Authors: Virginia Brown
I mean that last as a somewhat accurate simile. Most men feel like they’ve been through a meat grinder when Bitty walks away from them. Southern men expect it when they become involved with a “belle.” Newcomers or visitors are quite often traumatized. It’s been suggested by one dazed man staggering away from a belle, that warning signs similar to Beware of the Alligators should be posted at state lines. Posting Beware of the Belle signs would be a complete waste of time and energy. Men caught in the spell of a proper Southern belle are as helpless to resist as Ulysses was the Sirens, although at least that worthy Greek hero took the precaution of having himself lashed to the ship’s mast. True belles have an awesome power, but not all use it wisely. It’s a responsibility I’m rather glad I don’t possess.
On our way home, Bitty mused aloud, “Girls today don’t have any proper notion of how to behave, have you noticed?”
“I assume you’re referring to Naomi Spencer.”
“She does come to mind, yes. It’s not that I have anything against flirting, or even having one of those things you won’t let me talk about anymore, because Lord knows, it does make life interesting. It’s just that so many young women don’t leave any mystery in the male-female thing at all. They just put it out there like slabs of catfish on ice for the men to look over and pick what they want. You know what I mean, Trinket?”
“I’m not sure. We’re talking about Naomi’s lack of restraint, right?”
“I suppose. Watching that empty-headed little tart bounce around swapping spit with first one man, then the other tonight, I had to wonder just what Philip was thinking.”
“Obviously, he was thinking with the head below the belt, Bitty. Men tend to do that far too often.”
“Did Perry ever cheat?”
“Not that I’m aware of, though he could have, I guess. I’ve just never thought about it. By the time I realized that he wasn’t the person I’d thought he was, or wanted him to be, I’d ceased caring what he did. Doesn’t that sound awful?”
“It sounds sad.”
I nodded even though Bitty was watching the road and not me, thinking that it summed up my marriage. Most of it, anyway. While Perry wasn’t what I thought he was, I’m quite sure I wasn’t what he thought I was, either. We both ended up disappointed.
“You know, Bitty, it wasn’t that Perry couldn’t keep a job. It was more that he didn’t think it was important. Uprooting the family to go halfway across the country chasing another pot of gold that’d turn out to be empty didn’t matter to him. He didn’t like staying in one place long anyway. I finally got to where I could tell that he was getting restless. It’d be little things, minor things that didn’t matter, but they’d pile up into big things. Then one day he’d come home and say he’d been fired, replaced, resigned, or whatever, but there was a great job opening three states away where we’d all be happy as pigs in mud. Of course, it’d never last.”
“Perry just has happy feet. But after all, Trinket, you did meet him at a sit-in when he was hitchhiking across the continent.”
I smiled. “It was a protest for Native Americans’ civil rights. I thought Perry was the most wonderful man I’d ever met when he started talking about how civil rights affect us all, regardless of race or religion, that if one segment of the population faces discrimination, then we’re all vulnerable to it. We sang freedom songs all night, slept all day. And rallied for the cause, of course.”
Bitty pulled into her driveway, hit the remote, and her garage door slid up. “I thought Uncle Eddie was going to bust a gut when he saw you on the six o’clock news. There you were, right up front holding a poster. Long hair, sandals, hip-hugger pants. Your belly button showing. Did you ever burn your bra?”
“Good heavens, no. I was never that foolish. The reason my breasts don’t sag today is because I knew enough to wear proper support.”
“Perky boobs is probably what kept you from being a real hippie.”
I laughed. “Not to mention the fact I didn’t do drugs. A shot of good whiskey, yes, but no drugs. Being a fringe hippie was a brief phase I grew out of quickly, but Perry could never quite leave it behind. Maybe I was just luckier.”
“We always seem to miss the shipwreck somehow, don’t we?”
“Bitty, sometimes we
are
the shipwreck.”
Chapter Thirteen
After my interesting night, I slept in the next morning. Brownie, once more rolled up in his blanket with only the tip of his nose sticking out one end, snored softly next to me. I lay there after waking, watching the soft light muted by sheers and curtains slowly crawl across the floor and walls. Peace settled around me. I wanted to nail it to the floor to make it linger.
Thoughts of going to Philip Hollandale’s funeral weren’t cheering enough to get me out of bed. I dreaded it. But of course, I couldn’t let Bitty go alone, and not just because I worried so much about her emotional state. Frankly, I worried that Bitty and Parrish Hollandale, Philip’s mother, would make a graveside scene. Unlike Bitty, I’m not as accepting of exciting funerals. I prefer brief, respectful services with a few hymns and no preacher trying to save mourners’ souls. Soul-saving is for a Sunday morning or other scheduled event. Reminding widows and loving family members, even obliquely, that the dearly departed may well be shoveling brimstone is the height of insensitivity. Most present have their own opinions about the deceased’s current destination anyway, so brief eulogies offered by those who wish to comment on the life and character of the recently passed suffice quite nicely in place of lengthy sermons.
Of course, that’s just my opinion, and unfortunately for me, not one shared by all.
Certainly not one shared by the planners of Philip Hollandale’s funeral. Perhaps it was the exalted company gathered to pay respects to a man fictionalized as humble, proud, generous, in touch with the common people, and a good Christian—the last of which I feel most of us are unqualified to judge, since the state of one’s soul requires knowledge of one’s heart, and that may often contradict one’s actions. Nonetheless, community members droned on and on about the good works of Senator Hollandale and his eligibility for sainthood, based on such events as his reluctantly signing a bill to increase benefits for the ill and handicapped to receive more medical treatment—a feat that required concessions from his political opponents to a watershed project in south Mississippi to be contracted by one of the senator’s corporate donors—and the generous donations he made yearly to various charities, of which Bitty told me the amounts were doubled when he filed his taxes and claimed deductions. Not to say Philip was a terrible person. He loved his mother and was devoted to his sister. According to Bitty,
very
devoted.
“Look at her,” Bitty leaned close to me to say, “straight as a stick. No boobs at all. She looks mannish, doesn’t she. Do you think Philip liked boys, too?”
Since I had no desire to discuss Philip’s sex life, and certainly not at his funeral, I gave Bitty a stern look meant to indicate my feelings. It went unheeded.
“I mean, he always wanted to do it doggie-style. Or I had to sit on top and turn my back. I wonder—”
She stopped only because I pinched her arm. “That woman is looking at us,” I said while trying not to move my lips. “She can hear you.”
Bitty followed the direction I was looking. “Oh, that’s Philip’s Aunt Itty. Deaf as a post. She’s looking at us because she’s trying to remember who I am. We usually got on fairly well together, but Aunt Itty is a bit forgetful.”
Perversely, I thought of Philip’s aunt and Bitty being introduced to guests at Hollandale functions, and a bubble of laughter percolated right up my throat. I did my best to hold it back. It wasn’t the time, and certainly not the place. Nonetheless, a muffled snort escaped. I covered it with my handkerchief and hoped it sounded like a sob.
Bitty gave me puzzled look, and I whispered, “Itty-Bitty.”
She whispered back, “Teensy-Weensie,” and we both struggled to keep from falling out laughing. Frequently, I’m sad to say, our main source of amusement is a comparison between our lives and the fictional world of television characters. “Teensy and Weensie” was a reference to two very healthy farm girls pursuing Tennessee Ernie Ford on an old
I Love Lucy
show.
Bitty chewed her lip, her nostrils flared with amusement, and we both tried to listen to the preacher promise eternal damnation for the heedless foolish. Even though I most likely fit into that category, I just couldn’t control myself. It’s a terrible thing to know you’re helpless in the face of emotion, even if it’s uncontrollable laughter.
My unfortunate predilection for snorting when caught in the throes of hysterical laughter coincided with the preacher’s thundering Biblical quote, “‘I also will laugh at your calamity—I will mock when your fear cometh . . . ’”
Two snorts escaped, the second louder than the first; heads turned, Bitty began to shake, and I held my breath in a vain effort to stifle the laughter I felt pushing up from my chest. I pressed the white handkerchief harder over my nose and mouth. My shoulders shook, tears of hysteria stung my eyes. Bitty grabbed my arm and I did hers. We both squeezed hard. Pain might shock us into soberness again, as well as the fear of unsightly bruises.
It seemed to take forever, but may only have been a few minutes, and we heard the end of the sermon and beginning of a hymn, then everyone rose to their feet to pay final respects to Senator Philip Hollandale. I’ve seldom been so relieved. As the senator’s burial was to be in his family cemetery, all we had to do was slip away and any confrontation would be safely avoided. Just a few yards, a few scant moments away, lay our escape.
Of course, the very subject of our near hysteria appeared right in front of us as we neared the chapel door. An elderly woman with stylishly cut white hair barred our exit. Medium height, ramrod straight, and with a patrician nose, she reminded me of my ninth grade English teacher.
“Aunt Itty,” Bitty said calmly, “it’s so very good to see you again. Have you ever met my cousin, Trinket Truevine?”
“Truvy?”
“Trinket Truevine,” Bitty said more loudly and slowly.
Aunt Itty cupped a hand behind her right ear. “Twinkie? That’s rather an odd name, isn’t it?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, though I had to bite my lip. “My real name is Eureka.”
“Ore-Ida?” she said. “No wonder you prefer Twinkie. Of course, my parents saddled me with Itta Bena, named after that town over in Leflore County. Terrible what some parents do to their children, isn’t it?”
Before I could think of an answer to that, she turned to Bitty and took her hand, covered it with her own pale, blue-veined hand weighted down with enough jewels to shame crown princes of any self-respecting country, and said softly, “We all noticed your emotion, dear. Even after all that happened between you and Philip, I find it so comforting that you still cared for him.”
Bitty, ever quick on her feet, put her other hand atop Aunt Itty’s and said smoothly, “Of course, I care about what happened to Philip. I just wish I could have been there for him at the end. I had so much I still wanted to say.”
“Yes, you certainly should have stayed together. But I’m not quite sure what you mean about his hair.”
“Philip died too young,” Bitty said more loudly.
“Oh no, I’m sure you won’t be hung. They don’t do that nowadays, do they? Besides, I don’t believe a word of that nonsense about you killing him. Just vicious rumor.”
“It certainly is.” Bitty patted her hand. “I’m glad Philip’s family realizes that. The person responsible for his death will be brought to justice soon, I’m sure.”
“Sooner than she thinks,” a cool voice behind us said, and with a sinking feeling, I turned to see the elder Mrs. Hollandale staring daggers at Bitty. “Aunt Itty always likes to believe the best of people, but unfortunately, she’s sometimes mistaken.”
Bitty smiled sweetly. “Yes, I understand she welcomed
you
into the family as well.”
Her meaning didn’t go past Mrs. Parrish Hollandale. Nor did it get past her daughter, who reminds me of Cher when she played in
Witches of Eastwick
.
“You tawdry tart,” Patrice spat, sounding like an angry cat, “I can’t believe you had the nerve to show up here today!”
Rarely is Bitty intimidated, and she wasn’t then, either. She stuck her chin in the air and said, “No matter what happened in our marriage, Philip deserves my last respects.”
Patrice Hollandale towers over Bitty, but not me. When Patrice stepped too close and loomed over Bitty like an avenging angel, I straightened to my full height, put on a polite but uninviting smile, and said, “It was so nice to meet you, Aunt Itty. I’ve heard such nice things about you. I’m sorry to have met you under these circumstances, but we must leave now.”
My comments were directed at Philip’s elderly aunt, and quite plainly did not include his mother or sister. I’d met them before, and while I’m not at all sure I believe in the implied incestual relationship that Bitty does, I’ve never cared for either of those Hollandale women. It’s been my experience that people who treat others as inferiors are really only covering up their own lack of class.
At any rate, Aunt Itty, who obviously has class, smiled sweetly and thanked me for being so kind as to attend Philip’s memorial service, then looked at Parrish Hollandale with a steely glint in her eyes. “Parrish dear, I believe the funeral director is waiting for us by the limousine.”
To her credit, Mrs. Hollandale took Aunt Itty by the arm, ignored Bitty and me with a lofty sniff of her nose in the air as if smelling something foul, and started toward the chapel door.
Bitty stepped to one side to allow them all room to pass, but Patrice Hollandale gave her a rude shove that sent her staggering against a christening font set to one side for what was probably a later service. Water sloshed out of the font and onto Bitty’s black Chanel dress.
For one horrible instant, I thought Bitty might actually slug Patrice Hollandale, but she just took a deep breath and said, “Oh you poor thing, I see that the Betty Ford clinic didn’t help at all.”