Cord could not convince thewoman at the guardhouse to let him into Palmetto Shores, his mother’s gated community on an island off the coast of Savannah. “My momliveshere,” he said. “Her name is Charlotte Perkins! 37 Wiley Bottom Road.”
“Honey, I’m not saying I don’t believe you. But she didn’t call you in a pass.” The guard was bored and her fingernails were ruby talons with diamond chips.
“I love your nails,” said Cord.
“Appreciate you,” said the woman.
“You know what?” said Cord. “I’m trying to surprise my mom for her birthday.”
“I see you’re getting that party started,” said the guard, staring pointedly at the can of beer in Cord’s crotch.
“I don’t have a phone to call her,” said Cord. “Can I use yours?”
“I just told you, honey: She’s not answering her phone.” Cord loved this woman’s accent. He was unreasonably gleeful to be back in Georgia. “Listen. I can park in the public lot and walk all the way to Wiley Bottom Road,” said Cord, “or you can let me in.”
“I sure am sorry, honey. You have a good one, now,” said the woman. Cord gritted his teeth, reversed loudly, then spun aroundto park outside Publix, a grocery store that had five times the amount of fried chicken parts for sale as his Manhattan grocery store, which almost begrudgingly offered only organic, flash-frozen tenders. Cord left his suitcase in the car, grabbed two beers, and began to walk, taking the forested golf cart path that skirted the guardhouse.
The Savannah night was pleasant. Cord hadn’t seen his mom in a long time. He knew he had to quit booze again; he knew he would. He’d have to go to all the goddamn meetings, recite all the platitudes. He could skip Step One—he understood his life was unmanageable. It was always Step Two that tripped him up. Why, oh, why couldn’t he accept that there was apower greater than himself?
Cord believed, at his core, that if he didn’t handle everything, from the Sweethearts IPO to paying the bills to working out at precisely every morning at sixa.m.,he—and those he loved—would be fucked. And he had turned out to be right—here he waslike a cat burglarbreaking into his mother’s gated community, drunk and dumped. And probably fired, though he wasn’t sure if he could be fired—but he guessed he was about to find out.
Cord had once had an Alcoholics Anonymous sponsor, Handy, who had tried very hard to help him. And it wasn’t—it was not—that Cord thought he was better than Handy (he obviouslywasn’tbetter than Handy, who had been sober for decades), but he found himself dreading the potlucks at Handy’s house, the AA meetings, the coffee klatches, the imperative to respond all the time when Handy texted,hey buddy, checking in.
Cord stopped “checking in” around the first two weeks of lockdown. He instacarted a very good bottle of Sangiovese about two weeks after that.
What Cord wanted was a third avenue: not to drink too much,but not to have to put in all the unrelenting work of sobriety. He wanted to be like Charlotte: easy, breezy, beautiful.
Maybe he should make a “Sweethearts” app, but for AA sponsors. Could a chatbot keep him sober without all the muss and fuss of human connection?
As he traversed Tidewater Square to Brandenberry Road, Cord smelled pine needles. On his left was a body of water he didn’t know the name of (or maybe it was a marsh? Lagoon?) and a house some rich guy had built to withstand hurricanes (good luck with that). The hurricane house was a normal house elevated by concrete piers.We’re all trying to game disaster,thought Cord.
Finally, he reached his mom’s yard. It was a bit overgrown but Cord loved every inch: the live oaks draped in Spanish moss, the palmetto palms, and Charlotte’s pink azaleas. But there was something new poking out from beside Cord’s mother’s front door…and it was a flagpole. Cord put his hand on his chest. Had Charlotte become an old woman who hung seasonal flags? It seemed that yes, she had. A flag featuring the deranged face of an Easter bunny (poor bunny, those teeth!) hung limply in the humid evening. Gauche!
Cord trudged along the brick driveway to the front door, which was locked. Luckily, he knew the garage code. (It was his birthday.) He maneuvered his way past the golf cart in the dark, grabbed a dusty bottle of champagne from his mom’s wine fridge, and let himself into the kitchen.
“Yoo-hoo!” called Cord.
There was no answer, and the house was completely dark.
48
Lee
Charlotte took charge. She drovethe girls to school, shopped in the local markets, made scrumptious dinners, and cleaned the kitchen. Lee’s job was not killing herself and taking out the trash. As Lee pushed open the door, garbage in hand, the big Samoyed stray dog would appear from behind a hedge, looking away from Lee as if to convey indifference. Lee decided to name the dog Yassus, then bought a bag of dog food, bowl, and sealed container to keep in the vestibule of Regan’s building. Every morning and evening, Lee left food for Yassus, who waited for Lee to avert her gaze, then lunged at the bowl. She appreciated the dog’s desire to feign nonchalance.
No one talked about Regan.
Flora found a way to get Charlotte’s belovedNew York Timesdelivered and Charlotte completed the morning crossword, asking for everyone’s help when needed. Flora called for takeout when her grandmother wanted “to put her feet up.” Even the Greek deli owner knew their usual now—spanakopita for Charlotte, moussaka for Lee, vegetarian dolmades for the girls. “Same as always?” he’d ask, and Lee would nod, surprised they had an “always.” Three generations of women existing in a bubble—it couldn’t go on, and yet it did: dinners and dishes and finishingbottle after bottle of wine and taking out the trash, Lee feeling a rare flash of joy when Yassus appeared for his supper.
After many, many calls, Lee located an English-speaking doctor who could see her on short notice. She booked his first-available appointment, vowing to return her agent’s many messages as soon as she was properly medicated. Lee’s meeting with the doctor was short and sweet; he called her prescriptions in to a pharmacy that would have them ready the following morning.
After seeing the psychiatrist, Lee offered to gather the girls at their posh school, the afternoon sun low in the sky. While both girls were comfortable taking the metro, they preferred an air-conditioned ride—when Lee texted to ask if they’d like a pickup, Flora sent a thumbs-up emoji.
Lee eased her rental car through the ornate wrought-iron gates, a crushed gravel driveway crunching beneath her tires as the imposing main building came into full view—a weathered limestone façade with classical columns and ivy climbing up the walls. A central clock tower dominated the symmetrical wings, and immaculate stonework was adorned with crests and decorative friezes. If the founders of the American School of Athens had meant to create a campus that evoked a New England boarding school—or Harvard—they had succeeded.
Lee entered a long line of cars piloted by well-coiffed women. On the radio, she found her anthem: “Girls Just Want to Have Fun,” by Cyndi Lauper. She rolled down the window to sing along:Phone rings, in the middle of the night, my faaaa-ther yells, “what you going to do with your life?”
Flora stood alone in front of the school, somber in her uniform. Lee waved as she pulled up. Flora climbed in. “Where’s Isabelle?” said Lee.
