By Invitation Only

by Dorothea Benton Frank

  “This is some party, isn’t it?” Kathy said to me and Floyd.

  Kathy was impressed, and that was saying something, because she’d pretty much seen the world.

  “Did you meet the Cuban guy rolling cigars in the study?” Floyd said. “If that don’t beat all, I don’t know what would.”

  “How about twenty thousand butterflies being released into the wild?” I said.

  “Yes, I don’t think Susan particularly cared for your thoughts on the subject,” Kathy said.

  “Look, I don’t care how she flaunts her money,” I said. “It’s just that if I had it, I wouldn’t spend it that way.”

  “How would you spend it?” Floyd asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I’d probably make Momma and Pop take a real vacation. Or maybe I’d paint the house. Update the kitchen. don’t know. I’d try to do some good with it, I guess.”

  My dreams felt mighty small in the face of all the grandeur that surrounded us.

  “Look, Diane, listen to your big brother. These are fancy people. We are not fancy people. We should try to meet them halfway. Let her have her fun with her daughter’s wedding. Who cares?”

  My face must have been riddled with doubt.

  “You’re worried about Fred, aren’t you?” Kathy said.

  “Of course I am! Look how happy he is.”

  We looked across the crowded room and there was my son, impeccably dressed and groomed, smiling and laughing, talking to another young couple, as if he owned the place.

  “He seems the same to me, Diane. I think you’re worried about nothing,” Floyd said. “He’s got a good head on his shoulders.”

  “Floyd, sweetheart . . .” Kathy started to say something, but I interrupted her.

  “No, you should call him ‘darling.’ Everyone here calls each other ‘darling.’”

  Kathy laughed. I was right. I made air kisses and even Floyd had a chuckle.

  “Floyd, darling,” she began again, raising her eyebrows for emphasis. “Diane, as his mother, is worried that Fred’s going to turn into a snotty little snob and never come home again.”

  “It’s true he’s punching above his weight here,” Floyd said. “But my money’s still on him.”

  “I’m just afraid Susan’s wallet is going to swallow him whole,” I said.

  “Like your momma says, don’t cross that bridge until you come to it,” Kathy said. “Let’s see what happens. If the butterflies fly, she doesn’t care what you think. If they don’t, well, maybe she heard you and cares how all this is making you feel. But truly, this isn’t about us. It’s for Shelby and Fred.”

  Kathy was such a good friend. I knew she was right. Time had to pass. I thought of myself at Fred’s age. I remembered thinking I knew everything there was to know. Funny how the older you get, the less certain you become of almost everything except death.

  The toilet situation seemed to be under control soon after the building’s superintendent arrived with a serious-looking piece of equipment Floyd identified as a snake. He went in there with a fanfare that I thought was entirely unnecessary. Minutes later he came out and had a word with Alejandro. Alejandro thanked him, slipped him something that I imagined was cash, and saw him to the door.

  Susan and Alejandro twisted their way through the crowd, coming toward us.

  “Floyd, did you have anything to do with wrecking the john?” I said.

  “Absolutely not.”

  “From the way Susan’s been looking at you, I’d say you’re going to get the credit anyway.”

  “What do I care?”

  A superbly well-dressed and -coiffed woman I thought I recognized approached before Susan and Alejandro could reach us.

  “You’re Frederick’s mother. Remember me? Judy! I had a cameo at your pig picking where I ruined a pair of pumps. Stepped in Isabella’s carte de visite?”

  “Yes, of course. I’m Diane. Remember, Floyd, Fred’s uncle?”

  “Unforgettable Floyd, how are you?” she said. “Fred? Who’s Fred? Do you mean Frederick?”

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  Floyd narrowed his eyes at her and said, “Nice to see you.”

  “And Kathy, my closest friend?”

  “Of course! Well, here we are again, celebrating those precious kids. Again.” We nodded to each other, smiling pleasantly, acknowledging one another’s reason for being smack in the middle of the heady world of Chicago’s elite. The noise level was growing so anything beyond chitchat was pretty much impossible. “Ramsey Lewis,” she said. “Only Susan and Alejandro!”

  “I’ve loved his music forever,” Kathy said.

  “Cool dude,” Floyd said.

  “Excuse me, did you just call Ramsey Lewis a dude?” Judy said and laughed.

  “What would you call him?” Floyd said.

  “How about a world-renowned virtuoso?” Judy said with an arched eyebrow.

  “Oh, brother,” Kathy said.

  “Well, it was very nice to have seen you again,” Judy said, with the phoniest smile ever stretched over her plastic surgery, before she wandered away.

  “Nice,” Kathy said.

  “Too bad about your shoes,” I said. “I don’t know how I’m going to live through this,”

  “Low exposure. You’ll see them a couple of times a year and no more,” Floyd said and sighed. “I could eat those puffy things with the crab until the cows come home.”

  I thought about what he said. It was true. Once the wedding was behind us there would be no reason to see them except for baptisms and birthdays and eventual graduations, and those things didn’t happen so often. But the wedding was going to be a test of my mettle.

  “You’re probably right. I mean, I believe their love is real,” I said. “I believe they make each other better people. And honestly? It seems as though they’re made for each other.”

  “Look, Lady Di, it’s not Shelby’s fault her folks are rolling in it,” Floyd said.

  “I’m just wondering how Momma is gonna react,” I said.

  “Hissy fit,” Kathy said.

  “Yeah. The biggest one ever,” I said.

  Chapter 11

  Lowcountry Thanksgiving

  “She’s cracked!” Virnell said.

  “Agreed!” Diane said.

  “We agree on something?” Virnell said.

  It was sweater weather on Thanksgiving morning and the Slice and Dice Club was in session. My mother and I were aproned, sleeves rolled up, and at our stations in the kitchen like every other woman in the country who celebrated. I was wondering how many pounds of onions I would chop between November and December and simultaneously thinking about Fred’s approaching wedding.

  I diced my fifth large yellow onion, scooped all the pieces into a large bowl, tossed the skins into the compost bin, and reached into the pantry basket for five more. The peeling and chopping continued.

  Ever since the engagement party in Chicago last week, Susan had been slow to return my phone calls and emails. Any conversation we had about the wedding was chilled by her growing paranoia that I was judging her. I’m sorry, but twenty thousand butterflies? She had stopped sharing details with me, and when I tried to ask Fred how it was coming along he told me that Susan wanted to surprise her guests and wedding details weren’t his thing. To be honest, if Susan wanted to hire Cirque du Soleil to fly on trapezes over our heads while they juggled pomegranates, it was okay with me. But I wasn’t happy to be cut out of the loop. After all, this was my only child’s wedding too.

  When I asked Susan for a guest list for the rehearsal party she sighed hard enough to set off tiny ripples in the Sea of Japan.

  “Oh, that’s right,” she said as though she’d never given a thought to my role in the rehearsal dinner. “You’ll need that.”

  “It would be helpful,” I said with a laugh, a gentle reminder to her that Fred had a living, breathing mother, although I did wonder what it would cost.

  I thought I was only expected to invite those
people who were in the wedding party and the parents on both sides. Maybe we’d include the officiant and the organist, if they showed an interest. Susan feigned surprise that we were not intending to include the out-of-town guests as well.

  “I can’t see them roaming around town not knowing where to go,” she said with a tone of urgency.

  “How many out-of-town guests do you have?” I asked, terrified.

  “Oh, not that many. Fewer than two hundred,” she said. “Most of our friends live around Chicago.”

  I was certain she could hear me gasp in horror. She had to have known that a party of that size in megawatt Chicago would bankrupt my family.

  “Good grief,” I said, wondering if there was an acceptable spot in Chicago for twenty dollars a head that would pass muster with Susan and Alejandro. Probably not. No, definitely not. “I’ll call you back. I need to figure this out.”

  “I see,” she said. “If you need suggestions just let me know.”

  Was there a trace of snark in her voice, or stress?

  “I might. Thanks.”

  My anxiety was mushrooming. I wasn’t sleeping well. There was no way I could match her tit for tat without mortgaging the farm, and it wasn’t mine to mortgage. Well, damn it all, I just didn’t have resources for this. I’d never felt poor until that moment. Soon Susan Kennedy Cambria and I were going to have an awkward discussion I already dreaded.

  So, on Thanksgiving morning, I ran the issue by Kathy and Floyd just to help me think it through. I called Floyd first.

  “Susie Q’s so full of herself it’s ridiculous,” he said. “She witnessed our life of luxury.”

  “Exactly,” I said as I watched Gus the cat stroll across the kitchen counter. “Come here, cat.” I picked him up with my free arm and he was draped across my arm and hip like a very furry tote bag.

  “Maybe there’s an Elks Club or a catering hall out there somewhere?”

  “Oh, right. I can just see Susan and Alejandro mixing and mingling at a VFW. Floyd, what am I going to do?”

  I walked Gus to the back door and put him outside on the back porch, shooing him away. Cat hair and food were a bad mix.

  “I don’t know, but I know what you’re not going to do. You’re not throwing a dinner for that many people. Tell her to forget it. Ain’t happening.”

  Easy for him to say.

  “What time you coming up to the house?”

  “As soon as I can get a shower. The sanctity of my home has been violated by a bunch of female interlopers from Atlanta.”

  I knew that my brother liked nothing better than a house filled with women he could flirt with.

  “Yeah, okay. I’m sure you’re miserable, Romeo. I’ll see you later.”

  I called Kathy.

  “Happy Thanksgiving!” I said and told her the story.

  Kathy said, “She’s insane to even think it’s okay to put that kind of burden on you. It would be like having a second wedding! Who does that?”

  “MOB-zilla,” I said.

  “Call Alden,” she said. “Ask him to duplicate the engagement party. That might have been the best barbecue in the history of barbecues.”

  “I can’t call Alden.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  “He wanted to take me to his niece’s wedding and I declined. I just want us to be friends, you know? Besides, I don’t feel that way about him,” I said.

  “If you say so. Methinks thou dost . . .”,” Kathy said, using the Bard’s line of protest too much that let me know she didn’t believe me. “Well then, why don’t you ask Floyd to cook us another pig.”

  “I can’t see Floyd hauling a pig halfway across the country, can you?”

  “Probably not,” she said. “Let me give this some thought.”

  We hung up and I shifted my focus back to the remaining onions and the brussels sprouts. The brussels sprouts were always my job to prepare because Virnell said so.

  “You have the patience to hull out the bottoms. I don’t.”

  Who did she think she was kidding? She could hull a sprout with the best of them. I mean, who taught me to prepare them in the first place? The real reason I got the job was that her arthritis made it too painful for her to pop the sprouts from the stalk and then peel back the tiny leaves, never mind cutting away the bitter part inside the stems. It was a tedious job. I resharpened the paring knife and got back to work.

  When I was just about elbow deep in the tough outer leaves, Pop came into the room, opened the refrigerator, and took out the glass pitcher of iced tea.

  “Happy Thanksgiving, ladies! How’s our dinner coming?”

  “Coming along, baby boy,” my mother said and winked at him.

  There was a pitcher of freshly made iced tea in our fridge twelve months a year. He poured himself a glass and plunked a few ice cubes in it to further cool and dilute it.

  “Who’s playing today, Pop?” I asked.

  “The Vikings. They’re playing the Lions. And Dallas is going to slaughter Washington. I’ve got a full day ahead of me. Think I could get a sandwich?”

  “We’re pretty well occupied in here,” my mother said. “Think you could make it yourself?”

  My mother rarely turned down any request from Pop, but we were actually working at full capacity. We still had to make dressing, gravy, and pies.

  “Sounds like a hectic day for sure,” I said. “But, Pop, I can scramble you an egg. How’s that?”

  “Humph,” he said, “I think I’ll just eat a banana.”

  He took one from the fruit bowl on the table and sailed out toward the living room.

  “There’s an elephant in the room,” Mom said.

  I didn’t answer her. My mother had been quietly eavesdropping on my conversations with Floyd and Kathy while she innocently peeled and chopped rutabagas. She swooped a cutting board filled with them into a pot with the blunt side of her knife, covered them with water, and added a tablespoon of salt and a smoked ham hock. She turned on the burner.

  “Nobody wants my opinion anymore,” she said, rinsing her hands.

  Oh, brother, I thought.

  “Okay, Miss Virnell,” I said. “Lay it on me, sister.”

  She dried her hands, picked up the potato peeler, and began earnestly scraping the skin of a yam away, beginning another pile of scraps to compost.

  “Don’t call me that. You’re supposed to give a rehearsal party the night before the wedding. Is that right?”

  “Yes. And Susan wants to invite all of her out-of-town guests in addition to the actual wedding party members. Like two hundred mouths to feed.”

  “Tell her no. Plain and simple.”

  “You don’t understand, Momma. I can’t just do that.”

  She slammed her potato peeler on the cutting board. I flinched in surprise. Virnell did not go around slamming things.

  “You know, up until now, I haven’t said anything. I’ve just been watching and keeping my thoughts to myself. But that woman’s as crazy as a low-flying loon.”

  “Well, she certainly has no problem with being extravagant with my wallet,” I said.

  “Amen to that. You listen to me, Diane. You just tell her that you are dee-lighted to pay for the wedding party’s dinner. And you might even ask her for ideas of where to have the dinner take place, which would give you a better sense of her expectations. But if she wants to have every Tom, Dick, and Harry attend? She’s going to have to foot the bill for that. Good gravy! What’s the matter with people? I’ve never heard of such a thing in my life!”

  “Nobody has good sense anymore,” I said.

  “Maybe money grows on peach trees in Chicago, but it sure doesn’t do that here! Don’t you let this woman push you around.”

  “You’re right, of course.”

  “I know I’m right. I’m your mother. Now, please get the dark brown sugar from the pantry. And two sticks of butter from the fridge.”

  “Sure.” I put them on the counter next to her. “But do you unde
rstand why I might be uncomfortable to have that conversation?”

  “Yes, because you’re a proud woman. This woman makes you feel po’bucka and I don’t like it. It’s a kind of pushy bullying. Where would she be without her husband’s money? And where’d she come from anyway? Buckingham Palace? I seriously doubt it.” An evil little smile crept across her face and I smiled with her.

  “Oh, who knows? And who cares? Maybe she grew up eating cat food in a tent.”

  “She probably did. Law, that woman has some high opinion of herself, doesn’t she?”

  “Yes, she does. I just love you, Miss Virnell. You always know how to put your finger on the crux of things, don’t you?”

  “Sometimes I’m better at it than others. Want to baste my bird for me? And stop calling me that!”

  “Sure. What time are we going to sit down?” I opened the oven door and peered inside.

  Our twenty-pound turkey laced the air with the perfume of heaven. I took the saucepan of melted butter and lemon and painted it all over the bird. I loved it that she thought of the turkey as hers and the meal as hers. It was probably a good thing psychologically for her to feel the emotional ownership of the holiday when in fact I would wind up doing 75 percent of the work. Someday, and it would come too soon, I’d be alone in the kitchen making holiday meals, and life without her was unimaginable. But who would I be cooking for?

  “We can go to the table when the pies are in the oven and the bird’s resting. Probably around four. Does that suit you?” Mom said.

  “That suits me just fine. Gosh, there’s nothing like Thanksgiving.”

  “It’s my favorite holiday too. Be sure the table is set for eight.”

  “Eight? Who’s coming?”

  “Besides Pop and me, we’ve got you and Floyd, BJ, and her three girlfriends.”

  “Right. Which china do you want to use? The Spode?”

  “Yes, yes, yes! Let’s use my good Spode. I meant to ask Floyd to bring it down, but it slipped my mind every time I saw him. And by the way, you should’ve gone to the wedding with Alden.”