FROM THE BEGINNING, THINGS WENT BADLY. DESPITE Virginia's well-laid plans, the Gracious Southern Living crew arrived early to shoot the pre-Thanksgiving dinner and had to be entertained by Redmon in the living room while Virginia hurriedly dressed. By the time she got downstairs, Redmon had broken into his hidden stash of Jack Daniel's and, despite Virginia's earlier repeated admonitions to “keep sober and keep quiet,” had begun to entertain them with tales of his wretched childhood spent in the snake-handling hills of Alabama. Several of the crew hauled in TV cameras and lights while others sat around the room, politely watching Redmon. One of them, a nice-looking young man with a ponytail, held a tumbler of whiskey in one hand and appeared to be taking notes with the other. Virginia shuddered and hurried into the room, greeting everyone effusively. The young man, a director of photography named Porter, stood up and shook her hand. She shot Redmon a warning glance, but he ignored her, settling himself down on the sofa beside Porter. The Lifestyle producer, a heavyset young woman named Carlin, and her assistant, Rose, shook hands briskly with Virginia.

“Oh my, this looks so professional,” Virginia said, feigning an interest in their gear.

“Do you mind if we go ahead and set up in the dining room?” Carlin had a masculine haircut and a brusque, efficient manner that left Virginia feeling a little uncertain of herself.

“Of course,” she stammered. She showed Carlin and Rose into the dining room, leaving Porter behind with Redmon. He was a film school graduate with dreams of Oscar glory. The Gracious Southern Living gig was only temporary. After ten minutes with Redmon, he was envisioning a documentary on snake handlers and faith healers in the rural South.

In the dining room, Carlin snapped her fingers and said loudly, “Come on, Porter, get a move on. We need to get set up.”

“The buffet looks nice,” Rose said shyly and Virginia blushed with pleasure and said, “Why thank you. The silver service came from my great- grandmother on my father's side—is it okay if I mention that in the interview?—and the silver serving pieces on the sideboard …”

“Porter!” Carlin barked, interrupting her, and Virginia fell silent. Porter downed his drink and stood up with his equipment bag banging against his hip. He took out a light meter and began to take several readings around the room. “Listen, there won't be any interview,” Carlin said to Virginia. “This is supposed to be natural, not staged, just as if we'd dropped in on a dinner party. Everyone needs to act natural and don't stare at the camera. We'll add any details we want mentioned later in the voice-over. All you have to do is eat and act natural. How many guests are you expecting?”

“It's a small group,” Virginia murmured. “Maybe fifty or sixty.” She didn't tell Carlin how an invitation to the buffet had become the hottest ticket in town. Really, it was disgusting the way so many of Ithaca's finer citizens would practically prostitute themselves just to get a chance to show up on regional television. Still, it had been fun culling the wanted from the unwanted. Mrs. Astor, putting together the New York 400 couldn't have enjoyed herself more than Virginia, putting together her final guest list.

“Excuse me,” she said, “I'll just go check on the turkey.” Virginia walked into the kitchen expecting to find Della scurrying about. Instead, the black woman sat at the kitchen table reading a newspaper with her slippered feet propped on a chair. Her starched uniform hung on the pantry door.

“My God, why aren't you dressed?” Virginia said, trying to keep her voice down.

Della lowered the paper and looked at her. Her lower jaw jutted like a battering ram. “I am dressed,” she said.

“In the uniform, in the uniform,” Virginia hissed, pointing at the pantry door. She stamped her high-heeled shoe against the hardwood floor as quietly as she could.

Della slowly creased the newspaper and laid it down on the table. She crossed her arms over her chest. “I ain't wearing no uniform,” she said sullenly.

Virginia said in a stage whisper, “What do you mean you aren't wearing the uniform? I paid you to wear the uniform. You have to wear the uniform.”

Della shook her head slowly. “You didn't pay me enough,” she said.

It took Virginia a minute to catch on. When she finally did, it felt like a blood vessel had burst in her head and was slowly thumping the side of her skull like a convulsive water hose. “How much?” she said finally, between clenched teeth.

“One large,” Della said. She was addicted to The Sopranos. Everything she'd learned about extortion and bargaining, she'd learned watching Tony Soprano do business with the New Jersey mob. She figured that was good practice for dealing with Virginia.

“One large what?” Virginia said.

“One thousand dollars.”

“One thousand dollars?” Virginia said, her voice squeaking with the strain. “You must be crazy. You must be insane.”

“Cash,” Della said.

In the dining room, Carlin said, “Porter, set up over here where we can get a shot of the buffet before everyone gets here.” Virginia and Della faced each other across the large kitchen. Virginia's steadily rising blood pressure flooded her face like a geyser. The turkey, a twenty-pound organic bird flown in from someplace where they let birds roam wild before killing them humanely, sputtered in the oven, wafting its delicious aroma. Dishes of corn bread dressing, squash casserole, and sweet potato soufflé rested on the stove, covered in aluminum foil. A spiral-cut ham sat on a silver serving platter and another one waited in the warming oven.

Virginia hissed, “That's highway robbery!”

Della shrugged. “Reparations,” she said.

Giving in to the inevitable, Virginia nodded curtly. Della, understanding they had a deal, rose ponderously and went back to work. Virginia spun around on her heels and stalked into the living room. She stopped on the threshold, staring in openmouthed amazement at her grandson, who had steadfastly refused his grandmother's bribe of fifteen hundred dollars to spend the weekend at the beach. Instead he was here, dressed in an ill- fitting navy blue suit he'd picked up at the Baptist Bible Thrift Store, and a pair of red Converse high-tops. Obedient to his grandmother's order “to do something about your purple hair,” he had shaved his head. And to make matters worse, there appeared to be a tattoo on his scalp, something that looked unsettlingly like the number 666. He saw Virginia and waved.

“Hey, Grandma,” he said.

Behind her, Carlin came into the room, followed by Rose and Porter. “Oh hello,” Carlin said, giving her hand to Logan.

“Hello,” Logan said. He stood there staring at his grandmother, daring her to say something. Virginia clicked her mouth shut with a sound like a bullet being loaded into a chamber.

“Who are you?” Carlin asked.

Logan grinned. “I'm the grandson.”

She pointed at his feet. “Cool shoes.”

“Thanks.” He nodded at the French doors. “Okay if me and my band set up on the deck? We've written a song to perform for the occasion.”

Virginia thought, Over my dead body! She said, “Oh no, darling, I don't think we'll have time for any live performances. Maybe some other time.”

“Sure,” Carlin said. “Live music would be great. Talk to Eddie over there. He's our sound guy.”

Virginia stood there trying to imagine what her life would be like once the Gracious Southern Living segment aired. She imagined cocktail parties, and bridge groups, and bunco groups giggling behind their fingers. She saw in her mind's eye televised images of her ruddy-faced, intoxicated husband; images of her bald grandson, marked with the sign of the Beast, in his thrift store suit and red tennis shoes. She imagined her surly maid, who watched too many mafia TV shows, parading into the scene carrying a steaming turkey on a tray.

As if to authenticate this vision, Della did appear suddenly in the living room carrying a small silver tray of stuffed mushroom caps. She had hastily put on the maid's uniform, with the result being that the buttons were done up wrong and the cap rested at a jaunty angle on her thick hair.

“Oh, Della, you've brought the hors d'oeuvres,” Virginia said brightly, trying to hide her dismay.

“Oh, yas'm, yas'm I done brought the appurtizers just like you done ordered me to.” Della dipped her head and lifted one shoulder, walking with an exaggerated limp. She was laying it on thick. The result was an uncomfortable silence that seemed to billow through the room like smoke. The three producers, all of whom had attended various Southern prep schools, exchanged horrified glances. Across the room, Redmon and Logan snorted and snickered behind their hands.

Virginia took the tray from the wincing Della and served the camera crew herself. Della humped and limped her way out of the room.

“Mrs. Redmon, we can't have an African American woman dressed in a maid's uniform,” Carlin said in horror. “This is the new South. My executive producer would fire me on the spot if I taped something like that. And even if we taped it, the editors would edit it out anyway.”

“Fine!” Virginia said. She set the tray down on the coffee table and followed Della into the kitchen. “Change your clothes,” Virginia said shortly. The thumping in her head had taken on the high-pitched whine of a dental drill at full speed.

Della eyed her suspiciously. “I still get the price we agreed on,” she said, humping her shoulders like a linebacker. “The price you agreed to pay me to wear that raggedy-ass uniform. Or I quit.”

Virginia clenched her teeth to keep them from chattering. She couldn't very well walk around the room carrying a tray herself, at least not on camera. “Oh all right,” she said finally. Satisfied, Della went off to find something to wear. Virginia stood for a few moments trying to compose herself. The whining in her head gradually subsided until it was more like the hum of wild bees clustered around a sunflower. She listened to the frenetic activity going on in her living room and dining room. She rearranged her face into a pleasant expression and then wandered back into the living room in time to catch Redmon pouring himself and Porter another stiff drink from a bottle of Jack Daniel's he had obviously hidden behind the new flat- screen TV. She gave him “the look,” which normally would have stopped him dead in his tracks. But today, of all days, Redmon seemed to have achieved intentional blindness through a sheer act of will and stamina.

“Speaking of editing,” Virginia said to Carlin. “How exactly does that work?”

Carlin popped one of the mushroom caps into her mouth. She chewed for a moment with her finger up in front of her face. “Well, we'll tape the entire party. However long it lasts, probably two hours or more, but then the editors will edit it down to a thirty-minute segment that we'll run during our holiday show.”

“And will I have a chance to help with that?” Virginia said sweetly. “The editing, I mean.”

The producer laughed and shook her head. “Oh no,” she said. “That's their job. You signed a release when we booked you, allowing them to edit it any way they see fit.”

“I see.” Virginia smiled bleakly. She went to the bar and poured herself a glass of wine. Across the room, several of the crew laughed loudly at something Redmon had said. He gestured wildly, spilling his drink on the new Oriental rug. Della crossed the room wearing a garish red-flowered print dress and red pumps. Outside on the deck, Logan and his juvenile delinquent bandmates cheerfully set up their massive equipment. Despite her best-laid plans, this whole party was definitely beginning to feel like a runaway horse. Virginia was on board, sawing desperately on the bit, but despite her best efforts the deranged horse was galloping recklessly and relentlessly toward the hedgerow.

AN HOUR LATER, MOST OF THE GUESTS HAD ARRIVED AND HAD been instructed by Carlin to ignore the cameras and just act as if they were at any other normal party. They stood stiffly in small groups scattered around the large living room, clutching glasses of wine and trying to keep their best profiles presented at all times to the wandering cameramen. Virginia had invited the brightest and most attractive people she could think of, with special preference going to those she thought would look best on camera. She had invited some of the dusty old aristocracy, too, although they had mostly declined her invitation. Which was a good thing, Virginia decided, as they were the ones most likely to dress down and drink too much, the ones who inevitably tried to monopolize the conversation, standing in the middle of the room, regaling the crowd in their Plantation South accents so that no one could get a word in edgewise. It was bad enough she'd had to invite that old bore, Judge Drucker, and his equally boring, twittering wife, Eulonia. There was, of course, a method to her madness. She had thought it best to show the judge, firsthand, the advantages Whit ney had living in the privileged bosom of Virginia's family. Although now, given Redmon's obvious inebriated state and her grandson's crafty expression (she knew he had something dirty up his sleeve, hadn't she seen that expression a million times on her dead husband's face), she wondered if inviting Judge Drucker might have been a mistake.

Virginia began to feel better once Whitney appeared. The girl, dressed in a Nicole Miller knockoff they'd found in a little boutique in Palm Beach, was stunning. Virginia could see from the special attention the camera crew gave her that most of the scenes would feature Whitney. Virginia relaxed a bit. This might turn out well after all, she thought. And then, just when she had begun to feel that things were indeed looking up, Charles arrived with Nita in tow.

She was dressed in a tasteful blue suit. Looking at the pretty, demure woman, Virginia had to wonder just what it was about Nita that had made her dislike her all those years she was married to Charles. Surely her own daughter would look much like Nita did now, and it amazed Virginia that she had never considered this before, that she had never actually thought of Nita as a daughter until this very moment, when it was too late.

Because it was too late. Virginia could see this, even if Charles couldn't. Even if he was still so besotted with his ex-wife that he would do anything to win her back, even if it meant going up against his own mother to do it.

Well, poor Charles. He would learn his lesson the hard way. Virginia leaned toward her crafty ex-daughter-in-law and said, “Nita, bless your heart, how wonderful to see you.” She kissed her lightly and insincerely on the cheek. Nita stared at her and said nothing.

Logan saw his mother and came over and hugged her. “How's my boy?” Nita said, standing on tiptoe to kiss him. Whitney moved up behind her shoulder.

“Hello, Mommy,” Whitney said. Her mother looked so small and pretty that for a moment Whitney felt a trembling homesickness in the pit of her stomach. But as she leaned to hug Nita she remembered that Virginia had promised her a new BMW and a shopping trip to Paris, and when she stepped away from Nita, her eyes were dry.

Nita smiled and touched her lightly on the cheek. Carlin, who had watched the family greet each other, and had assumed Nita to be Charles's second wife, was confused. “Excuse me,” she said, extending her hand to Nita. “I'm Carlin Benwood. Are you the children's mother?”

“Yes,” Nita said firmly. “I am.”

Carlin frowned. “But they live with their grandmother?”

Virginia, who was old-school Southern down to the last molecule of her being, stepped forward. She would rather be drawn and quartered than air the family dirty linen in front of strangers. Especially strangers with a camera. “The children are just staying with me,” she said brightly, “just a vacation, of sorts. While Nita finishes up some unfinished business.”

Nita stared at Virginia as if contemplating a pistol-whipping. She said, “I'm working on an article on domestics working in the South prior to the civil rights movement.”

“Oh,” Carlin said.

“You'd be amazed at the secrets you can learn,” Nita said, staring deliberately at Virginia, “listening to these women talk about the families they worked for. Troubled marriages, love affairs gone bad, babies born out of wedlock, it's all there.”

Virginia forced a stiff smile and said to Carlin, “Oh, you can't trust half of what you hear. People make up all kinds of stories to relieve the boredom of these small towns. My goodness, if only half of it were true, Ithaca would be worse than Babylon!”

“I could write a book,” Nita said. “I could tell a story no one would believe.”

“Yes, I daresay you could,” Virginia snapped.

Charles glanced uncomfortably from Nita to his mother. Porter, sensing a rising tension between the two women, quickly swung his camera from one face to the other. He had already forgotten the documentary on snake handlers and was envisioning a reality TV show involving a dysfunctional modern family and their symbolic American holidays. Dinner at Casa Redmon.

“Does he have to point that camera at me like that?” Virginia said sharply.

“What are you afraid he'll see?” Nita said.

“Y'all just try to act normal,” Carlin said, and then blushed fiercely. “I mean, just pretend we're not even here. Just continue on as you normally would, as if you didn't have a room full of strangers documenting your every move.” Even she realized she was treading dangerous waters. “I'll just check with Della in the kitchen,” she finished lamely.

Across the room, Duckie Bradshaw and her husband, Harris, had arrived fashionably late. Virginia, glad for a distraction, turned her back on Nita and said, “Yoo-hoo, Duckie! Hello!” She was this year's president of the Junior League, so Virginia couldn't just not invite her. Virginia hadn't spoken to her since Duckie had the brilliant idea of holding a League luncheon out at the new Ithaca Zoo Monkey Annex that the League had helped fund through one of its community outreach programs. Duckie had stood up there in her Prada suit and Fendi pumps and droned on and on about the “darling monkeys” and their new “darling habitats” while in the cage behind her, Bobo the Chimp slowly masturbated. And don't tell me that monkey didn't know exactly what he was doing, Virginia thought savagely, remembering his crafty expression and obvious delight at the shocked faces and nervous gigglings of the all-female audience. She hadn't been able to think of dumb animals in the same way since.

Behind her, Celia Banks let out a little cry of alarm. “Oh my God, who is that?” she said.

Virginia swung around. Nita and Charles had moved off to get a drink. Virginia followed Celia's horrified stare to the deck where Logan stood tuning a guitar strapped to his chest. “My grandson,” Virginia said. “And some of his bandmates.” She noted, with dismay, that some idiot had opened the French doors so they would be able to hear the music clearly.

“Oh,” Celia said, lifting her artificially sculpted little nose. “Public school boys.”

Virginia held her smile, aware that the cameras were rolling. Really, who did the woman think she was? Her father had driven a delivery truck, for goodness sakes. Until she married Franklin Banks, Celia had been poor as a lizard-eating cat.

“And how is your father?” Virginia said pleasantly. “Still driving his route between Oak Grove and Valdosta?”

“Excuse me,” Celia said. “I think I see Lee Anne. Lovely party.”

Logan stepped up to the mike. He lifted his head and looked out over the crowd until he spotted Virginia. “Hey, Grandma,” he said, waving. Everyone giggled. Virginia forced a smile. “This song's for you,” he said, opening his arms wide to include his band members. “It's called ‘Colla Poppa'.’”

“‘Colla' Poppa'?’ ” Virginia said to Whitney. “What's that? It sounds like a flower,” she said, hoping against hope that it might be some kind of a soft ballad, a love song perhaps, or maybe a bluegrass number.

Whitney looked at her like she was stupid. “Collar Popper,” she said, pointing to her neck. “You know. Like those poseurs who walk around in Polo shirts with the collar popped up in the back and a sweater tied around their shoulders. There's a lot of them at my school.” Her voice carried loudly over the quiet room.

Virginia smiled and looked around nervously at her guests, many of whom had children and grandchildren at the Barron Hall school. “Whitney, dear,” she said. “Go and find your grandfather and ask him to see if the band can't play after we eat dinner. Or maybe later in the evening. Much later.”

Just then, a red-faced Redmon lifted his glass above the crowd and shouted, “Hey, Queenie, wait till you hear this song. It's awesome.”

Logan said “One-two-three-four” and the band was off, a sudden, raucous, three-chord wall of sound that would have made the Sex Pistols proud, that would have made Johnny Rotten stumble around the stage and projectile vomit for joy.

Hey, Colla' Poppa', where'd you get that shirt?

Your front's tucked in, but your buttons don't work.

Hey Colla' Poppa' those teeth are gold,

Bleach them yourself, or is that how they're sold?

You hang around town in you pink Po-los,

Axe Bodyspray burning up my nose,

Talking about shit that you don't know,

If you're at the bar in sandals then I'm stepping On your toes!

Hey Colla' Poppa'—

Driving daddy's car,

Drinking in a college bar,

Think that you're so cool?

You're a fucking tool!

“Oh my God,” Virginia said. The whole scene was like a nightmare, one of those where you know you're dreaming but can't wake up.

Hey, Colla' Poppa' who's that chick you're with?

I think I know her, let me give her a kiss.

Hey, Colla' Poppa' don't you have no fear,

I already fucked that slut last year!

High on coke, you're up all night,

Can't get laid so you look for a fight,

Head on home and pummel the pipe,

Your only true friend is Xbox Live!

Hey Colla' Poppa'—

Daddy get you a job?

You act like a snob.

Daddy turned you away?

When he found out that you're gay!

“Dinner is served,” Virginia shouted helplessly, trying to make herself heard above the wailing guitars and foot-thumping base. She turned to her guests who clustered like stalagmites at the edge of her Oriental rug, their faces frozen into various expressions of horror, outrage, and suppressed mirth.

Hey Colla' Poppa'! Hey Colla' Poppa'! Hey Colla' Poppa'! Oy! Oy! Oy! Oy!

“You know,” Carlin shouted beside her, “they have kind of a Beastie Boys thing going on.” She and several of the television crew were dancing around with their hands in the air, their fingers curled into some kind of cryptic gang symbol, not the kind of thing they would have learned in prep school, at least not in Virginia's day. The cameras, she noted dismally, were rolling.

The music stopped suddenly on a three-chord riff. Lee Anne Bales dropped her glass. No one moved. The silence was almost as deafening as the noise had been.

“Reaganomics!” one of the boys shouted.

“Socialism!” another one said.

“Hey, do y'all know ‘Blue Suede Shoes’?” Redmon said. “Or how about ‘Up Against the Wall Redneck Mother’?”

“Dinner is served,” Virginia said brightly, opening her arms wide and attempting to herd her stunned guests into the dining room, the way Jesus might have done that evening at Mount Zion, the night he was betrayed by Judas Iscariot and his band of wine-guzzling, backstabbing dinner guests.

————

ONCE SHE SAW THAT HER OWN GUESTS HAD BEGUN TO RECOVER from “Colla' Poppa' ” and were lined up obediently at the sideboard buffet, Virginia followed Carlin into the kitchen. She was afraid to leave her alone in a room with Della. There was no telling what the black woman might say or do if she wasn't watched carefully. The stress of the situation was beginning to wear on Virginia. Her stomach ached and she could feel a familiar thumping against the top of her skull, as if something was trapped inside the brain-pan and was trying desperately to get out.

Carlin leaned against one of the granite countertops, her legs crossed at the ankle. “Everything smells so good in here,” she said to Della. The black woman grinned but then, seeing Virginia enter the room, the grin faded. She quickly lapsed into her female impersonation of Morgan Freeman in Driving Miss Daisy. “I'se trying to get it on the buffet, Miz Redmon,” she drawled.

“Well of course you are,” Virginia said quickly, trying to put a stop to this nonsense.

Della ducked her head and lifted one shoulder. “I'se trying but there's only one of me and my back's still bothering me from all that heavy cleaning you had me to do yestiddy.”

This, of course, was a bald-faced lie. Virginia did not expect Della to do, nor would she ever have done, any cleaning around the house. She was lucky if she could get Della to clean the kitchen before she went home. There was many an evening when Virginia finished up the dishes herself, after Della left.

“Listen, you let us carry the dishes out and put them on the sideboard,” Carlin said to Della.

“Oh that won't be necessary,” Virginia said sharply, and then, remembering herself, “I mean, I'll help Della serve. There's no reason for you to bother.” She tried to recapture her jovial pose but no one was buying it. Carlin went out the swinging door into the dining room.

Virginia looked at Della and drew her finger slowly across her throat. “Enough with the Butterfly McQueen routine,” she said. “No one's buying it.”

Della straightened up and put one hand on her hip. “Oh, they're buying it,” she said.

“If you ruin this for me, I'll never speak to you again.”

Della lifted her lip. She smiled, showing her teeth. “I can live with that,” she said.

The door swung open and Porter, Carlin, and Rose came in. Carlin quickly motioned for the other two to take the side dishes out. “Set everything up on the sideboard,” she said. “And let's get a few shots of the food before everyone eats.” Della leaned and took the turkey out of the oven. It was cooked to perfection, a lovely golden brown. She slid it onto a bed of wild lettuce on a silver serving tray.

“That looks wonderful,” Carlin said.

“Where are the radish roses?” Virginia asked.

Della pointed with her chin. “In the refrigerator,” she said.

“Listen,” Carlin said, while Virginia went to get the radish roses. “Della, I've been thinking. Once the food is out, why don't you join the guests?”

“What?” Virginia said. She stood there in front of the open refrigerator with the cold air prickling her cheek. The thumping at the top of her head was as loud and insistent as a jackhammer.

“Well, I guess I could,” Della said. She slid her eyes coyly at Virginia. “If Miz Redmon won't get mad.”

Carlin stared at Virginia. Virginia said nervously, “Well, of course I won't get mad. What a silly idea!” She laughed unconvincingly, looking from one to the other. “Of course, you're welcome to join us Della, but then who will keep the buffet stocked?”

She raised her hands and shrugged her shoulders as if this settled the matter but Carlin said in a brittle voice, “Actually, once we film the sideboard, there's no reason why everyone can't serve themselves. I'll get my staff to bring out what needs to be brought out. Once the buffet is filmed, everyone can just relax and enjoy themselves.”

“Whatever you think is best,” Virginia said flatly. Really she didn't know why she had even bothered to plan this event if the producers were simply going to do things their own way. She poured herself a third glass of wine and then swung around on her heels and went out through the swinging door.

Grace Pearson stood slumped against the far wall, a notepad in her hand, sullenly watching the festivities.

Virginia put her hand up to her temple to steady herself. Then she hurried over. “What are you doing here?” she said, trying to keep her voice low.

“Lumineria's sick. She asked me to come.” She had on a pair of baggy brown slacks and an oversized sweater that did little to enhance her figure.

“Lumineria didn't call me,” Virginia said suspiciously. “She didn't tell me she couldn't come.”

The big woman regarded her with a pair of bloodshot eyes. Her nose and cheeks were red and it appeared she had been drinking. “Lumineria's sick,” she said stubbornly. “She asked me to cover for her. We work for the same newspaper. What, do you think I'm not capable of writing a column for ‘The Town Tattler’? Did you or did you not ask the paper to cover this party?”

“Yes, but I wanted Lumineria to cover it.”

“Well, we don't always get what we want, do we, Virginia? You should know that by now. Life's nothing but one big fucking crapshoot.” She was clearly intoxicated and spoiling for a fight. She crossed her arms over her big chest and stared at Virginia. “What's the matter?” she said evenly. “Don't you want me?”

“Oh fine,” Virginia said. “Write the article. I really don't care.” She would probably write an exposé similar to the ones she used to write about the dead Judge, but Virginia didn't care. She refused to be blackmailed. By anyone. “Say whatever you want to say.”

“Oh, trust me, I will.”

“Good.”

“Fine.”

“Knock yourself out.”

“I intend to.”

“I have to check the buffet,” Virginia said.

“What's a girl have to do around here to get a drink?”

“There's wine on the sideboard,” Virginia said, waving her glass carelessly. Across the room, an inebriated Redmon was entertaining the crowd with an a cappella version of “I'm Just a Psychobilly from Philly.” This party couldn't get much worse.

“You got any whiskey?” Grace said.

THE MAIN TOPIC OF CONVERSATION, OF COURSE, WAS THE FACT that Charles Broadwell had come with Nita Motes as his guest. Virginia noted the way her guests twittered behind their hands, the way they watched surreptitiously as Charles tried to maneuver Nita away from the crowd like a cowboy trying to cut a rogue cow out of the herd. She saw the way they smiled and rolled their eyes with glee when Nita, just as deter mined, made her way back into the throng of guests. Intent on damage control, Virginia hurried over to where Charles, Nita, Whitney, and Logan stood awkwardly balancing their plates and trying to make small talk.

“How nice you look,” Virginia gushed to Charles, ignoring Nita. She noted the way Duckie Bradshaw and Celia Banks had moved up closer so they might overhear the conversation. Celia's youngest daughter, Casey, had been kicked out of four boarding schools and was rumored to be living in a halfway house in Jacksonville, a rumor Celia never acknowledged or discussed. Instead, she immersed herself in the tragic histories of other unfortunate families. If there was a case of adultery, drug abuse, sexual addiction, or compulsive gambling within a sixty-mile radius of Ithaca, Celia would sniff it out. She collected tragic stories the way some women collect dolls.

“Thanks,” Charles said. He knew he was still a good-looking man. Women threw themselves at him all the time, and he had dressed carefully today in a dark blue suit, blue-and-white-pinstripe shirt, and red silk tie.

“And you, too, Whitney,” Virginia said.

“Hey, what about me?” Logan said. “Don't you like my shoes? Don't you like my haircut?”

“Nita, you look a little pale,” Virginia said. “Have you been feeling under the weather?”

“Can I have a glass of wine?” Whitney said. “French kids get to drink when they're little.”

“Are we French?” Virginia said, looking at her as if this settled the matter once and for all. She noted the way Celia had one ear turned their way. She had ears like a bat, big and hairy, and no doubt able to hear a pin drop from twenty feet away.

“I never get to have any fun,” Whitney said. “This party blows.”

Celia sputtered red wine down the front of her dress. Duckie helped her dab the spill with a cocktail napkin. Neither one made any effort to move toward the bathroom door, standing there with the horrified fascination of spectators who've just happened upon a particularly grisly highway accident scene. Logan, who had noticed Judge Drucker standing just a few feet away, said loudly, “I don't know why you won't let us drink some wine when Grandpa Redmon lets us drink all the time!”

Duckie let out a nervous little twitter. Virginia's face looked like it had been carved out of granite.

“Are you telling me you let my children drink alcohol?” Nita said tersely, staring at Virginia.

“No, Nita, of course not,” Charles said. “Mother wouldn't allow something like that. The children are just teasing, of course.” He laughed nervously. This wasn't going like he had planned. His dreams of a happy family, reunited, seemed to be dissolving like chalk in the rain.

Virginia said to Nita, “Whatever bad habits those children have, they picked up from you, not me.”

“I'll have a Kamikaze,” Logan said gaily. “With a beer back.”

“Make mine a double,” Whitney said.

“One more word out of you two and you'll go to your rooms,” Virginia said.

Nita swiveled her shoulders like a gun turret sighting an enemy target. She said, “Don't talk to my children like that.”

“I'll talk to them any way I like when they're living under my roof.”

“That won't be for much longer.”

“We'll see about that.”

“Yes, we will.”

Across the room, Redmon finished his song to a slight smattering of drunken applause. He'd been on a whiskey-free diet for nearly eight weeks so the Jack Daniel's was definitely having an effect. He was feeling better than he had felt in months, better than he had felt, in fact, since he married his sweet little Virginia and brought her home to their happy love nest complete with traditional Elvis décor. Redmon frowned, looking around the fuzzy room. Speaking of Elvis décor, what had happened to the Elvis Red carpet and the lighted curio cabinet? And where in the hell was his reclining sectional sofa complete with built-in beer cooler? Redmon walked over to Virginia as steadily as he could, given the circumstances. She looked up at him and said in a low voice, “You've had enough. Don't drink any more.” He pretended he couldn't hear her.

“This boy is a singer, by God,” he said, throwing his arm around Logan's shoulders. The drunker Redmon got, the more he lapsed into Alabama hill country dialect. Another couple of shots and they'd need an interpreter. “This here boy needs to be a musician when he grows up. Hey, boy, sing your daddy that love song you wrote.”

“You mean, ‘Kill Me’?”

“Yeah, that's it.”

Logan said, “Well, as you can see from the expression on his face, my daddy doesn't want me to sing him any songs.”

“Naw,” Redmon said. “He's just got a little indigestion is all.”

Charles ignored them. It was apparent he was going to have to put his foot down. He had put up with the black clothes and the dyed hair and the lip ring, thinking it was just a phase, but the idea of his son becoming a musician struck him like a kick to the kidneys.

Logan said, “He wants me to go to college and be an accountant or a doctor or a deadbeat lawyer like he is.”

“Is that how you talk to your father?” Charles said, his nostrils flaring. His dream of a happy family caught fire and went up in a full blaze. “Is that the respect you show your father?”

Logan squared his shoulders. “I only show respect to those who deserve it,” he said. He and his father stood there, glaring at each other like gladiators awaiting the first blow.

Whitney yawned. Nita stared at Virginia. Virginia looked at Celia and Duckie, who had moved up so close they were practically touching Charles's shoulder. Redmon grinned like a monkey and looked fondly around at his sullen and depressed family. “Goddamn,” he said, “this is what it's all about.” He raised his amber-colored rock glass in a toast that no one bothered to join. “To family,” he said, misty-eyed. “It don't get no better than this, by God, and if it did, I couldn't stand it and the sheriff wouldn't allow it.”

“Ha, ha,” Logan said, still looking at Charles.

“Can I leave early?” Whitney said, stifling another yawn. “I have to meet some friends at the mall.”

Redmon felt like singing. It was an old family tradition in the Redmon family, everyone gathered around on the front porch after dinner to sing gospel songs while the searing sun broke over the distant line of pine trees like a giant yolk. “Speaking of singing,” Redmon said. “How about we do a few gospel numbers?”

“Why don't you make yourself a plate of food?” Virginia said to him.

“Do y'all know ‘Bringing in the Sheaves’?”

“You better get some turkey before it's all gone,” Virginia said.

“How about ‘Rock Me in the Arms of Jesus’?”

“I know that one,” Della said. She had materialized suddenly at Redmon's elbow like a bad ghost.

“We're not singing any goddamn gospel songs at my party,” Virginia snapped. She glanced around the room and crimsoned, adjusting the sleeves of her dress. She hadn't felt that outburst coming on, which was dangerous, because Virginia always kept a tight rein on her emotions. It wasn't good to show yourself in front of strangers or enemies. Or family either, for that matter. Perhaps it was the wine, or the clanging racket that was going on in her head. Perhaps it was the way Nita kept looking at her, like a cat watching a fishbowl, as if waiting for just the right moment to strike, that had thrown her off-balance. Perhaps it was Grace Pearson, glaring at her from across the room while she clasped a tall glass of whiskey to her bosom, her poisoned pen moving rapidly over the pages of her little notebook.

Della said, “How about ‘He Is My Shepherd in a Land of Wolves’?”

One of Virginia's eyes appeared to have crossed. Whatever it was that had been trying to escape had finally pushed through the top of her skull. She could feel a slight breeze there, where the hole was. She considered striking the woman but then decided it would not be wise. Della probably outweighed her by a good eighty pounds.

Oh, what the hell, she thought, looking around the room at the guests who had begun to crowd her sad little pantomime of a family like a flock of buzzards waiting out a roadkill. The room spun softly. The faces of her guests rose up and down like grisly carousel horses. Virginia got dizzy looking at them. Looking around, she thought, Who are these people and why are they here? Franklin Banks's face swam slowly into view and Virginia saw again the red-haired freckle-faced boy who had teased her and called her a swamp hick in second grade. Milly Craig floated by and Virginia saw the evil child with the golden ringlets who had plotted with Mary Lee Hamilton to make her life miserable. What was it about these people that had made them important to her? What was it about their good opinion that had held her captive all these years?

And that Carlin is a hypocrite, Virginia thought savagely. Her eyes fell suddenly on the young producer who stood next to Della talking to the older woman like they'd been friends all their lives. Virginia sipped her wine, watching the producer deliberately over the rim of her glass. She had asked Carlin what boarding school she'd attended, and Carlin had told her. Virginia knew the school, she knew the annual tuition for a boarding student was $35,000, which meant that Carlin was a “rich kid” and had probably grown up with black servants. Or Mexican. Or … whatever. Who was she to judge Virginia's insistence on the damn maid's uniform?

The more wine she drank, the more abused Virginia began to feel.

“I need to go,” Whitney said. “I told Shannon I'd meet her at the mall.”

“You're not going anywhere,” Virginia said.

“Get your stuff,” Nita said. “We'll leave now.”

“You're welcome to leave,” Virginia said to Nita. “But the girl stays.”

Whitney said, “You can't talk to my mommy that way.”

“Hey,” Redmon said, “what do you call twenty lawyers skydiving from an airplane?”

“I think I'll get another drink,” Charles said.

“Skeet,” Redmon said. He and Logan snickered and thumped each other on the arms.

Charles stepped closer to Redmon. “Better a lawyer than a crooked red- neck contractor,” he said.

“Who you calling a redneck, you high-domed pencil pusher.”

“Cheating scoundrel.”

“Lying bastard.”

“Who's ready for pumpkin pie?” Virginia said, lifting her glass.

AFTER THAT, THINGS COULD ONLY GET WORSE. AND THEY DID.

Redmon broke out the Bloody Marys. Virginia figured her social life was pretty much over by now anyway, so what difference did it make? Whatever faint dreams of glory she had once had, had evaporated, seeping up through the hole in her head like a punctured gas line.

Thirty minutes later Lavonne and Eadie arrived. Redmon and Della stood at one end of the room singing a sloppy rendition of “Open Up Them Pearly Gates,” accompanied by Logan on the guitar. Charles watched them like a man trapped by bad odors. Nita and Whitney huddled together with their heads bowed while Nita talked quietly. Most of the guests, happy to move from wine to something more substantial, hoisted their Bloody Marys and filled the room with their raucous laughter, having long since forgotten about the television cameras. A few joined in the singing. The more sedate among them stood like hostages, unable to look away from the tragic Shakespearean quality of this televised gathering. Virginia leaned against the new armoire and sipped her Bloody Mary, wondering how hard it would be to move to Palm Beach and start a new life.

Eadie stuck her head in the front door and shouted, “Where's the party?” When no one answered, they made their way toward the noisy living room. Virginia looked up and saw them standing in the doorway in their tacky Kudzu Ball gowns. She grimaced and lifted her drink. “Perfect,” she said. “Just perfect.”

Lavonne said, “I hope you guys don't mind us barging in like this, crashing your pre-Thanksgiving dinner.”

Eadie said, “Hey, are y'all drinking Bloody Marys?”

Redmon stopped singing to pour more drinks and Lavonne and Eadie mingled for a few minutes and then wandered over to say hello to Virginia. Virginia watched them with a look of sullen resignation. Lavonne was wearing a gold lamé dress that looked like something Donna Summer might have worn back in 1978. Eadie had on a ridiculous-looking puffy-sleeved cocktail dress and a pair of scuffed combat boots. They both wore kudzu wreath crowns, stuck with feathers and plastic beads, kind of like Mardi Gras Indian princesses.

“Well I guess there's nothing you two won't stoop to,” Virginia said, stirring her drink with a celery stick. “I never would have taken you for party- crashers.”

“Sorry,” Lavonne said. “We just couldn't help ourselves.”

“You know, I could call the police and have you arrested for trespassing.”

“Now that would look good on camera,” Eadie said. “Can't you just see it? An outside shot of your house, me and Lavonne being carried out in our Kudzu Ball gowns, kicking and screaming, by a couple of burly policemen. The interview with you, Virginia, under the klieg lights. Kind of like COPS meets America's Funniest Home Videos.”

“Don't think I won't do it,” Virginia said glumly, looking around the room. “This party couldn't be any more of a fiasco than it already is.”

As if to prove her wrong, Riley Weeks let out a rebel yell and broke into a kind of impromptu rap. On his sober days, Riley was a stockbroker at the local Smith Barney office. Many of the guests, who had obviously never seen a live rap performance, clutched their drinks nervously and edged away from Riley, who looked like a palsy victim trying to thread a needle.

“Now that's just sad,” Eadie said.

“White people shouldn't rap,” Lavonne said. “And white people like Riley shouldn't dance, either.”

“Someone changed the music,” Virginia said, scowling. She had carefully planned the music for this party, loading the CD player with Handel's Sonata #1, Pachelbel's Canon, and Mozart's Serenade #13. Someone had obviously sabotaged her musical arrangement. Across the room, Logan caught her eye. He grinned and raised his glass.

“I wish I'd worn my Kudzu Ball gown,” Nita said, moving up between Lavonne and Eadie. Charles trailed behind her like a moth caught in a spider web.

“Yes, why didn't we all wear our Kudzu Ball gowns?” Virginia said bitterly. “Why didn't we all dress like freaks and sluts? I could have used it as a theme for the party.” She swallowed her drink and looked around the room like a woman with nothing left to lose.

“A Freaks and Sluts Party,” Lavonne said. “I like that.” It was apparent to her that Virginia had been freely partaking of the wine and Bloody Marys. She was slurring her words and her hair stuck out at odd angles around her face.

“If I'd wanted to dress like a slut,” Eadie said, “I'd have worn the black leather mini with the leopard-print halter top.” She stuck out her hand to Carlin who had just come up behind Virginia. “Hey,” she said. “Y'all must be the TV people.”

“Have you been to some kind of costume party?” Carlin said to Eadie and Lavonne.

“Something like that,” Lavonne said, sipping her Bloody Mary. She'd never had one before but she liked it. It tasted healthy. She munched on the celery stick garnish that Redmon had added as a decorative touch.

“They're Kudzu Debutantes,” Virginia said, curling her top lip, and everyone tried not to notice how much trouble she was having pronouncing her words.

Eadie looked at Lavonne and raised one eyebrow. Carlin said, “What's a Kudzu Debutante?”

“It's a woman who refuses to follow dress codes.”

“It's a woman who likes to run her own life, her own way.”

Virginia said, “It's a woman with no understanding of history or tradition.” She had some trouble with tradition. She glared at Eadie and Lavonne, finishing up with, “A woman with no class or breeding.”

“Okay,” Eadie said. “The gloves are coming off.”

“The Kudzu Ball is a parody of the Ithaca Cotillion Ball,” Lavonne said. “It's a parody of the whole debutante tradition.”

“Cool,” Carlin said.

Nita stared at Virginia. “What favors has history or tradition ever done for you?”

“You watch yourself, my girl,” Virginia said, waving her celery stick like she was swinging a machete. “You just watch yourself.”

“What have you ever done with your life except make people around you miserable?”

“Now, now,” Redmon said fondly. He had come up carrying a pitcher of Bloodies. He went around the circle and poured everyone a fresh drink. The tension in the room didn't bother Redmon at all. He was from Alabama. He was used to family gatherings that ended in violence.

“Oh, look who's talking,” Virginia said. “Look at that poor slob standing there.” She swung the celery stick around and pointed at the hapless Charles. “So sick with misery and love for you he can't move on with his life even though he isn't getting any younger. Even though you'll never take him back.”

Charles blushed furiously. “Mother, let's check the buffet line, shall we?” he said, trying to take her elbow.

She shook him off. “Just look at him. Poor slob. The laughingstock of the whole damn town.” She pointed at each of them with her limp celery stick. “Laughingstock of the whole damn town. All of you,” she said.

“Why don't you have another drink and tell us about it,” Eadie said.

“You shut up Eadie Boone. You … Boone! You're all alike, you Boones. You think you're better than everybody else just because you're a Boone.”

Whitney's cell phone rang. “I'll call you back later,” she said. “You won't believe what's going on here.” She hung up and pushed the phone back in her pocket.

“I don't blame Charles for being the way he is,” Nita said. “With you for a mother, how could he be any different?”

Charles shook his head in warning. Nita was treading dangerous waters here, although she didn't seem to know this, or to care. His mother was deadly. She could smile sweetly and disembowel an enemy at the same time; they'd never know what hit them until it was too late, until their entrails lay curled on the floor at their feet. Poor Nita didn't stand a chance.

“You nitpicked your son and made him so insecure about himself he could never be happy—”

“Uh, Nita,” Charles said.

Porter focused his camera. He motioned for one of the other camera guys.

“No, Charles, let me finish.” Nita put a finger up for him to be quiet. She pushed her face close to Virginia's, her eyes gray and ominous as thunder clouds. “You screwed up your son's life and now you want to screw up my daughter's life and I'm not going to let you. My children are mine, Virginia, not yours.” Nita thumped her chest for effect. “You had your chance to be a mother. And you failed.”

“Oh, well now, aren't you just the most perfect little thing?” Virginia said, showing her sharp little teeth. She twirled the limp celery stick around and then lifted it and took a bite off one end, chewing slowly. “Aren't you just the most perfect mother in the world, running off with another man and leaving your husband of sixteen years to pick up the pieces of his life.”

Nita stared steadily into Virginia's face. She shook her head slowly. “You failed your son and you failed your daughter, too.”

“Adulteress,” Virginia said.

“Lunatic,” Nita said.

“Hey, do y'all know ‘Baby, Let's Play House’?” Redmon said, looking around his dysfunctional family circle. He and Myra had never had kids, and marrying Virginia and becoming part of her extended family had made him as happy as a pig in a peach orchard. Redmon came from a family of twelve siblings, although most had died before they reached fifty of alcoholism, heart disease, lung cancer, or various accidents involving farming implements or cotton mill machinery. He had once seen his uncle Rafe shoot his uncle Faris in an argument over a Plott hound, and more than one Redmon family gathering had been broken up by violence. That being said, Redmon felt perfectly at home in Virginia's family.

“How about ‘Daddy Was a Preacher but Mama Was a Go-Go Girl,’” Eadie said.

“I'll get to you in a minute,” Virginia said, cutting her eyes at Eadie and then back to Nita. Something bothered Virginia. There was something stuck in her brain, hung up like a scrap of cloth in a briar patch. What was it the woman had said, You failed your son and you failed your daughter, too.

“Y'all are gonna need some more Bloodies,” Logan said cheerfully, taking the empty pitcher from Redmon.

Charles watched his mother's face change. He thought, Danger, danger. He thought, This can't be good. He said in a false, jovial voice, “Well, Mother, Nita and I need to get going. Thanks for a lovely afternoon.”

Virginia bared her teeth. She shook her head grimly. “No one leaves until I say they can leave.”

Daughter. So that was it, the threat Nita had been implying all along, the knowledge that had made her so bold as to go up against Virginia in her own house, at her own party. Nita knew about her lost daughter. She knew the secret Virginia had kept hidden for forty-nine years. And now she meant to blackmail Virginia just the way she had blackmailed Charles into going along with the divorce and keeping his mouth shut. Well, Nita had underestimated her enemy. What was it Eadie Boone had said, The gloves are coming off. Indeed they were.

“That's why they're here,” she said to Redmon and Charles, pointing at Nita, Lavonne, and Eadie. “These Kudzu Debutantes. That's why they've come. To make me pay. To blackmail me. They know I had a child out of wedlock …”

Charles blinked. “What?” he said.

Redmon said, “Hurry up with those Bloodies!”

Virginia set her teeth and smiled brightly. “A child out of wedlock with Hampton Boone,” she said.

“What?” Charles said.

Virginia lifted her chin. “A love child with Hampton Boone that I gave up for adoption forty-nine years ago!”

The room got quiet. Redmon chewed a celery stick and blandly watched his wife. Charles stared at his mother with a look of dawning horror. One eye fluttered and wandered off on its own. His top lip spasmed and rose on the right side like it was being pulled by invisible strings. In the long silence that followed, Charles thought about moving out of state to open a new practice. He wondered how hard it would be to pass the Alaska bar exam.

“That's not all we know,” Nita said grimly. She wasn't letting Virginia get off that easily.

“Yes, yes a daughter,” Virginia said, squaring her shoulders like a prizefighter. It felt good to get it off her chest, the secret guilt she had worn for forty-nine years like a hair shirt. Virginia was overcome suddenly by a feeling of buoyancy and elation. She looked around the room and said loudly, “I gave up a daughter. So what? What do you know? You girls had birth control. Legalized abortion. What did we have? Shame. Homes for unwed mothers. I did what I had to do. I had my baby and I gave her up for adoption and I never looked back. It was the right thing to do, the only thing I could do. And I never told Hamp Boone. I never spoke to him again, after my wedding day. I kept it all inside and never told anyone.” She lifted her head triumphantly. “So go ahead. Do your worst. Spread your rumors. I don't care. I've gone up against bigger villains than you three and survived.” She put her hand over her heart and lifted her pointed chin, looking a little like Napoleon in that famous portrait by David, only with more hair.

Nita said fiercely, “I want my daughter back.”

Virginia shook her head. She lifted her Bloody Mary like she might be going to throw it. “You shouldn't have tried to blackmail me,” she said.

Nita looked desperately at Eadie and Lavonne. “I know something else you may not want to hear.” Across the room, Grace Pearson stopped writing in her little notebook.

Virginia laughed. “Nothing you can say will make me give up now.”

“I know who your daughter is.”

Grace quietly closed up her notebook and slid it into her purse.

Virginia's mouth twitched. She kept her face blank. “I don't care,” she said. “You can't blackmail me. Nothing you say will make me change my mind.”

Nita stood there staring at her. Her knees shook. Her mouth trembled but she couldn't say it. She couldn't hurt Grace by telling her the truth here in front of all these people. She couldn't ruin her life that way.

“Well?” Virginia said, steadying herself for the blow. “We're waiting. If you know, tell us.”

Nita tightened her hands into fists and stared helplessly at her feet. A blue shadow hung in the hollow of her cheek. Her lower lip trembled as if she might be talking, wordlessly, to herself.

“It's me,” Grace said in a loud clear voice. She pushed herself off the wall and stood where they all could see her. She smiled gently at Nita. “I'm your daughter,” she said.

IT TOOK VIRGINIA A FEW MINUTES TO COLLECT HERSELF. HER jaw sagged. She swayed slightly but remained standing. A tremor started in her feet and traveled up through her knees like an electrical current. She stood there swaying, slack-jawed and stunned, her face a mixture of outrage and disbelief. She knew it was true, though. Grace looked just like Virginia's father with her big hands and feet and red-gold hair. And she looked like Hampton, too, around the eyes and mouth.

Charles said, “I'm confused.” He said, “Father must be spinning in his grave.”

Redmon said, “Where's that boy with those drinks?”

No one else said anything. Eadie and Lavonne went over and stood on either side of Grace. Virginia watched them. Nothing stirred but her eyes, which seemed to blur as something feeble struggled in their depths. A look of gradual understanding came over her face. Her expression softened, and then went blank. The guests milled around and looked at each other over the rims of their glasses. They whispered to one another in low voices. A few pulled out cell phones and began to send frantic text messages. Virginia drank steadily and then set her glass down on a Chippendale table. She clutched the back of a wingback chair like she was standing behind a podium, facing the crowd.

The room got quiet. Everyone seemed to sense a cathartic moment and maintained a respectful silence not unlike that the ancient Greeks must have maintained while waiting for the sibyl to speak. Even Redmon stopped munching his celery stick and watched Virginia expectantly. She stood behind the wingback chair, swaying like a sapling in a fierce storm.

“No one knows what it's like to be me,” she said, putting her hand over her heart. “To be Virginia.” Everyone tried not to notice that she said Vuhshinya. Duckie snorted again but Celia shot her a warning glance. Charles stared at his mother like a man about to be injected with the Ebola virus.

“Do you know what it's like to grow up in a town where everybody looks down on you? Just because you're poor? Where the kids at school all call you names just because your dresses are homemade?” She scowled and flung a malevolent look around the room.

“Actually, I do,” Eadie said.

“Shut up, Eadie! This isn't about you. It's about me. Virginia.” She thumped herself on the chest and went on. “Do you know what it's like to have to put up with snotty girls like Maureen Hamilton who everyone thinks is so pretty, so nice, just because her daddy owns the Chrysler dealership. Just because she can dress in department store clothes and lives in a big house and drives a new car.” Virginia sniffed, glaring at the stunned spectators. She put her finger up against her nose and tapped. “Well,” she said. “She wasn't nice. She was mean. She said things about me that weren't true. She spread rumors. When me and Hamp started going out, she went to his mama and she forbidded him, she forbade him—oh, what the hell— she said he couldn't see me anymore. Just because my daddy truck-farmed!”

Charles said, “Mother, I think you need to lie down for a while.”

Virginia waved her hand like she was swatting at a gnat. “And later when he married her, she lorded it over me every chance she got. Coming into Roobin's and buying new clothes, making me wait on her, saying, Oh, I wonder if my husband would like this, Oh, I wonder if my husband would like that, Oh, my husband he spoils me so!”

“Della, maybe we can have some coffee?” Charles said, but Della just stood there. She wasn't going anywhere. This was better than The Sopranos and All My Children and Days of Our Lives all rolled into one. She'd pay good money just to see a performance like this one.

“But I fixed her,” Virginia said in a harsh voice. “I married the Old Judge, her husband's own law partner, and then what choice did she have but to be nice to me?” She chuckled to herself.

Eulonia Drucker stood at the edge of the crowd looking like she might faint. “I don't understand,” she said in her soft, fluttering little voice. “What's happening? What does this mean? Should we leave?”

“Hush,” Judge Drucker said.

Charles began to back slowly out of the room, edging his way out of the family circle and pushing himself backward through the crowd.

Virginia pulled on her drink and looked around the room as if daring anyone to leave. “Do you know what it's like to have an old man touch you on your wedding night? Well, do you? His hands shook. His skin smelled like mothballs.”

Charles stopped retreating. “Okay kids, Nita, get your things,” he said firmly. “We're leaving.”

Whitney, Nita, and Logan, who had come back in carrying a fresh pitcher of Bloody Marys, did not move. Virginia pointed at Charles with her Bloody Mary. “No one leaves until Vuh-shinya says they can go.” Logan looked at his father and grinned, shrugging his shoulders. He went around to top off everyone's drinks. Virginia tried hard to concentrate. She was having trouble staying on track. She had a lot to say but the thoughts kept flying away before she could catch them. She pointed at Eadie, Lavonne, and Nita. “After they blackmailed the husbands, I lost everything. Everything,” she said, clenching her fist and pointing down with her thumb, like water being poured through a funnel. “All gone,” she said. “No money and no way to make any more. So I did what I had to do. Just like before. I got married.” She stopped and looked at Redmon. “I married you for your money,” she said.

He grinned. “I know that, honey,” he said.

“That prenup,” she said, tapping herself on the forehead. “Very good idea. Very smart.”

“Thanks, Queenie.”

“And just so you know, it was me who called the state and got the project shut down.”

“I figured it was.”

She frowned and looked at Redmon. “You're a pretty good husband,” she said as if this thought had just occurred to her. “You're a miser and a pervert, but other than that, you're a pretty good husband.” Virginia nodded. Redmon blushed with pride. “Even though I didn't really want a husband. If I had to choose between poverty and disgrace, or marriage to you, I'd still choose you.”

Redmon was too choked up to speak. He lifted his glass in a silent toast.

Virginia would have lifted hers, too, but it was empty. Logan leaned over and emptied the rest of the Bloody Mary pitcher into her glass. “I'll make another round,” he said cheerfully, taking the empty pitcher and heading for the kitchen.

“Goddamn it, don't make any more drinks,” Charles shouted.

“The vodka's in the second cabinet to the left of the refrigerator,” Redmon called.

“If I had to choose between poverty and disgrace, or marriage, I'd choose you,” Virginia repeated to Redmon. “But my first choice would be freedom. Or no, no, my second choice would be freedom. My first choice would be Keanu Reeves.” She put her hand over her mouth and giggled.

Whitney said, “Ew.”

Eadie lifted her glass and said, “I'll drink to that.”

Lavonne said, “It's a brave new world. Women don't have to marry for money anymore. They can make their own.”

Virginia said, “Oh, ha, ha.” She said, “Mind your own business, Lavonne.”

“That's what the women's movement is all about,” Lavonne said. “Choice.”

Virginia pulled on her drink. She set it down and stared glumly at the mantel centerpiece, a tasteful arrangement of pumpkins, gourds, and English ivy, trying to remember what they were arguing about. “I don't believe in that women's lib crap,” she said, finally.

“Mother, sit down,” Charles said firmly.

Virginia shook her head. The hole in her head had opened up like a broken hive. Her thoughts buzzed around in her skull like a swarm of angry bees. She blinked. “I like a man to hold the door for me,” she said.

Lavonne said, “So you're willing to give up equality under the law in exchange for someone holding the door for you?”

Virginia leaned against the chair to steady herself. The droning in her head got louder. “You shut up,” she said. “Vuh-shinya is talking. Vuh-shinya has something to say.” She snapped her fingers, barely missing Lavonne's nose. “You been to college. You know what my daddy said when I said I wanted to go to college? He said, You don't need college. You'll get married and your husband will take care of you. Words of wisdom. From a man who went to eighth grade. So you know what I did? I got a job at Roobin's selling clothes and I waited until I figured out who I had to marry and then I caught him. I caught the Old Judge, I run him to earth, as my daddy used to say. He didn't like the Judge. He didn't want me to marry him. He wanted me to marry someone young. But I was tired of being poor. I was tired of watching Maureen Boone drive all over town in her new Chrysler New Yorker like she was some-body! Like she was the cat's meow! So I fixed her. I married the Judge.”

Virginia laughed, remembering the way Maureen had been forced to attend the wedding, the way Hampton had held on to her elbow and dragged her down the aisle to the front pew. And Virginia's dress had come from New York. She had gone up there on the train with her mother to buy it, compliments of the Judge. Everyone said she was the prettiest bride to ever come out of Ithaca, and they said it in front of Maureen Boone, which made Virginia giggle with glee. It had been her crowning moment. But then the night came, and she was alone in a room with her new husband whose hands shook and skin smelled like mothballs. She wasn't laughing then. Virginia put her fingers on her forehead and squeezed, trying to squeeze that memory out of her head. She sighed, realizing it was useless. She dropped her hand and lifted her Bloody Mary. Why did they call it that? Bloody, she understood, but Mary? Who the hell was Mary?

“Mother, you've had enough to drink,” Charles said sharply. First his wife, and now his mother. He had spent his whole life being disappointed by women.

Virginia made a vulgar noise. She clutched her drink and wagged her finger at him. “Don't you talk to me like that,” she said. “Don't you talk to me like your father did. For twenty-six years he told me what to do and I had to pretend to do it. I had to sneak around like a thief in the night and do what he said, Yes, Judge, No, Judge, Whatever you say, Judge, just like the coloreds had to do. That's all I was to him, a colored.” She stopped suddenly and looked at Della. “Sorry,” she said. “No offense,” she said.

Della chuckled and shook her head. “Rich folks can't wait for trouble to find them,” she said. “They have to go out and hunt it down.”

“Where was I?” Virginia said, frowning. “Oh yeah. I've made some mistakes in my life.” She looked at Grace and Nita when she said this. “I've done some things I'm not proud of.”

“Mother, I think you might need to lie down for a while,” Charles said.

“Go ahead and get it all off your chest,” Lavonne said. “You'll feel better. Say what you have to say.”

“Goddamn it, Lavonne, this is none of your business!” Charles said. He'd had three Bloody Marys and with each succeeding drink, the veil of illusion that had blinded him had slipped further from his eyes. He wondered now why he had brought Nita here. He wondered why he had not remarried and started a new family like Leonard Zibolsky had done, a family that would be loyal and supportive to him no matter what the costs. He wondered why he had spent the last year and a half pining for something he could never have and didn't want now anyway. Why remodel an existing family when it was simpler to start from scratch and build a new one?

Virginia squinted her eyes and glared at them. The room had gone hazy. The droning in her head had subsided to a dull hum, more like the cooing of doves now than the buzzing of bees. She lifted her chin and looked at Grace who watched her with an expression of futile detachment. “What I have to say is this. I did what I had to do. I survived a childhood of loneliness and prejudice. I survived twenty-six years of marriage to a man I didn't love. I loved another man who wasn't worthy of me, and I paid for that love every day of my life. I'm still paying for it. But, by God, I did the best I could do with what the good Lord gave me. I didn't lie down and let life run over me like a steamroller, I stood up to it the best I could. Before you judge me, walk a mile in my moccasins. And that's all I've got to say.” She staggered around the wingback chair and sat down.

Redmon raised his glass to his wife in love and admiration. “Here's to you, Queenie,” he said. “Goddamn, what a woman.” Eadie and Lavonne lifted their glasses.

Lavonne said, “No one can say you don't have guts, Virginia.”

Eadie said, “It doesn't excuse what you did, but it does explain why you've been such a whack-job all these years.”

The antique clock ticked steadily on the mantel. Sun slanted through the long windows and fell over the scattered wreckage of the pre-Thanksgiving party, on the roving cameramen, on the stunned guests who woke up and stumbled around like toddlers learning to walk, like drunks uncertain of their legs. Judge Drucker looked at his wife. “Mama, get your coat,” he said.

Whitney said, “This is embarrassing.” She said to Nita, “Can we go home now?”

Charles tried to put a good face on it. He rubbed his hands together and looked around the room. “Thank you for coming!” he said. “Coats are in the foyer closet!” He wondered if he still had the phone number of the accountant with the thick ankles. He could get it from his mother if he had to, later, after she sobered up.

Duckie snorted suddenly and clamped her hand over her mouth as if she was just now catching the punch line to a joke. Celia hissed like the brakes of a runaway Winnebago. She said loudly, “She should have charged admission to this party. This is better than opening night on Broadway!”

Grace picked up her purse and slid it over her shoulder. “How's Casey liking rehab?” she said to Celia.

Caught up in the wonder of it all, Virginia smiled at her daughter. Her daughter. She had thought of Grace for so long as an enemy, it was hard to think of her as anything else. But now, miraculously, she could feel something growing inside her, a small, glowing ember of maternal feeling, like a tumor, like an ulcer eating away at the lining of her stomach.

She grinned and raised her empty glass. “Bring Mommy another cocktail,” she said to Grace. “And let's see if we can't get reacquainted.”