In Polite Company

by Gervais Hagerty

  The co-eds trolled the streets, chatting and laughing, deciding which place to go bum a few beers and maybe meet their husbands. It’s how I met Trip, after all. Though we humans have evolved in some ways since we emerged from the primordial ooze, it seems we still practice the most basic, primitive mating behaviors.

  As a gull’s shadow passes overhead, the fiddler crabs scamper back into their holes. Some of the males get lucky, as the wandering females need shelter fast. Show’s over. I head back to the house.

  Inside, Weezy cuts into a seedless watermelon. “Here, Francie.” She hands her daughter a dripping slice. Francie turned one last month. She has chipmunk cheeks. Freckles, like her uncle Clay’s, dot her face. We all love Francie and believe she’s a beautiful child, of course, but I think we were each privately disappointed that she looks more like a Townsend than a Smythe.

  “It’s still hot in here.” I peel off my T-shirt. I am now in my Edisto summer uniform: a ratty red bikini top and jean shorts. “I’m going back outside.”

  “Can you take Francie?”

  “Yeah, sure.” I carry Francie down the steps. In the hummock, the cabbage palmettos stand ramrod straight. Their V-shaped bark rims the trunks in an elegant herringbone pattern. In contrast, the live oaks twist and knot like old hands. Within their cratered, splotchy bark, galaxies of aquamarine lichens multiply and divide. We wade through the underbrush—sedges and dead goldenrod—looking for bugs.

  A car rumbles in the distance. As it comes into view, I’m stunned to see Martha’s Volvo wind its way up the sandy road. There’s someone with her. A guy. I squint to get a better look. Holy shit. Is that Harry?

  I nearly drop Francie to the ground so that I can neaten my appearance. Pivoting away from the car, I swipe under my eyes to remove any possible day-old mascara streaks hiding in the folds. I tighten my ponytail and scrunch the crown of my head to give my flat hair some extra oomph.

  The brakes screech, and the Volvo shudders to a stop. I wave as coolly as possible, as though old crushes randomly appear all the time.

  “Surprise,” says Martha flatly. She delivered on her promise—my gift.

  “Hey, Simons.” Underneath his thin T-shirt, I spy the same muscular shoulders I longed to touch in high school. He smiles his sideways smile, flashing the tiniest gap between his top two front teeth. He wears khaki shorts, low-cut socks, and green sneakers, much like the outfit he wore the day I first saw him.

  Before he first noticed me, I had limp hair and a crop of chin zits. I rarely smiled because I didn’t want to scare people with a mouthful of metal. Martha made me feel better by saying I had stainless-steel sex appeal, but still, who wants braces, especially as a high schooler? After my braces were removed, my hair was still limp, but a hairdresser determined that a chin-length cut on my soccer-ball-shaped head somehow worked. The tea-tree oil Weezy gave me cleared up the little bit of acne I had. My face had grown so that my wide-set eyes had become an asset, especially after makeup tutorials from Martha. With some experimentation with padded bras, I was pleasantly shocked to discover that I had started to turn some heads.

  I caught Harry’s attention that day. He was standing in the breezeway, his hands shoved into his pockets, his eyes downcast. I later found out that a teacher had caught him smoking in the parking lot before school and that he was waiting for his parents to take him home. He was surrounded by a handful of faculty and students who were in a heated discussion about individual rights.

  A friend of his was arguing with the principal. “He’s eighteen. He’s legally allowed to smoke and even die for his country.”

  Through the commotion, Harry lifted his head to stare right at me. There he was, in trouble, and instead of shrinking, he had the audacity to flirt. No one saw that defiance but me. His gaze zapped me; it rewired me. Something about that look changed me internally. I’d had crushes on boys before, but never a full-bodied desire.

  Somehow, Harry imprinted on me. It was indelible, and I was helpless. I decided right then and there that there was no other boy for me on the planet. Now, even after more than a decade, with a fiancé and work and time to muddle the memory, that feeling—evidently hardwired into the core of my being—is hard to shake.

  He was suspended for a day. The next week, I found him by the water fountain at the start of lunch. “Hey,” he said, tucking his lower lip.

  “Hi.” I imitated his tone, hoping I could match his nonchalance.

  “I need a cup of coffee. Want to go to the Waffle House?”

  The Waffle House? I’d always wanted to go. With its neon letters in square boxes lit-up in screaming, school-bus yellow, the sign seemed to target kids directly. Whenever Mom took us to West Ashley, I’d beg her to stop there. I’d tell her I was starving.

  “Absolutely not,” she always said.

  “Why not?”

  “There are places you go and places you don’t go. This is a place we don’t go.”

  “But, Mom, why?”

  “It’s dangerous, honey. It’s full of truck drivers and drunk people eating breakfast for dinner.”

  I’d passed the restaurant many times on the way to school, wondering what was so dangerous about truck drivers, drunk people, and eggs and coffee any time of day. But even when I could go, when I had my driver’s license and the occasional free afternoon, I never went inside.

  Perhaps that day was the day, I thought. We weren’t allowed to leave campus, but how would anyone know? We could sneak out at the start of lunch and be back before the bell rang for the next period. Besides, I’d never gotten in any real trouble before. This, I decided, was worth the risk. “Yeah, I could use one, too.”

  Without another word, he led me behind the upper school building. Teenage contraband littered the secret path: cigarette butts, candy wrappers, a worn copy of CliffsNotes on Great Expectations. We ducked under an ancient camellia, and voila! We were in the senior parking lot.

  Out in the noonday sun, Harry slowed his pace. He stood tall. I mimicked his movements, feeling more invincible with each step away from the school grounds. I was brave. He opened his car door for me. “My dad made me get a stick shift so I wouldn’t smoke when I drive.” He lit a Camel and peeled out of the gravel lot.

  The Waffle House rattled with activity. Grease crackled on the griddle. A waitress hollered an order to the cook. Silverware clinked. The jukebox played a Willie Nelson tune.

  As I slid into a booth, I wondered if this counted as my first date. A server appeared with two mugs and a steaming pot of coffee. She filled our cups quickly but without making a splash. “What’er y’all havin’?”

  I skimmed the menu, which was primarily pictures. Steak and eggs? Biscuit and gravy? I was too excited to eat. “Just coffee, thanks.”

  Harry didn’t have to look at the menu. “I’ll have the hash browns: smothered, covered, diced, and chunked.”

  “Okay, baby.” She threw a handful of creamers on the table. I’d never had my own cup of coffee before, so I drank it black, like my mother did.

  I was goofily, deliriously happy. I could do this every day. We did, for a while. But eventually he just stopped inviting me. I was crushed.

  In my backpack, I carried around buttons I had made for him and his bandmates. They read: “I’M IN A BAND.” It was the best I could come up with without seeming too desperate, though I never got the courage to give them to him anyway.

  I later found out that while on a trip to check out Boston College, he had met a girl. “Never underestimate the power of sex,” Martha told me while we sat in that same booth months later. I began to frequent that Waffle House, hoping I might bump into him. Martha was kind enough to indulge my obsession. I usually bought her lunch.

  I spent the rest of the year wishing he’d break up with his college girlfriend. He still hung out by the water fountain, where I’d take a quick sip after French class. Occasionally he’d brush up against me when I pulled a book from my locker. His touch was thrilling.

  But th
at was more than ten years ago.

  Harry leans against the car with his hands in his pockets, his feet crossed at his ankles. He flashes his green eyes up to meet mine, and my heart pounds like it used to—before I had a nine-to-five, before my future was laid out for me, before I made a promise that feels impossible to keep. I ache for him, but I ache for that teenage version of me more. Almost automatically, I covertly use my thumb to spin my diamond to the underside of my ring finger.

  Martha opens the back door to let out Bruno, her ancient pug. Francie drops her watermelon and screams. “Up! Up!” I don’t blame her; Bruno is a rough-looking dog. His eyes drip a clear mucus onto his wrinkly face. His scabby tongue bounces up and down. He could use braces.

  Weezy waves from the front door. Like any southern woman, she makes even uninvited guests feel welcome. Weezy would surely remember Harry from Crescent Academy. They didn’t hang out in the same crowd, but with only a hundred or so in each graduating class, they at least were acquainted. I’m not sure if she ever knew about my intense crush. When I walk past Weezy to get some Coronas from the fridge, she looks at me as though she might have some inkling. I avoid eye contact.

  I still haven’t told her a word about my feelings for Trip, or lack thereof. If I tell her, the problem becomes real. We’ll have to dissect our relationship, and she’ll suggest counseling and self-help books. And though she means well, she’d tell my parents.

  I hand Martha and Harry a beer. “Y’all go down to the dock. I’ll be right there.” Martha slings her bag over her shoulder; Harry follows her out the door. The screen door bangs behind them.

  I wait to speak to Weezy until they are out of earshot. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know they were coming.” Our Monthly Mondays are reserved just for us. We had decided in January, when they began, that we didn’t want to have to entertain each other’s friends.

  “It’s okay,” she says with the tiniest hint of resentment.

  I should say something like, Really? Are you sure? but I leave good enough alone.

  I head down the hall and flick on the bathroom light to study my reflection, something I’ve desperately wanted to do since Harry arrived. I pull open the drawers and sift through old toothbrushes, travel-size tubes of toothpaste, and bobby pins. I find some old waterproof mascara and some blush, but no brush. I pump the mascara tube and apply. It’s dry as a biscuit, but it will have to do. I tear off a couple of squares of toilet paper, dab it on the blush, and rub that on my cheeks. I purse my lips and look straight into the mirror. Just like a bird with a song or a fiddler with a giant claw, I, too, enact the rituals of the mating game. When Weezy sees me run past wearing makeup, she arches an eyebrow but keeps her mouth shut.

  Bruno greets me on my way out to the creek. He wags his stubby tail but stays put at the foot of the boardwalk. Like a lot of little dogs, he’s afraid to leave solid ground. After giving him a quick, reassuring massage, I stroll toward my friends, using this extra time to gather some confidence and hopefully scrounge up something clever to say.

  Harry sits on the western railing, shaded by the dock’s roof. Martha reclines in a pool of sun. She leans back on her arms, her legs stretched out in front of her. She’s still wearing her boots. Oversize sunglasses frame her face. The sleeves of her T-shirt are neatly rolled up and folded around her strong upper arms. She ashes into an empty Corona.

  “Nip?” Harry passes me a fifth of bourbon. I hate shooting liquor, especially without a chaser, but I’m glad for this social lubricant. I take a gulp and try not to look overcome by the burn in my throat.

  I desperately want conversation, but I’m afraid if I ask too many questions, I’ll seem nosy. Why is Harry in town? And how did Martha convince him to come all the way out here? Did he come here to see me? Does he know I’m engaged? Does he care?

  The only way to quiet this tsunami of questions is to take a fast, vigorous swim. I walk down the rickety wooden ramp to the floating dock, push the swimming ladder into the water, and dive in. The water’s warm on the surface, but just a foot underneath, it’s chilly. And the current is swift. I hear everything: the grunts of the red drum, the cackling of tiny shrimp, the metallic whir of a crabbing boat in the distance. Then, a splash.

  I swim to the surface to see Martha. She’s fighting the current, jockeying her way to the swimming ladder. Martha isn’t a great swimmer, but she knows enough to know that if she doesn’t start heading toward the dock immediately, we’ll have to hop in a jon boat and fish her out downstream.

  She manages to beat the tide to the swim ladder and climbs out looking like a biker-babe version of The Lady of Shalott. Her wet T-shirt clings to her body: voluptuous breasts, flat stomach. She peels off her shirt to wring it out; her petal pink nipples show through her lacy bra.

  I steal a glance at Harry, sure to catch him sneaking a peek, but his eyes are fixed on me. It’s not until she waves at Harry that he turns his attention to her. He shakes his soft pack and hands her a cigarette.

  Before climbing out, I rub the creek silt from my face so I don’t look like the bearded lady. Harry offers me the bottle with an outstretched hand. I take another sip. So I’m not tempted to take a third, I check on the crabs, hoist the trap. When the cage surfaces, the crabs raise their claws aggressively, opening and closing them. I jostle the cage to get a look at their pearl-white underbellies: six males and two females.

  “Dinner?” Martha asks as she exhales a stream of smoke. She’s put her boots back on.

  “Yeah, or at least an appetizer.” Rotating the trap, I release the two females, which tumble into the creek. I shake the males into a bucket, dump the leftover bait into the water, and set the trap back on the dock. Once, unthinkingly, I left the bait in the trap. I returned a few weeks later to find one dead crab and seven dismembered claws. They starved when they ran out of chicken neck meat and couldn’t escape, so they started eating each other. I turned them into cannibals. I felt criminal for weeks afterward.

  I lead the way down the narrow dock back to the house. Martha and Harry trail close behind. Bruno yips and stomps in the salty grass, thrilled that we’re returning to solid ground. The sun’s warmth fading, it might even be cool enough for a bonfire. We could make a beer run . . .

  Harry drapes an arm over my shoulders. I jump, electrified by the unsolicited touch.

  “I’ve got to go. I’ve got a gig tonight.”

  Oh. My heart sinks. This is goodbye.

  “He’s playing at Tin Roof tonight. You should come, Simian.”

  I want to go. I can’t, though. Weezy didn’t come all the way out here to hang out by herself. “Sounds like a blast, but I’m gonna chill here with Francie and Weezy. Y’all have fun.” I shoo them off, like I don’t want Harry to scoop me up with his big fiddler claw and carry me back to his hole.

  9.

  Backpedal

  Charleston’s weekend bar scene has slowly crept northward up the peninsula over the years. Back in the nineties, tourists trolled the Market to get drunk. In the early aughts, gentrification began to move uptown, spurred in part by reviews from the New York Times, Travel + Leisure, and Bon Appétit waxing poetic about our okra, heirloom tomatoes, and she-crab soup. Once-seedy, derelict buildings are now restored. No more shabbiness, boarded-up windows, broken glass. Instead, newly planted palmettos line the streets. Sleek new bars offer signature farm-to-table cocktails. Monolithic hotels rise from the spaces between little nineteenth-century buildings rescued and protected by the Preservation Society.

  Trip texted he’d be waiting for me with some of his friends at a new bar called Spill. I told him I’d arrive right after work. The pine walls, counters, and tables are made from salvaged pine and soaked in a glossy stain. The website advertises a boat-like, high-seas atmosphere; instead, this place gives off a casket-like, funeral vibe. Or maybe that’s just how it seems to me.

  Trip sits at a high-top with two girls; an overhead bar lamp shines on them like a spotlight, soaking them in gold, as though they are i
n a display case. The brunette wears a fitted dress made of Jacquard—slim over her shoulders, tight at the waist, ladylike as the rich fabric spills over her knees. Her eyes are brown but glittery. The blonde wears a silky peach dress that ties in front at the neck, not revealing any cleavage but inviting any passerby just to try to see. Their hair is loosely curled. They wear makeup, but not too much. I can see why Trip might want me in nicer clothes—these women look gorgeous, sophisticated, important even. And suddenly, I want to be like them. This is the type of woman Trip wants me to be. I get it.

  Trip chose his standard lawyering uniform—a button-down shirt and freshly pressed khakis. He looks up from his lager and spots me by the door. “There’s my bride.” I reach for his hand while mentally checking my bank account. It would be a stretch, but I could afford a couple of nice dresses. Maybe Mom and I could go shopping together; she’d love that. And the next time Trip comes to town, I’ll set the alarm early to curl my hair before work.

  I turn toward the brunette. “Hi, I’m Simons.”

  “We’ve met before,” she says. “I’m Bennett. I’m friends with your sister.”

  “Yes, of course,” I backpedal, though I don’t recall ever seeing her pal around with Caroline.

  “Bennett interned over winter break where I clerked,” Trip adds. “She’s a senior at College of Charleston.” He says the blonde went to law school with him.

  “Nice to see you.”

  Trip stands. “Cinnamon, it’s about time for dinner.” When the two girls reach for their purses, Trip places two twenties under his empty glass. “I’ve got it. Glad y’all are in town.”

  I wish I didn’t find that gesture so sexy. Trip is already making more money than I ever will, at this rate at least. As my husband, he would make sure we had a fine home with airy front rooms, renovated bathrooms, and real art on the walls—oil paintings with gilded frames. Just as he will tonight, he’ll take me to dinners at fancy restaurants my whole life. Our children will have the option of private school. There will be orthodontia for them, summer travel for us, maybe even a house downtown. I have some money tucked away and imagine my parents would leave some for me in time, but life on my own would be very different than the life I know now. Isn’t it just sensible to factor financial security into the calculations of eternal love?