by Cathy Holton
“Well, I appreciate that, honey.”
“Whatever was wrong with me had nothing to do with our past. Yours and mine. Well,” she said, frowning. “Maybe a little bit. But mostly it had to do with my childhood. With forgiving my mother. It had to do with setting my shadow free, with embracing my anima.”
“You never mentioned therapy.” Trevor sounded surprised. “When did you start?”
“About six months ago.”
“Dr. Jordan?”
“No, Dr. Zibolsky.”
He got quiet again. Eadie laid on her back on the narrow bed and looked at the ceiling. “I can live with that,” he said, finally. “I can live with the fact that you've spilled your guts about our marriage to Lavonne. If it makes you feel better. I can live with anything you've done if it makes you feel better about yourself.”
She knew then that she still loved him.
“I've been thinking about what you said the other night.” He took his time, picking his words carefully. “I want us to be a family, Eadie. I want it to work, I really do. But if it's going to work, you have to forgive me. You have to forget about the waitress at the Thirsty Dog—”
“Lucy,” Eadie said.
“You have to forget about Lucy and Tonya, and I have to forget about the bartender and the goddamn personal trainer.”
“Bobby,” she said. “And Denton.” She put her knees up and set one foot across the opposite knee, resting it at right angles. She could hear Lavonne in the kitchen, banging pots and pans around.
“Right,” he said, evenly. “Bobby and Denton.” He coughed and cleared his throat. “We have to forget all that shit that happened before. What's past is past, and we have to move on from here.”
“That's what I want, too.”
“Will you come home?”
“Will you stop going off and leaving me alone?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Then I'll come home. But first I have to do something for Nita. And then I have to finish what I started down here, I have to get my pieces ready for my show. But then I'll be home.”
“Before Christmas?”
“I think so.”
“I can't wait until then. I can't wait to see you.”
“Just so you know,” she said. “It wasn't about the infidelities. It was about the pain. I've pretended my whole life that people can't hurt me, but they can.”
“I know that, honey,” he said. “I know.”
FROM THE BEGINNING, THINGS WENT BADLY. DESPITE Virginia's well-laid plans, the Gracious Southern Living crew arrived early to shoot the pre-Thanksgiving dinner and had to be entertained by Redmon in the living room while Virginia hurriedly dressed. By the time she got downstairs, Redmon had broken into his hidden stash of Jack Daniel's and, despite Virginia's earlier repeated admonitions to “keep sober and keep quiet,” had begun to entertain them with tales of his wretched childhood spent in the snake-handling hills of Alabama. Several of the crew hauled in TV cameras and lights while others sat around the room, politely watching Redmon. One of them, a nice-looking young man with a ponytail, held a tumbler of whiskey in one hand and appeared to be taking notes with the other. Virginia shuddered and hurried into the room, greeting everyone effusively. The young man, a director of photography named Porter, stood up and shook her hand. She shot Redmon a warning glance, but he ignored her, settling himself down on the sofa beside Porter. The Lifestyle producer, a heavyset young woman named Carlin, and her assistant, Rose, shook hands briskly with Virginia.
“Oh my, this looks so professional,” Virginia said, feigning an interest in their gear.
“Do you mind if we go ahead and set up in the dining room?” Carlin had a masculine haircut and a brusque, efficient manner that left Virginia feeling a little uncertain of herself.
“Of course,” she stammered. She showed Carlin and Rose into the dining room, leaving Porter behind with Redmon. He was a film school graduate with dreams of Oscar glory. The Gracious Southern Living gig was only temporary. After ten minutes with Redmon, he was envisioning a documentary on snake handlers and faith healers in the rural South.
In the dining room, Carlin snapped her fingers and said loudly, “Come on, Porter, get a move on. We need to get set up.”
“The buffet looks nice,” Rose said shyly and Virginia blushed with pleasure and said, “Why thank you. The silver service came from my great- grandmother on my father's side—is it okay if I mention that in the interview?—and the silver serving pieces on the sideboard …”
“Porter!” Carlin barked, interrupting her, and Virginia fell silent. Porter downed his drink and stood up with his equipment bag banging against his hip. He took out a light meter and began to take several readings around the room. “Listen, there won't be any interview,” Carlin said to Virginia. “This is supposed to be natural, not staged, just as if we'd dropped in on a dinner party. Everyone needs to act natural and don't stare at the camera. We'll add any details we want mentioned later in the voice-over. All you have to do is eat and act natural. How many guests are you expecting?”
“It's a small group,” Virginia murmured. “Maybe fifty or sixty.” She didn't tell Carlin how an invitation to the buffet had become the hottest ticket in town. Really, it was disgusting the way so many of Ithaca's finer citizens would practically prostitute themselves just to get a chance to show up on regional television. Still, it had been fun culling the wanted from the unwanted. Mrs. Astor, putting together the New York 400 couldn't have enjoyed herself more than Virginia, putting together her final guest list.
“Excuse me,” she said, “I'll just go check on the turkey.” Virginia walked into the kitchen expecting to find Della scurrying about. Instead, the black woman sat at the kitchen table reading a newspaper with her slippered feet propped on a chair. Her starched uniform hung on the pantry door.
“My God, why aren't you dressed?” Virginia said, trying to keep her voice down.
Della lowered the paper and looked at her. Her lower jaw jutted like a battering ram. “I am dressed,” she said.
“In the uniform, in the uniform,” Virginia hissed, pointing at the pantry door. She stamped her high-heeled shoe against the hardwood floor as quietly as she could.
Della slowly creased the newspaper and laid it down on the table. She crossed her arms over her chest. “I ain't wearing no uniform,” she said sullenly.
Virginia said in a stage whisper, “What do you mean you aren't wearing the uniform? I paid you to wear the uniform. You have to wear the uniform.”
Della shook her head slowly. “You didn't pay me enough,” she said.
It took Virginia a minute to catch on. When she finally did, it felt like a blood vessel had burst in her head and was slowly thumping the side of her skull like a convulsive water hose. “How much?” she said finally, between clenched teeth.
“One large,” Della said. She was addicted to The Sopranos. Everything she'd learned about extortion and bargaining, she'd learned watching Tony Soprano do business with the New Jersey mob. She figured that was good practice for dealing with Virginia.
“One large what?” Virginia said.
“One thousand dollars.”
“One thousand dollars?” Virginia said, her voice squeaking with the strain. “You must be crazy. You must be insane.”
“Cash,” Della said.
In the dining room, Carlin said, “Porter, set up over here where we can get a shot of the buffet before everyone gets here.” Virginia and Della faced each other across the large kitchen. Virginia's steadily rising blood pressure flooded her face like a geyser. The turkey, a twenty-pound organic bird flown in from someplace where they let birds roam wild before killing them humanely, sputtered in the oven, wafting its delicious aroma. Dishes of corn bread dressing, squash casserole, and sweet potato soufflé rested on the stove, covered in aluminum foil. A spiral-cut ham sat on a silver serving platter and another one waited in the warming oven.
Virginia hissed, “That's highway robbery!”
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Della shrugged. “Reparations,” she said.
Giving in to the inevitable, Virginia nodded curtly. Della, understanding they had a deal, rose ponderously and went back to work. Virginia spun around on her heels and stalked into the living room. She stopped on the threshold, staring in openmouthed amazement at her grandson, who had steadfastly refused his grandmother's bribe of fifteen hundred dollars to spend the weekend at the beach. Instead he was here, dressed in an ill- fitting navy blue suit he'd picked up at the Baptist Bible Thrift Store, and a pair of red Converse high-tops. Obedient to his grandmother's order “to do something about your purple hair,” he had shaved his head. And to make matters worse, there appeared to be a tattoo on his scalp, something that looked unsettlingly like the number 666. He saw Virginia and waved.
“Hey, Grandma,” he said.
Behind her, Carlin came into the room, followed by Rose and Porter. “Oh hello,” Carlin said, giving her hand to Logan.
“Hello,” Logan said. He stood there staring at his grandmother, daring her to say something. Virginia clicked her mouth shut with a sound like a bullet being loaded into a chamber.
“Who are you?” Carlin asked.
Logan grinned. “I'm the grandson.”
She pointed at his feet. “Cool shoes.”
“Thanks.” He nodded at the French doors. “Okay if me and my band set up on the deck? We've written a song to perform for the occasion.”
Virginia thought, Over my dead body! She said, “Oh no, darling, I don't think we'll have time for any live performances. Maybe some other time.”
“Sure,” Carlin said. “Live music would be great. Talk to Eddie over there. He's our sound guy.”
Virginia stood there trying to imagine what her life would be like once the Gracious Southern Living segment aired. She imagined cocktail parties, and bridge groups, and bunco groups giggling behind their fingers. She saw in her mind's eye televised images of her ruddy-faced, intoxicated husband; images of her bald grandson, marked with the sign of the Beast, in his thrift store suit and red tennis shoes. She imagined her surly maid, who watched too many mafia TV shows, parading into the scene carrying a steaming turkey on a tray.
As if to authenticate this vision, Della did appear suddenly in the living room carrying a small silver tray of stuffed mushroom caps. She had hastily put on the maid's uniform, with the result being that the buttons were done up wrong and the cap rested at a jaunty angle on her thick hair.
“Oh, Della, you've brought the hors d'oeuvres,” Virginia said brightly, trying to hide her dismay.
“Oh, yas'm, yas'm I done brought the appurtizers just like you done ordered me to.” Della dipped her head and lifted one shoulder, walking with an exaggerated limp. She was laying it on thick. The result was an uncomfortable silence that seemed to billow through the room like smoke. The three producers, all of whom had attended various Southern prep schools, exchanged horrified glances. Across the room, Redmon and Logan snorted and snickered behind their hands.
Virginia took the tray from the wincing Della and served the camera crew herself. Della humped and limped her way out of the room.
“Mrs. Redmon, we can't have an African American woman dressed in a maid's uniform,” Carlin said in horror. “This is the new South. My executive producer would fire me on the spot if I taped something like that. And even if we taped it, the editors would edit it out anyway.”
“Fine!” Virginia said. She set the tray down on the coffee table and followed Della into the kitchen. “Change your clothes,” Virginia said shortly. The thumping in her head had taken on the high-pitched whine of a dental drill at full speed.
Della eyed her suspiciously. “I still get the price we agreed on,” she said, humping her shoulders like a linebacker. “The price you agreed to pay me to wear that raggedy-ass uniform. Or I quit.”
Virginia clenched her teeth to keep them from chattering. She couldn't very well walk around the room carrying a tray herself, at least not on camera. “Oh all right,” she said finally. Satisfied, Della went off to find something to wear. Virginia stood for a few moments trying to compose herself. The whining in her head gradually subsided until it was more like the hum of wild bees clustered around a sunflower. She listened to the frenetic activity going on in her living room and dining room. She rearranged her face into a pleasant expression and then wandered back into the living room in time to catch Redmon pouring himself and Porter another stiff drink from a bottle of Jack Daniel's he had obviously hidden behind the new flat- screen TV. She gave him “the look,” which normally would have stopped him dead in his tracks. But today, of all days, Redmon seemed to have achieved intentional blindness through a sheer act of will and stamina.
“Speaking of editing,” Virginia said to Carlin. “How exactly does that work?”
Carlin popped one of the mushroom caps into her mouth. She chewed for a moment with her finger up in front of her face. “Well, we'll tape the entire party. However long it lasts, probably two hours or more, but then the editors will edit it down to a thirty-minute segment that we'll run during our holiday show.”
“And will I have a chance to help with that?” Virginia said sweetly. “The editing, I mean.”
The producer laughed and shook her head. “Oh no,” she said. “That's their job. You signed a release when we booked you, allowing them to edit it any way they see fit.”
“I see.” Virginia smiled bleakly. She went to the bar and poured herself a glass of wine. Across the room, several of the crew laughed loudly at something Redmon had said. He gestured wildly, spilling his drink on the new Oriental rug. Della crossed the room wearing a garish red-flowered print dress and red pumps. Outside on the deck, Logan and his juvenile delinquent bandmates cheerfully set up their massive equipment. Despite her best-laid plans, this whole party was definitely beginning to feel like a runaway horse. Virginia was on board, sawing desperately on the bit, but despite her best efforts the deranged horse was galloping recklessly and relentlessly toward the hedgerow.
AN HOUR LATER, MOST OF THE GUESTS HAD ARRIVED AND HAD been instructed by Carlin to ignore the cameras and just act as if they were at any other normal party. They stood stiffly in small groups scattered around the large living room, clutching glasses of wine and trying to keep their best profiles presented at all times to the wandering cameramen. Virginia had invited the brightest and most attractive people she could think of, with special preference going to those she thought would look best on camera. She had invited some of the dusty old aristocracy, too, although they had mostly declined her invitation. Which was a good thing, Virginia decided, as they were the ones most likely to dress down and drink too much, the ones who inevitably tried to monopolize the conversation, standing in the middle of the room, regaling the crowd in their Plantation South accents so that no one could get a word in edgewise. It was bad enough she'd had to invite that old bore, Judge Drucker, and his equally boring, twittering wife, Eulonia. There was, of course, a method to her madness. She had thought it best to show the judge, firsthand, the advantages Whit ney had living in the privileged bosom of Virginia's family. Although now, given Redmon's obvious inebriated state and her grandson's crafty expression (she knew he had something dirty up his sleeve, hadn't she seen that expression a million times on her dead husband's face), she wondered if inviting Judge Drucker might have been a mistake.
Virginia began to feel better once Whitney appeared. The girl, dressed in a Nicole Miller knockoff they'd found in a little boutique in Palm Beach, was stunning. Virginia could see from the special attention the camera crew gave her that most of the scenes would feature Whitney. Virginia relaxed a bit. This might turn out well after all, she thought. And then, just when she had begun to feel that things were indeed looking up, Charles arrived with Nita in tow.
She was dressed in a tasteful blue suit. Looking at the pretty, demure woman, Virginia had to wonder just what it was about Nita that had made her dislike her all those years she was married to Charles
. Surely her own daughter would look much like Nita did now, and it amazed Virginia that she had never considered this before, that she had never actually thought of Nita as a daughter until this very moment, when it was too late.
Because it was too late. Virginia could see this, even if Charles couldn't. Even if he was still so besotted with his ex-wife that he would do anything to win her back, even if it meant going up against his own mother to do it.
Well, poor Charles. He would learn his lesson the hard way. Virginia leaned toward her crafty ex-daughter-in-law and said, “Nita, bless your heart, how wonderful to see you.” She kissed her lightly and insincerely on the cheek. Nita stared at her and said nothing.
Logan saw his mother and came over and hugged her. “How's my boy?” Nita said, standing on tiptoe to kiss him. Whitney moved up behind her shoulder.
“Hello, Mommy,” Whitney said. Her mother looked so small and pretty that for a moment Whitney felt a trembling homesickness in the pit of her stomach. But as she leaned to hug Nita she remembered that Virginia had promised her a new BMW and a shopping trip to Paris, and when she stepped away from Nita, her eyes were dry.
Nita smiled and touched her lightly on the cheek. Carlin, who had watched the family greet each other, and had assumed Nita to be Charles's second wife, was confused. “Excuse me,” she said, extending her hand to Nita. “I'm Carlin Benwood. Are you the children's mother?”
“Yes,” Nita said firmly. “I am.”
Carlin frowned. “But they live with their grandmother?”
Virginia, who was old-school Southern down to the last molecule of her being, stepped forward. She would rather be drawn and quartered than air the family dirty linen in front of strangers. Especially strangers with a camera. “The children are just staying with me,” she said brightly, “just a vacation, of sorts. While Nita finishes up some unfinished business.”
