The Last Girls (42 page)

Maurice crosses the dining room toward them with his pigeon-toed, athletic gait.

“I think we should go ahead,” Courtney says. “Why should we wait for the others? Who knows when they'll be here?”

“Good afternoon, ladies. Ready to order?” Maurice asks.

“I'll take the club sandwich and french fries and a glass of Chardonnay, please.” Courtney orders crisply. She sits back. She's beginning to feel better.

“Ma'am?” Maurice turns to Harriet.

“I'll have the gazpacho and, well, I haven't quite decided . . .”

“Oh, go on! Just pick something. Pick
anything!
” Courtney's fed up with Harriet's constant indecision. It's ridiculous, really. It's hard to see how Harriet ever gets anything done at all, much less hold down an obviously demanding position at a college, even if it is only a community college.

“How about a beverage, then? I can come back later for the rest of your order.”

“Sweet tea,” Harriet says.

“No wine?” Maurice's pen is poised over his order pad.

“Oh, come on, drink a glass of wine with me.” Courtney touches Harriet's arm.

“No!”
Harriet says, then flushes. “I mean, no thanks, just tea for now, please, and I guess I'll just do the salad bar.” That way, she still doesn't have to decide anything. “Honestly, I've never had as much to drink in my whole life as I have on this trip. It's making me feel funny.”

“What do you mean, feel funny?”

“Not myself. I'm not quite myself,” Harriet says. “Haven't you noticed?”

“Well, I must say, you seem to have relaxed a little since we left Memphis, but that's the whole point of a cruise, isn't it?”

“No, it is
not
the whole point. You know what the point is.” Harriet grips the edge of the table.

“I know.” Courtney takes a sip of her Chardonnay. “Of course. But there's nothing wrong with enjoying the trip, Harriet, no reason why you shouldn't appreciate Pete's attentions, for instance. He seems to be a perfectly nice man, as far as I can see. What's wrong with him?”

“Nothing. That's the problem.” Harriet twists her napkin, looking down. Bright spots of color dot her cheeks making her look, for all the world, like a Raggedy Ann doll.

“Then why don't you just try to have a little fun, for a change? I would, if I were you. Anybody would. Come on. How many unattached men do you think you'll meet, at your age? You'd be a fool to pass up a date in New Orleans, especially with a man who really knows the city.”

“But—” Harriet looks absolutely miserable.

“But what?” Courtney leans forward to grab her pointy elbow. “Harriet, look at me. This is not normal. What's wrong with you?”

Tears stand in Harriet's eyes when she finally raises her head. “I don't know,” she says.

“Well, then.” Courtney has to talk fast; the dining room is filling up with other sightseers, straggling in. Soon, the rest of the chairs at their table will be filled except for Anna's, of course. Anna refuses to have any fun either. She's always shut up in her stateroom, working. “Harriet, just listen to me. I've got a room reserved at the Royal Orleans for the weekend, in my name. Since I'll be flying on home, you can have it.”

“Oh, I could never—”

“Free. With my blessings!” Courtney speaks from a great saintly distance.

“Courtney, it's not the money—” Actually Harriet has got plenty of money in the bank, more money than anyone would ever believe. She lives so simply, she's just never thought of anything she wanted
to buy with it or any way to spend it on herself, though she has given a great deal of it away to her favorite charities, anonymously of course.

“Well, hello there!” Russell, Catherine, Leonard, and Bridget converge on their table simultaneously which is too much for Harriet, who falls over to one side in her chair.

“Hey now! Look out now!” Maurice cries, arriving with a sweating pitcher to fill their water glasses. He puts it down and rushes to Harriet's side.

“Oh, she'll be all right.” Courtney's in control of this situation, dipping her napkin in her water, wiping Harriet's face. “She's okay, it's just the heat,” she tells everybody clustered around. “Bring her a glass of wine,” she directs Maurice, “and another one for me.”

“Harriet, Harriet.” Catherine sits in the chair on Harriet's other side and leans over to hug her. “Honey, are you really all right?”

“Oh, yes, sure—” Harriet blinks and sits up. “I'm fine, I'm so sorry, don't mind me.”

“This is just so
Southern!
” Russell erupts. “I'm only dying, don't let me interrupt anybody's lunch—”

“She's not dying,” Courtney says.

Leonard and Bridget merely turn their blank polite Midwestern stares at Harriet before they order. Leonard wears a natty yachting cap today. Bridget wears an aqua linen sundress with seashell buttons on it, and matching seashell earrings. She's a very good-looking woman. Ready Freddy, indeed! Courtney kicks Harriet under the table.

Harriet jumps in her seat.

“Honey, what is it? What's the matter?” Catherine hugs her.

“Nothing,” Harriet whispers, looking at Courtney.

“A toast, then,” Russell suggests, raising his Bloody Mary. “To the death of the Confederacy.”

Several people chuckle at nearby tables.

“I'll drink to that.” Leonard raises his glass. His pretty blond Bridget is the only person in the dining room who doesn't appear to be at all
bothered by this heat, not a hair out of place in her French twist, makeup impeccable.

“Russell just hates all this plantation stuff,” Catherine tells everybody.

“Well, shit, what about the Whistle Walk?” Russell already had two mint juleps on the verandah at River Road.

“Watch your language, honey,” Catherine says.

“Sorry.”

“What's the Whistle Walk?” asks Bridget.

“Oh, it's at River Road Plantation,” Catherine says smoothly, aiming her easy smile across the table. “You know, it gets so hot down here in the summers that all these big plantations had a kitchen built separately from the big house, so the cooking wouldn't heat up the whole place. At River Road, for instance, the kitchen is right out back, separated from the house by a brick walkway. So the servants—”

“Slaves,”
Russell puts in.

“The slaves who carried the food from the kitchen to the dining room had to whistle all the way,” Catherine continues. “That way the owners could be sure that they weren't sneaking bites of food.”

Russell shakes his head and signals Maurice for another drink, an irony that is not lost on him.

“We should have called Suzanne ahead of time.” Courtney eats her french fries one by one so they'll last longer. “I'm sure she would have come up from New Orleans to see us. I left a little note for her at the River Road office, just saying we'd been there.”

“Good.” Catherine nods. “But her schedule must be amazing. Russell says she's been written up in
U.S. News and World Report
a couple of times.”

“Really?” Harriet finally finishes her gazpacho.

“Well, certainly. She's a legendary businesswoman. She owns a big piece of the French Quarter, too. You're not surprised, are you?”

“No.” Courtney remembers that Suzanne St. John was even more
organized than she was on the original raft trip, the only girl whose clothes stayed dry, because she brought each item individually bagged in plastic. Courtney hadn't thought of that. “I wonder if she ever married. They've interviewed her in the
Alumnae News,
but they never mention a family. She's certainly done a great job with River Road, though.”

“Oh, Courtney, I think River Road is awful!” Harriet bursts out. She's been thinking this all morning long.

“Hear, hear!” Russell says.

“Really?” Courtney turns to look at Harriet, who will never cease to surprise her.

“Well,
yes
. I mean, all those huge fake Southern houses on half-acre lots, and all those condominiums, and the golf course—I'll bet they had to dredge the whole swamp to build that golf course. And even the main house, it's just dreadful now with all those awful fake
ladies
in every room, and it's all commercial, they're selling everything in the world—River Road cookbooks, River Road china, River Road aprons and T-shirts and hats, River Road jewelry, River Road perfume—”

“Perfume?” Bridget asks.

“It's gardenia, very heavy.” Harriet goes on, “River Road cheese sticks and benne wafers and fudge and cookies, River Road doorstops and ashtrays and notepaper—”

“Why, Harriet, the notepaper is actually quite lovely,” says Courtney, who bought some.

“But I just can't help remembering the way the house was when we came before, on the raft,” Harriet says. “It was so beautiful, don't you remember? It was all completely empty then—”

“We ran through the whole house just at twilight,” Catherine adds.

“And made a big fire on the levee and watched the moon come up. It was a full moon,” Harriet says softly. “I remember looking back up at the house and it was so lovely, you could see it so well in the moonlight,
it was like it was floating on the mist and the shadows. It seemed to glow out in the night.”

“It's still beautiful,” Catherine says. “Even today, you can see what it was.”

“Wait a minute. How long ago was this trip?” Bridget asks.

“Some thirty years ago,” Courtney says briskly, “so as you can imagine it was very different. Why, River Road was virtually a ruin at that time. Nobody could afford to keep it up. I think they had some sort of a retainer, or caretaker, or whatever, living there then, and maybe they were leasing out some of the land for farming, but that was all. It was deserted. However, it had been in our classmate's family for many, many generations, so that's why she was able to get permission for us to stop by. The next day we went on into New Orleans.”

A silence falls over their table in the midst of the noisy dining room.

“Angel passing,” Harriet says.

“What?” Bridget asks. “What was that?”

“Harriet?” Courtney didn't get it either.

“Nothing.” Harriet looks down, remembering how Baby pirouetted the length of the verandah in the dusk, her hair swinging out on the turns.

“Now are you really finished, Missy?” Maurice removes Harriet's uneaten salad. “Can't I bring you a little piece of cheesecake? Or some pecan pie? How about some pecan pie with a little ice cream?”

“That sounds good. I'll take some of that,” Bridget speaks up.

“Me too,” adds Russell.

“Missy?” Maurice stands there looking at Harriet.

“No . . . thank you . . . I'm fine. That gazpacho was delicious,” she says. “Isn't he nice?” she asks the others when he leaves.

“Well, of course he's nice!” Courtney snaps. “It's the end of the cruise, he wants to get a good tip. Tonight's dinner is our last real meal
on board. Breakfast is just doughnuts and coffee on deck, and then we're all off by 9
A.M
. So you better believe he's got that tip in mind.”

“But he
is
nice.” Harriet is blushing again.

“Don't kid yourself,” Courtney says.

Maurice comes back with three pieces of pecan pie and puts one down deftly in front of Harriet. “Just in case you change your mind,” he says. He gives another to Russell. “And this one goes to—” He waves it in the air, a question.

“Right here.” Bridget picks up her fork.

Catherine orders coffee for herself and Russell, who obviously needs it. “Now what's the plan for tonight?” she asks at the risk of being rude to Leonard, who seems out of it anyway, and Bridget, busy wolfing down her pie.

“I think we'd better do it just as we come into New Orleans,” Harriet says. “Actually, I asked Pete and that's his suggestion. He said there'll be too much activity in the morning. We'll wake up docked at the Robin Street wharf with everybody unloading the baggage and restocking the boat and everything.”

“Tonight, then.” Russell drains his cup. “We'll go up on top after dinner, have a drink.”

Catherine looks at him.

“Be right back,” he says, heading for the bathroom.

“Okay.” Harriet nods. “Pete says we'll be entering the port of New Orleans about ten-thirty. Maybe we should do it at ten, while we're still actually on the river, before we really get into the city.” She glances over at Leonard and Bridget, deep in whispered conversation.

“What about Anna?” Courtney asks.

“I'll leave her a note right now,” Harriet says.

“No,
I'll
leave her the note,” Courtney decides. “You go rest this afternoon. Read a book, take a nap.”

“Maybe I will.” Actually, Harriet still doesn't feel too good. She rises, fumbling with her purse.

“Here. Let me walk you to your room.” Catherine follows her.

Courtney stands to leave, too, just as Russell reenters the dining room and lurches somewhat alarmingly back toward their table. Catherine should have stuck with Howie, in Courtney's opinion. But there's no accounting for taste, as anybody will tell you. Look at old Leonard here, for instance. Look at Gene Minor.
Oh God
. “Baby? Baby?” Russell takes in the nearly abandoned table, then turns on his heel abruptly. Honestly! He's just as rude as he can be. “Baby?” He rushes off. Maurice shakes his head, clearing dishes. Courtney leaves by herself. Under the tablecloth, Leonard puts his hand on Bridget's thigh.

Mile 139.2
Dutch Bayou, Louisiana
Friday 5/14/99
1400 hours

A
N HOUR LATER
, feeling pretty frustrated, Russell slides onto a stool at the Calliope Bar for a quick much-needed hit of weather. He needs the weather girls, too—needs their easy warmth, their open, carefree manner. The weather girls are immediately accessible, unlike his Catherine, who has gotten so moody on this trip. And distant—at least to Russell. This is not like her. He can remember plenty of trips when they'd jumped into bed at the first opportunity; trips always seem to turn her on, one reason Russell agreed to come along on this one in the first place. Since when does she “need to rest”? Since when does she have a headache?