Dragonfly

by Farris, John

  "Bless you, Meemaw. But I think you got to admit one thing: in the case of our incumbent governor, character assassination is justifiable homicide."

  "Oh, honey," Meemaw protested. "Claiborne's heart has always been in the right place."

  "His heart, but not his pecker."

  Meemaw wheezed with laughter, leaning on hum.

  "And his brain is the rock of ages," Charlene said, leaning against his other side, lookking up at him for approval of this rare witticism, which she had overheard at the beauty parlor. Lucas glanced at her, as bemused as if she'd spoken Sanskrit: there was no humor in her bones, and most punch lines teft her gaping like a fish. Nevertheless he tightened his grip comfortingly on her right hand. They had been inseparable, at Lucas's request, since the party started. Sex in the shower had resulted in forgiveness, particularlysince she'd gone down on him; his favorite turn-on, although she'd always felt that fellatio was undignified. And rather hard on the jaw muscles. But it had been an act of penance, not for the infidelity, which she long ago had learned was part of the excitement he craved from her, but for popping off about Pamela. His genuine fits of anger were rare, so something was amiss.

  Meemaw's renewed laughter had exposed them to really bad halitosis; Charlene avoided it by turning her head and raising her glass. She was still nursing her first bourbon on the rocks, also at Lucas's request. She didn't know whose grandmother Meemaw was, or if the title might be honorary at her age: to Charlene the Thomason and the Abelard family trees were a hopeless tangle of branches. But the social antennae she'd been born with enabled her to know that some of the elderly ladies in attendance were as rich as Croesus, and Lucas was courting them all.

  The guests who had arrived punctually were mingling in the large front parlor of the Barony, a room to which Charlene had devoted a lot of time—bringing it off beautifully, she liked to be told—from the gilt-and-bronze wall sconces to the Italian oval-back chairs and the eighteenth-century mirror-front cabinet, also Italian, which she'd found herself in one of the Royal Street shops in New Orleans.

  Desiring a little praise, Charlene directed Meemaw's attention to the cabinet.

  "Honey, I can't see that far. I promise to look at it up close later on. But I must say the whole place seems so cheerful and invitin'. I remember when it was nothing but a termite pantry. I suppose it was pound-foolish of Pamela to invest her writin' money in faded glory; but I hear she's got plenty of writin' money. I guess it's true what they say: there's a blessing for every adversity.

  "Amen," Charlene said, breathing only as deeply as she had to and wishing for a handkerchief dabbed in perfume, secreted inside the cuff of her bell-sleeved blouse. A necessity in the old days for masking unpleasant odors. Sachets, and plenty of gin or West Indies rum to deaden the sense of smell, and it was well known their genteel predecessors at the Barony and other Low Country plantations had used a lot of cocaine, too, in various forms, to pull them through bouts of malaria and tooth abscess and every sort of skin disease known to mankind, drugging the senses during interminable pestilential summers.

  The thought of cocaine made her edgy. What she'd had earlier was wearing off, too soon.

  "Speaking of investments, Lucas," Meemaw said, "you ought to see the monstrosity of a marble mausoleum Edgar wants us to buy. I said to him, Edgar, what for? I'm not fussy about final resting places. An already-occupied grave site will do for me, as long as one of us has a deck of cards. Charlene, could I impose on you to fetch me a glass of sweet tea, with just a little ice and some crushed mint?"

  "Why, sure, Meemaw."

  "Might see what's keeping Abby," Lucas requested, letting go of her hand.

  "I can't imagine; maybe the elevator's stuck again."

  "Oh, that's right," Meemaw said. "I hear she's got a little elevator now for gettin' upstairs and down in. Well, tell the child I do want to see her, but it'll be past my bedtime by and by."

  Charlene crossed the entrance hall, which she had turned into an Italianate gallery with busts and urns andgreenery, reflooring in a deep green marble that had the tranquillity of a woodland pool. (The original randomly sized heart-of-pine boards had been warped by decades of rainwater leaking in, and from the urine of horses stabled there by a plantation overseer during Reconstruction.) Charlene had the feeling she was going to need a couple of more sniffs to make it all the way tonight. No need to aim for high-high, just enough to be pleasantly on top of things, coping with the hostess role, which Pamela always ceded to her. While remaining the center of attention herself. Even Luke the up-and-coming politician or his prize guest of the evening, United States senator Miller Harkness, couldn't compete with Pamela Abelard's celebrity status among family and friends.

  She saw Joe by the fireplace in the small library off the gallery, and impulsively detoured. He was chatting with Spence Labèque, who had taken a leave of absence from the University of South Carolina, where he occupied the Titus Mercer Chair in the poly-sci department, to manage Luke's campaign.

  "Hi, Spence. Dr. Bryce. Off all by yourselves; are you having a good time?"

  Spence only nodded politely, but Joe responded with a generous smile.

  "Yes, thanks. You look terrific, Mrs. Thomason. I'd give up my front-row seat in hell for you, anytime."

  Charlene's eyes fixed on him as if on a startling event. "Charlene, please. Actually I've arways liked Charly, since I was a kid, but nobody but my brothers calls me that anymore."

  "Charly it is. And I'm Joe."

  There was another door to the library, open to a hall that.ran the length of the house on the east side to the kitchen in back. The wrought-iron elevator cage that had been installed for Abby was in the snug well of the stairs in the hail. The elevator itself was just large enough to accommodate Abby and Rolling Thunder. It wasn't occupied.

  Charlene sighed. "Has anyone seen Pamela? She's always late for these things."

  They shrugged and shook their heads.

  "Well, I'll just take the elevator up and knock on her door."

  Her smile for Joe lingered; then she whirled with a little waggle of her fingers and walked briskly out into the hail. She was wearing high-waisted black silk pants with very wide cuffs that swirled around her ankles like miniature tornadoes.

  Spence Labeque was one of those men who whistle a breathy tune to express an opinion.

  Joe smiled noncommittally. "Dr. Thomason did well for himself."

  "Too good-looking," Spence advised. "Don't get me wrong, I like Charlene. She's a talented decorator, apparently, although I don't go for all this overpainted Eye-talian stuff. But Charlene's not—I shouldn't say any of this anyway." He knocked back more of his vodka martini, his third since Joe had struck up a conversation with him. Spence was overweight, with a small beaked nose in a jolly Buddha face, a nap of silver-gray hair around his ears, the chins-down, close-to-the-chest air of a man who is a collector if not a storehouse of secrets, and small inquisitive eyes.

  "Like a lot of really beautiful women," Joe said, "she doesn't have a lot of self-confidence."

  Spence looked at Joe, respect and a trace of envy in his eyes.

  "I think you're a man who has known his share of beauties. I mean, if I handed her the line you did, I'd sound like a genuine horse's ass. From you, she loved it."

  "I don't go out of my way, but—"

  "Sure. It's a talent. Like pitching. Set them back on their heels with the heater, get them to nibble at the slider, low and outside.

  Joe sipped his draft beer and inhaled the tang of pork barbecue, which permeated the house. The air had cooled, sheer curtains luffed at the windows like the sails of romantic old schooners, the night was alive with the creaking and peeping of tree-dwelling creatures. Laughter in the parlor; women with shawls across their bare shoulders strolled on torch-lit garden paths. There were four coldly sweating steel barrels of Samuel Adams on the brick-paved veranda, and a big bar staffed by young black guys who looked like college basketball players, natty in their whit
e Ike jackets and hickory-striped trousers. He was nearly moved to fall in love with the Barony. That was all he needed, with his objectivity already in tatters. The project was busted, he'd known it from the moment he saw Abby being carried helplessly up the steps from the shallow end of the pool; long legs inert, toes dumbly skimming the turquoise surface, she seemed like a statue being salvaged from an undersea wreck. A lovely paraplegic, and despite her tough talk so without real toughness or any reading on life outside her reclusive homestead she'd be writing checks to his favorite charity with only a few more hints on his part. He couldn't deal with that much innocence. But he hadn't walked away yet, either. He felt baffled and apprehensive, an actor in a dream play listening for a cue that might already have been delivered. The other actors unaware of his lack of status in their midst. There were ghosts here, who didn't approve of him. There also was trouble, as undefined as fog but still threatening. He'd always owned a fine instinct for knowing when to bow, and sidestep, and get out gracefully. But Abby, that other strong presence on his stage, wouldn't let him go yet. He had to continue with his lines while concealing panic, ignoring the sensation that there was a flimsy trapdoor with a bad latch beneath his feet.

  Spence whistled tunelessly between his spaced front teeth.

  "When I'm speaking of Charlene, what I'm saying is, she may have too much of one asset for a political candidate's wife, and not enough of the other assets, such as people skills. I don't know just how she's going to turn out to be a liability along the way; but it'll happen." He peered at the bottom of his glass as if looking into his heart, and appeared to discover betrayal. "You didn't hear it from me," he added.

  Joe said soothingly, "You must like Dr. Thomason's chances, to take a a year off from your own profession."

  "I do. He's smartened up in the past few months; he's ready now. I convinced him not to know too much. He was studying economics up at the college, slaving away to be informed. I told him, God's sake, Luke, cut it out. You don't need to know all that shit to tell a good bill from a bad bill. Economics. They call it the Dismal Science, but it's more of a mystical calling, like the priesthood: all canonical theory, evaluation of pertinent Mysteries and glosses on fiscal catastrophes. From these economists construct models of probability as if they're scenarios from heaven, then issue portents so well hedged almost any future economic event can go into the win column. In Washington they're kind of a stabilizing caste, I guess, but 'economics' has little to do with policy, just as prayer has no discernible impact on events. What the hell, even a politician has to believe in something. Since 'economics' has always had more answers than there are questions, it fulfills this need admirably. What say we stroll outside for some more alcoholic assistance?"

  Joe never made it to the bar with Spence; Abby was descending in her elevator when they stepped out into the hall, and she called to him.

  "Better late than never," Lizzie observed, coming down the stairs in flats and a blue knit sheath dress, and keeping pace with Abby's slow approach. "Abby was taking pains. Hello, Mr. Lebeque."

  "Hello, Lizzie. You look special tonight."

  But Lizzie was looking at Joe for his benison; she paused in profile on the last step, her shoulders back to make the most of her beginning bustline.

  "What do you think, Joe?"

  He shook his head regretfully. "You're too much woman for me, Lizzie."

  She grinned and then blushed a shade of sunset pink. The elevator gates opened and Abby goosed Rolling Thunder into the hall.

  "Hi, guys."

  Spence kissed Abby's cheek. Joe kissed her hand, finding it unexpectedly cold. But paraplegics often were cold. Some of her color was artificial tonight: eyeliner in a shade between rose and apricot, lip gloss in a bolder pink, emerald earrings that looked like the real thing, about two carats apiece. Away from the sun, her tan appeared sallow. She was wearing one of the sleeveless chiffon jumpsuits she favored, probably because with the elastic top they were easy to get in and out of. This one had gold embroidery. Over the jumpsuit she wore an unconstructed jacket with a crest that might have had some familial significance. Her hair was up in a topknot with a few errant amber tendrils that touched the tips of her hayseed ears and her high forehead.

  "Luke mad at me?" she wondered. "I'd better put in an appearance. Lizzie, what became of Charlene?"

  "Powder room, I think."

  "We won't wait. Come on."

  She was holding a large beaded clutch in her lap, unzipped. Joe noticed the top of a silver flask protruding. He reached down and zipped the purse closed. Abby winked nonchalantly at him.

  "Mind pushing?" she said to Joe. "My fingers are a little numb tonight, no idea why." She flexed her hands, looking at them curiously. He was aware of the pulse in the side of her throat, a slight nervous tightening of her eyes.

  Spence said, "If you'll excuse me, I'm going to duck out to the bar. Can I get you a drink, Abby?"

  "Double vodka, rocks. And a bottle of Fresca, so Luke won't know."

  "You already had one upstairs," Lizzie reminded in a confidential tone.

  "I know, Lizzie. And you know, but we won't let the whole world know, right?"

  "Okay," Lizzie said, glancing at Joe but mum already.

  "Straight ahead to the kitchen, Joe. There's a ramp for me to the veranda."

  Caterers who moved quickly but with balletic precision had taken over Lillian's kitchen; she sat gnomishly on a high stool in one corner, wearing a go-to-meeting dress but with her lumpish feet still in brocade carpet slippers, occasionally advising where some item of cookware or cutlery could be found. The caterers careened and danced effortlessly around Rolling Thunder and Abby's coterie as she passed through, calling out greetings.

  On the veranda she was soon surrounded. Joe fielded introductions and filed names: Aunt Ruby Mae, Cousin Caroline, Cousin Portia; Blake and Percy and Leona.

  "How many relatives do you have?" Joe asked Abby.

  "You mean in South Carolina? There's about a hundred and seventy-five I keep regular track of," Abby said, perhaps a little overwhelmed by the attention. "Hallie, this is my friend Dr. Joe Bryce, who is just back from Africa—"

  Hallie was a lean smiling girl with the guileless eyes and high coloring of a calendar Virgin. "Africa! You swear! Were you doing the Lord's work?"

  "I'm not a missionary. I'm a pediatrician."

  "Oh—you must've been takin' care of those pitiful, starvin' chirrun we see on television all the time. I think that is so selfless of you! Elizabeth Ann, I hardly recognized you, darlin'. How's your mama these days?"

  "Still crazy as a pet coon," Lizzie said with a wry mouth.

  "Oh, Puddin', you know how it is. In some families insanity appears every other generation; in our family it's every five minutes."

  Spence brought Abby a bottle of Fresca for one hand and her vodka for the other. A woman toting a bulky camera case caught his eye and sauntered over. Joe had noticed her earlier, going from group to group with her Camcorder, encouraging everyone to smile and say a few words. She was a gaunt, deadpan, thin-lipped woman with sardonic black eyes and an unfiltered clove-scented cigarette dangling from one corner of her mouth. It smelled bad enough to be French. Her style, including the cigarette, was almost defiantly outré.

  "Hi, babe," she said to Abby.

  "Hello, Adele."

  Adele held out her hand to Joe. "Adele Franklin; I'm Dr. Thomason's press secretary. Heard about your travels from Luke. Central Africa?"

  "Yes."

  "Still a lot like hell these days, or so I imagine. I've been all over the dark continent myself. The blowfly countries, where nothing cuts the dust like warm gin. That's when my ex-husband was writing a column for the Atlanta Journal. When we split over his African Queen—she was a Cape Town heiress, actually—I did PR for Coke in the old hometown. I mean Coca-Cola, of course. The perfect nonproduct, an ad man's wet dream. The stuff is a triumph of expectation and imagination over reality." She tipped ash from her smelly ciga
rette to the brick floor of the veranda. "Like most politicians, hey?"

  "Are you talking about me, Adele?" Lucas Thomason said, in his smoothly-paced, slightly breathless pulpit voice.

  Adele turned, exhibiting a twinkle. "Just giving Joe here my provenance."

  He denied her twinkle with a pinching-together of his injured-looking lips.

  "Will Senator Harkness be a no-show, do you think?"

  Adele placed a hand over her heart. "Bury me in an unmarked grave if he doesn't make it. Fact is, I talked to him not ten minutes ago in his limo. ETA seven-fifty. Hold the ribs?"

  "Hold the ribs," Thomason said, now beaming. Good humor took years off his face. He leaned over to kiss Abby's cheek. She covered the glass in her lap with one hand, as if she'd forgotten that vodka has no odor.

  "Luke, I love the birdbath! How did you ever manage to find something so cunning?"

  "Walked into Rembarto's, and there it was. Of course I had to snatch it away from a couple of old biddies." Her delight at his impetuosity resulted in another kiss. Thomason raised satisfied eyes to Joe. "The good Lord never saw fit to reward me with a daughter. But Abby's all I could've asked for in this life. Are you a married man, Doctor?"

  "I'm still trying to get my priorities straight," Joe said.

  Thomason unlimbered to his full, height, a hand remaining fondly on Abby's shoulder.

  "Good-lookin' fella like you? I was twenty-one when I took the plunge for the first time. Most young men are light on their feet, but their heads can't keep up. And so they are married."

  Abby said in a soft, amused voice, "Now, Luke."

  A florid woman as shapeless as a beanbag in a green-and-yellow flowered dress said to Thomason, "Luke, I'd like to know what you can do about all the little special-interest groups that are holdin' the rest of us hostage to their whims. I'm speaking of those homosexuals wantin' a nude beach for themselves, tight there on Calisto? Do you know they'll be flauntin' their bare butts one dune over from my screen porch! I don't think it's right. My family owned property on Calisto before there was any such thing as a homosexual!"