The Secret Lives of the Kudzu Debutantes

by Cathy Holton

  Virginia gritted her teeth and looked down at the carpet. It was called Elvis Red and Virginia had never seen the color in any decorator's catalog or carpet showroom. She was pretty sure Redmon must have paid thousands of dollars extra to have it specially dyed so it could look as gauche and tacky as it did.

  He knew what had happened in Montana because he'd been there. But he wasn't talking. At least not now. Not only had she not been able to pry the secret of the Montana hunting trip out of him, but she'd also been unable to do anything about this monument to bad taste that they lived in. He seemed determined to keep a tight rein on their personal finances, giving her an allowance so small she could barely buy groceries, much less entertain, or redecorate the garish mansion Redmon called home. Just yesterday she had been forced to host her bridge group at the house and she had overheard Lee Anne Bales and Worland Pendergrass giggling and whispering over the gold-plated fixtures in the master bathroom with its marble floors, marble walls, and crushed velvet draperies. Not to mention the built-in, lighted cabinet in the master bedroom highlighting Redmon's collection of Elvis memorabilia, and the king-size bed that was actually suspended from the ceiling by four gold-plated chains. Virginia had glanced in the bedroom door to find Lee Anne and Worland laying on their backs on the gently swaying bed, looking up at the huge ceiling mirror and giggling like a couple of schoolgirls.

  “My God, it's like a New Orleans whorehouse,” Lee Anne said.

  Worland snorted and put her hand over her mouth. “How desperate did Virginia have to be to marry into this,” she said.

  Pretty damn desperate. Virginia had stood just outside the door and felt her face burn with rage and humiliation. She could not bear to have people laugh at her. But looking around the great room with its huge stacked stone fireplace, big-screen TV, faux-wood furniture, and overstuffed Naugahyde seating group, complete with built-in beer cooler and remote control caddy, she could not blame them for laughing. She would have laughed, too, had it been anyone besides herself married to Redmon.

  “All I'm saying …” Redmon said, grease glistening along his top lip. “All I'm saying is you might not want to show up for that wedding after what them girls did to your boy.” He grinned and shook his head. “Them girls is trouble,” he said.

  “They don't know what trouble is,” Virginia muttered, staring balefully at the Elvis Red carpet.

  “What?” Redmon bellowed. Good God, he had hair growing out of his ears. She could see it clearly beneath the glare of the gold-plated crystal chandelier. The Big-Ass Chandelier. It was how Virginia referred to the monstrosity in the privacy of her own mind. It was on her long list of things that would have to go.

  “Nothing,” she said.

  The swinging door between the dining room and the kitchen swung open and Della Smurl came out carrying a plate of biscuits. Della was the only African-American woman in Ithaca, Georgia, still willing to don a maid's outfit and do domestic work—for the right price, of course. She'd struggled to send three children to graduate school before she figured out that white folks—white folks like Virginia, anyway—were willing to pay any price just to feel like they were back in the good old days before civil rights. Before an uppity little black woman by the name of Rosa Parks rocked their world forever and brought the good old days crashing down around their ears.

  Now Della made close to six figures a year, took vacations to the Bahamas, and had a retirement account she could live on for thirty years.

  “I told you to make yeast rolls, not biscuits,” Virginia said sharply.

  Della set the platter of biscuits down, loudly, on the table in front of Redmon. He greedily filled his plate. “I don't have time to make yeast rolls,” Della said belligerently. She'd wear the uniform, for the right price, but she'd be damned if she'd take the same shit she'd had to take before Rosa Parks. “You got to let it rise and beat it down and let it rise again and I don't have time for all that nonsense. Not if you want me to make a pot roast, too.”

  “In point of fact,” Virginia said icily, “I did not want you to make pot roast. I wanted you to make Boeuf Bourguignon.” She'd gone to all the trouble to put together a menu, complete with recipes, and Della hadn't followed a single one. Instead, she substituted whatever simple fare she saw fit to substitute.

  Della put her hand on her ample hip, but before she could say anything, Redmon said, “I like biscuits. I like pot roast.” He grinned like an idiot with his mouth full of biscuit, and winked at the black woman. She smirked at Virginia and left the room.

  Virginia counted to ten. How was she supposed to bring culinary culture to this house when her husband insisted on siding with the help? When his idea of fine dining was baked possum stuffed with sweet potatoes, and turnip greens? Virginia counted to ten again, wondering how in the world Myra had stood it all those years. She stared down at the glass dining table with its gold ram's horn base surrounded by chairs upholstered in faux zebra skin, wondering what in the world she had gotten herself into.

  It's not like she hadn't been warned. It's not like she'd gone into this marriage with blinders on. She had known Redmon for years, of course. He had been married to her staunchest comrade-in-arms, Myra (Virginia did not have female friends, only allies), and Virginia had pegged him correctly within ten minutes of their first meeting—he was socially uncouth, and as loud and unsophisticated in his dress and manners as only a nouveau riche redneck can be. Still, when Myra was killed in a tragic tennis accident, and Virginia's own fortunes took a tumble thanks to a portfolio overly invested in growth stocks and growth mutual funds, not to mention the demise of Boone & Broadwell, she had begun to look differently at Redmon. He was rumored to be one of the wealthiest men in Georgia. And she had managed, after several years of steady, patient work, to civilize the Judge.

  But she had underestimated Redmon. She saw this now. Behind his Gomer Pyle exterior there lurked the wily, stubborn nature of a street- smart hillbilly—the kind of man her father used to call “smart as an outhouse rat.” And to make matters worse, it seemed Redmon had been carrying a secret torch for Virginia for nearly thirty years, and not only insisted on actually consummating their marriage, but insisted on consummating it nightly.

  Virginia spent a good part of her time these days trying to avoid her marriage bed and cursing the chemist who had discovered Viagra.

  “We're going to that wedding,” Virginia said curtly.

  Redmon chewed steadily and watched her with a crafty expression on his big red face. “What you got up your sleeve, Queenie?” he said. “What's going on in that pretty little head of yours?”

  “I don't know what you mean,” she said stiffly, avoiding his gaze. She raised her voice and said, “Della, more tea.”

  There was no sound but for the steady clomping of Redmon's bicuspids chewing through a rather large piece of pot roast.

  “Della,” she said sharply.

  Nothing.

  “Della, I know you hear me.”

  The door swung open violently and Della came back in carrying a pitcher of sweet tea. “I don't know why some folks can't eat in the kitchen,” she grumbled. “I don't know why some folks can't think of other folks and their bad feet every once in a while.”

  Redmon, of course, fell for it. “You want us to eat in the kitchen, Della?” he said. “We can if it's easier on you.” Della put the pitcher down and went out, still grumbling.

  Virginia stared at Redmon. She insisted on eating dinner in the formal dining room every evening. She was trying to set a standard. She was attempting to entice Redmon into leaving his Alabama hog-farm roots behind him, and if enticement didn't work she was determined to drag him kicking and screaming into the realm of good breeding and good taste. She was determined to overcome his penchant for gold-plated fixtures and expensive, but tasteless, furnishings, and the first thing to go, she decided savagely, would be the Elvis Red carpet.

  What was it Oscar Wilde had said on his deathbed, looking at the room's gaudy wallpaper
? One of us will have to go. That was pretty much the way Virginia felt about the red carpet. That was pretty much the way Virginia felt about her whole damn marriage.

  Redmon finished his meal, belched, and pushed himself away from the table, rubbing his big round belly with both hands. “Well, Queenie, what's it to be tonight? The Cheerleader and the Coach? The Naughty Secretary and the Boss? The French Maid and the Millionaire?”

  Virginia thought she heard Della snort in the kitchen. “Not tonight, I have a headache,” she said.

  “You had a headache last night,” Redmon said, standing up from the table.

  “I really need to see a doctor about these migraines,” Virginia said, putting her hand over her eyes and watching his big, booted feet cross the red carpet toward her.

  “I know just the thing for migraines,” he said in her ear, leaning down to kiss her. She turned her face to give him her cheek but he was wise to that move, and swiveled his head around, clamping his mouth over hers.

  She pushed him away with both hands, standing up so quickly her faux zebra chair nearly toppled over.

  He grinned in that particularly juvenile way men have when they are trying to convince an unwilling woman. “It's your turn to decide, Queenie,” he said slapping her on the bottom. “But if you don't, I will!”

  “What about your heart?”

  “What about it?” he said.

  “Do you really think the exertion would be good for you?” she said, looking around desperately. “So soon after a big meal?”

  “You let me worry about my heart,” he said, slapping her again on the rear end. “What's it to be, Queenie?”

  “Oh, all right,” she snapped. “How about the Naughty Schoolboy and the Schoolteacher?” She said it half in jest but his eyes got round and a spot of pink appeared on both cheeks.

  He lowered his voice and said earnestly, “Will you spank me in front of the whole class, Teacher?”

  “Oh, good God,” she said, but he had already grabbed her hand and was pulling her toward the bedroom door.

  LAVONNE PICKED EADIE UP AT THE AIRPORT ON WEDNESDAY evening and they stopped just south of Atlanta for dinner. Eadie seemed restless and quiet, like she had something on her mind but didn't want to talk about it. Lavonne had known her long enough to know that it was no good pushing her; Eadie would talk when she was ready.

  They went to bed early, and when Lavonne got home from work the next day, Eadie was standing in the kitchen holding a metal cocktail shaker. Something that smelled wonderful bubbled in the pot on the stove behind her.

  “What are you making?” Lavonne said, lifting the lid.

  “Jambalaya. I learned to make it in New Orleans. It's all I know how to cook.” Eadie looked better than she had the night before, more rested and less somber. She was wearing a pair of corduroy jeans and a V-necked sweater that showed off her good figure to full advantage. Her feet were bare.

  Lavonne said, “How come you're addicted to Mondo Logs and you still look like that?”

  Eadie grinned. “Look who's talking,” she said. “Sit your skinny ass down at the bar and I'll pour you a drink.”

  Lavonne sat down. “What are we having?”

  Eadie flourished the shaker like a Japanese hibachi chef wielding a Hiromoto knife. “Pomegranate martinis.” She took two frosted martini glasses out of the freezer and sat them on the counter in front of Lavonne, filling each with the pale-pink liquid. “Cheers,” she said, handing a glass to Lavonne.

  “Damn, that's good,” Lavonne said, sipping. “Where'd you get the shaker?”

  “I brought it from home.”

  “What does that say about you, Eadie, that you travel with your own martini shaker?”

  Eadie sipped her drink. “It says I like the ritual of cocktail hour. I like everything about it, the funny little glasses, the gleaming metal shaker, the routine of drinking at the same time every day. Cocktail hour is a holdover from our parents' generation. Why did we ever give it up?”

  “Our generation had drugs. We didn't need martinis.”

  “True.” Eadie put her drink down and went over to the pot to stir the jambalaya. “I called Nita. She's coming over for dinner. She made me promise this wasn't some crazy ploy to give her a bachelorette party, but I told her it was just you and me.”

  “And she agreed to come? Silly girl. Quick, let's call some strippers.”

  Eadie put the lid on the pot and turned around. “She sounds like she needs a night out. Don't you two see much of each other anymore?” She leaned against the stove with one arm draped across her stomach and the other one holding her drink.

  “Not really.” Lavonne sipped her martini. “I hate to say it, on account of you getting a big head and all, but it's not the same since you left town.”

  Eadie colored slightly. She smiled. “Well, we'll have to make up for lost time,” she said.

  The timer went off and Eadie took the rice off the heat and stuck a loaf of French bread into the oven. Lavonne watched her work, feeling lazy and relaxed. The vodka had gone straight to her brain and she had a nice buzz going. “Are you sure you don't need any help?” she said to Eadie.

  “Nope.” Eadie took the top off the shaker and poured them both another drink. The buzzing in Lavonne's head got louder. “Oh hell, that's my cell phone,” Eadie said, putting the shaker down. “It's probably Trevor. I'll be right back.” She rushed out of the room and Lavonne could hear her a minute later in Louise's room. “Are you going to call me every hour?” she said, and Lavonne got up to turn on the radio so she wouldn't have to hear the whole conversation. The house was small and the ceilings were high so sound carried.

  Winston came through the door wagging his tail slowly and Lavonne leaned down to scratch his ears. “So there you are, you lazy good for nothing,” she said fondly. He whined and grinned up at her and she went to the door to let him out. Eadie was still on the phone and Lavonne sat back down at the counter to wait. It was true what she had said about Nita; they rarely saw each other these days. You would think, in a town as small as Ithaca, that they might run into each other occasionally, but both had busy and very different lives. They had once been neighbors who saw each other practically every day, but even then it had been Eadie who had brought them all together. She was the glue that had kept their friendship intact.

  Lavonne lifted the metal shaker and poured herself another drink. On the radio, Van Morrison sang his ode to brown-eyed girls. Lavonne sipped her drink and thought about all the years she had known Eadie Boone. Twenty years. Their friendship had lasted longer than most marriages, almost as long as her ill-fated marriage to Leonard Zibolsky.

  In the back bedroom, Eadie shouted, “Don't be such an asshole, Trevor.”

  Lavonne had met Eadie and Trevor Boone soon after she and Leonard moved to Ithaca from Cleveland. It was at a party at the Boone mansion, and Eadie was standing on a table singing the Georgia fight song. Trevor was trying to convince her to climb down, but he was laughing, too, and looking at Eadie like she was the only girl in the world for him. They were two of the best-looking people Lavonne had ever seen.

  Eadie lost no time introducing herself. “Hey,” she said. “Don't drink that shit.” She threw Lavonne's glass of Chablis over her shoulder and handed her a margarita.

  Lavonne knew immediately that they would be friends.

  Leonard tolerated the friendship for as long as he could, which turned out to be about three weeks. Lavonne had been a quiet, steady girl in high school and college who concentrated on keeping her grade point average as close to 4.0 as possible. But Eadie Boone changed all that. Under Eadie's tutelage Lavonne became the crazy, irresponsible girl she'd never dared to be before. They were like Catholic schoolgirls on a weekend binge. They went to endless parties, took Trevor's credit card and stayed at the Ritz Carlton in Atlanta, went on wild beach trips, and out to Bad Bob's to drink tequila and dance with peanut farmers and cowboys. It didn't take long for news of their exploits to reach Leonard.


  “Y'all are going to ruin your reputations,” Leonard said one night at dinner. He'd only been in Ithaca a few weeks but already he used “y'all” like he'd used it all his life. Leonard had lost no time going native, standing in front of the bathroom mirror and practicing his Southern accent, wearing loafers without socks and madras plaid shorts to numerous parties.

  “This isn't high school, Leonard.”

  “But it is a small town. A small town I have to make a living in. What you and Eadie do reflects poorly on the firm.”

  “You have to be kidding me.”

  “No, Lavonne, I am not kidding you.” He was chubby and balding and when he got angry the bald spot on the back of his head glowed under the overhead lights. “You and Eadie seem to think you can run wild with no repercussions. You don't see Nita Broadwell acting that way. She doesn't jump naked into swimming pools or streak across the Wal-Mart parking lot.”

  “That was Eadie. I never take my clothes off.”

  “Nita Broadwell does everything Charles tells her to do.”

  “Yeah, well, Nita needs to get a life. Charles is an asshole.”

  Leonard looked offended. “He's my law partner,” he said, his bald spot pulsing. “And Nita Broadwell is a good Southern wife.”

  She reached out and flicked his nose like she was killing a mosquito.

  “Well, Leonard, if you wanted a good Southern wife, maybe you should have married one.”

  She had been angry then, but Lavonne chuckled now, remembering. Leonard's new trophy wife, Christy, was Southern. She was from Soddy Daisy, Tennessee, and called herself Creesty.

  “What are you laughing at?” Eadie said, coming back into the kitchen.

  “Nothing. Can you make up another shaker of those martinis?”

  “Is the pope Catholic?” Eadie said. “Does a fifty-pound sack of flour make a big biscuit?”

  By the time Nita showed up thirty minutes later, they had finished off their second shaker and were giggling about the time they sent a Stripagram to Worland Pendergrass's husband, Connelly, during the middle of a big dinner party.