Magnolia City

by Duncan W. Alderson

  Then he lay on top of her, heavy, manly. He made love to her for a long time, talking all the while, slipping into obscenities until his voice, like his self, became so triumphant over her that she could only answer in the affirmative over and over chanted in with other phrases, syllables, and half-formed sounds that lost all meaning and became nothing, nothing, but the deepest felt and most urgent sound of surrender in the night.

  Chapter 7

  On a limp evening in July, Hetty sat next to Garret at the big oak table in the gloom of the Weems’ dining room. The dusky shadows and dank air made her feel as though she’d plunged to the bottom of a warm pool. The only light left on was in the kitchen, because lamps would raise the temperature too much. A ceiling fan churned the air to no avail. Her husband was making her sweat even more with questions. “Why won’t you call your father?”

  “He’s not going to help us, Mac.”

  Garret jumped out of his chair. “Why not? He’s an oil man.”

  “Sit down and have some ham, y’all,” said Pearl, carving. “A cold supper for a hot night.” Odell sent plates wheeling across the table from hand to hand, heavy and fragrant.

  “Don’t you remember the last thing he said to you? ‘You’re not welcome in my home.’ ” Hetty held her iced tea glass to her forehead and closed her eyes.

  Everyone else started eating. After a few moments, Garret asked while chewing, “So what do we do now?”

  Hetty was wondering the same thing. She’d checked her wallet last night. She had $7.34 in cash, plus a small balance in her bank account. She set her iced tea down. “Maybe you should get a job working on a crew.”

  Odell almost choked on his food. Garret looked at her, amazed. “Do you have the faintest idea how much the average worker makes?”

  “Not a clue.” She nibbled on potato salad.

  “I didn’t think so. About a hundred a month. I doubt that Kirby Allen’s daughter is going to be happy living on that.”

  Odell regarded her over his spectacles. “As Oscar Wilde once said, ‘Anyone who lives within their means suffers from a lack of imagination.’ I’ve said it again and again to Garret, and now I’ll say it to you,” he explained, looking at her cagily. “You don’t make money by working harder. You make money by using your imagination.”

  A silence fell as Hetty took this thought in. There was only the sound of knives and forks clinking on china.

  “So I guess it’s back to The Hammocks,” Garret spoke up.

  “What’s The Hammocks?” Hetty asked.

  “Our cottage on West Beach in Galveston,” Odell said, mopping his brow with his napkin. “Out past Thirteen Mile Road.”

  “Garret loves that place,” Pearl said. “I’ve seen him disappear yonder for a week at a time. You’ll have to take your new bride there, Mac. Don’t worry; we do have beds. The hammocks is out on the porch.”

  “I’ll have some more of that tasty potato salad, Pearlie,” Odell said. “Yes’m. No one would have suspected that inside The Hammocks we were running a thriving import business.”

  “We’d leave a light on in the house, see,” said Garret, “and that would be the beacon that would guide our boat back to West Beach. Wouldn’t be another light for miles. Even the roads run out.”

  “Sounds risky,” Hetty said. “Was it worth it?”

  “Let’s put it this way, my dear,” Odell said, holding his knife and fork in midair and fixing her with a burning glance. “A case of Haig and Haig Pinch costs sixty dollars off the ship and sells for three or four times that on the mainland. I’d say that’s a pretty good profit for a few hours’ work, wouldn’t you?”

  His stare made her laugh and admit that he was right.

  “I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. When Congress passed the Volstead Act they created a business opportunity unprecedented in our lifetime. We just need to find a new spigot, that’s all.”

  Hetty set her silverware down with a clatter. She had just remembered her dream—the one where her grandmother turned water into wine. She recalled what the wine was flowing out of: an old-fashioned iron spigot.

  “What’s wrong, hon?” Pearl asked.

  “Nothing,” Hetty answered.

  Hetty wrote to her mother the next morning.

  Garret was still coiled in the bedclothes asleep, while she stretched out on the couch in her silk pajamas and drank coffee the way she liked it, guzzled, not sipped, with a glut of sugar. She had all the windows open. The shadowy living room felt cool and fresh, but it wouldn’t last. Heat was already leaking like silt into the clear night air pooled under the post oak trees.

  Dear Mamá,

  Garret and I are settled in our new home, a carriage house in the Heights that Garret rents from his business partner, Odell Weems. Being newlyweds, we don’t have a lot of furniture, so I would like to come and get my possessions, if that’s all right with you. Garret has a truck we can move them in (a Wichita painted orange of all things!).

  Perdóneme, Mamá. I’m truly sorry if I’ve hurt you in any way. That wasn’t my intention. You must believe me. I was only doing what I thought would bring me happiness. I’m sorry I deceived you but, at the time, eloping felt like my only way out. If it caused you distress, well—¡lo siento mucho! I apologize; I really do. I hope you will forgive me and let me back into your heart where I belong as your own querida hijita.

  I’m also sorry if I broke Lamar’s heart by marrying someone else. I will call him and apologize. I need to set my accounts in order, as Dad would say. In the meantime, I really hope you’ll take the opportunity to acquaint yourself with my new husband. You’ll find that he’s a very fine man. Would I choose anything else? In fact, I would go so far as to describe him as “the next Mr. Esperson.” Tell Dad! I know it isn’t good form to invite oneself to dinner, but why not have us over for a meal with the family? I sincerely hope you’ll consider this. I miss you and Dad! I look forward to your reply.

  Con mucho amor,

  Esther

  She checked the rusty mailbox at the bottom of the stairs every day. The only posts that came were an electric bill and a letter in a big swirling hand addressed to Garret from Arleen MacBride in Butte, Montana. When she asked him what his mother had said, he brushed her off with an evasive answer. At the end of the week, two letters arrived for Hetty, both written on ecru rag with the familiar gray monograms.

  NAA

  Esther,

  Please do so at your earliest convenience. The hotel is complaining about the items left in the back corridor.

  Nella

  CAB

  Dear Hetty,

  Mother told me that you are planning to telephone Lamar and beg his forgiveness for deserting him so cruelly. Are you really that blind and selfish? Don’t you realize that calling Lamar now would only rub salt into his deep, deep wounds? You cannot break a man’s heart as thoroughly as you did Lamar’s and then expect him to allay your guilt by granting you instant and complete forgiveness. I may be younger than you, but even I know that life doesn’t work that way.

  In short, Hetty, Lamar doesn’t want to talk to you. If you weren’t such a swellhead, you would know that. Please do not attempt to communicate with him in any way. I also have no desire to correspond with you, but I felt it my duty to send this warning in order to shield him from further pain. You cannot expect to maltreat a man and still have access to him as if nothing has happened. You have burned that bridge. Do not attempt to walk back across it.

  Your loving sister,

  Charlotte

  When Hetty stepped through the bronze doors of the Esperson Building two days later, she headed straight for the banking quarters, not knowing what she’d find. She was running out of cash and wanted to check the balance in her account to see if Kirb had deposited her stipend for July. She tried not to let her fingers tremble as she presented her passbook to the teller. He stepped away from the cage, thumbed through a cart of ledger sheets, and must have said something to the bookkeeper
at the adding machine, because she glanced at Hetty, then quickly dropped her gaze. The teller came back looking a little sheepish.

  “I show this account as being closed,” he said, handing the passbook back. “I’m sorry, Miss Allen.”

  “Isn’t there any money I can withdraw?”

  “The balance is zero, ma’am.”

  Hetty averted her eyes. “Well . . . thanks for checking.” She tucked the passbook into her handbag and glanced past him. Now two bookkeepers were ogling her and Lonnie, too, who’d stopped wrapping coins to see what was going to happen. Only Kirb was ignoring her completely, pretending to work at his desk at the back of the banking floor.

  Hetty went over to a marble island and took out her tortoiseshell fountain pen. In her passbook, under the Withdrawals column, she wrote, My father’s love.

  Back in the Esperson lobby, the terrazzo floors were so highly polished, Hetty was afraid she might slip and fall. She took the elevator to the Cupola Club on the twenty-seventh floor. The maître d’ looked up. “Miss Allen, how are you?” The club’s distinctive crest, a round Greek temple, embellished his blazer.

  “Hello, Cooper. Actually, I’m not Miss Allen, anymore. I’m Mrs. MacBride.”

  “Of course. Congratulations. I should have remembered. Your mother called.”

  “She did?” A tinge of disappointment pricked Hetty’s breast. She was hoping Nella would forget about the open door always afforded the Allen sisters here at the club. Hetty leaned forward and whispered, “I’m still a member, aren’t I?”

  Cooper shook his head and smiled at her sympathetically. He handed her an envelope embossed with the round Greek temple. Hetty glanced at the application inside, trying not to react to the annual membership dues: $1,500.00. “Meanwhile I’m meeting Doris Verne Hargraves for luncheon.”

  “Of course, Ross will carry you back.” Hetty followed the tall colored waiter to rooms that opened out into air and light. He escorted her through French doors onto one of the six private roof gardens terraced at the top of the building. The brightness was stunning, but the tables were sheltered by a canopy of leafy shadows. Doris Verne stood and hugged her.

  Winifred Neuhaus sat sipping iced tea in an outrageous set of white silk beach pajamas and a beret. “Where have you been, kiddo?” she said behind big round sunglasses. “I’m terrified they’re going to run out of shrimp.”

  “Am I late? Look at you!” She gave her a little peck on the cheek.

  Ross pulled Hetty’s chair out but didn’t seat her. “Drink, miss?” he asked in his haughty tone.

  “I’ll have iced tea, please, sir. I had to pick up an application to the club. Now that I’m an old married woman, I want my own membership.” She set the envelope down beside her plate.

  Winifred snickered. “You’ll never get in.”

  “Surely they wouldn’t turn down an Allen?” Doris Verne asked from under her hat brim.

  “They can turn down anyone they want, kiddo. This is the Esperson Building.” Winifred crooked her finger and said, “See that cupola?” They craned their necks to look at the round Greek temple rising into the blue heavens four floors above them. “They say Mellie Esperson has her office inside it. She sits up there higher than everybody else in town, looking down on the rest of us, surveying her little kingdom, and making sure her henchmen guard the doors. She may even be watching us now. Somebody wave.”

  Hetty sat back in her chair, smoking, and tried to relax into the amiable chatter. Winifred went on rattling off esoteric facts about the Esperson Building, confiding that more million-dollar oil deals were made right there in the Cupola Club than in all the boardrooms across Texas.

  “That’s why Garret and I need to get in.”

  “You’ve got to if you want to make it in this gassy town,” Winifred said. “My dad signed one of the first leases in the building. I remember him telling Mom, ‘Esperson’s the place to be.’ Okay, let’s eat!”

  The three of them prowled around the buffet, heaping their gold-rimmed plates with coleslaw, gargantuan Gulf shrimp, and scallops swimming in cream. They took turns talking and eating, catching up on the latest developments in their lives. Winifred gave a report from Belinda Welch, who’d headed to Virginia a week ago and was busy preparing for a big horse show in Lexington. “How’s married life?”

  “Full of surprises.”

  “Well, at least you can Fornicate Under Command of the King now.”

  “Wini!” Doris Verne said.

  “What? You do know that’s what F-U-C-K stands for? It’s an acronym. When the king wanted to increase the population of England, he commanded his subjects to fornicate as much as possible. It was their patriotic duty.”

  “And that’s our history lesson for today,” Hetty said. “Thanks, Wini.”

  “You’re welcome.” She glanced at her watch and signaled the waiter. “I must be off, chums. Getting the hair cut even shorter.” As they paid their bills, Winifred fluttered both her tiny hands in good-bye.

  Hetty hadn’t noticed how much the shade of the canopy had inched across the table. The membership package sat in full sunlight, glaring at her, mocking her. This was the visible sign of her banishment from the hidden realm of No-Tsu-Oh. Now that she was alone with her best friend, she couldn’t help but fret.

  Doris Verne leaned forward and bathed Hetty in the golden light of her hazel eyes. The sunlight radiating off the white tablecloth gave them a few extra volts of energy. “What’s wrong, Het?”

  “The reason I picked up an application is that my membership’s been canceled.”

  “Who would do that?”

  “My mother, of course. It’s all part of her vast campaign of revenge.” Hetty told Doris Verne about some of Nella’s other maneuvers. “And my dad’s cut off my stipend. I’ll never raise fifteen hundred dollars.”

  Doris Verne frowned. “I thought Garret was in oil.”

  Hetty wondered if she’d said too much. But she didn’t care; she had to soothe the chafing in her heart by confessing everything to Doris Verne, who’d always been like a sister to her. For the first time she found herself telling someone the whole truth about her marriage: the flight from Galveston, the bottles hidden under the seat in the brougham, the tacky little garage apartment she’d driven home to in the Heights. “And Garret’s family is no help. He won’t even talk about his mother. All I can squeeze out of him is that her name is Arleen. I don’t know what we’re going to do.”

  “Don’t know what you’re going to do! Is this a Houston girl I’m talking to?”

  “And how.”

  “Hey—you’re not acting like one. You know what they say about us Houstonians. If there’s no river to the ocean, we dig one. Why do you think we’re named after magnolias?”

  “ ’Cause we’re white?”

  “ ’Cause we’re tough, honey child. My dad always told me that magnolia flowers are pollinated by beetles, and their carpels have to be thick as bark so the beetles can’t eat them. ‘They only look delicate!’ he said. I’ve always remembered that.”

  “Garret wants to wildcat, of course.”

  “Well, there you go! You think Miss Mellie was born in a cupola? You know as well as I do—a gusher lifted her up there. She was just an Oklahoma farm girl who used to scrub her husband’s overalls by hand.”

  “So I should buy some detergent?”

  Doris Verne’s eyes burned with afternoon sun. “Het, you’re a daughter of the Magnolia City and don’t you forget it. You just give that husband of yours a little push!”

  The following afternoon, Hetty stood mopping her brow in the back hall of the Warwick. The fetid smells that rose out of garbage pails grew unbearable in the soggy July heat. It was so swampy, she’d rather be a mermaid, she decided. She tied a knot in the twine, binding another box, and added it to the pile she and Lina had built through the afternoon. They had almost finished packing Hetty’s belongings, Lina carting them over to the freight elevator so Garret could pick them up later at
the loading dock. Hetty was hot and thirsty. From the drawing room, the alabaster clock chimed five in the afternoon.

  She handed the last box to Lina, who carried it on her head to the elevator. “Gracias,” she shouted before making her way through the kitchen and down the hall. She used the bathroom, then noticed that the postigos were unlocked. She slipped through and peered into the Mexican quarters. They were empty. She tiptoed in and turned one of the quarter-moon chairs toward the black-and-white photographs on the far wall. She sat and studied her grandmother’s wedding portrait, the enigmatic ancestor she’d never known. What are you trying to tell me? Liliana looked out at the world the way she had in Hetty’s dream, just before she changed the water into wine, the wine that had flowed out of a old-fashioned iron spigot. Speak to me, abuela. The eyes glistened, the wedding shawl flowed out of her hair, and her copper skin shone in the searing light of Mexico. All was quiet except for the stir of the ceiling fan. The warm room surrounded Hetty, close and moist, a wild dog’s ear lifted to catch a command uttered in Spanish, a distant cry.

  Then it came.

  Down the hall, the cocktail cart jingled as Nella wheeled it in from the kitchen. She was beginning her afternoon alchemy, the ice bucket crackling beneath her busy hands. Hetty pictured her sitting before the great Diana screen, cooled by a circulating fan, reaching for the bottles—

  Of course. It was so obvious. Why hadn’t Hetty seen it? It was right there under Nella’s manicured fingernails. Her grandmother’s eyes seemed to close and then open again in confirmation: the bottles of tawny liquor Nella’s sister shipped to her mother every few months. The ones that came nestled in raffia, wrapped in golden twine, the ones that commanded a place of honor on the lowest shelf of the black-enameled cocktail cart. Swish your hands in the water, m’ijita. You, too, can turn water into wine.