A fictional account of an actual event.
Just a few people sit in the brocade chairs surrounding the white linen covered tables at the Brentwood Country Club ballroom. They are the elderly and with canes leaning against the empty seats, they talk in low voices, occasionally cupping their ears to hear each other. A tight group of almost middle-aged men stand near the bar in the far corner. Facing the room, backs to the bar, they survey the room. On the stage a small band plays low volume show tunes.
Children, dressed in their finest, most uncomfortable, Sunday School clothes, race around the room. They are on the verge of rioting. Confined to a large space containing no diversion other than themselves, they push each other aside as they race around tables and head toward the dessert buffet. Linen-suited demon boys flicking boogers at their sisters.
Small clusters of women form cliques throughout the room. Standing amid despised cousins and whining grown siblings, they are quickly bored with the conversations. They hurry to bridge the gap between themselves and their buffet-bound offspring. Gently clapping their hands, they whisper admonishments and beg for proper behavior. Don’t make me get your father… Remember what he told you in the car? Be still for a minute. You need to be unseen and unheard. What will your Papaw think?
The children, wise to their mother’s precarious positions, negotiate for sleep-overs and ice cream in exchange for acceptable behavior. Promise to quiet down as they crawl under tables while sliding from their mother’s grip.
The men continue to hover near the bar, never allowing more than a few feet between them and the bartender. They drink hundred year old scotch and review yesterday’s market decline. They remain oblivious to everyone in the room except Great Uncle Harold and Papaw. They glance toward the two old men who are seated at the table in the center of the room, and occasionally nod their heads toward them in deference.
The group knows Edgar has his eye on the two thousand acre farm Great Uncle Harold has let lie fallow for ten years. He wants to move his race horses from Kentucky to Arkansas. Just last week his mistress agreed to move and the whole plan will be complete if he can provide her with a legitimate reason to be there in town, close to him. She’s been his horse trainer for four years. Edgar implores them for their support. Henry knows Edgar’s plan and is using it for leverage. In exchange for his approval, he wants half ownership in Edgar’s Ford dealership in Camden.
Gary creates a stir when he announces he secretly wed Julie six weeks ago at a small ceremony in Little Rock. The men already know about the marriage but don’t let on. They approve and think she’s really hot. They all saw her on above the month of August, on Wayne O’s calendar where she was photographed holding a fly rod while wearing only a fishing vest and a pair of waders. Gary met her at Bubbles, a lounge off Interstate 40 near North Little Rock. He admonishes the men, keep it to yourselves until I’ve had a chance to smooth things over with Papaw. They all laugh when he tells them he had to buy her a diamond bracelet to get her to stay home today.
What the men don’t know is that Gary has their grandmother Sophia’s wedding ring in his suit pocket. He fingers it while making his marital announcement. Grandmother Sophia, confined to a bed in MeadowView, gave him the ring when he remarked on the thievery in such places. Said he could take care of it for her. He also takes care of her silver tea service and her coin collection.
Over at the center table, Harold turns to his brother, “It’s a room chock full of crap. You know it as well as I do. Not a damn one of them worth a piss. Edgar’s after my farm. God damn fool. I can’t wait to see his face when I tell him I signed it over to The Wildlife Consortium last week. It’s a protected wetland, the idiot doesn’t have enough sense to know he can’t do anything with it. Not even a horse farm.”
The old man shifts in his seat, grabs Harold by the arm and pulls him closer. “Harold, I’ve got something that will really gall you. That fart Gary took Sophia’s wedding ring. Right off her finger. I imagine he’s going to marry that piece of strip joint fluff, if he hasn’t done it already. The one that was half-naked, bare-assed, on the cover of some porn rag. What is it about tits and ass? I’ll take Sophia’s brain any day. Even if there’s not much left of it. Give me a woman who can think for herself. That’s sexy. I miss those debates as much as I miss her face, I tell you. God that woman could make a point. Take any side of an argument.”
Harold straightens up, pats his brother’s hand. “I’m sorry. He’s an idiot. Give me some more of that Dewars.”
Harold surveys the room, quickly takes a silver flask out of his suit pocket and refreshes their drinks.
Whispers shhhhhhh…. Look out. Here’s comes Hazel… Act deaf.