A Southern Exposure Read online

  “Y’all do look a lot alike,” says Deirdre. “Why don’t you grow a beard, or something?”

  “A beard? Like my grandfather had?” What an entirely crazy idea; no one wears beards but grandfathers these days. Maybe poets, though, it then occurs to Russ. Why not? He begins to laugh.

  “Hush!” she whispers. “What’s so funny?”

  “You. You’re so wonderful. You’re my funny girl.”

  “I don’t think I’m so funny.”

  “And beautiful. Lord have mercy. Every time I see you, the shock—”

  Curiously, they are still standing there in the front hall, where they met to kiss, when Russ first tapped so gently at her door, when she said, “I guess he’s asleep.”

  They are standing there still, half embracing, half talking, somehow unable to commit themselves to either.

  Longing to make love to her, Russ in another part of his mind or heart thinks of Brett. At home. The children. He reaches again to caress Deirdre’s long hair.

  Something in his gesture, something tentative, resolves Deirdre, and she tells him, “I think you’d better go now, you know?”

  “My darling, you’re right. Ah, how I love you—”

  “I thought you didn’t. Anymore.” She has said this with a pure simplicity. No art, or design.

  Russ is moved almost to tears, and later, recalling her tone and her words, he is moved again. (Is the phrase, he wonders, “crying into your beard”? But no, for God’s sake; it’s into your beer. Good old masculine beer.)

  “I think I will grow a beard,” he tells Deirdre. “Ah, you’re so sweet—”

  She says, very sweetly, and seriously, “I think it might work, for a while.”

  They begin to kiss, again.

  “Abby, darling, how nice and early you’re home.”

  “Uh, yes’m.”

  “Abby! For heaven’s sake. Are you saying ‘ma’am’ to me?”

  “It just, it just came out that way.” Feeling weak, Abby laughs.

  “If you’re going to talk like that, I’ll have to take you home to Connecticut.” Cynthia laughs too, a little.

  “The point is,” Harry now puts in with a frown, “how was the famous pep rally?”

  “Well, it was sort of noisy. But all those torches, it was sort of neat.”

  Abby can find no acceptable (to herself) reasons for not having liked the rally, and so she feels that she must lie and say that she did like it, that it was neat. She cannot say, The whole thing scared me a lot, and then Mr. Byrd came along, and he scared me too, but Deirdre had to do what he said, and go home to meet him there.

  “Well, isn’t it nice you’re home so early. Actually your father and I were just going off to bed, so we’ll all have an early night.”

  “I guess so.”

  “Well, good night, my darling. Sweet dreams!”

  For the second time that night, Abby feels herself thrust aside, thrust out of the way of grownups who are themselves impelled by violent and incomprehensible forces. She sighs as she gets into bed. Where she does not have sweet dreams, but rather newsreel nightmares, in which a man who seems to be a combination of Hitler and Russell Byrd is shouting “BEAT DUKE!”

  15

  “I just can’t believe a thing that’s happening these days. Harry Baird off to Washington, to the Navy—”

  “And Cynthia all alone in this beautiful house. I just can’t believe—”

  “Do you think old Jimmy’s planning to move back in with her?”

  “Oh, you’re terrible, that’s a terrible idea. Jimmy wouldn’t—and with Esther—”

  “Are Russ and Brett coming over, do you know?”

  “Someone saw him downtown—in the post office, I think—and they told me he’s growing a beard.”

  “Lord, Russ with a beard?”

  “I just can’t believe the job that Dolly did on this house.”

  “Of course she says it was all Odessa, that’s her little joke.”

  “Well, maybe it was.”

  “I just can’t believe that Odessa—”

  “Where’s their little girl, that Abby?”

  “Is that really Deirdre Yates across the room?”

  “Isn’t she just the most beautiful thing? You ever see such skin?”

  “Irene, you’re looking real, real pretty. How’s Clifton?”

  “Well, of course there’s going to be a war. I don’t care what Mr. Roosevelt says. Or her either.”

  “Isn’t it nice that Cynthia’s wearing that lovely dress again.”

  “Just what is a ‘defense plant’? Does anyone know?”

  “But Harry’s not going to Washington to fight. Just the Navy in Washington. A desk job, they call it.”

  “Harry says Japan’s the country to worry about. Not so much Germany.”

  “Japan! We were there on our honeymoon.”

  “Deirdre Yates, if you aren’t the prettiest thing in the world? Now tell me, how’s your daddy doing out there in California?”

  “I don’t think Russell and Brett are coming, after all. I’ll make you a little bet.”

  “I just can’t believe Odessa made all these things.”

  “But Dolly says—”

  “Deirdre, how’s your little baby brother? We’re all just dying to get a look at him.”

  “Cynthia says he’s here but he’s gone upstairs with Abby.”

  “Maybe old Jimmy will move up to New York with Esther and the girls.”

  “Oh no, Jimmy’d never live up there with Yankees. It’s different for Esther, she’s more Jew—”

  “Can you imagine Russ Byrd with a beard?”

  “Well, he is a poet.”

  “That Harry’s going to be the handsomest thing in the Navy.”

  “Deirdre, I tried to get them to come downstairs, but Abby just won’t. I don’t know—”

  “It could be just as well, don’t you think?”

  “There’s going to be these defense plants all over, everyone says.”

  “Well, at least it’ll do a lot for unemployment.”

  “But I’m dead sure that’s not the same dress.”

  “It’s the colors that make all the difference. Poor Esther, I’m not sure she knows a whole lot about color.”

  “But will she like it, if she ever comes back down here?”

  “Has anyone heard what Russ is working on now?”

  “Some goddam thing about those goddam pigs, I’ll bet.”

  “Clifton Lee, is that any way to talk at a party?”

  “Well, it’s all he talks about since they were to Kansas. Goddam dead pig.”

  “Oh, sometimes I just wonder how Brett bears it!”

  “Oh look, Jimmy’s trying to make up to Irene again.”

  “But it looks like Harry Baird’s cutting him right out.”

  “Come on, he’s just trying to be a good host. Even Yankees know to do that. Sometimes.”

  “He’s going to be mighty cute in that old sailor suit.”

  “Come on now, Harry’s a grownup man. They’re not going to put him in any sailor suit.”

  “Oh look, there’s Abby now, with the darlingest little boy.”

  “Do we know that child? Someway he looks like we do.”

  “Just looks like a plain little old boy to me.”

  “Oh, he must be Deirdre’s brother. Look, he’s running to her.”

  “Yep, hiding his face. Must be real shy, poor little fellow.”

  “And Cynthia didn’t like that one bit, his hiding in his sister’s lap. Cynthia had it in mind to introduce him all around.”

  “But he’s not having any of that. No, not that kid.”

  “Look a there, heading right back up the stairs again. Going up there fast, sky winding.”

  “Do you think Russ and Brett are going to show up, after all?”

  “That little old boy sure did remind me of someone.”

  “Just plain boy, that’s all. Maybe a little on the pretty side, but then take
a look at his sister.”

  “These beaten biscuits of Odessa’s, I declare, they do beat all.”

  “How comes Odessa did these? She working for Cynthia now?”

  “Lord no, you know Dolly’d never in a month of Sundays let her go. She just lends her out sometimes.”

  “And this funny thing about Cynthia, she likes to do for herself. No help at all.”

  “Well, there’s just the two of them. The three, with Abby.”

  “And just the two when Harry goes off to D.C.”

  “I just think Rebecca is about the loveliest book I ever did read.”

  “Oh, I’ll take The Yearling any day. Although I reckon the literary folk over to the college would call it sentimental.”

  “You know what Russ keeps saying, that old William Faulkner from Mississippi’s the only writer worth talking about.”

  “You’d better eat some more, Jimmy. And looks like you need another drink.”

  “Oh look, there’s Odessa! Looks grand in that white apron, don’t you think?”

  “Is that apron a tad too small? That’s a mighty big woman, you give her a real good look.”

  “Funny, always looks to be swimming when she walks.”

  “But colored don’t go swimming ever, do they?”

  “Well, of course they do, at their places in the creek and all.”

  “Russ don’t even think much of our own Thomas Wolfe.”

  “I think they were to the university about the same time, and they didn’t hit it off too good.”

  “And how about this colored fellow Russ thinks is such a writer. Richard Wright?”

  “A Communist too, I heard.”

  “What’s Esther been up to in New York City, Jimmy? Apart from her work, that is.”

  “Well, the Pulitzer folk seem to think The Yearling is good enough for them.”

  “You know how Russ is about prizes.”

  “Esther saw Our Town and she said it was truly wonderful, she thinks that Thornton Wilder’s some kind of genius.”

  “Oh, I’ve heard.”

  “And she’s trying to get tickets to some show, Pins and Needles. Supposed to be a hit.”

  “Heard of that too.”

  “Supposed to be real funny. She could use some cheering up.”

  “Have you heard the new Eleanor story? Well, it seems like she—”

  “Harry darling, it’s a terrific party, don’t you think?”

  “The best, but you always carry it off.”

  “Have you noticed how Southerners get more and more Southern as they drink? So interesting.”

  “Yes, I have.”

  “Did I tell you I wrote to Lord & Taylor? Well, I owed them just this tiny amount, and then when I got that birthday check from Daddy—”

  “You didn’t tell me.”

  “Well, it was really about Odessa. My letter to Lord & Taylor, I mean. I told them how—”

  “Seems like we’re going to have an early frost this year.”

  “Might snow?”

  “Of course Dolly’s going to be absolutely furious.”

  “Don’t you-all ever get tired of all those Eleanor stories? I personally think she’s just a first-rate lady. I don’t care what anyone says.”

  “Well!”

  “Well.”

  “But so far it’s been the warmest winter we’ve had, oh, forever.”

  “But the leaves, the leaves have been just, just unreal. The color.”

  “Have you heard that he’s really dying, Mr. Roosevelt? Can’t walk one single step unaided?”

  “If Russ and Brett do come, they’re going to be mighty late.”

  “Yes, even for them.”

  “Looks like old Jimmy’s really hitting the bottle again. Thought he went on the wagon.”

  “Misses Esther and the girls, most likely.”

  “No man really likes to be a bachelor, do you think? Not past a certain point.”

  “Well, I had this uncle, but he was just not the marrying kind, you know what I mean?”

  “Oh, I surely do. My husband’s brother, he was like that. Poor thing, he got drunk one night and shot himself.”

  “Why on earth would Russ Byrd be growing a beard, at this time of life?”

  “Whatever do you mean, time of life? Russ is young yet. Talented young poet and playwright. That’s what they all say. They still say.”

  “Wonder how Brett feels about the beard.”

  “Tell you what, doesn’t matter a tad what Brett feels. You know that as well as I do.”

  “Have you heard about this new doctor, down to Southern Pines? A psychiatrist is I guess what he is. Cures drinking problems, and all like that. Name of Clyde Drake, or Duck, or something like that.”

  “Sounds expensive, right off. Rich Yankee place.”

  “Drinking problems. What I’d like to know is, who hasn’t had a touch of that, one time or another?”

  “No one from round here, that’s for damn sure, now, isn’t it? The men I mean to say.”

  Laughter all around.

  “That Jimmy looks drunk as a skunk, or drunker.”

  “Boiled as an owl. But how come they say that about owls, will you tell me that? A sober-looking bird, I would have thought.”

  “Speaking of birds, you think that Russ and Brett—?”

  “Harry, you’ve got to hold off on the drinks a little bit. Everyone’s getting really plastered, look around you. God, you’d never know most of these people are professors.”

  “Not to hear them talk you wouldn’t. Isn’t it funny how the most educated people down here all imitate the ones that aren’t.”

  “Darling, that’s really profound.”

  “I try to be.”

  “Oh, Deirdre, do you really have to go. I’m so sorry—we’ve hardly—Graham, I hope you’ll come again, Abby would love—”

  “That little old boy’s a pretty fellow, but he doesn’t much favor his mother, do you think?”

  “Pity that little Baird girl didn’t get her mother’s looks.”

  “She’ll do all right, you mark my words.”

  “Well, look a there, coming up the walk. If it isn’t Mr. and Mrs. James Russell Lowell Byrd.”

  “Walking funny. Could they be drunk, the both of them?”

  “Oh we’re so terribly late, we’re so sorry. It’s all my fault, I said to Russ—”

  “Brett, for God’s sake—”

  “My name is not Brett. Not anymore ever. It’s SallyJane.”

  “I suppose everyone’s practically gone home.”

  “No, only person you missed so far is Deirdre Yates. She just left with that little brother.”

  “Oh.”

  “Oh, how is Deirdre?”

  “If Russ isn’t plastered, Brett is for certain sure. You hear what she just now said about her name?”

  “Well, high time for that, is what I say. How come she ever let Russ stick a new name on her in the first place. Like he was God, or at the very least her father?”

  “Well, will you look over there? There’s Russ and Jimmy all over each other like long-lost brothers. Can you beat that?”

  “It’s what Jimmy’s always wanted.”

  “Well, Russell and Brett, I’m just so glad to see you.”

  “My name is SallyJane.”

  “Honey, of course it is. But you mean for us all to call you that all the time?”

  “I said my name is SallyJane.”

  “Well, of course, but you know it’ll take some getting used to.”

  “Russ, old man, what you need is a good stiff drink.”

  “Well, Jimmy, my boy, I’m not sure you’re right about what I need, but I surely would like one.”

  “My name is SallyJane.”

  “Goodbye, Odessa, I can’t thank you enough for coming along to help out. Here’s a little something for your trouble. And I’ll let you know about you-know-what. In New York.”

  “Mmm. Ma’am.”

  “Well, darling,
was that a good party?”

  “Oh it was, but everyone got so drunk! Did we do something wrong?”

  “I don’t think so, they always get drunk. It only seemed worse than usual today. I don’t know why.”

  “So odd, Russ and Brett—SallyJane—showing up just after Deirdre Yates left.”

  “Coincidence. What do you imagine, they sat in their house and waited for her car to pass?”

  “Oh, Harry.”

  “I think you over-planned that one, my love.”

  “Harry Baird, whatever do you mean?”

  “Come on, Cynthia. Don’t give me that Southern stuff. You know perfectly well that you were doing some arranging there.”

  “Well, of course I did want to see what they’d all look like together.”

  “And what on earth are you cooking up with Odessa?”

  “Oh, never mind, just an idea.”

  “Dolly Bigelow will kill you, you know that?”

  “Oh, Harry, whatever will I do with you off in Washington? Sometimes I think there’s really something wrong with people down here.”

  16

  In the days and weeks that follow Harry Baird’s departure for Washington—he was quite unexpectedly and urgently summoned just after the first of the year, in early January—Cynthia observes very strange and quite new moods within herself. Unanticipated. Having imagined a lowness of spirits, she had planned to keep very active to combat this. And having expected depression, a sagging and heavy heart, she had also planned activities, diversions.

  But instead she finds her heart as light as a very young girl’s (a pretty, spoiled girl, as she herself used to be). She feels energetic, and warmly affectionate toward the world. In a word, she is happy, is happier in fact than she has been for years. Each day seems a possible fresh adventure, to which she wakens with pleasure and enthusiasm.

  But how very alarming! Does this mean that she and Harry are supposed to separate—to, finally, divorce? How terrible! She does not want to be a “divorced woman,” with all the sleazy, tacky (a new favorite word), and needy connotations of that phrase. She thinks with dread, with fear and a little pity of the several (maybe three) such women she knew in Connecticut, and the awful condescension with which everyone else—all the safely married or respectably widowed folk—viewed these strays, these derelicts.