Chapter 7 Luisa
I’m chewing on my fourth melt-in-your-mouth cracker when Griggs Johnson is called to the podium to accept his award.
What do they put in these crackers, anyway? Some kind of secret butter from the gods? They’re even served warm, as if they were baked exclusively for each guest. Of course rich people have access to more delicious saltines than the rest of us.
A server deposits a tall glass of tea with a fresh mint sprig on the high-top I’m occupying, then sets a small dish of lemon wedges wrapped in yellow mesh beside it.
“Can I get more of these, please?” I gesture to the silver cracker dish, now empty.
He nods and leaves. I squeeze a meshed lemon over my tea and swirl the straw, trailing Griggs with my eyes as he shakes hands with a few men on his way to the podium, while also scanning the room for the too-young, pearl-clutching Country Club Betty in the blue dress, now conspicuously absent. Where did she go?
Much to my family’s dismay, I sped through the remainder of my birthday dinner, blew out my candles, opened my gifts, then hauled ass to Midtown in rush hour.
I used my now-defunct Georgia Times press badge to check in at the media table when I first arrived.
That’s when I first saw Griggs Johnson in the flesh, wearing the same predatory smile I’d seen him parade online.
He was muttering to the Betty in the pencil skirt, standing inappropriately close.
Could she be his mistress? Maybe. She certainly isn’t his wife.
The wife was across the room glad-handing local politicians and berating a server because her sweet tea was “too sweet.”
Griggs practically had the Maybe Mistress and her pearls pinned to the wall like some taxidermy butterfly. And either everyone’s attention was too absorbed by the freely flowing alcohol and delicious canapés to notice, or these people just don’t give a damn.
But I saw. I’d never laid eyes on him before today, but I already knew his type. Griggs is the kind of man who excels at hiding his despicable behavior in plain sight.
He is charming, I’ll give him that. Charismatic in a way that seems almost genuine. He’s also absurdly photogenic, as evidenced by a booklet about his family’s charitable foundation, brimming with photo after photo of his well-boned face.
A fresh tray of buttery crackers arrives just as Griggs steps up to the podium. The wall of windows that forms one half of the circular ballroom only serves to highlight his tall frame and athletic build. He vigorously shakes the mayor’s hand, then accepts a blown glass award sculpture.
“Thanks, Gail,” he says into the microphone.
“This will look just perfect next to my Peachtree Invitational trophy.” Everyone around me laughs at his asinine inside joke.
A clandestine search on my phone—I was sternly told it’s a club rule to keep it turned off—reveals that the Peachtree Invitational is an amateur golf tournament at this very country club.
The way he says it is almost dismissive, as if the award doesn’t matter much.
I’m annoyed that he’s even comparing the two.
Apparently, it’s all one big fucking joke to him.
“No, really, folks. I’m getting a little choked up thinking about how proud my father would be if he were still with us today.
” He looks down, lips pursed, and pauses for a beat.
I read somewhere that his dad was a big-time architect, built all of Atlanta’s iconic skyscrapers.
Tough to live in the shadow of that, I guess.
“This foundation and the good work it does—they meant the world to him,” he continues. “And this recognition means the world to me.” His slight Southern accent is warm and pleasant. His manner, easy and open. His smile, beguiling. I’m reminded that the devil was once an angel.
If only these people knew that—much like the country club itself—Griggs Caldecott Johnson III starts falling apart on closer inspection.
Earlier, as I walked in, I couldn’t help but scoff at the musty smell of the carpets, the dings and scratches on the furniture, the faded fabric of the sitting room sofa.
There’s even a landscape painting hanging on a wall with a hole in it the size of my thumb. A fucking hole. In a painting.
I’ve read that to join this place, people have to cough up a hundred-thousand-dollar-plus entry fee, as well as absurd monthly dues. I don’t get it. Atlanta’s most exclusive country club is an old, stuffy building that serves saltines (though admittedly delicious) as its specialty.
As Griggs finishes his speech, he looks back to his table, thanking his “lovely bride and partner in crime, Anna-Byrd,” then winks at her from the podium.
I observe her from across the room, eager for any inkling that this woman could become a trusted source.
She waves a hand at the adoring crowd around them, like a small-town princess sitting atop a parade float.
It’s a studied move. This woman clearly knows what kind of douchebag she’s married to, what the trade-off was when she married him, and is happy to look the other way from more unsavory matters.
Like the extramarital affair her husband seems to be shamelessly flaunting with the (Dear God, please let it be so!) pearl-clutching Country Club Betty.
I search the room, but she’s still nowhere to be found. Which, judging by Griggs’s effusive and very public praise of his wife, can only mean one thing: The other woman must be pissed. Really pissed. And no one—no one—makes a better source than a woman scorned.
Griggs wraps up with the equivalent of a beauty pageant’s “world peace” platitude, and the room erupts into applause. You’d think he just announced a universal cure for cancer. Then, he swaggers over to his wife, cups her head in his hands, and whispers something in her ear that makes her blush.
I need a source, someone to attest to Griggs’s underhanded business dealings. And the wife ain’t gonna cut it. Where did the Maybe Mistress go?
I spend the next fifteen minutes wandering around the maze that is the Dogwood Hills Country Club, searching for Griggs’s hopefully jilted lover, while gently being redirected by the staff back to the Azalea Ballroom at every turn.
In the process, I can’t help but notice that I have yet to encounter a white staff person, other than the folks at the front desk.
It’s as if being Black or Latine is a requirement for any of the club’s backroom service jobs.
A bulletin board notice grabs my attention, a public announcement of a member’s past due account and the amount owed highlighted in bold.
Jesus, what a sadistic form of public humiliation.
I wonder if they will feel the same public obligation when they find out what Griggs is doing to the Castillos.
Needing a quiet moment to regroup, I step into the nearest bathroom, which incidentally is the biggest bathroom I’ve ever set eyes on—maybe this is what that obscene membership fee buys you?
I’m greeted by a comfortable sitting area, upholstered in more faded fabric and an elaborate white rose flower bouquet arranged on a pedestal table.
That’s where I find Maybe Mistress slouched on a rattan settee, clutching her pearls with one hand and a glass of water in the other.
Her skirt is rumpled and the waves in her strawberry blond hair have fallen, hanging limp around her shoulders.
I get ready to swoop in on my much-needed source, but her droopy eyelids and disheveled appearance stop me in mid-flight. Is she drunk? Annoyance claws at my chest. Is this woman too impaired to provide any useful information?
“Are you okay?” I ask, looking down at her.
“Yup,” she says, sitting up a little straighter. Then, in a slow Southern drawl, she mutters, “Finer than frog hair split four ways.” She shrugs absently, trying to appear less tipsy than she is.
Great. Not only is she drunk, she’s also nonsensical.
She tilts her head to look up at me and I notice her eyes are wet, and her mascara is smudged, adding to the pitiful sight. Pain radiates off her.
“What’s your name?” I ask, forcing a gentle tone.
“Holly,” she says with a tired sigh. “And you are?”
“Luisa.” I sit beside her on the settee. “Maybe we should get you some coffee?”
She nods once, but then her face crumples, overcome with fresh tears.
I reach for a box of tissues, pull out a handful, and hand them to her.
At the same time, the door to the bathroom opens and a distinguished-looking elderly woman in a powder-blue suit and flashy cat eyeglasses steps into the entryway.
Holly peers from behind the mountain of tissues in her hands. “Oh no,” she whisper-shouts, ducking behind me on the sofa, “Birdie Beauregard. Oh Lord, please don’t let her see me like this. I’ll lose my job.”
“Job? What job?” I ask.
Holly buries her face in the cushions, too overcome to explain, leaving me with no choice but to shoot up from the sofa and stop the old woman at the door.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” I call out, feigning a thick Southern accent, cringing at the sound of my voice.
I hold the door before she can shut it behind her.
“This bathroom is closed for repairs.” She complains, mouth agape, as I briskly usher her out.
“Nasty sewage backup situation. There’s another, clean bathroom down that way.
” I gesture down the hallway, then pay no heed to her huffing and puffing as I close the door in her face.
“Thank you,” Holly manages, dabbing her eyes. “I’m so sorry. I’m really not usually like this, but… did you see that man up on the stage?” Hiccup. “He’s trying to ruin my life.”
I nod but all I can think is: This is my infallible source? A drunk Country Club Betty having a total meltdown?