I HEAR SHE
I hear she’s apt to indulge in a fifth of Bourbon – before noon – if the weather forecast calls for sunny skies.
I hear she subsists solely on Marlboro Reds, Tic Tacs, Mrs. Dash and black coffee (liberally laced with the aforementioned Bourbon).
I hear she flaunts a Harvard diploma yet never graduated from high school because she quit to follow a German rock band through Asia.
I hear she killed a man.
I hear these things because I say them.
And I’ve been saying these unflattering things about Enid for years. At first it was because she stole my boyfriend away. And even after I realized you can’t really ‘steal’ someone from someone else if they’re not in the market for being ‘stolen’, or if they’re really not your boyfriend, just some guy who happens to sit next to you in algebra who tries to cheat off of you and you take that as flattery ‘cause your self-esteem isn’t what it should be, I continued to say these things.
It had become a habit by then. A sort of challenge. I had to top my previous slanderous remark. And I’d say them to anybody, anywhere. Sometimes I even said them out loud. Once I said it at church – I’m not even a member of that Baptist church; I went just to get out of the house – when you’re supposed to turn to the person next to you and say something warm and fuzzy and I said Enid had killed a man. I guess I’d said it louder than I thought ‘cause a sea of strange black faces turned to me and continued staring as they fanned themselves until I left the pew and the stifling church.
Because our social circles sometimes collide or eclipse each other, I’d find myself face to face with Enid – mostly in the ladies room of the food kitchen where she doled out the creamed corn and squeaky green beans - or at yet another tag sale where my fingers slipped into the pockets of the Land’s End, Eddie Bauer, or J. Crew sensible khaki slacks she had on display. There was never any money in the pockets but I did find a small jade earring once and she made such a fuss over me finding it – like it was some long lost family heirloom or something – that she insisted I take the Eddie Bauer khaki slacks at no charge.
Then after a local folk music night at the Elks Club – that I attended just to get out of the house - she approached me. Very politely. Warmly. Even downright friendly. She made no allusions to my years of slandering and libeling – if you count public bathroom stall writing libelous. She even complimented me on my new haircut – my home-style attempt at reviving the Peggy Fleming bob. Afterwards, when she saw me waiting at the bus stop – my old hulk of a car might as well be up on cinderblocks in the front yard for all the good it does me – she offered me a ride home.
I hesitated at first, not wanting to seem like a charity case, but the weatherman with the noticeable toupee called for imminent heavy rain, so that was a no-brainer, but I’d said so many lies about her for so many years, I honestly couldn’t separate fact from fiction, and wondered if I needed to worry if she’d been knocking back the Jim Beam all day. But she didn’t reek of that Kentucky brew and drove just fine, so I guess she was sober.
Her car smelled nice even though I didn’t see one of those scented cardboard pine trees hanging from her mirror. So I guess she’d given up her Marlboro Red habit before she got this car. Or maybe she never smoked to begin with. I can’t remember.
I commented that her tape deck looked weird and she said it wasn’t a tape deck but a CD player and pressed a button to demonstrate. A silver disc ejected then slid back in and some classical music played. I asked if she had any of that German rock band’s music but she pretended she didn’t know what I was talking about.
The light from a passing street lamp glinted on a gold bracelet around her thin wrist as she held the wheel at ten and two. I couldn’t help but ask about the two little charms that swung silently as she turned the wheel. She smiled like she was pleased I’d mentioned it and said one was for her daughter, a product of that relationship she’d had with the boyfriend she stole from me. Actually, they’d been married for a number of years and thought they couldn’t have kids – probably all those years of Tic Tacs and Mrs. Dash – and voila! Enid’s got herself a baby girl.
I was afraid she was going to whip out some photos or a scrap book while she was driving in the rain and the idea scared me to distraction. I silently prayed that she wouldn’t do that and she didn’t. She said the second little charm was for her new granddaughter. She smiled but it turned to one of those sad smiles and I prayed she wasn’t going to say the baby died. I can take a lot but don’t tell me a baby died. That just gets me. She didn’t. She beamed about this kid saying how bright she was and all, but added that she was sorry her husband hadn’t lived to see his first grandchild.
Now a guy – who may or may not have been my boyfriend – who dies before he gets to see his first grandbaby be born is just too sad for words. It’s not like I was riding high or anything after that folk music show. It wasn’t like it was some Radio City Music Hall spectacular or something; no Carnivale Cruise extravaganza. To be honest with you, it was a pretty pathetic performance by two old guys with nicotine-stained beards and plaid flannel shirts. But it was free. Anyway, at the next red light I opened the passenger door and told her thanks for the ride but that I had to be going.
Enid urged me to get back into the car. It was pouring rain by this time and we were in the industrial area of town – not the best place for a woman to be walking around alone late at night. I wanted to get back in but didn’t want to get her seats wet. I also didn’t want to hear any more stuff about her dead husband – my ex-boyfriend. It was just too sad.
Enid got out of the car and hurried after me which was nice of her but also stupid ‘cause now she was wet. I told her I was sorry for all the years of spreading ugly rumors around about her and she said she’d never heard a one of them and gently pushed raindrops from my face. She asked me for a sampling and I told her Baptist church one. I pulled away thinking Enid would belt me one, but she didn’t. She asked for another.
I told her I hear she runs a meth lab out of her basement and the car behind hers started honking ‘cause the light had turned to green. Enid signaled for the driver to go around her and he did, but not before he rolled down his window, leaned across his wife and yelled that Enid was a moron who didn’t deserve to have a driver’s license.
That’s when I picked up that empty bottle of Schmidt’s from the grassy median and threw it at the guy’s car. Even though I missed, Enid let out a little shriek, grabbed me and shoved me back in her car. The guy’s brakes screeched on the wet road and he started hurling all sorts of abuse at us. Enid made a quick U-turn and I thought she was crying – in which case, I’d be getting out at the next red light – but she was laughing. Said she thought it was funny as hell and urged me to tell her some more and to not stop slandering her on her behalf. I didn’t quite see which part of what held the humor for her, but if I had anything to do with making my widowed best friend laugh, then I was glad.
I hear she’s apt to indulge in a fifth of Bourbon – before noon – if the weather forecast calls for sunny skies.
I hear she subsists solely on Marlboro Reds, Tic Tacs, Mrs. Dash and black coffee (liberally laced with the aforementioned Bourbon).
I hear she flaunts a Harvard diploma yet never graduated from high school because she quit to follow a German rock band through Asia.
I hear she killed a man.
I hear these things because I say them.
And I’ve been saying these unflattering things about Enid for years. At first it was because she stole my boyfriend away. And even after I realized you can’t really ‘steal’ someone from someone else if they’re not in the market for being ‘stolen’, or if they’re really not your boyfriend, just some guy who happens to sit next to you in algebra who tries to cheat off of you and you take that as flattery ‘cause your self-esteem isn’t what it should be, I continued to say these things.
It had become a habit by then. A sort of challenge. I had to top my previous slanderous remark. And I’d say them to anybody, anywhere. Sometimes I even said them out loud. Once I said it at church – I’m not even a member of that Baptist church; I went just to get out of the house – when you’re supposed to turn to the person next to you and say something warm and fuzzy and I said Enid had killed a man. I guess I’d said it louder than I thought ‘cause a sea of strange black faces turned to me and continued staring as they fanned themselves until I left the pew and the stifling church.
Because our social circles sometimes collide or eclipse each other, I’d find myself face to face with Enid – mostly in the ladies room of the food kitchen where she doled out the creamed corn and squeaky green beans - or at yet another tag sale where my fingers slipped into the pockets of the Land’s End, Eddie Bauer, or J. Crew sensible khaki slacks she had on display. There was never any money in the pockets but I did find a small jade earring once and she made such a fuss over me finding it – like it was some long lost family heirloom or something – that she insisted I take the Eddie Bauer khaki slacks at no charge.
Then after a local folk music night at the Elks Club – that I attended just to get out of the house - she approached me. Very politely. Warmly. Even downright friendly. She made no allusions to my years of slandering and libeling – if you count public bathroom stall writing libelous. She even complimented me on my new haircut – my home-style attempt at reviving the Peggy Fleming bob. Afterwards, when she saw me waiting at the bus stop – my old hulk of a car might as well be up on cinderblocks in the front yard for all the good it does me – she offered me a ride home.
I hesitated at first, not wanting to seem like a charity case, but the weatherman with the noticeable toupee called for imminent heavy rain, so that was a no-brainer, but I’d said so many lies about her for so many years, I honestly couldn’t separate fact from fiction, and wondered if I needed to worry if she’d been knocking back the Jim Beam all day. But she didn’t reek of that Kentucky brew and drove just fine, so I guess she was sober.
Her car smelled nice even though I didn’t see one of those scented cardboard pine trees hanging from her mirror. So I guess she’d given up her Marlboro Red habit before she got this car. Or maybe she never smoked to begin with. I can’t remember.
I commented that her tape deck looked weird and she said it wasn’t a tape deck but a CD player and pressed a button to demonstrate. A silver disc ejected then slid back in and some classical music played. I asked if she had any of that German rock band’s music but she pretended she didn’t know what I was talking about.
The light from a passing street lamp glinted on a gold bracelet around her thin wrist as she held the wheel at ten and two. I couldn’t help but ask about the two little charms that swung silently as she turned the wheel. She smiled like she was pleased I’d mentioned it and said one was for her daughter, a product of that relationship she’d had with the boyfriend she stole from me. Actually, they’d been married for a number of years and thought they couldn’t have kids – probably all those years of Tic Tacs and Mrs. Dash – and voila! Enid’s got herself a baby girl.
I was afraid she was going to whip out some photos or a scrap book while she was driving in the rain and the idea scared me to distraction. I silently prayed that she wouldn’t do that and she didn’t. She said the second little charm was for her new granddaughter. She smiled but it turned to one of those sad smiles and I prayed she wasn’t going to say the baby died. I can take a lot but don’t tell me a baby died. That just gets me. She didn’t. She beamed about this kid saying how bright she was and all, but added that she was sorry her husband hadn’t lived to see his first grandchild.
Now a guy – who may or may not have been my boyfriend – who dies before he gets to see his first grandbaby be born is just too sad for words. It’s not like I was riding high or anything after that folk music show. It wasn’t like it was some Radio City Music Hall spectacular or something; no Carnivale Cruise extravaganza. To be honest with you, it was a pretty pathetic performance by two old guys with nicotine-stained beards and plaid flannel shirts. But it was free. Anyway, at the next red light I opened the passenger door and told her thanks for the ride but that I had to be going.
Enid urged me to get back into the car. It was pouring rain by this time and we were in the industrial area of town – not the best place for a woman to be walking around alone late at night. I wanted to get back in but didn’t want to get her seats wet. I also didn’t want to hear any more stuff about her dead husband – my ex-boyfriend. It was just too sad.
Enid got out of the car and hurried after me which was nice of her but also stupid ‘cause now she was wet. I told her I was sorry for all the years of spreading ugly rumors around about her and she said she’d never heard a one of them and gently pushed raindrops from my face. She asked me for a sampling and I told her Baptist church one. I pulled away thinking Enid would belt me one, but she didn’t. She asked for another.
I told her I hear she runs a meth lab out of her basement and the car behind hers started honking ‘cause the light had turned to green. Enid signaled for the driver to go around her and he did, but not before he rolled down his window, leaned across his wife and yelled that Enid was a moron who didn’t deserve to have a driver’s license.
That’s when I picked up that empty bottle of Schmidt’s from the grassy median and threw it at the guy’s car. Even though I missed, Enid let out a little shriek, grabbed me and shoved me back in her car. The guy’s brakes screeched on the wet road and he started hurling all sorts of abuse at us. Enid made a quick U-turn and I thought she was crying – in which case, I’d be getting out at the next red light – but she was laughing. Said she thought it was funny as hell and urged me to tell her some more and to not stop slandering her on her behalf. I didn’t quite see which part of what held the humor for her, but if I had anything to do with making my widowed best friend laugh, then I was glad.
The Gideon Girls
By
Mary Vettel
“I swear to God you’re hiding a cat or a dog! Or a couple of them. Every time I come over here I’m covered with fleas within seconds.” Pamela Gideon said as she rubbed at an itch on her shin, careful that her freshly manicured fingernails did not tear her nylons.
“Nope. No dog or cat,” Gracie Gideon said. She clicked the mouse to switch from a faded image of the battle at Gettysburg to eBay on the screen of her laptop that sat on a bathroom hamper just one foot from the swaybacked sofa. She leaned forward to adjust the electric cord in the back.
“Did you fart? Oh, my God!”
“It’s my house and I can do what I want. You don’t like it, hit the road, Jack.”
Pamela tried not to gag and quickly dug in her purse for a minted ChapStick. She removed the cap and inserted the tube into each nostril and inhaled the minty scent. “I didn’t know you had a computer or how to use one.”
Gracie gave her sister a side-long glare. “Excuse me? Wasn’t it me who got you your job? I held several jobs over the years that required full knowledge of computers. Remember?”
Pamela nodded. “I just meant…oh, eBay. Looking to buy more … stuff?”
“Again, how you underestimate me. I’ll have you know I am a high level seller on eBay.”
Pamela gazed about the room that looked more like the aftermath of a warehouse explosion than an organized stock room for a maverick entrepreneur. “Well, the carpet’s got to go. Everything must be infested with fleas. How can you live like this, Gracie?” She gazed about the living room that was crammed nearly to the ceiling with junk, with a narrow walkway carved through to the kitchen.
Shrug.
“Gracie, seriously, I am here less than five minutes and I am about to jump out of my skin. Seriously.”
Shrug.
“I swear to God if you shrug at me one more time I will do something drastic,” Pamela said through gritted teeth while her fists pounded the sides of her thighs. Her sister refused to make eye contact and continued stroking a grungy stuffed cat she got for a nickel at a yard sale.
Pamela took in a long, slow inhale to calm herself, then made her way back to the kitchen through the alley way that cut through the floor-to-ceiling piles of junk. She turned her attention to the two foot high mound of papers on the kitchen table. “Lower that!” she called when an Irving Berlin song rang out from the living room.
“Can’t hear it with all your jibber-jabbing,” Gracie called back and smiled as she watched Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers dance.
“There is nothing wrong with your hearing, Gracie,” Pamela said in her firmest voice. The volume was noticeably lowered. Minutes passed as Pamela glanced at junk mail, local newspaper circulars, penny savers, and flyers Gracie apparently pulled off of telephone poles on her infrequent excursions outdoors. “What the hell is this? Why didn’t you tell me about this lis pendins?” Pamela shouted and stormed into the living room, shoving aside stacks and stacks of clothing, and tilting mounds of yard sale junk.
“Who’s Liz Pendins?”
“It’s not a who. It’s Latin for pre-foreclosure. How can you be in pre-foreclosure?”
Shrug.
“Let me see the mortgage coupon book and the bank statements.”
Shrug.
“Get up off your fat ass and get them.”
“Hey!”
“Hey, nothing. Christ, you do nothing around here. Nothing. This place is a dump! And I’m sure it’s a fire trap. I could call the Fire Department and they’d fine you and probably wouldn’t let you stay here until you clear this shit out. I could call the Department of Health and they’d throw you out on the street and quarantine this hell-hole. I should sign you up for that hoarders show. Don’t laugh. There’s something wrong with you, Gracie. When were you going to say something about this?” She shook the letter from the bank at her sister.
Shrug.
“You are so infuriating. Don’t sit there gaping at me. Go get the mortgage coupon book and the bank statements so I can see what’s going on. According to this, the mortgage hasn’t been paid in months. What are you doing? Oh, stop crying. Oh, for God’s sake. Not now. Now is not a good time for you to be crying. C’mon, work with me here. Get up. There ya go. Wipe your snotty nose on your sleeve, perfect. Beautiful.” Pamela groaned with exhaustion and frustration as her sister stood looking down at the soiled carpet.
“Where do you file stuff?” Pamela asked trying to soften her tone. “Bills and stuff? Don’t you have some sort of file? A shoe box? What do you do with your papers?”
Shrugs.
“I may have to kill you.”
Gracie’d heard this before, so wasn’t afraid of Pamela’s idle threat, but still she cried.
“Stop it, OK? You know I’m a cold-hearted bitch and the waterworks don’t work on me.”
“You don’t care about me,” Gracie cried.
“Uh, I’m here aren’t I? If I didn’t care I’d pretend I didn’t have a twin sister who lived like a damn slob in a hovel and take her to the doctor to get her hearing checked and get her medicine for her crazy-ass depression but you won’t take the damn medicine!”
“You don’t even ask how I am,” Gracie said and snuffled.
“How you are? Are you insane?! I can plainly see how you are!”
“Or about my day,” Gracie said.
“About your day? Hmm…well, I guess you didn’t spend your day doing housework, now did you, Gracie? I guess you didn’t shower and put on clean clothes and actually go to a job. So, how was your day? What did you do today, Gracie?”
Shrug.
“Do not shrug at me! You wanted me to ask you, so I’m asking.”
“Watched Murray.”
“Murray? Who’s Murray?”
“The DNA show.”
Pamela stared at her sister. “You mean the Maury Povich show?”
Shrug.
“That’s the extent of your day? Watching other people’s sorry lives pan out on the basis of DNA test results? OK, we’ll discuss this later. Now go find the mortgage coupon booklet and the last six months’ worth of bank statements.”
###
The following week Pamela arrived at Gracie’s bungalow with a large mixed green salad and fruit bowl. The front door banged shut behind her as she stood in the tiny kitchen trying to find an empty space to settle her Styrofoam containers. “Gracie!”
“Pamela?” Gracie called from within the bowels of the claustrophobic living room.
“Did you have dinner yet?” She heard the scratch of the stumpy legs of the bathroom hamper on the bare wood floor that served as a stand for her laptop set in front of the sofa.
“What did you bring?” Gracie asked excitedly as she hurried through the narrow alley created by walls of clutter to the kitchen.
“A lovely salad and fruit for dessert.” She plastered a smile on her face.
“Fruit for dessert? Cheesecake is for dessert, not a friggin’ kiwi.”
Pamela smiled patiently, then frowned comically. “Gracie, Gracie, Gracie,” she said and clucked her tongue.
“Oh, God, I smell a speech coming,” Gracie said and waved goodbye as she headed back through the alley to the living room.
“Well, I smell something, too, but it’s not a speech,” Pamela said following her sister. “So, what are you up to?” she asked when she reached the arm of the sofa.
“Nothing,” Gracie said glumly as she squirmed her way through mounds of debris to get to the equally cluttered bathroom.
Pamela quietly depressed the space bar. The black screen came to life revealing a black and white photograph of a man with slicked back hair. “Who’s this old guy?” she asked as her sister emerged from the bathroom.
“Don’t touch that,” she said and flapped her hands at Pamela to make her back away.
“Who is it?”
Gracie tsked. “Edward Everett Horton.” Her tone let Pamela know Gracie thought she was a moron for not recognizing the man. “A well respected comedic actor from the 1930s. He was in Top Hat and Shall We Dance with Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers and Arsenic and Old Lace with Cary Grant, to name a few.” She rolled her eyes at her sister’s ignorance of the classics.
“Oh, yeah. He looks vaguely familiar,” Pamela said, trying to placate her sister.
“ ‘Vaguely familiar’,” Gracie repeated and shook her head. “He also narrated Fractured Fairy Tales on Rocky and Bullwinkle.”
“Uh huh.”
“He was the male Zasu Pitts.” Gracie plopped down on the swaybacked sofa and folded her arms across her ample chest, resting them on her more than ample belly. She stared at Edward Everett Horton on the monitor, giving her sister the cold shoulder.
“Um, OK, listen, Gracie. I’ve got some great news. I cleared up that mortgage problem,” she paused to allow Gracie to jump in with heaping thanks but none was forthcoming. Pamela cleared her throat. “OK, so, yes, that’s been taken care of…for now. However, the bank manager suggested, due to the circumstances, that I get a POA to avoid a repeat performance.”
“POA?” Gracie glanced sideways at her sister.
“You know, a Power of Attorney. It’s simple, really. It releases you from all financial responsibility and puts it on me.” She beamed as though this were a good thing.
“Now, why would you wanna go and do that?” Gracie leaned forward and slapped at the space bar when the screen went black. She glanced at Mr. Horton’s image, then turned her glare to Pamela.
“Sweetie—“
“Don’t ‘sweetie’ me, Pamela. Cut to the chase.”
“Gracie, if you miss any more payments, the bank can foreclose on the house. You don’t want that to happen, do you?”
“Am I retarded?”
“What? No, of course not.”
“Then don’t talk to me like I am. A Power of Attorney would also give you the authority to have me committed to a psych ward or something.”
Pamela gasped, her hand flying up to her mouth. She stepped back, bumping into a wall of cardboard boxes that tumbled down around her. She jumped and shrieked when she heard the contents crash and shatter.
“Nice goin’, Pamela. And I’m supposed to be the clumsy one. You just wrecked Mom’s good china.” Gracie made no move to get up and check the damage or look for a broom to clean up the mess.
“Why would you stack something so fragile so precariously?” Pamela asked and squatted down to pry open the lid of one of the boxes. “Gracie, this isn’t Mom’s good china. It’s a bunch of jelly jars.”
“Not the Winnie-the-Poohs?!” Gracie cried, but didn’t shift herself from the sofa.
Pamela carefully removed an unbroken glass. “No, this isn’t Winnie-the-Pooh. I don’t know who---“
“It’s Tom, from Tom and Jerry. The cat and mouse cartoon? Ho boy,” Gracie said and sighed.
“Well, I’m sorry. Where’s the broom?”
“Forget about it. I’ll take care of it when you leave. In a few minutes,” she added pointedly. “I’m not giving you Power of Attorney over me. You could clear out my bank account with that.”
“Gracie, I am offended that you would think and say that. I happen to have a very well paying job with stock options and a time share in Cabo San Lucas. I have no intention of clearing out…wait a minute. You’ve got money in the bank?”
Gracie nodded.
“Enough to pay the mortgage?” Pamela fought to keep her voice level.
Gracie nodded.
“Then why did you let me …” her voice trailed off in frustration.
“You didn’t ask me,” Gracie said and smirked.
“Well, I think you owe me that money.”
“Well, I think you oughta go home now. Back to your big swanky condo and your very well paying job with stock options and a time share in Cabo San Lucas.”
“Gracie, be reasonable. I helped you out. You should repay the money,” Pamela said and gingerly made her way backwards down the alley of clutter as Gracie rose and shooed her.
“Call Judge Judy,” Gracie said and stomped menacingly toward her sister.
“Don’t force my hand, Gracie. I can forge your signature on that Power of Attorney.”
“It wouldn’t hold up in court. You gotta have those documents executed before a Notary Public and that ain’t gonna happen. So there,” she said triumphantly as they breached the wall of junk to the tiny kitchen. “Here, take your shitty salad and fruity dessert with you.”
“I…I…” Pamela began.
“Oh, no, here comes her old stammer,” Gracie taunted. “You what?”
“I am only trying to help you, Gracie. To keep a roof over your head. And to encourage you to eat properly. Look at yourself. We’re twins, for God’s sake. You should look at me and see yourself.”
“Yeah, well, I can’t afford a private trainer to kick my ass six days a week. And I don’t like to eat salad and fruit from Styrofoam containers.”
“No. It looks like you like to eat greasy burgers and fries from Styrofoam containers.”
“Oh, is that supposed to make me cry, Pamela? Boo-hoo.”
“You need a new lease on life, Gracie,” Pamela said from the front step, clutching the two white containers Gracie had shoved against her gray cashmere tailored suit jacket.
“Lease? You lease a car or an apartment; not a life. I own my life. You’re the one who’s been leasing your life – subletting it, even – living in that fantasy land of Civil War Reenactors. That’s right. You’re nothing but a groupie for some misfit with a musket. Following him around while he plays at skirmishes and you fawn all over him, darning his smelly socks back in the encampments with your petticoats and poke bonnet. Oh, don’t bluster at me. I know all about you and your double life. Don’t blog about it if you don’t want the world to know.”
“I…I…how did you…oh, my God…” Pamela stumbled backwards down the two front steps to the cracked concrete path.
“Whaddya think your boss would say if he saw your creepy website and read your boring blog? And saw those tintype sepia photos of you and your Johnny Reb beau posing alongside some General Lee lookalike?” Gracie sucked her teeth at her sister. “You think it’d be OK with your boss that you’re a Civil War groupie…for the South?!” Gracie threw her head back and howled. “Isn’t he some big muckedy-muck for the NAACP? He’d get a real kick out of you in your grotesquely coquettish pose in a bustier made from a Confederate flag. Bye-bye stock options.” Gracie laughed again and slammed the door shut.
###
Pamela arrived the following week and sat in her shiny black BMW 135i Coupe at the curb outside Gracie’s bungalow. She watched the flatbed truck haul the full dumpster from Gracie’s driveway. Pamela walked to the driver, signed the carbonized paper, took her yellow copy, tipped the man, and knocked on Gracie’s kitchen door.
“Hello,” she called out in a cheery tone. Her voice echoed in the now cavernous kitchen. The scent of Murphy’s Oil Soap and lemon polish greeted her. “Gracie?” she sang and beamed at the spacious room and set a vase of bright yellow daffodils on the butcher block kitchen table. “I almost need sunglasses, it’s so bright and sunny in here,” she called out and walked to the vacant living room. The stained and stinking carpets had been ripped out, the floors sanded and refinished, and the walls painted a soothing sage green.
“Come out, come out wherever you are,” Pamela said playfully and pushed open the ajar bathroom door, revealing a pristine bathroom. “Gracie?” She walked to her sister’s bedroom and frowned when she didn’t find Gracie there.
“Down here,” Gracie called from the basement.
“We’ve got to get you to the dentist and then we’re going shopping. Once your jaws are wired shut, the pounds will just drop off, you’ll see. Come on,” Pamela called from the top of the basement steps.
“I’m just taking a load of towels out of the dryer. Come down and give me a hand folding, OK?” Gracie called up.
Pamela sighed, set her Coach bag against the doorjamb, and gripped the handrail, taking cautious steps in her high heels. “It’s awfully dark down here,” she said.
“So sorry, Missy Pamela. I’ll get yo’ Johnny Reb beau to git me some o’ dem colored boys to whitewash the basement floor and walls to brighten it up fo’ ya’ll.”
Pamela stopped and gasped. “Gracie!”
Gracie laughed. “You are such a friggin’ phony.” She threw an armful of damp towels at her sister, causing her to misstep and stumble down the last two basement steps.
“Have a seat,” Gracie said cheerfully and roughly shoved a wooden chair against the backs of her legs.
Before Pamela realized what was happening, her wrists were tied behind her back and her legs were tied to the front legs of the chair. Another rope was laced around her midriff, lashing her to the chair. “Gracie! Stop it. We’re going to be late for the dentist. C’mon. Knock it off.”
“That is precisely my plan, dear sister.”
“Good. And when you see the pounds dropping off, you’ll feel so much better about yourself. You’ll have your old confidence back—“
“I ain’t going to the dentist to have my jaws wired shut, Pamela,” she said and jerked the rope tighter.
“But you said—“
Gracie laughed.
“What?”
“You haven’t a clue, do you?” Gracie asked and shook her head. She leaned down, close to her twin’s face. “I could slit your throat right now. That’s how furious I am.”
Pamela’s eyes widened.
“But I don’t have a knife!” she snarled in her sister’s face. “Because you had them take everything!”
“But that’s part of the fun, don’t you see? We’ll go shopping and get you all new things.”
“You didn’t even ask,” Gracie said slowly, enunciating each word. “Even my kitty.”
“Oh, Gracie, that piece of crap? It was filthy and the stuffing was coming out. It was probably full of fleas.”
“That filthy stuffed cat gave me more comfort than your flashy car outside or your plasma TVs could ever give you. How did you know I’d be gone for those three days?”
“I found your Edward Everett Horton fan site that said you were going to Brooklyn – his birthplace – to celebrate his 125th birthday.”
“That’s fiendishly sneaky,” Gracie said.
“Me? What about you reading my blog?”
“Don’t try to turn this around to be my fault. How dare you invade my home – with strangers - and remove everything.”
“I did it to help you, Gracie. That’s all I’ve ever wanted to do was to help you. On Mom’s death bed, I promised—“
“Spare me. You wanted to change me back into the old me. Yeah, you did. Don’t deny it. I had a very high paying job once, too, remember? I drove fancy cars, too. And I had a time share in a country without extradition.” She sucked her teeth at her sister.
“I remember,” Pamela said softly.
“But then shit happened. I lost my very high paying job. I lost my fiancé to a man. And then Mom died. So, yeah, Pamela, I said, ‘fuck it’ and got off the hamster wheel.”
“I know, Gracie,” Pamela said soothingly and clucked her tongue. “But now you’ll have a new life. A clean, bright, shiny, happy life. Don’t be angry with me.”
“Angry? No, no, I’m not angry. I’m furious. Even on these damn anti-depressants, I’m furious at you. You had your hired do-gooders clear out about $30,000 worth of stuff that I sell on eBay.”
Pamela gasped. “No!”
“Yes!” Gracie shouted in her face. “Those Tom and Jerry jelly jars go for $7.99 a pair. I had a gross of them. A gross, Pamela. Do the math. That’s just one of the items I sold. Did you think your actions were going to ‘snap me out of my doldrums’? Is that what you thought? Yeah, no. It doesn’t work that way.” Gracie turned away and headed for the stairs.
“What are you going to do?” Pamela cried.
Gracie paused with a hand on the banister. “That an automatic or a stick shift out there?”
“Automatic,” Pamela said shakily.
Gracie nodded. “I could tell you I’m going out for a greasy burger and fries. But you and I both know I’m not just going out for a greasy burger and fries, right?”
Pamela’s eyes widened more.
Gracie pulled herself up the steep basement steps. She bent and lifted Pamela’s Coach bag. “Tsk, tsk, tsk, Pamela,” she said and looked down into the dim basement. “Looks like somebody forged my signature on a Power of Attorney,” she said in a sing-song voice.
“Gracie, I can explain,” Pamela shouted up to her.
“Of course you can. We were not going to some lame ass dentist today. You were taking me to some nut house and planned to sell my house now that you got it all ‘clean, bright, shiny, happy’. “
“No! That’s not true, Gracie. Call the dentist. They’ll confirm your appointment. I swear to you.”
“Anybody can make an appointment. Doesn’t mean you’re gonna keep it. Ooh, platinum American Express card. I had one of these once.” She jangled the car keys. “See ya, Toots.”
“Gracie! Where are you going? How long will you be gone? You can’t just leave me down here.”
“Oh, but I can.”
“I’ll scream.”
“Go right ahead. My neighbors are pretty much deaf. Now, don’t worry about the rats. I think there’s only two of them. Maybe they’ll chew you out of the ropes,” Gracie said and laughed.
“You call these knots?!” Pamela shouted up at her sister as she struggled against the ropes on her wrists behind her back and jerked her legs against the ropes binding her to the front legs of the chair. “A Thalidomide baby could tie better knots. And tighter.” She squirmed and strained, her fingers fidgeting at a knot.
Gracie made a guttural sound from the top of the stairs.
“You’re making a big mistake leaving me down here. I’ll be out of these ropes in no time and I’ll come up there and beat the crap out of you,” Pamela threatened.
“I won’t be here, sweetums. I’ll be cleaning out your bank account before I head for the border. Maybe I’ll swing by Virginia and look up your Johnny Reb beau at the 150th Commemorative festivities for the reenactment of the battle of the First Manassas/Bull Run. I see on your blog you’ve got reservations at the Manassas Holiday Inn. Must be nice to have indoor plumbing after a hard day at the battlefield.” Gracie laughed.
“You’re crazy!” Pamela shouted up at her sister.
“I know, right?” Gracie laughed and shut and locked the basement door.
###
By
Mary Vettel
“I swear to God you’re hiding a cat or a dog! Or a couple of them. Every time I come over here I’m covered with fleas within seconds.” Pamela Gideon said as she rubbed at an itch on her shin, careful that her freshly manicured fingernails did not tear her nylons.
“Nope. No dog or cat,” Gracie Gideon said. She clicked the mouse to switch from a faded image of the battle at Gettysburg to eBay on the screen of her laptop that sat on a bathroom hamper just one foot from the swaybacked sofa. She leaned forward to adjust the electric cord in the back.
“Did you fart? Oh, my God!”
“It’s my house and I can do what I want. You don’t like it, hit the road, Jack.”
Pamela tried not to gag and quickly dug in her purse for a minted ChapStick. She removed the cap and inserted the tube into each nostril and inhaled the minty scent. “I didn’t know you had a computer or how to use one.”
Gracie gave her sister a side-long glare. “Excuse me? Wasn’t it me who got you your job? I held several jobs over the years that required full knowledge of computers. Remember?”
Pamela nodded. “I just meant…oh, eBay. Looking to buy more … stuff?”
“Again, how you underestimate me. I’ll have you know I am a high level seller on eBay.”
Pamela gazed about the room that looked more like the aftermath of a warehouse explosion than an organized stock room for a maverick entrepreneur. “Well, the carpet’s got to go. Everything must be infested with fleas. How can you live like this, Gracie?” She gazed about the living room that was crammed nearly to the ceiling with junk, with a narrow walkway carved through to the kitchen.
Shrug.
“Gracie, seriously, I am here less than five minutes and I am about to jump out of my skin. Seriously.”
Shrug.
“I swear to God if you shrug at me one more time I will do something drastic,” Pamela said through gritted teeth while her fists pounded the sides of her thighs. Her sister refused to make eye contact and continued stroking a grungy stuffed cat she got for a nickel at a yard sale.
Pamela took in a long, slow inhale to calm herself, then made her way back to the kitchen through the alley way that cut through the floor-to-ceiling piles of junk. She turned her attention to the two foot high mound of papers on the kitchen table. “Lower that!” she called when an Irving Berlin song rang out from the living room.
“Can’t hear it with all your jibber-jabbing,” Gracie called back and smiled as she watched Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers dance.
“There is nothing wrong with your hearing, Gracie,” Pamela said in her firmest voice. The volume was noticeably lowered. Minutes passed as Pamela glanced at junk mail, local newspaper circulars, penny savers, and flyers Gracie apparently pulled off of telephone poles on her infrequent excursions outdoors. “What the hell is this? Why didn’t you tell me about this lis pendins?” Pamela shouted and stormed into the living room, shoving aside stacks and stacks of clothing, and tilting mounds of yard sale junk.
“Who’s Liz Pendins?”
“It’s not a who. It’s Latin for pre-foreclosure. How can you be in pre-foreclosure?”
Shrug.
“Let me see the mortgage coupon book and the bank statements.”
Shrug.
“Get up off your fat ass and get them.”
“Hey!”
“Hey, nothing. Christ, you do nothing around here. Nothing. This place is a dump! And I’m sure it’s a fire trap. I could call the Fire Department and they’d fine you and probably wouldn’t let you stay here until you clear this shit out. I could call the Department of Health and they’d throw you out on the street and quarantine this hell-hole. I should sign you up for that hoarders show. Don’t laugh. There’s something wrong with you, Gracie. When were you going to say something about this?” She shook the letter from the bank at her sister.
Shrug.
“You are so infuriating. Don’t sit there gaping at me. Go get the mortgage coupon book and the bank statements so I can see what’s going on. According to this, the mortgage hasn’t been paid in months. What are you doing? Oh, stop crying. Oh, for God’s sake. Not now. Now is not a good time for you to be crying. C’mon, work with me here. Get up. There ya go. Wipe your snotty nose on your sleeve, perfect. Beautiful.” Pamela groaned with exhaustion and frustration as her sister stood looking down at the soiled carpet.
“Where do you file stuff?” Pamela asked trying to soften her tone. “Bills and stuff? Don’t you have some sort of file? A shoe box? What do you do with your papers?”
Shrugs.
“I may have to kill you.”
Gracie’d heard this before, so wasn’t afraid of Pamela’s idle threat, but still she cried.
“Stop it, OK? You know I’m a cold-hearted bitch and the waterworks don’t work on me.”
“You don’t care about me,” Gracie cried.
“Uh, I’m here aren’t I? If I didn’t care I’d pretend I didn’t have a twin sister who lived like a damn slob in a hovel and take her to the doctor to get her hearing checked and get her medicine for her crazy-ass depression but you won’t take the damn medicine!”
“You don’t even ask how I am,” Gracie said and snuffled.
“How you are? Are you insane?! I can plainly see how you are!”
“Or about my day,” Gracie said.
“About your day? Hmm…well, I guess you didn’t spend your day doing housework, now did you, Gracie? I guess you didn’t shower and put on clean clothes and actually go to a job. So, how was your day? What did you do today, Gracie?”
Shrug.
“Do not shrug at me! You wanted me to ask you, so I’m asking.”
“Watched Murray.”
“Murray? Who’s Murray?”
“The DNA show.”
Pamela stared at her sister. “You mean the Maury Povich show?”
Shrug.
“That’s the extent of your day? Watching other people’s sorry lives pan out on the basis of DNA test results? OK, we’ll discuss this later. Now go find the mortgage coupon booklet and the last six months’ worth of bank statements.”
###
The following week Pamela arrived at Gracie’s bungalow with a large mixed green salad and fruit bowl. The front door banged shut behind her as she stood in the tiny kitchen trying to find an empty space to settle her Styrofoam containers. “Gracie!”
“Pamela?” Gracie called from within the bowels of the claustrophobic living room.
“Did you have dinner yet?” She heard the scratch of the stumpy legs of the bathroom hamper on the bare wood floor that served as a stand for her laptop set in front of the sofa.
“What did you bring?” Gracie asked excitedly as she hurried through the narrow alley created by walls of clutter to the kitchen.
“A lovely salad and fruit for dessert.” She plastered a smile on her face.
“Fruit for dessert? Cheesecake is for dessert, not a friggin’ kiwi.”
Pamela smiled patiently, then frowned comically. “Gracie, Gracie, Gracie,” she said and clucked her tongue.
“Oh, God, I smell a speech coming,” Gracie said and waved goodbye as she headed back through the alley to the living room.
“Well, I smell something, too, but it’s not a speech,” Pamela said following her sister. “So, what are you up to?” she asked when she reached the arm of the sofa.
“Nothing,” Gracie said glumly as she squirmed her way through mounds of debris to get to the equally cluttered bathroom.
Pamela quietly depressed the space bar. The black screen came to life revealing a black and white photograph of a man with slicked back hair. “Who’s this old guy?” she asked as her sister emerged from the bathroom.
“Don’t touch that,” she said and flapped her hands at Pamela to make her back away.
“Who is it?”
Gracie tsked. “Edward Everett Horton.” Her tone let Pamela know Gracie thought she was a moron for not recognizing the man. “A well respected comedic actor from the 1930s. He was in Top Hat and Shall We Dance with Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers and Arsenic and Old Lace with Cary Grant, to name a few.” She rolled her eyes at her sister’s ignorance of the classics.
“Oh, yeah. He looks vaguely familiar,” Pamela said, trying to placate her sister.
“ ‘Vaguely familiar’,” Gracie repeated and shook her head. “He also narrated Fractured Fairy Tales on Rocky and Bullwinkle.”
“Uh huh.”
“He was the male Zasu Pitts.” Gracie plopped down on the swaybacked sofa and folded her arms across her ample chest, resting them on her more than ample belly. She stared at Edward Everett Horton on the monitor, giving her sister the cold shoulder.
“Um, OK, listen, Gracie. I’ve got some great news. I cleared up that mortgage problem,” she paused to allow Gracie to jump in with heaping thanks but none was forthcoming. Pamela cleared her throat. “OK, so, yes, that’s been taken care of…for now. However, the bank manager suggested, due to the circumstances, that I get a POA to avoid a repeat performance.”
“POA?” Gracie glanced sideways at her sister.
“You know, a Power of Attorney. It’s simple, really. It releases you from all financial responsibility and puts it on me.” She beamed as though this were a good thing.
“Now, why would you wanna go and do that?” Gracie leaned forward and slapped at the space bar when the screen went black. She glanced at Mr. Horton’s image, then turned her glare to Pamela.
“Sweetie—“
“Don’t ‘sweetie’ me, Pamela. Cut to the chase.”
“Gracie, if you miss any more payments, the bank can foreclose on the house. You don’t want that to happen, do you?”
“Am I retarded?”
“What? No, of course not.”
“Then don’t talk to me like I am. A Power of Attorney would also give you the authority to have me committed to a psych ward or something.”
Pamela gasped, her hand flying up to her mouth. She stepped back, bumping into a wall of cardboard boxes that tumbled down around her. She jumped and shrieked when she heard the contents crash and shatter.
“Nice goin’, Pamela. And I’m supposed to be the clumsy one. You just wrecked Mom’s good china.” Gracie made no move to get up and check the damage or look for a broom to clean up the mess.
“Why would you stack something so fragile so precariously?” Pamela asked and squatted down to pry open the lid of one of the boxes. “Gracie, this isn’t Mom’s good china. It’s a bunch of jelly jars.”
“Not the Winnie-the-Poohs?!” Gracie cried, but didn’t shift herself from the sofa.
Pamela carefully removed an unbroken glass. “No, this isn’t Winnie-the-Pooh. I don’t know who---“
“It’s Tom, from Tom and Jerry. The cat and mouse cartoon? Ho boy,” Gracie said and sighed.
“Well, I’m sorry. Where’s the broom?”
“Forget about it. I’ll take care of it when you leave. In a few minutes,” she added pointedly. “I’m not giving you Power of Attorney over me. You could clear out my bank account with that.”
“Gracie, I am offended that you would think and say that. I happen to have a very well paying job with stock options and a time share in Cabo San Lucas. I have no intention of clearing out…wait a minute. You’ve got money in the bank?”
Gracie nodded.
“Enough to pay the mortgage?” Pamela fought to keep her voice level.
Gracie nodded.
“Then why did you let me …” her voice trailed off in frustration.
“You didn’t ask me,” Gracie said and smirked.
“Well, I think you owe me that money.”
“Well, I think you oughta go home now. Back to your big swanky condo and your very well paying job with stock options and a time share in Cabo San Lucas.”
“Gracie, be reasonable. I helped you out. You should repay the money,” Pamela said and gingerly made her way backwards down the alley of clutter as Gracie rose and shooed her.
“Call Judge Judy,” Gracie said and stomped menacingly toward her sister.
“Don’t force my hand, Gracie. I can forge your signature on that Power of Attorney.”
“It wouldn’t hold up in court. You gotta have those documents executed before a Notary Public and that ain’t gonna happen. So there,” she said triumphantly as they breached the wall of junk to the tiny kitchen. “Here, take your shitty salad and fruity dessert with you.”
“I…I…” Pamela began.
“Oh, no, here comes her old stammer,” Gracie taunted. “You what?”
“I am only trying to help you, Gracie. To keep a roof over your head. And to encourage you to eat properly. Look at yourself. We’re twins, for God’s sake. You should look at me and see yourself.”
“Yeah, well, I can’t afford a private trainer to kick my ass six days a week. And I don’t like to eat salad and fruit from Styrofoam containers.”
“No. It looks like you like to eat greasy burgers and fries from Styrofoam containers.”
“Oh, is that supposed to make me cry, Pamela? Boo-hoo.”
“You need a new lease on life, Gracie,” Pamela said from the front step, clutching the two white containers Gracie had shoved against her gray cashmere tailored suit jacket.
“Lease? You lease a car or an apartment; not a life. I own my life. You’re the one who’s been leasing your life – subletting it, even – living in that fantasy land of Civil War Reenactors. That’s right. You’re nothing but a groupie for some misfit with a musket. Following him around while he plays at skirmishes and you fawn all over him, darning his smelly socks back in the encampments with your petticoats and poke bonnet. Oh, don’t bluster at me. I know all about you and your double life. Don’t blog about it if you don’t want the world to know.”
“I…I…how did you…oh, my God…” Pamela stumbled backwards down the two front steps to the cracked concrete path.
“Whaddya think your boss would say if he saw your creepy website and read your boring blog? And saw those tintype sepia photos of you and your Johnny Reb beau posing alongside some General Lee lookalike?” Gracie sucked her teeth at her sister. “You think it’d be OK with your boss that you’re a Civil War groupie…for the South?!” Gracie threw her head back and howled. “Isn’t he some big muckedy-muck for the NAACP? He’d get a real kick out of you in your grotesquely coquettish pose in a bustier made from a Confederate flag. Bye-bye stock options.” Gracie laughed again and slammed the door shut.
###
Pamela arrived the following week and sat in her shiny black BMW 135i Coupe at the curb outside Gracie’s bungalow. She watched the flatbed truck haul the full dumpster from Gracie’s driveway. Pamela walked to the driver, signed the carbonized paper, took her yellow copy, tipped the man, and knocked on Gracie’s kitchen door.
“Hello,” she called out in a cheery tone. Her voice echoed in the now cavernous kitchen. The scent of Murphy’s Oil Soap and lemon polish greeted her. “Gracie?” she sang and beamed at the spacious room and set a vase of bright yellow daffodils on the butcher block kitchen table. “I almost need sunglasses, it’s so bright and sunny in here,” she called out and walked to the vacant living room. The stained and stinking carpets had been ripped out, the floors sanded and refinished, and the walls painted a soothing sage green.
“Come out, come out wherever you are,” Pamela said playfully and pushed open the ajar bathroom door, revealing a pristine bathroom. “Gracie?” She walked to her sister’s bedroom and frowned when she didn’t find Gracie there.
“Down here,” Gracie called from the basement.
“We’ve got to get you to the dentist and then we’re going shopping. Once your jaws are wired shut, the pounds will just drop off, you’ll see. Come on,” Pamela called from the top of the basement steps.
“I’m just taking a load of towels out of the dryer. Come down and give me a hand folding, OK?” Gracie called up.
Pamela sighed, set her Coach bag against the doorjamb, and gripped the handrail, taking cautious steps in her high heels. “It’s awfully dark down here,” she said.
“So sorry, Missy Pamela. I’ll get yo’ Johnny Reb beau to git me some o’ dem colored boys to whitewash the basement floor and walls to brighten it up fo’ ya’ll.”
Pamela stopped and gasped. “Gracie!”
Gracie laughed. “You are such a friggin’ phony.” She threw an armful of damp towels at her sister, causing her to misstep and stumble down the last two basement steps.
“Have a seat,” Gracie said cheerfully and roughly shoved a wooden chair against the backs of her legs.
Before Pamela realized what was happening, her wrists were tied behind her back and her legs were tied to the front legs of the chair. Another rope was laced around her midriff, lashing her to the chair. “Gracie! Stop it. We’re going to be late for the dentist. C’mon. Knock it off.”
“That is precisely my plan, dear sister.”
“Good. And when you see the pounds dropping off, you’ll feel so much better about yourself. You’ll have your old confidence back—“
“I ain’t going to the dentist to have my jaws wired shut, Pamela,” she said and jerked the rope tighter.
“But you said—“
Gracie laughed.
“What?”
“You haven’t a clue, do you?” Gracie asked and shook her head. She leaned down, close to her twin’s face. “I could slit your throat right now. That’s how furious I am.”
Pamela’s eyes widened.
“But I don’t have a knife!” she snarled in her sister’s face. “Because you had them take everything!”
“But that’s part of the fun, don’t you see? We’ll go shopping and get you all new things.”
“You didn’t even ask,” Gracie said slowly, enunciating each word. “Even my kitty.”
“Oh, Gracie, that piece of crap? It was filthy and the stuffing was coming out. It was probably full of fleas.”
“That filthy stuffed cat gave me more comfort than your flashy car outside or your plasma TVs could ever give you. How did you know I’d be gone for those three days?”
“I found your Edward Everett Horton fan site that said you were going to Brooklyn – his birthplace – to celebrate his 125th birthday.”
“That’s fiendishly sneaky,” Gracie said.
“Me? What about you reading my blog?”
“Don’t try to turn this around to be my fault. How dare you invade my home – with strangers - and remove everything.”
“I did it to help you, Gracie. That’s all I’ve ever wanted to do was to help you. On Mom’s death bed, I promised—“
“Spare me. You wanted to change me back into the old me. Yeah, you did. Don’t deny it. I had a very high paying job once, too, remember? I drove fancy cars, too. And I had a time share in a country without extradition.” She sucked her teeth at her sister.
“I remember,” Pamela said softly.
“But then shit happened. I lost my very high paying job. I lost my fiancé to a man. And then Mom died. So, yeah, Pamela, I said, ‘fuck it’ and got off the hamster wheel.”
“I know, Gracie,” Pamela said soothingly and clucked her tongue. “But now you’ll have a new life. A clean, bright, shiny, happy life. Don’t be angry with me.”
“Angry? No, no, I’m not angry. I’m furious. Even on these damn anti-depressants, I’m furious at you. You had your hired do-gooders clear out about $30,000 worth of stuff that I sell on eBay.”
Pamela gasped. “No!”
“Yes!” Gracie shouted in her face. “Those Tom and Jerry jelly jars go for $7.99 a pair. I had a gross of them. A gross, Pamela. Do the math. That’s just one of the items I sold. Did you think your actions were going to ‘snap me out of my doldrums’? Is that what you thought? Yeah, no. It doesn’t work that way.” Gracie turned away and headed for the stairs.
“What are you going to do?” Pamela cried.
Gracie paused with a hand on the banister. “That an automatic or a stick shift out there?”
“Automatic,” Pamela said shakily.
Gracie nodded. “I could tell you I’m going out for a greasy burger and fries. But you and I both know I’m not just going out for a greasy burger and fries, right?”
Pamela’s eyes widened more.
Gracie pulled herself up the steep basement steps. She bent and lifted Pamela’s Coach bag. “Tsk, tsk, tsk, Pamela,” she said and looked down into the dim basement. “Looks like somebody forged my signature on a Power of Attorney,” she said in a sing-song voice.
“Gracie, I can explain,” Pamela shouted up to her.
“Of course you can. We were not going to some lame ass dentist today. You were taking me to some nut house and planned to sell my house now that you got it all ‘clean, bright, shiny, happy’. “
“No! That’s not true, Gracie. Call the dentist. They’ll confirm your appointment. I swear to you.”
“Anybody can make an appointment. Doesn’t mean you’re gonna keep it. Ooh, platinum American Express card. I had one of these once.” She jangled the car keys. “See ya, Toots.”
“Gracie! Where are you going? How long will you be gone? You can’t just leave me down here.”
“Oh, but I can.”
“I’ll scream.”
“Go right ahead. My neighbors are pretty much deaf. Now, don’t worry about the rats. I think there’s only two of them. Maybe they’ll chew you out of the ropes,” Gracie said and laughed.
“You call these knots?!” Pamela shouted up at her sister as she struggled against the ropes on her wrists behind her back and jerked her legs against the ropes binding her to the front legs of the chair. “A Thalidomide baby could tie better knots. And tighter.” She squirmed and strained, her fingers fidgeting at a knot.
Gracie made a guttural sound from the top of the stairs.
“You’re making a big mistake leaving me down here. I’ll be out of these ropes in no time and I’ll come up there and beat the crap out of you,” Pamela threatened.
“I won’t be here, sweetums. I’ll be cleaning out your bank account before I head for the border. Maybe I’ll swing by Virginia and look up your Johnny Reb beau at the 150th Commemorative festivities for the reenactment of the battle of the First Manassas/Bull Run. I see on your blog you’ve got reservations at the Manassas Holiday Inn. Must be nice to have indoor plumbing after a hard day at the battlefield.” Gracie laughed.
“You’re crazy!” Pamela shouted up at her sister.
“I know, right?” Gracie laughed and shut and locked the basement door.
###
