The Ming and I (8 page)

Mama dropped her pearls and grabbed my hand. “Who? Not
him
?”

My mother is absolutely smitten with the Prince of Wales. Our birthdays—his and mine, Mama is
much older—are only a few days apart, and Mama pegged me as his bride the day I was born. Nothing that Charles has done in the interim has shaken her faith in the suitability of our match. When Diana came along, Mama was livid. Even though I was already married to Buford and had two children, Mama saw the new princess as an interloper who had to be stopped. As far as I know, her letters to Buckingham Palace on my behalf have never been answered.

“No, Mama, not him. But possibly the Duchess of York, and some countess of somewhere. She has a steak sauce name.”

“A-1?”

“No. It doesn’t matter. The point is, I used you, and I’m sorry. Will you forgive me?”

Mama is nothing if not generous, so she gave me a warm hug. “Of course I will, dear. Now, Abby, just hold your horses, because I have an idea.”

I braced myself against a team of wild horses—hers, not mine.

“Yes?”

“What time is this party?”

“It starts at eight, but it’s open-ended.”

Mama’s eyes sparkled like the cubic zirconia in Tweetie Timberlake’s engagement ring. “Why, that’s perfect. I’ll call up our guests and tell them that the time of the soiree has been changed. I’ll tell them to come at six instead of seven, and to leave by eight instead of ten. Then, as soon as the last one leaves, we can head straight over to your party. We’ll only be fashionably late.”

“But Mama,” I wailed, “I have a date.”

“Oh, Greg won’t mind if I tag along.” Mama is truly fond of Greg, but only as a stand-in until Prince Charles comes to his senses.

“It’s Frank McBride.”

Mama took the news calmly. “Well, in that case I’ll bring a date, too.”

I stared at the woman whose body had given birth to me, but whose soul had been replaced with that of an alien from outer space.

“You will? Who?”

“Stanley.”

“Stanley Steamer?” I asked, laughing.

She smiled smugly. “Nope. Stanley Morris from Scrub A Tub-Tub.”

“M
ama! That’s ridiculous. You can’t date your maid, even if he is a male.”

“He’s positively buff,” Mama said in all seriousness. “I’ll tell him to come at eight o’clock to help us clear things away before your date picks us up.”

“But you don’t know anything about him.”

“He’s twenty-two, and he has pecs like Sly Stallone.”

“Important stuff,” I shouted. “For instance, who are his parents?”

Mama stared at me insolently. “I don’t know, and I don’t care.”

“You see, he’s got you brainwashed already. Does he have an education?”

“Who needs an education with a body like that?”

“This is asinine. You know that, don’t you? What are you going to do someday when you’re old and wrinkled, and he dumps you for a younger woman?”

“I’m already old and wrinkled. He doesn’t care.”

Now I stared at her. “Mama, you and Stanley didn’t—uh—well, you know what I mean.”

“No, frankly I don’t.”

“Are you doing the horizontal mambo, Mama?”

“Why, Abigail Timberlake! You should be
ashamed of yourself!” She shook her finger at me, as if I were a little girl again. “That would be wrong. A sin even, outside the bonds of marriage.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. If only tattoos were morally off limits as well.

“Does he think maybe you have money?” I asked casually.

Mama’s expression reminded me of that time I forgot her birthday. “He thinks I’m intellectually stimulating, Abigail. He called me witty. Do you think I’m witty?”

“You’re a barrel of laughs, Mama.”

“Now you’re making fun of me.” She sighed. “Just wait until you get to be my age. I hope your children treat you like a child.”

I cringed. When I was a teenager Mama wished two stubborn, rebellious teens on me. She got her wish. It was time to change the subject.

“Do you know how to curtsy, Mama?”

“Of course!”

“Could you teach me?”

She looked at me incredulously, as if I’d just admitted I couldn’t walk.

I was perhaps overdressed for Mama’s soiree, although frankly it is hard to be overdressed in Rock Hill. It was the last city in the United States to give up gloves for indoor daytime wear, and every now and then in the supermarkets you will spot one or two blue-haired ladies with mink heads bobbing over their shoulders. Stockings and heels are de rigueur, even at picnics. The first and only woman to wear pants to the Episcopal Church of Our Savior was pelted with wadded up bulletins (discreetly, of course), and made to double her pledge for the following year. Or so I am told.

“You look lovely,” Mama said, who just happened to be wearing an identical outfit.

“Thanks.” I stroked the soft skirt of my floor-length, off-the-shoulder black velvet gown. “If only I had some pearls to wear with this.”

“Nothing doing,” Mama said, her hand flying protectively up to her neck.

I had to make do with the faux diamond necklace Buford bought me for our fifteenth wedding anniversary. Apparently it was the same store where he bought Tweetie’s engagement ring. At least Buford told me at the time that my gems weren’t real. Poor Tweetie was going to be in for a shock if she ever tried to hawk that ring. Real diamonds have a higher refractive index and do not display dark areas when the table facet is tilted. Besides, the Buford I know would never spring for a ten carat diamond, even to possess the man-made treasures Tweetie has to offer.

Mama stayed in the kitchen while I greeted the guests. Believe me, my mother is not a wallflower, nor was she gallantly giving me center stage. She simply wanted to take all the credit for the food.

In Rock Hill everyone knows his or her place, and the docents all arrived precisely on time, and well before any of the board. The first two brought husbands. I dutifully allowed the men to peck my cheek—as is our custom in the South—and turned my attention to the women. I wouldn’t say that I pounced on them, but by the time they had drinks in their hands and were seated, I had ascertained that they knew no more about June Troyan than I did. Quite possibly they knew less.

“Oh, was she the one who got an Elvis tattoo on her calf?” one of them asked.

Her companion laughed, spraying good red wine on Mama’s white carpet. “No, that was Irma, silly. That’s why they fired her. June is the one who looked just like Oprah before she went on her diet.”

All my interviews went similarly. There were an even dozen docents, and only one woman (the do
cents were all female) remembered her.

“June and I volunteered on the same days,” she said. “Thursdays. She was a real nice lady, but very quiet. Oh, don’t get me wrong. She had a strong voice, and was a great tour leader, but between visitors she didn’t say much. And never a word about herself.”

My interviewee was not at all the quiet type, nor was she what I expected in a docent. Amanda was a gaunt woman with stringy hair, small but intensely bright eyes, and enormous ears that had been pierced many times. In her left nostril she wore a discreet nose ring. Call me a snob if you will, but the woman neither looked nor sounded particularly well educated. Buford would have pronounced her “rode hard and put away wet.”

“Did she seem to know her antiques?”

Amanda scrunched her nose in concentration, and the ring glinted. I wondered if it hurt to have it installed, and if it was inconvenient during a bad head cold.

“Not so that I noticed. We have these fact sheets to memorize, see. Everything we need to know is on them. All the history, all about the stuff in the house. But we aren’t allowed to say anything that isn’t on the sheets.”

“What if someone asks a question?”

“Well, then you can answer it, if you know your stuff. But people almost never ask questions, and when they do they’re always about silly things, like where’s the bathroom and do you enjoy your job.”

“To your knowledge, did June have any enemies?” I asked, trying another tack.

Amanda shrugged her bony shoulders. “Like I said, she never talked about herself.”

I thanked her and turned away.

“Oh, there is one thing,” she called.

I whirled. “Yes?”

“One time I showed up a half an hour early on account of I had to drive my husband to work that morning—he works over at Bowater, you see.”

I waved at her to speed up.

“Well, anyway, her car was already there, but I couldn’t find her anywhere. Then at nine o’clock, just when we are supposed to open the place, she shows up out of nowhere.”

“Oh?”

“And boy howdy was she ever dirty!”

“You mean dusty?”

“Yeah. She looked like she’d just crawled out of a chimney.”

“Where had she been?”

“I dunno. Like I said, she didn’t say much. She just asked me to cover for her while she went and cleaned up. But I can tell you one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“She seemed mighty excited about something. Kept humming to herself all day. Even when she was taking a group around.”

That was all Amanda was able, or willing, to divulge. Nonetheless I thanked her profusely, and then took advantage of the moment to ask her how she got her job.

The dark marble-sized eyes regarded me unabashedly. “Miss Lilah Green is my auntie. By marriage,” she added, perhaps sensing my incredulity.

Just as I said. In Rock Hill it isn’t necessarily who you are, but who you know.

The board began their fashionably late trickle at half past six. I’m not claiming that they coordinated their arrivals, but Shirley Hall was the first to arrive, and as a Yankee she was at the bottom of the totem pole. I breathed a loud sigh of relief. I hadn’t expected Miss Lilah to be the first to show up, but with
my luck you never know, and I was dreading her arrival.

“Hi,” she greeted me cheerily.

“Hey. Glad you could come,” I said, and stepped back so she could enter. Shirley Hall is not someone with whom to share doorway space.

But Shirley had her own agenda and stepped back as well. Her appraisal was quick and ended with a warm smile.

“I love your dress, Miss Timberlake. I have one identical to it.”

I sincerely hoped her dress was several sizes larger. “Thank you. Won’t you come in, Dr. Hall?”

“Shirley. Only students call me doctor, and half of them don’t anymore.”

I liked the woman. “In that case, you needn’t call me bachelor.”

She laughed. “Winthrop?”

“Yes. But way before your time.”

“Before I retired last year, I’d been at Winthrop twenty-five years.”

“I graduated thirty years ago,” I said, and could scarcely believe it myself.

We chatted amiably about this and that, but before I could get around to zeroing in on important issues, Mama came in bearing the first tray of hors d’oeuvres. Mama owns enormous sterling silver English trays, large enough for a roast pig, and this one was definitely a sight for hungry eyes. Mama got the round of applause she expected—and deserved—but before I could get back into my conversation with Shirley, the doorbell rang again.

Since Mama is vertically challenged, the peephole on her front door is much lower than most, and I was able to peer through it. I liked what I saw. Despite—or perhaps because of—his male appendage, Angus “Red” Barnes ranks just above a Yankee on
the Rock Hill totem pole. All his money, while useful to the foundation, cannot buy him the box seat in society that he desires. Backfield upper bleachers are all he’s ever going to get. One does not diddle Mattie Markham’s daughter and get away with it. Especially when one is married to a Sunday School teacher at the First Baptist Church.

I was surprised that Red had the nerve to show up at the docents’ party, but frankly I would have been more surprised if he hadn’t. Staying away would have given credence to any rumors I might be spreading. Of course I wouldn’t have spread any—telling Mama and Wynnell doesn’t count, nor does the Rob-Bobs—but Red, given his principles, would assume that I had.

It took me a minute to realize that he had the little woman in tow. His lawful bedmate, Marsha Barnes, was standing a full step behind him. Perhaps she didn’t like being seen with him, either.

I flung the door open and forced a big smile. “Hey y’all! Come on in.”

Red stared at me suspiciously. “Ms. Timberlake?” he asked, as if there might be another short, perky woman who looked like me at the same address.

“Yes. And you’re Mr. Barnes. We’ve met before.”

He blushed, a color that was incompatible with his orange freckles. “How’s that?”

“At my interview, remember?”

“Ah, yes!”

His relief was pitifully evident. But this cat had only begun to play with her mouse.

“Mrs. Barnes?” I pushed past him and all but dragged his wife into the house. “I’m Abigail Wiggins Timberlake. It’s so nice to meet you.”

That she regarded me suspiciously was understandable. I am, after all, not unpleasant to look at, and she was undoubtedly aware of her husband’s reputation.

Red looked around the room. “Miss Lilah here yet?”

I laughed appropriately. “Heavens no, you’re only the second board member to arrive.”

I had yet to let go of Marsha’s arm, and with only minimal tugging I steered her to the table. Red was right on our heels, probably the first time he’d stuck so close to his wife.

“What a terrible thing, Miss Troyan’s death,” I said, shaking my head. “Did you know her well, Mrs. Barnes?”

“Of course she didn’t know her,” Red growled.

“But I did know her,” Marsha Barnes said.

Red and I stared in surprise. “How?” he asked.

“She came to one of our Newcomers Club meetings.”

I was confused, and said so. I knew there was a group called Newcomers in town, but surely Marsha Barnes didn’t belong to it. She was as local as the trees on Mama’s lawn.

“But I’m originally from Lancaster,” Marsha protested. “I moved here only eighteen years ago, the year I met Red. As long as you renew your membership, they don’t care how long you’ve lived here.”

Now I understood why Marsha was in the Newcomers Club. Lancaster, South Carolina (not Pennsylvania!), is the next county over. It is also the name of the county seat. But for we South Carolinians—who are, by and large, a very sentimental lot—twenty miles may as well be two hundred. Any farther than that and one is, ipso facto, from out of state, in which case one would be inclined to join the Foreigners Club instead.

“Did you know her well?” I asked, trying not to lose track of my agenda.

She shook her head. “She seemed nice enough, but she only came once or twice. I remember her because
we have a birthday drawing each month and she won the centerpiece. She was sitting next to me, but Judy Farewell was on my other side and we kinda got carried away talking about miniatures. But I could tell June was really moved, because she actually started to cry.”

“Women,” Red snorted.

I patted Marsha, who seemed pretty choked up herself. “Do you know if she made any friends?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea. I invited her to come to church with me, but she wasn’t a Baptist.”

“What was she?” Trust me, this is a perfectly acceptable question south of the Line.

“A Buddhist, I think. Like I said, we didn’t talk much.”

“No damned way,” Red snarled. “She was as white as grits.”

I was beginning to like the mousy, mysterious women who had come hurtling through the plate glass window of my shop. She obviously had been plucky, moving to a new state by herself. And intriguing, appearing out of nowhere as she did, covered in grime. Of course she was exotic, since Buddhists don’t grow on trees in Rock Hill. And then there was the thing with the Ming. If only I had waited on her out of turn.

The doorbell rang again, and I shoved the Barneses toward the dining room.

“The food is in there. Eat as much as you can and make my mama a happy woman.”

Marsha smiled, and I sensed that she was grateful to be here. The poor woman was clearly in need of social acceptance, if not friends. When I got all my ducks in a row, I’d give her a call. Maybe even sooner—before she came hurtling through my window as well.

Red must have sent his wife on ahead. Just as I
reached for the door, he grabbed my elbow. His grip was much harder than necessary.