The Event

by Whitney Dineen

  Cootie, on the other hand, has not aged well at all. The sands of time seem to have all settled in her bottom half, and her hair is teased so big it looks like she’s trying to signal outer space. She has on more makeup than the entire cast of the musical Cats, has been Botoxed within an inch of her life, and her lips are three times the size of those of normal humans. She’s plain hideous.

  “Lookee who’s heeeeeeere!” she says with a sinister sounding drawl that sends shivers crawling right up my spine into the fear center of my brain. “Warning, warning, incoming danger!” it seems to say.

  Mama steps in front of me as though she’s holding the garlic and we’ve just encountered Dracula himself. “Cootie, what are you doing here so soon? Tea doesn’t start for another hour.”

  “I was just sure you and Lee would want my help,” she says. “After all, your hands are pretty full lately.” She tries to pointedly look behind Mama at Faye and me. But Mama stays between us like a mother bear protecting her young from a rabid cougar. Do cougars even get rabid? I’m not sure, but you get my point.

  My earlier annoyance has moved straight into dread. This woman is downright terrifying.

  Mama says, “You don’t need to worry yourself, Cootie. Lee and I are just fine. So, you run along and come back later.”

  “I wouldn’t hear of it,” Cootie declares. Then she says, “I could hold the baby, while y’all get everything set up.” Glancing over at the table, she adds, “Which looks like it’ll take you awhile.”

  I would no sooner let this woman hold Faye than I’d let a shark give her swimming lessons. My motherly instincts kick in and I say, “Why, aren’t you the sweetest, Mrs. Wilcox, but I was just going to take Faye off to the locker room to feed her.”

  “I’ll show you the way.” She’s at my side before I have a chance to make the sign of the cross. I briefly try to remember the best way to protect myself from a vampire attack. I’m almost certain it requires a stake to the heart. Either that or a silver bullet, but I’m currently not packing any heat, more’s the pity.

  Mama says, “What a wonderful idea, Cootie.” I cannot believe she’s leaving me in the hands of this woman. I take a deep breath for courage and follow along.

  Cootie says, “We were just sick to hear about your fiancé.”

  “It was a terrible tragedy,” I concur. “But at least we had Faye. It’s such a comfort.”

  She looks down at the baby. “It’s too bad she didn’t get his last name, though. That would have been such a nice tribute to him, don’t you think?”

  My god, this woman is relentless. I smile as though it’s painful to do so—which, really, it kind of is—and say, “Armie made me promise that if anything ever happened to him I’d give Faye my name. He didn’t want to hold me back from marrying again someday and thought the baby should have my husband’s name.”

  “So, he knew you were knocked up?” she asks none too kindly. I mean, who says “knocked up” anymore? What an insulting term.

  “Of course. We were going to be married during his next leave, but well …” I try to force tears to my eyes—I’m afraid it looks more like I’m constipated though—and say, “I truly can’t talk about it. I’m sure you understand, Mrs. Wilcox.”

  “What was his last name?” she asks.

  I blurt out “Hammer,” before I can stop myself.

  “Armie Hammer, like that actor?”

  “What are the odds, huh?” Why did I say Hammer? This woman has totally knocked me off my game. In fact, I’ve got no game. I’m straight improv right now, and fear crackles in my nervous system like water on hot bacon grease.

  “Where are his people from?” she asks relentlessly.

  “Toledo.” OMG, Toledo? Why didn’t I say Beverly Hills or Chicago or something impressive sounding?

  “Toledo? Where’s that, Indiana or something?”

  “Ohio,” I answer.

  “Never been there,” she says. “How ’bout his folks? They must be thrilled to have a granddaughter.”

  “They’ve both passed,” I say, wishing the ground would open up and swallow me. But with my luck it would just spit me back out.

  “Hmmmmmm. That’s too bad,” she says, clearly trying to figure out what question in her arsenal she should ask next. She settles on, “I guess you done got yourself a nice chunk of money from the government for the baby, though.”

  She must have spent days concocting this interrogation. “Mrs. Wilcox, I’d love to chat, but I really need to see to Faye. If you’ll excuse me.” I try to walk away slowly, as though I’m not being pursued by a Cerberus, but I’m not very successful.

  How in the world am I going to get through this afternoon?

  Chapter Thirteen

  Alone in the locker room, my dress, which buttons up the back, proves even more challenging than I expected. After serious contorting and a few unintentional yoga poses, I manage to get enough buttons undone to shimmy out of the top half of this archaic excuse for fashion. After all that, Faye isn’t even hungry. She still latches on but only to use my nipple as a chew toy to help her cut her teeth.

  Contact of a sharp edge of a tooth to tender flesh causes me to flinch and pull away. I admonish, “No, baby!”

  She reacts to my stern tone by bursting into tears. Dear Lord, if you’re gonna send me into a nest of vipers, please, the least you can do is keep my baby happy, so I can have my wits about me. Faye settles down after a few moments of my reassuring her.

  Once I compose myself, I try to formulate a plan to get back into my clothes. I look around the locker room, but darn it, I’m all alone. Irritated at my mother and her need to throw me this party, I want to cry. But that’s not going to change the fact that I need help.

  I peek out the door in time to see Harold Wilcox exit the men’s locker room. There’s no way on earth I’d ever ask his assistance, so I go back into the fluffing room with all the mirrors and hairdryers and wait. Every two minutes I look out to see if anyone walks by that can be prevailed upon to rescue me. Nobody.

  Twenty-eight minutes, and fourteen checks later, I realize I’m in jeopardy of being late for my own tea party. That’s when I spy Zachary Grant coming down the hall. I have no choice but to try to flag him down. “Zach!” I whisper/yell. “Can you help me?”

  He appears shocked to see me, and then looks around to make sure I’m really talking to him. “Are you calling me?”

  Unfortunately, yes. But I don’t say that. “Could you please help me for a sec?”

  He walks over and spies Faye. Then asks, “Whose baby?”

  “Mine,” I answer protectively, holding her closer to my bosom. “This is Faye.”

  He looks spooked again, which is apparently one of the two looks he’s capable of in my company. The other is anger. “How old is she?” he demands.

  “Just over five months.”

  He looks like he’s trying to solve a calculus equation in his head, but I don’t have any time to figure out what his problem is now. “Listen,” I say, “I’m in a bit of a pickle. I can’t button my dress back up by myself and my mama’s waiting for me in the dining room.” I forge ahead and ask, “I don’t suppose you could lend a hand?”

  “Why are your buttons undone?” he asks cluelessly.

  “I was feeding the baby.” Duh.

  “Why did you wear a dress that you can’t button up by yourself?” he demands as though he can’t believe I’d be so stupid to be caught in the position I’m currently in.

  I lose all use of my manners and instead of explaining, demand, “Are you gonna help me or not?” I belatedly worry that if he doesn’t, I could be stuck here for another hour waiting for someone to come to my rescue.

  “Turn around,” he grumbles.

  “Not out here! What if someone comes by and sees you?”

  “Emmie, I’m not allowed in the ladies’ locker room, so this is pretty much your only option,” he says.

  I put Faye on my hip and grab his arm with my free hand. “
No one’s been in here in eons. Please?” I beg.

  He hesitantly follows me in, and I point the way to a changing stall. “Over there, so if someone does come in, they won’t see you.”

  Once we’re secreted away, I turn around and present my back. “You can see how tiny the buttons are. I couldn’t manage them on my own.”

  But Zach doesn’t say anything. Instead, he very lightly traces the tip of his finger from the base of my skull down to the first fastened button, which is nearly at my waist. Shivers of delight erupt all over my body. What in the world is he doing? I want to say something, but my mouth has suddenly gone bone dry.

  Heaven knows how long we stand there not talking when he leans in and runs the tip of his nose along the side of my neck. I know what you’re thinking, and I one hundred percent agree with you. No single mother should be standing half-dressed in a locker room—holding her baby even!—while a near stranger sniffs her neck. What are we, animals?

  But lordy, I cannot seem to put an end to it. Not only am I at this man’s mercy, but I seem to have forgotten the English language. His hot breath moves to the back of my neck and my innards drop like I’ve just done a triple sow cow off the Empire State Building. I have not felt anything remotely this titillating since the night Faye was conceived.

  I’m about to turn around and throw myself into his arms, when the door opens. We both freeze and hold our breath.

  “Emmeline, are you still in here, girl?” It’s Cootie!

  I urgently point to the bench next to us and indicate that Zach step up on it lickety-split before Cootie sees his feet under the curtain. He hurries to follow my silent directive. “I’m in here, Mrs. Wilcox. I’ll be out in just a sec.”

  “I’ll wait for you,” she announces. Of course, she will.

  Crap and croutons, what do I do now? I turn to look at Zach, but with him on that bench, my eyes are in direct alignment with the fly on his trousers, not his eyes. Oh, my! He seems to be as affected by whatever just went on here as I am. I feel a delicious heat nearly overcome me. I’d probably swoon if Cootie wasn’t out there waiting for me.

  I inhale deeply, turn around, and force myself to scurry out from behind the curtain, carefully closing it behind me. I head toward the fluffing room where I heard Cootie’s call originate. “I don’t suppose you’d mind giving me a hand with my buttons?” I ask sweetly.

  She says, “Is that why you were in here for so long?” Then she eyes me closely, “Why are you so flushed?”

  “I seem to have underestimated my ability to redress myself after feeding the baby. I struggled a bit.”

  She doesn’t look convinced, but says, “You really ought to stop that nonsense now that she’s old enough for solid food.” She points at my boobs.

  “Actually, my pediatrician says it’s best to nurse her exclusively for six months before introducing anything else.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” she says. “Why, Shelby only fed for three months. Then that was enough of that.” I’m surprised Cootie let her nurse at all. Actually, I’m more surprised Shelby didn’t turn to a block of ice or starve to death while suckling Cruella de Vil, here.

  I try to regain control of the conversation and ask again, “Could you help me with my buttons?” As she comes closer, I’m engulfed in a cloud of heavy floral perfume. Mama’s right, she must bathe in the stuff.

  Once I’m all fastened, I readjust Faye and say, “We’d best get back to the dining room. Mama’s going to wonder what happened to me.” Just as we’re walking out the door, we hear a very masculine sounding sneeze come from the changing area.

  Cootie demands, “What was that?”

  “I didn’t hear anything,” I say. Playing dumb is my only option. I cringe at the thought of what would happen if Cootie finds a man in the ladies’ room with me. My reputation is already questionable, but it will be in shreds if that happens.

  “I heard a man sneeze,” she declares.

  I point to the men’s locker room right in front of us. “It must have come from in there.”

  She looks back in the ladies, and I see her checking the stalls for feet. When she doesn’t find any, she turns back to me and says, “I guess so.” But she doesn’t look convinced.

  As we head to the tea party, I wonder what just transpired between me and Zach. I take a moment to thank my lucky stars that whatever it was, Cootie doesn’t know about it.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Our little corner of the dining room is chock-a-block full of ladies in chiffon dresses and pearls. They look like they just sashayed out of 1960. I wonder how it’s possible these gals haven’t progressed with the times. Most of them have never had a career, they just come to the club every day and concoct enough drama to keep themselves entertained. At least Mama and Auntie Lee work with the uncles.

  Sarah Jane Grant is the first to greet me. “Emmie, welcome home! Zach told us you were back in town. I’m just tickled for your whole family.”

  Just the mention of his name makes me feel all tingly again. “Thank you, ma’am. I’m happy to be here, as well.”

  “Can I take that adorable baby off your hands? I would just love to have one of these of my own, but my son is determined not to give me a grandchild.”

  I happily hand Faye over. Sarah Jane has always been a friend to our family, especially after Daddy died. She steadfastly stood by Mama’s side when a good number of her other friends lost interest. Sarah Jane knew firsthand how cruel the club ladies could be to a single gal in their midst, although her situation had to be a world harder as her husband ran out on her.

  I turn to greet the rest of the guests and immediately discern the two camps in attendance. Mama and Auntie Lee’s group are all smiles and truly look delighted to be here. Cootie’s gang looks like they’ve been sucking on a bucket of lemons—sour doesn’t begin to cover it.

  Cootie announces, “Emmaline was stuck in the ladies’ unable to get her dress back on.”

  Tillie Smytheton demands, “What was she doing with her dress off?” She glares at me as if to suggest something untoward was going on. Which of course, it nearly was. Thank goodness it didn’t get that far.

  “She says she was feeding the baby.” Cootie lets innuendo hang in the air like a cloud of mustard gas.

  I point to Faye and explain, “She was hungry.” Driving the point home, I twirl around, “Silly me, my dress buttons up the back,” and then I give Mama a pointed look.

  She quickly changes the focus, “Ladies, may I please have your attention?” The gathering of twenty or so turn to look at her. “I’m so pleased you could join us today in welcoming Emmie and Faye home. The Frothingham family is finally all together.” I love how she throws in the family name to reinforce who they’re dealing with.

  My great-grandparents four times over were the founders of Creek Water. There’s a Frothingham Lane, a Frothingham Court, and even a Frothingham Park. Mama’s making sure her assemblage doesn’t lose sight of the fact that we are, in fact, central to this town’s existence.

  She continues, “If you’ll all just find a place to sit, we can start.” She points for me to take the place at her right and then says, “Cootie, dear, why don’t you sit on my other side?” Best to keep your enemies close.

  The table is beautifully laid out with blush-colored peonies in silver Revere bowls running down the center, and pink baby confetti sprinkled on the white linens, and of course, the napkins have been folded into swans. It looks picture-perfect, like a spread in a magazine. Mama’s friends all sit on the same side of the table as me, facing Cootie and her cohorts, who’ve chosen to sit on her side of the table. It’s the Hatfields and the McCoys country club-style. Mama stands at the head of the table and signals the waiters to begin.

  They bring out three-tiered trays of watercress and cucumber sandwiches along with egg salad, and smoked salmon with fresh dill. They’re all very delicate with the crusts off. I didn’t have breakfast, due to a nervous stomach, so right now I’m hungry enoug
h I could eat ten or twenty of these tiny bites. I start with four to keep the tongues from wagging.

  Auntie Lee proudly brags, “Emmie was the head buyer up at Silver Spoons in Manhattan.”

  Bitsy Buford, from the other side of the table says, “Too bad she doesn’t have a man to take care of her. I think it’s a shame when a mother has to go to work.”

  I nearly spit my egg salad out. “Mrs. Buford, I went to Duke University and got a business degree. I assure you I did that so I could have a career of my own.”

  Mama raises her left eyebrow to caution me, don’t step into their trap, Emmie. But I just can’t help myself.

  Bitsy says, “I know you went to Duke, dear. My sweet Ashley went to Duke, also, but she found herself a nice medical student to marry.”

  I want to ask what kind of degree you get when your major is husband-hunting, but Auntie Lee shoots me a warning look. I fill my mouth with sandwiches instead.

  Mama drops something on the floor. I lean over to pick it up, but she’s beat me to it. I watch in shock as she grabs something from her purse and nearly dives under the table. When she emerges, she laughs and says, “That little sandwich got away from me.” No one pays her any mind.

  After I consume my fill of sandwiches, an assortment of sweets is served. Shortbread, chocolate-dipped strawberries, and tiny tartlets abound. I eat until I’m about to pop. Not only is the food divine, but eating helps keeps my mouth full, so there’s no room for my foot—which is a godsend. As I listen to the catty comments, I want nothing more than to speak up for the poor folks some of these ladies are lambasting.

  One of them declares that her gardener is walking a thin line because he’s been pruning her bushes with a diagonal cut instead of a straight cut. “Everybody knows that’s just asking for trouble.” Kill me now.

  After Cootie’s crew seemingly empties their store of nastiness, one of the ladies announces that her son is recently engaged to one of the Hamelstocks of St. Louis. When no seems to understand the significance of the name until she explains, “The non-dairy creamer folks?”