In Polite Company

by Gervais Hagerty

  The portraits are uniform. They all have the same inky background. Though they sit in slightly different positions, all men face the viewer. We see their heads, torso, and hands, all painted in the same scale. The presidents wear the Battery Hall tartan blazer, which is a plaid of moss green crisscrossed by thin white and red stripes. Only the presidents get to wear that tartan blazer. All are buried in it. While Dad, like all members of Battery Hall, was given a pair of gold cuff links on the day of his induction, I wonder if he ever dreams of his portrait on that wall. Does he want to be among these men, in a club within a club?

  On the far left is the first ever president. Near the bottom of the fourth row, a younger version of Tito stares back at me. He was the nineteenth president. To the right, starting a sixth line of portraits, is a new painting covered by a carefully draped canvas. The current president’s portrait has been completed. Soon, there will be an unveiling ceremony.

  Dad spins around. “I kind of want to peek,” he jokes.

  To see what, another dude who looks like all the rest? What could possibly be interesting under there?

  Mom wears a pale pink skirt and matching cardigan. She’s looped a beige scarf around her neck. When she looks up from her phone, she inhales audibly. “Simons, you can’t wear that jacket.” She looks at me as though I stapled a bunch of tampons to my collar, some sort of super-absorbency accessory.

  “I thought no jeans.”

  “Honey. No denim. Period. It’s always been this way.” She hurries toward me and tugs on my sleeve.

  “I’ve got it,” I whine, sounding like a teenager. Being here at Battery Hall—with its archaic, arbitrary rules for me to run afoul of—makes me feel like a child again. The twenty-five men on the wall glare at me, making me wish I had walked in with a tampon collar, maybe stuck a couple up my nose.

  At least I am wearing an appropriate dress—sleeveless, knee length, spackled with red roses. I fold my jacket in half, drape it over my purse. Mom removes her scarf and tucks it over my jacket, hiding the illicit fabric as though we’re smuggling contraband into the fancy-pants restaurant.

  A hostess walks us to our table, which is set for six adults, plus a high chair for Francie. Along the wall is a high banquette. Above it, a mirror reflects our table; our snowy linen napkins have been folded into swans.

  In the corner of the banquette, Weezy spoon-feeds Francie something orange and mushy. Weezy’s husband stands to greet us. His name is Ashley, which is a normal and quite respectable name for a guy around here.

  His younger brother, Clay, stands, too. Clay wears a candy-cane-striped bow tie stamped with the Greek letters of his fraternity. Pale freckles, as though applied by a pointillist artist, dot every inch of his face. When he smiles, his gums show.

  “May I sit next to you?” I ask Clay.

  “Totally.” He lifts the menu to hide from the rest of the table and whispers to me, “Is this a boozy lunch? Or should I just order sweet tea?”

  “I think one or two beers would be fine.”

  “Got it.”

  “How were exams?”

  “Brutal. But one more year and I’m done. Where’s Caroline?”

  “At her internship in Charlotte.”

  “Oh, right. Cool. How’s Trip liking Columbia?”

  The air conditioning gives me goosebumps, but I don’t dare put on my jacket. I open the napkin and flap the swan away, cover my thighs. “Good. He likes his new job a lot.”

  We order drinks. The server places an iced tea in front of me. Next to my glass, he sets a tiny pitcher of simple syrup and a long spoon. I pour and stir and taste, finding it impossible not to enjoy this little tea party for one.

  Dad raises his pint glass. “I’d like to make a toast to your mother.”

  Mom straightens—her perfect posture even more perfect. Dad talks about her kindness, her patience, and her beauty. He says she’s a lovely woman, an outstanding wife and mother, a devoted friend, a fantastic tennis player, and a helpful neighbor; everyone at the table nods in companionable agreement. Dad ends his speech by handing her a card—the same card he hands her every year, right here. And every time Mom opens it, she looks genuinely surprised to find a thousand-dollar gift certificate to Crawford’s Jewels, hands down the best jeweler in town. Sometimes she treats herself to what she calls a bauble, though Crawford’s doesn’t sell trinkets. Other years she saves the cards, letting them stack up for when she wants to buy something extra sparkly.

  Like a cloud sliding beneath the sun, casting a giant shadow, a blue blazer blocks my view of the right side of the table. A large hand lands on my shoulder. When I turn to see who it is, a leather belt becomes level with my nose. Button by button, my gaze inches up the towering chest of Sonny Boykin. Shit.

  Dad, Ashley, and Clay stand to shake his hand. Generally, I stand when guests greet our table; it seems lazy for the women to stay put, and why are only the men expected to stand, anyway? Sonny’s hand weighs me down, and I’m not sure I want to honor the judge by rising.

  “Oh, please, sit down, sit down,” Sonny says. “Celebrating the birthday girl, hey?”

  Mom pats the banquette. “Join us.”

  “Oh, I can’t. We’re headed home. Nancy has a mile-long honey-do list waiting for me.”

  Dad remains standing. “Sonny, I’m sorry about all the fuss you’ve had to deal with.”

  “It’s ridiculous. There were no charges and still the reporters are saying I’m some sort of criminal.”

  Mom shakes her head. “It’s just awful.”

  “This too shall pass.” Sonny lifts his hand from my shoulder to wriggle his fingers at Francie. She smiles. “Y’all take it easy. I’ll see you at the unveiling on Thursday.”

  Mom leans over the table, her eyes following Sonny as he disappears into the lobby. “Honey, can’t you do something for Sonny? He had to spend a night in jail. Isn’t that bad enough? People should know he’s an honorable man from a good family.”

  “He spent three hours in a jail, not a whole night. And even if that wasn’t the case, I’m not going to write a fluff piece about him to make him look better. That’s not how news works.”

  “You could make them stop running the videos about his little bump into a pole. They make him seem like a drunk.”

  “We report the facts. He got into a wreck, failed a field sobriety test, and then was taken to the station, where he was released without ever having to take a breathalyzer test. I think it’s all a little odd, don’t you?”

  The table quiets. Weezy and Ashley inch closer to each other. Clay retreats behind his menu. Francie freezes; her fist stays high in the air, gripping a hunk of sourdough. Twelve eyes are upon me, all of them wary.

  “He wouldn’t drive drunk. We’ve known him our whole lives. He and Nancy have been married for thirty years.”

  I think of the portraits of the men on the wall, how images of Sonny, Dad, Ashley or Clay could be easily interchanged. These are the types of men my mother has known her whole life. Men who held the door open for her, vaccinated her children, sold her land on Edisto. These are good men. They are kind to her. They don’t drive drunk, wreck their cars, and get magically released from jail.

  I have a growing sense of unease that the wall of portraits represents far more than the leadership of the club. They are the figureheads of a powerful network; they look out for each other. These are the men who run the city, quietly, carefully, out of the limelight. And here I am, a modern woman—I like to think—stirring tea with a tiny spoon in the belly of the beast. “I don’t think you should be so quick to be on his side.”

  When people are mad, they meet each other head on. They square off. But this look, where Mom cocks her head to the side, is a look of concern. Weezy and Dad are doing it, too. They wonder why I’m picking a fight.

  “Simons,” Mom says, brightening, “What if you got married at Battery Hall?”

  Here’s the thing about Charleston families: we regard civility above all else. No m
atter what is said or done, we remain in polite company. It’s what we’ve been bred to do: hide our disagreements beneath the smiles. Not say what we mean. It’s why Laudie never speaks up to Tito. It’s why I said yes to Trip. It’s why Mom changed the subject, and why I agree to move on as well, even though this new subject isn’t a whole lot better.

  “Remember we decided we needed a bigger venue?”

  “Oh, that’s right.”

  The server appears and takes our orders. I excuse myself to visit the powder room, weaving through tables occupied by Charleston’s bluebloods. By the window, a couple of Laudie’s friends, both widows, idle over after-lunch coffee. In one booth, a mother—maybe one of Weezy’s old school pals—wipes ketchup from her daughter’s gingham pinafore.

  There isn’t a hand-dryer in the bathroom; instead of using the single-use, high-quality paper hand towels embossed with the Battery Hall logo, I shake my hands dry. Dallying, I examine the prints that hang in the women’s powder room.

  The watercolors depict seemingly idyllic scenes of pre–Civil War plantation life. In one, enslaved women relax in the sun while their children nap, suggesting plantation life was filled with such languid afternoons—a visual denial that their babies weren’t oftentimes snatched away and sold to other owners, never to see their mothers again. Another takes place just beyond the steps of a large plantation home. Enslaved people line up to shake the hands of a finely dressed white couple—their oppressors. In the painting, everyone is smiling. Jesus. Who chose these prints for the ladies’ room? Why are they hanging in this club? It seems Battery Hall is even more backwards than I had feared.

  7.

  It’s a Trip

  A streetlight illuminates Trip’s white Toyota truck; its motor hums. He’s sitting inside, seat belt fastened, hunched over some documents. I can tell the AC is on full blast by the way it blows the papers. He looks up; I freeze. He doesn’t see me on the curb, can’t detect that just two weeks ago, I flirted with a man named Paul.

  I slip off my shoes. My toes, cramped and cold from a long day at the office, soak up the residual warmth baked into the sidewalk. Raindrops from an afternoon squall linger on the plants, amplifying the scent of confederate jasmine that blooms riotously beside my house. It’s twilight now, and Charleston is warm, seductive, and sweet-smelling. It’s an evening ripe for springtime romance. So why can’t I conjure up any feelings for the wonderful person inside that truck?

  I stretch my arms overhead, trying to awaken my body. Maybe I can somehow physically summon the spark I used to feel when his truck rolled up to my apartment. I exhale, walk over, knock on his window.

  “Agh!” He jumps, puts his hand over his heart. I notice the print of his bow tie: tiny palmettos. He bounds out of the Toyota and hugs me.

  I lean into his chest. He lowers his face to reach mine. I tuck in closer to avoid having to kiss him. Undeterred by my hesitance, or perhaps just oblivious, Trip kisses my forehead. “Put on your shoes. You could step on glass.”

  It’s something Dad—or Tito—would say, and in the same practical, no-nonsense tone. “I’m fine.” I push from his embrace, backing away into the wet street.

  He starts to say something but instead shakes his head. When he reaches for his bag in the passenger seat, I turn to scamper up the staircase, open the door to my apartment, and have the bizarre but delightful thought that I could just lock him out. I don’t, of course.

  Trip hollers from the bottom of the staircase, “Slow down there, Speedy.”

  He finds me in the kitchen and leans against the doorframe, watching me as I root around for a wine opener. I know he wants me to turn around and kiss him, do what normal engaged people do.

  “Cinnamon, sweetie, you’ve got roaches.” Trip rips a paper towel from the roll, picks up the dead one on the floor, tosses it in the trash can.

  “I know. So gross. Charleston butterflies . . .”

  He opens my countertop compost tin, releasing a fruit fly. “It’s probably because of this.”

  “Well, I’m still going to compost.” I hand him a glass of wine. “How’s work?”

  “It’s challenging. In the best way. But I don’t want to talk about work now.” He puts his glass on the counter before taking a sip. “And I don’t want wine. I want my bride.” He steps forward, reaches his arm around my waist. Instinctively I stiffen, but not enough for him to notice.

  He cups my cheeks in his big bear hands, bringing us face-to-face. His eyes are gentle, and behind that warm hazel gaze is a promise of safety. And perhaps, somewhere beneath the sheets of my bed lies my deep, wayward, long-buried promise of love. I take a breath and unbutton his collared shirt.

  8.

  Barrier Island

  Edisto is one of the Lowcountry’s many sea islands, and perhaps its most pristine. To the north are Johns, Sullivan’s, Isle of Palms, Bulls, and Capers; to the south, Hilton Head and Daufuskie in South Carolina and St. Simons, Jekyll, and Cumberland in Georgia.

  The islands in South Carolina closest to Charleston were developed first; Edisto Island’s relative remoteness has spared it the rampant development that has befallen the others. Mom and Dad bought a house on a deep-water lot off Pine Landing Road about five years ago when Dad decided he wanted to become a better fisherman (instead of fishing, though, he’s always working on some project, like taming the Edisto jungle that encroaches on the house, or nailing down balky boards on the dock).

  Our isolated cabin on Flemming Creek is a sanctuary; it can also be a miserable place when you’re stuck in a small house with your parents quizzing you about your career, wedding date, or anything related to the future. The good thing about a Wednesday to Sunday work schedule is that I can go to Edisto with my sister Weezy and her kid, Francie, sans parental units. Dad, like most people, works Monday through Friday, so he and Mom don’t come when Weezy and I have our Monthly Monday nights here together. This will be our fifth Monday. And while we’ve gotten even closer since I’ve moved back to Charleston, I still haven’t said much about Trip to Weezy. Maybe I’m like Laudie; I’m not ready.

  It’s an hour’s drive to Edisto from Charleston. After crossing the Ashley River, Highway 17 South cuts through suburbia, down the Auto Mile with its acres of cars, past strip malls, generic shopping centers, and asphalt parking lots. Gradually, as the road narrows, the blight decreases; stands of pine trees and clusters of oaks appear. Instead of giant big-box stores, there are small businesses: a roadside tattoo parlor, a sandwich shop, a palm reader, tiny country churches. People sell live bait, crabs, watermelons, or boiled peanuts from their trucks.

  On Toogoodoo Road, the trip becomes scenic as expansive stretches of river and marsh come into view. The last two miles to our house are on a winding dirt road. Gangly wood storks in the loblollies startle into flight when our car rattles down the bumpy road. As we drive farther into the low, flat maritime forest, the shadows thicken. Oak branches snake overhead. And although I can’t see them, the white-tailed deer are resting in the rust-colored pine straw that serves as bedding for many of the island animals.

  We pull up to the cabin, which sits in a clearing. Our screen porch overlooks the creek, which meanders and carves through estuaries of spartina grass.

  The cabin has three bedrooms: a master, another room with a double bed, and a bunk room. Mom decorated the house with beachy knickknacks: framed prints of colorful umbrellas, duvets with seashells, cocktail napkins that read, “Cheers, Y’all.” Weezy and Francie always take the double, with its starfish duvet and lighthouse-shaped bedside lamps.

  We unload the car and divvy up the work. Weezy puts away the groceries. I open the windows and stash our bags in the bedrooms. “Wanna go with me to put in the crab trap?” I rummage in the freezer for some chicken necks.

  Weezy glances at Francie, who beats a spoon against the recycling bin. “She seems happy now. We’ll just hang here.”

  I drop the chicken in a plastic bag and head out the door. When I step onto the boardwal
k, the pelicans at the dock’s far end stiffen, taking stock of the interloper. Only after I walk halfway down the dock do they take flight, landing on the water’s surface just down the creek.

  Dad keeps the crab trap neatly bungeed beneath the bench on the green-roofed high dock. Made of chicken wire, the lightweight trap is about the size of a suitcase. I stuff the frozen chicken necks inside, close the hinge, check the knots at both ends of the rope, and fling the trap into the creek. The trap makes a satisfying whoosh when it hits the water and then rapidly sinks.

  Blue crabs lurk on the creek bottom; the chicken oils will lure them inside the trap. On a good afternoon, five or six crabs will come in search of dinner. I always have to throw a couple back in the water, however, because it’s family policy to return all the females to the creek, whether or not they are carrying eggs.

  The simmering sounds of tidal zone critters grow in volume with the heat of the day. Marsh hens cackle; a stingray thrashes. With loud pops, fiddler crabs break the air seals from their underground homes. The crabs are each about the size of a quarter and practice courtship rituals that rival any daytime soap opera. I wait motionlessly; as soon as the crabs grow accustomed to my shadow, they resume business as usual.

  The females have two identical small claws. They spend most of their time quietly picking at the microbial growth. The males, on the other hand, have one oversize claw, which sort of looks like a fiddle, that they wave to lure potential visitors to their mud holes.

  This whole setup—where the males patrol the tight perimeter of their territories and the females roam, sizing up the lot, deciding which bachelor pad to visit—reminds me of college. Back at UNC–Chapel Hill, on fraternity row, the frat boys would drape large sheets across their houses, advertising themed parties. Drinking from red Solo cups, they’d stay put on their turf, not daring to enter another man’s house.