“Yes! Hospitals are where sick people go to die, Sims. It’s not where healthy people should go to have babies.” She taps on her belly. “I don’t want this nugget to be exposed to all those germs.”
“So, you’re going to have the baby at a birthing center. Is that where they deliver in a tub?”
“Yeah, but you could do it on the bed or anywhere in the room. Or on the toilet, but I don’t want to do that.”
“No,” I say with a laugh. “I wouldn’t do that. Will there be a doctor?”
“A midwife.” She reaches for my champagne glass.
“Take it. I don’t want it.”
“Good ol’ Pink Panthers.” Weezy takes a tiny sip. I know she’s feeling a little guilty, but it’s just a sip. She didn’t even allow herself that in the first trimester. She’s such a good mom. She’s a good sister, too. I’d fall apart if anything happened to her.
What if something does happen during delivery? I stamp out images of Weezy taking her last breath in some blood-soaked pool surrounded by midwives rattling their amethysts and rose quartzes. “What if”—I think carefully about my phrasing—“something doesn’t go as planned?”
“There’s a hospital two miles away. They take you there if they think you need to go. They have a protocol and everything.”
That makes me feel better. “What does Ashley say?”
“He thinks I’m nuts.”
Ashley thinks gourmet coffee is nuts. He thinks going anywhere for college other than Clemson is nuts. He thinks eating any other nut than a peanut is nuts. “Well, I’m sure you’ve done your research. I support you.”
“I know. Thanks, Sims.” Weezy smiles, looking wistfully at the ceiling. “Did you know that being in warm water during delivery feels almost as good as an epidural?”
I love being in the water. Nothing’s more relaxing. That makes sense. Natural. Natural is good. “What does Mom say?”
“I haven’t told her.” She flashes me a cheeky smile. “What the hell, maybe I’ll tell her right now.”
“Dangit. While I’m here?”
* * *
Mom, Caroline, and I head over to Laudie’s after the debutante brunch. Mom carries a plate of Mrs. Harley’s sandwiches. Caroline holds a bouquet from the party. We enter through the kitchen. “Mother?” Mom calls into the den.
The TV is on but muted. The room is otherwise dark. Laudie naps on a recliner, her face turned away from the screen. Mom places the plate on the coffee table and removes the Saran Wrap. “We brought some goodies for you.”
Laudie straightens and smooths her skirt. “Thank you.”
Caroline crosses the room with the bouquet. “Here, smell these lilies. They smell so good.”
Laudie inhales with her eyes closed. “They’re heavenly.”
Mom clicks on a lamp and turns off the TV. While the room should be cheerier, it feels the same. Static and subdued. She and Caroline stand side by side, waiting for me to speak. In the car on the way over, they hatched a plan. It was up to me, they decided, to tell Laudie.
I do my best to sound positive. “Laudie, Mom and Caroline are worried that going to the ballet might not be a good idea. But we can still see it. Caroline found a video of La Sylphide online. We can watch it here on your TV. I’ll bring snacks.”
Mom clears her throat, reminding me to add another point. “It will be like having front-row seats.”
My stoic grandmother—always composed—bows her head ever so slightly. A single tear rolls down her face. I can’t bear to look.
18.
The Tonic
It’s nearly three o’clock, and I haven’t yet left the house. I slept in, ate breakfast, and then took a nap. I’m finally getting around to starting the day.
I imagine Harry would have called by now. He hasn’t. What’s the rule now these days? Wait a week? It’s been nearly a month since the house party. Was it the kiss? I press my mouth to my forearm and test my Frenching skills like I did as a bored eighth-grader. Still good. Harry must be busy.
As I wash my face, I wonder about the other men. Surely some guy would have sniffed out my recent singleness. The last time I was single was in college, where troves of hormone-packed students flowed in and out of academic buildings and campus quick-marts. We practically rubbed up against each other to order burritos or check our mailboxes. I’m afraid in my new life, at this rate, I’ll run into a potential mate about as often as I change my toothbrush. When I pick it up, fruit flies fly out from the bristles. Not good.
I head outside to my porch. The summer is quiet. Little noises—a buzzing mosquito, a distant wind chime—sound exaggerated these days. Occasionally, some kid lights a firework left over from the holiday weekend. Many residents have decamped to the Blue Ridge Mountains or up north to Cape Cod or Maine to cool off. Those who remain retreat indoors into the air-conditioning. But after long days inside my windowless office—working through the holiday weekend—I’ll take the heat. I sit on a wire chair; just over the rail is a panoramic vista of quaint buildings, terra-cotta rooftops, quirky chimneys, and plenty of sky. The air is sticky hot. Every few minutes, a gust lifts my shirt, as if to try to see what’s underneath.
Martha’s voice pierces the silence. I lean over the railing, look through the branches of a crepe myrtle. She’s walking beside a man. It’s Harry. She didn’t return my calls inviting her out for drinks. We haven’t spoken for weeks. But here she is now, bringing him back; she’s forgiven me.
Dashing inside, I whack my couch pillows into shape, kick the rug straight. I stash the dirty dishes in the oven, hide my half-eaten pasta in the back of the fridge, and run a damp rag over the countertops.
I fly into my bedroom, scoop up my underwear and inside-out pants. I shove everything in the hamper, clean or dirty. I’m straightening the sheets when I hear the knock. “Coming!”
The bathroom situation needs assessing. When did I get so messy? I ball up loose strings of dental floss and swipe the toilet top’s dust bunnies with my bare hand. My engagement ring remains hidden on the top shelf of my medicine cabinet.
More knocking. Shit. In front of the mirror, I rake my hair with my hands to volumize it, make sure nothing is stuck in my teeth. No time to change. Opening the door, I’m careful not to sound breathy. “Well, hello, strangers.”
Martha stomps past me and walks up the stairs; a six-pack of PBR bangs against her thigh.
“Hey, Simons.” Harry’s smile is mischievous, lopsided. His faded orange T-shirt reads “Georgia Made.” It’s emblazoned with a large peach that sports a provocative crevice. Leading Harry upstairs, I add a little sway to my hips.
Martha shuts the door to the porch and cranks up the window unit to full blast. “You keep it too hot in here, hippie.” Her shirt, a feminine button-down with tiny polka dots, flutters in the draft of the AC. She wears lipstick again, but it’s worn off a bit. “I stuck the beers in the freezer. They need some time to chill.”
“I think I’ve got the ingredients for a gin and tonic. Want one?” They both say yes.
When I return to the living room, Martha is staring at Harry, her head dipped to the side, revealing her swanlike, creamy neck. Harry stares back at her. I feel like I’ve walked in on a conversation, but a soundless one, with no words exchanged.
My phone, facedown on the coffee table, buzzes. I reach for it, but Martha snatches it first. “It’s Trip. Our little princess has two gentleman callers.”
I grab the phone from her and silence it.
“Aw, come on. We could put him on speaker, have a little group chat.”
The room temperature rises twenty degrees. I look at Martha, my eyes boring into hers, imploring her to shut up.
“Don’t look so worried. I’m leaving.” Martha heads for the door. Her boots pound down the hollow stairs. The old street door bangs shut. And just like that, it’s me and Harry. I blink stupidly, carrying three glasses in my hands, trying to figure out what the hell happened.
Harry appears unf
azed. “Cheers.”
“Cheers.” Now what to say? In the wake of the bizarre delivery of him by Martha, I’m utterly confused. But here he is, the man who first made me feel what it was to want a man. He snuck me out of school. He took me to the Waffle House. Then he stopped calling. But now he’s back in my life. The universe has granted me a chance for bravery—with a rebel, to boot.
He lifts a shoe box of CDs off my shelf.
“The guy who had the apartment before me said I could have them.”
His fingers walk over the spines of the cases; I imagine those fingers walking between my breasts, past my belly button. I cross my legs.
“The Dookie album. Muse. Whoa, Alien Ant Farm? I haven’t heard these in forever. Here, put this on.” He hands me a White Stripes album. “The drummer is a chick.”
He taps a foot to the rhythm. The sun starts to set. I suck on my lime. The CD stops. He moves to sit closer. I ask him about the concerts he’s played. We share Martha’s drink. The bony sliver of a moon slides to the middle of a windowpane. He touches my neck; my cheeks burn. I stand to make another round.
“Uh-uh.” He snags a finger through my belt loop.
I pause, frozen. What do I do? Well, I certainly can’t make any decisions unless I collect some data. Experimentation is the prudent choice to make, right? He leans back, slides me on top of him. I run my hands over his shoulders and chest. It’s impossible not to compare his body to Trip’s. It’s not better or worse; it’s just not Trip, which feels traitorous. Best not to think. We kiss; he tastes like gin. His mouth finds its way to my ear; his hot breath melts what’s left of my rational brain.
He peels off his shirt, then mine. With one hand, in a quick snap, he expertly removes my bra. We look at each other, eye to eye, skin to skin, soul to soul, for a short but thick moment. Am I ready to have sex? We haven’t even been on a proper date yet. The cherubs on my mantel watch me with judgmental eyes. I’m no angel, I decide. I take his hand and guide him to my bedroom.
“Are you on the pill?”
I am, but I am afraid of STDs. I’ve never had sex with anyone other than Trip. “Do you have a condom?”
“No,” he says, and I am glad he’s not the kind of guy to be going around with a condom in his wallet. I think? “I’ll pull out.”
I feel a twitch of uncertainty. “Okay.” I nod, and with that his strong arms seize my sides. He flings me onto the bed.
I am disoriented by his strength, scared and excited. He climbs on top of me, but just when I think he’s done tossing me around, he lies on his back. “I want you on top.”
A trace of light reaches from the lamppost and into my room, just enough to put me on display. In this grayscale light, Harry can probably see that my left breast is slightly bigger than my right, and that I haven’t shaved my bikini line in a week. I suck in a little to shrink my stomach.
“Mmm . . . right there.” He lowers me onto him. I wince for a moment. It hurts a little, but don’t people talk about the mix of pleasure and pain?
I find myself moaning and gasping for air. I see flashes of green and white, shooting stars. He moves quicker and quicker; I become nothing but a vessel of pleasure. Soon he quits thrusting and lifts me off him. He turns to the side, his body quivering, and then is still.
While sex is—generally—a two-person deal, in this moment I feel alone in the best way, like the first-place winner at the top of the podium, gold medallion and all. By having sex with another man, I’ve halved some sort of claim Trip had over my body. I was his alone. Now, I’ve shared myself with someone else, of my own accord.
I did it. I had sex, and with a sexy musician. The big moment is over, and I’m A-okay, happy even. I still have ten fingers, ten toes. Everything turned out just fine. Martha’s right: curiosity doesn’t kill every cat.
* * *
Early-morning sun blanches the floors and walls, enveloping the room in a temporary haze. Harry is not in the bed. Through the slit between the door and the frame, I see him lean into the sink, bend over, and suck water from the faucet. I wonder if he used my toothbrush.
He emerges from the bathroom, his eyes puffy, fully clothed. “Good morning” I say, as casually as possible.
“I thought you were asleep.” He crosses the room, his eyes on the floor. “Have you seen my shoes?”
I sit up and summon a big smile, conjuring an independent woman who can have sex—or not—and not get attached. “They’re probably next to the couch.”
He walks over to give me a hug, the kind of side-hug I was taught to give to campers when I was a junior counselor at Camp Ton-a-Wandah. “I’ll call you soon.”
I gather the covers just sloppily enough to reveal a little boob. “Bye,” I say, biting my lower lip and giving him what I hope is a super-sexy look. He smiles back, and I see his eyes catch sight of my left breast—the bigger one—before he pivots and heads out of my room, down my apartment stairs.
I wonder when he’ll call. Tonight?
I pick up my phone and see yesterday’s missed call from Trip. He had sent a text then, too: “I heard Laudie isn’t doing well. Please tell her I say hello.” I wait for a twinge of guilt to trickle over me, having completed the most visceral step in our separation, but I feel nothing other than tenderness for Trip. How sweet it is of him to think of her. But wait a minute, how would he know about Laudie?
19.
News Tip
It’s another day at the office—hectic but normal. We wrapped up our morning meeting; I’m at my desk, having traded my flip-flops for wool socks, writing a story on South Carolina’s miserably low rank among national school systems. Our state has wallowed in the bottom ten—and often in the bottom one or two—for decades, ever since such statistics have existed. South Carolinians often say, “Thank God for Mississippi.” The latest abysmal ranking is hardly news, so this story shouldn’t be difficult to write, but so far I’ve managed only a couple of sentences.
Instead of doing my job, I’ve been reviewing Harry’s exit in my mind. Flashbacks replay as kaleidoscopic fragments: my twisted sheets, his no-big-deal exit, a desperate side-boob.
Today is Friday, and Harry still hasn’t reached out. We had sex, for goodness sake. No flowers, no note. Doesn’t copulation at least warrant a phone call? Trip and I dated for months before I took off my clothes. Maybe if Martha told me everything, I could get the facts about Harry, compartmentalize them, and finally get some work done. I reach for my phone to text her; she’ll tell it to me straight. “Can you call me?”
She texts back immediately. “Camping.”
Martha camping? “Have a sec to talk?”
“Need to save battery.”
Who is she with? Could she possibly be with Harry? Maybe the whole band is going camping. Harry could have invited me. I can camp. I’m sure I can . . .
“Simons.” Angela snaps open a Diet Coke. Behind her, the normally frenzied newsroom swarms like a kicked hornets’ nest. “A woman is accusing Sonny Boykin of pressuring her for sex. She’s young, like twenty-three, and she lives at that apartment where he wrecked his car. We’re going to run it in the A block and tease the hell out of it. Justin’s trying to reach her now.”
Meghan runs up to Angela. “Justin got hold of her. She said Boykin texted her a dick pic.”
Angela’s head whips around. “We need that dick pic!”
“Justin asked her to send it. She said she was going to.”
“Ugh!” Justin yells from his desk. “Sick!” We run over to Justin’s desk and look at his phone, which he holds away from his body like it’s a dead animal. The image is shaky, and, other than the chin, the face is completely cropped from the photo. Still, it’s clearly a picture of a big, old dude with an erection.
Angela smiles a Cheshire cat smile and heads to the control room. “Blot out his dick and let’s go live.”
“Wait, what do we say?” Meghan asks. “That he’s accused of texting a dick pic?”
“Say ‘sexting,’”
Angela and I respond in unison.
Back in my chair, I hope to settle my mind enough to process this craziness and write a story about it. I am grateful to be swept up in a communal commotion—away from my mind’s endlessly looping images of Harry—even if it is to televise a pixilated dick pic to the citizens of South Carolina.
My fingers hover over the keyboard, but I feel . . . stared at. I spin in my chair to see Angela studying me, her head cocked to one side. She plucks the tab of her Diet Coke can. “Simons, you’re a Charleston native. Aren’t you related to the Boykins or something?”
Surprised it took her this long to ask, I’m relieved I can answer honestly. “No. I am not related to the Boykins,” I say firmly.
She stares at me expectantly, like a dog waiting for a treat. Finally, she gives up, or maybe she decides to strike another time. She takes off, charging through the maze of cubicles. “We’re going live at the next break!” she yells at everyone and no one. “We’re going live!”
The control room, with dozens of monitors blinking and flashing, doesn’t look much different than NASA’s mission control. Sitting in the producer’s chair at the back of the room, I slide on my headset, wriggle my fingers over the bank of lit-up keys, and punch the one labeled “TALENT 1.” “You ready?”
On the monitor, beneath the warm studio lights, our lead anchor studies the script. She straightens the collar of her blazer. “Yep.”
Justin is also in the newsroom, but he’s staged away from her, giving the appearance that News 14 has more than one studio. We don’t. He stands against the far wall in front of our glossy News 14 logo, hurriedly swiping foundation over his T-zone. I ask him if he’s ready. He snaps the compact shut and smiles toothily into the camera. The man does have good teeth.
The large digital clock in the corner inches us closer to the big moment. When we’re within ten seconds, I start the countdown. “We’re live in ten, nine, eight . . .”
Justin’s face grows somber, telegenic. “We have breaking news. A sexting scandal. Judicial intern Rachel Ronan accuses Judge Sonny Boykin of pressuring her for sex and texting her lewd pictures. Earlier this summer, Judge Boykin wrecked his car outside of the Coburg Community Apartment Complex, where Ms. Ronan lives. Judge Boykin failed a field sobriety test and was taken to the station under suspicion of a DUI. He was never charged and was released without having to take a breathalyzer test. WCCC News 14 has the story. Stay tuned to hear it first.”
In Polite Company Page 11