The Secret Lives of the Kudzu Debutantes

by Cathy Holton

  “You'd be happier if you were working,” he said.

  “No shit, Trevor. You're a genius at stating the obvious.”

  He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. Outside the window the rain fell in sheets.

  “I worked the whole time I was in Ithaca,” she said.

  “So what are you saying?”

  “I'm saying I can't work here.”

  “Look, I love New Orleans,” he said, pushing himself off the jamb. “Don't blame the city just because you've got artist's block.”

  “I'm not blaming anything,” she said. “I'm just telling it like it is.”

  “You're showing the classic symptoms,” he said.

  “The classic symptoms for what?”

  “For depression.”

  “Fuck off, Trevor.”

  “You sleep all day, some days you don't even get dressed. I want to help you, Eadie,” he said. “But I don't know what to do.”

  “Stay here,” Eadie said. “Don't go to New York.”

  “Goddamn it, Eadie, that's so unfair.”

  “I need you here.”

  “You need. That's the problem, Eadie. You need too much. You're like a goddamn succubus. I can't give you everything you need and have anything left for me.”

  He went to the closet and took down his suitcase. Eliza Doolittle was learning to say, The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain. Trevor put the suitcase on the end of the bed and opened it. Then he went to the dresser and began to take out stacks of clothing. He tossed them into the case without looking.

  “I thought you weren't leaving until Thursday,” Eadie said.

  “I've got to get some work done. I've got a second novel to write, Eadie. I've got deadlines and pressures. If I can't write here, I'll write in New York.”

  She kicked suddenly and pushed the suitcase off the bed onto the floor. He picked it up and flung it onto a chair and began to repack.

  “Don't bother going to New York,” she said evenly. “I'll leave. You can stay here and I'll go.”

  Trevor slammed the suitcase lid closed. He went into the closet and came out with a couple of dress shirts and a tweed sports jacket. They were still on hangers and he zipped them into a garment bag and laid it over the chair. He stood looking at her, his face shadowed by the green glow of the TV screen. “I love you, honey,” he said. “And I want to help you. But I can't do anything if you won't try.”

  “Unpack that suitcase,” Eadie said. “You're not going anywhere.”

  “Sally Potter gave me the name of a good therapist.” He took his wallet out of his back pocket, opened it, and began to rifle around inside. “She gave me his card.”

  Eadie's mouth sagged. Her face flushed on one side like she'd been slapped by an unseen hand. “Tell me you haven't been talking about me with Sally Potter,” she said. They'd served together on a committee to raise money for Audubon Park. Eadie hated the woman.

  “Sally's been on Prozac for about a year now. She says it's made all the difference. She says some women have trouble with their endorphin levels as they age.”

  “Tell me you haven't been talking about me with goddamn Sally Potter.” She was so mad she began to cry, which surprised even Eadie. She'd never been the kind of woman who cried, especially during heated arguments with her husband. Crying seemed like the coward's way out.

  “Honey, you need endorphins. You need serotonin.” He took a step toward her but she put her hand up to stop him. He swung the garment bag up on his shoulder.

  “I don't need a therapist,” she shouted.

  He picked up the suitcase. “Sleep won't work,” he said sadly. “Mondo Logs won't work.”

  She grabbed pillows off the bed and began to fling them at him as he walked out of the room. They bounced off his head like pellets fired from a shooting gallery gun at a row of moving ducks. Over the years, she'd become a pretty good shot. “If you leave now, we're through,” she sobbed. She wasn't even sure why she had said that. She floated around on the ceiling looking down at the violent crazy woman below her. She thought, Who is that woman? She thought, Maybe I should get my hormones checked. She said, “If you walk out of this room, our marriage is over.”

  She'd run out of pillows to fling. “I'll call you tomorrow,” he said. He closed the door softly behind him. She was reminded of all those times, years ago, when her lonely mother had brought home a steady procession of worthless men who never seemed to stay longer than a few days. Eadie would awake some mornings to the sound of her mother sobbing quietly in the tiny bedroom of the trailer and she would know that the latest Romeo had gone, stealing away in the dark hours just before dawn.

  She lay back down in the middle of the big empty bed. Downstairs she heard Trevor's car pull out of the drive but she wouldn't go to the window to look. She wouldn't stand there and watch him drive away. She thought of all the men who had paraded through her sad mother's dreary life. Eadie hadn't had a parade of men.

  She had only had one.

  ON A WEDNESDAY IN LATE FEBRUARY, JOE SOLOMON SHOWED UP for half-price cookie day. Lavonne was in the office working on some inventory reports when Little Moses stuck his head in the door. “Hey, you've got company,” he said, grinning. “A gentleman caller.”

  “A gentleman caller?” Lavonne said. “What in the hell is that?”

  Little Moses lowered his chin and pursed his lips. “Come out front and I'll show you,” he said.

  Joe Solomon was standing over by the display case she had set up showcasing some of their bottled products. She hadn't seen him since that day in the park after Nita's wedding. When he saw her he grinned and lifted a slim bottle. “Grandma Ada's Kosher Barbecue Sauce,” he said. “Now this I have to try.” He was dressed in a blue oxford cloth shirt and a pair of khaki slacks. His eyes, she noticed, were less green today and more of a slate-blue color. She wondered where he'd been the last couple of weeks.

  “I'll make you up a gift basket if you like. We've got several kosher products you might enjoy. We make them from my partner's old family recipes.”

  Joe walked slowly toward the counter still holding the bottle. “I'll take a basket and I'd like one sent to my mother, too, in Buffalo.”

  “We can do that,” Lavonne said, trying not to seem too friendly. She figured if he hadn't been in since that day in the park, he probably wasn't that interested in her. She'd probably imagined the whole thing. She stared steadily at Little Moses who was wiping down the top of the glass case as if he was the only one in the room, as if he wasn't listening to every word of their conversation.

  “Oh,” Little Moses said, feeling the weight of her eyes. He grinned. “Let me get those baskets for you.”

  “That would be nice,” Lavonne said.

  “It'll take just a minute,” Little Moses said, putting down the cloth. “I'll have to go in the back to make them up.”

  “Yes I know that.”

  He stood there grinning and wiping his hands on his apron. Lavonne made a slight movement with her head toward the kitchen door. Joe pretended to read the ingredients label on the back of the bottle. Little Moses thrust his arm suddenly across the counter. “Moses Shapiro,” he said to Joe.

  “Joe Solomon,” he said, taking his hand firmly. He set the bottle down on the counter.

  Little Moses cocked one eyebrow at Lavonne as he went out. “You kids be good,” he said. “I'll be right back.”

  “He's a cheerful fellow,” Joe said as the door swung shut on his heels.

  “Yes, isn't he.” Lavonne picked up the cloth Little Moses had dropped and began to clean the glass. Now that they were alone in the room, she felt self-conscious, aware of the fact that he was watching her work with a curious expression on his face.

  “You missed a spot,” he said, pointing at the glass, and she couldn't tell if he was teasing her or if he was disappointed.

  “Thanks,” she said. She was aware of the awkward silence that seemed to rise and flatten out between them like a bad odor. She bar
ely knew the man. Why should she care that he hadn't come by to see her since that disastrous day in the park? She wished she was one of those women who could ramble on about nothing in particular, the kind who could make outrageous comments to men without feeling self-conscious or awkward. It didn't help that Joe Solomon looked so damn attractive, standing there in his blue shirt with his light brown hair and eyes the soft gray color of rain.

  He cleared his throat. “So what's the deal with half-price cookie day?” he said gruffly, leaning his elbows on the top of the glass so Lavonne would have to stop wiping.

  She stepped away from the counter and folded the cloth in a neat square, stuffing it down in the pocket of her apron. “Buy a dozen and get the second dozen at half price.”

  “Oh yeah? What's good?”

  She leaned over and tapped the glass in a professional manner. “The May Days are good,” she said. “But if you like chocolate, the Chocolate Walnut cookies are to die for.”

  “I'll have a dozen of each,” he said. Again, that tone in his voice, not friendly, but brisk and stilted.

  It probably has something to do with that day in the park, she thought, leaning over to pick up the cookie trays. It probably has something to do with Fleshy Delights. As she stood up, she accidentally knocked the tray against the case and two of the cookies slid off onto the floor. She swung around, catching her apron pocket on the edge of the counter. It ripped open along one seam. “Shit,” Lavonne said.

  The kitchen door swung open and Little Moses came out carrying two gift baskets. He set them down on the counter with a flourish and Lavonne said to him, not looking at Joe, “Okay, he wants two dozen cookies, too. Can you ring him up?” Her voice was curt and businesslike.

  Little Moses glanced from one to the other. “Sure,” he said.

  Lavonne took off her apron and fled to the back office. The door was open a crack and she heard them talking in low voices while Little Moses rang him up. What in the hell is wrong with me? she thought glumly. I've probably just offended a paying customer. A few minutes later she heard the bell on the door tinkle as he went out.

  She put her elbow on the desk and covered her eyes with one hand. She could hear Little Moses's footsteps as he headed for the office but then the bell tinkled again, as another customer came in, and he went back up front. Maybe I should take a class, she thought despondently. Maybe I should read a book on how to talk to men I find attractive. Or, hell, maybe I should just get Eadie to teach me. She heard Little Moses's footsteps again in the hallway. A moment later he knocked lightly on the door. She dropped her hand and looked up.

  Joe Solomon stood in the doorway. “I'm not very good at this,” he said.

  “Good at what?”

  “At asking people out. At dating. It's not something I do a lot of.”

  “And I'm a regular Mata Hari, as you can tell.”

  He grinned. “Mata Hari,” he said. “I like that.”

  “My friend Eadie says flirting is nothing more than the ability to give a candy-coated insult, and that I should be good at it, given my sarcastic wit.”

  “I can imagine your friend Eadie saying that.”

  “You met her at the park. The pretty one with the long legs. Remember?”

  “I remember,” he said. He shrugged and leaned one shoulder against the jamb. “She's not really my type. I go for the pretty, awkward girls with the sarcastic wit.”

  “Oh, thank you very much.” She smiled and drummed her fingers on the desk, enjoying this.

  “So is it a date then?” He pushed himself off the jamb. It occurred to her he was as nervous as she was. “Friday night. Dinner. I'll pick you up at seven?”

  “Sure,” she said. “Why not.”

  He turned to go but then stuck his head back in the door. “By the way,” he said. “I've been in Chicago. Visiting my daughter. In case you were wondering.”

  After he left, she sat there feeling like she had grabbed hold of a high- voltage wire. Her feet vibrated. Her hands shook. It occurred to her that she hadn't had a date in twenty-two years, if she didn't count the three years she was engaged to Leonard. Things had certainly changed since then. Twenty-two years ago a first date ended with a kiss and a handshake, if you liked each other. Now it seemed that pretty much anything goes.

  She stopped at the grocery store on the way home and picked up a Cosmopolitan magazine trying to get a few tips on the modern dating scene. After dinner, she fixed herself a vodka martini and got halfway through the article “How to Please Your Man in Bed,” when she realized she wasn't going to be able to do this. Any of this. All the Kegel exercises in the world wouldn't fix a leaky bladder. Not to mention the fact that no one had seen her naked since 1982.

  She sighed and tossed the magazine over the edge of the bed. It would probably be less humiliating for them both if she just called him and told him she couldn't make it Friday night, something had come up. But that seemed rather cowardly. The truth of the matter was, she was looking forward to the date. She still felt a little like she had this afternoon in the office, like she was harnessed to some kind of electrical current that was sending vibrating waves of energy through her body.

  Not an unpleasant feeling, really.

  NOW THAT SHE HAD FINALLY GAINED THE UPPER HAND over Redmon, Virginia set about planning her revenge with all the cunning and strategy of which she was capable. Gaining her granddaughter's affections was turning out to be easier than she had imagined. She made arrangements with Charles to pick up Whitney from school on his visitation days, and took the girl out to dinner on those days when Charles was working late. She took Whitney shopping every chance she got and made arrangements with Nita to take her granddaughter and some of her friends to Atlanta next month for an overnight visit. Virginia was careful to consult Nita in all things, implying that she and Nita were allies protecting a lovable but naive teenager. When she was with Whitney, however, it was a different story. Then she was all sympathy and unconditional approval.

  Like most teenage girls, Whitney harbored an intense feeling of resentment toward her mother, a feeling she was only too happy to share with Virginia. Nita was a “control freak,” she was unfair and unforgiving, she wanted to force Whitney into being someone she was not. Nita was forty, her life was nearly over anyway, and she was determined that Whitney's life would be as drab and boring as hers was. The revelations were endless and dramatic, accompanied by groans and gnashing of teeth and much rolling of her eyes. Virginia had only to listen and cluck her tongue in sympathy. She had only to tell Whitney that she, too, had dreamed of fame and glory as a young girl, but had been thwarted at every turn. Whitney sighed and nodded her head in acknowledgment of Virginia's struggles. The trap was set.

  She took Redmon out to the island three times in the weeks following Nita's wedding. The first time, they spent several hours exploring the old Kelly place, which was in ruins now and covered in creeping vines. The kitchen wing had fallen down years ago and the windows across the front had all been broken so the rain had poured in and made a mess of the pine floors. There were still bits and pieces of furniture scattered throughout the rooms. Virginia's grandmother's grand piano stood in one corner, a nesting place for rats and swallows, its keys yellowed and blistered with age. In the dining room, someone had dragged in an old mattress. It showed recent signs of occupancy. Teenagers used the island as a place to hold parties and bonfires in the summer months, swimming across the narrow river or paddling over on rafts.

  “It must have been a showplace, Queenie,” Redmon said, looking up at the vine-covered monstrosity.

  “It was,” Virginia said. She had a daguerreotype taken not long before the War Between the States that showed the house in its prewar glory. It had, indeed, been a showplace.

  “It would take more money than it's worth to fix it up though.”

  “Oh, I'm not talking about fixing it up,” she said quickly. They stepped outside onto the porch. “We would have to bulldoze this old place. I'm talking a
bout the property itself,” she said, lifting her arms and indicating the heavy forest, thick with sweet gum and cottonwood and wild pecan. “I'm talking about the island,” she said pointing at the tall trees where brightly colored birds chattered like monkeys. Out in the slow-moving river a herd of turtles sunned themselves on a cypress stump. Great herons fished in the shallow coves along the beach. “I'm talking about two hundred twenty acres of prime lakefront property.”

  She had done her homework well. She had laid the groundwork as carefully and steadily as a mason building a foundation out of handmade brick. She had started in at dinner, several days ago, softening him up with tales of retirees who were flocking to the South in droves, noting various television shows that highlighted vacation home properties, lying awake in bed and whispering about aging baby boomers who thirsted for second homes the way de Soto had thirsted for gold.

  The first time she took him out to the island, he had done nothing but criticize, noting the island's remote wildness, the difficulty of providing adequate utilities to the home sites, the expense of building an access bridge. She had taken him out in the boat and shown him the old land bridge that still existed, although submerged several feet below the surface of the water. “Perhaps it wouldn't be as difficult to build a bridge as you might think?” she had suggested. The second time they went out, he had already worked out solutions to the problems of access and utilities in his mind. Now he rambled on about the costs of development; they would be astronomical. It would involve huge loans and risky leveraging. “Of course I don't know anything about business, dear,” Virginia had said, her eyes wide and angelic. “But would the fact that I own the property outright help with the leveraging?”

  By the third visit, Redmon strode along the remains of the sandy road that ran the length of the island explaining where the utility lines would go, pointing out natural features that would need to be kept and walking off the potential lot lines himself. He figured, with careful planning, they might be able to carve three hundred home sites as well as a clubhouse and, who knew, maybe even a nine-hole golf course out of the property. Virginia followed behind him, saying things like, “Oh, I never thought of that,” or, “Oh, I wish I had a head for business like you do,” and once, her little hand resting on her cheek, “Of course I don't know anything about the development game, but do you think we could get Arnold Palmer to do the golf course?”