The Last Girls (18 page)

Harriet rode back from dinner at the Shenandoah Club in Alice's new green station wagon, paid for by Mr. Carr's will. Alice wrinkled
up her nose and put a light hand on Harriet's arm just before she let her out of the car at Old South. “I want to ask you something,” she said. “Your roommate . . . Baby . . . is she
okay?
”

“Well, sure.” Harriet was taken aback. “I mean why are you asking me this?”

“I don't know,” Alice said. “Something . . .”

“They're just
nice,
Mama,” Harriet said irritably. “They're very, very nice and very, very rich, that's all.” But Harriet knew what Alice meant, though it wasn't until later that she'd learn what made Baby's parents so solicitous.

I
T WAS
J
ANUARY
. Harriet had been to Winter Frolics at the KA house at Washington and Lee with Thomas Lee, a prelaw student from Tennessee. Back home, he apparently rode horses and hunted a lot; after law school, he'd go into practice with his father. His whole life was mapped out; all he had to do was live it. Harriet had met him through Baby, of course, or some friend of Baby's at the KA house. Somehow Baby had arrived in Virginia already knowing about half of all the boys in the neighboring men's colleges, so she was always fixing the rest of them up. Harriet had gone from having no social life at all in high school to having more social life than she could handle. Her grades dropped from A's to B's, though her scholarship depended on them. Yet Harriet loved going out, she loved seeing herself as a social butterfly. She loved calling home and telling her mother where she'd been, and Alice loved hearing it—she always wanted every detail.

Harriet couldn't figure out what Thomas Lee saw in her; she suspected he liked her just because she was Baby Ballou's roommate. Nevertheless, after the party when he drove her back to the chaperone's house where Mary Scott girls were supposed to stay, Thomas Lee fell heavily across her in the front seat, trying for her breasts, which were luckily unattainable since both their coats and the gear -shift were in the way.

“Thomas, I have to go in,” Harriet said, struggling under his weight. He did not respond, breathing heavily, one hand finally inside her coat, then down her skirt, inside her panty hose. Next time she would wear a panty girdle. Even though she didn't really need one, it was a lot safer.

“Come on, baby,” Thomas said into her hair. He pulled her panty hose down until they were like fetters around her knees. His fingers hurt inside her. His thing was out, and hard. Immediately Harriet's mind went up above the two of them, up above Thomas Lee's little red MGB convertible which he was so proud of, up above the crowd on the chaperone's lighted porch where lingering kisses went on and on. Harriet's head hurt, pushed against the door. But somehow, with a sudden burst of strength, she was able to reach back and open the latch, catapulting both herself and Thomas Lee out onto the icy bank, where he let out a yelp of pain. “Bitch,” he said. “You goddamn bitch.” Harriet didn't care, trying to pull her panty hose up far enough so she could walk. In the light from the porch, Thomas Lee's breath came out in little white puffs like cartoon conversation. Finally Harriet stumbled up the stone steps and into the house, leaving Thomas Lee there by the side of the road leaning over the top of his little car. He stood like that for a long time after the other boys had left, stood there until Harriet started to get really worried about him, but then finally he got back into his car and drove off into the night.

Forehead pressed against the cold glass of the dormer window, Harriet watched his red taillights wink out of sight. She knew he wouldn't pick her up tomorrow morning for the Bloody Mary party at the KA house, she knew he'd never call her again. She had broken one of the cardinal rules in the elaborate game of dating at Mary Scott; she had not been charming, she'd embarrassed him. Therefore she would be penalized. She didn't care; she could work on her Milton paper in the morning; in fact, she'd rather do that anyway. By then Harriet was starting to worry there was something a little bit
wrong with her, as far as dating was concerned. She hadn't understood that the whole object of college was to graduate with an engagement ring as well as a diploma, though everybody else seemed to understand this very well—everybody except Baby, who didn't give a damn, and was already becoming famous for it. At Mary Scott, girls either fell into the Whore or the Saint category, at least until they became engaged. Then, and only then, was it okay to Do It. In fact it was required, Harriet believed. But if you made a miscalculation and lost your Most Precious Possession somehow along the way, or bet on the Wrong Boy, you lost everything. In spite of this—in spite of the seriousness of what you had to lose—the boys tried valiantly to make you lose it, getting you drunk, sweet-talking you, telling you lies (“My mama just died” or “My sister's got this incurable disease, we just found out”). Harriet understood that the boys were not
bad,
to do this. They were just boys. This was their role. The girl's role was even harder. Girls were supposed to get turned on, be sexy, yet not quite
do it,
ever, without that ring. Simply by ignoring it, Baby had escaped the whole system of dating at Mary Scott. But for Harriet, it was all exhausting, and she was glad to be out of it for that Sunday morning at least, glad to stay in bed and read Milton. She could not help remarking that the devil was much more interesting than God, just as Baby was much more interesting than, say, Courtney.

Ironically, Harriet had to ride back to Mary Scott with a girl who had gotten engaged that very weekend, a senior with the unlikely name of Muffy Tortuga. Muffy almost drove off the mountain road three times, admiring her own ring. She went on and on about the merits of her fiancé, a Deke. Harriet's whole face ached from smiling by the time Muffy finally dropped her off at Old South.

They were gathered in the lounge waiting for her: Courtney, Baby, and Anna. Courtney turned off the Joan Baez album, and they all stood up when she came in. “For God's sake,” Harriet said from the doorway. Something seemed to be draining out of her head and
down into her stomach, leaving her light-headed and nauseated and very, very tired. “What is it?”

Baby came over and wrapped around Harriet like a vine. Anna stroked her hair. “Jill died last night,” Courtney said. “Actually it was early this morning, around four o'clock.”

“But she . . .” Harriet started. “Mama didn't . . .”

“It was a surprise,” Courtney said. “Your mama said Jill's heart just gave out. She said you'd known it could happen, all along. A failure of heart, she called it.”

“I'll have to . . .”

Anna had kept on stroking her hair. “Some doctor friend of your mom's is going to pick you up first thing tomorrow morning,” she said, “and then we'll all come for the funeral, which will be on Tuesday.”

Later Harriet could scarcely remember the funeral at all. It was very small and very sad, held in the Methodist church because one of Alice's most loyal clients was Marge Hammond, the minister's glamorous wife, for whom Alice had slipcovered all that ugly old furniture in the parsonage when the Hammonds first came to town. So Jill had a proper Methodist funeral even though as far back as Harriet could remember, neither Jill nor she nor even Alice had ever been to that church, or to any church, not even once in all their lives. Harriet had lost her gloves, so her hands were still cold long after the burial in the Methodist churchyard, still cold that night back in her room at Mary Scott when she finally got to bed after what had seemed the longest day of her life. Still she could not sleep. She lay in bed jerking at each sound—each high-pitched laugh, each slamming door, each car horn, each tower chime—until nearly midnight when the dorm finally quieted down. Everybody had been so nice. Notes, cards, and four bunches of flowers had awaited her return. Several times, as she lay sleepless in bed, steps had approached their room and then retreated once they saw the index card she had taped to the door:
SLEEPING
.
Finally (it must have been well after one) Baby came back. “Harriet?” she said into the darkness. Lord knows how she got into the locked dorm.

“I'm here,” Harriet said.

“Oh God, thank God,” Baby said. She stripped down to her T-shirt and panties and got in bed with Harriet, hugging her from behind, covering up Harriet's cold hands with her own, twitchy and nail-bitten as always. Baby's hair spread out over Harriet's shoulders smelling like smoke, like bourbon, totally familiar somehow, and totally comforting. They breathed in and out as one. “Listen,” Baby said. “I had a brother once.”

“You've got two brothers now,” Harriet said.

“No, no, that's not what I mean. Those are Daddy and Elise's twins. I mean I had a real brother. He died when I was ten.”

“Baby! You never told me that! How old was he?”

“Thirteen,” Baby said. “His name was Richard. Richard Ross Ballou.”

“That's a nice name,” Harriet said.

“He hanged himself,” Baby said. “Or maybe not. Maybe he fell out of a tree. He was fooling around with a rope in the woods, we had this fort.”

“Oh, how awful. How awful, awful,” Harriet whispered.

“Depends.”

“Depends on what? What do you mean? Of course it was awful.”

“Listen, I know more than you do. I was there, remember. But now sometimes I think, oh well, at least he didn't have to live to see all this shit.”

“What shit?”

“Nothing. Never mind. It's just that I'm sorry, okay? I am just so fucking sorry, honey, that's all.” Baby spoke into Harriet's hair, each word a warm breath on her neck.

“How come you never told me about your brother before?” Harriet asked.

“I never tell anybody,” Baby said. “It's okay. It's all in the past. I just wanted you to know, that's all. So, look, are you still pissed at your mom?”

“No.” Harriet was so tired now that she couldn't remember why she had gotten so upset in the first place. Why shouldn't Alice have a new “friend,” this little Dr. Piccolo, with his shiny bald head and his stupid Mensa watch chain? Mr. Carr was gone. Jill was gone. Harriet's whole life was gone, gone in an instant, as if it had never existed. And only Harriet seemed doomed to remember and remember and remember, to remember everything. After a while Baby's arm relaxed its grip on Harriet's waist and her breathing slowed down. The tower clock chimed three. Harriet kept staring at the soft, glowing rectangle of the window, where the light from the lamppost by the duck pond caught the blowing flakes of snow which seemed not to fall so much as to whirl around and around, dancing, like the snowflakes in Jill's paperweight collection from Mr. Carr.

Mile 516
Fanny Bullit Towhead
Sunday 5/9/99
2200 hours

“A
FTER YOU, LADIES
”—Russell Hurt ushers his women into the Night Owls Club in the Paddlewheel Lounge. They're lucky—they get the last available table before the show starts. Little Bobby Blue is already seated at the piano playing bebop. Russell orders grasshoppers all around.

“I
never
drink after dinner,” Anna remarks, sipping hers, “though for the life of me, I can't remember why not.” She joins the laughter; she's loosening up. Tonight she wears all black, her flaming hair pinned up with rhinestone combs. But after all, it's the captain's special dinner, and what a fine-looking man
he
has turned out to be! Anna imagines a lonely young woman, recently widowed in a tragic freak accident, locked up in her cabin sobbing for two days on a cruise down the Mississippi with her dotty aunt Dot. Reluctantly, this young widow dries her tears, puts on her dowdy pathetic best, and attends the Captain's Champagne Reception. He's a dark swarthy passionate Mediterranean type of the sort she has always hated. He steps forward and opens his brawny commanding arms. His medals gleam on his chest. “Welcome to my world . . .” he sings in a deep baritone packed
with testosterone. He is magnificent. The crowd presses forward. But suddenly, he glances
her
way. Their eyes lock. An electric current shoots between them. (Little does he know that the tragic young widow has just inherited this whole steamship company . . .)

“Well, I suppose they're basically all right, but I still don't see why they had to put them at our table.” Courtney's referring to the couple who were seated with them at dinner earlier. “What are their names again?”

“Leonard and Bridget,” Russell says. “Oh, they're okay. In fact, Bridget's pretty much of a fox.” He winks at Catherine.

“How old do you think she is?” Harriet asks.

“Oh, I don't know. Thirty-five, maybe? She's a lot younger than he is, that's for sure.”

“Russell, you don't know anything. She's at least forty-five. I mean, she's forty if she's a day. She's had a lot of work done—can't you tell? She's a trophy wife,” Catherine says.

“And what are you—an atrophy wife?” Russell shoots back as a singer billed as Diamond Lil comes to the piano and launches into a sultry version of “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.”

“On the other hand,
she's
not very foxy, is she?” Harriet means Diamond Lil. “Don't you think she looks like a big hefty milkmaid in that get-up?” Diamond Lil wears a low-cut peasant blouse and a full red skirt. Her breasts swell as she leans forward.

“Milkmaids have their charms,” Russell says. “I wouldn't mind meeting her two friends either.”

“Russell!” Catherine slaps his hand.

Diamond Lil sings “Summertime” and “Crazy.” She really does have a very good voice in addition to those impressive breasts. Harriet wonders what
her
story is, why she's here on this boat singing with the albino Little Bobby Blue instead of in some famous nightclub in New York or New Orleans. Something must have happened to her, Harriet thinks. Something happens to everybody.