Monet Talks (11 page)

“They smell like a paper processing plant,” Rob said.

“Look guys, I'd love to stay and give you my opinion, but I'm headed over to Shem Creek in Mount Pleasant. I want to see if Greg's car is parked anywhere nearby. But first I need to rake one, or both, of you over the coals.”

“Uh-oh,” Rob said, “we've been outed.”

“I outed myself years ago,” Bob said, “so she must mean you, Rob.”

“Ha ha, very funny,” I said. “And yes, you are outed. Why didn't either of you tell me that y'all made a phone bid on the Taj Mahal?”

My buddies exchanged worried glances. For all their sophistication, suddenly they were now just boys caught with their hands inside a cookie jar.

I tapped my sandal against their hardwood kitchen floor. “I want the truth, and I want it now.”

“Careful, Abby, you'll leave a mark,” Bob said.

“Your floor has a better finish than that.”

“He's just worried you'll make his soufflé fall,” Rob said with a smile.

“Then maybe I should slam a few doors,” I said, but without a smile.

“Uncle!” Bob boomed. “We were bidding on it because we wanted it for you.”

“For me?”

“As a birthday present,” Rob said. “You've got one coming next month, in case you haven't remembered.”

“I try not to. But why the Taj?”

“Well, when we went to the presale viewing the night before, that's all you could talk about. Most beautiful thing you'd ever seen, you said—like a million times. We got the hint. To make it more of a surprise, we stayed away from the auction and bid over the phone. But some jerk kept bidding against us.”

“That would be me. So why did you stop?”

“We love you, Abby, but not ten thousand dollars worth.” Fortunately, that line was delivered with a grin.

“Well, thanks for the thought. And remember, whatever figure you stopped your bidding at, that's how much I expect you to pay for my birthday present—when you do get around to buying it.”

The look of terror in Rob's eyes may have been staged, but it was priceless. “Yeah, sure thing, Abby.”

“Okay guys, it's been lovely, but like I said, I
need to bop on over to the pleasant side of the Cooper to look for Greg's car.”

“We'd love to go with you,” Bob said, “but there's the soufflé to consider. You understand, don't you, Abby?”

“Of course.”

“Nonsense,” Rob said, “we're going with you.” He grabbed a set of keys hanging from the tooth of a scowling wall gnome.

“No fair,” Bob moaned. “The soufflé is going to fall without anyone even tasting it.”

“That doesn't have to be the case,” Rob said. “Bob, why don't you stay and give it a test taste? I'm sure Abby won't mind.”

I didn't, but I knew Bob cared. As much as he knows better, my homely friend lives in constant fear that his very handsome partner will suddenly become a raging heterosexual—in other words, Anita Bryant's poster boy.

“Let's all three taste it, and then go,” I said.

Rob glared at me while I smiled sweetly.

“So,” Bob said, “who wants to go first?”

I needed to get the show on the road, so I took the plunge. Actually, it was a series of stabs. The soufflé had a surprisingly thick crust on it, which has yet to be explained. It was, however, quite tasty.

“Pretty good,” I said. “Does it have blue cheese in it?”

Bob beamed. “I always knew you had sophisticated taste buds, Abby.”

Rob barely licked what was on his spoon. “Funny, because I would have guessed dirty socks.”

“You're right as well! You see, this particular blue cheese is made in a very poor monastery in the Carpathian Mountains. The monks use old socks—clean ones, of course—to separate the curds from the whey.”

“You're kidding,” I said.

Rob stared at his partner. “I'm afraid he's not. Bob always blinks when he's not telling the truth.”

The phone rang, and Bob, who was the closest, glanced at the caller ID. “It's blocked.”

“Pick it up anyway,” Rob said. “I've got this feeling it might be important.”

“Hello?” Bob said into the phone. Then his eyes widened as he turned to me. “It's for you, Abby.”

I
took the phone hesitantly. “Who is it?” I asked, one hand over the mouthpiece.

Bob shrugged.

“Hello?”

I was greeted by silence.

“Hello? Is anyone there? There's nobody on the line!”

“Sorry, Abby,” Bob said.

“Was it a man or a woman?”

“That's the thing, I couldn't tell. The voice was all over the place.”

“Maybe an adolescent boy,” Rob said, and put his arm around my shoulders.

“Could it have been a bird, Bob?”

“A bird? I guess so. You mean like Monet, right?”

“Right.”

“Shoot, Abby, I should have said something to keep him—uh, or her—on the line.”

“You didn't know. But
they
know—they know where to call me. Guys, I'm being followed.”

Rob squeezed my shoulder. “Sort of looks like it, doesn't it? But don't worry, darlin', we're not going to let anything happen to you. From now on Bob and I are sticking to you like glue.”

“But not Goofy Glue,” Bob said. “That stuff can't hold two pieces of paper together, much less suspend a truck from an I-beam like in those commercials.”

“They'll follow us to Mount Pleasant,” I said. “How am I going to look for Greg's car?”

“How do you feel about suitcases?” Rob asked.

“Excuse me?”

“I'll be right back,” he said.

“He better make this quick,” I said to Bob. “I'm being followed by some maniacal kidnapper, and he wants to show off his new suitcase?”

Rob kept his word, and was back in less time than it takes a Yankee to say the pledge of allegiance. He was pulling a very large suitcase in a floral tapestry design. He opened it immediately.

“Hop in,” he said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Don't worry, it has air holes all over the place. The center of each rose in fact.”

“What the heck is going on?”

“It's the perfect way to sneak you out of here. I'll open the garage door first and make a big show of loading the car, and then Bob and I
will take off, presumably on a trip of some kind. They'll sit and wait here, watching for your car to leave, but of course it won't.”

“I see—no, I don't. What are you doing with a suitcase full of holes?”

Rob blushed.

“It was a fraternity,” Bob said. “You don't want to know. Trust me.”

I am not a claustrophobic person. I'm sure that is in large part because I'm such a small person. What is a tight squeeze for most adults is plenty big for me. But just the thought of being locked up in a suitcase, no matter how roomy it might be, gave me the willies.

“I think I've seen too many horror movies, guys. This isn't going to work.”

The Rob-Bobs sighed in unison. “Somehow I'm not surprised,” Rob said. “Back in college when I had to—never mind. We could just stick you in the trunk when the garage door is closed. The trunk has a safety pull, so you don't need to worry about—”

“I'll do it.”

“Excuse me?”

“But you have to put this suitcase on the backseat, not the trunk. Fill the trunk with other suitcases. That will make it look like you're going on a long trip, and I get to see out.”

“Not much, you won't,” Bob said. “Whenever I—”

“Never mind,” Rob said. “We'll let you out as soon as we get over the bridge and into Mount Pleasant. You'll be out of here in fifteen minutes, twenty tops.”

I must admit that once I got in and found a comfortable position, it started to be fun. It was very much like playing hide-and-seek, or reading under the covers with a flashlight. Confining spaces can actually be comforting, seeing as how they remind us of the womb. The trick to enjoying them is that one must be sure that an exit is in the offing. Therefore I chose to think of the Rob-Bobs—more specifically, my trust in them—as my birth canal.

“Do you want to listen to some music?” Rob asked once we were buckled in and on the move.

“Sure,” I said, speaking through a peephole. “Just as long as it isn't rap.”

“Rap isn't music,” Bob said. “Music has to have a tune.”

“There are millions of people who disagree,” I said.

We didn't listen to any music. Instead, the Rob-Bobs kept a running commentary on the cars they could see through the rearview mirrors. As I might have expected, Bob thought every other car was following us, whereas Rob didn't see anything suspicious. Bob was right about one thing: there wasn't much I could see, besides the back of their heads.

Because I was literally in the dark, I didn't react at first when I heard the siren. Fire, ambulance, or police, they seldom have much to do with me. It was only when I heard Rob swear like an Air Force plebe—which he was at one time—that I realized that the three of us were in potentially deep doo-doo.

“Sir, do you realize you were going fifty-five miles an hour on that bridge?”

“No, sir.”

“The speed limit is forty-five.”

“I am very sorry, sir. I did not realize it.”

So far, so good. Rob was polite, without being servile. He was acknowledging his error, but not excusing it. There is a fine line one must walk at moments like that, and yet so much depends on whether the officer is having a good day, or his boxers are riding up and driving him crazy.

“Mr. Goldburg, the fine for exceeding the limit by ten miles is—What's in that suitcase?”

“Uh—the suitcase?”

“I just saw an eye.”

“An eye, sir?”

“There are holes in that suitcase, Mr. Goldburg, and I asked you a simple question.”

I closed my offending eyes. So much for wanting to see, as well as hear, what was going on.

“Yes, it is a simple question, one easily answered, I am sure—”

“If one had a brain in one's head,” Bob boomed, almost making me jump, which would
indeed have given the officer an eyeful. “I keep telling my friend that the dog is a basenji, but I might as well be talking to the walls.”

“A basenji?” the officer said. “My sister has one of those.”

“You're kidding! A red and white, a black and white, or a tricolor?”

“The kind with all three colors. What kind is yours?”

“Red and white?”

“Can I see it?”

“Man, I sure wish you could,” Bob said, “but the little bitch has taken to biting lately. That's where we're headed right now, to obedience school.”

“Yeah? They say biting is a hard habit to break.” I could hear the policeman rip a page from his book. “Mr. Goldburg, I'm going to give you a warning ticket this time, on account of you had a legitimate reason to be distracted.”

“Thank you, sir,” Rob said, with just the right amount of sarcasm.

“Don't thank me. Thank your little four-legged friend in the backseat. Lucky for you I have a soft spot for dogs.”

“Yes, sir.”

I heard the window close, then open again. “Hey,” the cop said, “just one more thing. How come you got the bitch in a suitcase and not in a crate?”

Bob spoke up. “Like I said, sir, the bitch bites a lot. Chewed up the crate so bad you can't close the door. This is just an old suitcase I wasn't using anymore. I plan to swing by Pet Smart in North Charleston after her training session and get a new crate.”

“Good move. Those basenjis are something else, aren't they? The little rascals come from Africa, where they use them as hunting dogs. Even use them to hunt lions and elephants, my sister says, because they aren't afraid of anything. Interesting reason why they can't bark—”

“They can't bark?” Rob asked.

There was a long period of silence.

“Mr. Goldburg, you led me to believe the dog was yours.”

“It is! I thought the rascal was silent all the time because she didn't like me.” He turned and stuck his finger through a hole not far from my face. “Does daddy's little girl like him after all? Does her? Does her? Oh, there's a good widdle girl.”

I despise baby talk when not issued from the mouths of babes. Plus which, the finger came dangerously close to jabbing me in the eye. Can this little bitch then be blamed for what she did next?

“Damn!” Rob jerked his finger from the hole. “She bit me!”

“Serves you right,” Bob said.

I could hear the officer chuckling as the window went back up.

“What the heck, Abby,” Rob said, “was that all about?”

“This widdle bitch bites a lot, didn't you hear?”

“Bob said that, not me.”

“Bitch,” Bob said, “is the preferred term for a female dog. Ask any breeder. Go to any dog show.”

“What's a male dog called?”

“A dog.”

I made Rob pull into the nearest parking lot and release me from the valise. If the maniacal kidnappers saw me, so be it. I was through with suitcases and canine identities.

 

The Mount Pleasant shrimp industry is based on Shem Creek, a tidal creek that bisects the old part of town like a jagged sword. Years ago the docks were jammed with shrimp boats. Today restaurants almost outnumber the boats, and the seafood they serve is not always local. The shrimpers—many of them Vietnamese—struggle to stay in business. I don't know how Skeeter and Bo manage to survive financially. If Greg and I didn't own the Den of Antiquity (and its sister store in Charlotte), we could never afford to live like we do. At any rate, Greg's boat, the
Brown Pelican
, was deserted except for an ornery, territorial bird of the same
name. But it was
there
. How could Greg have lied to me like that? How could he say he had the boat up in McClellanville, and that it was giving him engine trouble, when it was tied up at its home berth? Greg didn't even have it in him to tell a white lie, for Pete's sake. I learned early on in our relationship never to ask him if I look fat or if my hair looks nice.

We checked all the parking areas within half a mile of the creek. I even thought to push the horn button on my set of keys. I got no response—well, I got one. A Hummer took to bleating like an oversized lamb and unfortunately there was no way to make it stop.

“Let's get out of here, guys!”

Rob was still smarting from his warning ticket, plus he can be stubborn upon occasion. I can run faster than he drove away from the Hummer.

“This reeks,” I said, on the edge of despair. “First the stupid bird, then Mama, and now Greg. What's next? Will my shop burn down?”

“You forgot Dmitri,” Rob said.

“Thanks a lot. But at least he disappeared at home. He's probably leaving me a little present of apology right now—in my shoes.”

“This girl needs something to eat,” Bob said.

My heart pounded. I knew that the Rob-Bobs had put at least four suitcases in the trunk of their car before stashing me in the backseat. I had assumed those suitcases were empty, but
like they say, when you assume, you make an “ass” out of “u” and “me.” Perhaps Bob had packed a picnic lunch, in which case the already horrible day was going to get even uglier. I had no stomach for sweet and sour llama brains, or whatever Bob had dreamed up.

“I want to go to IHOP,” I practically shouted.

My buds were stunned. Their philosophy of restaurants can be covered in one sentence:
if it's part of a chain, it's cool to disdain
. But I had a hankering for flapjacks, and what better place to get them than at the International House of Pancakes?

Rob found his voice first. “You're kidding, Abby, aren't you?”

“No, I'm not. And there is an IHOP on Route 17, just before you get to Towne Center.”

Rob drove even slower, if that was possible. I had to remind him that one can be ticketed for driving too slowly. I had to say it about a dozen times. When we got to the restaurant, I was in such a hurry to get inside that I stubbed my toe on the curb. As a consequence, I hopped into the IHOP hopping mad. Fortunately, a plate of pancakes was all it took to placate me. As the sugar surged through my body, my brain became functional again. Although it may be fleeting, there is nothing as immediately satisfying as a high-carb high.

“Sorry if I was bitchy, guys.”

“No prob,” Rob said. “How else should a widdle bitch be expected to act?”

“Very funny. Guys, I want to get serious for a minute. Greg never, ever lies to me. He said he was spending the night with a buddy up in McClellanville, that he had the boat up there when it had engine trouble. But he never even showed up. That is so not like him. And why would his buddy, Mark, say he was going to be staying with us? Nobody told
me
.”

The Rob-Bobs exchanged looks. They both cleared their throats, but Bob spoke first, all the while smearing leftover syrup around his plate with a fork.

“Abby, has it ever occurred to you that Greg might be one of the boys?”

“He's in his late forties, for crying out loud, and he's happily married. I'm not saying I'm against a boys' night out from time to time. But
all
night? Give me a break!”

Bob smiled. “I meant gay. Do you think Greg might be gay?”

“Save it, Bob, this is no time to joke.”

“I'm afraid he's not,” Rob said.

“We had a friend in Atlanta,” Bob said, “who told his wife he was going to church. Well, he did go to church. That's where he picked up the pastor, who had his bags waiting there, and the two of them took off across the country.”

“That's cowardly.”

“Agreed, that's why I said ‘had.' I was just trying to illustrate that these things happen.”

I started to laugh. I couldn't help myself. The thought of my Greg being gay was absurd. They may as well have been trying to convince me that Greg was really a chimpanzee that was into heavy-duty body waxing.

“You think it's absurd, don't you?” Bob asked.