Southern Living (36 page)

“They’ll be comin’ over,” Suzanne assured him. “Her secretary told me to expect ’em.… They’re just savin’ the best for last.”

8:30:
In the lower, southern half of Selby, rainwater had begun to consume the landscape in a way that had not been seen in ninety-three years. Downtown, the Muscogee River swelled beyond its banks, swallowing every lane of I-75 and creating a backup of cars that stretched for more than thirty miles in each direction.

The bronze statue of Robert E. Lee had been lifted by the waters from its redbrick foundation in Tattnall Park and carried a mile and a half downstream, where it now lay on its side in front of the chained gate of the abandoned Cherokee brick factory.

Sheriff’s deputies patrolled neighborhoods in sputtering dinghies,
throwing ham sandwiches and bottles of water to those who had sought refuge on their roofs.

Half of the riverside Rosemont Cemetery was submerged. Its resident pack of wild dogs had been chased by water up to the highest point, the Fornley family mausoleum, which they occupied like displaced, defeated gargoyles, lying in the rain on the various, gray-granite terraces.

Not wanting to shatter the buzzing ambience of a perfect party, Suzanne had shut off the ringers on all her telephones, thus unaware of the deluge of regrets that were filling her voice mail every minute.

9:45:
Again, the rain stopped. The thirty-five guests at Suzanne and Boone’s party lingered because they felt badly about the turnout, and they did not want to further empty a home that already felt cavernous.

Barely touched tray after tray of food had taken on a patina of neglect and decay. The dollops of horseradish sauce no longer shimmered beneath the halogen lights. The heated, brown gravy that once harbored meatballs had evaporated to the point that the orbs of beef were now resting on the bottom of the chrome pan, like the last, dying fish in a desert lake that has all but dried up. Not wanting the caterers and Suzanne to feel badly, some of the women surreptitiously moved the food around so it appeared that more had been eaten. Two different guests found a discreet way to sneak some of the tenderloin into the trash can and toilet.

As the evening progressed, Suzanne seemed to grow increasingly manic, flitting from guest to guest as if to distract them from the emptiness of the party. She’d not had plans to drink that night, but the tensions grew too great, and Suzanne needed help escaping the failure she was watching before her very eyes. So, with help from John David, Suzanne would slip into the butler’s pantry, off the dining room, where she quaffed chardonnay like water.

Finally, at ten thirty-five, Madeline VanDermeter and her Dogwood
Blossom entourage dashed from the house next door when the downpour subsided for a moment.

Her voice resounded in the marble-floored foyer. “I am so, so sorry, Suzanne … Boone. We’ve been fixin’ to come over for an hour now but couldn’t because of that awful rain. There will not be a blossom left for all those tour buses comin’ in this weekend. This is just a darn shame.”

Boone and Josephine took their coats and their dripping umbrellas. “Y’all come on in now and dry off,” Boone said. “I was just fixin’ to drop that wine and go and get me some bourbon. Any takers here?”

“Yes!” Madeline VanDermeter replied. “I do need to use the ladies room, though. Is it in the same place, Suzanne?”

“Yes, ma’am. It sure is.”

Madeline tried the door to the powder room, but it was locked with someone inside. Not wanting to bother the hosts, she went to search on her own for an alternative. She wandered into the master bedroom and into the master bath and chose the toilet that appeared to be Suzanne’s, marked by a basket nearly overflowing with decorating catalogs and magazines.

Madeline raised her dress, lowered herself onto the toilet seat, and when her bare butt came in contact with the oily
Shame!
potion that Josephine had smeared onto the cool, doughnut-shaped surface, she slipped off the toilet, toward the wall, hitting her head on the sharp corner of the windowsill and falling into darkness.

Lying on her back on the floor, Madeline VanDermeter looked up and saw the faces of Boone Parley and Ed Nwasu, and she suddenly realized, mortified, that one of these two men had pulled her panties back into place, and she wasn’t certain which one she’d have preferred do such a thing—a strange black man from southern Africa or a handsome neurosurgeon whose mother she played bridge with each Thursday.

T
hough she rarely bought more than an herb plant or two, Margaret stopped by Reeverts’ Nursery and Garden Center at least twice a week. Part of the draw was Francine Reeverts herself, a thin, wrinkly, seventy-four-year-old who wore her white hair in a French roll and was comfortable speaking with a smoldering Camel bouncing in her lips. Behind the cash register, Francine would perch upon a chrome stool upholstered in yellow vinyl and snack on fried chicken livers brought from home each day in a Styrofoam cup. Margaret enjoyed Francine’s company, and in their talks about Southern culture Francine would often unwittingly toss out interesting horticultural metaphors.

The other thing Margaret enjoyed at Reeverts’ was the quirky rock garden Francine and her husband, Robbie, had built adjacent to the nursery to honor their daughter who died of lung cancer. At first glance, the Judy Reeverts Bass Memorial World Garden appeared to be a miniature-golf course in the Flintstone theme with a
man-made, concrete-and-flagstone creek connecting large dioramas created from brick and stones and trees and shrubs and a plethora of concrete-cast lawn ornaments.

Each diorama had a sign identifying it. There was the Ngoron-goro crater of Tanzania, with concrete lions perched atop a flagstone precipice like the one Margaret remembered from
The Lion King
 … a miniature re-creation of Arizona’s Grand Canyon, complete with Matchbox car–size donkeys whose feet had been pushed into the concrete at the bottom … an Asian scene, with a cross-legged Buddha flanked by bonsai cedar trees … and in the center, much larger than the others, a re-creation of Jesus’ tomb, big enough for a handful of people to come in and sit down. Inside, a painted statue of Mary wept in the dark corner, the tears portrayed on her cheek with red paint that looked like blood. All these scenes and more were connected by the concrete creek that flowed from diorama to diorama.

But today Margaret was here to pick out flowers. For months, Dewayne had been urging her to wrest control of her hairy yard, and suddenly, inexplicably, Margaret found herself obsessed with transforming the weed-choked flower beds in front of her porch.

“Hey, Margaret,” Francine said, slowly walking down the aisle of perennials.

“Francine! How are you?”

“Doin’ good. And yourself?”

“Doin’ real good.”

Margaret scanned the greenhouse, breathing in deeply the warm air that smelled of geraniums and new soil and the plastic tarp overhead that was warmed by the sun. “I’m overwhelmed by the beauty of this place,” she said. “I always am.”

“It’s a good time of the year,” Francine agreed.

“I’m amazed at the variety of things that grow here. It’s such a weird mixture, with the oaks of the north and palms of the subtropics.”

“You know what they call it,” Francine said.

“Call what?”

“The area that Selby sits in.”

“No, ma’am.”

“It’s called a tension zone.”

She took her cigarette from her mouth. “See, the USDA gardenin’ zones run east to west. They’re these crooked, invisible lines that follow the frost patterns, and wherever two zones meet there’s twenty or so miles of schizophrenic weather, and that’s where the species from both zones collide and try to intermingle … one from the north, and one from the south.”

“I love that!” Margaret exclaimed.

“Only the strongest specimens from each zone will survive in a tension zone,” Francine said.

She took another draw of her Camel, exhaled, and raised her eyebrows. “Kind of like what’s goin’ on in Selby right now with another species we know pretty well. Where’s your man friend today, Margaret?”

Since Margaret’s revelation, Dewayne had called a few times but had not stopped by the house except to pick up a screwdriver from his tool box. Margaret was painting the back bedroom when he came. He peeked through the doorway of the room and, seeing her standing on the ladder, hurried in, lifted her by the armpits and set her gently on the floor.

“What are you doin’?” he said. “Are you crazy?”

“Quit treating me like a little child, Dewayne! That was very demeaning.”

“You shouldn’t be up there like that.”

“Why not?”

Dewayne stood there, silent.

“Was that action based on an assumption I should know about?” Margaret asked.

He turned and walked back outside. Margaret could hear the thud of his heavy boots on the wooden floor of the porch before
reaching the concrete steps. And then, the sound of the steps returned, the door opened, and he was inside again.

“If I asked you to marry me,” he said, “would you believe it’s ’cause I love you?”

He had never said the words, nor had Margaret, and she could sense the weight of them by the way his eyes and lips subtly trembled. She walked toward him and put her hands on his warm, reddened cheeks.

“Oh, Dewayne … Dewayne … this is not the way it was supposed to turn out. You are so, so sweet.… But this is not a path I’d planned on taking. I never have. It’s just never been an option in my mind.”

“What path?”

“Motherhood.”

His hands crammed into the back pockets of his jeans, Dewayne took a step backward. “You know,” he said, “some people actually like bein’ mommas.”

“Was that a slam on my mother?”

“Yes, it was.”

“Dewayne!”

“I’m speakin’ my mind here.”

“It’s about time.”

“I’ve got too much to lose.”

“What?”

“My happiness.”

“But you won’t lose me,” Margaret said. “I’ll still be there.”

“But part of me won’t,” he said.

“Which part?”

“That part inside you right now.”

“I’ll ask you again,” Margaret said. “Which part?” She took her fist and patted her heart. “Is it part of your heart we’re talking about or your sperm? Which do you mean, Dewayne?”

Without answering, Dewayne turned and walked outside, got into his truck, and drove away.

***

Carrying a plastic flat of perennials, Margaret returned to her car to find Randy leaning against the hood.

“You can’t hide when you drive a car like this,” he said. “I was on my way home and spotted you.”

“Stalker.”

“What do you have there?”

Margaret opened her trunk and set the flowers inside. “Foxglove. Cat’s whisker. Black-eyed Susans and shasta daisies.”

“I’ve got some news for you.”

“What?”

“The great dying dogs mystery has been solved.”

She slammed the trunk and quickly looked at Randy to read his face.

“Turned out to be nothing. At least nothing interesting. Maybe a six-inch story on two-B or a metro brief at best. Sheriff said some dufus’s truck at a construction sight was leaking antifreeze. I guess the stuff’s sweet and tasty. God knows Southern dogs would lap up something sweet but deadly. Anyway, I knew it wasn’t much else—what psycho goes around poisoning dogs? What’s with the flowers, Margaret? You been bit by that Southern decorating bug?”

“Actually, Randy, it’s called the nesting instinct.”

He furrowed his brow. “What are you saying?”

“I’m pregnant.”

“What!”

“Yes.”

“You are fucking kidding me! Pregnant! The redneck fireman?” he asked.

“His name’s Dewayne. Yes.”

“I thought this was just a fling, Margaret. Something you’d get over.”

“I’m not sure what it is, Randy. I’m not sure where it is either.”

“I was patient. I was waiting. Shit! Pregnant? I’m assuming this situation was intentional, then … realizing that you probably
know more about birth control and the female reproductive system than the entire population of Selby, Georgia, combined.”

“It was not intentional, no.”

“I know what you want,” Randy said. “You want someone who’s going to open every damn door for you and take you to the NASCAR races. Jesus, Margaret, I’ve seen you guys driving around town—you sit right by him. Like some trailer-trash woman.”

“I accept your apology.”

Randy slumped against the car and looked down at his stomach. With both hands, he grabbed and pinched his roll of fat that had the girth of a baguette. “I used to be lean and mean,” he said.

Margaret walked over and gently pinched his right cheek. “You’re still mean, Randy. If that’s any consolation.”

S
ince five
A.M
., Donna had been immersed in her newest creation—an end cap display celebrating Cinco de Mayo. In a sea of Italian plum tomatoes she made a giant number five out of dark-green Hass avocados. Using key limes, she spelled out
Mayo
in an arch shape over the five. Still not satisfied, Donna drove back home to get her four margarita glasses, which she filled with green and white jelly beans and a straw and randomly placed them among the tomatoes. Over all of this, taped to a ceiling beam, was a sign she’d made at home the night before with her mother’s airbrush gun, featuring giant, smiling jalapeños and the giant word
GuacamOLE!
, with the last three letters exaggerated in size and color.