The Children (22 page)

“She definitely wears makeup,” Everett said. “And her mascara was running.”

“Well, so there you go.”

“Why wear makeup around here?” Everett said. “I can see when you're going out. Or if you're older.”

I knew Lisa Cranshaw was older—ten years older than Everett. I had cyberstalked her—just a little. She probably wore makeup to bed, and this thought pleased me.

“Let's go,” I said. “People will be here in a couple of hours.”

*   *   *

Laurel and Spin were in the kitchen when I returned to the house. Laurel was sitting on Spin's lap. She was freshly showered and wearing a cute summer dress. He was drinking a beer.

“Hi, Lottie,” she said. You'd never have known she had been so angry. “Go get ready, I want to do your hair and makeup tonight.”

“What? No, Laurel, it's just a barbecue. We don't get dressed up. I mean, what you're wearing is perfect. I might put on a little dress, but I'm not going to wear makeup.”

“Just a little,” she said. “I'm really good at it.”

“I'm the worst,” I said.

“It's because I used to model. I had to learn how to do my hair and makeup when I was starting out,” she said.

“You used to model?” I said. “I didn't know that.”

“Yeah, I still do, when I have the time.”

I was surprised by this, frankly. Laurel is beautiful, but she's tiny. She's shorter than I am, and I'm only five-four. I assumed that she had modeled skiwear or something, but Spin said, “She's with—what's the agency, Laurel-lee?”

“Ford,” she said.

“Wow,” I said.

“It's boring, just catalog work.”

“Just my boring fiancée. The photographer, model, writer…”

“Olympic skier,” I added.

“
No!
” She giggled. “I did not ski in the Olympics.”

*   *   *

“You're lucky, you don't need much,” Laurel said as she put the finishing touches on my makeup. She had me facing away from the mirror, so I couldn't see myself.

“There, look,” she said finally, and I turned. She had put a lot of makeup around my eyes (“smokey eyes,” she called it). Lots of charcoal-colored eyeliner, some beige eye shadow (she called it “champagne beige”), and lots of mascara.

“I feel like a drag queen,” I said. “I've never worn this much makeup.”

“Look at your eyes, they're so green. I thought they were bluish, but they're really kind of green,” said Laurel.

“I think it's too much,” I said.

“You're just not used to it, that's all. Go show Sally. See what she thinks.”

I did show Sally. Joan, too. They both loved it. Sally even let Laurel give her a little makeover; then we all went down together, Sally, Laurel, Joan, and I.

Just before we went outside, where dozens of people were already gathered, Joan stopped and took Laurel's hand in hers.

“Laurel, I'm so glad that you're going to be a member of this family. You feel like one of my girls already.”

“Oh, Joan, that means so much to me,” Laurel said.

“We all feel that way, Laurel,” I said. “We're so glad that Spin found you.”

And with that, we went out and joined the party.

*   *   *

The guests had started arriving around seven. By eight, there were cars parked all over the lawn and as far up and down East Shore Road as you could see. It was like the old days. Many of Spin's and Perry's friends from high school, as well as all the people Joan and Whit had socialized with at the club and in town. And all the bluegrass people were there—the “pickers and fiddlers,” as Whit used to call them. They came from all over New England. Everett had burgers and hot dogs going on the grill, and soon two long picnic tables were covered with salads, vegetables, homemade breads, and pies that people had brought. Somebody brought fried chicken. Somebody else brought ribs. Spin had set up a bar on the porch and he was mixing up pitchers of margaritas. Dogs ran through the crowd, picking up any morsels that had been dropped.

A couple of the old bluegrass guys grabbed Sally and dragged her over to the little deck outside Whit's shed. That's where we always played on summer nights—we turned it into a stage when we had parties. It's pretty there; the lake's in the background. And Spin had set up a microphone and speakers. The musicians were already playing, and Sally was saying hello to everybody, but she shook her head at their entreaties to play. “Later,” I heard her say.

Laurel wandered through the crowd with Joan and me; Joan introduced her to everybody. Soon Perry and Catherine arrived. They were staying with friends for the weekend and had left the kids back in Southampton with the nanny.

The crowd, Whit's old crowd, made us all feel nostalgic, even Perry. He actually hugged me when I greeted him. Usually we just politely touch cheeks. Everybody mingled, and soon a large number of the guests were seated at the various picnic tables and card tables, eating and listening to the music. It was sort of a rotating group on the deck—a banjo player would leave the deck to get a drink and another would take his or her place. Georgia Devereaux, an old friend of Whit with a great country singing voice, sang a few songs. Every now and then somebody would say into the microphone, “Why aren't there any Whitmans up here? Where's Sally? Where's Spin?”

People tended to call us all Whitmans, even Everett sometimes.

I was sitting at a table with Laurel, Spin, Perry, Catherine, and some others. Everett kept bringing us food. Laurel and Catherine were excitedly making plans for the Hamptons visit. I heard Catherine tell her that they, too, were going to have a party, but it would be more intimate than this. A real dinner party.

There was a little break in the music and Joan's voice came booming from the speakers.

“Hello? Everybody? Your attention, please?”

I grabbed Perry's arm and said, “Oh no, Perry, she's making a toast or something. She's going to go on and on.”

“Oh Jesus,” he said, taking a big gulp of his beer.

And Joan began. She thanked everybody for coming, and then she called up Laurel and Spin.

“Spin? Spin dear, where are you? Come up here, you and Laurel both.”

I was dying for them, but Spin is such a good sport that he waved, took Laurel by the hand, and walked with her up to the deck, where my mother stood.

“Here they are!” Joan said. “I hope everybody has had the chance to meet Laurel. If you haven't, you will. And, in case you haven't heard, Laurel and Spin are going to be married this summer. She's here to stay and we couldn't be more thrilled about that.”

There was a lot of clapping and hollering.

“Perry,” I said, “go up there and see if you can get the mike away from her.”

He nodded, took another gulp of his beer, then wiped his mouth and started over to the deck.

As I've said, Joan isn't the most emotional person, so I was surprised that she suddenly had a little tremor in her voice.

“Spin, Whit was very proud of you, he always was … and for good reason.”

People in the crowd started clapping and somebody shouted “SPINNER!”

“But I know that if Whit had been able to meet Laurel…” She actually paused here, because she was getting a little choked up. There were easily a hundred people on our lawn and you could have heard a pin drop. “If he could have met the beautiful, kind, wonderful young woman that you've chosen to spend your life with, I know that of all the things you've done, all the choices you've made and will make in your life, this is the one that would have made Whit the most proud.”

Everybody cheered. Joan saw Perry and handed him the microphone. She looked relieved. I'm sure she hadn't expected to get as emotional as she did. When Joan stepped off the deck, Perry placed the microphone back on the stand, and the banjos and fiddles started up again. Spin grabbed Joan and pulled her into a big bear hug. They walked back to our table and Spin had one arm around Laurel and one around Joan.

“That was so sweet, Joan,” Catherine said.

“Yeah, Joan,” Everett said. He had started in with the margaritas a little early. He'd been drinking before the guests had even arrived, setting up the grill with Spin, and now he was feeling good.

“Spin, it's true. What Joanie said,” Everett added.

“Thanks, brother,” said Spin.

Everett said to Laurel, “Too bad you never got to meet Whit. He was … well, my dad used to tell me that other people in this town, other people in Whit's”—he raised his fingers to do air quotes—“‘circle,' I guess you'd say—”

“Yeah, I guess you'd say that if you were seventy,” Sally scoffed.

“Well, he was seventy when he said it, Sal, you little bitch,” Everett said, giving her a playful shove, making her laugh.

“Now, wait—let me finish,” Everett said. “Dad said that when most of these guys did stuff for the community or gave to local charities and shit like that, he used to say they were ‘padding their obituaries.' Dad said that most people did this shit because they wanted the town to love
them
. But Whit did that stuff because he loved the town.”

“Aw, Ev,” I said.

“That's sweet,” Joan said.

“So, I just want to make a toast to Spin,” Everett continued. He stood and held his drink up high. “Spin, my brother, I see so much of your father in you, and you know I mean that as a mighty compliment. I don't think a lot of people understand what it was like for you, growing up the way you did, sort of straddling two families, but you made it one family. You made it whole. I admire the shit out of you, man.… You'll never know how much. You're the best friend I've ever had.… You're the brother I never had. I love you, man. I always will.”

I wished I hadn't let Laurel put so much mascara on me; I was crying when Everett and Spin stood and hugged across the table. Sally was openly sobbing, Joan and Spin were a little teary. But I noticed that Perry had a sort of frozen smile during Everett's tipsy speech and that Laurel hadn't even heard it. She was looking at some photos on Catherine's phone.

“Now let's play some music,” Spin said.

Spin grabbed his guitar from the porch and Everett went into the shed to grab a banjo. When they got on the deck, everybody cheered and gathered around. “Where's our fiddler?” Spin shouted into the mike. “And we need another banjo. Charlotte!”

“Oh Jesus,” I said.

Laurel leaned across the table and said, “Lottie, I didn't know you play, too.”

“She's really fast on that banjo,” Catherine said. “There's a video on YouTube.”

“I don't play much anymore,” I said.

Sally came running over, grabbed me, and we ran up to the deck as everybody cheered.

Sally had her fiddle with her and she started playing with the guys while I went into the shed to find my favorite of Whit's banjos. It was hard to hear, but I was able to tune it before I went back outside. They were in the middle of one of Whit's old favorites, a favorite of most bluegrass nuts—“Foggy Mountain Breakdown”
—
and I stepped onto the stage next to Everett and started matching my banjo rolls to his.

Spin segued into another tune on the guitar, and he said into the microphone, “Here's something that Sally and I made up when we were kids. It's called ‘Soggy Bottom Breakdown.'” Norm Hungerford, still an excellent bass player despite his failing memory, was on the stage with us. Craig White had his mandolin. It was like old times.

Mike Reynolds, another fiddler, got a big round of applause after a very lively solo during “Orange Blossom Special,” and Sally couldn't help herself when he stepped back from the mike and motioned for her to take his place. She got up there, and at first she just did these long strokes on one string. It sounded just like the long whistle of a train. Then she plucked at another string and made a little
toot-toot
sound, and then she was off. She played the chorus and wove in melodies from other pieces, like “Flight of the Bumblebee” and the “Sabre Dance.” She even managed to weave in Beyoncé's “Beautiful Liar,” which only the younger people got.

When we finished the song, she was all fired up. “Here's something that my sister and I sang at Whit's memorial service,” she said into the mike. “Those of you who knew Whit, which I guess would be all of you, know that he loved gospel music.”

I was shaking my head no and tugging at her arm. I hadn't sung anything in ages. She ignored me. “And this was one of his favorites. Come on, Lottie.”

Spin and Everett pushed me up to the mike with her and we sang “Down to the River to Pray.”

 

EIGHTEEN

We stopped playing music when the fireworks started. Everett, Spin, Sally, and the others started up again sometime after that, but I was through. Joan and I both went up to bed a little after midnight. I woke up a few times in the night and could hear some hangers-on outside until almost dawn. The few neighbors who had declined our invitation would be politely complaining to us about this for weeks.

It was sunny and hot when I awoke the next morning. I went upstairs to check my e-mail, as I do every day, and saw that there was one from Australian Matt.

The subject line read “LoneStarLiza.”

The e-mail said only: “Have you checked the children?”

I puzzled over this for a few minutes before replying: “What are you talking about?”

Then I went outside to survey the damage. It wasn't that bad. Somebody had thrown the empty cans and bottles into recycling bins. Bags and bags of garbage had been placed in a pile close to the driveway, ready for Everett to take them to the dump. I noticed that his truck was parked where it had been all night and that his window shades were still drawn. I suspected that everyone would be hurting this morning. I went back inside to make some coffee, and Laurel was standing in the kitchen, yawning. She smiled and said, “Morning, Lottie.”