Confessions of the Sullivan Sisters

by Natalie Standiford

  “You heard what?”

  “That Norrie was at this party with Shea and a bunch of older guys, and Shea was in the bathroom giving blow jobs to everybody.”

  “So? That doesn’t mean Norrie was doing that.”

  “But Norrie was there. So maybe she was.”

  “That is so stupid,” I said. “It isn’t logical—”

  “People have been texting about it since yesterday.” Bibi scrolled through her phone, then showed me a bunch of texts with the letters NS and SD and BJ. “I haven’t passed them on to anyone…well, except for Brooks. I thought he should know what kind of girl he’s taking to the Cotillon.”

  “You’re passing those ridiculous rumors to Brooks?” I was fuming. “You know they’re not true.”

  Bibi shrugged. “All I know is what my cell phone tells me. Besides, Brooks was bound to hear it from somebody.”

  “He knows better than to believe that,” I said. “He knows what Norrie’s really like.”

  “Then Norrie has nothing to worry about,” Bibi said.

  “What about your blog?” Tasha said. “You’re trashing your own family. What’s the difference between that and texting?”

  “You’re spreading lies,” I said. “I’m telling the truth. That’s the difference.”

  “Strikes me as a pretty thin line,” Bibi said.

  I know you’ve seen this article, Almighty, but here’s an extra copy for your scrapbook.

  I must confess that when I first read the article I felt a great sense of satisfaction. My blog had made the front page of the Metro Section. The front page!

  Now I’ll really get some attention, I thought.

  I didn’t think about the rest of the family and what might happen because of my zeal to tell the truth. Not yet.

  THE BALTIMORE SUN

  Granddaughter of Social Lioness Reveals Family Secrets on Blog

  BY DELPHINE BURRELL

  MRS. LOUISA BECKENDORF—full name Arden Louisa Norris Sullivan Weems Maguire Hightower Beckendorf—is a philanthropist, city leader, social arbiter, and grande dame of such power that she is locally known as “Almighty Lou.” Since making her debut at the Bachelors Cotillon in 1947, she has been the most influential hostess at the top of Baltimore society. She sits on the boards of numerous charities and arts institutions, and started a fad for wearing orange feathers in the 1970s. She has a wing named after her at the Baltimore Museum of Art. It is said that anyone who wishes to be invited to the most exclusive social events in town must get—and stay—on Mrs. Beckendorf’s good side.

  But now the fearsome and influential “Almighty Lou” may be cut down to size by her own granddaughter.

  Jane Sullivan, 16, a junior at St. Margaret’s Preparatory School and one of Mrs. Beckendorf’s six grandchildren, has started a website called myevilfamily.com. The site is essentially a blog detailing the sordid history of the Sullivan and Norris families, from the origins of their great fortune to the petty social feud between Mrs. Beckendorf and her chief rival, Mrs. Margaret “Mame” Overbeck, to the mysterious suicide of her mother’s psychotherapist. According to Jane Sullivan, Mrs. Beckendorf never forgave Mrs. Overbeck for stealing Junius Overbeck out from under her nose. Even now, when the two women claim to have patched up their differences, Jane suggests that her grandmother is plotting a devious revenge against Mrs. Overbeck.

  This information is being gobbled up like candy by certain segments of Baltimore society—those who live and attend the posh private schools in the north of the city. “Almighty Lou has held power over us for so long that we love to finally see a crack in her perfect facade,” said one Guilford doyenne who declined to speak on the record. “This is just too delicious.”

  “I’m only telling the truth,” Jane Sullivan said when asked why she was airing her family’s dirty laundry in public. “People look up to my grandmother because she’s rich. Well, if they knew how rich people got that way, maybe they wouldn’t look up to them so much. Destroy all evil! Destroy everything!”

  Ms. Sullivan said she will continue to write about her family until all their secrets have been revealed. “I’m glad the Sun is publicizing my blog,” she added. “That way everyone will know the truth. Power to the people!”

  “Almighty Lou is going to wring that brat’s neck,” said a Roland Park resident who refused to give her name for fear of retribution. “There goes her inheritance.”

  Mrs. Beckendorf could not be reached for comment.

  EIGHT

  myevilfamily.com

  Almighty’s Evil Plan

  Some people—not that many anymore, but some—are fascinated by the Bachelors Cotillon, what it means, and how the girls who are invited are selected. Almighty Lou has a lot to say about who she thinks is “good enough” to be a debutante. Even though she herself is rich, she doesn’t place much emphasis on money. No, this is Baltimore, where family and background are everything. Anybody can get money. Connections are helpful, and, if necessary, blackmail works too.

  Even if you are poor(ish), you can be a debutante if you come from an old Baltimore family and go to one of the private schools. Wallis Warfield Simpson, the famous Baltimore debutante who married the King of England and became the Duchess of Windsor, had so little money she had to wear homemade dresses sewn by her aunt, but she was a Warfield, and that was good enough.

  This system is breaking down now, in the 21st century. Outside of Baltimore (especially in “vulgar” New York), money means everything, and that value system has infiltrated our provincial little city. Also, what’s family? The so-called “old families” are pretty watered down at this point. Society is a lot more fluid and in some ways more democratic.

  But not the Cotillon. It is sticking to the old ways for as long as it can.

  Why would anybody care about all this? Plenty of people don’t. But I know why Almighty cares. One reason anyway. She can use things like the Cotillon to control people. And the person she wants to get to the most? Mamie Overbeck.

  Here’s my theory: Almighty still hasn’t forgiven Mame for stealing Junius from her in 1947. She’s been harboring that grudge for all these years, cultivating it and watching it grow…. And when she saw her granddaughter, Norrie, and Mame’s grandson, Brooks, playing together as children, she got an idea.

  If you read Great Expectations or saw one of the movie versions, you might remember Miss Havisham. As a young woman she was ditched at the altar, and now she hates men. She adopts a beautiful girl named Estella and raises her to be coldhearted. Then, as an experiment, she invites a poor young boy named Pip to play with Estella. Miss Havisham knows that Pip will fall in love with Estella and that she will break his heart. Which is pretty much what happens. Miss Havisham has raised Estella to be her revenge against men.

  I think Almighty is pulling a Miss Havisham—using Norrie. She knows Brooks likes Norrie, and she is forcing them to go to the Cotillon—the scene of Almighty’s own humiliation—together. But she also knows—everybody knows—that Norrie has fallen in love with someone else. So she is bound to break Brooks’s heart. But still Almighty insists they go to the Cotillon together.

  Mame loves her grandson Brooks and doesn’t want to see him hurt. Almighty can hurt her through Brooks, using Norrie. It’s diabolical.

  And that is my theory.

  Come on, admit it, Almighty. I was right, wasn’t I?

  You may not have realized it, but Norrie, Sassy, and I were eavesdropping at the top of the stairs when you came over to tear Ginger and Daddy-o a new one about that article in the Sun. We heard the whole thing. You were roaring mad. You know how sometimes you draw a frown on your face with lipstick when you’re angry? Well, we have a name for it: Mr. Yuck. And you were sporting Mr. Yuck that day.

  I’m going to re-create the scene for you, in case you’re curious about how it looked from my point of view. Sometimes I wonder if you realize how scary you can be, Almighty.

  “This is your fault,” you yelled. “You’re terrible pa
rents! You’re not even parents—you’re glorified babysitters!”

  “Marvelous to see you as always, Almighty,” Ginger said.

  You’d brought Buffalo Bill with you as usual, and he was sniffing around the bottom of the stairs.

  “You brought up a godless hell-raiser! At least one that I know about. I have never in my life felt so betrayed by a member of my own family. Alphonse, what do you have to say?”

  I could hear the shrug in Daddy-o’s voice. “I’m sorry, Mother, but Jane is old enough to have her opinions. What can we do to stop her?”

  “Plenty! Send her away to boarding school, for starters. A very strict convent-style school, far away, maybe Switzerland. They’ll discipline her if you can’t, and she won’t be here in town publishing nasty lies about her grandmother in the newspaper.”

  “Nobody reads the newspaper anymore,” Ginger said. “If we ignore it, this whole thing will go away.”

  “That is exactly the kind of lenient attitude that got us here in the first place. One daughter running around with some grown man from New York, another one hell-bent on destroying the whole family, and who knows what Sassy’s up to….”

  I almost laughed, but Norrie put a finger to her lips and scowled like she’d kill me if I made a sound. At the mention of her name, Sassy squeezed my knee and looked nervous. “What? You’ve got nothing to worry about,” I whispered. And yet she looked worried.

  Downstairs, Takey wandered over to Buffalo Bill. He had a squirt gun in his holster and started tugging on the dog’s tail.

  “They’ve got your incorrigible spirit in them, Mother,” Daddy-o said. “Can’t blame them for being Sullivans.” He made a weak attempt to laugh. La di dah, isn’t being a Sullivan such carefree fun?

  But you weren’t falling for that. You didn’t yell, but we could hear the uncoiled fury in your voice. “A Sullivan does not disgrace her family. Your daughter has severely misbehaved. Grow a spine and punish her. I’d like to punish that reporter too, and whatever moron is editing the Sun these days. Whatever happened to journalistic standards? They wouldn’t have dared to print such trash in the old days; they knew they’d have me to answer to.”

  “Well, Mother, you can sue them for libel if they printed anything untrue,” Daddy-o said. “But I don’t think they did.”

  Sassy pinched me. “Ginger and Daddy-o are on your side,” she whispered.

  “A lot of good that will do me.”

  “Take away her computer,” you suggested.

  “She needs it for school,” Ginger said.

  “Do something!” you said. “She’s spreading lies about our family all over the world. I won’t have it! Where is she? I want to have a talk with her.”

  Norrie and Sassy gripped my arms. “Uh-oh.”

  “We’ll talk to her,” Ginger said. “You’ll see her at tea on Tuesday.”

  Thanks, Ginge. But it wasn’t enough to save me.

  Meanwhile, Takey unholstered his squirt gun and shot Buffalo Bill with water, right between the eyes. Bill whimpered and ran off.

  We could hear you stomping around like a bull. “Takey! Leave that poor dog alone! I’ll go up and drag Jane out of her room myself if I have to. These girls of yours are causing nothing but trouble!”

  The three of us sprang to our feet and scrambled upstairs to Norrie’s room. Norrie locked the door. We sat on her bed, biting our nails as if waiting for a killer in a hockey mask to burst in.

  “Jane Dorsey!” you roared. You can really be loud when you want to be. “Come out this instant! Jane Dorsey Sullivan!”

  “What would Joan of Arc do?” Sassy asked.

  “She’d face her persecutors,” I said. “She’d refuse to back down.” I stood up, straightened my school uniform, which I hadn’t had time to take off yet, and marched to the door. “On to the inquisition.” I opened the door. There you were. Your tiny body blocked my way out. “Hello, Almighty. Looking for me?”

  “You know damn well I’m looking for you. Come with me, young lady.” You glanced into the room and added, “You two, don’t think you’re off the hook. If I hear a breath of scandal about either of you…”

  Then you led me downstairs to my room and shut the door. “Sit down.”

  I sat at my desk. “Would you like a chair, Almighty?”

  “No. Now you listen to me. You will shut down that clog or whatever you call it, and shut it down now. You will erase all traces of it, except for this—you will publish a disclaimer saying that you made up everything you wrote about our family. The history, everything. I don’t care if it’s true or not, you’ll do it. And you will call that reporter and tell her you were playing a prank on her and deny everything she printed. My lawyer will be in touch with her to demand a retraction. Is that clear?”

  I shook with anger and fear so hard I clenched my teeth to keep them from rattling. Put yourself in my place. How dare you demand that I lie and say that everything I wrote—all that TRUTH—was a lie?

  Uh, that’s what I was thinking at the time. Now, of course, I’m totally sorry about it and agree that it’s all my fault.

  “Jane, do you hear me?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I hear you. But I won’t do it.”

  “Oh yes you will.”

  “Oh no I won’t.”

  “Don’t play stubborn with me. I invented that game.”

  “I know. It’s in my blood. I can hold out as long as you can.”

  “No you can’t,” you said. “Because I have power. And you don’t.”

  “Try me.”

  “I will. Disobey me at your peril, young lady.”

  “Come on. What can you do to me?”

  “You insolent brat! I can ruin your life. You wait and see.”

  “I can’t wait. I want you to ruin my life. I hate my life! I want to destroy everything!”

  “You’re doing a lovely job of it.” You threw open the door and stormed out. I heard you march downstairs and through the living room. “I’m holding you two responsible!” you shouted at Ginger and Daddy-o. “Bill, come!” The front door slammed shut.

  “Okeydokey,” Daddy-o drawled now that you were gone. “By the way, Mother, what time should we come for dinner on Sunday?”

  “I wish she wouldn’t make such a fuss. So the kids are hellions. I don’t understand what she expects us to do about it.”

  I heard ice rattling in glasses. “I suppose one of us had better talk to Jane.”

  I went downstairs to save them the trouble of finding me.

  “There you are, darling. What did Almighty say?”

  “She said I have to stop blogging forever and take back everything I already wrote, or else.”

  “Or else what?”

  I shrugged. “She wasn’t specific. Something bad will happen.”

  “Darling, do you really think this blog of yours is worth all this fuss?” Ginger said. “I mean, it’s just a lot of silly family gossip. Why do you care?”

  “It’s the truth,” I said.

  “So what?” Ginger said. Then she paused, as if something had just occurred to her. “You didn’t write anything about me, did you?”

  “Oh, so it’s okay as long as it’s not about you?” I said.

  “Lovebite, of course she did,” Daddy-o said. “Didn’t you see that bit about your therapist committing suicide?” He waved the newspaper. “It’s buried in here somewhere.”

  Ginger went pale. “I haven’t had time to read the article carefully.” She snatched the paper from Daddy-o and skimmed until she got to the part about her.

  I have to admit, at the moment I kind of wished I could melt into the carpet and drain away into the sewer, never to be seen again. Ginger put down the paper and took a sip of her vodka.

  “There was a time when psychotherapy was considered a private matter.”

  “It’s not like you don’t talk about it,” I said. “You told Mr. Sonnenshein at the pharmacy every detail. The cashier at Eddie’s too.”

  Ginger
rarely loses her temper, but I was pushing it. You should have seen her, Almighty—you would have been proud.

  She slammed her drink on the side table. “Listen, Jane Dorsey, I’ve had enough of your silliness. I know you’re trying to stir up trouble and you probably love all this attention in some kind of fucked-up way, but it’s time to stop. Now.”

  “Where’d you get that theory?” I said. “Your therapist?”

  Daddy-o tried to hide his whole head in the newspaper. Ginger pressed her lips together and glared at me until she looked a lot like Sister Mary Joseph.

  “I don’t want to lose my composure,” Ginger said. “So you had better go to your room now.”

  “Let me just get a snack first—”

  “Go to your room NOW!”

  I scurried to the stairs involuntarily. I didn’t mean to obey her but she scared me. Ginger hardly ever gets mad.

  Still, I couldn’t resist taking one last jab at her.

  “Heinie!” I yelped as I started upstairs. It was the worst word I could think of, the word Ginger hates most in the world.

  Ginger’s face reddened over her freckles. “Stop it!”

  “Heinie heinie heinie! Wiener! Booger! Shut up!”

  She swayed, nauseated by my vulgar language. “Are you quite finished?”

  “Mayonnaise!” We glared at each other. I felt tired. It washed over me suddenly, draining me of energy. I’d had enough conflict for one day.

  “Now I’m finished,” I said.

  That fight was the beginning of a bad mood that lasted for days. The bad mood seeped into everything I did. And Sister Mary Joseph didn’t help.