by Lee Smith
“Just like that? What else did you say?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, what else had you said — before that, I mean — to bring her down?”
“Oh, well, I suppose I had said something to the effect . . . oh yes, I remember now. I had remarked that I hate it whenever she has a good time.”
“And then she said . . .”
“And then she said she was tired of me bringing her down.”
“So here you are.”
“So here I am.”
Lynn starts laughing and can’t stop.
“What? What is it?” He leans forward frowning.
“Do you remember when we first moved to North Carolina?” she asked. “And I was working for the newspaper? And I had to write all those headlines and cutlines?”
“Yes . . .” He’s nodding his wispy white head.
“Well, I can just see the headline now,” she says. “Debbie Dumps Depressive”
Lawrence starts laughing too. “Oh, that’s good,” he says. “That’s rich, that’s really good. ‘Debbie Dumps Depressive,’ very nice.”
They are still laughing when Mary Lane Faucette, the snow lady, pokes her red hat around the back door. “Hello — oh!” she carols. And here comes Georgia Mayo smiling her bright red smile, advancing into the kitchen, with Rita Goins tap-tapping along right behind her on those ridiculous spike heels.
Oh God. Will Lynn never be rid of these women? “You must be the husband,” Georgia says to Lawrence.
“In a manner of speaking.” Lawrence drains his glass and pours another.
“Well, pardon me,” Georgia says. Actually she looks like the Little Drummer Boy in that red blazer with all the gold jewelry. “Pardon me, but we just had to come back and make sure . . . That wasn’t really true, was it? That part about the mother-in-law falling down the staircase?”
“No,” Lynn says.
“I told you,” Rita says.
“Well, why did you say it, then?” Mary Lane’s feelings have obviously been hurt.
“I don’t know,” Lynn says.
“Ladies . . .” Lawrence begins, then pauses. “Ladies, pardon me. But could you explain your attire to me, please? Are you members of a club? An organization?”
“Not really,” Rita says.
“We’re a dis organization,” Georgia explains. “The only rule is that you have to be over fifty. And basically we’re all tired of doing things for other people. We just want to have some fun. We’re releasing our inner child,” she adds.
Lawrence laughs, a short, abrupt bark.
Oh no, Lynn is thinking. Now he will destroy them.
But instead, Lawrence says, “There are those who feel that my inner child has been released entirely too much already. In fact, it seems entirely possible that I am nothing but an old fool, an idiot.”
Lynn can feel him looking at her.
“Who are you, again?” Georgia asks him point-blank.
“I am no one. No one,” Lawrence intones in the voice-of-God voice.
“Are you really the husband?” she persists.
“In a manner of speaking.” Lawrence drains his glass, then pours another. He stands up.
Now, Lynn is thinking. Now he will destroy them.
But instead, he makes a stagy little bow. “Ladies, please,” he says. “Please. Sit down. Have a drink.”
They look at each other.
“I don’t mind if we do,” Mary Lane says. “It was hard, getting back up that hill.” She sinks gratefully into the chair which Lawrence pulls out for her. Rita takes off her mink coat and does the same, while Georgia sits gingerly on the very edge of her chair, looking all around the messy kitchen.
Lawrence refills Lynn’s jelly jar, then pours each of them a little green glass of wine. “Salut!” he says. “To you!”
“Thank you.” Mary Lane Faucette seems shy, suddenly. She drains her glass. Then she clears her throat and says, “My son is gay too. He lives in Atlanta, and he’s just wonderful. He’s the sweetest thing. In fact, he has always been the light of my life . . . of all our lives, really. He was the only truly lighthearted one in our family. But my husband won’t accept it, he just can’t. At first I thought, Oh, he’ll come around, it’ll just take time, but he can’t. He just can’t. In fact, he won’t even talk about it. He won’t mention his name.”
“That’s rough,” Lawrence says. “Hard on you.”
Lynn stares at him. Who’s this? Sigmund Freud?
“It’s been hard for all of us,” Mary Lane says, “especially at Christmas. It’s especially sad for Libbie, that’s his twin sister, they used to be so close.”
“I would imagine that it’s harder on your husband than anybody else,” Lawrence says. “That’s how men are, we’ll hold on to an idea we can’t live with until it kills us.”
“Well, that’s just crazy!” Georgia Mayo says decisively, tipping her glass up to get the last bit.
“But people are crazy. Not just men.” Rita leans forward on the kitchen table, propping her pretty face up in her hands. “I mean, you never know what is going to happen in this world, do you? For instance, I used to be Miss South Carolina?” Her voice goes up at the end. “And now I have a double mastectomy? And my husband left right in the middle of all the chemo and radiation and everything, he just couldn’t take it? But guess what?”
“What?” Lynn can’t imagine.
“The radiologist and I fell in love? And my children just had a fit because of course he’s eleven years younger than I am, but that’s not much, is it? And we didn’t care, we went right ahead and got married anyway? Before my hair even came back? Because you just never know how much time you’ve got, do you? And now we are so happy, I mean, so happy, I just had no idea! And then we bought this house down at Hilton Head? And I have actually become a bird-watcher? And the children all got over it eventually, why between us we’ve got five grandchildren, I’ve got my ‘brag book’ right here.” She produces a small pink photo album from her voluminous purse and puts it on the table, flipping the pages one by one.
“Oh, look at that darling little towhead boy,” Mary Lane says. “I could just eat him up with a spoon.”
Lawrence opens another bottle of Pinot Noir, and the Viognier, for her.
Lynn rummages in a kitchen drawer and pulls out a picture of her granddaughters, taken this past summer at Cape Breton. She puts it on the table.
“Why, aren’t they cute?” Georgia exclaims. “And their eyes look just like anybody’s! Why, I’ll say!”
You’ ll say what? Lynn is thinking furiously. What? But she holds her tongue, and they all have another drink, and then another, and some of that poundcake Virginia brought over yesterday, and it’s nearly seven o’clock when the three women struggle back into their coats and leave. Lynn and Lawrence stand together in the wide open front door, hands not touching, to watch them walk down the hill.
Lawrence makes his harumphing sound. “Well?” he asks.
“Well, what?” Lynn says. In her mind, her doctor is saying, Pay attention, pay attention, pay attention. She has had a clean break, though there are often complications. And her ADL level is still shit, though Doug has said she is “good to go.” But improvement is possible, Doug has also said this. A great deal of improvement is still possible. For instance, she is going to put colored lights on that boxwood. And she is going to buy some sexy high heels like Rita’s. She is going to buy a dog. She is going to paint the entire downstairs: eggshell. A cold breeze lifts her hair. The parade is long since over, the carolers and tourists have all gone home. The rain is past too, though dark clouds race across the dark sky, chasing a sickle moon. Lynn and Lawrence stand together in the doorway, not quite touching. In the darkened room behind them, Lynn senses their inner children sitting on the edge of their chairs, just waiting to see what will happen.
The Southern Cross
Mama always said, “Talk real sweet and you can have whatever you want.” This is tr
ue, though it does not hurt to have a nice bust either. Since I was blessed early on in both the voice and bosom departments, I got the hell out of eastern Kentucky at the first opportunity and never looked back. That’s how Mama raised us, not to get stuck like she did. Mama grew up hard and married young and worked her fingers to the bone and wanted us to have a better life. “Be nice,” she always said. “Please people. Marry rich.”
After several tries, I am finally on the verge of this. But it has been a lot of work, believe me. I’m a very high-maintenance woman. It is not easy to look the way I do. Some surgery has been involved. But I’ll tell you, what with the miracles of modern medicine available to our fingertips, I do not know why more women don’t go for it. Just go for it! This is my motto.
Out of Mama’s three daughters, I am the only one that has gotten ahead in the world. The only one who really listened to her, the only one who has gone places and done things. And everywhere I go, I always remember to send Mama a postcard. She saves them in a big old green pocketbook that she keeps right by her bed for this very purpose. She’s got postcards from Las Vegas and Disney World and Los Angeles and the Indianapolis 500 in there. From the Super Bowl and New York City and Puerto Vallarta. Just this morning, I mailed her one from Miami. I’ve been everywhere.
As opposed to Mama herself, who still cooks in the elementary school cafeteria in Paradise, Kentucky, where she has cooked for thirty years, mostly soup beans. Soup beans! I wouldn’t eat another soup bean if my life depended on it, if it was the last thing to eat on the earth. Give me caviar. Which I admit I did not take to at first as it is so salty, but now have acquired a taste for, like scotch. There are some things you just have to like if you want to rise up in the world.
I myself am upwardly mobile and proud of it, and Mama is proud of me too. No matter what kind of lies Darnell tries to tell her about me. Darnell is my oldest sister, who goes to church in a mall where she plays tambourines and dances all around. This is just as bad as being one of those old Holiness people up in the hollers handling snakes, in my opinion. Darnell tells everybody I am going to Hell. One time she chased me down in a car to lay hands on me and pray out loud. I happened to have a new boyfriend with me at the time and I got so embarrassed I almost died.
My other sister, Luanne, is just as bad as Darnell but in a different way. Luanne runs a ceramics business at home, which has allowed her to let herself go to a truly awful degree, despite the fact that she used to be the prettiest one of us all, with smooth creamy skin, a natural widow’s peak, and Elizabeth Taylor eyes. Now she weighs over two hundred pounds and those eyes are just slits in her face. Furthermore, she is living with a younger man who does not appear to work and does not look American at all. Luanne claims he has Cherokee blood. His name is Roscoe Ridley and he seems nice enough, otherwise I never would let my little Leon stay with them, of course it is just temporary until I can get Larry nailed down. I feel that Larry is finally making a real commitment by bringing me along this weekend, and I have cleared the decks for action. Larry has already left his marriage psychologically, so the rest is just a matter of time.
But speaking of decks, this yacht is not exactly like the Love Boat or the one on Fantasy Island, which is more what I had in mind. Of course, I am not old enough to remember those shows, but I have seen the reruns. I never liked that weird little dwarf guy, I believe he has died now of some unusual disease. I hope so. Anyway, thank goodness there is nobody like that on this boat. We have three Negroes who are nice as you please. They smile and say yes ma’am and will sing calypso songs upon request, although they have not done this yet. I am looking forward to it, having been an entertainer myself.
“Well, baby, whaddaya think? Paradise, huh?” This is my fiancé and employer Larry Marcum who certainly deserves a little trip to paradise if anybody does. I have never known anybody to work so hard. Larry started off as a paving contractor and still thinks you can never have too much concrete.
This is also true of gold, in my opinion, as well as shoes.
Now Larry is doing real well in commercial real estate and property management. In fact we are here on this yacht for the weekend thanks to his business associate, Bruce Ware, one of the biggest developers in Atlanta, though you’d never know it by looking at him. When he met us at the dock in Barbados wearing those hundred-year-old blue jeans, I was so surprised. I believe that in general, people should look as good as they can. Larry and I had an interesting discussion about this in which he said that from his own observation, really rich people like Bruce Ware will often dress down, and even drive junk cars. Bruce Ware drives an old jeep, Larry says! I cannot imagine.
And I can’t wait to see what Bruce Ware’s wife will have on, though I can imagine this, as I know plenty of women just like her — “bowheads” is what I call them, all those Susans and Ashleys and Elizabeths, though I would never say this aloud, not even to Larry. I have made a study of these women’s lives, which I aspire to, not that I will ever be able to wear all those dumb little bows without embarrassment.
“Honey, this is fabulous!” I tell Larry, and it is. Turquoise blue water so clear you can see right down to the bottom where weird fish are swimming around, big old birds, strange jagged picturesque mountains popping up behind the beaches on several of the islands we’re passing.
“What’s the name of these islands again?” I ask, and Larry tells me, “The Grenadines.” “There is a drink called that,” I say, and Larry says, “Is there?” and kisses me. He is such a hard worker that he has missed out on everything cultural.
Kissing Larry is not really great but okay.
“Honey, you need some sunscreen,” I tell him when he’s through. He has got that kind of redheaded complexion that will burn like mad in spite of his stupid hat. “You need to put it everywhere, all over you, on your feet and all. Here, put your foot up on the chair,” I tell him, and he does, and I rub sunscreen all over his fat white feet one after the other and his ankles and his calves right up to those baggy plaid shorts. This is something I will not do after we are married.
“Hey, Larry, how’d you rate that kind of service?” It’s Bruce Ware, now in cutoffs, and followed not by his wife but by some young heavy country-club guy. I can feel their eyes on my cleavage.
“I’m Chanel Keen, Larry’s fiancée.” I straighten up and shake their hands. One of the things Larry does not know about me is that my name used to be Mayruth, back in the Dark Ages. May-ruth! Can you imagine?
Bruce introduces the guy, who turns out to be his associate, Mack Durant, and then they both stand there grinning at me. I can tell they are surprised that Larry would have such a classy fiancée as myself.
“I thought your wife was coming,” I say to Bruce Ware, looking at Larry.
“She certainly intended to, Chanel,” Bruce says, “but something came up at the very last minute. I know she would have enjoyed being here with you and Larry.” One thing I have noticed about very successful people is that they say your name all the time and look right at you. Bruce Ware does this.
He and Mack sit down in the deck chairs. I imagine their little bowhead wives back in Atlanta shopping or getting their legs waxed or fucking the kids’ soccer coach.
Actually I am relieved that the wives stayed home. It is less competition for me, and I have never liked women much anyway. I never know what to say to them, though I am very good at drawing a man out conversationally, any man. And actually a fiancée such as myself can be a big asset to Larry on a business trip, which is what this is anyway, face it, involving a huge mall and a sports complex. It’s a big deal. So I make myself useful, and by the time I get Bruce and Mack all settled down with rum and tonic and sunscreen, they’re showing Larry more respect already.
Bruce Ware points out interesting sights to us, such as a real volcano, as we cruise toward Saint-Philippe, the little island where we’ll be anchoring. It takes three rum and tonics to get there. We go into a half-moon bay that looks exactly like a postcard, wi
th palm trees like Gilligan’s Island. The Negroes anchor the yacht and then take off for the island in the dinghy, singing a calypso song. It is really foreign here! Birds of the sort you find in pet stores, yachts and sailboats of every kind flying flags of every nationality, many I have never seen before. “This is just not American at all, is it?” I remark, and Bruce Ware says, “No, Chanel, that’s the point.” Then he identifies all the flags for Larry and me. Larry acts real interested in everything, but I can tell he’s out of his league. I bet he wishes he’d stayed in Atlanta to make this deal. Not me! I have always envisioned myself on a yacht, and am capable of learning from every experience.
For example, I am interested to hear Bruce Ware use a term I have not heard before, Eurotrash, to describe some of the girls on the other yachts. Nobody mentions that about half the women on the beach are topless, though the men keep looking that way with binoculars. I myself can see enough from here — and most of those women would do a lot better to keep their tops on, in my opinion. I could show them a thing or two. But going topless is not something which any self-respective fiancée such as myself would ever do.
The Negroes come back with shrimp and limes and crackers, and so on. I’m so relieved to learn that there’s a store someplace on this island, as I foresee running out of sunscreen before this is all over. While the Negroes are serving hors d’oeuvres, I go down to put on my suit, which is a little white bikini with gold trim that shows off my tan to advantage. I can’t even remember what we did before tanning salons! (But then I do remember, all of a sudden, laying out in the sun on a towel with Darnell and Luanne, we had painted our boyfriends’ initials in fingernail polish on our stomachs so we could get a tan around them. C. B., I had painted on my stomach for Clive Baldwin who was the cutest thing, the quarterback at the high school our senior year, he gave me a pearl ring that Christmas, but then after the wreck I ran off to Nashville with Mike Jenkins. I didn’t care what I did. I didn’t care about anything for a long, long time.)