Caveat Emptor and Other Stories (5 page)

“Sylvie!” Beryl called as they went down the hall. “We have company. I hope you're not sulking in your room.” She lowered her voice and looked back at Ruby Bee and Estelle. “Sylvie's not always fit for company. She did insist on baking the apple pie this morning, though.”

The baker under discussion trudged into the kitchen. She was thick, pale, somewhat sallow, and clearly unhappy. “You didn't mention company, Ma.”

Ruby Bee managed a smile. “And how are you doing these days, Sylvie? Still attending the community college in Farberville?”

“No,” Sylvie muttered. “I did for a year, but now I'm here, taking care of things. Maybe down the road I can get some kind of degree.” She put on an apron and began to shove pots and pans into the gray dishwasher in the sink. “How's Arly doing?”

“Real fine,” Ruby Bee said, looking at Estelle for help. A bullfrog caught in a spotlight might have appeared less panicky.

“Yeah, real fine,” said Estelle. “Why, Arly's just happy as a hog in a wallow. I'm sure she'd like to be out and about with men of an acceptable persuasion, but she's willing to settle for a grilled cheese sandwich and happy hour at the bar and grill. How about you, Sylvie? You ever think about coming by for a beer? Things start jumping on Friday afternoons.”

Rather than responding, Sylvie grimly set a pie on the dinette. “Coffee'll be ready in a minute,” she said, then disappeared down the hallway.

Beryl sighed. “I just don't know what to do with that girl. I've made it clear she can take a class or two at the community college, as long as she can work around Buck's needs. I'm just not strong enough to deal with him. I can't help him in or out of his chair, or see to his basic needs in certain matters. I want you to know I've tried, Ruby Bee and Estelle; the spirit is willing, but …”

“How about I pour the coffee?” Ruby Bee said. She waited until Beryl nodded, then found cups and saucers in a cabinet and filled each cup. “Shall I cut the pie?”

Beryl sighed. “These days, the complaints are enough to wear me out. Sylvie acts like we should find a way to pay a private nurse to see to Buck, but we can't. He spends his days whining about trips to foreign places. He needs the wheelchair, for pity's sake. I can't see myself lugging it up the gangplank of a ship or through the streets of some nasty place like Rome. I've been told that men”—her voice dropped to a whisper—“urinate in the streets. Can you imagine?”

“What about a cruise?” said Estelle as she accepted a plate from Ruby Bee. “Seems like there'd be one that caters to folks with disabilities. If Sylvie went along, you could visit some exotic ports and Buck might feel better.”

“Some of the brochures say they do,” Beryl said, “but most likely all they offer is wide bathroom doors. Besides, who'd look after my hybrid tea roses and prune the flowering crab apples? My garden means everything to me. I can't leave it to amateurs.”

Ruby Bee was trying to come up with a rebuttal as she took a bite of the blue-ribbon pie. It was not easy to swallow. “A bit tart,” she mumbled.

“I'd say so!” Beryl banged down her fork. “Sylvie! You march yourself in here right now, young lady. Here I invited guests for a nice dessert! This pie could pucker a face inside out. I'm so embarrassed I could just crawl under the table. I would never have served this if …”

Sylvie came into the kitchen. “Sorry, Mother. We ran out of sugar, and I thought I could adjust the recipe with honey. We've got some oatmeal cookies in the freezer. Maybe I can—”

Beryl rose with the menace of a summer squall. “That's quite enough, Sylvie. Give your father his bath, then remain in your room until I call for you.”

“Now, Beryl,” said Estelle, “it isn't like this was submitted to the committee at the county fair. All of us have substituted ingredients on occasion, although I can tell you molasses and Karo syrup just don't—”

“Shall we go outside?” Beryl said coldly.

Ruby Bee could tell it was not the moment to broach the most delicate topic of ginger versus an extra pinch of cinnamon. “It isn't that bad,” she said to Sylvie, who was hovering in the doorway with a very peculiar look on her face. “The crust is very flaky and light, and nicely browned. Sometimes, mine are so soggy I feel like I plucked 'em out of a swamp.”

Sylvie stared at her mother. “If I'd known we were expecting company, I would have tried more honey.”

“Be sure to give your father's back a good scrub,” Beryl said. She went across the kitchen, picked up a plastic bottle, and squirted cream into her palm. “I never go outside without a good slathering of sunscreen. We can't be too careful about skin cancer, can we?” Without waiting for a response, she began to apply it to her face, neck, and bare forearms.

Ruby Bee gave Estelle a hard look, then said, “We can't stay for long, Beryl. I'm supposed to be open for lunch, and I believe Estelle has an appointment before too long.”

“That's right,” Estelle said brightly. “Elsie McMay gets mighty testy if I keep her waiting for so much as a butterfly's flitter. We'll just take a quick gander at your garden and be on our way.”

Beryl finished rubbing the lotion onto her skin. “Sylvie, you get busy with your duties. Tell your father I'll be in to see to his lunch after I've cut back the verbena. There are times when it feels like I'm the only person in this family able to take responsibility. You might as well have made that pie with green persimmons.”

Ruby Bee gazed longingly at her car as they went outside. In a few minutes, she assured herself, she and Estelle could bounce down the driveway and turn on County 103. Not even the most delectable apple pie this side of heaven could warrant putting up with Beryl Blanchard and her mean-spirited tongue. The pie might have needed more honey, but Beryl needed an infusion.

Buck was seated in his wheelchair on the far corner of the porch. “Leaving so soon?” he called.

Ruby Bee sat down on a wicker chair beside him. “I was thinking how much I'd like to hear about your adventures in Naples and Athens,” she said, wishing she had the gumption to grab his hand but keenly aware of Beryl's glare. “I'll bet you have all sorts of souvenirs and trinkets from your Navy days. Would you mind if I came by at another time?”

“If it works out,” said Buck. “I may be gone.”

She couldn't stop herself from clasping his bony arm. “Now, Buck, it can't be that bad. Beryl's feeding you a healthy diet of fresh fruits and vegetables. You're as nice and pink as”—she waved vaguely at the yard—“those blossoms over by the gate. Once you get back your strength, why, you might just be arm-wrasslin' at the bar and grill come Friday night. I seem to recollect you were pretty darn good at it once upon a time.”

Beryl loomed over them. “Before he got sick, there was a lot of things he could do. Now all he's good for is sitting and complaining. Estelle's around back, looking at the dianthus. You want to see them?”

Sylvie came out of the front door. “There's something I should tell you, Ma.”

“I don't want to hear one more word from you, young lady,” said Beryl. “You just take your father in and see to him, then go to your room and read your Bible until I call you. See if you can find any recipes using milk and honey.”

“I'm warning you—you should hear me out.”

Beryl's cheeks turned red. “Maybe I'll hear you out of house and home if you don't obey me. If I find so much as a single travel brochure on the table when I come back inside, I'll pack your bags myself and throw them at the end of the driveway. As for your father, he can learn to wear diapers and suck soup through a straw. Do you understand?”

Sylvie grabbed the handles of Buck's wheelchair and took him into the house. Ruby Bee was too appalled to do more than follow Beryl down the steps to the yard.

Beryl stopped at a trellis covered with sweet-scented, creamy blossoms. “This is an antique variety of honeysuckle called Serotina that blooms all summer. In the fall, it will be laden with lovely red berries that draw in our feathered friends. We are all nature's guardians, are we not? As opposed as I am to disorganization, I allow the butterfly weed just beyond the fence to thrive in order to nurture our winged visitors.”

Ruby Bee was steeling herself to make a remark about nurturing those a mite closer to home when she saw a yellow jacket light on Beryl's arm. “You got another friend,” she said, pointing.

Beryl flicked it off. “They never bother me. Out here in the splendors of …” She stopped to flick off another one. “Why, I haven't been stung since …”

“Take it easy,” advised Ruby Bee, backing away. “Don't slap at 'em.”

Beryl was staring in horror as several more yellow jackets began to crawl up her arm. “I'm allergic to them. Up until three years ago, I didn't know I was, but then I got stung and had to be taken to the emergency room. Why are they doing this? Make them go away!” She gasped as one lit on her cheek. “Away!”

Ruby Bee had no idea what she was supposed to do. “Don't make any sudden moves. They're just—”

“What?” shrieked Beryl as several more alit.

Estelle came dashing around the corner. “What in tarnation's wrong?”

“She must have disturbed a nest,” Ruby Bee said, still not willing to move in any closer. “All they're doing is investigating thus far. As long as she doesn't …”

Beryl began to slap at her arms. “What are they doing? Why won't they leave me alone?” She ducked her head and stumbled backward. “Make them go away! Oh my Gawd! I've been stung! Get these things off me!”

“What should I do?” demanded Ruby Bee. “Call for an ambulance?”

“Do you have one of those kits?” Estelle said, grabbing Beryl's arm despite the yellow jackets descending like ants at a picnic. “Can you give yourself a shot?”

Beryl fell onto the grass. “Kit's in the refrigerator.” Her voice thickened. “Need it now.”

Estelle nodded. “I'll get it right away. You just rest easy for a minute.”

“I can barely breathe,” Beryl gasped. She rolled over and weakly attempted to brush the yellow jackets off her face and arms. “Help me!”

Estelle ran into the kitchen and jerked open the refrigerator door. A carton of milk, a covered dish with leftover pot roast, a bowl of green beans. “Sylvie!” she called as she pawed through bowls. “Where's the kit?”

“Kit?” said Sylvie as she came into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes and yawning.

“Your mother has been stung!”

Sylvie paused. “Oh, dear.”

“She says there's a kit in the refrigerator!”

“Then let's have a look, shall we?” Sylvie opened the refrigerator door, pondered the contents, and then closed it. “No, I don't see any kit. Why don't you ask Mother which shelf she put it on?”

Estelle went back to the yard, where she found Ruby Bee twisting her hands. Beryl was still, white, and to be real blunt, as dead as a doornail. “I don't know if this so-called kit might have helped, but I feel like we should have done something,” she said as she stared down at Beryl's body. Yellow jackets seemed to be feasting on her as if she were a crumb of cake at a Sunday school picnic. “You'd almost think …”

“When they collect the body,” Ruby Bee mused, “ain't nobody going to test her skin. She was allergic to bee stings. She went into shock, and she died before she could give herself a shot. Yellow jackets are nasty critters. When riled, they attack. They're a sight smaller than hornets, but they're meaner and more willing to attack.”

“Why did they?” asked Sylvie as she sank down on the grass.

“I reckon you know,” Ruby Bee said as she folded Beryl's hands over her chest. “You and Buck are gonna have to live with it. I won't say anything. You'll have to decide if a Caribbean cruise is enough to wash away your sins. You have to live with what happened, not me. If the sugar that was meant for the pie ended up in the sunblock lotion, that's not up to me.”

“You won't say anything?” said Sylvie.

Ruby Bee gazed at Estelle. “We need to go. If I don't put an apple pie in the oven before long, the truckers will be squawking like jays long about noon. Maybe I'll try an extra pinch of ginger.”

“Do that,” murmured Sylvia as she went inside the house and closed the door.

Caveat Emptor

The first time she came walking across the street, I pegged her for a whiner. Her shoulders drooped like she thought she was carrying a goodly portion of the world's woes in a backpack, and from her expression, I could tell right off that she didn't think it was fair. I had news for her: nobody ever promised it would be. If it were, I'd have been playing pinochle beside a pool instead of watching soap operas while I ironed as the world turned.

She came onto the porch. “May I please use your phone?”

“Long distance?” I said cautiously.

“I need to call Mr. Wafford. He was supposed to have the utilities turned on by today, but nothing's on.”

I took a closer look. She was at most in her late twenties, with short brown hair and a jaw about as square as I'd ever seen. Her eyes were sizzling with frustration, but her smile was friendly. Smiling back, I said, “You bought the house over there.”

“I'm Sarah Benston. I signed the papers last week, and Mr. Wafford promised to arrange for the utilities to be on when we got here. It's after nine o'clock. My son and I have been on the road for fourteen hours, and there's no way we get by without water and electricity. I was hoping that he could still do something.”

“You bring your son inside and let me give him a glass of juice,” I said. “You can call Wafford if you want, but you're welcome to camp out over here. How old's your boy?”

“Cody's ten. I guess it's too late to call Mr. Wafford. He won't be able to do anything at this time of night.”