Lovesick (7 page)

Virginia dropped the clipping on the table and swept the whole bunch of them to the floor with her hand. She picked up her tea.

“Aren't you going to read the rest of them?” asked Mona.

“Why bother,” said Virginia. “They're all the same. These bitches or the ones back in Fayetteville. They all think that just because their daddy or granddaddy fought and died for the Confederacy that they deserve some special attention. They make me sick to my stomach. Why don't you draw a hot bath for me? I want to rest before the reception this afternoon.”

Virginia closed her eyes and could hear the water running in the bath. What a bunch of dolts, she thought to herself. A bunch of stuck-up society bags with dreams of grandeur. She would wipe the floor with them. It would be almost as easy as making a batch of Butcher's popovers. He had been right about those. They were so simple, she could now probably make them blindfolded. And they were perfect every time—the shell would pull apart gently only to melt in your mouth when it had cooled a bit. Yes, easy as Butcher's popovers. No, not Butcher's, she corrected herself. My popovers. Miss Virginia's popovers.

6

Lane cake . . .

The reception was scheduled to begin at three, but Virginia knew some would want to be late to create interest. Virginia thought it not wise to show up late for a job interview, for she understood that was what this hustle and show was about: It was an audition. She had been on enough of those to know what worked. There were always categories of girls—some too eager, some absolutely unqualified, and those with an attitude as enticing as vinegar. But there were a couple of girls every time who knew they could have the job if they wanted it. She could see it in the way they carried themselves, the way they sat, the way they quietly drew attention to themselves. They usually did get the job.

George had that attitude. He knew he could cook any of these women straight out the back door of any kitchen. And she agreed that he probably was correct. But this was about more than who could make the best biscuit. She recognized that from the initial request for a photo. These women would run a gamut of sizes, shapes, dispositions, but there was one thing of which she was certain—they would all be white women of a certain age and background.

For the tea, they had each been asked to wear a hat of their “own creation or personalization” as a “statement of her originality and unique character.” Virginia had found a picture in
Photoplay
of Constance Bennett wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat with a satin ribbon that she liked, so she took the picture to the milliner at Belk Brothers Department Store, and together they fashioned a similar version for her. Virginia's hat was also made of white straw, but there was no crown. The milliner wove creamy apricot ribbon around to form a latticework top. “Like a pie,” she said, tying a ribbon around to hide her stitch work. And for a pin to hold the ribbon there was one topped with silver filigreed wings like a butterfly . . . or an angel.
Angel biscuits.
Virginia thought it simple and sophisticated. That was going to be how she presented herself. Like the girl who knew she could have this part if she wanted it.

The reception was to be held in the Ladies' Lounge of the hotel just off the main dining room and opposite the Gentlemen's Lounge. The room was light, breezy, an extravaganza of wicker and chintz upholstery in contrast to what she supposed were the deep leathers and wood of the Gentlemen's Lounge. The room buzzed with women, the elite of Atlanta society, all dressed in summer silks, their fashionable best. Here to see her. It made her happy to think that. For the occasion, Virginia had chosen a cream-colored charmeuse with a pleated apricot bodice to match the ribbon in her hat. She studied the room briefly, then walked to the women sitting at the registration table.

“Good afternoon,” she said, extending her gloved hand to the woman in charge. “I am Virginia Yeager.”

The woman behind the table introduced herself as Florence Gaffney and her friend, who seemed slightly hard of hearing, as Mrs. Bethel Talbot Walker. Florence Gaffney leaned toward Virginia as if sharing a confidence, “The Talbot Walkers are one of Atlanta's finest. Her grandfather was killed in the Battle of Atlanta just around the corner somewhere.” Virginia made sure to seem suitably impressed and gave a warm hello to the old woman. Florence Gaffney continued, “Some of the ladies have already arrived and are gathered by the punch bowl or looking at the seating arrangement.” She pointed to the row of chairs at the front of the room, facing the audience. “I'm afraid they have you all lined up in a row like a firing squad.”

“More of a semicircle,” said Virginia. “Perhaps some of us will manage to get out alive.”

“I think it has something to do with the newspaper woman, so that she can ask you all questions. And I am sure you will do just fine. Now, if you don't mind, I must pin this dreadful name tag on you. Why they gave this job to me, I'll never know. Don't let me do any damage. There now. That doesn't look too bad.”

“Thank you,” said Virginia. “I think I might have a sip of punch. It is awfully warm today.”

“Do,” said Mrs. Talbot Walker of the Atlanta Talbot Walkers. “It's temperance. And the best of luck to you.”

In a quick head count, Virginia could spot five other ladies. She tried to size them up. Which ones were just incompetent, which would be too eager to please, which ones would be difficult or needy? She was not the last. As she made her way to the punch bowl, a woman arrived at the registration table with Mrs. Gaffney and Mrs. Talbot Walker. Virginia took a glass of sparkling punch and a napkin, and studied the arrangement of the chairs. Their names were printed on cards taped to the back—it
was
rather like a firing squad, she agreed. She thought about wandering to the semicircle, but her attention was diverted by a commotion at the door. The last woman had entered the room. And what a woman. For a moment, Virginia felt as if she might burst into laughter at the sheer spectacle of her. Her dress was totally inappropriate in these surroundings. She wore a boldly printed floral silk lounge dress with a Bertha ruffle with a fitted bodice and short sleeves. Even worse, she had pinned a silk hydrangea inside the bosom of her dress, so that it looked as if it were blooming there. But most conspicuous was the hat. She had taken what appeared to be two white cloche-style hats and stitched them together, one on top of the other so they resembled a cake where the layers had gone slightly cockeyed. Around the hat she had sewn or pinned bunches of cherries. She paraded into the room with her arms out in front of her and slightly to the side, palms down in an imitation of a Ziegfeld girl. Virginia could see the soft flesh wagging underneath her arms.

“Hi, y'all,” she called out to everyone. “The circus has arrived.” She paused for a moment. “I'm Wadena, but you all can call me Elaine Cake.” Then she paused again, pointing to her hat. “Get it? A Lane cake?” She laughed again, broadly, and some of the ladies applauded.

“How clever she is,” said a woman near where Virginia stood. “And what an outgoing personality.”

Virginia thought, yes, the circus had indeed arrived. And brought with it her competition.

One of the women from the local DOC asked the women to take their places in the circle of chairs. It was time to begin the official program. Virginia was seated between Jubal Hart and Inez Honeycutt. Jubal had fashioned a bonnet for herself, and when she saw that Virginia was looking at it, she said she was always inspired by her granny who wore a bonnet, so she wanted to honor her. Virginia could tell by the cut of her clothes that Jubal was out of her league here—a woman who probably volunteered to make chicken salad for every church function and, therefore, had a favorable reputation among a very small group of women who were happy enough to have decent chicken salad made for them on a regular basis. On the other hand, Inez was hard country, nothing more. Virginia had seen this type of woman often enough. Her shoes were old and did not match her dress, which was probably borrowed. Her hat was white straw like Virginia's, but it was flat as a pancake and sat atop her head as if she were balancing a tray where perched a veritable cornucopia of wax fruit. Wadena Chastain sat opposite Virginia in the circle of chairs, almost a mirror image in her Lane cake hat. She didn't settle in right away, fidgeting like a small girl at a recital, smoothing her skirt over her legs and adjusting her hat. They were small gestures, but Virginia could tell she was nervous, a bit on edge, ready to begin. When she looked across at Virginia, she cocked her head slightly like an animal in the zoo that enjoys being watched. She flashed a smile and shrugged her shoulders as if to ask what was happening next.

Then, as if on cue, the local DOC representative, who also turned out to be the president of the local chapter, Mrs. Margaret Wheeler, thanked the committee responsible for hosting the tea, then recognized all the officers present from their club. These small pleasantries formed the foundation of the women's clubs, Virginia knew. Each woman needed just a moment in the sun so she could show off her hat, her hairdo, her latest frock. It would give the women of the Atlanta DOC fodder for months. Mrs. Wheeler then introduced Jocelyn Hind Crowley from the paper, who would interview them and also serve as a judge. She also introduced Roland, the chef of the Plantation House. After each name was presented, there was polite applause.

Then Mrs. Wheeler took a deep breath and gathered herself up for her official welcoming speech. Fortunately, it was mercifully short about the virtue of women in general and the virtues of Southern women in particular. Then, she added, “But none of this would be possible without the vision, the support, and the generosity of our sponsor, the President of Mystic White Flour, Colonel Clayton Claiborne II.”

The surprise of Clayton Claiborne was that he was not what she had expected. Virginia thought the name sounded almost like a bit of stagecraft, a politician in a melodrama. Seersucker and a full head of white hair. Gregarious, a bit pompous, exaggerated. The Clayton Claiborne who walked through the door, however, more closely resembled an accountant or an undertaker.

He was nearly bald, but combed wisps of hair up and around to the top of his head where they lay like discarded thread. He wore a dark suit, too hot for summer, and though it was expensive, it did not fit him well. There was open space between his neck and shirt collar, and he wore spectacles. As for age, Virginia had not a clue—he could have been forty or four hundred. She thought he looked very much like a fairy-tale troll sprung to life.

Claiborne thanked Mrs. Wheeler and took out a sheet of paper with his prepared remarks. His voice was high-pitched, nasal, with a deep Southern drawl that identified him as Georgia born and bred.

“Ladies of Atlanta and ladies who are guests of Atlanta,” he said, acknowledging first the audience and then the circle of contestants. “This is a very special occasion. A special occasion, indeed. I want to welcome you all to the Plantation House Hotel where we will, before the weekend is over, choose one of these women to be the official representative of the Mystic White Flour Company.

“As you know, Mystic White is a family business, started by my grandfather. We have always prided ourselves on milling the softest white flour that money can buy. We are the flour of the Southern lady.”

There was a slight murmur of applause from the group. Claiborne looked up from his statement. “I hope I wasn't sounding too much like an advertisement,” he said. “But this is my heritage. There is a joke that says, ‘If you were to slice Clay Claiborne's finger, he would bleed white.' There may be some truth in that. And Mystic White is a part of your heritage as well. Every time you use it to bake a cake or a biscuit. To show your family how much you care.”

Virginia looked out over the audience. The women seemed genuinely moved by this notion. That what they were doing each day mattered.

“Now there are two women who cooked for me when I was a boy,” Claiborne continued. My mamma was one of them, and the other was my black mammy. I loved them both, put flowers on both their graves, God rest their souls, but who do you suppose I want to have be the representative of my company—the picture of the Southern woman we send out to the world?

“I know you ladies know what I am talking about. Some will put a colored man or a black mammy on a box and call it Southern. ‘Jimmy Crack Corn' and all that nonsense. Well, it ain't my South. My South is you ladies. And your sisters and your aunts and your cousins and your daughters. And your daughters' daughters.

“You all hold the heart of the South in your hands. I applaud your work and your sacrifice. Mystic White Flour celebrates all of you by choosing one of you to represent each of you.”

The ladies of Atlanta applauded loudly as Claiborne concluded his remarks. The muffled thump of gloved hands. Virginia could not help but smile. If Claiborne sought a champion, then that is what she would be. There was probably less than a span of fifteen years in age among them all, but she was the prettiest of these contestants—that was obvious. She was the most stylish. The most sophisticated. She could sense the wariness of the women around her. If Wadena was a parade float, then she was a sculpture. She knew this feeling, had experienced it before when she mingled in their midst. She had not had friends really since Dorothea. She didn't have time for it—life on her own took all she had. Besides, women did not take to her, trust her, like her. She supposed they feared she might become entangled with one of their husbands, and that could never be allowed. And so they would invite her to dinner, to cocktails if they were liberal. But only to fill out a table. Never as a friend for supper. The wives had it wrong, though—Virginia was not interested in
their
husbands. She wanted more than what these women had. She wanted a husband of her own who would take her someplace where she could become her own creation. Women did it all the time in plays and movies. All it took was imagination and bit of flair.

This time was different somehow, Virginia realized. Now she could cook. This made her like one of them—or at least would make them think she was like them. When she became The Lady, she would perform it like a part, like a role played by Constance Bennett or Irene Dunne. And just as the women wanted to be them, they would want to be like her. When she became The Lady, these women would perhaps be uneasy around her, but it would not be out of fear she was going to steal their husbands. In fact, she imagined they would offer the husbands up if The Lady asked it. These women now in the audience were trying to imagine what it must be like to be her—and Virginia understood what those girls in the auditions knew. This was hers for the taking.

Claiborne made his way around the circle beginning on the far side away from Virginia. He said something to each woman, wished them well. She tried to judge if he lingered with Wadena Chastain, but wasn't certain. And since he had his back directly to her, Wadena's face was hidden from her.