The Secret Lives of the Kudzu Debutantes

by Cathy Holton

  “I'm not saying to blame anybody. I'm just saying acknowledge what happened and then move on.”

  “My mother did the best she could,” Eadie said stubbornly. “Given the circumstances. She had a hard life.”

  “I know that, Eadie, but from what you've told me, you had to grow up fast. You had to be the parent because your mother wasn't capable of being one. You had to lock up that child persona and take on the responsibilities of adulthood.”

  They ate in silence, their spoons clanking against the ceramic pasta bowls. Eadie hated talking about her childhood. Not that hers had been all that bad. She'd talked to plenty of people who'd had it worse than she had. And after Eadie figured out a way to stop Reba from bringing home any more stepdaddies, things had gotten a lot better. She'd done it by giving her mother something to concentrate on other than a bunch of sorry men. She'd done it by becoming a beauty queen. She'd let Reba and the girls down at Miss Eula's House of Hair enter her in Purvis Auto's Little Miss Mag Wheels Beauty Pageant and Tire Sale. Eadie promptly won a set of tires and was crowned Little Miss Mag Wheels. In quick succession she won the coveted crowns of Miss MoonPie Deluxe, Miss Waycross Watermelon Festival, and Miss Tishimingo County Fairest of Them All.

  During the week Eadie was Queen of the Goths at Ithaca Public High School, wearing thick eyeliner and black lipstick; on weekends she was a beauty queen collecting trophies and glittering tiaras as casually as if she were picking daisies in a field. It was the kind of dyslexic contradiction that only the South can produce. By the time she was a junior Eadie had made enough money through modeling and endorsements to buy Reba a little house over on the south side of town, and by the time she graduated she had enough money saved to make it through two years of college.

  So all in all, her childhood really hadn't been all that bad.

  Lavonne finished her spaghetti con polpettini. She was determined to help Eadie get through this anyway she could. She figured she was entitled to act as a psychological counselor on account of what had happened to her two years before and the fact that she loved Eadie like a sister. “You know I love you like a sister and I don't want to hurt you,” she said, pushing her empty bowl away.

  “Good,” Eadie said. “Then don't.”

  “But remember: depression is anger turned inward.”

  Eadie put her fork down. “Who said anything about depression?” she said.

  “Look at your art.” Eadie groaned and put her head in her hands, but Lavonne went on. “Look at what you make for yourself. You create an army of giant goddesses the same way a Chinese emperor creates an army of tomb soldiers.”

  “So? A lot of artists create female shapes. And in case you haven't noticed, Lavonne, I've been painting a lot of cherubs lately.” Lavonne stared at her as if this might be significant, and Eadie flushed and lifted her martini.

  “You have to ask yourself, do these images mean something to you? Do they symbolize something important?”

  Eadie put her glass down. “Okay, Lavonne. You tell me. Obviously you think they symbolize something.” She was feeling belligerent. It seemed everyone in her life felt like they had the right to psychoanalyze her whether she needed it or not.

  “The female figures are totems,” Lavonne said. “Powerful female figures to compensate for the powerful female figure you never had—your mother.”

  “Oh my God, you've been reading Jung again.”

  “Just think about it, Eadie.”

  Eadie grimaced and shook her head. She wished now she was drinking something a little stronger than peach martinis. If she'd known Lavonne had analysis on her mind, she'd have ordered a bottle of tequila instead. “What are you suggesting?” she asked in exasperation. “That I spend countless hours and thousands of dollars in therapy. That I give up my goddesses and paint still lifes?”

  “No. The answer is simple. And cheap.”

  “I'm all ears,” Eadie said morosely. She picked up her glass and looked down into the bottom like she was trying to read leaves in a teacup. The father walked by with a complacent Caldwell nestled in his arms. The child sat facing out with his chubby legs stuck straight out in front of him, his back resting against his father's chest. He looked at Eadie and smiled vaguely. “I'm listening,” she said. “What's the answer?”

  Lavonne leaned forward and rested her arms on the table. She smiled at Eadie's sullen expression. “Forgiveness,” she said.

  THE WEEK BEFORE MOTHER'S DAY, NITA WENT OUT TO THE nursing home with an orchid and a small present she had wrapped for Leota Quarles. She was not in her room, but the nurse was, arranging items on the bedside table. The room looked different. “Is Leota at lunch?” Nita asked, standing in the doorway.

  The nurse, startled, looked around. “Miz Motes, didn't you get my message?” she said.

  “What message?”

  “I left it with your daughter last week.”

  Nita flushed and held the plant awkwardly out in front of her. She shook her head slightly. “She must have forgotten to tell me.”

  “I thought you knew. I'm sorry. Miz Quarles died in her sleep last Tuesday night.”

  ON WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON, LOGAN STAYED AFTER SCHOOL FOR band practice so Nita went by the middle school to pick up Whitney. She was still shaken by the news of Leota Quarles's death and by the knowledge that she had not known about, and therefore hadn't attended, the old woman's funeral. She couldn't see Whitney when she pulled up in front of the school, so she parked in a spot close to the flagpole to wait. A few minutes later, a girl climbed out of a truck across the parking lot and leaned in the passenger's window to collect her book bag. She wore a skirt short enough to show off her long lovely legs and also her black thong underwear. The girl stood up and Nita, shocked and curious to see who had allowed their daughter out of the house dressed like that, craned her neck to see.

  It was Whitney.

  She watched her daughter saunter across the parking lot toward the car. She opened the rear door and threw her backpack in and then climbed into the front seat beside her mother. Nita sat for a few minutes, staring at the flagpole.

  “What's wrong?” Whitney said.

  Nita turned her head slowly. “Last week. Someone called me about a Mrs. Quarles. You were supposed to give me a message.”

  Whitney snapped her gum and rolled her eyes. “What about her?” she said.

  “She died.”

  Whitney slouched down in the seat, putting her knees up on the dash. Nita started the car and backed up slowly, eyeing her sullen daughter with an expression of disappointment and concern. “Did your father see you before you went to school today? Did he see the way you were dressed?” Whitney had been spending the week with Charles.

  She blew a bubble. “Christ,” she said.

  “Don't say ‘Christ.’ And don't sit like that.”

  “Why not?” Whitney turned her face to the window but kept sitting the way she was. She plucked idly at her hair.

  “Because it's not what a nice girl would do.”

  “I don't care about being a nice girl. I don't want to be a nice girl,” Whitney said, pushing herself upright.

  “Seat belt,” Nita said. Whitney slammed the belt in the buckle and Nita put the car in drive. She drove slowly past the pickup truck, trying to catch a glimpse of the driver. Then she circled the lot and came back up on the other side of the truck.

  “What are you doing?” Whitney said, her voice edging toward panic as Nita slowed down. “Mother, what are you doing?” She put her hand over her eyes and turned her face to the window.

  Nita stopped beside the truck and put her window down. “Excuse me,” she said loudly.

  “Mother,” Whitney groaned.

  “Yoo-hoo,” Nita said, her little hand fluttering. The driver, a young man with long sideburns and a goatee, poked his head out the window.

  “Hey, how you doing?” Nita said.

  He looked at her and smirked, stroking his chin. “Not too bad,” he said.

  “Good
,” Nita said. “Hey, what's your name?” Whitney pushed herself back against the seat, trying to blend in with the headrest.

  “Darrell,” he said.

  “Well, hey, Darrell, I'm Whitney's mom. You may not know this but Whitney is twelve years old. Now I don't know how old you are, but I'm guessing, since you're driving, that you're at least sixteen, and probably a lot older than that. Whitney has an older brother who's sixteen and I feel sure he would have told me about you, if he knew you. So I'm guessing you're older than that.”

  She grinned at him and he grinned back.

  “Now you may not know this, Darrell, but the statutory rape laws in Georgia are pretty severe. Whitney's daddy is a lawyer and I can guarantee that if he finds out about you, he will make it his sole mission to see that you spend most of the rest of your life in prison. Whitney's two uncles played football at Ithaca High School and her granddaddy has one of the finest gun collections in the county, mostly shotguns and hunting rifles, and more recently a .40-caliber Glock semi-automatic that he takes out faithfully every weekend for target practice. He's a real good shot. You see, Darrell, what I'm trying to do is get you to see the big picture. Well, do you see it? Do you see the big picture, Darrell?”

  Obviously, Darrell did. He put his window up and started the truck's engine. They watched him roar out of the parking lot and fishtail onto the highway with his tires squealing and a black plume of smoke following in his wake like a trailing tornado.

  Whitney slumped against the passenger door. “I hate my life,” she said.

  “Of course you do,” Nita said cheerfully.

  She drove straight to Charles's office. “Now what,” Whitney groaned.

  “I want Daddy to see how you went to school today. I want him to know how you looked when you left his house this morning.”

  Whitney took a napkin out of the glove box and quickly began to wipe her face clean of rouge and lipstick. She tugged at the hem of her skirt until it grazed the tops of her knees.

  “Don't bother to roll down your skirt. I'll just make you roll it back up,” Nita said.

  Charles's new office was in the front of a rambling Victorian house that had been cut up into a warren of small offices, rented mostly by attorneys and court reporters. Nita and Whitney went up the bricked front steps and through the double doors into a small receptionist area. Mrs. Corley looked up and smiled. “Hello, Mrs. Broadwell,” she said, coloring slightly. “I mean, Mrs. Motes.”

  “Hello, Mrs. Corley. Is Charles in?”

  “He just got back from court.”

  He had heard her voice and he hurried out of his office, rubbing his hands together nervously. “Hello, Nita.”

  “Hello, Charles.” She was always a little embarrassed when she first saw him. They had been married for sixteen years and he had ruled her life and the children's lives like a petty tyrant. Charles was one of those people who could not be happy and could not bear to have people around him be happy. Still, she had loved him once, a long time ago. Nita nodded for Whitney to sit down in one of the chairs in the waiting area. “I'll be just a minute,” she said. “I want to talk to your father alone.” Whitney scowled and slumped down into a chair, picking up a magazine.

  Charles followed Nita into his office, closing the door softly behind him. She looked lovely, with her hair pulled up on the back of her head and small tendrils curling around her face and the nape of her neck. He would think he was over all that and then he would see her, or pick up an article of clothing that held her lingering scent, and then it would come flooding back to him. “Please sit down,” he said nervously, indicating one of the chairs in front of his desk.

  “No, I can't stay,” she said. It was always so awkward between them. Nita tried to keep their face-to-face meetings to a minimum. “I have to get home and make dinner.” She hadn't stopped to think how that would sound, but seeing his face tighten, she hurried on. “It's Whitney,” she said. She told him quickly about what had occurred in the parking lot. “You have to be careful when she stays with you. She may look presentable when she's heading out the door to school, but you've got to check her backpack. She usually hides her makeup and an extra pair of clothes in there.”

  Charles started to speak and then closed his mouth. He was determined to convince Nita that he had changed. That he was a new man. “None of this would have happened if she hadn't gone to public school,” he said. There. It had slipped out despite his best intentions.

  “It has less to do with public school and more to do with parental supervision,” Nita said firmly.

  “And who was this boy?”

  “I don't know. Darrell somebody. But I don't think we'll have to worry about him anymore.”

  The desperateness of the situation came gradually over Charles. He slid down into his chair with his arms resting stiffly on his desk. “Oh my God, she's capable of anything,” he said.

  “Well, Charles, she's a teenage girl, so technically that's true.”

  “Oh my God,” he said.

  “It's not that bad. She's just a little rebellious. She just needs a firm hand.”

  Charles sighed. He stared bleakly out the window. “I'll talk to my mother,” he said.

  Nita blinked. She opened her purse and took out a Kleenex and then closed it again.“This is not something your mother needs to get involved with, Charles. This is something you and I need to handle. Together.” She blew her nose and threw the Kleenex in the trash.

  “Yes, yes, of course, I didn't mean anything by that,” he said quickly. Trying to win Nita back was like trying to coax a timid little bird. He had to be patient. And clever. “It's just that she's been spending a lot of time with my mother.”

  “Yes, I know,” she said. “But you're still her father. And Virginia doesn't seem to be much of a disciplinarian.”

  He saw her expression and said, “You don't mind, do you? Them spending time together?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “They haven't seen each other in a while and Mother was anxious to reestablish a bond,” he said. “A connection.”

  “Tell your mother to check her backpack before she drops her off at school,” she said, moving toward the door.

  “Oh, right,” he said, rising.

  “Good-bye, then.”

  “I can have Mother pick her up here, if you like.” He tried to take her arm but she moved ahead of him quickly and opened the door.

  “No, that's okay. I'll drop her by your condo on my way home.”

  On the ride over to his condominium, the girl was sullen and quiet. With her scrubbed face and skirt tucked demurely around her knees she looked more like a girl again, and less like an adolescent sex kitten.

  “Next time I get a phone call and you answer, I expect you to give me the message.”

  “Whatever,” Whitney said.

  “And I told Daddy to check your backpack for makeup and extra clothes before you go to school.” Nita slowed down and pulled into the parking lot of Charles's condominium. “And Grandmother, too, if you're staying with her.”

  “Great,” Whitney said, gathering her belongings. “She's the only one who doesn't treat me like a criminal. She's the only one who doesn't treat me like a child, and now you've ruined that, too.” She opened the door and slid out.

  “If you don't want to be treated like a criminal then don't act like one,” Nita said, but Whitney had already slammed the door and was running up the stairs with her backpack bumping against her hip. Nita sighed and turned off the car. She couldn't very well just leave Whitney alone. Not after what happened in the parking lot. She would have to stay until Charles got home. She looked up at the window of Charles's condominium and was surprised to see a figure standing there. Nita leaned forward to look and the figure lifted its hand and waved.

  It was Virginia. Relieved, Nita lifted her hand and waved back.

  BY THE END OF JUNE THEY HAD FINISHED LAYING THE UTILITIES to the Culpepper Plantation project, and by the middle of July the
y were set to begin work on the first spec house. Virginia and Redmon had a cocktail party at their house to celebrate. It was a small group. Nita was there with Jimmy Lee, Whitney, and Logan, and for some reason Virginia had insisted on inviting Eadie and Lavonne, so they were there, too. Redmon stood in the corner discussing business with Jimmy Lee. Lavonne, Nita, and Eadie stood over by the French doors overlooking the backyard. Della Smurl, with Whitney and Logan's help, passed around trays of stuffed mushrooms, bruschetta, and smoked crab.

  “Hey, Della, how's Martha doing?” Nita asked. She'd gone to high school with Della's daughter, who'd graduated with honors and gone to college at Sewanee, and later, to law school at Vanderbilt.

  “She's doing okay,” Della said. “She's practicing out in Los Angeles, some kind of law where she represents all them rappers and singers with funny names who talk like they were raised without a mama. Just talking trash all the time and singing about it, too.”

  Lavonne said, “Entertainment law?”

  “Yeah, I guess.” Della stood there looking glumly out the French doors at the dying sun that disappeared slowly behind the trees and distant rooflines. Her bottom jaw jutted out from the severe plane of her face like a cliff. “My mama wouldn't have allowed such trash talk in our house. My daddy was an elder, you know. I was raised with the Temptations.” Her face brightened suddenly. “Now there's some boys who could sing and dance,” she said. She was holding a tray of smoked crab but that didn't stop her from showing off a couple of dance moves, taking a few tiny steps forward, a few tiny steps backward, and sliding to the side on one leg.

  “Della!” Virginia said sharply.

  Della stopped dancing. She dropped her head between her shoulders and swung around to face Virginia. “Yeah?” she said sullenly.

  “Did you check the cheese toasts?” Virginia said. She smiled, showing her sharp little teeth. It was one of the things she was most proud of, the fact that at her age, she still had her own teeth. Lavonne, looking at that blinding row of gleaming enamel, was not surprised. She had read somewhere that rats lose several sets of teeth over a lifetime and then promptly grow new ones.