Laura Childs: Photo Finished

Carmela faced Shamus. “You don’t have a costume,” she told him. He wore a black turtleneck under a black jacket, and Carmela wondered where that little fashion faux pas had originated. Shamus had always told her he despised turtlenecks.

“What do you think?” he asked, holding his arms out, obviously wanting Carmela’s reaction to his new look. Expecting a compliment.

“If you swabbed white greasepaint on your face you could pass for a mime,” Carmela snapped.

Shamus looked stung. “You know I despise mimes.”

Carmela shrugged. “C’est la vie.”

Shamus glowered at her. “This hostile attitude you’ve adopted,” he said. “It’s not one bit flattering. I hope you don’t intend to keep it up all night.” Shamus was so mad, he stomped off and left Zoe standing there with Ava.

“Only as long as I have to,” Carmela called to Shamus’s retreating backside.

Ava stopped chattering and the three of them stood staring at each other. Finally Zoe spoke up. “You’re very pretty,” she told Carmela. “Shamus said you were pretty.” She appraised Carmela with a careful eye, like a budding plastic surgery aficionado. “You have very full lips. I’ve been thinking of having my lips enhanced. There’s a plastic surgeon up in Baton Rouge who’s supposed to be a genius…”

“Implants,” replied Ava, gesturing at Carmela’s lips.

“Really,” said Zoe, narrowing her eyes. “They look very natural.”

“You want natural,” said Ava, “take a gander at Carmela’s cheekbones.”

Zoe’s eyes widened even more. “Implants, too?”

Ava nodded. “The surgeon made two teensy little incisions inside her mouth, then slipped these little plastic pieces right in. I tell you, the girl’s put together with spit and clay.”

Zoe was clearly fascinated. “I’ve heard about cheek implants. Did they hurt?” she asked Carmela.

“Never felt a thing,” replied Carmela.

“But if you want realistic,” said Ava, “take a gander at Carmela’s eyes.”

Now Zoe was completely confused. “Her eyes?” She threw Carmela a questioning glance.

Carmela, who’d never had an implant or a collagen injection in her life, just nodded. “Had ’em done two years ago,” she said. “Love ’em.”

Ava lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Carmela was born with brown eyes. Didn’t the surgeons do a fabulous job?”

Zoe’s pouty mouth formed a perfect O. “Oh yes, they did, ” she marveled. “And I had no idea they could even do a transplant procedure like that. Wow.”

“Biosynthetics,” purred Ava. “Isn’t medical science amazing?”

“Yes, it is,” said Zoe, feeling that she’d developed a real kinship with the two women.

“You’re evil,” Carmela told Ava as Zoe headed back to her table. “Pure, unadulterated evil.”

“And you’re not?” asked Ava. She gave a slow wink.

“Having fun?” she asked.

“I am now,” said Carmela. But ten minutes later, Shamus was back in her face, begging for help.

Carmela stared at him, wondering where he found the nerve. “You want my help?” she asked. The man was certainly born with an extra helping of chutzpah.

“There’s a problem with Glory,” Shamus hissed, plucking at Carmela’s sleeve. “Hurry up! We’ve got a dire emergency on our hands!”

As Shamus pulled her across the ballroom, Carmela noted that suddenly, somehow, Shamus considered the two of them complicit again. Now we have an emergency. On our hands.

Glory Meechum was slumped in her chair, one chubby hand still stubbornly clasped around a glass of bourbon. Her older brother, Jeffrey, a pear-shaped banker in a drab gray suit, stared at her helplessly. Two useless banker cousins sat nervously twiddling their thumbs.

“She just drank too much bourbon!” exclaimed Carmela as she surveyed the situation. Over the past couple years Carmela had seen Glory sock it away pretty good, but she’d never seen her this drunk. Glory’s face was doughy and slack, her lipstick smudged and smeared. Not a positive sign.

Shamus put a hand protectively on one of Glory’s broad shoulders. “That’s not the real problem. She only had a couple drinks this evening, but she’s been taking this new medicine for her OCD. My guess is the combination of booze and pills must’ve packed a real wallop.”

“That lady’s stoned, all right,” said Ava, who had followed Carmela to Shamus’s table. “She’s stoned out of her gourd.” Ava peered into Glory’s glazed eyes. “Oh yeah, look at her pupils. She’s gone.”

“She’s gone,” repeated Sweetmomma Pam, who had tagged along as well.

“Carmela, do something!” wailed Shamus.

Startled, wondering why this little family emergency had suddenly been thrust on her shoulders, Carmela whipped her head toward him. “Face it, Shamus, Glory’s zonked.”

“Carmela… please! You’ve got to do something,” Shamus begged as Baby and Del, curious as to what was going on, sidled up to the table as well.

“The woman’s clearly stoned, Shamus, what do you want me to do?” Carmela snapped. “Fire up the light show and throw some Jefferson Airplane on the turntable?”

“You don’t have to be so nasty about it,” grumped Shamus.

Carmela hesitated. Shamus was probably right. She was being a tad bitchy. But wasn’t she enjoying this little spectacle as well?

Oh yeah. What goes around comes around, Miss Glory Meechum. Spread enough bad karma around and it’ll come back and chomp you in the butt.

“This is Glory’s big night,” pleaded Shamus. “She’s supposed to receive her Founder’s Award!”

“Might I offer a suggestion?” said Baby. She stood on the sidelines, looking cool and somewhat detached in her Marie Antoinette costume, but also helping to block this rather embarrassing scene from other prying eyes.

“Whaaaa?” mumbled Glory, rolling her head. Neither eye seemed to be able to focus on the same thing. With her head sunk on her chest and her eyes looking wonky and rolling out to the sides, Carmela thought Glory resembled a Mississippi channel catfish.

“Now mind you,” said Baby, “not that I know this first-hand. But I did attend college in the late sixties.”

Ava gave an encouraging nod. “Lots of psychedelics back then. Powerful stuff.”

“And I did hear rumors … realize, these were only rumors,” said Baby, “that several spoonfuls of sugar dissolved in a glass of orange juice could bring a person down from a nasty high. Something about increasing glucose and balancing blood sugar levels.”

“Kind of like a diabetic,” breathed Ava. “That’s good.”

“Shamus, go tell Monroe Payne to hold off on that Founder’s Award presentation,” announced Carmela. She narrowed her eyes, appraising Glory like she was a science project. “Let’s go ahead and try Baby’s sugar and orange juice suggestion. Glory’s in no condition to walk out on a stage. Let alone stumble through an acceptance speech.”

“I don’t know,” said Baby, “I’ve seen lots of men do it.”

“But that’s men, honey,” interjected Ava. “In the South men are expected to get a little tipsy at social occasions. It’s their birthright.”

“Hear, hear,” said Baby’s husband, Del, grinning.

“CARMELA,” said Gabby, her face scrunched into a worried grimace, “I think Stuart’s havin’ one of his low blood sugar attacks.”

“Um… didn’t Stuart just eat, Gabby?” Carmela had just poured glass after glass of sugar-enhanced orange juice down Glory Meechum’s gullet to revive her, and now Gabby was pressing her about yet another health crisis. What am I? An ER doc?