The Glass Is Always Greener (5 page)

That’s when she lunged. She threw herself across the table and grabbed my right hand, which she then forcibly placed on her head.

“Feel that,” she bellowed.

“Ouch!” I tried in vain to yank my hand away. “What is it?”

“Get a good feel,” she ordered.

“Okay, okay. You can let up.”

“No, you have to feel the other side. And push the hair away too, and tell me what you see.”

“Gross! C.J., they make special shampoos for this condition—oh my fathers, what the hell? C.J., is this
really
a horn? No, that’s ridiculous! You’ve obviously glued something to your head.”

“Uh-uh, Abby. Here, I have a tail too. You gotta feel that.”

“Get out of town and back! A tail?”

“That’s not so uncommon, Abby. Like one in a hundred thousand people is born with a little extra something that needs to be removed, but this—Abby, you really need to feel it.”

This was getting surreal. The only pills I’d taken that morning were a multivitamin and extra vitamin C, but they were Mama’s pills, ones that she’d brought with her and foisted on me. Left to my own devices, I picked up my nutrients via a glass of orange juice and healthy eating choices (which did not include pillow-size biscuits, no matter how tasty). My point is that I had not, to my knowledge, ingested a hallucinogen, nor was I still asleep and having a nightmare. I knew the latter because I could smell bacon, and I don’t smell anything when I dream.

“C.J., I’m not going to go feeling around in your pants—not here, at any rate.”

Chapter 5

T
he pseudo-giantess from Shelby pivoted around the table and would have forced my hand down the back of her Gloria Vanderbilt denim jeans had not Mama and Wynnell returned from the ladies’ room. As it was, we presented quite a spectacle and had the attention of everyone in the restaurant.

“What’s going on?” Mama said in a tone that only a mama can muster.

“Nothing, ma’am,” I said.

“Then why is your face the color of a raw pork chop, and why is everyone staring at you?”

“C.J. and I were arm wrestling,” I said. “I lost badly—of course.”

“Why Abigail Wiggins Timberlake and Oughta-Be-Washburn, you’re lying to me, as sure as Sherman razed Atlanta. C.J., you wouldn’t lie to an old woman, now would you?”

“Yes, ma’am, I would.”

Mama turned and faced the other customers. “Y’all see what I have to put up with? Have y’all ever seen such an incorrigible pair of twins? Oh yes, they are twins—normally they’re as close as Frick and Frack. I guess they’re just overly excited about this being their thirtieth birthday; I know, it doesn’t seem possible—but Abby here played in the sun a lot as a baby. Plus she used to smoke. There’s a lesson there, folks.”

“I am not C.J.’s twin!” I cried. “I’m practically old enough to be her mother!”

“You said it, dear, I didn’t.”

At that Mama gathered her crinolines in both hands and glided from the room like a swan on ice skates. Wynnell hurried after Mama, and C.J., bleating a pathetic apology, trotted three steps behind.

I
was stuck with the check.

Toy and I never got along—except late on Christmas Eve day, when we could be found canoodling over a puzzle, or playing Go Fish (a tradition we kept up all the way through high school). The rest of the year we were sworn enemies, if not out for blood, then at least out for revenge.

It was during my so-called Toy years that I learned how to be sneaky and tap into all my baser instincts. I had to, because it was a matter of survival. Essentially then, this darker side of me is all his fault. At least that’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.

After I paid the bill, rather than exit through the front door where I knew the rest of my group were waiting, I fabricated a story about a competition and a race, and was ushered through to a back door, which also happened to be a shortcut to where I’d parked the car. By the time the others came back in to inquire about me, I was long gone in Mama’s car. As a matter of fact, I was probably halfway to the shabby-chic home of Chanteuse Ovumkoph Goldburg.

Rob’s mom lives in a 1940s traditional two-story brick that is now sandwiched between a pair of McMansions. The effect is immediately unsettling, as the brain has trouble sorting out which of the residences is out of place. As I understand it, Chanti has been offered a substantial amount of money for her house by someone who wishes to bulldoze it and erect a third McMansion in its place. So far memories have triumphed over money.

A boxwood hedge flanked Chanti’s restrained brick path, in contrast to the imported river-stone walks and dwarf gardenia borders of both overstated productions on either side. Yet I would rather be walking up to the door of either stucco palace, with the intent of selling skin products, than facing the woman who produced my best friend. To put it succinctly, Chanti had never liked me.

Actually, I can’t recall anyone she’s liked other than her Robbie. If the word
possessive
had a picture next to it in
Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary
, it would be Chanti’s stern visage. I realize this description makes their relationship sound like it leaps off the pages of some 1950s psychological review of homosexuality, but I’m just calling a queen a queen.

But I wanted to know where Rob was, and since he hadn’t answered either his room phone or his cell phone, I was willing to bet dollars to doughnuts that the good ol’ boy was at his mama’s. And while I was betting greenbacks against my favorite fat-laden sugary treats, I’d go so far as to say that he’d already confronted his mama about the food-poisoning charge and was now curled up on his bed, in a fetal position under the covers, reading ancient copies of
Mad
magazine by flashlight. It is self-medicating habits like this that keep the man trim and fit-looking, while the rest of the walking wounded sport spare tires and double chins.

Chanteuse Goldburg answered the door looking as if she were about to head out to South Park Mall. In fact, her purse was waiting in the howdah of a wicker elephant just inside the door. South Park, for anyone who is unfamiliar with area shopping, is
the
place to shop in Charlotte. Another way to put it is thusly; that’s where Neiman Marcus is located.

“It’s you,” she said, and nothing more. She didn’t even stand slightly aside.

“And it’s you.”

“Look, Addie, I’m not receiving
unexpected
visitors today.”

“Mrs. Goldburg, you know very well that my name is Abby. We’ve known each other for years. May I come in?”

“No.”
No?
For heaven’s sake, the woman was as Southern as sweet tea, and here she was refusing to invite me in? What on earth was going on? Was she being held hostage? Was there a gunman hiding behind the thick, genuine silk, floor-to-ceiling drapes?

“I just wish to speak to Rob,” I said quickly, fearing the door might be slammed in my face. “We can do it out here on the porch—if you prefer.”

“You can’t.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Mrs. Washtub, do you have any idea how much that emerald ring means to me?”

“The name is Wash
burn
, dear, and I’m sure I don’t understand how the ring’s sentimental value has anything to do with you allowing me to talk with your son.”

“Why you arrogant little—
tiny
—woman, you. I never really liked you, from the moment I met you. I don’t think my Robbie was truly gay until you got your hooks into him. You’re what they call a fag hag, aren’t you?”

Me?
A fag hag? Was that a pejorative term? And if so, for whom? For little, tiny me, or for my gay friends? Well, it certainly wasn’t cool for Rob’s mother to be calling me that, because it was clear that her intent was unkind.

“Mrs. Goldburg, your son is certain that he was born gay; he experienced same-sex feelings from a very early age. And he was certainly acting out on those feelings long before he met me. Like decades before.”

She bit her lip and shuddered. “Enough with that crude talk. Come in—but just for a second.”

Stepping into the house was like entering a mausoleum to good taste. Chanti had been a high-end interior decorator who’d retired from the business in the mid-1970s. During her working life she’d acquired some very nice pieces, some unusual ones as well. However, Chanti was still using 1970s wallpaper and fabrics, so that the overall affect was somewhat discombobulating.
Depressing
was another word that immediately sprung to mind.

The second she closed the door, Chanti grabbed both my hands. “Where is it?”

“Where is
what
?”

“Don’t be obtuse, Mrs. Washbum. Where’s the ring?”

I yanked my hands away and put them behind my back. “
What
ring, damn it?”

“The emerald ring, you blockhead! The one my sister gave you. The one she should have given to me. It belonged to our grandmother, you know.”

“No, I didn’t know. And please read my lips—
I don’t have your ring
.”

“I heard her leave it to you in the will. We all did.”

“Yes, but I refused to accept it. You all heard that as well.”

“Look, missy,” Chanti snarled, as she leaned over my airspace, “you can play games all you want; but I know the truth. I am family after all. I officially identified my sister’s remains.”

I shrank back toward the door. “The truth? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“The ring was missing, you imbecile!”

“Finally! A three-syllable insult. Of course it was missing, Chanti. The police always remove the valuables from the victim for safekeeping. Did you ask about it?”

“You exasperating, harebrained twerp!” she screamed. “I don’t know what my son sees in you.”

And there, as if by magic, the fruit of her womb appeared on the staircase behind her. He was dressed in chinos and a pale blue chambray shirt that set off his deep salon bed tan. Since sandals—without socks, of course—have, as of late, been given a thumbs-up by the mavens of the fashion world, Rob sported an extravagant pair of designer straps. Even from this short distance he appeared cool, elegant, and unflappable.

“Good morning, Mama. Good morning, Abby.”

Since Rob hung the sun it was only natural for Chanti to turn and greet him. I could have used those precious seconds to scoot out the door, but I had come to see my friend, damn it.

“
Boker tov
,” I said.

“
Boker or
,” Rob said, and laughed.

“What was that?” Chanti barked.

“That was Hebrew,” I said.

“I learned it in NFTY,” Rob said. “You know, Mama, my Reform Jewish youth group.”

“Abby’s not Jewish,” Chanti said. “You shouldn’t be teaching her things.”

It was an absurd statement, but one not to be argued with. I’d just hit a home run in the game of “irritate Chanteuse Goldburg,” and I sure the heck wasn’t going to rub my victory in.

“Abby,” Rob said. “Come with me to the back porch.”

I needed no further urging.

Once we’d settled into some comfortable recliners, and were sipping mimosas, Rob cleared his throat.

“Uh-oh,” I said.

“Uh-oh, what?”

“You’re not going to yell at me for getting into it with your mother?”

“If
that
was getting
into it
, then I’m going to insist you come back home with me every time I visit. Her imperial highness thrives on discord, as you might have noticed. When she went to finishing school she got an A+ in How to Make People Miserable. By the way, I’m all for you having that ring; that’s what Aunt Jerry wanted. But I am curious as to how you managed to get to Aunt Jerry and get the ring before she was—I mean, you didn’t take it off
after
, did you?”

I may be a petite woman, but my mouth opened wide enough to swallow the state of Delaware. “Rob Goldburg! You’re not suggesting that I killed your aunt, are you? Because if you are, I’ll—I’ll—let’s just say that Dick Cheney will wish he’d had me working for him.”

“Ouch! So much meanness in such a small package of pleasantly arranged molecules. Abigail, darling, it didn’t even flash across my mind—not for a microsecond—that you had anything to do with Aunt Jerry’s horrible send-off. I only meant that, given both your love of jewelry and knowledge of gems, you might have felt tempted to slip that boulder off her finger before screaming bloody murder. It was, after all, your ring.”

I carefully set my champagne flute on an onyx coaster before getting up. When I leaned to give Rob a hug, he virtually pulled me into his chair.

“You don’t need to be forgiven,” he said. “But you need to join me. It’s times like this that I feel very much alone.”

“Oh Rob—”

“She left me a million dollars, Abby. Free and clear. No strings attached.”

“She did? Where was I?”

“You’d jumped off the table and run into the house for some reason. What did you do, go to the bathroom?”

“No. I was embarrassed by that ring episode. So, who else was named a beneficiary?”

“Uncle Ben, of course. The catastrophe was held at his house, so you can guess that they were kind of close—well, he got along with her better than anyone else in the family did. Anyway, she left him two million dollars—also free and clear.”

“Anyone else?”

“The Mecklenburg County SPCA.”

“Really? For how much?”

“Approximately three million in real estate.”

I sipped my drink. “No offense, Rob, but your aunt was loaded.”

“None taken.”

“Do you think your family will object to the dogs and cats of Mecklenburg County sharing in her largesse?”

Rob’s laugh was as hollow as a store-bought cheese straw. “Three lawsuits have already been filed—and no, none of them are mine.”

“So that means your bobble-headed Uncle Aaron—well hush my mouth, how shallow can one get? Sorry, Rob, that just slipped out.”

Rob laughed. “Not to worry, Abby. We call him Bobby on that account. Not to his face, of course.”

“Who is we?”

“Why Bob, of course.” The irony—and perhaps Rob didn’t see it—is that if Aaron shaved his mustache, he and Bob Steuben could pass for identical twin brothers.

“So far that’s one. Who are the other two?”

“My righteous cousin, the pastor; and The-One-to-Whom-All-Is-Owed—that would be my mother.”

“You’re kidding! Your mother, who just inherited a million dollars—plus ten thousand for supposedly—well, you know—anyway,
she’s
contesting the will? Doesn’t that seem just a little bit—uh—”