DOUBLE KNOT Read online

  She yawned.

  * * *

  Good Lord, my mother owned a swimsuit. And she was wearing it.

  “Mother?”

  She looked up from the frying pan full of bacon and said, “Fantasy slept on the couch with a bathroom towel bar, of all things, and there’s not one knife in this kitchen.”

  “What, Mother? What? Start with the knives.”

  “There’s not a knife in this whole kitchen. Butter knives. That’s it. Not a knife one. I’d like to know how I’m supposed to cut up the chickens without a knife or kitchen scissors.”

  “Why would you want to cut up chickens, Mother?” I pulled open the drawer that had been full of knives last night. I’d used one to slice ham. “And what are kitchen scissors?”

  “You know good and well what kitchen scissors are, Davis Way, and how is it you cut up your chicken when you make chicken?”

  “Mother, I don’t make chicken. I order chicken. And I cut it with a knife when it’s on my plate.”

  “Well, you’re plum out of luck because we don’t have any knives.”

  There were knives in this kitchen last night. Carving knifes. Steak knives. Butcher knives. Big knives, little knives, and now no knives. The drawer was empty.

  “Have you looked in there?” Mother interrupted my panic attack, waving a plastic spatula at the refrigerator. “That’s the biggest Frigidaire I’ve ever seen in my life. Two people could fit in there. Can you imagine the electric bill for this boat? And there’s enough food in this kitchen to feed an army. I took one look in there and I knew good and well why the cook didn’t show up. That’s a lot of cooking. It’s a good thing I’m here, Davis. A good thing.”

  “Yes, it is, Mother.”

  “I woke up famished. How’d you sleep? I slept better than I have in six months. Must be the boat rocking or this ocean air. Are you hungry, Davis? And did you even think about combing your hair or putting on a housecoat before you came out here? Are those your pajamas? Did you not bring pajamas to wear?” She shook her greasy spatula at me. “I don’t know what happened to you. When you girls were little you wore nothing but freshly pressed cotton pajamas.”

  I never understood ironing something you wore to bed, I don’t miss cotton pajama sets, who took the knives, and I had to hold it together. “Let’s start over.”

  “Come again?”

  I sat down in a white chair at the table. “Good morning, Mother.”

  She hesitated. Then she poured a steaming cup of coffee and placed it in front of me. “Good morning, Davis.”

  I pushed the coffee away with a whimper and said, “No thank you.”

  “You young people and your picky eating habits.”

  “Not drinking coffee doesn’t make me a picky eater, Mother.” Of my list of pregnancy sacrifices, coffee was very high up the list. When the babies are five minutes old, I’m going to have someone hook me up to a dark roast pipeline.

  “Suit yourself,” she said. “It’s the Starbucks and you’re missing it.”

  I was missing the Starbucks and she was missing the reason. Mother refusing to acknowledge my pregnancy was one of the two objectives my father had when he planned this Mother-Daughter Getaway—he had no idea what he’d gotten Mother into—so we could “work it out.”

  How? How was I supposed to force my fifty-nine-year-old mother, who’d just fought the hardest battle of her life, to admit that life goes on? Number one, hers. Number two, these new lives. Her grandchildren. She woke up from her treatment and there I was, bigger than life, out to there, and she didn’t say a word. She still hadn’t said a word. We’d all tried to broach the subject and she’d changed it immediately. “Give her time,” my father said. “She’s not out of the woods yet. Even if she were it’s going to be a good long while before she feels out. She’s not ready to talk about it and you have to give her time.” How much? The babies would be here in less than three months.

  Have you ever?

  “While we’re alone,” I looked over my shoulder, “let me talk to you for a minute, Mother.” Every bit of her froze. “About our cruise.” She melted.

  “What about it?”

  How to put this. “There’s a chance we’ll be locked in here again today.” And tomorrow. And the next day.

  “This is very unusual, Davis. I don’t quite know what to think. I doubt this would have happened if your father was here.”

  “I don’t know how Daddy could have prevented a computer system from going down or what he could do to get it back up.”

  “Don’t you speak ill of your father to me, Davis Way.” I wasn’t and the bacon was killing me. If I reached for a slice from the piled-high platter, she wouldn’t hesitate to slap my hand with her hot spatula. I got to eat when Mother told me I could. Since the day I was born. “I’ll tell you something about your father. When the going gets tough, he gets going.”

  This was an indirect reference to Mother’s four months of chemo and radiation. Daddy had refused help outside our immediate family. He opened the back door for casseroles and pound cakes from Mother’s Sunday School class, but he refused to hire a nurse or household help. Related to Mother’s illness and the running of their home, if he didn’t do it, Meredith or I did. Although, truth be told, early in my pregnancy I slept as much as Mother did, so I wasn’t much help. And Mother telling me Daddy was a good man was a total waste of her breath. For one, I’ve worshiped him since the day I was born. I was a police officer in Pine Apple for seven years, working side by side with my police chief father, so for two, she didn’t need to tell me Daddy had my back. I knew it better than anyone. Regardless, Mother suggesting our current situation wouldn’t be happening if our hero were here wasn’t exactly true. Daddy would have been just as helpless to see this coming, stop it, or correct it any more than I was. (And I’ll tell you something else. Mother has ridden Daddy like a broom since the day I was born—his disinterest in her garden/hairdo/bunions, his interest in football/muscle cars/Fox News. All my life, I’ve listened to my mother complain to my father about the way he blinks: “Maybe if you didn’t blink so slowly, Samuel, you wouldn’t blink so often.” This “Your Father is the Greatest Man in the World” business was fresh and new.) (Welcome, and brand new.)

  She held the last of the bacon over the frying pan until the final drips fell, then flipped it onto the platter. “Well, personally, Davis? I don’t care a thing about going anywhere. My bedroom is beautiful and so is my powder room. I even have my own coffee pot and a nice rocking chair with a big wide footstool on my balcony. Very comfortable. I woke up at six, like I always do, and made myself a hot cup of coffee and took it outside for my Daily Devotionals. It was peaceful and beautiful, and now I know why so many people go on the Carnival cruises. The ocean is very soothing. I don’t give a care about that casino or the public pools or the restaurants. Public pools are filthy and I don’t appreciate how modern restaurants go so far out of their way to serve the oddest food they can, things I can’t even pronounce, and everything cooked in olive oil, like there’s something wrong with Crisco, and rosemary and pesto, whatever that is, and saffron all over everything. A good cook needs two spices. Are you listening to me, Davis?”

  “Two spices. Salt and pepper.”

  “That’s right. And all this raw fish is ridiculous. One long weekend in the hospital with a good bout of food poisoning from raw shellfish and you young people will get over your love of raw fish.”

  “I don’t love raw fish, Mother.”

  “Country-style steak and gravy, mashed potatoes, a pan of dinner rolls, and a fresh salad tossed with Miracle Whip and a squeeze of lemon is a fine dinner. Maybe a nice cobbler for dessert. I can’t imagine anyone who wouldn’t enjoy a dinner like that. What’s wrong with that, Davis? You tell me what’s wrong with that.”

  “Nothing, Mother.”

 
In fact, nothing at all. I was fifteen, back in Mother’s kitchen, and officially starving to death.

  “We have everything we need right here, plenty of space, plenty of food, and plenty to do. You might have noticed I’m dressed for reading my magazines by the pool today.”

  “You look very nice, Mother.”

  “Thank you.”

  The skirt on the swimsuit went almost to her knees. The matching floral cover up with silver tassel ties covered everything else. On her feet, orthopedic flip-flops.

  “Now, there is a problem.” Mother poured the bacon grease into a ceramic bowl and there wasn’t a doubt in my mind she’d find a use for every glob of it and figure out a way to pack any leftovers and take them home. A lump of cloudy congealed bacon grease was the first ingredient in most of Mother’s recipes. She poured several dozen scrambled eggs into the hot bacon dregs and began whipping them into shape. I’d never been hungrier in my life than I was at this exact moment in time. “And I’m talking about a problem other than your cat.” She gave me The Eye, dropping her chin and cocking one eyebrow. “It’s that loudmouth whiner. I’m not listening to that bull hockey all day long.”

  “What do you want me to do with her, Mother? Throw her overboard?”

  “That girl needs to stuff a sock in it.” She turned the eggs with her spatula until they were perfect, then tipped them onto a platter and sprinkled a pound of grated cheese on top. She stood over the eggs and said, “That one’s lost her marbles.”

  Jessica DeLuna, the loudmouth whiner who’d lost her marbles, filled the kitchen door wearing a plush white Probability bathrobe, wide open, belt trailing behind her, so we could see her pajamas: a blood red demi bra and matching panties. “Has anyone seen my clothes?” She tipped her head back and sniffed the air. “I smell crab cakes.”

  Mother and I watched, both a little dumbfounded, as Jess rambled around at the butler’s bar and mixed herself a stout Bloody Mary. She plopped down beside me. “So, do you smoke? Do you have any cigarettes?”

  Fantasy showed up before I could think of how, or even if, I should answer Jess.

  Mother pulled a pan of biscuits from the oven. “Davis, go get that man and that girl. I didn’t cook all this for my health.”

  I kicked off our first official 704 meal by stating the obvious: The door was still locked; the V2s were still dead. I asked if anyone had any bright ideas. They didn’t. I asked who took the knives. (No, I didn’t.) The next twenty minutes were marked by the clinks of forks, dull butter knives, and whimpering. (Jessica.) The food disappeared and we sat around a white table full of dirty dishes.

  Mother stood and pushed her chair in. “We’re going to make the best of this situation and have a lovely day by the pool.” Then she passed out marching orders. She started on her left. Jessica. “Young lady, get some clothes on.” Next was Poppy. “I guess you do whatever it is you’re supposed to do, then you’re welcome to join us.” She got to Burnsworth. “I don’t believe in mixed bathing. No offense.” He surrendered—none taken. Then me and Fantasy. “You two do the dishes.”

  “Why do we have to do the dishes?”

  “We’re splitting the kitchen chores, Fantasy. I cooked; you and Davis can clean.”

  Fantasy opened her mouth to protest and I cut her off. “It’s fine, Mother. We’ll do the dishes.”

  “Lunch is at twelve sharp by the pool. I’ve made us a nice chef salad,” Mother said. “I’ll see you all at the pool. Except you,” she said to Burnsworth. “But you’re welcome to join us for lunch.”

  Fantasy waited to kill me until everyone else left the kitchen.

  I looked around to make certain we were alone. “Someone took the knives! Every knife in the kitchen!”

  “I know! It was me, Davis! I took the knives!”

  NINE

  We couldn’t find the dishwasher.

  “If I’d known it was you who took the knives I would’ve fought the dish fight harder.” I was under the kitchen island.

  “You didn’t fight it at all. And how was I supposed to tell you in a room full of people?” She was under the sink. “Was I supposed to butter a biscuit and say, ‘Oh, by the way, Davis. I hid the knives so these people won’t stab us’?”

  “Did you hide the dishwasher too?”

  We looked in the least likely places, having struck out in the most likely. I looked inside the cabinets while she pulled open the warming drawers between the wall ovens. I looked in the skinny cabinet to the right of the refrigerator while she disappeared into the walk-in pantry. “I found an herb garden,” she called out. “How can I find an herb garden and not find a dishwasher?”

  It had been twenty minutes on the dishwasher search already—wasted precious time, considering we’d been ordered to the pool and I knew better than to keep Mother waiting. It wasn’t that I was in such a hurry to get there and act like (I wasn’t pregnant) nothing was wrong, it was that I had way bigger and better things to worry about than the dishes. Not to mention I had to find something to wear to the pool. I didn’t own any poolside fashion for the truly expectant.

  “We need a bucket,” Fantasy said.

  “A what?”

  “A big basket. A big container. Something we can fit these dishes in.”

  “And then what?”

  “We hide them until we find the dishwasher.”

  “Let’s just wash the dishes in the sink, Fantasy, with Dawn, like people do.”

  “Yeah? Where’s the Dawn?”

  Another thing we couldn’t find—a drop of dish soap.

  We stared at the tall stacks of dirty white plates, serving bowls, coffee cups, silverware, and greasy skillets.

  “Would a tote bag work?” I asked. “I might have a tote bag.”

  She snapped her fingers and shot out the kitchen door. She was back in a flash. She popped open a Louis Vuitton bandoulière, held it against the edge of the kitchen counter with one arm, then wrapped a crooked arm around the plates and slid them into the bag. They did not go quietly. “What the hell are you doing, Fantasy?”

  She stopped. Dead cold. “The dishes.”

  We peeked out the kitchen door, right and left, the $3,000 Louis between us. We didn’t see a soul, so we made a mad dash to my room. We closed the door behind us and fell against it.

  “Good news.” She nodded to the pile of clothes and loose scattered jewelry, probably a million dollars’ worth, she’d dumped out of the Louis Vuitton and onto the floor of the sitting room. “I found you a swimsuit.”

  “Yay.” I rolled my eyes.

  We lugged the bag full of busted dishes between us to the balcony doors, slid them open, poked our heads out, cleared the area for witnesses, scooted across the deck, then lobbed Bianca’s Louis bandoulière into the Caribbean Sea. The wind caught it like a vacuum and it was gone. Forever. Fantasy dusted her hands. “Well.”

  “I can’t believe we just did that.”

  “Davis?” I was facing the Caribbean, from which Bianca Sanders’s Louis Vuitton bandoulière would never return. Fantasy was facing my bedroom. “Look there.” She pointed. “Look at your cat.”

  Anderson Cooper stood at the open balcony doors. With a $25,000 Probability poker chip between her front paws.

  * * *

  “I don’t like that man.”

  “Mother, there aren’t many men you do like.”

  She’d saved me a perfect sun chair. One that gave me a panoramic view of the glorious Caribbean on one side and a full view of the salon on the other. I’d be able to see the Navy SEALS my husband was surely sending if they dropped from the sky, climbed over the deck railing, or busted through the front door.

  “Davis, that’s mean spirited and not true.” Mother slapped her Woman’s Day closed, tipped the brim of her sunhat, so big it looked like an open umbrel
la on her head, and got a good look at me. “Heavens to Murgatroyd. What are you wearing?”

  I was wearing the only swimsuit option I had. I was supposed to be in a photoshoot in front of a Picasso in the ship’s art gallery on Deck Eight all morning wearing a Saint Laurent lace mini dress, and in another photoshoot at a waterfall in the middle of the ship’s botanical garden on Deck Ten all afternoon in a Givenchy hot pink satin cape blouse over hot pink satin pencil capris. My cruise itinerary looked exactly the same every day: photography sessions in different inappropriate outfits all over Probability. The only clothes I’d packed for myself were of the comfort variety to wear between the shoots, in the suite, or to sleep in. No lounge-by-the-pool time had been built into my schedule, so I had to wing it. I was at the pool winging it in the only thing Bianca packed that would even halfway work, a string bikini (I know…) (you should see my bellybutton) she actually sent with the intent that I have my picture snapped in it (not a chance in all holy hell), and the only thing I could find to wear over it, a sheer gauze Madonna robe fringed in thousand-foot-long white silk ribbons. The train on the robe trailed a half mile behind me and was earmarked for yet another page in the Pregnancy Album, this one shot in the Probability portrait studio and against a solid white backdrop and a pose Bianca called “Baby Belly.” My instructions were to wear the robe, barely wear the robe and only the robe, wide open, the shot a profile of my naked body with the mile of robe sprawled out behind me. Bianca had an instructional note card with the robe, handwritten on her gold-foil Dempsey & Carroll stationery: “In Baby Belly, you are to gaze lovingly at Ondine as you caress her, David, and it aggravates me to no end to have to REMIND you to have a daily manicure. Essential for this particular photograph and for God’s sake, have a salt scrub at least 12 hours beforehand. GLOWING, David. I want to GLOW in this photograph.”

  (No.)

  (No. No. No.)

  “Could you not have gone to the shopping mall, Davis? Could you not have gone to the T.J. Maxx or the Marshalls and bought yourself a decent swimming suit?”