A Southern Girl (64 page)

To Charlotte’s left coming back is Adelle, who manages to appear bored and anxious at the same time, looking at her watch and at Margarite, at Natalie, but not, I note with some satisfaction, at me. Then
comes Jeanette, her head propped in her hand but her fingers fluttering against her temple and, as her eyes shift from me to Natalie, I can already see her peering from behind her drapes, wondering if the neighbors are watching as the sheriff comes up her walkway to serve the papers. Next to her, Doc Francis sits in replication of his distance at the last of these meetings, his manner aloof and his gaze directed across the table at a bookcase or beyond.

I clear my throat and look at Natalie. The releases on her briefcase snap open and she removes from within a stack of papers, each set stapled at the corners and laid perpendicular to the set below. She rests them on the table beside the case, closing it silently. Doc Francis does not alter his impervious stare but Jeanette’s eyes would be no wider if I had rolled a live grenade into their midst.

“A clear majority of you voted against me last time, against Allie, and I think I know why. I’ve done some soul searching these past few weeks and I have a confession. If I’m totally honest with myself, I come to the reluctant conclusion that I too might have voted no. You see, I understand what it is we’re clinging to here. It is nothing less than a sense of ourselves; a fundamental security in who we are, who we came from, where we live, how we relate. Those seem like simple things until we look around us, at the mess this country is in today. And because none of us are insulated from that mess, it’s easy to conclude—I’ve thought it myself often enough—that some unseen conspiracy wants to invade and destroy a way of life we happen to think is special.

“Everyone here has some antique at home that he or she treasures. I might have a sideboard that’s worth five times what your four-poster is valued at, but are you going to trade me that bed? No way. Because my sideboard doesn’t remind you of your grandfather. You never crawled up on it to listen to stories or to be comforted during a thunderstorm. We treasure the things that take us back to a simpler, often happier time.

“‘So,’ we ask ourselves with perfect logic, ‘why can’t we keep one old relic like the St. Simeon the way it used to be, the way it’s always been? Why, in a politically correct world full of strident voices, militant organizations, lobbies, factions, political parties, twelve-step programs, TV religions—why in a world that big and diverse can there not be one place where we can go to be among those who applauded us when we were eighteen, that told our parents how lovely or handsome we looked that night,
that made sure we met all the people we would need and who would need us when those thunderstorms came along. And why can’t that place be the same place, those people have the same names, run the same businesses, have the same aunts and uncles and houses and summer places and coats of arms and go to Clemson or Carolina like they have for generations.

“Why? … I don’t know why, unless it’s for the same reason you can no longer take a trolley downtown or a steamer to Europe.” I pause to gauge the room’s pulse.

“Coleman,” offers Sandy Charles, “what you just said about the trolleys and steamers—isn’t that the point? Everything changes, so why can’t this remain? Doesn’t its value go up because it does not change? I think that’s on the mind of a lot of the members I’ve talked to.” Clarkson looks up from his coffee cup and Doc Francis turns his head to me expectantly.

From behind, Charlotte says, “It’s the open floodgate, Coleman. Many members have called me on this.”

“I understand their concern,” I say. “But a man named Darwin gave this whole question a lot of thought. Adapt or die would be his answer. Perhaps, by identifying very specifically what it is we’re protecting—”

“We’re protecting tradition,” pipes up Charlotte, punctuating her declaration with a jot of her ample head. This momentarily unhinges me as her comment is not predictably inane.

“What time does the St. Simeon begin, Charlotte?” I ask.

“Eight-thirty.”

“Every year?”

“Since I’ve been there, and that covers forty years.”

“Suppose we change it to eight-forty-five. Would you say that changes the nature of the Ball?” Her face registers a mealy blank.

“What he’s saying, Charlotte,” injects Doc Francis, swinging his head toward her end of the table, “is that there are traditions and there are traditions. Which ones are important enough to hold the line on. That’s the issue, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” says Jeanette unexpectedly, “but blood kinship is the glue that holds the entire thing together, isn’t it?” She casts nervously around for approval, then once more at the stack of papers in front of Natalie.

“It shouldn’t be,” I say. “And it hasn’t always been. Clarkson down there thinks, and I agree, that there must have been numerous exceptions made in the beginning—”

Charlotte interrupts. “But then it wasn’t the tradition it is today.”

“No,” I continue, “but there was also Lafayette. I have prepared,”—and here, as I reach for the papers, a collective inhale deprives the room momentarily of oxygen—“a brief history of the Society’s treatment of the French hero.” I slide them to the center while they exchange looks for confirmation and the pin is replaced in the grenade.

“You will see on page four the exact wording of the exemption passed by the Society’s leaders, your predecessors. It says, and I quote, ‘Special invitations to the annual gala may be extended from time to time by majority vote to foreigners of royal descent or distinguished birth.’

“As you may know, I just returned from Korea. Our purpose in going went beyond this conflict with St. Simeon, but we learned things there I want you to know.” I recount the highlights of our trip, the visit to the home, the reunion. Then, I play my trump, relating to them what I learned from Allie on the flight from Athens.

“Hana has been at the home for almost twenty-five years, and in all that time only one mother tried to reclaim her child. Thousands of children were abandoned or given up, but only Allie’s biological mother came back to reclaim what she thought she could not live without. I can get an affidavit if you need one. When I heard that, the adjective that occurred to me was ‘distinguished.’ So my question to you, the Board, is whether you agree that my daughter is a foreigner of distinguished birth.”

“That’s a lawyer’s trick,” says Charlotte with unabashed nastiness, verging on a literal hiss. “It’s got to be royal.”

“No, it doesn’t,” counters Doc Francis. “Says royal descent or, Charlotte, o-r distinguished birth.”

“Well, it’s clear what they meant. To me, it’s perfectly clear.”

“But that’s not what they said,” adds Clarkson in his deliberate way. “I’d call it distinguished.”

“So would I,” says Sandy Charles. “It gives me goose bumps. What do you think, Jeanette?”

“Well … I’m just not sure … I’d like some more discussion. Adelle?”

“I have nothing to say.”

“I have,” says Charlotte. “I see good and well what is happening here. Everyone is afraid of being sued if they don’t go along. I, for one, could care less. I won’t be intimidated. And, if it makes everyone feel better, I
will personally pay the legal fees to defend the Society. It’s that important to me that we stand on principle.”

“Then perhaps it’s time to vote,” says Margarite, rising at my side.

Clarkson speaks again. “I’d like to ask Miss Berman a question.” As Margarite nods, he faces Natalie. “I know you would be Coleman’s lawyer if it comes to that but I’d like to know if how we vote could make a difference, you know, in court.”

Natalie steeples her hands on the table. “As you say, Mr. Mills, I would be Mr. Carter’s attorney so I am unable to officially advise you. However, as a general rule an organization is liable for its illegal acts and directors such as yourself can escape liability by showing they did their best to reach the proper result.”

“Thank you,” says Clarkson. “That’s what I thought. I suggest an open vote.”

Charlotte turns on him. “Why not?” she demands. “It’s clear as the nose on your face how it’s going to come out. By all means, an open vote. I want to record my opposition.”

Margarite looks serenely down the table. “Is there objection to an open ballot? Hearing none, I will ask for a show of hands on whether to extend an invitation to Allie Carter. All in favor …”

I watch as first, Doc Francis, then Sandy and Clarkson, then Margarite raise their hands. A full second later Jeanette follows as Charlotte resumes her Buddha-like fume and Adelle sits in downcast stillness.

“Thank you,” I tell them. “You’ve done a great thing, and I truly believe for the right reason.”

I reach for the back of Natalie’s chair as she rises. Over her turned shoulder I make fleeting eye contact with Adelle, whose malice lances out like twin stilettoes. We are just out the door when Margarite tugs at my sleeve. With a furtive look over her shoulder she slips me an envelope. On it is engraved Allie’s name. “I had a hunch,” she says.

Natalie and I walk to the car without speaking. In a perfect world her presence tonight would not have affected the outcome, and I choose to believe it did not. I crank the car and head toward home. At Church Street I idle in the driveway.

“Well, we did it,” I say. “Thanks for all you’ve put into this.”

“How is she going to react?”

“Tonight? I suspect with relief. The idea of court, newspapers, thrusting herself into the limelight—none of that appeals to her. I’m feeling some of that relief myself.”

Inside the front door I call to her. She answers upstairs, saying she’ll be right down. Natalie and I are seated in the den when she enters.

“The Board changed its mind,” I say. “That envelope on the sideboard is for you.”

She gives a quick glance over but shows no emotion, seating herself on the sofa nearby. “Was it ugly?”

“Very civil,” I say. “Natalie’s presence helped, but I think the result would have been the same.”

“I think so, too,” Natalie says.

“I guess Adelle will hate me now,” Allie says.

“That is Adelle’s problem,” I say. “Your problem is to come up with a dress in a few days.”

“I have to call Kenny,” she says. “I asked him to find me a horse show this weekend, just in case. He entered me in a show in Greenville.”

“He’ll understand.”

“Natalie,” she says, “would you like to help me shop for a dress?”

“I’d like that very much.”

“Cool,” she says, rising. “Well, I have homework to finish.”

She turns, passing within three feet of the engraved invitation as she mounts the stairs to her room.

40

Tonight, we will attend the St. Simeon, as Carters have done for almost two and a half centuries. Sarah, whom I have not seen since our return from Korea, is coming over for an afternoon meal before we dress. I have offered to send Steven to Sullivan’s but she insists on driving herself into town.

Natalie reminds me that with Allie’s invitation, she is the sole uninvited guest at the Church Street gathering. I need no reminder, but she is teasing. “I hate dancing,” she says. “Besides, it’s a cultural thing; not my
culture.” One side of my brain says she is right, but the other side and a goodly portion of the rest of me would like to take her anyway. Perhaps another year.

I am preparing the grill for steaks, glancing at the clock as it is now almost three and Sarah was expected at two. I instruct Steven to call his grandmother while I fine-tune the marinade. He reappears on the patio, reporting no answer. Odd.

Allie is making potato salad. In jeans and a sweat shirt, she stands in the kitchen peeling spuds and, but for her styled hair purchased at the cost of a morning at the salon and for a sum equal to the interest payment due the World Bank by a medium size developing nation, could as easily be awaiting a horse show as the Ball. Christopher is circling the kitchen, cola in hand, tickling her periodically and laughing as she brands him “a perfect nuisance.”

“Steven,” I say, “I’m getting worried about your grandmother. Try her again.”

“I just called,” he replies a bit testily.

“Try again. It’s not like her to be this late.”