A Southern Girl (48 page)

The Camden Cup, a steeplechase held annually in spring, serves in its rambunctious way as an outdoor compliment to the St. Simeon Ball. You see many of the same people at both and each has accumulated a legacy worthy of the appellation “command performance.” Some have observed that, given the massive crowds, the incessant drinking, and the shoehorned socializing, the chances of seeing a horse at the Cup are not much better than at the Ball.

Criteria for entry is the humble price of admission, yet tradition and heritage are as much on display as festive spring wardrobes and late model cars. There is nothing quite so chic as eating fried chicken and gulping bourbon from the trunk of a new Mercedes, and South Carolinians soak up the sun and the dust in equal measure to be seen at this sacred rite of spring.

We often go, but today the sixth race, for the Cup, brings us here. Allie is riding. Female jockeys in this event are still uncommon but hardly unprecedented; she herself rode last year in an early race and finished fourth. My car is bloated as we drive west on I-26, with Adelle and Sarah in the front with me and Allie, Christopher and Steven in the back. In the boot I have stored enough food to feed Mosby’s Rangers. Allie arose early to trailer her horse and stow her tack; both should be there when we arrive.

Adelle and Sarah indulge in Bloody Marys, bushy stalks of celery protruding like miniature palm trees from their glasses. Traffic hums along, every car’s occupants inspecting every other’s like they do when Carolina plays Clemson and fans of both clog the state’s major arteries. Clemson/Carolina and the Camden Cup commandeer the road system as effectively as martial law, and not a mile passes without one of us waving to some pilgrim we know.

As we near the grounds we slow to an idling creep. The first race will not be run for two hours and already acres of tailgaters are parked and set
up. Steven cracks his first beer of the day and inquires of Sarah how his trap is doing.

“I’m so glad you reminded me,” she says, turning toward the back seat. “That raccoon is the slipperiest creature you can imagine. He keeps getting into the garbage but he’s never there in the morning.”

“The trap isn’t working,” Steven says, disappointed.

“You know, I have a theory that the noise of the top falling startles him and he bolts through the door before it can close on him.”

Steven is doubtful. “Then how does the garbage get out of the can?”

She cocks her head, considering this carefully. “Well, I just don’t know.”

“Must be a small hole in the fence somewhere,” he says. “I’ll come check it out for you.”

Sarah again faces forward as we inch along, the windows raised to seal out dust for a little longer. “I wish you would,” she says. “Poor Ralph got himself trapped again the other day. I heard him yelping early in the morning and let him out. I’m afraid that one of these days I’ll be away and he’ll starve in there, or die of thirst.”

Christopher claps Allie affectionately on the shoulder. “Do good today,” he says. “I bet a bunch on the sixth race so bring home the bacon.” In the rear view mirror I see her flash a smile I recognize as controlled nervousness. Her mind is on the race and will be until it’s over.

Adelle stirs her drink with the celery and asks Allie which horse she’ll be riding. “Carbon Copy,” Allie says. “A man named Jamison asked me to ride him. He trains in Aiken. I rode him a few times this fall.”

“How good is he?” Adelle asks.

“Great by himself over fences and hedges but skittish around other horses. If I don’t ride him strong he’ll take a bath.”

“I may join him,” says Adelle with a chuckle. “When it’s hot and dusty at this thing I can’t think of much else by the last race.”

We arrive at the gate where I tender my money. A rotund teen in a loud T-shirt—“Toad the Wet Sprocket,” whatever that is—waves us on. A lengthy, serpentine route threads us through until we park, climb gratefully out, and stretch out car cramps. The race course is not visible from this spot due to the revetment of people parked along the rail, not that they are anymore interested in the actual races than those parked away. Proximity measures arrival time rather than devotion to sport, and
those closest toasted dawn with Bloody Mary’s and champagne cocktails. Whether they are standing when the last trumpet beckons horses to the starting gate is often a matter of degree.

Protocol at the Cup requires first, a drink if, like me, you have borne the responsibility of driving. Next, tailgates lower, trunks open, or card tables unfold before linen tablecloths cover them. Wicker baskets and coolers abound, but so do chaffing dishes and ice buckets.

Setting your spread here is not unlike maintaining your yard at home; properly done it makes a statement. I aim for a panache I once heard described as elegantly shabby. Achieving it is not easy in a $50,000 Range Rover. It demands beat-up flasks, but leather and venerable, with each scuff and scar earned in battle inside some crowded football stadium. Wicker is out, but Tupperware is okay for the food as long as drinks are served in glasses of good quality displaying logos from a sun or ski resort. No one striving for elegantly shabby would be caught dead using ice tongs.

Adelle and I set our spread as the kids drift off to scope the crowd. Sarah has brought her favorite lawn chair and will let the crowd come to her. Adelle, unwrapping chicken salad sandwiches, asks if I’ve had any luck contacting the orphanage.

“Not yet.”

“Time’s getting short,” she observes. “Allie tells me she’s going to work for Mr. Quan this summer.”

“That’s true,” I say, gumming a deviled egg.

“Does that surprise you?” She is busy with the spread and means to sound flip but her tone has an underpinning of seriousness.

“Not really. It could be her last summer at home.”

“You don’t think it’s just to be near Chris?”

I smile at her. “That could have been one factor in her decision.” She smiles back, but tension renders it flat. “Adelle, are you in your ‘they’re getting too serious’ mode again? If so, stop worrying. They’re level-headed kids.”

“I realize that. It’s just that they’re together all the time and hormones play strange tricks.”

This is not her first reference to an animal attraction between these two. “What makes you so sure it’s hormones?” I ask, not without my own edge. “What if they simply like each other’s company? Is that so hard to imagine?”

“You know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t. Whenever you talk about them I come away with a picture of two lustful degenerates who have trouble keeping their clothes on.”

“Oh, Coleman, you’re exaggerating.”

“You seem to believe their relationship is entirely physical instead of just a couple of sweet kids in love.”

“They’re not in love. Don’t be absurd.”

“How do you know? And why is that absurd?”

“I’m sorry. Absurd is too strong. It’s unlikely.”

Before I can respond, Jessie Tolbert, an old friend from Orangeburg, approaches and calls me a rat fucker. One difference between the Cup and the Ball is that at the latter I run a very low risk of being called a rat fucker, at least to my face. But Jessie is a lovable redneck who would plow your field, bale your hay, and paint your barn if you needed it done, and his unlikely term of endearment is lavished on forty or fifty of his closest friends. We hug and I offer him the drink I know he’ll take. Jessie greets Adelle and Sarah with more reserve, hitching up low-slung jeans and waving a calloused hand while asking, “How y’all doin’?” I breathe easier. Sarah, whose tolerance level is substantial, draws the line at being called a rat fucker, and were Jessie to do so she would revert to that puzzled look she gets when something sails by her, ask him to repeat it, then turn a shade darker than the Bloody Mary she is holding.

Cars continue to pour through the several gates sprinkled around the perimeter. Old friends hail each other, careful not to spill drinks in their rush to embrace. The college men tend toward war cries for salutations while the women squeal a lot. There is much whooping and squealing near our car.

I check the sky. Some low clouds scud across from the west but they look benign and the sun will be out by the first race, still over an hour away. A good time to work the crowd. Adelle and Sarah are talking with three of Adelle’s friends so I pop a beer and strike off on my own. I have not gone thirty yards when I bump into Dick and Karen Lambert, old friends who left Charleston for Greenville several years ago when Dick’s company transferred him. They sent flowers to Elizabeth’s funeral but a sick child kept them from the service. We establish three years as the last time we’ve been together. Forty-five minutes later, we agree to meet for the
last race. Allie’s first babysitting job was for the Lamberts and they want to see her ride.

Ten yards further I meet another old friend. It is nearing the start of the first race and I am still within sight of my car. Adelle and Mother are engaged with new company so I continue around, shaking hands, slapping backs, kissing women old and young. At one point I spot the kids and wave. I am absorbed in the meeting-and-greeting demanded here when, over the shoulder of a woman who used to be my secretary, I see Natalie Berman.

She is alone, walking casually toward me, a red insulated cup in one hand. I turn away, still speaking with my former secretary, when Natalie walks by. She is wearing jeans, tight and new, as are her boots. Her blouse is ruffled, covered by a lightweight jacket the same color as the cup she is holding. I would bet she has not seen me.

A trumpet sounds signaling the start of the first race. Natalie pauses, changes direction, then walks toward the course. I break away from my friend and follow from a safe distance behind. At the rail she eases in among the crowd and from fifteen yards I see her head turn as the horses thunder past. When the race ends those around disburse, leaving her leaning on the rail. I approach and lean beside her.

“Hello, counselor,” I say, wondering how I’ll be received.

“Hello,” she returns. “It’s nice to see a familiar face. Are you a regular?”

“Pretty much. I’ve missed a few.”

“I’ve missed them all,” she says. “My first one. Quite a spectacle.”

“Just wait,” I suggest. “It’s sedate now compared to what you’ll see this afternoon.”

“So I’ve heard. Didn’t I see your daughter listed as one of the riders?”

“Sixth race. The Cup.”

“Does she have a chance?”

“Outside,” I say, shrugging. “It’s a tough field and she and this horse don’t have a terribly long history together.”

Natalie smiles, warmly. “I’ll put some money on her. I like long shots.”

“Did you come by yourself?”

“I did,” she says. “I couldn’t pass up a chance to work on becoming a ‘good ole girl.’ Does everyone here know everyone else? I’ve never seen such a reunion.”

I nod. “It’s what keeps us coming back.”

We stare ahead at the course being readied for the next race. Crossbars have been dislodged from three jumps and must be replaced. After this momentary lull, Natalie inquires about the St. Simeon. I relate my evening with Margarite and the discovered exemption. I realize I am elaborating to lend bulk to an effort lamentably thin, posturing to appear forceful and decisive before someone whose aggressiveness I have condemned. I watch her closely for signs of reproach, but see nothing beyond sincere interest in what I am telling her.

“I hope it works,” she says. “For your sake and for hers.”

“Care to put money on that one?” I ask, facetiously but nonetheless interested in her answer.

“I like long shots,” she repeats, “but there’s a limit. How about the city? Where’s the Arts Center contract?”

“Harris handles that. Last I heard it was back on track. Council meets in two weeks.”

A fatal lull, one of those junctures at which a conversation is going to die unless resuscitated. She pleasantly waits, a half-smile on her lips, possibly thinking herself of some conversational prescription.

“Would you like some food?” I ask. “I brought a ton and it won’t keep. Come with me to my car and I’ll freshen your drink.”

“Thank you. I’d like that.” A fresh spike in the EKG.

The second race is run behind us as we walk, talking between the inevitable run-ins with people I haven’t seen. I introduce Natalie and she seems to be enjoying herself, asking questions of those we encounter and bantering about her first impressions of southern ritual. Mostly, she seems happy to be engaged, delivered from the isolation in which I found her. By the time we come within sight of my car, she is teetering on the brink of carefree and as relaxed as rainwater.

“You should run for governor,” she says as we approach Adelle and Sarah. “You’ve spoken to enough people to get elected.”

I make introductions and replenish her drink, a gin and tonic “light on the gin,” an instruction I ignore. Within minutes she and Sarah are in animated exchange.

“Where did you find her?” Adelle whispers discreetly.

“In the mob. She was by herself and I felt sorry for her.”

“You’re a big person, Coleman Carter, after all she’s done.”

“She tried to help. I have no proof she fed the press.”

“But it seems obvious,” Adelle says, carefully modulating her voice.

“Perhaps. Anyway, what’s done is done.”

“I wonder,” says Adelle, appraising her with peripheral vision. Natalie is younger than Adelle, and prettier. If it wasn’t so laughable, I’d attribute the narrowness in Adelle’s gaze to jealousy. Women can be strange that way.

To my surprise, the kids stray back, having been too social to eat. Steven and Christopher lay waste to much of our spread as my fears of leftovers evaporate, but Allie picks, unwilling to trust food on top of nerves. The third and fourth races run while we eat, drink, and continue chatting among ourselves and with newcomers.

Allie announces she must leave to prepare for the Cup, still about an hour and a half away. She and Natalie have, until now, exchanged an awkward greeting and little else, but Natalie asks if she can accompany Allie to the paddock. They leave together as I ponder whether this is something that should concern me.