Magnolia Wednesdays Part 24

30.

FOR VIVI, THE first half of February disappeared in a blur of unpleasant physical surprises as her body, which she now barely recognized, grew and stretched in its effort to nurture and protect the baby inside of her. Her legs cramped at will, her ankles and feet were more swollen than not, and her b.r.e.a.s.t.s had gotten so big that they no longer seemed real to her. Her brain seemed to have abandoned her, and she often walked into a room or began a task and then couldn't remember why she'd gone there or what she intended to do. Plus she was tired all the time, but when she finally made it into bed at night, she couldn't get comfortable enough to sleep. On those occasions when she did fall asleep she had to get up to go to the bathroom so many times that shutting her eyes in between seemed pointless. Even coughing, sneezing, and laughing were now fraught with peril; doing any of these put her bladder to a test that it was no longer able to win.

Her internal debate over what to say to Stone continued, making those few opportunities when they did get to speak without a whole cadre of network people on the line not only stressful but unproductive. She missed and worried about him constantly and then spent the few precious moments they had censoring herself so carefully that she was practically speechless. She heard in his voice that he suspected something was wrong, but the kidnapping had firmed her resolve not to distract or burden him with her pregnancy. Although she couldn't completely control the way she sounded, she did her best to control what she said.

Especially annoying was Matt Glazer, who refused to disappear and who had taken to leaving her weekly messages asking her to call him.

On the bright side, which Vivi kept reminding herself did exist, there was no shortage of topics for Scarlett Leigh to tackle, and John Harcourt and his bosses were not only ecstatic about Postcards from Suburbia, they'd given her a raise. But each column she wrote left her feeling even more disloyal to Melanie. It wasn't that the excesses she wrote about didn't exist, because they did. It was just that once she'd exempted her sister due to her widowhood and working-single-mother status, she'd begun to realize that other denizens of suburbia also had their reasons. Her attacks began to feel more and more mean-spirited.

Nonetheless Scarlett Leigh lobbied for the surgical removal of cell phones from drivers' and shoppers' hands, bemoaned the demise of family dinners, and poked fun at suburban lawn wars, which encompa.s.sed secret watering in the near-drought conditions and the equally secret reporting of those who did. She also wrote a column on the buildup to high school proms and the fortune that was spent on them from the expensive gowns and tux rentals to the pricey limo and dinner out, as well as the kinds of behavior she suspected would take place afterward.

She'd never been more grateful that Melanie didn't have time for newspapers than when she'd filed that particular column plucked from watching Shelby's frantic preparations and the multi-mother conferences that went on in the weeks leading up to the big event.

Now she fingered her computer keyboard in hopes of building a column out of her first harrowing drive with the newly licensed Trip. But it was difficult to write when one's hands were still trembling and one's mind was still in shock. Deep in her heart, Vivi felt grateful to still be alive.

It had begun badly when Trip, who'd acted as if he knew exactly what he was doing, had turned the key in the ignition and failed to realize he was supposed to let go. Backing down the driveway was even more frightening because he executed this maneuver at the speed of sound and without ever actually looking over either shoulder.

Vivi had wanted to get out of the car then, but she hadn't been able to catch her breath to say so before he'd slammed the Toyota into gear and mashed down on the gas so that they squealed away from the front curb.

Her heart raced again as she relived the experience. "The mailboxes!" she'd shrieked as they'd loomed up beside her, so close that she could see the dents in the metal and could have browsed through the catalogues inside them if she'd had a mind to.

"You're too close!" The words had been torn from her throat as he'd driven, in strange surging motions that made the gorge rise in her throat.

"Why are you doing that?" she asked, looking down at his right foot, which was working the gas pedal like a musician might pump the pedal of a piano. "You've got to keep your foot on the gas to maintain a consistent speed."

She'd held her breath until they'd surged their way to the stop sign at 120, where he'd put on his blinker as if he were going to make a left turn onto the buzzing highway.

"No!" she'd shrieked again. "We're only making right turns today. No left turns! And definitely not here!" She could still remember the cars she'd beached on the median, and she'd been a professional driver in comparison to Trip, who really didn't seem to be able to keep his foot on the gas for any length of time and was still trying to figure out which way to look as traffic whizzed by in both directions.

"Angle the front of the car to the right," she'd said, and he'd surged right, then slammed on the brakes. This was when she'd truly comprehended that she'd put her life-and that of her unborn child-in the hands of a hormonally driven testosterone-charged beginner who didn't know the gas from the brake.

Vivien, who was not a religious person, had prayed almost continuously for the full thirty minutes she'd spent strapped into the pa.s.senger seat of the mult.i.ton chariot of death. And in those moments when the prayers stuck in her throat and she was too frightened to even shriek directions at her nephew, she'd promised G.o.d all kinds of things. If only he'd allow them to get back to Melanie's alive.

At the corner of Timber Ridge Road and 120, where Trip was supposed to make the next-to-the-last right turn of their endless journey, he'd surged past the actual stop sign before managing to get his foot onto the brake. He did this in full view of an idling police car.

"Sorry, Officer," she'd begun before the face of the patrolman had come into view on Trip's side of the car. "He just got his learner's permit and . . ."

"You?" Officer McFarland had asked. "Someone is letting you teach a minor to drive?" His tone was as incredulous as the expression on his face.

It was only by promising that if they were lucky enough to get back to where they'd started in one piece, she would never do this again, that the officer had let them go with just a warning. And then provided a siren-screaming, light-flas.h.i.+ng police escort the half mile back to Melanie's. When they got there, Vivien had fumbled her way out of the car, then lowered herself to the ground to kiss the driveway. Officer McFarland was still laughing as he drove out of sight.

Now she sat in front of her laptop hammering out a lead for her column, which she followed with several paragraphs on what bargains parents might be striking with G.o.d as they taught their children to drive. When she'd delivered all the insults she could come up with, she took aim at the overindulgence that seemed so pervasive in Melanie's patch of suburbia. Almost as upsetting as the fact that these "children" are set loose on an unsuspecting populace is the kinds of vehicles in which these kids are set loose, she wrote. Because these teenagers are not driving what we used to call "beaters." Far too few of them are driving ancient relics that serve only as transportation and for which the teenager is expected to feel grateful.

Like most things given to teenagers in this world in which I've landed, their vehicles are both flashy and expensive-a reflection of the position and wealth of the parents who purchase them.

Again, Vivien felt a faint flush of shame for lumping her sister in with everyone else and with such broad strokes. Melanie had not handed over J.J.'s BMW as many parents here might have. She had not bought Shelby a new car, or a fast one. Or pa.s.sed down a practically brand-new Mercedes because its ashtrays were dirty. Nor did she allow Shelby to drive the car she did have once she'd demonstrated a lack of responsibility.

Vivien tuned out those truths and reiterated her point instead. To what does a sixteen-year-old who begins at the top of the auto food chain aspire? How will they understand the satisfaction of earning and purchasing a car they can afford? Or appreciate the value of something they haven't paid for?

She went on in this vein for a time before reaching several condescending conclusions, which she tweaked so as to give maximum offense. Then she sent the article to John Harcourt at the Weekly Encounter, closed and pa.s.sword-protected the file, and shut down her laptop.

As she did so she sent one last prayer G.o.d's way. A thank-you for keeping Stone safe so far and for letting her live through her drive with Trip. She also expressed grat.i.tude that no one suspected that she was the now-reviled Scarlett Leigh and apologized for making Melanie her unwitting accomplice. Then she promised herself she'd be long gone before anyone found out, though she had no idea where she might go.

THAT WEDNESDAY NIGHT, as she drove to the Magnolia Ballroom, Vivien kept a watchful eye out for Officer McFarland. The last thing she wanted to do right now was call attention to herself or provide any kind of photo opportunity for Matt Glazer, whose last message had warned that if she didn't call him back soon, she'd be "sorry."

At the studio Vivi climbed out of the RAV4 and hurried, as best she could, across the parking lot. The "decorating committee" had stayed after cla.s.s two weeks ago to replace the holiday snowflakes and lights with Mylar hearts and mischievous Cupids, which Melanie insisted would provide an excuse for new cla.s.ses and a Valentinethemed dance party.

The cla.s.s was already lined up at the far end of the studio by the time Vivi made it onto the dance floor. She felt huge and unwieldy and was actually out of breath by the time she reached them. She was tempted to simply observe rather than partic.i.p.ate, but one look from her sister and she kept that thought to herself.

As she followed Naranya through the opening stretches and into the isolation exercises, she studied those around her in the mirror and realized that she no longer saw them through a stranger's eyes.

Ruth looked all fluttery and smiled more in that hour than she had in the whole first month of lessons. Between exercises and moves, she gushed about the trip to Mexico that had been booked and the private dance lessons she and Ira were going to take from Melanie. She flushed like a young girl when she declared that if she didn't stop pinching herself she was going to be completely black and blue. And then she smiled at them all some more.

Melanie smiled more frequently, too, and Vivi sensed a lightness in her sister that hadn't been there when she'd first arrived. Vivi wanted to believe that her being there had something to do with it. The chain of disasters that had brought Vivi here had not been welcome, but the growing closeness to Melanie was.

There was a good deal of laughter as they worked with the large rectangles of chiffon that Naranya pa.s.sed out. She showed them how to hide behind them and twirl them seductively. Then she began to teach them a ch.o.r.eographed set of moves that involved lots of swirling the multicolored veils to music.

"Eef you learn this dance," Naranya said. "You can come perform it with me at the Brown Camel, where I dance on Friday nights."

"I don't think so," Vivi and Angela said at the exact same instant while everyone else chattered excitedly.

"We seem to be a minority of two," Angela said, twirling the veil like a la.s.so.

"I have a reason. I'd scare people right out of the place." Vivi considered her ma.s.sive midsection, then looked at Angela's trim one. "You'd look good in one of those two-piece harem outfits, and you're the only one of us besides Mellie who can actually do a belly roll." They'd celebrated Angela's abdominal achievement just the week before.

"I don't think so," Angela said again, as if Vivi were making fun of her.

"At least I a.s.sume you can. If you wore a little less camouflage, it would be easier to tell what parts you were moving."

Angela's heart-shaped face kind of folded in on itself. One minute she looked perfectly normal; the next she looked as if she were searching for the emergency exit.

"What just happened?" Vivi asked. "What . . ."

"Nothing," Angela said, not meeting Vivi's eye. "Here, pa.s.s me your veil."

Angela handed the veils to Naranya, but didn't speak again.

"What did you say to her?" Melanie demanded after the veils were collected and the closing stretches began. "I've never seen anyone shut down so quickly."

"No kidding. All I said was that it would be easier to see her moves if she didn't wear so much clothing."

"Vivi!"

"Well, it's true. It's not like Ruth and I haven't commented on the fact that she's wearing the wrong size before."

Hearing her name, Ruth joined the huddle in mid-stretch. "What have you done now?"

"Me?" Vivi asked. "All I said was . . ." Vivi repeated the conversation.

"That poor girl," Ruth said. "What should we do?"

"I'm not sure," Melanie said as cla.s.s drew to an end. "But we can't let her leave upset."

Angela tried to slip out with Lourdes and the s.h.i.+pleys, but Ruth waylaid her near the exit. Melanie slipped an arm through Angela's. Ruth flanked her other side and they escorted her to the kitchen. Vivi brought up the rear.

Quietly Melanie pressed Angela into a seat at the table, then sat beside her. Ruth took a seat opposite. Vivi lowered her bulk into the remaining chair. "Should I get the rubber hose? Maybe a bare lightbulb for the interrogation?"

No one laughed.

"I know Vivi's sorry for what she said," Melanie began. "She didn't mean . . ."

"I can apologize for myself," Vivi said. "Angela, I'm sorry I said what I did. I just haven't been able to figure out what you're so intent on hiding. I mean if I still had a body, I wouldn't be wrapping it . . ."

Melanie shook her head at Vivi. "We don't mean to pry," Mel said. "But none of us wants to see you upset. Is there something we can do to help?"

Angela sat for a long moment. With all three of their gazes on her she might as well have been under the glare of the bare lightbulb. She clutched her purse tightly in her lap. "No, I'm the one who should apologize. I'm just a little sensitive about my weight." She hurried on before they could protest. "And I'm just getting kind of emotional with the wedding so close. And . . ." She hesitated. ". . . I'm worried that James won't . . ." Angela snapped her mouth shut, but Vivi had interviewed enough people to know when someone actually wanted to spill all.

"What is it, Angela?" Melanie asked gently, perhaps sensing the same thing. "Can't you tell us?"

Angela drew a deep breath. Vivi watched her teeter between fear of rejection and the relief of unburdening. Finally, she spoke. "I've been . . . dishonest. There's something I have to tell James before I can marry him. But I'm afraid if I do, if I'm completely honest like you said, Melanie, I'm afraid he won't love me anymore."

They all looked at each other and then at Angela.

"He doesn't even know who I am," Angela said so quietly they had to lean closer to hear. "He has no idea."

"You're going to have to explain that," Vivi said. "Because now I'm thinking that you've decided to wear a burka instead of a wedding dress, but you're afraid it won't match James's tux."

Melanie and Ruth exchanged glances. Angela almost smiled.

"And I'm worried that you're in the Witness Protection Program. Or running from the law for a crime you didn't commit," Ruth said.

"Whatever it is," Melanie said as they all processed that one, "there's nothing you could tell us that would make us think less of you. Nothing. And I'm sure James feels the same way."

Angela closed her eyes briefly. Just when Vivi thought she might just get up and leave, she reached into her purse and pulled out a photograph. Slowly, she held it out for them to see.

The photo was old and faded and had clearly been handled a lot over a long period of time. A large, shapeless body swathed in black dominated the center of the frame. Two flabby white arms were folded against a shelf of a chest and several chins drooped over a linebacker-sized neck. A full moon of a face perched on that neck. The head was topped by a shock of carrot red hair.

"What is that?" Vivi asked.

"It's not a what." Angela's face scrunched up in an effort to hold back tears. "That's the problem. That's not a what. That's me!"

ANGELA DRESSED EXTRA carefully for her Valentine's dinner with James. With Vivien, Ruth, and Melanie's a.s.surances ringing in her ears, she pulled a black sleeveless c.o.c.ktail dress out of the back of her closet and slipped it on. She fastened her good string of pearls around her neck and stepped into a pair of black heels. She smoothed her palms down the silk that skimmed over her hips, not as big as usual but not too tight, either.

Tucking the dog-eared photo into her s.h.i.+ny black clutch, she vowed that this was the night she'd tell James everything. But her heart sped up at the sound of the doorbell, and her palms turned sweaty when she went to answer the door.

His gaze was admiring and his kiss warm as he helped her into the car. But she barely heard what he said during the drive to the restaurant, because she spent the whole time trying to remember when food had become her refuge and the reasons why that had happened.

Should she tell him that by middle school when other girls were agonizing over their hair and their clothes, Angela was thinking about her next meal? Or should she simply whip out the photo and show it to him?

Somehow she made conversation through what turned out to be a six-course meal. They talked about his upcoming trip to the West Coast, and she told him something funny Brian had done during that morning's photo shoot. For once she didn't have to worry about portion control or eating slowly enough to allow herself to feel full. She moved her food around a good bit, but could hardly eat a bite. She thanked him for the beautiful jade earrings he gave her but didn't put them on.

"Are you all right?" James asked over the flickering candle when she failed to raise her winegla.s.s in response to his toast. "You have the strangest look on your face. Is everything okay?"

It was the perfect opening and she told herself it didn't matter where she began the story; it only mattered that she told it. But when she opened her mouth to begin, nothing came out. The black evening clutch sat on the edge of the table. She thought about reaching for it, but James covered her hand with his and gave her fingers a gentle squeeze.

"Ang?" he said quietly. "You know I love you, right?" She nodded and swallowed, trying to find her voice, still thinking that she could get it together, but all she managed was, "I love you, too.

"James, I . . ." she began, knowing there'd never be a perfect time for what she wanted to say. Knowing how much better she'd feel once she'd told him about Fangie.

a.s.suming that he reacted the right way.

"James, I was . . . I wanted . . ." she said just as the waiter came over to recite the dessert menu.

"Do you want to share a chocolate mousse or a Death by Chocolate?" James asked after the waiter had described each selection in detail.

For perhaps the first time in her life the promise of chocolate meant absolutely nothing to her. "No, I want to . . ."

"Go?" he said, although that wasn't at all what she'd been about to say.

He winked at her, then waggled his eyebrows. "I have something better in mind for dessert anyway."

Angela took a deep breath in an attempt to steady her nerves. James was so fabulous. He would understand about Fangie. He would. He'd slayed his own dragons and he would respect the fact that she had slayed hers. Brian and Susan and Melanie had urged her to just tell him. But now he was motioning for the check and staring into her eyes while they waited for it.

She couldn't tell him. She just couldn't take the risk. Even if he understood, could she bear to see the vision of herself change in his eyes? Not after she'd worked so hard to become that person.

And so she remained silent as James took the receipt and helped her into her coat. On the way home he teased her with the details of what he intended to be her "final" Valentine's Day present. After he'd carried her over the threshold and placed her gently on the bed, he delivered everything that he'd promised. But although Angela sighed more than once with pleasure, she kept her confession to herself.

NOT EVERYONE IN Atlanta got multiple o.r.g.a.s.ms and jewelry for Valentine's Day that year. No one in Melanie Jackson's house got either, though Shelby did receive a candy thong from Ty Womack, her date for the upcoming prom-something Vivien discovered by accident when she reached under her niece's bed looking for the pot and pan that Shelby had stolen out of its last hiding place inside Vivien's suitcase.

Once again she debated what, if anything, to say to Melanie. But she was afraid if she said something to her sister what little rapport she'd established with Shelby would be eliminated. And she felt a growing need to be there for the girl. She worried it over and over throughout the day and still couldn't reach a decision. It was just one of the many things that preyed on her mind.

She and Stone traded emails on Valentine's Day, both of them sending love, Stone promising that he'd be back in Kabul within the next few days and would reach her by phone then. Even his email sounded weary. The journalists had been found hacked to bits, and Stone had been forced to report the gruesome details after their remains were verified.

Vivien cried when she read his email and again when she watched his live shot from the site. The weekly rants of Scarlett Leigh seemed small and petty in comparison, and not for the first time she missed her former life. And especially the sense of righting wrongs that used to be a part of her investigative work.

So thinking, she went back through the GBI case file, J.J.'s Day-timer, and credit card and phone bill receipts, looking for something she might have missed. Once again she came up with absolutely nothing.

31.