Magnolia City (25 page)

In some long, shaded driveway, Hetty and Garret sat parked in the Auburn, watching the cars pass behind them. She was trying to make Garret understand why they didn’t just rush up to the mansion at the appointed time. “Our blood veins are like our bayous,” she explained. “Slow moving.” An hour on an invitation was only a suggestion. It was much swankier to mosey in on the verge of being late than to stand around waiting for something to happen. Besides, she was still trying to recall everything she’d been taught about the behavior of well-bred Southerners at social occasions—don’t take your seat before the hostess does, don’t unfold your napkin all the way, never sit closer than four or five inches to the table, never ask for seconds. She described the nine or so courses they could expect tonight and what utensils were proper for each.

“You really expect me to remember all this?” Garret chuckled. Hetty found his amused smile catching. She was in a splendid mood, anticipating the auspicious moment when she would step across the wide threshold of Bayou Bend with a proper invitation in hand. She hadn’t even minded hocking some of her best jewelry. “I
know
it’s silly. But tonight it’s important. We have to look like we know what we’re doing.”

He watched the lights in his rearview mirror for a few moments. “Haven’t enough cars passed by?”

“Oh, all right. I just hope we don’t arrive before my family does. I have to upstage my mother tonight.”

Garret backed out of the driveway and followed the red taillights of another car into the narrow woodland road. The fog obscured everything. Then, a strange pink luminescence glowed through the black trees. Bayou Bend rose into view at the peak of a circular drive. They waited their turn to drive up to the arched entrance, where a colored attendant opened the door and Hetty stepped into the spangled air. Out of tall French windows, light and music lapped at the darkness welling under immense oaks. She heard the purr of soft voices, sniffed wood smoke trailing out of four towering chimneys. In the blue haze, the spreading stucco walls took on a ghostly light, unfolded into pale pinkish white wings on either side of the two-story central quarters. She glimpsed an elegant wrought iron railing, a round window, and then Garret took her arm and led her, entranced, into the long entrance hall that led all the way to the gardens in back. Her vision blurred as she passed through the crowd: Massive antiques loomed darkly along the walls while above, like angels, girls in white crepes gazed down at them from the twisting railing of the grand staircase. Hetty spotted Diana Dorrance and her date up on the landing. Garret escorted her through one spacious room after another, past crackling fires, under scrolled pediments, his report from the oil syndicate tucked carefully under one arm.

As she strolled along, inches taller than the boyish girls who flitted about in their short little gowns and white gloves, Hetty was glad she had dressed the way she did. She had her hair cut daringly short in a waved shingle and long metallic earrings dripped like shimmering minnows from her earlobes. Her eyes were streaked with their exotic and secret pedigree: a bloodline flowing back to a mestizo grandmother whose blood had been cut with German genes, then thoroughly anglicized, leaving Hetty with a slightly foreign look no one could place. She was just sorry there weren’t more familiar faces around to appreciate her appearance.

She was also disappointed to find the dining room dim and empty. She circled the round tables, scanning the place cards set on top of damask napkins on the gold-rimmed plates. Garret found their place first. “Here we are. Next to your mother and father!”

“What?!” Hetty strode over. “That’ll never do. Let’s see—” Glancing around to be sure no one was in the room, she quickly rearranged the white cards. “That’s better. Put you next to the Yoakums. Cleveland Yoakum’s a promoter. Could bankroll your scheme in a heartbeat if he chose to. His wife’s in between you, so you’ll have to charm her first.”

Maids started lighting candles, so she knew it wouldn’t be long until dinner was called. They made their way back into the entrance hall, where Hetty noticed people revolving around two balding, robust men standing in front of a massive Remington painting of a cattle drive. She heard one of them referred to as Will, and realized that these were the Hogg brothers themselves. She pointed them out to Garret and murmured into his ear that their father, Jim Hogg, had been one of the original investors in the Texaco Company and that they themselves had discovered oil on their old family home, the Varner Plantation, where all you had to do, legend said, was strike a match near the ground and a flame would appear. Hetty sidled up to the group and had just presented her husband when another group of partygoers arrived with a flurry at the door. There was a lull as everyone turned to see who the latecomers were. Nella stood in the archway, pausing for a moment to let all eyes take her in. She looked sumptuous all right, in cinnamon satin with silver brocade, a cape of monkey fur falling off one shoulder. Kirb led her in grandly, followed by the rest of the Warwick party: Congressman and Mrs. Welch, their daughter Belinda with a new beau. Hetty made sure she and Garret were standing in between the Hogg brothers as they approached. When Nella spotted them, a look of sheer terror flared for a moment in her eyes but was quickly doused by her icy composure.

“Esther, I—what a surprise to see you here,” she said, brushing her lips against her daughter’s cheek and only nodding at Garret.

“I didn’t think you’d want me to miss another party at Bayou Bend, Mamá. You do know Will and Mike Hogg, don’t you?”

“Of course, dear. You gentlemen must excuse our tardiness, but it’s such a piece out here from the Warwick.”

“Then you’ll have to become neighbors,” Will replied, shaking Kirb’s hand vigorously. “What a pleasure to see you here, Mr. Allen.”

“Mighty pleased, Will, I—”

“I’m afraid River Oaks is too country for me, Mr. Hogg,” Nella cut in. “You remember our neighbors at the Warwick, Congressman and Mrs. Welch?” Greetings ricocheted around the circle, but Kirb ignored Garret altogether. Through the crowd, Hetty saw Lamar lead Charlotte through the front door. She tried to catch his eye.
What shall I say to him once we’re face-to-face? How will he treat me?
Her high spirits were in danger of being ruffled when she was rescued by a woman in a shimmering gown who appeared from the dining room, ringing a bell. It was Ima Hogg. She had a golden head, an air of importance about her. When she turned to lead the procession in to dinner, she walked as though she were drawing a rustling train behind her.

Once she took her seat, everyone else followed and, as the oyster course was served, the women began the Ritual of the Glove Removal. White gloves were tugged off finger by finger and placed on laps under half-folded napkins. Hetty slipped her kid casings off her hands and bunched them up at her wrists. She thought it was much sexier that way. And so, apparently, did the congressman at her side, who ogled her aslant. She made sure Garret noticed her picking up her oyster fork, which for some esoteric reason she had never understood was placed on the side with the knives rather than with the other forks.

Silence circled the group as everyone enjoyed the tang of fresh Gulf oysters. Over the sparkling waters fizzing in champagne flutes, through the tall candles, Hetty peeked at her parents. Nella’s gaze was sunken in her oyster dish, afraid to surface. She looked mortified. Kirb did glance over, but the kind of look he shot Hetty made her wonder if her lipstick was on crooked. Cleveland Yoakum swilled scotch around in a highball glass. Clare Yoakum’s round face swam out of the dimness and drawled, “I hear Ima’s playing has real power.”

“But does anyone take her seriously?” Garret asked. “I mean, you know, with her name.”

Lockett drew up and spoke in a stage whisper. “Young man, if you’re going to attend parties at Bayou Bend, the first thing you have to learn is that Ima doesn’t like people discussing her name.” The white satin ruffles at her wrist swished as she wagged a finger at him. “It’s been such a burden to her.”

“I can tell you’re not from these parts, young man.” Clare Yoakum turned to him. “Her father was our first native-born governor. And one of our best. James Stephen Hogg.”

“She grew up in the governor’s mansion—” Lockett said.

“And slept in Sam Houston’s bed!” Nella added, finally looking up.

While the congressman rattled off the reforms pushed through by Governor Hogg, Clare leaned over and murmured to Garret, “I’m most curious to know where you’re from, sir. You don’t sound like a Yankee.”

“No, ma’am, I was born atop the richest hill on earth—in Butte, Montana. And my name is Garret MacBride.”

“Why, I don’t believe I’ve ever met a Montanan before. Just can’t imagine what it’s like way up there in the West. What do you mean by the richest hill on earth? I thought we had that here—down in Beaumont.”

As they worked their way through the fish course, Garret talked in that earnest, intimate voice he sometimes used on Hetty in bed, the one she found so hypnotic. He described the vein of copper fifty feet wide discovered under his hometown, the white peaks lost in the clouds, the dozens of glaciers grinding through the mountains, and how, as a boy, he’d sometimes be awakened in the middle of the night by a spooky light outside his bedroom window: the aurora borealis. Hetty had never heard Garret talk so much about his native state and found herself leaning in to catch every word. At one point, she caught a glimpse of Clare’s face in the candlelight, her dull eyes sparked with fascination. Good, Hetty thought, caressing her husband’s thigh under the tablecloth, now if we can just get that spark to leap over to her husband.

As the entrée was served, thin, pink shavings of the finest Texas sirloin, Clare ignored her plate and blinked at him, bright-eyed, lifted for a moment out of her perpetual lethargy. “Y’all should stop talking about politics and listen to these stories,” she said to the rest of them. “Where have you been hiding such an interesting beau, Hetty?”

Lockett’s voice shot across the table. “He’s not her beau, Clare. He’s her husband.”

“Husband? Hetty, dear, I don’t remember reading about your wedding.”

A few awkward beats drummed by as Hetty tried to think of a response. Her mother was stunned into silence, and Lockett watched them with cat’s eyes, ready to pounce. Garret maneuvered through the moment smoothly by saying: “You wouldn’t have, ma’am. I just kind of lassoed her, Montana-style.”

“How sweet. Now tell me the truth, was it love that brought you to the Lone Star State?”

“No, ma’am, I’m afraid it was more mundane matters. I feel a young man has to have good prospects before he thinks about romance.”

“I’m glad you’re being sensible. Most youngsters seem so irresponsible these days. What is your line of work, sir?”

“Import-export pays the bills. But as far as I’m concerned, the future lies in petrochemicals. I came to Texas to wildcat.”

Clare laughed. “Petrochemicals? How cute. Honey, here we just call it plain old oil.” She pronounced it
all
. “Did you know my husband’s an
all
man?”

“I’d love to meet him. I’m sure we’d have a lot in common.”

She tugged on her husband’s sleeve. “Honey, Kirb’s son-in-law wants to talk to you about petrochemicals. Is that what we have here?” She and Lockett giggled. Cleveland gave a slight nod of his head, thick with silver hair.

“Mrs. Yoakum is right, sir,” Garret said, reaching across her plate to offer a handshake to Cleveland. “I wanted to tell you where the next big strike is going to be.”

Cleveland Yoakum didn’t shake Garret’s hand or even look at him. He sat without moving, bullish, emitting a deep chuckle that was burnished with scorn.

“I’m serious, sir. In fact, so serious, I brought a report for you to look over from my syndicate in Dallas. Backed up by a scientific article. There’s an ocean of oil waiting to be discovered, and we know where it is.” Garret slid out the papers he’d been hiding under his napkin and held them above Clare’s plate. Everyone froze, as if Garret had just stood up and dropped his pants. Hetty held her breath. Several beats passed.

“Well, at least look it over, Cleve,” Clare said, seizing the documents and plopping them down in front of her husband. “I like this young man.”

Hetty could hardly keep her hands from folding together in prayer as new courses glided in front of her soundlessly: lamb with mint sauce followed by a raspberry sorbet and a baked squab that oozed with apples and raisins when she cut it open.

Cleveland ignored his food as he leafed through Garret’s report. He began rasping with laughter again. “Haven’t you told your son-in-law about Dad Joiner, Kirb?”

“What’s that . . . ?”

Nella sneered as she passed the papers to her husband. “Business? At dinner?” She dipped her fingers into the crystal finger bowl that had just been placed in front of her.

“I want to get this settled, Nel,” Kirb said gruffly. He flicked through the pages, squinting in the candlelight. “Umm-hmm, just as I thought. It’s Lloyd’s report. We’ve seen this before, haven’t we, Cleve?” He chuckled, tossing it back.

“Then you know about Rusk County?” Garret asked.

“According to Doc Lloyd,” Cleveland pitched his deep voice to address the whole table, “East Texas is floating over a vast sea of fossil fuels and all anybody’s got to do is dig down a few feet and start spooning it out.”

“You’ve read the report?”

“Young man, do you know what Doc Lloyd’s real name is?”

“No, sir.”

“Joseph Idelbert Durham. He’s not a geologist at all. He used to sell patent medicines made from oil.”

“But his survey—?”

“Oh, he knows the lingo, all right. He’s just in the wrong field. He should be writing fiction.” Cleveland shared a knowing snicker with Kirb.

“But all those salt domes and—”

“Have you ever been up yonder, Mr. MacBride?”

“Umm, not exactly . . .”

“Well, you won’t find any salt domes in Rusk County, believe me.”

“No?” Garret took a breath. “Okay, maybe he was wrong about that part. But what about the Cook Mountain formation? They’re sitting on a gold mine up there, I tell you. I just know it.”