necessary evil

“Oh my God, Lillian, you look stunning.” Maddie coos and I can taste the venom of duplicity like a cigarette on her breath.

There’s a version of me, buried deep down that would have already sucker punched this pillsbury dough bitch in the fucking throat. Because what Maddie Pruitt really means is: “Your botox is showing. So are your roots. Oh and by the way… I heard Bernard was seen at the Peninsula with some blonde.”

That’s not ‘this me’, though. I left that version of me crying in the back of a pickup truck in Cullport, Louisiana. As usual though, she’s determined to get me to slip in front of a crowd.

But I won’t. Not tonight. Not when so much is on the line.

So, I plaster that near-lobotomy level shit-eating grin onto my face. The very same one that won me the title of “Miss Georgia”. The one that got me an extra piece of gum every time we passed Mr Granger’s house on the way home from school. The one that got me out of history class all senior year. The one that got me into bed with said history teacher. And most importantly, it’s the very same one that won me Bernard Grant.

“Thank you, darling. You too. That is such a bold color to wear!” I declare as I kiss her cheek, cataloging the blue monstrosity she’s wearing to a Republican gubernatorial gala. I watch the smile vanish from Maddie’s face. And then I look over at Heather Rutherford, I watch her seemingly, not process the conversation at all. A brain eating amoeba would starve in that poor woman’s head.

“Did you hear Marty’s leaving Sharon?”

“She’s gained like thirty pounds since baby number four.”

I feel bad for them… sometimes. These women, who were taught nothing except that the most important thing in life was to find a rich man and that once you did, you could never, ever unclench your grip, no matter what bullshit he puts you through. Not to say that I’ve never felt this way, I’m a woman married to a man after-all.

“There she is!” I hear his gruff twangy voice before I feel him.

Bernard Grant scoops me up in his arms and the cameras flash. He kisses me with the perfect mixture of passion and playfulness. I melt into it.

My frenemies smile sweetly, but underneath I know they’re seething. Because just like his mother they see me as some strange, novel marionette that Bernard brought home. But no matter how many times I’m put on display, I never wind up quite right for them. I’m always slightly off. Too quiet or too bold, too cold or too familiar. I’m simultaneously too much and not enough. One of these women should have landed Bernard Grant.

Bernard Grant is the stuff of myths. The American dream personified. Six-foot-two, effortlessly charming with a boyish smirk. As the story goes, his father died in a hit-and-run when Bernard was sixteen. All he left behind was: a dying hardware store and a shit ton of debt.

Most know him today as the real estate mogul who “reinvented the South.” Transforming dying malls into outdoor oases that feel authentic while being entirely artificial – ‘The Atriums.’ Hundreds of millions of dollars in profit.

But the people in this room, the ones with the political connections Bernard needs and the old money esteem he craves, didn’t come simply to celebrate. Every investment they made in Bernard, every door they opened, every favor they granted – they’ve come to cash in. They want him in the Governor’s mansion because they know he’ll make good on whatever promises to whatever devils he made.

When he sets me down, his hand stays anchored to the small of my back.

I’m wound tighter today. Nervous. Stressed. Wishing I was home with the kids. Bernard notices but his touch says it all: I’ve got this. Trust me. And like the well-trained wife I have become. I do. This run for office was not a part of Bernard’s plan but when one of his wealthiest new friends, David, all but offered him the upcoming Governor’s seat. We both knew he’d be a fool not to take it.

The crowd quiets as Bernard takes the stage. The applause never wavers. His voice is warm, confident but not overtly so; rising and falling like a preacher’s without ever quite crossing into sermon.

“Who remembers the old Mount Carmel? Empty storefronts, declining schools? The quiet panic of a town watching its children leave and never come back.”

A murmur of agreement.

“Now look at us. Flourishing with infrastructure and pride. A safe place for your kids to roam. One of the top high school sports programs in the country. Waiting lists for our clubs. A golf course that draws out-of-state members. Now we’re gonna bring all of that Georgia-wide!”

He heralded his land developments that promised ownership for the wealthy and paychecks for everyone else. He spoke the language of both boardrooms and barbecues, of quarterly returns and Friday night lights.

I stand behind him in my ruby red gown. The supportive wife. The beautiful accessory. The woman who knows when to nod and when to speak and who also knows that tonight is going to change everything.

Something I could have never anticipated was the ballroom doors exploding open to reveal Pete Turner. Stumbling in, his suit wrinkled, his tie loosened and slack around his neck, his face flushed with something that looked like rage. He pushed through the crowd toward Bernard.

“You fucking lying–” His voice silenced the applause. “Cheatin’ motherfucker–”

Bernard’s expression didn’t change but the room went rigid.

“Pete. Don’t embarrass yourself like this.” Bernard’s voice was calm, collected. “Security.”

Moving with practiced efficiency, four men in suits surround Pete and haul him backwards. The slap and crunch of his body hitting the marble floor causes me to wince. The silence that follows is absolute. Painful. Awkward. Until–

Bernard laughed, mic in hand. “My old man used to say doing business with a drunk was like wrestling a two-headed raccoon. Messy and unpredictable.”

******

I step outside into the fall chill, happy for some alone time until–

“Lovely speech.” Dorianne murmurs, a cigarette in her mouth. She passes me one.

“I won’t tell, if you don’t.” She chuckles through a cough.

“That was somethin’ huh. You okay, honey? You don’t look well.”

“Yeah. It’s just… a lot. The calm before the storm.” I look out at the giant moss trees, hovering in the shadows. Swaying in the wind.

“How are the kids handling it?”

“Oh. With far more grace than me.” I chuckle as I puff out a haze of grimy smoke.

Just then my phone pings off. A sound I know too well.

“Speak of the sweet devil.”

“Missing her momma?”

“Mhmmm.” I confirm. Except it’s a lie.

Rainey-Claire, clever and full of teen angst, thinks she’s disabled the ring-camera along with the notifications on my phone. So when she sneaks out in… about ten minutes, there will be no footage. Just a convenient network glitch.

Honestly, not a bad plan for a fifteen year old but she’s no match for me. Lord knows what I was doing at that age. I’m tempted to text her. Tell her to get her ass back in the house but… I let it slide tonight.

Instead, I think about my son. Asher. Sweet and thoughtful, an old soul trapped in a young boy’s body. All alone. Probably constructing a brownie sundae monstrosity, before he sits down for another episode of Young Sheldon.

A few drunk men stumble onto our private hideaway. I crush out my cigarette and escape inside, squeezing Dorianne’s hand in passing.

When I return, it’s adult-themed chaos as if everyone did a quick bump while I went out for a smoke. Bernard spins me onto the dance floor and I can’t help but laugh, at his confidence, at how easily he moves through this madness like he owns it.

But underneath the laughter is something cold. I can feel it.

******

Hours pass but the party shows no signs of slowing. I quietly take a seat at the ladies table when my phone buzzes. I ignore it.

But then… it buzzes again.

I can feel Maddie eyeing me. Another buzz.

“Shouldn’t you get that?”

I stand and smile.

“Bathroom? Perfect. I need to freshen up too!”

Soft lighting. Fresh flowers. Hand towels that probably cost more than my first apartment. I pull out my phone and slide to answer yet another call.

“Mom” Rainey’s voice is shaky, confused.

“Yes, honey?”

A panicked sob escapes her. Hmmm. I can feel Maddie’s attention refocus as she pretends to fix her tacky overshadowed eye makeup.

“Mom. It’s… Asher… I can’t find him.”

“What? Where is he?”

Maddie’s leaning in and I don’t have the wherewithal to move away from her.

“I… I don’t know. He isn’t here. I went out and-”

“Rainey. What do you mean he isn’t there?”

“I can’t find him mom. I looked everywhere.”

“Did you check the garage? Why would he leave? Check the tree house,” I say to Rainey, but my voice cracks on the words. “Check–”

Maddie catalogues every crack in my carefully created facade. She’s going to dine out on this moment for years. Let her.

“Mom, I checked everywhere. The gym, the pool, the tennis court. I don’t know where he is. He’s gone.”

It was an oddly subtle feeling yet clear as glass. I knew, deep in the deepest crevices of my bones, my life as I knew it was gone.

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I got bored and wrote a short story! Let me know if ya want part two!