Mother (21 page)

Jerry gaped. “
You
people?”

Duane stiffened. “
Opium
, you say?”

Prissy ignored him. “I don’t mean
you
, silly boy,” she said to Jerry. “I’m not prejudiced against the Orientals. They make the absolute best chop suey. ” She leaned forward, as if sharing a secret. “I was referring to people like you both who have non-traditional ...
values.
”

Jerry’s eyes almost bugged out of his head, but Duane retained his rictus grin. “Well, we people can’t be everywhere. And I understand why you heteros keep that
Opium
scent to yourselves.” He winked at her and she blushed.
 

“I just can’t believe you’re a
real
gay, Duane, not with that look in your eye.” She paused and Duane felt Jerry cringe at his side.

Priscilla smiled. “You fellows keep up the good sales. I’d love to see you earn the animatronic Santa Claus this year.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Martin - er, Prissy.” Duane widened his patented fake smile.

She nodded, waggled her fingers goodbye at them, and turned toward the Collins home.
 

“What a bitch,” Jerry said when she was out of earshot.
 

“Bitch Supreme - with extra cheese,” Duane agreed. His mouth hurt from smiling.

“I don’t like what she implied. You don’t think she knows something, do you?”

Duane shook his head. “I don’t know how she could.” He squeezed Jerry’s hand. But he wondered, too.

Around the Sac

It was so humiliating, the scene Carlene had made over the hangers
.
After her daughter stomped upstairs, Prissy had asked her long-suffering son-in-law to continue minding her table of cannoli. She could tell he really wanted to run after his wife and apologize, but that wouldn’t have been a good idea. It would just spoil the girl even more.
 

And all the music was giving her a headache.
The cacophony of it all!
They would have to raise funds for a street-wide sound system that would give her jurisdiction over the music. All this rock and roll undoubtedly drove people away. They needed a uniform playing of the classics - Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, perhaps a selection of Lawrence Welk’s orchestrations. Wholesome music that people would enjoy.
 

Prissy slowed in front of the Collins house. She had to think of something to dissuade Geneva-Marie from running against her for president of the Ladies Auxiliary; she was Prissy’s only real competition and had to be stopped.
For the good of Holy Sacramental. We can’t have that scarlet harlot in power!

Prissy sighed - Carlene had sucked her dry and she didn’t have the strength to deal with Geneva-Marie right now. She
tsked
to herself as she passed the gaudy Spanish-style monstrosity and headed to the Vandercooth home, eager to sample Barbara’s fruit bars. She was also eager to see if Barbara had made as many as she’d promised - last year, she’d barely lifted a finger, using pneumonia as an excuse.
Utter nonsense.
Considering what a great friend she claimed to be, Barbara wasn’t terribly reliable. On top of that, she’d become mouthy.
And after
all
the things I’ve done for her.
Priscilla
tsked.

Well, hello Carl, how are you?”

Carl Vandercooth cringed at the sound of Prissy Martin’s voice. “Excuse me,” he said to Quinton Everett. “Hello, Prissy. I’m afraid you’ve just missed Babs. She’s taking a stroll around the sac - I believe I see her talking with Aida, if you want to catch up with her.”

“That’s all right, Carl, I’ll talk to her later. I just wanted to check out your wares. And please, don’t call Morning Glory Circle ‘the sac.’ That’s vulgar. Now, give me your sales figures.”

Quinton turned to look at her, and Carl watched her demeanor instantly change. She batted her eyelashes with syrupy coyness. It seemed very strange, considering …
 

“Why, what are you doing here, Quinton? Surely Carl has paid his mortgage this month.” She chuckled as if the old joke were funny. It never had been. It never would be.

“Of course,” said Quinton. He wore gray running pants and a charcoal IZOD jacket that matched his hair. “I was just stopping by to purchase fruit bars for my Little League players.”

Carl Vandercooth was no fool. His skin crawled, remembering what Babs had confided. He saw young Billy Sachs headed toward the table - the Sachs family always bought a couple dozen of Babs’ fruit bars - and Carl wanted to warn him off.
 

Billy arrived, out of breath. “Hi, Mr. V! Hi-” He recognized Prissy and looked away quickly. Pulling a twenty and a ten out of his pocket, he laid them on the table. “I’d like an assortment of whatever this will buy.” He grinned. “Heavy on the raspberry, okay?”

“You’ve got it, Billy,” Carl said. “You sure did a nice wax job on Mrs. V’s car last week. Will you do my SUV tomorrow? You can make all this money back!”

Billy’s face lit up. “I sure will, Mr. V! Thanks! I’ll do a great job!”

“I know you will.” Carl smiled at Billy as he placed an extra half dozen raspberry bars in the bag along with the rest of the cookies.

“You wax cars, young man?” Quinton Everett smiled his slick smile at the boy and licked his lips.

“Sure.”

“How would you like to wax my Jaguar?”

“Wow! I sure would!”

“Billy,” Carl said quickly. “I need to show you something. Come up to the house a minute?” He turned to the banker and Prissy. “Excuse us, won’t you?”

He led Billy up the driveway and to the other side of the SUV, where they couldn’t be seen. “Billy, don’t ever - and I mean
ever
- have anything to do with that man.”

“But-”

“Listen, it’s just hearsay, so I can’t tell you why, but don’t talk to him, don’t look at him, and don’t let him look at you. Now, take your goodies and run home. Wave to me and yell, “Thanks, Mr. V, I’ll ask my dad!” real loud, so the man hears you.”

“Ask my dad what?”

“Nothing. It’s just a means to get you away from him. I’ll see you tomorrow, anytime you want, for that wax job.”

“Okay.” They returned to the sidewalk and Billy trotted off, yelling back that he’d ask his dad.

“Well, what was that about?” Prissy asked. She looked annoyed that he’d ignore her in favor of a mere child.

“Man stuff,” Carl said, looking Quinton right in the eye.

Prissy sighed, and Quinton Everett looked wistful.
 

“Carl, if you and Babs took the time to decorate these packages of cookies - add a festive ribbon or some glitter or even stickers to attract little kids - you might sell more.”

Carl hid his annoyance. “It’s only noon and we’ve already sold half. Babs worked very hard to make these, and frankly, I worked very hard cutting and wrapping them. I think they look great, don’t you, Quinton?”

“Indeed. They look as good as they taste.”

Prissy’s lips puckered like the drawstring of a coin purse. “Well, I think you would really benefit from a little repackaging, Carl. It’s important that your products appeal to the customers.”

“We’ll be out by three o’clock.”

“Well, then you should have made more.”

“We’re looking forward to closing up early, Prissy.” Carl had just about had it with the old windbag.

“Then, can you just imagine how fast they’d be flying off the table with some improvements? You could make twice as many and sell them all!”

Quinton Everett’s head swiveled back and forth between them.

Carl sighed. “Maybe next year, Prissy.”

“Very well. I’ll be sure and let Babs know you’ve committed to it.” She eyed the table. “You might consider a new table. This one doesn’t seem to be holding up too well. It’s scratched. At least add a nice tablecloth.”

Carl felt his blood pressure rising. “I’m not putting any more time - or money - into these events of yours. As it is-” he clipped the sentence off, shocked by his outburst, but it was too late.
 

Prissy watched him, fire in her eyes. “A penny saved is a penny earned, Carl. We’ve learned
that
lesson, haven’t we?”

Carl was on his feet. “Just who do you think you are?”

Prissy’s jaw was tight, her mouth a firm, hard line. Despite her soft tone the force of her words brought the cords in her neck to the surface. “I’m the person who cosigned on your house when you nearly lost it, Carl.” Her gaze softened and that loathsome smile returned to her lips. “As I’m sure you well remember.”

Carl had never hit a woman in his life, but he was certain the only thing stopping him now was Quinton Everett, who surprised everyone by drawing himself up and rounding on Prissy.

“I think that’s enough, Priscilla. We all know what happened, and we’re all sick to death of hearing about it. It was a long time ago. All Mr. Vandercooth owes you is a thank you, and I believe he’s given you that, many times over.”

Prissy gaped at Quinton. Carl realized she was at a loss for words. It was wonderful. Unprecedented and wonderful.

Quinton, cool as a cucumber on a cold day, said, “Now, please, Priscilla. Go bother someone else.”

If Prissy had been speechless before, she was utterly stricken now. She raised a hand to her throat, clutching that dreadful hair necklace of hers. “What did you just say to me, Quinton?” Her dry whisper cracked.

Quinton didn’t miss a beat. “You heard me, Priscilla.”

Her gaze flicked from Carl to Quinton.

Carl just stared.
If she expects me to come to her rescue, she’s in for a disappointment.

She dropped her hands. “Well!” There was nothing more to say. She turned and stalked off, head high, shoulders back.  

Quinton sighed. “I hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable, Carl. I’m just tired of seeing you pushed around by her. She doesn’t own you
or
your home, and if I’d known she was going to hold it over your head for the rest of your life, I’d have advised you to get a different cosigner.”

Now it was Carl who didn’t know what to say.

“We can get her off that loan, you know,” Quinton said. “It’s been more than enough time.”

“We could?”

Quinton nodded. “Come and see me next week.”

Carl had never wanted to hug another man so desperately in his life, even “Creepy Quinton,” as the neighbors called him. He handed the banker a few dozen extra fruit bars. “Here,” he said. “For the Little League team.”

Ace Etheridge had watched the exchange between Prissy, his neighbor Carl, and Quinton Everett, with interest. It was obvious something had happened to upset Priscilla Martin, and now she was barreling toward him. He glanced around, but Iris was nowhere in sight.

As she neared, her angry frown softened and was replaced by a false smile. “Why, Lance, you baked!” She looked at the three chocolate cakes on his tiny table. “Or did your daughter bake for you?”

Lance
. God, he hated his given name - no one used it except for Prissy, who refused to call him Ace.
 

“You must have sold lots of cakes this morning already, you’ve so few left.” She bent toward him, getting in his face. “Isn’t that right, Lance?”

“No, there were just six.”

“Oh, you bachelors. I hope you and Iris had fun making them - it’s such a great bonding experience for a father and daughter.”

“Neither of us bakes. Babs was kind enough to bring these over for us to sell.”

Prissy’s eyes narrowed to angry slits. “Barbara made these, you say?”

Ace knew he’d fucked up, but wasn’t sure how to fix it so Pris Martin wouldn’t come down on Babs. “Um, yes.”

“I see.” Prissy stepped back.

“It was very kind of her, don’t you think? She’s always been such a nice lady. Very charitable.”

The smile didn’t slip but Prissy’s eyes were hard chips of pale stone. “Very charitable, indeed. I only wish she’d put her efforts into her fruit bars and allowed you and Iris to do your
own
work.” She looked him up and down. “Or were you too busy writing?”

Ace examined her, tried to see what knowledge was in those eyes.
How much could she know? And how?
He sat a little straighter. “I own the newspaper. It’s my job, Prissy.”

“Of course, it is,” she said. “But we all need to pull our own weight around here.”

“Duly noted.” He smiled and resisted the urge to give her a Nazi salute.

“Well, then, I suppose I’d better find Barbara.”

“Tell her thank you again, from Iris and
Ace.
”

“Duly noted,
Lance.
” And she was off.
 

All in all, Ace figured he’d gotten off pretty easily. But he cringed at the thought of what Babs Vandercooth had coming to her.

“Why, hello, Priscilla.” Aida Portendorfer spoke an instant before Prissy Martin’s finger poked Babs’ shoulder. “You don’t look very happy, Prissy,” she continued. “I thought the sale was going very well.”

Babs jerked away from the finger and turned to look at Prissy.
Oh, crap. What’s up her butt now?
“Hello, Pris,” she said, putting on her best oblivious look, the one that usually fooled Priscilla Martin. “Isn’t it a lovely day? It feels like spring is coming early this year.”

“Hello, girls!” Phyllis Stine approached in white go-go boots and too much makeup. “How’s everything going? Aida, Clyde just came back to take over the gingerbread table and he’s sitting there stuffing his face with your snickerdoodles. You
must
give me the recipe.” Phyllis barely paused for a breath. “I swear. I went from trying to sell my sister’s New Age books to offering one free with every gingerbread purchase, but I can’t give them away. I don’t know how Constance ever sold a single one.” She rolled her eyes. “Babs, I was just going to head over to your table for some of your apricot bars.”

“I told Carl to hold some for you,” Babs said. For once, she was glad to see Phyllis, since her presence would distract Prissy, but the aging cage dancer always annoyed her. She hadn’t seen her in days and it appeared she’d had a bit of an eye tuck - her skin was tight enough to split, just a thin layer stretched over sharp bones.
Maybe it’s just too much Botox.

Babs had decided natural aging was the best thing for herself, and it was obvious Aida agreed with her - Aida had stopped keeping the gray away and was now adding to it, seeming to relish her jolly grandmotherly appearance. But then, she had grandchildren. Babs herself had always been a blond and now she used a little tint to keep it that way - her hair was turning white. She exercised, did yoga, and wore a modest amount of makeup, but that was all. And Priscilla - well, she and Botox were obviously old pals, and had been for a while, but she dyed her hair shoe-polish black - it had been dark brown when she was young.
Maybe it’s a tribute to Ronald Reagan. After all, he’s still her favorite president.
Babs suspected Pris had had an occasional nip and tuck, too - her neck was too smooth for her age - but she’d never dare ask her and hell would freeze over before Prissy volunteered such information.