In Polite Company

by Gervais Hagerty

  41.

  Underground Again

  While so many of the social rules that stratify the local gentry are nuanced and difficult to decode, there’s one rule that is easy to follow: if a party starts after six o’clock, the men wear black tie. Tonight, at Caroline’s debut cocktail party, the Charleston men will wear tuxes. The women will clasp on their finest jewelry. They’ll dab on their special-occasion perfumes and suffer through a night of sore feet in their most expensive shoes. Mom’s friends will wear dresses made of velvet or raw silk. The older ladies will stay warm on the ride over in their mink coats.

  We’ll drink top-shelf bourbon from crystal glasses and eat pickled shrimp with tiny silver forks.

  It’s the day of the party. I have strung lights between two palmetttos, weeded the window boxes, and pushed the porch furniture up against the walls and out of the way. Mom surveys the piazza, envisioning an imaginary crowd. “Should we put the bar inside?”

  I tap my foot on the porch floor, which was constructed with a slight slant to keep rainwater from pooling. “It will be perfect right here.”

  “But Dan the Weatherman said it will get down to the low fifties.”

  “People will go out to the bar even if there’s a blizzard.”

  “So true.”

  My phone buzzes. An unknown number. “Hello?”

  “Oh, Simons, I’m so glad you picked up.”

  The voice sounds familiar but is hard to place. I take a few steps down the blue slate path for privacy, just in case. “Who is this?”

  “It’s Angela,” she says.

  Oh, poor Angela. I’ve been so caught up in my own life I haven’t thought to reach out. “I’m so sorry I haven’t called. And I’m sorry that asshole fired you. I don’t know what he was thinking.”

  “I’m over it. I should have left years ago. I’m calling because I need your help.”

  “Anything. What is it?”

  Her voice sails up to a high whine. “I had to put Cooper down.”

  “Oh no. I’m so sorry.” I completely forgot. That should have been on my radar.

  Mom calls from the piazza. “Honey, who is that?”

  I signal to Mom that I need a minute. I walk farther into the garden—one that has been frozen in time. Except for removing the magnolia and adding the palmettos, the garden has remained the same since I was a little girl. Its high, encompassing brick wall shields us from the eyes of neighbors and nosy tourists alike. Brick paths crisscross the rectangular lot, dividing the garden into four boxwood-lined quadrants. A three-tiered fountain, topped by a fluting Pan, splashes at the intersection.

  My parents’ garden is a vegetative extension of their personalities. It’s organized, logical, and robust. Every plant in the garden is indigenous to the Lowcountry; there are no tropicals that might not survive the winter, no succulents likely to drown in our frequent floods and thunderstorms. Everything in the garden is—and forever will be—native to Charleston. I sit on the Charleston Battery bench, which has been placed precisely in the center of the back wall, feeling a bit like a cactus.

  “Do you have a shovel?”

  “A shovel?” Sweet Jesus. Is she trying to bury him?

  “My shitty shovel broke, and I can’t ask my neighbors because the HOA would go ballistic. And I can’t leave him to buy one because . . . well, I just can’t leave him.”

  “I’ll find one, Angela. I’ll be right over.”

  I round the tiered fountain and follow the path that leads to the back shed. Dad’s shovel hangs neatly between a rake and a broom. I carry it from the shed and trot past Mom, hoping to avoid an inquiry.

  “Simons, where are you going with that shovel?”

  “Mom, I’m sorry, I’ve got to go help a friend.”

  “To what? Dig a hole?”

  “Remember my boss, Angela?”

  “The one who got fired?”

  “Yeah. She needs help burying her dog.”

  “Oh, the poor thing. But can’t someone else help, like a brother or something?”

  “Mom, she doesn’t have anybody. She’s not from here.”

  Mom frowns while pondering that thought. “Okay, well, it sounds like you need to go. But before you do, I have something for you.”

  I follow her inside; Mom’s house is poised for a party. Vacuum lines streak the entryway rug. A porcelain vase displays a cluster of camellias, Charleston’s signature winter flowers. Unlit tea candles are arranged in threes here and there on the mahogany table in the dining room. A small note in the middle of a giant platter in the center reads, “Beef tenderloin.” We pass through to the kitchen and around a case of Veuve Clicquot to the back stairs that lead directly to Mom and Dad’s room.

  Her rice bed—named for the carvings on the four posters that celebrated a long-ago cash crop—is neatly made. Her pillowcases are scalloped and monogrammed. Everything is in its place. Her dress for the night—a fitted burgundy number with a high neck and bell sleeves—is draped over the duvet. Her patent leather stilettos stand at the ready at the foot of her bed. Mom flicks on her dresser lamp and pulls open a drawer. She hands me a long box, velvety to the touch. “Open it.”

  Inside, Laudie’s watch ticks away. Mom fastens it around my wrist. I give it a little shake to let it settle over my arm. “Did you know it was a gift from her mother?”

  “I didn’t know that,” Mom says.

  “She gave it to Laudie just before she went off to Atlanta so she’d call every Sunday at three.”

  “Maybe we should talk every Sunday at three. Now that you have that promotion and you don’t have to work weekends.”

  “I’d like that, but it’s not a promotion.”

  “Getting your weekends back sounds like a promotion to me.”

  “Yeah, it will be nice.”

  She turns to the drawer and digs out a tiny drawstring bag. “When I was going through Mother’s jewelry, I also found this.” She hands it to me; I pull it open. Inside is a key. “I didn’t see any sort of safe around the house, so I asked your grandfather. He thinks it opens a lockbox.”

  “Like at a bank?”

  “Yes. It could be nothing, but you got me thinking about that letter, and I thought maybe that’s where we’ll find it.”

  “Oh, wow, Mom.”

  “Now, don’t get your hopes up. It could be nothing. And even if this key does open a safety deposit, it will take a long time to get the paperwork together to get it unlocked.”

  “Thanks for trying, Mom.”

  “I’m starting to want to find this letter as much as you do. I want to know more about my mother. I wish I had asked when I had the chance. I’m proud of you for even thinking of asking.”

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  “I’m also proud of you for being with Weezy. If I were there at that birth center, I would have dragged her to the hospital.”

  “Trust me, I thought about it.”

  “What was she thinking having a baby in a bathtub? And in North Charleston of all places?”

  I laugh. “I know. North Charleston is on his birth certificate forever,” I say in mock horror. For South of Broad residents like Mom, the zip code is just as important as the name.

  Mom hoots. “I thought about that, too!”

  I check the time, enjoying both the beauty and functionality of my new watch. “Mom, I’ve got to go. Angela is expecting me any minute.”

  Mom cocks her head to the side and looks at me like she’s trying to see into my brain. “You don’t have to do that, you know. You don’t always have to tend to the sick and the dying.”

  “Or the laboring,” I add. “I know.”

  “You’re a lot like your grandmother. I imagine she might have done something like that, if she lived in a different time.”

  “I think she would have. Or maybe she did and we just don’t know.”

  “Maybe.” She smiles and runs a finger over the watch. “I thought it was foolish to go to the ballet, but I now see that in her way, an
d in your way, too, it was brave.”

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  “Now go on and help that poor woman.”

  * * *

  The drive to Angela’s is a slog through suburban blight, starting with the Waffle House, that grease trap of memories. Traffic crawls down the Savannah Highway Auto Mile. Concentrating the car dealerships along this suburban highway was a bad idea that only got worse as new, additional dealerships opened up, crippling the possibility of having a livable, walkable city. Car lots as big as football fields straddle both sides of the north–south six-lane road, making traffic appear as though it stretches sideways as well. Cars, cars, cars—sedans, SUVs, trucks, hybrids, convertibles—in every direction, as far as the eye can see. The only pedestrians for miles are the poor people who live in the nearby food deserts and who can’t afford a car. To cross the highway, they hold tight to their babies and make mad, near-suicidal dashes across six lanes of harried traffic.

  Angela’s house is in a newer subdivision. Many homes here are unsold, unoccupied; some look unfinished. The landscaping could have been done in a single afternoon; it’s neat but bland: mainly mounds of pine straw banked against the perimeters of the freshly painted houses. The new crepe myrtles barely reach my height, and the tops of the transplanted palmettos look bald with their chopped-off fronds.

  Angela waits for me at the top of her driveway. She wears a gray shirt, pink shorts, and white sneakers. Her milky legs lend her a girl-like sweetness, but the shorter sleeves reveal an older body. Even with a good shovel, those office arms aren’t strong enough to dig a pit for her dog.

  I park the car and pull out the shovel. “You looked dressed for summer. Aren’t you cold?”

  Angela looks down as though to examine her outfit for the first time. “No. I’m hot.”

  I offer a hug; without hesitation, she leans in for an embrace. The shovel scrapes noisily along the pavement when I drop it to wrap my arms around her. I’m not that tall, but I feel much larger than Angela in this moment. Without her job, without her dog, she’s as tiny and fragile as a baby bird.

  A blast of cold air whips through the spartan landscape, banging the back gate open. “I’m going to help you,” I say, and lead her to the backyard.

  A six-foot privacy fence encloses the yard. Yellow crabgrass grows underfoot. Wispy clouds filter a soft midday sun. A patio hugs the back door of the house. It’s empty except for one table, one chair, and a large cardboard box. “He’s in there,” she says and then points to the corner of her lot at the small pile of overturned grass. “I started digging there.”

  So far, she’s only dug enough to plant a tomato. I ram the shovel into the ground and stomp my foot on the spade. Scoop, toss. Scoop, toss. Scoop, toss.

  Angela watches. The hole grows wider and deeper. I glance over at the cardboard box to eyeball the size of hole I need. I think back to how large the mound of dirt next to Laudie’s gravesite was, how deep the cavity. I tighten my muscles to summon more strength. Scoop, toss. Scoop, toss. Scoop, toss.

  My arms are getting fatigued. I’m losing energy; the dirt is getting heavier, too. It’s saturated with groundwater. Have I reached the water table in just a couple of feet? Developers will put a house anywhere these days, but now is not the time to tell Angela she might have been swindled. Maybe another time I’ll encourage her to buy good flood insurance. Scoop, toss.

  There. Finally. It’s big enough. “I think that’s good, Angela.” She nods but doesn’t move. Her eyes are fixated on the hole. A small puddle forms at the bottom. “Can you help me bring him over here?”

  We drag the cardboard box from the brick patio and over the grass to the hole. Angela opens the flaps to look at Cooper, who is wrapped in a blue sheet. His golden fur appears freshly brushed. A red bandana adorns his neck. My eye catches a gnarled snout, teeth bared, reminding me of Laudie’s twisted face in her last days on earth. “Grab the other side of the sheet, Angela. Okay. One . . . two . . . three.” Together we heft Cooper out of the box and lower him into the grave. He’s lighter than I expected. Just bones and fur.

  Angela drops to her hands and knees to tuck the sheet around him like she’s tucking a child into bed. She leans in, pulls the sheet back to pet him one last time. “Goodbye, Cooper. I love you.” She folds the sheet over his head and stands up.

  My heart aches for Angela. It actually hurts. I hand her the shovel. “Would you like to go first?”

  Angela scoops a small heap of dirt from the pile and drops it onto the sheet. She scoops a couple of more times, each load smaller than the last, then hands the shovel back to me.

  When I wrap my hands around the shaft, I feel blisters. I hold tight, drive the spade into the pile through the burning sensation in my palms, and get to work. Scoop, toss. Scoop, toss. Scoop, toss. I find a rhythm and don’t stop until a small mound forms over Cooper’s simple grave.

  “Thank you,” Angela says. “Really.”

  “Of course,” I reply. “Anyone would do it.”

  “No, they wouldn’t.” She walks to the patio, drags the lone chair across the lawn, places it next to the gravesite.

  “Angela, I’m going to leave News 14.”

  “To write about the plights of monarch butterflies and homeless polar bears, I hope.”

  “Ha. Pretty much. I actually have three interview calls lined up for jobs in New York.”

  She lowers herself to the lawn chair. “I sent a letter of recommendation for you.”

  “Where? The station? You’re the one who got me the Monday-to-Friday shift?”

  She laughs mirthlessly. “News 14 won’t even accept my emails. They all bounce back. I was just asking if I could come get my lunch bag that I left in the break-room fridge. No, I wrote to an old colleague back in D.C. who works for the Environmental Defense Fund now. He said a communications director is stepping down and that he’ll send me an email as soon as the position is posted.”

  “Wow. Thanks. D.C. wasn’t really on my radar.”

  “It should be. There are a lot of good NGOs there. I think you’d like it.”

  “I’ll check it out. Thanks. What will you do?”

  The sun disappears behind a thick haze. Angela crosses her bare legs. “I think I’ll just sit here awhile.”

  “I mean for a job . . .”

  “I don’t know. I am going to use this time to think. I have a lot of thinking to do.”

  “Are you going to be okay?”

  “I’ll be okay.” She shifts her attention to the mound. “I just need some time alone with him.”

  I place my hands lightly on her shoulders. “Okay.” As I close her gate, I take one last look at Angela. She’s slumped over with her chin in her hands, her elbows on her thighs, staring at the little mound of dirt.

  * * *

  The messiness of death seems incongruent with the antiseptic layout of this suburban development. I am ready to leave this cookie-cutter place, but I’m not ready to go home. I need to shed the heaviness. I need to lighten up. I need the ocean. I take the Folly Road exit and drive to the beach.

  A gray ocean boils beneath low-hanging clouds. Sky disappears into water; water disappears into sky. No beginning, no end, and everything cold. The beach is deserted save for a few die-hard surfers; fair-weather surfers like me have stored their boards for the winter. A wetsuit can only help so much. I tighten the strings on my hoodie and perch on a washed-up palmetto log.

  A flock of Caspian terns poses on the sand. Their orange beaks and obsidian caps give them an air of self-importance. Some chirp and preen, but most stay immobile to conserve energy. All orient their bodies directly to the wind so when they’re ready to take flight, they only need to hop up and pivot to catch the airstream.

  Beyond the break, a pod of dolphins feeds. In organized succession, they pop their rostrums just above the water to take a quick sip of air. Above them, a pelican hunts for fish. Past the shore, a Coast Guard cutter slices through the rocky whitecaps.

  A few surf
ers search for waves. One rides the whitewash all the way to the beach, likely his final ride of the day. When he reaches the shallows, he picks up his board and trots to shore . . . right to my feet.

  “Simons?”

  It’s Ben, with the evergreen eyes. In a Pavlovian response to seeing him, my stomach growls. I also realize I must look ridiculous with just my eyes and nose poking out of my hoodie. I release the strings from my sweatshirt to pull the hood off my head. “How did you know it was me?”

  “I didn’t. I just thought I’d take a chance.” He lays the board upside-down in the sand and sits next to me on the log. Coils of steam rise from the shoulders of his wetsuit. “So, I take it you’re not surfing today.”

  “No. I just needed to be here.”

  “Still thinking about your grandmother? It’s a lot to process.”

  Laudie. I pick up a whelk shard, doodle in the sand to try not to think about her so much. “I just buried a dog.”

  “Your dog died?”

  “It wasn’t my dog. It was a friend’s. Actually, she’s not my friend. She was my boss. Her shovel broke.”

  “Oh. You’ve had a lot going on. I should leave you alone. I’m sorry I keep interrupting your alone time.” He stands to leave.

  “No! Please stay.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Sure I’m sure.”

  “Okay.” He sits down again, this time a little closer. “So you dug a grave?”

  “Mm-hmm.” I show him my hands. He takes them in his and examines the blisters. He runs a finger over my palm. A timid afternoon sun—as pale as corn silk—peeks through the mist, warming us for just a moment.

  “Oh,” he says, with a tone of wariness. He peers closer into my hand. “Hmm . . . just what I thought.”

  “Thought what? Are my blisters going to get infected?”

  He leans forward and dips his head into my line of vision, forcing me to make eye contact. An energy zings through me, waking me up like a cocktail of caffeine and sunrays.

  He traces a line across my palm. “It says here that everything will be okay.” He flips my other hand over and smiles. “And here it says you’re going to get a pho with me. Have you been to Chico Feo? It’s on the island.”