The Last Girls

by Lee Smith

  “Good God,” Russell says.

  “Did they manage to buy him a new one before he got home?” Courtney asks.

  “I doubt it.” Catherine smiles. “But the very idea of suggesting it, the possibility that anybody could even think of doing such a thing, was just staggering to me at the time.”

  “I guess so.” Russell stands, holding out a hand to Catherine. “Honey?”

  “You’ll be the youngest on the floor, in this crowd,” Harriet calls after them as they make their way through the tables toward the tiny dance floor. The band is named the Steamboat Syncopators. “I really didn’t understand there’d be so many old people on this trip, did you?” She turns to the others.

  “No,” Anna says, and Courtney shakes her head. “No.”

  “But we’re old, too.” Harriet goes on as though she doesn’t quite believe it herself. “How old do you think that woman is, for instance?” She indicates a white-haired couple dressed almost alike in madras plaid. “I’ll bet she’s not a day older than we are.”

  Anna squirms uncomfortably. “Please,” she says, refusing to place herself for even a minute among these aging hoi polloi—not a bad title, either: Among the Hoi Polloi, a class that Anna has risen above, she hopes, forever. “I never have old people in my books. Never. We’ll all get there sooner or later anyway. There’s no sense rubbing our noses in it.”

  “I disagree,” Harriet surprises herself by saying stubbornly, waving away Maurice who keeps trying to refill her coffee cup. “I teach these community workshops at my school, in the COMEBACK! program?” Her voice rises at the end of each sentence when she gets flustered. “It’s mostly women? And they write their own life stories?”

  For the first time, Anna removes the big glasses, to stare at Harriet. “Whatever for?” she asks. “Who would want to read about people like that?” Anna has dark violet smudges, like bruises, beneath her eyes.

  Harriet swallows. “Well, Anna, nobody’s going to read them, really,” she explains. “Except me, of course. The idea is that it’s good for them to think about their lives and write down anything at all, it’s a way of gaining understanding—and maybe, I hope, control. It’s empowering.”

  “Shit,” Anna says.

  Courtney jumps.

  “What?” Harriet has to lean forward to hear, as a little ripple of applause runs through the dining room. Catherine and Russell sit back down at the table.

  “It is not good for them!” Anna snaps.

  “Well, I’ve been working with these women for years, and I disagree.” Harriet won’t let it go. “I mean, these may not be stories in the way you think of a story, I realize, with a strong plot and all, of course. These stories are more like the one Catherine told about Baby’s brothers and the station wagon, an anecdote, maybe, that captures a whole life, or just a few sentences about something they feel strongly about.”

  “A story must have a plot,” Anna announces in the tone of a decree.

  “But sometimes it just doesn’t,” Harriet says.

  “That’s ridiculous!” Anna stands up, swishing her layers, adjusting herself. “You are quite wrong. I’m in this business, remember. You’re not. I ought to know.”

  “How about a stroll around the Observation Deck?” Russell comes back to address them all, with Catherine at his side.

  “But isn’t there something going on right now in the Grand Saloon? Just a minute, I’ll see—” Courtney consults her Steamboatin’ News schedule.

  “No doubt. There’s always something going on in the Grand Saloon.” Harriet, relieved by the change of subject, watches the Riverlorian out of the corner of her eye as he works the crowd, moving from table to table. Surely Anna can’t be right about Mr. Gaines.

  “Tonight’s show is called ‘Showboat Jubilee,’” Courtney reads aloud.

  “I think we’ll have to skip that one,” Russell says.

  “I believe I will turn in now, actually,” Anna announces somewhat grandly, rising. “I was up before five in order to get to the airport—it has been a very long day.” But then she smiles at them all, not her professional book-tour smile but a real smile, flooded with that Paducah feeling she seems unable to control today. These women were the only friends of her life, actually. She’s worked so hard ever since, she’s never had time to make any more. Oh Lord! This trip might be too much for Anna after all. She told herself it’d be useful, allowing her to do some research for the Louisiana book, but now she wonders if this is even true. She researched all the other states in the encyclopedia. Anna grasps the edge of the table to support herself. Why did she come? And damn Robert. Why didn’t he come? Now she can’t even remember. It is an effort for Anna to assume her regal bearing. “Good night, all. Don’t look for me until afternoon.”

  “Anna—” Harriet says, but just then the Riverlorian approaches their table.

  “Good evening, ladies,” he says with a stiff little bow. “I’m Pete Jones, your Riverlorian. Just wanted to welcome you folks aboard the Belle of Natchez.”

  “Why, thank you!” Courtney’s all smiles.

  Close up, the Riverlorian doesn’t really look much like Mark Twain, except for the moustaches and the suit. He doesn’t look like Mr. Gaines either. Actually he looks more like Kenny Rogers, only heavier, but he’s wearing those horn-rimmed glasses that Kenny Rogers would never wear. He turns to Harriet. “How about a dance?” he asks right out of the blue.

  “Oh, I—”

  “She’d love it!” Courtney pokes her in the side.

  “No, I—actually I have to catch up with my friends right now. Thanks a lot anyway,” Harriet throws back over her shoulder as she races out of the dining room.

  “Ma’am?” The Riverlorian turns and bows to Courtney.

  “But isn’t it time for the ‘Showboat Jubilee’?” If it’s printed on the schedule, Courtney is bound to do it.

  “Right you are.” The Riverlorian consults his very official-looking watch. “I ought to head that way myself,” offering Courtney his immaculate white sleeve. They move toward the Grand Saloon.

  “Anna? Anna?” Harriet perceives Anna’s wake, a kind of shimmering in the air, and follows it through the crowd and up to the front of the boat where she finds Anna leaning against the rail smoking a thin, nasty, black cigar.

  “My little indulgence.” Anna waves the red end of the cigar. “Sorry.”

  “No, I’m sorry,” Harriet says sincerely. “I’m sorry I was so strident back there at the dinner table when we were talking about stories, I mean. I wanted to tell you that. Please don’t pay any attention to me. I should never drink. I don’t know how to act in public anyway. I think I have some kind of social Tourette’s syndrome.”

  “Don’t be silly.” But Anna permits herself a smile.

  Hair blowing, they look out at the river ahead which drops away to darkness before them now on either side. Occasionally a beam of light from the pilot house above them sweeps across the black water. “I can’t believe we did it, can you?” Harriet says softly. “This river is just huge. It’s really dangerous. Somehow it didn’t look so big from the raft. I guess you can’t tell how big things are when you’re right in the middle of them anyway.”

  “Thank God!” in that throaty voice. “It’s just as well. If we could ever really see what we’re doing, then we’d never do any of it, I imagine.”

  Harriet takes heart. There’s something of Anna here after all, she’s sure of it, as they stand in the windy dark.

  Mile 674.5

  Harbert Point Light

  Sunday 5/9/99

  0710 hours

  COURTNEY JUST CAN’T BELIEVE IT. She’s scarcely awake on the very first day of the trip when there’s a knock on her cabin door, a short businesslike knock, and then, as she sits up in bed clutching the covers to her chest, the note slides under her door. Gene! It’s a message from Gene already. Courtney jumps up to grab it, then has to find her reading glasses before she can read it. Nobody can receive telephone calls on
this boat, which is a big nuisance, though they can phone out with some difficulty, using something called WATERCOM.

  “Call home immediately,” the note says. “Mary Bell.” Damn. She might have known. Of course it would be from Mary Bell, Hawk’s first cousin who has volunteered to stay at Magnolia Court in Courtney’s absence. “For as long as I’m needed,” as Mary Bell put it modestly, eyes cast down, when she arrived.

  “What does that mean, until I’m dead?” Hawk had demanded. The three of them laughed uneasily. It was a joke but not quite a joke, not really a joke at all, as Mary Bell is famous in the family for showing up unannounced in times of crisis to help out.

  An unmarried woman of indeterminate age, Mary Bell is very good at helping out. With her gray hair pulled back into a plain, tidy bun, her sensible lace-up brogans and her print button-up dresses (Where did she even find dresses like that anymore?) Mary Bell assessed the situation with her pale, pale unblinking eyes, and did whatever needed to be done. Quietly. Just like that. She had come to them once before. Upon finding Miss Evangeline in a state of extreme agitation, Mary Bell had sent the home health nurse away, lowered the shade, washed Miss Evangeline’s face, attended to her nails and makeup, then disappeared for an instant only to reappear with a mint julep in a silver cup on a little silver tray. Courtney couldn’t remember ever seeing that tray before. It was uncanny. Miss Evangeline had calmed right down.

  “Tell me, Bell,” she’d said, “do you remember those brothers from Ahoskie who came visiting us that time? And one of them played the banjo?”

  “Mack Durand,” Mary Bell said without missing a beat. “He was mad about you. Don’t you remember? Why, Uncle Ned had to threaten to run him off with a shotgun, the way he mooned around town after you and Henry were engaged. It was embarrassing to all concerned.”

  “Why, I believe he took a room in town—” Miss Evangeline had said dreamily.

  “Over the stable,” Mary Bell finished her sentence, then stroked her cheek, and finally Miss Evangeline slept.

  Three weeks later she was dead.

  And now, Mary Bell has reappeared.

  Courtney tries to throw off her forebodings as she dials. Mary Bell will be up, of course, and fully dressed. She seems to scarcely sleep, or scarcely eat, living on trouble.

  “Ralston residence.” Mary Bell sounds like some kind of servant.

  “Hi, this is Courtney. How is he? How are you? What’s happening?”

  “Oh, we’re doing just fine here, dear.” Mary Bell’s voice is icy sweet. “You go right ahead and enjoy your trip. Everything here is just fine. Don’t you worry about a thing.” Her voice is too cheerful.

  “Can I talk to Hawk? Where’s Hawk?”

  “Oh, he’s at the gym, I believe. He was already gone when I got up.”

  He might be at the gym or he might not be, Courtney thinks. He might not have come home at all last night. But in any case, it sounds like he must be feeling better. “That’s good, I guess,” she says. “What’s the message?”

  “Call Ellen Henley at home.” Mary Bell is obviously reading off something. She repeats the number three times, as if Courtney is retarded. But of course she is just trying to be helpful.

  “All right,” Courtney says. “I’ll call her right now.” Ellen Henley is such a workaholic, she’s sure to be up, too, even at this ungodly hour.

  “And I presume it is all right with you if I put up some fig preserves,” Mary Bell says. “You’ve got all these figs out in the side yard going to waste before my eyes, I just can’t stand it.”

  Oh God. Courtney forgot all about the damn figs. After thanking Mary Bell profusely, she hangs up and glances out the window at the Arkansas shore sliding past. Courtney shakes her head to clear it, then dials. She waits a long time for the WATERCOM operator to come on the line.

  Ellen Henley is all business, as usual. “I wanted to talk to you before you got away,” she says pointedly. “I left several messages . . .”

  Oh God, Courtney remembers. Of course you did. The truth is, she wanted to go on this trip so badly that she forgot them. Just forgot them—how unlike her. “Yes,” she says, sitting on the edge of her bunk. “What did you want to talk about?”

  “It’s Mr. Ralston.” Suddenly the supercool, supereffective Ellen Henley is blubbering. “Something awful is happening,” she says. “I didn’t want anybody to know. I thought he might get better. Maybe that was wrong, but—”

  “Slow down,” Courtney says. “It’s okay. I’m sure you’ve done the right thing, Ellen. You always do. Now tell me what you’re talking about.”

  “Well, it started awhile back. Six months ago, maybe. Maybe it was even a year ago, I’m not sure.”

  “What?” Courtney asks. “What started?”

  “Mr. Ralston,” Ellen begins. “Mr. Ralston, he”—she pauses to collect herself. “Oh, he just started forgetting things. Little things, insignificant things, like where are the paper clips when he knows perfectly well where they are. I’ve kept his paper clips in that very same little red lacquer box on his desk for eight years. One day he forgot Charlie Poole’s phone number, and another day it was the number of the club. That’s when I really started to notice it. But I just thought, oh well, Mr. Ralston is starting to slip, we all slip a little bit as we get older, it’s nothing to worry about, and so I—”

  “Covered for him,” Courtney says. “Of course you did.” For the first time in years, she wishes she had a cigarette.

  “But it wasn’t ever anything big, mind you, just little things, and it didn’t really matter. So much of what we do is just routine anyway. Mr. Ralston is very good at delegating responsibility, and at this level, there’s not really so much we have to do, not in this office, I mean . . .”

  So he’s been a figurehead for years, Courtney realizes. Somehow it doesn’t surprise her. Going out to lunch or off to golf while smart, efficient Ellen Henley ran the show, taking on more and more . . .

  “Then it got worse,” Ellen continues. “There was one week back in June when he actually missed several appointments, even missed a closing on that property in Rocky Mount. Oh, he got on the phone every day and checked in with all our key people, and returned his calls just as he always had, so I thought things were going along as usual and I was amazed when they called from Rocky Mount to ask where he was, just amazed. But then the next day it was the same story, he never showed up for a very important meeting at the bank, and he didn’t even call. Didn’t call them, didn’t call me, either . . .”

  Courtney has never heard normally quiet Ellen Henley run on so. Was that the week of Hawk’s fishing trip? “Where was he?” she asks.

  “Well, that’s just it. I don’t know. I still don’t know. And you know what? I’m not sure he does either. He got the funniest look on his face when I asked him. I can’t even describe it to you.”

  “What about recently?” Courtney asks. “This week, for instance? Right now?”

  “Oh, he acts as if everything is fine, normal, business as usual. He went to the Century Club luncheon on Monday. You know he goes every year. He seemed real chipper when he came back, too, telling jokes and whatnot, really he seemed just fine. And he looked so nice too, he was wearing that yellow tie with the little blue diamond pattern on it.” She pauses. “Well. But since he’s been out of the office so much, I went through those two boxes on his desk, you know the ones I mean, of course I’d never dream of going through his personal desk drawers, Mrs. Ralston, but I must say I’m finding a lot to straighten out here. Why, there are several letters I typed weeks ago that he’s forgotten to send out at all. I never thought to check on them, and here they are! So I FedExed them out yesterday afternoon. But I don’t want you to worry about this, Mrs. Ralston, because I can handle everything, I really can. Business will go on as usual, I promise you. But when Mr. Ralston mentioned that he’d be out having some tests today and tomorrow, and gave me the doctor’s number, and I looked him up and saw that he is one of the head neuro
logists at Duke, well, I put two and two together and decided to call you. I hope you don’t mind. I just felt I should tell you these things, so you can tell the doctor. I didn’t really feel that I could call him myself. I knew it wasn’t my place, but I’ve been so concerned, you see I just didn’t want to believe—”

  “Ellen,” Courtney says. “Ellen. I think you should call the doctor. You do it, not me. It’s very difficult to make a call out from this boat. Please. Just call him up and tell him exactly what you’ve told me. He needs to know these things. I certainly didn’t realize there was any problem at the office, so this is very helpful. You’re doing the right thing.”

  Ellen draws a deep breath. She chokes off a sob. “Then I’ll do it,” she says. “I will. Only you must promise me, Mrs. Ralston, that you will never, ever, tell Mr. Ralston that I spoke to you about this or that I called the doctor. And the doctor mustn’t ever tell him either.” Her anxiety trembles across the wires.

  “Of course not,” Courtney says in her brightest, firmest voice.

  “I would rather die than embarrass Mr. Ralston” is the last thing Ellen says before they exchange good-byes.

  Courtney lies back on her bed and stares up at the ceiling. Now she can hear footsteps on the deck above her, voices in the corridor outside her door. Ellen loves him. This is perfectly clear. Poor, plain little Ellen Henley, thin blond Ellen Henley who has worked for Hawk for years, ever since she was a country girl fresh out of secretarial school. Doesn’t she have a husband, or didn’t she have a husband once? Suddenly Courtney remembers a fat young man in a red plaid jacket, drinking too much at the company Christmas party. Then he was gone. He has been gone for several years. Yellow tie, indeed! But so many, many women have loved Hawk; Courtney wonders if Ellen knows this. Certainly he has never fucked her; Hawk’s taste runs to big brunettes, and he’d never be that stupid anyway. Courtney can just hear him—“It’s easy to find girls, but it’s damn hard to find a good secretary.” She can picture how he’d wink when he said this to one of the guys. Maybe Ellen covers for Hawk about women, too. Courtney can imagine what Ellen tells herself to justify it: “Everybody knows a man like Mr. Ralston has greater needs” or “His wife is frigid.”