The Sweet Potato Queens' First Big-Ass Novel (22 page)

“I'm fresh out of ideas,” I said, my drink suddenly tasting sour in my mouth. “I guess we can't always fix things in each other's lives. God knows I've tried. I certainly couldn't convince Tammy not to move to England.”

“Maybe you weren't meant to,” Mary Bennett said. “Bob is remarried and happy as a clam. Tammy's running around with blue bloods, just like she always wanted.”

“I guess so,” I said. “She never invites us to visit. It's weird. I think she doesn't want anything to do with us anymore. Tammy's over
there
and Gerald's lost his mind—the Queens are falling apart before my very eyes.”

D
amn, woman, that was one hell of a workout,” Mary Bennett said, rubbing her biceps. “You're almost as tough as Fredrick, my trainer in Hollywood. What a sadist! He'd drag me kicking and screaming out of bed every morning at five. Threw medicine balls at me. Made me lift weights until my eyeballs bugged out.”

“No pain, no gain,” I said, tying my running shoe as I sat on the weight bench. At ten a.m. Adonis Gym was nearly empty.

“Fredrick wasn't into pain. He was into torture,” Mary Bennett said, rummaging in her purse. Out came a MoonPie, which she unwrapped and wolfed down in two seconds flat.

“I can't believe you just did that,” I said, my mouth hanging open.

“Excuse my manners.” She licked her fingers. “I should have offered you a bite.”

“That move, missy, just canceled out your entire workout.”

“I can't help it. I've been depri-i-ived living in California. Just try to find you a decent blue-plate lunch out there—they ain't got a collard nor a grit to their name. All they got is ‘nouvelle cuisine'—which means ‘just enough food to really piss you off.'”

“Do you really think you might stay in Jackson for good?”

“The South's in my blood. I've missed
everything
about it! Big wraparound porches. People saying ‘hey' or ‘mornin'' when you pass by. And magnolia trees! I'd trade twenty of those scrawny, narrow-ass palm trees for the cool, delicious scent of one big, fat magnolia.”

“Which reminds me. We need to cool down.” I grabbed the back of my calves and started stretching.

“Just pour a bottle of Evian on me and I will be plenty cool,” Mary Bennett said, not budging from her mat on the floor.

I tugged on her arm. “No wonder Fredrick had to be a sadist.”

Joey Monroe, another personal trainer, paused on the way to the locker room.

“Jill, your delts are looking good.”

“I've been working on 'em. That exercise you showed me did the trick. I see
you're
making progress on your biceps—quite a set of guns you got there.”

“Gittin' there.” He then noticed Mary Bennett, who was still sprawled stubbornly on the floor. “Sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt your session.”

“I think this one is over,” I said, scowling at Mary Bennett. “My client is being remarkably disobedient.”

Joey laughed. “That's why I always carry a cattle prod. Works every time.”

I introduced him to Mary Bennett, who finally rose off her duff to shake his hand.

“A couple of us are meeting in the juice bar around five,” Joey said. “You game?”

“Not today.” I waggled my hands at him. “I'm getting a manicure after work.”

“Another time. Nice to meet you, Mary Bennett.”

“Who was that sack'a diamonds?” Mary Bennett said after he departed. “He could trap my zoids any day of the week. And why the hell would you give up a rendezvous with him for a freakin' manicure?”

“I've neglected my cuticles.”

“I think there's
other
parts of your body you've neglected. And the way ol' studmuffin was looking at you, there's no doubt that he'd be
de-lighted
to attend to 'em.”

“Not interested,” I said, twisting my torso back and forth. Just because Mary Bennett wasn't cooling down didn't mean I couldn't.

“And pray tell, why the fuck NOT? He's a cutie pie.”

“There's no chemistry.”

“Hunny, if there's no chemistry with that, your Bunsen burner's busted.”

I stepped forward into a lunge position. “Joey doesn't do it for me.”

“Supposing it was Richard Gere who wanted to meet you for juice. Would you turn
him
down?”

“He's not my type,” I said, reaching my arms skyward. “Too much of a pretty boy.”

Mary Bennett grasped my elbow. “Jill, hunny, I think you better stop cooling down. You're already an iceberg.”

“If you like Joey so much,
you
go after him,” I said, pointing in the direction of the showers.

“Maybe I will.”

I noticed a piece of paper on the floor near the weight bench, and knelt to pick it up. “What's this?”

It was a page from
People
magazine: “Big Trouble on the Set of
Yours and Mine.
” I started reading. “‘Sit-com cutie Stacy Williams gets quickie Dominican divorce and leaves co-star and hubby Brian Landers in a lurch.'”

“That's mine,” Mary Bennett said, snatching it out of my hand. “It musta fell outta my purse when I got out that damn MoonPie.”

“It's about
your
Brian.”

“He ain't
my
Brian—he hasn't been that for a long, long time.”

“How interesting! He's free. You're free. Maybe after all this—”

“You read too many romance novels. I don't even know why I tore that stupid thing out.” Mary Bennett balled the article up and threw it into the trash. “Come on, I want a drink.”

We went into the juice bar and climbed up on stainless steel stools. Mary Bennett planted both elbows on the counter. “Barkeep. Pour me your strongest.”

“That would be our wheatgrass shake,” said Randy, a baby-face kid right out of high school.

“I'd rather eat dirt—at least it'd be chewy,” Mary Bennett said with a scowl.

“How about a glass of guava juice?” he stuttered.

“We'll both have spring water.” I ushered Mary Bennett to a table. “Don't worry,” I whispered to her. “I have a flask of Jack in my gym bag. In case of emergencies.”

Mary Bennett gave me a weak smile. “That's one of the several million things I like about you. Always prepared.”

“This is a full-service operation.”

Our water arrived and I poured a few fingers of bourbon into Mary Bennett's glass.

“Daddy's losing ground every day,” she said after drawing on her drink. “Sometimes he thinks I'm some old girlfriend of his named Toots. You should hear him sweet-talk me. ‘Toots! You're the only woman I've ever loved!' The old fart still won't stop flirting. Women and wine, that's all he ever cared about.”

“I know it's been hard between the two of you over the years,” I said.

“It ain't any easier now,” she continued. “On his good days, the man's a slave driver. For breakfast, his eggs must be soft-boiled and served over toast points. Every afternoon he wants the entire
Wall Street Journal
read to him. Thank God, he falls asleep before page two. The only reason I'm running myself ragged is out of respect for my mama's memory. She loved him, even though I never saw him shed a tear when she died.”

“Is there anything the Queens can do?”

“Nah. I've got hot-and-cold running nurses. But thanks for asking. His doctor says he doesn't have much longer. I am actually meeting with the funeral director tomorrow. No more about Daddy Dearest. Anything new?”

“I'm still fretting over Tammy. I sent her three letters recently, and I haven't heard a peep from her.”

“She ignores my letters, too, the hussy,” Mary Bennett said with a frown. “Hey! Why don't we call her right now? Is there an office we can use? I have a calling card.”

“I've tried, but no one ever answers.”

“No harm in trying again.”

We went into the assistant manager's office, and I looked up the number in my address book and dialed.

“It's ringing,” I said, the phone pressed against my ear. Foreign phone rings always sounded so tinny.

“You've reached an out-of-order line,” said a recorded voice in a crisp English accent. “Try your connection again.”

“No good,” I hung up. “The phone is on the blink.”

Mary Bennett tsked. “We can't phone Tammy. She doesn't answer our letters. Short of flying our asses over there, I don't know what else we can do.”

 

“I'm feeling lucky tonight,” I said, rubbing my hands together as I tossed Patsy a bingo card. “I've added another category. Men with comb-overs.” I scanned the crowded pub for candidates. “Check out the guy leaning on the jukebox.”

Patsy shook her head. “I don't really feel like playing tonight.”

“No wonder,” I said, pointing to her drink. “You haven't touched your Revirginator.”

“I don't feel like drinking, either,” Patsy said, pushing the glass away. Her cheeks were flushed, and I noticed she'd taken special pains with her makeup. “Something happened today.”

“What's up?”

“Remember that guy I told you about who's commissioned portraits for practically every member of his family, including his great-aunt Gertrude? Well, today he told me he was only doing it as an excuse to get to know
me
better.”

“Typical Guy Shit!” I cried out. “That's TGS for ya'. Sneaking around, not letting women know what he's really up to.” I took a big gulp of my drink. “I hope you told him to go to hell!”

“Not really,” Patsy said, squirming in her chair. “I…I…I actually thought it was kind of sweet. And I was wondering if you'd mind if I left early so I could meet him at the Sizzler. His name's Earl.”

I swiped at my face with a napkin. “You have a
date
?”

“Sort of,” Patsy said with a shrug.

“What about Jack and the way he stomped on your heart?” I demanded. “You were a mess for months. Are you
really
willing to put yourself out there again at the risk of having your fingers slammed in the car door of lu-u-uv?”

“We're just going to have supper.”

“Go ahead,” I said, waving her off. “But you're going to miss one hell of a bingo game. I just spotted a guy with butt cleavage sitting at the bar.”

“I'll call you later.” She got up to leave, but I pretended to be too busy with my bingo card to say good-bye.

I ended up playing a little longer, but it wasn't much fun by myself. Eventually I paid my tab, and on my way out, tossed the bingo cards in the trash. A tall Tom Selleck look-alike stood by the exit.

“Leavin' so soon?” he said with disappointment.

“You must be a psychic.” My voice dripped with sarcasm.

He chuckled. “Aren't you feisty? Don't suppose I could talk you out of leaving? I'd like to buy you a drink.”

I hesitated. His manner was sweet, and he was definitely easy on the eyes.

“No thanks,” I said, finally deciding I wasn't in the mood for boy-girl games.

“Too bad. What do you want to bet we have something in common?”

“Sorry,” I said, pushing open the door. “I'm not the gambling type.”

I
wore a Santa Claus hat and stood in front of the Piggly Wiggly, ringing my bell. People averted their eyes as they neared. “Tightwads!” I shouted, and rang my bell even harder.

My eyes flew open and I discovered I was not at the grocery store but tangled up in the covers of my bed. The digital clock blazed red with the godforsaken time of three a.m., and the phone on my bedside table was ringing so loudly that it jarred loose my remaining brain cells. I fought my way out of the sheets, knocked over a glass of water, and grabbed the phone.

“Did I wake you?” Mary Bennett said.

“It's okay—had to get up to answer the phone anyway.” I searched for the lamp switch and in the process, turned over everything. The lamp broke into what sounded like a hundred different pieces. Mary Bennett didn't even comment.

“Daddy's gone. Would you mind coming over?”

“Oh, hunny—I'll be right there.”

 

Mary Bennett's house blazed with light when I pulled up into the drive. As I stood on the porch waiting for her to answer the door, I noticed my pajama top was misbuttoned and I was wearing an aerobics shoe on one foot and a running shoe on the other. I hadn't bothered to brush my hair, so my shadow looked like Medusa's. The only thing I'd done before leaving my house was squirt toothpaste on my finger, and I used it as a toothbrush while driving over.

“Hey,” Mary Bennett said, surveying me as she opened the door. “I hope you didn't get all gussied up just for me.”

Mary Bennett's hair was pulled back into a sleek ponytail, her khakis were sharply creased, and her face shone as if she'd taken a scrubbing brush to it.

“I don't know why I called,” Mary Bennett said, motioning me inside. “Everything's taken care of. The funeral home picked him up a couple of hours ago. The maid washed and changed his sheets. I knew this was coming, so everything's been done.”

I followed her into the kitchen, where Patsy and Gerald were slumped over cups of coffee. A puffy-eyed Patsy grunted a greeting. Gerald, his cheeks prickled with whiskers, acknowledged me by pushing out the chair beside him with his foot. Suffice to say, except for Mary Bennett, the Queens weren't morning people.

The table held a huge tray filled with an assortment of pastries and croissants. I poured a cup of black coffee to yank myself out of my predawn fog.

“When a person dies, you're supposed to call
somebody
besides the coroner,” Mary Bennett said, leaning against the kitchen counter.

“You did the right thing calling us—we're family. We want to be with you for this,” Patsy said. The coffee was already working its magic. She was sitting upright in her chair, and the pillows underneath her eyes were beginning to flatten out.

“That's just it,” Mary Bennett said. “I'm not upset. I was such a Daddy's girl when I was real little, but I didn't have much of a relationship with him after Mama died—he was just absent, whether he was here or away. We
were
closer at the end, but that wasn't the Daddy I remembered. That was just the shell of him after the tumor took its toll.”

“Maybe we could help call relatives or friends,” Patsy offered in a drowsy voice.

“There's nobody really,” Mary Bennett said. “Just a string of women who likely wished him dead over the years. Daddy didn't have any friends, just acquaintances and business associates, and I'm sure they'll come out in droves once they read the obituary. Nothing brings out Southerners like a funeral.”

“There has to be something we can do to help,” I said, warming my hands around the coffee cup.

“No. But there's something I want to share with y'all.” She left the kitchen.

“I'm glad to see you came, Gerald,” I said with a smile.

“Mary Bennett asked me to be here,” he said with a shrug. “I don't know why. My presence is completely unnecessary.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Mary Bennett said it herself,” Gerald said derisively. “Everything's under control. She doesn't need us. Her daddy's death hasn't affected her the least bit. It's always ‘easy come, easy go' with Mary Bennett. I don't think she has a sentimental bone in her body.”

“You're not being fair,” Patsy said. “She wasn't close to her father.”

“She's not close to anyone,” Gerald said with a snort. “It's all on the surface with her. You don't know her like I do. She has about as much depth and sensitivity as Formica.”

“You keep saying that, Gerald, like you know something about Mary Bennett that we don't,” I said. “It's fuckin' time to clear the air. I think you're wrong about Mary Bennett. She has plenty of feelings. She just keeps things locked up inside her—” I clammed up when I heard Mary Bennett's feet on the stairs.

She came back into the kitchen carrying a bulging shoe box.

“Y'all, I have to tell you, the most amazing thing happened with Daddy—this morning—right at the end. I thought at first he was having a flashback, but then I realized he was totally lucid for the first time in days. I had fallen asleep in my chair with my head on the side of the bed. I was dreaming that I was a little girl—and Daddy had come in to wake me up from my nap. He called me Monkey. That was his nickname for me when I was little. I hadn't heard the name in years, but I'd never forgotten it. He was stroking my face, saying, ‘Wake up, Monkey—your Daddy loves you so.' And I woke up—and he was stroking my face and saying those words and he was looking at me as clear-eyed as he ever did in this life and I looked right back at him and said, ‘Oh, Daddy, your Monkey loves you so!' And he squeezed my hand and was gone. I don't know—somehow it just
fixed
something in my heart.”

After the group sob subsided a bit, somebody asked her about the shoe box.

“I found these in the attic,” she said. “There are dozens of them filled with letters.” Mary Bennett opened the box and withdrew a letter. “Here,” she said, handing it to me. “This one says it best, I think.”

“Dear Toots,” I started to read aloud. “Another year without you, and the pain doesn't get a bit easier, no matter how many drinks I take or how many women I sleep with. Monkey can't understand why I act the way I do, or why I can't bear to be around her. She's a young lady now and she reminds me too much of you. I'm a weak man. Forgive me my failings.” I folded the letter and gave it back to her. “Your daddy wrote this?”

“Yes.” Mary Bennett nodded. “Hundreds of them. A few within the last few months. All to my mother after she died. He never got over her. Toots was his nickname for her. I didn't even know that.”

“Did you have any idea how much he grieved for her?” Patsy asked.

“Not a clue. He never talked about her,” Mary Bennett. “The way he behaved with all those women, I just assumed he didn't miss her.”

“Why did you want us to read that letter?” I said gently.

She fixed her eyes on Gerald. “You're the main reason. When I read all those letters to my mama, I realized that I'm more like my daddy than I ever wanted to admit. They were a real eye opener.”

“Go on,” Gerald said.

“I know you don't think I missed Brian. My way of showing I ‘miss' someone is just like my daddy's. It started in high school when I chased after every boy in sight just to forget that my daddy never paid any attention to me and to hide how much it hurt.”

“You missed Brian?” Gerald said. His tone was extremely skeptical.

She bit her lower lip so hard it drew a spot of blood. “Very much.”

“Quit acting, Mary Bennett,” he said coldly. “This isn't a fuckin' TV show. Jill said we should finally clear the air, and I agree.”

Mary Bennett winced. “I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“If you won't tell them, I will,” he said coldly. “Mary Bennett lo-o-o-oved Brian
so MUCH
that she gave him up for her career.”

“What?” Mary Bennett said, drawing back.

“Oh, please. Don't play innocent,” Gerald said. “Brian
called
me. It was the night before Valentine's Day, about two in the morning, before our first St. Paddy's parade. Brian said that you were up for a huge part. He said you'd have to choose, him or the role, because the studio didn't want their star to be married to anybody—not as much fodder for the tabloids, they like to have the press following their stars around, speculating on who's doing what with whom. They might have been amenable to a big-deal real estate tycoon or a famous plastic surgeon, but they really saw no media value in her being married to a down-and-out actor (which Brian was at the time). ‘What will she do?' he asked me. I said, ‘I
know
Mary Bennett, she'll choose you.'” He shook his head. “Boy, was
I
ever wrong. Next thing I heard, you were cast as Electra and Brian was history.”

“No!” Mary Bennett cried. Her complexion was completely drained of color. “This is the first I've heard of this.”

“What do you mean?” Gerald asked.

Mary Bennett's face was twisted with distress. She took a moment to compose herself. “The night before Valentine's Day, Brian and I were invited to a party at a director's house. I knew I was in the running for the part of Electra, and I assumed the party was a way to check me out one last time. In the middle of the party Brian started drinking heavily, and he continued after we got home. I ended up going to bed without him. The next morning, Brian told me he didn't love me anymore and he wanted me to move out. I begged him for an explanation but he refused. He never said one word about the studio.”

“What?” Gerald said, not looking nearly so sure of himself.

“Brian's phone call to Gerald doesn't make any sense. If I was ever offered a choice between getting the part of Electra and being with Brian, there'd be no contest,” Mary Bennett said with vehemence. “I loved Brian more than anyone in this world. Much more than any stupid part.”

A thought occurred to me. “Was Brian ever alone with your director that night?”

“Sure,” Mary Bennett said. “He took him on a tour of the grounds. Why?”

“That's your answer,” I said.

“Wait a second. Do you mean to say—?”

“Yeah. I think your director told Brian he was standing in the way of your getting the part,” I said. “You never knew about the choice, because Brian decided for you.”

“Oh my God,” Mary Bennett said, her shoulders heaving. “Oh my God! I can't believe…all these years…I never guessed.” Her eyes welled up, and she collapsed into tears. It was the first time any of us had ever seen Mary Bennett cry.

“Mary Bennett.” Gerald's face crumpled with shame. “Can you ever forgive me?”

Her answer was to throw her arms around him and weep loudly into his chest. Patsy and I hung back. Gerald and Mary Bennett were locked in an embrace for a very long time, well after she'd stopped crying. They were making up for seven years.

 

Mary Bennett's dining room table groaned with so many casseroles it threatened to turn into a pile of splinters.

“I swear, is there anything better than funeral food?” I said, scarfing my fifth deviled egg.

“Nope,” Gerald said as he put away his second hunk of Miss Mildred's famous banana upside-down cake. “Miss Mildred has outdone herself this time—this cake is KILLIN' ME.”

“Too bad someone actually has to die for us to get it. Miss Mildred only bakes for funerals these days,” Patsy said. There was a smidgen of chicken salad on her upper lip.

“We should open a place called the Rest in Peace Restaurant and only serve funeral food,” I said. “We'd make a fortune, is all I'm saying.”

“We'd be waddling all the way to the bank,” Gerald said, filling his plate yet again. “In a bit, let's lounge by the fire and plan the menu for the Rest in Peace, and the outfits for the wait-staff—perfect relaxation exercise, talkin' 'bout clothes and food.”

“Thank y'all for coming! Keep in touch!” Mary Bennett was at the front door, seeing off the last guests from the funeral.

Her pumps clip-clopped on the glossy hardwood as she entered the dining room. She wore a black wool dress and gold earrings, looking every bit as chic as Jackie Kennedy.

Earlier, Mary Bennett had delivered such a beautiful eulogy, everyone in the church thought Charles Manning had been the most doting father in the history of the world, living or dead. She'd seemed at peace with herself afterward, and looked ten years younger. Who knew forgiveness could be just as flattering to a woman's face as having a little work done?

During a rare quiet moment before the funeral, I asked her what, if anything, she was planning to do about Brian. She said she didn't know yet. Between her daddy's death and healing her rift with Gerald, she was trying to corral her thoughts and emotions.