A Southern Girl (66 page)

“And look what Chris gave me,” she says, offering her lower leg through the slit up the side. High heel sandals display her pedicured toes, around the second of which, on the right foot, is a silver ring.

“As long as it stays on your toe,” I say.

She crosses the room and takes my arm. “You look exceedingly handsome, father,” she says coyly. “Shall we go?”

The green canopy is in place and yawns before us as the limo pulls to a stop. The door opens and we uncoil from its leathery plush. After a short walk to the hall, the ladies stepping carefully to avoid hems, we arrive at the entrance doors, opened with a flourish by two uniformed cadets in full dress swords and sash.

The foyer is round, reminiscent of Monticello on a smaller scale, with one giant chandelier suspended overhead and tall mirrors on the sides to enlarge its aspect. Waiting there is the receiving line, consisting of the Board and spouses. Margarite grins broadly as we approach. It is a measure of her natural grace that she looks much the same in everyday life as she does now, bejeweled and done to the nines. She greets Mother warmly, then extends her hands to clasp Allie’s.

“Our guest of honor,” Margarite says with obvious pride. Then, leaning forward, she says in stage whisper, “And thank you for your patience with all us old fossils.”

We greet John, Margarite’s husband, followed by Doc Francis, his wife Katherine; Sandy and Edgar Charles; Clarkson and Rosemary Mills; Jeanette and James Wilson, the surgeon; Charlotte, her royal ampleness, who coldly turns us over to Glen, her long-suffering husband, as I smile at her gaily in the best of spirits; and finally, Adelle, stoic and polite. Chris is beside her, deliberately harnessing his enthusiasm in deference to his mother.

“Chris, where’s your cap?” I ask as we shake hands. He winks, then turns to Allie, telling her where he’ll catch up to her.

We enter the main ballroom amidst the crush of familiar faces. Allie is on my arm, while Steven ushers both Amanda and Sarah behind. From the night of the vote I have anticipated this moment, when we would stroll to our table under the indirect but appraising eye of the membership. I have played it over in my mind, knowing the Board’s decision has spread through this crowd like a rock on a windshield. In my worst moments I envisioned smartly turned backs, the coldest of shoulders, unrequited greetings, sharply and pointedly diverted gazes. In calmer reflection, I considered the prospect of a routine assimilation, with no-big-deal greetings from closer friends and a benign tolerance from others. Whether Allie has labored in such speculations I cannot say. Doubtless neither of us anticipated the reality.

As we progress, an aisle of sorts forms as guests take a step back, reminding me for an instant of the day at Kennedy Airport when the crowd of waiting families parted to admit those first dazed orphans. Then, from somewhere on the left side, clapping begins, muted by the white gloves but discernible and building as we progress. Allie smiles imperceptibly,
like the queen of some exotic land, and nods faintly in acknowledgment. To be sure, I see in my peripheral vision some reluctant participants and a few resigned to observation only. Some engage in intense conversation as a way to avoid witness, but they cannot shut out sound.

We reach our table. Chris joins us as the orchestra, immured beyond its clandestine curtain, strikes up an old waltz, as all the music here tends toward. Three Dog Night derives few royalties from St. Simeon.

But already I have told too much. As a true and loyal member in fair standing, observant of our sacred secrecy, I cannot reveal what we did, who we saw, how we danced, or what we ate at the champagne breakfast, just as Allie will tomorrow decline to be interviewed by Scott Edwards for the
Sentinel,
citing the long-standing tradition of silence in the organization of which she is a part. In good conscience, I can reveal only what we did at the end, when the Ball was technically over and we were, very technically, no longer within the Hall.

Steven carried Sarah and Amanda home while Allie, Chris, and I lingered. As stragglers weaved toward the door, I motioned to the kids to follow me. An aging fire escape leads to the roof and the door at the top has not been locked since Beauregard.

We climb single file skyward, Allie trailing to preserve the dignity of her gown. The door gives and we step out onto the flat tar surface. A balustrade surrounds the edge, added for aesthetics and too low to serve safety.

There is no moon tonight, rendering brighter the canopy of stars overhead. Allie, pulling her wrap closer, holds Chris’s hand as they walk to the far end to look out at the skyline. There is a breeze, warm and gentle enough to float leisurely a balloon released into the night air. Perhaps, I think as I study their silhouettes, that is part of what tonight has been about. There will follow her graduation, of course, and departure for college, but I sense here, on this roof in April, the string tied to that balloon slipping through my fingers. It drifted over us seventeen years ago, released into an uncertain sky on the far side of the world by a special woman we will never know and pulled in by Elizabeth, whom I miss tonight more than ever. It falls to me, her father, her only father, as she likes to remind me, to send it on its way.

Fly, sweetheart, fly.