Secrets of Southern Girls

by Haley Harrigan

  “Morning, Mom,” Beck chirps, bright-eyed.

  “Good morning, Rebecca,” Julie responds, as she helps Beck into her jacket. Beck rolls her eyes, always does when Julie uses her “grown-up” name. Julie runs the purple-handled brush through Beck’s soft, white-blond hair until it lies long like a shiny sheer curtain. “Ouch!” Beck cries each time Julie hits a snag.

  Beck’s shoes are missing. After ten minutes of searching, Julie finds them, the black patent little-girl delicacies sitting neatly on top of the microwave, as if it is the most natural thing in the world. As though they belong there and not on the carpeted floor of Beck’s closet, poised for the invasion of little feet. “Why were my shoes on the microwave? We’re going to be late.”

  “Sorry,” Julie says, distracted. “Sorry, let’s go.” But she’s forgotten her purse, and as soon as the door is locked, she has to unlock it all over again. Her phone buzzes in her pocket, but she ignores it for now.

  They scurry downstairs and across the street into Brew, the little old-fashioned bell on the door announcing their entrance. It always makes her think of Nell’s Flower Shop, where she worked as a teenager. How many businesses still use bells like these?

  Beck drinks hot cocoa with a sprinkle of cinnamon on top. She places her order with the woman behind the counter and Julie places hers, adding a banana-nut muffin for Beck. When they first moved into the Grove Street apartment, Julie thought that Brew was a bar, given the name. She had been embarrassingly disappointed to find out that it was a coffee shop, although it comes in handy on mornings like these.

  Walking out of the shop, Julie sees their reflections in the window, warped like faces in a stream. Beck is so small beside Julie, but her light hair glistens. Her father’s hair. Julie is hardly visible.

  Beck attends private kindergarten in the Village, not far from their apartment. Evan, Beck’s father, pays for it; Julie would never be able to afford it on her own. It’s a fancy school with entitled children and smug mothers who look at Julie strangely when she kisses Beck good-bye in the mornings. She knows they judge her, her age, her clothes: the cheap T-shirts on tour bus days, her skimpy athletic gear on yoga mornings.

  Not surprisingly, though, on the rare occasions when Evan can be bothered to attend a PTA meeting or open house, these same women line up to shake his hand, to swoon over him and confess, pink-faced and smiling, how much they love his performance in whatever play or musical he is starring in at the time. When Julie attends meetings without him, which happens more often, the parents and teachers overlook her, as if she is Beck’s older sister or her babysitter instead of her mother.

  It doesn’t matter. If not for the impact it would have on Beck, Julie would go out of her way to show these mothers how little she cares about winning their approval. She would wear the dark-red lipstick that makes her lips look even fuller than they already are, show some cleavage in a low-cut tank, maybe flirt with their husbands just for fun. Ten years ago, she wouldn’t have thought twice about doing something so bold, would have flaunted her youth and her looks and dared them to say something about it. But she isn’t that girl anymore, and these days, she has Beck to think of. She can’t jeopardize her daughter’s opportunities to form lasting friendships with her classmates because their mothers don’t approve of Julie. So she smiles and stays silent.

  “Good-bye, Mom,” Beck says as Julie kneels and kisses her forehead. Beck smells sweet, like a plump fruit, but Julie can’t recall the fragrance of her shampoo. A few strands of hair sweep, wispy as butterfly wings, against Julie’s winter-chapped lips. Beck’s blue eyes are bright and deep, and she is so pretty in the sunlight.

  Sometimes when Julie looks at her daughter, so poised and so smart, she can’t help but compare Beck to herself at that age. She’d been a lost, confused, tiny little mess. Newly orphaned, an intruder in her aunt’s house. She can’t help but worry that something might happen, outside of her own control, and that Beck might be left alone the same way, that maybe age five is tainted for their family. But Beck would fare much better than Julie had, no matter what the circumstances.

  Julie watches her until she reaches the double doors of the school. Once Beck is safely inside, Julie begins the frantic race to get to the subway. She moves as fast as she can without breaking into a full-out run, slipping between and around and in and out of the bustling crowd, hoping that her train hasn’t left already. She rushes down the stairs that lead underground to the Christopher Street station, moving alongside others in suits and heels and ties and briefcases and long coats. Finally, she stops to wait for the train, which, thank goodness, has not yet arrived.

  Now that she’s still, Julie has the eerie feeling that someone is watching her, following her maybe, though God knows how they could keep up. The truth is that she always feels anxious down here, like she is somehow trapped inside an empty swimming pool. She can almost smell the residual chlorine, can sense the darkness she knows lies beyond those white tiles, the natural and terrifying heaviness of earth. Even so, she can’t help but turn in an awkward circle to make sure she isn’t being watched, but no one’s paying a bit of attention to her. She checks her BlackBerry and sees that she has a text message from Brighton: Don’t forget about the show tonight.

  Julie responds quickly, just as the train pulls up. Looking forward to it! Ever since her best friend, Brighton, started dating the drummer in a local jazz band, he’s been dying to take Julie to a show.

  The tour bus is waiting for her when she reaches the outside of Penn Station, the bright-red double-decker filled with tourists ready for their morning sightseeing, hands wrapped tightly around digital cameras. Mid-March is chilly in New York, but there are plenty of tourists brave enough to sit out on the uncovered upper level. The bus is crowded, with children yelling and people talking. Car horns are blowing out on the street, and for those first few minutes, Julie feels uneasy again.

  She has a dream, more often than she’d like, that Beck is a baby again and her sad, urgent cries echo off every wall, but Julie can’t find her. She searches under pillows and tosses the comforter back, desperate. And then Julie is in a field at night, clawing at the ground, her hands dirty with black soil and covered with dewy-wet blades of grass, and the cries are her own.

  The sounds of the bus, the yelling, the general exuberance of the city make her think of the dream and evoke the same sense of helplessness. But there’s no time to be frightened, so she grabs hold of the metal pole up front and plants her feet firmly as the bus cranks to life and prepares to lurch away from the curb and into a sea of yellow cabs.

  “Barely made it today,” Marlowe, her driver, says casually, as if it is no matter to him. He smiles, steering the bus into traffic. “Rough morning?” And then he laughs, a low belly chuckle that never fails to make her smile too.

  “Like always,” she replies. And then she begins her tour.

  “Hey, guys!” she says into the microphone. “How’s everyone doing this morning? Are you ready to check out New York City?”

  Clapping. A few cheers. The growl of the bus engine.

  Brighton, a compulsive reader, says that a good story should unwind smoothly, like a spool of silky thread. But Julie’s story, if she were to tell it, would be more like a ride on the See NYC! double-decker bus—the rocky start, screeching stops, horns blowing, people yelling. Just waiting for that crash.

  She does the downtown loop: Times Square and the Village and Chinatown and Central Park. It’s just another performance, and this is just another role. She often lies when fascinated tourists inquire about her life. She has invented this character’s entire world. Though Julie is a private person, her tour-guide alter ego is bubbly, chatty, and outgoing. She’s herself, only different. Better.

  How long now since she gave up on the idea that acting would truly blossom into a career? How long since she stopped believing there would be a callback from one of dozens of audition
s, that she would get the part that would change her life and there would be no more of the part-time jobs, sewn together loosely like stitches on a poorly made quilt, to make enough money to support herself? Since Beck was born, probably—since the realization that her life was no longer her own.

  Still, those visions haven’t dissolved completely. She hasn’t stopped auditioning, has she? Who knows what might come along? If she would allow Evan to introduce her to the actors and directors in his inner circle, she’d probably be on Broadway already. She has too much pride for that, though, so she gets by—this year, on yoga classes and bus tours.

  She actually enjoys the tours. She is always looking for oddball facts about the city. She knows all the basics: the exact size of the Statue of Liberty (151 feet tall from base to torch, 305 if you count the pedestal), the square footage of Macy’s (2.2 million), the number of bridges and arches in Central Park (36). She and Beck Google New York City together when there is nothing better to do, and Beck helps decide on unusual facts for Julie to use on her tours. Beck’s favorite is the one about pigs on Wall Street, how they were used until the 1920s to eat the garbage that accumulated on the sidewalks. Julie and Beck laughed at the thought of it—pigs dancing and snorting, sweeping down the street like fat, pinkish trash trucks.

  On the bus, the sun is bright and the streets are busy. A teenage boy in the second row catches her attention. He has dark hair and dark skin, but those aren’t the only things that make Julie think of August. It’s the muscular build, and the camera on a thick strap that he wears around his neck. The resemblance is so strong that she finally has to look away.

  She is thinking of him again, of the whole damned thing, despite her efforts not to.

  Times Square is a glittering, electric jewel even in the daytime, but Julie advises everyone to come back at night, when the giant pulsing ads throw their vibrant colors out against the night sky. Times Square fascinates her like nowhere else in New York. It is always alive, always breathing, always defying the dark.

  The lights never go out.

  3

  “Julie,” Brighton says, smiling, as she approaches the entrance to Sax, an oversize wooden door painted with a constellation of scattered golden musical notes. He has already removed his suit jacket and slung it over one arm, already loosened his striped tie.

  Brighton is the only one of Julie’s college friends who, after her divorce, chose her over her ex-husband. There were others whom she’d believed to be confidantes, but they clung tightly to Evan and forgot about her when it all ended. Not that she blames them, but that makes it all the more touching that Brighton remained true to her. He used to be an actor, like her; they met in drama class at NYU. The classic American cliché, she used to call him. Tall, dark, and handsome. And it’s true. He is taller than Julie, with dark hair and eyes and portfolio pictures so dazzling that she can’t believe the man doesn’t act full time. She can see him so clearly as the well-muscled playboy on some steamy soap opera. He still does commercials, occasionally, but he was a double major in college, degrees in drama and finance, and he seems to genuinely like the career he has chosen.

  “Hey, Wall Street,” she says, glancing over his shoulder when she leans in to give him a hug. There is a short line of people waiting to get into Sax, but Julie follows Brighton right up to the front. His name (plus guest) is on the list. She knows there should be some kind of thrill involved in getting this kind of special treatment, but it makes her a little uncomfortable. She meets the eyes of a man near the back of the line and smiles what she hopes is an apologetic smile. He looks away.

  “Should I have worn my business suit too?” she teases Brighton.

  “Ha,” he says. “As if you even own one. Work late, remember? No time to change.”

  A bouncer sits on a high-backed metal bar stool, and he speaks to Brighton briefly before stamping their hands and waving the two of them through.

  “Oh, the perks of being with the band,” Julie says.

  Sax is a long, narrow space, with the stage set near the back and a row of black leathery booths to the left and right against the exposed brick walls. Round metal tables are scattered in between, leaving a small space for dancing in front of the stage, even though Julie has never seen anyone actually dance at Sax. Mostly, people drink and talk and flirt against the sultry backdrop of live jazz music. Brighton leads her to a table in the center of the room, best for viewing and for listening. As soon as she gets comfortable, he heads to the bar for drinks.

  The music is just starting, a female singer fronting the all-male band with a myriad of instruments. The girl (or woman, though she looks so youthful) has long, captivating hair, as fascinating to Julie as the lovely, haunting voice filling the room. Her voice is mesmerizing, deeper than Julie thought it would be. But her hair—it goes far beyond the natural boundaries of her small shoulders to spill around her arms and breasts and nearly reaches her hips. Reddish brown like wheat, and she is barefoot. The resemblance to Reba is powerful, but not obvious. Julie feels it more than she sees it. The woman is rustic and sensual, but somehow innocent.

  Brighton returns, carrying two pints of Blue Moon, an orange slice snug against the rim of each glass.

  “Perfect,” Julie says, reaching for hers. She presses the orange between her fingers, letting the juices spill into her glass before dropping the rind in as well. “So, how was work, Wall Street?” she asks.

  “Stop calling me that. Work was fine. Busy. So, what do you think of the band, and, more importantly, what do you think of my drummer?”

  “They’re great, he’s great,” Julie says, though she’s barely looked at the drummer. She can’t stop staring at the singer.

  Reba would have liked this music, though she always craved softer melodies, songs she could sway to in the free emptiness of her bedroom. Soft sounds. Julie wonders what Reba would think of her here in a jazz club, so different now.

  She is thinking of Reba again, can’t seem to stop lately, like she’s been thinking of August so much. But in truth, there is hardly a day that passes when she doesn’t think of them.

  Julie sips her beer and tries to drink away the unease that’s been with her lately, this idea that someone is hiding in the shadows, just out of her line of sight. She toys with her beer glass, picks it up, sets it down, picks it up, and finally drains it. The beer doesn’t help as much as she’d hoped it would. She’s starting to feel closed in, strangled. Jesus. She’s embarrassed by the urge to look around, to stare at each face until she finds the one that’s here for her.

  She spins around in her seat—she can’t help it—but instead of faces, hands are what draw her attention. All of these people, all of these palms pressed to cool pint glasses, fingers wrapped around wine stems. It’s been a while since she’s had a lover… Maybe that’s what this is all about. She imagines hands on her, gentle touches sweeping away the paranoia crawling along her skin.

  She’s oddly enchanted by all of this movement: hands gesturing in the air as a woman tells a story, a hand shaking another in greeting, hands nervously adjusting suit ties. One pair of hands clenched together tightly, the tension apparent and out of place in such a setting. Intriguing. Her eyes drift along to the rest of him, his elbows propped on the bar, his leather jacket well worn but obviously expensive. His face. It’s the man from the line, the man who’d turned away from her smile.

  He’s staring at her. And she knows why.

  She can’t believe she didn’t recognize him right away. Even after all these years, she should have guessed. It’s too late for him to look away, to feign nonchalance—she’s already caught him.

  “August.” Julie breathes his name, an invocation apparently, because as she says it, he starts walking toward her.

  “What?” Brighton says, looking around. She nods in the direction of the bar. “No way,” Brighton says, eyebrows raised, following Julie’s eyes to the man crossi
ng the room. “August? The August? Here?” Brighton is the only one who knows. He’s the only one she shares her secrets with.

  August is halfway to the table now, and Julie has to get away. “No,” she says, mostly to herself. “This isn’t happening.” Her hand jerks, knocking over her beer glass. The orange rind and the last lingering drops of beer spill out, while the glass itself rolls across the tabletop and over the edge, crashing to the floor and shattering. Heads turn to see the source of the disaster. Julie looks at her mess, horrified, then grabs for her purse as Brighton looks on.

  It isn’t real. Things like this don’t happen. Not in a world this big, in a city this big. There’s no way he could have found her in real, three-dimensional life.

  “Shit,” she says. “Shit.” Julie looks helplessly from Brighton to August. It’s him. A walking, talking, tangible fucking reminder of the past. She pushes her chair back and forces her way through the mess of tables and bodies, thinking only that she must get away.

  She is running down the sidewalk when she hears August calling her name. “Jules! Jules, wait, please!” But she can’t stop.

  4

  REBA’S DIARY, 1997

  It’s been weeks now since I met him. But I think it’s important to remember how everything started, even if the start is already behind you. Beginnings are the best part of any story, aren’t they? Filled with so much expectation that things will only get better and better, when sometimes, the best is already happening and you don’t even know it yet.

  5

  It’s the third time August has found Julie now, although he would have no way of knowing it. The most recent contact was the letter, six months ago. She hadn’t checked her mail in days, was rushing right past the mailboxes in the lobby of her building when she turned around and went back to the wall of neat metal cubes. She and Brighton were coming back from a movie, and it was after midnight. Brighton stood at the elevators, impatiently tapping the half-broken “up” button while Julie, exhilarated from the cold night and the wine they’d stopped for on the way home, twisted her small copper key into the lock, then bundled her mail together in one arm and scurried into the open elevator.