The Secret Lives of the Kudzu Debutantes

by Cathy Holton

  Nita stared at Virginia as if contemplating a pistol-whipping. She said, “I'm working on an article on domestics working in the South prior to the civil rights movement.”

  “Oh,” Carlin said.

  “You'd be amazed at the secrets you can learn,” Nita said, staring deliberately at Virginia, “listening to these women talk about the families they worked for. Troubled marriages, love affairs gone bad, babies born out of wedlock, it's all there.”

  Virginia forced a stiff smile and said to Carlin, “Oh, you can't trust half of what you hear. People make up all kinds of stories to relieve the boredom of these small towns. My goodness, if only half of it were true, Ithaca would be worse than Babylon!”

  “I could write a book,” Nita said. “I could tell a story no one would believe.”

  “Yes, I daresay you could,” Virginia snapped.

  Charles glanced uncomfortably from Nita to his mother. Porter, sensing a rising tension between the two women, quickly swung his camera from one face to the other. He had already forgotten the documentary on snake handlers and was envisioning a reality TV show involving a dysfunctional modern family and their symbolic American holidays. Dinner at Casa Redmon.

  “Does he have to point that camera at me like that?” Virginia said sharply.

  “What are you afraid he'll see?” Nita said.

  “Y'all just try to act normal,” Carlin said, and then blushed fiercely. “I mean, just pretend we're not even here. Just continue on as you normally would, as if you didn't have a room full of strangers documenting your every move.” Even she realized she was treading dangerous waters. “I'll just check with Della in the kitchen,” she finished lamely.

  Across the room, Duckie Bradshaw and her husband, Harris, had arrived fashionably late. Virginia, glad for a distraction, turned her back on Nita and said, “Yoo-hoo, Duckie! Hello!” She was this year's president of the Junior League, so Virginia couldn't just not invite her. Virginia hadn't spoken to her since Duckie had the brilliant idea of holding a League luncheon out at the new Ithaca Zoo Monkey Annex that the League had helped fund through one of its community outreach programs. Duckie had stood up there in her Prada suit and Fendi pumps and droned on and on about the “darling monkeys” and their new “darling habitats” while in the cage behind her, Bobo the Chimp slowly masturbated. And don't tell me that monkey didn't know exactly what he was doing, Virginia thought savagely, remembering his crafty expression and obvious delight at the shocked faces and nervous gigglings of the all-female audience. She hadn't been able to think of dumb animals in the same way since.

  Behind her, Celia Banks let out a little cry of alarm. “Oh my God, who is that?” she said.

  Virginia swung around. Nita and Charles had moved off to get a drink. Virginia followed Celia's horrified stare to the deck where Logan stood tuning a guitar strapped to his chest. “My grandson,” Virginia said. “And some of his bandmates.” She noted, with dismay, that some idiot had opened the French doors so they would be able to hear the music clearly.

  “Oh,” Celia said, lifting her artificially sculpted little nose. “Public school boys.”

  Virginia held her smile, aware that the cameras were rolling. Really, who did the woman think she was? Her father had driven a delivery truck, for goodness sakes. Until she married Franklin Banks, Celia had been poor as a lizard-eating cat.

  “And how is your father?” Virginia said pleasantly. “Still driving his route between Oak Grove and Valdosta?”

  “Excuse me,” Celia said. “I think I see Lee Anne. Lovely party.”

  Logan stepped up to the mike. He lifted his head and looked out over the crowd until he spotted Virginia. “Hey, Grandma,” he said, waving. Everyone giggled. Virginia forced a smile. “This song's for you,” he said, opening his arms wide to include his band members. “It's called ‘Colla Poppa'.’”

  “‘Colla' Poppa'?’ ” Virginia said to Whitney. “What's that? It sounds like a flower,” she said, hoping against hope that it might be some kind of a soft ballad, a love song perhaps, or maybe a bluegrass number.

  Whitney looked at her like she was stupid. “Collar Popper,” she said, pointing to her neck. “You know. Like those poseurs who walk around in Polo shirts with the collar popped up in the back and a sweater tied around their shoulders. There's a lot of them at my school.” Her voice carried loudly over the quiet room.

  Virginia smiled and looked around nervously at her guests, many of whom had children and grandchildren at the Barron Hall school. “Whitney, dear,” she said. “Go and find your grandfather and ask him to see if the band can't play after we eat dinner. Or maybe later in the evening. Much later.”

  Just then, a red-faced Redmon lifted his glass above the crowd and shouted, “Hey, Queenie, wait till you hear this song. It's awesome.”

  Logan said “One-two-three-four” and the band was off, a sudden, raucous, three-chord wall of sound that would have made the Sex Pistols proud, that would have made Johnny Rotten stumble around the stage and projectile vomit for joy.

  Hey, Colla' Poppa', where'd you get that shirt?

  Your front's tucked in, but your buttons don't work.

  Hey Colla' Poppa' those teeth are gold,

  Bleach them yourself, or is that how they're sold?

  You hang around town in you pink Po-los,

  Axe Bodyspray burning up my nose,

  Talking about shit that you don't know,

  If you're at the bar in sandals then I'm stepping On your toes!

  Hey Colla' Poppa'—

  Driving daddy's car,

  Drinking in a college bar,

  Think that you're so cool?

  You're a fucking tool!

  “Oh my God,” Virginia said. The whole scene was like a nightmare, one of those where you know you're dreaming but can't wake up.

  Hey, Colla' Poppa' who's that chick you're with?

  I think I know her, let me give her a kiss.

  Hey, Colla' Poppa' don't you have no fear,

  I already fucked that slut last year!

  High on coke, you're up all night,

  Can't get laid so you look for a fight,

  Head on home and pummel the pipe,

  Your only true friend is Xbox Live!

  Hey Colla' Poppa'—

  Daddy get you a job?

  You act like a snob.

  Daddy turned you away?

  When he found out that you're gay!

  “Dinner is served,” Virginia shouted helplessly, trying to make herself heard above the wailing guitars and foot-thumping base. She turned to her guests who clustered like stalagmites at the edge of her Oriental rug, their faces frozen into various expressions of horror, outrage, and suppressed mirth.

  Hey Colla' Poppa'! Hey Colla' Poppa'! Hey Colla' Poppa'! Oy! Oy! Oy! Oy!

  “You know,” Carlin shouted beside her, “they have kind of a Beastie Boys thing going on.” She and several of the television crew were dancing around with their hands in the air, their fingers curled into some kind of cryptic gang symbol, not the kind of thing they would have learned in prep school, at least not in Virginia's day. The cameras, she noted dismally, were rolling.

  The music stopped suddenly on a three-chord riff. Lee Anne Bales dropped her glass. No one moved. The silence was almost as deafening as the noise had been.

  “Reaganomics!” one of the boys shouted.

  “Socialism!” another one said.

  “Hey, do y'all know ‘Blue Suede Shoes’?” Redmon said. “Or how about ‘Up Against the Wall Redneck Mother’?”

  “Dinner is served,” Virginia said brightly, opening her arms wide and attempting to herd her stunned guests into the dining room, the way Jesus might have done that evening at Mount Zion, the night he was betrayed by Judas Iscariot and his band of wine-guzzling, backstabbing dinner guests.

  ————

  ONCE SHE SAW THAT HER OWN GUESTS HAD BEGUN TO RECOVER from “Colla' Poppa' ” and were lined up obediently at the sideboard buffet,
Virginia followed Carlin into the kitchen. She was afraid to leave her alone in a room with Della. There was no telling what the black woman might say or do if she wasn't watched carefully. The stress of the situation was beginning to wear on Virginia. Her stomach ached and she could feel a familiar thumping against the top of her skull, as if something was trapped inside the brain-pan and was trying desperately to get out.

  Carlin leaned against one of the granite countertops, her legs crossed at the ankle. “Everything smells so good in here,” she said to Della. The black woman grinned but then, seeing Virginia enter the room, the grin faded. She quickly lapsed into her female impersonation of Morgan Freeman in Driving Miss Daisy. “I'se trying to get it on the buffet, Miz Redmon,” she drawled.

  “Well of course you are,” Virginia said quickly, trying to put a stop to this nonsense.

  Della ducked her head and lifted one shoulder. “I'se trying but there's only one of me and my back's still bothering me from all that heavy cleaning you had me to do yestiddy.”

  This, of course, was a bald-faced lie. Virginia did not expect Della to do, nor would she ever have done, any cleaning around the house. She was lucky if she could get Della to clean the kitchen before she went home. There was many an evening when Virginia finished up the dishes herself, after Della left.

  “Listen, you let us carry the dishes out and put them on the sideboard,” Carlin said to Della.

  “Oh that won't be necessary,” Virginia said sharply, and then, remembering herself, “I mean, I'll help Della serve. There's no reason for you to bother.” She tried to recapture her jovial pose but no one was buying it. Carlin went out the swinging door into the dining room.

  Virginia looked at Della and drew her finger slowly across her throat. “Enough with the Butterfly McQueen routine,” she said. “No one's buying it.”

  Della straightened up and put one hand on her hip. “Oh, they're buying it,” she said.

  “If you ruin this for me, I'll never speak to you again.”

  Della lifted her lip. She smiled, showing her teeth. “I can live with that,” she said.

  The door swung open and Porter, Carlin, and Rose came in. Carlin quickly motioned for the other two to take the side dishes out. “Set everything up on the sideboard,” she said. “And let's get a few shots of the food before everyone eats.” Della leaned and took the turkey out of the oven. It was cooked to perfection, a lovely golden brown. She slid it onto a bed of wild lettuce on a silver serving tray.

  “That looks wonderful,” Carlin said.

  “Where are the radish roses?” Virginia asked.

  Della pointed with her chin. “In the refrigerator,” she said.

  “Listen,” Carlin said, while Virginia went to get the radish roses. “Della, I've been thinking. Once the food is out, why don't you join the guests?”

  “What?” Virginia said. She stood there in front of the open refrigerator with the cold air prickling her cheek. The thumping at the top of her head was as loud and insistent as a jackhammer.

  “Well, I guess I could,” Della said. She slid her eyes coyly at Virginia. “If Miz Redmon won't get mad.”

  Carlin stared at Virginia. Virginia said nervously, “Well, of course I won't get mad. What a silly idea!” She laughed unconvincingly, looking from one to the other. “Of course, you're welcome to join us Della, but then who will keep the buffet stocked?”

  She raised her hands and shrugged her shoulders as if this settled the matter but Carlin said in a brittle voice, “Actually, once we film the sideboard, there's no reason why everyone can't serve themselves. I'll get my staff to bring out what needs to be brought out. Once the buffet is filmed, everyone can just relax and enjoy themselves.”

  “Whatever you think is best,” Virginia said flatly. Really she didn't know why she had even bothered to plan this event if the producers were simply going to do things their own way. She poured herself a third glass of wine and then swung around on her heels and went out through the swinging door.

  Grace Pearson stood slumped against the far wall, a notepad in her hand, sullenly watching the festivities.

  Virginia put her hand up to her temple to steady herself. Then she hurried over. “What are you doing here?” she said, trying to keep her voice low.

  “Lumineria's sick. She asked me to come.” She had on a pair of baggy brown slacks and an oversized sweater that did little to enhance her figure.

  “Lumineria didn't call me,” Virginia said suspiciously. “She didn't tell me she couldn't come.”

  The big woman regarded her with a pair of bloodshot eyes. Her nose and cheeks were red and it appeared she had been drinking. “Lumineria's sick,” she said stubbornly. “She asked me to cover for her. We work for the same newspaper. What, do you think I'm not capable of writing a column for ‘The Town Tattler’? Did you or did you not ask the paper to cover this party?”

  “Yes, but I wanted Lumineria to cover it.”

  “Well, we don't always get what we want, do we, Virginia? You should know that by now. Life's nothing but one big fucking crapshoot.” She was clearly intoxicated and spoiling for a fight. She crossed her arms over her big chest and stared at Virginia. “What's the matter?” she said evenly. “Don't you want me?”

  “Oh fine,” Virginia said. “Write the article. I really don't care.” She would probably write an exposé similar to the ones she used to write about the dead Judge, but Virginia didn't care. She refused to be blackmailed. By anyone. “Say whatever you want to say.”

  “Oh, trust me, I will.”

  “Good.”

  “Fine.”

  “Knock yourself out.”

  “I intend to.”

  “I have to check the buffet,” Virginia said.

  “What's a girl have to do around here to get a drink?”

  “There's wine on the sideboard,” Virginia said, waving her glass carelessly. Across the room, an inebriated Redmon was entertaining the crowd with an a cappella version of “I'm Just a Psychobilly from Philly.” This party couldn't get much worse.

  “You got any whiskey?” Grace said.

  THE MAIN TOPIC OF CONVERSATION, OF COURSE, WAS THE FACT that Charles Broadwell had come with Nita Motes as his guest. Virginia noted the way her guests twittered behind their hands, the way they watched surreptitiously as Charles tried to maneuver Nita away from the crowd like a cowboy trying to cut a rogue cow out of the herd. She saw the way they smiled and rolled their eyes with glee when Nita, just as deter mined, made her way back into the throng of guests. Intent on damage control, Virginia hurried over to where Charles, Nita, Whitney, and Logan stood awkwardly balancing their plates and trying to make small talk.

  “How nice you look,” Virginia gushed to Charles, ignoring Nita. She noted the way Duckie Bradshaw and Celia Banks had moved up closer so they might overhear the conversation. Celia's youngest daughter, Casey, had been kicked out of four boarding schools and was rumored to be living in a halfway house in Jacksonville, a rumor Celia never acknowledged or discussed. Instead, she immersed herself in the tragic histories of other unfortunate families. If there was a case of adultery, drug abuse, sexual addiction, or compulsive gambling within a sixty-mile radius of Ithaca, Celia would sniff it out. She collected tragic stories the way some women collect dolls.

  “Thanks,” Charles said. He knew he was still a good-looking man. Women threw themselves at him all the time, and he had dressed carefully today in a dark blue suit, blue-and-white-pinstripe shirt, and red silk tie.

  “And you, too, Whitney,” Virginia said.

  “Hey, what about me?” Logan said. “Don't you like my shoes? Don't you like my haircut?”

  “Nita, you look a little pale,” Virginia said. “Have you been feeling under the weather?”

  “Can I have a glass of wine?” Whitney said. “French kids get to drink when they're little.”

  “Are we French?” Virginia said, looking at her as if this settled the matter once and for all. She noted the way Celia had one
ear turned their way. She had ears like a bat, big and hairy, and no doubt able to hear a pin drop from twenty feet away.

  “I never get to have any fun,” Whitney said. “This party blows.”

  Celia sputtered red wine down the front of her dress. Duckie helped her dab the spill with a cocktail napkin. Neither one made any effort to move toward the bathroom door, standing there with the horrified fascination of spectators who've just happened upon a particularly grisly highway accident scene. Logan, who had noticed Judge Drucker standing just a few feet away, said loudly, “I don't know why you won't let us drink some wine when Grandpa Redmon lets us drink all the time!”

  Duckie let out a nervous little twitter. Virginia's face looked like it had been carved out of granite.

  “Are you telling me you let my children drink alcohol?” Nita said tersely, staring at Virginia.

  “No, Nita, of course not,” Charles said. “Mother wouldn't allow something like that. The children are just teasing, of course.” He laughed nervously. This wasn't going like he had planned. His dreams of a happy family, reunited, seemed to be dissolving like chalk in the rain.

  Virginia said to Nita, “Whatever bad habits those children have, they picked up from you, not me.”

  “I'll have a Kamikaze,” Logan said gaily. “With a beer back.”

  “Make mine a double,” Whitney said.

  “One more word out of you two and you'll go to your rooms,” Virginia said.

  Nita swiveled her shoulders like a gun turret sighting an enemy target. She said, “Don't talk to my children like that.”

  “I'll talk to them any way I like when they're living under my roof.”

  “That won't be for much longer.”

  “We'll see about that.”

  “Yes, we will.”

  Across the room, Redmon finished his song to a slight smattering of drunken applause. He'd been on a whiskey-free diet for nearly eight weeks so the Jack Daniel's was definitely having an effect. He was feeling better than he had felt in months, better than he had felt, in fact, since he married his sweet little Virginia and brought her home to their happy love nest complete with traditional Elvis décor. Redmon frowned, looking around the fuzzy room. Speaking of Elvis décor, what had happened to the Elvis Red carpet and the lighted curio cabinet? And where in the hell was his reclining sectional sofa complete with built-in beer cooler? Redmon walked over to Virginia as steadily as he could, given the circumstances. She looked up at him and said in a low voice, “You've had enough. Don't drink any more.” He pretended he couldn't hear her.