Lowcountry Summer by Dorothea Benton Frank
“You couldn’t make this stuff up. But why is he calling you? You’re a matrimonial lawyer.”
“Poor Nancy. Nancy Poole’s one terrific lady. Pretty as a picture and sweet as pie. An unbelievable gardener, in fact. Hence the shears, I guess. Why is he calling me? Because this wasn’t Bubba’s first time up at bat and I can smell divorce in a gale wind the same way women can smell a shoe sale from fifty miles away. Besides all that, Bubba’s got more money than Croesus and a taste for danger. It will be lucrative as well as interesting.”
“Okay. Got it. So what about my nutritional thoughts? Can I go in there and do something drastic?”
“Caroline? You go in there and do whatever the hell you want in that kitchen. I couldn’t care less. Just remember those are my girls. I gotta go rescue Bubba.”
Trip was gone in minutes and I went into the kitchen to assess the battlefield. In the first place, the garbage cans were full. Dishes that had to have been from last week were stacked in the sink. The dishwasher was full but had not been run. There was grease all over the stove from the frying pans they had used to make their grilled cheese sandwiches. The more I looked, the more appalling the details became.
“Pretty messy, huh?”
I looked around to see Chloe with two plates in her hands. I took them from her but was hard-pressed to locate a spot to put them down. The countertops were covered with various open cartons, empty cans, balled-up paper towels . . . need I say more? It was probably the most disgusting kitchen I had ever seen, and if Frances Mae saw it in this condition, she’d go on a binge for sure. Say what you want about Frances Mae Litchfield, but she kept her house in pretty good shape, considering she had spent years living with young terrorists and an overgrown baby boy. I finally just put the plates on top of the refrigerator and sighed.
“Chloe? Do you want to help Aunt Caroline perform a miracle?”
“Sure!”
“Where does your momma keep the dishwasher detergent?”
She bustled around me and produced a box of Cascade from under the sink.
“This stuff?”
“Yep! That’ll do her!”
I filled the soap wells, closed the door, and turned on the dishwasher. It was so jammed full it could not have held another teaspoon. Then with Chloe’s help I pulled the plastic bags from the trash cans and tied off the tops. Some container had broken through the bags and leaked into the cans, which now smelled like something had died in there. As quickly as I could, I double-bagged them. This job was going to make me retch. I was sure of it.
“Can you put those on the back porch, sweetheart?”
“I can take them all the way out to the big cans, if you want.”
“Lord love ya, darlin’!” She was an ugly little duck to be sure, but her heart was in the right place. “Linnie? Belle? Where are you? Can you girls come to the kitchen now and give me a hand?”
Belle appeared with her dirty dishes in hand and Linnie was right behind her.
“What now?” Belle said, and handed me her plate and bowl as though I was the new housekeeper.
I reached out for Linnie’s dishes, stacked them on Belle’s, and shoved them into a spot on the counter.
“I want y’all to take these trash cans outside and rinse them out good with the hose and some big squirts of this.” I handed her a bottle of liquid detergent.
“Why me?” Belle said. “I’ve got homework to do.”
“So do I. Tons of it,” Linnie said. “Besides, that’s not our job.”
“Really? Whose job is it? Take a whiff,” I said.
They leaned over the rubber can, inhaled ever so slightly, and gagged.
“It’s unsanitary. Y’all made this mess, so let’s get busy and clean it up.”
They stood there and looked at each other and then back to me as though I had just crawled down the ladder of an alien spacecraft, deciding if it was worth it to defy me. They made a poor choice.
“Sorry,” Belle said, “I’ve got to go write a paper. Get Dad to do it when he comes home.”
“Yeah,” Linnie said. “Get Dad to do it.”
I was aghast. If I had ever spoken that way to Lavinia Boswell Wimbley, she would have blistered my bottom. But these two? Did they care? They spun around on their heels and started to leave the room.
“I don’t think so,” I said in my imperial-bitch voice. “Y’all stop right where you are and listen to me.” They stopped but did not turn to face me. “Turn around, please.”
They turned and looked at me with the most hateful faces I had ever seen on them. My heart was pounding in my ears. I was furious.
“Some things are about to change around here. First of all, we’re going to use some manners and have some respect for each other and show some respect for this home. If you continue to live in this squalor, you’re going to give yourselves E. coli. Nice people don’t live like this. Animals live like this. When I leave, this house is going to be clean, neat, and orderly. And you want me to tell your father to do it? Are you girls serious?”
“Um . . .” they said.
“He even works on a Sunday night so that you girls can have a nice house and all the blessings you have and that’s how you would treat him? He should come home and wash trash cans?”
“Um . . .”
Um, indeed, I thought.
“I think it’s time y’all started taking some responsibility around here. So either you can decide between yourselves who’s taking what job or I’ll decide for you. Do you understand me?”
“I was going to do the dishes later,” Belle said. “It’s no big deal.”
“Yeah, seriously!” Linnie said. “Why are you making such a big deal out of this? It’s just a couple of days’ worth of stuff.”
“How about this? I don’t like your attitude. You both have some nerve. And you know what? Your mother would pass out on the floor if she could see this place and hear the way you talk.”
I surprised myself at what I had just said. But it was true. Frances Mae may have been an insufferable gold digger, but it seemed we shared an affection for neatness and order.
Well, the mere mention of their mother struck the lightning rod of their guilt nerve. I could see an immediate change in their faces and in their body language. We went from arms crossed over the chest “Aunt Caroline is a coldhearted witch from the seventh circle of hell” to arms hanging like old baguettes “Aunt Caroline is probably right.” It was interesting that pushing the Frances Mae button had such a profound impact on them. Or maybe they had not thought I was serious at first, or they couldn’t envision me with a sponge, getting my hands dirty, doing real work.
“Okay, okay. Let’s go do the cans together and then you wash and I’ll dry,” Belle said to Linnie.
“Well, the dishwasher is still running, so why don’t we check out your laundry situation. After the cans are rinsed?” I suggested, and then realized they had no intention of moving beyond the kitchen. “You know, Rusty is looking for a housekeeper for y’all, but so far there are no takers. I’m thinking you girls will be out of underwear in a few days, so why not just take care of it now?”
“She’s right,” Linnie said to Belle as though I was invisible.
I was going to point out that it was impolite to refer to another in the room as he or she. It was right on the tip of my tongue. But you couldn’t make a silk purse from a sow’s ear in one day, so I let it slide. They were poisonous enough as it was.
“Tell you what,” I said. “Do the delicate load first and then hang everything on hangers, regular clothes next, then sheets, and we’ll do towels last. How does that sound?”
“It sounds like four loads of laundry,” Belle said. “I’ll never get my paper written!”
I looked at my watch and saw it was almost seven o’clock. She was right. The wonderful thing about the approach of summer was that our part of the world enjoyed longer days, but more daylight was also easily translated into longer workdays.
“Okay
“Okay,” they said, and disappeared to throw their things, their dainty little thong bikinis that made me nauseous to look at them, into the washer.
“And the garbage cans,” I called out.
They returned, took the cans, and went outside to deal with them.
I immediately pulled another garbage can up to the refrigerator, opened the door, and gasped. What I found there is difficult to describe except to say that nothing, not one article in a bag, bowl, or container of any type would ever find its way to my table. They had yogurt so far beyond its expiration date it had reincarnated into another life. A milk carton on the second shelf in the back had chunks in it. The cheese had green patches. The bologna had turned white. The celery was limp. Here was evidence of Frances Mae’s illness galore. And, lo and behold, what do you think was stuck in between the ketchup, pickles, and mayonnaise on the shelves of the door? Red Bull. There had to be at least two dozen cans of the supercaffeinated energy drink derived from a lab. It had absolutely no nutritional value and it was on its way down the drain.
I stood there, snapping open the cans and pouring out their contents, when suddenly Chloe reappeared.
“Whatcha doing?” she asked.
“Cleaning out the fridge. What are you doing?”
“Linnie and Belle are gonna scream their heads off at you.”
“No. They’re not.” I paused for a moment, thinking of what to do if they did. “Why would they do that?”
“Because they drink that stuff morning, noon, and night.”
“Well, I think it’s very bad for people to ingest something like this and I want to keep them healthy, so I’m throwing out all the junk food and old stuff. Wanna help?”
“Nope. I don’t wanna get killed. I’ll be back.”
She skipped away. I knew at once she was going to find her big sisters and rat me out. I was right. Just as I had pitched the last package of greasy processed meat, it was pandemonium.
I could not tell you exactly who started the screaming, but I just stood there while my two nieces, whom I now believed to be in desperate need of a psychiatric evaluation, yelled and called me terrible names at the top of their lungs while Chloe covered her ears and ran out of the house.
“Momma’s coming back and she’ll fix you good!” Belle screamed.
“Momma’s gonna cut your stuck-up ass!” Linnie said.
“Your mother will do no such thing!!” I picked up my purse, looked at them calmly, and said, “Are you finished, ladies?”
They made some demonic guttural sounds and then gurgled to a close.
“Okay, here’s the deal. Your father and I strongly believe that eating processed food isn’t good for your hyperactive bodies, your wretched dispositions, or your mediocre academic performance. Red Bull does nothing positive to enhance those things either. It’s not even food.”
“But I need it!” Belle wailed.
“I’m sure. Addictive personalities run in families, you know. That should give you pause, kiddo.”
“You can’t stop us from drinking Red Bull!” Linnie said.
“With your father’s cooperation, we can minimize its use. At least in this house.”
“Great. Now the food police are here,” Belle said.
“No, I’m not the food police. I’m your aunt who is trying to help you girls understand that taking care of your body is something to be taken very seriously.”
“You think we don’t know that? You think we’re stupid?” Linnie said.
Lord above, and that’s a prayer, this child had the sassiest mouth I had ever heard.
“No. I do not think you’re stupid. I think you are both exceptionally bright young women with marginal ambition and questionable ethics. How’s that? The good and the bad. It is my intention to teach you about integrity and the great happiness that can come from living a more organized and healthier life. And a little gentility wouldn’t kill you either.”
“Oh, great,” Belle said. “Are you going to try and make debs out of us, too?”
“No, not today. Today I am going to the grocery store. My intention is to fill this house with healthy choices for your meals and to reestablish some kind of order in your lives. And when I come back, which will be in about an hour, I expect to find this kitchen cleaned, the refrigerator wiped down, and all the trash outside where it belongs.”
They just stared at me as though no one had ever tried to give them any boundaries or instructions.
“And the clothes washer humming away.”
The stare continued.
“Okay, then,” I said, and walked from the house to my car with a stride that meant all business. I backed out of the yard, turned onto the street, and drove to the stop sign.
“Oh, dear God!” I rested my head on my arms on the steering wheel and prayed. “This is much harder than I thought it would be. What am I going to do with those girls? Plan a party for Belle? And just who in the hell is Erica Swink?”
13
Miss Lavinia in the Garden
TWO WEEKS PASSED, STILL NO housekeeper, and the running back and forth between Tall Pines and Walterboro was putting a strain on Rusty’s and Trip’s nerves. As each week went by and we got closer to Belle’s graduation, we also got closer to the return of Frances Mae, which Trip, Rusty, and I were dreading more and more. How would she be? Sober, of course. But would she try to weasel her way back into Trip’s heart with some insane dramatic fight? I hoped not. The girls didn’t need any more turmoil. None of us did.
Speaking of the sweetie pies, Trip’s girls were tolerating Rusty better than they were tolerating me, as I was obviously driving them to the limits of what they could endure. She was the devil they preferred. At least that was what they told Amelia, who told Eric, who repeated the story to me. Eric’s report, and there was no mention of Erica and no inquiry from me, had its surprises, as Amelia said that Linnie and Belle were actually grateful for the kindness with which Rusty treated Chloe. Even though Linnie and Belle would have loved for the world to perceive them as tough cookies who didn’t care one whit for the rules of the game, they were still sensitive enough to recognize that their baby sister had been the most damaged by the weaknesses and personal failings of their parents. Or perhaps they were just beginning to accept the inevitable—that Rusty was going to be in their lives whether they liked it or not. In any case, they appeared to be less combative when Rusty showed up at their Walterboro door. At least that’s what she and I surmised since they didn’t make guttural noises or hiss in her face.
When they saw me on the other side of the door, they rolled their eyes and made some unflattering remarks like “Aunt Nazi is here,” and there was no smile as they said it. They didn’t exactly have Stockholm syndrome. But I still considered this to be an improvement.
We always arrived unexpected, thinking that element of the unknown would put them constantly on their guard, and hopefully make them worry about being caught doing something they should not have been doing. So far, try as we did, we had not been able to nail the little darlings, which surprised me, as I knew they were naked all the time and snorting the fumes of every product under the kitchen sink. Rusty thought I was being unduly harsh. I knew better. I knew it in my bones.
Rusty always brought them thoughtful food like a decorated carrot cake, blueberry muffins with perfectly glazed crunchy tops, a roasted chicken still warm from the oven, or organic eggs that had just been laid that morning. I brought cleaning supplies, a healthy lecture, and a surreptitious inspection of their rooms, the refrigerator, and the levels of dust throughout the house. Maybe that had something to do with their noticeable lack of enthusiasm for me.
It was Wednesday morning and I was talking to Rusty on the phone.
“I still can’t believe Belle skipped her prom,” Rusty said.
“Honey, that girl? She’s way too cool for something so traditional.”
“Me, too. So the girls get out of school two weeks from Thursday and Belle graduates on Saturday morning. How are the plans for the party coming along?”
Rusty and Trip had taken on the planning of a barbecue and swim party for Belle’s entire class. Belle had a thousand objections to that because she felt the plantation was too far away from Walterboro and no one would come. The invitations went out over the weekend and Belle was proven wrong.
“The phone’s been ringing off the hook all morning. I guess the invitations must have arrived and were intercepted by the parents. They all want to know if there will be adult supervision and a lifeguard and all that. They are especially concerned about alcohol.”
“Alcohol is always a worry. Drugs, too.”
“Well, I just told them all that they’re welcome to come and help chaperone.”
“And?”
“And I’ll bet you dollars to donuts that not one of them shows up. But you know what? I’m going to make some adult food, like maybe some marinated chicken or something, and have enough to serve just in case. I mean, it’s their child’s graduation, too? Maybe they want to take pictures or something?”
“I’ll bet you’re right. So what can I do to help?”
“Let’s see. The food’s covered and I’ve ordered tons of balloons and I got a pile of those foam-rubber noodle things that work like rafts.”
“Kids love those things.”
“Yep. And I found great beach towels on sale, so I bought two dozen. We can always use them, right? Gee, maybe I should have bought more. What do you think?”
“I think a lot of kids will bring their own. Don’t worry.”
“You’re probably right. So I got the cutest plates and napkins and I was thinking about getting a DJ? What do you think?”
“Nah. Let the girls make their own mix and blast it from your sound system. You have outdoor speakers, don’t you?”