It’s never been a great shower, but right now the darn thing is barely a trickle. “Come on!” I yell into the nozzle. I dip my head back into the puny stream. The suds seem never-ending. My blisters sting from the soapsuds. I’ve got twenty minutes to rinse this shampoo out of my hair and get dressed for the party.
As soon as I feel I’ve gotten most of the soap out, I hop out of the shower and towel off. I gather my hair into a low bun and steal a minute to swipe on some mascara. As I brush my teeth, my engagement ring winks at me from the medicine cabinet. I close it shut. Trip and I are supposed to have our talk in about a month; I’m not ready for the finality of returning his ring, but it seems like that moment would be the right time. I yank a black cocktail dress from the hanger, step into my sling-backs, and clasp Laudie’s watch around my wrist.
What finishing touch do I need? What would make Mom happy? I sift through a silver bowlful of sophomoric jewelry: a necklace with a roller-skate pendant, chunky rings with Jolly Rancher stones, a neon green cuff. My hand lands on the latest button I made. It reads: “VAGINA! VAGINA! VAGINA!”
Tee-hee. Why is that so fun? I pin the button to the inside of my coat, where no one can see it. There are times and places to make statements. I’m not ready to wear my button on the outside of my coat, but I am still considering that throw pillow for my couch.
With pearls, my plain outfit might be deemed passable. I drop to my hands and knees and search for the necklace Trip gave me what now seems an eternity ago. Lifting the dust ruffle and looking beneath my bed, I peer into the shadows. At the foot of a bedpost lies Trip’s necklace, coiled in a forlorn heap. I extract a dust bunny from the chain and clasp it around my neck.
* * *
I scamper down the cracked sidewalks of Atlantic Street, careful not to catch a toe on broken slate or a wayward oak root. Mom’s house glows festively in the winter night. All the lights are on, even in my old bedroom. A topiary props open the door that opens onto the piazza. I bound up the two stone steps and see that Mom decided to put the bar in the garden—an even better idea than on the piazza.
I arrive promptly at 6:00. Punctuality is usually not a South of Broad virtue. In fact, other than for a funeral, it is considered rude to be on time; every native knows you must come at least ten or fifteen minutes late in order for the hosts to find the corkscrews and check the linens in the powder room. So, there’s a little extra time to help Mom.
Her Waterford chandelier—recently painstakingly disassembled, dusted, washed, and reassembled—sparkles in the foyer, splashing light on the staircase I raced up and down as a little girl. In the formal drawing room, to my right, a gas fire burns in the hearth. A charcuterie and cheese tray sits on the low mahogany coffee table; the Brie and Camembert sweat.
In the dining room, two servers who are dressed head-to-toe in black fiddle with last-minute preparations. One garnishes silver trays and Delft platters with snipped sprays of dendrobium orchids. The other lights tea candles, which flicker in little beds of holly on the table and sideboard. Mrs. Harley’s food awaits: ham biscuits, pickled shrimp, blanched asparagus, Hollandaise sauce, sliced tenderloin, horseradish sauce, stacks of miniature rye, wheat, and pumpernickel bread. The endive chicken salad boats line a narrow silver tray. Crab dip bubbles in a chafing dish.
Mom, in her demurely shimmery merlot dress, tucks away a stack of mail in the kitchen. “Oh, good, you’re here. Honey, I need you to help pour the champagne. The bartenders have their hands full right now.”
“Sure.” I throw my coat and purse on a kitchen chair.
“Simons, is your hair wet?”
“I ran out of time.”
“What are we going to do with you?”
“I’m sorry, Mom.”
Mom draws a slow breath. “It’s okay. That’s not important. How’s Angela?”
“She’ll be all right.”
“Good.” Mom places ten champagne flutes on the tray.
I pour the champagne. The stems rattle as I carry the tray back through the dining room and into the front hall. Our first guests are elderly. Charleston’s golden-agers drive to the party location early to claim the closest parking spots. They wait in the car until their watches confirm it’s a polite ten or so minutes after the hour.
A couple of Laudie’s bridge friends hobble over the threshold. Mom leads them into the drawing room, where they settle in the Queen Anne chairs. Tuckered by the effort of getting up the porch and into the house, they gratefully accept the champagne.
Weezy and Ashley arrive next. Ever since Vance was born, I’ve been surprised to see Weezy standing up on her own, alive even. I can’t forget, or even compute, the violence her body underwent that night—the tearing of her innards, the blood, the passing out. It seems amazing that she survived. And yet here she is, practically scintillating.
Her magenta dress tugs only slightly at her postpartum belly; she hardly looks like she gave birth just two weeks ago. She’s wearing heels. She darkened her eyebrows; they give her face an elegant, mature look. She should have her photograph taken tonight. Ashley stands next to her. Neatly shaven, he looks even more boyish than usual in a tuxedo.
“Here she comes!” Mom clasps her hands together, her eyes wide to take in the vision of her youngest daughter. Caroline appears at the top of the stairs: she’s the epitome of perfection. Her white dress is simple but striking. Cut slimly, it hugs her body and shows off her knockout figure. A thick braid drapes around her swanlike neck.
Her friend Bennett follows. She wears a turquoise dress that appears to be 1950s-inspired. It cinches tightly at her small waist; the A-line cut of her skirt dramatizes her curves. As she follows Caroline down the steps, the fabric rises and falls like a diaphanous jellyfish in the mildest of waters.
Caroline lifts two champagne glasses from my tray and hands one to her friend. “Is Mom paying you?”
“What?”
Caroline gestures at me vaguely. “You look like a waiter.”
Bennett attempts to hide a smirk behind her champagne glass.
I stare at my sister.
“Oh, come on, Sims, your hair’s slicked back and you’re in all black . . .”
I glance at my simple dress. Okay, fine, so I am dressed like a server, but it’s still a bitchy thing to say.
“Caroline.” Mom narrows her eyes. “What has gotten into you? Your sister came here this morning to help with the party. She climbed the ladder to string the lights. She swept the porch. You should be thanking her.”
“I’m sorry.”
Mom’s too annoyed to listen. She shoos Caroline and Bennett to the drawing room. “Go say hello to Mrs. Ravenel and Mrs. Rutledge.” They sail out, an armada of two, high heels clicking.
Weezy hugs me sideways, nearly making me drop the tray of remaining champagne flutes. “You look beautiful, Simons. You really do.”
I study Weezy as she takes a drink. I still can’t figure out how she holds any positive memories of that ghastly night. She describes it as “loving” and “beautiful” and “healing.” I was there. It wasn’t any of those things. It was gruesome. Painful. Nightmarish. A disco-balled violent bloodbath choreographed to the King of Pop.
It does seem Ashley has an idea of what went down that night. With jolly pats on the back, he thanks me for “subbing in,” but I detect relief.
Weezy has always been kind to me, but she’s been especially complimentary since Vance’s birth. Any time I mention my new news director, Don Pendergrass, she’s quick to suggest I should consider midwifery. No. Not a chance. But I will leave my job and probably Charleston, too; I’m just not ready to tell her that yet. Two of the three New York organizations asked me for a second interview—both video conference calls. I scheduled those for next week. I also heard back from Angela’s connection in D.C.; I have a call with him on Tuesday.
A bevy of Mom’s friends and their husbands appears at the door. The ladies pluck the remaining flutes from my tray. When Mom announces the bourbon’s outside in the garden, the men head for the bar. I exchange hellos and retreat to fill up more glasses.
From the quiet of the kitchen, I listen to the party unfold. Our house is welcoming. The food is plentiful and delicious. Our friends are mostly happy. The women look beautiful. The men are handsome. We are educated, healthy, and prosperous.
It’s a lovely scene, and it hardly looks any different than it did four years ago, when I was making my debut. I find comfort in knowing this is how it will always be in this house, in our little cosmos, for years, even decades and generations, to come. So maybe there’s not a musician, a rebel, or a tattoo under this roof, but there is a strong sense of community.
Still, I can’t shake the feeling that I don’t fit into the mold, that I’m a non-native species in this garden of Eden. I don’t know where I belong, but it’s not here, at least for now. My hand instinctively tugs at my necklace.