young
Swedish marine scientists who were studying the effects of freshwater intrusion on
oyster beds. That old, run-down place on the Outer Banks with its defunct gas pump
that Barbara was convinced was going to blow up, shredding us all to smithereens.
The last house we shared—Melinda’s final August—where we gazed at the calm Gulf and
made promises to each other that we’d probably never, ever be able to keep, such
as the one I made to Rachel: I will never complain when you say something sarcastic as long as it’s also funny (St. Teresa, Florida).
“I think a return trip to St. Teresa might be in order one day,” I mused.
Rachel picked at the last of her shrimp and said nothing.
Barbara, who had cleaned her plate, said, “I dunno. Might be too damn sad.”
Baby sighed as though she did not want to hear Melinda’s name spoken even once more
and then—having eaten three helpings (where did she put it all?)—pushed herself away
from the table, walked over to the hammock at the opposite end of the porch, flopped
down, and said, “Awwwww. I sure wish Teddy was here,” admiring the rock on her finger.
“Just ignore her,” Rachel growled.
“Attention-seeking little twit,” Barbara purred.
“I’m getting fed up with the Teddy this and Teddy that,” I whispered.
“Looks like the floor show is about to begin.” Rachel tossed down her napkin and
watched as Baby pranced down the steps and began to cartwheel across the front yard,
expertly missing the rugosa roses and their torturous thorns.
“Wheeeeee!”
“Baby,” Barbara called, reaching for the wine bottle, “your pretty house sort of reminds
me of Cornelia’s home.”
She did a backward somersault.
“How’s that?”
“The roses,” Rachel said. “The goddamned roses.”
“How old is this place, Baby?” I asked.
“I think Granddaddy built it in the nineteen twenties. Or was it the thirties? I
don’t remember. But anyway, he’s long dead. And my mama—did I tell you she’s dead?
Passed on almost a year ago now—gave it to me as a wedding present. I redecorated.
Got rid of a lot of the old stuff. I mean, I kept some things…stuff my mama and my
grandparents loved. But some of the pictures, furniture, photos, what-have-yous,
I chucked.” She did a split and then spun into a standing position, which led into
something that resembled a backbend.
“Why?” If she would just stop moving, I thought, my growing nausea might ease. “Why
would you throw away family photos?”
Indeed, she did stop for a moment. “Clean slate. I paid a family on the other side
of the island to bag up all the old crap and do whatever they wanted with it. And
I hired Mrs. Louise K. Baker, of Louise K. Baker Interior Designs, to fluff up the
place. I think she did pretty good.” Baby got on all fours and crab-walked.
“For heaven’s sake,” Rachel spit.
“I still don’t understand. How could you get rid of family heirlooms?” Barbara asked,
rising and walking over to the rail.
“Just did.” Baby grunted and then collapsed in the grass. “I tried to get Teddy
to take down that damn lightning rod, or at least that blue glass ball my daddy put
up there. But he wouldn’t do it. He will, though. Just you wait and see.”
“I like that glass ball. It’s pretty,” I said.
“No! It’s not! It’s like an eyeball that watches my every move,” Baby said, staring
skyward.
“Well, anyway,” I said, “Cornelia’s house was where we first gathered, so even though
none of us could stand her, that house is a part of us.”
“Yep. Shit. I guess so,” Rachel said.
“Wasn’t that wedding something? Like a Great Gatsby wedding.” Barbara reached over to the table, picked up her wine, and swirled it.
“Teddy and Cornelia’s?” Rachel looked at Barbara as if she’d lost her marbles. “It
was ridiculous.”
“You could have solved world hunger with what they spent on flowers
Swedish marine scientists who were studying the effects of freshwater intrusion on
oyster beds. That old, run-down place on the Outer Banks with its defunct gas pump
that Barbara was convinced was going to blow up, shredding us all to smithereens.
The last house we shared—Melinda’s final August—where we gazed at the calm Gulf and
made promises to each other that we’d probably never, ever be able to keep, such
as the one I made to Rachel: I will never complain when you say something sarcastic as long as it’s also funny (St. Teresa, Florida).
“I think a return trip to St. Teresa might be in order one day,” I mused.
Rachel picked at the last of her shrimp and said nothing.
Barbara, who had cleaned her plate, said, “I dunno. Might be too damn sad.”
Baby sighed as though she did not want to hear Melinda’s name spoken even once more
and then—having eaten three helpings (where did she put it all?)—pushed herself away
from the table, walked over to the hammock at the opposite end of the porch, flopped
down, and said, “Awwwww. I sure wish Teddy was here,” admiring the rock on her finger.
“Just ignore her,” Rachel growled.
“Attention-seeking little twit,” Barbara purred.
“I’m getting fed up with the Teddy this and Teddy that,” I whispered.
“Looks like the floor show is about to begin.” Rachel tossed down her napkin and
watched as Baby pranced down the steps and began to cartwheel across the front yard,
expertly missing the rugosa roses and their torturous thorns.
“Wheeeeee!”
“Baby,” Barbara called, reaching for the wine bottle, “your pretty house sort of reminds
me of Cornelia’s home.”
She did a backward somersault.
“How’s that?”
“The roses,” Rachel said. “The goddamned roses.”
“How old is this place, Baby?” I asked.
“I think Granddaddy built it in the nineteen twenties. Or was it the thirties? I
don’t remember. But anyway, he’s long dead. And my mama—did I tell you she’s dead?
Passed on almost a year ago now—gave it to me as a wedding present. I redecorated.
Got rid of a lot of the old stuff. I mean, I kept some things…stuff my mama and my
grandparents loved. But some of the pictures, furniture, photos, what-have-yous,
I chucked.” She did a split and then spun into a standing position, which led into
something that resembled a backbend.
“Why?” If she would just stop moving, I thought, my growing nausea might ease. “Why
would you throw away family photos?”
Indeed, she did stop for a moment. “Clean slate. I paid a family on the other side
of the island to bag up all the old crap and do whatever they wanted with it. And
I hired Mrs. Louise K. Baker, of Louise K. Baker Interior Designs, to fluff up the
place. I think she did pretty good.” Baby got on all fours and crab-walked.
“For heaven’s sake,” Rachel spit.
“I still don’t understand. How could you get rid of family heirlooms?” Barbara asked,
rising and walking over to the rail.
“Just did.” Baby grunted and then collapsed in the grass. “I tried to get Teddy
to take down that damn lightning rod, or at least that blue glass ball my daddy put
up there. But he wouldn’t do it. He will, though. Just you wait and see.”
“I like that glass ball. It’s pretty,” I said.
“No! It’s not! It’s like an eyeball that watches my every move,” Baby said, staring
skyward.
“Well, anyway,” I said, “Cornelia’s house was where we first gathered, so even though
none of us could stand her, that house is a part of us.”
“Yep. Shit. I guess so,” Rachel said.
“Wasn’t that wedding something? Like a Great Gatsby wedding.” Barbara reached over to the table, picked up her wine, and swirled it.
“Teddy and Cornelia’s?” Rachel looked at Barbara as if she’d lost her marbles. “It
was ridiculous.”
“You could have solved world hunger with what they spent on flowers
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