Wife-in-Law Page 7

  The other placards bore similar Democrat hysteria, interspersed with Carter signs.

  “Shame,” the picketers shouted to our approaching guests as they tried to come up the driveway. “Vote for Carter! Vote for change! Nixon was a criminal, and Ford pardoned him!”

  “Tommy,” Kat called to one of the men over their chanting. “Where’s the media?”

  The media! Spare me.

  “I called the paper and the TV,” he shouted back. “They were supposed to be here, but some guy got his legs caught in a ditch cave-in downtown, so they’re all down there covering that.”

  “Bummer,” another man weighed in as Kat made a face.

  Furious, I forced myself to conceal the anger and betrayal I felt as I hurried down the driveway as fast as my three-inch heels would allow. When I came alongside Kat, I said, “Kat, honey, I know we don’t see eye-to-eye on politics, and I’ll be the first to defend your right to free speech. But you and your people can’t go intimidating my guests. Or blocking their access to the house. So could you please just ask your people to back off?”

  Kat shot me a confrontational glare and kept right on marching as if I were just some annoying stranger, which hurt my feelings even more.

  I tried one more time to get her to listen to reason. “Nobody’s saying y’all can’t picket. You just need to leave my guests alone.”

  Without even looking at me, she returned fire with, “Oh, really? The way you and these reactionary so-called pro-lifers leave women alone when they’re trying to git a perfectly legal abortion?” Whoa. “’Scuse, me, but what’s sauce fer the goose is sauce fer the gander.” Her features congealed. “We’re only doin’ what we have to do to save this country from four more years of those criminals in Washington.”

  “Oh, please,” I said. “Like the Democrats didn’t have any criminals in Washington?”

  Kat scowled at me and picked up her pace.

  This was ridiculous. “Kat, honey,” I bit out, “I’m asking this as a favor, friend to friend: have your people leave my people alone. I don’t want any trouble here.”

  Her only response was to hold up her sign and holler, “Vote for the people, not the fat cats! God save democracy!”

  “I’ve told you a million times,” I snapped, “America is a democratic republic, not a democracy. Pure democracy is tyranny of the masses. It didn’t work for the Greeks, and it won’t work here.”

  She just smiled at me in challenge, then yelled to her cronies, “Sit-in for democracy!” In a blink, they broke ranks and sprinted for my front walk and the garage doors. Propelled by adrenaline, I ran after them, heels and all, and barely managed to get to the front porch before they formed a human blockade, then lay down, making it impossible for my guests to get in without climbing through my three-foot-tall azaleas.

  Buzzing with outrage, my guests surged up the driveway, then congregated on the other side of the demonstrators.

  Oh, Lord. What was I supposed to do now?

  Kat and her thugs were trespassing, but if I called the cops, they’d arrest her along with the others. Even after what she’d just done to me, I didn’t want that.

  At the forefront of the waiting guests, several members of my thrift shop committee from church stopped in consternation, looking to me as if I could wave my magic wand and make this go away.

  Think! There had to be some way to deal with this diplomatically.

  The last thing I wanted was to have my best friend hauled off to jail. No matter how betrayed I felt over what she’d done to me, I refused to stoop to her level.

  Then it occurred to me that Kat might want me to call the cops, so she could get some publicity. But friends don’t have friends arrested, in my book, even if they are rabid Democrats with no respect for private property.

  I had to think of something.

  Then it came to me, like a ray of sunshine on a stormy day.

  “Ladies,” I called to my blockaded guests, “if y’all could please bear with me, I’ll be right back and deal with this.”

  I raced inside to my dressing room and the bathroom, grabbing what I needed, then I headed for the kitchen. “I need this,” I told Sarah as I untied the cutwork apron she was wearing, then put it on and dropped what I’d collected into its deep pockets.

  I motioned to the stylist and makeup artist. “Could you two please bring some of your things and follow me?”

  They exchanged curious glances, then nodded. The stylist grabbed his comb and scissors, and the makeup artist gathered a few brushes and her tackle box full of cosmetics.

  Back on the front porch with them in tow, I smiled and raised my voice to declare, “As you ladies know, we are giving away some free makeovers today, thanks to two of Buckhead’s finest cosmeticians, Stephen Manus for Salon Divine, and Kelly Cooper from You, You, You on East Paces Ferry.”

  A smattering of applause prompted the cosmeticians to take a bow.

  I went on. “As it turns out, we have quite a few uninvited guests.” A murmur went up among the women. “Never let it be said that the party of Lincoln lacks manners,” I went on. “So I am now extending the makeovers to include our protesters.”

  A confused murmur passed among the lie-ins.

  I bent over to tell them, “Anybody who wants to participate, please remain lying on the ground. We will take this as a sign that you want to have a makeover. If you don’t want one, simply get up and go back to the sidewalk.”

  Amused chuckles and applause spread through my side of the confrontation.

  Kat tucked her chin in consternation.

  I straightened, waiting for a response. When none of the picketers got up, I summoned my courage and initiated Plan A. “Well, it looks like you all want to participate. This is going to be fun.”

  Pulling my battery-powered hair clippers from my apron pocket, I stepped over behind the head of the hairiest of the lot, a tall, fat man with tattoos and long, frizzy hair, plus a huge multicolored beard. “You, sir, are our first lucky ‘Dress for Success’ makeover winner!” I flicked on the clippers, then grabbed his beard and managed to cut off two-thirds of it just below the chin before he jerked away from me and shot to his feet.

  “Bitch, you cut my beard!” he hollered.

  Cheers erupted from my guests, inside and out.

  “Nobody gets away with that,” he bellowed, drawing back a fist.

  The onlookers gasped, but before he could hit me, Kat leaped up and hung on his cocked arm to stop him. “No, Moose! Don’t. This is a nonviolent protest. Peace, man. Peace!”

  Meanwhile, the braver of my guests came out onto the porch to back me up.

  Furious, Moose stroked the scraggly remaining tress of his beard. “I’ll sue you for doing this to me!” he shouted, towering over me.

  “But we’re not finished,” I said cheerfully. “I’m sure you’ll love it when we’re all done.” I looked to the stylist. “I’m thinking crew cut. What do you say?”

  Stephen blanched, eyes wide.

  Then a skinny male protester with a ponytail jumped up and pointed at me. “That’s assault and battery,” he accused. “I was a law student. That’s assault and battery.”

  I knew all about assault and battery from growing up in my old neighborhood. “Actually,” I said sweetly, “assault is a threat of harm or violence.” I scanned my watching guests. “We have plenty of witnesses, here. Were any threats of harm or violence made?”

  “No!” they responded as one.

  Defensive, the ex-law student stuck out his chin. “Well, you can’t cut somebody’s hair without their permission!” He waggled his finger. “That’s battery, and battery is a felony.”

  He didn’t scare me. “But I had tacit permission, which is permission, by default,” I responded, undaunted.

  “That’s garbage,” another of the prone protesters said from behind the hand shielding his long moustache from potential attack.

  “No, it’s a tacit agreement,” I said, eliciting more applause fr
om the onlookers. I stepped over to stand behind the head of another longhair. “Once again, anybody who doesn’t want a makeover must go to the sidewalk. Failure to do so will constitute your permission for a makeover, complete with shave and haircut.”

  “This is pure crap!” Moose thundered. “I’m gittin’ outta here and callin’ the cops.”

  “Feel free to use my phone,” I told him sweetly as he stomped toward Kat’s house, “but be sure to mention that you and your friends are criminally trespassing and assaulted my guests.”

  “You’re not getting rid of us this easily,” the ex-law student said, flopping back down beside the others, who stayed put.

  I turned to ask them, “Anyone else like to leave? ’Cause if you don’t, you’re all going to get a shave and a haircut.”

  “Betsy, stop it,” Kat said from her spot on the ground, “before things get out of hand.”

  “You stop it,” I told her, the first hint of anger creeping into my voice. “You’re supposed to be my best friend. No best friend would embarrass me like this. Why would you do such a thing?”

  “You know I’m an activist. It’s a matter of principle,” she shot back, “not personal.”

  “Well, it feels pretty personal to me,” I retorted. “I’m against smoking pot on principle, but you don’t see me calling the cops, do you, when these bozos start toking at your house, in plain sight?”

  A shocked murmur went up from the onlookers.

  Kat turned beet red. “I cain’t believe you’d bring that up in front of all these people.”

  At least I hadn’t included her in my accusation. I motioned to the twenty women on the other side of the human blockade. “And I can’t believe you would keep all these people from coming to my party. It’s typical of you liberals. You want your freedom, but don’t want anybody else to have theirs.”

  Applause and approval from my guests.

  Suddenly I became aware that Kat and I had become the main attraction, so I forced myself to calm down and get back on plan.

  I smiled and turned the clippers back on. “Okay. Since our first makeover winner decided to leave, I’ll choose somebody else.” I did a quickstep to the next protester and, catching him by surprise, grabbed a hank of his greasy bangs, then managed to buzz a strip from forehead to crown before his shock wore off and he escaped.

  Cussing a blue streak, he told his cronies I was crazy, and he was leaving, and they should leave too, before I struck again. Apparently, the rest of the men decided the game wasn’t fun anymore. I mean, principles were one thing, but hair was another, and anybody who tells you men aren’t vain doesn’t know what they’re talking about.

  “I didn’t sign on for this,” one of them complained as he got up and collected his placard.

  “Me neither,” said the one with the moustache. The rest of the men got up and headed for Kat’s too, leaving her with only a handful of women.

  Immediately, my waiting guests shot the gaps and headed inside, congratulating me on their way.

  “All right,” Kat said to me as she got up. “You win this one, but I’m not through.”

  “Bring those people back onto my property,” I said firmly, “and I will have you all arrested.”

  “Why didn’t you do it in the first place?” she challenged.

  “Because I thought you were my friend.” Turning my back, I shepherded the last of my guests inside, then closed the door behind me.

  I had trusted her, let her into my heart, told her my secrets—well, some of them—and she’d betrayed me … for political principles . My stomach roiled.

  Sissy Adams, sitting in one of the wingback chairs, looked out the front window. “The last of the protesters are going across the street,” she announced. “Thank goodness.” She turned back to tell me, beaming, “This was the most exciting thing that’s happened to me since high school. Where can I sign up to join?”

  Sarah waved the membership forms. “I have the sign-ups right here. Everyone who joins is eligible for the makeover drawing. Who’d like one?”

  Hands went up everywhere as conversation swelled.

  Sarah started distributing the forms. “When everyone’s finished filling them out, we’ll draw three for the makeovers.”

  “Just as long as Betsy doesn’t do them,” a girl on my ALTA team (Atlanta Lawn Tennis Association) called out.

  Laughter evaporated the lingering tension, and the party went on as planned. Forty of the fifty-three guests present signed up as Republican Women, making the event a smashing success.

  All was well until thirty minutes later, when we were all sipping tea and watching Stephen give the first makeover winner, drab Helen Foster, a cute shag haircut.

  At the sound of cars and voices from the street, Sissy looked out and said, “Uh-oh,” immediately diverting everyone’s attention.

  I went to the window and saw that a Fulton County sheriff’s car had pulled up in front of Kat’s, and two deputies were standing on her front walk surrounded by gesturing protesters, all talking at once and pointing to my house, while Kat looked on from her front porch, doing nothing to stop it.

  My stomach ricocheted off my diaphragm. They had called the cops on me!

  That tore it. I’d been Kat’s friend, and this was how she repaid me.

  A subdued buzz swelled behind me as my guests started getting up to see what was going on. “Hold that thought,” Helen told Stephen as she joined them, still in her plastic cover.

  While the policemen were taking notes and trying to maintain order, the WSB-TV van pulled up behind the squad car, and a reporter and a cameraman started setting up on the sidewalk.

  A low moan escaped me. “Looks like I didn’t dodge that bullet, after all.”

  Cindy Ashe came up and put her arm around my shoulder. “Don’t you worry, sweetie. If they try to make trouble, my husband”—an up-and-coming trial lawyer downtown—“will take care of this for you. Don’t you worry one little bit.” She looked to the others. “We’ll tell them what really happened, won’t we?”

  Affirmation surrounded me.

  Across the street, the camera cranked up as the reporter started interviewing the guy I’d skunk-striped.

  Sarah wrung her hands. “Everyone, why don’t we go back to the makeover?” She did her best to shepherd the girls back to their rented chairs, but the real show was outside.

  We all watched as the reporter tried to interview the deputies, then followed them up to my driveway, where the policemen motioned them back onto public property.

  Poised, the cameraman kept shooting while the deputies came up and rang the bell.

  Just damn. Kat had set me up, and now the law was at my doorstep!

  Nine

  The deputies looked truly apologetic. “I’m sorry to disturb you ladies,” the shorter one said, “but we’d like to speak to”—he glanced at his notepad—“Miz Betsy Callison, please.”

  This could not be happening. I’d never even gotten a traffic ticket, and here was the law on my doorstep.

  Act as if, act as if, act as if. My heart beating so hard I could hear my pulse, I answered with a composure I did not feel. “I am she.”

  “Miz Callison,” the deputy said, “two men across the street claim you cut their hair without their permission.” His partner grinned with approval. “Is this true?”

  “No,” I told them. “They, and all the others over there, were trespassing on my property and preventing my guests from entering.”

  “In a very threatening way,” Cindy piped up from beside me.

  One of her friends said, “I want to press charges! They blocked my way in a very menacing fashion.”

  The policemen looked to the others, who had gathered behind me. “Is this true?”

  They all started talking at once in affirmation.

  The policeman raised his hands. “Whoa, whoa, whoa.” He looked to me. “Is it all right if we come inside and take statements?”

  I stepped back. “Please do.”
I turned around. “Could everybody please just sit down? The deputies want to take your statements.”

  Immediately, they obeyed, the gleam of righteous anger in their eyes as they sat, straight-backed, waiting for a chance to weigh in.

  Alicia appeared with two plates piled high. She batted her eyelashes at the taller deputy, who was practically salivating. “Would you two gentlemen like a little something to eat while you’re working?”

  The younger deputy reached out, but his partner smacked his arm with the notebook, saying, “Thank you so much, ma’am, but we’re on duty, here.”

  “Maybe later,” his disappointed partner whispered behind the older man’s back. “After we’re done.”

  “Absolutely,” Alicia murmured with a seductive look.

  “Jack,” the older deputy ordered him, “you interview Miz Callison. When you’re done, you can help me with the others.”

  Jack cast a long look at the retreating food, then turned to me and opened his notepad, pen poised. “All right, Miz Callison. Could you please explain to the best of your ability what happened here?”

  I did. When I got to the part about cutting the beard and hair, he laughed out loud, earning a scowl from his partner, then apologized and finished taking my statement. When we were done, he shook his head and murmured, “Boy, are the guys back down at the station gonna love this.”

  Once everyone was finished, the older partner came to me with, “This is pretty complicated, ma’am. I’m gonna have to call in and get some clarification about the legalities. Could you please wait here? I’ll be right back.” He pointed to Jack. “Stay.”

  We watched him exit. “He doesn’t like you much,” I asked Jack, “does he?”

  “That’s putting it mildly,” Jack confided.

  “Maybe this will help,” Alicia said, handing him the plate of food and a tall iced tea.

  Jack beamed. “I do believe it will.” One eye on the door, the deputy started gobbling it down like a famine victim.

  “Show’s over,” Alicia announced, leading Helen Foster back to the makeover chair. “Stephen, could you please finish Helen’s haircut?”