The Ming and I (2 page)

“It’s against company regulations to give out our phone number,” the caller said.

“Well, it’s against my regulations to talk to companies that won’t.” I hung up.

Immediately the phone rang again. I let it ring five times before answering. When you are in a retail business, you shouldn’t rely on an answering ma
chine during business hours. There are still folks out there who hang up on canned voices.

“Hello?”

“You shouldn’t be so rude,” my previous caller said.

“Excuse me?”

“I have to make a living, too, you know.”

“I know. So give me your home phone number and I’ll call you this evening,” I said. That almost always works like a charm.

The caller paused only a microsecond, if at all. “I can’t. My roommate works night shift. But this will only take a moment, I promise.”

“No—”

“Please. Just one minute. Then I get credit for the call.”

“One minute,” I said crisply. It would be my one good deed of the day.

The salesperson took a deep breath. “We at Lock, Stock, and Barrel Security Services guarantee that we can upgrade your existing security system, and offer you continued protection at half the cost of your current system, or you get a check from us for five hundred dollars for your trouble. Whose system are you currently using?”

“I’m not using any,” I said triumphantly. “Will you be sending my check by registered mail?”

This time the party on the other end hung up.

“W
hat do you mean Greg couldn’t come?” Mama demanded, wiping her hands on a starched white apron dotted with eyelets.

To my knowledge Mama has never even flirted with Greg, but I would bet the Ming—if it were mine—that she has a crush on him. But an innocent crush, I’m sure, like the one I had on Ricky Nelson in the fifth grade. My mama would never step out of line, even in the privacy of her own mind.

“Greg called just before he was due to pick me up at six. There’s been a double homicide in Myers Park. Apparently some banker went berserk.”

“I thought that was the post office’s job,” Mama said, and held the door open for me. I was, after all, bearing gifts—a bottle of chardonnay and a pecan pie, both of which I had picked up at the new Hannaford’s on Ebeneezer Road in Rock Hill.

I was born and raised in Rock Hill, South Carolina, which is just a stone’s throw from Charlotte, North Carolina. Mama still lives there, on shady, dignified Eden Terrace. It is the same house I grew up in. Nothing has changed, not even the mint green drapes hanging desolately from the cornice. Although she would hotly deny it, Mama has kept the house as a shrine to Daddy, who died in a water-
skiing accident on nearby Lake Wylie seventeen years ago.

At four foot ten, Mama is only an inch taller than me, but we both have healthy appetites and managed to make a sizable dent in her delicious dinner. In fact, had Greg come there wouldn’t have been enough artichoke salad for him. Mama claimed that the Harris Teeter where she shops was plum out except for the one jar.

“Then you should try Hannaford’s,” I said.

The corners of Mama’s mouth twitched, which is as close to a grimace as a true southern lady is capable of making.

“I can’t stand the traffic on Ebeneezer Road,” she said. “Rock Hill is getting so big. It’s growing by leaps and bounds.”

“Growth is supposed to be good,” I said, but I was obviously not an expert on the subject.

“New stores are popping up all the time.”

“Like Hannaford’s,” I said.

Her mouth twitched. “Other stores, too. All kinds.”

“Yeah.”

Mama gave me a long, hard look. “Other stores, Abby, if you know what I mean.”

I didn’t and said so.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. Would you like to split another piece of pie?”

Mama shook her head and sighed deeply. Her fingers drifted absentmindedly up to her pearls, a gift from my father.

“I’m glad we have this chance to talk alone, dear. There’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you.”

She had me spooked. “Mama, it’s not
cancer
, is it?”

“Oh no, nothing like that.” She sighed again. “I’m just not sure it’s something I should tell you. You might think less of me.”

I patted her arm. “You can tell me anything, Mama.”

Mama leaned toward me. “I’m going to finally get one.”

I had no idea what she meant. It could have been anything from a pet parakeet to a jogging machine. Didn’t both of those things come in avocado green? No, it had to be more personal than that, like maybe an electric razor or one of those depilatory kits.

“You’re going to have to be more specific,” I said gently.

Mama’s face turned the color of pickled ginger. “I’m going to get a tattoo.”

“
What
?”

“Don’t ask me why, but I’ve always wanted a tattoo, Abby. Ever since I was a little girl.”

“Why?” I wailed.

“Because I’m seventy-five years old, and I want to have a tattoo before I die, that’s why.”

“You just turned seventy, Mama.” My mother is one of six women in this world who actually pad their ages, rather than shave a few years off. That way they are always complimented on their relative states of preservation, rather than given sympathetic looks. In Mama’s case, however, this ruse is totally unwarranted, since Mama looks young enough to be my sister, and I must habitually maintain an artificial gray streak in my chestnut brown hair so as not to be mistaken for a teenager.

I stared at her. Her color was back to normal, and she appeared surprisingly composed. Too composed. Mama is a Monroe, and her chin was set in that peculiar Monroe position that could only mean one thing—she was hunkering down to be stubborn.

“Well, I don’t see what this has to do with me.”

“I want you to go with me. You know, in case I’m too uncomfortable to drive myself home.”

“Can’t one of your friends go with you?”

Mama gave me a horrified look. “Gracious, no! They must never find out. Promise me you won’t tell them, Abby.”

“I promise.” Of course I meant it. Far be it from me to start rumors that my mother was fast slipping into her dotage.

“Good. I’d just die if they found out.”

Something terrible occurred to me. Mama’s friends have eagle eyes to go with their rabbit ears. They were going to see the bloody thing unless…

“Mama,
where
are you getting this tattoo?”

“Tiny Tim’s Tattoo Palace. It’s that new place on Cherry Road I was trying to tell you about.”

“Not where in Rock Hill,” I practically screamed. “Where on your body?”

She looked away and mumbled something.

“What?”

She turned reluctantly to face me. “Okay, if you must know, I was thinking of getting it where the sun doesn’t shine. After all, I still swim when we go to Pawleys Island. It has to be someplace it doesn’t show.”

I stared at her, seeing a stranger. “What if the tattoo artist is a man?”

She sighed. “That’s why I really need you to go with me, Abby.”

“Let me get this straight, Mama. You want me to go with you to some sleazy tattoo shop to safeguard your virtue?”

Mercifully the phone rang.

Mama answered it in the kitchen and was back a minute later to get me. “It’s Greg, for you,” she said. “Just think about it, dear.”

The double homicide in Myers Park had not taken as long as expected to deal with. It turned out that the berserk banker was bogus—there were bodies all right, but they belonged to two store mannequins
that someone had dumped in the front yard of a banker’s house. Probably just a teenage prank. Would it be okay with me if he dropped by my house for a nightcap when I got home?

I said it was. Don’t get me wrong. I am not sex crazed like my mama. Greg and I have been dating less than a year, and we’re building on our relationship slowly. I am not about to just jump into bed with a man because I feel lonely now and again.

Once was enough. I got married right out of college to a snake named Buford Timberlake. I met him on the water slide of an area amusement park just days after I broke with my college sweetheart Delbert Dewimple. I suppose that I was your classic rebound case, whereas Buford no doubt was just horny. At any rate Buford had just finished his first year of law school, and he had the same glib tongue then that he has now. By that I mean he could talk a politician into telling the truth—even a Republican.

I found myself walking down the aisle with Buford in less time than it took to go down the water slide. Unfortunately our sex life was like that, too. On the plus side, it did produce two lovely children: Susan, now twenty and in college, and eighteen-year-old Charlie, who is a senior in high school. Susan lives in a dorm; Charlie lives with Buford and his new wife, Tweetie.

As for me, I live in a newly acquired house in south Charlotte, alone, except for the company of my yellow tomcat, Dmitri. All in all, I am very happy living alone. Of course I miss the children, and there are times it would be nice to have a man around, but I don’t need a man in my life, as I did on that water slide.

Greg was waiting for me in the double carport. I pulled up beside him, got out, and we kissed hello. I was, of course, standing on my tiptoes. Greg is six
feet tall, and I’m afraid that one of these days he’s going to wrench his back bending down so far.

“You missed a great dinner,” I said.

“I’m sure I did, so I brought this.” He held up a bottle of Bailey’s Irish Creme whiskey, my favorite after dinner drink. “To help me forget the taste of that burger I had. McDonald’s is trying to market a new flavor.”

We went inside to the den—as we call our family rooms in these parts—and Greg poured us each a drink. We took off our shoes and settled onto my oversize Federal Period sofa, me with my legs across his lap. Incidentally the sofa isn’t nearly as comfortable as it is attractive, but since I wear high heels regularly, who am I to complain?

“Tell me about your evening,” Greg said, just as comfortably as if we were happily married.

Despite a fairly active sex life, Buford and I were never as intimate as that.

“Well, Mama—no, you go first this time. Tell me all about the bogus bodies on the banker’s lawn.”

Greg took a sip of Bailey’s and licked his lips appreciatively. “First let me tell you about a real body.”

“Do tell.” Because of his line of work, Greg has some fascinating stories.

“I just saw the lab report on the Troyan woman. You were right, Abigail. She was hit by a blue vehicle.”

I sat up quickly and almost knocked the glass out of Greg’s hand. “A van?”

He chuckled. “I can’t tell that from just the paint. I’m not Columbo. But I can tell you a little bit about Ms. Troyan.”

“Please do.” You might think that my interest was macabre, but just you wait until a body comes hurtling through your window. Then you’ll whistle a different tune.

“For starters, her full name was June Gibbons Troyan. She was originally from Indiana, but lived in Lake City, Florida, until two years ago. Moved here shortly after the death of her husband. Mr. Troyan died of natural causes. Some kind of heart trouble.”

I had heard the story before—similar stories really, but all pretty much interchangeable. Couple moves to Florida, lives there for several years, and then one of them—usually the husband—dies. What then is the survivor supposed to do? Move back north after burning all her bridges, or hang on in a community of transplants, where memories of her loved one linger? In a surprising number of cases the survivor decides to relocate elsewhere in the South, usually in the Carolinas. Perhaps our slower pace reminds them of the good old days, but I like to think they find a sense of community here that helps them through their grief.

“Anything else?”

“Ms. Troyan was no spring chicken.”

I was not especially surprised. I had not taken a close look at June Troyan while she was alive, and as for after—Well, going through plate glass does nothing for one’s complexion.

“How old?”

“Seventy-eight.”

“Is that all you have?”

He laughed. “Is this an interrogation?”

“Just curious, dear.”

“Well, she was volunteering part-time as a docent at Roselawn Plantation. You know, giving guided tours and that kind of thing.”

I swung my legs off Greg’s lap. This was the most interesting piece of information, one that needed to be considered in a normal sitting position.

Roselawn is an antebellum plantation that is just a Yankee hoot and a Rebel holler from Rock Hill. In
the days before the Civil War—Mama and her generation call it The War Between the States—Roselawn was one of the premier cotton-producing plantations in the state. It supported hundreds of slaves—rather, they supported it.

The plantation house, which still stands, is atypical of upcountry plantation houses in that its style is Greek Revival, with a Tuscan portico and cast iron balustraded decks. It would be more at home in Natchez, Mississippi, than in York County, South Carolina. The mansion escaped the ravages of Sherman’s army in The War of Northern Aggression (as my friend Wynnell calls it) only because it occupies a narrow spit of land on a hairpin turn in the Catawba River. The Yankees simply did not know it was there.

James L. Rose VI, a widower and the last descendant of the original owners, died only last year. According to the newspapers, the entire estate was sold off to pay back taxes. Farmers bought most of the fertile river bottom land, and the house ended up in the hands of a private historical group that calls itself the Upstate Preservation Foundation.

I was pretty sure Mama knew at least one person on the foundation, since Mama knows everyone of any consequence in Rock Hill. And I mean that humbly. Through no effort of my own I am well connected, and am usually privy to all the important gossip. But it was news to me that Roselawn Plantation was now open to the public and had, in fact, docents.

“How long did Ms. Troyan work there?” I asked.

Greg took a small piece of paper out of his pocket and unfolded it. “I knew you were going to ask tough questions. Let’s see—just three weeks. They’ve only been open to the public that long.”

It was time to resume my subscription to
The Herald
, Rock Hill’s newspaper. I had let it lapse because
of the way its book editor treated local authors. But it was clear now that Mama was no longer a reliable conduit of hometown information. The time had come to sacrifice principle for knowledge.

“Hmm, let’s see,” I mused, no doubt running my fingers through my short dark hair. “Ms. Troyan had only lived in the area for two years, correct?”

“Correct.”

“And already she was volunteering as a docent at a privately owned historical foundation. That can only mean one thing.”

“What?” Greg is both handsome and smart, but he’s not brilliant.

“She had—”

“Money?”

“To the contrary. She might well have been dirt poor.”

“I don’t think so.”

“That’s because you don’t know life in a small southern town.”

Greg was born and raised in Atlanta, and had spent all his adult life in Charlotte. Both places are booming metropolises as far as I’m concerned. Thanks to the recent rust belt invasion, Rock Hill may now be pushing fifty thousand people, but it is essentially a small town at heart.

Greg crossed his long legs at the knee. “Enlighten me.”

“I’m talking about position, dear. Breeding. Dollars to doughnuts Ms. Troyan has a lineage that would make a Daughter of the Confederacy turn green with envy.”

He chuckled. “I don’t think so. Not in this case. She was originally from Indiana, remember? Fort Wayne, to be exact.”