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Overview
Whitney Gaines has always known she was adopted. It's never been a problem—she loves her parents, Mary Ellen and Cal, a liberal minister, and enjoys her life in Birmingham, Alabama. But the year Whitney turns eighteen, Cal decides to run for Congress and the entire Gaines family is thrust into the spotlight. Whitney resolves to look for her birth parents, a decision her liberal-minded adoptive parents support. Although her birth mother doesn't answer her letters, Whitney finds her father, Sam Kirby, a gay cartoonist living in New York, wondering about the child he knows is out there, somewhere. Whitney's letters reawaken Sam's ambivalence about his southern roots.
At the same time, a romance blossoms between Whitney and her father's campaign manager, and Whitney begins writing to Sam's mother, who rejoices in the news that she is, against all odds, a grandmother. The relationships Whitney develops with her newfound natural relatives, particularly with her grandmother, are the centerpiece of this critically acclaimed novel.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780817310028 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | University of Alabama Press |
| Publication date: | 07/27/1999 |
| Series: | Deep South Books |
| Edition description: | First Edition, First Edition |
| Pages: | 240 |
| Product dimensions: | 6.00(w) x 9.00(h) x 0.60(d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Chapter One
Whitney was beside the pool. The woman in the chaise longue next to her had been chain-smoking, using a fancy holder. First, she asked Whitney if she was interested in religion. "Of course," Whitney answered. What choice was there, being the daughter of a clergyman? They moved on to the question of heaven and hell, to speaking in tongues, and now to angels.
"Do you believe in them?" the woman asked.
"Yeah, I guess so."
"Have you ever seen one?"
"No," Whitney said.
"Well, I have. And let me tell you, they are big."
Whitney began peeling her nail polish. It fell to the poolside in tiny coral flakes. After a polite period of time had passed—enough so that her departure would not appear rude and abrupt—Whitney gathered her towel and suntan oil and said goodbye. Once, when she was young, Whitney had seen God. It was a man's face in the sky. She ran inside to tell her mother, who was frying okra. "Good," her mother said with nonchalance. It might as well have been the postman. Of course, Whitney later reasoned that it was only a formation of clouds that created the image. And nothing else strange had ever happened to her. In fact, Whitney was bored. These conferences, especially, bored her. This year, the conference was in New Orleans. Whitney hoped it would be more fun because of the trouble between the moderates and fundamentalists. Whitney's parents were moderates. They pastored a progressive, urban churchin Birmingham. Whitney was obligated to attend some sessions, since she was one of the representatives from her church and was expected to be informed on the pressing issues.
"Who cares about school prayer, abortion, and evolution," Whitney's mother said, "when the world is starving and our Hispanic neighbors are being murdered?"
"Sanctuary," her father said quietly.
Whitney was tired of the word. And maybe a bit annoyed by the Gautemalan girl who had shared her bedroom last winter.
In the hotel room, this conversation was interrupted by a phone call. Cal, Whitney's father, stood by the window that overlooked Canal Street. He was wearing khaki pants and a crinkled one-hundred-percent cotton shirt. Whitney wished her parents would get away from earth colors. They always looked dressed for a safari.
"Right," Cal said into the telephone. "Yes, right. Right." Pause. "Right." He said "right" a lot. He was a nice guy. He had a baritone voice. Cal winked at Whitney and said, "Right, O.K., right," into the phone.
Whitney took a sideways glance at herself when she passed the mirror. Her swimsuit was black with big geometric designs—great colors like chartreuse and purple. She liked her body a lot. In fact, she couldn't take her eyes off herself.
In the bathroom, her mother, Mary Ellen, was all wrapped up in a towel, blow-drying her hair. The room was steamy. Mary Ellen had the heat lamp on. Hotels were great, Whitney thought. This one was anyway. Whitney had seen some bad ones. Mary Ellen grabbed a tube of Whitney's lipstick and dabbed it on lightly. It was almost a grape color. It looked good on Mary Ellen. Mary Ellen used Whitney's makeup sometimes but never bought it for herself. She didn't need it. People had always told Whitney that her mother looked like Natalie Wood. Whitney knew that Natalie Wood was a movie star whose films were made a while back—mostly before Whitney was born. Whitney believed that Natalie Wood was dead now, but she wasn't sure. She'd never heard anybody compare her father to a movie star but she did know, for a fact, that women fell in love with him. She could tell when one of the church women was falling. She'd say something stupid to Whitney like, "Your father is a dear, dear person," with Cal standing right there. Why couldn't they just tell him instead of talking through her? And the worst part was when they looked at her with sparkly eyes like she was the one they were falling in love with. It was awful.
"I met a weird lady at the pool," Whitney said.
"Weird in what way?" Mary Ellen asked.
"She's seeing angels."
Mary Ellen tilted her head to one side, then to the other, then back again, as if to say, "Well, maybe she is seeing them."
"Mom, she's really crazy. She weighed about ninety pounds and was smoking cigarettes in this little thing—what are they called? And she said the angels were real big. Her eyes were spooky, too."
"Is she part of the conference?"
"Probably. There are a lot of strange people here, you know."
"What do you find particularly strange?"
Whitney shrugged. She was tired of talking to Mary Ellen's reflection in the mirror; not tired of Mary Ellen, just the steamy place, the situation. "I'm going to take a shower," she said. She stepped out of her swimsuit and tried hard to avoid gazing at her bare, wonderful self in the mirror. In the shower, she washed her hair with lemon-scented shampoo. Using Cal's razor, she shaved her legs, then marveled at her tan—the color contrast where her swimsuit line came. Her legs were like butterscotch, her hips vanilla ice cream. Whitney stood under the water a long time.
Afterward, she put on a boring dress—white with oval buttons. "Sweet" is what some people might have said about this dress. But Whitney was going to dinner with her parents. And, being Cal's daughter, she had learned to play the part. If there was one thing she could do well, it was play the part. It was something she'd learned from Cal and Mary Ellen. Whitney knew from the real acting she'd done over the years—she was on fire for drama—that the ties you developed being in a play with someone were deep and strong. So, in this way, she believed her family was very close.
The restaurant was on a mezzanine that overlooked the hotel lobby. It had a big open atrium with fountains and gardens. In the center was a bar. Whitney sat by the railed edge so she could peer down at the people. Directly below her, a man was playing a baby grand.
Whitney looked at the menu. Crawfish étouffée. Blackened redfish. Jambalaya. Shrimp creole. When the waitress came, Whitney ordered a hamburger.
"Toppings?" the waitress asked.
"What?"
"Toppings. You have a choice of sliced jalapeño peppers, salsa, chili, tasso ham, olives, mushrooms, sauteed onions. Your cheeses are cheddar, Swiss, American, mozzarella, and boursin."
"I'll just have some mustard and ketchup, please."
"No cheese?"
"No, thank you."
Mary Ellen and Cal ordered jambalaya.
"I couldn't understand her," Whitney told them. "She's got a funny accent."
"She's Cajun," Cal said.
"Isn't she lovely?" Mary Ellen said.
They always said something nice about people from other countries or cultures. It was real predictable. They ran conversational English classes at their church back in Birmingham. They knew a lot of languages. When Cal and Mary Ellen were first married, they wanted to be missionaries in China. Whitney was grateful this didn't happen. She hated to imagine what it would have been like to have grown up in China. She would have stood out like a sore thumb with her blond hair. Mary Ellen knew American Sign Language, too. They had many deaf members in the congregation. Every Sunday, Mary Ellen signed Cal's sermons to the deaf people. Whitney watched her mother the entire hour. It was fascinating. Mary Ellen wore a hat on Sunday. She had all kinds of hats. She was fashion-conscious when it came to hats, Whitney thought.
Cal took Whitney's hand. "Having fun?"
Whitney smiled and looked away. They all knew the answer.
"Well, we appreciate your being so kind to everyone, especially last night," Cal said. Last night was the opening session of the conference. There was a big reception-ministers, their wives, and children. A ballroom of actors. Whitney occasionally caught the eye of other girls her age. They knew the secret, too—smile and act like nothing's wrong. "There are a lot of people looking to us for strength," Mary Ellen had told her in what Whitney considered to be one of her mother's weaker moments. Generally, Mary Ellen avoided this kind of talk. Nevertheless, it was true. Their phone rang at crazy hours. Cal left home frequently during the night. Mary Ellen's prayer list often had over two hundred names. Cal and Mary Ellen dealt with this issue in one of their books, The Twenty-Five Hour Day: Stress in the Parsonage. On the jacket of the book was a picture of Cal and Mary Ellen. It said something about how they were born in Alabama and met in seminary, married in 1967, have one daughter—Whitney—and have coauthored several books. The most recent one, which was to be published in the fall, was called Sanctuary. It was dedicated to the Guatemalan girl who had lived in Whitney's bedroom last winter.
The waitress brought the iced tea. It was served with mint leaves instead of lemon. "Listen," Cal said as he added sugar to his tea. "Why don't you take tomorrow for yourself?. Go to the Quarter, take the streetcar to the zoo, something fun."
It sounded great.
"There's no need for you to be here for tomorrow's session. Essentially, it will be a big fight. I don't want to put you through it."
"Good," Whitney said.
"You can shop," Mary Ellen added.
"I do want you to understand what's going on in the Conference, though," Cal continued. "You understand that a certain faction is trying to take over the Conference, trying to tell everyone what to believe, how to vote, trying to muddy the division of church and state."
"Mom!" Whitney said to Mary Ellen. "There she is. There's the woman who saw an angel." The woman was alone, leaning over a rail, staring at the lobby below. She was wearing a gold dress, smoking the longest cigarette Whitney had ever seen.
Whitney had studied the map she got from the hotel concierge's desk. Whitney liked maps. She liked to know where she was going. Leaving the hotel, she stepped out onto Canal Street. The early-morning traffic was heavy. Buses stormed the median that was lined with crepe myrtle. She crossed Canal, and things got narrow. She was in the French Quarter. It reminded her of being in a dollhouse, only it was too dirty for that. Men with giant garbage bins were busy with trash. Others were hosing the sidewalks. There was a bad smell. She was standing at the curb where Royal and Bienville intersect when she saw a dead baby pigeon. She shuddered and took Bienville over to Chartres. Up ahead was the steeple of the cathedral. The sight of it helped. Plus this was the landmark her father had told her to find. It meant she was close to Jackson Square, her first destination of the morning.
Whitney liked it at once. The Square was all green grass with marigolds and petunias. It was enclosed by a black wrought-iron fence. Sidewalks ran the perimeter, lined with shops that had big long windows, allowing Whitney a great view of herself. She had on new jams. Glancing at each window, she tried to look at things inside—porcelain carousels, brass animals, carnival masks. She sat on a bench and drew her legs up so her chin rested on her knees. Her kneecaps were fuzzy like fresh peaches. She sat a long time, looking at the artists setting up easels. She was particularly interested in the portraits.
She crossed over to Cafe du Monde and got some beignets and orange juice. Coal barges moved at a snail's pace along the river. Horse-drawn carriages lined the street, but nothing was going on yet in the Quarter. It was too early. She decided to go back to the hotel. She took Royal to Canal. At the hotel entrance, a bellhop opened the door. The lobby was fresh and cool. Water cascaded over rock tiers in the fountain. The friendly concierge who gave her the map said hello to her. Piano music was all over the atrium.
Whitney took the elevator to the second floor—the one designated for meetings. All the conference rooms were named for bodies of water. There was the Mediterranean, the Baltic, Aegean, Caribbean. Each one was packed with people. It took her a moment to figure it out—they were all watching TV monitors of the conference, which was taking place in the big, overflowing ballroom. She walked into the grand room. People were packed in like sardines. It looked like political conventions she'd seen on TV, only without the balloons and confetti. She spotted the Alabama delegation and Mary Ellen's big scarlet hat. People appeared distracted and a bit agitated. Whitney sensed there was something afoot, so she decided to check things out. Always an outside chance somebody might do something out of the ordinary. She got three sweetrolls from the tray beside the coffee urn and walked toward her mother's red hat. She said, "Excuse me, please," and smiled her Sunday smile as she made her way to Mary Ellen. There were no empty seats, so she sat cross-legged on the floor in front of Mary Ellen's chair. People were milling about, and no one was at the podium.
"What's going on?" Whitney said to Mary Ellen.
"This is a coffee break. I thought you were out walking. Anything wrong?"
"I just decided to stop by the meeting," Whitney said.
Mary Ellen stroked Whitney's hair. "That's nice of you," she said. For a second, she eyed Whitney's turquoise jams.
"I'm sorry," Whitney whispered. "Should I go to the room and change?"
"Not unless you want to," Mary Ellen said. "Everybody's too involved to notice."
"Where's Dad?"
"He's going to speak in a while."
Mary Ellen handed Whitney a conference program. She examined it carefully, searching for Cal's name to see if her name was there, too. She liked it when the biographical information said: He has one daughter, Whitney. But there were no names or blurbs on this one. She gave it back to Mary Ellen.
"I went for a walk," Whitney said.
"Where to?"
"The Square. I had some beignets."
"And now three sweetrolls," Mary Ellen added.
Whitney grinned and looked away.
"Did you find any clothes shops?" Mary Ellen asked.
"I think the clothes here are weird. They all look like costumes. Did you and Dad ever come to Mardi Gras?"
"No."
Whitney looked at her legs. "Is my tan fading?"
Mary Ellen patted Whitney's head. "You look like a little gingerbread man. You're fine."
Whitney looked at Mary Ellen's scarlet hat and bright eyes. Her mother wasn't like anybody else's mother.
"Is Dad speaking soon?" Whitney asked, examining her legs again. There was a nick on her shin from Cal's razor.
"He may be next. It all depends. See those men over there?" Mary Ellen pointed to a table near the podium. "They're in charge. Whatever they say is what goes." They all looked alike to Whitney—wearing burgundy blazers. They looked like Shriners.
"I think I'll go upstairs for a while," Whitney said.
"O.K., honey."
Whitney took the elevator to the fifteenth floor. She walked down the hallway until she reached 1508, their room. She opened the door. Maid service had obviously been in. The beds were made. She turned on the TV. An old Western was on. She changed channels but couldn't find anything other than news, weather, and cartoons.
There was a stack of papers by the lamp on the nightstand. They were covered with Cal's handwriting —tiny hieroglyphic markings. Whitney wondered why he wrote like that. It was so hard to read. She could make out a heading that said "A Table for the Hungry," with various scriptures beside it. Notes for the sermon he'd deliver back in Birmingham next Sunday. In her mind, Whitney saw Mary Ellen's hands signing "table" then "hungry" for the deaf people.
Whitney opened the nightstand drawer. There was a New Orleans telephone directory and underneath it a stack of hotel stationery. Whitney saw that Mary Ellen had begun a letter. "Dear Maria," it said. She tried hard to avoid reading it, but her eyes carried her into the letter. "We are in New Orleans. We are all fine. Whitney is out of school for the summer. I'm sure she misses you, just as Cal and I do. We pray for your safety and happiness. After all the anguish you've endured, surely there will be solace."
The letter ended there, unfinished. Whitney put the telephone directory back over the stationery and closed the drawer. She wasn't quite sure what her mother meant by "the anguish" Maria had "endured." All Whitney could recall was her broken English, dark eyes, and the way she spooned tiny servings of food onto her plate at dinner. Whitney tried to get her interested in ice cream, chocolates, and pastries—but Maria didn't have a sweet tooth or something. In the afternoons after school, Whitney was involved with the theater—all winter. And in the evenings, Maria went to bed early. Whitney didn't spend much time with her. In fact, she hardly knew her at all, if you got right down to it.
Whitney pulled a chair up to the window and stared at the pool terrace below. There were several glasstop tables underneath big umbrellas, and huge planters filled with greenery. A boy was feverishly swimming laps in the pool as if he were in a race—only there was no competition. Whitney heard the key click into the lock and saw, in the mirror, Cal and Mary Ellen coming in. They seemed to be moving slowly as if they were tired or maybe even a bit sick.
"Hi," Whitney said, turning toward them.
Mary Ellen tossed her scarlet hat onto the bed and smiled half-heartedly at Whitney. She came over to where Whitney was standing and looked down at the terrace. Her eyes were distant and misty. Whitney knew this look. It was disturbing—partly because Whitney didn't understand it. Certain topics brought it on, like sanctuary and the hearing-impaired, and bumper stickers that said things like "Arts Balance Children." Sometimes she had the look during a cantata. But then it might appear at the sight of a table that needed dusting or a crooked lampshade.
"The meeting didn't go as we'd hoped," Mary Ellen said. Whitney looked at the pool. From the side of the terrace directly under their window, the angel woman appeared. She sat down in a chaise longue.
"There she is again, Mom," Whitney said, pointing to the woman.
"Who?"
"The woman who sees angels."
"We could use some angels at this conference."
Whitney knew she should ask questions about the meeting, but she didn't know what to ask. It was the same with Maria. It was like if you don't know where to start, you just think of something else instead.
Whitney looked at her mother. She decided to give it a try. "What happened at the meeting?" she asked.
Cal came over to her. He put a hand on her shoulder. "Look down there," he said, motioning toward the terrace. "Now, we're both looking in the same direction, right? But we may see different things. Like, you may see your angel woman," he said and smiled at her. "And I might see that taxi over on Canal Street behind the terrace. Understand what I'm getting at?"
"Not really."
"Remember the men in charge?" Mary Ellen asked her. "The ones at the podium?"
The Shriners. "Yeah, I remember."
"They want us all to interpret the Bible the same way. They want us all to think alike," Mary Ellen said.
"That's impossible," Whitney said.
"Yes, it is," Cal agreed. "There are other things, too. Like they don't think that women should be ordained to preach. And they want to stop children from reading certain books."
"What books?"
"There's a long list."
Cal took her hand. "This is a difficult time," he said. Then he walked to the closet, took off his safari shirt, and hung it up. Mary Ellen sat on the edge of the bed and took off her red pumps. Whitney looked at the floor. They were like a cast, Whitney felt, offstage between acts. They were all out of character temporarily, and it was suddenly disconcerting—the sight of her father's bare chest and her mother's feet, nobody knowing what to say.
"I want some raw oysters," Whitney said. Cal turned and, predictably, smiled. "You don't like raw oysters," he said.
"I want to learn to eat them."
"They ooze down your throat like big egg yolks," Mary Ellen warned. It was like a dare. Whitney couldn't stand eggs in any form. Then more seriously Mary Ellen said, "Why do you want to learn to eat them?"
"You know. It's like developing a taste for coffee. It's just something I have to do eventually."
Cal looked at his watch. "It's a little early for lunch, don't you think?"
"I could eat now," Mary Ellen said.
"Who has good oysters?" Cal asked her.
"Felix's, maybe?"
Cal got his shirt off the hanger and put it back on. Whitney went to the bathroom and changed into a boring ivory dress. When she went back to the bedroom, Mary Ellen and Cal were all ready to go, dressed for the safari. They walked down the carpeted hallway, and Whitney pushed the elevator button. They stood and waited. Whitney began to dread the oysters, but she knew that Cal and Mary Ellen wouldn't make her eat more than she could stand the first time. In the elevator, she did what her parents were doing—she backed up against the rail so that there would be plenty of room for other people.
The Last Hotel for Women
A NOVEL
By Vicki Covington
The University of Alabama Press Copyright © 1996 Vicki Covington. All rights reserved.