The Orange Blossom Special (17 page)

In death, Jerry was as generous as he had been in life, and even though she didn't ask for it, he sent Tessie an answer, which came in the form of a note from Barone the next day.

Dottie,

Have you ever had champagne from room service in a hotel? It'll make you feel like a princess. I have to go be in Tallahassee next Monday morning. Come with me and let's make it a bang up July 4th weekend. If you say yes you'll be my Tallahassee Lassie, I'll pick you up Friday after work and we'll go to Wakulla Springs Lodge, where all the bigwig senators and politicians stay. Vote yes for Tallahassee and be my first lady. I promise you we'll have a Good Time with a Capitol G (ha). Wear something sexy but stern, like one of those women from Washington. I'll call you on Wednesday.

Tessie wondered how long it took him to write these notes. She thought about spending the night in a new place with Barone; how she hadn't stayed in a hotel since St. Augustine, and never in a fancy one. Glenn and Glenn had been so kind to her, lending her the money. They'd be closed that Monday for July 4th anyway. She'd
been at Lithographics for nearly six months and hadn't taken a full day off, so really, what was the big deal? Dinah had been at camp for a week and still no word, not even one of those addressed and stamped postcards she'd packed away for her. Everyone would be out of town. No one would even know she was gone.

Even Maynard Landy closed up for the July 4th weekend. He had promised to help Victoria prepare for their big party. Anita Bryant was coming to town, the same Anita Bryant who was last year's Miss Oklahoma and this year's second runner-up in the Miss America contest. Her song, “Till There Was You,” was a big top forty hit on the radio. “Let me tell you,” Victoria said to Jésus on the morning of the party, “having Anita Bryant come to your house is no small honor.” She was Victoria's idea of the perfect woman: beautiful, talented, and well respected. “Aside from all the Baptist bullshit, who wouldn't want to be Anita Bryant?”

As Victoria stared at her image in the mirror, it crossed her mind that other women probably felt that way about her. Who wouldn't want to be Victoria Landy? Of course she inspired envy; her life was close to perfect. Perfect except for one thing: that awful brother Ella had visited upon them, Reggie Sykes. She told Jésus about his short leg and missing teeth, and how it offended her to hear him thumping around her house. He had taken the small room next to the garage, just big enough for a cot and a shelf for his things. “He's clean, and Lord knows he's polite, always ‘Yes, ma'am' this and ‘No, ma'am' that. It gives me the willies. But hell, why am I talking about that wretched fellow when I've got a party to tend to? I am fortunate to have such a sunny nature, aren't I?”

“Spit curls,” said Jésus, tugging and twirling the ends of her hair. “They are very Anita Bryant.” She examined the curlicues that sat like scimitars on her cheeks and smiled at Jésus. “You sweet man.
You do bring out the best in me. Thank you for letting Sonia come and help out tonight.”

Victoria rushed out of Baldy's with purpose in her step. There was so much to do before the party: food, flowers, the Maraschino cherries. Maynard was bringing home a case of Verve Cliquot champagne. He suggested that she also make her special strawberry punch. “Baptist booze,” he called it. Knowing how Anita would hold her in esteem for her sensitivity, Victoria kissed her husband on the lips and said, “Maynard Landy, you never fail to surprise me.”

Maynard and Victoria weren't the kind of people who told each other “I love you” very often. She would squeeze his arm, or he would tell her how beautiful she looked, and they would know what they needed to know. That night, as they waited for their guests to come, they stood looking at the white living room bathed in candlelight. The bouquet of Talisman red roses filled the air with the smell of wealth and promise, and all over there were sterling silver platters with exotic cheeses and crystal bowls filled with the finest Greek olives and fresh shrimp. “We are happy together, aren't we?” said Victoria, placing her hand on the back of his neck. “Yes we are, darling,” he smiled. “We're very happy together.”

In the kitchen, Reggie helped Ella baste the nine cornish hens. Sonia, in her white apron and her hair pinned up in a bun, was putting hors d'oeuvres onto trays. “You're doing a wonderful job,” Victoria whispered in her ear. “Muy bueno.”

Reggie was dressed up in his porter's outfit and had promised he'd help serve dinner. “Carrying things. If there's one thing I know how to do is carry things.” Ella was concerned that with his uneven gait, all nine hens would end up slipping onto the dining-room floor, but she didn't have the heart to tell him so. Oh my, wouldn't that be the final icing on the cake. In the days since he'd arrived, Reggie had
done his best to be helpful and unobtrusive. But Victoria would never address him directly. She'd always say, “Ella, could your brother mow the lawn today,” or “Ella, shouldn't your brother try wearing shoes with rubber soles.” There was always an edge in her voice.

T
HAT NIGHT, AFTER
the guests left and Ella and Reggie had cleared the dishes, Maynard and Victoria were getting ready for bed. In between brushing his teeth and gargling, he shouted to Victoria, “You know, this may have been our best party ever.”

Victoria lay in bed, rerunning the night through her head. Of course the Grists—Marilyn and Bill—had been the first to arrive. God, what would she ever do without Marilyn? Marilyn had grown up in Barnsdale, Oklahoma, and knew the Bryant family from there. Whenever Anita came to town, she'd stay with the Grists, which was how Victoria had gotten to know her. Marilyn and Victoria had been in the same sorority. Marilyn was tall and rangy with a face the shape of Flicka's: the girl most likely to succeed. Victoria liked her because she was accepting and funny and said whatever came to her mind. When Victoria's marriage to Donald Pierson came to an end, she went to stay with Marilyn, who had just married Bill and was living in Gainesville. She remembered how Marilyn had taken one look at her bruised face and broken tooth and given her a hug. “You need a warm bath and a long sleep,” she had said. “Then we'll think about tracking down that little creep who did this to you.” But they never did track him down. Instead, Marilyn introduced Victoria to a friend of Bill's. They were on some civic board together. “He's a gentle man,” Marilyn said. “Cute in a bearlike way—and real smart. Bill says he's going to own this town one day. His name is Maynard Landy.”

Victoria smiled at the memory and shouted back, “I think you're right. It really was our best yet.” Maynard got into bed and they talked about how strange Glenn Bech Sr. and his wife, Lillian, were.
Before the party, Maynard had joked that the Bechs ought to sit with Anita so they could share their pure thoughts and alcohol-free punch. “Just be sure to put me at the other end of the table,” he'd said. She'd swatted him on the arm and said, “You are so bad.”

“He is kind of weird,” said Victoria, who happened to be standing next to Glenn when Anita Bryant came in. “I swear I heard him say, ‘nice tits' under his breath. But Glenn Bech Senior? How could that be?”

“Maybe he was just telling Lillian where to put the olive pits,” said Maynard.

“
Pssh,”
said Victoria. “Did you notice his wife drag poor Doctor Simons into the corner to look at one of her molars. She stood there with her mouth wide open and her tongue hanging out. What a silly woman! Has she never been to a civilized party before?”

“It was your brainstorm to invite the Simons,” said Maynard.

Doris Simons ran the drama department at the University of Florida, and always dressed as if she were in a barroom scene. Tonight she'd showed up in a bright-red full skirt with a low-cut peasant blouse and gold hoop earrings. Victoria figured she dressed that way to make up for her husband, Peter Simons, the family dentist and the dullest man in town.

“Well, there was some logic to it,” she said. “I thought Anita and she could talk show business together, and they did. Wasn't Anita radiant tonight?”

Victoria could still envision her. Her hair was in a bouffant, as round and airy as the Goodyear Blimp. She'd worn a blue taffeta sheath with a scooped neck and wide belt. Her blue taffeta pumps matched the dress exactly. When she walked in, the room had fallen silent.

“I was worried that everyone would just gawk at her for the rest of the evening,” said Victoria. “Thank God for Marilyn.” Wonderful Marilyn had just loped across the white mohair carpet and taken
Anita's arm. “Honey, you must meet Doris Simons, she's our local thespian.” Doris had directed a production of
The Music Man
the year before. The two of them immediately fell into conversation about the song from that musical, “Till There Was You.” At some point in their conversation, Anita even sang a few bars to Doris. “It was amazing how everyone just froze in place when that happened,” said Maynard.

“That'll give that dimwit Lillian something to talk about at her next Bible study,” she said.

“You've got quite a mouth on you, don't you?” He leaned over and kissed her on that mouth—so vulgar and vicious and beautiful. They made love, and Maynard fell asleep on Victoria's shoulder. She stroked his hair and noticed how bald he was becoming. This is how it will always be, she thought, and that isn't half-bad. She imagined Sonia's elflike ears and the tiny bumps she had on each earlobe. Later, whenever she tried to put the pieces of that night back together, what she would remember most clearly was the sweet unadorned voice of a young Anita Bryant singing “Till There Was You.”

T
HREE HOURS LATER
Maynard woke up abruptly. He sat up in bed listening for what it was that might have disturbed him. There were no sounds, but there was a strong smell. He felt as if something were being crammed down his throat: something thick and lacerating. He was having trouble taking in air. When he turned on the night lamp next to him, he saw ghostlike puffs of smoke slipping under the door. Fire. That's what it was. There was a fire in the house. He shook Victoria. “Get up. We've got to get out of here.” Victoria sat up in bed, her heart pounding. She saw something in Maynard's face she'd never seen before, then smelled the smoke. Inexplicably, she grabbed a hair brush and ran it through her hair, then searched through her closet for her cream-colored silk robe. “Goddamnit,
Victoria,” he shouted. “There's no time. Just get the hell out of here.” He grabbed her by the arm and pushed her toward the window. He stood on the dresser and punched out the screen. Then he helped her up and told her to jump. He jumped out after her. They landed in the saw grass that grew under their window. For a moment, they lay in the grass staring up at the perfectly clear night. “You okay?” he said. “Yes, you?” she said. He stood up and pulled her to her feet. The fresh air washed over them. Maynard noticed that the lights had gone on in the houses down the streets. He hoped someone had called the fire department. “My God, Maynard,” screamed Victoria, watching black smoke pour from their beautiful house. “Do something. We have to do something.”

“What we can't do is panic,” he said. “We've got to find Ella. And Reggie.”

They heard Ella before they saw her. “Oh, Lord. Oh, help me, Lord,” she was crying. She was crouched in the bushes by the garage, barefoot and dressed only in her cotton nightgown. Reggie was crouched next to her. The hairnet that she wore to sleep every night had fallen over her eyes, and her face was wet with tears. She was hugging the birchwood and pine cross that Olie had given her for her sixteenth birthday and Reggie had his arm around her shoulder.

“Ella, it's okay. We're here. Ella, please stop crying. Victoria and I are here. It's okay.” Maynard reached for Victoria's hand, but couldn't find it.

“Victoria,” he shouted. “Victoria!”

Victoria was running back toward the house. Maynard ran behind her in the smoky shadow. “Victoria, where are you going?”

“The ring,” she shouted. “I left it on the bathroom sink.”

“Screw the ring,” he shouted, “You can't go in there.”

“I gotta get the ring,” she yelled, before disappearing into the blackness.

Maynard had given Victoria the five-carat-diamond ring for her thirtieth birthday. He remembered that she'd cried when she'd opened the box and how she shook her head and said, “This means everything to me.”

“Victoria,” he shouted into the air. “Don't be an idiot. I'll buy you a new one.”

There was no answer.

Maynard ran into the garage. It was dark and beginning to fill with smoke. His eyes burned and he had trouble keeping them open. He had to concentrate on breathing. “Victoria,” he yelled, in what came out as a whisper. He listened for Victoria's footsteps. “Victoria!” His voice was hoarse. “Victoria,” he tried to shout again. He told himself: concentrate, breathe in, breathe out. Somewhere from the center of the house, he heard an explosion. He felt the ground shake beneath him as he stumbled forward, not knowing anymore if he was walking closer or further from the fire. He tripped over a pipe or a fallen bicycle—who knew—and fell face down on the floor. Breathe in, breathe out, goddamnit. The breaths were coming heavier now, sharp pains as he breathed in, bubbly cough as he breathed out. The cement floor was cool, like the ocean floor. The pain in his arms, his chest, it was as if he were cracking apart under the weight of the wave, a ship broken by the storm. Part of him stayed in the same place watching over the other part of him that was spinning off getting smaller and further away, until he finally disappeared beneath the sea.

Victoria had run into the bathroom and jumped out the bedroom window just before the explosion. She found Ella and Reggie and waited with them for Maynard. The two of them had to restrain her from running back in after Maynard. “Get your cotton-pickin' hands off me,” she shouted. “Maynard, Maynard honey, I'll be right there.” But they wouldn't loosen their grip on her. When the Fire Department
finally went in and got Maynard out, they said it probably was a heart attack that killed him. Other than the black smudges from the smoke, he didn't have a mark on him—not even a scrape.