Secret Lives of the Kudzu Debutantes (43 page)

“Well of course you are,” Virginia said quickly, trying to put a stop to this nonsense.

Della ducked her head and lifted one shoulder. “I'se trying but there's only one of me and my back's still bothering me from all that heavy cleaning you had me to do yestiddy.”

This, of course, was a bald-faced lie. Virginia did not expect Della to do, nor would she ever have done, any cleaning around the house. She was lucky if she could get Della to clean the kitchen before she went home. There was many an evening when Virginia finished up the dishes herself, after Della left.

“Listen, you let us carry the dishes out and put them on the sideboard,” Carlin said to Della.

“Oh that won't be necessary,” Virginia said sharply, and then, remembering herself, “I mean, I'll help Della serve. There's no reason for you to bother.” She tried to recapture her jovial pose but no one was buying it. Carlin went out the swinging door into the dining room.

Virginia looked at Della and drew her finger slowly across her throat. “Enough with the Butterfly McQueen routine,” she said. “No one's buying it.”

Della straightened up and put one hand on her hip. “Oh, they're buying it,” she said.

“If you ruin this for me, I'll never speak to you again.”

Della lifted her lip. She smiled, showing her teeth. “I can live with that,” she said.

The door swung open and Porter, Carlin, and Rose came in. Carlin quickly motioned for the other two to take the side dishes out. “Set everything up on the sideboard,” she said. “And let's get a few shots of the food before everyone eats.” Della leaned and took the turkey out of the oven. It was cooked to perfection, a lovely golden brown. She slid it onto a bed of wild lettuce on a silver serving tray.

“That looks wonderful,” Carlin said.

“Where are the radish roses?” Virginia asked.

Della pointed with her chin. “In the refrigerator,” she said.

“Listen,” Carlin said, while Virginia went to get the radish roses. “Della, I've been thinking. Once the food is out, why don't you join the guests?”

“
What?
” Virginia said. She stood there in front of the open refrigerator with the cold air prickling her cheek. The thumping at the top of her head was as loud and insistent as a jackhammer.

“Well, I guess I could,” Della said. She slid her eyes coyly at Virginia. “If Miz Redmon won't get mad.”

Carlin stared at Virginia. Virginia said nervously, “Well, of course I won't get mad. What a silly idea!” She laughed unconvincingly, looking from one to the other. “Of course, you're welcome to join us Della, but then who will keep the buffet stocked?”

She raised her hands and shrugged her shoulders as if this settled the matter but Carlin said in a brittle voice, “Actually, once we film the sideboard, there's no reason why everyone can't serve themselves. I'll get my staff to bring out what needs to be brought out. Once the buffet is filmed, everyone can just relax and enjoy themselves.”

“Whatever you think is best,” Virginia said flatly. Really she didn't know why she had even bothered to plan this event if the producers were simply going to do things their own way. She poured herself a third glass of wine and then swung around on her heels and went out through the swinging door.

Grace Pearson stood slumped against the far wall, a notepad in her hand, sullenly watching the festivities.

Virginia put her hand up to her temple to steady herself. Then she hurried over. “What are you doing here?” she said, trying to keep her voice low.

“Lumineria's sick. She asked me to come.” She had on a pair of baggy brown slacks and an oversized sweater that did little to enhance her figure.

“Lumineria didn't call me,” Virginia said suspiciously. “She didn't tell me she couldn't come.”

The big woman regarded her with a pair of bloodshot eyes. Her nose and cheeks were red and it appeared she had been drinking. “Lumineria's sick,” she said stubbornly. “She asked me to cover for her. We work for the same newspaper. What, do you think I'm not capable of writing a column for ‘The Town Tattler’? Did you or did you not ask the paper to cover this party?”

“Yes, but I wanted Lumineria to cover it.”

“Well, we don't always get what we want, do we, Virginia? You should know that by now. Life's nothing but one big fucking crapshoot.” She was clearly intoxicated and spoiling for a fight. She crossed her arms over her big chest and stared at Virginia. “What's the matter?” she said evenly. “Don't you want me?”

“Oh fine,” Virginia said. “Write the article. I really don't care.” She would probably write an exposé similar to the ones she used to write about the dead Judge, but Virginia didn't care. She refused to be blackmailed. By anyone. “Say whatever you want to say.”

“Oh, trust me, I will.”

“Good.”

“Fine.”

“Knock yourself out.”

“I intend to.”

“I have to check the buffet,” Virginia said.

“What's a girl have to do around here to get a drink?”

“There's wine on the sideboard,” Virginia said, waving her glass carelessly. Across the room, an inebriated Redmon was entertaining the crowd with an a cappella version of “I'm Just a Psychobilly from Philly.” This party couldn't get much worse.

“You got any whiskey?” Grace said.

T
HE MAIN TOPIC OF CONVERSATION, OF COURSE, WAS THE FACT
that Charles Broadwell had come with Nita Motes as his guest. Virginia noted the way her guests twittered behind their hands, the way they watched surreptitiously as Charles tried to maneuver Nita away from the crowd like a cowboy trying to cut a rogue cow out of the herd. She saw the way they smiled and rolled their eyes with glee when Nita, just as deter
mined, made her way back into the throng of guests. Intent on damage control, Virginia hurried over to where Charles, Nita, Whitney, and Logan stood awkwardly balancing their plates and trying to make small talk.

“How nice you look,” Virginia gushed to Charles, ignoring Nita. She noted the way Duckie Bradshaw and Celia Banks had moved up closer so they might overhear the conversation. Celia's youngest daughter, Casey, had been kicked out of four boarding schools and was rumored to be living in a halfway house in Jacksonville, a rumor Celia never acknowledged or discussed. Instead, she immersed herself in the tragic histories of other unfortunate families. If there was a case of adultery, drug abuse, sexual addiction, or compulsive gambling within a sixty-mile radius of Ithaca, Celia would sniff it out. She collected tragic stories the way some women collect dolls.

“Thanks,” Charles said. He knew he was still a good-looking man. Women threw themselves at him all the time, and he had dressed carefully today in a dark blue suit, blue-and-white-pinstripe shirt, and red silk tie.

“And you, too, Whitney,” Virginia said.

“Hey, what about me?” Logan said. “Don't you like my shoes? Don't you like my haircut?”

“Nita, you look a little pale,” Virginia said. “Have you been feeling under the weather?”

“Can I have a glass of wine?” Whitney said. “French kids get to drink when they're little.”

“Are we French?” Virginia said, looking at her as if this settled the matter once and for all. She noted the way Celia had one ear turned their way. She had ears like a bat, big and hairy, and no doubt able to hear a pin drop from twenty feet away.

“I never get to have any fun,” Whitney said. “This party blows.”

Celia sputtered red wine down the front of her dress. Duckie helped her dab the spill with a cocktail napkin. Neither one made any effort to move toward the bathroom door, standing there with the horrified fascination of spectators who've just happened upon a particularly grisly highway accident scene. Logan, who had noticed Judge Drucker standing just a few feet away, said loudly, “I don't know why you won't let us drink some wine when Grandpa Redmon lets us drink all the time!”

Duckie let out a nervous little twitter. Virginia's face looked like it had been carved out of granite.

“Are you telling me you let my children drink alcohol?” Nita said tersely, staring at Virginia.

“No, Nita, of course not,” Charles said. “Mother wouldn't allow something like that. The children are just teasing, of course.” He laughed nervously. This wasn't going like he had planned. His dreams of a happy family, reunited, seemed to be dissolving like chalk in the rain.

Virginia said to Nita, “Whatever bad habits those children have, they picked up from you, not me.”

“I'll have a Kamikaze,” Logan said gaily. “With a beer back.”

“Make mine a double,” Whitney said.

“One more word out of you two and you'll go to your rooms,” Virginia said.

Nita swiveled her shoulders like a gun turret sighting an enemy target. She said, “Don't talk to my children like that.”

“I'll talk to them any way I like when they're living under my roof.”

“That won't be for much longer.”

“We'll see about that.”

“Yes, we will.”

Across the room, Redmon finished his song to a slight smattering of drunken applause. He'd been on a whiskey-free diet for nearly eight weeks so the Jack Daniel's was definitely having an effect. He was feeling better than he had felt in months, better than he had felt, in fact, since he married his sweet little Virginia and brought her home to their happy love nest complete with traditional Elvis décor. Redmon frowned, looking around the fuzzy room. Speaking of Elvis décor, what had happened to the Elvis Red carpet and the lighted curio cabinet? And where in the hell was his reclining sectional sofa complete with built-in beer cooler? Redmon walked over to Virginia as steadily as he could, given the circumstances. She looked up at him and said in a low voice, “You've had enough. Don't drink any more.” He pretended he couldn't hear her.

“This boy is a singer, by God,” he said, throwing his arm around Logan's shoulders. The drunker Redmon got, the more he lapsed into Alabama hill country dialect. Another couple of shots and they'd need an interpreter. “This here boy needs to be a musician when he grows up. Hey, boy, sing your daddy that love song you wrote.”

“You mean, ‘Kill Me’?”

“Yeah, that's it.”

Logan said, “Well, as you can see from the expression on his face, my
daddy
doesn't want me to sing him any songs.”

“Naw,” Redmon said. “He's just got a little indigestion is all.”

Charles ignored them. It was apparent he was going to have to put his foot down. He had put up with the black clothes and the dyed hair and the lip ring, thinking it was just a phase, but the idea of his son becoming a musician struck him like a kick to the kidneys.

Logan said, “He wants me to go to college and be an accountant or a doctor or a deadbeat lawyer like he is.”

“Is that how you talk to your father?” Charles said, his nostrils flaring. His dream of a happy family caught fire and went up in a full blaze. “Is that the respect you show your father?”

Logan squared his shoulders. “I only show respect to those who deserve it,” he said. He and his father stood there, glaring at each other like gladiators awaiting the first blow.

Whitney yawned. Nita stared at Virginia. Virginia looked at Celia and Duckie, who had moved up so close they were practically touching Charles's shoulder. Redmon grinned like a monkey and looked fondly around at his sullen and depressed family. “Goddamn,” he said, “this is what it's all about.” He raised his amber-colored rock glass in a toast that no one bothered to join. “To family,” he said, misty-eyed. “It don't get no better than this, by God, and if it did, I couldn't stand it and the sheriff wouldn't allow it.”

“Ha, ha,” Logan said, still looking at Charles.

“Can I leave early?” Whitney said, stifling another yawn. “I have to meet some friends at the mall.”

Redmon felt like singing. It was an old family tradition in the Redmon family, everyone gathered around on the front porch after dinner to sing gospel songs while the searing sun broke over the distant line of pine trees like a giant yolk. “Speaking of singing,” Redmon said. “How about we do a few gospel numbers?”

“Why don't you make yourself a plate of food?” Virginia said to him.

“Do y'all know ‘Bringing in the Sheaves’?”

“You better get some turkey before it's all gone,” Virginia said.

“How about ‘Rock Me in the Arms of Jesus’?”

“I know that one,” Della said. She had materialized suddenly at Redmon's elbow like a bad ghost.

“We're not singing any goddamn gospel songs at my party,” Virginia snapped. She glanced around the room and crimsoned, adjusting the sleeves
of her dress. She hadn't felt that outburst coming on, which was dangerous, because Virginia always kept a tight rein on her emotions. It wasn't good to show yourself in front of strangers or enemies. Or family either, for that matter. Perhaps it was the wine, or the clanging racket that was going on in her head. Perhaps it was the way Nita kept looking at her, like a cat watching a fishbowl, as if waiting for just the right moment to strike, that had thrown her off-balance. Perhaps it was Grace Pearson, glaring at her from across the room while she clasped a tall glass of whiskey to her bosom, her poisoned pen moving rapidly over the pages of her little notebook.

Della said, “How about ‘He Is My Shepherd in a Land of Wolves’?”

One of Virginia's eyes appeared to have crossed. Whatever it was that had been trying to escape had finally pushed through the top of her skull. She could feel a slight breeze there, where the hole was. She considered striking the woman but then decided it would not be wise. Della probably outweighed her by a good eighty pounds.

Oh,
what the hell
, she thought, looking around the room at the guests who had begun to crowd her sad little pantomime of a family like a flock of buzzards waiting out a roadkill. The room spun softly. The faces of her guests rose up and down like grisly carousel horses. Virginia got dizzy looking at them. Looking around, she thought,
Who are these people and why are they here?
Franklin Banks's face swam slowly into view and Virginia saw again the red-haired freckle-faced boy who had teased her and called her a swamp hick in second grade. Milly Craig floated by and Virginia saw the evil child with the golden ringlets who had plotted with Mary Lee Hamilton to make her life miserable. What was it about these people that had made them important to her? What was it about their good opinion that had held her captive all these years?