Chapter 4: The Spring Ball

"Which name?" I said, though I knew.

"Yours. Tallulah Ballantyne. She had it printed in gold." Dorrie's whisper cracked. "She says the Ballantyne name stays in the family."

"Do you want it?"

"I want my glasses back."

The faucet shut off on her end.

"She's at the door," Dorrie breathed. "Don't call this number."

The line went dead.

I stood in the dark office with the receiver humming in my hand.

When Dale came out in his robe, I told him.

He didn't say anything for a while.

Then he went to the closet and took down two clean yellow T-shirts.

"You think they'll let us in wearing these?" he asked.

"No," I said. "That's the point."

The Spring Ball was in the ballroom of The Ballantyne, on the corner of Monterey Square.

I had been going to it since I was four.

The same doorman was on the steps that Saturday night, in his gray coat with the brass buttons.

He had worked that door for thirty-two years.

He saw my shirt, and then my face.

"Miss Tallulah," he said.

"Evening. This is Dale."

The doorman looked at Dale's Braves cap. He looked at the list in his hand.

He folded the list and put it in his pocket.

"Mind the second step," he said, and opened the door.

The ballroom was blue and silver this year.

Three hundred people in black tie turned to look at two yellow T-shirts.

My mother was by the stage in pale blue silk.

She saw me and didn't stop smiling.

She just started walking.

"Darling," she said when she reached us. Her voice went soft, the way it did. "You smell like a fryer."

"Hush puppies," Dale said. "My mama's. You're welcome to the recipe."

She didn't look at him.

"Mr. Bledsoe's motel is going under," she said to me. "I'd hate for you to go under with it. You still have time to sign."

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