by Cathy Holton
“This boy is a singer, by God,” he said, throwing his arm around Logan's shoulders. The drunker Redmon got, the more he lapsed into Alabama hill country dialect. Another couple of shots and they'd need an interpreter. “This here boy needs to be a musician when he grows up. Hey, boy, sing your daddy that love song you wrote.”
“You mean, ‘Kill Me’?”
“Yeah, that's it.”
Logan said, “Well, as you can see from the expression on his face, my daddy doesn't want me to sing him any songs.”
“Naw,” Redmon said. “He's just got a little indigestion is all.”
Charles ignored them. It was apparent he was going to have to put his foot down. He had put up with the black clothes and the dyed hair and the lip ring, thinking it was just a phase, but the idea of his son becoming a musician struck him like a kick to the kidneys.
Logan said, “He wants me to go to college and be an accountant or a doctor or a deadbeat lawyer like he is.”
“Is that how you talk to your father?” Charles said, his nostrils flaring. His dream of a happy family caught fire and went up in a full blaze. “Is that the respect you show your father?”
Logan squared his shoulders. “I only show respect to those who deserve it,” he said. He and his father stood there, glaring at each other like gladiators awaiting the first blow.
Whitney yawned. Nita stared at Virginia. Virginia looked at Celia and Duckie, who had moved up so close they were practically touching Charles's shoulder. Redmon grinned like a monkey and looked fondly around at his sullen and depressed family. “Goddamn,” he said, “this is what it's all about.” He raised his amber-colored rock glass in a toast that no one bothered to join. “To family,” he said, misty-eyed. “It don't get no better than this, by God, and if it did, I couldn't stand it and the sheriff wouldn't allow it.”
“Ha, ha,” Logan said, still looking at Charles.
“Can I leave early?” Whitney said, stifling another yawn. “I have to meet some friends at the mall.”
Redmon felt like singing. It was an old family tradition in the Redmon family, everyone gathered around on the front porch after dinner to sing gospel songs while the searing sun broke over the distant line of pine trees like a giant yolk. “Speaking of singing,” Redmon said. “How about we do a few gospel numbers?”
“Why don't you make yourself a plate of food?” Virginia said to him.
“Do y'all know ‘Bringing in the Sheaves’?”
“You better get some turkey before it's all gone,” Virginia said.
“How about ‘Rock Me in the Arms of Jesus’?”
“I know that one,” Della said. She had materialized suddenly at Redmon's elbow like a bad ghost.
“We're not singing any goddamn gospel songs at my party,” Virginia snapped. She glanced around the room and crimsoned, adjusting the sleeves of her dress. She hadn't felt that outburst coming on, which was dangerous, because Virginia always kept a tight rein on her emotions. It wasn't good to show yourself in front of strangers or enemies. Or family either, for that matter. Perhaps it was the wine, or the clanging racket that was going on in her head. Perhaps it was the way Nita kept looking at her, like a cat watching a fishbowl, as if waiting for just the right moment to strike, that had thrown her off-balance. Perhaps it was Grace Pearson, glaring at her from across the room while she clasped a tall glass of whiskey to her bosom, her poisoned pen moving rapidly over the pages of her little notebook.
Della said, “How about ‘He Is My Shepherd in a Land of Wolves’?”
One of Virginia's eyes appeared to have crossed. Whatever it was that had been trying to escape had finally pushed through the top of her skull. She could feel a slight breeze there, where the hole was. She considered striking the woman but then decided it would not be wise. Della probably outweighed her by a good eighty pounds.
Oh, what the hell, she thought, looking around the room at the guests who had begun to crowd her sad little pantomime of a family like a flock of buzzards waiting out a roadkill. The room spun softly. The faces of her guests rose up and down like grisly carousel horses. Virginia got dizzy looking at them. Looking around, she thought, Who are these people and why are they here? Franklin Banks's face swam slowly into view and Virginia saw again the red-haired freckle-faced boy who had teased her and called her a swamp hick in second grade. Milly Craig floated by and Virginia saw the evil child with the golden ringlets who had plotted with Mary Lee Hamilton to make her life miserable. What was it about these people that had made them important to her? What was it about their good opinion that had held her captive all these years?
And that Carlin is a hypocrite, Virginia thought savagely. Her eyes fell suddenly on the young producer who stood next to Della talking to the older woman like they'd been friends all their lives. Virginia sipped her wine, watching the producer deliberately over the rim of her glass. She had asked Carlin what boarding school she'd attended, and Carlin had told her. Virginia knew the school, she knew the annual tuition for a boarding student was $35,000, which meant that Carlin was a “rich kid” and had probably grown up with black servants. Or Mexican. Or … whatever. Who was she to judge Virginia's insistence on the damn maid's uniform?
The more wine she drank, the more abused Virginia began to feel.
“I need to go,” Whitney said. “I told Shannon I'd meet her at the mall.”
“You're not going anywhere,” Virginia said.
“Get your stuff,” Nita said. “We'll leave now.”
“You're welcome to leave,” Virginia said to Nita. “But the girl stays.”
Whitney said, “You can't talk to my mommy that way.”
“Hey,” Redmon said, “what do you call twenty lawyers skydiving from an airplane?”
“I think I'll get another drink,” Charles said.
“Skeet,” Redmon said. He and Logan snickered and thumped each other on the arms.
Charles stepped closer to Redmon. “Better a lawyer than a crooked red- neck contractor,” he said.
“Who you calling a redneck, you high-domed pencil pusher.”
“Cheating scoundrel.”
“Lying bastard.”
“Who's ready for pumpkin pie?” Virginia said, lifting her glass.
AFTER THAT, THINGS COULD ONLY GET WORSE. AND THEY DID.
Redmon broke out the Bloody Marys. Virginia figured her social life was pretty much over by now anyway, so what difference did it make? Whatever faint dreams of glory she had once had, had evaporated, seeping up through the hole in her head like a punctured gas line.
Thirty minutes later Lavonne and Eadie arrived. Redmon and Della stood at one end of the room singing a sloppy rendition of “Open Up Them Pearly Gates,” accompanied by Logan on the guitar. Charles watched them like a man trapped by bad odors. Nita and Whitney huddled together with their heads bowed while Nita talked quietly. Most of the guests, happy to move from wine to something more substantial, hoisted their Bloody Marys and filled the room with their raucous laughter, having long since forgotten about the television cameras. A few joined in the singing. The more sedate among them stood like hostages, unable to look away from the tragic Shakespearean quality of this televised gathering. Virginia leaned against the new armoire and sipped her Bloody Mary, wondering how hard it would be to move to Palm Beach and start a new life.
Eadie stuck her head in the front door and shouted, “Where's the party?” When no one answered, they made their way toward the noisy living room. Virginia looked up and saw them standing in the doorway in their tacky Kudzu Ball gowns. She grimaced and lifted her drink. “Perfect,” she said. “Just perfect.”
Lavonne said, “I hope you guys don't mind us barging in like this, crashing your pre-Thanksgiving dinner.”
Eadie said, “Hey, are y'all drinking Bloody Marys?”
Redmon stopped singing to pour more drinks and Lavonne and Eadie mingled for a few minutes and then wandered over to say hello to Virginia. Virginia watched them with a look of sullen resig
nation. Lavonne was wearing a gold lamé dress that looked like something Donna Summer might have worn back in 1978. Eadie had on a ridiculous-looking puffy-sleeved cocktail dress and a pair of scuffed combat boots. They both wore kudzu wreath crowns, stuck with feathers and plastic beads, kind of like Mardi Gras Indian princesses.
“Well I guess there's nothing you two won't stoop to,” Virginia said, stirring her drink with a celery stick. “I never would have taken you for party- crashers.”
“Sorry,” Lavonne said. “We just couldn't help ourselves.”
“You know, I could call the police and have you arrested for trespassing.”
“Now that would look good on camera,” Eadie said. “Can't you just see it? An outside shot of your house, me and Lavonne being carried out in our Kudzu Ball gowns, kicking and screaming, by a couple of burly policemen. The interview with you, Virginia, under the klieg lights. Kind of like COPS meets America's Funniest Home Videos.”
“Don't think I won't do it,” Virginia said glumly, looking around the room. “This party couldn't be any more of a fiasco than it already is.”
As if to prove her wrong, Riley Weeks let out a rebel yell and broke into a kind of impromptu rap. On his sober days, Riley was a stockbroker at the local Smith Barney office. Many of the guests, who had obviously never seen a live rap performance, clutched their drinks nervously and edged away from Riley, who looked like a palsy victim trying to thread a needle.
“Now that's just sad,” Eadie said.
“White people shouldn't rap,” Lavonne said. “And white people like Riley shouldn't dance, either.”
“Someone changed the music,” Virginia said, scowling. She had carefully planned the music for this party, loading the CD player with Handel's Sonata #1, Pachelbel's Canon, and Mozart's Serenade #13. Someone had obviously sabotaged her musical arrangement. Across the room, Logan caught her eye. He grinned and raised his glass.
“I wish I'd worn my Kudzu Ball gown,” Nita said, moving up between Lavonne and Eadie. Charles trailed behind her like a moth caught in a spider web.
“Yes, why didn't we all wear our Kudzu Ball gowns?” Virginia said bitterly. “Why didn't we all dress like freaks and sluts? I could have used it as a theme for the party.” She swallowed her drink and looked around the room like a woman with nothing left to lose.
“A Freaks and Sluts Party,” Lavonne said. “I like that.” It was apparent to her that Virginia had been freely partaking of the wine and Bloody Marys. She was slurring her words and her hair stuck out at odd angles around her face.
“If I'd wanted to dress like a slut,” Eadie said, “I'd have worn the black leather mini with the leopard-print halter top.” She stuck out her hand to Carlin who had just come up behind Virginia. “Hey,” she said. “Y'all must be the TV people.”
“Have you been to some kind of costume party?” Carlin said to Eadie and Lavonne.
“Something like that,” Lavonne said, sipping her Bloody Mary. She'd never had one before but she liked it. It tasted healthy. She munched on the celery stick garnish that Redmon had added as a decorative touch.
“They're Kudzu Debutantes,” Virginia said, curling her top lip, and everyone tried not to notice how much trouble she was having pronouncing her words.
Eadie looked at Lavonne and raised one eyebrow. Carlin said, “What's a Kudzu Debutante?”
“It's a woman who refuses to follow dress codes.”
“It's a woman who likes to run her own life, her own way.”
Virginia said, “It's a woman with no understanding of history or tradition.” She had some trouble with tradition. She glared at Eadie and Lavonne, finishing up with, “A woman with no class or breeding.”
“Okay,” Eadie said. “The gloves are coming off.”
“The Kudzu Ball is a parody of the Ithaca Cotillion Ball,” Lavonne said. “It's a parody of the whole debutante tradition.”
“Cool,” Carlin said.
Nita stared at Virginia. “What favors has history or tradition ever done for you?”
“You watch yourself, my girl,” Virginia said, waving her celery stick like she was swinging a machete. “You just watch yourself.”
“What have you ever done with your life except make people around you miserable?”
“Now, now,” Redmon said fondly. He had come up carrying a pitcher of Bloodies. He went around the circle and poured everyone a fresh drink. The tension in the room didn't bother Redmon at all. He was from Alabama. He was used to family gatherings that ended in violence.
“Oh, look who's talking,” Virginia said. “Look at that poor slob standing there.” She swung the celery stick around and pointed at the hapless Charles. “So sick with misery and love for you he can't move on with his life even though he isn't getting any younger. Even though you'll never take him back.”
Charles blushed furiously. “Mother, let's check the buffet line, shall we?” he said, trying to take her elbow.
She shook him off. “Just look at him. Poor slob. The laughingstock of the whole damn town.” She pointed at each of them with her limp celery stick. “Laughingstock of the whole damn town. All of you,” she said.
“Why don't you have another drink and tell us about it,” Eadie said.
“You shut up Eadie Boone. You … Boone! You're all alike, you Boones. You think you're better than everybody else just because you're a Boone.”
Whitney's cell phone rang. “I'll call you back later,” she said. “You won't believe what's going on here.” She hung up and pushed the phone back in her pocket.
“I don't blame Charles for being the way he is,” Nita said. “With you for a mother, how could he be any different?”
Charles shook his head in warning. Nita was treading dangerous waters here, although she didn't seem to know this, or to care. His mother was deadly. She could smile sweetly and disembowel an enemy at the same time; they'd never know what hit them until it was too late, until their entrails lay curled on the floor at their feet. Poor Nita didn't stand a chance.
“You nitpicked your son and made him so insecure about himself he could never be happy—”
“Uh, Nita,” Charles said.
Porter focused his camera. He motioned for one of the other camera guys.
“No, Charles, let me finish.” Nita put a finger up for him to be quiet. She pushed her face close to Virginia's, her eyes gray and ominous as thunder clouds. “You screwed up your son's life and now you want to screw up my daughter's life and I'm not going to let you. My children are mine, Virginia, not yours.” Nita thumped her chest for effect. “You had your chance to be a mother. And you failed.”
“Oh, well now, aren't you just the most perfect little thing?” Virginia said, showing her sharp little teeth. She twirled the limp celery stick around and then lifted it and took a bite off one end, chewing slowly. “Aren't you just the most perfect mother in the world, running off with another man and leaving your husband of sixteen years to pick up the pieces of his life.”
Nita stared steadily into Virginia's face. She shook her head slowly. “You failed your son and you failed your daughter, too.”
“Adulteress,” Virginia said.
“Lunatic,” Nita said.
“Hey, do y'all know ‘Baby, Let's Play House’?” Redmon said, looking around his dysfunctional family circle. He and Myra had never had kids, and marrying Virginia and becoming part of her extended family had made him as happy as a pig in a peach orchard. Redmon came from a family of twelve siblings, although most had died before they reached fifty of alcoholism, heart disease, lung cancer, or various accidents involving farming implements or cotton mill machinery. He had once seen his uncle Rafe shoot his uncle Faris in an argument over a Plott hound, and more than one Redmon family gathering had been broken up by violence. That being said, Redmon felt perfectly at home in Virginia's family.
“How about ‘Daddy Was a Preacher but Mama Was a Go-Go Girl,’” Eadie said.
“I'll get to you in a minute,” Virgin
ia said, cutting her eyes at Eadie and then back to Nita. Something bothered Virginia. There was something stuck in her brain, hung up like a scrap of cloth in a briar patch. What was it the woman had said, You failed your son and you failed your daughter, too.
“Y'all are gonna need some more Bloodies,” Logan said cheerfully, taking the empty pitcher from Redmon.
Charles watched his mother's face change. He thought, Danger, danger. He thought, This can't be good. He said in a false, jovial voice, “Well, Mother, Nita and I need to get going. Thanks for a lovely afternoon.”
Virginia bared her teeth. She shook her head grimly. “No one leaves until I say they can leave.”
Daughter. So that was it, the threat Nita had been implying all along, the knowledge that had made her so bold as to go up against Virginia in her own house, at her own party. Nita knew about her lost daughter. She knew the secret Virginia had kept hidden for forty-nine years. And now she meant to blackmail Virginia just the way she had blackmailed Charles into going along with the divorce and keeping his mouth shut. Well, Nita had underestimated her enemy. What was it Eadie Boone had said, The gloves are coming off. Indeed they were.
“That's why they're here,” she said to Redmon and Charles, pointing at Nita, Lavonne, and Eadie. “These Kudzu Debutantes. That's why they've come. To make me pay. To blackmail me. They know I had a child out of wedlock …”
Charles blinked. “What?” he said.
Redmon said, “Hurry up with those Bloodies!”
Virginia set her teeth and smiled brightly. “A child out of wedlock with Hampton Boone,” she said.
“What?” Charles said.
Virginia lifted her chin. “A love child with Hampton Boone that I gave up for adoption forty-nine years ago!”
