Magnolia City

by Duncan W. Alderson

  She stood up and enveloped his head in her hat brim. She whispered in his ear, “Losing this match doesn’t mean losing me—relax.” She could smell the musky health of his sweat.

  The two men swaggered back to the court. Hetty watched as Lamar, looking a little wan in the bright sunlight, served his smooth, high opening pass, then caught her breath as Garret leaped into the air to slam it into the court with a savage overhead.

  The contest wasn’t helping her sort out her feelings about the two men at all. Lamar blazed with such confidence she felt herself pulled into orbit behind his comet’s tail of victory. If he invited her for a celebratory cruise around the bay tonight, she knew she would accept in spite of herself. She loved the luxury of the Rusk yacht, the freedom of the launch. On the other hand, she found Garret’s desperation touching. If he lost, she couldn’t leave him in limbo by himself. She would want to spend the evening assuring him that it didn’t matter.

  During most of the fourth set, she hid behind her hat brim. She tried to distract herself by listening to what Wini was reading out loud again over the objections of Diana and Doris Verne, how a modern woman might return the genital kiss.

  I knew it! I want to do that to Garret! Hetty thought, amid the uproar this latest erotic tidbit created among the girls. They all seemed to be talking at once, shouting their objections to the whole idea. “No, no, no! Oh, no, oh, no!” Diana Dorrance spoke out the loudest: “You’d never get me to kiss a boy down there, kiddo, unh-unh.”

  “No, ma’am,” Doris Verne agreed.

  “But you girls say you want equal opportunities,” Wini said. “Well, here’s your chance!” She read again about how today’s woman has earned the right to take a more active role in every aspect of lovemaking and not just be the toy of an amorous man. Wini looked up and cast them a coy glance. “Just think of it as our sexual suffrage, girls.”

  Belinda admitted that she liked that idea, and Hetty was going to agree with her, when a commotion from the tennis court drew her back to the game. The men were chanting Lamar’s name. He only had to take one more set to be the champion. Every groan and cheer made Hetty wince. She listened to the thud of balls back and forth, but couldn’t watch. The contest dragged on and on, making Hetty’s headache worse. She felt faint in the sticky heat. Then she saw Winifred jump up from the lounge screaming, the sex book falling to the floor. Lamar had won.

  She looked out at the court, blinded by the high sun and the nakedness of Garret’s defeat. He didn’t have Lamar’s polish; he didn’t know how to finesse things with a little humor, a worldly reference or two. He paced on his side of the net, his abdomen rising and falling rapidly, keeping his head down as Glen and Todd circled Lamar, whooping.

  Tuggie sent the kitchen staff out with silver trays bearing cut glass pitchers of her famous iced tea. Everyone gathered at the wrought iron tables under the arbor and toasted the winner. Only Garret remained on the other side of the netting that curtained the court. Hetty wanted to go to him, walk hand in hand away through the spreading sago palms. Then Lamar remembered his manners and beckoned him over with a glass of iced tea. He tugged his white shirt back on and ambled their way.

  Lamar shook his hand, then handed him the drink. “I guess you don’t get a lot of chances to play tennis living over there in the Heights.”

  “You live in the Heights?” Belinda asked.

  Garret nodded.

  “I don’t believe I’ve ever met anyone who lives in the Heights,” said Diana Dorrance.

  Garret sipped his tea. “I’m not home that much.”

  “So you live in your car?”

  “Cars,” Garret said.

  “You know, kiddo, that Auburn of yours, that’s not a real sports car.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Not really. Now you take my Bearcat—that’s a real sports car. Eight cylinders, real powerful—clean as a whistle.”

  Hetty didn’t think Garret’s cheeks could get any redder, but they did. “Look here, kiddo, that’s not the only car I own, you know. I drive it because Hetty likes it. She said it’s the most beautiful car she’s ever seen. Didn’t you say that, honey?”

  “Well . . . yes, I did.”

  “You did? More beautiful than my Bearcat?”

  “I just like the tail on it—but why are you boys arguing over cars?” she said to cut the tension. “Don’t you think that’s a little silly?”

  “You’re right, Het,” Lamar said. “Let’s talk about something serious. How about THE DEMOCRATIC NATIONAL CONVENTION.”

  “Hear, hear,” shouted Todd.

  “What parties are y’all going to?” Lamar asked. One by one, the girls listed the events they planned to attend. Then the turn came around to Lamar. Hetty felt on edge again; she hadn’t told Garret about Lamar’s invitation. “I have an important announcement to make. Miss Esther Allen has agreed to accompany me to Ima Hogg’s reception at Bayou Bend Saturday night.”

  The girls all shrilled in envy, except for Belinda who pouted on the chaise. “I hate you.”

  Garret threw Hetty a sullen glance. She felt a stab of anger at Lamar for putting her in such a bind. She didn’t want to sully his triumph on the tennis court by branding him a liar in front of all their friends, but resented any man who trespassed on her freedom. She’d have to find a way to convince Garret of the truth later. For now, she was noncommittal. “I’ve always wanted to go to Bayou Bend,” was all she’d say.

  “Mac?” Lamar said. “What are your plans?”

  “It all sounds kind of boring to me. I’ve got a better idea. This coming Friday I’ll take all of you to something really democratic—a Black and Tan.”

  “A Black and Tan?” Lamar said. “I’m afraid none of us know what that is, kiddo.”

  “That’s where white people visit a club for coloreds.” Mac’s offer was met with a shocked silence. “For the jazz. Anybody game?”

  “I wouldn’t think of taking a white girl to a place like that. But I wouldn’t think of driving an Auburn, either. I guess that’s the difference between me and you, Mac.”

  “I guess. Any of you kids change your mind, meet me at the Warwick Friday at eight p.m.” He brushed by the hanging wisteria and left. Hetty could see him waiting for her on the other side of the clipped hedges. She pulled Lamar aside.

  “I’ve never seen you like this.”

  “Maybe now you’ll realize how serious I am.” His face darted under her hat brim, and he kissed her with his tongue, knowing Garret was watching. “Stay with me tonight,” he urged, hugging her close. She threw her head back and tried to decide which man to follow. She glanced up and caught a glimpse of the dormer windows in the attic staring out with their vacant eyes. For a moment, she thought she saw a face reflected there, the face of a young girl with her left eye red and swollen. Then she remembered. She had seen Lamar like this once before. When they were children. Lamar had been cheating as usual at Chinese checkers one Saturday, rewriting the rules so he could win. She usually forgave him his cheating but didn’t feel like giving in that time. He’d reached for his blue steel barrel gun with the cork bullets. It had come with a shooting gallery where black crows were the targets. He loaded it and began firing the corks at her until one hit her in the eye and left it bruised. That had sent her stumbling down the stairs screaming for Tuggie, who’d put ice on it.

  She pulled away from his embrace. “Not tonight,” she heard herself saying.

  The following Monday afternoon, Hetty was picking out the right dress to wear to the Black and Tan when Lina appeared in her doorway. “Your mother would like to talk to you, m’ija.”

  “Uh-oh,” Hetty said and followed her out into the drawing room where she could smell afternoon tea brewing. It was Mah-jongg Monday. Lockett Welch was ensconced in an armchair chattering away with Nella. Lina slunk into the kitchen.

  “Yes, Mamá?”

  “Would you like a cup of Darjeeling—and you haven’t said hello to Lockett.”

  �
�Hey there, Lockett. How was mah-jongg? Did Mamá beat the pearls off you as usual?”

  “Don’t be rude, dear,” Nella came back at her. “The truth is, Lockett was so full of startling revelations today, I could hardly concentrate on my tiles.”

  “How else can I steal tiles from you?” Lockett dropped another cube of sugar into her tea. “Nella Ardra Allen—the mah-jongg queen of the South. But I confess, the Welch grapevine was buzzing a bit more than usual this afternoon.” She pivoted her broad hips until she was perched on the edge of her chair, eyes locked on Hetty. Mounds of handkerchief-pointed flounces made up her dress, with a huge velvet bow riding on her left hip.

  “Did you want a cup, Esther? You never answered me,” Nella asked.

  “Sure.” Hetty settled into her favorite spot on the divan and tucked her skirt under her. Several sounds filled the silence that followed: the trickle of hot Darjeeling tea being poured, the tinkle of a silver spoon against a thin china cup, Lockett clearing her throat several times to make an announcement. Nella brought the steaming tea over and set it down on a Macassar ebony side table.

  Lockett was watching Hetty intently. “First of all, I’m here to inform you that my daughter will not be accompanying you young people to the jazz club on Dowling Street Friday night.”

  “That’s all right. I’ll give her a full report.”

  “I just found out about the plan at the tournament today,” Nella said. “I was so shocked, I almost forgot to shout ‘pung’ when picking up discarded tiles.”

  “I’ll be perfectly safe, Mamá,” Hetty said. “I used to volunteer there, if you remember.”

  “How could I forget?”

  “But you never went there at night,” Lockett jumped in. “You girls shouldn’t be listening to that jungle music. Why, in its original form it—”

  “Was used for voodoo ceremonies—I know,” Hetty said.

  “It causes nervous hysteria and makes you lose control.”

  “Oh, Lockett! Self-control is out of date. Haven’t you read Freud?”

  “This is a serious matter, Esther. I’ll tell you the same thing I’ve told Belinda a million times—gin and jazz have ruined more than one girl, so beware,” she said, wagging a finger at her.

  Hetty used the teacup to cover her amused smile. “Anything else? I was in the middle of something.”

  “How many of your friends are going Friday?” Nella asked.

  “It looks like it’s just going to be Mac and me.”

  “I thought a group was going.”

  “Everyone else is afraid to. So Garret’s taking me. We have a date.”

  Lockett slurped audibly at her tea before setting it down with a rattle. She clutched her breast and looked at Nella with large, sad eyes. “Nella, dear, I am so sorry! I feel so responsible for this. But at least I’m doing my part to untangle things.”

  “Untangle?” Hetty asked.

  “Why, yes! I’d describe it as a tangle. A terrible tangle. And to think I began it all by receiving this person. Thank God I devised a way to allay my guilt—”

  “I knew you’d find a way, Lockett,” Hetty said.

  “I sicced Congressman Welch on the trail immediately—and it didn’t take him long to pick up the scent.”

  “Really?” Hetty asked cautiously.

  Lockett gazed up at the ceiling and batted her eyelashes. “The first thing I have to say is that we traced the MacBride family to their origins. They’re from—well, of all places, from Butte. A hellish place! Full of immigrants who came to work the copper mines. Drinking, gambling—whoring!”

  “Oh, dear,” Hetty laughed. “Houses of ill repute.”

  “We’re not talking about houses, my dear,” Lockett said. “We’re talking about cribs the girls lease by the night. A dark, unholy place. They say the city is so thick with fumes that streetlights have to be turned on in the middle of the day—in the middle of the day, my dear!”

  “What’s all this got to do with Garret?”

  “I was getting to that!” She sat forward in her chair. “His father was Termite MacBride.”

  “That was his name? Termite?”

  “Yes. One can only imagine why.”

  “And—?”

  “Don’t you see, Esther?” Lockett said. “MacBride? They’re shanty Irish!”

  “They were immigrants!” Hetty protested. “Garret’s father was a senator.”

  “But he didn’t finish out his term.”

  “He didn’t?”

  “No. Congressman Welch remembers the name MacBride. He left in the middle of the session for some strange reason. The congressman can’t remember why. I won’t rest until I find out, of course. I just know what this is liable to be.”

  She had edged so far forward in her chair, Hetty was afraid she’d fall out. Her eyes burned into Hetty’s like sunlight through a magnifying glass. “What’s that, Lockett?”

  “A scandal!” she hissed.

  “Don’t be silly,” Hetty said in a dismissive voice to cover the anger that was boiling up inside.

  “I just thought you should know what I found out.” Lockett gulped down some tea, looking a little wounded. “I’ll never forgive myself for introducing this person to Houston society. If only I’d known!”

  After a few minutes of strained chitchat, she stood up. “Well, I must be off, dears. Thanks for the cup,” she said, flouncing toward the foyer with her handkerchief points bobbing. “Good-bye, Esther. I’d be leery going to a Negro club with a shanty Irish if I were you. You know he’s liable to drink.” To Nella, she said, sweeping open the front door, “I can’t believe you’re allowing it, my dear.”

  “I’m not,” Nella said, and closed the door firmly behind her.

  Hetty was fuming when Nella came back into the drawing room. “How dare you discuss my private life with a bunch of Edwardian dowagers in the women’s lounge.”

  “And how dare you plan a trip to Dowling Street without my permission. I don’t appreciate finding out about it at a mah-jongg game, let me tell you. I felt so ashamed, I didn’t know what to say.”

  “I’m old enough to make my own decisions!” Hetty said, standing up.

  “Perhaps.” Nella edged up to her daughter. “But I can’t approve this Dowling Street plan. I’ll not have my daughters slumming in the Ward. Do you understand me?”

  Hetty glared at her. “Yes.”

  “Do I have your solemn promise?”

  “I can’t give you that,” Hetty muttered and made for her room.

  Nella came around the divan and snapped at her. “You’d better, young lady. If you set foot in that neighborhood, you can kiss your Garret good-bye.”

  Silence. Hetty looked at her mother aghast. They had been warned by Kirby since childhood that emotion was out of place in the drawing room. They were used to polite murmurs, discreet laughter, and a mild command or two. But not this. Not Nella in a rage. Hetty found it frightening. “Don’t you dare threaten me, Mamá. I won’t stand here and let you make a dartboard out of me. You know what you can do? You can just stew in your own juice! See if I care. See!” she cried, fleeing the room.

  Hetty broke the news to Garret in the elevator on the way down to the lobby. She was surprised when he wasn’t angry.

  “It’s simple. We won’t go. That was only going to be your initiation. The truth is, Dowling Street’s for tourists. You want to hear the real Houston blues, baby, you gotta go to the source. West Dallas Avenue.”

  Hetty looked at him wide-eyed. Dowling was not that unfamiliar to her after her stint at the clinic, but West Dallas lay across town in the shadowed backyard of the city, where a wrong left could take an unsuspecting driver right down into the dark, foggy streets by the bayou. “West Dallas!” she said, following him through the lobby. “Is it safe?”

  “We’ll probably be the only white people there. Of course, if you’re afraid . . .”

  Hetty fell into the seat of the Auburn and moaned. It was the kind of dare she loved, some
thing really offbeat and a little dangerous. She could just hear Belinda squealing with envy when she told her about it on Monday morning. Hetty Allen, the first girl in her set to hear the real Houston blues. It was irresistible. Then another voice crept into her thoughts: deeper, commanding, “set foot in that neighborhood—kiss your Garret good-bye.” Hetty knew in her heart what that neighborhood meant: every shantytown she could think of that blistered the map of metropolitan Houston. Nella had given her a clear choice. But what she hadn’t counted on was Garret’s cleverness. He was offering Hetty an out: She could plead not guilty on a technicality by avoiding the street expressly forbidden: Dowling. She hugged Garret’s arm and bent close to whisper in his ear, “That’s what I love about you, honey. You’re in the know. Let’s do it!”

  She kept snuggling up to him and nibbling on his ear as he sped all the way north on Montrose to Lincoln. When he finally wheeled the bright blond convertible onto the muddy tracks of West Dallas Avenue, its freshly polished chrome picked up and sparkled with all the colored lights from the saloons and clubs they passed. He nosed the car into a spot just past a blaze of lime and pink neon that twisted itself into the name “Andy Boy’s.”

  The club inside was dark and noisy and, since it was Friday night, already jammed with a crowd that looked pretty dingy to Hetty and was busy rocking to the riffs of a combo on the glittering stage. They wedged themselves between two other tables and ordered tonics to spike with gin from a hidden flask. Shadows of the male singer crisscrossed their table as they listened.

  In a gravelly croon that chased the saxophone but barely kept up, he was singing about a black snake in his bed. Garret pointed a cigarette her way, and they both lit up. No matter how unruffled she always tried to appear, she had an annoying habit of blushing at moments when she was caught off guard. She thought about the lyrics she’d just heard and felt heat rising up into her cheeks. Her forehead started to flame. She glanced quickly from side to side. Why didn’t she have on something dark and smoky like the other women in the room? Instead, she’d chosen to wear her white net over silver lamé, the one that was spangled with paillettes and pearls. She was not only the lightest woman there, but had a brunette’s incredibly pale white skin that flowed together as one with the slinky dress and made her fairly glow in the rosy beams radiating off the stage.