Black Ties and Lullabyes (5 page)

Bernie pul ed her SUV into a parking space at her apartment complex, glad the day was over. Since early that morning, she’d been on a security detail for a high-profile chef on his whirlwind book-signing tour of the Dal as metroplex. Why his publisher thought he needed security, Bernie didn’t know. Forty-something housewives hoping to get an autograph of the star of their favorite Food Network show didn’t exactly pose a security risk. Boredom set in about the time she picked him and his publicist up at the airport that morning, and it didn’t end until she driving out the north exit of Dal as–Fort Worth airport eight hours later. But Bernie was paid to stay vigilant, and that was exactly how she’d behaved.

The biggest drawback to her assignment today, though, was al the food talk she’d had to endure.

Since late morning, even the thought of eating had turned her stomach, the nausea fading in and out, never quite taking hold, but never real y going away, either. She felt somewhat better now, but maybe that was only because she was no longer hearing a certain chef repeating his story about going to Osaka and eating whale testicles.

She got out of her car and started up the stairs to her apartment. She put her hand on the iron railing. It shuddered beneath her hand, practical y fal ing out of the wal .

With a muttered curse, she climbed the rest of the stairs, pul ing her phone out and hitting speed dial eight. How bad was it to have the manager of her apartment complex on speed dial so she could complain about the latest code violation?

Five rings, no answer. Of course not. The last person Charmin wanted to talk to was Bernie.

Without a doubt, Charmin Brubaker was the most unpleasant, unmotivated, unlikable person Bernie had ever met. She spent a good portion of her day on the Internet playing Mafia Wars on Facebook. She had permanent orange Cheetos stains on her fingers. And whenever a tenant requested something, she went out of her way to “lose” the order three or four times before final y doing something about it. And since the owner, Harvey Farnsworth, was a tightwad who didn’t mind

letting

costly

repairs

slide,

Charmin’s

incompetence didn’t bother him in the least. As long as she kept the occupancy rate up and the delinquency rate down, she could run a prostitution ring for al he cared.

Charmin had successful y browbeaten most of the tenants until nobody wanted to go head to head with her. Bernie had no such fear. If there was one thing she hated, it was seeing somebody like Charmin screw people who couldn’t help themselves. Evidently that was the kind of person you turned into when your mother named you after toilet paper.

Bernie reached the landing in front of her apartment just as she heard the beep to leave a message.

“Charmin. This is Bernie Hogan. I want these railings fixed. The one by my apartment, and the ones in buildings five and nine, too. If you don’t fix them, I’m reporting you to the city. Again. Old people live here, Charmin. They need those railings! Do you hear me?

Now,
fix them!
”

With an angry huff, she disconnected the cal , shoved her phone in her pocket, and stuck her key into her door.

“Hey! Who you cal ing old?”

Bernie spun around to see Ruby Wilson standing in her doorway, a Marlboro hanging out of her mouth and her gnarled fingers wrapped around a bottle of Bud. A Hawaiian shirt was stuffed inside the stretchy waistband of her denim pants, which were pul ed up under her breasts. She had a face that looked like a relief map of Appalachia, and every time a puff of cigarette smoke wafted past it, a dozen more skin cel s gave up the ghost.

“Ruby. You’re eighty-two. Most people think that’s old.”

“Yeah? Wel , you’re almost forty. Some people think
that’s
old.”

“Okay, then,” Bernie said. “We’re both old. And we both need that railing fixed.”

Ruby took a long drag off her cigarette. “That Charmin’s a real bitch. Wish I knew how to do one of them evil eyes, or stick a voodoo dol , or something.

That’d teach her.”

No, if Ruby fel and broke a hip and sued,
that’d
teach her.

“I’l fol ow up with her tomorrow,” Bernie said. “In the meantime, don’t touch that railing.”

Ruby sighed. “Guess I’l have to build in an extra ten minutes just to get down the stairs.”

“Just be careful, okay?”

Ruby nodded. “Goin’ to the Choctaw on the bus tomorrow with my girls. If you’re not workin’, why don’t you come along?”

Oh, yeah. Sounded like a blast. Going to a casino and plugging nickel slots with three chain-smoking senior citizens. Ruby had won a five-hundred-dol ar jackpot on her sixty-seventh birthday, and she’d had the once-a-month habit ever since.

“No, thanks,” Bernie said, her stomach stil upset enough that an hour-long bus ride on the Casino Express sounded like torture. “I’m sticking close to home tomorrow.”

“Okay. Hol er if you change your mind.” Bernie went inside her apartment, found a bottle of Pepto-Bismol, and downed a dose. She took a deep breath. Let it out slowly. The queasiness was starting to subside, so it probably wasn’t the flu, which was a very good thing. She had a week-long assignment starting on Monday. She hadn’t missed a day of work in years, and she wanted to keep that record clean, because she’d never taken kindly to being thought of as the weaker sex. Men accepted any kind of sickness from other men—flu, cold, migraine, hangover, bronchitis, poison ivy, blue bal s,
anything

—
but the moment a woman was sidelined, it was because of female problems. She could have a flesh-eating bacteria that had consumed one leg and was starting on the other one, and they’d stil say she hadn’t shown up that morning because Aunt Flo had paid her a visit.

She went to her fridge and grabbed a bottle of Gatorade to drink as she flipped through her mail.

Electric bil . Postcard with a coupon for an oil change and lube. Solicitation from a local real estate agent.

Weekly grocery ads.

Wait. A copy of
Home & Hearth
? Where had that come from?

She checked the mailing label, figuring the mailman had gotten it wrong. Nope. There it was. Her name and address, as if she’d subscribed. She thumbed through the magazine, saw the headlines, and realized she didn’t need to read the articles to know the answers.

“Secrets to an Always-Clean House.” Ajax, a sponge, and elbow grease.

“Real-Life Exercise Strategies That Work.” Weightlifting, kickboxing class, and five-mile runs.

“Dinner in Under Ten Minutes.” Lean Cuisine in the microwave.

She was sure this magazine had good advice for most women. She’d just never been like most women.

Suddenly her phone rang. She looked at the cal er ID, and when she saw her cousin Bil y’s name, her stomach felt even sicker than before. She waited until he left a message, then picked it up.

“Hey, Bernie, it’s Bil y. I need your help.” Bernie sighed. Of course he did.

“I applied for a job, and I need a reference. They’l be cal ing you tomorrow. Can you tel them I’m a good guy? Hard worker, and al that?”

Translation:
Will you lie for me?

“Now, I swear it won’t be like my last job at the video game store. That wasn’t my fault. My boss was a real bastard who had it in for me. No matter what he said, I did
not
steal that copy of
Assassin’s Creed.

Somebody must have put it in my backpack. So this time it’l be different. I swear. It’s a job at an auto parts store. You know I love cars. This is my dream job, Bernie. You have to help me.”

Dream job? Not likely. Her cousin Bil y’s dream job didn’t exist, unless there was an opening somewhere for

a

TV-watching,

pot-smoking,

freeloading

deadbeat.

So what was she supposed to do this time? If she told them he’d be a good employee, she’d be lying through her teeth. If she didn’t, he might not get the job, and within a few weeks, he’d be on her doorstep asking for money.

She was damned if she did, damned if she didn’t.

She just wanted him to take care of himself. That was al . Just get a decent job and hold on to it. Was that real y too much to ask?

She heard a knock at her door. With a heavy sigh, she went to answer it. Looking out the peephole, she saw her mother. She was wearing her mint green dress and carrying a smal white box, which meant she’d come from some church function and Bernie was going to have to hear al about it. She loved her mother, but sometimes it got to be too much.

Bernie opened the door, and Eleanor Hogan strode inside. “When I was getting out of my car,” she said, “I saw a man lurking by the stairs with a bunch of little silver rings in his eyebrow. Just one eyebrow. Would you tel me the purpose of that? Five rings in one eyebrow and none in the other?”

“So you’d rather see him put five in each eyebrow?”

“Heavens, no. But at least that would make sense.

And that odd little woman across the way was looking at me through the window as I was coming up the stairs.”

“Ruby is harmless.”

“I’m sure she’s very nice,” Eleanor said. “But she was smoking and drinking, of al things. At her age.

That can’t possibly be good for her.”

“Wait

a

minute,”

Bernie

said,

suddenly

remembering. “The stairs. You have to be careful going back down, Mom. That railing is broken.”

“Everything’s broken around here. This isn’t a decent place for a woman to live. If I were you—” Al at once Eleanor stopped short and stared at Bernie, her brow furrowed with worry. “Bernadette? What’s wrong? You’re white as a ghost. Are you sick?”

“No. Of course not. I’m fine.”

“There’s Pepto-Bismol on your kitchen counter. Do you have stomach problems? Nausea? Gas?” Bernie sighed. “I real y don’t want to discuss my gastrointestinal system with you, Mom.” Eleanor put her hand against Bernie’s forehead.

“Hmm. No fever. You didn’t eat at that new restaurant on Branson Street, did you? Sushi is unnatural. Only grizzly bears should eat raw fish.”

“No, I didn’t eat sushi. I’m fine now. The Pepto Bismol did the trick.”

“You’re stil pale.”

“That’s because the Pepto-Bismol pink hasn’t made its way to my face yet.”

Eleanor looked unconvinced. “Okay. Just be careful. Get plenty of rest. So many terrible things are going around this season.” Then she spied the copy o f
Home & Hearth
on the counter between Bernie’s kitchen and dining room. She set down her purse and the white box and picked it up. “Oh, how nice! You’ve started getting the magazine. It was only an extra eight dol ars to give a gift subscription when I renewed mine. I couldn’t turn down a bargain like that.”

Bernie heaved a silent sigh. She should have known.

In recent years, her mother had begun to recognize the futility of overtly begging her daughter to marry and procreate, so her game plan had shifted to subtle hints. Bernie couldn’t imagine that her mother actual y believed she’d sit down with a
Home & Hearth
, read an article or two, slap her forehead, and say
How
could I have been so blind?
This
is the life I want!
But that was her mother. She stuck to hope like gum to a tennis shoe.

“Did I tel you Katherine’s daughter Susan was getting married at the church this afternoon?” Eleanor said. “I wouldn’t have chosen yel ow Gerbera daisies for a bridal bouquet, but it was lovely just the same.” Eleanor Hogan had definitely found her cal ing as head of the altar guild at the Sunnyside Baptist Church. It was al weddings, al the time. According to her mother, everything about them was
lovely
, from the cakes to the dresses to the flowers to the nut cups to the blissful expressions on the brides’ faces as they pledged undying love to their grooms. Statistical y speaking, within a few years, half those brides would be hurling china at their grooms’ heads on their way out the door to hire a divorce lawyer, but Bernie refrained from pointing that out.

To stem the tide of wedding talk that was sure to begin, she grabbed the book she’d brought home.

“Mom, look. You know that guy you watch on the Food Network? The chef who does al that international cuisine stuff? This is his cookbook. I had him sign it for you.”

Her mother took it reverently, her eyes wide with awe. “You got Chef Al en’s autograph?
The
Chef Al en?”

“Yeah. He was in Dal as doing some book signings. I was on his security detail.” Eleanor frowned, her brows pul ing together again.

“Security detail? For Chef Al en? Was there any…

trouble?”

“Yeah. Those ladies who showed up for his signings were real y pushy. I think one of them stepped on his toe.”

“Don’t joke,” Eleanor snapped. “Your job worries me to death.”

“No need to worry. About 99 percent of the time, it’s a real bore.”

“It’s the other one percent that concerns me.” Bernie was tired of rehashing this. Yes, she knew her mother worried, but in the end, her biggest objection had to do not with what her daughter was, but with what she wasn’t: a secretary, schoolteacher, librarian, or stay-at-home mom with six kids and a minivan. On her mother’s side of the family, women were shuttled onto a bul et train that sped straight into a blackened tunnel of Kool-Aid spil s, diaper changes, and perfunctory sex with the lights out. And when they emerged on the other side, what was waiting for them? Social Security, TV remotes, and ungrateful children who never came to visit.

Bernie remembered when she was fourteen and her mother made an appointment so they could have a spa day together. A spa day. God, was there anything worse than that? Evidently Eleanor thought if she shoved that pendulum real y hard in the other direction, her daughter would end up somewhere in the middle. Bernie would have licked the spout of every drinking fountain in town if it meant she’d pick up the flu and be forced to stay home. Unfortunately, the hundred different strains floating around that season had bypassed her, so she’d been stuck enduring an afternoon of people’s hands on her from her hair to her toenails, buffing, polishing, massaging, and scrubbing until Bernie had lost an entire layer of skin and any semblance of privacy. And through it al , her mother had said,
Now, isn’t that nice? That’s a
lovely shade of pink nail polish, isn’t it? And I don’t
think your complexion has ever looked prettier.
And Bernie had come home reeking of jasmine and vanil a and hating every minute of it.