Tea Cups & Tiger Claws (3 page)

This argument didn’t g
o anywhere, but it seemed like a good place to start.

Next he
tried greed. Everyone is greedy. It’s like hair, everyone has it to some extent, and Ermel’s endowment fell on the bushy side of the scale. Besides the money from the new job, he’d agreed to a thousand dollars for each baby. Now the lawyer, a serious, frowning man named Mortimer Pugh, said buying and selling babies went against the law so the thousand dollars had to be what he called a “one time re-imbursement of expenses material to the birth and sustenance of each adoptee up to the point of adoption.” Let him call it what he wanted, it still added up to three thousand dollars. Jeb begged Ermel to think about all the things she might do with that kind of money. Responding with a hateful glare and the brevity of a corpse, she told him she’d never sell to the duchess. Jeb pressed on, dangling the dream house in her face, the dream house at the base of the hill that three thousand dollars might just buy, the dream house that might just turn her into a lady…unless, of course, she liked being white trash. Ermel threw a plate at his head.

Jeb
threatened and screamed. He put a big dent in the wash tub and almost broke his foot. Each and every time Ermel stared him down and backed him out of the house, where he trudged up to the Wagon Wheel to convalesce, or sometimes strategize with Mortimer Pugh.

Only a few lousy signatures
stood between Jeb Railer and more money than he’d seen in a lifetime. A few squiggles of ink. That’s it. It’s one thing when the money sits in a vault underground, or behind the cold stare of armed guards, but when your own spiteful wife is the one slamming the door in your face, that’s more than a man can take. He’d have been the first to admit the sinfulness of it, but murder even crossed his mind, or at least a sturdy coma. He also thought about forgery, but didn’t see a way past Pugh, who said things had to be done up proper.

But what about lying? Husbands
lie to their wives on occasion. They have to, unless they like walking around in an apron. Wives think faster and scheme better, so husbands lie. It levels the playing field. So Jeb changed his strategy.

“It’s too bad,”
he said one day, with a sigh, “‘cause I guess the duchess really did like you after all.” Maybe Ermel told him to shut up, maybe she didn’t. Jeb concentrated on dangling the worm and didn’t really care. The fish won’t bite if it doesn’t see the worm. “I’m to blame more than anyone I suppose, the way I turned you against her, but how was I to know she wasn’t a phony like all the rest?”

She ignored him.

“Yep. I done wrong and knew it for certain today when I give the lawyer your answer. Instead of getting mad, he said it was a shame things didn’t work out ‘cause the duchess missed her get-togethers with you and wanted to invite you up to her mansion for tea—after all the adoption business got settled.”

“You’re a liar
Jeb Railer,” said Ermel.

And then a faint smile crept across her mouth
, and she tilted her head almost imperceptibly to the side. She’d seen the worm.

“That’s
probably why she give you the dress…to get you started with all that fashion stuff—so’s you fit in with the ladies on the hill.”

No response.

“Wouldn’t that be somethin’? Picked up for tea with the duchess in that fancy motorcar and delivered up the hill in style? I can see the smoke comin’ outta Vera Snyder’s ears right now.”

“It ain’t gonna work
, Jeb.”

“
What are you talkin’ about?”

“
You know what I’m talkin’ about.”

“I’m just makin’ conversation. Last I heard that weren’t no sin.”

“Well you can just give it up.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

“Fine….But it ain’t a hard thing to prove. All you gotta do is ask the lawyer. Do you got somethin’ against that?”

No response.

“You should ask him. The duchess said every word I just told you, and he’ll tell you himself—and them fellas ain’t allowed to lie or they get what you call de-burred.”

“De-burred. You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about
.... What else did he say—not that I believe a word of it?”

“Nothin’.
The duchess likes you and wants to invite you to a tea party. That’s it.”

“
Jeb Railer you won’t get away with it if you’re lyin’ to me! You know that don’t you?”

Jeb
did get away with it, at least long enough to get Mortimer Pugh into his house, up to his kitchen table, and sitting face to face with Ermel. And it turned out the lawyer knew a thing or two about lying himself, hard as it is to believe, given his noble profession and all.

A bad liar presses too hard
and spit-shines the lie until it blinds. A good one throws it out like yesterday’s news and shrugs at the wonder of it. A bad liar hovers over a syrupy-sweet concoction of impossible dreams. A good one boils the dream in a sludge of boredom or contempt or, in Mortimer Pugh’s case, frustration. He bemoaned the time wasted by the duchess planning a tea party when she had important business matters to tend to. Then he asked forgiveness for speaking out of turn. When pressed on the issue by Jeb, on account of his wife’s unbelief, the lawyer made a show of irritation as he dug around in his leather bag and produced a personal invitation from the duchess. He handed it to Ermel and then drummed his fingers and looked impatiently at his pocket watch. Ermel tugged on the lavender ribbon that bound the folded, cream-colored card. Inside, she read:

The Duchess of Sarlione wishes to extend her cordial invitation to a tea party on Monday, the second of October at one o’clock in the afternoon at Toomington Hall. RSVP Toomington Hall.

“It ain’t no good. The second of October has come and gone,” said Ermel.

“Yes,
it’s my understanding that the duchess had expected a speedy arrangement with you—based upon your friendship—after which I was to present this invitation. Unfortunately the arrangements have not been speedy.”

“Is she plannin’ another one?”

“It’s my understanding that she thinks of nothing else.”

Jeb
watched the smile creep across Ermel’s face.

“E
r…Mrs. Railer, may I have the invitation back please, as it is expired…and no doubt the duchess has a new one for you…provided there are no further delays.”

The next day
a motorcar picked up Jeb and Ermel and drove them to Mortimer Pugh’s office in Santa Marcela where they sat in high-back leather chairs around a giant table and signed papers. A notary sat at the end, ramrod straight, and clicked his teeth twice each time he placed a new page on his stack of papers. He acted finicky and precise, like a champion librarian.

After two of the three sets of documents had been signed, Ermel excused
herself to the powder room. The men stood as she left and then sat back down with smiles all around. Everything looked good. The lawyer had tamed the wild pony without her even knowing it; the notary proudly hovered over his parchment kingdom; and Jeb had a pile of money coming his way. One more little push and it would be over. They leaned back in their executive chairs and waited. But Ermel didn’t come back. Not after five minutes. Not after fifteen. Jeb went to investigate. Through a locked door she told him to go back and wait. “And keep your mouth shut,” she added. Not wanting to raise her ire at this critical juncture, he meekly followed orders. After thirty minutes the notary started processing the documents that had already been signed, which took about five minutes, and then said he had to go. Pugh talked him back into his seat with a promise of future business and a direct order for Jeb to go get his wife, even if he had to drag her back to the meeting. Jeb knew better than that, so he begged instead.

“Is everybody good and mad?”
asked Ermel.

“Yes
.”

“Mad enough to quit the whole thing?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Now
go back and keep your mouth shut.”

When
Jeb returned empty handed, the notary packed his bag and announced his departure, future business or no future business. That’s when Ermel entered the room, looking innocent and refreshed. And what did they say? Nothing. She’d been in the powder room, and they were men who knew better than to talk about such things. So they picked up where they left off, this time without the smiles. The notary clicked his teeth faster than ever, slapped each page down with barely a glance, and in five minutes had the job done.

Now
the time had come to arrange handing over the babies, a topic Ermel had been cleverly avoiding. Jeb knew she didn’t mind giving up a few signatures, but she’d never give up anything that mattered until she got something in return, something more than fancy words and an old invitation to a tea party. What she didn’t understand, though, was that the duchess had already been to court, and the adoption had been set. All that remained was what Pugh called, “a properly executed Consent to Adopt,” the same Consent to Adopt that Ermel had just signed. She didn’t have a bargaining chip. She had someone else’s property and it couldn’t be bargained with at all. She’d signed over the babies and nothing but a knock on the door kept her from knowing it.

Of course
Mortimer Pugh had a dozen different ways to take the babies from Ermel. A phone call to the sheriff, a mention of his client’s name, and he could have the babies tucked away at Toomington Hall by that very afternoon. But since Pugh didn’t want to make a nasty scene at Yucky D that might cost him business on the hill, he insisted on playing Ermel for one more round.

After the notary left,
the lawyer made his horseshoe frown look something like a smile and said, “Now let’s turn to more pleasant matters. The duchess is hoping that you’ll deliver the babies yourself, Mrs. Railer, that way she can personally deliver your invitation to the tea party—a tea party, I might add, which is being given in your honor, and will be attended by only the best people from the hill. You are very fortunate, I must say, to have made such a friend as the duchess. Shall we say day after tomorrow then? Of course she’ll send her motorcar for you. Is that agreeable?”

~~~

Ermel had less than two days to get ready for the biggest day of her life. She spent a good part of that time telling her story up and down Pine Street. She didn’t doubt that some of the neighbors might turn out to see her off, maybe even wave their hankies as she drove by. She also tried putting a shine on Jeb’s social graces but eventually realized two days wasn’t long enough—or two years—so she made him promise not to pick his teeth with a pocketknife or say the word “reckon.” She also did some shopping for a particular item.

On the appointed day, a
t the appointed hour in the afternoon, Ermel watched out the window as the gleaming Rolls Royce pulled up to Yucky D, not just to the street in front, but into the actual courtyard, next to the outhouses. It’s safe to say this had never happened before. The Chauffer, just as starched as before, knocked on the door, announced his presence, and offered to be of service. Ermel put him to work loading bags and travel bassinets into the motorcar. After this he held open the motorcar door as Jeb approached wearing a top hat and tails and britches that needed lengthening. Not used to the duds or the motorcar, it took some doing getting him loaded into the back seat.

And now the moment had arrived. Ermel emerged.
Actually the bow of her giant hat appeared first, jutting through the doorway like an ocean liner cresting a wave. But sure enough, there was Ermel too, underneath the ocean liner. She struck a pose of dignity and substance and strolled solemnly toward the Rolls Royce. A cry of “yoo-hoo, yoo-hoo” interrupted the silent procession. The Polack ladies, locked arm in arm on a nearby porch, called and waved to her. Ermel stopped, looked at them as if she’d never made their acquaintance, and nodded her head oh so slightly. Then, in case they’d missed it, she stroked the white ermine stole that draped her shoulders, the special item she’d bought for herself. It had taken a fifty dollar down payment and a six month payment plan, but she had to have it because in her new world a lady needed more than fancy hats and high button boots. She looked across the courtyard at Vera Snyder’s house and saw the curtain move. Across the street she didn’t see any well-wishers but saw plenty of eyes glued to windows. With a quick look back at Vera Snyder’s, she caught her staring like all the rest. Poor, unfortunate little people, too jealous to come out and send her off properly. With a hand extended to the chauffer, she slid into her seat with impeccable grace.

At Ermel’s command, the Rolls took a lengthy, circuitous route
to the base of the hill, giving her many pleasant opportunities to get stared at by people on the street. It would have been more pleasant had she been able to watch them stare, but that didn’t seem right, so she captured as much of their envy as possible by looking out the sides of her eyes and stealing occasional glances.

And then the motorcar
turned left on Center Street and started climbing the hill.

Ermel watched
manicured hedges and expansive lawns sail past her window, and the higher the motorcar climbed, the more manicured and expansive they became. She saw long driveways at the base of the hill give way to long, meandering driveways, which gave way to driveways that meandered farther than the eye could see. She counted chimneys. Three chimneys, three chimneys, three chimneys, four, five chimneys, five chimneys, five chimneys, more. Her eyes rolled from rooftop to rooftop, hopscotching across the tops of the modest mansions, frolicking at length across the tops of the fairyland estates. And then the motorcar stopped in front of a giant wrought iron gate. They had arrived at Toomington Hall. The top of the hill. Almost the very top.