Authors: Laura Cooper
“Oh?” She seems honestly curious as she sips her coffee silently through deep pink lips.
“I think I learned to take no for an answer far too many times. When the kids were young, she was occupied with baseball games and ballet lessons, so I got it that she didn’t feel like making love. But the kids have been gone for a while now, and it’s like she never quite snapped out of that phase.” It’s probably more honest than I’d planned to be at a job interview.
But her demeanor changes hastily and she leans forward, and yes I am sure her breasts are going to come spilling out of that bra at any second. She stares into my eyes as though she’s reading me. I’m sure I’m getting ready to get a lecture on marriage… from a woman who’s never been married I duly note. Suddenly she straightens, “But now we’re not here to talk about you, now are we Quinn?”
I shake my head, reminded of the task. “No ma’am, we are not.”
With a chuckle she leans back and resumes her former position, “First, I’d like to let you know that I won’t always be here to distract you. Jonathon will be holding some of these meetings with you as well.”
“It would be great to have his view!” I grin, taking her comment to mean that I’d gotten the job. In all honesty, I’d hoped that the mega-millions shipping company owner Jonathon Galloway would join us. He’s just as fascinating to me as Ellen herself. The fact that they’d been together all these many years and had never married was only part of what made them interesting.
“Wonderful,” she drawls. “Then get out your recorder and typewriter and let’s get going on this project!”
I shuffle through organizing my surroundings, with my recorder balancing on the arm rest I ask, “Ms. Devereux, can you tell me about The Tramp Stamp Club please?”
“Now how did I know that would be your first question?”
I glance up, “Because you are the literary genius of our time, ma’am.”
“Beware Mr. Carmichael, flattery will get you everywhere in this house!” and she laughs with an evil tone that I’m really not sure how to interpret.
And oh how I want to flatter her… but I have to keep my mind on task here! “I’ll keep that in mind, Ms. Devereux.”
“I’m sure you will,” she taunts flirtatiously. “But before you can understand what the Tramp Stamp Club is today, you will need to know where it came from. Isn’t that our way, Mr. Carmichael? We Southern women simply must have our history.” It’s a statement, not a question, and for the most part totally correct. I jot it down.
I look up from my notes and I am again captured by her beauty. It seems to reek from every pore as if there’s some inner secret she’s dying to tell. “Yes ma’am, I suppose so. I’d love to hear the story straight from the beginning. Is that a good place for us to start?”
She sips her coffee and smiles, “So you want to know how we got to the point that the Governor’s wife feels comfortable walking around naked in front of you?”
I shake my head a bit too fervently, “I really do want to know!”
*-*-*-*-*
As told by Ellen Devereux, 1972
From my crib in our island house, I’d count the soldiers on my tiny fingers as they ‘visited’ Evangeline after dance nights. I’m deftly aware of what it takes to ‘land’ a man. Don’t get me wrong, I’m the last one to criticize my step-mother for straying from her marriage vows. On the contrary, I despised my father as much as she did, and hoped he’d rot in hell for banishing us all to solitude on the island. Popping in on weekends throughout my childhood to issue orders and make corrections does not constitute a father.
But today was a bright fall day in Charleston, and I was standing in the small cemetery behind St. Michael’s gazing at my father’s handcrafted mahogany casket being lowered into the ground. Evangeline was weeping respectfully, as every widow should. I wrapped my arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. I’m not the only one there who understood that Evangeline was weeping from relief, but I’m the only one as glad to see Horace Devereux finally put in the ground.
“Ssh, Momma. It’s over now,” I whispered in her ear.
She clasped my hand tightly, “Yes my darling, it’s over. But where do I go now? I won’t go back to that island, ever!” Her deeply painted lips pursed with disgust and years of banishment barely concealed her hatred.
As a striving young reporter, I’d already researched father’s wealth, and knew exactly how it was to be divided. Evangeline would be given the downtown home, and for once the woman would live in the comforts she deserved. It’s a testament to faulty thinking that only after
his
death could his wife assume her rightful place in the family. I was given the island home and a trust fund, both of which I planned on using immediately. My brothers would take over the shipping company, and my prissy perfect sister was being provided with a vast wealth that surpassed anything her husband Alan would ever inherit from his own family. Yes, Father had finally done something of use for his family: he died.
The downtown Devereux home was crowded when I pulled up; its vast edifice still intimidates me to this day. The Georgian structure had survived several hurricanes, earthquakes, numerous fires, and yet it must survive yet another generation amongst Charleston’s row of Battery monstrosities. Much like Evangeline herself, the home had finally been given reprieve; I could almost feel it’s readiness to move forward. It was exactly as it’d been the day Christina Devereux, my mother, had succumbed to small pox, and Horace had kept this crypt away from his children and his second wife so that the memory of his beloved would never tarnish. Mourners were already filling the hallways and living room with tiny plates of shrimp and biscuits balanced in their paws. I chuckled to think that Father would never have stood for such calamity in his ‘Christina’ tomb.
Walking towards the foyer I found Evangeline greeting the guests as they arrived. She looked very strong this morning in her black silk conservative dress topped by a ‘Jackie O’ styled cap, complete with facial netting. I took my customary position next to her, protecting her from the whispers and gossips as much as I could. Evangeline isn’t my real mother, but she’s the closest thing to one I’ve ever known. I’d be damned if Charleston snobbery would further dampen her mood. With me at her side, the guests’ smiles turned away from mockery and more towards respect. Every one of them knew that I could ruin them with a single slice of my pen, and I could feel the sweat as I took their hands and accepted their condolences.
When I’d first taken the job as editor of the society page at the Charleston Post and Courier, I’d planned on it being a stepping stone towards all things more literary, more important. A future ‘Fitzgerald’ if you will. Of course I ended up writing about weddings and events instead. But I have to admit that it does come with some perks. Trust me; they understood all too well that if they crossed me, their daughter’s wedding dress would be described as, “Delightfully twirly and quite appropriately off-white.” I nudged Evangeline gently and the clasp of her hand on my arm assured me that she too enjoyed their fear.
At twenty-six I felt the power that my writing wielded. Having Charleston’s elite under my thumb had been the laughter that Evangeline needed. Sitting at the worn table in the kitchen at the island house, I’d shared all of Charleston’s most embarrassing stories with Evangeline as my father lay in the upstairs bed breathing his last breaths. You see, she refused to abandon my father as he had her, so she brought him to the island until that last breath.
I could see the twinge of acknowledgement on Evangeline’s face as she matched each story to the face I introduced to her in the mammoth foyer. As each of Charleston’s most elite gossiped about Evangeline’s sordid past in the corners of her home, Evangeline was snickering under her breath at their much more recent indiscretions. It delighted me that I could give my step mother this gift and ease the stress of the day for her. The information I’d shared with her had empowered her to stand tall against their forces.
“Is that Randall Clemmons, darling?” Momma whispered, glancing towards the fireplace. “Isn’t he the one who prefers ladies undergarments?”
I redirected my gaze towards the fireplace where the owner of Clemmon’s Shipyard leaned against the thick marble. Of course I hadn’t mentioned him by name in my column, but everyone in town had seen him with a cast and walking on crutches. There was little doubt that the man in the car accident out on Highway 17 a few months ago was Randall. He’d been visiting a friend in the country when he was suddenly called home, and in his rush he’d forgotten to change his under garments. The nurses at Roper Hospital had a fit when he came into the Emergency room stripped down to his red and black bra and panties. “I wonder what color he’s wearing today?” I laughed in a hushed whisper.
Momma chuckled, “He’s probably not a fan of yours after that article!”
I nodded, “Probably not. But why are they all wearing the same blazers?” I noted the patch emblazoned on their breast pockets. It looked like a sand dune, with sea oats blowing in the wind. The ocean on the far left and a freakish looking eye above it all, watching.
Evangeline shuffled, “Oh that’s just that silly Club of your Dad’s; some shipping club or some such nonsense. I can’t imagine what those old farts could possibly have in common other than that.”
She was right. They were all stodgy old farts; their cigars reeked and I was relieved to see one of the catering staff replace the ashtrays on the antique coffee table. It doesn’t surprise me that they’ve found the bar, or that they’re hotly discussing something of the utmost importance. With men like that, everything is always of the utmost importance; there is no gray area. What does surprise me is that they seemed to be discussing other men at the funeral, like gossiping old biddies. They glanced at my brothers and began whispering again, probably hoping to recruit new blood into their little fraternity. The thought humored me. I recognized each of them; they’d been the power players in Charleston circles my entire life. But times are changing, and technology was running amuck against their old fashioned accountants and handwritten books. New blood was exactly what they needed.
Recognizing Jonathon Galloway in the shadows of the foyer, studying the men with the same lack of enthusiasm, I caught his eye and left Momma’s side.
“Jonathon!” I grinned, “Thank you so much for coming.”
“Good morning, Ellen. I want you to know that I would’ve been here even if my father hadn’t insisted.”
I laughed dryly; he was certainly clear and concise. Nearly five years my junior, Jonathon was the only son of my father’s partner, Jonathon Galloway, Sr. I scrutinized the young man towering over me who had spent every summer of his first fifteen years with our family on the island. Strawberry blond curls and a rather looming figure were the only remnants of the cute, precocious child that had trailed behind me and my sister and brothers on the beaches. His tall form had acquired grace, a boyish charm, and a rakish smile. “So you have to tell me the news at Harvard!” I said cheerfully.
“Oh hell, Ellen, you know nothing ever changes up there. It’s like North Charleston; they build some shit and hold a ceremony for some dead guy, and after that it’s back to keg parties and shootin’ cans. After you left Radcliffe, the men had nothing to strive towards; it all went straight to hell.”
I giggled at the misshapen compliment, “Jonathon Galloway! I hear you’re quite the playboy around town now, so don’t try to schmooze me with your practiced responses!”
Jonathon’s smile took a serious turn, “On the record, or off?”
Curious, I said, “Definitely off!”
“Okay, OFF the record I am indeed fucking my way through the list of Charleston debutantes as we speak. ON the record, I only regret that I didn’t put you at the top of my list!” Jonathon’s eyebrows lifted with flirtatious invitation.
Now, just because I was raised by a woman who opened her legs more than the Ben Sawyer Bridge doesn’t mean that I am naturally inclined to follow suit. In all honesty, my years at Radcliff had been dull and relatively sparse, sexually speaking, and the years since hadn’t been an orgy either. But lack of masculine attention makes a woman brave, and the image of Horace Devereux rolling in his fresh grave at the knowledge that his daughter was getting screwed at his funeral enticed me. “Would you like to see the gardens?” I said the words loud enough for Evangeline to take notice.
Evangeline’s head turned towards me in recognition. She winked and returned to her faux grief. I know that given the opportunity she’d gladly sneak away for a private celebration herself. She was probably eyeing a victim now.
Jonathon followed me through the massive oak double doors at the rear of the foyer. Ancient, flaming red myrtle’s covered most of the garden. What they didn’t encase, the fading summer wisteria did. I quickly assessed the small lawn; there was no one out there. Thank God Horace Devereux had a smoking room inside his house or the yard would have been crowded with puffing old men. The scent of early fall filled the air and was blooming in abundance in the garden; the perfume was a welcome retreat from the stuffy historic mansion. Jonathon trailed me through the small walkway that had been tunneled beneath wisteria vines. A thin moss covered brick trail below the canopy led to the cottage behind the ancestral home.
The cottage had been constructed when Evangeline had come to live with us originally; it was her living quarters at the time. My mother, Christina Devereux, had been smart enough not to allow a beautiful young nanny to live inside her home with her husband. If only she had been smart enough to avoid small pox, Evangeline would surely still inhabit this tiny structure and Christina herself would be inside greeting her husband’s mourners.
Jonathon reached the doorway behind me and put his hand on my shoulder. “Are you sure we should be out here? It
is
your father’s funeral after all.”
I turned around to face him and said, “Don’t be ridiculous, Jonathon! One should never allow circumstances to delay entertainment.”