by Lisa Patton
“I love it,” she says, awkwardly, while applying her mascara. With every sweep of the wand, her mouth opens wider. She never turns to look directly at me; she just glances briefly at my reflection in the mirror above her vanity.
“Turn around,” Ellie says, scooting her back against mine. She slices one hand over both of our heads. “How tall are you?”
“Five two. What are you? Five three?”
She nods. “I’m the shrimp in my family. I take after my grandmother.”
Annie Laurie screws the brush of her mascara back inside the tube, places it on the mirrored top of her vanity amid the other makeup strewn about, and picks up the remote from the clutter. She points toward their TV and the music softens. Then she looks directly at me. “It really does look great on you, Cali.” A pause. “Do you have any sundresses?”
That punches my gut. I know I should say something snarky right back. But for some reason I can’t. So I simply say, “Yes, but Ellie wanted me to wear hers today.”
She smiles that smile again. The one I can’t decipher. Her cryptic look, clear as dishwater. “That’s really nice of you, Ellie.” She gets up and walks over to their “entertaining station,” as she calls it. There’s a bucket with ice poking out of the top, and a pair of silver tongs to the side. A plastic Sprite liter is next to it, along with two big bottles of Tropicana orange juice.
I watch her pour a good amount of what I know is vodka, hidden inside the Sprite liter, into a large Ole Miss plastic cup, top it off with OJ, then stir it around with her finger. After licking her finger, she takes a sip and turns to us. “Y’all ready for a screw?” Then she bursts into laughter and jukes in place underneath the new addition to their room—a hanging disco ball.
“Too early for me,” Ellie says with a forced giggle. “Do you want one, Cal?”
I shake my head. It’s the last thing I want right now.
With an exaggerated eye roll, Annie Laurie reaches for the remote again and bumps up the rap volume five more notches. She throws the remote onto the couch and proceeds to dance around the room holding her drink high in one hand and flicking and circling her wrist with the other.
“Come on, y’all,” she hollers and, after I exchange a green-light glance with Ellie, the two of us jump up and juke along with her. I know some pretty good moves from high school, but now, after living in Martin a few weeks, I’m, like, a pro. Ellie and I turn around and twerk our butts together, then laugh so hard we fall down onto their sofa. Dorm life is way more fun than I ever imagined.
“I still feel terrible about not asking Jasmine,” Ellie says, a bit out of breath. “She’s not upset, is she?” Ellie is literally yelling so I can hear her.
Shouting just as loud, I answer. “No, I swear. She and Carl have friends from Greenville who always tailgate in the Grove. Jasmine says they have this awesome flat-screen TV and no one ever wants to leave.”
“I’d never want to hurt her feelings.”
I shake my head emphatically. “Don’t worry. It’s all good.” We sit a few more seconds listening to Drake before a thought occurs to me. It’s hard to believe as a lifelong Mississippian, but it’s true. “I’ve only been to one Ole Miss game. My grandfather took my friend Rachel and me as a sweet-sixteen birthday present.”
Ellie is obviously surprised, but she reaches over and pats my cheek. “Then this game is long overdue.” She looks over at Annie Laurie. “Will you please turn it down a few notches? I’m going deaf.”
Annie Laurie obliges, then says, “I don’t think I’ve ever missed a game in my whole life.” She takes another big swig of her drink. “Daddy’s pilot flies us to all the away games.” Daddy’s pilot? Now I know I’m not in Blue Mountain anymore.
Kickoff is at three o’clock against the Wofford Terriers but Ellie thought we should be ready by twelve thirty. She said her parents had been invited to several tailgate parties in the Grove, including the Whitmores’, and we could tag along if we wanted. Ellie and I had discussed the warning about not going into the Grove before Rush, but we decided being with her parents was a safe way to go.
I glance at my phone. “Don’t you think we should get our showers? It’s ten thirty.”
“Probably so,” Ellie answers. “We’re supposed to meet my parents in front of the Lyceum at one.”
“Y’all are coming to our tailgate party, right?” Annie Laurie asks.
“Yes,” Ellie and I both say at the same time.
“We should all walk over together. Let’s say we leave here at noon.”
“Sweet. I’ll text my parents and tell them we’ll meet them there.” Ellie types the message out on her phone.
Standing up, I grab my PJs. “See y’all in a few.” As I head out the door, four other girls from our floor step inside.
“Shut the door,” Annie Laurie yells. “We don’t need the RA barging in here.”
TWENTY-THREE
MISS PEARL
The House is as quiet as falling snow when my alarm goes off at six, early on Saturday morning. Lord have mercy, it feels like I just slipped into this bed. The clock read three A.M. when my head finally hit the pillow last night. The last thing in the world I want to do right now is move out of this silky cocoon. So I lie in Mama Carla’s bed a little longer, running my hand along the top of her comforter, feeling the slickness of the silk against my fingers.
Suppose I woke up every morning swaddled up this way? What if I really was the House Director? I’d make a good salary. Have a beautiful place to live. Get my insurance paid for. As crazy as that seems, I can’t help but fantasize. Who wouldn’t? Just for the fun of it, I let my mind drift, imagine myself as Pearl Johnson, House Director of Alpha Delta Beta sorority. Before I know it, I’m replaying every detail of the night before. But this time I’m the House Director for real.
I stayed outside the apartment door like Mama Carla does early on Friday nights, watching the girls come and go, each of them dressed up and ready for the town. After supper, around ten o’clock, I returned, ready for them to come on home. Now I see why she does it. If one of the girls gets over-served and needs a hand finding her room, someone needs to steer her in the right direction.
Poor little Cara Moore, that baby didn’t know what day it was when she came stumbling through the door around midnight. Oliver, our security guard, told me she was all by herself when she walked up. When he passed her off to me her hair was hanging down in front of her face and she reeked of bourbon. I took her by the hand, led her straight upstairs, and tucked her safely in bed. I gave thought to her mama, living way down in Vicksburg, blissfully unaware of Cara’s ways. I certainly would appreciate it if someone did that for my daughter.
Bless his heart. I can’t believe Oliver ever came back for a second round. That poor man looks nothing like a security guard. He’s chunky, especially around the middle, and his pale pudgy face has ruby red cheeks with very little facial hair. From what I hear, the girls teased him unmercifully last weekend. He told his supervisor that one of them actually spanked him on the behind. Said another girl squeezed his cheeks and called him her baby, only she liked to rip the skin off. I know they didn’t mean anything by it. But all kinds of things can happen at that hour and I certainly didn’t want another repeat on my watch.
Around one o’clock in the morning, I found several of my babies milling around the kitchen looking for treats. Mama Carla would have told them to take their hineys and skedaddle right on out of there. But I couldn’t help myself. I did the opposite. Brought out all their favorites: chips, M&M’s, popcorn. I know what it’s like to get the late night munchies. I’m not dead yet.
When I roll over to get out of bed, my angry body is yelling at me to stay put. I have to force myself off the mattress and into the bathroom. After using the toilet, I wrap my head up in a shower cap to protect my weave. Looking around, I imagine for a moment this bathroom is mine. I run my hand across the pretty white tile, then feel the plush towels Mama Carla has hanging on the rack. Wha
t would it be like if I woke up here every morning?
After stepping inside the shower, feeling the water beat down on my back, I get to thinking about that ornery Kadeesha and how she’s taking over housekeeping today. Lord, I hope I don’t have to get on to her. I have a certain way of doing things, and I take pride in my work. Marinating on her nasty self only lasts another minute, though. Once I feel the hard pressure of this shower and enjoy how long the hot water lasts, I soon forget all about her and luxuriate in what I’m doing right now.
*
It’s seven A.M. by the time I make it into the kitchen. We don’t serve meals on the weekends, but Mama Carla always puts out a breakfast bar—bagels and cream cheese, sweet rolls, and fruit. Once that’s done, and I get the coffee made, I take a bagel and a coffee cup and mosey around the house like Mama Carla does, feeling like I’m queen for the weekend.
By chance, I happen to glance out the front window at the Chi Theta House and notice a car pull up. There’s a boy behind the wheel, and I watch him lean to the passenger side to kiss one of the girls. She steps out of the car barefoot, still in last night’s sundress, with shoes in her hand. She shuts the car door, then scurries up to the House. Pushes in her code and she’s gone.
Makes me think back to the last time I kissed a man. That was three years ago. I might be forty-four, but I am not deceased. I still want a man’s arms wrapped around me, feeling my bare skin, working his way down my neck. I’m not sure why, but today I feel more ready and alive than I have been in a long time. Auntie’s right. I do need a man.
Over the next few hours, pregame fever spreads all over the house. One of the alums brought over a cake—big enough to feed everybody—and put it in the dining room. It’s in the shape of our mascot, the black bear, holding a little terrier in a headlock. A win over the Wofford Terriers today is just about guaranteed. For some reason a sobering thought strikes me. As long as I’ve been working on this campus I’ve never once seen the inside of Vaught-Hemingway Stadium.
As the girls prance down the stairs they look like they’re stepping off the runway, wearing pretty sundresses, rompers, boots, and high heels. I try wearing heels but my feet get angry with me. So today I’m wearing a pair of flat gold sandals. Got my toes painted up Alpha Delt blue, like all the girls do theirs, and my fingernails, too.
I even dug out my favorite dress. Made sure it was clean and pressed up real nice. It’s pale yellow, with buttons running clear down the back. Buttons are only for show, hiding a long zipper, but no one can tell. Donnie, my ex-husband, used to say this dress fits my curves in all the right places without being too tight. It’s old, but nobody around here has ever seen it. Fee told me to be sure and wear my Mississippi pearl necklace. Pearl is the official jewel of Alpha Delta Beta.
*
I’m standing in the foyer, around noon, when I spot Miss Lilith hurrying through the front door. Her blond hair is pulled back in a high ponytail with a bump on top, like Barbie styles hers. The pale blue pantsuit she’s wearing is some kind of pretty and her earlobes are so sparkly I can see them from here. She never looks in my direction, just makes a beeline to the powder room.
A few minutes later, when she flies out, my body tightens. That’s not a smile on her face and the beeline she made into the powder room has changed course. Now she’s buzzing straight toward me. “Hello, Pearl,” she says, soon as she lights. “Don’t you look nice?” I watch her eyes travel all the way from my weave down to my big toe, with a brief stop at my necklace. Then she stares at my arm. For a moment I wonder if I’m bleeding or if there’s a spider on my arm, then I remember my tattoo.
“Thank you, Miss Lilith. You look nice yourself. I love your pantsuit and your earrings are gorgeous.” Lord. Now I’m gushing over her, too. Same as Mama Carla.
“Perhaps you are unaware … but the ladies’ room needs more toilet paper. Two of the three holders are empty and the trash cans are overflowing.” Her eyes have left mine and shifted over to Mama Carla’s apartment. “Pardon me,” she says, as she pushes past and raps on the door. “Carla, yoo-hoo.”
I turn to see the backside of her blue pantsuit as she disappears inside. Just walks right in Mama Carla’s apartment, uninvited. I consider stopping her, but she’s already gone.
Before I can blink, she’s right back out. “Where is Carla?”
“She had to leave town.”
“Oh?”
“Her daughter was in need and Mama Carla had to help her.” It is none of my business, and certainly not Miss Lilith’s, so I stop short of explaining the need.
Miss Lilith puts a hand over her heart, sucks in a pound of air. “Are you … who is her weekend replacement?”
I’ve been expecting this. “I am.” I don’t add an explanation. I simply let those two words soar out of my mouth, then float down and land softly, like a duck on a pond.
After a long pause she says, “Huh,” and stares at me as if I should give her an explanation. I resist. So awkwardness comes between us. Similar to that feeling you get when you call someone by the wrong name. “Have her call me, please. The minute she gets back.”
“I sure will.” I smile after I say it, but she never smiles back. The urge to explain jumps up again, but I swallow it right back down.
As she’s walking away she says something about being away from her Grove party too long. She gets all the way to the front door, and I think I’m in the clear, but she turns back around. At first it looks as if she’ll head my way again, but instead she rushes through the kitchen door.
By now, I have worked myself into a state. Between Miss Lilith’s reaction and being so ticked off at Kadeesha for skipping out on housekeeping duty, I want to kick a soccer ball, or hit a punching bag—anything that might relieve this angst.
Checking both the downstairs restrooms, ladies and gents, it gets worse. They look more like outside lavatories at an old nasty gas station, not powder rooms in a fine sorority house. Wastebaskets are overflowing with wadded up paper towels, holders are empty with no way to dry your hands. Soap dispensers are still okay, but there are black scuffmarks all over the tile floors. Miss Lilith was right. Two of the three stalls in the ladies’ are clean out of paper. With the close proximity to the Grove most of the alums and their husbands come here to use the toilet.
I debate whether or not to let Kadeesha have it right then and there, or just do it myself. After taking a deep breath and praying for the strength to calm myself down, I choose the latter. I’m the one who has to work with her every day. It is not worth the headache.
I’m reaching for the door when it jerks open from the other side. Miss Lilith is standing there with both Kadeesha and Mr. Marvelle. He has a bucket in one hand and a mop in the other. Kadeesha’s hands are empty. She’s just standing there smacking on a piece of gum.
“Where are the supplies kept?” Miss Lilith asks with an angry tongue.
“In my maintenance closet,” I say matter-of-factly.
She turns to my coworkers. “Please, one of you, go get the supplies. These powder rooms are atrocious.”
“Pearl has the key,” Kadeesha says as if that’s the reason for the mess. Before God, I want to strangle that woman.
Stretching out her hand, palm up, Miss Lilith asks, “May I have the key, please?” Upon which I remove the plastic bracelet around my wrist and hand it over. “Thank you. Please come with me,” she says to Kadeesha and Marvelle. Then that lady struts down the hall and enters my closet as if it’s hers.
Before long she emerges with an armload and practically shoves toilet paper and hand towels at both of them before kicking the door closed. Then she strolls back to me, holding the key away from her like its something nasty, drops it inside my hand, and never says another word to any of us. We all watch her swish toward the foyer and out the front door.
“Why did you have to do that?” I ask Kadeesha as soon as Miss Lilith is gone.
“Do what?”
“Ignore these washrooms. Do you ha
te me or something?”
With that gum rolling around inside her mouth, it appears Kadeesha is in no hurry to answer. “Why do you say that?” she finally asks, followed by two more smacks and a loud pop.
“Don’t you know my substituting for Mama Carla can only help us? This is about progress, Kadeesha. Not me having more seniority than you.”
“Pearl’s right.” Mr. Marvelle shakes his head in disgust. “Land sakes. I would have done it myself if you didn’t wanna do it. Now look what you’ve done. We’ll be lucky if all three of us don’t lose our jobs.”
The rest of our staff is off today. Sororities don’t serve meals on weekends.
“This ain’t my fault,” Kadeesha says, then sashays on past us, straight for the ladies’ room. Before she opens the door she stops. “I’m not sure I even want this job.”
Marvelle cuts his eyes my way without moving a muscle. Soon as the door closes behind her he shakes a finger toward the space where she last stood. “Well, take your junkie butt and get on outta here, then.”
TWENTY-FOUR
WILDA
“I can’t get over how much Oxford has changed,” I say, peering out my window as Haynes and I inch around the Square. “Thank goodness Square Books is still here. The way bookstores are dying, it’s a small miracle.” The traffic is backed up all the way from Highway 7. We left Memphis early to secure a good parking spot, and it seems the rest of the Rebel fans had the same idea. “Look at all the new restaurants and gift shops.”
“Who would have ever thought,” Haynes says, looking out his side, “the population of Oxford, Mississippi, would double. Actually, I think it’s tripled since we were in school.”
I reach over and mime holding a microphone under his chin. “So, Mr. Woodcock, to what do you attribute Oxford’s population explosion? I’m told it’s grown faster than any other city in Mississippi.”
He leans into the imaginary mic. “Well, Ms. Couric, that’s an easy one. Aside from the hundreds of baby boomers swarming here for retirement, Eli and Archie Manning are Oxford’s real stars. Football has turned our community into a gold rush.”