Rush

by Lisa Patton

  TWENTY-SIX

  WILDA

  At twelve thirty, Haynes finally agrees to mosey on over, but we can’t move ten feet without running into someone we know. It takes us another thirty minutes just to plow through the crowd. When we see Bill and Becky Barkley, the sweetest couple in the world, I hardly speak to either of them, because by now my anxiety about being late is killing me.

  Lilith said their tent was directly across from the Lyceum, next to the road, and impossible to miss. When we finally come upon it, impossible to miss is an understatement. HOTTY TODDY THE WHITMORE WAY is screen printed in large white letters on an oversize navy blue tent, taking up three Grove spots. I’ve heard college boys get paid well to secure spots when the University opens for setup, around midnight, but to get three in a row, in this prime location, has to be a costly challenge.

  There is only one way in, at the center of the tent, and when Haynes and I step inside, the smell of bacon, eggs, and sausage makes me feel like we’ve left the Grove and entered New York’s Plaza Hotel for Sunday brunch. A mammoth table with silver-domed chafing dishes is set up beneath a crystal chandelier hanging from the apex of the tent. The flowers on either side of the table look like something out of Versailles. Two gigantic arrangements of white lilies, red roses, and blue hydrangeas are masterfully and artistically displayed in elegant French urns.

  In one corner, a black man wearing a white jacket and a chef’s hat is behind a prime rib carving station: in the other corner a different chef is flipping made-to-order omelets. In elegant dinner party fashion, three servers—all African American—are strolling around with silver trays, each wearing black pants and white jackets, their first names embroidered in black.

  After stopping dead center of the tent, and shifting his neck from side to side, Haynes scratches his jaw and mutters, “Holy God Almighty.” He then slides his hands into his pockets and strolls over to the food table.

  At the bottom of every domed dish sits a little card with the name of the food item contained within. Each is written in perfect calligraphy. Even though he knows it drives me crazy, Haynes opens and closes every single dish, one at a time, to peer inside. Eggs Benedict, eggs Sardou, and plain scrambled are in the first three. Benton’s maple bacon and homemade pork sausage links are next, and Belgian waffles with Vermont maple syrup are in another. Gouda cheese grits and hash browns make up the final two. A tiered fruit display with a carved watermelon cornucopia, spilling over with every kind of fruit one can imagine, is on one end, and a large spread of fresh oysters on the half shell is on the other. Citronella candles are burning on both sides.

  “Honey!” he says, moving toward the table. “You told Gage how much I love oysters.”

  “Will you please stop it,” I say in a hushed tone.

  Knowing it works every time, he shoots me one of his disarming winks, then slurps an oyster right off the shell.

  As luscious and wonderful as this food looks and smells, there is something else more jaw dropping than all the decadent cuisine put together. Hardly anyone is here. Perhaps the size of the tent dwarfs the crowd, but after a quick scan of the guests, I guesstimate only twenty-five people. Frank and Judy must have had sixty. And they only have one Grove spot. What is going on?

  We both spot Lilith at the same time. She’s on the far side of the tent in front of a massive big-screen TV, in all her glory, wearing a stunning pale blue ensemble, holding court with a small audience of women I don’t know. From all the way over here I’m drooling at her outfit and her rail-thin body. Lightweight pants, slim cut, with a matching scooped neck T-shirt that has a thick banding around the bottom of the elbow-length sleeves. A wide taupe leather belt with a large silver buckle ties it all together.

  She sees us, waves, and points at the bar. Haynes, waving back, wraps an arm around my waist, then guides me in that direction. A server stops in front of us with a tray of sausage balls, and we each take one, along with a cocktail napkin embossed with the same message as the tent: HOTTY TODDY THE WHITMORE WAY.

  Another couple is at the bar, so we step in behind them. Lilith had told me I’d probably know several people, but oddly enough, I don’t recognize a soul. And it makes me feel sorry for her. By the massive amount of food they’ve prepared—well, the food someone else has prepared—it’s obvious the Whitmores had planned on a large crowd. What has gone wrong?

  Two bartenders are mixing drinks, and it only takes a minute before one politely asks for our order. “Gage Whitmore does not hold back,” Haynes says, while scanning the bottles on top of the bar. Ketel One vodka, Woodford bourbon, Glenlivet whisky, Bombay gin, and Schramsberg champagne are displayed off to one side, as well as a large crystal pitcher of Bloody Mary mix with a sign that reads, BIM BAM BEST BLOODIES. Another pitcher containing orange juice has a sign in front of it that reads, FLIM FLAM FRESH SQUEEZED.

  “I’ll have a Bim Bam Best Bloody, please,” I say, my words sounding a bit tongue-tied. “That sounds delicious.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Comin’ right up.” He pours, then hands me a large red cup with the Whitmore party slogan imprinted in white.

  Haynes orders a Heineken, which incidentally must be concealed in a cup as an ancient law prohibits beer in The Grove. The bartender pushes the beer toward Haynes. “Thank you, sir,” my husband says, tapping the top of the bar, and we step aside to let the next person in line place their order.

  “I cannot wait to dive my face in that food,” I whisper after my first sip. “The smell is killing me.”

  “Knock yourself out, babe.”

  “You aren’t eating?”

  He shakes his head. “I’m full.”

  “How can you resist?” I deliberately starved myself at Frank and Judy’s, knowing what was to come.

  I’m beelining it to the table when Gage’s voice booms over a loudspeaker. “Welcome, friends!”

  I turn around and see that he’s at the far side of the tent, holding a microphone. It’s the way he’s dressed that has me startled: a navy blue blazer, white dress shirt, and red tie. Under normal circumstances I wouldn’t think twice, but it’s ninety degrees outside and a hundred and ten inside this tent. Haynes moves over to me, and we, along with their other guests, give Gage our undivided attention.

  “Lilith and I … where’s Lilith?” He scans the pitiful crowd. “There you are, darling.” He beckons her with a flutter of his fingers. Lilith smiles bashfully, and strolls over to join him. Placing his arm loosely around her waist, Gage holds the mic a few inches under his mouth. “Lilith and I want to welcome you to our first tailgate party. We’re tickled you’re here … aren’t we, darling?”

  Once he squeezes Lilith’s side, she leans into the mic, her lips brushing the top of the ball. “Sure are. We—” One of those awful microphone squeals stops her mid-sentence, and after making a dreadful face, she backs away. Gage whispers in her ear and she tries again. “We’ve been excited about this party all summer. It’s the first of many to come. So make sure you eat up. Drink up. And Hotty Toddy the Whitmore Way,” she shouts, and Gage punches the air with his fist.

  I start to nudge Haynes, but when I see a quarter-inch vein throbbing in his temple I reconsider.

  “Listen up,” Gage continues, stealing the mic back from Lilith. “Make sure you come back after the game. Lilith has a victory celebration surprise. We’re going to stomp those Terriers into the ground!” Everyone around us whoops and hollers and claps loudly. “Are you ready?” Gage yells into the mic.

  Every guest—myself included, my husband excluded—replies, “Hell Yes, Damn Right.” Then everyone, including Haynes, who is reacting to the sneer I’ve just flashed him, finishes the fight song. “Hotty Toddy Gosh All Mighty, Who The Hell Are We? Hey, Flim Flam, Bim Bam, Ole Miss By Damn.” A round of high fives and cheers follows before the Whitmore guests resume their conversations.

  “Alrighty then,” I say, turning to Haynes. He simply lifts his forehead, and offers a cool smile.

  Someone tugging o
n my arm causes me to whip around. It’s Lilith. “Hey, y’all,” she says, all bright and cheery.

  I give her a big hug. Haynes only offers a pat on the arm. “What a party,” he manages to say. “Thank you for inviting us.”

  “Oh my gosh, Lilith. This is the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen. Thank you so much.”

  “You’re welcome, glad you’re here. The girls were here a little while ago, but they left to find a better party.” She finger quotes “better party” and tightens her lips.

  “I was wondering where they were.” Haynes glances behind him and then at his watch. “We were supposed to meet them at one.”

  “You know young girls. Boys always win out over parents.” She claps her hands together. “Have you tasted the stuffed figs?”

  “Not yet,” I say. “We haven’t even made it around the food table.”

  “Rosetta is passing them around. Oh, where is she?” Lilith cranes her neck around the tent. “They are to die for. You’ve got to try one.”

  Haynes, who only minutes prior told me he knew absolutely no one, says, “Excuse me, ladies, I spot a buddy of mine,” then moseys off.

  The second he walks away Lilith jams her hands into her hips. “Have you been to the House?”

  I shake my head.

  “Be glad you haven’t.”

  “Why?” I try to look her in the eyes, but am distracted by her beautiful jewelry. Floral medallions made of aquamarines and diamonds set in platinum circle her neck. I look up and see matching earrings hanging from her lobes. And she’s wearing her Alpha Delt pin again. My gosh, I haven’t worn mine since I graduated. Give it a rest, Lilith.

  “Apparently Carla is away this weekend for some … personal need. At least that’s what I’ve been told. You’ll never guess who’s filling in for her.”

  “Who?”

  “The maid.” She says it with such disgust I flinch.

  Right then a server walks by and offers us a fig. As I stuff one in my mouth my taste buds explode. “Yum. What’s in this? Goat cheese?”

  Lilith nods. “Wrapped in prosciutto. But back to the House.”

  Now another server walks up and stands off to the side. I can’t help noticing she’s twisting her hands together and chewing her bottom lip. Lilith deliberately ignores the poor thing. Trying to help I look at the woman, then back at Lilith, hoping she will at least acknowledge her.

  “What is it, Tilly?” Lilith finally asks, with a light stomp.

  “Mrs. Whitmore,” Tilly replies in a soft voice. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but there’s a problem with the generator and the party manager asked me to find you or Mr. Whitmore.”

  “Jesus. I’ll be right back, Wilda. In the meantime go indulge yourself. The food is fabulous.”

  On the way over to the food table I spot the desserts. Football-shaped sugar cookies inscribed with HOTTY TODDY THE WHITMORE WAY, and individually baked brownies and lemon tarts in the shape of Colonel Reb, the outlawed Ole Miss mascot. Before I can lift a plate from the stack of fine china, Haynes taps me on the shoulder. “Ready?”

  I turn my head slowly with a murderous glare.

  “Just kidding,” he says with a playful grin. He relents—how could he not—and gets a plate of his own. Then we mosey around the table, loading up on what looks like the best brunch food we’ll ever put in our mouths. There’s another server at the end of the table handing out trays and red linen napkins with utensils rolled inside.

  The perimeter of the tent is lined with wooden vineyard chairs. We grab two seats near the TV, which is broadcasting the Ole Miss pregame show. Only a few bites into our meal Gage spots us and makes his way over. Haynes stands up, lays his tray on his seat, and shakes Gage’s hand. “Man, you sure know how to throw a party.” I stand up, too—reluctantly. I so hate a cold egg.

  “Thank, you. Thank you. So pleased you could make it.”

  “Gage,” I say, “this food is delicious. I feel like I’m at the Plaza, not the Grove.”

  He laughs. “Well, it’s been quite an undertaking, I must admit. Getting all these moving parts together has certainly been a challenge. But Lilith is the one to thank. She’s made it happen.” Raising his chin, he gives us a booming laugh. “That wife of mine can make anything happen. And God bless the poor soul who tries to stand in her way.”

  “I remember that well from our college days.” I steal a glance at my eggs, which are growing colder by the second.

  “Make sure you come back after the game. Lilith’s got quite the surprise planned.” Leaning toward us he whispers, “She’s hired a Motown band.”

  Out of the corner of my eye I’m watching Haynes. His mouth has stopped moving. I think he has shock-jaw.

  “We’re taking the big table out to make room for a dance floor. A couple of my boys are bringing it in during halftime.”

  Haynes tightens the grip on his beer. “I didn’t know you had any sons.”

  With a Bim Bam Best Bloody in one hand and the other shoved inside the pocket of his pants, Gage shoots Haynes an awkward smile. “You know what I mean.”

  Although Haynes returns a polite grin, I know he’s uncomfortable. So am I. From the composed looks on our faces, though, Gage would never know it. As Southerners we hear “microaggressions” like these quite often and ignore them out of … politeness or fear, I don’t know what. It doesn’t make it right, but we do it. And … we’re at their party.

  “Have y’all ever heard the Motor City Band?” Gage asks.

  Haynes and I shake our heads.

  “Lilith and I heard them back in June at a wedding in Jackson, and we knew we had to hire them. You’ll be impressed. Might even want them for Ellie’s wedding.”

  “Good God. That better be a long ways off,” Haynes says. “What do ya say we pay for college first before we start talking about weddings?”

  Gage laughs. “You’ve got a point there, my friend.”

  Haynes reaches out for another handshake. “Great party, man. Thanks for having us.”

  “You’re welcome,” our host replies, then strolls off, disappearing into the paltry crowd.

  Once he’s out of sight, Haynes grips the back of my elbow and practically pushes me out of the tent. “Don’t ever ask me to come anywhere near this place again.” Much to my chagrin, his voice is way louder than it should be.

  “But what about my lunch?” As we leave the party—the one I was just sure was the hottest ticket in town—I glance back at my barely touched, cold eggs Sardou.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  CALI

  When we walk up to the Lyceum, three boys who look like triplets in their navy blue blazers, red ties, and khaki pants—a game day requirement for new fraternity pledges—are huddled together. We introduce ourselves, and although I feel a little weird at first, it only takes a few minutes to feel comfortable around these guys.

  Will is super cute, so is Carter, although Ben is a little on the chunky side. Not that I have anything against chunky boys; I’m just being honest. He’s sweet, though, and funny. They’re all genuinely nice and for the next hour we stroll through the Grove, people-watching. It’s fun to be with three fraternity guys. In fact, it actually makes me feel quite popular. Carter and Annie Laurie went to high school together and from what Ellie tells me, Annie Laurie’s always liked him.

  I get a sense that Will likes me. Several times now he’s touched my arm, and he keeps asking if he can get me anything. At one point he steers us all into a random tent, which he declares “beer friendly.” “Friends of my parents,” he says. All the guys, as well as Annie Laurie, fill their cups from the keg. Ellie and I simply grab cookies.

  With one hand carelessly gripping her beer, and the other hooked to Carter’s belt, Annie Laurie narrows her eyes at Ellie and me. “You two are wimps,” she says with a giggle. I suppose she thinks she’s being funny, and saying it in jest, but actually it’s rude. Her words are slurred. I’m wondering how she’ll ever make it to the game.

  “We ar
en’t wimps,” Ellie says. “We’re just not jeopardizing the one chance we have at joining a sorority. And you shouldn’t either.”

  “I’m just kidding,” Annie Laurie says, with a drunken grin.

  A few minutes later, we’re in the middle of one of the walking lanes between the tents—headed in the direction of the stadium—when the heel on Annie Laurie’s bootie turns under. She falls into a random lady, spilling beer all over her pretty white blouse.

  The lady jumps out of the way, looks down at her shirt. Pissed. “Watch it,” she says harshly, sneering at Annie Laurie. But by now Annie Laurie is too wasted to care. Carter and I reach out to steady her and the other two boys back away.

  Ellie leaps out of the way, making a disgusted face. “I can’t believe this is happening,” she says, checking her phone for the time. “We’re supposed to meet my parents in fifteen minutes.”

  “What should we do?” I ask, although the answer is bubbling underneath my tongue.

  Ellie’s nostrils flare. “Dammit.” She combs her fingers through her hair, pushing it back from her forehead. “I’m so pissed right now. I knew I shouldn’t have come with her, but I did it anyway.”

  We both look at each other, then at Annie Laurie, whose coloring seems to have changed. It’s paler, despite her dark makeup. She doesn’t even seem coherent. Her hair is messy and the sleeve of her romper is hanging off her spray-tanned shoulder. Both of her arms are carelessly wrapped around Carter and if not for him, she wouldn’t be able to stand. Makeup smears are all over the sleeve of his navy jacket.

  “If we take her back to the dorm, we’ll be ridiculously late to the game,” Ellie says. “I can tell my mom, but I’ll have to make up an excuse to my dad. I’m always on time and he knows that. Shit.”

  “You go on to the game and I’ll take her back. Just make up something about why I’ll be late.” This is the right thing to do, I keep telling myself. Even though it’s the last thing I want to do.

  “No. I’m not gonna do that.”