Death of a Rug Lord (11 page)

I
cupped my hands and shouted directly into Big Larry's left ear. “We're going to sue you. Do you hear me? S-U-E,
sue
. Let go of him this second. If my husband has as much as a hairline facture on just one rib, we'll take everything you own, even the bloomers off your mama.”

Arms the size of wharf pilings immediately released poor Greg, who slumped forward across our table whilst emitting an eerie groan. For what may have only been a few seconds, but seemed like an eternity, I entertained the possibility that the love of my life might have expired right there in front of me.

They say that in some near-death experiences one's life flashes before one's eyes, but I've never heard it said that when watching a spouse die, the future flashes in front of the survivor's eyes. I'd selfishly put off retiring, and now we would never know what it would be like to wake up each morning with a fresh day to spend together. Unless I remarried (and I was not about to train a new husband), I would have to do without the comfort of growing old alongside a best
friend, someone who would always look out for me. In the future, when I had only enough energy to sit on the front porch and watch the world go by, the other rocker would always be empty.

I can't remember which came first: my loud anguished cry of utter emotional pain, or the violent movement of Greg's shoulders. Whichever, my vocalization was cut short as Greg leaped to his feet, turned, and, as he explained to me later, throwing all his weight into the swing, connected his right fist with Big Larry's jaw. It might not have been the crack heard around the nation, but virtually everyone in Slightly North of Broad heard skin-covered knuckles connect with jowl-covered bone.

Big Larry stood stock still for a second, teetered back and forth several inches like a skyscraper in a strong wind, and then crumpled in his tracks. It was like watching a building being demolished by dynamite on TV. Much to my surprise, there was scattered applause.

“Timber!” some wag yelled. Just so you know, it wasn't me.

Three hundred pounds hitting the floor created enough of a tremor so that folks on the sidewalk peered through the windows. When they saw the television crew, which had now moved into close range, the pedestrians flooded into the SNOB, no doubt looking for their fifteen seconds of fame. The diners, all of whom had been as useless to me as last year's stock tips, suddenly sprang to life. They jumped to their feet and milled about, comparing notes with their table mates, a few even thinking to ask the arrogant author for her
autograph. But do you think anyone thought to ask Greg if he was all right? Or even to inquire after the welfare of Reclining Larry, for that matter?

Thank heavens the manager saw fit to call the paramedics, who called the police. Greg was taken to the University of South Carolina Medical Center, which mercifully is only a few minutes away by ambulance. At the E.R., he was immediately taken to be X-rayed, but as I was sitting in the waiting room, biting my nails, I glanced up at wall-mounted television and saw a replay of some of the worst minutes of my life.

I couldn't believe how awful I looked. I'd taken great pains to restore my hair and makeup to their preafternoon delight state before going out to dinner at SNOB. But the videotape taken by the local TV station made me look like a two-bit streetwalker who'd been on a four week binge after first throwing away her comb and soap.

“Ugh. I can't believe they let someone like that into Slightly North of Broad.”

“Mama?”
It was a somewhat rhetorical question, because if there were other women dressed liked Beaver's mother, Charleston would be the place to find them.

“Abby, what are you doing here?”

“Mama, that was
me
you just saw on television. That's Greg they're showing being carried out on the stretcher. Although he's actually in X ray now.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I'm sure. We just came from SNOB. Isn't that why you're here? I thought maybe the paramedics called you.”

“No, darling, you know I visit the sick list from Grace Episcopal. Greg? You thought the paramedics called
me
? Abby, are you all right?”

“Yes, Mama. I've been trying to tell you that it's Greg who's injured, maybe even seriously so. Anyway, I thought you were watching that stupid newscast.”

“Abby, you know I haven't watched news shows of any kind since Howard Cronkite signed off. What happened? It wasn't terrorists, was it?”

“Sort of—not really. Look Mama, it was that monster boyfriend of yours. We were minding our own business, having a romantic dinner, when Greg started coughing. Suddenly your idiot boyfriend leaps across the room, grabs poor Greg, and nearly squeezes him to death.”

Mama looked horrified. “I'm so sorry, Abby. Sometimes Guillermo doesn't know his own strength. It's all those years working out in the Georgia State Penitentiary, you see. But inside he's really as gentle as a mouse.”

“Big Larry is Guillermo?”

“Gracious me, no! Big Larry is Big Larry; he's just a friend. Guillermo is my man friend—if you get my drift, dear. Not that we've engaged in any acts that are inappropriate for a couple who have yet to unite in the bonds of holy matrimony. But just as soon as Guillermo can save up enough money to get back down to Chile to see if his wife is still alive, we'll know how to proceed. He has no compunctions against joining the Episcopal Church, so that might be the easiest route to follow.”

I stared at the woman who endured unspeakable
agony for thirty-six hours just to bring me into this cruel world. I loved her unconditionally, but didn't that mean—in addition to feeling warm and fuzzy toward her upon occasion—an obligation to protect her from harm? Lately it seemed as if the harm was likely to be her own doing.

“Mama, let me get this straight—and please correct me in case I'm having a flashback to the seventies and I heard everything wrong: you're dating an ex-con from Chile?”

“Isn't that exciting, dear? Guillermo Estevez. His ancestors were conquistadors.”

“Oh goody; they raped and pillaged the Incas.”

“Is that sarcasm, Abby?”

“Bingo. Why was he in the big house?”

“The what? Oh, you mean the slammer. He was innocent, Abby. And he was only the getaway driver. It's not like he was the one who went in and shot the security guard in both feet—before shooting himself in both feet. That, by the way, was a total accident. The safety wouldn't stay on. At any rate, Guillermo was paroled after thirteen years for good behavior.”

“Your boyfriend was involved in
that
robbery? I read about that in
People
magazine, for heaven's sake! ‘The world's most incompetent bank robber,' the caption read.”

Mama patted her pearls proudly. “Do you remember reading that he had an accomplice? That was Guillermo!”

Screaming in hospitals is discouraged. Pulling one's hair out is not such a good idea for a woman whose hormones are beginning to wane, and especially not
on the day before one is scheduled to see clients. I might have settled for lying on the floor and kicking my arms and legs (without the scream) but it was a
hospital
E.R., and who knows what, besides feet, had last touched that linoleum.

I closed my eyes so I could go to my secret spot; this is something my therapist taught me to do on those occasions when I found myself under unbearable stress. Unfortunately, Mama and Guillermo had beaten me to the spot and were locked in a not so chaste embrace. I tried to exile them in my imagination but they wouldn't budge. I even went so far as to dump a load of garden compost on them, but they merely shrugged and resumed their necking.

Upon opening my eyes, just as I was emitting the first syllable of a high-pitched shriek (it began with the letters M.A.), I noticed a wheelchair being pushed my way. In it was the very familiar head and shoulders of my darling husband.

I ran to greet him, but stopped short of throwing myself in his lap when I noticed that his right arm was in a sling. “Greg!”

“Easy, Abby, easy.”

“What's the verdict? What did that man do to you?”

“You should be asking what I did to him. Sweetheart, I broke three bones in my hand, and one bone in my wrist, and cracked two others, when I punched him in the jaw. Lord only knows what he looks like.”

“Isn't he back there somewhere?”

“No. I heard he was taken to Roper Hospital.”

“That's odd. I wonder why. Greg, what about your ribs?”

“Ah, more bad news, I'm afraid. One is cracked and three are bruised. Fortunately, they're all on the same side.”

“How long will you be in the hospital?”

“As long as it takes for you to check me out.”

“
What?
You're kidding, right?”

“Abby, you know they don't keep you in hospitals anymore unless you're dying, or darn close to it. Besides, hospitals are where all the germs are at. You do know what my chances of catching a disease here are, don't you?”

He had a point. Greg really was better off taking his aching body home; he'd certainly get more rest there. At least I wouldn't be shining a light in his eyes every half hour, or taking his temperature every whip stitch in a weird attempt to get back at my tenth grade biology teacher—not that a real nurse would ever do such a thing; I'm just saying that I wouldn't.

“But who's going to take care of you at home?” I asked. “You know, until you get the hang of things? At least here they have orderlies that can assist you with certain functions.” I gestured with my chin at the tall young man who'd pushed his wheelchair.

“What Abby's really saying,” Mama said, “is who will help you use ‘the little boys' room?'”

“Mama Wiggins!” Greg said, turning the color of fresh salmon.

“It's all right, Greg,” Mama said. “I was married once, you know. And I've had lovers. I am familiar with the male anatomy—all those hoses and things they possess. It's nothing to be embarrassed about.” She turned to me. “Besides, Abby, I'll take care of Greg.
I already live with you; why not let me earn my keep? You don't even have to worry about staying home tomorrow. All I ask in return is that during his recuperation I get to be the one to plan and prepare all the food, as well as be responsible for the housework.”

I didn't know which bothered me more: her use of the word lover
s
, her reference to hose
s
, in the
plural
, or her blatant bid to insinuate herself into our good graces. Surely Greg would find a diplomatic way to turn down her kind but totally inappropriate offer. On the other hand, having just emerged from the bowels of a bandaging room, my beloved had no way to know that my mother was dating an ex-bandit.

“Mozella,” he said with a smile, “your generosity is exceeded only by your good looks. I would be delighted to take you up on your generous proposition.”

“That's ridiculous, Mama,” I cried. “You can't even look at a turkey neck without blushing.”

Greg winked at me. “Shh, don't dissuade her, darling. I'm having too much fun. Besides, what she can't do, you can.”

“In a pig's ear,” I growled. But of course I was going to agree to the arrangement. I'd taken my wedding vows seriously—both times. And if I ever took them again, I'd be just as sincere the third time around.

 

The doctor had given Greg some choice chemicals to help him sleep through the night, and sure enough, he slept like a teenager. When Bob came to pick me up, my husband was still zonked, but not for long, because Mama, wearing a pinafore apron over her full skirt dress, was frying bacon in the kitchen.
When bacon molecules hit Greg's nostrils he goes from deep sleep to wide-awake starvation mode in three seconds flat. Throw in blueberry pancakes and fresh ground coffee, and he's capable of breaking through walls to get at it.

“So how was your evening?” Bob said when we were in the car.

Oops. There had been so much going on that I'd forgotten to call my best friends. What would have been the point anyway? To make them worry?

“Did you see the local news last night, Bob?”

“Just caught a snatch of it: something about a crazy tourist couple at SNOB accosting an older man. Hate to say it, Abby, but for a second I thought the woman was you, but then they showed a close-up of her face. That's when I thought, ‘Bob, you really need to get your vision checked again, and soon, because there is no way that woman looks like our Abby.' I mean, seriously, that woman hadn't exfoliated in a month of Sundays and her roots were showing like a mangrove swamp at low tide.”

I cleared my throat so loud that somewhere, someone in Homeland Security was no doubt rubbing a sore ear. “I'll have you know that I just had my hair done,
and—
not that it's any of your business—I do exfoliate with a prescription cream. And how do you know anything about mangrove swamps, since we don't have them this far north?”

“Yuth a minuth, Abby, while I take my footh out of my mouth.”

“Then I forgive you.”

“In that case I'm sorry.”

Having made peace with each other, we took the quaint Ashley River Bridge with its stone pillars over to James Island, hung a left on Wesley Drive, then a right on Maybank Highway. Just before the highway crosses the Stono River, it cuts through the middle of Green Acres, a municipal golf course. This bizarre bit of suburban planning leaves motorists and golfers alike cringing. I always steel myself for the thud of a golf ball against my windshield. But the fact is that too many golf carts have been turned into scrap metal upon encountering the steel frame of an automobile, so of course it's the fate of the golfers that is the main concern. There has been talk of building a golf cart bridge over the road, but such a project would cost millions of dollars, and why should the municipality have to shell out for something that only a few people in the community get to enjoy?