Big Foot Stole My Wife Read online

  Sylvie stared at her mother. “If I’d known we were expecting company, I would have tried more honey.”

  “Be sure to give your father’s back a good scrub,” Beryl said. She went across the kitchen, picked up a plastic bottle, and squirted cream into her palm. “I never go outside without a good slathering of sunscreen. We can’t be too careful about skin cancer, can we?” Without waiting for a response, she began to apply it to her face, neck, and bare forearms.

  Ruby Bee gave Estelle a hard look, then said, “We can’t stay for long, Beryl. I’m supposed to be open for lunch, and I believe Estelle has an appointment before too long.”

  “That’s right,” Estelle said brightly. “Elsie McMay gets mighty testy if I keep her waiting for so much as a butterfly’s flitter. We’ll just take a quick gander at your garden and be on our way.”

  Beryl finished rubbing the lotion onto her skin. “Sylvie, you get busy with your duties. Tell your father I’ll be in to see to his lunch after I’ve cut back the verbena. There are times when it feels like I’m the only person in this family able to take responsibility. You might as well have made that pie with green persimmons.”

  Ruby Bee gazed longingly at her car as they went outside. In a few minutes, she assured herself, she and Estelle could bounce down the driveway and turn on County 103. Not even the most delectable apple pie this’ side of heaven could warrant putting up with Beryl Blanchard and her mean-spirited tongue. The pie might have needed more honey, but Beryl needed an infusion.

  Buck was seated in his wheelchair on the far corner of the porch. “Leaving so soon?” he called.

  Ruby Bee sat down on a wicker chair beside him. “I was thinking how much I’d like to hear about your adventures in Naples and Athens,” she said, wishing she had the gumption to grab his hand but keenly aware of Beryl’s glare. “I’ll bet you have all sorts of souvenirs and trinkets from your Navy days. Would you mind if I came by at another time?”

  “If it works out,” said Buck. “I may be gone.”

  She couldn’t stop herself from clasping his bony arm. “Now, Buck, it can’t be that bad. Beryl’s feeding you a healthy diet of fresh fruits and vegetables. You’re as nice and pink as”—she waved vaguely at the yard—“those blossoms over by the gate. Once you get back your strength, why, you might just be arm-wrasslin’ at the bar and grill come Friday night. I seem to recollect you were pretty darn good at it once upon a time.”

  Beryl loomed over them. “Before he got sick, there was a lot of things he could do. Now all he’s good for is sitting and complaining. Estelle’s around back, looking at the dianthus. You want to see them?”

  Sylvie came out of the front door. “There’s something I should tell you, Ma.”

  “I don’t want to hear one more word from you, young lady,” said Beryl. “You just take your father in and see to him, then go to your room and read your Bible until I call you. See if you can find any recipes using milk and honey.”

  “I’m warning you—you should hear me out.”

  Beryl’s cheeks turned red. “Maybe I’ll hear you out of house and home if you don’t obey me. If I find so much as a single travel brochure on the table when I come back inside, I’ll pack your bags myself and throw them at the end of the driveway. As for your father, he can learn to wear diapers and suck soup through a straw. Do you understand?”

  Sylvie grabbed the handles of Buck’s wheelchair and took him into the house. Ruby Bee was too appalled to do more than follow Beryl down the steps to the yard.

  Beryl stopped at a trellis covered with sweet-scented, creamy blossoms. “This is an antique variety of honeysuckle called Serotina that blooms all summer. In the fall, it will be laden with lovely red berries that draw in our feathered friends. We are all nature’s guardians, are we not? As opposed as I am to disorganization, I allow the butterfly weed just beyond the fence to thrive in order to nurture our winged visitors.”

  Ruby Bee was steeling herself to make a remark about nurturing those a mite closer to home when she saw a yellow jacket light on Beryl’s arm. “You got another friend,” she said, pointing.

  Beryl flicked it off. “They never bother me. Out here in the splendors of …” She stopped to flick off another one. “Why, I haven’t been stung since …”

  “Take it easy,” advised Ruby Bee, backing away. “Don’t slap at em.”

  Beryl was staring in horror as several more yellow jackets began to crawl up her arm. “I’m allergic to them. Up until three years ago, I didn’t know I was, but then I got stung and had to be taken to the emergency room. Why are they doing this? Make them go away!” She gasped as one lit on her cheek. “Away!”

  Ruby Bee had no idea what she was supposed to do. “Don’t make any sudden moves. They’re just—”

  “What?” shrieked Beryl as several more alit.

  Estelle came dashing around the corner. “What in tarnation’s wrong?”

  “She must have disturbed a nest,” Ruby Bee said, still not willing to move in any closer. “All they’re doing is investigating thus far. As long as she doesn’t …”

  Beryl began to slap at her arms. “What are they doing? Why won’t they leave me alone?” She ducked her head and stumbled backward. “Make them go away! Oh my Gawd! I’ve been stung! Get these things off me!”

  “What should I do?” demanded Ruby Bee. “Call for an ambulance?”

  “Do you have one of those kits?” Estelle said, grabbing Beryl’s arm despite the yellow jackets descending like ants at a picnic. “Can you give yourself a shot?”

  Beryl fell onto the grass. “Kit’s in the refrigerator.” Her voice thickened. “Need it now.”

  Estelle nodded. “I’ll get it right away. You just rest easy for a minute.”

  “I can barely breathe,” Beryl gasped. She rolled over and weakly attempted to brush the yellow jackets off her face and arms. “Help me!”

  Estelle ran into the kitchen and jerked open the refrigerator door. A carton of milk, a covered dish with leftover pot roast, a bowl of green beans. “Sylvie!” she called as she pawed through bowls. “Where’s the kit?”

  “Kit?” said Sylvie as she came into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes and yawning.

  “Your mother has been stung!”

  Sylvie paused. “Oh, dear.”

  “She says there’s a kit in the refrigerator!”

  “Then let’s have a look, shall we?” Sylvie opened the refrigerator door, pondered the contents, and then closed it. “No, I don’t see any kit. Why don’t you ask Mother which shelf she put it on?”

  Estelle went back to the yard, where she found Ruby Bee twisting her hands. Beryl was still, white, and to be real blunt, as dead as a doornail. “I don’t know if this so-called kit might have helped, but I feel like we should have done something,” she said as she stared down at Beryl’s body. Yellow jackets seemed to be feasting on her as if she were a crumb of cake at a Sunday school picnic. “You’d almost think …”

  “When they collect the body,” Ruby Bee mused, “ain’t nobody going to test her skin. She was allergic to bee stings. She went into shock, and she died before she could give herself a shot. Yellow jackets are nasty critters. When riled, they attack. They’re a sight smaller than hornets, but they’re meaner and more willing to attack.”

  “Why did they?” asked Sylvie as she sank down on the grass.

  “I reckon you know,” Ruby Bee said as she folded Beryl’s hands over her chest. “You and Buck are gonna have to live with it. I won’t say anything. You’ll have to decide if a Caribbean cruise is enough to wash away your sins. You have to live with what happened, not me. If the sugar that was meant for the pie ended up in the sunblock lotion, that’s not up to me.”

  “You won’t say anything?” said Sylvie.

  Ruby Bee gazed at Estelle. “We need to go. If I don’t put an apple pie in the oven before long, the truckers will be squawking like jays long about noon. Maybe I’ll try an extra pinch of ginger.”

  “Do tha
t,” murmured Sylvia as she went inside the house and closed the door.

  Another Room

  I come in, tired, frumpy, and disheveled, with my purse, my briefcase, a newspaper, the mail, a sack of groceries, another sack with several bottles of booze, everything all clutched in my arms or in my coat pockets or in my hands, along with my keys. But this is pretty much how I come home every night to my new apartment, and, as far as I can see into the future, the way I always will.

  The day has been worse than a nightmare. I am delayed on the subway—not my fault—but this makes me late, and then I can’t find the folder with the demographic data before the conference. I know it’s on or in my desk, but I can’t put my hands on it and my boss gives me this grim look and shakes his head and I feel like a sorority girl who missed curfew. I’m so rattled I spill coffee on my beige suit.

  Then my secretary starts in on her personal problems and ends up sobbing in the ladies room most of the morning while I field the telephone. My first client shows up late, which means my second client has to wait, and all this results in a log jam in the reception room—by noon every last person in the office is snickering and I feel like a damned fool. They’re lucky I don’t have an assault weapon and a lot of ammunition.

  But the thing is, I stagger into the apartment, dump my briefcase and the sacks on the sofa, throw my coat on the chair, and automatically hit the play button on the answering machine because I’m supposed to have drinks and dinner with Eddie unless he has to cancel. This is when I see the door.

  The problem is that I’ve never seen this door before. I rented the apartment about a month ago. It’s not “condo,” but it’s all I can afford, this one-room number in the Village. The neighborhood’s relatively safe and has a lot of character. The building’s old, which means the radiators are balky antiques, but I had to find something after the divorce and opted to pay too much for something trendy so the ex would know I was doing fine on my own.

  I blink, but the door doesn’t go away. I push everything aside, sink down on the sofa, and rub my forehead. The wall’s been there all along, naturally, holding up the ceiling and blocking the view into my neighbors’ bedroom. I can hear them, though. They fight, they make up, and then they do a lot of things that make me uncomfortable, but I can’t bang on the wall and tell them they’re disgusting. There’s no law that says you can’t behave like mindless animals, that you can’t grunt and groan and shriek things that should not be overheard by disinterested parties lying on a Murphy bed all of ten inches away.

  But I digress. I’m sitting in the middle of the living room, a bunch of bills in my hand, my machine grinding out messages, and I’m staring at this door. Wood, with top and bottom panels, a doorknob—your basic door. But I’m renting an efficiency apartment in a renovated building and this door is not supposed to be there.

  It looks as if it’s always been there, right between the bookcase and the television. A really logical location for a door. If there were a separate bedroom, it would be in this precise location. I try to think. I’m fairly certain I’d hung a print there—nothing great, just a Cezanne that I’d picked up years ago. The table with the telephone is now to one side, but it had been centered along the wall as recently as this morning when I rushed out to the subway.

  So I’m just sitting, staring at this door. I feel silly, but I look at the baseboards to check for signs of sawdust. I see ten years of dust. My ex used to complain about our baseboards, as if all I did every day was lie on the couch, stuff my face with chocolates, and think of ways to aggravate him when he came home from his hard day at the office. The only thing he forgot was that I’d had a hard day at the office, too. I’m as driven as he, and a damn sight smarter, although that was an issue I tactfully left unexplored.

  I’m still staring at this door. Now I think of all sorts of people to call, but I’m having an awkward time with the imagined conversations. It’s well past noon, so the super’s drunk. My ex is in the Bahamas with his child bride. If I call my mother and say, “Hey, Mom, guess what I found?” she’ll be on the next bus from Jersey City, commitment papers in her hot little hand. The more I imagine the announcement that I’ve just discovered a new room in my apartment, the more I can feel the coarse cotton straitjacket and see the solicitous smiles behind the hypodermics.

  I need to think about it. I pour myself a stiff drink of scotch, move the groceries to the kitchen area, empty the ashtrays, gather up the newspapers from last week, stuff dirty laundry in the closet, and sort of wander around keeping an eye on the door.

  It’s beginning to get dark, and I seem to think Eddie’s going to show up soon. I don’t remember making the date, but he called yesterday to remind me, which was rather clever of him. He knows I forget things, especially when I’m under all this pressure at the office and not delighted that the ex is remarried and hating to answer the telephone because I’m afraid it’s my mother and I simply don’t have the energy to deal with her steady stream of criticism. My shrink gave me a relaxation tape and a prescription refill, but I don’t really want to relax and I can’t take the pills when I’m drinking.

  Okay, I tell myself. Open the door and see what’s there.

  After a minute, I pour myself another drink and sit down directly across from the door. I decide to count to one hundred, then just get up, wall across the room, and open it.

  When I get to fifty, I consider waiting until Eddie shows up so we can open the door together. At seventy-five, I consider calling my shrink, but I know from experience I’ll get the damn answering service.

  Ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred.

  My knees aren’t at their steadiest, and my hand is shaking as I pour myself another drink, but I go over and make myself try the doorknob. I don’t know what I’m expecting—maybe a jolt of electricity or for the door to fly open and a bunch of people from the office to shout, “Surprise!” even though it’s not my birthday and we all know I’m not going to see a promotion anytime soon, not after this morning’s disastrous conference.

  The door isn’t locked. I turn the knob very slowly, for some reason feeling it’s important not to make a sound, and ease the door open.

  The room is dark. I’m not about to set foot inside a dark room that wasn’t there nine hours ago. I let go of the knob and feel for a switch.

  I find one and flip it up. A light fixture on the ceiling goes on and I’m standing in the doorway of a bedroom. I take one step inside, then stop to study the room. It’s small and cozy. There are no windows. There is single bed, neatly made, and beside it a table with a lamp. A dresser, its surface pristine and well polished, and a mirror above it. A wardrobe. An easy chair. An old-fashioned braided rug.

  I feel a rush of iciness as it occurs to me that someone might be crouched behind the door. I take a deep breath, let it out slowly, and then look behind the door. All I see is a print on the wall. The Cezanne, oddly enough.

  I have to finish the drink before I can go any farther. A little courage—and is it bravado?—sinks in, and I tiptoe to the middle of the room. Although it is exceedingly tidy, there is a sense that it is occupied, although not by a slob like myself. The cushion on the armchair has a slight indentation—someone sits in it, perhaps reading or gazing pensively at the Cezanne.

  I’m certain this room doesn’t belong to the perverts. There is no other door, not even a closet door, so the only entrance is from my apartment. I get this really bizarre scenario about the previous tenant refusing to leave and vowing to live with me, but without my knowledge. I can almost see her sneaking in and out at night when I’m asleep not ten feet away on my bed, using her front-door key so very cautiously that there’s not so much as a tiny click to awaken me.

  Yes, the room belongs to a woman. The bedspread isn’t ruffly but it has a pleasantly feminine appearance, and now I notice that the chair is upholstered in matching material. On the dresser, there’s a vase with an artful arrangement of silk flowers.

  I approach the dresser. U
nlike mine, there is no dust or scattering of blonde hairs, no jumbled makeup or junk jewelry or bills and work from the office and that sort of accumulation that grows day by day.

  I open the top drawer. Here is makeup, but in a compartmentalized tray. Scarves, each folded into a neat bundle. Several small jewelry store boxes: An unused wallet, still in a box. A few odds and ends of jewelry in yet another compartmentalized box.

  She is compulsive about order, I deduce in my best Sherlockian manner. I close that drawer and open the one below it. The sweaters are folded in uniform stacks. I continue to open the drawers and find that each is orderly. Unlike myself, she doesn’t have to dig through a drawer every morning to find clean underwear and usable pantyhose. My shrink tells me almost every session that I’ll experience less stress if I attempt a degree of organization, both in my apartment and in my mind. I always laugh and assure him that even in the midst of the chaos I know where everything is and that I prefer it that way.

  Suddenly I want to burrow through all this neatness, and even pull the drawers out and dump their contents on the floor. Throw the scarves in the air and let them flutter to the floor in a rainbow puddle. Let the makeup clatter on the floor and roll under the chair and dresser. Jump up and down on the bed as if I were a naughty child. Yell profanities to disrupt the ambience of utter serenity.

  I quickly close the drawer before I give way to the urge to undo this compulsive woman’s handiwork. I am sweating, though, and in the mirror I notice my paleness as I drain the last few drops in the bottom of the glass, wishing for more.

  If I leave the room and go to the kitchen to replenish my drink, will the room still be here when I return? If stay here, will she come back and find me in her bedroom? If she does return, she’ll be displeased to find an intruder in her tidy, compartmentalized world. Especially an intruder with dirty hair, a coffee splotch on her skirt, sweat stains on her blouse, a run in her pantyhose. An intruder who battles urges with scotch.

  I abruptly go out of the room and into the kitchen, where the sight of the bottle helps ease my uneven breathing and my anger. I manage to splash whisky into the glass without spilling it and gulp it down. I put the glass in the sink. Will the room still be there?