1
Corrine
blue mountain, Georgia

ALTHOUGH WE CALL OURSELVES the Same Sweet Girls, none of us are
girls anymore. And I'm not sure that any of us are now, or ever
have been, sweet. Nice, maybe, and polite, certainly. All southern
girls are raised to be nice and polite, can't be anything but,
regardless of how mean-spirited we might be deep down. The illusion
of sweetness, that's all that counts. We don't have to be sincerely
sweet, but by God we have to be good at faking it. Southern girls
will stab you in the back, same as anyone else, but we'll give you
a sugary smile while doing it.

The question is, are the Same Sweet Girls sweet? Hardly. But one
thing's for sure: We're the same. We are the same complicated,
screwy, mixed-up, love-each-other-one-minute and
hate-each-other-the-next group of women we were when we met thirty
years ago. I guess we were sweeter then, at age eighteen; we were
certainly more naive and less sophisticated. I'd like to say
virginal, but that wouldn't quite be true. Not of everyone. Okay, I
was. Unlike the others, I was fresh off the farm, as wide-eyed and
gullible as a newborn calf. But a couple of us were already
damaged, innocence long gone. Those of us with a trace of
naïveté left at age eighteen were soon to lose it; we
just didn't know it then. I can promise you this: Not a single one
of the Same Sweet Girls has a smidgen of it left today.

We're the same, but we're also different, if that makes sense. The
group-the SSGs, we call ourselves-formed when we were in college
together, roommates, suite-mates, tennis or lab partners. We got
our name from a silly little incident that we still relate to each
other, telling the story over and over as though we haven't heard
it a million times already. Finding ourselves away from home for
the first time, in the intimate environment of an all-girls'
school, we became friends for life. We forged our clique then, our
group of six girls, and we became closer than sisters. We scheduled
classes together, stayed up half the night gossiping and giggling,
went home with each other during weekends and holidays. As close as
we were then, however, we were only truly bound together when one
of us was lost, three years after graduation. When you're in your
early twenties and invincible, death is a life-changing experience,
a sobering wake-up call unlike any other.

I clung to the Same Sweet Girls then, loving them as I'd not done
before. Before, life was one big party, the whole basis for our
friendship; afterward, we were tightly bound, as though knitted
together with unseen but indestructible threads. In tears, we stood
apart from the crowd of mourners at the grave of one of our own,
linked hands, and promised to remain friends, to always be the Same
Sweet Girls we were then. Five felt like such an odd, lopsided
number that we moved quickly to fill the gap, becoming the magic
six again. Too quickly, some of us thought later. But . . . that's
another story, for another time.

Today the six of us do not live in the same place; some of us are
geographically separated by hundreds of miles. But somehow, we
manage to stay as close as we were when living in the same dorm,
all those years ago. Some years I've seen the others only at our
biannual get-togethers, in early summer and late fall. There have
been times when job or family obligations kept us apart. After
graduation we started our careers, then we married, had babies,
raised families. Things like sick children, school plays or Little
League games, proms, funerals, weddings, graduations would keep us
from attending our gatherings. Inevitably, when that happened, we
grieved our absence from the group as though we'd never see each
other again. Now that we're older, for the most part our kids grown
and gone, we see each other more often, and we're all more aware of
the passing of time, the shocking awareness that one day we'll
attend a gathering of the Same Sweet Girls, and it will be our last
one.

When I'm describing the Same Sweet Girls to other people, I usually
tell them it's helpful to group us in twos. Lanier and I were
former roommates, as were Julia and Astor; then there's the odd
couple, Byrd and Rosanelle. (Poor Byrd, getting stuck with
Rosanelle, but there again, that's another story.) Paired like
that, we seem like polar opposites, but we aren't, really. I'm
considered the weird one of the group, and I'll admit I've earned
that honor. Most people think artists are weird, anyway, but me-I'm
a gourd artist. As the other SSGs say, with much eye rolling, how
many of those do you know? My former roommate, Lanier Sanders,
doesn't do weird, being not only a former jock but also a nurse,
which is such a prosaic profession for someone like Lanier. Lanier
would have been a doctor-a good one-had she not flunked out of
medical school her first year. Not because she's dumb; although she
struggled in the humanities, Lanier's plenty smart in math and
science. Here's the thing about Lanier-lovable as she is, she will
always find a way to screw up her life. Almost fifty years old, and
she is still doing it. But I don't have any room to talk, since
I've been pretty good at that myself.

Like Lanier and me, Julia and Astor were college roommates. The
school we attended, the Methodist College for Women in Brierfield,
Alabama (nicknamed The W), paired you up; you didn't get to choose
like you do in most schools, the Methodists preferring to mix their
poor scholarship students in with the more privileged ones. If it
hadn't been for the incident our freshman year that made us the
Same Sweet Girls, I'd never have gotten to know Julia Dupont or
Astor Deveaux, either one. Unlike me, a shy little art major, both
Julia and Astor were hot stuff on campus. Classically beautiful in
a Grace Kelly sort of way, Julia Dupont was from a wealthy old
family in Mobile. Her mother had gone to some fancy boarding school
with the dean of women, which was how Julia ended up at The W. It
was a year after we became friends before we discovered the real
reason Julia was there. Thirty years later, it still surprises
me.

What to say about Astor Deveaux? How about, she and I have a rather
complicated relationship. I'm not sure what kind of weird chemistry
there is between us, but it's been going on since the first day we
met, in an Interpretative Dance class. Lanier accuses me of not
even liking Astor, but that's not quite true. I don't trust her,
I'll admit, and we've had numerous clashes. But like everyone else,
I'm fascinated by her. From Lake Charles, Louisiana, Astor Deveaux
came to The W on a dance scholarship and intrigued everyone on
campus. None of us Alabama hicks had ever seen anyone like her;
we'd certainly never seen anyone so talented. Astor went on to
dance on Broadway, until she got too old to get good parts. Then
she moved back to Alabama, unfortunately. See?-that's what I mean.
I'm always making cracks like that about Astor, and I'm not even
sure why. But one thing I do know-I've got better sense than to
turn my back on her.

I group Byrd and Rosanelle together because they're the most normal
ones of the Same Sweet Girls (which isn't saying a whole lot,
believe me). Byrd McCain is plain and simple and unpretentious.
We've nicknamed her Mama Byrd, a role she fits to a tee. She
certainly plays it well, and if on occasion Byrd plays it too well,
giving out advice, being uptight or disapproving . . . we always
forgive her. She's that lovable. Rosanelle Tilley is another story,
but she's not really one of us. She's who we inherited after Byrd's
roommate, one of the original six, was killed in a car wreck, and
we felt the need to fill the gap. Rosanelle's also the one who
unintentionally gave us our name, the Same Sweet Girls. This will
tell you everything you need to know about Rosanelle-she's
flattered that we named our group after something she once said,
not realizing that, as usual, we were being ironic and facetious.
Thirty years have gone by, and she still doesn't get it. It all
sounds so serious, telling it like this, but it's anything but.
Over the years, we've developed a lot of silly rituals that I'm
embarrassed to tell other people about, especially now that we're
almost fifty years old. We crown a queen and have royal edicts and
all sorts of stuff like that. Each year the crown goes to the one
who can prove that she's the most deserving. And what does she have
to do to land the coveted crown? Why, be the sweetest one of all,
of course. She campaigns all year for the crown, then has to
convince the rest of us that she's done enough sugary deeds to earn
the coveted title. The highlight of our summer weekend is when each
of us summarizes our campaign for the crown during a ten-minute
presentation. Like the pope, the queen is elected by secret ballot.
Naturally, the first year everyone voted for herself, so we had to
change the rules. It's not considered a sweet thing to do, to vote
for yourself, and if you do so, you're disqualified.

Even more embarrassing, we have our own coded language that we call
Girl Talk. It's been going on for so many years that it's hard to
remember where most of it originated. The punch lines of popular
jokes make the rounds, but we tire of them and they fall by the
wayside, due to our overuse. Our most enduring Girl Talk comes from
stories we repeat ad nauseam, year after year. Lanier provided one
of the lines we use most often by telling us the story of the
elderly woman who was a patient of hers. When Lanier took her vital
signs and asked her how she was feeling, the lady said, "Terrible,
just terrible. My rheumatism's worse than ever; I can't lift my
arms; my back's killing me; and I can't walk without hurting. But
it's being so cheerful that keeps me going." The other two most
popular Girl Talk lines were provided by Astor, years ago. When she
lived in New York, her best friend was a gay dancer named Ron.
Astor would take Ron shopping with her because if she picked out
the wrong thing, Ron would shake his head sadly and say, "Oh,
honey, no." On the occasions Ron didn't go with her and she showed
up wearing one of her mistakes, Ron would sigh, roll his eyes, and
say, "Girl, what were you thinking?" With the Girl Talk, the
crowning of the queen, the royal salute, the procession, and the
edicts, our get-togethers have become ritualized to the point that
they're pure theater, and anyone peeking in a window at us would
swear we're all crazy as loons. Which we are. One of these days,
we'll stop being the Same Sweet Girls and start calling ourselves
the Same Crazy Fools, I suppose. Some would say that day is fast
approaching. But in the meantime, we'll be the Same Sweet Girls,
who aren't girls anymore, and who aren't sweet and never have been.
We'll keep crowning our queen and going through our rituals and
loving each other and sometimes hating each other, because we've
done it so long it's become a part of us. It's a big part of who we
are and how we got to be that way. It's where we are today and how
we got from there to here. It's our story.

2
Lanier
dauphin island, alabama

MAMA ALWAYS CALLED ME sassy, and bless her heart, my smart mouth
nearly drove her to drinking. If you looked up "sweet old southern
lady" in the dictionary, there would be a picture of my mama,
wearing pearls with her apron. For some reason I have Mama on my
mind today. Guess because it's been several weeks since I've gone
to Selma to visit her in the nursing home. I feel bad when I visit
her and worse when I don't. Last time I was there, she didn't know
me from a houseplant. Poor Mama. Sometimes I think it was having me
for a daughter that made her lose her mind. It's all my
fault.

Maybe it's the dolphins jumping in the bay this afternoon that make
me think of Mama and Daddy and the so-called good old days of my
childhood. Actually, they were. Good old days, that is. Sometimes I
think I ought to make up some dysfunctional stuff so I'll fit in
with everyone else. The Same Sweet Girls say I had the best
childhood of all of us, and I reckon they're right. Truth is, I
didn't think about it one way or the other when I was a kid. I just
lived it. I was raised in a pretty little town, Selma, Alabama,
which later got famous for the civil rights stuff. But in the
fifties when I came along, it was just home, where my grandparents
and most of my relatives lived, and where my daddy was a judge.
Mama was a homemaker and did the country club and the Episcopal
church ladies and all that stuff. Actually, I spent about as much
time at the country club as Mama did because I played tennis and
golf all the time. So guess I had one of those-what do you call
it?-idyllic childhoods.

We spent most of our summers here, on Dauphin Island, in this old
fishing cabin where I've been staying the last three months. As I
stand on the back deck and watch the dolphins playing around in the
bay, I remember naming this place when I was eight. Lord, that's
forty years ago now! Five acres of prime waterfront real estate on
Mobile Bay, this property and cabin had been in Daddy's family for
years without being named anything, just called the Brewer place by
the locals. When we piled in the car and drove three hours south to
get here, we just said we were going to Dauphin Island to our
fishing cabin. (I thought it was "Dolphin" Island until I was ten.)
I pitched one of my fits, insisted the property needed a name, and
we should call it Dolphin Cove. Damn if Daddy didn't go for it,
even making a sign in his workshop and hanging it up on the
gatepost. The thing's still out front but I've got to fix it,
because it's loose and flops around whenever the wind blows hard.
When I first moved in here, it banged around in a rainstorm and
liked to have scared the devil out of me.

I watch the dolphins jumping around, bobbing up and down like
they're showing off for me, and I raise my wineglass to them in a
salute. Not a coincidence that I named this place Dolphin Cove-I've
always loved dolphins. They're like pure magic to me, and I used to
swim with them when I was a kid. The Same Sweet Girls don't believe
that, even Corrine. First time the SSGs met here, everyone got so
excited when they saw the dolphins that they almost fell off the
pier. "I swam in the bay with them when I was a little girl," I
told them, not dreaming they'd think I was bullshitting them. When
everyone pooh-poohed me, I jumped right into the bay with all my
clothes on-of course I'd had a few drinks-and swam out to where the
dolphins were. I spooked them splashing around, and they took off
like I was the guy who chased that big whale we studied about in
American Lit. What was his name, Captain Arab? The book was Moby-
Dick, I know, because I called it Mo' Big Dick, just to aggravate
Byrd, who was in class with me that semester. Anyway, with the SSGs
yelling at me to get my butt back to the pier, right then, I tried
to grab a dolphin and almost drowned myself. Corrine screamed
bloody murder and poor Julia cried until I managed to crawl back on
the pier, soaking wet and sober. It was one of those things that
was funny afterward but not at the time-Corrine actually grabbed me
by the shoulders and shook me, like she was my mama or something.
In an attempt to lighten things up, Astor said, "Girl, what were
you thinking?" but nobody laughed, even me.

I tried to explain to Corrine that I have a thing for dolphins,
like they're my soul mates or something. I figured Corrine of all
people would go for that, since she's into all sorts of New Age
stuff. But she was too scared and mad to listen to me. I said maybe
I was a dolphin in a previous life. And Corrine said, "Yeah,
Lanier, guess that's where all the crazy karma comes from." Maybe
she's right. If so, I must have been one bad-ass dolphin.

I wait until the dolphins disappear from view, moving further and
further out to sea, before turning away and going back into the
cabin. I've put this off long enough, by God. I have to get the
house cleaned up. It's a disgrace. For three months I've lived here
like I was on a camping trip or something, and the place is a
wreck. The big weekend is coming up, the annual gathering of the
Same Sweet Girls, and the girls will have a hissy fit when they see
what a mess the cabin's in. The SSGs love this place almost as much
as I do. The first summer after graduation, when we decided to have
our first SSG get-together, we had it here. I had to beg; everyone
wanted to go to Gulf Shores instead. I promised them we could go to
the beach whenever we wanted to, since Gulf Shores is not that far.
Once everyone got here, I was scared they wouldn't like it, since
it's so isolated. Although it's real pretty here, there's not a
blame thing to do except sit on the deck or the pier, watch the
dolphins and seabirds, gossip, and get drunk. Dixie Lee was alive
then, bless her heart, and she said, "And the bad part is . . . ?"
which kind of broke the ice.

We didn't go to the beach the whole weekend, we just lazed around
the cabin laughing and talking and drinking rum punch. Well, we did
a little crabbing, too, the girls surprising me by enjoying that so
much, something I'd done all my life. They loved catching the
crabs, thought they were so cute, but did not like cooking them.
Corrine grabbed my arm and stopped me when I started to drop one of
the squirming crabs into a pot of boiling water. She's always been
too tenderhearted, which is part of the reason she's had such a sad
life. I ended up throwing the crabs back into the bay and going
into town to buy crabmeat for my she-crab soup. Corrine wouldn't
even taste it and still won't, to this day.

I get the mop and the bucket and the Clorox and Mr. Clean and start
cleaning up. Before I tackle the house, I make myself go down to
the pier. Daddy added a little gazebo-like thing with
benches-another project from his workshop-and all the fannies that
have sat on the benches over the years have worn them smooth as
driftwood. But the benches are grimy and nasty now, so I spray them
with Fantastik and wipe them off with paper towels. The walkway of
the pier is white-speckled with seagull doo-doo, making it look
like a crazy artist flung a paintbrush over it, so I unwind the
hose and wash it off good. The queen's promenade down the pier is a
Same Sweet Girl tradition, one of my favorites. We can't have the
queen slipping on seagull doo and busting her royal ass, can
we?

It takes me a couple of hours and several trash bags to clean up
the cabin, it's such a mess. Don't know how I've let it get so bad
in such a short time. The cabin's real simple, what a decorator
would call rustic. Julia once called it shabby chic, but Astor
muttered, "Guess I missed the chic part." There's one big central
room, with plank walls and pine posts from the floor to the
ceiling. The kitchen area's sectioned off from the sitting area by
a counter that doubles as an eating bar. The back of the room is
the best because of the floor-to-ceiling glass doors and windows
looking out over Mobile Bay, with all the sofas and chairs turned
to face the great view. On either side are the bedrooms, two on
each side. That's it, except for the deck in back, where the steps
lead down to the bay. Plopping down on the old wicker sofa, I try
not to break my arm patting myself on the back. It looks good,
clean as an angel's underwear, as Mama used to say, but living here
now, rather than just vacationing, I see that it leaves a lot to be
desired. Truth is, it's pretty tacky. Both Mama and my grandmother
furnished it with their throwaways, a few "beachy"-looking pieces
thrown in, like the wicker sofa and rocker. I don't know how much
longer I'm going to be camping out here, but I ought to fix it up,
make it not only more comfortable but prettier. My house in Reform,
now that's what you call well decorated. Ought to be; Paul and I
paid a fortune to that hotshot decorator from Columbus,
Mississippi, to fix it up, after we restored it. Paul and I . . .
better not go there now, or I'll end up squalling again, and I
won't get a thing done. I stand up, hands on hips, and look around.
I'm not sure of the best approach for a makeover. Repainting the
walls? Putting rugs on the bare floors? Nuking the whole place and
starting over? I go outside and down the wooden stairs to the
storage area under the house. Since it's on stilts, there's not
only a parking area under there but also lots of room to store
stuff, which Mama did after Daddy died, before she got sick and
ended up in the nursing home. But rummaging through it, I don't
find anything I like, except a big pink ceramic lamp that looks
like a tallywacker. Being the mean person I am, I put it in the
room where Rosanelle always stays, she and Byrd. Poor Byrd, getting
stuck with Rosanelle every time, as though it was Byrd's fault that
Dixie Lee was her roommate and Rosanelle the replacement. Once I
had too much rum punch and horrified everyone by saying that the
worst thing about Dixie Lee dying was how we ended up with
Rosanelle taking her place. (Obviously, this was one of those times
when Rosanelle didn't come.) My comment even shocked Astor, who's
pretty unshockable, and everyone agreed I'd never be crowned queen
again, saying such terrible, unsweet things. I felt real bad about
it, I swear I did, because I didn't really mean it. I like
Rosanelle fine, bad as she gets on my nerves. Truth is, I'm not a
sweet person, but most of the time, I'm able to fake it pretty
good. I get this wild hair up my butt and decide to decorate, not
just clean up. Except for a few nice pieces of Corrine's artwork,
her gourds that look like fancy vases and bowls, everything here is
so tacky I can't stand it anymore. I load up three big
boxes-old-timey chenille bedspreads, plaid and floral throw
pillows, faded rugs that look like they survived the Civil War,
they're so old-and haul them to Mobile, to the Goodwill thrift
store. Then I shop, going to Pier 1 Imports and blowing a whole
month's paycheck. I buy bedspreads in Indian batiks and a
red-patterned throw from the Himalayas to spruce up the sofa. I get
kilim floor pillows and a green-edged sisal rug. The sales clerk, a
skinny college girl with little-bitty ears pierced about fifty
times, talks me into getting these precious hanging lamps that she
calls "jewel-globed," telling me the colors are amethyst and ruby
and emerald. I've always been a sucker for talk like that. Taking
her advice, I buy enough scented candles to burn Mobile to the
ground and smell good doing it. In a fancy kitchen store at the
Outlet Mall, I splurge on bamboo placemats and at least a million
baskets, every size and shape imaginable. On a roll, I can't seem
to stop myself buying stuff. I've always hated to shop, which
caused Paul to swear I was lacking in some essential female gene,
but today, I see why it's considered such fun. By leaving the hatch
open in my car, I'm able to take home two five-feet-tall ficus
plants in sea-grass baskets as well as half a dozen hanging spider
plants. If I can't decorate it, I'll hide it.

By nine o'clock that night, I'm worn out. I've only stopped once,
to eat dry granola from the box, standing up by the sink. I emptied
the fridge when I cleaned it, and my cupboards are bare; how
they'll be till payday. I've never had to worry about money before,
never in my life, and I feel guilty how I've always taken things
for granted. You know, things like groceries and the light bill.
I've found out in the last few months that nothing makes you feel
poorer than being hungry. Because I haven't had to think about it
in the past, I do dumb things like spending all my money buying
jewel-globed lamps instead of groceries. Tomorrow I'll have to hit
the crab pots again, just to have something for supper. Once the
SSGs get here this weekend, though, there will be plenty to eat
because our dishes have become part of the ritual.

For a bunch of weight-conscious women, we eat like field hands when
we get together. Julia will have her chef fix that great chicken
salad with red grapes and toasted pecans in it, which I could eat
by the gallon, and she'll also bring her pimento cheese. The other
girls make sandwiches out of it, but I've been known to sit
cross-legged on the floor with the bowl of pimento cheese in one
hand and a spoon in the other. Mama Byrd brings comfort food:
garlic-grits casseroles and her tomato-and-Vidalia-onion pie. I ate
a whole one the first year, all by myself, so since then, she's
been bringing half a dozen, one for each of us. First time she
brought that many, Astor made me mad by saying that Byrd brought
one pie for the SSGs and five for me. That wasn't what pissed me
off, actually; it was the way Astor rolled her eyes and carried on
about me eating a whole pie. I stuck out my tongue at her and she
said no wonder your ass is so big and I said you can kiss mine, and
she said she'd better get started, then, because it'd take her a
while. We ended up having a pure-tee fight about it.

The next year, after we'd all graduated, we had the gathering here
again-the beginning of the tradition-and Astor flew in from New
York with a cheesecake from some famous Yankee place up there.
Since then she always brings the desserts. Not that Astor cooks
them; she's about as domestic as a bird dog. Recently, she's been
bringing healthy, sugar-free stuff that we all hate, things like
tofu and fruit with Sweet'N Low on it. Take last year. Astor
brought a prune cake from a new bakery in Birmingham and told us it
was sweetened with fructose or something. After supper we got about
half-crocked and took the cake down to the pier, where we broke off
chunks of it and fed the fish.

After a thirty-minute shower (Oh, God, how will I pay the water
bill?), I go to bed on new sheets from the Ralph Lauren outlet.
They feel as soft as a baby's behind, which they'd damn sure
better, at fifty dollars a sheet. A breeze, tasting of salt and
smelling of the ocean, blows in the opened windows (that way I
don't have to run the air-conditioner), and I doze off. When the
phone rings, I can't think what the sound is, what has jerked me
out of sleep. I think it's the alarm and I've got to be at the
hospital. When I grope for the phone, a catch in my back surprises
me, what I get for getting down on my all-fours and scrubbing the
floors, like a pure fool. A good deed never goes unpunished. I
answer without turning on the lamp. "Yeah?"

"Lanier? You there?" It's Astor. I fall back on the pillow, wishing
I hadn't answered. Conversations with Astor can be exhausting;
she's nothing if not high maintenance. "I'm asleep," I tell her,
throwing in a yawn for good measure.

Her laugh is skeptical. "Oh, bull," Astor says. "Don't give me
that. You've got someone with you, right?"

"Listen, can I call you back in the morning? I cleaned up the house
and . . ."

"Someone's there," she repeats, ignoring me. "Who is it, Roland
Pierce?"

That wakes me up. "Not funny, Astor. Even for you, that's a low
one."

"Calm down, Sidney Lanier," she sighs. "Don't get your panties in a
wad." Astor tells everyone that she always does yoga while on the
phone, so I picture her twisted like a pretzel, the phone hooked up
to headgear. "I'm calling to see if you knew that Byrd has gone to
Blue Mountain to pick up Corrine," she says.

I sit up against the wicker headboard, pulling a pillow behind me.
"Byrd's gone to Corrine's? Why would she do that?" Our travel is
habitual. For our get-togethers here, Corrine drives from Blue
Mountain to Birmingham to Byrd's house, and they travel together to
Mobile. Since moving back to Alabama, Astor's been going to
Montgomery and picking Julia up. Rosanelle drives down by herself,
since she usually visits with other alumni groups. That way, she
can write the weekend off as part of her job. In October, when we
meet in Blue Mountain, we reverse the process, me going to
Birmingham to travel with Byrd, Julia picking up Astor. Only a few
times have there been any variations in our patterns. Byrd driving
to Blue Mountain to pick up Corrine is definitely weird. For some
reason-maybe because I'm only half awake-it makes me uneasy.

"I have no idea why Byrd would do that," Astor says, with that
breathlessness she gets when she's either excited or nosing around
in somebody else's business. Why Byrd picking Corrine up would
interest Astor is beyond me, except she's so nosy. Since moving
back she's been in hog heaven, all wrapped up in the boring little
dramas of our lives. She goes on to say, "When I called Byrd
tonight, Buster told me she'd gone to Blue Mountain to get Corrine.
I was afraid that something might be wrong."

"Nothing that I know of. Corrine's car is a piece of crap, as you
know, so maybe Byrd got it in her head that Corrine wouldn't make
it to Birmingham. Probably nothing more than that." I'd almost
fallen for Astor's dramatics again, gotten myself all worked up.
"Guess we'll find out this weekend," I add, yawning.

"If Corrine decides to be her usual murky, mysterious self, we
won't. And quit yawning, Lanier, you're making me sleepy. Oh, did I
tell you, I'm leaving for Julia's right after my afternoon dance
class so her chef can fix those crab cakes of his, just for me?"
The way Astor emphasizes "just for me" in a playful, little-girl
voice irritates me for some reason. Makes it sound like I'm
supposed to be jealous or something. Determined not to let her get
to me again, I say, "I love going to Julia's now, with all those
servants and chefs and bodyguards hanging around."

She giggles. "Especially the bodyguards, huh? If I were Julia, I'd
go after-oops . . . somebody's beeping in. Hang on a minute."
Astor's back in less than that time, breathless. "Nobody I need to
talk to now. Thought it might be the nursing home."

"Anything new with Mose?" I hold my breath guiltily. I'm too tired
to hear it tonight.

"Guess you could say that. Earlier today he watered the potted
plants on the front veranda, in full view of a group of
visitors."

"Yeah? That's a good sign, if he's taking an interest in
gardening-"

Astor snorts. "He peed in them, Lanier. Can you imagine? The
esteemed Mose Morehouse, rising up from his wheelchair and pissing
in a flowerpot on the veranda of St. Mary's. Oh, crap-another call
coming in. I'd better catch this one."

"Talk to you tomorrow," I say, relieved she's going, though the
image of Mose and the flowerpot breaks my heart.

"Okay. And, Lanier? Give Roland Pierce a kiss for me." Cackling
like a wicked witch, Astor hangs up.

I put down the phone and swing my legs over the side of the bed,
sitting in the dark. Sometimes Astor can be more irritating than
Rosanelle, which is saying a mouthful. I've been fascinated by
Astor since we first met, but she can be one royal pain in the ass.
Here's what is weird, though. Something about Astor makes you
overlook that-which we've all done, again and again. Well, all of
us except Corrine, that is. I don't get it, whatever it is between
the two of them. Sometimes I think Corrine actually dislikes Astor,
but then we'll all be together, laughing and talking and carrying
on, and I'll wonder where I got such a notion. One of the Same
Sweet Girls couldn't dislike another one, could she? We'd kick her
out of the group, since it wouldn't be sweet, and you can't be an
SSG if you're not sweet. It's an oxymoron, or whatever you call
that thing. I wasn't particularly good in English class.

Corrine and I met Astor Deveaux the first day of Interpretative
Dance class, our freshman year at The W. We'd heard of Astor since
she arrived on campus, of course; everyone had. Anyone out of the
ordinary stood out at The W, and Astor was anything but ordinary.
She'd come to The W on a dance scholarship provided by some rich
alum who'd made a name for herself on Broadway. We'd heard there
was competition all over the southeast for the coveted scholarship
and that the girl from Louisiana who got it was really something.
After college, Astor went on to dance on Broadway, too, and the
SSGs always planned on taking a trip up to see her in a play, but
we couldn't get everyone together for that. Too much trouble. Some
of us went on our own, though.

Even before our dance instructor introduced Astor as the
scholarship winner who'd be assisting her in teaching the class and
Astor made a theatrical bow, I knew who she was. Had to be. Since
I'd never seen a real live Cajun before, I stared at her wide-eyed.
"That's her!" Corrine whispered, nudging me with her bony elbow.
Then she leaned over and whispered again. "If that girl's a Cajun,
Lanier, I'll kiss your behind." I tried to shush her, but she
added, "Bet you anything she's a phony." From that moment on,
before they ever spoke to each other, the die was cast for Corrine
and Astor's up-and-down relationship.

I pick up the phone to call Corrine, find out why Byrd is picking
her up, but don't. It's an hour later in the north Georgia
mountains; Corrine will be asleep. Even in college she kept odd
hours. First night, I figured I'd have to go to the housing council
the very next morning and request a new roommate, much as I liked
Corrine. Night and day we were, literally and figuratively. But I
decided to give it a little longer, giving me time to get used to
Corrine's weirdness. Which wasn't just her bedtime hours, believe
me. For one thing, Corrine was the first person I'd ever met who
had problems with clinical depression, something I knew nothing
about. I wasn't sure if that meant she'd spend a lot of time
sitting and staring like a zombie, or if she'd talk to herself or
something. God, I was so ignorant then! I knew The W would put me
with a scholarship recipient, but I wasn't expecting an art major,
which was as strange to me as clinical depression.

Then, to top it off, I found out that Corrine's "medium" was
gourds. Gourds! I laughed my hiney off when she told me, but it
shut me up when she hauled in a bunch of gourds that she'd won all
sorts of prizes with and decorated our room with them. I'd never
seen anything so cool! Matter of fact, I wouldn't have even known
they were gourds if she hadn't told me. She'd carved or painted
them in all sorts of really neat-looking designs. She'd even made
musical instruments from some of them, little flutes and sitars and
stuff. It used to make me feel really bad for Corrine when she had
to sell one for spending money, because you could tell that she was
attached to everything she made. She was snooty about it, too,
refusing to give in to requests to make those crafty-looking gourds
you see, the ones decorated like Santas or birdhouses, though she
could've made a lot of money doing so. Corrine's stuff was real
art, and sure enough, after graduation, she went on to become sort
of famous as a gourd artist. Which still sounds funny, to tell you
the truth. To this day, I can't even say the word "gourd" without
getting tickled.

Both Astor and Rosanelle have told me-in strictest confidence, of
course-that they think Corrine's crazy as a loony bird. Talk about
the pot calling the kettle black! One thing about Astor, though.
She and Corrine have their little clashes, but deep down, I can
tell that Astor really admires Corrine. I know for sure that she
likes Corrine a whole lot better than Corrine likes her.

The reason I know how Astor feels about Corrine is this: At our
get-togethers, the SSGs are always playing these silly little
games, stuff like "If you wrote your autobiography, what would the
title be?" Well, one year Astor said, "Let's describe each other by
using literary characters instead of adjectives." Most of the time,
I like the games a lot, but for some reason, that one struck me as
the stupidest idea yet, and believe me, Astor's come up with some
lulus. When I pooh-poohed it, Astor told the others that I didn't
want to play because I wasn't smart enough. She said that I didn't
know any literary characters or adjectives, and I said, "Oh,
yeah-is that right, Lady Macbeth, you frigging bitch?" I thought
Julia was going to fall off her chair laughing. I ended up playing
the stupid game anyway, and Astor said that Corrine was Annabel
Lee, which I thought was perfect. The reason is, Corrine is really
pretty but in an unearthly sort of way, if you know what I mean.
What makes her look kind of ghostly is her being so pale, with big
round eyes, silver and clear as water. Then she's got this long,
curly, reddish-blonde hair, exactly like the picture of Annabel Lee
in the American Lit book we used as sophomores.

I realize I can't call Corrine this late because she's been feeling
puny lately, had some kind of bug. Which might be-it hits me-the
reason Byrd has gone to get her. Corrine left me a couple of
messages when I was working nights last week, saying she might not
come to the SSG gathering this year since she couldn't seem to
shake whatever was ailing her. Because of her being a New Ager,
she's been to psychic healers and herbalists and stuff, but they
haven't helped. I'd pooh-poohed the idea of her not coming, calling
her back and telling her she'd never get the crown again if she
didn't. And we haven't talked since. I'd just assumed she was
coming. Assumptions, Paul used to say; you can't assume things in
our profession. Got to have proof. He sure took that a whole lot
more literally than I ever dreamed he would.

Paul. Almost every night, before going off to sleep, I have to stop
myself from calling Paul, just to hear his voice. Sometimes I
literally grab one hand with the other to keep myself from picking
up the phone. But tonight I have it, right here. I punch in the
numbers and wait for the ring. Since I'm no longer in the house to
screen the calls, his service usually answers. But ever so often, I
get him instead. Like tonight. My breath catches when he answers,
and I say, "Paul?" Must've had an all-nighter at the hospital last
night, otherwise he wouldn't be in bed already. "Paul?" I repeat.
"Who's this?" He's answered without thinking, sleep-dazed. I know
him so well. Or so I thought. So I thought.

"Paul, it's Lanier."

"Who?"

I clear my throat, and speak louder. "It's me, Lanier."

The sound I hear is the rustling of the sheets as he moves across
the bed to hang up the phone. "Paul-wait! Please, don't hang up!"
It's too late. Hearing the click of the receiver, I throw the phone
down. Before I know it, I'm crying again, though I haven't cried
over him for days. Weeks, maybe. I've been doing so much better.
Serves me right. I had to hear his voice again, didn't I? No matter
that he hates my guts, that he can't stand the sight of me or the
sound of my voice, I had to twist the knife. Fumbling around on the
bedside table, I find a tissue, wipe my eyes, and blow my
nose.

Jesus, I'm such a slow learner! Either that, or a masochist.
Haven't I found out, over and over, that I can't talk to Paul,
Lindy, or Christopher without boo-hooing? Christopher calls
occasionally, and I always cry, even after his most recent call, a
happy one to tell me about his tennis scholarship to Vandy. He's
such a jock that I used to worry he couldn't deal with emotional
upsets, yet he's handled this better than any of us. Lindy, on the
other hand, won't return my calls or answer my letters. Everyone
tells me she just needs time, that she'll come around if I let her
grow up a bit. She just turned seventeen, and it's been harder on
her than any of us.

I can't go back to sleep now; I've gotten myself all worked up,
calling Paul and thinking about the kids. Pushing the pillows
behind me, I sit up in the bed, yelping at the pain in my lower
back, and open the drawer to the bedside table. Fumbling, I pull
out my lesson book and fountain pen and wipe my eyes. Since I'm
awake anyway, might as well write in my book. I've neglected it
lately, being so caught up with settling into my new life. Plenty I
need to add to it, that's for sure.

Corrine gave me the lesson book as a joke, sort of, with neither of
us having any idea how I'd take to it. It was a few years ago, at a
Same Sweet Girls gathering at Corrine's place in the mountains,
when she brought out the book and presented it to me. "Lanier, I
found this at an antiques store on Tate Mountain," she'd said, "and
knew it was perfect for you." Being Corrine, she'd wrapped it in
artsy-looking parchment paper that she'd tie-dyed, or something,
herself. I was disappointed when I unwrapped it, failing to see
what made it so perfect for me, while the other Same Sweet Girls
oohed and aahed politely. It was a child's old lesson tablet, made
of heavy cardboard, with the blue-lined pages stiff and browned
around the edges; the kind of writing tablet I guess our
grandparents practiced cursive writing in. The neat thing about it
was the way Corrine had added to it-matter of fact, it took me a
minute to figure out she'd done it, that she hadn't found it that
way. The ivory-colored cover was real old and antique-looking, and
"LESSON BOOK" was printed in dark calligraphied letters.

Above that, Corrine had added "LANIER'S." Dead center, she'd
written, "When the pupil is ready, a teacher appears." "Okay,
Lanier, here's the thing," Corrine had said, sitting beside me on
the floor and opening the lesson book. "You tell us how you're
always screwing up, right?" "Right!" the Same Sweet Girls yelled
together, before I could open my mouth. Ignoring me giving everyone
the finger, Corrine continued. "You've got to help the rest of us
out. It's your duty to our friendship. I got this for you to put
your life lessons in. Think of all the important lessons you've
learned over the years from your screw-ups and record them for
posterity." She handed me a fountain pen. "I got this to go with it
and put purple ink in it. Real sweet of me, wasn't it?"

"Kiss my fanny," I'd said indignantly, and everyone booed me. "I'm
not going to do it! It's not only that I'm a lousy writer, but I
never learn from my mistakes, no matter how many times I mess up."
I tossed the book in Corrine's lap, pouting.

But Corrine made me take the stupid little book back and kept
telling me to just give it a try, that I'd come to love writing in
it. I knew what she was trying to do, of course, so I resisted,
like I've always resisted anything good for me, from spinach to
studying. But the little book was so cute-and I'd never written
with a fountain pen, much less one with purple ink-that I told
myself I'd at least write my name in it. Then a couple of days
later, I picked it up and wrote down something that my mama used to
say, something the Same Sweet Girls loved and quoted over and over
when I read it to them: Honey, it will either work out or it won't.
Having it in writing kind of inspired me, so that whenever I got
myself in a mess, I'd take out the little lesson book and read over
that line again-it will either work out or it won't. Yep. That was
sure the gospel truth. One day, in a snit, I wrote: I keep doing
the same crap over and over and expecting it to turn out different
each time.

The entries began to expand, and once I was so startled on
rereading an entry that I called Corrine, excited. "Listen to this,
girlfriend," I'd said. "I think I've discovered the source of all
my problems! Here's what I wrote in that stupid-ass book you gave
me. All my problems can be summed up in this one line." "Let's hear
it, then," Corrine had said, and I'd read, "I thought I was doing
the right thing at the time." I knew I'd hit home when Corrine,
after a pause, burst into laughter. Once she told everyone, I was
assigned the role of the official scribe of the Same Sweet Girls.
Every time we get together, I have to read them what I've
written.

Tonight I look back over the last entries as I think about what
needs to be said before the gathering, what I can write to share
with everyone. Lanier's Life Lessons. A few months ago, when Paul
kicked me out of the house and I ended up here at the cabin, I'd
written, The Moving Finger writes "You're Screwed," then moves on.
Tonight I nibble on the tip of the fountain pen, frowning, before
finally writing: Any landing you walk away from is a good
landing.

I put the notebook back in the drawer, then yawn and stretch,
trying to get the kink out of my back. Getting to my feet, I
stumble to the kitchen for a drink of water, feeling my way. Then
on to the bathroom to pee. When I come out of the bathroom,
something catches my eye, and I move to the window that's across
from my bed. Leaning over, I stick my head out, squinting without
my contacts to see through the thick foliage. What I see scares me,
and I grip the windowsill. I'll be damned-a light is on in the
house next door. But-it can't be!-the house has been empty for
years. Just yesterday, a Realtor who was one of Mama's old friends
called me, asking if I'd ever thought about putting Dolphin Cove on
the market. Somehow, with me and her yakking about various things,
the subject came up, and the Realtor told me that the Picketts had
not sold their property next door. Mrs. Pickett died a few months
ago in a nursing home in Mobile-hadn't I read it in the papers? she
asked. She said the house was unoccupied, what with the Pickett
kids all over the world and poor Mrs. Pickett dying in a nursing
home. Said she'd tried to get the Picketts to put the house up for
sale, but no. She'd repeated herself, so I'm sure that I heard her
right: A shame it was, a real shame that such a nice house, such an
important house, should be empty. I sink back in my bed, a little
shaken, and pull the sheet over me against the strong salt wind.
For the first time, I have second thoughts about my impulsive
decision to move here. Pretty as it is, and as much as I love it,
it is isolated. Everyone-the SSGs especially-told me I was crazy, a
single woman living here alone. It was Lanier and her foolhardy
behavior again, they'd said. Fools rush in where angels fear to
tread, blah blah blah . . . as though anyone would ever mistake me
for an angel. Well, I've been a fool going on fifty years now, all
my life, and it's not very likely that things are going to change
at this late date. If I weren't so sleepy, I'd pull my lesson book
out again, and that's what I'd write.

Excerpted from THE SAME SWEET GIRLS © Copyright 2005 by
Cassandra King. Reprinted with permission by Hyperion. All rights
reserved.