A Southern Girl (65 page)

Mid-April heralds the barbecue season, and if I stand accused in this life of any failing, the want of any fidelity, should I be indicted, as the General Confession expresses it, for having “left undone those things which we ought to have done,” there cannot be numbered among my crimes the neglect of barbecue season.

Spring comes to my neighbors in accord with the timeless dictates of biology. The prodigal sun returns from its winter solstice, the ambient air temperature pushes the mercury in outdoor thermometers roofward, the setting on Mother Nature’s turf blanket is raised to warm phlegmatic bulbs, birds nest, bees pollinate, weeds rouse.

Not so here. The Carter patio obeys the laws of an aberrant botany. Let the patios to either side be shaded in new verdure, let their dogwoods shower down the snowflakes of falling petals, let their magnolias molt, live oaks live, quinces jell, tea olives triumph—let the entire raiment of spring be spread upon their boughs and branches and the Carter patio will remain in remiss hibernation, refusing every order, enticement or blandishment save one: the lighting of the grill.

Hovering over my charcoal, a man who cannot boil water on his best day in the kitchen becomes the living embodiment of Monet and Pasteur
combined. On a pallet of olive oils and vinaigrettes he deftly gauges the delicate chemistry of dills and tarragons, thyme and teriyaki, so that when the coals reach their optimum embered radiance, he lovingly spreads his creation upon filets and chops, red snapper, tuna, lowcountry shrimp, London broils, Vidalia onions, green peppers, cherry tomatoes. At that moment, when the first searing aromas waft over my sun-kissed flagstone, the Carter azaleas soar to their peak, Confederate jasmine lean to absorb the fragrance of hickory smoke, red-throated roses open to sing out alleluias to the pagan god Grill.

I am increasingly concerned about Sarah, as Steven reports no answer. Leaving Christopher in charge of the charcoal, and the women in charge of food preparation, I ask Steven to drive me out to the island to check on her.

“Call me on the car phone if she shows up,” I instruct.

Traffic is heavy with tourists, so our path to the Cooper River Bridge is littered with Buckeyes and Badgers, New Yorkers and Hoosiers. The connecting bridge, the Ben Sawyer, opens just as we approach, and in the ten minutes we idle a lone sailboat, red trimmed and sails furled, motors serenely through the watery lacuna.

Sarah’s car is in the driveway, heightening my alarm. Before Steven has come to full stop I am out, headed for the door. I have not covered two steps when I hear a thin rasp: “Praise the Lord!” I glance in the direction of the voice, to the trash bins. There, forlornly on the floor of the enclosure, sits Mother, imprisoned.

“I’ve been calling and calling,” she says as we advance to her rescue. ‘I’ve never seen so little traffic along this road. And on a beautiful spring day.”

“Mother,” I ask, springing the bolt, “how long have you been in there?”

“Well,” she says, beginning to hoist herself up, “what time is it?”

“Three-thirty,” answers Steven.

“Oh, my. I came out to empty the trash about one. Oh, my. I called until I got hoarse. I’ve had this cold and I guess my voice didn’t carry very far.” She straightens with great effort outside the cage, leaning on my arm.

“Steven,” I say, “perhaps we should award this round to the raccoon and dismantle your trap.”

“There’s nothing wrong with the trap, Dad.”

“It’s a fine trap, son.” He turns with a puff of exhaled breath and begins unhooking the cable linked to the bolt.

I guide mother toward the house, propping her up until she regains her legs. “It’s a good thing,” I say, “that this didn’t happen late at night. No telling how long you might have been in there.”

She stops abruptly, looks up, and begins laughing in her self-conscious way. “I saw one living thing the entire afternoon,” she says, the sparkle returned to her eyes. “You can’t guess.”

“Ralph,” I offer. “He seems fond of the trap.”

“No. The coon. He came right up to the fence and looked in at me. I can’t imagine what he was doing awake in the middle of the day.”

“Maybe with your calls for help he couldn’t sleep.” She cocks her head to consider this. “That’s a joke, Mother.” She pats my hand affectionately.

“Have I spoiled the day?” she wants to know. “I’m packed and ready.”

“Not at all. But ride in with us. I’ll bring you back tomorrow.”

“Yes,” she agrees, “that would be best.”

By the time we arrive back at Church Street the coals are a redemption red, just right for Monet/Pasteur’s magic. Steven leaves, returning in ten minutes with Amanda Smathers, his honey-blonde date whose loveliness is destined to make strong men weak and weak men quail.

The next two hours are spent in backyard ritual. I lounge indolently on a cedar chaise, my culinary chores ended and the warmth of the afternoon working the balm of contentment into my shoulders and neck. On the trellis leading back to the rose bed, a swallowtail butterfly flits among the honeysuckle, honoring one trumpet, then another with her flirtations. In the magnolia, a cardinal cheers us from a lofty branch, calling to an unseen mate. Sarah, fully recovered from her ordeal, initiates a chorus of compliments on the food as we echo her praise and pass the credit around like the plate in church.

I stand and stretch. “The limousine, ladies, arrives at eight-thirty. I’m going to run Natalie home.”

Steven looks up from his third ear of Silver Queen corn. “You didn’t rent a limo for me, Dad.”

I arch my eyebrows indignantly. “That is because I like your sister more.” Allie projects her tongue at him and he, careful of his grandmother’s line of vision, scratches his forehead with his middle finger.

Natalie gathers her things and says goodbye to Mother, Steven, and Amanda. Christopher and Allie escort us to the car. Standing in the driveway, Allie reaches for her hand. “I’m only going because of you,” she says. “Thank you for everything.”

“Yeah,” chimes Chris. “I’m really glad I got you involved.”

“You called her?” I say, narrowing my eyes at him as Natalie grins.

“Well, yeah, sure. My mom’s not very happy with me but someone had to do something.”

“I guess you’re right,” I say. “Someone had to do something.”

At Natalie’s, inside her door, we linger in an enduring embrace. As I rest my chin on her head, I whisper my thanks. “I’m not going next year without you,” I confide.

“We’ll see,” she says, smiling with her perfect teeth and leaning back to look at me full face. “You southern boys want to take your ‘best girl’ and tonight that isn’t me. I’m not even jealous. Allie belongs there; I don’t.”

“You northern girls can be pretty understanding; something I wasn’t until recently and if it weren’t for you—”

“Go home. Have fun tonight and call me tomorrow.”

“Count on it,” I say. “How about Arliene’s?”

“Perfect,” she says, leaning close.

Back at Church Street, I open a small drawer in my dresser. An envelope rests there, the word “Allie” written in Elizabeth’s distinctive script. I decided on the flight back from Korea that if the Board did the right thing, I would share it on the day of the Ball. I feel Elizabeth would approve. I have never read it; the envelope is sealed. That it will prove emotional is a given. Too emotional with everything else going on today? I will leave that up to Allie.

I knock on her bedroom door. She peeks out, then closes it to put on a robe. “Mom wanted you to have this,” I say, handing it to her. “She left it up to me as to when to give it to you.” She studies her name, perhaps as a way of avoiding eye contact. “If it’s too much for today …” but she waves me off, closing the door.

Dearest Allie:

This is the letter I never wanted to write. It means I will not be there to tell you these things in person. Now that my illness has moved from fear to dread
to finality, I must, as they say, get my affairs in order. Funny how we think we have forever to say the important things until something like this reminds us how brief forever can be.

I cannot say when I felt a compelling need to adopt internationally, but it began long before your brothers were born, and even before your father and I married. If pressed I’d say late in high school. Senior year? Nor can I exactly say why. It must have been rooted in all that homogeneity of the Scotch-Irish and Germans so prevalent in Kansas. Three girls (not good friends) got pregnant the summer before our senior year, and they were all so thrilled, beaming really, with the family likeness they saw (or thought they saw—so many babies look alike at birth). I remember thinking that if I ever got married and had kids, I’d like a baby that was, well, different. But then I was different. Not much Scotch-Irish in this girl; maybe a bit of German. Whatever the genetic makeup, I had a serious move-along gene that couldn’t wait to leave Topeka for somewhere, anywhere, more exotic. The idea of raising a child of another culture fed that need for the exotic.

Of course back then I had no idea we would adopt from Korea. I doubt I could have located Korea on a world map in those days. To be honest, I pretty much forgot about the whole thing in college. Too many other things (and boys) to think about. Then I began dating your father and along came Josh and Steven and the longing came back. For a time I didn’t trust it, thinking international adoption might have been one of those teen fancies, like starring opposite Paul Newman in a movie or dancing with Rudolph Nureyev. But no, the urge was still strong, even though we could have more kids the old fashioned way. So I started getting serious.

The agency I contacted, Open Arms, pointed us to Korea, where there were so many infants available. I say “us,” but really it was me, because your father, God love him, wasn’t too keen on the whole idea. He is a traditionalist if ever one walked the earth, and as you know from his mother, your grandmother, he comes by it honestly. Most true southerners do. He wanted a daughter, but in his heart he wanted a traditional daughter. You shouldn’t stress over that—in his heart he also wanted a traditional wife, and look who he married! Between you and me, he has more rebel in him than he admits. He talks a good traditional game, but his actions often tell a different story. And he adores you, as you know.

The hardest part of nearing the end is knowing I won’t be there to cheer at your high school graduation, to shop with you for your first Charleston cotillion,
and to meet your Mister Right when and if you find him (and you will). This letter will have to do. I’ve asked your father to give it to you at a special occasion of his choosing. Thought of recording a video message, but I fear it would remind you of what we all wish was avoidable. When you read this, think of the day we spent on Folly Beach, right after you got your braces. We walked to the pier while we talked ourselves blue. I treasure that walk. Think of me as I was then.

I have often wondered about your birth mother, as I know you have. That same walk on Folly Beach was the last time we discussed her, speculating on what kind of person she was, what compelled her to place you in the care of Korean Social Services, whether you have biological brothers or sisters, and how much of your fate was influenced by the Asian preference for males. I guess we may never know. As I told you that day, and repeat now, I have a feeling she is a good woman who gave you up to give you advantages she could not provide, for whatever reason. Who knows? One day you may meet her. If you do, tell her about me and about how much joy her gift has brought to our family.

I spend hours each day (when I’m not loopy from all these drugs) thinking of you, Josh, and Steven, but mostly you because a girl needs her mother most in her high school years. But I will be there in spirit, your faithful cheerleader, as I have been since that day at Kennedy Airport when the flight chaperone put you in my arms. As you know, I’m not much where religion is concerned. I suppose if I was ever going to lean that way, now would be the time. And I do think about it, because I’m not ready to die and would love to believe there is hope. But the absence of a God doesn’t mean there are not forces in the universe beyond our sight and imagination … destinies, for lack of a better word. With billions of people on the earth, and millions of orphans needing homes, you were destined for us, and we for you. I know that with absolute certainty. That same destiny will carry you far. Wherever I am, in whatever form awaits us, I will beam with pride at all you are and will become.

Lying here in this stupid bed for months has given me the time and the peace (yes, peace) to crystallize my feelings, and here I come to what I need most to say: you have justified my life. My wish for you is to find someone or something that justifies yours.

I love you. Mom

By 8:00 I am having my annual tussle with an impossibly difficult white tie. These outfits, I suspect, are a lingering legacy from the
Marquis de Sade. Finally, I stand back, fully penguined, turning right and left before a full length mirror. I pick up my white gloves from the bureau and go downstairs.

Chris has left to dress and escort Adelle, reminding me on his way out not to forget to bring my daughter. Sarah soon descends in a powder blue gown set off by silver pendant earrings and a matching silver necklace she wears only to the St. Simeon. Steven arrives again with Amanda, in a sleek black satin, low cut, that halts conversation for a moment.

Promptly at 8:30 the limo pulls up in front. “See to the ladies,” I instruct the boys. “I’ll check on Allie.” At the second floor landing I pause at her closed door, then rap softly twice.

“Sweetheart, the car’s here.”

“Coming, Dad,” is the muffled reply from within.

I turn the handle and crack the door. She is standing near her vanity, giving her hair its last finite adjustments. In her hand, tilting in synch with her head, is the pearl-backed mirror. “Ready now,” she says, reaching to the bed for her clutch and wrap. She turns to me, arms spread in exhibition. “Well?” she demands, but I can make no reply.

Her gown is a long, white silk affair that flows and ribbons over her litheness like a meringue of cloud. Held by spaghetti straps across the shoulders, it glitters with a diagonal band of tiny iridescent beads tapering to the hip, where a silk flower blooms. In her ears, diamond stud earrings catch the overhead light and around her neck is the elegantly simple diamond choker I recognize as Elizabeth’s.