Top O' the Mournin' Page 2

  “I think of it as Days of Our Lives without the script.”

  Tilly looked pensive. “I hadn’t thought of it that way, but in a sense, you’re perfectly right. That’s a very astute observation. Do you have a favorite contestant?”

  I’d been concerned that Tilly and Nana wouldn’t be compatible as roommates. Tilly had a Ph.D. Nana had an eighth-grade education. Tilly was five-foot-eleven, built like a beanpole, and carried a fancy walking stick. Nana was four-foot-ten, built like a fire hydrant, and carried a really big handbag. Tilly had never married. Nana had been married to the same man for over fifty years. Survivor was the only thing they had in common, but, come to think of it, that was probably a lot more than most married couples had in common. Heck, they’d probably become fast friends.

  I waved my arm to catch the notice of a desk clerk. My appearance was making me nervous. I needed to change my clothes before someone issued me a written warning for shedding water in an unauthorized area. “The key to room four-ten, please? And I’m in something of a hurry.”

  Bernice Zwerg shuffled up to us at the front desk and looked me up and down. “Is this a new look for you, or did you find another body of water to fall into?” Bernice had the body of a rubber chicken, a dowager’s hump that made her clothes hang funny, and a voice that screamed of eight packs of Marlboros a day before she’d finally kicked the habit. She’d accompanied us on our earlier tour to Switzerland, so we had history.

  I narrowed my eyes at her. “I was a victim of circumstance.”

  She flashed me a tight little smile that said she’d heard that one before. “I thought you’d want to know that the other bus just arrived from the airport.”

  Since our flight from Des Moines had arrived so early, the tour company had bused us the short distance to our hotel rather than make us wait at the airport for the other flights to arrive. We were expecting a contingent of people from the East Coast and a few stragglers from the Continent to add their numbers to the twenty Iowans I was escorting.

  “I heard a bunch of people from New York will be joining us,” Bernice continued with a sour look. “They’ll probably be loud. And pushy.”

  Which meant Bernice would fit in with them just fine.

  “What have you got there?” Bernice asked, snatching the photos from Tilly’s hands. She flipped through them quickly. “Looks like Emily having sex with a dead guy in some pond.”

  “He wasn’t dead,” Nana objected. “Emily would never engage in necrophilia, would you, dear?”

  I shook my head, remembering those occasions when making love to Jack had been like having sex with a corpse. But we’d been married, so in my case, the necrophilia was legitimate.

  “How come you don’t have a digital camera?” Bernice asked Nana, handing the photos back. “Polaroids are old technology.”

  “I’m waitin’ for the price to come down,” Nana said in a no-nonsense tone. She might be a millionaire, but her Midwestern frugality still reared its ugly head from time to time.

  “Room four-ten,” the desk clerk said, handing me my key.

  “I’m going up to change, so I’ll see you later,” I said to Nana.

  Bernice gave us a squinty look. “What? You two aren’t rooming together?”

  “Escorts get rooms by themselves,” said Nana, “so I’m roomin’ with Tilly.”

  “Tilly?” Bernice sucked in her cheeks. “When I asked you to room with me, you said you already had a roommate, so I assumed it was Emily. You never said you were rooming with Tilly. I’m supposed to be your best friend, Marion. What’s the matter? I’m not good enough for you anymore?”

  “Tilly asked me first.”

  “Oh, I get it. It’s on account of the mashed peas, isn’t it?”

  Back in December, Nana had slipped on some mashed peas on the floor of the senior center and bruised her tail-bone. She’d had to sit on an inflatable doughnut during the entire holiday season, which didn’t work out too well during midnight mass, when my nephew punched a hole in it with his Moses action figure with authentic scale-model staff. All Nana could say was that we were lucky David hadn’t brought his G.I. Joe. Joe carried his own grenade launcher.

  “I don’t blame you for that at all, Bernice, but you were the person in charge a cleanin’ the floor after the Christmas luncheon. And you didn’t do it.”

  “Couldn’t be helped. I had to leave early to catch the bus to the casino. But you know about the pea situation. Every time we have a luncheon for the low vision people, they leave mashed peas all over the place. How come you don’t serve a vegetable they can see? You’re on the food committee. You ever think about serving broccoli spears?”

  Hmm. My guess was, Bernice was going to be the first one voted off the island.

  Thinking it might be best if the ladies mediated this themselves, I waved to Nana and slipped away. As I headed to the elevator, I looked toward the lobby to find a troupe of people muscling their way through the front door behind a willowy blonde who was all legs and teeth. Ashley Overlock. Our tour guide. She’d introduced herself to us at the airport in a voice that dripped Southern charm, then sent us on our way, but the men were still suffering palpitations from the initial meeting.

  I shook my head. Men were so blind. Couldn’t they see all her phony reconstruction? I ticked off the list. Bleached blond hair. Collagen-injected lips. Capped teeth. Silicone-enhanced breasts. Acrylic nails, or maybe they were silk wraps. I couldn’t tell from this distance. Her legs started at her neck and were definitely her own, but wearing those spike heels was bound to give her varicose veins. In a few years she’d be forced to wear support hose under that six-inch miniskirt of hers; then we’d see how many heads she turned. Of course, there was one benefit to the support hose. She wouldn’t have to shave her legs so often.

  The commotion in the lobby continued as every male with traceable testosterone found an excuse to mill around Ashley. Scarlett O’Hara at the barbecue. Geesch. The scene made me grateful I wasn’t one of the beautiful people. The ogling. The gawking. The fawning. How did she stand it?

  “Y’all need to proceed to the front desk to pick up your room keys,” I heard her call out. “No, I don’t need assistance. Y’all just take care of yourselves. Yes, I already have plans for dinner. No, you don’t need to know my room number. The front desk is right through there. Just keep moving.”

  I pressed the elevator button and sidled up to a plant, hoping to camouflage myself as a potted palm while the tour guests swarmed the front desk area. A full five minutes later, the door opened and I scooted inside the car, followed by a woman who announced, “Fourth floor,” as if I were the elevator operator. And she didn’t say please. She obviously wasn’t from the Midwest. My guess was…New Jersey.

  The doors glided shut. The elevator hummed to life. “Are you on your way to a costume party?” she asked as she lounged against the handrail. It didn’t help my mood any that she was a gorgeous brunette with the most exquisitely applied makeup I’d ever seen. Razor-thin eyeliner above and below the eyes. Lips perfectly outlined and stained. Foundation and blush that made her complexion appear luminous. I knew of only two groups of people with the expertise to apply makeup so precisely: makeup artists and Texans. I revised my first opinion. Okay, she was from New Jersey by way of Dallas.

  “I don’t always look like this,” I said. “My mascara ran.”

  “It’s a shade too dark for you anyway. Brown would be better. Have you ever had your colors done? My guess is you’re an autumn.”

  This was handy. Take an elevator ride. Get an instant color analysis. I wondered if this was part of the tour package.

  She smiled. I smiled. I lowered my gaze to the floor. Whoa! She had the biggest feet I’d ever seen, but great shoes. She must have to order out of a catalog.

  “Emily?” she said suddenly.

  I checked to see if I was wearing a name tag. Nope. How did she know my name? I exchanged glances with her, thinking she looked vaguely familiar, but unab
le to identify her. “I’m Emily, but I’m afraid I don’t know who you are.”

  “Emily!” She rushed at me, smothering my face with kisses and enveloping me in her arms. “It’s me! You don’t recognize me, do you. It’s Jack! Well, Jackie now.”

  I tried not to look as confused as I felt.

  “Jack Potter!” the woman burbled. “Remember? Your ex-husband.”

  Chapter 2

  “Jack?” Oh, my God. He was dressed like a flaming drag queen. I looked him up and down, my jaw hanging slack at his transformation. The hair on his forearms had completely disappeared. Had to have been a professional wax job because Jack had boasted the forearms of a gorilla. Ouch. And what was more startling, he sported a flowing mane of chestnut hair, huge breasts, a wasp waist, and fingernails like lions’ teeth. He wore a little peach silk number that hugged his body like Cling Wrap and had Lord & Taylor written all over it. No denying it. Jack Potter had a real knack for cross-dressing. “Well, would you look at you,” I sputtered, snapping my jaw back into place. “You…you changed your hair color.”

  “Just some henna highlights,” he said, primping in the elevator’s mirrored paneling. “My hair needed more pizazz, so it was either a short, sassy Sharon Stone cut or the highlights.” He studied his reflection. “You don’t think it makes too much of a statement, do you?”

  This was so Jack. He was perched on four-inch stiletto heels and worried that his hair color might attract too much notice. “Your hair looks lovely, Jack. It’s you. Definitely you. So what in the world are you doing in Dublin? Did you find a gig as a female impersonator in one of the local theaters?”

  “Impersonator, nothing! Honey, I’m the real thing. Feel these puppies.” He grabbed my hands and plopped them onto his breasts. “Go ahead. Give ’em a squeeze. Are they perky or what?”

  “Jack!” I snatched my hands away. “You shouldn’t be asking people on elevators to squeeze your breasts.”

  “But you’re not ‘people,’ Emily. You’re my ex-wife. You’ve seen me naked. Okay, then. You don’t have to touch them, but do you want to see them? They’re pretty spectacular.” He started unbuttoning his blouse.

  “No, I don’t want to see them! And what do you mean they’re real? Oh, my God. You’ve been popping those breast-enhancing herbs that Nana says are advertised on the E! television network.” I gave his bustline a serious look. “Wow. That stuff really works, and it’s not even FDA approved.”

  He fisted his hand on his hip and gave me an exasperated look. “They’re real, Emily. And they have nothing to do with herbal remedies. It’s all hormone therapy. I wasn’t gay after all. This is so cool. Are you ready? I’ve had sex reassignment surgery!”

  I stared blankly. “Excuse me?”

  “Sex reassignment surgery. It’s the new politically correct jargon. Maybe it hasn’t reached the Midwest yet. Okay, how about…I’m a transsexual!”

  A transsexual? As in crossing over from one gender to another? As in my ex-husband had undergone a sex change? Oh, this was nice. Nana had never understood the concept of being gay. I was dying to explain transsexuality to her.

  “I’ve had all the surgery, and taken all the hormones, and this is the result.” He struck a coquettish pose that made me realize he looked better in a skirt than I did. “I’m so happy, Emily. This is who I was always meant to be. I get to do all that exciting girl stuff now. Bikini waxes. Electrolysis. Mammograms.”

  Yup. Three of my favorites. “Aren’t you a little young for mammograms? You’re only a year older than I am.”

  “Well, I haven’t had one yet, but I can have a baseline in only five years. I can hardly wait.”

  Right. Slap your breast onto a glass plate so it can be crushed like a grape in a wine press. I was looking forward to that too.

  “You want to know the best thing about being a woman, Emily?”

  In Jack’s present state of mind, there could be only one answer. “PMS?”

  “No. The best thing is, I know where everything is. Remember how when we were married, I could never find anything, even when you told me exactly where it was? That doesn’t happen anymore. I put something down, I know where I left it, even if it’s days later. It’s uncanny. Of course, I can’t parallel park worth a damn anymore. Guess that’s what happens when you trade in your penis for a uterus.”

  “You have a uterus?”

  “Sure I have a uterus.” He paused thoughtfully. “At least, I think I have a uterus.” He frowned. “Maybe not. To tell you the truth, I have so much new equipment down there, I’m not sure what I have. But something’s sure caused my spatial intelligence to take a hike.”

  Maybe there was a more simple explanation. “When’s the last time you had your eyes checked, Jack?”

  “If you wouldn’t mind, Emily. It’s not ‘Jack’ anymore. It’s ‘Jackie.’ Jackie Thum.”

  “Thum? Is that your stage name?”

  “I didn’t tell you!” He flashed a diamond ring the size of a walnut in front of my face. “I eloped two days ago. Thum is my married name. I’m on my honeymoon!”

  I was overcome by one of those feelings that had Maalox Plus written all over it. How typical was this? My ex-husband has a sex change, grows his own set of knockers, and finds a husband before I do. I might as well jump out a twenty-story window now and get it over with. I eyed the floor indicator above the elevator door. Just my luck. The Shelbourne had only six floors.

  “We’d planned to have a big December wedding, but I won an Irish vacation in a theater raffle, so we decided to elope and use the trip as our honeymoon. The only annoying thing is, the invisible print on the raffle ticket specified that the winners be booked on some seniors’ tour, so we’re rubbing shoulders with a bunch of old-timers from Brooklyn. No wonder the raffle tickets were so cheap.”

  “Seniors’ tour?” Uh-oh. I was getting a bad feeling about this.

  “Something called Golden Irish Vacations. Have you heard of it?”

  I struggled not to wince. “Yeah, I’ve heard of it. I’m on it.”

  “Get out of here! You are? Did you win a raffle too?”

  “Actually, it’s my job. I arrange tours for a local bank’s senior’s travel club members; then I get to accompany them on the trip. It’s a great gig. I spend a few months in an office arranging travel packages through competing national tour companies; then this is my reward.”

  “You’re a tour guide?”

  “Not a guide. An escort. I’m along to cater to the Iowans if they have medical problems, need assistance with phone calls, stuff like that.”

  He lunged at me, smothering me in another bone-crushing bear hug. “Isn’t this bitchin’? We get to spend another honeymoon together. Remember our first one, Emily? That quaint little hotel? I can see it all now. We splurged and ordered room service. You had Oysters Rockefeller. I had a lobster tail.”

  I could see it too. I’d had a head cold. He’d had a dick.

  The elevator pinged to a stop at the fourth floor. The door glided open. Jack strutted into the hall like a beauty pageant contestant on a runway, head bobbing, hips swinging, boobs bouncing, and even though the carpet was slippery as a hockey rink, he was as surefooted as a mountain goat in his snakeskin stiletto heels.

  “I don’t see how you can wear those things,” I said, nodding toward his shoes.

  “You object to snakeskin? Please tell me you haven’t joined one of those ‘reptilian rights’ groups. Those people are seriously demented, Emily. If it was left up to them, all footwear would be made of nonbreathable material, like brick. Brick! Can you imagine? I mean, I have hardwood floors.”

  “No, I don’t see how you can walk in them without falling over. It usually takes years of practice.”

  “Honey, I’ve been waiting all my life to wear these things. Turns out I have a shoe fetish.” He checked the room numbers listed on the wall and pointed to his right.

  “I’m this way.”

  I strutted along beside him, feeling the n
eed to reminisce about the good ole days. “Remember when your only fetish was lingerie?”

  “Yeah. I used to love those satin bikinis you bought. They fit so much better than the Fruit of the Looms you used to buy me. But I have a drawer full of satin undies now, so I’ve moved on to footwear. You should see my closet, Emily. I make the Sex and the City girls look like rank amateurs in the shoe department. Here I am. Room four-twelve. Where are you located?”

  I held up my key so he could see the number.

  “Room four-ten? Right next door?” He clapped his hands. “Just like a college dormitory! Only, I should warn you, Emily, it might get a little loud in here later on. If you hear screams and moans, don’t be naughty and put your ear to the wall.” He wagged his manicured finger at me in a scolding motion. “No fair listening. Remember, I’m on my honeymoon.”