an affair with one of the hosts from the Home Shopping Club. And now this business about buying a toupee at a thrift shop. What sort of person buys a used toupee? I only hoped he wasn’t going to wind up one of those crazy old men who take out their dentures in restaurants. Oh, well. There was no use worrying about it. With my parents living 3,000 miles away in Florida, there was nothing I could do.
I forced myself to listen to SueEllen, who was stretched out in the tub, rambling on about her childhood in the Deep South.
“We may not have had much money,” she said, “but from an early age I learned the art of gracious living.”
She picked up a pumice stone from a bath tray and began scraping away at her calluses. In addition to the pumice stone, her bath tray held such grooming necessities as a bottle of Cristal champagne, a Walkman TV, and a half-eaten salad. I eyed her salad covetously. Mainly because I was starving.
I’d shown up at one o’clock that afternoon, as instructed. Conchi fixed us lunch, eensy weensy turkey Cobb salads, with hardly enough turkey to feed a flea. I snarfed mine down in nanoseconds, sitting on the toilet bowl. SueEllen barely nibbled at hers. Now it was going on four o’clock and I was ready to eat the wallpaper.
“Mother and Dad came from old Southern aristocracy,” SueEllen said, flicking the dead skin from her calluses into the water. “By the time I came along, the family money was pretty much gone. Mother clung to the old traditions, though, and passed them on to me. She taught me how to make chicken and dumplings and mint juleps and sweet little lavender sachets. I was a rebel, though. Back then, I was more interested in boys than good manners.”
She looked up from her pumice stone and frowned.
“How come you’re not writing any of this down?”
“Because Margaret Mitchell already wrote it. It’s called Gone with the Wind.”
Okay, so I didn’t really say that.
“I’m sorry,” I smiled. “It was just so interesting, I guess I forgot to take notes.”
I scribbled down the stuff about the lavender sachets and dumplings. Any minute now, I expected her to tell me about her Mammy, and them cotton fields back home.
“Of course,” she said, “the biggest influence in my life was my Aunt Melanie.”
She reached for her champagne, and took a sip. I’d long since polished off the Diet Coke Conchi had served me.
“Aunt Melanie married well and had scads of money. She threw the most marvelous parties, and I never forgot them. Yes, I guess you could say Aunt Melanie was the one who taught me everything I know about party planning.”
So I wrote that down, too, wondering if she’d notice if I reached over and filched some croutons from her salad. I wouldn’t have minded another Diet Coke, either. And a cushion. I was getting a mighty sore tush from sitting on the toilet for three hours. SueEllen had a bathroom the size of a football stadium; why on earth couldn’t she at least bring in a chair for me?
SueEllen droned on about Aunt Melanie, and her recipe for bourbon pecan balls. I was alternately taking notes and fantasizing about a cheeseburger with fries, when I glanced out the window and saw an elderly man standing on the balcony of the house next door. Normally I don’t get upset when elderly men stand on their balconies. But this man was looking through a telescope that just happened to be pointed straight at SueEllen’s boobs.
“SueEllen,” I said. “I don’t want to alarm you, but your neighbor is spying on you.”
“Oh, that’s old Mr. Zeller,” she said, sipping her champagne, not the least bit perturbed. “He’s a retired astronomy professor. Used to teach at Caltech. Don’t worry. He’s harmless.”
“Yoo hoo, Mr. Zeller!” She sat up straight in the tub, giving him an unobstructed view of her boobs.
And then she blew him a kiss.
Good Lord. She was actually getting off on this.
Now that would make an interesting chapter for her book. She could call it Entertaining the Neighbors. At least we wouldn’t have to bother with recipes.
An hour later, SueEllen was still strolling down memory lane. And I was ready to strangle her. I hadn’t been off that damn toilet seat all afternoon, except to add hot water to her tub.
“You don’t mind, do you?” she’d asked. “I’m so comfortable in the water, I hate to move.”
Heavens, no. I wouldn’t want her to exert herself by actually having to turn on a faucet. So I’d smiled weakly and turned on the hot water. I felt like a slave girl in one of those old ’50s biblical epics.
I checked my watch. 5:10. I couldn’t believe it. The woman was about to break the Guinness record for World’s Longest Bath. Even I don’t stay in the tub for four hours at a stretch. But here she was, still soaking, and still yapping. By now, of course, I was famished. I would’ve sold my soul for a Tic Tac.
Finally, after what seemed like hours but was probably only ten minutes, SueEllen called it a day, and got out of the tub.
“Hand me my robe, will you, dear?” she said, flaunting her fabulous body. Not an ounce of fat anywhere. I wondered if she’d had any of it sucked away by her plastic surgeon husband.
Just as she was tying the belt on her robe, a buzzer sounded. SueEllen crossed to a control panel above her bath and pressed a button.
“Yes, who is it?”
A young man’s voice filtered through a speaker. “It’s me, SueEllen. I forgot my key.”
“My stepson Brad,” SueEllen whispered to me. “Always forgetting his key.”
“Okay,” she said, pressing a button. “Come on in.”
Once again, my mind boggled. What sort of person has an intercom for their bathtub?
“Isn’t this clever?” she said. “I had it installed so in case the maid isn’t around, I don’t have to get out of the tub to answer the door. I don’t know what I’d do without it.”
Yeah, we all know how irritating it is when the maid isn’t around to answer the door.
“Hey, I’ve got an idea,” she said. “Why don’t you stay for dinner? You can meet my husband and stepchildren—Brad and his sister Heidi.”
“Actually, I think I’ve already met Heidi.”
SueEllen shook her head, in a gesture that was meant to portray sympathy.
“Poor Heidi. Such a troubled child. Terrible weight problem. I’m sure you can relate.”
Ouch. That one hurt.
“My heart goes out to the poor darling,” she said, scrutinizing her face in a magnifying mirror, and squeezing a blackhead. “So I’ve been helping her with her diet. One of these days, she’s going to look just fine.
“So how about it?” she said. “Will you stay for dinner?”
Was she kidding? If I had to listen to one more word about Aunt Melanie and her damned pecan balls, I’d go bonkers. No way was I staying for dinner. I’d head straight home with a pitstop at McDonald’s.
“We’re having beef bourguignon,” SueEllen said.
My salivary glands sprung into action.
“With cherry cobbler for dessert,” she added.
“Sure.” I gulped. “Sounds great.”
SueEllen plunked me down to wait in her oak-paneled den while she got dressed for dinner. The first thing I did was call Prozac. I once read that animals are comforted by the sound of their owner’s voice on the phone. Cooing into my answering machine, I told Prozac that I’d be late and that there was dry food in her bowl, and to please not pee on my pillow as she sometimes