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Authors: Tamar Myers
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HATH NO CURRY
59
“She told me she didn’t care that Cornelius was engaged to Priscilla, because she had a surefire plan to bust them apart. I asked her what, but she wouldn’t say. She said that in the meantime it was kind of fun to be the other woman and sneak around.
So I asked her if she at least cared if what she was doing hurt Priscilla.”
“And?”
“She said that it was Priscilla’s fault, not hers. If Priscilla was too stupid to hang on to her man, she deserved what she got.”
A shiver ran up my warm, sudsy spine. “Who knew Thelma could be so cold?”
“You’ve got to be kidding, Mags. That woman is a conniving skank. I wouldn’t trust her with yesterday’s garbage. Like I said, it’s the natural blonde in her.”
Both Susannah and I missed being blond by a hair. We share the same light brown color that is as close to dark blond as one can get without crossing the line from mousy to dishwater. Just a couple of highlights would put me over the great divide, while robbing me of at least twenty IQ points. Susannah has gone the other way, dying her hair an impossible shade of auburn that has strong purple undertones.
“I didn’t realize you knew Thelma so well,” I said, reaching for a towel. I wrapped it tightly around me as I stood, so that Susannah couldn’t even peek at my birthday suit, had she been so inclined. It’s not that I was ashamed or bashful; I didn’t want her to be envious of the bounteous booty—I mean, beauty—the Good Lord had bestowed upon me—just in case she hadn’t already noticed it.
Susannah didn’t question the towel. “Thelma and I are the same age, Mags. We were in school together, all the way through twelfth grade.”
“I don’t remember that.”
“Jeez, are you losing your memory? She came to practically all my sleepovers.”
60 Tamar
Myers
That explained it. My poor overtaxed brain has graciously de-leted most memories involving childhood inequities. Mama was as high-strung as a two-tailed kite on a windy day, and her first time through raising a child—that would be me—she ruled with an iron fist and a concrete mind. I wasn’t allowed to have any friends visit the house lest they observe some minor imperfection in her housekeeping and report it to their mothers. By the time Susannah came along, Mama had begun a slow trend toward both moderation and modernization, which peaked, wouldn’t you know, after I’d turned twenty-one and was officially no longer her responsibility.
Someday, when I get to heaven, I’m going ask the Good Lord why He picked me to be Mama’s guinea pig. Life is so not fair.
Why is it that the odds appear to be stacked against me, and not against ne’er-do-wells like Susannah? That woman breezes through life, swaddled in fifteen feet of filmy fuchsia fabric, with a dog in her bra—her dog ! Where was that mangy mutt now that she was naked? It never left her sight. Ever! The cantankerous little rat even piddled in her bosom when she smuggled it into the movies.
“The rat,” I shrieked. “Where’s the rat?” I had a nightmarish vision of having to give mouth-to-mouth to a three-pound dog that is two-thirds sphincter and one-third teeth. What if I blew on the wrong end?
“A rat?” Susannah shrieked as well and jumped up on the toilet lid, which, fortunately, was in the down position.
“Not a rat, your rat. The malicious mongrel that inhabits your Maidenform.”
Susannah jumped down. “His name is Shnookums, and you know perfectly well that he isn’t a mongrel; he’s a purebred Rus-sian toy terrier. And if you must know, he’s up in Johnstown doing his studly thing.”
“His what?”
“I’ve been renting him out for stud service, to generate a little HELL HATH NO CURRY
61
more income—one that I can spend as I please. I told you. You see, you are losing it.”
“People actually pay to have that thing do the terrier tango with their dogs?”
“A thousand dollars a pop, or pick of the pups. I
59
“She told me she didn’t care that Cornelius was engaged to Priscilla, because she had a surefire plan to bust them apart. I asked her what, but she wouldn’t say. She said that in the meantime it was kind of fun to be the other woman and sneak around.
So I asked her if she at least cared if what she was doing hurt Priscilla.”
“And?”
“She said that it was Priscilla’s fault, not hers. If Priscilla was too stupid to hang on to her man, she deserved what she got.”
A shiver ran up my warm, sudsy spine. “Who knew Thelma could be so cold?”
“You’ve got to be kidding, Mags. That woman is a conniving skank. I wouldn’t trust her with yesterday’s garbage. Like I said, it’s the natural blonde in her.”
Both Susannah and I missed being blond by a hair. We share the same light brown color that is as close to dark blond as one can get without crossing the line from mousy to dishwater. Just a couple of highlights would put me over the great divide, while robbing me of at least twenty IQ points. Susannah has gone the other way, dying her hair an impossible shade of auburn that has strong purple undertones.
“I didn’t realize you knew Thelma so well,” I said, reaching for a towel. I wrapped it tightly around me as I stood, so that Susannah couldn’t even peek at my birthday suit, had she been so inclined. It’s not that I was ashamed or bashful; I didn’t want her to be envious of the bounteous booty—I mean, beauty—the Good Lord had bestowed upon me—just in case she hadn’t already noticed it.
Susannah didn’t question the towel. “Thelma and I are the same age, Mags. We were in school together, all the way through twelfth grade.”
“I don’t remember that.”
“Jeez, are you losing your memory? She came to practically all my sleepovers.”
60 Tamar
Myers
That explained it. My poor overtaxed brain has graciously de-leted most memories involving childhood inequities. Mama was as high-strung as a two-tailed kite on a windy day, and her first time through raising a child—that would be me—she ruled with an iron fist and a concrete mind. I wasn’t allowed to have any friends visit the house lest they observe some minor imperfection in her housekeeping and report it to their mothers. By the time Susannah came along, Mama had begun a slow trend toward both moderation and modernization, which peaked, wouldn’t you know, after I’d turned twenty-one and was officially no longer her responsibility.
Someday, when I get to heaven, I’m going ask the Good Lord why He picked me to be Mama’s guinea pig. Life is so not fair.
Why is it that the odds appear to be stacked against me, and not against ne’er-do-wells like Susannah? That woman breezes through life, swaddled in fifteen feet of filmy fuchsia fabric, with a dog in her bra—her dog ! Where was that mangy mutt now that she was naked? It never left her sight. Ever! The cantankerous little rat even piddled in her bosom when she smuggled it into the movies.
“The rat,” I shrieked. “Where’s the rat?” I had a nightmarish vision of having to give mouth-to-mouth to a three-pound dog that is two-thirds sphincter and one-third teeth. What if I blew on the wrong end?
“A rat?” Susannah shrieked as well and jumped up on the toilet lid, which, fortunately, was in the down position.
“Not a rat, your rat. The malicious mongrel that inhabits your Maidenform.”
Susannah jumped down. “His name is Shnookums, and you know perfectly well that he isn’t a mongrel; he’s a purebred Rus-sian toy terrier. And if you must know, he’s up in Johnstown doing his studly thing.”
“His what?”
“I’ve been renting him out for stud service, to generate a little HELL HATH NO CURRY
61
more income—one that I can spend as I please. I told you. You see, you are losing it.”
“People actually pay to have that thing do the terrier tango with their dogs?”
“A thousand dollars a pop, or pick of the pups. I
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