Big Easy Bonanza

central fact of his life—that he had thrown it away, that he knew nothing more of himself than he did the day he was born. He had somehow failed to notice when he reached his limit, to realize that, even though he was a poor boy from Winona, Mississippi, who could become an intimate of the rich and well-born, he could not control the universe. But she knew—his face showed his struggle—that he could control his own feelings in a halfway sort of way simply by refusing to acknowledge their petty existence. And by God, he would do that if it took all the bluster bred into him by a family that traced itself back to the Confederate army and had been perfecting macho posturing for at least the last hundred and fifty years. When blustering didn’t work, he simply withdrew. If a piece of the universe—say, the piece named Skip—refused to be commanded, it didn’t exist.
    For Skip he was the perfect paradigm of the Southern male—a wimp of the first water thinly coated with what she thought of as Naugahyde machismo, so phony it wouldn’t fool a five-year-old.
    Wait a minute here! I thought I was going to put all that behind me—be friends with Cookie Lamoreaux and everything
.
    But Cookie hadn’t performed any abortions on unconscious women that she knew of. Her father’s wimp factor had turned nasty.
    You don’t know that
.
    She didn’t, but she couldn’t figure a way to find out as long as her dad wasn’t speaking to her. And working that one out wasn’t going to happen today.
    Her mother whispered, “Did you know you have a run in your stocking?”
    “Damn! Do I?” Her attention drifted below her knee just long enough to make sure it was true. “How are the Harmeyers?”
    “Doing very well. It must be hard—”
    “I have to speak to them. Excuse me.” She extricated herself abruptly, perhaps rudely, she thought, but she mustn’t get involved in more than small talk with her mother or the afternoon was shot. If Skip’s father wouldn’t speak to her, her mother made up for it. She could hold forth for hours on the one subject in which she had any interest—how thoroughly embarrassed she was by her daughter’s very existence. Skip suspected she wasn’t the only one who had to listen either. Her father was probably becoming so deeply sick of the subject he’d no doubt joined two or three new civic clubs or committees, filling his nights with meetings, blessedly away from home.
    Bitty was done now, looking inexpressibly sad and too small for the black dress that billowed around her. Arthur Harmeyer was approaching, taking her hand….
    Skip said, “I’m so terribly sorry about Tolliver; I know how much he meant to both of you.”
    Bitty gave her a strange, hurt look, as if she wanted to cry but couldn’t because her face was sprayed on. Neither one answered. Skip felt herself flush as she realized what they must be thinking—that she, alone of all the guests, could know what was in the note. Because of course the content wouldn’t be publicly released.
    She turned away, confused, with the odd sensation of having her cover blown. Across the room, Henry was huddled with Judith. Both of them turned and looked at her. Then Judith walked toward her. “Hello, Skippy. How are you, dear?” She gave Skip her hand.
    “Mrs. Harmeyer, I’m so sorry—”
    “I know you are, dear. Let’s walk out to the foyer, shall we?”
    Skip allowed herself to be propelled, not sure what was going on. As they reached the door, Judith said, “Thank you for dropping by, dear. I know it must have been hard under the circumstances.”
    She means I shouldn’t have come.
    She said, “Not at all. I was raised to—”
    “Of course, dear. And we do appreciate it.” Pointedly elbowing the maid aside, Judith opened the door herself.
    “Mrs. Harmeyer, I feel as if I’m being given the bum’s rush.”
    “Of course not, dear. Your mother and father are very welcome here. But it is rather inappropriate—really, I know they’d feel more comfortable—”
    Skip felt rage rise up her spine like the Kundalini fire they talked about in San Francisco. She stood her ground, noticing that someone else was coming up the walk. “Do you remember Jaree Doucette?”
    Judith didn’t react at all, simply smiled more broadly, showing a perfect set of upper teeth and rather crooked bottom ones. “So nice of you to come, Skippy.” She turned to the new arrivals, an elderly couple, and before Skip’s eyes, let tears slide down