Chapter 51: Today, Tomorrow and Forever

Mabel and I are at The Peabody, making sure everything is in order for her upcoming nuptials.

Mabel is disappointed that Topper isn’t coming.

“How rude of him,” she exclaims.

I shrug.

“You have to bring someone,” she insists. “I’ve put you two down.”

I sigh.

“But I told you it would just be me and Miss Mary from my end,” I remind her.

“You have to bring someone!” Mabel snaps, the first time I can remember her shouting at me.

She collects herself almost immediately.

“Sorry,” she says. “It’s just not on for a proper Southern lady to show up with only her maid.”

“She’s not my maid,” I retort. “She’s my surrogate mother and the head of my household.”

Mabel loses patience and gets behind the wheel.

“Get in the car,” she says, more abruptly than usual.

***

That afternoon, I ring the boy and ask if he’ll escort me to the wedding, if he’s around. He’s surprised that I haven’t called on the house yet.

“When is it?” he asks.

“This Saturday. The thirteenth.”

He laughs at the date. “You’re kiddin’, right?”

“It’s Bingham’s lucky number.”

“Sure thing,” he says. “I’ll be your last resort.”

A pause, then: “Wanna come see the new house?”

An hour later, he’s picked me up and driven us over. He walks me through the house and out onto the grounds, talking nonstop about his plans for the place.

“All this coulda been yours,” he guffaws, gesturing to the land behind the house.

“You do realise my house is bigger,” I jest.

He grins. “Ain’t about size, is it?”

“Keep telling yourself that,” I murmur, looping my arm through his.

“It’s beautiful,” I say. “Honestly, you’ve done well, my boy.”

He glows with pride; I don’t think I’ve seen him this well in years.

“It’s all for Mamma,” he says. “Everything’s for her.”

“I know.” I kiss his cheek. “You’re such a good son.”

He gives me a sly grin, glancing toward the staircase.

I follow his gaze. “Very well then, lift me up and take me to heaven.”

He chuckles. “I was hopin’ you’d say that. Lemme show you upstairs.”

He throws me over his shoulder like he used to, carrying me up to his room.

It’s not cheating if it’s with your first boyfriend, I tell myself.

Topper could have just come with me, I tell myself.

***

The wedding is a dream. For the first time, the boy is fully included with the country club set. We both see the irony, and neither of us fully trust it, but it feels good to watch him being polite, reserved, forgiving, being the bigger person among the now-young adults who once cast quiet judgment on him and his family back when I mixed the Courts with the country club kids.

He’s seated with Miss Mary and Mabel’s great-grandmother. I suppose Mabel has learned something over the years too. He is so good today, so gracious, so contained. I’m across from him, beside a grandfather and a cousin from Georgia.

After dinner, we dance until the early hours, waiting until the newlyweds retire before leaving ourselves. As the boy drives Miss Mary and me home, we sing old gospel songs together in the car. It’s a beautiful spring morning. Miss Mary wipes a tear and says that although Topper is a wonderful prospect, she had always hoped, and believed, that the boy and I would end up together.

The boy glances over from the driver’s seat.

“Now, now, Miss Mary,” he says. “It ain’t over till the fat lady sings. We might end up together after all.”

He winks at me.

“You never know,” he adds. “I might wind up as the second husband someday, once I’m done with this racket, when I’m a fat has-been.”

“I do love that I have a say in this.” I cut in. 

“None of your backtalk, woman,” he jokes as he turns onto the drive.

“I’m stayin’ over,” he announces. “That all right with you, Miss Mary? He’s asking entirely the wrong person.

“Sure is, darling boy,” she says. “I assume you two can work the sleeping arrangements out yourselves. I’m off to bed.”

She strolls off toward the little house behind the garages.

“Sleep well, kids,” she calls.

“Have I just seen Miss Mary drunk for the first time?” he asks. We laugh.

“It’s hot already,” I say, looking up at the sky.

“Oh yeah,” he agrees.

“Let’s sleep outside.”

“Good idea.”

We drag out garden furniture, fetch duvets, and make a bed on the lawn.

“How long you stayin’ home this time?” he asks.

“I have to go back East next week.” I inform him. 

“I know I don’t have to tell you this, but I got a girl flyin’ in on Friday,” he says, watching my face.

“I see. Who is it this time?”

“Just a girl from out West. She’s nice.”

I cough, then clear my throat. “Okay.”

“It’s a cursed situation we’ve landed ourselves in,” 

I take his hand.

As the ground grows cold beneath us, we take our sleepover upstairs. For a few days, we pretend we’re still teenagers, no complications, no responsibilities.

I try to call Topper, but he’s impossible to reach.

In the morning, before the girl from out West arrives, I drive the boy home, wish his family a happy Easter, and head for the airport, flying back East to see my fiancé and stay with his parents on the Park.

I am glad his American dream is coming true.

And I think about how, in a way, all these American dreams spell the ruin of the two of us.