Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood (14 page)

12

T
he next day around noon, Sidda woke to the sound of really loud, really bad singing. Wade Coenen and May Sorenson stood on the deck of the cabin and belted old disco tunes at the top of their voices until Sidda got up out of bed to open the door to the deck.

“I love the night life! I got to boogie!” they belted as Sidda sleepily stared at the two of them. May’s inch-long black hair stood up in little tufts, and Wade’s long blond tresses flowed down his shoulders and onto his cotton tank top. May wore a baggy little pair of Hawaiian print shorts and a T-shirt with a picture of a woman looking shocked, a bubble of thought drifting up from her head, which read, “Oh, no! I forgot to have children!”

They each held bags of groceries.

“Hey, girlfriend,” Wade said. “You said Connor couldn’t come visit, but you didn’t say a word about us.”

Sidda gave them each kisses. “You brought the sun. I don’t believe it! It’s been Gore-Tex weather for days.”

“We specialize in psychic weather control,” May said.

“Come on in,” Sidda said.

Wade led the way into the cabin with a flourish. “How positively Northwest Native!” he said.

“Yah, you betcha,” May said. “Das the Sorensons.”

“The place is great, May,” Sidda said, peeking into the grocery bag. “Yum. Goodies.”

“We only hope and pray that we aren’t interrupting a deep existential soul search,” Wade said, walking toward the kitchen.

“From Connor,” May said, pulling out an envelope and two bottles of Veuve Cliquot from the bag. “He told us to leave you alone, that you only wanted to communicate by mail, but when we refused to obey, he sent this.”

Sidda studied the envelope, which was hand-decorated with Connor’s calligraphy and little drawings of flowers. She suppressed a little shiver of excitement at the sight of his handwriting and tucked the envelope away to read later.

“Thank you,” Sidda said, “Here, I’ll put the bubbles in the fridge.”

“Oh, Madame Voilanska,” Wade said. “How unspeakably rude! Your paramour sends the elixir of the gods, and you dare to hide it away in the cold darkness of the Frigidaire?!
Au contraire!
We must drink this now. Champagne goes bad very quickly when you’re near a rain forest. Isn’t that true, Bitch Goddess of the May?”

“Absolutely,” May said.

“You two sound like my mother,” Sidda said, shaking her head.

“Your mother?” May said. “I never knew your mother was so—”

“So ‘alcoholic’?” Sidda asked.

“No!” Wade said. “So bewitched by the bubbles!”

Wade launched into a campy Billie Holiday version of “Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered.”

“Hueylene,” Sidda said, “our ascetic seclusion has been breached.”

“Goodness,” May said, heading to the deck where Hueylene lay in the sun. “I forgot to greet Huella.”

May pulled a dog bone out of her pocket and presented it to Hueylene.

They made a pitcher of mimosas and a platter of prosciutto and cantaloupe, and sat out on the deck. The sun warmed Sidda’s legs, which she propped up on the railing.

“So,” Wade said, “the previously planned wedding bacchanalia has now been derailed?” He lowered his head, and cocked his eyebrow at Sidda.

“Wade,” Sidda said, “you make it sound like
you
were the one I had wedding plans with.”

“But, Darlingissima, you
did.
You had wedding plans with me; and with May and Louise; and that eternally irrepressible ninety-year-old acting teacher of yours, Maurine. You had plans with Gervais and Lindsay; with Jason if he is well enough; and the Baileys and their brood of no-neck monsters with their nanny and her mustache. You had plans with Alain, who was actually planning to come from
England,
assuming she was still at liberty; you had plans with Ruthie Mueller
and
Stephan, even though they aren’t speaking. Not to mention the entire cast and crew of
Cusp
, and regional theater directors from at least three theaters, who were planning to fly in for the nuptials and turn it into a New York theater trip. I am not even going to bother
listing
the countless other friends who adore you and who are now
desolate
over this heartbreaking news.”

Wade took a breath before sipping his mimosa.

“When you plan a wedding,” he said, “you plan it with an
orgy
of people, Sidda.
What,
pray tell, is going on?”

If Sidda had not known how Wade was devoted to her, she would have taken this tirade as intrusive. They had been friends for almost fifteen years. She had helped him nurse a dying lover; he had picked her up off the floor countless times, personally and professionally.

She got up and knelt on the floor beside Wade’s chair, and began to bow. “Forgive me, Baba Wade, forgive me. I know not what I do.”

“Oh, yes, you do. You know exactly what you do. Now
please get up off your knees. You know that stuff doesn’t turn me on when girls do it.”

Sidda stood up and brushed off her knees. “May, when will he stop calling us girls?”

“I’ve given up,” May said.

“Is that what
you’ve
done, dear heart?” Wade said to Sidda. “Have you given up on love?”

“No,” Sidda said. “That is not it. That is not it at all.”

“Well,” Wade said, “then what?”

“Wade,” May said, “lighten up. Maybe Sidda doesn’t want to talk to us about it.”

“Thank you, May,” Sidda said.

“The playwright, Ms. Sorenson, may have sensitivity to these issues,” Wade said, “but as a lowly costume designer, who will even stoop so low as to design for
Las Vegas
between legitimate shows, I must be crass and ask:
Have you lost your mind?!”

“Well,” Sidda said, “I have considered that.”

“See,” May said, “I told you she would have already taken that into consideration.”

“Because,” Wade said, “temporary insanity is the
only
reason my feeble brain can come up with for you to ‘
postpone
’—whatever the hell that means—your wedding to Connor McGill. In case you have forgotten, my little bonbon, we are talking about a man who is your equal in every area—psychologically, professionally, spiritually, and—
if
my memory serves me correctly, and I believe it does—
sexually
. I seem to recall the way you
trembled
in his presence for an entire six months before you would admit you even liked him. But old Uncle Wade was not fooled. Why? Because Uncle Wade has known you for a long time, and has witnessed you go through enough men to make up not one but
two
rugby teams. I wrung out your hankies when you ended up in tears over at least a third of those characters, some of whom I would describe as, if not completely Neanderthal, then at
least lacking in, shall we say, a certain
sangfroid.
I do not think it is open for debate when I observe that not one of those men treated you with one ounce of the love and respect Connor does.”

Sidda slapped her forehead. “I completely forgot you were a traveling preacher-therapist as well as a costume designer! How could that have slipped my mind, Reverend Doctor Coenen?”

Wade put his glass down.

May cleared her throat.

Sidda looked at Wade, then at May. “Is this visit a mission or something?”

“No,” May said quietly. She thought for a moment, then continued. “You know how some people, when they’re together, they somehow make you feel more hopeful? Make you feel like the world is not the insane place it really is?”

“Like when you see a couple on the dance floor who really know how to waltz,” Wade said. “You want to wait till the music stops, and then run up and congratulate them.”

May touched Sidda’s hair lightly. “We were all looking forward to the wedding. I mean, we’ve all watched you and Connor fall in love after all these years of us working together.”

“Yeah,” Wade said. “We feel like you just broke up with
us.
”

Sidda reached up to touch May’s hand. “Oh, I’m really sorry. I didn’t even think about you guys. But I haven’t broken up with anybody. I just need some
time
. Getting married is treacherous.” She stood up and walked to the edge of the deck. “I mean, I don’t see either of
you
getting married.”

Wade came over to Sidda and put his arm around her. May did the same. Someone passing on the trail below might have looked up and mistaken them for two sisters and a brother; or, missing certain clues, a
ménage à trois.

“Ah well,” Wade sighed. “I suppose Gertrude Stein, the
mother of us all, is right: ‘Nothing is really so very frightening when everything is so very dangerous.’ ”

For the rest of the afternoon, the three friends did not discuss marriage. They pumped air into three plastic floats and took them down to the lake. The day was a hot one, with brilliant blue skies, all signs of Northwest gray vanished. They laughed and talked and stared up into the sky, occasionally paddling back to the dock, where their cooler and snacks were set up. It was a scene that could have taken place thirty years earlier, on a Southern creek, only the water was colder.

Toward the end of the day, they gathered back on the deck to grill salmon. As the sun set, they hungrily dove into plates of salmon, pasta, and fresh sourdough bread. May regaled them with stories of her childhood summers on Lake Quinault with her four brothers. Sidda smiled. She liked this woman. Sidda’s professional life had crowded out most of her girlfriends, but as she looked at May, she recognized an equal, a sister, and she was thankful.

Later, Sidda brought out her mother’s scrapbook.

“ ‘Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood’!” May exclaimed. “I’d give anything to have thought up that title. How old was Vivi Dahlin when she wrote that?”

“Young,” Sidda said. “Mama has always been imaginative.”

“This is
fabulous
, Sidda!” Wade said, turning the pages of the album. “God, it almost makes up for the
fatwa
Vivi Dahlin put out on you.”

All Sidda’s friends referred to her mother as “Vivi Dahlin” because that is what Sidda called her when she told Garnet Parish stories. Feeling both proud and protective of her mother’s book, Sidda announced, “You can each look at one item.”

Then Sidda blushed when she realized how childish she sounded.

“What grade are you in right now, little girl?” Wade asked her.

“Second,” Sidda said. “Maybe third?”

May opened up to a photo of Vivi, surrounded by Sidda, Little Shep, Lulu, and Baylor on a blanket spread in the yard at Pecan Grove, sometime in the early sixties. Sidda glanced over her shoulder as May studied it silently.

“I wonder who took this picture,” May said.

“I really don’t remember,” Sidda said.

“I wonder where I can get a pair of those sunglasses like your mother is wearing,” Wade said.

“You were an intense little kid, weren’t you?” May said.

“Rumor has it,” Sidda said.

Wade then carefully turned to a page at random and plucked out a clip from
The Thornton Town Monitor.

“Adults Crash Cotillion,” the caption read.

Wade scanned the piece and roared with laughter.

“Is this
true
?” he asked, turning the paper over to examine it. “Or is it one of those made-up newspaper headlines?”

“I beg your pardon,” Sidda said, taking the clip from him. “This is
The Thornton Town Monitor,
which has been monitoring every citizen in Cenla for over a hundred years. As God is my witness, Mama and the Ya-Yas and the Ya-Ya husbands crashed the Cotillion ball my junior year in high school. They had been forbidden to come after several years of misbehaving.”

She paused.

“Am I boring yall? Mama sent me this album, and I happen to be quite interested in it, but really—”

“Sidda,” May said, “come on. A lead-in like that? Of course, we’re interested.”

“Well,” Sidda continued, “it was a Cotillion rule that no alcohol was to be served. Of course, everybody always brought their own little flasks and mixed drinks in the bathroom. But when the Ya-Yas chaperoned, they had a tendency
to turn the whole event into their
own
party. Of course, they refused to hide their own booze, and would pour drinks for any kid who wanted a drink or two or five. They did that for two years, the second year resulting in a little problem with the boys hoisting us girls in our formals up onto their shoulders so we could burst the papier-mâché piñatas. However, once we were up that high off the ground, we found it rather appealing to begin trying to knock other girls off their dates’ shoulders. Oh, it got rowdy, honey. Yards of tulle were torn and taffeta ripped. A few femme fatales knocked to the floor, a couple of chipped teeth. That sort of thing.

“After that, the Cotillion Committee pointedly did not ask Mama, Teensy, Caro, and Necie and their husbands to chaperone. In fact, they were sort of forbidden to show up. Granted, they had their rules, but these committee women were the worst—Miss Alma Assholes. That’s Ya-Ya-ese for stuffy, officious people.”

“You need not explain to me, Preciosa,” Wade said. “The International Society of Miss Alma Assholes had a very active chapter in my own hometown of Kansas City. In fact, there was also the brother society: The International Association of Mister Albert Assholes.”

“Don’t keep us hanging by an eyelash, Miss Walker,” May said. “What happened?”

“You would have thought people in my hometown would have known
better
than to forbid the Ya-Yas to do anything. The next year they showed up in their evening gowns, and, with the husbands in dinner jackets, they walked straight past a receiving line of Cotillion Committee members, who were too shocked to stop them. Once they got inside, they commandeered a big table, set up bar, and of course became the center of attention. I was horrified.”

“Was there a scene?” Wade asked.

“Not until the police arrived. As they were escorted out,
flashbulbs were popping all over the Theodore Hotel ballroom,” Sidda explained. “This was 1969, and in the tone of the times, Mother began referring to her crowd as ‘The Cotillion Eight.’ ”