“Listen, ladies, we can’t permit someone like Janice to move on our private street. She is trash. That is apparent. What? She thinks that she can gold-dig her way into society. I mean, seriously. She is what, in her early twenties, and her husband is in his sixties? She didn’t marry him for love. She married him for his money. I wouldn’t be surprised if she kills vulnerable Henry within the year.” I wipe my brow with my embroidered handkerchief and study the faces of my ladies’ group. We don’t have a title, but we should establish one. The heat in the parlor roasts us as if we had met in my sauna.
“I think Peggy is right. We should-”
“Margo,” I call over Mildred in my no-nonsense voice. Mildred stops talking and glares at me. She should understand this is my house and meeting, and I have more urgent business than her comment. I wipe my neck and start counting in my head. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. Margo arrives before I reach ten.
“Mam,” Margo says, with her hands interlocked in front of her.
“Margo, it is way too stifling in here. Please turn the AC up by five degrees.”
“Yes, Mam.” Margo steps to the hall behind me and raises the air conditioning. “Anything more I can do for you, Mam?”
I must give her something so my ladies’ group can see my control. “When you have finished your to-do list, please polish the Lenox collection.”
“If you prefer me to do it ahead of schedule, I will, Mam.”
“Indeed, I do. That will be enough. Leave.”
The combined smell of high-end perfumes creates a toxic layer of pollution above our heads. In courtesy, the ladies should have gone sparingly on their fragrance. Margo will have to fumigate the parlor when they leave. Add that to your to-do list.
I turn to Mildred and fold my arms. She looks at me and shrugs. “Continue,” I say as if she were my servant.
“Um, I forgot.”
“You were going to comment on Janice.”
Mildred rubs her hands down her blouse to straighten the wrinkles out. Seriously, she should talk to her maid. I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing such an Ill-prepared blouse. “I seem to have forgotten.”
“Nonetheless, we must do all our power to chase Janice away. She is new money, if that, and she doesn’t belong with us Wellborns.”
No one responds.
“Do you ladies concur?”
Everyone mumbles a weak agreement. Do they not feel like I do? How can they not desire to protect our street from rift raft like Janice?
***
I look at the rust on my lettuce and remind myself to talk to the cook. How long has she been in my service?
“Did you see that someone bought the Winchester’s home?” Craig pulls me out of my head.
Pots bang in the kitchen, and I almost tell the staff to quiet. They should know better than make a racket during our mealtime.
“Indeed, I have, and they do not belong here. Can you believe they pulled up in a U-Haul and unloaded their furnishings themselves? And their help. Ragged lower-class slobs, dragging their second-rate furniture in. If they can’t afford movers, then they shouldn’t have bought such a lavish house.”
Craig puts his fork down and gives me that look where he wishes to assert his moral stance upon me. “A bit harsh?”
I shoot out of my chair. “Seriously! You are not concerned about them dragging our property value down?”
Craig’s shoulders relax. “I didn’t think about it like that. I guess that could be a concern.”
“Indeed, it is a concern.” Craig unfolds his napkin. “Marcus went to the city council meeting last night. He has some highly concerning news.”
“I believe you are trying to change the conversation.”
“No. I am deeply troubled. They have proposed that the new toll road runs through our community,”
“Never will happen.” I shift my weight in my seat. It is time to reupholster our chairs. The retro print needs to be updated.
“This is serious. They could steamroller all our homes.”
“Never will happen. There is too much money here.”
“Hmph,” Craig mumbles. He wants to refocus my energy on something other than the new neighbors. He’ll have to try harder than that.
The smell of prime rib wafts into the dining room, and I smile as I sip crisp, filtered water. Craig takes a bite of his Waldorf Salad, dressing dripping from his mouth and onto his shirt.
“Seriously, Craig? Must you eat like a servant?”
I nibble my salad with class as a tutorial for my inept husband, then gently set the Christofle Paris salad fork on the table.
“Dang.” He rubs the Ruvanti napkin over the dressing splotch on his shirt.
“Stop.” I sound like a barking seal. “You are going to set the oil in your shirt and napkin. After dinner, we will have both items immediately sent to dry cleaning. Seriously, Craig. You act as if you were a child.”
Craig drops the napkin on the table, his eyes narrowing at me. “I am finished. You can find me in the office.” He scoots away from the table.
“You have just started the first course. Don’t be ridiculous. Finish eating.”
“Margo,” I call out. One, two, three, four.
“Mam.”
“Remind your staff that mealtime is quiet hour.”
“Mam.”
Craig cradles his chin at the tips of his fingers. “You made me lose my appetite. Have the kitchen staff prepare a cheesecake, and we will take it to welcome the new neighbors tonight.”
“I refuse to construct a welcome party for that family.”
“You are something.” Craig bumps into my chair, clearly deliberate, and stomps out of the room like a furious CEO.
“Who needs you,” I say, spit spraying across my salad. I dab my napkin at my lower lip, “Well, that was unladylike.” To back it up, I let out a giggle-snort. “Oh, my.”
****
“Congratulations, Ladies of Wellborn.” I use our new title. “Six months have passed since Janice moved in, and your reports for ostracizing her meet my approval.”
I look across my front yard at the elaborate high tea, deliberately scheduling it when Janice will go by on her afternoon run. “I am proud that none of you have caved into a friendship with that imposter.”
The ladies sound like a flock of seagulls, spreading gossip and sipping tea. I look at my watch, already bored of the party. In two minutes, Janice should be running by. I bite into the lime tart, and my lips scrunch together. It could use more sugar. Embarrassed, I look around to see if anyone has the same reaction.
“Oh, hi,” I hear Janice as she runs into the yard.
The nerve! I did not send her an invite.
“This looks like a lovely party.”
“It’s high tea for the Ladies of Wellborn.”
She scratches her sticky armpit. Disgusting. No class. “What does that mean?” Listen to her fish for an invite.
“It is a society of ladies born into money.”
Janice shields her hand above her eyes. “Oh, well, it looks lovely. You have such nice linen setup and fancy China. It looks fun.”
“I wouldn’t term it fun. It is a delightful afternoon of like-minded ladies commencing together.”
Janice steps towards the tables.
“Please, don’t let me get in the way of your run.” I turn my back to her, and my triumph bubbles over like a freshly uncorked bottle of Veuve Clicquot.
***
“Ladies, must I say, another successful Fall Soup and Meet.” I stand at the head of my social room. Everyone looks like fat porkers, as we ate way more than our diets allotted. “Let us wander into the parlor where I will announce the winner of the Soup Contest.” It is a trifle contest, considering our chefs crafted the soups, but the ladies look forward to the good-hearted competition, something personally I could do without.
We leave the aromatic social room and mingle in the parlor.
“This year's winner, of the Ladies of Wellborn Soup Contest is-“
The sounds of chimes interrupt my announcement. -probably an Amazon package at the door.
“Ah, the bells are just building our suspense,” Helen says, and the others laugh. I don’t join the silly chirping.
“Anyways, before I was rudely interrupted, the winner of the Ladies of Wellborn Soup Contest is-“
“Mam, I announce Janice Price,” Margo says at the parlor's entrance.”
“Margo, what have you done?” I whip my body to face Margo as the blood coagulates in my veins. “Mrs. Price does not have an invite to my fall party.”
The other ladies gasp at my boldness. No, not my boldness. They indeed are gasping at Janice’s crashing our party. Red splotches break out on my hands. The ladies will think that Margo lacks discipline for inviting Janice in.
Janice says, “I won’t pretend that I haven’t noticed that I am the only one in the neighborhood not invited to your silly party or the many you have had since I moved in.”
“Mrs. Price!”
“But that is not why I am here. I do not need your silly parties to validate my life.”
I had no idea Janice had such a sharp tongue. She had always seemed timid. She walks deeper into the parlor without my invitation. She swings her hips as if she is someone, then places her hands on her side, which remarkably looks like she might be wearing something from the Sonia Rykiel collection.
“Ah, it looks like someone is playing dress-up.”
I have only seen Janice in T-shirt and jeans or shorts. Even her hair is straightened, almost looking professionally styled.
“Wow, Peggy Kennedy, you are something else.”
I stumble back for theatrics as I gasp. “You crash my party uninvited. Then you insult me. And you wonder why I have never invited you to my functions. Listen, just because you married money, does not make you money. You are low life, and I will always, no we will always see you as such.”
All the Wellborn Ladies wrap their arms around their chests. They should be standing behind me, holding me up, not cowering behind my words.
“For your information, Peggy Kennedy. I am not married, nor ever plan to be.”
I choke on my spit and struggle not to cough out loud. I put my hand to my face until I work through my difficulty. “You are even worse than I thought, shacked up with Henry. Mrs. Price or I mean, Ms. Price, it is time for you to leave.”
“I will, but I first have an announcement to make.”
“Then make it quick.”
A cold hand wraps around my arm, and I jump. “Peggy, please be kind.” I throw Margert’s hand off my arm.
“She does not belong here.”
Margert makes a substantial social faux pas and goes to Peggy’s side. “Go ahead and make your announcement.”
“Margaret!”
“For your information, my name is Janice Vanderbilt and not Peggy Price. Henry Price is my great-uncle, and I took him into my home after his wife died. And no, he is not money. I am money, or that antiquated British term you cling to for your identity, Wellborn. For your information, I am higher Wellborn than all of you combined.”
“That is enough. There is the door,” I say, but utter shock makes me curious for more.
“I am in charge of the Vanderbilt Toll road that will be going through your neighborhood. I had the decision between Pious Estates or the open field on Hwy 12. I moved here to ascertain if your neighborhood was worth saving. I have never been around a more self-centered, unkind group of people before. The decision is easy for me. I will hold onto the field for real estate, and in the spring,” she smiles, then her words come out slow and deliberate, “I will bulldoze every one of your houses.”
The sound in the room rumbles like a subway passing through.
“You have no right to do that,” Margaret roared.
“There is no way the city council will approve that.”
“I own everyone on the city council.”
“Not a chance.”
“Oh, I do. Every single person.”
The subway of chatter halted. Not a sound.
“That’s right, you Wellborn Ladies. If you had been kind, you wouldn’t lose your homes.”
And with that, Janice left us to marinate in our Wellborn nothingness.
___________________________________________________
LADIES OF WELLBORN
by Stephanie Daich
