Free The Improper Life of Bezillia Grove by Susan Gregg Gilmore

side for hours, and I could hear them talking and laughing as they swapped stories, retelling the events of the previous night. I had never known my parents to enjoy each other’s company as much as they seemed to that day. Father was very proud of my mother, and I think she was finally very proud of herself.
    Everyone, including me, agreed that Mother looked absolutely beautiful, much prettier than Mrs. Hunt in her French couture gown. And with photographs of Mother splashed across the society page, we all assured her that she was now certain to be the envy of every woman in Nashville. “Purple is, Sister dear, an unforgettable color,” Mother gushed.
    By Thanksgiving, the Women’s Volunteer League had hosted a lovely luncheon at the country club in honor of my mother and Mrs. Hunt and then very promptly named two new women to chair the next year’s Iris Ball. And just as quickly as the glasses had been raised to toast my mother, the attention she had so desperately craved slipped into the gloved hands of another.
    The president of the hospital’s auxiliary committee asked Mrs. Hunt to chair the gala fund-raiser for the new pediatric ward, another elaborate evening of dinner and dancing. I’m sure Mother expected her dear friend to invite her to cochair the event. After all, they were the talk of the town, and her very own husband was sure to be the hospital’s next chief of staff. But the phone never rang, and Mother finally read of Mrs. Hunt’s decision in the afternoon paper. Mrs. Holder would be her cochair. Her husband had just been named managing partner of the city’s oldest and most prestigious law firm, a position that apparently impressed my mother’s dear friend even more.
    So by Christmas, Mother found herself feeling very forgotten. She spent most of her days at the club, playing bridge or lunching with a few so-called friends, trying desperately to remind them that she was a very important person. But this was a job that now seemed to overwhelm her, and she began drinking more and more, not only at dinner but sometimes even at breakfast, pouring gin into her orange juice when she thought no one was looking. Most afternoons, the manager at the club would call Nathaniel and politely tell him to come and retrieve Mrs. Grove, as she seemed to have fallen ill, yet again. By Easter, few of Mother’s friends bothered to call, and she rarely left the house, spending most of her days hiding in her bedroom.
    I had grown somewhat accustomed to my mother’s cruel behavior when she drank, but now she didn’t even seem to notice us—and that scared me even more. And although Adelaide and I saw no more of our mother than we had when she was working endless hours with Mrs. Hunt, designing table decorations and engraved invitations, our house now seemed shrouded in a sickening chill that nothing, not even an unexpected thunderstorm, could wash away.
    Then one brilliantly clear spring evening, Nathaniel announced that rain was surely heading our way. He could smell it in the air. He tipped his head back and took another deep breath. “Yes, sir, the rain is coming,” he said and then walked out the back door, probably wanting to check on the horses or put the Cadillac in the garage before leaving for the night. Maizelle was in the kitchen cooking some caramel icing for a yellow layer cake she had made earlier in the afternoon. Adelaide was stirring the pot of thick, sugary syrup as it slowly boiled on the stove. I headed up the stairs to study for an English test.
    I could see Mother sitting in the den, staring blankly at the television set as she often did, the sound of David Brinkley’s steady, commanding voice leading her into a deep, sound sleep. Maybe she got up to change the channel or make herself another drink. I don’t really know for sure. But I do know that when she lifted herself out of the chair, drunk and half-asleep, she tripped and fell to her knees, dropping her Waterford tumbler and grazing her