In Polite Company

by Gervais Hagerty

  I follow her to the hallway, plop onto the floor. From here, Laudie looks taller, prettier, robust even. She floats her left arm up, still in the removable cast. She dips into a demi-plié. “The dancing in Atlanta—I’d never seen anything like it. It was just wild.”

  “The ballet?”

  “Oh no, that was different. I practiced every day for those auditions. I used my windowsill as the barre and kept hitting my foot on the bed.” She laughs to herself. “I loved ballet, but I loved to go out dancing, too.

  “The kids danced differently in Atlanta, not like they did here.” Her eyes dart around the room, as if to catch sight of the memory. “They did the jitterbug and the Lindy Hop and all that, but they danced like banshees, like they had a fever or something. The boys twirled the girls so fast their dresses stayed lifted above their knees for the whole song.” She cocks her head to the side, as though someone is watching her, and she’s allowing him the pleasure.

  “That’s where you met someone.” This, I knew, was the real secret.

  “Yes, I did. His name was John. And I remember thinking his skin glowed, like a golden idol’s. He looked heavenly, Simons. He really did. And he had an easy way about him, a sort of lightness I had never seen in a man. He danced that way, too. Light as air. I’d never danced like that before, but my body knew what to do. I could handle any turn he could come up with. Soon we were going steady. He’d take me out to dinner, and then we’d go to the nightclubs. The music there, it put everyone on fire. We’d dance all night, drinking gin. Then on the way home, we’d end up necking by the cemetery.” She turns to me with a luminous smile. “Do you still call it that?”

  “No,” I say with a laugh, “but I know what you mean.”

  She extends her right leg toward the barre, but it doesn’t catch the first time. I uncross my legs and tent my fingers on the rug, readying my body to sprint toward her. She tries again, dipping backward ever so slightly, before hooking her foot in place.

  Part of me knows I should stop her; she could fall and hurt herself again. But the other half, the braver half, knows that ballet is her passion. Her first love, however, must have been John. Where is he now? After all these years, do they keep in touch? Is she hiding a stash of love letters somewhere? “What happened to him?”

  “What happened to who?” A voice floats up from the first floor, feet pound on the stairs. When Mom’s face emerges just above the top step, her eyes widen with alarm. “Mother! What are you doing at the barre?”

  “Oh hush,” Laudie says, but something causes her body to pitch to the side as though she’s been pushed. Mom darts behind Laudie to steady her. I race to other side. We prop her up, like legs to an easel, and lift her back to standing. “Simons,” she hisses, “were you just going to watch until Mother fell and sprained her other wrist or something worse? Help me put her in her bed.”

  I drape Laudie’s right arm over my shoulders. Mom takes her left. Laudie walks, leaning heavily on us to make it to her room. We lay her on the bed. Mom swipes some extra pillows from Tito’s side of the bed and stacks them behind Laudie.

  “I’m fine. Y’all go on now. I just need a little nap.” Laudie flicks her good wrist at us, waving us away, insisting we’re not needed.

  But I can’t go yet. If Tito finds her in bed in this state, wearing her ballet flats and skirt, he’d rip the barre from the wall himself. “Laudie, scooch your hips over.” I untie her ballet skirt and slide it from beneath her. I wish she would protest, say she can do it herself, but she’s too tired. I walk to the foot of Laudie’s bed to pull the ballet flats from her feet.

  Arms crossed, Mom watches wordlessly while I tuck the contraband items deep inside Laudie’s chest of drawers. When I reach for Laudie’s day skirt, Mom surprises me by getting onto the other side of the bed. “Mother, lift your hips up.” Together, we hike the skirt over Laudie’s willowy, exhausted legs.

  “You have to promise me you’ll stop going to the barre,” Mom says.

  “Y’all quit fussing over me. I just need some rest.”

  Mom closes the curtains and motions for me to follow her out into the hallway. “Simons, I know you mean well. But one bad fall could kill her. Promise me you won’t let her do that again.”

  I can’t promise that, so I say the next best thing. “I’m sorry, Mom.”

  14.

  Crab Crack

  Six blue crabs rattle in a white bucket at my feet, blowing bubbles and pinching one another’s legs. A gigantic stainless-steel pot boils on the stove. Steam billows overhead, making the already-toasty kitchen even hotter. I dump the blue crabs inside. They die instantly, I hope. When they pinken, I drain the pot and carry our Monthly Monday dinner to the porch.

  For the crab crack, Weezy and I have assembled newspapers, paper towels, heavy spoons, and a bowl of water. Weezy wears an old nursing bra and some stretchy biker shorts. Her growing belly pokes out beneath a tank top. Our legs need shaving. Dirt collects in the spaces between my toes, beneath my nails. We’ve wrapped our hair in careless buns, high off our necks. We sit on the floor.

  Weezy goes for the claws first. She cracks the shell open with a mallet. I start by prying off the carapace. Warm goop drips from my fingers to the newspaper. I use a spoon to scrape away the gills. I swish the carcass around in the water bowl to clean off excess innards. After I break the body in half, it strikes me that everything about cooking and eating crabs is somewhat violent.

  A small pile of smashed, broken shells accumulates between us. We take turns feeding Francie pieces of the sweet flesh. She asks for more, and we give her as much as she wants. I sink into the rhythm of our picnic, enjoying the companionable absence of conversation as we hammer on the shells and suck the legs hollow.

  “Simons, you have something you want to tell me?”

  “What?”

  “You’ve barely said a word since we left town.”

  Four days have passed since I kissed Harry, three days since my phone call with Trip. I haven’t told a soul other than Laudie, and Laudie keeps her secrets. I guess Trip hasn’t said anything either, because in the insular world of Old Charleston, news travels fast. I was going to tell Weezy about the breakup; I’ve been waiting for the right time, but there will never be a right time. Best to get it over with. “I told Trip I don’t want to get married.”

  “What?!” Weezy is all eyes. “What happened?”

  “I think we just grew apart. Or at least I grew apart.”

  “It’s the long distance. Most couples can’t survive it. I said that. I said you should just quit your job and move to Columbia.”

  “I remember.”

  “Columbia isn’t that bad. It’s actually a lot of fun. There’s that river running through the city, and that art museum is really top-notch.”

  “I know.”

  Crab juice pools on the funnies section. The ceiling fan churns noisily above us. “It’s not about Columbia, is it?”

  “No.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  I keep my head down, avoid eye contact. “I didn’t want to upset you. Or disappoint you. Everyone seemed so happy.”

  “Yeah, but you are the one who is getting married. You are the one who is supposed to be happy.”

  “Thanks.”

  She gasps at a new thought, holding her spoon high like a weapon. “Did he cheat on you?”

  “No. Of course not.” I wipe my chin with a paper towel and debate whether to tell her about the kiss. I don’t think she would ever understand; she’d never look at me the same. “Weezy, can we not talk about this anymore?”

  “I’m your sister. I’m supposed to know these things. How did I not know y’all were having problems? I feel terrible.”

  “Don’t feel terrible.”

  Weezy scoots over and pulls me in for a hug. “Are you sure this is what you want?”

  “I think so.” My voice has risen into a high, mewling register and won’t come down. “It felt wrong to be with him. Somethi
ng wasn’t right. But not being with him doesn’t feel exactly right either. Did it feel right with Ashley?”

  “Yes. I have to say it always felt right.” She lifts her shoulders as though Ashley is behind her this very minute, giving her a squeeze.

  “Like, you never felt you had to change to make your relationship work?”

  “Change who I am? No. Definitely not.” She bangs open another claw with a spoon. “Don’t get me wrong. We have our moments.”

  “Like what?” They don’t get along sometimes? They seem to always get along.

  “Like when he watches Francie, he calls it ‘babysitting.’ And he leaves the toilet seat up. Little stuff like that. Of course, I’m not perfect, either. I’m a slob. I don’t dress as nicely as I used to.”

  “Weezy, you’re pregnant.”

  “Anyway, it’s a give-and-take. But marriage is worth it, for sure.”

  “Hmm.”

  “What about babies? I’ve got at least two single friends sleeping with random men without protection they’re so desperate to have kids. The biological clock thing is real.”

  “I don’t know if I want kids. Francie is adorable, but I don’t feel a strong desire to have one.”

  “Then what do you want?”

  I pile the glistening white flesh on the newspaper. “I guess I need to figure that out.”

  Weezy half frowns, half smiles. “Mom’s going to lose it when she finds out.”

  “I know.”

  “When are you going to tell her and Dad?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  Weezy coughs out a piece of crab. “Dangit. While I’m here?”

  “Jeez, Weez. I’m sorry to inconvenience you.”

  “Just kidding. You know I have your back.”

  “Thanks. That means a lot.”

  “I know.”

  * * *

  After Francie falls asleep, Weezy and I slip on our flip-flops and ease open the creaky front door. I told Weezy we might be able to see some phosphorescence. She surprised me by saying she’d like to check it out. There are no other docks in sight, no houses, no man-made lights. We don’t bring a flashlight; our eyes adjust to the darkness. It’s a spectacular Lowcountry night. Beneath this dome of stars, we could well be inside a jewel box.

  Weezy cranes her neck to look up. “Thanks for dragging me out here, Sims. I’m half thinking of waking Francie up to see this.”

  In single file, we make our way down the warped boardwalk planks. Beneath us, in the low plain of the marsh, tidal creatures treat us to a percussive performance. Shrimp pop as they leap from the water to escape predators. The oyster beds click, expelling old water for new. Marsh hens squawk in the spartina grass. Trolling stingrays splash in the shallows.

  I guide Weezy onto the floating dock. We step carefully on the wobbly platform, its bobbing motion creating a wake in the otherwise still waters of the slack tide. I bounce on the dock’s edge to agitate the water. The dinoflagellates ignite; tiny bursts of unearthly, surreal-green sparks flare and die—an entire cosmos at the tips of my toes. I dip a foot into the warm water to stir up more magic.

  I fetch a paddle from an overturned kayak and hand it to Weezy. She drags the paddle through the water, making figure eights. The motion brings millions of microscopic creatures to life. What we see is an underwater fireworks show. “Wow,” says Weezy. “I never grow tired of seeing this.”

  “I know. Magic.” I don’t just want to look at it; I want to be in it. I strip. A light breeze slides over my shoulders and down my spine. I jump high into the pewter night and plunge into the luminous water. It’s like swimming in a liquid Milky Way.

  Weezy lowers herself in from the swim ladder. “Oh my God, it feels great in here.” She flips onto her back. Her bulging breasts and belly are radiant in the bath of starlight and phosphorescence. I watch her for a moment to be sure she’s got her bearings. Because of the slack tide, she doesn’t need to fight a current. But still, she’s a pregnant lady. When it’s clear she’s floating comfortably, I swim toward the creek’s center.

  I turn onto my back, too, baring my body and soul to the world. A scintillating dome is formed by Orion’s Belt, the Big Dipper, and a million other stars, visible and invisible. A shooting star courses overhead, slicing the sky. When is the last time Laudie saw a comet? I should take her out to see the stars.

  “Simons?” The voice is faint. “I need some help, Simons.”

  Twenty feet away, Weezy struggles to pull her body out of the river. I race toward her. She’s made it to the middle rung of the swim ladder, but can’t manage to hoist herself up. I grip the rails and ram my shoulder beneath her bottom to give her a push.

  “Ouch! You are so bony,” she says, laughing.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. I’ve just lost all my ab muscle already and I’m not even halfway done with this pregnancy.”

  “Just take your time.”

  “Oomph.” She moans as she lumbers up the ramp. I scramble behind her to gather our clothes. Wet and naked, beneath the stars, we walk back to the cabin.

  15.

  The Talk

  Mom and Dad arrive the next afternoon. Tonight, we feast on a classic Lowcountry summer supper: boiled shrimp, fresh corn on the cob, sliced Edisto tomatoes. Mom dotes on Francie, peeling shrimp for her grandchild.

  Dad chews in silence, looking content but tired. He still hasn’t changed out of his business suit, but he at least removed his jacket and flipped his tie over his shoulder. He worked through the weekend and just finished his case today, so he’s taking the rest of the week off.

  Mom sits to my left. She wears a tennis skirt and smells of sunscreen. Since the news about Judge Boykin has died down, conversations with my family are less strained, at least for everyone else. Mom is trying to pin down a day for wedding-dress shopping. Weezy locks eyes with me. I know what she wants me to do, but I’m not ready to make the big announcement. “Soon,” I mouth.

  Mom’s eyes dart from Weezy to me. “What?” she asks. “What is it?”

  Dad looks up from his plate. “Simons, answer your mother.”

  In our life as a family unit, we’ve been fortunate not to have to share much bad news. When I wrecked Mom’s car my sophomore year in high school, they changed my curfew to 9:00 p.m. until I paid off the premium with my babysitting money. I didn’t make enough that summer, but they took what I had and said they were just glad no one got hurt. When our dog, Spot, died, my parents mourned for a few weeks, but then Mom found she didn’t miss the dog hair and Dad was thrilled he no longer had to scoop poops from the garden. My parents will bounce back from this news, too. Surely. Well, here goes nothing.

  “I broke up with Trip. We’re taking time apart.” I don’t know why, but I laugh. Nerves, probably.

  Mom spins in her chair to face me. “This isn’t funny, Simons.”

  “I’m not trying to be funny.”

  Weezy reaches for my wineglass; Mom bats her hand away. “It’s not good for the baby.” She turns to Dad. “Ed?”

  He’s sitting straighter now, looking a little more awake. “Is this true, Simons?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you are calling off the wedding?”

  “For now,” I state, though it comes out like a question.

  It’s Dad’s turn to speak, but he doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t even look at me. Instead, he drops his napkin on his plate, rises from the table, and walks down the hall. I’d rather be yelled at.

  In silence, we watch Dad disappear into the bedroom. Even Francie watches. Mom pushes her half-eaten dinner to the middle of the table and plunks her face into her hands. “I just don’t understand.”

  What is there to explain? She never had to make her relationship work. It just worked.

  “Have you thought this through, Simons?”

  “Yes, I have thought this through! I have been thinking about it for a long time.” As gently as I can manage, I add, “Don’t you want me to be happy?�
��

  “Of course I want you to be happy. But you don’t know what happy is, Simons. Happiness comes from stability.”

  “Yeah, but, Mom . . . you’ve never lived life on your own. You don’t know what you’re missing. You’ve always either been taken care of by Tito or by Dad. Maybe you don’t know, either . . .”

  Weezy, often the umpire during bouts of disagreement between me and my parents, shoots me a warning look—a yellow card. I just stepped over a line.

  Mom’s voice rises. “What do you know about taking care of other people? You think we’re all an island? There is nothing more important than family, taking care of family. Something you seem to have forgotten. Your job is to protect Laudie from that death trap of a ballet barre, not encourage it.”

  “Mom, I—”

  “No, you listen. I’m your mother. I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but I don’t like it. You’re being foolish and stubborn. You have an amazing future with Trip, a future most girls only dream of, and you are about to throw it all away.”

  “I just need some time.”

  Weezy shuffles around the table, wraps her arms around Mom’s shoulders. “Mom, Simons is trying to do what is right for her. We should give her our love and support. People make better decisions when they feel supported. We can all agree we want her to make good decisions, right?”

  In Weezy’s embrace, Mom calms down. She twists the stem of her wineglass. “Simons, I want you to seriously consider rethinking your decision. There’s still time.”

  I want to tell her that what’s done is done. A fait accompli. I can’t go back now. I finally had the courage to listen to my heart, or some sort of distant thrumming of it. Still, I know what I have to say. “Okay, Mom. I’ll think about it.”

  Mom leaves her corn and shrimp unfinished. Before she disappears down the hallway, she warns, “Not a word to your grandmother. It will put her in her grave.”