“Tell them what I told you that night,” Mother orders. “Your speech was artful, but you changed the subject.”
“You told me that I was the most talented girl ever to go through Peninsula High School.” Sheba’s voice nearly breaks from an emotion that has nothing to do with her talent.
“Go on,” Mother says. “That was the first thing I told you. But I didn’t stop there, did I, dear?”
“Could someone stop this?” Fraser asks, covering her ears.
Niles says, “Betty, you shoot Sheba. Ike, you take out Dr. King. It’s the only way.”
“You told me I could discover a cure for cancer or be the biggest whore who ever lived,” Sheba says, dropping her linen veil to the floor behind her.
“I was only half right,” Mother says. “Cancer is still a real threat to society.”
“Jesus Christ, Mother,” I say. “Monsignor, don’t even bother taking her to the car. Pitch her off the balcony into the street.”
Through tears, Sheba says, “I was a child.”
“You were never a child,” Mother shoots back.
“Well, be an adult now and forget it, Sheba,” Molly says. “And you, Dr. King, need to settle down. Sheba’s been through a lot, and no one knows that better than Leo. You and Ike, refresh everyone’s drinks. Sheba, come into the kitchen and help me get dinner on the table.”
Chad scoffs. “Who’re you trying to kid, Molly? You and Sheba wouldn’t know what to do with a kitchen if it bit you in the ass.”
“Your language, dear brother,” Fraser says. “The monsignor’s here.”
“And I think that’s the perfect exit line,” Monsignor Max says, rising. “I’ll pretend to be highly offended by Chad’s profanity and storm out of here with Lindsay in tow.”
“I think that’s an inspired idea, Mother,” I say. “What you said to Sheba—you ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
“She started it,” Mother says. But I can see her temper cooling down as she surveys the damage she has wrought by studying the shocked faces surrounding her.
“I can only hope so,” Sheba says.
Mother flames again. “Don’t you think for a minute I don’t know that you stole my son’s virginity, you white-trash slut!”
“Jesus God almighty,” I say, blushing to my very bones in abject horror at the deformity the evening has shaped itself into. I turn to the monsignor. “Please get my mother out of here.”
Ike stares at Sheba in disbelief. “You nailed the Toad?”
“She stole the most precious thing Leo had,” Mother says. “His innocence.”
“No. No, Lindsay. No, Mother Superior. No, Dr. King,” Sheba shoots back. “The one precious thing he had was the thing you loved best: the son you lost. Remember him, Lindsay? I don’t. Never met the kid. Bet that he was a sweetheart like Leo. Stephen, Steve? Wasn’t that his name? Seems he killed himself years before I got here. You can’t blame me for Steve’s suicide, but I bet you’d love to. I believe you always wished it had been Leo who slit his wrists, Leo who’d died. In your weird, screwed-up world, it’s always the handsome boys you lose. The ugly ones are the keepers. You’ve always treated Leo like he was the second-place trophy you got for losing your golden boy.”
“That’s evil, Sheba,” Fraser cries in horror. “Just pure evil.”
Ike grabs Sheba from behind, lifts her in his strong, brown arms, and carries her through the kitchen and down the back staircase. Molly walks to open the front door, and Betty helps the monsignor get my mother down the stairs and into the monsignor’s Lincoln Continental. The evening is finished, but it is not over.
I collapse into a leather couch, close my eyes, and let myself drift into the luxurious easement of the library with its tiers of well-selected books. The smell of leather consoles me, and it feels like I have rested my head inside a well-oiled baseball glove. As far as I know, no one has mentioned my brother’s name in my mother’s presence for years. Even now, in the toxic wake of this evening’s passage, when I try to conjure up an image of my brother’s face, I can summon only a ghostly, featureless portrait, half-sketched in sepia. All I remember is that Stephen was golden and beautiful, and that our losing him drove a stake into the heart of my family. Somehow we managed to survive that day, but none of us ever experienced the deliverance of recovery. I realize you can walk away from anything but a wounded soul.
CHAPTER 9 A Night of Fun
I hear a match strike near me, then smell the smoke of expensive cigar leaf. I open my eyes and find myself under the intense scrutiny of Chad Rutledge. He blows a plume of sweet-smelling smoke in my direction. “Now, that is what I call entertainment with a capital E.”
“Glad you enjoyed it, Chad.”
“Think of what Molly and I would’ve missed if we hadn’t been kicked out of Porter-Gaud the summer before our senior year.” He grins. “We didn’t know anyone like you or Niles or Starla or Ike or Betty. It was a brave new world for us.”
“We were your first experience with the underbelly of Charleston.”
“You’ve always been so class-conscious,” Chad says.
“Only since I met you. When we met at the yacht club, it was the first time someone had looked at me like I was a lower form of toe cheese.”
“Not so. To me, you were the Camembert of toe cheese.”
A large shadow appears at the kitchen doorway, and I look over to see Niles Whitehead. “What kind of toe cheese am I, Chad?” Niles asks.
“You’re family, Niles. My much-admired brother-in-law. The husband of my only sister. The father of my handsome nephews.”
“But surely you recognize that Leo comes from a much-higher-class family than I do. To refresh your memory, Leo found my sister and I handcuffed to chairs when he first met us.”
“My admiration for the two of you is boundless,” Chad says. “Both of you were ambitious young men. You’ve made your mark in the field of education, Niles. You married into one of the oldest families in Charleston, which was not the easiest thing to do for a boy from your background. Leo has become a famous journalist. His column is one of the first things everybody reads when they open the paper in the morning. No small achievement.”
“Gosh, I feel like a shrimp boat right after the bishop blesses the fleet,” I say.
“Wow,” says Niles. “To think of having human worth in Chad’s aristocratic eyes.”
Chad laughs, then stares at his cigar with contentment. “Ah, Sheba, didn’t she give us a night! If I hadn’t met you, I would’ve missed all the melodrama of these lives you consider normal. I’d miss the discord, all the howls and barks you bring to every event. My people are high-class and civilized, which is another way of saying boring, I think. All the grunts and whines have been bred out of us. Tonight was high opera.”
“Chad, I’ve always felt bad that I didn’t kick the shit out of you when you were a kid,” Niles says.
“I’ve got to get back to the office in a few minutes,” Chad says, unperturbed. “Big case next week.”
“Does Molly know?” Niles asks.
“Molly likes being in this house. She likes the life my law practice provides. She likes being married into my family’s fortune, just like you do, Niles,” Chad says.
“I told you this a long time ago, Chad,” I say. “Don’t screw with the mountain boy. It ain’t safe.”
“Tell Molly good night for me,” Chad says. “I may work straight through the night.”
“Molly’s not going to like it,” I say.
“Tough titty.” Chad winks and salutes us as he skips out the front door.
Niles and I sit for several minutes in silence as we smell the steaks sizzling on the charcoal fire. Rising to walk to the bar, Niles says, “Can I make you another drink?”
“I was trying to think about how much I’d have to drink to forget everything that happened tonight, and still enjoy the rest of the evening.”
“There’s not enough liquor in the world for that,” Niles says. “Bu
t Sheba and Chad have left for the night—that means the shitbirds have flown out of the cuckoo’s nest.”
“Sheba’s in the worst shape I’ve ever seen her,” I say.
“Bet your mama thinks so. That was brutal.”
“Sheba’s lost her way.”
“Didn’t she used to be sweet?” Niles asks.
“The sweetest girl in the world,” Molly says, materializing in the kitchen doorway. “Where’s Chad? Oh, let me guess! He went back to work on a big case. A big, big goddamn case. Don’t tell me. I know the drill. He does it out of love for me and the kids. I couldn’t live without this mansion and an armored car full of money. Could you go down and help your wife with the steaks, Niles? I need to beg Leo’s forgiveness for bringing Sheba and his mama together.”
“Fire and ice,” Niles says. “Where are Ike and Betty?”
“Putting Miss Sheba to bed. She took the homecoming scene hard. It wasn’t what she wanted.”
“We’ll be back with the steaks,” Niles says, then I hear him taking the back stairs two at a time.
Molly walks over to the bar. “Sometimes a woman needs flowers, Leo. Sometimes she needs a massage, or to hold hands, or to cuddle. Sometimes she needs to call an old friend she hasn’t talked to for years, or read a trashy book with a lot of dirt thrown in. Sometimes a woman needs to get laid. Or run a mile, or play three sets of tennis. But then there are nights like this one, nights when a woman needs to get drunk.”
Molly answers by pouring herself a jigger of vodka and throws an ice cube in the glass. “Do you want me to fix you anything?” I ask.
“A cup of arsenic with a dash of Angostura bitters and, if it’s not too much of a bother, a cigar box full of sleeping pills. That was as bad a scene as any of us has seen for a while.”
“Don’t say that, Molly,” I warn. “God is listening. He likes challenges.”
“God had nothing to do with what Sheba said.”
“He had everything to do with it,” I say.
“Did you really get it on with Sheba in high school?” Molly cannot quite suppress a smile at the thought of it.
“You saw me in high school. Did you want to get it on with me?”
“You got handsome late,” she admits.
“I never got handsome.”
“I’ve thought about putting the make on you a time or two over the years, Leo.”
“That’s not your libido talking,” I tell her. “That’s alcohol.”
“Sometimes it takes alcohol to let your libido in on what you really want.”
“That’s the dirtiest thing you’ve ever said, Molly Rutledge.”
“I think it is,” she says, reflecting. “I liked saying it.”
“What a shame we’re both married,” I say.
“We might be, Leo,” she says, “but I’m not a lunatic on the subject.”
“And I am?”
“You and Starla don’t exactly have a traditional marriage,” Molly reminds me. “She stays with you awhile, starts to lose it, goes off the deep end, and bang, she disappears again.”
“I knew what I was getting into.”
“Did you really?”
“No. I had no idea what I was getting into,” I admit.
“Neither did I.”
“Molly, you’re married to one of the most successful lawyers in the city. He’s from one of the oldest, most distinguished families in Charleston. You were destined to marry Chad Rutledge the day you were born.”
“It’s a pretty story.” Her voice contains a dissident quality I’ve not noticed before. “But not a true one.” She takes a chair opposite me. “Chad was sick of me a long time before we married. You know it, I know it; all of my friends know it. And most tragically, Chad knows it.”
“Everyone who knows you is in love with you, Molly. Everybody knows that. Even Chad.”
“Sweet Leo.” She smiles. “But you don’t lie well. Forget it. Let’s talk about pleasant subjects, like tonight. Do you think any of us will ever get over what happened tonight?”
“The whole thing caught me by surprise,” I say. “I didn’t know that bad blood could run so deep. Or for so long.”
“That wasn’t bad blood.” Molly fingers the rim of her wineglass. “That was hatred—of the Shakespearean variety. Sheba was a lot of things when we knew her, Leo, but she was never mean. It’s her kindness everyone remembers most.”
“I still believe in that kindness.”
Betty comes charging up the back stairs carrying the first platter of steaks. She places the food on the large kitchen table, where the Rutledge family eats most all of their meals, then walks directly to the bar. “How can you two lovebirds sit around flirting after that scene? This shit ain’t right. Give me a glass of white wine. This is what I get for hanging around you white folks. I like it better in the damn ghetto. We get that mad, we just shoot each other. Leo, honey, I never knew you had a brother. You’ve always seemed like an only child.”
“I should’ve told you,” I say. “It’s hard for me to talk about Steve. And I don’t think I’d know him if he walked into this room tonight.”
“I’m getting worried about Ike,” Betty says. “He’s been there putting Sheba to bed for a long time.”
“He’ll be in soon,” I say. “Thanks for helping get my mother to the car. I was too paralyzed to move.”
“The monsignor did the real dirty work. I’ve never seen your mother so shaken up. But the good reverend was making fine use of his golden tongue. I got to hand it to the man: he’s got a line of bullshit you could take to the bank. He sounds just what you think God would sound like if God was a Roman Catholic—which He sure as hell ain’t.”
“His sermons pack the cathedral,” I say.
“And what an operator he is.” Betty sits beside me and grabs my knee with one hand while sipping her wine with the other. “Before I came back to the house, the monsignor asked if Sheba could get four front-row tickets to A Chorus Line on Broadway next month. What’s Sheba got to do with Broadway?”
Molly says, “She slept with one of the producers of the show for a while. At least, that’s what I read in People.”
“You subscribe to People?” I ask.
“Doctor’s office,” Molly says. “A guilty pleasure, but a pleasure nonetheless. And it’s how I keep up with our girl Sheba.”
“I’ve always wondered what you South of Broad girls read,” Betty says. “I’m talking about the real reading—when you’re on the commode. I used to think all you white girls jacked off when Southern Living came in, then you couldn’t wait to get out to the gardens to plant dahlias and sweet peas and shit.”
“Dinner is served,” Niles calls out as he and Fraser bring in the remaining platters of T-bones along with potatoes and onions wrapped in aluminum foil.
The emotions that spilled out during the evening have left us famished. We have already half-finished the steaks by the time Ike comes in through the back door with worry lines furrowing his handsome brow.
“You get Sheba to bed, honey?” Betty asks.
“I should’ve come out to help,” Molly says.
“Yeah, you should’ve,” Ike says. “All of you should’ve. But not one of you did.”
Fraser says, “Why do you say that, besides making us feel guilty as hell?”
“Sheba thought you were taking sides,” Ike explains. “Choosing Dr. King over her.”
“Both were jerks,” Niles says. “I didn’t feel like choosing.”
“Let me fix you a drink, Ike,” Molly says, rising out of her chair.
Ike washes his hands at the sink, considering Molly’s request. “I think I’ll have a Cuba libre.”
“Rum and Coke,” Fraser says. “I haven’t heard of that since high school.”
“My husband, Che Guevara,” Betty says.
“Your husband, Pontius Pilate,” Niles says. “Would you quit washing your hands?”
“Our girl’s in trouble out there. Bad trouble,” Ike say
s. “Sheba passed out in the bathroom. I went in there and found cocaine all over the floor, everywhere. I flushed two bags of it down the pot. She had a nosebleed that I had trouble stopping.”
“You should have called us to help,” I say.
“You should’ve arrested her,” Betty says. The rightness of her words and their careful delivery shock the room into an edgy silence. “If you’d found a brother or a sister living in the projects with that much cocaine, they’d be in jail now.”
“I thought about all that,” Ike tells her. “Thought about everything. It’d’ve been the right thing to do. Except for us … all of us. Our past together. I decided to honor that instead of my badge.”
Fraser says what the rest of us are thinking. “You could get fired, Ike. Right before you take over as chief of police. It’d be the biggest scandal in years.”
“It’d make a great column, though,” I say. Every eye in the room flashes toward me with unabashed hostility. “That is one of the drawbacks of having a world-class sense of humor: my literalist friends take me seriously when I’ve delivered my most hilarious line.”
“Why is Sheba here?” Molly asks. “Did she tell you why she came back, Leo?”
“I think it’s Trevor,” I say. “I think something’s happened to Trevor.”
“Did she tell you that?” Fraser asks. “Or are you just guessing?”
“His name hasn’t come up once,” I say. “I find that strange.”
“When’s the last time you heard from Trevor?” Niles asks. “When did you get that postcard, doll baby?”
“Over a year ago,” Fraser says. “He was visiting the Monterey Aquarium with his boyfriend of the month. He sent a card with a sea otter on it. But he’d drawn a picture of a huge dick on the otter.”
“That’s our boy,” Molly says.
I say, “Trevor called me last year at about this time. He needed to borrow a thousand bucks. Some emergency. But he didn’t tell me what it was.”
“He borrowed a thousand from us too,” Molly says. “I don’t remember when it was, but it was a while ago.”