Forty-Two
Leta Pearl
The scents of affluence were exactly as I remembered: prime rib savoring from the kitchen, bourbon staggering from the bar, and Coco Chanel and Estée Lauder gossiping their way from the ladies’ lounge. That hideous Falconhead carpet, however—puke green with red and gold paisleys—still needed to go.
I ordered a glass of Champagne. My return, I decided, deserved celebration—or at least some liquid courage before the Celestial Ladies came pouring out of the Founders Room where they were inaugurating Verlaine Crump in the Flame and Flowers ritual.
Thank God I’d had the foresight—way back at the church potluck—to cozy up to the new president. Now, as her personal Inaugural Ball guest, I was in the belly of the beast. On the inside. Like a Kremlin spy.
Except this wasn’t a Bond movie, and I wasn’t really a spy. Just the disgraced former member, back on the scene with her head held high—despite her daughter’s very public display of Southern justice last night.
When Barbara came out of the Founder’s Room with Pamela Rickard, her eyebrows shot up so high, I thought they might knock that beehive clean off her head.
“My heavens!” she said. “Well, I suppose they’ll let just anyone in these days.”
Pamela Rickard’s lips pursed so tightly, I wished I’d had a lump of coal I could’ve shoved in there to get myself a new diamond.
“No petitions for my forced removal tonight, Barbara?” I said. “Or could you just not find a clipboard to match your earrings?”
Barbara touched the dangly things—silver, glinting, suspiciously similar to fishing tackle.
I smiled. “And how are you , Pamela?”
“Fine, Leta Pearl.” She forced a smile. “Thanks.”
“I must say, the thing I admire about you, Pamela Rickard”—I took a long sip of Champagne—“is how you continue giving yourself, so selflessly, to the auxiliary.”
Pamela adjusted her shoulder strap, likely contemplating whether to say thank you or to brace for impact.
Barbara monitored me over the rim of her chardonnay.
“I mean—the fundraisers, the Gala, all those committees— and you were able to raise a son who now works for a senator . Truly, how do you do it?”
Pamela opened her mouth but said nothing.
“And to think, Verlaine here’s been in the auxiliary ... how long, hon?”
“Oh! Um ...” Verlaine blinked. “A year and a—”
“Only a year and a half,” I said, eyes still on Pamela. “And already president .” I touched Pamela’s wrist. “Darling, your graciousness speaks volumes.” Then to Barbara, I said, “And you ... still haven’t let your best friend be president. I mean, if I was still a member—”
“But you aren’t a member, are you?” Barbara bit.
“Excuse me,” Pamela murmured, then smiled tightly and floated away in the direction of absolutely no one.
“Come on, Verlaine,” Barbara said. “There’s someone you need to meet.”
Verlaine glanced between us. “Um, maybe I should stay with my guest?”
“Verlaine,” Barbara said, sharper this time. “I said, come with me.”
Verlaine hesitated, clearly torn.
“A lady, Barbara,” I said, “remains with her guest.” I threaded my arm through Barbara’s elbow, tugged her in, and spoke into her ear. “Wasn’t gonna bring this up, but I sure hope when Trudy smacked the ever living shit out of you last night, she didn’t smack your manners out too.”
Barbara jerked her arm free. Her eyes—cold and precise little slits—never left mine as she spun on her heels and stalked after Pamela.
Verlaine’s mouth dropped open. “You’re gonna get me in trouble.”
“Nonsense! You’re the president.”
“In title only. I still have to do what Barbara says while she’s termed out. She’ll sit out her year, then run again and win. In the meantime, she’s still the de facto leader.”
“Yes, yes. Of course.” Verlaine had so much to learn.
I downed the rest of my Champagne and motioned for another. “No one expects you to do anything radical, like invoke the Presidential Affirmative Veto. Can you imagine?”
“The what?”
“Oh—thank you,” I said, accepting my fresh glass. I savored the tingle.
“Article Eight, Section Six, sweetie. Of the Celestial Ladies Auxiliary Constitution. Your veto power, in the affirmative.”
Verlaine blinked. “I’ve never—wait, that’s real?”
“Don’t fret. It’s only ever been used once. Look! There’s Gil Tatum—let’s go congratulate him. He’s running unopposed for coroner.”
“Wait!” Verlaine grabbed my arm. “What do you mean affirmative veto?”
I took another long sip. “Let’s see, how’s it worded .
..” I looked toward the ceiling, tapping my finger on the rim of my flute.
“Something along the lines of: ‘Provided the president has a satisfactorily articulable reason, this section hereby expands the veto power to include a veto in the affirmative on any and all actions voted either aye or nay by any committee.’”
Verlaine stared at me.
I continued, calmly, “You can block what passes, obviously. But with the affirmative veto, you can also override any ‘no’ vote—just flip it to yes. Instant approval, as long as you’ve got a reason.”
“For example?” she whispered.
“Well,” I said, “let’s say a woman wanted to be reinstated as a member ...”
“Yes?”
“ . . . and the membership committee voted no . . .”
“Uh-huh?”
“You could veto their no.”
Verlaine’s jaw dropped again. “And she’d be in, just like that? The constitution says that?”
I shrugged. “Barbara herself railroaded it through years ago, when her awful sister Bernadette wanted in—even though she always smelled like cat pee.”
Verlaine blinked. “But Leta Pearl ...” She grabbed my arm. “This means the Celestial Ladies isn’t a democracy.” She leaned in and whispered, stunned: “It’s a totalitarian regime.”
“Oh, sweetie, I wouldn’t—”
“And I’m the dictator!”
Half a dozen conversations stopped midsentence. Verlaine drew in a breath, glowing now. “I could make you a member again.”
“Oh, Verlaine,” I said, sliding an arm around her. “Let’s not get carried away.”
But we did get carried away. Tipsy as two cooters, we cordoned ourselves off in the Falconhead office while the Celestial Sisters danced the night away.
Fueled by Champagne and righteous vengeance, we reasoned—correctly, I might add—that the Membership Committee’s opinion didn’t matter one bit.
Verlaine had the Affirmative Veto, and she was going to use it.
On the application’s question, Name two unique qualities you bring to the Sisterhood. I wrote:
Discounts on jewelry if your breath doesn’t smell like it could knock a dog off a gut wagon. (While we’re on the subject, somebody please give Barbara a Tic Tac!)
The ability to tactfully suggest that a fellow sister back off the cheese grits and desserts because her husband’s turned into a Dick Do.
“What’s a Dick Do?” Verlaine asked.
“You know,” I said, “when a man’s so fat, the belly sticks out farther than the dick do.”
I thought we’d never stop laughing, rolling on the floor like two idiots.
On the question, What is one thing you would change to improve the Auxiliary? I answered: Permanent term limits for Barbara!
Verlaine said she just needed the committee to vote no, so she could veto it—and I’d be pinning on my Stardust Pin soon enough.
But before I knew it, she’d run straight out to the Grand Ballroom, silenced the band, and snatched the microphone.
“Attention please!” Feedback shrieked through the speakers, and everybody plugged their ears. “Sorry about that. How’s this? Okay? So. Everybody. Now, first, I wanna say thank y’all for coming to my ...” It took her a few tries to finally get out the word, “inauguration.”
“And as my first act as president, I’m calling an emergency meeting.”
I felt myself turn cold sober. Just like that. This was not part of my plan.
In the back of the ballroom, Barbara rubbed her temples. Pamela was pinching the bridge of her nose. Around the room, folks grinned awkwardly at one another unsure whether this was real or some sort of skit.
“Membership Committee: in the boardroom, right now!”
If memory serves, after that, Verlaine woo ed really loud.
And sure enough, Verlaine submitted my application right there.
The Falconhead Country Club felt like a place on the verge of collapse—like watching a bunch of drunk clowns under a circus tent held together by dental floss and duct tape—so I found Gil Tatum and his wife at the valet stand and asked if they’d drive me home.
I awoke Friday morning with a French-imported headache in a storm of shame, the memories of Falconhead crawling back in bits and pieces.
Thank God Trudy still had the week off and could drop Pete off at school and cover for me at the jewelry store because each step across the house felt like a boxer pounding my face.
The doorbell was loud enough to wake the dead, and I wished, when it rang, that I could join them.
Verlaine, and a baker’s dozen of Celestial Ladies, stood on my front porch.
“Congratulations!”
“Welcome back!”
“We brought cake!”
“I told you she’d still be in her nightgown.”
Verlaine said, “I hope we didn’t wake you.”
All I could do was blink.
“Lord,” Louley Gooch said. “Your application was like a breath of fresh air. Either that, or we did too many tequila shots.”
“You’ve got more nerve than a priest’s got holy water,” Noreen said as she touched my arm. “I thought I was the only one.”
“Me too,” said Vicki Shively. “I’ve just always gone along with Barbara, thinking everyone else was on board.”
Verlaine smiled, obviously proud of herself for unleashing the true beast that is the Celestial Ladies, for uncovering a seething anger suppressed for decades.
“I’ve already phoned the entire sisterhood,” Louley Gooch said. “Except for you-know-who, and we’ve got a solid vote of 56–2 for permanent presidential term limits. Two years, and you’re termed out for life.”
The women squealed with delight.
But then Louley said, “I’m ready to place an order, Leta Pearl.”
“Me too,” said Noreen and then offered to purchase the “recipe itself for any price.”
“What are y’all talking about?” I asked.
“Now Leta Pearl,” Verlaine said, and she patted my arm like I was a nursing home patient. “There’s something we need to discuss.”
Mary Jo blurted, “We want those love biscuits!”
“What?” I looked at Verlaine. “Those were a secret, and only for Dickie!”
“Dickie indeed!” Noreen shouted and all the women howled with laughter.
“It was just a little incentive,” Verlaine explained. “To ensure we got what we wanted.”
“But after reading your application, I would have approved you anyway,” Louley said. “Even if we weren’t getting biscuits.”
“Me too,” Mary Jo said. “Even though Verlaine’s already told us all her wild stories of lingerie, handcuffs, and battery-operated boyfriends.”
Vickie added, “And how Dickie can’t keep his hands off her now.”
They wouldn’t let it go, those giddy and amorous Celestial Ladies. The Aberdeen Mountain love biscuits were no longer mine alone—they’d gone public. Or at least, parlor public . Still, I laid down rules. Firm ones.
Rule number one: love biscuits were for husbands only.
Not boyfriends.
Not fiancés.
Not sons-in-law, sons-in-law-to-be, or sons-in-law you wished had stayed sons-in-nothing.
And Lord help you if you ever tried to feed one to an ex.