Christmas, Saturday 25 December 2021 - Savannah, Georgia, United States

Charlie sat glumly on the chaise. Her mother was puttering around adding tinsel to the very oversized Christmas tree before the rest of the family came over and talking about how it was finally perfect. As if she hadn’t paid some very expensive professionals to bring in and decorate the tree

Charlie was digging around her purse when she had a happy bit of circumstance happen and she surreptitiously pulled out two forgotten tabs of molly that were sitting in the bottom. She quickly got up, scooped out some of the holiday punch1 into a glass and downed them. And promptly started coughing.

Her mom looked over and tutted, “Don’t make a mess, dear. And lay off the punch. I won’t have you drunk when everyone arrives. Not this year.”

“But it is okay later for everyone to be wasted,” muttered Charlie.

“What was that, Charlotte?” Her mother’s stern tone of voice suggested she had heard what Charlie had said.

Charlie drew herself up and in her most Savannah belle voice, modeled after her mother, said, “I never did mind about the little things.”

Her mother rolled her eyes and went back to fussing over the tree in the foyer. Charlie poured another glass of punch and waited for the tabs to hit.

Soon there was commotion in the kitchen as the servants began preparing the food. Charlie whiled away the time on her phone playing Orbital on her phone while listening to club music with her headphones on.

She almost jumped when her mom came over and pulled off her headphones. “Go upstairs and fix your hair. We spent hours on it this morning. And touch up your makeup - that may fly in Yankee territory, but not here.” She poured herself a drink, directly from the cognac on the liquor cart, skipping the punch entirely Charlie noted. and drank it down in one go.

As if her mom wasn’t from Boston, but there was nobody as zealous as a convert and her mother had easily transitioned from an upper-class Boston Brahmin to upper-class Southern Belle to the point where she could use the word “Yankee” unironically.

Her father came down, his burly figure and genial expression hiding his innate coldness. Then again, her thankfully deceased grandfather had thought trying to sponsor her into the Ladies of the Invisible Empire had been a good idea. The fact her mother had shot it down would have been a point in her favor if it hadn’t been accompanied with a tirade about “trailer park trash.”

He poured himself a drink and then motioned at her to go upstairs. She refilled her punch glass before going. On her way up, she heard the door open and the falsetto greetings of some of her aunts and cousins.

She could still hear the greetings upstairs, the shrill voices penetrating the room door as she sat at her powder table fixing her hair before powdering her face and adding some blush.

“There… a perfect southern whore.” She said to the mirror. For one moment she thought about adding some more dark accents, a bit more eyeshadow perhaps - a tiny bit of rebellion she could get away with, but decided it wasn’t worth the looks her mother would give.

She rang a bell by her door and Daisy came in. “Unbutton this thing for me, would you? I’d like to get some breathing in before heading down.”

“Yes ma’am.” Daisy moved behind her and undid the hooked closure.

Charlie took a deep breath in. “I suppose you are going to tell me I’ve gotten fat up in New York.”

“Never ma’am. If you want to eat and drink like a pig, it would not be my place to tell you that.” There was no opinion her mother did not hold that Daisy did not hold doubly.

“Stupid dress is built like a corset.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Charlie wondered if Daisy and her mother knew she knew about their relationship. Having walked onto them once in bed when she was five and then seeing them steal away or their unguarded glances occasionally. Charlie, at her worst moments, had thought about exposing them. Melissa Harris, grand dame of Savannah and arbiter of social mores, in a lesbian relationship with the help? The black help? As a teenager, she had thought about denouncing them to her father and what had stayed her hand had been the certainty that her fathers rebuke would have been over her mother not being discreet enough and nothing else.

Well, they had been together for at least fifteen years if last night had been an indication, so at least Charlie had to give her mother credit for managing one long-term relationship.

The dour thoughts tread well-worn paths in her mind. Eventually she had Daisy button her up, and Charlie went back down to the party.

It was night time, and Charlie was thinking her molly had been a dud, or maybe that being home was too much for mere drugs to overcome when they heard a bit of commotion.

Cousin Astor, the spoiled brat came in, and said, “It’s snowing!”

The crowd rushed to the windows, leaving Uncle Pete on the piano singing carols off-key by himself before he stopped midstream.

Outside snow fell in the inky dark. Snow the color of blood.

The recipe for Chatham Artillery Punch - the punch that saved Savannah from Sherman.

Ingredients 8 lemons 1 pound superfine sugar 750-milliliter bottle bourbon or rye 750-milliliter bottle Cognac 750-milliliter bottle dark Jamaican rum 3 bottles Champagne or other sparkling wine Nutmeg Preparation Squeeze and strain the lemons to make 16 ounces of juice. Peel the lemons and muddle the peels with the sugar. Let the peels and sugar sit for an hour, then muddle again. Add the lemon juice and stir until sugar has dissolved. Strain out the peels. Fill a 2- to 3-gallon bucket or bowl with crushed ice or ice cubes. Add the lemon-sugar mixture and the bourbon, Cognac and rum. Stir and add the Champagne. Taste and adjust for sweetness. Grate nutmeg over the top and serve.