A Southern Girl (54 page)

On Sunday Allie and I attend St. Philip’s. I scan the crowd as we stand, kneel, and sit, the mechanical rosary of the Episcopal Church. St. Simeons are everywhere. Margarite and John are here, regal in their perfectly pitched piety. Sandy and Edgar Charles slipped in moments after the service began. Clarkson Mills is absent, but I see Rosemary among the crowd up front.

Adelle is also present, a reminder of unresolved tension. I owe her nothing, as I have reiterated internally time and again since my evening with Natalie. Still, I brood. Was there some implied fidelity? Had I bound myself to her at some level of commitment violated by foreplay with Natalie? That sounds prudish for a reason: I am a prude.

My veneration of fidelity among competing virtues could, I am sure, be explained by time and psychotherapy. A harbored need for precision movement in the mainspring of my being will not abide the rust and corrosion of guilt from violated loyalties. Yet I felt not a pang of remorse while with Natalie. Amazing to me, I did not once think of Adelle during the entire evening, and what that says about the future of our relationship seems too obvious, regardless of Natalie. Telling Adelle will be uncomfortable, not to mention the potential for changing the tally on the committee. Would I keep her close just to keep her vote?

As we exit, we are approached by Doc Francis, whom I did not notice inside. He looks serious, and sad. He speaks first to Allie. His nasal brogue is distinct.

“Young lady,” he says, pumping her hand with both of his, “I haven’t seen you in a couple of years. You’ve grown up. Good luck up there at Princeton.”

“Thank you, sir,” she says. I cannot remember if she is aware of his membership on the Board.

He turns to me as Allie walks ahead. “I’ve had something on my conscience for a few weeks now and I need to clear it.” His infamous halitosis is at full strength but I ignore it. “As you know, your daddy deprived me of one of life’s pleasures when he defeated me for the presidency of the St. Simeon.” I am about to respond but he charges on. “What you may not know is that I lost a brother in Korea. 1952. So you see, your pitch to the Board opened a couple of old wounds for me.” He pauses and glares directly at me. “Just to make it official, I voted against that young lady back then. I’m ashamed to admit it now, but it’s true and I wanted you to hear it from me. I apologize.”

“I accept your apology, for myself and for her.”

“Good. Maybe for your daddy too if it’s not asking too much. Those fool friends of mine in St. Simeon nominated me and I couldn’t back down. I knew I’d lose but when it happened I got my feelings hurt. I wanted to resign but my wife talked me out of it. Anyway, I’m sorry I didn’t wake up in time to tell him to his face. And I’m sorry I took it out on you and your daughter.”

“He’d understand,” I assure him. “And as for Allie, you may get a chance to redeem yourself shortly. Keep your powder dry, as they say.”

“I’ll do that.”

I run by the office, then home. Allie has invited Christopher over, Adelle is there, and Steven arrives just after I do. In no time, Adelle has whipped up an impromptu lunch from what I thought was an empty refrigerator. She’s standing at the counter when I enter the kitchen.

“Thanks for handling things,” I say. “You’re good at this.”

She smiles and nods acknowledgment. “I saw you and Dr. Francis chatting at church.”

“The strangest conversation. He fessed up to voting against Allie and wants to bury the hatchet. I had no idea he lost a brother in Korea. Ouch.”

“Can you beat that?” she says.

“I nearly passed out. If Dad wasn’t already gone, the shock of Doc Francis apologizing would have sent him. He all but said he’d change his vote if we can get it reconsidered by the Board.”

She slides a hot tray from the oven. “Let me put these rolls on. Then, we need to talk about something.” She backs through the swinging door as I wonder what’s on her mind. Natalie? Seconds later she returns. “What do you know about Florida?” she asks sternly.

“Well, it’s south of here, shaped kind of like—”

“This is serious. The trip the kids are planning. Are you aware of it?”

“No. Are they going to Florida?”

“So Allie hasn’t mentioned it?”

“Not a word.”

She sighs. “Chris told me last week that he, Robert, and Chad are driving to Florida with Allie, Jenny, and Melissa for spring break and I don’t think it’s appropriate.”

“Why?”

“Why?” she asks impatiently. “For openers, the roads are dangerous with all the college kids in God knows what state of sobriety. And you read about so much crime in Florida.”

“Is that your concern?”

“Some of it, yes.”

“And the rest?”

“Think about it. Chris and Allie are together all the time and now they want to go to Florida. I don’t know if there’s anything between Robert and Melissa but Chad and Jenny have been hot and heavy for over two years. I can just picture what will go on.”

“I could be wrong,” I say, “but I remember something about Chris going to Florida last spring. Allie said a group from her class went down to … was it Sanibel?”

“That’s hardly the same thing. Those kids were all friends having fun. This is much different.”

“Because he and Allie are so serious.”

“Don’t you think they are?”

“I don’t know, Adelle. It’s their business as far as I’m concerned. I trust my daughter and I’m beginning to think I trust your son more than you do.”

“Then you are very naive. I would appreciate it if you would back me up on this. I’ve told Chris he can’t go and if you tell Allie the same thing it will be easier on everyone.”

“I have no intention of telling her that.”

Her gaze is cold, disbelieving. She turns and strides to the swinging door. Moments later, Allie enters.

“What’s Adelle in a huff about?” she asks.

“Florida.”

“Chris said she nixed his going. I was going to talk to you about it.”

“Ok, we’ve talked. If you want to go, you have my permission.”

“Dad, can I tell you something?”

“Sure, sweetheart.”

“I don’t think Adelle likes me.”

33

On the following morning, Charlotte Hines, her Royal Ampleness, is not at home. A velvet-voice servant predicts her return around noon. I leave neither name nor message. At Carter & Deas, the morning passes swiftly. At one, I return to Charlotte’s, on foot. Dropping in on her is crass but time is short and the odds are long. The first question out of the butler’s mouth is whether she’s expecting me.

“What a pleasant surprise!” she says as she enters the living room where the butler has me parked. The sight of her bearing down in her outsized muumuu is not unlike watching a painted boulder roll downhill. I rise to meet her. Later, to her friends, she will casually mention the international phone call she had to end prematurely to see me; or the gala she was in the middle of planning when I presented myself “out of thin air.”

“How distressed I was to hear of Michael Foland’s passing,” she says, settling into a large chair just wide enough to hold her. This is a classic Charlotte opening. Foland, a member of the church I barely knew, died the week before. Why she has selected this subject for conversation is unknown. “How is Diane holding up? I must call her.”

“Who is Diane?” I ask.

“His wife.”

“I didn’t know he was married.”

“They divorced years ago,” she says, as if this information is properly classified as Charleston 101. “I had every intention of going to the funeral,” she tells me as she lights a cigarette. I wait expectantly but she offers no explanation. “Don’t you think,” she says, and I brace for her first irrationality, “it is unfortunate the way they bury people in that annex across the street from St. Philip’s?”

The cemetery is divided by Church Street. “I’m not quite sure what you mean, Charlotte.”

“The whole point of being buried in a churchyard is proximity to the sanctuary. I was telling Bishop Burgoyne just recently that I thought there should be a moratorium on burials across the street.”

Charlotte is an inveterate name-dropper. The bishop has just fallen and before I leave she will mention the governor and at least one of South Carolina’s U.S. Senators. The bishop will be in select company.

“Well …,” I say, already sensing the testiness she evokes in a remarkably short time, “they ran out of room in the old graveyard. Over a hundred and fifty years ago.”

She blows smoke toward the high ceiling. “Then they should be creative. That’s what religion is all about anyway, isn’t it? Creativity?”

“Of course,” I say, lost.

“It’s for that very reason, creativity, that Glen and I attend St. Michael’s.”

“I see,” I reply. “I guess I didn’t know how creative they are at St. Michael’s.”

“Oh, yes,” she says decisively. “Those lovely bells.”

With Charlotte, elaboration rarely leads to enlightenment, so I say nothing. She studies me for a moment, her eyes suddenly flaring in anticipation. “You’ll never guess what Fritz told me the other day.”

“Fritz” is Ernest Hollings, a U.S. Senator. The governor cannot be far behind. “I can’t guess.”

“The naval base is doomed.”

Vintage Charlotte. Her thunderbolt, authenticated by an intimate at the highest echelon, has dominated the front page of the
Sentinel
for over four years. When a budget-cutting panel of experts recommended closing a score of bases and military installations across the country, the Charleston Naval Base surfaced on the death list. The loss of this sprawling magnet for the bi-monthly filings of government largess has occasioned the greatest outcry here. The government team presiding over the closure has been in place for months. As news, her revelation is not unlike being told, in confidence, that the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor.

“Charlotte, it’s been my impression that the base closing was decided upon some time back.”

“That’s what they wanted us to believe. I happen to know of some top secret negotiations that have been held to save it. But Fritz reports to me that it can’t be done and I know exactly who to blame.”

“Who?” I ask dutifully.

“The environmentalists. Those Sierra Madre people. They’ve tried to gut this country’s defense system for years.”

I nod as some alternative to laughter. “Does Fritz blame the environmentalists?”

“Oh, he’s a politician, too diplomatic to actually blame anyone. But Carrol will back me up on this.”

Carrol Campbell is the governor.

“But Carrol is also a politician,” I cannot help noting.

“Regrettably, yes, and at a time when we could use a statesman like Strom.”

Strom Thurmond is the other U.S. Senator and by floating his name she has trumped herself. “But we have Strom, don’t we?”

“What can that possibly have to do with the St. Simeon?” she wants to know. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” I say, relieved to have strayed, however circuitously, to my mission. Progress is as unlikely as my hostess, billowing smoke upward and crossing her legs under the muumuu.

“Coleman, put yourself in our place. If you were a member of the Board, would you vote in favor of Pocahontas?”

“The Indian maiden Pocahontas?”

“What other Pocahontas could we be talking about in a discussion of Allie’s attending the St. Simeon?” she demands, snubbing her cigarette with repeated jabs into the ashtray beside her. “Do you see my point?”

“Not entirely.”

“The Indians were a proud people. Some today even suggest we should return land to them, which is absurd given how long we’ve owned it. But we wouldn’t admit Pocahontas to the Ball, because we, the Caucasians who have built this great country and this great city are also proud people. And that pride is going to keep what we’ve built. Do you think the zoning board would give her a variance to put a tepee on Church Street?”

“Allie?”

“No, Pocahontas.” Charlotte looks exasperated at my failure to follow. “No tepees are permitted because our race, yours and mine, has surmounted primitive constructions. Don’t you see?”

“Well,” I say, grasping the fringe of logic that is the only material Charlotte exposes, “I do agree that no tepees should be allowed on Church Street.”