In Polite Company

by Gervais Hagerty

  “That shouldn’t be a tough decision.” I shake my arm free and hurry downstairs. I’ve got to move fast if I want to make a clean escape. I run down the curved staircase, one hand on the rail, the other holding up the hem of my dress. The coat-check attendant exchanges the ticket stub for my coat just as the grand matron’s husband peers over the railing to corral straggling guests.

  “Simons, wait!” Trip races down the stairs. He reaches the first white tile of the checkerboard floor and stops mid-step. “Just wait.”

  I thought I could avoid him. I thought if I hurried from the ball, I could run away from any feelings for him. How do exes ever become friends? How can they chitchat idly when once, long ago, their legs were intertwined, twisted in the bedsheets? “What are you doing here, Trip?”

  “I was invited.”

  “But you knew I’d be here. You knew my family would be here.”

  “You’re related to half of Charleston. Have you placed an embargo on the whole city?”

  “It’s just hard for me to see you with someone. I wasn’t expecting that.”

  “You really threw me for a loop, Simons. You’re the one who said we were single. What am I supposed to do? Wait for you?”

  Is that what I wanted all along? For him to wait? “I’m so sorry, Trip.”

  “Sorry about what? Which part? Let’s have it out, right now. Let’s get your little talk over with.” His words are harsh. He’s hurt, I know.

  I place my hands on his shirt, the pleated bib warmed by his heart. “I’m sorry about everything. I’m sorry I hurt you. I’m sorry I let you go. I’m sorry I wrecked our relationship.”

  “What are you saying, Simons? What do you want? Do you even know?”

  What do I want? To be carried up the stairs to the dance floor, join him in line for the Grand March, where the guests parade—for themselves, by the way—to dinner? No. I don’t want to do that. Not tonight. Maybe not ever. I have other plans.

  Trip pries my hands from his chest. “Well, you need to figure that out. If you want me back, you take everything. All of me. Sometimes I think you’re too afraid to be out on your own. You need to figure out if I’m what you want. I used to wish I were, but now I’m not so sure.” And just like that, he’s finished. Ascending the stairs, head down, he’s unaware that Bennett waits for him on the balcony. “And, Simons”—he turns, asks in afterthought—“what did you do to your hair?”

  My hair. Does he really care about my hair? I have a sudden impulse to throw my head down and back, making my hair bigger, wilder.

  That’s exactly what I do.

  46.

  Resurrection

  On the other side of the heavy doors the night is chilly and starry, a night painted by Van Gogh. Propelled by a force beyond my control, I run. I run down Meeting toward Broad Street. I run over blue-slate sidewalks and beneath rattling palmettos. I run past the storefronts, law firms, antiques shops, and art galleries, my path illumined by old-fashioned street lanterns.

  I keep running down the oyster-shell driveway and make it to the entrance of the formal garden, where I stop. My plan was to retrieve the spare house key I nailed in Laudie’s potting shed, but the kitchen light is on. I walk up the back staircase. The door is unlocked. Tito sits at the kitchen table. An electric space heater is positioned at his slippered feet. He doesn’t sit at the head—his usual spot. Instead, he sits in Laudie’s chair. He’s in his pajamas, wrapped in a plaid bathrobe, wearing his reading glasses. He holds a piece of paper.

  “Tito?” I fold my coat, lay it on the counter, and join him at the table.

  He turns to me, surprised but not startled. “Why are you all dressed up?”

  “I was at Caroline’s debutante ball.”

  His rheumy eyes search my face. “I’d forgotten it was tonight. That’s some hairdo.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Your mother said this was meant for you. I imagine you don’t blame me for peeking.”

  The piece of paper, faded and obviously folded and refolded many times, has the look of a cherished heirloom, a beloved artifact.

  On this day, the 14th of November, 1953

  Miss Claudia Parks Pringle, in accordance with the faculty of the Atlanta Civic Ballet, has been accepted to dance for the troupe in the year of 1954.

  Laudie was good enough. She made the cut. She turned the opportunity down.

  “I lived with her for sixty-six years and she never told me.”

  I examine the document. I can see my fingers through the nearly transparent paper. “Maybe she kept it a secret because she wanted a part of her life that was just hers. For her, alone.”

  Tito considers the thought. “How about a glass of sherry?”

  I find the sherry in an old crystal decanter on the dining room bar cart, select two glasses, wipe off the dust. I pour sparingly. Tito hardly drinks anymore.

  “What was Laudie like back then? Before Atlanta.”

  “Those were our courting days,” he begins. “She always wanted to go dancing, so I took her—mostly to the Folly Beach Pier.” Tito’s wet eyes gleam. “She was determined to dance every song, and I just didn’t want to. And she particularly didn’t like waiting to be asked to dance. She would just tap a boy on the shoulder, and he would do as she said.”

  “But she was so pretty. Wouldn’t the boys line up to dance with her?”

  Tito laughs. “They were scared of her, I think. Didn’t quite know how to handle her.” He chuckles. “And my mother didn’t approve of Claudia. She said she was too hot-blooded.”

  “Why? What did she do?”

  “Oh, she was stubborn.”

  “But how?”

  “She had her opinions. Didn’t stay quiet like the other girls. But she got quiet after Atlanta.” He takes a small sip. “She learned.”

  I search his face for signs of remorse or insight, but his expression remains neutral. Tito will almost certainly never understand his immense privilege as a white male raised in a cradle of wealth and power. He reached that pinnacle when he was elected president of Battery Hall. He’ll likely die oblivious of the struggles of others.

  Images from Laudie’s stories flash into my mind: the simple freedom of going to the theater whenever she wanted. Of walking into a club, arm in arm with her lover and dance partner, all eyes on them. Of practicing her ballet at her windowsill, her dream very much within her reach.

  “Maybe she didn’t want you to know what she gave up to be with you. That she could have been a prima ballerina instead of a housewife.”

  “I hadn’t thought of it that way.” It’s hard to tell if it’s emotion or old age causing a tear to roll from his eye. We sit in the kitchen’s stillness. My grandfather, the widower, stares at his knotted hands, as scaly and blotchy as the trunk of a crepe myrtle. “I fussed at her. I shouldn’t have fussed at her so much.”

  I stand and place my hands on his bony, coat-hanger shoulders. I kiss his bald, speckled head. “It was a different time.”

  He makes a little steeple of his index fingers. “I could have been less critical.”

  “She forgives you. I’m sure she does.”

  47.

  Over Easy

  By now, the march is over. The gentlemen are seating the ladies—pulling out their chairs and helping them to scoot closer to the dining table. Courtly and old-fashioned. The ladies have partially removed their gloves, the better to hold a fork; they have tucked their bejeweled evening bags under the table or hung them on a chairback. Some have surreptitiously reapplied lipstick or perfume. Men and women alike hydrate with ice water served in sterling goblets. They pass warm bread baskets and ramekins of butter, already waiting on the table, to the left. Always pass to the left, Mom had taught us. They are doing what generations of Charlestonians do best: eating, drinking, and being merry.

  When I decided to dash out of a debutante ball, I may have thrown away my chances for eating raw oysters in ball gowns for a while, but I didn’t give up food and company ent
irely. Certainly not. I’m ravenous, and I refuse to go home to sniff containers of Tupperware to determine what leftovers are safe to eat alone on my couch. The night is still young, and so am I.

  I head down the back brick steps. My heels sink into the oyster-shell driveway as I make my way to the street. Salty wind from the harbor cools my face, still overheated from Tito’s kitchen. I pull my phone from my purse and dial the number I committed to memory weeks ago that day on the beach.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Ben? This is Simons.”

  “Oh, hey, Simons. I was wondering when you were going to call.”

  “I thought tonight would be a good night,” I say, letting my mouth widen into a huge smile.

  “What’s up?”

  “I’m calling to see if you’d like to get something to eat, like, right now?” I bite my lower lip in anticipation of his answer.

  Silence on the other end of the line. Then, a muffled conversation. I feel my bravery waver, restrengthen. I’m not afraid of no. If I want a life of adventure, I’ve got to take risks, like calling numbers drawn in sand. I let the thrill of the moment, this electric space between yes and no, ignite me to my core.

  “Hey, sorry about that. I had to pay for parking. I just flew back from a work trip and have only had about eight pretzels for dinner. So, yeah, I’m super hungry. You live downtown, right? I can pick you up in fifteen minutes.”

  I do a little dance in the driveway, because what the hell. “Fantastic.” I tell him how to get to my apartment and brace for a mad dash. I need to move quickly so there’s time to run home and change out of my glitzy evening wear.

  I run up King Street, past Lamboll, Tradd, Broad, and Queen. I take a shortcut through the Unitarian Church cemetery, where a meandering brick path leads me around marble crosses and tilting gravestones. I run down the middle of Archdale Street, hook a quick left onto Beaufain, and keep pace past Memminger Auditorium.

  At Coming Street, I hit the home stretch. My breath is steady, like a metronome. I’m inhaling and exhaling to the beat of my stride. I pass the College of Charleston library, cross Calhoun Street, and enter the residential area where the streets narrow, the gardens shrink, and the houses are closer together. One by one, the houses fly past me; each door I pass is a tangible mark in my progress to a new and exciting future. The freedom in each step makes me feel as though I could fly.

  When I turn left onto my street, I slow to a trot. Half a block down, a figure stands beneath the streetlamp just outside my apartment. Ben. While I might not be able to pick his face out from a crowd, I recognize the way he carries his body. It’s the same on land as it is in water: loose and self-assured. He stands with his legs slightly apart, one hand in his pocket, the other behind his back. I slow to a walk to join him in the pool of lamplight. He wears a blue fleece embroidered with what I imagine is his company’s logo. His brown hair is messy, a little dirty, even.

  “You beat me,” I say in between breaths. I’m hot. I take off my coat.

  “Wow. You look like a princess.”

  “Oh, gosh,” I kick at my gown.

  “I’m flattered you got so dressed up.”

  I laugh and pat at my poofy hair; I can tell it’s ballooned since leaving the ball. “Long story . . .”

  “Well, I can’t wait to hear it. Where do you want to go?”

  “I don’t know. It’s almost eleven.”

  “Let’s go somewhere we can talk.”

  “I’d like that.”

  He raises his eyebrows, appraising me. “What would you say if I took you to the Waffle House?”

  “I would say great.”

  “Will you keep on your Cinderella costume?”

  “Sure.”

  * * *

  The Waffle House is brightly lit—the silver paneling along the kitchen galley doubles the light. Red stools dot the brown bar; the brick patterned linoleum floor was recently mopped. Jimmy Buffett croons from the jukebox. A cook cracks an egg; it hisses when it hits the griddle. Another employee stacks plates on a shelf along the back wall.

  The restaurant is warm. We remove our coats. Ben gestures to a booth. I slide in; he takes the opposite side. “I didn’t know you had curly hair.”

  Beneath the fluorescent glow, I notice his lashes are blond at the tips and he has a fleck of brown in his left eye. “I don’t. It was pinned up all day and I just took the pins out. It’s pretty straight.”

  The server plunks down two menus on the table. “Coffee?”

  “Just water, thanks.”

  “Orange juice, please.” I scan the menu: a collage of brightly colored offerings: toasty brown pancakes topped with a golden mound of melting butter, fried eggs with googly-eyed yellow yolks, pink circles of ham. I switch positions to get comfortable in my dress and accidentally kick his leg. The touch turns my brain to fuzz, making it hard to figure out what I want to eat. “I’ll have eggs over easy, please.”

  The server takes a quick look at my dress, but her face reveals nothing. She probably has seen it all. “Toast?”

  “Yes, please.”

  She turns her attention to Ben. “And you?”

  “The waffles. Thanks.”

  Ben places his arms on the table, his palms up. I once read that men unconsciously display the undersides of their arms to show a possible love interest that they’ve got a softer side. I’m not sure if I believe that, but I can read his evergreen eyes. He likes me.

  The drinks arrive. We raise our glasses. “Cheers,” we say together.

  “So, you just got back from a work trip? What were you doing?”

  “I’m an engineer. Our firm mostly does government contracts, so I fly to D.C. a lot. Maybe once a month.”

  Since I last saw Angela, when we buried Cooper, one of the New York environmental organizations has moved me onto the third round: another video call. After a couple of talks with Angela’s connection in D.C., I have been invited to interview in person. I leave next week. And now I can’t help but imagine Ben visiting me in D.C. Maybe he will, maybe he won’t, but aren’t possibilities what make life interesting?

  “What about you?”

  “I’m a news producer, but I’m leaving my job soon.”

  “To be a princess?”

  I laugh. “To work for an environmental organization.”

  “Which one? The Coastal Conservation League?”

  “Maybe one day. No. I’m going to leave Charleston for a bit.” Before letting him know about D.C., I want to gauge his reaction. He frowns. Good.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m looking at jobs in New York and D.C.”

  “D.C. Definitely D.C. Then I can take you to the Waffle House at least once a month.”

  “Perfect.”

  He reaches across the table, I put my hand in his, and although it may look inconsequential, and although we are in public in the bright glare of the Waffle House, it feels like the most intimate thing I’ve done in years.

  The waitress arrives with two hot, greasy plates. We dig in, big mouthfuls and big smiles. My toast, crisp and buttery, catches the runny yolk. The Minute Maid juice tastes like candy. My plate is clean by the time she returns. I want more. “May I have an order of the pecan waffles, please?”

  “Sure, hon.”

  They arrive steaming and smelling of brown butter. The syrup dispenser leaves my hands sticky. Every tactile sensation—my gummy hands, the curve of the booth on my back, the flatness of the silverware, the fullness of my stomach—feels like a small gift. They are.

  When the waitress puts the bill on our table, I take it.

  “No way. Please let me do it.” Ben looks concerned, scared even. “Seriously. I like taking you out.”

  “I’m glad you do. But at least tonight, I want to pay. It just feels right.”

  “Then I’m going to leave the tip.” While I’m trying to make some sort of statement about my independence from him, or anyone at the moment, he’s trying to be a gentleman. I ge
t it.

  “I’m tipping, too. You can leave extra.”

  He leaves a ten on the table before helping me into my coat. “What’s this?” He gestures to the button I pinned to my coat’s inner lining. Oh God, it’s the one that reads: “VAGINA! VAGINA! VAGINA!”

  Even if I had anything clever to say, I can’t seem to make my mouth move.

  He laughs. “I think they’re exciting, too.”

  I feel my cheeks blush.

  “Come on, let me take you home.”

  We walk to his car. The wind from the harbor, just down the road, blows my disheveled hair even wilder. Beneath the streetlight, I can see his breath.

  At this point on a date, most ladies wait for the guy to make the first move, to take ownership of the situation, and reveal, at least in the moment, what the next step in the evening will be.

  Well, if I’m writing my own stories these days, I need to make the first move. No, I won’t shove him against the car, thrust my hand down his pants, and squeeze his balls. This is different. Romantic, hopefully. I stand on my toes and place my arms over his shoulders.

  “Oh.” He appears genuinely surprised. “You seem to be a woman who knows what she wants.” He locks his arms around my back.

  “I’m working on that.” I run my hand against his warm neck, through his soft hair. He tightens his hold on me, sending blood rushing through my every artery, vein, and capillary. I lean into him, and feel a strong pull bringing me even closer. It reminds me of the time I played with magnets as a kid. If I got them close enough, they’d come together on their own. My lips tingle. My tongue softens. I close my eyes, and we kiss.

  He pulls away for a moment. “You’re a good kisser.”

  I bring him close again. “I know.”

  48.

  Cold Brew

  Martha waits in the courtyard of the coffee shop. She’s at our favorite table, under a tree. I suggest we move closer to the fountain, into the sun. It’s freezing out here by Charleston standards, not even fifty degrees.

  She nods and gathers her things: sunglasses, orange Bic, a soft pack of cigarettes. She seems to have completely forgotten about Bruno, who, still leashed to the table, scrapes his nails against the concrete. He’s balding like Tito: pink patches of exposed skin dot his snout and ears.