The Last Girls (12 page)

“Anna—” Harriet says, but just then the Riverlorian approaches their table.

“Good evening, ladies,” he says with a stiff little bow. “I'm Pete Jones, your Riverlorian. Just wanted to welcome you folks aboard the
Belle of Natchez.
”

“Why, thank you!” Courtney's all smiles.

Close up, the Riverlorian doesn't really look much like Mark Twain, except for the moustaches and the suit. He doesn't look like Mr. Gaines either. Actually he looks more like Kenny Rogers, only heavier, but he's wearing those horn-rimmed glasses that Kenny Rogers would never wear. He turns to Harriet. “How about a dance?” he asks right out of the blue.

“Oh, I—”

“She'd love it!” Courtney pokes her in the side.

“No, I—actually I have to catch up with my friends right now. Thanks a lot anyway,” Harriet throws back over her shoulder as she races out of the dining room.

“Ma'am?” The Riverlorian turns and bows to Courtney.

“But isn't it time for the ‘Showboat Jubilee'?” If it's printed on the schedule, Courtney is bound to do it.

“Right you are.” The Riverlorian consults his very official-looking watch. “I ought to head that way myself,” offering Courtney his immaculate white sleeve. They move toward the Grand Saloon.

“Anna? Anna?” Harriet perceives Anna's wake, a kind of shimmering in the air, and follows it through the crowd and up to the front of the boat where she finds Anna leaning against the rail smoking a thin, nasty, black cigar.

“My little indulgence.” Anna waves the red end of the cigar. “Sorry.”

“No,
I'm
sorry,” Harriet says sincerely. “I'm sorry I was so strident back there at the dinner table when we were talking about stories, I mean. I wanted to tell you that. Please don't pay any attention to me.
I should never drink. I don't know how to act in public anyway. I think I have some kind of social Tourette's syndrome.”

“Don't be silly.” But Anna permits herself a smile.

Hair blowing, they look out at the river ahead which drops away to darkness before them now on either side. Occasionally a beam of light from the pilot house above them sweeps across the black water. “I can't believe we did it, can you?” Harriet says softly. “This river is just huge. It's really dangerous. Somehow it didn't look so big from the raft. I guess you can't tell how big things are when you're right in the middle of them anyway.”

“Thank God!” in that throaty voice. “It's just as well. If we could ever really see what we're doing, then we'd never do any of it, I imagine.”

Harriet takes heart. There's something of Anna here after all, she's sure of it, as they stand in the windy dark.

Mile 674.5
Harbert Point Light
Sunday 5/9/99
0710 hours

C
OURTNEY JUST CAN'T BELIEVE IT
. She's scarcely awake on the very first day of the trip when there's a knock on her cabin door, a short businesslike knock, and then, as she sits up in bed clutching the covers to her chest, the note slides under her door. Gene! It's a message from Gene already. Courtney jumps up to grab it, then has to find her reading glasses before she can read it. Nobody can receive telephone calls on this boat, which is a big nuisance, though they can phone out with some difficulty, using something called WATERCOM.

“Call home immediately,” the note says. “Mary Bell.” Damn. She might have known. Of course it would be from Mary Bell, Hawk's first cousin who has volunteered to stay at Magnolia Court in Courtney's absence. “For as long as I'm needed,” as Mary Bell put it modestly, eyes cast down, when she arrived.

“What does
that
mean, until I'm dead?” Hawk had demanded. The three of them laughed uneasily. It was a joke but not quite a joke, not really a joke at all, as Mary Bell is famous in the family for showing up unannounced in times of crisis to help out.

An unmarried woman of indeterminate age, Mary Bell is very good
at helping out. With her gray hair pulled back into a plain, tidy bun, her sensible lace-up brogans and her print button-up dresses (Where did she even
find
dresses like that anymore?) Mary Bell assessed the situation with her pale, pale unblinking eyes, and did whatever needed to be done. Quietly. Just like that. She had come to them once before. Upon finding Miss Evangeline in a state of extreme agitation, Mary Bell had sent the home health nurse away, lowered the shade, washed Miss Evangeline's face, attended to her nails and makeup, then disappeared for an instant only to reappear with a mint julep in a silver cup on a little silver tray. Courtney couldn't remember ever seeing that tray before. It was uncanny. Miss Evangeline had calmed right down.

“Tell me, Bell,” she'd said, “do you remember those brothers from Ahoskie who came visiting us that time? And one of them played the banjo?”

“Mack Durand,” Mary Bell said without missing a beat. “He was mad about you. Don't you remember? Why, Uncle Ned had to threaten to run him off with a shotgun, the way he mooned around town after you and Henry were engaged. It was embarrassing to all concerned.”

“Why, I believe he took a room in town—” Miss Evangeline had said dreamily.

“Over the stable,” Mary Bell finished her sentence, then stroked her cheek, and finally Miss Evangeline slept.

Three weeks later she was dead.

And now, Mary Bell has reappeared.

Courtney tries to throw off her forebodings as she dials. Mary Bell will be up, of course, and fully dressed. She seems to scarcely sleep, or scarcely eat, living on trouble.

“Ralston residence.” Mary Bell sounds like some kind of servant.

“Hi, this is Courtney. How is he? How are you? What's happening?”

“Oh, we're doing just fine here, dear.” Mary Bell's voice is icy
sweet. “You go right ahead and enjoy your trip. Everything here is just fine. Don't you worry about a thing.” Her voice is too cheerful.

“Can I talk to Hawk? Where's Hawk?”

“Oh, he's at the gym, I believe. He was already gone when I got up.”

He might be at the gym or he might not be, Courtney thinks. He might not have come home at all last night. But in any case, it sounds like he must be feeling better. “That's good, I guess,” she says. “What's the message?”

“Call Ellen Henley at home.” Mary Bell is obviously reading off something. She repeats the number three times, as if Courtney is retarded. But of course she is just trying to be helpful.

“All right,” Courtney says. “I'll call her right now.” Ellen Henley is such a workaholic, she's sure to be up, too, even at this ungodly hour.

“And I presume it is all right with you if I put up some fig preserves,” Mary Bell says. “You've got all these figs out in the side yard going to waste before my eyes, I just can't stand it.”

Oh God. Courtney forgot all about the damn figs. After thanking Mary Bell profusely, she hangs up and glances out the window at the Arkansas shore sliding past. Courtney shakes her head to clear it, then dials. She waits a long time for the WATERCOM operator to come on the line.

Ellen Henley is all business, as usual. “I wanted to talk to you before you got away,” she says pointedly. “I left several messages . . .”

Oh God, Courtney remembers. Of course you did. The truth is, she wanted to go on this trip so badly that she forgot them. Just forgot them—how unlike her. “Yes,” she says, sitting on the edge of her bunk. “What did you want to talk about?”

“It's Mr. Ralston.” Suddenly the supercool, supereffective Ellen Henley is blubbering. “Something awful is happening,” she says. “I didn't want anybody to know. I thought he might get better. Maybe that was wrong, but—”

“Slow down,” Courtney says. “It's okay. I'm sure you've done the right thing, Ellen. You always do. Now tell me what you're talking about.”

“Well, it started awhile back. Six months ago, maybe. Maybe it was even a
year
ago, I'm not sure.”

“What?”
Courtney asks. “What started?”

“Mr. Ralston,” Ellen begins. “Mr. Ralston, he”—she pauses to collect herself. “Oh, he just started forgetting things. Little things, insignificant things, like where are the paper clips when he knows perfectly well where they are. I've kept his paper clips in that very same little red lacquer box on his desk for
eight years
. One day he forgot Charlie Poole's phone number, and another day it was the number of the club. That's when I really started to notice it. But I just thought, oh well, Mr. Ralston is starting to slip, we all slip a little bit as we get older, it's nothing to worry about, and so I—”

“Covered for him,” Courtney says. “Of course you did.” For the first time in years, she wishes she had a cigarette.

“But it wasn't ever anything
big,
mind you, just little things, and it didn't really matter. So much of what we do is just routine anyway. Mr. Ralston is very good at delegating responsibility, and at this level, there's not really so much we have to do, not in this office, I mean . . .”

So he's been a figurehead for years, Courtney realizes. Somehow it doesn't surprise her. Going out to lunch or off to golf while smart, efficient Ellen Henley ran the show, taking on more and more . . .

“Then it got worse,” Ellen continues. “There was one week back in June when he actually missed several appointments, even missed a closing on that property in Rocky Mount. Oh, he got on the phone every day and checked in with all our key people, and returned his calls just as he always had, so I thought things were going along as usual and I was amazed when they called from Rocky Mount to ask where he was, just
amazed
. But then the next day it was the same story, he never showed up for a very important meeting at the
bank, and he didn't even call. Didn't call them, didn't call me, either . . .”

Courtney has never heard normally quiet Ellen Henley run on so. Was that the week of Hawk's fishing trip? “Where was he?” she asks.

“Well, that's just it. I don't know. I still don't know. And you know what? I'm not sure he does either. He got the funniest look on his face when I asked him. I can't even describe it to you.”

“What about recently?” Courtney asks. “This week, for instance? Right now?”

“Oh, he acts as if everything is fine, normal, business as usual. He went to the Century Club luncheon on Monday. You know he goes every year. He seemed real chipper when he came back, too, telling jokes and whatnot, really he seemed just fine. And he looked so nice too, he was wearing that yellow tie with the little blue diamond pattern on it.” She pauses. “
Well
. But since he's been out of the office so much, I went through those two boxes on his desk, you know the ones I mean, of course I'd never dream of going through his personal desk drawers, Mrs. Ralston, but I must say I'm finding a
lot
to straighten out here. Why, there are several letters I typed weeks ago that he's forgotten to send out at all. I never thought to check on them, and here they are! So I FedExed them out yesterday afternoon. But I don't want you to worry about this, Mrs. Ralston, because I can handle everything, I really can. Business will go on as usual, I promise you. But when Mr. Ralston mentioned that he'd be out having some tests today and tomorrow, and gave me the doctor's number, and I looked him up and saw that he is one of the head neurologists at Duke, well, I put two and two together and decided to call you. I hope you don't mind. I just felt I
should
tell you these things, so you can tell the doctor. I didn't really feel that I could call him myself. I knew it wasn't my place, but I've been so concerned, you see I just didn't want to believe—”

“Ellen,”
Courtney says. “Ellen. I think you should call the doctor.
You do it, not me. It's very difficult to make a call out from this boat. Please. Just call him up and tell him exactly what you've told me. He needs to know these things. I certainly didn't realize there was any problem at the office, so this is very helpful. You're doing the right thing.”

Ellen draws a deep breath. She chokes off a sob. “Then I'll do it,” she says. “I
will
. Only you must promise me, Mrs. Ralston, that you will never,
ever,
tell Mr. Ralston that I spoke to you about this or that I called the doctor. And the doctor mustn't ever tell him either.” Her anxiety trembles across the wires.

“Of course not,” Courtney says in her brightest, firmest voice.

“I would rather die than embarrass Mr. Ralston” is the last thing Ellen says before they exchange good-byes.

Courtney lies back on her bed and stares up at the ceiling. Now she can hear footsteps on the deck above her, voices in the corridor outside her door. Ellen loves him. This is perfectly clear. Poor, plain little Ellen Henley, thin blond Ellen Henley who has worked for Hawk for years, ever since she was a country girl fresh out of secretarial school. Doesn't she have a husband, or didn't she have a husband once? Suddenly Courtney remembers a fat young man in a red plaid jacket, drinking too much at the company Christmas party. Then he was gone. He has been gone for several years. Yellow tie, indeed! But so many, many women have loved Hawk; Courtney wonders if Ellen knows this. Certainly he has never fucked her; Hawk's taste runs to big brunettes, and he'd never be that stupid anyway. Courtney can just hear him—“It's easy to find girls, but it's damn hard to find a good secretary.” She can picture how he'd wink when he said this to one of the guys. Maybe Ellen covers for Hawk about women, too. Courtney can imagine what Ellen tells herself to justify it: “Everybody knows a man like Mr. Ralston has greater needs” or “His wife is frigid.”

But she's
not,
damn it! She's
not
. Though the sad truth is that she
has never loved Hawk in the way a woman should love a man, a way she didn't even know existed until she met Gene Minor again after so many wasted years. And now she's headed to New Orleans for a stolen weekend with him, a weekend she deserves, damn it, because she has
put in her time
. She's furious with Hawk for getting sick right now; it's like he's done this on purpose to thwart her. But that's not true, or fair.
None
of this is fair, Courtney thinks, remembering back suddenly to her days on the Honor Court at Mary Scott, meting out justice every Wednesday night. She was so proud of her impartiality, her fairness. She had actually believed then that justice existed and that she was dispensing it.