Never Sit Down in a Hoopskirt and Other Things I Learned in Southern Belle Hell (3 page)

“Hush, Uncle, aren't you sweet? But, well. These are our best friends, Courtney Lennox and Katherine DeVille.” She gestured at her sniffling friends. “I'm sure you know that Courtney's mother is head of the Junior League and her daddy owns the biggest car dealership in Alabama. And Katherine's mother and daddy own a great deal of downtown's commercial real estate, plus they have a long family history in Bienville, just like me and Mallory. So we think it's only fair that they be on the Court with us, too.” Ashley nodded in earnest, as did Mallory and Courtney, plus Katherine.

Walter Murray Hill watched the heads nod nod, nod nod, then he shook his. “I understand you're disappointed here, Ashley. And Courtney and Katherine, you are wonderful girls, just wonderful.” He sighed. “And I sure do hate that we've got some hurt feelings here. But I can't help you. The judges, we all decided that, what with our new president and needing to get some new business in here, we've got to keep up with America. We're in the twenty-first century here, girls. Bienville's a diverse city, full of promise, of progress, and our Court should be reflecting that. It's time for a change.”

Oh no. He did
not.
But yes, he did. Mr. Walter had just uttered the dirtiest six-letter word in town.
Change.
Southerners tend to have a real hard time with that word. Don't get me wrong, we do appreciate certain kinds of change: bigger Walmarts with grocery stores inside for easy one-stop shopping. Fancy, new subdivisions out in the county, far from those darn city taxes. Modern new churches with rapidly expanding memberships.

But when push comes to shove, if the change is substantial, forget it. People who don't understand us would like to say it's because we're backward or stupid or lazy. But really, it's because of the ancestors. It's as if everybody thinks all our dead ancestors, back to the ones who showed up here from France and Spain to colonize the joint, are sitting up in the afterlife watching our every move, fixing to send hellfire and damnation down on us if we dare deviate from the way they set things up for us. We fear that more than we fear the Supreme Court, the National Guard, and that evil guy from
Saw
all put together. For that very reason it is not uncommon for a young lady to hear things like, “Your great-great-grandfather founded the Presbyterian Church in 1785. No, you cannot take yoga. It's heathen.” Or “I know that Granddaddy's old wood rolltop desk doesn't fit in with your new Pottery Barn Caribbean Beach Bungalow bedroom suite, honey, but he built his lumber company on that desk. We can't get rid of it and that's the only place I have for it!” Or “Your mother did cotillion, your sisters did cotillion, your grandmother did cotillion,
you
will do cotillion. And you are not a lesbian and that is final!”

Ashley sped right into resistant-to-change mode. “Well, I am sure that getting modern is a great idea and all, Uncle Walter,” Ashley huffed. “But how in the world can you say the girls that got picked represent the city?” She gestured at her minions. “
We
know our Bienville inside and out.
We
were all born and raised here. I'm just worried that some of these other girls aren't going to be able to keep up.” She pointed at Brandi Lyn. “She goes to County High, which means she lives outside the city limits. Can she truly represent Bienville? I don't think so!”

Walter shook his head. “The bylaws do allow county girls on the Court.”

Planting a hand on her hip, Ashley swiveled her head around until her laser beams landed on me. “And Jane!”

She spat my name out as if it was dirt on grits.

I laughed in her face. “Oh, come on, Ashley. You know I have the pedigree.”

Mallory perked up. “That's right! If I'm not mistaken, Divine Causeway and Irving Street are named for your people!”

That was surprising. “Wow. You know that?” I asked.

“I just
love
local history.”

“Cool.” I turned back to Ashley and ticked names off on my fingers. “I am the granddaughter of Digger Fontaine and Jane Irving. Grandniece of Danielle Renault. Great-granddaughter of Lawrence Divine. B'ville history is in my blood, Ashley.”

She pursed her lips. “Well, what does that matter? Where have you been lately, Miss Fontaine Ventouras?”

“Boarding school. Well, a series of them. All of quite the highest caliber, I can assure you.”

Ashley batted her eyelashes—again. This was surely the performance of her life. “That just proves my point, Uncle. Jane's been away way too long to really know what it means to be from Bienville.”

“Oh, I'm pretty sure I know what it means.”

Wheeling away, Ashley focused her attention on Zara, who was still across the stage talking to her parents. “As for her, she's, she's…” Ashley trailed off, closing her mouth, opening it again, closing, opening, like a DVD player on its last legs.

Ohhhhh nooooooo. There it was. A prime example of how Bienville is, shall we say, majorly behind the times?

See, we all knew what Ashley was about to say—that Zara was African American. And while I wasn't a hundred percent up on my M&M history, at least not yet, I was pretty sure her being a Maid was a first for Bienville's most beloved yet conservative tradition.

The minions inhaled sharply.

Walter Murray Hill's right eye started twitching.

For Ashley had just broken a cardinal rule of Southern belle-dom:

And while Ashley hadn't actually brought up a subject that was going to make some people feel awkward, she had been
about
to bring it up. Which was close enough.

And now that she had put it out there, she was in Southern-girl purgatory because she couldn't take it back.

Ashley backpedaled so hard she nearly crashed through the wall, especially since Zara, maybe sensing she was the subject of our discussion, now headed in our direction. “Well, well, now, I… ummmm…” Ashley stammered.

Walter cleared his throat nervously. “Now, girls, let's not turn this into something it's uh, not.”

Ashley grew ten inches with blustery indignation. “Certainly not. This is far from something it's not. And I am far from a, a, a… some of my closest friends are black!”

Mallory frowned in confusion. “Really?”

This whole conversation was starting to make my blood boil. Moments like this made me not even want to admit I was from a small town in the Deep, Deep South.

Ashley glared at her. Then she fluttered a smile in Uncle Walter's direction. “Anyway, Uncle Walter, if y'all would be so kind as to let me finish what I was saying, I was merely going to point out that Zara is not from here, either.”

“It's true. I'm not,” Zara admitted, joining the group.

“See! What a terrible time you're going to have catching up on all our decades of rich history! I just feel for you!”

“My parents are from here, though. Jay and Felicia Alexander? So I've visited here every summer of my life.”

I stopped in my tracks. “Wait, your last name is Alexander?”

Zara nodded, and Mallory went into pre-flip-out mode. “As in Alexander Communications? As in one of the biggest satellite cable corporations in the country?” Zara nodded again, and Mallory surged fully into flip-out mode. “Oh my God, Ashley, her daddy is my daddy's newest client! They just moved here! They are, like, the richest people ever to live in Bienville!”

Walter nodded proudly. “And they've just honored Bienville by moving their national headquarters here. Opening up a lot of jobs for us, okay!”

This was so not going Ashley's way and, well, she finally lost it. Gone was any attempt to play the good little Southern belle. “That's just great, Uncle Walter, but this is a travesty! This is not the Court I expected it to be, and if you do not see that Katherine and Courtney get put on immediately, I am afraid Mallory and I will have to resign.” She nudged Mallory in the ribs.

Mallory blanched. “And give up the dress? Ashley!!!!! I've been waiting for this forever….” Mallory trailed off as she felt the bloody daggers Ashley was aiming at her. “Okay, I suppose it's not what I signed up for, either, Mr. Walter.”

Mr. Walter shook his head. “I'm sorry to hear that, girls. It's a real disappointment, what with your families' legacies with the Maids and all. Do me a favor and put it in writing, so we can go about selecting alternates as soon as possible.” He gave a little bow and walked off.

Ashley nearly keeled over in shock. “But, but…”

Mallory, however, seemed to have finally found her own tongue. “No, no, we misspoke! We didn't mean it. We're not quitting!” She frantically called after Mr. Walter. “Anyway, you didn't say the name of the alternate! Maybe Courtney or Katherine made alternate!”

“Oh, you're right there, Mallory.” Walter fished the results out of his jacket. “In all the excitement, I neglected to announce the alternate.”

Ashley grabbed Katherine's and Courtney's hands. “Good call, Mal.”

Mallory squeezed Katherine's and Courtney's other hands, forming one big circle of hope and expectation. “I'm sure one of y'all got it.”

I have to admit, even I was curious to know who would be the sixth victim. Uh, Maid.

“And the alternate, who will fulfill all Magnolia Court duties in the event that a Maid cannot, is… Miss Caroline Jeannette Upton.”

“Caroline Upton?”

“Caroline Plumpton?” Ashley blurted it out before she could stop herself. Rule number 8 was officially out the window.

Everyone turned to Caroline, so quiet in the wings that no one had paid her one bit of attention. Now she was the center of it, to her obvious horror. Hives were rapidly breaking out all over her chest and face. “No, no. Not me. I'm sure this is a mistake.”

Walter smiled gently. “No, it says it right here, Caroline. Welcome to the Court.”

“But I don't want… I mean, uh, it can go to one of the other girls. I am happy for someone else to do it.”

I mock-dropped my jaw. “Are you kidding me? We get to roll around the country all decked out in our Scarlett O'Hara dresses telling people how wonderfully modern our little old town is. This is an honor!”

“It sooooooooo is!” Suddenly, out of nowhere, a fully recovered Brandi Lyn rocketed into our midst, enveloping Ashley and Mallory in a giant hug. “Hello, Magnolia Maid sisters! Oh my goodness, can y'all believe it? I'm going out of my mind with joy, aren't you? I am so sorry about fainting! I usually have great stage presence, everybody says so, but I was just so excited, it undid me. I won't let it happen again, though, don't worry. Isn't this exciting! We are going to have the greatest year ever, aren't we just?!”

Silence.

I surveyed the scene—Mallory distressed and fearful that her long-longed-for dress was going to get taken away, Caroline insulted to her face and terrified at being seen in public, Brandi Lyn and Zara insulted behind their backs. And the grand cause of these problems, the very reason for their existence?

A very furious, very determined-to-have-her-own-way D-Girl by the name of Mary Ashley LaFleur.

Sweet Winds of Change! It was at that moment I understood why I had been selected to the Magnolia Court.

I had a higher purpose. A calling, if you will.

If I knew Ashley LaFleur, and I was pretty sure I did, she was not going to stop until she had complete control of the entire organization. And I may not have had anything in common with my new Magnolia Maid sister, but if I had to be part of this Court, then I was going to fight Ashley's power with every ounce of mine and then some. I felt compelled to create just a little truth, justice, and beauty for the four girls standing miserably before me. It was the right thing to do.

I beamed a smile brighter than Christmas at Brandi Lyn, threw my arms around her, and tossed my hat into the fires of Southern Belle Hell. “Why, yes, Brandi Lyn. This year's going to be simply divine.”

Fifteen floors above the city, in a building on the edge of the Bienville Bay, the highly exclusive Petroleum Club boasts an impressive 360-degree view all the way down to the Gulf of Mexico. Its membership consists of the executives who run the local oil industry. Grandmother was a lifelong member because of her father and her husband, my grandfather, both big oilmen back in the days before the oil spill ruined everything and people started cursing the very resource that had made them rich. The club's wine cellar rivals the best in New York City. Their steaks sizzle as the waiters bring them to the table. On any given weekend night, a jazzy band plays music that Old Bienvillites, both young and old, can boogie down to.

After the Magnolia Pageant, the Petroleum Club was packed and buzzing with talk about what had happened earlier that night at the Bienville Civic Center.

“Shock of the century!”

“Some real humdingers in the choices this year!”

“The Lennoxes are suing!”

“Oh yes, and so are the DeVilles!”

Grandmother, thrilled beyond belief that I had made the Court, got us a table with the best view in the house, plied me with a beautiful filet mignon, and let me have a couple of glasses of champagne as long as I didn't get too tipsy.

But all I could think was: this town is a ghost town.

Because the ghosts of Cecilia, of my grandfather Digger, even of my father, were hovering over our table all night.

With practically every bite of filet, someone stopped by to greet Grandmother and to tell me how proud Cecilia or Digger would have been of me, how sweet I was to try to help out Brandi Lyn Corey. Even some of Cosmo's old business associates, men I barely remembered from back in the day when Cosmo and Cecilia threw barbecues down at our house every weekend, came over to say hello, to ask after him and say it was good to see me back in town. “Tell old Cosmo that Jack Banning said hello, would you?”
Sure, Jack,
I thought.
I'll make that priority number one during my once-a-month conversation with my dad. Priority numero uno.

As soon as Jack Banning excused himself, I swallowed another bite of meat and turned to Grandmother. “I don't know if I can take this.”

“Take what?”

“Constantly being reminded that she's not here.”

“Cecilia?”

I nodded. “It's all people can talk to me about. And every time someone brings it up, I feel like I just want to scream. I just want to forget about it. I don't want to be reminded of it every single day.”

Grandmother poured me another glass of champagne. “Honey, you can't ignore it. You can't act like it never happened.”

“Yes I can.”

“No. What you should do is bring her into your life more.”

I snorted. “Grandmama, you've had too much champagne. Because, um, since she's dead, I'm pretty sure I can't bring her into my life more.”

“Just because she's not here doesn't mean she's not here.” She pointed at her heart. “I talk to both Cecilia and Digger every single day.”

Now, y'all, my grandmother is a very serious, no-nonsense kind of lady. To hear her talking about chatting with her dead husband and daughter, well, it just didn't sound like the woman I had known and loved for seventeen years at all! “And they talk back… how exactly, Grandmama?”

“Honey, they don't talk back with voices. Well, sometimes they do, just not all the time. Signs. They send signs.”

“You can't be serious. Oh my God, you are!”

“Yes, ma'am, as a heart attack. I ask your grandfather what he would do in certain situations all the time and he is always sending me signs.”

“Give me an example.”

“Well, I asked him what to do about the house on Magnolia Street.” She was talking about the stately home she'd been born and raised in. “I'd been thinking it might be time to sell it and move into something a little smaller.”

“But that house has been in the family for over a hundred years!”

“Well, I know, honey, which is why I don't want to sell it, I really want to hold on to it for you, but it's been feeling a bit too big for me by myself lately.”

“So what did Granddaddy say?”

“Nothing. He just showed me that it wasn't time to sell yet.”

“Cut to the chase, Grandmama. You're killing me! How did he show you?”

“He sent you home to me.”

Wow.

“And then when I got you here, I asked Cecilia if there was something special she wanted me to do for you. The very next day the call for Magnolia Maid tryouts was in the newspaper.”

Okay, this was so out there, frankly, I didn't know what to say, what to think. All I knew was that suddenly I felt nervous, very nervous. “Do you really believe this, Grandmama?” I asked quietly.

“The Lord works in mysterious ways, and I do believe this is one of them. You know, you might benefit from trying to talk to your momma, too, young lady. This is such an important time in your life. I bet she's got a lot to tell you.”

And now my instinct was to run. As far, as fast as I could. Away from the good people of Bienville constantly reminding me of my dead mother. Away from my grandmother who was so ardently suggesting that I remove the bricks in my wall to let her in even more.

Luckily, at that moment, Grandmother's best friend since forever, Louisa Mandeville, came over and launched into a whole monologue about the things they used to do when they were Magnolia Maids.

I laughed at an anecdote or two, then politely excused myself to go powder my nose. Instead, I beelined to the viewing deck on the roof of the Petroleum Club and found sweet solitude. In the fresh air, far away from the constant attention, I felt like I could breathe again. My eyes meandered across the view, which certainly lived up to its exclusive reputation. Tonight, a full moon cast a glow over everything it touched. Ships and tankers were docked in the port. Oil rigs rose from the sea in the distance. The lights of Mobile shone far away on the horizon.

Farther south, the Bird River was a gleaming ribbon. My eyes traced it from the bay inland until they arrived at a bend. The bend where Cecilia, Cosmo, and I lived when I was a little girl. Living at the river was Cosmo's doing. Coming from a Greek shipping family, boats and ships, rivers and oceans, they were in his blood. He got antsy whenever he was away from them too long, so he convinced Cecilia to let him buy a piece of land down on Bird River and build them a house, what they call a Creole cottage. It was set on stilts to prevent flooding during bad storms and hurricanes, and to my little-girl self, it looked as majestic as a castle. Cecilia got her wide verandah and outdoor kitchen, Cosmo got his sprawling view of the river from almost every window and a trophy room for all his boating paraphernalia. Eventually, I came along and got my own bedroom and a sitting room filled with all the toys money could buy.

The boathouse contained three boats, all named for my mother in one way or another:
Ceci on the Sea
was the sailboat.
Go Ceci Go!
was a high-speed powerboat. And
The Majestic Miss C
was a fishing yacht for the days when Cosmo would motor deep out into the Gulf of Mexico and come back with an ice chest full of Spanish mackerel that he skinned and boned himself. He'd call Cecilia on the way home and say, “We've got fish for dinner!” and by the time he pulled up at the dock, she would have the house filled with laughter, champagne, and friends ready to eat the bounty of Cosmo's trip to sea.

When I try to remember my little-girl days, it's not full scenes that come to mind but swirls. Tiny flashes of sights and sounds. Cosmo's warm, tanned arms scooping me up off the dock and setting me down into the boat. Cecilia sunning herself on the bow as Cosmo threw fishing lines over the back. Me skipping on the sandy beach of an uninhabited island no bigger than a sandbar. Giggling at the feel of wind in my face when Cosmo opened the speedboat up to maximum velocity.

And then Cecilia fell.

That I remember clearly. It's permanently etched in my brain—not swirling at all. It happened on the dock in front of our house. She wasn't even doing anything weird. She was just walking and carrying me. I was about five, maybe too old to be carried, but exhausted from a long day on the river. One minute I was half asleep in her arms, the next I was flying through the air and into the water—a good thing, because I wasn't hurt at all. Just scared and spluttering, until Cosmo dove in and pulled me to the surface so that he could swim me back over to the ladder and hustle me up onto the pier. “What the hell, Cecilia? What happened?” She was still splayed out on the wooden slats, pulling herself together. Studying the pier around her where she had made the misstep. Looking for some cause for the sudden fall. “I don't know. I couldn't move my leg.” Cosmo helped her to her feet, and they both chuckled and chalked it up to too many Heinekens underneath the afternoon's hot Alabama sun, and off we went back into the house.

Until she fell again.

And again.

Bit by bit, the “random incidents” could no longer be passed off as the result of too many cocktails or a snag in the carpet. Out of nowhere, Cecilia flew down an entire flight of stairs, landing hard on her butt and cracking her tailbone. After tripping into the stove and knocking over a simmering pot of gumbo, she ended up in the emergency room with third-degree burns all over her arm. An unexpected careen into the Cocoa Puffs cereal display at the Piggly Wiggly was not only publicly humiliating but required two stitches above her left eye. Falling became a regular part of Cecilia's day.

It was endangering her life.

Here's what I remember about first grade: Miss Mary Melinda teaching us to sing “Puff the Magic Dragon” and read and write our names. Running out the doors of St. Peter's School for Girls to see that it was Henry, not Cecilia, who was picking me up AGAIN at the end of the day to take me to Grandmother's house. Snacking on oatmeal cookies and milk in her breakfast room until little Luke Churchville came home from school. His family lived two doors down from Grandmother's and he became my constant playmate. We played in a tree house we built until Cecilia came to get me. I would ask where she was, and the answer was always quite believable. “Oh, she's over to New Orleans doing some Christmas shopping, Miss Jane,” Henry would say. “She's playing tennis at the club with Lacey Wilkes,” Grandmother would tell me.

Cecilia wasn't playing tennis or shopping in New Orleans. She was in doctors' offices and laboratories first here in Bienville, then later in Mobile and Houston when Bienville doctors couldn't come up with any answers. She was apparently quite determined to keep things normal for me; she and Cosmo never talked about her health problems in front of me. I knew something was going on, though. How could I not when I was the one who wiped gumbo off her arms while she cried in pain? When I was the one who sat with her at the bottom of the stairs and read her Madeleine stories until she convinced herself to stand up?

Here's what I remember about second grade: Cecilia and Cosmo both coming to pick me up from school one day. What a delicious day that was! Cosmo never came to get me! He was always working in his office at the Maritime Building until at least five o'clock! They took me to their favorite restaurant, The Revelry, and they let me order chicken fingers and fried shrimp and a Shirley Temple with extra cherries and french fries and cheese poppers
and
Mississippi mud pie! I stuffed myself until I couldn't breathe, barely noticing the glances they kept exchanging. Cosmo repeatedly started sentences with “Janie,
agapemenee mu
,” but then Cecilia would shoot him a look and he'd close his mouth and stare out the window at Bienville Bay while she asked me a question about my day.

It wasn't until we got home that they told me. “Mommy is sick,
agapemenee mu
,” Cosmo said. And then came a big, long disease name that I couldn't wrap my seven-year-old mouth around, but that was okay, they told me. I could call it by its letters, ALS. “What kind of medicine do you take for it?” I asked. There was no medicine for it, they said, which very much perplexed me. “Every time I go to Dr. Taylor, she gives me medicine. Why don't they have any for you?” “They just don't, honey,” Cecilia said, and a tear trickled down her cheek. “You have to be a big girl, Jane,” Cosmo rasped. “You have to help your mother. She is going to need you a lot from now on.”

Here's what I remember about third grade: Spending an afternoon at Alabama Medical Supply shopping for Cecilia's new motorized chair after her latest fall sent her to the hospital with a concussion and a dislocated shoulder. The doctors informed her it was better if she didn't walk anymore. Even a walker couldn't support her enough. “That's okay,” Cecilia chirped. “I can't walk, but my hands are good as new! I can cook! I can bake chocolate brownies with my Janie. We'll be just fine!” I immediately dubbed the chair “Scooter-boy” and lurked about waiting for opportunities to steal it while Cecilia was in the bathroom or sitting in the wing chair on the sun porch reading. I rode Scooter-boy everywhere there was a smooth surface. Up and down the elevator Cosmo installed. Into the handicap van he bought. Down the ramp he built to the dock. “Your mother has more vehicles than I do now!” he joked. Then he lifted her into the boat and we zipped off into the blue.

Fourth grade: I learned to crack open eggs, knead bread, take casserole dishes out of the oven—the things that Cecilia could no longer do so well now that her hands were acting up on her. It was so much fun, helping her out every day after school. Sure, I wanted to be out playing with my friends, but I loved these afternoons in the kitchen talking and cooking with my mother. I relished the sense of victory that came when we brought a beautiful and delicious feast, the result of our chopping and mixing and measuring, out of the oven. But that all ended the day of the bread knife. It was a Thursday afternoon, and we had baked cranberry-pineapple bread for something—a Girl Scout badge, maybe? Cecilia was in the middle of telling me that my friend Teddy Mac was coming to spend Saturday with us so his mother could go shopping in Dallas when I noticed that she was having trouble cutting the bread. “Mom, what's wrong?” “No, nothing,” she replied, struggling again to wrap her fingers around the knife. When it became obvious that her hand was not planning to cooperate anytime soon, I tried to console her. “It's all right, Mommy,” I said. “I'll cut it.”