No biggie wiggy.
Her travel arrangements proceeded apace. She lost five pounds and bought three striking new ensembles. She indulged in a complete makeover at Peoria’s Salon des Dames Frumpees. A teenager down the block agreed to plant-sit during her absence.
Carlotta was a trifle nonplussed by Mr. Detuzzi’s response to her request for extra time off around the Labour Day weekend. “Funny you should ask, Carlotta. Actually, I was going to suggest you take a nice long rest from your duties here at Carswell. You’ve got unemployment coming, plus you’ll qualify for a nice pension in just a few short years. Ms. McGinness in outplacement will be happy to explain everything.”
Fiddle de dee.
She had far more important issues to address. Uppermost in her mind was the special offering Herb had asked her to bring along to share. Something from the heart, he’d said. Carlotta’s heart was full of things she’d love to share with Herbert Alton Lattimore IV. But one particular idea crept in and germinated. Carlotta compiled the necessary details from medical, horticultural, and culinary specialists. She consulted with the top criminal attorney in all of greater metropolitan Peoria. Everything she learned confirmed her belief that she’d hit on the perfect contribution.
Soon, Labour Day weekend was upon her. Carlotta primped and packed and bid adieu to her precious housemates. “Have a lovely weekend, my sweet Cypripedium calceolus,” she said. “Don’t cry for me, Artemisia.”
A liveried chauffeur awaited Carlotta at the arrival gate at JFK. “Greetings, Ms. Little. I’m Hathaway. Mr. Lattimore asked me to drive you to the retreat.”
He held forth a nosegay of sweetheart roses and baby’s breath. “These are for you, ma’am. Compliments of Mr. Lattimore.”
Carlotta recoiled in horror. “Murdered in their infancy, no less. Is there no depth to which that creature will not sink?”
“Excuse me, ma’am?”
“I most certainly will not,” Carlotta huffed.
Herb’s house was an imposing Tudor in the ultra-rich Old Canterbury section of town. Years ago, Carlotta would have been humbled by the opulent surroundings, but now she stood apart from such frivolities. Above them.
The Southside High School class of seventy-two elite was assembled among the priceless antiques in the living room. Julia and Apulia Venable, the cheerleading twins, looked terminally perky as ever. Wendy Whitley, prom queen emeritus, stood beside bull-necked Chip Savage, football captain turned shopping mall mogul. Googie Nathanson, sporting two extra chins and a mail-sack belly, stood puffing a fat Cuban cigar. There was pretty Pinky Goldhaven, willowy Raquel Morgenstern, pompous Myron Peltz, and-
“Hey, boys and girls, look who’s here,” Herb bellowed from across the room. “Carlotta, baby. Great to see you. Come give your old pal Chervil a great big smooch.”
Carlotta stared him down. “So sorry to hear of all your troubles, Herb. I do hope you’re feeling better than you look.” For a specimen hybrid raised in prime hothouse conditions, he was in frightful shape.
Pinky Goldhaven tittered behind her palm. Googie Nathanson gesticulated with his stogie, spewing ash. “Have to say she got you that time, Herb. Looks like Carlotta’s grown herself a backbone.”
Herb sniffed. “Hey, I’m terrified. Really.” He loped over, ferrying a full champagne flute, and draped his free arm across Carlotta’s shoulders. “I’ve got a confession to make, kiddo. All that boo-hoo stuff in the letter I wrote was made up. I just wanted to be sure you’d come to our little reunion. Wouldn’t be nearly as much fun without you.”
“How resourceful, Herb. You wished me here, and here I am.”
Herb eyed her quizzically. “You’re not mad?”
“Certainly not. Why? Do I appear to be?”
“Hell, no. You appear to be zoned out. What are you on? Valium? ‘Ludes?”
“It’s called inner peace, Herb. Resolution. I believe you’ll find me rather unflappable.”
“You? Yeah, right.” Pretending to stumble, Herb slopped his bubbly all over Carlotta’s cream silk dress. “Oops. Hey, let me help you with that.” He ducked into the kitchen and returned with a filthy sponge. Muddy blotches bloomed as he dabbed the wet spots. “Oh, my. Look what an awful mess. Not miffed, are you, O unflappable one?”
“About a little soil and moisture? Heavens no.” Carlotta turned her back on him. “How are you, Pinky? Julia and Apulia, so lovely to see you girls again.”
For the next three hours, Herb exhausted himself trying to light Carlotta’s fuse. He served her Campari and soda in a dribble glass. He assailed her with shocks and rude noises and plastic vermin. When she needed to use the rest room, he directed her to a toilet rigged to back up with a menacing gurgle, then overflow in a rush of vile debris.
Slogging forth, Carlotta found Herb waiting in the hall. With a look of revulsion, he sniffed the air. “Nice aroma, honey. What’s that you’re wearing? Eau de Poop?’”
“I can’t say what it is, actually. But I’m so pleased you find it agreeable.”
“Anything’s better than the way you usually stink, Carlotta. Reminds me of that puke they used to serve Thursdays in middle school.”
“How lovely that I bring back fond memories for you, Herb. Childhood was such a happy, carefree time, as I recall.”
“Yeah? Then I bet you’re going to love the little surprise I’ve planned for you.” Herb squired her back to the living room. “Take a load off, Carlotta. Gather round, boys and ghouls. It’s show time.”
Carlotta checked the chair for booby traps and sat.
Holding his fist like a microphone, Herb boomed. “Our pest-I mean, guest-of honour has provided us all with so many laughs, I thought it only fitting that we offer her a special tribute tonight. Come with me now on this amusing jaunt down memory lane. Carlotta Little, this is your life.”
For the next hour, Carlotta sat through a wrenching rehash of every horrendous stunt Herb Lattimore had ever pulled at her expense. He began with the urine-soaked cafeteria chair in second grade. Next came the time he stole her training bra from the gym locker, and Carlotta saw it raised with the American flag during an all-school assembly. In eighth grade she was sentenced to a month of detentions after Herb scratched her initials in the fresh blacktop paving the schoolyard.
Some of his confessed mischief was news to Carlotta. She had not known that Herb was behind the premature eruption of her science-fair volcano or the mysterious disappearance of the thirty-page final paper on the life and times of Harry Houdini, over which she’d slaved for months. Because of the zero she received as a result, Carlotta had failed Social Studies and lost her coveted position as recording secretary of the Future Biographers of America.
“Last but not least, I’d like to present a recorded message from our special guest herself.” Herb worked a remote, activating the sound system.
Carlotta’s teenaged voice, ripe and husky, bellowed through the speakers. “That’s it, Herb. Right there. Don’t stop. Oh, my! Hoooo, baby. Yes!”
Everyone roared with laughter while the tape played on in a jeering, relentless loop. “Hooo, baby. Yes! Hooobabyyeshoooooooooo-bactabeeeee Yesssssss!”
Carlotta sat, unflinching, until the joke died of natural causes.
“Still not mad, Betsy Wetsy?” taunted Herb.
“Certainly not, Herb. In fact, I’m touched to think you’d go to all that trouble on my account.”
“Hey, it’s my pleasure. Honest,” chortled Herb.
“Well, that’s grand. Thankfully, I have something to give you in return. You asked that I bring something to share, something from the heart, and I have.”
Carlotta plucked a small box from her purse. “For you, Herb. I made it myself.”