South of Broad Page 6

  I shook hands and said my howdy-dos to all the adults, then faced three teenagers about my age. Meeting my own peers had often been more intimidating than any introduction to adults. Since I was in a chair directly across from them, I couldn’t help but be uncomfortable beneath their curious scrutiny. But these were my own internal demons and had nothing to do with the three young people who sat across from me.

  “Son, the young man sitting across from you is Chadworth Rutledge the tenth,” my father said.

  I reached across the table to shake his hand. I could not help but ask, “The tenth?”

  “Old family, Leo. Very old,” young Chadworth said to me.

  “And the lovely young lady sitting beside him is his girlfriend, Molly Huger, whose parents you just met,” Father added.

  “Hello, Molly.” I shook her hand. “It’s nice to meet you.” And it certainly was: Molly Huger looked as though she had long grown accustomed to being the prettiest girl at the debutante ball.

  “Hello, Leo,” she said. “It looks like we’re going to be classmates this year.”

  “You’ll like Peninsula,” I told her. “It’s a nice school.”

  “The other young lady is Fraser Rutledge,” Father continued. “She’s a junior at Ashley Hall, the sister of young Chad. And Molly’s best friend.”

  “Fraser Rutledge?” I asked. “The basketball player?”

  The girl blushed, a deep one that rouged her porcelain skin. Her hair was shiny like a colt’s; she was strong and tall and healthy and broad-shouldered, an Olympic athlete in repose. I remembered her lionesque presence under the backboard from a game I had witnessed the year before. Fraser nodded her head, but lowered her eyes.

  “The game I saw was against Porter-Gaud,” I said. “You had thirty points and twenty rebounds. You were great. Just great.”

  “State champs,” her father, Worth Rutledge, said from down the table. “Ashley Hall wouldn’t have won a game without her.”

  Hess Rutledge added, “Fraser’s always been an incorrigible jock. She was doing cartwheels on the beach at Sullivan’s Island before she was two.”

  “A lot of cartwheels,” her brother said, “but not many dates.”

  “Leave Fraser alone,” Molly said in an even-toned voice to her boyfriend.

  “Do you like sports?” I addressed the question to Chad and Molly.

  “I sail,” Molly said.

  “I’m a duck hunter, a deer hunter, and I ride with the hounds,” her boyfriend said. “I’m a sailor too, because I grew up at this club. Played a little football at Porter-Gaud.”

  My mother then spoke to me, a brief summation of the day so far. “We spent the morning getting Chad and Molly registered for their classes. I thought, Leo, that you might be able to answer any questions they might have about Peninsula High.”

  As a nervous habit, I removed my glasses and began cleaning them with a handkerchief. The room blurred and the people across the table were almost faceless until I put my glasses back on. I felt like a guppy in a jelly jar as those people took my measure.

  Mrs. Rutledge said, “It’s so nice of you to meet us here on such short notice. Did I hear it right? Is your first name Lee?”

  “No, ma’am,” I said. “It’s Leo.”

  “I thought you might’ve been named after the general. I don’t think I’ve known a Leo. Who were you named after?”

  “My grandfather,” I said quickly. I heard my father chuckle, then flashed my mother a death’s-head glance as a fair warning if she gave away the shameful provenance of my name.

  “How’s the cafeteria food, Leo?” Molly asked. I turned my gaze on this lovely, unapproachable girl, a type who seemed to spring so effortlessly from the city’s upper-class homes—their hair, their skin, their bodies, all shone with a surprising inner light. They looked as if they had been put together with the casings of discarded pearls and the manes of palominos. Molly was so pretty she was hard to look at without feeling like a humpbacked whale.

  “It’s like cafeteria food everywhere: inedible. Everyone complains about it for nine months,” I answered.

  At the other end of the table, an officious and no-nonsense Worth Rutledge clapped his hands together and said, “Okay, back to business. I took the liberty of ordering for everyone—thought it would save some of our valuable time.” He had established himself as a man of action and didn’t wait for any better suggestions. His wife nodded her bleached-out face in agreement. On Molly’s father’s face, there was a look of resignation, even defeat. But Mrs. Huger also nodded, in an odd, faithful imitation of Mr. Rutledge’s wife.

  “It’s been a rough morning,” Worth Rutledge said. “Do you think we’ve covered everything? We don’t want the kids to fall through any cracks now, do we?”

  “I think everything’s been taken care of,” my mother said, checking a list beside her plate as a white-jacketed waiter produced several baskets overflowing with rolls, biscuits, and cornbread. Water glasses were refilled and drinks replenished around the table. My parents were drinking iced tea, but Mr. Rutledge was drinking a martini with three tiny onions on a toothpick. They looked like the tiny shrunken heads of albinos. The other adults were drinking tall Bloody Marys, each skewered with a celebratory stalk of leafless celery.

  As my mother checked her list again, her voice droned over the barebacked details that she excelled in: “We’ve talked about health insurance, the policy for sick leave. The cost of a senior ring. The dress code. The penalties for drugs and alcohol found on any school property. The senior trip. The eligibility requirements for an extracurricular activity.”

  My mother was cut off abruptly by Worth Rutledge: “Why did you bring up the drug thing again, Dr. King?”

  Simmons Huger, a pallid man who had barely spoken since I had arrived, said, “Oh, for God’s sakes, Worth. We’re all here because of drugs. Our kids were arrested and thrown out of Porter-Gaud. The Kings have been very kind in helping us out.”

  “There must be some mistake, Simmons,” Worth said, his voice edged with a withering irony. “I don’t believe I directed the question to you. So I’d appreciate your silence if I can’t count on your support.”

  “Dr. King is checking her list,” Simmons replied. “You just asked her if we covered everything at our meeting. She was doing exactly as you asked. That’s all I’m saying.”

  Mrs. Rutledge joined the debate. “In my day, we just drank and got in trouble. I don’t understand anything about this drug culture. If Molly and Chad want to be bad, just go out to the beach house and get drunk. Sleep it off and come home the next day, and no one will be the wiser for it.”

  “If you don’t mind, Hess,” Simmons said, “we’d rather Molly not get drunk, and we’d much rather she sleeps in our house than your beach house.”

  From our end of the table, during the course of this low-key disagreement, I watched as Worth Rutledge drained his martini and sucked the onions off the toothpick. Another martini appeared by his plate without a hand sign or gesture being made. A waiter began ladling out a bowlful of she-crab soup as I heard the subject turn to me.

  “Hey, Leo?” Mr. Rutledge said. “You had some pretty big problems with drugs when you were younger, didn’t you?” With those words, Worth Rutledge altered the mood of our lunch.

  “Hush up, Worth,” his wife snapped. “For God’s sakes.”

  “I don’t think my son has anything to do with today’s meeting,” my father said. I had never appreciated his calmness under fire as I did then.

  “I asked you a simple question, Leo,” Mr. Rutledge said. “I think it’s a fair one under the circumstances. Maybe you can give our kids some tips on your rehabilitation. I looked up your record: you were caught with a half pound of cocaine and kicked out of Bishop Ireland High School. So I imagine you can offer some good advice to Molly and my boy.”

  “Attacking a kid,” said Simmons Huger. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Worth.”

  “I’d like Leo to tell us a
bout his experience. It seems to have a lot of relevance to what we’ve discussed today,” Worth replied.

  “Yes, sir,” I admitted. “I was caught and charged with possession of cocaine. I’m still on probation and have some community service to perform.”

  “So you’re proof that this isn’t the end of the world for Molly and my boy. Right, Leo?” Mr. Rutledge’s voice intimidated me into confusion, if not silence.

  “I’ve got a couple of more weeks of court-appointed therapy, then I’ll—”

  “Therapy? You go to a shrink, Leo?” Mr. Rutledge was staring hard at me, failing to notice my mother’s arctic and dangerous silence.

  “Yes, sir,” I answered. “Once a week. But I’m almost finished.”

  “Son,” Father said, “you don’t have to tell Mr. Rutledge a thing about your life. It’s of no concern to him.”

  Mr. Rutledge turned to my father. “Beg to differ with you, Jasper.” When he pronounced my father’s first name, there was mockery. I knew my father was sensitive about his name and wished his mother’s father had carried a different one.

  “Daddy, your tone of voice,” Fraser said to her father, embarrassment reddening her cheekbones.

  “I didn’t hear anyone ask for your opinion, either, young lady,” her father retorted.

  Hess Rutledge entered the fray, but with trepidation. “She heard the anger in your voice, dear. You know how your anger upsets her.”

  Her husband threw up his hands. “All day I’ve been condescended to about my son, and what this does to his chances to get into a good college, and whether he’ll even graduate from his class next spring.”

  Then I heard my mother say, “Who was condescending to you, Mr. Rutledge?”

  “You were, madam,” he answered. “And your schoolteacher husband, Jasper, over there. None of this would’ve happened if that goddamn prick of a headmaster over at Porter-Gaud would listen to reason. Pardon my French. I apologize for my language.” Mr. Rutledge’s blood was at full tide, a rage that excited his son, embarrassed his wife, and humiliated his daughter, who was near tears across the table from me.

  Simmons Huger tried to defuse the tension, but again he sounded weak-willed and indecisive. “Our kids are in trouble, Worth. The King family is helping us all out of an unfortunate situation.”

  “Porter-Gaud should’ve handled this internally. We should not be here on our knees trying to get our kids into a crappy public school,” Mr. Rutledge said.

  “Are you quite finished, Mr. Rutledge?” Mother asked. Not one person at the table had touched a drop of the soup when the waiters came to clear the table.

  “For now,” he answered. “At least, for now.”

  The black waiters moved in phantom shapes around the tables, bringing a veal marsala for the second course with a mound of ghastly mashed potatoes and carrots cooked to lifelessness as accompaniments. It did us all good to concentrate on eating, letting the atmosphere around us decompress before the conclusion of the meal.

  When the veal plates were taken away, Simmons Huger cleared his throat, then said, “Posey and I are very grateful to you, Dr. King, for handling this in such a professional manner. The last couple of days have been very traumatic for all of us. Molly’s never given us an ounce of trouble in her life, so this has caught our family by surprise.”

  “I won’t let you down, Dr. King,” Molly added in a soft voice.

  “I’m a changed man,” the younger Rutledge said. “This has taught me a big lesson, ma’am.”

  “The males in the Rutledge line have a long history of being hell-raisers,” his father explained. “It’s sort of a way of life by now, part of a heritage.”

  Hess Rutledge interrupted to say, “But you’ll see no sign of that, Dr. King. My son has sworn to me he’ll behave himself.”

  “If he doesn’t behave himself,” Mr. Huger said, “he won’t be dating Molly when she comes off restriction at the end of the summer.”

  “You’re on restriction?” Chad asked Molly. “Why?”

  “We were arrested the other night, darling,” Molly said. “It didn’t make my parents very happy, okay?”

  “Kids are young once,” Chad’s father said. “It’s their main job to go out and have as much fun as it’s possible to have. The only mistake they made the other night was getting caught. Am I right? Yes or no?”

  “An emphatic no, Mr. Rutledge,” Mother said. “I think you’re as wrong as a parent can be.”

  “Ah, Dr. King, again, that note of condescension. Grating and irritating at best. Infuriating at worst,” Worth Rutledge said, shooting my mother a look that could have removed acid from a car’s battery. “Let’s just examine the facts: our two kids get caught with a couple of grams of cocaine. Granted, they did wrong. But we’ve got this principal who’s raised a son who was once caught at a party with a half pound of cocaine. He’s been part of the Charleston Juvenile Court system ever since.”

  “I was told we were coming here to talk about helping your son and Molly out of a bad situation,” my father said, his innate gentility girded with body armor. “I didn’t know you’d be conducting a seminar on my son’s past.”

  In the sudden airlessness of the room, I kept my head down and my eyes fixed on the plate in front of me. The level of discomfort reached a boiling point. Then Molly’s father coughed, but words failed him at this essential moment.

  “I think what my daddy’s saying is that Molly and I are amateurs compared to Leo here,” the younger Chadworth said.

  I burned with discomfort, but I knew that the willful contentiousness of Chad Rutledge would earn a measured but fiery response from one of my parents, if not both.

  However, it was Fraser Rutledge, the great Ashley Hall basketball player, who broke out of a cocoon of shyness and said, “Shut up, Daddy. Shut up, Chad. You’re only making it worse, and you’re making it much worse for Molly.”

  “Don’t you dare talk to your father like that, young lady,” Hess Rutledge snarled through thin lips.

  Posey Huger added, “He can’t make it much worse for Molly. She’s restricted for the rest of the summer.”

  “That so?” Mr. Rutledge asked. “Funny thing, I’m sure my son told me that he and Molly were going to a dance at the Folly Beach pier next weekend. Didn’t you mention that, son?”

  “My daddy was never one to keep a secret,” Chad said, winking at the entire table and somehow coming across as a charming rascal rather than the darker creature that I felt staring me down every time he looked my way. His courtliness was the flip side of his aggression. It might not have been pretty, but it was masculine and, I thought, Charlestonian to the core.

  “You’re not going anywhere next Friday,” Hess said to her son, evidently realizing what a spoiled figure he was cutting for my silent but appraising mother.

  “Ah, Mama,” Chad replied, “I was even thinking about getting my sister—old Muscle Beach down there—a blind date for the dance.”

  Fraser stood up with quiet dignity and excused herself to the ladies’ room. The suffering of plain girls who were born with a duty to be beautiful to rich and shallow families was almost unbearable to me. I nearly rose to follow her, then thought I would look strange in a ladies’ room. But Molly Huger did rise abruptly. Molly excused herself, shot her boyfriend a murderous look, then followed her friend out of the dining room. In her own beauty and straight-backed carriage, Molly had fulfilled the most pressing and necessary duties for a Charleston girl of her generation. For the rest of her life, she could sit around being beautiful, marrying Chadworth the tenth and bearing his heirs, rising to the presidency of the Junior League, and putting fresh flowers on the altar of St. Michael’s. With thoughtless ease she could throw parties for her husband’s law firm, sit on the board of the Dock Street Theatre, and restore a mansion south of Broad. I could write out Molly’s entire history as she passed in hot pursuit of her bruised friend. Because she was pretty, there was nothing about Molly that was not a cliché to me. But
I had no idea how history was about to manhandle Fraser, a girl with a man’s shoulders, a twenty-rebound game on her résumé, and a future that contained uncertainty and, I was certain, great sorrow. In a flash, it bothered me that I was much more attracted to Molly than to Fraser.

  “You shouldn’t say things like that to your sister, Chad,” Simmons Huger said, a gesture that seemed correct and timely. “You’ll regret it when she’s older.” Fraser’s mother followed the two girls.

  “I was just teasing, Mr. Huger,” said a contrite Chadworth the tenth. “She’s never had much of a sense of humor.”

  “She’s a sensitive girl,” Mr. Huger agreed, then turned to my parents. “Dr. King? Mr. King? Thank you for your time and for the help you’re giving Molly. I’m going to be late for an appointment if I don’t get going.”

  “Certainly,” my father said. “We’ll let you know what’s been decided.”

  “Thanks for arranging this, Worth,” Mr. Huger said. “And thanks for springing for lunch.”

  No one had noticed my mother’s tundralike silence as this small-time passion play between troubled families unfurled around her. It was a huge tactical error for Worth Rutledge to bring up my drug connection to defend the actions of his own son, but Mr. Rutledge was a well-known litigator in Charleston, which made him eager to engage whenever he smelled blood in the water.

  Mrs. Rutledge and the two girls entered the dining room again. I followed my father’s lead in rising from our chairs until the ladies were seated, their chairs held by white-jacketed waiters who hurried from the corners of the room.

  “Ah!” Chadworth senior said. “The return of the natives.” Looking to my mother for approval, he added, “That was a literary reference in honor of you, Dr. King. Hardy, I believe. What was his first name?”

  “Thomas,” Mother said.

  “I understand from my research that you did your doctoral dissertation on James Joyce. The Odyssey, or something like that. Correct?”

  “Something like that,” she said.

  “Fraser has something to say to everyone at the table,” Mrs. Rutledge announced.