by Amy Conner
We sat down at our table in the crowded, bustling deli. My mother took off her mink and gloves. I shrugged out of my coat and braced myself. Sure enough, after she took a sip of coffee, my mother put her cup down in its saucer and said, “I’ve noticed you’ve lost some weight, Annie.”
I squirmed uncomfortably in my chair, rearranging sugar packets in their dispenser, before I muttered, “It was about time, don’t you think? I mean, before I looked like a white Sears side-by-side in my dress.”
My mother raised one eyebrow. “Surely not. You’d gained a little weight since you went to Ole Miss, but that’s normal. A lot of girls do that.”
The sugar packets were well sorted by now, so I finally had to look her in the face. “I was sick of it,” I said. “Besides, it’s only a couple of pounds.”
“It looks like more than a couple, honey,” she said gently. “Annie, you’re smoking a lot. Your clothes are hanging on you. I’ve noticed you’re not eating your dinner, and Methyl Ivory says you don’t have breakfast or lunch anymore. You can’t live on black coffee and cigarettes.” She reached across the table and put her hand on mine. “Your father’s concerned, too.”
I sighed a long-suffering sigh. “Look—I never wanted to do this debut anyway, but you and Grandmother Banks ganged up on me. So if I’ve got to be a deb, at least I’m not going to look like, like some, some . . . refrigerator in front of half of Jackson. I’m just dieting. Don’t worry. I’ve got it all under control, okay?”
She didn’t look convinced, but let the subject drop. I was extremely grateful. My hand shook as I picked up my own cup. It had occurred to me that all the coffee I was drinking was probably contributing to my jitters, but I needed the caffeine almost as much as I needed the cigarettes: coffee and nicotine were almost the only materials my body had to work with.
Late Saturday afternoon, a day dry and warm for December, I’d already been to my mother’s hairdresser, Lily, that morning for a shampoo and set. I’d insisted that my long, thick blond hair be piled high in a chignon because I was convinced that wearing it up would make me look taller and thinner. My shellacked hair felt heavy and unnatural on top of my head, but thanks to all the hairpins Lily had jammed into my chignon, at least I wasn’t worried about it falling apart. My mother’s pearls around my neck, my makeup applied, the dress hanging on the door of my closet in a long snowfall of purest white—for the next two hours all I had to do was hang around in my panty hose, robe, and underwear until it was time to put on the dress and go.
I couldn’t sit still but paced between my bed and the window, smoking and looking down into the backyard, where Du and my daddy were sitting in lawn chairs, drinking beer and talking football. At least that seemed to be going well, thank goodness. My mother hadn’t yet returned from her own appointment with Lily, and even Methyl Ivory had left to go home. My nerves shrieked for action, but there was nothing to do but wait. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore: I went into my parents’ bathroom to weigh myself again.
Glory be, I’d done it. I’d lost ten pounds in eight days! Practically fizzing with glee, I opened my bathrobe to look in the full-length mirror and marveled at the delicate hollow between my prominent hip bones, the frank spareness of my ribs. My newly slender neck seemed like a flower stalk, only just able to hold up the crown of my hair.
I came back to earth with a thud, stricken again with the gnawing certainty that, ten lost pounds or not, I was sure to make a mess of tonight, that I’d do something awful, embarrass my parents and send Grandmother Banks rocketing into the stratosphere in her wheelchair, jet-propelled on I-told-you-sos. In an unexpected blessing, though, the old dragon wasn’t going to be able to attend tonight, being still laid up with shingles, so whatever I did, it wasn’t going to be in front of her at least.
My eye caught my flushed reflection in the wavy old mirror of the white-painted medicine cabinet. Desperate for a little relief from constant anxiety, I opened the door to see if the pharmaceutical rep-fairy had left a present there for me. A blister packet of something called Librium lay on the glass shelf, next to a bottle of the Seconal my mother took for her insomnia.
Librium. The name recalled equilibrium, a state I would do anything to achieve right now. I dropped the two capsules in their sample pack in my robe’s pocket and went downstairs to get something to drink. Popping one of the pills free, I washed it down with a cup of lukewarm coffee while standing over the sink. Fifteen minutes later I felt calm enough to head out in the backyard in my robe and slippers, to sit down with Daddy and my boyfriend. Their conversation had moved on to the topic of where Du was going after he graduated this spring. He’d been accepted to Ole Miss law, but he wanted to see if he could make it in the NFL. Daddy thought law school was the better choice, and Du was politely listening. He looked so handsome, and Daddy seemed to like him well enough. That was one less thing to fret about, and maybe now I could relax. Maybe even my mother would quit worrying about me, now that I had such an indisputably suitable boyfriend.
My aimless thoughts drifted to the deepening evening sky overhead, the clean, green smell of the pine trees. A pair of crows had built their nest high in the branches of the live oak, and they were returning home with desultory, welcoming noises. I was so grateful for the sweet sense of chemically induced peace stealing through my body that my eyes closed, the heavy weight of my chignon resting against the back of the lawn chair. Du and Daddy went inside to shower and change into their tuxedos. I could’ve fallen asleep then, but after some time—how long, I don’t know, time had lost its terrible urgency—my mother came down the steps into the backyard with a plate in her hand.
“Here,” she said, holding the plate out to me. “Eat this.” Her green eyes were steady on mine. I looked at the inoffensive pimento cheese sandwich with misgiving. “You need something on your stomach, Annie Banks. It’s going to be a long night.” I could tell she wasn’t about to go away until she’d seen me eat it, so I took the plate and somehow choked the sandwich down, every last bite.
And then it was finally time to get dressed. I could have sworn I saw the outline of that pimento cheese sandwich lurking under the taut silk across my stomach. Panic rose again, so before I left my room to go downstairs, I palmed the second Librium from the sample pack and dry-swallowed it, just to be sure. Everybody loaded up in my mother’s new Lincoln, and after the dreamlike drive out to the country club, I was feeling so outstandingly mellow that when we got out of the car and Du grabbed my hand, I sailed along behind him like a kite on the end of a string as he led me toward the corner of the parking lot by the overgrown gardenia bushes.
“Go on.” I gaily motioned to my parents. “We’ll meet you inside.” My mother paused, looking at us, and for a moment it seemed she was going to follow Du and me to the outskirts of the parking lot. “Seriously!” I called. “Y’all go get some champagne and we’ll be right along.” With a wave, my father took my mother’s hand then and they turned up the sidewalk to the front doors of the country club, the covered breezeway lit with tiki torches and lumieres in paper bags.
When they were out of sight, Du said, “Here, baby. I tole you I’d take care of you. Have some of this.” He took a pint bottle out of his coat pocket and put it in my gloved hand. “Take you a few swigs of Ol’ Granddad, and he’ll settle you right down.” I looked at the flask dubiously, wondering if I ought to be putting bourbon on top of pimento cheese and Librium, but decided it couldn’t hurt. I screwed off the cap on the bottle, lifted it to my lips, and took a big swallow. Cheap bourbon cascaded in a harsh burn down my throat and ignited like a frat-party bonfire in my stomach.
“Whoa,” I coughed. “You got a hankie?” I needed to wipe my mouth and didn’t want to ruin my gloves. Elbow-length white kidskin fastened with twelve pearl buttons, they were emblematic deb wear. I could only imagine my grandmother’s reaction if she heard I’d gotten lipstick on them.
“Here.” Du gave me his pocket square, and I dabbed at my lips. “Take one mor
e, baby,” he said encouragingly. I tipped back my head and took another gulp, then another. In my stomach, the bourbon seemed to be having a one-sided discussion with the pimento cheese sandwich already in residence. It felt like the bourbon was getting its point across just fine, so I had one more pull on the pint bottle before I handed it back to Du.
“Thanksh, honey,” I said. My mouth felt numb. I took Du’s arm. “Thanksh. I’m glad you’re here.”
“Aw, Annie,” Du said. “I wouldn’t a missed this for the world. I’m afraid to touch you, you’re so pretty.”
I rested my forehead on his black wool shoulder. “Y’mean it, Du?” I was slurring my words, but only a little.
“A ’course I do,” he said, putting the pint bottle back in his pocket. “Those other girls give you a hard time, but you’re gonna be the best-looking gal in the place. Bet on it.” I felt a surge of accomplishment: maybe all this would turn out to have been worth it if Du felt that way about me. We were walking toward the entrance to the country club now. My feet hurt, and I had to be extra careful in my four-and-a-half-inch heels, but Du’s arm and the bourbon and the Librium held me up admirably.
Inside the lobby, I blearily patted Du on the cheek. “I’ll shee you later, after the dancing starts.”
“Where you going?” he asked. “Need me to come, too?”
Touched at this evidence of Du’s devotion, I smiled. “I’m off to the ladies’ room for a lipshtick check. G’on, now—get yourself a glass of champagne.” With a lighthearted wave, I listed down the wide, dimly lit hallway, not really lurching at all, but when I pushed open the door to the ladies’, I almost ran into Julie Posey in that aircraft carrier of a dress. She was just leaving, followed by Lisa Treeby wearing what looked like her mother’s yellow-tinged wedding gown, a big lace flounce obviously added to its hem so her dress would hang all the way to the floor. This recycling was a sign that Mr. Treeby’s legendary cheapness must have triumphed as usual.
“Watch out, Annie!” Julie snapped, glaring. She paused in the doorway, looking me up and down in the bathroom’s bright lights. She didn’t mention the fact that I was remarkably thinner, that my dress now fell in a smooth line from waist to floor, that I had rendered her services as Diet Buddy obsolete.
She didn’t have to say anything because Lisa did. “Oooh, Annie!” she exclaimed. “That dress is just, just beautiful on you.” Good ol’ Lisa—we weren’t ever particularly close, but she had always been nice to me. Julie sniffed, swept up her skirts, and left the ladies’ room like a galleon under full sail without another word.
“Thanksh, Lisa,” I said, and burped. The smell of bourbon on my breath was strong, even to me. I reddened ever so slightly, but the Librium carried the day and I managed to say, “You look wonnerful. I love your hair.” Poor Lisa’s hair was woolly as a sheep’s. She’d tried to corral it in a lace snood and had stuck some big old rosebuds behind her ears. “Did you do it yourshelf?”
Lisa’s smile was as wide as if she’d won first prize at the 4-H show. “Yes,” she replied. “You really like it?” Self-consciously she touched her hair and a rosebud fell out from behind her ear and onto the floor.
I bent down to pick it up for her, and it was only then I realized that leaning over or any other move involving reaching downward was going to be a very bad idea. Still, I managed to grab the rosebud before I toppled over onto the bathroom’s marble tiles.
“Here.” Straightening, I held it out to her on the palm of my glove, feeling foolish.
“Thanks!” Lisa flashed me another smile, returning the rosebud to behind her ear. “I better go,” she said. “It’s almost time.” Damned if Lisa didn’t sound thrilled with anticipation. I almost envied her but decided to be happy for her instead. Good ol’ Lisa. I checked my makeup in the mirror one last time. Good to go, Houston. Rocket ship Annie left the launch pad and began burning through the atmosphere of the country club in a wobbly trajectory toward the ballroom.
It all went pretty well until I had to descend the steps for the promenade.
I’d managed to present myself as they announced my name like a contestant in some bizarre game show, even managed to curtsy and not fall over in a heap. Flashbulbs popped in a galaxy of blinding light. Daddy met me on the stage, and I laid my gloved left hand on his arm with an exquisite relief. This ordeal was almost over and I hadn’t outraged or embarrassed anyone yet. Clutching my bouquet of white roses and baby’s breath in my right hand, I remembered to lift the skirt of my dress so I wouldn’t trip over it and took the first step down the little stairs in front of the stage. My daddy patted my hand on his arm.
“You okay, honey?” he asked me under his breath. I couldn’t answer because the next step was coming up, my heels were wobbling like pine trees in a high wind, and I needed to concentrate. Clutching his arm now, I prayed that I could navigate the next two steps without incident, so intent on staying on those damned heels that I never even saw the rosebud underfoot until it was too late.
I stepped squarely on it, and my ankle turned with a twist of agony that shot right up through my leg into my spine. Daddy caught me as I missed the last step, and to everyone else it might have looked as though we were just sharing a quick hug before we made the circuit of Jackson’s biggest ballroom. If it hadn’t been for Daddy, I would have fallen. If it hadn’t been for his steady arm, I could never have made it around the circuit of that throng of clapping, champagne-guzzling strangers.
But if it hadn’t been for catching a glimpse of my mother’s face—so proud, so very proud of me—I couldn’t have done it without limping like a three-legged horse. For her, I gritted my teeth in a rictus of a smile and stayed on that ankle until we finally got back to the stage.
Racehorses who run even when they’re hurting are said to be “game.” Well, I guess I was only half-game that evening because while I was standing on one foot up there on the stage, waiting for the other girls to make their own debuts, I could lean on Daddy’s arm and tell myself that I’d pulled it off. But halfway through the presentations, I felt a delicate sheen of perspiration break on my upper lip while a strong message issued from my stomach from the pimento cheese sandwich, which had apparently won out over the bourbon and Librium. Thank goodness I was on the far end of the stage.
“Be right back,” I managed to gasp to Daddy before I slipped off into the wings, elbowing my way through the last half of 1975’s crop of debs. Bracing myself on the wall, I hobbled pell-mell down the long hallway to the bathroom. I almost made it to the toilet, but Julie Posey was coming out as I was going in, and while I didn’t precisely ruin her dress, an orange-ish portion of bourbon and that pimento cheese sandwich splashed on the hem. My own dress I missed completely. As I staggered past her into the bathroom stall to finish the miserable business of throwing up, I could hear Julie outside the door, shrieking that I had destroyed her debut.
I, on the other hand, now felt much better, so much better in fact that after I’d sponged my face with a damp paper towel and rinsed out my mouth, I decided that it was time to go out and enjoy the rest of the Snow Ball. Dancing was likely going to be out of the question—my ankle still felt like it was broken and was about to fall off—but after all, I did look fabulous.
And it seemed dancing wasn’t entirely out of the question. My daddy, looking relieved, claimed me as soon as I limped into the noise and big-band music of the ballroom. We were able to have an abbreviated, careful dance together along with all the other debs and dads.
“Nerves got your stomach going?” he asked me. I nodded vigorously because it was better than the truth. Then, with a hug, Daddy handed me off to Du so he could go dance with my mother. From across the ballroom her eyes asked me if I was all right. I gave her a thumbs-up and an exaggerated wink. I didn’t want to get too close, not wanting to spoil her triumph with even a whiff of whiskey on my breath. She and Daddy looked so perfect together—she in her long apple-green velvet and diamonds, he in his white tie and tails—as they swung
into the dance with the grace of long years as partners. I think the band was playing “Pretty Baby.” Du basically held me up in his linebacker arms, my weight entirely on my left foot, my right one dangling in its four-and-a-half-inch heel as we swayed in place to the music.
“Gonna marry you, Duane Sizemore,” I mumbled into the front of Du’s tux. If I could pull this night off, I could do anything in the world I had to do.
“Say what, baby?” Du looked down at me, his big, handsome face smiling.
I tipped my head back to look him in the eye. “I said,” I enunciated carefully, “I am going to marry you.”
Du laughed, but that laugh sounded perplexed. “Hon, I haven’t asked you yet,” he said.
“You will.” In that moment, I was sure of it. And rocking in his arms in the darkness, under the fractured reflections of the mirror ball, in the midst of a thousand perspiring people smelling of warm wool tuxedos, mothballs, and too much perfume, I could see it all. The next white dress, my ten sorority-sister bridesmaids, Libby Suggs catching my bouquet, a shower of rice and a honeymoon in Mexico, my mother relieved and vindicated at last in her heretofore doomed quest to see me doing what everybody else was doing for a change. I could see it all, that promise—high, wide, and handsome.
Thin, married, and safe.
CHAPTER 13
“Wow—that’s a first.”
His forehead pressed to mine, Ted’s low-voiced comment is shaky, and it’s in that instant I realize what a terrible thing I’ve just done. I stiffen in his arms, and immediately he lets go of me as if I’m radioactive. I’m only just able to stay upright in the aftershock. I stagger backward away from him, reaching for the relative safety of the cinder block wall.