The Cane Mutiny (12 page)

N
ow make yourself useful,” the Colonel ordered the dead beast, “and bring us mint juleps and some of those benne crackers.”

“Yes, sir.” The warthog sounded like a female to me.

The Colonel turned to me, his face breaking into a wreath of smiles. “This warthog normally has only one eye. The other, a glass one, of course, got lost when I moved down here from Louisville. I confess that I rehung the head over a hole in the wall, and that I have been known to observe my guests through the empty socket. But not very often, mind you. It's quite unpleasant in there.”

Since the Colonel had previously offered me a seat, I saw no reason to put off sitting. My poor legs just barely got me to the nearest chair, so weak and rubbery had they suddenly become.

“There was a lady in there? Behind the warthog head?”

“Not a lady, my housekeeper. My representative, as you just called her.”

“Colonel, you could have blinded her.”

“Hardly. This thing has a rubber tip, and besides, it didn't go in all the way. Trust me, I've been practicing.”

“So she does that a lot?”

“More and more, it seems.”

I couldn't help but laugh. Perhaps it was the absurdity of it all, perhaps it was the banana peel syndrome. At any rate, as long as the housekeeper was well enough to serve us refreshments, there was no real harm done.

The Colonel laughed as well. “Serves the old biddy right,” he said. “Last week she put Exlax in my chocolate pudding. I couldn't leave the house for two days. That's why I couldn't make it to the sale.”

“Colonel, I just remembered I'm on a very strict diet. I'm afraid I'm going to have to pass up the refreshments.”

“What kind of diet?”

“It's called the Sundown Diet. I'm not allowed to eat anything during daylight hours.”

The Colonel roared with laughter. He laughed so long and hard that I began to fear he might go
into cardiac arrest. Anxiously I fumbled around in my purse for my cell phone. It had been years since I'd taken a CPR course, and frankly, I'd rather that the paramedics be the ones to give him mouth to mouth.

“I like you, little lady,” he said, when he could finally speak. “You're a pistol. You sure you don't want to dump that feller of yours?”

Mercifully, for everyone's sake, the sudden appearance of the housekeeper put an end to his proposal. It also left me speechless for a minute. The woman was the spitting image of Julia Child; tall, slightly slumped at the shoulders, and with a twinkle in her left eye. Her right eye, however, was blinking rapidly.

“You don't need to worry about the mint juleps,” she said, looking directly at me, but by no means whispering. “I only mess with the old goat's food, not his drinking. I don't believe in wasting alcohol. As for the benne wafers, they're still sealed in their original wrapper.”

I adore benne wafers. The word benne means “sesame” in Mandingo, a West African language. Slaves from that region brought the recipe with them to America, and today the crisp little treats are enjoyed throughout the Deep South, but perhaps nowhere more so than in Charleston.

Since eating sesame wafers is said to bring good
luck, and drinking enough mint juleps helps one not to notice bad luck, I decided that it would be in my best interest to accept the proffered snack.

“By the way,” the housekeeper said as she held the tray out to me, “your drink is on the left.”

“I heard that,” the Colonel growled. However, he sounded more amused than irritated.

The housekeeper was still looking at me. “Ma'am, can you do me a favor?”

“Certainly—if I can.”

“Tell the old goat I'm going to the movies tonight, and if he wants any supper he's going to have to fix it himself.”

“Tell the old goat yourself,” the Colonel growled again.

“No need now,” the woman said. She set the tray on the coffee table—a very bad resin replica of an elephant topped by glass—and strode from the room.”

“Uppity old witch,” he said.

“Conceited old coot,” she said.

“Mighty fine mint julep,” I said, and took a gulp of my drink.

“Well,” the Colonel said, when it was just the two of us again, “where were we?”

“I was here, sir, watching you flirt with your housekeeper.”

“How's that?”

“Shame on you, Colonel, for asking me, a happily married woman, to be the fourth Mrs. Humphrey, when there is another woman so desperately in love with you she can't see straight. Literally. The good news is that you love her too.”

I could see anger and embarrassment battle for dominance on the battlefield that was his face. “This is outrageous. Miss Timberlake, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave.”

I took a second big sip just in case he meant what he'd said. “Believe me, I've seen this a hundred times; boy and girl fight constantly because they're both too proud to put their true feelings on the line. But then by seventh grade they usually sort things out. Except that by now they've moved on to other people. Colonel, you don't want your charming housekeeper to turn to someone else for affection, do you?”

Uh-oh. I'd done it now. The Colonel was puffing with rage. He trembled as he steadied himself enough to lift the cane high and poked at the air above my head.

“Get out of my house, young lady. Get out now.”

I grabbed my purse from the floor beside my chair. “But I was hoping to see your cane collection.”

“Out!” he roared.

 

If there is status to be gained by being ushered into one of the mansions south of Broad, then there has to be something that is lost when one is thrown out on one's ear. That thing is dignity. You don't realize it's there when you have it, but you sure know when you don't. The fact that a new clump of tourists now clustered at the base of the stairs only made matters worse.

“Shame on you,” a sweaty woman hissed. “You can't just go into people's houses like that. You must be from up North.”

“I most certainly am not,” I said, gathering my shreds of dignity as if they were scraps of cloth to cover my nakedness.

“Hey, I resent that remark,” a second woman said. “I'm from Pittsburgh, and we are some of the politest people on earth. It's you Southerners who need to learn manners. Why just this morning a woman with a Mississippi license plate stole the parking space I saw first.”

“So that was
you
!” the first woman said. “I'll have you know I circled through that parking garage three times. I saw the space about to open and before I could circle back around you zipped in out of nowhere. Didn't you see me waving my arms?”

“I saw you almost crash into me, that's what I saw. Just because you drive an SUV doesn't mean
you can bully your way into a spot that isn't yours. Is that what you call Southern hospitality?”

The woman from Mississippi put her hands on her hips. Her forehead was beaded with sweat and it ran in rivulets down her neck. Given that it was a somewhat balmy spring day, I concluded that she must have been in the middle of a hot flash. If indeed that was the case, she should be granted some leniency.

“Yankee go home,” she said, spitting each syllable out like a watermelon seed. Given her Deep South accent, that totaled seven seeds.

“This is the
United
States of America,” the woman from Pittsburgh said. “This
is
my home.”

“That's easy for you to say, ma'am. Y'all won the war. As far as I'm concerned, the United States of the Confederacy is an occupied nation.”

“Did everyone hear that?” the Pittsburgher yelled. “This is treason!” Without further ado she attacked the Biloxi belle by swinging a handbag the size of a small suitcase.

The belle fought back, swinging her purse, which was the size of a large suitcase.

I had no choice but to join the fracas in order to achieve peace. Alas, my pocketbook was barely larger than a pocket, so I was forced to do the old Timberlake one-two. Balling my fists, I flew at the nearest lady, the one from Mississippi, and socked
her in the soft spots behind both knees. The belle buckled, bawling with rage as she toppled directly across the Pittsburgher, provoking a plethora of profanities.

I drew myself up to my full four-foot-nine inches. Aided by two-inch heels, I must have been a formidable sight.

“Ladies,” I said sternly, “look over there, just beyond the spot where the two rivers come together to form the Atlantic Ocean. That's Fort Sumter out there. That's where the War Between the States began. But here is where it's going to end. Do I make myself clear?”

The women exchanged glances, then they both glared at me. “I ought to sue you,” the Pitts burgher said. “My husband is a well-known lawyer who specializes in personal injury cases.”

“My husband is an orthopedist,” Mississippi said. “He'll testify that you've given me whiplash.”

“So sue me,” I said, and forced a little laugh. “It's obvious you don't know who I am.”

“Who is she?” a bystander whispered.

“I think she's Sarah Brightman,” someone else said.

“No, Sarah is much prettier than that. Taller too.”

A man jumped into the discussion. “I know I've seen her somewhere. On television, I think.”

“It's Katie Couric,” a second man said. “I'm almost positive.”

“Katie is prettier too,” someone else said.

“Yeah,” the first man said, “but that's with her TV makeup. No, Ed is right. That
is
Katie Couric. I did the
Today
show once. It was a segment on my new book,
How to Catch Your Dream Man in Ten Days.
“

The woman from Biloxi gasped. “
You
wrote that?”

“Get out of town,” the Pittsburgher said, as she too turned her back on me.

I scurried away unnoticed. But I hadn't gotten as far as East Bay Street when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I whirled. Had I been a cat, I would have led with my talons. The tourist women were taking their lawsuit threats too far.

“Listen ladies—oh, it's you. The Colonel's housekeeper.”

The woman, who towered over me, was breathing heavily. Her large, flat face was red from exertion.

“I need to talk to you,” she gasped.

Not knowing her intentions, I kept walking. “Then talk.”

“Is there somewhere we can sit?”

Relenting, I led her over to the seawall. Steps, half hidden by flowering oleanders, open to an
elevated walkway that offers spectacular views of Charleston harbor. She settled herself on a concrete ledge and leaned back against a metal railing. Behind her an enormous container ship, like a floating skyscraper—no, make that a floating city—glided by.

I tried to keep my attention on her and not the handsome Greek sailors that scurried about on deck. “What is it you'd like to talk about? But first, just so you know, I am not in the competition for Colonel Humphrey.”

Her mouth opened and closed rapidly several times in mute surprise, then she cackled. “And you think
I
am?”

“Without a doubt. It's written all over your face.”

“Why that's just downright cheeky of you Miss—uh—”

“Call me Abby.”

“Roberta,” she said, and tapped a chest so speckled with age spots it gave the illusion of a deep tan. “Roberta Stanley. That's my maiden name. Unlike the Colonel, I've only been married once, but I'm not going to tell my ex's name. He was a real slimeball.”

“Been there, done that. My ex was the slime on the ooze on the muck at the bottom of the pond. However, I still use his name for business purposes.
I figure I've earned the right to benefit however I can from that fiasco of a marriage.”

She cackled again. “I like you Abigail. I'm a good judge of character, and I think I can trust you.”

“Roberta, if you saw my husband, you'd know you could trust me.”

She waved a hand impatiently. “I'm not talking about men now. I'm talking business.”

“Excuse me?”

“I understand you sell antique canes.”

“Well, yes, but—who told you that?”

“The Colonel. He came back from your shop with a bunch of them, gloating like there was no tomorrow. Said you wouldn't know an antique cane if it rose up and hit you. Had himself a good laugh.”

“He did?”

“Novice, that's what he called you. Anyway, as it happens, I have a special cane I'd like to sell, but not to the Colonel.”

“Why is that, if I may ask?”

“Because the Colonel wants to buy it so darn badly.”

“I don't understand.”

“That's the way we do things, Beauregard and I. Been that way ever since the beginning, thirty years ago when I first started working for him. He
was married to the first Mrs. Humphrey at the time. A real slob, if I may be so frank. A slut too. Cheated on the poor man more times than I care to remember. Anyway, he and I started teasing each other all the way back then. Fool that I am, I didn't see it for what it was.”

“You were attracted to each other?”

“Yes. Did you ever see the movie
Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf
?”

“Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor?”

“That was us. Loved each other fiercely, but couldn't stand each other at the same time.”

“You were better off than I. I thought I was happily married—for twenty years—until my husband traded me in for a younger model. One with bigger headlights, I might add.”

She snorted her laugh. “I married my slimeball as a way to make Beauregard jealous—I guess that makes me a slimeball as well. Anyway, Beauregard upped the ante by acquiring two more wives.”

What a pair of idiots, I thought. Why didn't they just marry each other and get it over with?