The Southern Book Club's Guide to Slaying Vampires

by Grady Hendrix

  “Korey?” Patricia asked.

  “Here,” Carter said, holding out some bills. “Take your brother. I’ll be there in a minute.”

  Korey hauled herself to her feet and left, leading Blue by the shoulder. She didn’t look at Patricia once.

  “There you have it, Patty,” Carter said after they’d gone. “That’s what you’re doing to your children. So what’s it going to be? Are you going to continue with this fixation on someone you hardly know? What’s he done, exactly? Oh, I remember: nothing. He hasn’t done one single, solitary thing. He’s not accused of anything. The only person who thinks he’s done something wrong is you, and you have no evidence, no proof, nothing except your feelings. So you can continue to be fixated on him, or you can put your attention where it belongs: on your family. It’s up to you. I’ve lost my promotion, but it’s not too late for the kids. This can still be fixed, but I need a partner, not someone who’s going to keep making it worse. So that’s the decision you have to make. Jim, or us? Which is it going to be, Patty?”

  THREE YEARS LATER…

  CLEAR AND PRESENT DANGER

  October 1996

  CHAPTER 24

  It made Patricia nervous when Carter used his cellular phone while driving, but he was the better driver and they were already running late for book club, which meant it was going to be hard to find parking.

  “And you’ll upgrade me to a king,” Carter said, letting go of the wheel with one hand to put on his turn signal.

  Their dark red BMW took the turn into Creekside smooth and easy. Patricia didn’t like it when he drove like this, but on the other hand this was one of the few times he didn’t have Rush Limbaugh on the radio, so she took her blessings where she could.

  “You can make the check out to Campbell Clinical Consulting,” Carter said. “The address is on the invoice I faxed.”

  He snapped his phone shut and hummed a little tune.

  “That’s the sixth talk,” he said. “It’s going to be busy this fall. You’re sure you’re all right with me being gone so much?”

  “I’ll miss you,” she said. “But college isn’t free.”

  He steered them down the cool tunnels formed by Creekside’s trees, dying sunlight flickering between the leaves, strobing over the windshield and hood.

  “If you still want to remodel the kitchen, you can,” Carter said. “We have enough.”

  Up ahead, Patricia saw the back of Horse’s Chevy Blazer parked at the end of a long line of Saabs, Audis, and Infinitis. They were still a block from Slick and Leland’s house, but the parked cars stretched all the way back here.

  “Are you sure?” Patricia asked. “We still don’t know where Korey’s thinking of going.”

  “Or if she’s even thinking,” Carter said, pulling up behind Horse’s Chevy but leaving a big buffer zone between their cars. It didn’t pay to park too close to Horse these days.

  “What if she picks somewhere like NYU or Wellesley?” Patricia said, undoing her seat belt.

  “The chances of Korey getting into NYU or Wellesley, I’ll take those odds,” Carter said, giving her a peck on the cheek. “Quit worrying. You’ll make yourself sick.”

  They got out of the car. Patricia hated getting out of cars. According to the bathroom scale, she’d gained eleven pounds and she felt them hanging from her hips and stomach, and they made her feel unsteady on her feet. She didn’t think she looked bad with a fuller face as long as she sprayed her hair a little bigger, but getting in and out of cars made her feel graceless.

  She waddled—walked—up the street with Carter, the October chill prickling her arms with goose bumps. She readjusted her grip on this month’s book—why did Tom Clancy need more pages than the Bible to tell a story?—and Carter opened the gate in the literal white picket fence around Slick and Leland’s front yard. Together, they went up the path of the Paleys’ large, barn-red Cape Cod that looked like it belonged in New England, right down to the decorative millstone in the front yard.

  Carter rang the bell and the door instantly swung open to reveal Slick. She was gelled and moussed and her mouth was too small for her lipstick, but she looked genuinely happy to see them.

  “Carter! Patricia!” she cried, beaming. “You look fabulous.”

  Recently, Patricia had surprised herself when she realized that the main reason she kept coming to book club was to see Slick.

  “You look wonderful, too,” Patricia said, with a genuine smile.

  “Isn’t this vest adorable?” Slick spread her arms. “Leland bought it for me at Kerrison’s for almost nothing.”

  It didn’t matter how many Paley Realty signs sprang up all over Mt. Pleasant, or how much Slick talked about money, or showed off things Leland bought for her, or tried to gossip about Albemarle Academy now that Tiger had finally gotten in. To Patricia she was a person of substance.

  “Come on back!” Slick said, leading them into the claustrophobic, overstuffed roar of book club.

  People spilled out of Slick’s dining room, and Patricia twisted her hips to avoid bumping into anyone as Slick led them past the stairs, past all the display cases for her collections—the Lenox Garden bird figurines, little ceramic cottages, miniature sterling silver furniture—past new wall plaques bearing even more devotional quotations, past the collectible wristwatches mounted in shadow boxes.

  “Hello, hello!” Patricia said to Louise Gibbes as they went by.

  “You look fabulous, Loretta,” Patricia said to Loretta Jones.

  “Your Gamecocks took a whupping Saturday,” Carter said to Arthur Rivers, clapping him on one shoulder, never slowing down.

  They emerged from the hall into the new addition at the back of the house and the ceiling suddenly shot up over their heads, soaring to a series of skylights. The addition stretched almost to the Paleys’ property line, a massive barn for entertaining, and every inch was crammed with people. There must be forty members these days, and Slick was just about the only person with enough house for all of them.

  “Help yourselves,” Slick said over the roar of conversation bouncing off the high ceilings and the far walls, which were hung with picturesque farm implements. “I have to find Leland. Did you see this? He gave me a Mickey Mouse watch. Isn’t it fun?”

  She waved her sparkly wrist at Patricia, then slipped away into a forest of backs and arms holding rental glasses and hands holding rental plates and everyone with copies of Clear and Present Danger tucked beneath their elbows, or resting on the backs of chairs.

  Patricia looked for someone she knew, and saw Marjorie Fretwell over by the buffet. They kissed on both cheeks, the way people did these days.

  “You look wonderful,” Marjorie said.

  “Have you lost weight?” Patricia asked.

  “Are you doing something different with your hair?” Marjorie asked back. “I love it.”

  Sometimes it bothered Patricia how much time they spent telling each other how good they looked, how wonderful they seemed, how fantastic they were. Three years ago she would have suspected Carter had called ahead and told everyone to make sure they kept Patricia’s spirits up, but now she realized that all of them did it, all the time.

  But what was wrong with enjoying their blessings? They had so many good things in their lives. Why not celebrate?

  “Hey, man!” a loud voice said, and Patricia saw Horse’s red face rising up over Marjorie’s shoulder. “Is that husband of yours around?”

  He leaned in unsteadily to peck Patricia on the cheek. He hadn’t shaved, and a yeasty cloud of beer hovered around his head.

  “A horse is a horse, of course, of course,” Carter said, coming up behind Patricia.

  “You won’t believe it, but we’re rich again,” Horse said, putting one hand on Carter’s shoulder to steady himself. “Next time we go to the club, drinks are on me.”

  “Don
’t forget, we’ve got four more who want to go to college,” Kitty said, stepping into the circle and giving Patricia a one-armed hug.

  “Don’t be cheap, woman!” Horse bellowed.

  “We signed the papers today,” Kitty explained.

  “When I see Jimmy H. I’m gonna kiss him,” Horse said. “Right on the lips!”

  Patricia smiled. James Harris had totally transformed Kitty and Horse’s lives. He’d straightened out the management of Seewee Farms, hired them a young man to run things, and convinced Horse to sell 110 acres to a developer. That was what had finally come through today.

  It wasn’t just them. All of them, including Patricia and Carter, had invested more and more money in Gracious Cay, and as outside investors kept coming in they’d all taken out credit lines against their shares. It felt like money just kept falling out of the sky.

  “You got to come with me Saturday,” Horse told Carter. “Do some boat shopping.”

  “How are the children?” Patricia asked Kitty, because that was the kind of thing you said.

  “We finally convinced Pony to look at the Citadel,” Kitty said. “I can’t stand the idea of him up at Carolina or Wake Forest. He’d be so far away.”

  “It’s better when they stay local,” Marjorie nodded.

  “And Horse wants another Citadel man in the family,” Kitty said.

  “That class ring opens doors,” Marjorie said. “It really does.”

  As Marjorie and Kitty talked, the room began to close in around Patricia. She didn’t know why everyone’s voices sounded so loud, or why the small of her back felt cold and greasy with sweat, or why her underarms itched. Then she smelled the Swedish meatballs bubbling away in the silver chafing dish on the buffet table beside her.

  Carter and Horse laughed uproariously over something and Horse put his beer down on the buffet table and he already had another one in his hand and Kitty said something about Korey, and the familiar reek of boiling ketchup filled Patricia’s skull and coated her throat.

  She forced herself to stop thinking about it. It was better not to think about it. Her life was back to normal now. Her life was better than normal.

  “Did you see on the news about that school in New York?” Kitty asked. “The children have to get there at five a.m. because it takes them two and a half hours to go through the metal detectors.”

  “But you can’t put a price on safety,” Marjorie said.

  “Excuse me,” Patricia said.

  She pushed her way past shoulders and backs, needing to get away from that smell, twisting her hips to the side, terrified she’d knock someone’s drink out of their hands, forcing her way through scraps of conversation.

  “…taking him up to tour the campus…”

  “…have you lost weight…”

  “…divest into Netscape…”

  “…the president’s just a Bubba, it’s his wife…”

  Kitty hadn’t visited her in the hospital.

  She didn’t want to keep score like this but for the first time in years it just popped into her mind.

  “You were in and out so quickly,” Kitty had told Patricia over the phone. “I was going to come just as soon as I got organized but by the time that happened, you were already home.”

  She remembered Kitty begging for reassurance. “With all those pills, you just mixed up your prescription, didn’t you?”

  That was what had happened, she agreed, and Kitty had been so grateful it didn’t have to go any further or get any messier and she had been so grateful that everyone had let it drop and never talked about it again that she hadn’t realized how much it hurt that none of them came by the hospital. At the time, she was just grateful. She was grateful no one called her a suicide and treated her different. She was grateful it had been so easy to slip back into her old life. She was grateful for the new dock and the trip to London and the surgery to fix her ear and the backyard cookouts and the new car. She was grateful for so many things.

  “Ice water, please,” she said to the black man in white gloves behind the bar.

  The only one who came to the hospital had been Slick. She showed up at seven in the morning and knocked gently on the open door and came in and sat down next to Patricia. She didn’t say much. She didn’t have any advice or insight, no ideas or opinions. She didn’t need to be convinced it had all been an accident. She just sat there, holding Patricia’s hand in a kind of silent prayer, and around seven forty-five she said, “We all need you to get better,” and left.

  She was the only one of them Patricia cared about anymore. She didn’t hold anything too much against Kitty and Maryellen and they saw each other socially, but the only time she came near Grace now was at book club. When she saw Grace she thought about things she’d said that she didn’t want to remember.

  She turned, cold glass in one hand, grateful she couldn’t smell the meatballs anymore, and saw Grace and Bennett standing behind her.

  “Hello, Grace,” she said. “Bennett.”

  Grace didn’t move; Bennett stood motionless. No one leaned forward for a hug. Bennett had an iced tea in his hand instead of a beer. Grace had lost weight.

  “It’s quite a turnout,” Grace said, surveying the room.

  “Did you enjoy this month’s book?” Patricia asked.

  “I’ve certainly learned a lot about the war on drugs,” Grace said.

  I hated it, Patricia wanted to say. Everyone talked in the same terse, manly sentences you’d expect from an insurance salesman fantasizing about war. Every sentence dripped with DDOs and DDIs and LPIs and E-2s and F-15s and MH-53Js and C-141s. She didn’t understand half of what she read, there were no women in it except fools and prostitutes, it had nothing to say about their lives, and it felt like a recruitment ad for the army.

  “It was very illuminating,” she agreed.

  James Harris had turned their book club into this. He’d started getting the husbands to attend, and they’d started reading more and more books by Pat Conroy (“He’s a local author”) and Michael Crichton (“Fascinating concepts”), and The Horse Whisperer and All the Pretty Horses and Bravo Two Zero, and sometimes Patricia despaired over what were they going to read next—The Celestine Prophecy? Chicken Soup for the Soul?—but mostly she marveled at how many people came.

  It was better not to dwell on it. Everything changes, and was it really so bad that more people wanted to discuss books?

  “We need to find seats,” Grace said. “Excuse us.”

  Patricia watched them retreat into the crowd. The track lighting got brighter as the sky outside got darker, and she made her way back to her group. As she got nearer she smelled sandalwood and leather. People parted and she saw Carter talking excitedly to someone, and then she passed the last person blocking her view and saw James Harris, dressed in a blue oxford shirt with the sleeves rolled up just so, and his khakis pressed exactly right, his hair tousled by experts, and his skin glowing with health.

  “You wouldn’t believe the schedule they have me on this fall,” Carter was telling him. “Six talks before January. You’ll have to keep an eye on the old homestead.”

  “You know you love it,” James Harris said, and they both laughed.

  Patricia’s steps faltered and she cursed herself for not wanting to see James Harris, who had done so much for all of them, and she forced herself to walk toward him with a big smile. James Harris was Leland’s business advisor these days. He called himself a consultant. He made up for not being able to go outside during the day by working through the night. He pored over the plans for Gracious Cay, he wooed outside investors at catered dinners he hosted at his home, and sometimes when Patricia walked down Middle Street early in the morning she could still smell cigar smoke lingering in the street outside his house. He worked the phones, he encouraged people to get outside their comfort zones, he convinced Leland to grow a ponyt
ail. He carried them into the future.

  “We’re going to have to get you married so you can know what it’s like to be tied down,” Carter said to James Harris.

  “I still haven’t met someone worth giving up my freedom for,” James said.

  He and Carter were almost like brothers these days. He was the one who’d convinced Carter to go into private practice. He was the one who’d talked Carter into getting on the lecture circuit, where he extolled the virtues of Prozac and Ritalin to doctors on paid vacations in Hilton Head, and Myrtle Beach, and Atlanta, courtesy of Eli Lilly and Novartis. He was the one responsible for all the money piling up in their bank account that would let them send Korey to college, and remodel the kitchen, and pay off the BMW. And yes, sometimes the phone rang after Carter came back from one of his trips and a young woman would ask for Dr. Campbell, or sometimes they’d call him Carter, but Patricia always gave them his office number, and when she asked who they were Carter always said, “Damn secretaries,” or “That effing girl at the travel agency,” and it made him so angry that Patricia finally stopped asking, and just kept giving out his office number when they called, and she tried not to think about it because she knew how easily ideas could get into her head and grow into twisted shapes.

  “Patricia!” James Harris beamed. “You look wonderful!”

  “Hello, James,” she said as he pulled her into a hug.

  She still wasn’t used to all this hugging, so she held still and let him squeeze her.

  “This one was just telling me I’m going to be having supper with y’all all fall,” James Harris said. “To keep an eye on you while he’s out of town.”

  “We’re looking forward to it,” Patricia said.

  “Did you understand any of this month’s book?” Kitty asked. “All that military language left my head whirling.”

  “Whirlybird!” Horse cheered, loudly, raising his beer.

  And the men started to talk about the war on drugs, and the inner cities, and metal detectors in schools, and James Harris said something about crack babies, and for a moment Patricia saw him, chin dripping black blood, something inhuman retracting back into his mouth, and then she hustled that image away and saw him the way she saw him so often—waving as he walked through the neighborhood in the evenings, at book club, at their table when Carter invited him over for supper. It had been dark in the back of his van. It had been so long ago. She wasn’t even exactly sure of what she’d seen. It had probably been nothing. He had done so much for them.