by Cathy Holton
“Mother, I have to go now.”
“And don't think I don't know about what happened in Montana. Redmon told me everything.”
Charles gripped the phone. “Well, good for Redmon,” he said. Redmon had been one of Boone & Broadwell's biggest clients before the hunting trip. Now he hardly gave Charles the time of day. After the dissolution of the law firm, Charles had been forced into a cramped, dusty little two attorney storefront close to the Courthouse. You would have thought Redmon would throw some business his way now that he'd married Virginia, but so far he'd done nothing except refer a contractor who'd been arrested for DUI.
Virginia was wound up now. “The very idea that a son of mine would let himself be hoodwinked by a group of housewives, would let himself be made a laughingstock in front of the whole town by his dim-witted little wife …”
“She's not dim-witted.”
“By his unsophisticated little wife. Charles, your father must be spinning in his grave!”
“Whatever,” Charles said bleakly.
“How could you let them blackmail you over something as stupid and inane as photographs and videos?”
“Photographs and videos of us partying with female impersonators. Those are men, Mother,” he said tersely, “dressed up like women.”
“Yes, I know what they are,” she snapped. “But how could you let them blackmail you into bringing the whole firm down? Into letting Nita walk away with $600,000 in assets?”
“It was a partnership, Mother!” Charles could feel a pulse in his temple, steady and relentless as a ball-peen hammer. “I couldn't keep the firm afloat by myself! I couldn't keep it all together when one of my partners decided to bail and move to New Orleans, and the other was videotaped dressed up like Cher, singing “Do you believe in life after love.” His left arm tingled and there was a tightness in his chest that probably wasn't a good thing. He didn't tell his mother what they had videotaped him doing.
Virginia appeared not to have heard a word he said. “Why didn't anyone put a stop to this? Where was I when this travesty was going on?”
Charles forced himself to calm down. He breathed deeply for several seconds. He counted to ten. When he spoke again, his voice was cold but steady. “As I recall, you were down in the Bahamas with Myra Redmon. You know. Your new husband's recently deceased wife. You do remember her, don't you, Mother?”
She didn't like his tone. There was something in his voice, some threat of impropriety that she found offensive. After all, Myra had been dead six months and Redmon had been open game, untagged and roaming free, when she bagged him. And don't tell me Myra wouldn't have done the same thing if she'd been in my shoes, Virginia thought savagely. “Why didn't you stand up to them?” she said. “Why didn't you take them to court?”
“I had my career to think about, Mother! I had my reputation to worry about.”
“What career? What reputation?” Virginia said. “You advertise on cable access TV and you represent personal injury clients. Why cling to any hope of a good reputation?”
Charles hung up on her. Virginia clicked off. She thought about calling him back but she knew he wouldn't answer. It was clear she wouldn't get any help from Charles in avenging the family honor.
There were some things a mother just had to do herself.
VIRGINIA WAS THERE THE DAY MYRA REDMON WAS KILLED, SO tragically and unexpectedly, on the tennis court. It was an accident, of course, and as Myra didn't actually die until thirty-six hours after the event—a doubles match with Virginia and Lee Anne Bales pitted against Myra and her new and rather nervous partner—it was not determined until some time later that her death was actually attributable to tennis.
The whole tennis team was down at Amelia Island, on their annual trip, staying in Susan Barrows's condo. The condo was on the Plantation, had a private pool, next to a private tennis court, tucked into a veritable Garden of Eden, and was the primary reason Susan had been asked to join the team. The pool and the tennis court were screened from the rest of the sprawling complex by a curtain of bamboo, live oak, and yaupon and, with the exception of the few tourists who stumbled upon them by accident, the Ithaca Belles pretty much had the place to themselves.
Virginia and Myra were the co-captains and ran the team like they had run the Ithaca Garden Club, the Junior League, the Ithaca Cotillion Board, the Daughters of the Confederacy, and every other social organization worth belonging to in town—like a South American dictatorship. They had started out playing tennis with contemporaries thirty years ago, but Myra and Virginia liked to win, and as the years rolled by they began filling their roster with younger, more athletic girls. They cut players who weren't pulling their weight, held tryouts to fill open positions, and regularly won the BMW Southeastern over-thirty-five championship. Their elitism paid off. A slot on the Ithaca Belles tennis team became a coveted position of honor among the up-and-coming young housewives and stay-at-home moms, a competitive place to channel their energies now that they had given up boardrooms and six-figure-income careers.
But there was a price to pay, bringing all these younger women on board. Virginia grumbled about it often. It seemed each succeeding wave of fresh-faced recruits brought with them a growing, unsettling form of social anarchy. Far from being sedate and reserved in their manners and habits, they liked to spend freely and competitively, outdoing each other on Range Rovers and Hummers, big houses and vacation properties, liked to take frequent shopping trips to New York or Destin, liked to drink too much at cocktail parties, make fools of themselves at country club dances, liked to sleep with one another's husbands.
In short, they liked to enjoy themselves in a manner that Virginia found both uncouth and morally irresponsible. And Myra, far from remaining a staunch ally, seemed to be gradually going over to the enemy herself. Which made the circumstances surrounding her tennis accident and subsequent death all the more ironic, Virginia thought later, replaying the incident in her head.
The day before they were scheduled to leave the island, they had spent the morning drinking and driving two golf carts around the Plantation. Paige Finley had made several batches of frozen margaritas using her mother's tried-and-true recipe, which Virginia had to admit was awfully good. You couldn't even taste the tequila. They had filled two large thermoses with the stuff and drove around the Plantation giggling and sipping the potent green liquid out of champagne glasses like a bunch of bridesmaids gone bad. Virginia and Myra were the designated drivers, although it soon became apparent that Myra was doing her fair share of sipping, and when Virginia stopped at a stop sign, Myra slammed her cart into the rear of Virginia's cart, nearly severing Worland Pendergrass's leg in the process. Everyone, except Virginia, thought this was extremely funny.
Myra, still clutching her champagne glass, said, “Oops!” She looked at Virginia's golf cart and said, “Goddamn! Where'd that come from.” She said, “I thought I was hitting the brake but I must have hit the gas!” She began to giggle and drained her glass, and the injured Worland, anesthetized by tequila, snorted and rolled off the back of the cart onto the pavement. Not to be outdone, Susan Barrows laughed until she lost control of her bladder, and then told everybody about it.
Later, they went back to the pool to get some sun. They had the place to themselves. Everyone stripped down to their swimsuits and either cavorted in the pool or sprawled in lounge chairs along the deck. Virginia sat in the shade and filled out the round-robin schedule on the off chance someone might actually want to play tennis. Lee Anne Bales and Paige Finley prank- called the strapping young bartender who had waited on them the previous night. Myra snored in the sun. Laura Teague, on a dare from Susan and Worland, pulled down her bathing suit and flashed her boobs at a group of stunned Japanese businessmen who sped by in a crowded golf cart.
Virginia felt like a Girl Scout leader trying to maintain control of an unruly troop. She rose suddenly and announced the court assignments, looking severely at Lee Anne and Myra, who rose reluctantly and went into
the dressing room to change into their tennis clothes. Myra's new partner, Molly Ditri, jumped up obediently and went to change. She was a newcomer to Ithaca, a thirty-five-year-old Yankee who tried, unsuccessfully, to soften this by saying she was from the Midwest. She was married to an anesthesiologist and was apprehensive and shocked to find herself not only on the best tennis team in Ithaca, Georgia, but actually playing as Myra Redmon's partner. She had played college tennis for Michigan State and had a ninety-mile-per-hour serve, but she was still intimidated about playing with Myra and would constantly apologize when she missed a volley at the net or hit an overhead long, a trait that infuriated the competitive Myra.
“Stop apologizing and do your job,” Myra would growl, and Molly, mortified, would dip her head and thump her fist on her racket, determined to do better.
But today, after a good nap and several pitchers of frozen margaritas, Myra was in a good mood. She could have cared less if Molly double- faulted on her serve or hit a passing shot wide. They lined up on the court, Virginia and Lee Anne on one side and Myra and Molly on the other. The sun was almost directly overhead but the trees arching over the court provided a cool shade. Virginia served first, and she and Lee Anne won the first game. They were switching courts when Paige pulled up in one of the golf carts with a new supply of frozen margaritas. The women in the pool hooted and lifted their champagne glasses.
Virginia said, “Oh good God.”
Myra said, “Bring that pitcher over here and pour me another glass.” Paige did as she was told. They stood in the shade taking a breather, Virginia and Molly sipping their bottled water while Myra and Lee Anne gulped frozen margaritas.
“You know,” Virginia said, looking sternly at Myra, “we're supposed to be getting ready for BMW. That's the whole reason we're down here.”
Myra said, “Hey y'all, after we finish this pitcher, let's go skinny dipping in the pool.”
Lee Anne giggled. Virginia handed the balls to Molly and walked out onto the court.
Molly had drunk enough frozen margaritas earlier to take the edge off her nervousness, but not enough to make her totally relaxed. Like all college players, she had a blinding serve but it was erratic and prone to miss the service court entirely. Since joining the Ithaca Belles, to keep from double- faulting and incurring the wrath of her partner, she had taken to hitting the second serve soft if she hit the first one out. To a girl who had once, briefly, considered going pro, this was a humiliating state to find herself in. But it couldn't be helped. Molly looked at Myra, bent over at the net with her long slim legs tensed and her tennis panties clearly visible, and prayed her first serve would go in.
It went wide.
Myra, under the influence of tequila, looked at Molly over her shoulder and grinned. “Come on, partner,” she said, slurring her words only slightly. “You can do it. Come on, girl. Hit that ball like you used to hit it in college.”
It was all the encouragement Molly needed. She threw the ball high, rose up on her toes, and drilled a ninety-five-mile-an-hour serve directly into her partner's backside.
There was a moment of stunned silence. Molly dropped her racket on the court and covered her mouth with both hands. The girls in the pool, who had seen the whole thing, watched in slack-jawed astonishment. It was Lee Anne who broke first, slumping to her knees, her racket clattering against the court. She hooted and screamed, and rolled onto her back, kicking her legs in the air. The girls in the pool followed suit, and eventually Myra, tears of laughter and pain streaming down her face, pulled her panties down to reveal the perfect imprint of a tennis ball. Even Virginia giggled then. They were still laughing that night at dinner, getting Myra to show them her “tennis tattoo,” still giggling and slapping each other on the arms on the long drive home. They were still chortling that night around their dinner tables, as they told their husbands and children, still smiling as they dropped off to sleep, while the fateful blood clot formed by Molly's blinding serve made its way slowly but inexorably from Myra's ass, through her femoral artery, and into her heart. Redmon awakened next to his wife the following morning to find her stone cold dead, a peaceful smile on her lips.
Having killed her tennis partner, Molly Ditri did the only thing she could do: she left town in the middle of the night, leaving her husband to arrange the packing of the furnishings and the sale of the big house. He followed her six months later to the suburbs of Chicago where she had settled in anonymity, hoping to leave her tragic past behind her.
She never picked up a tennis racket again.
WHEN EADIE GOT HOME FROM NITA'S WEDDING, TREVOR was glad to see her. He had made scallops Creole with rice and they ate in front of a roaring fire in the dark, cavernous library. After dinner they laid down on the sofa and got reacquainted in ways that went beyond what might have been expected of a couple that had been married for twenty-two years. The following morning they got up at noon, packed a hamper full of sandwiches and martinis, and went for a picnic at Lafayette Cemetery #1. It was a beautiful day, cool and sunny. A damp fishy breeze blew steadily from the sea. The gravestones and walls of the old mausoleums were covered in lichen and mildew, and around the graveled paths the St. Augustine grass grew in thick, springy clumps. They found a secluded spot in one of the back corners, between the brick wall and the tomb of Angelique Wirz who died in 1826 at the age of twenty-one. Trevor spread the blanket and they lay down, their martini glasses resting on their stomachs, gazing up at the azure sky through the thick twisted canopy of live oak.
Eadie closed her eyes. After a while Trevor rolled over on his side and propped himself up on one elbow, setting his drink on the ground in front of him. He picked a handful of coarse grass and dropped it, blade by blade, onto Eadie's face.
“Stop it,” she said, waving her hand in front of her nose like she was swatting a persistent fly. “I'm trying to sleep. I'm tired.”
“I'll bet you are,” he said. “After last night. After this morning.”
She opened one eye and regarded him lazily. She yawned and patted her mouth. “Jet lag,” she said.
“Jet lag, my ass,” he said, and leaned to bite her belly.
She yelped and sat up, spilling her drink. “Now look what you made me do,” she said.
“Here, I'll make you another one.” He took her glass and sat up, pulling a metal cocktail shaker out of the hamper. He topped off both drinks, and they lay down again on their sides, facing each other.
“In all the get reacquainted frenzy last night, I forgot to ask you.” He grinned and she did, too. “What's new in the old hometown?”
She ran her finger lightly around the rim of her glass trying to make it sing. “Not a damn thing,” she said.
“Did you see any of your old boyfriends?”
“What old boyfriends? I don't have any old boyfriends from Ithaca.”
“You have one,” he said.
She snorted and lifted her glass, arching one eyebrow. “Some boyfriend,” she said.
He groaned and rolled over on his back. “Come on, honey, don't bust my balls. I know you love me. I know you missed me.”
She leaned over, giving him the full effect of her almond-shaped green eyes. “Yeah?” she said. “What makes you so special?”
He rolled over on top of her and nuzzled his face roughly against her neck. “You know very well what makes me so special.”
She poked him in the ribs but he wasn't ticklish. “Get off me, peckerhead.”
“That's not what you said last night.”
“Very funny.”
It didn't last, of course. He was attentive for two whole weeks but on a rainy Tuesday evening she heard him rise, long after he assumed she had gone to sleep, and walk quietly out of the bedroom and down the stairs. After a while she rose and followed him.
He sat at his desk in the library, his face lit by the neon screen of his laptop. A fire crackled in the grate. Outside the long windows, a steady rain fell, drumming against the roof and rattling the glass.
&n
bsp; “What're you doing?” she said.
He jumped and swung around, ducking his head slightly. “Goddamn it, Eadie, you almost gave me a heart attack. Don't creep up behind me like that.”
“Sorry.”
“Why were you turning the lights on and off in the kitchen?”
“I wasn't in the kitchen.”
He frowned. “Then who was?”
“I told you the house was haunted.”
He sighed and ran his hand over his face. Then he clasped his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair. “Look, if you don't want to live here, that's fine. You don't have to make up stories just to get me to sell the house.”
She went over to the bar to pour herself a whiskey. She stood for a moment with her back to him, listening to the rain. “Do you have any idea how insulting it is to find you skulking around the house at all hours of the night, hiding so you can work?” she said, turning around to face him.
He watched her steadily, his elbows spread out on either side of his head like wings. He said, “Do you know how guilty it makes me feel, that I can work and you can't?”
“Now you know how I've felt for most of our marriage.”
“Then you should be more sympathetic.”
“I could work and you couldn't.” She smiled arrogantly and lifted her drink. “As I recall, you drowned your frustration by chasing tail.”
“Just like you drown yours in sleep and Mondo Logs.”
She threw the glass at him. It crashed against the far wall and fell against the floor, shattering. He watched her coldly. “Sooner or later,” he said. “I'll get too old to duck.”
She went back upstairs. A little while later, he followed her. My Fair Lady, the late-show movie, was playing on Channel 9. Eadie was lying in bed with a box of Mondo Logs resting on her stomach. She rummaged around in the box, the empty papers rustling like leaves along a deserted street. He stood in the doorway with his shoulder pressed against the jamb, his arms hanging down against his sides.