In Polite Company

by Gervais Hagerty

  With Francie on my hip, I pull open the office door for Weezy. A receptionist doing Sudoku glances up. “Hey, Louisa. Have a seat. I’ll let her know you’re here.”

  The waiting room feels homey, but almost too homey, as though I’m in someone’s living room. Amateur paintings of mermaids and fairies hang above the mismatched Goodwill furniture. Tendrils of potted philodendron twine around the window toward the exit sign. Weezy sinks onto the sofa, tossing a pillow at me to make room for her growing body.

  I catch it. The hand-embroidered pillow simply reads, “VAGINA.” Ha! Would I dare to have that pillow on my couch, with that one fun and funny word? Why is “vagina” such a loaded word, anyway? Maybe because it’s powerful. Maybe I need this word more in my life, but how? Vagina. Vagina!

  A woman in dreadlocks appears to escort us to an exam room. Paisley curtains soften the casement windows. A matching duvet covers a daybed. Weezy shimmies onto the table and lifts her shirt up to her bra line. She still has a couple of months to go but is already more visibly pregnant than she ever was with Francie. The stretch marks from the first pregnancy have faded to faint streaks the silvery color of dolphins. A new patch of strawberry lines radiates like a sun star around her belly button. “He’s been moving a lot lately. Get Francie to feel him.”

  I press Francie’s hand against Weezy’s stomach. Gadunk. We feel the thump. Francie looks up at me, and we exchange smiles. “Wow, Weez. That’s crazy.”

  “You never felt Francie kick?”

  “No.” I shake my head. “I never did.” Two years ago, when Francie was in the womb, the very idea of children made me feel trapped. I imagined myself with Trip, in the Upstate, spending my days picking Legos off the floor and talking to mommies about poopy diapers and daytime TV. Women who had kids, I thought, had surrendered their youth and their freedom. When they said goodbye to the pill or to pulling out, did they willingly say goodbye to wild nights, spontaneity, and all the possibilities that come with a life unencumbered?

  Weezy’s son will be born literally attached to her. Sure, Ashley will cut the umbilical cord, but then her baby will drink from her breast. Weezy will carry him, bathe him, clothe him, soothe him. She’ll go back to work part time, eventually, but for many years her life will be defined by a tight orbit around her children.

  I have chosen to live unfettered, at least for now. I do what I want, when I want, and I’m so grateful for my freedom I attempt a moonwalk across the floor of the examination room. In the words of Michael Jackson, “Hee hee!”

  28.

  Redneck Hairdryer

  A day of low humidity is a rare summer treat in the Lowcountry. In the drier atmosphere, everything looks clearer, more precise. Laughing gulls swoop high above the marina, casting razor-edged shadows on the parking lot asphalt. The palmetto fronds look as sharp as knives in the high-def light. The reflections off the white hulls of sport fishers are so blinding that I need to look away. Today, the water glitters antically in the wake of two Boston Whalers that weave their way through the marina’s maze of docks and out toward the river.

  Kevin waits on the metal ramp. He wears a trucker hat, white tank top, and American flag–themed board shorts. He takes a swig from a Bud Light. “What’s up, Simons?” He tilts his head back and squints hard into the sun, his nostrils two gaping circles. “Everyone else is already on the boat. Crazy assholes have been partying since yesterday.”

  I follow him down the ramp to the floating dock. We pass a family readying their boat for a day on the water. The children cling to the boat rails, trying to stay upright in their bulky life jackets. Their mother packs the cooler with Ziplocked sandwiches, juice boxes, brownies. The dad tinkers with the engine and checks the bowlines. It’s a lot like the way my family prepared for a boat trip.

  When I gave up Trip, did I give this up, too? I called him last night. I wanted to talk to him about Laudie, tell him about the ballet. He would make me feel better. He would remind me that going was her idea. He’d tell me to focus on how she looked in the lobby—like a monarch.

  He didn’t answer. At first, his phone rang and went to voicemail. I called two more times; he’s the type to always have his phone nearby. Still no answer, so I texted: “Can we talk?” I knew I was entering dangerous territory—we had agreed to postpone our conversation until sometime in early winter, a full six months from the breakup, three months from now.

  He wrote seconds later. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  I called him immediately. He had to answer; the phone was in his hands. Instead, he texted again: “Sorry, I can’t talk right now.” He didn’t even type those words himself. He chose that phrase from the multiple-choice response menu.

  That night, I missed our relationship. I mourned it. Finally, though, it felt silly and self-indulgent to cry aloud, so I got a grip and stopped. In my quiet apartment, a singular thought entered my awareness: The only one who can get me out of this hole is me.

  That’s when I accepted Kevin’s invitation.

  Kevin’s boat is tied up at the end of the docks. It’s large—way larger than any motorboat I’ve ever been on. The center console is as big as a refrigerator; at the stern are three outboard motors.

  Four women lounge on the bow. Each sports a glossy bikini. They’re wearing makeup. They look like they showered this morning. My ratty surfing bikini feels childlike. The last time I painted my toenails was in anticipation of Harry’s show. Now, polish covers only the top half of my nails.

  Why didn’t I think to put myself together more? Caroline would have arrived in a cute cover-up. She would have brought a stiff canvas tote bag, filled with a fluffy rolled towel and freshly cut cantaloupe for everyone.

  He gestures to a spot next to two giant coolers. “You can put your stuff here.” I drop my reusable grocery bag and introduce myself to each of the girls: Jessica, Taylor, Brooke, and Jen. There’s another guy; with lazy curiosity, I wonder which of the girls he’s dating.

  Kevin revs the engines. I pull in the fenders and flake the stern line.

  “At least someone here knows how to work a boat.” It’s the girl in the sequined cheetah bikini. Jessica? Brooke? They offer me a beer. At first I refuse, saying I have to work this afternoon; but then I think, When in Rome. My decision is greeted with cheers. I raise my beer with a smile. It feels good to smile.

  Kevin drives the boat a bit too fast for the marina’s “No Wake” zone; no one else on board seems to notice. Does he know about going idle speed? I chug half my beer, rinsing down any ownership of the boat’s behavior.

  We troll past the Charleston Marina’s MegaDock, which is appropriately named. Giant yachts of the world’s super wealthy tie up here for a few nights before zipping off to the Caribbean or across the Atlantic. The girls on the boat wave to the crews scrubbing the decks. They wave their hands back and forth, which is the first sign to me that they are not locals. It’s like spotting an artificial geranium or daffodil in a window box South of Broad—might as well put up a sign that says, “Hey, you guys, I’m from Off!” Instead, Charlestonians do more of a boat salute; when we see another boater, we extend a hand, hold it steady. We also drive Key Wests and Boston Whalers, not inboard wakeboarding boats outfitted with concert speakers that blast rap-rock.

  We boat to get away from it all, not to carry it with us. We listen to the waves, look for dolphins, find a spot to swim. And even the most outspoken member of Battery Hall wouldn’t hoist a flag bearing the name of his favorite political candidate.

  Once we reach the Ashley River, Kevin guns the engines. Our boat hydroplanes effortlessly. We slice through the harbor, which is glassy on this nearly windless day. Still, there is some chop, bouncing all eight boobs in unison. The girls clasp the speedboat’s metal rails. I hold on, too. We go fast, faster than I’ve ever been in a motorboat. If we were to hit something—if there were a shallow spot, a sandbar, or something large and submerged—we’d be flung off the boat like batter off an eggbeater.

/>   I always felt safe when Trip took his family’s boat out to the lake. At the beginning of every boating season, he checks the expiration dates on his flare, fire extinguisher, and fishing permits. Even for a quick outing, he snaps his navigation lights on and off to ensure they work, just in case the day doesn’t go as planned. On the water, he’s always cognizant of other watercraft, careful to keep a safe distance. When we return to land, he devotes a full hour to running fresh water through the engine and oiling down the motor.

  My impatience flared during these fastidious routines; now I realize he was just being responsible. How could I have been so blind? If I had been paying attention, I would have observed his methodical mind in action as he backed the trailer into the water. I would have admired his strong hands as he cranked the winch. Instead, I looked away, annoyed, imagining some sort of better life, barefoot and untethered to the traditional, predictable world.

  My face grows hot. Tears brim in my eyes. I root around in my bag for my sunglasses and stare straight ahead, trying to think about nothing.

  “Redneck hairdryer!” Kevin shouts, his hair spiked straight by the wind.

  A little self-deprecating humor. Nice. I give him a thumbs-up, trying to be in the present. I’m on a boat with fun-loving, carefree people. Why can’t I have fun?

  Kevin pulls back on the throttle as we approach the leeward side of Morris Island, an undeveloped spit of land near the mouth of the harbor, accessible only by boat. Looking at the mound of sand, held together by morning glory vines and needle-rush roots, I easily see how the land has shifted dramatically over the years. The lighthouse, originally built on land in 1876, is marooned fifteen hundred feet offshore. Several groups work to preserve this historic landmark. The question is, though, with nearly half of the construction in the United States built on shifting coastal zones, can our country save every structure near the water?

  It’s an incoming tide; we could simply beach the boat and be fine. But I don’t say anything for fear that my guidance might be taken for mild castration. The guys figure it out, anyway. Kevin lobs an anchor onto shore. His buddy hops onto the beach and drives it into the sand.

  It’s hot now that we’ve stopped. The hummock of trees east of us blocks the offshore breeze. I tell Kevin I’m going for a swim. Only after he turns away do I remove my hat and sunglasses to jump in.

  Underwater, I feel at home. Ancient horseshoe crabs crawl beneath me; stingrays glide nearby. I kick hard, swimming away from my thoughts to nowhere in particular. When I emerge, the shore is much farther away than I had anticipated. Kevin’s boat bobs up and down at least fifty yards away.

  Fuck. I’m in a riptide. A powerful current sweeps me out to sea. Surfers know to swim with the current, even if it takes them farther from the shore, until the giant stream relinquishes its grip. But the water won’t let go.

  I kick hard—going against all safety protocol—and use every bit of energy I can summon to beat the current. Breathing sharply, I glance up to gauge my progress. The island slips by.

  I’m losing ground, but instead of succumbing to panic, I yield to a pleasant thought: maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to be carried out into the Atlantic Ocean. Where would the water take me? It might be nice for some other force to determine my direction in life. Lately, I’ve found it exhausting to do it on my own.

  I let go.

  The water, as it tends to do, folds my body into a fetal position. I float soundlessly with the tide. I don’t struggle. I have no wants. This nothingness must be like death, weightless and peaceful. Maybe this is what Laudie dreams of at night—or even when she’s awake. She’s probably tired of the fact that everything these days is a struggle: eating, talking, hearing, being. As I am carried off by the riptide, I imagine Laudie being carried off to the afterlife.

  Something large swims past me. It happens again. Curious dolphins have whipped by me before, but they always surface within sight, letting me know that they’re dolphins. Yet on the surface, there are no arcing dorsal fins in sight. Surrendering to the whims of tidal patterns is one thing; getting bitten by a shark is another. I hammer my arms through the chop, catch myself groaning at the effort. I take a half-stroke to orient myself and am surprised to see that I’m actually headed back toward the beach. The riptide apparently makes a U-turn sooner than I’d calculated. In just a few more minutes of strenuous swimming, I reach the boat.

  I hang on the ladder, every cell in my body tired and thankful for rest. I’m also thankful that no one seemed to notice that I was missing, busy having a near-death experience. I take a moment to recoup before pulling myself up the little swim ladder attached to the boat’s stern.

  Just as I lift myself up from the water, a freshly waxed labia eclipses my view of the open sky. “Oh my God, I have to pee so bad!”

  It’s Taylor. Or Brooke?

  She squats on the swimming platform, hanging onto the rails. She gives me a drunken smile. “I’ve been holding it forever.”

  I should move. I should just swim away and give this woman some privacy and maybe avoid a stream of hot urine flowing my way. But I’m exhausted and afraid that if I let go of the ladder, I’ll sink right to the bottom, never to be seen or heard from again.

  Finally, she’s done. She slides her dry bikini bottom back on. Just before she climbs over the stern, she gives me an almost flirtatious look. “You’re a little kinky, huh?” She laughs and tilts her head back.

  I have no idea what to say to that. I am so weak from exertion I don’t even smile, which probably makes me seem even creepier.

  Mustering my strength, I haul myself up the ladder and all but collapse on the bench behind the center console. Kevin is at the steering wheel, fiddling with the music, his swimming trunks still dry. “What happened to your toe?”

  I start to explain my work injury—which has now turned my toe a brownish-blue color—but instead say, “Shark bit it.” Kevin laughs. While he digs around in the cooler for another beer, I take a moment to send a little prayer up to the heavens. I hope Laudie will be taken peacefully to the other side. I also send thanks for a good lesson: that where I want to go, I don’t always have to go against the tide.

  29.

  Hot and Steamy

  I hear scratching sounds coming from inside my apartment. I unlock the door and open it a crack. A scruffy head pokes out. Bruno. Martha asked me to watch him; she had to visit her grandmother in Florida. I nudge him back into my apartment and shut the door firmly so he doesn’t escape or, more likely, tumble down the stairs. “Hey, little guy.” He spins away to lick his genitals.

  My phone buzzes. It’s a text from Kevin: “We’re going to Stripes Saturday. You should come.” Stripes is one of the newer bars on upper King Street. There’s always a queue outside the door. Worse, there is a red carpet for people to wait on, as if everyone is a sort of movie star.

  I’ve never been to Stripes before. I’ve never wanted to go, either, nor have any of my friends. At the established bars, locals can expect to see a cousin, an old classmate, a friend’s little brother. That’s just the way it is around Charleston. But things are changing. We’re becoming strangers in our own land.

  Stripes is a bar for tourists and newcomers, where our rank as locals goes unnoticed. Perhaps that’s why Dad and his friends value their membership at Battery Hall. Those males know one another; they’ve sniffed one another out, as did their fathers and grandfathers before them. And because of protocols and expectations, there has never been—and never will be—a fistfight at Battery Hall. Men do not make passes at other men’s dates or wives. No one gets sloppy drunk. Everyone’s polite; good manners rule. And while all that social structure feels archaic and suffocating at times, in the recent chaos of my life, the order lately sounds appealing.

  “Thanks for the invite. Can’t. Dog sitting.”

  Bruno paws at my leg. “What is it? Are you hungry?” Martha left a satchel for him on my couch. I dig around to see what’s inside: a couple of plastic chew toys,
a pouch of dry kibble, and a letter with my name on it. That’s sweet.

  Simian,

  I want to be honest with you. I’m not actually visiting my grandma. I’m on tour with Stone’s Throw. They asked me to be their road manager. I didn’t tell you before because I wasn’t sure that it was going to be a “thing” until recently.

  Thanks for taking care of Bruno while I’m gone.

  XO,

  Martha

  A manager? How on earth is she qualified? Her work experience is piecemeal, at best. She assists wealthy old widows with odd jobs, driving them to funerals or organizing their photo albums. Her longest employment stint to date was when she was an administrative assistant at a downtown hotel. Still, that’s not management. And with Harry’s band?

  I’ve heard the term “blood boil” before, but I have never experienced it until now. I’m actually feverish. Some ice water should cool me down. Bruno follows me into the kitchen, his nails clicking like castanets. I open the freezer to find that the ice maker’s broken again, so I root around for an old ice tray possibly hidden behind frozen mixed berries and microwavable meals-for-one. I can’t find it, but there is ice—in the form of exploded beer cans. They’re the PBRs Martha brought over that fateful night. Poetic.

  “Arrgh!” I yell into the frosty space, then slam the door shut, as if to lock up all the angst released from my scream inside the freezer.

  Bruno is whimpering, scratching my legs. “Down, boy.” I brush him away. He yips, racing to the front door and back.

  “Okay, you need to go to the bathroom. Hold on.” I change out of my work clothes and into some jean shorts and a tie-dye shirt.