Part 45 (1/2)

”Elaine Stein's office.”

”h.e.l.lo, it's Eugenia Phelan, calling long-distance. Is she available?”

”I'm sorry, Miss Phelan, but Missus Stein isn't taking any calls regarding her ma.n.u.script selection.”

”Oh. But . . . can you at least tell me if she received it? I mailed it just before the deadline and--”

”One moment please.”

The phone goes silent, and a minute or so later she comes back.

”I can confirm that we did receive your package at some point during the holidays. Someone from our office will notify you after Missus Stein has made her decision. Thank you for calling.”

I hear the line on the other end click.

A FEW NIGHTS LATER, after a riveting afternoon answering Miss Myrna letters, Stuart and I sit in the relaxing room. I'm glad to see him and to eradicate, for a while, the deadly silence of the house. We sit quietly, watching television. A Tareyton ad comes on, the one where the girl smoking the cigarette has a black eye--Us Tareyton smokers would rather fight than switch!

Stuart and I have been seeing each other once a week now. We went to a movie after Christmas and once to dinner in town, but usually he comes out to the house because I don't want to leave Mother. He is hesitant around me, kind of respectfully shy. There is a patience in his eyes that replaces my own panic that I felt with him before. We don't talk about anything serious. He tells me stories about the summer, during college, he spent working on the oil rigs in the Gulf of Mexico. The showers were salt.w.a.ter. The ocean was crystal clear blue to the bottom. The other men were doing this brutal work to feed their families while Stuart, a rich kid with rich parents, had college to go back to. It was the first time, he said, he'd really had to work hard.

”I'm glad I drilled on the rig back then. I couldn't go off and do it now,” he'd said, like it was ages ago and not five years back. He seems older than I remember.

”Why couldn't you do it now?” I asked, because I am looking for a future for myself. I like to hear about the possibilities of others.

He furrowed his brow at me. ”Because I couldn't leave you.”

I tucked this away, afraid to admit how good it was to hear it.

The commercial is over and we watch the news report. There is a skirmish in Vietnam. The reporter seems to thinks it'll be solved without much fuss.

”Listen,” Stuart says after a while of silence between us. ”I didn't want to bring this up before but . . . I know what people are saying in town. About you. And I don't care. I just want you to know that.”

My first thought is the book. the book. He's heard something. My entire body goes tense. ”What did you hear?” He's heard something. My entire body goes tense. ”What did you hear?”

”You know. About that trick you played on Hilly.”

I relax some, but not completely. I've never talked to anyone about this except Hilly herself. I wonder if Hilly ever called him like she'd threatened.

”And I could see how people would take it, think you're some kind of crazy liberal, involved in all that mess.”

I study my hands, still wary of what he might have heard, and a little irritated too. ”How do you know,” I ask, ”what I'm involved in?”

”Because I know you, Skeeter,” he says softly. ”You're too smart to get mixed up in anything like that. And I told them, too.”

I nod, try to smile. Despite what he thinks he ”knows” about me, I can't help but appreciate that someone out there cares enough to stand up for me.

”We don't have to talk about this again,” he says. ”I just wanted you to know. That's all.”

On SAt.u.r.dAY EVENING, I say good night to Mother. I have a long coat on so she can't see my outfit. I keep the lights off so she can't comment on my hair. Very little has changed with her health. She doesn't seem to be getting any worse--the vomiting is still at bay--but her skin is grayish white. Her hair has started to fall out. I hold her hands, brush her cheek.

”Daddy, you'll call the restaurant if you need me?”

”I will, Skeeter. Go have some fun.”

I get in Stuart's car and he takes me to the Robert E. Lee for dinner. The room is gaudy with gowns, red roses, silver service clinking. There is excitement in the air, the feeling that things are almost back to normal since President Kennedy died; 1964 is a fresh, new year. The glances our way are abundant.

”You look . . . different,” Stuart says. I can tell he's been holding in this comment all night, and he seems more confused than impressed. ”That dress, it's so . . . short.”

I nod and push my hair back. The way he used to do.

This morning, I told Mother I was going shopping. She looked so tired though, I quickly changed my mind. ”Maybe I shouldn't go.”

But I'd already said it. Mother had me fetch the big checkbook. When I came back she tore out a blank check and then handed me a hundred-dollar bill she had folded in the side of her wallet. Just the word shopping shopping seemed to've made her feel better. seemed to've made her feel better.

”Don't be frugal, now. And no slacks. Make sure Miss LaVole helps you.” She rested her head back in her pillows. ”She knows how young girls should dress.”

But I couldn't stand the thought of Miss LaVole's wrinkled hands on my body, smelling of coffee and mothb.a.l.l.s. I drove right through downtown and got on Highway 51 and headed for New Orleans. I drove through the guilt of leaving Mother for so long, knowing that Doctor Neal was coming by that afternoon and Daddy would be home all day with her.

Three hours later, I walked into Maison Blanche's department store on Ca.n.a.l Street. I'd been there umpteen times with Mother and twice with Elizabeth and Hilly, but I was mesmerized by the vast white marble floors, the miles of hats and gloves and powdered ladies looking so happy, so healthy healthy. Before I could ask for help, a thin man said, ”Come with me, I have it all upstairs,” and whisked me in the elevator to the third floor, to a room called MODERN WOMEN'S WEAR.

”What is all this?” I asked. There were dozens of women and rock-and-roll playing and champagne gla.s.ses and bright glittering lights.

”Emilio Pucci, darling. Finally!” He stepped back from me and said, ”Aren't you here for the preview? You do have an invitation, don't you?”

”Um, somewhere,” I said, but he lost interest as I faked through my handbag.

All around me, clothes looked like they'd sprouted roots and bloomed on their hangers. I thought of Miss LaVole and laughed. No easter-egg suits here. Flowers! Big bright stripes! And hemlines that showed several inches of thigh. several inches of thigh. It was electric and gorgeous and dizzying. This Emilio Pucci character must stick his finger in a socket every morning. It was electric and gorgeous and dizzying. This Emilio Pucci character must stick his finger in a socket every morning.

I bought with my blank check enough clothes to fill the back seat of the Cadillac. Then on Magazine Street, I paid forty-five dollars to have my hair lightened and trimmed and ironed straight. It had grown longer over the winter and was the color of dirty dishwater. By four o'clock I was driving back over the Lake Pontchartrain bridge with the radio playing a band called the Rolling Stones and the wind blowing through my satiny, straight hair, and I thought, Tonight, I'll strip off all this armor and let it be as it was before with Stuart. Tonight, I'll strip off all this armor and let it be as it was before with Stuart.

STUART and I eat our Chateaubriand, smiling, talking. He looks off at the other tables, commenting on people he knows. But no one gets up to tell us h.e.l.lo.

”Here's to new beginnings,” Stuart says and raises his bourbon.

I nod, sort of wanting to tell him that all beginnings are new. Instead, I smile and toast with my second gla.s.s of wine. I've never really liked alcohol, until today.

After dinner, we walk out into the lobby and see Senator and Missus Whitworth at a table, having drinks. People are around them drinking and talking. They are home for the weekend, Stuart told me earlier, their first since they moved to Was.h.i.+ngton.

”Stuart, there are your parents. Should we go say h.e.l.lo?”

But Stuart steers me toward the door, practically pushes me outside.

”I don't want Mother to see you in that short dress,” he says. ”I mean, believe me, it looks great on you, but . . .” He looks down at the hemline. ”Maybe that wasn't the best choice for tonight.” On the ride home, I think of Elizabeth, in her curlers, afraid the bridge club would see me. Why is it that someone always seems to be ashamed of me?

By the time we make it back to Longleaf, it's eleven o'clock. I smooth my dress, thinking Stuart is right. It is too short. The lights in my parents' bedroom are off, so we sit on the sofa.

I rub my eyes and yawn. When I open them, he's holding a ring between his fingers.

”Oh . . . Jesus.”

”I was going to do it at the restaurant but . . .” He grins. ”Here is better.”