In Polite Company

by Gervais Hagerty

  Angela pumps her fist. She flashes Justin a thumbs-up and dashes out of the studio into the control room to scan the TV monitors tuned to our competitor stations. She wants to find out if we broke the story first. For her sake, I hope we did.

  I should stay at the station at least another hour. It’s what producers do when there’s a story to be sniffed out. But lately I’ve been feeling more like a lapdog than a newshound. I don’t care about Sonny. How does this information help anybody? The Army Corps of Engineers used an outdated study to determine the height of the eight-mile seawall proposed to be built around the peninsula. That miscalculation should lead the night’s news. And why on earth are local authorities even thinking of approving the massive Wildcat Acres proposed development ten miles outside of the city? Those wetlands are already struggling to absorb the runoff of the suburbs nearby. Sure, the developers will make millions, but who will pay for the flood damage? Already the federal government has purchased and razed nearby homes that were constantly flooding. And yet the Department of Health and Environmental Control just agreed that developers can excavate and fill in more than two hundred acres of natural wetlands. How is that possible? Putting a bunch of houses on a floodplain is like dumping concrete into a clogged drain. I should be writing about environmental issues, not dick and balls. I wave goodbye to Angela, who’s sitting at the news desk, gnawing on her thumb, her right ear glued to the police scanner.

  20.

  For the Birds

  Giant thunderheads gather strength north of the peninsula. Shadows flicker overhead; a flock of brown pelicans flies south. I count twenty-four. They travel single file along the shoreline, using the updraft created by the sea breeze that bumps up against the dunes and beachfront houses. Somehow these gangly birds figured out that the airstream propels them along their daily commute from the rookeries to the ocean. The birds keep their expansive wings open and arched to maximize lift and minimize effort. They go with the flow. They make life seem easy.

  I wrap the leash around my ankle and walk into the ocean; it’s as warm as Francie’s bathwater. The strength of the outgoing tide has not nearly reached its max, making the paddle past the break effortless. In the mellow waters, I slide into a seated position on my board and watch the vacant horizon.

  A gelatinous purplish globe bobs by. Then another. At least a dozen float around me on the water’s surface. Cannonball jellyfish: they’re about the size of a cannonball, a unit of measurement any Charleston child understands. Pyramided stacks of cannonballs cemented together are another part of the statuary at White Point Garden; generations of kids have climbed on them.

  A couple of days ago, hundreds of jellyfishes washed ashore. I begged Angela to let me run the story—I was sure this beachside graveyard had something to do with global warming, and I hoped maybe dead jellyfish could scare people into taking notice of the plight of our natural world. “Go ahead,” Angela had said. “People love to freak out about jellyfish.”

  It turns out these sea creatures washed up because an onshore wind pushed them ashore. “All very normal,” explained the fish and wildlife expert at the Department of Natural Resources. Today, the carcasses are mostly gone, having been eaten by crabs and gulls.

  “Hey!”

  A surfer paddles toward me. It’s not the first time I’ve wandered into some surfer dude’s imaginary territory. Once, I stood my ground (so to speak, since we were in the ocean), only to have my leash yanked just as I was dropping in a wave. I was a victim of some idiot’s concept of a territorial pissing match. I slide my stomach onto my board and paddle parallel to the shoreline, away from him.

  My thoughts wander back to Laudie’s conspicuous decline; they often do these days. I know I should dwell on other, more positive things, like how she’s had eighty-six good years. She lived to meet a great-grandchild. Sure, she might have missed out on a great love, but how many people really do live story-book romances?

  And what about Harry? Does he ever think of me? Does Trip?

  Ever since we broke up, I’ve felt unraveled. I’m growing tired of floating like a jellyfish through life, getting pushed around by Harry’s vague gestures and unanswered calls. I want to be anchored. Maybe I should listen to Mom, ask Trip to take me back. It wouldn’t be an epic love, but I’d have a life partner. Stability. We’d have children, and grandchildren, and maybe I’d live long enough to meet my great-grandchild, too.

  A decent set rolls in. My board rises and falls, a toy on the belly of a waking giant. I align my board perpendicular to the shore, ready for the ocean to suck me in and shoot me out. I kick hard and paddle harder to catch the moving wall of water. I hop to my feet, lean left to steer my board along the wave. My body is propelled by the water, the wind, and—by way of the tides—the moon.

  I ride the wave. For these blissful moments, my mind is in free fall, untroubled by doubts and second guesses. I am not wanted or unwanted. I am not wet or dry. I am not Simons. There is no Trip. There is no Harry. Laudie’s not deteriorating. Life is pure movement.

  Until it isn’t.

  My fin digs into the sand. The ride is over. I lift the board up under my arm and run as fast as I can back into the ocean. Maybe if I keep moving, I can keep ahead of this sinking feeling.

  21.

  Crumbs

  At Kudu Coffee, I order an iced latte and find a seat under a tree. After ten minutes of watching the clouds and picking at my nails, I give up on Martha. Fine. I’ll find something to read.

  Past the ordering queue, near the bathrooms, a little shelf holds a motley assortment of abandoned books and local periodicals. I grab a copy of the City Paper.

  “Simons?” Behind me is a lean, muscular guy. He wears fitted dark jeans. His V-neck shirt reveals some chest hair and a silver chain. Jet-black eyelashes rim his ice-blue eyes.

  I have no idea who he is. “Oh, hey. It’s good to see you.” I fumble to make the connection. A reporter? One of Caroline’s friends? I give him a smile: friendly, but not flirtatious.

  “It’s been, what, four, five years?”

  That puts us back in college. Now I remember. Kevin. I think he was from Florida. Or was it New Jersey?

  He stacks three packets of Splenda and tears them open above his coffee. When he lifts his arm to drink, a current of cologne assails my nostrils. “We should go out sometime. I just bought a boat.”

  He holds his gaze an extra beat. I’m sure those baby blues have won over women before, but chemistry is chemistry, and I don’t feel any. Go out with this guy? Naw . . . not my type. Except when I flip through my Rolodex of polite excuses, my social calendar—full of white space—appears in the foreground of my mind. What the heck. Who knows—plenty of outstanding men wear perfume and jewelry, I’m sure. And I haven’t been out on a boat yet this summer. “Sure. That would be fun.”

  He takes a moment to read my business card before sliding it into his wallet. “I’ll text you.” I know he will, and there’s a comfort in that. With my copy of the City Paper, I return to the courtyard, feeling slightly more optimistic about life.

  Outside, Martha sits at our favorite table. I messaged her to apologize for my behavior at the party, and I also thanked her for bringing Harry to my house. She didn’t acknowledge those texts. She wouldn’t talk on the phone or meet me in person until now. She wears a black tank top, a black maxi skirt, black boots. Leaning back, she stretches her legs so that her body is one long, dangerous line. “Who was that?” she asks, not turning her head.

  “Some guy who went to Chapel Hill. He wants to take me on his boat.”

  With her head tilted up to the sun, I can’t decide whether her exposed white throat looks vulnerable or daring. “That sounds like fun. A zipless fuck will be good for you right about now.”

  “Ew. I don’t even know what that is.”

  “It’s the perfect one-night stand. No expectations.”

  I turn that thought over like a piece of licorice on my tongue. How is it possible to have sex with
no attachments? I wish Harry would call. I was sure he would. “Listen, I’m really sorry for ditching you at the party.”

  “Water under the bridge.”

  I’ll take it. “How was camping?”

  “Outdoorsy.”

  “Who did you go with?”

  “What is this, twenty questions?”

  “I’m just making conversation.”

  “I went with the band. They were recording at a studio in western North Carolina, so we camped afterward.”

  Surely, after the drive up and back, plus a night or two by a fire, she would know what Harry’s thinking. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Shoot.”

  “Do you think Harry will call?”

  Martha sits up, removes her oversize glasses. Her eyes are red and puffy. There’s a scratch on her chin where she picked at a zit. Her black fingernail polish has been nibbled away at the tips. She’s human again. “Shit, Simian. Don’t ask me that.”

  “Jesus, Martha. I’m reaching out here.”

  “So am I. You get everything you want. You wanted Trip, so you had him, nice rock and all. Then you didn’t want him, so now you don’t. You had sex with Harry. I gave him to you, even after you ditched me, by the way. Now that’s not enough? What, you want him to propose, too?”

  She’s trying to connect, but instead she manages to make me feel no bigger than the courtyard finches scavenging for crumbs. I drum my fingers on the metal table. All along, deep down, I knew Harry wouldn’t call. And as stupid as it is to want him to take me to dinner, I still do. And I’d like Trip to phone, to check in. He hasn’t reached out since he asked about Laudie. I’ve thought about calling him. I’ve picked up the phone, scrolled for his number, put the phone back down. I’m afraid he might tell me to leave him alone. I wouldn’t blame him.

  I stiffen, fighting the instinct to collapse into a ball and cry, to dissolve into something boneless and leaky. If I don’t want freedom, what is it that I need? A cage? No. I want to be a free agent, not some spineless southern belle prone to the vapors. “You’re right. I expect too much.”

  “Don’t expect anything. That’s the way to be free.” She places her hand on my knee. I stare at her strange thumb, which is wide and flat and doesn’t seem to be a part of her at all. “Don’t forget Harry is a musician; they sleep around. And they can because they’re free. It’s the only way for people like us.” She scoots her chair out from the table; it rakes noisily against the concrete. “I’m going to get a coffee.” She nearly flattens a finch on her way to the door.

  I rub my forehead. Does she mean “us,” as in Martha and me, or is she talking about herself and Harry? Maybe I don’t want to be that free, anyway. I want my family—my roots. And my most important relationship right now is with Laudie. I’m going to lose her soon, probably in a year or two. I know this. And while nothing and no one is permanent, that’s no reason to cut all ties, to live life with no attachments. Even when people die, their stories remain. Our stories, generation to generation, are intertwined. The stories live on.

  22.

  The Last Dance

  A storm churns out of the south, whipping the branches of oaks, ripping off the older leaves; they skitter down the dry asphalt and get caught along the curb. A gush of cool air flings a floppy hat off a tourist; a plastic bag takes flight. Thunderheads gather in the distance. Later this afternoon, it will pour.

  As Mom and Caroline suggested, I’ve come to watch a streaming version of the ballet with Laudie. I packed us a ballerina-approved snack: bottles of Perrier and a bag of low-fat popcorn sweetened with stevia.

  Just as I reach the bottom of the back staircase, a horn blows. Tito’s ride to his weekly chess tournament has arrived. My grandfather emerges from the back door and begins his careful descent, one hand on the railing, the other gripping a cane. I should offer to help or at least wave hello, but instead I set the bag of snacks against a topiary and make a detour to Laudie’s garden.

  As I walk through a tunnel of greenery, long-tongued aspidistra lick my ankles. Camellia branches bump against my back. The needle-sharp leaves of the sago palms rake my forearms. When I enter the garden, my stomach turns.

  What was once a fairy-like landscape of free-spirited, joyous shapes and colors is now a ramshackle knot of weeds and dirt. Our shell collection lies half-buried under decaying magnolia leaves. The ficus vine she had trained to crisscross the back wall has grown so unruly and heavy that it’s started to peel away from the bricks, like a blanket being stripped from a bed.

  And the zinnias. They’re all but dead. Their petals have browned. Caterpillars have banqueted on the leaves, leaving them riddled with holes. Invasive weeds—crabgrass, thistle, and nightshade—usurp their water supply.

  Even the little potting shed in the far corner looks slumped and tired. I grab a trowel and some shears. I drop to my knees to rip up the Bahia grass. I rake through the hot soil to hook roots of renegade spurge and chickweed. I toss clumps behind me in fistfuls, and when the pile is big enough, I dump it in the shade of a sago palm. Methodically, I work left to right, removing every errant plant from this little plot. Eventually, all the messiness—the decay and mutinous weeds—are gone. The dozen or so zinnias that remain stand erect, stalwart, restored—at least partially—to some semblance of order and beauty.

  * * *

  Laudie waits for me at the kitchen table. A beam of light, slicing through the coming storm and into the window, blanches the left side of her body, halving her into shadow and light. She wears a tweed skirt suit. She’s dabbed on peacock-blue eyeshadow to match her outfit. A gold jaguar with ruby eyes slinks up her lapel. Her hair is tied back in her signature low bun. A string of fat pearls encircles her neck. Her pocketbook rests squarely in front of her, straps neatly folded. Next to it is a pair of tickets. Oh, shit.

  “You’re taking me to the ballet.”

  “Laudie . . .” My throat goes dry. Even if I take her and nothing happens, we won’t get back until after Tito gets home. He’ll know. My family will know.

  “I’m not asking you, Simons. I’m telling you. I’m not going to wither away in this house, waiting to die.”

  “But, Laudie, I can’t.” Mom and Tito forbid her at the barre, let alone out on the town.

  “Yes, you can. You definitely can. Besides, if I can go through all the trouble of getting this dressed up, I can certainly sit for a couple hours in a theater.”

  “You do look magnificent,” I admit. But extra rouge and shoulder pads don’t fully camouflage her weakened frame, her pallor.

  She straightens as she sees me size her up. “I won’t tell you the rest of the story if you don’t take me.” She gestures to the spread on the table—another measly dancer’s feast: some crackers and fruit, iced tea. Still, it’s a place setting, like the one she made when she first told me about John. Typical of Laudie: even for just saltines and grapes, she has set the table with place mats, cloth napkins, and sterling silver cutlery. “Do we have a deal?”

  I feel myself relent. Sitting across from her and reaching for my glass, I recall that old expression: better to ask for forgiveness than for permission. The ice has melted a bit. After the first watery sip, her no-calorie instant tea tastes as it always has—strong and bitter. “Tell me.”

  She grins. “We’ll start where we left off, with John. He and I went steady for months. Even though I phoned Mother once a week, I never told her about him.” I notice that her watch, given to Laudie by her mother to remind her to call home, is now back on her left wrist. The cast is gone.

  “Because you knew she wouldn’t approve?”

  “Well, yes. But mostly because John was my secret, a part of my life that no one else owned. He was dashing, Simons. Any woman would have fallen for him. Many women did. I did. And when we walked into a dancing hall together, the crowd parted. Oh, we were horrible show-offs. We had the best time hogging the spotlight.

  “We were an item those days. We joined the other boardinghouse
gals and their beaux by the river or at drive-ins. We sat on the hood of the car and drank hooch and ate boiled peanuts. We were madly in love, and so, well, we did what lovers do. People talked, of course, but none of them knew my family in Charleston. So I didn’t care.”

  I compute her age at the time and realize that she first had sex at a younger age than I did. How on earth did that happen? I suddenly feel better about my fling with Harry, even if he never calls back. “Do you miss him?”

  “I miss the idea of him. But he wasn’t who he seemed. Or maybe he was. I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Back in those days, we didn’t talk about birth control. I thought I was pregnant.”

  “You must have been so scared.”

  “I was terrified. How could I face my family? How could I dance with a big old belly?” She laughs, but I find it hard to join her. “I called John and told him I thought I was pregnant. He told me he would come pick me up immediately, that we would figure it out.” She twists her lips. “He never came.”

  “I’m so sorry. He abandoned you.”

  “That’s what it felt like. I felt so foolish, Simons. No one said it, but everyone predicted it.”

  I wonder if she had an abortion, but decide to avoid leading with such an invasive question. “So, what did you do?”

  “I had my period. Or maybe it was a very early miscarriage. I’m not sure. But I was so relieved. Still sad, but relieved.”

  “Did you tell anyone?”

  “No. The girls just thought I was sad about the breakup. I let them take care of me, reading to me or rubbing my back or combing my hair. Those were thoughtful girls.”