In Polite Company

by Gervais Hagerty

  I have. From that funky little shack off the main drag, beachgoers order goat curry and pork tacos. The seating, a mishmash of chairs and benches, is outdoors beneath a sprawling oak. A giant bowl of noodles would be a lot more filling than Mrs. Harley’s tea sandwiches. I’d love to go to Chico Feo, but I need to get home to dress in time. “I can’t today.”

  “Oh.”

  “No, really. I really want to. I just have to get back soon. My parents are hosting a party for my sister.”

  “It’s her birthday?”

  “It’s just a party.” I leave out the detail that it’s a debutante party. Too loaded.

  “Cool.”

  I crunch up a dead sand dollar in my hand, waiting for him to try for another day. He doesn’t. Perhaps I’m not worth the effort. That bright yellow feeling swirling through me just moments ago starts to fade. Maybe he’s just some hot surfer playboy who gets bored easily. Dinner sounds tempting, but not the exhausting dating game. I dread being sidelined again by an ass-slapping bozo or ghosting musician. But I have to try, right? What’s life without trying? Ben could be a playboy, but he could also be a nice guy. “How about next week?”

  “I’ll be out of town for work.”

  I wait for him to suggest a later date, but he doesn’t. That’s fine, I tell myself. This is still a good moment. I’m young and healthy. The ocean is breathtaking. The caffeine and sunrays are mine to keep, not his to take away.

  Ben stands and brings his board to his side. He takes a bow and tips an imaginary hat. “Simons . . .” He trots away, but before returning to the ocean, he stops to drag a toe in the sand. In big sweeping movements, he draws lines, circles, and maybe a figure eight. I can’t tell from where I’m seated; it’s hard to decipher. I wait until after he jogs back into the ocean to find out what it says, but I don’t wait too long; a wave could wash it away. When I read his scribble in the sand, I commit it to memory.

  42.

  Underdressed

  It’s never been a great shower, but right now the darn thing is barely a trickle. “Come on!” I yell into the nozzle. I dip my head back into the puny stream. The suds seem never-ending. My blisters sting from the soapsuds. I’ve got twenty minutes to rinse this shampoo out of my hair and get dressed for the party.

  As soon as I feel I’ve gotten most of the soap out, I hop out of the shower and towel off. I gather my hair into a low bun and steal a minute to swipe on some mascara. As I brush my teeth, my engagement ring winks at me from the medicine cabinet. I close it shut. Trip and I are supposed to have our talk in about a month; I’m not ready for the finality of returning his ring, but it seems like that moment would be the right time. I yank a black cocktail dress from the hanger, step into my sling-backs, and clasp Laudie’s watch around my wrist.

  What finishing touch do I need? What would make Mom happy? I sift through a silver bowlful of sophomoric jewelry: a necklace with a roller-skate pendant, chunky rings with Jolly Rancher stones, a neon green cuff. My hand lands on the latest button I made. It reads: “VAGINA! VAGINA! VAGINA!”

  Tee-hee. Why is that so fun? I pin the button to the inside of my coat, where no one can see it. There are times and places to make statements. I’m not ready to wear my button on the outside of my coat, but I am still considering that throw pillow for my couch.

  With pearls, my plain outfit might be deemed passable. I drop to my hands and knees and search for the necklace Trip gave me what now seems an eternity ago. Lifting the dust ruffle and looking beneath my bed, I peer into the shadows. At the foot of a bedpost lies Trip’s necklace, coiled in a forlorn heap. I extract a dust bunny from the chain and clasp it around my neck.

  * * *

  I scamper down the cracked sidewalks of Atlantic Street, careful not to catch a toe on broken slate or a wayward oak root. Mom’s house glows festively in the winter night. All the lights are on, even in my old bedroom. A topiary props open the door that opens onto the piazza. I bound up the two stone steps and see that Mom decided to put the bar in the garden—an even better idea than on the piazza.

  I arrive promptly at 6:00. Punctuality is usually not a South of Broad virtue. In fact, other than for a funeral, it is considered rude to be on time; every native knows you must come at least ten or fifteen minutes late in order for the hosts to find the corkscrews and check the linens in the powder room. So, there’s a little extra time to help Mom.

  Her Waterford chandelier—recently painstakingly disassembled, dusted, washed, and reassembled—sparkles in the foyer, splashing light on the staircase I raced up and down as a little girl. In the formal drawing room, to my right, a gas fire burns in the hearth. A charcuterie and cheese tray sits on the low mahogany coffee table; the Brie and Camembert sweat.

  In the dining room, two servers who are dressed head-to-toe in black fiddle with last-minute preparations. One garnishes silver trays and Delft platters with snipped sprays of dendrobium orchids. The other lights tea candles, which flicker in little beds of holly on the table and sideboard. Mrs. Harley’s food awaits: ham biscuits, pickled shrimp, blanched asparagus, Hollandaise sauce, sliced tenderloin, horseradish sauce, stacks of miniature rye, wheat, and pumpernickel bread. The endive chicken salad boats line a narrow silver tray. Crab dip bubbles in a chafing dish.

  Mom, in her demurely shimmery merlot dress, tucks away a stack of mail in the kitchen. “Oh, good, you’re here. Honey, I need you to help pour the champagne. The bartenders have their hands full right now.”

  “Sure.” I throw my coat and purse on a kitchen chair.

  “Simons, is your hair wet?”

  “I ran out of time.”

  “What are we going to do with you?”

  “I’m sorry, Mom.”

  Mom draws a slow breath. “It’s okay. That’s not important. How’s Angela?”

  “She’ll be all right.”

  “Good.” Mom places ten champagne flutes on the tray.

  I pour the champagne. The stems rattle as I carry the tray back through the dining room and into the front hall. Our first guests are elderly. Charleston’s golden-agers drive to the party location early to claim the closest parking spots. They wait in the car until their watches confirm it’s a polite ten or so minutes after the hour.

  A couple of Laudie’s bridge friends hobble over the threshold. Mom leads them into the drawing room, where they settle in the Queen Anne chairs. Tuckered by the effort of getting up the porch and into the house, they gratefully accept the champagne.

  Weezy and Ashley arrive next. Ever since Vance was born, I’ve been surprised to see Weezy standing up on her own, alive even. I can’t forget, or even compute, the violence her body underwent that night—the tearing of her innards, the blood, the passing out. It seems amazing that she survived. And yet here she is, practically scintillating.

  Her magenta dress tugs only slightly at her postpartum belly; she hardly looks like she gave birth just two weeks ago. She’s wearing heels. She darkened her eyebrows; they give her face an elegant, mature look. She should have her photograph taken tonight. Ashley stands next to her. Neatly shaven, he looks even more boyish than usual in a tuxedo.

  “Here she comes!” Mom clasps her hands together, her eyes wide to take in the vision of her youngest daughter. Caroline appears at the top of the stairs: she’s the epitome of perfection. Her white dress is simple but striking. Cut slimly, it hugs her body and shows off her knockout figure. A thick braid drapes around her swanlike neck.

  Her friend Bennett follows. She wears a turquoise dress that appears to be 1950s-inspired. It cinches tightly at her small waist; the A-line cut of her skirt dramatizes her curves. As she follows Caroline down the steps, the fabric rises and falls like a diaphanous jellyfish in the mildest of waters.

  Caroline lifts two champagne glasses from my tray and hands one to her friend. “Is Mom paying you?”

  “What?”

  Caroline gestures at me vaguely. “You look like a waiter.”

  Bennett attempts to hide a smirk
behind her champagne glass.

  I stare at my sister.

  “Oh, come on, Sims, your hair’s slicked back and you’re in all black . . .”

  I glance at my simple dress. Okay, fine, so I am dressed like a server, but it’s still a bitchy thing to say.

  “Caroline.” Mom narrows her eyes. “What has gotten into you? Your sister came here this morning to help with the party. She climbed the ladder to string the lights. She swept the porch. You should be thanking her.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Mom’s too annoyed to listen. She shoos Caroline and Bennett to the drawing room. “Go say hello to Mrs. Ravenel and Mrs. Rutledge.” They sail out, an armada of two, high heels clicking.

  Weezy hugs me sideways, nearly making me drop the tray of remaining champagne flutes. “You look beautiful, Simons. You really do.”

  I study Weezy as she takes a drink. I still can’t figure out how she holds any positive memories of that ghastly night. She describes it as “loving” and “beautiful” and “healing.” I was there. It wasn’t any of those things. It was gruesome. Painful. Nightmarish. A disco-balled violent bloodbath choreographed to the King of Pop.

  It does seem Ashley has an idea of what went down that night. With jolly pats on the back, he thanks me for “subbing in,” but I detect relief.

  Weezy has always been kind to me, but she’s been especially complimentary since Vance’s birth. Any time I mention my new news director, Don Pendergrass, she’s quick to suggest I should consider midwifery. No. Not a chance. But I will leave my job and probably Charleston, too; I’m just not ready to tell her that yet. Two of the three New York organizations asked me for a second interview—both video conference calls. I scheduled those for next week. I also heard back from Angela’s connection in D.C.; I have a call with him on Tuesday.

  A bevy of Mom’s friends and their husbands appears at the door. The ladies pluck the remaining flutes from my tray. When Mom announces the bourbon’s outside in the garden, the men head for the bar. I exchange hellos and retreat to fill up more glasses.

  From the quiet of the kitchen, I listen to the party unfold. Our house is welcoming. The food is plentiful and delicious. Our friends are mostly happy. The women look beautiful. The men are handsome. We are educated, healthy, and prosperous.

  It’s a lovely scene, and it hardly looks any different than it did four years ago, when I was making my debut. I find comfort in knowing this is how it will always be in this house, in our little cosmos, for years, even decades and generations, to come. So maybe there’s not a musician, a rebel, or a tattoo under this roof, but there is a strong sense of community.

  Still, I can’t shake the feeling that I don’t fit into the mold, that I’m a non-native species in this garden of Eden. I don’t know where I belong, but it’s not here, at least for now. My hand instinctively tugs at my necklace.

  43.

  I Spy

  A lanky teen guards the entrance of Battery Hall. He wears the workers’ winter uniform: pressed khakis and a zipped-up parka in Battery Hall green. He’s scrolling on his phone, preoccupied. He looks up just as my bike tires meet the bumpy brick driveway. “Excuse me!” His job, mainly, is to keep tourists and nonmembers out.

  I pretend not to hear him. He won’t do anything to alert the rest of the staff. For better or for worse, I look like I belong. I look like the daughter of a member. My entry ticket was printed on my genes. Why people don’t understand white privilege, I’ll never get.

  Technically, guests must be escorted by a member, but the rule is rarely enforced. And if Dad knew my plan, he’d go ballistic. He’s a fair man and is well-intentioned in his own, limited way. The problem is that he, like most club members, has a blind spot. They can’t see the harm a place like Battery Hall does. While they see their club as an innocuous gathering place for like-minded people, Battery Hall preserves and champions a status quo that keeps guys like him on top.

  Without Dad, I feel like an interloper; it’s hard to imagine that not all wives and daughters feel this way. They are welcome as guests, putting their tabs on their husbands’ or fathers’ member numbers. I’ve asked Mom if that practice somehow makes her feel patronized or infantilized. She tells me she likes lunching here. It’s away from the tourist mob scene. There’s always a place to park. They take reservations, and she always gets to see someone she knows. What’s not to like?

  “But doesn’t it bother you that you can never be a member? Because you are a woman?”

  “Oh, honey.” She swatted the idea away with the jangle of her gold bracelets. “Why would I want to be a member with all these stuffy old men?”

  Feeling like a spy, I enter the foyer. On the far wall, each looking larger than I’d remembered, loom the portraits of past presidents. Now, all twenty-six pairs of eyes glare at me.

  “Are you waiting for the rest of your party?” asks the hostess. Her eyes survey my legs.

  I’m wearing pants. While pants are not expressly forbidden by the club, skirts are preferred. “I’m just going to use the restroom.”

  The phone rings, and she turns her attention to the reservation book.

  In the ladies’ room, a woman pumps soap from a silver dispenser. I don’t recognize her, but Old Charleston is a small crowd, and I don’t want to risk getting spotted. With my face averted, I dart into a stall.

  44.

  Overdressed

  Tonight is the culmination of a year of dress shopping, ladies’ brunches, boozy cocktail parties, elegant invitations, and old-fashioned and fancy debutante gifts like Tiffany pens and monogramed silver bells. At eight o’clock this evening, we’ll go to the final ball for Caroline and the other debutantes.

  When I debuted, with Trip at my side, I spent the year in a perfumed cloud of southern elegance and warmth. I clinked glasses with my mother’s pals and waltzed with Tito’s less ancient chess partners. I feasted on crab cakes and caviar and drank as much champagne as I wanted. How lucky was I to have been born into a tribe that, whatever its shortcomings, celebrates its young women for the better part of a year? And with such pomp. I felt like a princess. I imagine Caroline feels the same way.

  For the grand ball, Mom insisted that I have my hair professionally styled. After showing up with wet hair at Mom and Dad’s cocktail party for Caroline last month, I don’t have a case against it. I’ve been sitting in a sticky-hot vinyl chair for an hour. My hair has been blown, rolled, teased, and sprayed into a starchy mat.

  The stylist is weaving my hair into a complicated series of knots reminiscent of nineties prom hair. Ouch. He rams another bobby pin into my scalp. The hair around my ears is pulled back so tight it gives me a facelift. My hair has been teased and jacked up into a fourth dimension, leaving my poor scalp pounding after all the yanking. Ouch.

  The stylist jams another bobby pin next to my ear. I can smell his breath, which isn’t unpleasant; he’s been sucking on a peppermint the whole time. He steps back to admire his rococo creation, rolls the candy in his mouth, douses me in another cloud of hairspray, and looks to Mom for approval. They exchange triumphant smiles.

  “Now, aren’t you glad you came?” Mom wears her usual winter uniform: slim pants and ankle boots. But today, with typical forethought, she’s traded her regular turtleneck for a buttoned blouse and zippered jacket, the better not to mess up her hair when she changes out of her clothes and into her ball gown.

  “It looks really . . .” I search my image in the mirror, trying to find the right word. “Impressive.” At least I won’t be confused for a server tonight. “Thank you so much.”

  He whips the black cape off my neck with a flourish. “Have fun, sweetie.”

  Mom and I check on Caroline’s progress. She sits in the premier seat of the salon, facing the window. Passersby turn to catch a glimpse of this live-action primp session. Caroline’s stylist is still hard at work, flitting and darting around my little sister like a bee pollinating goldenrod.

  “I have something special f
or you, Caroline.” Reverently, Mom pulls a drawstring sack from her purse and hands it to Caroline, who opens the satin satchel. Inside is the antique pearl necklace I know well: the string of the highest-quality, opalescent, freshwater pearls. I, of course, have Laudie’s watch, and I plan to wear it tonight. “Laudie wanted you to have this, especially for tonight.”

  Caroline dips her head so that Mom can place the necklace around her slender neck. “It’s gorgeous, Mom.” Caroline twists her head, admiring her reflection at different angles. “The pearls are ginormous!”

  Mom and Caroline study their nearly twin images in the mirror. Both smile serenely, and I’m struck by how much they not only look alike but are alike. Both are happy in a natural, uncomplicated way. Serenely they follow the cultural path laid out for them generations ago: one of cotillions, Battery Hall lunches, pearls, debutante balls, ladies’ teas, white weddings. They’re happy. I’m glad they’re happy.

  45.

  Waltzing Away

  Bump ba da bum bump . . . bump bump!

  Clay knocks briskly at my door. I told him we could meet at the ball, but he insisted on picking me up. At first I protested; it seemed ridiculous to go through this quasi–dating ritual since he’s officially a relative. Now, however, I’m glad to have a proper gentleman caller. Is a man walking a woman to a car really that old-fashioned and chauvinistic? Or is it just considerate?

  Clay flashes a gummy smile. Vestiges of braces stain his front teeth. He proffers a corsage composed of miniature yellow roses and baby’s breath; it matches his boutonniere. Maybe his mother never informed him that corsages are a tad puerile for white-tie affairs. I’m already wearing Laudie’s gold watch on my left wrist, the proper wrist for a corsage, if a corsage were proper. It took me the better part of five minutes to clasp the watch over my kid leather glove, so I extend my right arm. He puts on the corsage. “You ready?”