Abby. Sometimes I fear for your life.”

“What?”

“If the far right gets into power,” Mama said, “they’ll round up infidels like you and burn them at the stake—or something like that. I saw them discussing that on the Triple Six Club.”

“Mama has an active imagination,” I said. “And just so you know, her delusions are nonpartisan: she’s an equal opportunity offender.”

“Are you going to answer my question, Mrs. Washburn? What are you doing out here?”

“To make a very long story short, Mr. Curly,” I said, “I know who has been smuggling ivory into Charleston for the last five years. We were inadvertent stowaways on one of her trucks—don’t ask—and her goons were given orders to kill us. They, however, got distracted by fisticuffs, so we fled into the forest and spent the night being courted by the Small Hairy Ones—again don’t ask.”

“Why that’s fabulous news!”

“It is?” I said.

“I mean that you’ve been able to determine the identify of the chief smuggler. Who is she?”

“Lady Bowfrey,” I said. “She lives in Mount Pleasant.”

“Ah, the breakfast lady! I should have known.” He hit his forehead with the palm of his hand. “Every week those trucks are at the docks serving up complimentary breakfasts to the stevedores.”

“On Tuesdays?” I said.

“How did you know?” he said.

“Because every Tuesday night they park in
front of her house and carry boxes in and out, and then on Wednesday mornings they serve a huge breakfast to a grateful community. Keep the people happily fed, seems to be her motto, and folks won’t care which ordinances you break.”

Mr. Curly beamed with pleasure at the revelation. “Excellent work, Mrs. Washburn. Excellent. I will personally see to it that the Department of the Prevention of Illegal Imports awards you with a Medal of Good Conduct.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Mama raised her hand. “Excuse me, Mr. Curly, but—”

“Mr. Curly’s a busy man, Mama.”

“Yes, but—”

“Not now, Mama,” I said.

Mr. Curly was still beaming and shaking his head in amazement. “Do you mean to say that you ladies spent the night on this log?”

“Indeed we did.”

“No, we spent it at the Small Hairy Ones’ Hilton,” Mama said, sounding even more peeved than usual. “Now we’re out on our morning constitutional.”

“Never mind her,” I said. “Her first morning on earth happened to her when she was very young, and she’s never liked mornings since.”

Mr. Curly stopped beaming. “Say, it really isn’t that far to where I’m parked on a logging road. Would you ladies like me to show you the way?”

“Do most congressmen enjoy getting perks from lobbyists?” I said.

“Well, I wouldn’t know about that.”

“I think it’s a safe bet,” I said.”

“Abby’s always been my cynical one,” Mama said. “If the sky really was falling, she’d probably say something negative about that too.”

“Form a line behind me,” Mr. Curly said, and gallantly led the way through the bracken and gorse.

Okay, so there really wasn’t bracken and gorse to be found in the Francis Marion National Forest. The local shrubs and weeds undoubtedly possessed far less poetic names, but they were tough and scratchy things and that made progress very slow. I marveled at how far we had managed to come the night before—thanks to adrenaline. It was no wonder we were covered with welts.

For a while it looked as if Mr. Curly was lost as well. “Don’t worry, ladies, I have a GPS—uh, well, I do own one. I
thought
I had it with me in my pack.”

“We’re going to die out here,” Mama wailed.

I battled some bracken to be at her side and put my arm around her. “No, we’re not.”

“That’s right, Abby, only
I
will die; your fate will be a life sentence at the side of a Small Hairy One.”

“Mrs. Wiggins,” Mr. Curly said sharply, “I resent that remark. I have successfully completed therapy and no longer expose myself.”

“She’s referring to South Carolina’s answer to Bigfoot,” I said. “Only they don’t have big feet, because they’re very small creatures. Apparently they live out here. When they can’t catch deer, they dine on human flesh—if given the chance. We’re a walking smorgasbord.”

“And all because of that horrid Lady Bowfrey,” Mama said.” Can we watch you arrest her?”

“No,” Mr. Curly said curtly. “It’s against regulations.”

“But Abby was there when you arrested Abby. I don’t even believe in the death penalty, Mr. Curly, but when I think about all those elephants—those magnificent intelligent creatures—being slaughtered so that greedy women like Lady Bowfrey can become even richer, why I’d be tempted to see her put up before a firing squad. Of course they’d only shoot rubber bullets, but I’d really like to see her sweat. Especially after what’s she’s done to us! Do you know that she really wanted to kill us? No, I take that back—I think one of those bullets should be real.”

“Mama,” I said through gritted teeth. I also tried to make eye contact with her, but to no avail.

“Then again, maybe a firing squad is too good for her. I’m coming up on my sixtieth birthday—bless my heart—but my poor Abby here has barely had a chance to live. That hideous, self-centered woman with the chopsticks in her hair was going to murder my precious baby right here before her mama’s eyes. I’m telling you, no pun
ishment is too bad for her. Where is Dick Cheney when you need him now? Whatever happened to Donald Rumsfeld? I say get those men out of retirement and set up a new interrogation center. Lady Bowfrey can be the guinea pig upon which the new agents practice their interrogation skills.”

My heart was in my throat. “You have to forgive her, Mr. Curly, because my mama suffers from a rare brain disorder brought about from inhaling too much dust mite feces. In layman’s terms she’s a nincompoop.”

“Abby! You see, Mr. Curly, how she talks about her mama?”

“Yes, and I don’t like it. And I don’t like the way you refer to my wife.”

“Your
wife
?” Mama said. “Donald Rumsfeld didn’t turn into one of those intransigents, did he? You know, with the full sex change and everything?”

“Please forgive her, Mr. Curly. She’s got a big heart, but she gets a little addled when she’s stressed.”

“I’m not addled, Abby; I’m merely confused.”

“My wife is Lady Bowfrey,” Mr. Curly said. He reached into his safari vest and withdrew a snub-nosed .38 revolver.

There was no drum roll from me. The Department of the Prevention of Illegal Imports, my fanny. Mr. Curly had come to finish off a job that Thugs Numbers One and Two had botched. Just how he’d managed to arrest me at the dock was a
story that could wait until Mama was safe. At the moment nothing else mattered.

“Miss Timberlake,” he said, sounding disappointed, “you don’t look surprised.”

I sighed. “Don’t you have a conscience, sir?”

He laughed. “Sir! I love it how you Southerners are always so polite! The proper form of address in my case, however, is Your Lordship—or Lord Bowfrey—take your pick. But the answer to your question is, ‘No, I don’t have a conscience.’ And I’ll tell you something, Miss Timberlake, that’s something I thank my creator for every week when I go to church.”

Mama’s eyes blazed. “That’s a sacrilege!”

“Oh, don’t be so self-righteous, you old bat. It’s because of judgmental environmentalists like you that my wife and I have to attend separate churches in order to keep our connection secret. Not to mention the fact that I have temporarily suspended using my title, and that alone is causing me severe emotional distress.”

Mama blinked. “A
bat
? Abby, he called me a bat; do something!”

“You just mentioned what you weren’t going to mention,” I said to Mr. Curly. “As for your title, we don’t recognize titles in America.”

“Sure you do. When Queen Elizabeth II comes over to visit, she’s not addressed as Mrs. Mount-batten, is she?”

“Yes, but you had to give up your title when you became an American citizen.”

“Ah, but I never became one,” he said, and in
the space of just that one sentence switched from a California accent to the one I’ve heard used by native English speakers from South Africa.

“Even better, Mr. Curly,” I said, “it should be easier to deport you.”

“Miss Timberlake, you might think differently about me if you had a chance to hear a bit about my background.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“It will undoubtedly come as a surprise to you; I was born and raised in Africa. Although my father was the eldest son of an earl, he left all that behind to become a game warden in a small country that you’ve probably never even heard of. When I wasn’t away at boarding school, I used to ride with my father on his rounds of the reserve.”

“I’m sure you have a fascinating backstory, but you’ll have plenty of time in Hell to tell it, so please save it for there.”

“Good one, Abby,” Mama said.

“Shut the hell up,” Mr. Curly said.

“I won’t have you swearing in my presence!” Mama snapped.

Mr. Curly brought the gun up level with Mama’s head.

“Then again,” Mama said, “a word is just sound, and since Abby just used it in a nonswearing context, who am I to judge?”

“As I was
saying
,” Mr. Curly growled, “I got to know the animals on our reserve very well. My father had a first-rate team of black Africans
working for him—sharpshooters all—and since Dad was committed to wipe out poaching, by golly, they were able to do it. But there were consequences.”

“I need to sit down,” Mama whined. “I’m getting a blister on my heel.”

“There’s a log up ahead,” I interceded. “If you’re going to kill her anyway, can you at least let her get comfortable for a minute?”

“Okay,” he said, “but only until I’m done with my story.”

But poor Mama was suddenly limping so bad that I asked for, and obtained, permission to step out of line a few yards and fetch a walking stick for her. It was more of a walking club actually: a sun-bleached segment of a broken limb, one no doubt fashioned by Hurricane Hugo some twenty years ago. Much to my relief, Mama quit complaining and gamely struggled along until she got to the log. Now there, I thought, was the prime example of a true Southern lady.

Meanwhile, of course, our raconteur had resumed his spellbinding narrative. “The elephant population exploded,” he said. “They can eat as much as two hundred pounds of grass and foliage a day and drink ten gallons of water. We had only one spring-fed watering hole on the entire reserve, and one year, during a particularly severe drought, it couldn’t replenish itself fast enough.”