Annie: “If you don’t like the rich, you shouldn’t have married into a rich family, sis-ter. Now as for what you were saying about abortion…”
Kate was weepy again. “I could give you an example of one … one sixteen-year-old girl, father in the army—”
Bo: “Katie, please, it’s Christmas. Let’s just…”
A very strange silence settled on the table. Then Annie pounced:
“So you had one. You had an abortion when you were sixteen.”
Joshua and Dorrie simultaneously protested, this is nothing you have to talk about, no reason to pursue this topic, pass the rolls, pass the butter—
Annie went on. “I support you! If you were a teenager with no family around you, you no doubt made the right decision in your circumstances. I would hope you could make this decision without some church-person trying to talk you out of it and making the experience even more miserable than it was.”
Kate stood up.
“Katie, it’s all right, just sit down and—”
“No,” she said, past any emotion. “I’m going to be sick.” She ran from the table to the bathroom, leaving them in silence. There was the faint sound of retching from the bathroom.
No one said anything.
Perhaps, thought Bo, the worst was over.
Annie then said, “I had an abortion when I was in my twenties,” causing Aunt Dillard to gasp a second time.
“Oh for Christ’s sake,” Duke muttered.
Gaston looked delighted, mumbling, “This just gets better and better,” and poured some more red wine into his glass.
Josh put his head in his hands; Dorrie looked to the floor; Dillard gasped. Was this ever classic Annie, Bo thought. Kate’s admission made her the center of focus, the authority on the radical topic at the table, so Annie had to pull even.
“It was when my marriage to Destin was over and I became pregnant, despite my usual regimen of precautions. It would have extended the marriage falsely. I couldn’t have given it up for adoption because I’m sure Destin and his family would want the child—”
“But that was the solution right there,” Dillard broke in. “That child could’ve had a home.”
“And that child would know his mother wanted nothing to do with him, and I would be tied to Destin for the rest of my life. My twenty-eight-year-old life with no job and no money and my only choice of coming back here and being the pregnant divorced woman living off my parents and handing a baby over to my ex-husband who, by the way, would be a rotten father.”
“Of course, you could have come home in those circumstances,” Duke said soothingly.
And then Jerilyn, whom no one had noticed, spoke shrilly, verging on hysteria. “Oh that’s just fine! That’s just fucking great!” Now she was standing, swaying … Skip reached up to steady her and she swatted his hands away, glaring now at her mother: “You order me to get rid of my baby because ‘think of your father, think how disappointed he’ll be’! But Daddy wouldn’t have cared—and of course, Annie…”
Skip was trying to steady and silence her. “Now Jeri, we swore we weren’t going to tell anyone about our little incident—”
“Oh it was a little incident for you, but it was a big fucking incident for me! You weren’t the one with a vacuum up inside you…”
Duke was stricken, first looking at Jerilyn, then Jerene, who apparently knew all about it and had kept it secret from him, then Skip. It was easier to look at Skip than Jerilyn, so suddenly everyone turned to him.
Skip: “Um, it was like junior year. We used protection but…”
Jerilyn was swaying; she turned too quickly and knocked over her chair. Skip reached up to pull her back, so she wouldn’t fall with it. He looked guilty and babbled for leniency though no one was accusing him of anything: “Jerilyn, now sit down, you’re gonna fall—give me your hand.”
“Don’t you touch me!”
Aunt Dillard: “I know what! Why don’t we all just … just let’s all just stop talking abortions, how ’bout we all do that?”
Joshua: “Jerilyn, I’m so sorry—”
Annie: “Why should any of you be sorry? Having a child you don’t want derails your entire life. Did Mom actually drive you to the clinic?”
Jerilyn ran from the room; Skip followed close behind.
“Does anyone,” Dillard rambled, but more calmly, “truly understand the concept of ‘none of your business’ in this family? Hm? These are all private matters, and it used to be considered terrible manners to talk politics or mention body parts at a dinner table. Civilized people down South were trained not to do it!” She started swaying dangerously in her chair. Bo moved into Kate’s chair to reach out an arm and steady her. Dillard, tearing up, muttered, “Maybe if I’d gotten rid of Christopher, my life would have been much happier.”
Bo moved the wineglass she was reaching for out of her grasp. Dillard stifled a sob, and lifted the napkin to dab her eyes. Bo sighed: it was now officially worse than last year’s Christmas dinner.
There was the punctuating sound of china smashing and everyone turned to Jerene, who had slammed a Christmas-patterned plate onto the edge of the table, shattering it. It had the treble sound of glass breaking.
Bo reflected inconsequentially that it must be really fine porcelain. No one breathed.
Then they watched as she broke a second plate.
“Apparently,” she said calmly, crisp and clear, unfueled by even a drop of wine, “the idea that I could sit here in peace with my siblings and children and my husband and have a nice, quiet, respectful Christmas dinner for the holidays, after all the work Alma and I have done, is an impossible Christmas wish.”
No one looked at Jerene. A mixture of shame, embarrassment, and abject fear seized the table; even Bo’s father was avoiding his wife’s eyes. Bo may have been the first to sneak a look at his mother, who presided at the end of the table with her level, inscrutable stare. She sat back into her chair, returning to her serious serenity.
“Well,” she said, cutting the silence. “I see why we have no grandchildren, with everyone aborting their children left and right.”
Gaston snickered. It was a dark joke but no one else dared laugh.
“Maybe Joshua and Dorrie are my last hope. Everyone knows there’s nothing more cute in this world than a mixed-race child.”
Annie, now wishing she had not played the abortion card, said quietly, “That’s a little patronizing, Mother.”
Dorrie cleared her throat. “But it’s true. Mixed-race babies are pretty damn cute.”
Silence.
“I’m gay,” said Joshua.
More silence.
“Hm, I was beginning to wonder if you even knew,” mumbled Uncle Gaston.
Dorrie raised her hand. “I’m gay, too, let’s just get that out there.”
“But you…” Duke Johnston sputtered out, sinking back in his chair. “You spend so much time together.”
Nervous laughter from Joshua. “Yeah, but not … you know, screwing.”
There was a snore. Dillard, crumpled into herself, was asleep (or passed out from pills and wine) in her chair.
Jerene brought out slowly, gently, “People are mistaken about these things all the time, Joshua.”
Annie: “Oh for the love of God, Mother, he’s gay gay gay! He’s never had a girlfriend! His hair, his clothes, his…”
Then there was a POP.
And then there was a thud, of something, someone falling.
Dorrie asked, “Was that…”
Joshua followed up. “Was that a gun?”
Uncle Gaston sprang out of the chair. “Good God, Duke—”
“The pistols!” Duke sprang from the chair.
First Gaston then Duke then Jerene, all briskly walked-ran to the study … it was locked. Duke knocked loudly. “Who’s in there? Jerilyn? What’s going on in there?”
They all gathered at the door.
There was the sound of Jerilyn crying.
“Did
you…” Duke was almost unable to find his voice. “Did you hurt yourself, sweetheart?”
“Open the goddam door this minute,” ordered Jerene, and that got the job done.
The lock turned slowly, then the door opened on Duke’s Civil War Study to reveal Jerilyn with her blouse unbuttoned, holding a Civil War pistol. Skip, thank God, was nowhere to be found … Uh-oh, there was a groan behind the sofa. Skip was lying there, Skip was shot. Above the heart, and bleeding, and he was passing out.
Bo looked up at Jerilyn in terror. He tried to form a kind expression, look at her as a loving brother would, but he knew he was not convincing. Kate was clinging to his arm, now at his side, looking greenish but freshly adrenalinized, as they all were.
“I told you,” Jerilyn muttered, maybe to Skip, “about thingy thing…”
“Maybe she should put the gun down,” Gaston whispered.
“Only one ball and only one chamber,” Duke assured them all as he walked to his daughter and relieved her of the weapon.
* * *
Bo and Kate drove home after a long vigil at the hospital. It was 3:27 A.M. They threw their coats over the sofa, and headed for the kitchen. Bo punched in the code for phone messages and there were more than fifty. Too tired to hold the phone to his ear, he trapped it against his face and the wall and let the messages play. There were a few let-us-know-if-we-can-do-anything offers of help, food, prayers. And then there were the others: I hope next Sunday you will address how it comes to be that your sister, Reverend, is in the news for shooting her husband … Biddies, busybodies, gossips, mean old men, all the familiars from their tenure at Stallings Presbyterian. Bo punched in the code to delete every message.
“Bet there’re some good ones,” Kate sang out.
“Yep. It made the local TV news. The congregation is all aflutter.”
He looked at his wife who was boiling some water for some decaffeinated tea, her nighttime ritual, even on this night. She looked at him.
Bo: “This ought to just about finish us off at Stallings, don’t you think?”
Kate: “We were doomed anyway.”
“Poor Skip.”
Since it was clear he wasn’t going to die, they all had been much relieved. He was shot near the heart but with a weakly propelled lead ball. There was, naturally, an infection risk. If Skip died somehow, well, that would be the end of several worlds. Prison for Jerilyn? Bankruptcy for the family? “Liddibelle is a suer,” Jerene told them both, riding to the hospital. Bo decided not to think about it. That is until he would get on his knees and pray about it, but he wasn’t up to the heavy lifting quite yet.
Bo had been waiting for a quiet moment alone with Kate. “I snapped at you at the dinner table and I was wrong to do it. I didn’t even truly mean what I said. You can say what you damn well please to the people at Stallings. I was drunk and I’m never drunk.”
“No, I deserved it,” she said, surprising him. “Drunk off my ass. Telling Jerene Jarvis Johnston about my trailer-park ex-army boyfriend knocking me up and getting an abortion at sixteen at her Christmas dinner table. You have the right to dump a whole pot of leftovers over my head. I will somehow, someway, make it up to your mom.”
“You don’t have to do anything. You were great at the hospital. She loves you, I promise.”
The kettle whistled.
Kate shrugged. “Well, come on. We had to drink that wine. We’ll never have better wine.”
“Did you have the Lynch-Bages?”
She lowered herself carefully, so as not to spill the mug of tea, onto the deep sofa beside her husband. “I had it, all right. Tasted good going down and coming up—now that’s a wine.”
It was the first laugh they’d had in hours.
Kate nestled into his shoulder. “How do you think Jerilyn is holding up?” Kate asked despite knowing Bo didn’t know either.
There were three parties after the shooting—the party that went with Skip and the ambulance to the hospital, who called Skip’s mother, Liddibelle (Jerene did that unpleasant piece of business, cold as ice), who stayed until Skip came out of surgery and was transferred to the ICU; that group was Jerene, Bo and Kate, Joshua and, for a while, Dorrie. Then there was the party that followed the police car to the station where Jerilyn was being questioned—Duke and Annie; and then there were the escapees, Aunt Dillard staggering into Uncle Gaston’s Porsche, getting as far from the scandal as they could, fast as they could.
“It wasn’t an accident, I don’t think,” Bo said.
“I don’t either,” said Kate. “She didn’t say it was an accident. Right when we came in, it would have been a good opportunity to get that story going.”
“What was it she was babbling about?”
“Something about a thingy thing. She wasn’t connected to reality.”
“Do you think he tried to … do something violent to her? Her blouse was open. Maybe he put a hand to her.”
“Nah. He was rubbing against her the whole dinner; he was running his leg up her leg, under the table—I was noticing. Maybe he tried something sexual?”
Bo: “In the next room, with the whole family coming and going?”
Kate shrugged. “That might have been the point. Something extra exciting. They’re newlyweds. You remember how we couldn’t keep our hands off each other. We’d do an old-folks-home visit and we’d almost have to do it in the car in the parking lot. Maybe they’ve got some kind of co-dependent control-freak thing going on and Jerilyn snapped.”
“I have never gotten to know Jerilyn.” Bo sighed. “Another black mark in my book. We’re going to have to expand my black-mark book into a second volume, it looks like.”
“You don’t think it’s going to come out,” Kate then asked, “about all the fighting that was going on? I mean, there’s no one who would tell the police or newspapers that we were all arguing, right? I mean, I don’t want anyone saying we had a big family fight and somehow things got so heated that Jerilyn shot her husband, because that’s not what it was like at all.”
“No. Anyhow, she barely said a word during all the nonsense.”
Kate rested a hand on his shoulder. “Let it come,” she said, after a moment. “Let them fire us. Let’s get a severance package and go do something God wants us to do. Médecins Sans Frontières, or Red Cross, or famine relief, or building a village water purifier in the south of Sudan. That church is done with us, but not nearly as much as I am done with them. I look forward to the next chapter. And I have some ideas about what we might do for God and they don’t involve the Presbyterian Church.”
It was because it was late and that Bo was exhausted by events that he thought something small and unworthy: They’re not so much done with me as they are with you, Kate. If you’d tried to function as a standard minister’s wife, we wouldn’t be at this pass. Then he disposed of the thought. He was on her side, he would leave any church for her, he would always choose Kate, the best person he had ever known. Kate was where God was, over on His side. In the gentlest scenario, Bo would not have his contract renewed. The question was when. Actually, he perked up, a flash of sheer panic reawakening him; the most pressing question was what he was going to say from the pulpit—tomorrow!
After a surprisingly deep sleep of a few hours, Bo padded down the sidewalk to see if this little incident made the morning paper. A wave of foreclosures … questions about Bank of America’s practices, Wachovia Bank, too … Then he flipped the paper over, below the fold.
SOCIETY NEWLYWED SHOOTS SPOUSE WITH 1854 PISTOL
CHARLOTTE—In what two fine old Charlotte families are calling a regrettable misadventure, a young woman shot her husband of six months with a Civil War–era dueling pistol, during a holiday dinner.
Jerilyn Baylor, 22, daughter of former city councilman Joseph “Duke” Johnston, noted Civil War preservationist, and Jerene Johnston, trustee of the Jarvis Trust for American Art at the Mint Museum of Charlotte, shot her husband Beckleford “Skip” Baylor III, 23, in the study of t
he Johnstons’ Providence Road home. Baylor is the son of Liddibelle Baylor and the late “Becks” Baylor, former CEO of Piedmont-Catawba Mill & Textile. Baylor was taken to Presbyterian Hospital where he is listed in satisfactory condition.
Police are investigating the incident, and Jerilyn Johnston was taken to the Providence Division offices for questioning and later released. Said Det. Jack D. Kessel, “We don’t have any information to give at this juncture. I will say ballistics will have a time with this. This is the sort of injury we haven’t seen since 1860 or so.”
He would not confirm whether the couple was checked for alcohol.
Jerilyn Johnston is the niece of famed author Gaston Jarvis, noted for a series of Civil War–themed bestsellers. Jarvis was in attendance earlier in the evening but, according to family members, had departed the house before the shooting. He could not be reached for comment.
Duke Johnston, speaking to reporters from his front porch, identified the pistols as Gastinne Rennetes. They are French-made pistols that were popular in New Orleans before the war.
“Like most dueling pistols of the period,” explained Johnston, “they are designed to wound rather than to kill, so the men could walk away with honor satisfied. Ten grams of gunpowder, a small ball, and smoothbore, with no rifling or hidden rifling or else the wound would have been much more serious.”
The pistol, when united with its pair, is valued at $11,500.
How the pistol came to be loaded, Johnston could only speculate.
Johnston said, “We go down to the Catawba River railroad bridge near Fort Mill, South Carolina, every spring to mark the anniversary of Stoneman’s assault on Charlotte, known as the Skirmish at the Trestle. The pistol was likely loaded then for a target demonstration and our re-creators failed to make use of it or perhaps the powder became damp and never fired. I’ve told all my children, more times than they can count, not to play with the antique weaponry in my collection in the study.”
No charges have been filed.
Bo and Kate entered the church from the kitchen entrance in the activity building. They made a hurried dash to his office and shut the door. He had made up his mind not to read anything prepared, he would just talk to his congregation. The words would come. If they rose up and demanded his resignation, then so be it.
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