A Southern Girl: A Novel

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A Southern Girl 322 “Chris said she nixed his going. I was going to talk to you about it.” “Ok, we’ve talked. If you want to go, you have my permission.” “Dad, can I tell you something?” “Sure, sweetheart.” “I don’t think Adelle likes me.” j 33 i On the following morning, Charlotte Hines, her Royal Ampleness, is not at home. A velvet-voice servant predicts her return around noon. I leave neither name nor message. At Carter & Deas, the morning passes swiftly. At one, I return to Charlotte’s, on foot. Dropping in on her is crass but time is short and the odds are long. The first question out of the butler’s mouth is whether she’s expecting me. “What a pleasant surprise!” she says as she enters the living room where the butler has me parked. The sight of her bearing down in her outsized muumuu is not unlike watching a painted boulder roll downhill. I rise to meet her. Later, to her friends, she will casually mention the international phone call she had to end prematurely to see me; or the gala she was in the middle of planning when I presented myself “out of thin air.” “How distressed I was to hear of Michael Foland’s passing,” she says, settling into a large chair just wide enough to hold her. This is a classic Charlotte opening. Foland, a member of the church I barely knew, died the week before. Why she has selected this subject for conversation is unknown. “How is Diane holding up? I must call her.” “Who is Diane?” I ask. “His wife.” “I didn’t know he was married.” “They divorced years ago,” she says, as if this information is properly classified as Charleston 101. “I had every intention of going to the funeral,” she tells me as she lights a cigarette. I wait expectantly but she offers no explanation. “Don’t you think,” she says, and I brace for her first irrationality , “it is unfortunate the way they bury people in that annex across the street from St. Philip’s?” Flow 323 The cemetery is divided by Church Street. “I’m not quite sure what you mean, Charlotte.” “The whole point of being buried in a churchyard is proximity to the sanctuary. I was telling Bishop Burgoyne just recently that I thought there should be a moratorium on burials across the street.” Charlotte is an inveterate name-dropper. The bishop has just fallen and before I leave she will mention the governor and at least one of South Carolina’s U.S. Senators. The bishop will be in select company. “Well . . . ,” I say, already sensing the testiness she evokes in a remarkably short time, “they ran out of room in the old graveyard. Over a hundred and fifty years ago.” She blows smoke toward the high ceiling. “Then they should be creative . That’s what religion is all about anyway, isn’t it? Creativity?” “Of course,” I say, lost. “It’s for that very reason, creativity, that Glen and I attend St. Michael’s.” “I see,” I reply. “I guess I didn’t know how creative they are at St. Michael’s.” “Oh, yes,” she says decisively. “Those lovely bells.” With Charlotte, elaboration rarely leads to enlightenment, so I say nothing. She studies me for a moment, her eyes suddenly flaring in anticipation . “You’ll never guess what Fritz told me the other day.” “Fritz” is Ernest Hollings, a U.S. Senator. The governor cannot be far behind. “I can’t guess.” “The naval base is doomed.” Vintage Charlotte. Her thunderbolt, authenticated by an intimate at the highest echelon, has dominated the front page of the Sentinel for over four years. When a budget-cutting panel of experts recommended closing a score of bases and military installations across the country, the Charleston Naval Base surfaced on the death list. The loss of this sprawling magnet for the bi-monthly filings of government largess has occasioned the greatest outcry here. The government team presiding over the closure has been in place for months. As news, her revelation is not unlike being told, in confidence, that the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. “Charlotte, it’s been my impression that the base closing was decided upon some time back.” A Southern Girl 324 “That’s what they wanted us to believe. I happen to know of some top secret negotiations that...