by John Warley
“Sandy, somebody probably made that same statement in the 1890’s, and for all we know in the 1790’s, but it’s still with us.”
“Charlotte and I have argued about this. Charlotte does not support changes.”
“Really?”
“I love her dearly but sometimes she can be a tad narrow-minded. Between you and me, and if you tell her I said it I’ll never speak to you again, I don’t think Charlotte would support an exception, whether it was Lafayette or Jesus Christ. She’s just that way.”
“But you would? You’d agree if it were fair.”
“Certainly I would. Do you doubt it?”
Yes, Sandy, I think while walking back to the office, I doubt it, but don’t take it personally. Generic uncertainty beclouds your entire group. Reading you is difficult. I think you voted nay last time, but with conscience. Philosophical disagreement with Charlotte Hines, on the other hand, is cause for optimism. Perhaps you have more backbone than I suspect.
Harris enters the office within minutes of my return. He reports on a meeting with Carlton Middleton, our patron saint in the city attorney’s office.
“Cathcart refuses to die,” he says, puffing his cheeks in a gesture that signals something between bewilderment and disbelief. On the few occasions I have accompanied him on duck hunts, a missed shot caused the same reaction. “He lowered his fees; partners, associates, paralegals—they’re all willing to work for ten percent less. The city figures it can save between $150,000 and $200,000.”
“Can we match it?”
“Camilla’s running a spread sheet now. Let me see if it’s ready.” He springs up and out the door.
I like Joe Cathcart, along with most of the people in his firm. But I can’t shake the idea that the council’s deferral of the vote transfused hope into their expiring chances for the contract. Harris returns with a computer printout. For the next forty-five minutes, we sit together perusing numbers and assumptions. We can match Cathcart’s reduction, and Harris is on the phone to Middleton as I leave to visit Clarkson Mills.
He lives in a spacious house on Lenwood Boulevard, the house I saved. His wife Rosemary, a timid, apologetic woman despite a sturdy frame, answers the door. She leads me through the house, appointed top to bottom with stock in trade from Mills Brothers Furniture. His brother committed suicide years ago. Clarkson spies us as we step onto the patio.
“Come in the house!” he says when he sees me. This makes no sense in that we have just left the house and he is himself outside but the greeting is habitual. We shake hands as Rosemary excuses herself to “attend to supper.”
“You’re just in time, Lawyer Carter. See those wasp nests?” He points to the eaves under the second floor some twelve feet off the ground. “We barbecue out here in the summer and they pester us to death. I’m just about to send them up to that great barbecue in the sky.”
He is dressed in work clothes topped with an Atlanta Braves cap. At his feet, a plastic container of gasoline rests beside an aluminum extension pole for a paint roller. As I look on he attaches an old rag to the end of the pole by means of fine wire, a jury-rigged torch long enough to reach the nests.
“Should I alert to fire department?” I ask.
“Nope, but you can hold that pole steady while I pour the gas.” As I hold, he douses generous quantities from the two gallon container. Fumes engulf us. He fishes in his pocket for a lighter as I consider the odds of abetting the destruction of the house I once fought to preserve. He fires the rag and takes the pole from my hands, trusting it upward. “You allergic to bee stings?” he asks.
“I’m not fond of them,” I reply, backing away as homeless wasps angrily circle their charred domains.
Rosemary serves iced tea ten minutes later as we sit at the patio table. There is small talk of interest rates and the presidential race. I am about to broach my reason for coming when Clarkson says, “I feel mighty damn bad about your daughter. That’s a tough bunch. I wish I could have done more to help. I haven’t forgotten what you did for Rosemary and me during that awful time.”
I ask him whether he has heard of the Lafayette exemption. When he shakes his head I repeat the litany I went through with Sandy. He listens impassively.
“I couldn’t have told you about Lafayette,” he says, “but it stands to reason that there have been exceptions made. You know as sure as we’re sitting here that before the St. Simeon got to be such a hotsy-totsy big deal they must have let scores of non-members into the Ball. It’s just common sense. In fact, I made that very argument to the Board that night. I had no proof, but I felt I owed it to you to come up with something.”
I sip my tea, appraising him across the table. So he went to bat for me that night; a good news, bad news revelation. Loyalty still counts, and that is good. But my five-to-two theory is thrown into doubt. With his vote, I had three and Adelle’s hunch of wider support gains weight. Suspicions of Margarite resurface before I banish them to concentrate on what Clarkson is saying.
“I spoke with a couple of the real hard-liners after the meeting broke up. I guess you heard we were there until after eleven. Anyway, these women refused to concede there had ever been exceptions made so I’m glad you’ve come up with the proof.”
“Do you think such proof could cause them to reevaluate their positions if it came up again?” I couple my question with an explanation of the letter to Korea.
He leans back with his hands clasped behind his head. “Hard to say. With a couple of them you’re flogging a dead horse. The others … ?”
Adelle’s theory takes a hit or Clarkson is being too casual with his plurals. If “a couple” is two, as it always is, and if by “others” he truly means more than one, then at least four people opposed me and Margarite’s report of the results stands unblemished. The line-up had to be: Margarite, Adelle, and Clarkson for; Doc Francis, Sandy, Charlotte, and Jeanette against.
“Clarkson, you referred to what I did for you and Rosemary. At the risk of sounding like I’m calling in a chit, I need your help.”
“Just name it.”
“The way I’ve got this thing figured, I’ll need one more vote if the committee reconsiders. If you could help on the inside with those others you mentioned, it might make the difference.”
“I’ll do it. You tell me what to say and I’ll say it.”
“I can’t until I hear from Korea. Frankly, I’m not optimistic there. But I just came from Sandy’s, and if I’m reading her correctly she’s had some second thoughts about this whole issue. If, and I stress if because I don’t know, she voted no last time, she might switch, given the chance.”
“Sounds plausible,” he says with I quick glance back to the blackened wasp nests. “Well, let me know.”
I return to the office buoyed by his promise. Unless a prisoner of self-deception, I have made strides today. How else to read Sandy’s disagreement with Charlotte over the future of the Society and her insistence on fairness? What other conclusion to reach in Clarkson’s advocacy before the vote and willingness to lobby fence-sitters?
Throughout the day, thoughts of Natalie have intruded into my most concentrating moments. While walking, my mind drifts in a fresh nostalgia, enhanced by the springtime unfolding around me. The swiftness of our ascension from business associates, kindly put, to potential lovers confounds me. When I left her in the chill of her doorway, there was no talk of future but intense gratification in the moment.
32
On Sunday Allie and I attend St. Philip’s. I scan the crowd as we stand, kneel, and sit, the mechanical rosary of the Episcopal Church. St. Simeons are everywhere. Margarite and John are here, regal in their perfectly pitched piety. Sandy and Edgar Charles slipped in moments after the service began. Clarkson Mills is absent, but I see Rosemary among the crowd up front.
Adelle is also present, a reminder of unresolved tension. I owe her nothing, as I have reiterated internally time and again since my evening with Natalie. Still, I brood. Was there some implie
d fidelity? Had I bound myself to her at some level of commitment violated by foreplay with Natalie? That sounds prudish for a reason: I am a prude.
My veneration of fidelity among competing virtues could, I am sure, be explained by time and psychotherapy. A harbored need for precision movement in the mainspring of my being will not abide the rust and corrosion of guilt from violated loyalties. Yet I felt not a pang of remorse while with Natalie. Amazing to me, I did not once think of Adelle during the entire evening, and what that says about the future of our relationship seems too obvious, regardless of Natalie. Telling Adelle will be uncomfortable, not to mention the potential for changing the tally on the committee. Would I keep her close just to keep her vote?
As we exit, we are approached by Doc Francis, whom I did not notice inside. He looks serious, and sad. He speaks first to Allie. His nasal brogue is distinct.
“Young lady,” he says, pumping her hand with both of his, “I haven’t seen you in a couple of years. You’ve grown up. Good luck up there at Princeton.”
“Thank you, sir,” she says. I cannot remember if she is aware of his membership on the Board.
He turns to me as Allie walks ahead. “I’ve had something on my conscience for a few weeks now and I need to clear it.” His infamous halitosis is at full strength but I ignore it. “As you know, your daddy deprived me of one of life’s pleasures when he defeated me for the presidency of the St. Simeon.” I am about to respond but he charges on. “What you may not know is that I lost a brother in Korea. 1952. So you see, your pitch to the Board opened a couple of old wounds for me.” He pauses and glares directly at me. “Just to make it official, I voted against that young lady back then. I’m ashamed to admit it now, but it’s true and I wanted you to hear it from me. I apologize.”
“I accept your apology, for myself and for her.”
“Good. Maybe for your daddy too if it’s not asking too much. Those fool friends of mine in St. Simeon nominated me and I couldn’t back down. I knew I’d lose but when it happened I got my feelings hurt. I wanted to resign but my wife talked me out of it. Anyway, I’m sorry I didn’t wake up in time to tell him to his face. And I’m sorry I took it out on you and your daughter.”
“He’d understand,” I assure him. “And as for Allie, you may get a chance to redeem yourself shortly. Keep your powder dry, as they say.”
“I’ll do that.”
I run by the office, then home. Allie has invited Christopher over, Adelle is there, and Steven arrives just after I do. In no time, Adelle has whipped up an impromptu lunch from what I thought was an empty refrigerator. She’s standing at the counter when I enter the kitchen.
“Thanks for handling things,” I say. “You’re good at this.”
She smiles and nods acknowledgment. “I saw you and Dr. Francis chatting at church.”
“The strangest conversation. He fessed up to voting against Allie and wants to bury the hatchet. I had no idea he lost a brother in Korea. Ouch.”
“Can you beat that?” she says.
“I nearly passed out. If Dad wasn’t already gone, the shock of Doc Francis apologizing would have sent him. He all but said he’d change his vote if we can get it reconsidered by the Board.”
She slides a hot tray from the oven. “Let me put these rolls on. Then, we need to talk about something.” She backs through the swinging door as I wonder what’s on her mind. Natalie? Seconds later she returns. “What do you know about Florida?” she asks sternly.
“Well, it’s south of here, shaped kind of like—”
“This is serious. The trip the kids are planning. Are you aware of it?”
“No. Are they going to Florida?”
“So Allie hasn’t mentioned it?”
“Not a word.”
She sighs. “Chris told me last week that he, Robert, and Chad are driving to Florida with Allie, Jenny, and Melissa for spring break and I don’t think it’s appropriate.”
“Why?”
“Why?” she asks impatiently. “For openers, the roads are dangerous with all the college kids in God knows what state of sobriety. And you read about so much crime in Florida.”
“Is that your concern?”
“Some of it, yes.”
“And the rest?”
“Think about it. Chris and Allie are together all the time and now they want to go to Florida. I don’t know if there’s anything between Robert and Melissa but Chad and Jenny have been hot and heavy for over two years. I can just picture what will go on.”
“I could be wrong,” I say, “but I remember something about Chris going to Florida last spring. Allie said a group from her class went down to … was it Sanibel?”
“That’s hardly the same thing. Those kids were all friends having fun. This is much different.”
“Because he and Allie are so serious.”
“Don’t you think they are?”
“I don’t know, Adelle. It’s their business as far as I’m concerned. I trust my daughter and I’m beginning to think I trust your son more than you do.”
“Then you are very naive. I would appreciate it if you would back me up on this. I’ve told Chris he can’t go and if you tell Allie the same thing it will be easier on everyone.”
“I have no intention of telling her that.”
Her gaze is cold, disbelieving. She turns and strides to the swinging door. Moments later, Allie enters.
“What’s Adelle in a huff about?” she asks.
“Florida.”
“Chris said she nixed his going. I was going to talk to you about it.”
“Ok, we’ve talked. If you want to go, you have my permission.”
“Dad, can I tell you something?”
“Sure, sweetheart.”
“I don’t think Adelle likes me.”
33
On the following morning, Charlotte Hines, her Royal Ampleness, is not at home. A velvet-voice servant predicts her return around noon. I leave neither name nor message. At Carter & Deas, the morning passes swiftly. At one, I return to Charlotte’s, on foot. Dropping in on her is crass but time is short and the odds are long. The first question out of the butler’s mouth is whether she’s expecting me.
“What a pleasant surprise!” she says as she enters the living room where the butler has me parked. The sight of her bearing down in her outsized muumuu is not unlike watching a painted boulder roll downhill. I rise to meet her. Later, to her friends, she will casually mention the international phone call she had to end prematurely to see me; or the gala she was in the middle of planning when I presented myself “out of thin air.”
“How distressed I was to hear of Michael Foland’s passing,” she says, settling into a large chair just wide enough to hold her. This is a classic Charlotte opening. Foland, a member of the church I barely knew, died the week before. Why she has selected this subject for conversation is unknown. “How is Diane holding up? I must call her.”
“Who is Diane?” I ask.
“His wife.”
“I didn’t know he was married.”
“They divorced years ago,” she says, as if this information is properly classified as Charleston 101. “I had every intention of going to the funeral,” she tells me as she lights a cigarette. I wait expectantly but she offers no explanation. “Don’t you think,” she says, and I brace for her first irrationality, “it is unfortunate the way they bury people in that annex across the street from St. Philip’s?”
The cemetery is divided by Church Street. “I’m not quite sure what you mean, Charlotte.”
“The whole point of being buried in a churchyard is proximity to the sanctuary. I was telling Bishop Burgoyne just recently that I thought there should be a moratorium on burials across the street.”
Charlotte is an inveterate name-dropper. The bishop has just fallen and before I leave she will mention the governor and at least one of South Carolina’s U.S. Senators. The bishop will be in select company.
“Well …,” I say, already sensi
ng the testiness she evokes in a remarkably short time, “they ran out of room in the old graveyard. Over a hundred and fifty years ago.”
She blows smoke toward the high ceiling. “Then they should be creative. That’s what religion is all about anyway, isn’t it? Creativity?”
“Of course,” I say, lost.
“It’s for that very reason, creativity, that Glen and I attend St. Michael’s.”
“I see,” I reply. “I guess I didn’t know how creative they are at St. Michael’s.”
“Oh, yes,” she says decisively. “Those lovely bells.”
With Charlotte, elaboration rarely leads to enlightenment, so I say nothing. She studies me for a moment, her eyes suddenly flaring in anticipation. “You’ll never guess what Fritz told me the other day.”
“Fritz” is Ernest Hollings, a U.S. Senator. The governor cannot be far behind. “I can’t guess.”
“The naval base is doomed.”
Vintage Charlotte. Her thunderbolt, authenticated by an intimate at the highest echelon, has dominated the front page of the Sentinel for over four years. When a budget-cutting panel of experts recommended closing a score of bases and military installations across the country, the Charleston Naval Base surfaced on the death list. The loss of this sprawling magnet for the bi-monthly filings of government largess has occasioned the greatest outcry here. The government team presiding over the closure has been in place for months. As news, her revelation is not unlike being told, in confidence, that the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor.
“Charlotte, it’s been my impression that the base closing was decided upon some time back.”
“That’s what they wanted us to believe. I happen to know of some top secret negotiations that have been held to save it. But Fritz reports to me that it can’t be done and I know exactly who to blame.”
“Who?” I ask dutifully.
“The environmentalists. Those Sierra Madre people. They’ve tried to gut this country’s defense system for years.”
I nod as some alternative to laughter. “Does Fritz blame the environmentalists?”