Secret Lives of the Kudzu Debutantes (42 page)

Carlin popped one of the mushroom caps into her mouth. She chewed for a moment with her finger up in front of her face. “Well, we'll tape the entire party. However long it lasts, probably two hours or more, but then the editors will edit it down to a thirty-minute segment that we'll run during our holiday show.”

“And will I have a chance to help with that?” Virginia said sweetly. “The editing, I mean.”

The producer laughed and shook her head. “Oh no,” she said. “That's their job. You signed a release when we booked you, allowing them to edit it any way they see fit.”

“I see.” Virginia smiled bleakly. She went to the bar and poured herself a glass of wine. Across the room, several of the crew laughed loudly at something Redmon had said. He gestured wildly, spilling his drink on the new Oriental rug. Della crossed the room wearing a garish red-flowered print dress and red pumps. Outside on the deck, Logan and his juvenile delinquent bandmates cheerfully set up their massive equipment. Despite her best-laid plans, this whole party was definitely beginning to feel like a runaway horse. Virginia was on board, sawing desperately on the bit, but despite her best efforts the deranged horse was galloping recklessly and relentlessly toward the hedgerow.

A
N HOUR LATER, MOST OF THE GUESTS HAD ARRIVED AND HAD
been instructed by Carlin to ignore the cameras and just act as if they were at any other normal party. They stood stiffly in small groups scattered around the large living room, clutching glasses of wine and trying to keep their best profiles presented at all times to the wandering cameramen. Virginia had invited the brightest and most attractive people she could think of, with special preference going to those she thought would look best on camera. She had invited some of the dusty old aristocracy, too, although they had mostly declined her invitation. Which was a good thing, Virginia decided, as they were the ones most likely to dress down and drink too much, the ones who inevitably tried to monopolize the conversation, standing in the middle of the room, regaling the crowd in their Plantation South accents so that no one could get a word in edgewise. It was bad enough she'd had to invite that old bore, Judge Drucker, and his equally boring, twittering wife, Eulonia. There was, of course, a method to her madness. She had thought it best to show the judge, firsthand, the advantages Whit
ney had living in the privileged bosom of Virginia's family. Although now, given Redmon's obvious inebriated state and her grandson's crafty expression (she knew he had something dirty up his sleeve, hadn't she seen that expression a million times on her dead husband's face), she wondered if inviting Judge Drucker might have been a mistake.

Virginia began to feel better once Whitney appeared. The girl, dressed in a Nicole Miller knockoff they'd found in a little boutique in Palm Beach, was stunning. Virginia could see from the special attention the camera crew gave her that most of the scenes would feature Whitney. Virginia relaxed a bit.
This might turn out well after all
, she thought. And then, just when she had begun to feel that things were indeed looking up, Charles arrived with Nita in tow.

She was dressed in a tasteful blue suit. Looking at the pretty, demure woman, Virginia had to wonder just what it was about Nita that had made her dislike her all those years she was married to Charles. Surely her own daughter would look much like Nita did now, and it amazed Virginia that she had never considered this before, that she had never actually thought of Nita as a daughter until this very moment, when it was too late.

Because it was too late. Virginia could see this, even if Charles couldn't. Even if he was still so besotted with his ex-wife that he would do anything to win her back, even if it meant going up against his own mother to do it.

Well, poor Charles. He would learn his lesson the hard way. Virginia leaned toward her crafty ex-daughter-in-law and said, “Nita, bless your heart, how wonderful to see you.” She kissed her lightly and insincerely on the cheek. Nita stared at her and said nothing.

Logan saw his mother and came over and hugged her. “How's my boy?” Nita said, standing on tiptoe to kiss him. Whitney moved up behind her shoulder.

“Hello, Mommy,” Whitney said. Her mother looked so small and pretty that for a moment Whitney felt a trembling homesickness in the pit of her stomach. But as she leaned to hug Nita she remembered that Virginia had promised her a new BMW and a shopping trip to Paris, and when she stepped away from Nita, her eyes were dry.

Nita smiled and touched her lightly on the cheek. Carlin, who had watched the family greet each other, and had assumed Nita to be Charles's second wife, was confused. “Excuse me,” she said, extending her hand to Nita. “I'm Carlin Benwood. Are you the children's mother?”

“Yes,” Nita said firmly. “I am.”

Carlin frowned. “But they live with their grandmother?”

Virginia, who was old-school Southern down to the last molecule of her being, stepped forward. She would rather be drawn and quartered than air the family dirty linen in front of strangers. Especially strangers with a camera. “The children are just staying with me,” she said brightly, “just a vacation, of sorts. While Nita finishes up some unfinished business.”

Nita stared at Virginia as if contemplating a pistol-whipping. She said, “I'm working on an article on domestics working in the South prior to the civil rights movement.”

“Oh,” Carlin said.

“You'd be amazed at the secrets you can learn,” Nita said, staring deliberately at Virginia, “listening to these women talk about the families they worked for. Troubled marriages, love affairs gone bad, babies born out of wedlock, it's all there.”

Virginia forced a stiff smile and said to Carlin, “Oh, you can't trust half of what you hear. People make up all kinds of stories to relieve the boredom of these small towns. My goodness, if only half of it were true, Ithaca would be worse than Babylon!”

“I could write a book,” Nita said. “I could tell a story no one would believe.”

“Yes, I daresay you could,” Virginia snapped.

Charles glanced uncomfortably from Nita to his mother. Porter, sensing a rising tension between the two women, quickly swung his camera from one face to the other. He had already forgotten the documentary on snake handlers and was envisioning a reality TV show involving a dysfunctional modern family and their symbolic American holidays.
Dinner at Casa Redmon
.

“Does he have to point that camera at me like that?” Virginia said sharply.

“What are you afraid he'll see?” Nita said.

“Y'all just try to act normal,” Carlin said, and then blushed fiercely. “I mean, just pretend we're not even here. Just continue on as you normally would, as if you didn't have a room full of strangers documenting your every move.” Even she realized she was treading dangerous waters. “I'll just check with Della in the kitchen,” she finished lamely.

Across the room, Duckie Bradshaw and her husband, Harris, had arrived fashionably late. Virginia, glad for a distraction, turned her back on Nita and said, “Yoo-hoo, Duckie! Hello!” She was this year's president of
the Junior League, so Virginia couldn't just not invite her. Virginia hadn't spoken to her since Duckie had the brilliant idea of holding a League luncheon out at the new Ithaca Zoo Monkey Annex that the League had helped fund through one of its community outreach programs. Duckie had stood up there in her Prada suit and Fendi pumps and droned on and on about the “darling monkeys” and their new “darling habitats” while in the cage behind her, Bobo the Chimp slowly masturbated.
And don't tell me that monkey didn't know exactly what he was doing
, Virginia thought savagely, remembering his crafty expression and obvious delight at the shocked faces and nervous gigglings of the all-female audience. She hadn't been able to think of dumb animals in the same way since.

Behind her, Celia Banks let out a little cry of alarm. “Oh my God, who is
that?
” she said.

Virginia swung around. Nita and Charles had moved off to get a drink. Virginia followed Celia's horrified stare to the deck where Logan stood tuning a guitar strapped to his chest. “My grandson,” Virginia said. “And some of his bandmates.” She noted, with dismay, that some idiot had opened the French doors so they would be able to hear the music clearly.

“Oh,” Celia said, lifting her artificially sculpted little nose. “
Public
school boys.”

Virginia held her smile, aware that the cameras were rolling. Really, who did the woman think she was? Her father had driven a delivery truck, for goodness sakes. Until she married Franklin Banks, Celia had been poor as a lizard-eating cat.

“And how is your father?” Virginia said pleasantly. “Still driving his route between Oak Grove and Valdosta?”

“Excuse me,” Celia said. “I think I see Lee Anne. Lovely party.”

Logan stepped up to the mike. He lifted his head and looked out over the crowd until he spotted Virginia. “Hey, Grandma,” he said, waving. Everyone giggled. Virginia forced a smile. “This song's for you,” he said, opening his arms wide to include his band members. “It's called ‘Colla Poppa'.’”

“‘Colla' Poppa'?’ ” Virginia said to Whitney. “What's that? It sounds like a flower,” she said, hoping against hope that it might be some kind of a soft ballad, a love song perhaps, or maybe a bluegrass number.

Whitney looked at her like she was stupid. “Collar Popper,” she said, pointing to her neck. “You know. Like those poseurs who walk around in Polo shirts with the collar popped up in the back and a sweater tied around
their shoulders. There's a lot of them at my school.” Her voice carried loudly over the quiet room.

Virginia smiled and looked around nervously at her guests, many of whom had children and grandchildren at the Barron Hall school. “Whitney, dear,” she said. “Go and find your grandfather and ask him to see if the band can't play
after
we eat dinner. Or maybe later in the evening. Much later.”

Just then, a red-faced Redmon lifted his glass above the crowd and shouted, “Hey, Queenie, wait till you hear this song. It's awesome.”

Logan said “
One-two-three-four
” and the band was off, a sudden, raucous, three-chord wall of sound that would have made the Sex Pistols proud, that would have made Johnny Rotten stumble around the stage and projectile vomit for joy.

Hey, Colla' Poppa', where'd you get that shirt?

Your front's tucked in, but your buttons don't work.

Hey Colla' Poppa' those teeth are gold
,

Bleach them yourself, or is that how they're sold?

You hang around town in you pink Po-los
,

Axe Bodyspray burning up my nose
,

Talking about shit that you don't know
,

If you're at the bar in sandals then I'm stepping On your toes!

Hey Colla' Poppa
'—

Driving daddy's car
,

Drinking in a college bar
,

Think that you're so cool?

You're a fucking tool!

“Oh my God,” Virginia said. The whole scene was like a nightmare, one of those where you know you're dreaming but can't wake up.

Hey, Colla' Poppa' who's that chick you're with?

I think I know her, let me give her a kiss.

Hey, Colla' Poppa' don't you have no fear
,

I already fucked that slut last year!

High on coke, you're up all night
,

Can't get laid so you look for a fight
,

Head on home and pummel the pipe
,

Your only true friend is Xbox Live!

Hey Colla' Poppa'—

Daddy get you a job?

You act like a snob.

Daddy turned you away?

When he found out that you're gay!

“Dinner is served,” Virginia shouted helplessly, trying to make herself heard above the wailing guitars and foot-thumping base. She turned to her guests who clustered like stalagmites at the edge of her Oriental rug, their faces frozen into various expressions of horror, outrage, and suppressed mirth.

Hey Colla' Poppa'! Hey Colla' Poppa'! Hey Colla' Poppa'! Oy! Oy! Oy! Oy!

“You know,” Carlin shouted beside her, “they have kind of a Beastie Boys thing going on.” She and several of the television crew were dancing around with their hands in the air, their fingers curled into some kind of cryptic gang symbol, not the kind of thing they would have learned in prep school, at least not in Virginia's day. The cameras, she noted dismally, were rolling.

The music stopped suddenly on a three-chord riff. Lee Anne Bales dropped her glass. No one moved. The silence was almost as deafening as the noise had been.

“Reaganomics!” one of the boys shouted.

“Socialism!” another one said.

“Hey, do y'all know ‘Blue Suede Shoes’?” Redmon said. “Or how about ‘Up Against the Wall Redneck Mother’?”

“Dinner is served,” Virginia said brightly, opening her arms wide and attempting to herd her stunned guests into the dining room, the way Jesus might have done that evening at Mount Zion, the night he was betrayed by Judas Iscariot and his band of wine-guzzling, backstabbing dinner guests.

————

O
NCE SHE SAW THAT HER OWN GUESTS HAD BEGUN TO RECOVER
from “Colla' Poppa' ” and were lined up obediently at the sideboard buffet, Virginia followed Carlin into the kitchen. She was afraid to leave her alone in a room with Della. There was no telling what the black woman might say or do if she wasn't watched carefully. The stress of the situation was beginning to wear on Virginia. Her stomach ached and she could feel a familiar thumping against the top of her skull, as if something was trapped inside the brain-pan and was trying desperately to get out.

Carlin leaned against one of the granite countertops, her legs crossed at the ankle. “Everything smells so good in here,” she said to Della. The black woman grinned but then, seeing Virginia enter the room, the grin faded. She quickly lapsed into her female impersonation of Morgan Freeman in
Driving Miss Daisy
. “I'se trying to get it on the buffet, Miz Redmon,” she drawled.