But something happens on my way home from church that brings an entirely new issue to the forefront. I stop at that light, the one on Chuck Dawley Boulevard that usually just blinks. Today is it’s ‘off’ day, and it’s blinking yellow. This guy pulls up beside me; he almost looks familiar. I sort of recognize him so I’m staring, and he looks over and smiles at me. He’s in a sexy as hell black BMW and reeks of money. Let’s face it ladies, we’re all turned on by the scent of money. On top of that, he has hair (a rarity in men over fifty) and it’s gray along the temples giving him that Harrison Ford look. Vagina begs me to let her see; the concept of driving is beyond her. So I explain to her that from the chest up he’s drop dead Superman. Then it occurs to me: ‘mid-life crisis.’ It’s written all over him like spray paint in a college dorm.
Of course that’s what’s going on here! I pop my palm to my forehead, needing a V-8. Sometimes I swear my head isn’t screwed on tight. I’m having a mid-life crisis! That’s what’s going on here, and I’m shocked that I didn’t see it before. But what to do about it? Should I go out and buy a new sports car? I chuckle at that idea because hell will freeze over and the Rapture will take place before Simmons Townsend parts with enough money for a sports car! Dye my hair back to blond? Oh! I know: a face lift. Yep, that’s what I’m going to do. Get a face lift! With that decided, I head home with new purpose.
A note on the counter from Simmons explains that he’s at Bull’s Bay on the golf course. “Writer’s block, next door whacking some faces into trees.” That’s his way of letting go; he envisions the faces of people he’s mad with on the golf balls. But since his aim has always sucked so terribly bad, he eventually gave up trying to play the game altogether and found that he enjoys just wailing them into the tree line. They would end up there either way. I wonder how many times my face has been on one of those balls?
But this is what we’ve come to; notes. Notes left to each other in lieu of speaking. I stare at his written excuse and sigh doubtfully. A note from the illustrious writer of wildlife, Simmons Townsend, maybe I should save it? Like some forlorn wife who’ll need trinkets to hold on to long after her husband is married to a twenty year old tramp? See how pitiful I am? His books aren’t that famous, and Simmons is far from a celebrity, but that’s the way I feel, because of course I love the silly man regardless of the fact that he couldn’t match Garanimals if someone held a gun to his head. But a few months ago he got the book deal that sent him into motion, and I haven’t seen much of him since.
At first I’d grown restless, then confused, then angry as hell, and that led to where I am now: severe and concrete depression. Oh I could take interest in whatever reptile or flight of fancy that has him so captivated, and in the beginnings, pre-Jennifer, Amy and Simmons Junior, I had. I just no longer feel the inclination to read about birds of prey and sea oats. He doesn’t pay attention to me, so I pay no attention to his work. He hurts me, I hurt him. Sad deal, but that’s not to say he doesn’t interest me. In my mind he’s still the professor I always dreamed about, the football star that never glanced in my direction, or the movie star I once caught a glimpse of at the airport on the way to my sister’s wedding. He is the ultimate drummer, and I am his one and only groupie. At least that’s the way I imagined it before he started coming home smelling of lavender.
Over the past ten months he’s been staying out later and later. In the beginning, I naively worried about his safety, but as he’d grab his keys off my immaculately polished hall table he would be sure to grin and tell me that he may stay downtown if he worked too late. He’d gotten “Too damned old to drive that bridge late at night,” he claimed, and I’d accepted it. I’d accepted the whole thing hook, line, and sinker because just as he expected me to put on my Walmart bathrobe after a hot soak, I expected him never to cheat on me. Years of marriage can trick a person into believing they know someone. But somewhere in the depths of my heart I knew there was a bartendress waiting for him, and after a long bout of denial, suspicion hurled me into action: this action.
I pour a cup of the coffee I’d made before I left and wander into his office to Google Charleston plastic surgeons. This is a big decision for me; I’m not a vain woman, so I need to make sure I choose just the right doctor. Getting undressed in front of strangers isn’t a day to day adventure for me, and I’d like to get an opinion on having these triple D’s perked up as well. I did mention that gravity hadn’t been my friend, didn’t I? No? Well it hasn’t.
Do let me mention that Simmons is forever getting manuscripts in the mail. Usually they’re from writers who just need a final review of their soliloquies regarding romantic Charleston sunsets, or exactly how the marsh grass might blow during a hurricane. Typically these manuscripts are marked with tiny strips of sticky notes poking from the edges. That way he doesn’t have to read the entire stupid (his word) story just to check their correctness. And as I sit at his desk and reach for the mouse, a tower of said manuscripts tumbles to the floor below me. Ugh! I reach down to pick them up, because Simmons isn’t fond of me at his desk. He claims my natural urge to organize upsets his ecosystem. So I re-stack them only a tad more neatly than I’d found them, but I’ve knocked the mouse with my efforts. Simmons screen lights and I see a document open on his computer. Again this is not unusual as he is constantly being sent these books for proofing.
“The Tramp Stamp Club.” What? Isn’t this the exact same club Patty just joined? I check the title page closely, written by Quinn Carmichael. I ponder over the name because I’ve heard it before. It’s familiar to me. I can’t place it, but definitely familiar. Mr. Carmichael has me at the title, so I slide my reading glasses down from the top of my head and flip through the pages eager to find out more about this cult my best friend has joined.
“We Southern women simply must have our history.”
-Ellen Devereux
The Tramp Stamp Club
By Quinn Carmichael
First Meeting with Ellen Devereux
On Friday I stood in front of the Devereux Mansion on East Bay Street, as fresh as a kindergartener, and reach into the pocket of my coat to pull out my camera. It wouldn’t hurt to have a few photos of the illustrious structure for later reference, just in case. As I shove it back into my pocket the front doors swing open. If I was expecting Miss Devereux herself I’d have been sorely disappointed in the mammoth black football star that stood glaring at me. I climb the steps quickly and held out my hand, “Quinn Carmichael, at your service,” I say smartly.
He clears his throat, intimidating me with gruffness, “Hawthorne. Won’t you come in, Mr. Carmichael?”
As a lifelong Charlestonian I’ll admit to not taking advantage of the historical monuments that are practically in my own front yard, and somehow I even missed the eighth grade field trip and have never even stepped foot on Fort Sumter. But as I stand in the foyer of the Devereux Mansion I realize all that I’ve been missing. Everything in the cavernous hall is an antique; quality of the kind that can’t be created in today’s world of technology. As a man I’m not supposed to notice things like Aubusson carpets and carved mahogany staircases, but damn… this place will knock you off your feet!
“Follow me, Mr. Carmichael.” Hawthorne leads the way into another massive room that is dark paneled and filled with wall to wall books, heavy draperies cut off the mid-afternoon light, and furniture fit for a king fills the room to almost a cluttered appearance. It’s so full in fact that it takes a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the dim light combined with sensory overload. I didn’t even notice the small woman on the lounge chair in the left corner of the room, “It’s rather ostentatious don’t you think, Mr. Carmichael?”
I spin around at musical sound of her voice and my mouth drops open. The woman is raising from prone position as her partner, another woman, retreats from between her thighs. “Chassy, why don’t you run upstairs and see if you can find a fresh bathrobe in my closet?”
The woman is naked, stark naked, but she smi
les at me as though I hadn’t just walked in on her affair, and that being naked in front of a complete stranger is nothing new to her. “Thanks Ellen, but I need to run on home. Riley is having that dinner party tonight, and I still have to have my hair done!” She bends down and pecks Ellen on the cheek before walking towards me as naked as a new born peach. Suddenly I’m even more excited, if that’s possible, about writing the story of Ellen Devereux.
“Mr. Quinn Carmichael, I’m sure you know Chasity Reynolds?” I stiffen to attention at Miss Devereux’s words.
Reynolds… Chasity Reynolds. The name does have a familiar tone. Oh hell, it comes to me like a falcon falling from the sky. I straighten before the naked woman, now terrified to look anywhere but her face, “Yes, ma’am. It’s an honor to meet you Mrs. Reynolds…” I falter, “Or do you prefer, First Lady?”
The Governor’s wife puts her hand in mine and laughs lightly, “Chassy is fine, Quinn.”
Now I’m on a first name basis with the Governor’s naked wife? Could this possibly be more awkward? “It’s an honor,” I smile in return before she prances on bare feet out the double doors and up the staircase in the foyer. The Palmetto State tattoo on her lower back doesn’t escape me as she exits, and for a moment I’m tempted to step backwards to watch her walk up the stairs.
But Ellen stands and smoothes her black pencil skirt before walking towards me with an outstretched hand. “Ellen Devereux, Mr. Carmichael. I hope that didn’t upset you in any way?”
I take her finely veined hand, “Oh, uh… no ma’am,” but the unbuttoned portion of her silk shirt has me in a trance. Her breasts bobble as if they just finished puberty and brown hair curls untrained around her shoulders. Now I’d never considered myself as one of those cougar-cub kind of guys, but if this is what sixty looks like, then I’m all in! I can’t take my eyes off the hints of a black lace bra through the white silk of her shirt, and as she takes my hand into hers softly, her heavy breasts sway and threatened to escape.
She laughs lightly, “Please take a seat, Quinn. Can I get you anything? Maybe bourbon? Jonathon has a grand collection on the table here.”
If there was ever a time for bourbon this is it, I think as I follow her wave towards the table near the window. After glancing through the array, I pour a fifty year old double shot into a crystal highball glass, plop in a few cubes of ice and slam the entire thing.
“Won’t you have a seat?”
“That’s probably a good idea,” I mumble as I move towards the chair across from her. She’s perched on the sofa now, blinding me with thighs that don’t seem to want to stop. “If you’ll excuse me for saying so, Miss Devereux, I’m not completely sure that I’m the man for this job. I honestly don’t know how well I’ll be able to concentrate on what you’re telling me.” My eyes take license to scan her chest and crossed legs.
She pours herself a cup of coffee from the tray on the low table in front of us, “That’s quite sweet of you, Quinn. And from such a handsome man that’s a true compliment. I take it that your sex life isn’t what you’d like for it to be?”
“How’s that?” I pause at her question as I remove my new laptop from my case.
“Well…” she drawls her words, “excuse me for saying, but your cock told me.”
Quickly I put my laptop across my thighs and blush like a teenager during spin the bottle. “I suppose this is a test of my prudence?” Possibly not a good tactic, but I use it anyway.
Ellen glances at me cloyingly, “Wrong Quinn. It’s a test of your honesty. If I’m to tell you my life story, which I have no doubt you will write and profit from greatly, then I expect us to be friends. I need to be sure that you write what I tell you and nothing else. Not your own opinions of my life, or some twisted besmirchment of my reputation as a writer. Are we clear?”
I nod, fully reprimanded. I should’ve known better than to show up for this gun fight with a knife. “Yes ma’am. And to answer your question, I admit that my sex life leaves something to be desired.”
She smiles sweetly, “Do you love your wife?”
That’s one question I have no problem answering directly, “I love my wife more than anything.”
“I see. So the problem with your sex life is because of…?”
I lean back into the thick chair and look across at her. She’s the reason. That woman sitting directly across from me with her legs so daintily, yet sensually posed that I can’t concentrate. If my wife would dress like her, sit like her, control her surroundings like her… well then I wouldn’t be able to keep my hands off her. No refusal she could possibly make would steer me away. But I know the real reason. “The problem is all mine,” I confess.
“Oh?” She seems honestly curious as she sips her coffee silently through deep pink lips.
“I think I learned to take no for an answer far too many times. When the kids were young, she was occupied with baseball games and ballet lessons, so I got it that she didn’t feel like making love. But the kids have been gone for a while now, and it’s like she never quite snapped out of that phase.” It’s probably more honest than I’d planned to be at a job interview.
But her demeanor changes hastily and she leans forward, and yes I am sure her breasts are going to come spilling out of that bra at any second. She stares into my eyes as though she’s reading me. I’m sure I’m getting ready to get a lecture on marriage… from a woman who’s never been married I duly note. Suddenly she straightens, “But now we’re not here to talk about you, now are we Quinn?”
I shake my head, reminded of the task. “No ma’am, we are not.”
With a chuckle she leans back and resumes her former position, “First, I’d like to let you know that I won’t always be here to distract you. Jonathon will be holding some of these meetings with you as well.”
“It would be great to have his view!” I grin, taking her comment to mean that I’d gotten the job. In all honesty, I’d hoped that the mega-millions shipping company owner Jonathon Galloway would join us. He’s just as fascinating to me as Ellen herself. The fact that they’d been together all these many years and had never married was only part of what made them interesting.
“Wonderful,” she drawls. “Then get out your recorder and typewriter and let’s get going on this project!”
I shuffle through organizing my surroundings, with my recorder balancing on the arm rest I ask, “Ms. Devereux, can you tell me about The Tramp Stamp Club please?”
“Now how did I know that would be your first question?”
I glance up, “Because you are the literary genius of our time, ma’am.”
“Beware Mr. Carmichael, flattery will get you everywhere in this house!” and she laughs with an evil tone that I’m really not sure how to interpret.
And oh how I want to flatter her… but I have to keep my mind on task here! “I’ll keep that in mind, Ms. Devereux.”
“I’m sure you will,” she taunts flirtatiously. “But before you can understand what the Tramp Stamp Club is today, you will need to know where it came from. Isn’t that our way, Mr. Carmichael? We Southern women simply must have our history.” It’s a statement, not a question, and for the most part totally correct. I jot it down.
I look up from my notes and I am again captured by her beauty. It seems to reek from every pore as if there’s some inner secret she’s dying to tell. “Yes ma’am, I suppose so. I’d love to hear the story straight from the beginning. Is that a good place for us to start?”
She sips her coffee and smiles, “So you want to know how we got to the point that the Governor’s wife feels comfortable walking around naked in front of you?”
I shake my head a bit too fervently, “I really do want to know!”
*-*-*-*-*
As told by Ellen Devereux, 1972
From my crib in our island house, I’d count the soldiers on my tiny fingers as they ‘visited’ Evangeline after dance nights. I’m deftly aware of what it takes to ‘land’ a man. Don’t get me wrong, I’m th
e last one to criticize my step-mother for straying from her marriage vows. On the contrary, I despised my father as much as she did, and hoped he’d rot in hell for banishing us all to solitude on the island. Popping in on weekends throughout my childhood to issue orders and make corrections does not constitute a father.
But today was a bright fall day in Charleston, and I was standing in the small cemetery behind St. Michael’s gazing at my father’s handcrafted mahogany casket being lowered into the ground. Evangeline was weeping respectfully, as every widow should. I wrapped my arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. I’m not the only one there who understood that Evangeline was weeping from relief, but I’m the only one as glad to see Horace Devereux finally put in the ground.
“Ssh, Momma. It’s over now,” I whispered in her ear.
She clasped my hand tightly, “Yes my darling, it’s over. But where do I go now? I won’t go back to that island, ever!” Her deeply painted lips pursed with disgust and years of banishment barely concealed her hatred.
As a striving young reporter, I’d already researched father’s wealth, and knew exactly how it was to be divided. Evangeline would be given the downtown home, and for once the woman would live in the comforts she deserved. It’s a testament to faulty thinking that only after his death could his wife assume her rightful place in the family. I was given the island home and a trust fund, both of which I planned on using immediately. My brothers would take over the shipping company, and my prissy perfect sister was being provided with a vast wealth that surpassed anything her husband Alan would ever inherit from his own family. Yes, Father had finally done something of use for his family: he died.
The downtown Devereux home was crowded when I pulled up; its vast edifice still intimidates me to this day. The Georgian structure had survived several hurricanes, earthquakes, numerous fires, and yet it must survive yet another generation amongst Charleston’s row of Battery monstrosities. Much like Evangeline herself, the home had finally been given reprieve; I could almost feel it’s readiness to move forward. It was exactly as it’d been the day Christina Devereux, my mother, had succumbed to small pox, and Horace had kept this crypt away from his children and his second wife so that the memory of his beloved would never tarnish. Mourners were already filling the hallways and living room with tiny plates of shrimp and biscuits balanced in their paws. I chuckled to think that Father would never have stood for such calamity in his ‘Christina’ tomb.
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