Secret Lives of the Kudzu Debutantes (34 page)

At the house next door, a light came on. A door opened and then slammed, as Fergus, the neighbor's dog, was let out into the yard. He barked twice, a dry, snuffling sound more like a cough than a bark, and then went about his business. Winston, who was sleeping at Lavonne's feet, lifted his head, sniffed the air, and then went back to sleep.

Lavonne said, “I've been trying to talk Nita into going with me to the Kudzu Ball. She needs something to take her mind off Jimmy Lee and the custody hearing. She needs a good throw-down to take her mind off her problems.”

“Don't we all,” Eadie said.

“She thinks she'll be the only one there without a date, but I told her I'd go solo.”

“Hell, we'll all go solo,” Eadie said.

“Does that mean you're coming?”

Eadie sighed. She looked at Lavonne and grinned. “I suppose so,” she said.

Lavonne said, “Good. It's settled then. I'll call Nita and we'll go down to the Baptist Thrift Store tomorrow and see if we can rustle up some ball gowns.” She zipped the front of her fleece jacket and settled down in her chair with her drink resting on her stomach. The Cosmo had definitely gone to her brain. She was feeling happy and relaxed. There was a pleasant buzzing sound in her head, like a downed high-voltage wire. She lifted her glass and pointed at the garage. “How's the work coming along?” she asked Eadie.

Eadie had done her best to try to paint still lifes but that hadn't done a thing except give her insomnia. She had quickly gone back to her cherubs and goddesses, working with an intensity that bordered on mania. She worked from early morning to midafternoon and the canvases filled the garage like stone tablets, like bones in a catacomb, like firewood stacked on a funeral pyre.

“The work is going fine,” Eadie said. “I got a call from the gallery up in Atlanta and they said they'll take six or seven of my canvases in addition to the pieces they already have. They're talking about letting me have a show in the spring.”

“That's great, Eadie,” Lavonne said, lifting her drink. She sipped and set it back down on her stomach. “Actually, though, I wasn't talking about your art. I was talking about your interior work.” Lavonne had left a book on Jungian theory on Eadie's bedside table a couple of weeks ago. After their conversation that night in The Grotto, she figured it was the least she could do.

Eadie groaned and laid her head back on the chair, staring up at the wide starry sky. The moon dangled over her head like a fiery sword of Damocles. “If we're going to talk about unintegrated negative complexes and the collective unconscious then I'm going to need something a little stronger than vodka to drink,” she said. “If we're talking psychic crucifixion, then you better get out the tequila.”

“So you did read the book.” Lavonne was not discouraged by her attitude. Resistance before a breakthrough was common. “You're an extroverted sensate, Eadie, which means your neglected inferior function is intuition— a distinctly female emotion. I think anyone who knows you would agree that your animus is definitely more developed than your anima.”

“My what?”

“Your animus. Your male soul image. The hard-drinking, rational- thinking, warrior that exists in every woman.”

Eadie grinned and raised her glass. “You're a pretty hard-drinking warrior yourself, comrade.”

Lavonne pulled on her drink and set it down. “Whatever the ego resists will persist,” she said, wiping her top lip.

“Is this a free session or will you be expecting payment?”

“Your animus is highly developed but you've got to come to terms with your anima, your female image, your goddess image. She comes out in your work but you've got to accept her in yourself.”

“Hey, I love being a woman,” Eadie said, “and I can tell you why in two words.”

“Free drinks?”

“Multiple orgasms.”

They were quiet for a while, sipping their Cosmopolitans.

“I know you're trying to help but I can tell you right now I hate all this pop psychology shit,” Eadie said, running her finger around the rim of her glass. “Maybe the reason I can't work in New Orleans is because I'm bored. Maybe it has nothing to do with depression but everything to do with boredom. I hate weak, whiny women who blame all their problems on their shitty childhoods. Or their parents. Or even their husbands. Women need to stand on their own two feet and take responsibility for their emotional baggage.”

“I agree,” Lavonne said. She pulled on her drink, grimacing. “Jung said the same thing. But being female isn't all about being weak and whiny, Eadie. It seems to me you're projecting.”

Eadie poured herself another drink and topped off Lavonne's. “I mean, anyone can bitch and moan to some overpaid psychiatrist, but it takes a real hero to carry around his neurosis and shut up about it.”

“See, there you go again. Identifying with your animus.”

“You got any peanuts?” Eadie said.

Lavonne set her drink down. The buzzing in her head was louder now. She leaned forward and flattened her palms against the table like she was pushing down on some kind of antigravity force. “You can't keep ignoring this, Eadie. It won't just go away.”

“Look,” Eadie said, sticking her finger in her drink and then in her
mouth. “How do you know this isn't just some physical problem? How do

you know it's not just my biological clock ticking down to doomsday?”

“Well of course, that could be part of it.”

“Maybe it's like that dancing baby on the TV show about the anorexic lawyer.”

Lavonne looked surprised. “Do you want to have a baby, Eadie? Do you see yourself as a mother?”

Eadie thought about it for all of two minutes. “No,” she said.

“Well then, at least entertain the idea that all this might be a shadow projection, your suppressed anima trying to break through to consciousness.”

Eadie snorted and stirred her drink with her finger. “Okay, Dr. Phil, and what am I supposed to do about it?”

“Listen to your dreams. Your mother is trying to tell you something important.”

“Like what?”

“I don't know. You have to figure it out. Maybe she's trying to tell you to forgive yourself. To let your anima flower. You can only bring forth the Divine Child by allowing both the animus and anima to flourish.”

“Look, Lavonne, let's just drop the inner-child shit. I told you. I don't want children.”

“Not the inner child. The Divine Child. The symbol of self.”

Eadie looked at her like she might have sprouted hair on her face, like she might have something black and slimy trapped between her two front teeth. “What in the hell are you talking about?”

Lavonne shrugged. She chuckled and shook her head. “I don't know what I'm talking about,” she said. “Pour me another Cosmo and let me see if I can figure it out.”

Eadie grinned and picked up the cocktail shaker. “I don't think the analyst is supposed to drink during sessions.”

“Neither is the patient.”

They raised their glasses and touched them lightly.

“To middle-age neurosis,” Eadie said.

T
WO WEEKS LATER
, E
ADIE AWOKE WITH A START
. S
HE HAD BEEN
dreaming about her mother again, some dream about water, a lake or a
river, or maybe the sea. Reba was sitting in the bow of a small boat wearing white gloves and a hat and she was calling to Eadie across the water, something faint and insistent. Eadie had turned her head and was straining to hear her mother's voice, which was like the rustling of dry leaves.

She sat up. Late-afternoon sun flooded the room. The clock read five o'clock. Across the room, in front of an opened window, a stack of papers flapped in the breeze. She got up and went into the kitchen, where Lavonne was sitting at the table reading the paper and drinking a cup of coffee. Looking up, she said, “What's wrong? You look like you saw a ghost.”

“I did.” Eadie picked up the phone and dialed Nita's house but there was no answer. Then she dialed Nita's cell phone.

“What's going on?” Lavonne said. She and Eadie and Nita had spent the afternoon at the Kudzu Festival where Loretta had taken first place in the Betty Crocker Cook-Off for her recipe “Elvis's El Wienie Mexicano.” They had hung around for the Hubcap Throw, Bobbing for Pigs Feet, and Hillbilly Jeopardy but had left before the recliner race, NASCHAIR, because it reminded Nita too much of Jimmy Lee. He'd taken fourth place two years ago with his blue velour Barcalounger, right behind the Pickett brothers with their plaid La-Z-Boy outfitted with a beer cooler, a remote control carry case, a crude steering wheel, and a drop-down table tray onto which had been glued a plate, a NASCAR beer coozie, and a fork on a chain.

Lavonne folded up the newspaper. “What in the hell is going on?”

“I think I may have figured out what my mother was trying to tell me.” Eadie held up one finger for her to be quiet. “Nita,” she said, when Nita finally answered. “Where are you?”

“I'm at my folk's house,” Nita said. “The children are here and we're having dinner.”

“Where's your notebook? The one you used to take notes about Virginia's tragic childhood?”

“It's at home. Why?”

“You're going home later to dress for the Kudzu Ball, right?”

Nita hesitated. “Listen, Eadie,” she said. “I've been thinking about that. I don't think I'm going to make the ball this year.”

“Oh yes you are,” Eadie said. “Come on, Nita. I stayed in town just for this. We've already bought our ball gowns.”

“I paid two dollars and fifty cents for mine so it's not a big loss.”

“Nita, you need to get out. You need to have some fun to take your mind off all the shit going on in your life right now. Don't make us come over there and get you.”

Nita sighed. “All right,” she said. “I'll go. Just a minute.” She put her hand over the receiver and then came back on. “Mama says she's coming with me. She says she's pretty sure you two will need a designated driver to get home. We'll meet you over there.”

“Don't forget to bring the notebook,” Eadie said.

“Tell me what's going on.”

“I'll tell you when you get there.” Eadie hung up and sat down at the table. She chewed her bottom lip and stared blankly at the wall clock. Her leg bounced up and down like it was attached to electrodes.

Lavonne watched her steadily. “Okay,” she said finally. “Spill it.”

“Not yet.” Eadie shook her head slowly. “I want to read the last few entries in Nita's notebook first. I want to make sure I've got this right before I say anything.”

“Does this have anything to do with Nita getting Whitney back?”

Eadie looked at her. “Maybe,” she said. “If I'm right. If we can figure out how to use it.”

Lavonne tapped her fingers against the table. A shaft of sunlight fell through the French doors, illuminating Eadie's face. “What time do you want to go to the ball?”

Eadie shrugged, her eyes still fixed on the wall clock. “I don't know. Maybe around nine. Grace won't be crowned until ten o'clock and I want to be there to see that.” Grace Pearson was this year's Kudzu Queen. She was going as Miss Velveeta Gritz. Eadie and Lavonne had decided to return in their roles as Aneeda Mann and Ima Badass.

“What do you say I make up a batch of Cosmos and we start celebrating a little early. We can take a taxi to the ball.”

Eadie slid her eyes from the clock to Lavonne's face. She grinned. “Damn, Miss Badass,” she said. “You're a mind reader.”

T
HEY ARRIVED AT THE BALL JUST AS
Q
UEEN
V
ELVEETA
G
RITZ WAS
arriving in the Kudzu Kruiser. The Kruiser was the brainchild of Clayton Suttles, who covered his Bonneville convertible in chicken wire and parked it every year at the edge of a large stand of kudzu. At the end of the summer he went in with a metal detector to retrieve it, cutting away large
clumps of trailing vine but leaving the car swathed in greenery. The overall effect was that of a long flat topiary on wheels.

A large crowd waited outside the huge striped circus tent set up in the Wal-Mart parking lot. Vernon Caslin, this year's master of ceremony, stood at the end of a long roll of red carpet covered in peanut shells waiting for the queen's arrival. His name tag read
Hi, My Name's Spud Daddy, What's Yours?
As the Kruiser pulled slowly into the lot, the crowd went wild. Vernon walked up to the Kruiser and gave Grace his hand. She stood up. She was dressed in a truly hideous white satin number covered in black polka dots. The dress was ankle-length and had a sweetheart neckline and leg o' mutton sleeves. She wore a white veil and a kudzu vine wreath that stood up around her head like a crown of thorns.

“Damn,” Eadie said when she saw her. “Where'd you get that Mother of the Bride of Frankenstein dress? It's hideous. Did you have it specially made or did someone else actually wear it first?”

“Salvation Army Store in Atlanta,” Grace said proudly. “I saw it and knew no one else could possibly have one as tacky. Although yours is close,” she said, appreciatively eyeing Eadie's puff-sleeve, white satin bodice with a ruched black velvet skirt cocktail dress. “And I love what you've done with your feet.”

“Thanks,” Eadie said, holding one leg out for her inspection. She was wearing combat boots and a white sailor hat sprigged with kudzu that she'd picked up down at the Army & Navy Store.

“And speaking of hideous, Lavonne, look at you.”

“It takes a lot of work to look this bad,” Lavonne said proudly. She'd found a floor-length, gold lamé, Grecian-style dress down at the Baptist thrift store in Valdosta. On the back of Lavonne's exposed shoulder, Eadie had drawn a tattoo in Magic Marker that read,
Born to Party
. Underneath it was a crude drawing of a grinning skull resting in a martini glass.

“The tattoo's a nice touch.”

“Thanks,” Lavonne said. She'd done her hair up in a Grecian roll with a headband made of kudzu vine. She wore bedroom slippers on her feet. They were spray-painted gold and had sequins and faux fur glued to the tops.

They followed Grace into the tent that had been strung with colored lights in the shape of shotgun shells. Round tables sporting camouflage tablecloths were set up on the left side of the huge tent and the buffet tables to the right. The Kudzu Ball was open to anyone with a sense of humor who understood that Southerners like to poke fun at themselves but don't
much like anyone else doing it, by God. That being said, this year's theme was Trailer Park Cuisine. Each table sported a miniature trailer along with recipe cards for such delicacies as Pearl Purdy's Slutty Pups, Baptist Beans, Jethro's El Grande Sausage Balls, Sister Wahneeta's Old Rugged Cross Cake, and Flaming Possum. The buffet tables held samples of these and other trailer park favorites such as Engine Block Pork, Velveeta Fudge, Ima Pornstar's Hussy Dip, and Roadkill Potatoes. As Grace and Vernon entered the tent, the band, the Appalachian Groove Boys, launched into their hit single, “Talk Dirty.”