Death of a Rug Lord (17 page)

I put my arm around Mama's heaving shoulders, while trying my best to be oblivious to the mounting stares of the lunchtime shoppers. “Mama, shall we go someplace else and talk about this?”

Her wails spiraled higher as she achieved notes that only seven-year-old girls and mezzo sopranos are supposed to reach. “No,” she managed to say at the same time.

“Here comes a mall security guard,” Andy said. He practically had to shout to be heard. “I'll try to head him off.”

I used Andy's absence as an excuse to get the conversation started. “Andy's gone,” I said, “so let's talk quickly.” Of course this was all spoken directly into Mama's left ear, which works better than her right.

Immediately she ceased wailing and began to blow her nose into the pile of paper napkins we'd brought to the table. It was not entirely pleasant sitting that close to her. Even worse than the sound effects was the sight of her red swollen face, and bags under her eyes so huge that I could pack for a weekend getaway in just one of them. Finally she announced that the job was done.

“So then talk to me, Mama.” Meanwhile I kept an eye out for Andy and the mall cop, as well as nosy shoppers.

“It has nothing to do with that boy, Abby—although he is awfully cute. It's all about me; what an old fool I've been. When Big Larry showed up at my door with that million dollar grin of his and that Mississippi accent, why I was just putty to his charms.”

“I think the correct expression is—oh never mind. Let's not go there again, okay? Unless you need to see a doctor. Do you?”

Mama shook her head, flinging fresh tears in all directions.

“Okay. My gut instinct tells me that Big Larry is related to Little Larry and Big Tina. I know I'm basing this on circumstantial evidence, but Big Larry's appearance in both our lives is just too coincidental. Do you agree?”

Mama nodded. “And Abby, afterward, when he was—uh—showering, I peeked in his wallet.”

“You didn't!” I said proudly.

“Of course, dear. Isn't that what they do in the movies?”

“Yes, but they also usually get caught. Maybe even get strangled with a silk stocking.”

“Do you want to hear what I found, or not?”

O
f course I want to hear what you found in his wallet!”

“Well—” Mama dabbed dramatically at her eyes with what remained of the napkins. “—Big Larry is
not
from Mississippi after all; he's from South Carolina.”

“Aha!”

“
And
he wears contacts. Or at least he has to wear some kind of vision correction when he drives.”

“Mama,” I growled through clenched teeth, “pertinent facts only, please.”

“Well you never know, dear. Next time we see him he could be wearing glasses instead of contacts, and we might not recognize him.”

“Point taken. Anything else?”

“He has a wife and son.”

My jaw dropped. I hate when that happens in someplace as unsanitary as the food court at the mall.

“Mama, you slept with a married man?”

My mother's mandible ended up on the table alongside mine. I'd never seen her remain speechless for so
long. Before she found her tongue, however, she slapped me across the face. This was the first time, and the only time, my petite progenitress has ever gotten physically violent with me.

“You take that back, Abby, if not for my sake, then your daddy's! I have
never
, and I
will
never, allow another man to take those same liberties that I allowed your dear, sweet father. I am shocked—appalled is more like it—that you could even think those words, much less say them. What a wicked, vile woman you must take me to be, to suppose that I would share this body with another man while the memory of your father yet flickers through my brain.”

“But you said—I'm sure you said you had
needs
.”

“Dry cleaning needs, silly. These pleated skirts I wear are a pain to iron, so I invited him in and served him coffee and cake.”

“Then when did he shower? And
why
?”

“Oh, that. Well, I served him chocolate ice cream along with the cake—a nice yellow pound cake that I baked. He asked me a lot of questions—you know, about Charleston: did I like it here, whom did I know—so many, in fact, that my ice cream melted before I could eat half of it. That's when he asked me to dribble a little bit of melted ice cream on his shirt, and then he would bring it back the next day to show me what a good job his company did. When I said I would rather not, he grabbed my wrist and the bowl went flying. And I do mean flying, dear. The melted ice cream landed everywhere: on his face, in his eyes, in his hair, everywhere, but on me. It was the funniest thing.”

“Let me guess. You had him go shower while you
threw his clothes in the washing machine. I bet you got them as clean as Magic Genie Cleaners would have done.”

“You can bet your bottom dollar, Abby.”

“What did he wear in the meantime?”

“Nothing!” Mama started laughing. “Of course he didn't have the nerve to leave the bathroom without his clothes—I gave him only one itty bitty towel—so he was stuck.” Her volume rose as she resumed laughing.

I knew I had to work fast to head off hysteria. “But you took him with you to Kitty Bohring's command performance and you two acted like it was a date and—”

“Hush your mouth, Abby. Big Larry had his own invitation. And I just pretended like we were dating so you didn't think your old mama was such a pitiful character.”

“I don't think that, Mama.”

“Are you willing to swear on your daddy's memory, Abby?”

Andy returned then, having successfully deflected the mall Gestapo. “Whassup?” he whispered.

“Deus ex machina,” I whispered back.

“Es esto sobre su madre?”

I nodded.

“What did he say?” Mama asked.

“Just that the mall cop said we need to keep our voices down.”

Mama must have been satisfied with his answer, because she'd already tuned us out. I made Andy swear an oath of confidentiality and filled him in on
the so-called pertinent details while my mother enjoyed her peaceful respite off in la-la land. I was almost done talking when she turned so suddenly I let out a little yelp of surprise.

“Calm down, dear,” Mama said in all seriousness. “It isn't seemly to carry on so in public—especially in a shopping mall.”

“I'll try to behave better, I promise.”

“Good. I just wanted to tell you that I remembered something else that might be useful in your investigation.”

“Yes?”

“Big Larry had a library card.”

“That's nice, Mama. I think everyone should have one. Reading is fundamental, and if more fundamentalists read, there might be fewer of them.”

“Honestly, Abby, sometimes you make no sense at all. On his card was his full name and address.”

Why is it that having a conversation with Mama feels like building a pyramid from the top down? “What
is
his name, Mama? Where does he live? Did you even bother to write that stuff down?”

The dear woman who taught me that ladies must always sit with their legs crossed at the ankles, their knees together, and that stealing was breaking one of God's ten big laws, opened her taupe handbag, withdrew her color-coordinated wallet, and removed a library card that very clearly was not hers.

“Dear Abby,” she said with a smile, “when are you ever going to learn to trust your mama?”

I took the card from Mama. york county public library, rock hill, s.c. “We know where that is,” I said.

“Now look at his name.”

“‘Lively Lawrence Tupperman,'” I read aloud.

“What kind of person names their child Lively?” Andy asked.

“It's undoubtedly a family name,” Mama said, “and it's probably his mother's maiden name, although I think I like your custom better.”

I nodded in agreement. So many Northerners have commented to me on the strangeness of Southern first names, I've concluded that it must be a regional custom. I'm still not sure exactly what the issue is, but it's supposed to be something about our first names not sounding particularly gender friendly.

For instance, I know a girl named Grazier, which sounds masculine to some ears, and I know a man named Lynn, which sounds feminine to others. Since I know families by both those names, it never would have occurred to me, on my own, that these names would sound odd to newcomers. Then again, my mother is named Mozella Hatshepsut and I have a brother named Toy.

“So,” I said, as I gathered up my detritus, “where do we go from here?”

“Abby, the MSG in your teriyaki sauce has already affected your thinking.”

“I think not. Hmm—you must be right!”

“Ha ha, very funny. The next thing we do, dear, is hop in the car and drive up Interstate 26 to Columbia, switch over to Interstate 77, and don't stop until we've found Lively Larry's house—except for powder room breaks, of course.”

“Mama, interstate toilet facilities are hardly consid
ered powder rooms. That's like calling eating at McDonald's a fine dining experience. Anyway, we can't just bop up the interstate on the spur of the moment. What are we supposed to do when we get there, look in Big Larry's windows?”

“You wouldn't need to look in his windows,” Andy said, “because I'd go with you, and I'd think of an excuse to talk to him face-to-face. He doesn't know me.”

“No, but his big wife does.”

“That's right, Abby,” Mama said, “keep thinking up the excuses: anything to keep from having to ask Greg's permission to go.” She turned to Andy. “My son-in-law is the salt of the earth, but he keeps my daughter on a short leash.”

I snatched up Andy's trash—but not Mama's—and stomped off to the nearest receptacle. If Greg is the salt of the earth, then Mama is the pepper. While I love her dearly, she is best taken in small doses.

“I am
not
on a leash,” I said upon returning. “And I most certainly do
not
have to ask permission to go anywhere. And just to make things clear, I know what psychological BS you're trying to pull here. Well, it's not going to work.” I growled as I grabbed her trash as well. “So there.” I took the long way getting back to them, which means I circled around so I passed the DQ stand, where I got a dipped cone. I had just finished licking the last of it from my lips when I returned to our table.

By then Mama and Andy were standing. “Abby,” Mama said softly, “I'm really sorry. I shouldn't have pushed your buttons like that. You can't go; I appreci
ate that. But Mr. Garcia and I
can
, and so we shall. He's agreed to drive, and I've graciously consented to chip in for mileage and, of course, to navigate. Now if you'll excuse us, dear, we have miles to go before we cheap.”

“I think the word is ‘sleep,' Mama.”

“In the poem, yes. But ‘cheap' refers to a healthy young man who lets a little old lady on a fixed income pay for gas.”

“Andy went bankrupt, Mama, and besides, your fixed income has been bolstered considerably by the fact that Greg and I share our house with you. And it's not like Daddy left you penniless in the first place.”

“I swan, dear,” Mama said, her dander rising, “sometimes you approach life with such dreary literalism that it isn't any wonder that—Oh, just you never mind.”

“Spit it out, Mama. Whatever it is, I can take it.”

“I most certainly will not,” she said with the stamp of a petite taupe pump, “and you can't make me. No matter how hard you try.” She placed her right hand on Andy's left arm, as if she were the mother-of-the-bride about to be escorted to her seat. “Please forgive our little family tiff, darling. But I guess families everywhere do the same thing, right?”

“I don't know, ma'am.”

“Well, like you and your mother, for instance. Surely the two of you have had a few, knockdown, drag-out fights—in a civilized way, of course.”

Andy shook his head. “No ma'am. I respect my mama; I would never talk back to her. And if I did—whoa, I think that would be the last of me.”

“Did you hear
that
, Abby?”

“Different cultures, different ways of discourse, Mama. The Hispanic culture tends to revere the mother figure.”

“I am an American,” Andy said. “My culture
is
American.”

“Don't misunderstand me, please,” I said. “I wasn't disputing that. Please, can we just drop this conversation?”

“Gladly,” Mama said. Although she didn't remove the hand that was resting on Andy's arm, I could see her chalk up a point on the message board in my mind's eye. “Well,” she said as we approached the doors to the outside, “what would they say in your country, Andy, at a time like this? Vamoose?”

“This
is
my country.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Unfortunately, I do. What if I was to ask you the same question, Mrs. Wiggins?”

“Well—we'd say something like, ‘Let's get a move on it,' or ‘Let's get this show on the road.'”

“We'd say the same thing.”

“They speak English in your country?”

I'd heard enough. As the oldest responsible person there, I couldn't very well let the two of them drive off into the arms of danger.

“Okay,” I practically shouted, “I'll come. Just let me call Greg first.” I proceeded to dig in my purse for my ever elusive cell phone.

“Nothing doing,” Mama said. “Greg will forbid you, and you know that.”

“I'm a grown woman, Mama; I can do what I want.”

“Right.”

“Then I'll call the Rob-Bobs.”

“Ditto.”

“That's just being stupid. We can't be driving up to York County with a complete stranger—especially a man—along. We could become those sidebars you read in true crime books: two women, one middle age, the other elderly; both headless; found in a hunter's blind a mile from their car. No motive or suspect ever identified.”

“
That
does it,” Andy said. “I'm going back home.”

Mama was so angry that I swear her voluminous skirt puffed an inch fuller than usual. “You see what you've done? Your racial profiling has injured poor Mr. Garcia to the quick.”

“Poor Andy is the same race as you and I—white. But yes, I was profiling; I was stranger profiling. Andy, I'm sorry that I hurt your feelings, but I doubt if I would drive up to York County with Tom Cruise without knowing him for a while first.” That wasn't quite true, because even though I find some of Tom's beliefs somewhat odd, I'd quite possibly follow him on a two-person expedition to the South Pole (in anticipation of a lot of innocent cuddling to conserve lifesaving body warmth).

“Abby,” Mama said, shaking her head, “I don't know when I've ever been more ashamed of you. Didn't Fig have nice things to say about Mr. Garcia?”

“Yes, but how well do you really know Fig, Mama? How many years has it been since the two of you have really talked? People change; you've said so yourself a million times. And please don't think for a minute that
I'm putting Fig down or calling him a criminal; I'm just saying that as women, we have to be very cautious, and for you and me to ride up to Rock Hill with a stranger is just too much.”

“Your daughter's right,” Andy said.

“What?”
Mama looked like she wanted to slap the very man she'd been defending.

“I've been thinking,” Andy said, his voice as calm as that of a funeral director. “If it were my mama and my sister we were discussing, there is no way I would be comfortable with them driving that far—or any distance—with a man they'd met only minutes before. I don't care how many Figs gave him the stamp of approval.”

“You see?” I said to Mama. I turned to Andy. “I'm really sorry. I really didn't mean to offend you.”