harp in the first place? It was almost impossible to travel with. Why not the piccolo, the flute, or the violin? She’d never been very good on the harp, but she had learned to do a lot of large swirling movements that made her look and sound much better than she was. Even her harp teacher had remarked, “What you lack in natural musical talent, dear, you make up for in flair and style.” It was the story of her life and probably how she had survived this long: with a little talent and a lot of flair. Few people realized she owned only six or seven really fine suits and dresses, but they all had style. Thanks to the designer discount malls and the fact that she could tie a scarf in over forty different and interesting ways, she had always managed to look good on the surface; what was inside, however, was a different story. She didn’t know why, but she had always been a little unsure of herself and for years had been second-guessing every decision with “I should have done that” or “I should have done this,” so afraid of doing something wrong, always looking for some sign from the universe to help her decide what to do, that she usually wound up doing nothing. But today at five-thirty, thank God, she had finally made a decision that felt exactly like the right one. What a relief.
Maggie walked down the hall and picked up the mail in the silver dish in the foyer. Nothing but junk and a flyer advertising Willow Lakes, a retirement community for active seniors; she threw it in the trash can. When she went into the kitchen and turned on the light, she saw a business card on the counter from Dottie Figge from Century 21 Realty, who must have shown her unit again today. Dottie was a hard worker and had brought the same couple from Texas through at least three times in the past three weeks. At present, there was only one two- bedroom unit for sale in the complex, but Maggie suddenly realized that her unit would be available after November 3. She should probably call Dottie tomorrow and give her a heads-up. She wouldn’t tell her which unit, only that one would be available soon. She liked Dottie. They had been in the Miss Alabama contest together. Dottie had played the trombone and tap-danced, but now she was just another struggling agent like herself, hanging on by a fingernail. Two years ago, Dottie had announced that she was no longer a Southern Baptist and had decided to “embrace the Eastern.” She said that if it had not been for OM Yoga and her daily devotionals to Goddess Guan Yin, she would not have been able to keep going. It had been a little strange at first, seeing hundreds of little Buddhist prayer flags flying at Dottie’s open houses and crystals everywhere, but she was so sweet. The last time Dottie had sold a unit in Maggie’s building, she had given Maggie a ying-yang bowl as a thank-you gift. She didn’t know exactly what you were supposed to do with a ying-yang bowl, but she didn’t want to hurt Dottie’s feelings by asking.
After Maggie poured herself a big glass of wine, she went into the living room and sat down, kicked off her shoes, and put her feet up on the coffee table. As she sipped her wine, she thought about what else needed to be done to make sure everything went smoothly from here on. She wanted to leave not only debt-free, but worry-free as well. She was too tired tonight; first thing in the morning, though, she would make out a “Things to Do Before I Go” list. She couldn’t trust herself to remember every detail unless she wrote it down. She didn’t know if it was because she was so tired, but lately, she had started forgetting things, like people’s names or the name of a certain movie star she used to love. Last week, she’d forgotten Tab Hunter’s name. He had always been one of her favorites; how could she ever forget him?
She took another sip of her wine and thought about the Whirling Dervishes again. Oh, Lord. She hoped the Arts and Lecture people wouldn’t put them at one of those big ugly convention hotels downtown. Hazel had always said, “People always come to Birmingham expecting the very worst, so it’s doubly important that they leave having seen the very best.” She looked at her watch. Too late to call Cathy at her office now. She would call in the morning, and if Cathy hadn’t booked a hotel yet, she might be able to casually suggest something with a little more local charm, like the Dinkler-Tutwiler or even one of the lovely guest cottages at the Mountain Brook Country Club. But they did have a strict dress code there, and other than the annual Scottish Society Dance, men in skirts might be frowned upon.
She took another sip of her wine. At least, one thing she didn’t have to worry about: she knew the Dervishes would be entertained royally while they were in Birmingham. Last year, when the opera singer Marilyn Horne came, she had received over sixty-five “Welcome to Birmingham” fruit baskets. People in Birmingham were famous for their friendliness and southern hospitality. If anything, some people said they were overly friendly, too eager to please, so much so that when visitors left town, they were usually so exhausted, they couldn’t wait to get back home and rest.
But besides just being friendly by nature, Maggie thought the other reason they fell all over themselves wanting so much for people to like them was that they were still trying to live down all the bad press Birmingham had received during the civil rights movement. It had been devastating. Even now, whenever there were racial problems anywhere in the world, it seemed they still drug out the same old newsreels of Birmingham and the dogs and the fire hoses and ran them over and over again. It broke her heart. Not because terrible things hadn’t happened. They had. But the press had made it seem like every single person in Birmingham was a foaming-at-the-mouth racist, and it just wasn’t true.
In her letter, she had used the word “depressed” because it was a word people easily understood. But the best word to describe how she really felt would be “sad.” Maggie had never told anyone what had happened to her in Atlantic City the year she was Miss Alabama, and she never would. People in Alabama, and Birmingham in particular, had heard enough bad things about themselves to last a lifetime.
The Lady with the Frozen Arm
As she went across town, having to steer with her left arm because the right one was still numb, she became more and more irritated at Robbie. Why couldn’t she buy just plain chocolate or just plain vanilla ice cream? She liked vanilla. Why didn’t she buy vanilla? But no, she had to buy mint chocolate chip, a summer ice cream that Robbie knew darn well was hard to find in the fall. And when she knew Brenda would be tempted, why did she keep ice cream in the freezer in the first place? But then, there was something wrong with Robbie anyway. How could any normal person “forget” to eat lunch? It nearly drove Brenda crazy. Robbie never finished everything on her plate, and at her own birthday party, Robbie had eaten only half a piece of cake. Brenda had never eaten half a piece of anything in her life, and she didn’t understand those who could.
Thirty minutes later, when Brenda finally came out of Bruno’s Supermarket with a pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream, she struggled not to look to the right, because she knew the frozen yogurt place next door would still be open. But she was upset and stressed, and she needed something to calm her down, so after the shortest struggle known to man, she headed over. She figured since she had already eaten an entire pint of ice cream and blown her diet for the month anyway, she might as well get herself a small cone of nonfat sugar-free frozen yogurt. It couldn’t hurt now.
She walked in, took a ticket from the machine, and stood waiting in a long line, still mad at herself for eating Robbie’s ice cream. But then, it wasn’t all her fault-it was a family disease. For years, she had done nothing but fuss at her older sister, Tonya, for being an alcoholic and had even put together an intervention and paid to send her off to rehab-twice. But she was really no better; Tonya couldn’t have just one drink without going off on a bender, and evidently, she couldn’t have just one bit of ice cream. Oh, well. Tomorrow she would stop eating all sugar for one month.
As the line slowly moved up, she observed all the other fat people waiting with her and decided she would not have any bread or potato chips either. She had to lose that weight before next summer. Last summer had been pure hell; there was not enough talcum powder in the entire world to keep her from chafing in the hot, humid Alabama heat, and lately, her knees and her hips had started to ache from carrying all that weight. She had not mentioned any of this to Robbie, because she would just say, “I told you so.” It was pure hell living with a medical professional.
She looked up at the clock. It was already a quarter after eight. She had to get that ice cream
