The Dinner Party
Vonnie Campbell adjusted the platinum blonde wig, tilting her head to check the angle in the mirror. It wasn’t quite right. She fluffed it with her fingers, ignoring the tremble in her hand. The mirror reflected her hollowed-out cheeks, the dark smudges under her eyes that no concealer could fully hide, and the scars she avoided tracing with her fingertips. The wig shimmered unnaturally under the bathroom’s harsh fluorescent lights.
“Vonnie!” Jeff’s voice sliced through the air, sharp and impatient. Footsteps followed, deliberate and heavy, vibrating faintly through the bathroom tiles.
She didn’t answer, her hand still adjusting the wig. The blonde made her feel playful, almost rebellious—a spark she hadn’t felt in years. Maybe it was silly, but at least it felt like something.
Jeff appeared in the doorway, his tailored suit crisp, his silk tie a perfect Windsor knot. His cologne reached her before his words did, a suffocating blend of sandalwood and musk. His face twisted as he took her in, the platinum wig pulling an audible scoff from his throat.
“Good God, Vonnie!” His voice dropped, clipped and biting. “Take that thing off before someone sees you. You look like a damn hooker.”
The words landed like a slap, but Vonnie kept her face neutral, her hand instinctively moving to the wig. “I thought it was cute—”
“You thought wrong,” he snapped, stepping closer, his polished shoes clicking against the tile. “This isn’t California. This is Charleston. My colleagues are not going to take me seriously if I show up with my wife looking like some… circus act. Take it off. Now.”
Her stomach churned, the familiar knot of anger and shame tightening under her ribs. She swallowed hard, peeled the wig from her head, and placed it gently on the counter. Cold air kissed her scalp, the bare skin prickling as she reached for the boring brown wig—the one Jeff always preferred.
As she slipped it on, avoiding his gaze in the mirror, Jeff’s tone softened, as if he’d just done her a favor. “That’s better. Fix your makeup while you’re at it. You’re not auditioning for some Vegas show. We leave in ten.”
He walked away, leaving a faint trail of cologne in his wake. Vonnie stared at herself in the mirror, her reflection dull and lifeless. She smoothed down the wig, her fingers trembling slightly. The taupe lipstick on the counter beckoned. She picked it up, applying it with practiced precision, the color just two shades darker than her natural lips. Boring. Just like the wig.
She closed her eyes and let herself feel the ache of what was missing: her beauty, her confidence, her joy. Her hand brushed the empty space where her left breast had been.
A shout from the hallway startled her. “Vonnie! We’re going to be late!”
Her eyes flew open. She whispered to her reflection, “You’ve got this.”
The Lexus hummed as they crossed the bridge into Charleston, the low murmur of tires on asphalt filling the tense silence. Jeff’s hands gripped the wheel with practiced precision, his wedding band gleaming in the dim light.
Vonnie stared out the window, the moonlight dancing on the water below. Her reflection in the glass stared back at her, pale and ghostly. The scent of leather seats mingled with Jeff’s cologne, cloying and oppressive in the enclosed space. She crossed her arms, her fingers brushing the smooth fabric of her dress—a dress she used to love but now felt like a prison.
The house loomed ahead, its facade glowing with the warm light of wealth. Perfectly manicured hedges framed the walkway, the air scented with blooming jasmine and the faint tang of salt from the nearby harbor.
Jeff parked and circled the car to open her door, his polished manners as pristine as his appearance. A Southern gentleman through and through. Vonnie stepped out, the cool cobblestones sending a sharp chill through the thin soles of her heels.
The butler—a tall Black man in a white coat—opened the door and took her coat. His expression was neutral, his movements precise. Vonnie hesitated, glancing at Jeff. His eyes flicked to the butler with the faintest flicker of disdain before snapping back to her. “Come on,” he murmured.
Inside, the air was thick with cigar smoke and murmured conversations. Crystal chandeliers cast golden light on polished mahogany furniture, the surfaces gleaming like mirrors. Vonnie’s nose twitched at the mingling scents of bourbon, roast duck, and expensive perfume. The laughter of well-fed, well-connected people buzzed around her, cloying and artificial.
She couldn’t help but notice how much darker the room grew when the servers entered—three Black figures moving like shadows, their presence acknowledged only with the occasional barked instruction. There wasn’t a white servant in sight.
She and Jeff were the only Black guests at the dinner party, yet Jeff looked perfectly at home. He was good at this—jumping through hoops, smiling at the right people, pretending he didn’t notice the subtle looks or condescension. Vonnie could see it in the way he stood just a little too straight, his laugh a touch too loud. He wasn’t a man here. He was a performance. A damn good one, too.
“Jeff!” Phillip Rivers, tall and imposing with a shock of white hair, approached with open arms. His voice boomed, commanding attention. “Good to see you! And Vonnie, my dear, it’s been too long. Jeff mentioned your health—terribly sorry to hear about the cancer.”
Vonnie smiled tightly. “Thank you, Phillip. We’re hopeful.” Her voice sounded thin, far away.
Dinner was a charade of manners. Vonnie’s eyes followed the servers, noting the tension in their shoulders, the practiced smiles that never reached their eyes. She couldn’t help but notice how much the other guests ignored them, how the servants’ hands seemed to hover over the wine bottles like ghosts—unnoticed, unthanked.
Jeff leaned in at one point and muttered, “Don’t stare.”
Her eyes snapped to her plate. The food was exquisite, but she couldn’t taste it. Everything here felt staged, from the clinking of glasses to the too-loud laughter.
After dinner, the women were ushered into the parlor, and the men retreated to the study for cigars and bourbon. The parlor smelled of lavender and old money. The women—perfectly coiffed, immaculately dressed—peppered Vonnie with questions about her treatment. Their curiosity felt clinical, not compassionate.
Bored and restless, Vonnie lingered near the doorway, her ears straining to catch the low murmurs of conversation from the study.
“She’s really let herself go,” a familiar voice said, the words dripping with disdain.
Vonnie froze. It was Jeff.
“Can you blame her?” another voice replied. “I mean, cancer and all that. Still, I don’t know if I could handle it. My wife gains five pounds, and I’m ready to drive her to the gym myself.”
Laughter erupted, Jeff’s fake laugh loudest of all.
“Yeah, well,” Jeff said, “I’ve got my work cut out for me. She was stunning when I married her. I just didn’t think… well, you know. It’s been hard.”
Vonnie’s breath hitched. The words burned, each one searing into her chest like a brand. She turned away, her vision blurring.
“I need the restroom,” she muttered to no one in particular.
The bathroom was dim and utilitarian, a stark contrast to the rest of the house. On the back of the door hung a servant’s uniform, its dark fabric neatly pressed. Vonnie stared at it, her breath catching in her throat. Her reflection in the spotted mirror mocked her: the wig, the makeup, the dress—all a costume.
Her chest tightened. Jeff’s voice echoed in her mind: She’s let herself go.
Her pulse quickened. Her hands moved without thinking, ripping the wig from her head, smearing the lipstick across her cheek like war paint. She tore off the dress, the silk shredding under her grip. Her bra inserts hit the tile floor with a hollow thud.
She grabbed the uniform and slipped it on. The fabric was rough against her skin, but it felt right. Grounding. Real.
Vonnie opened the door and strode through the kitchen, barefoot and raw. The staff froze, their eyes wide. The butler’s lips twitched into the faintest smile.
Jeff was in the study, laughing with the other men. His cigar hovered mid-air when he saw her. The room fell silent.
Vonnie stepped forward, her bare feet sinking into the plush carpet. She grabbed the glass of bourbon from Jeff’s hand and downed it in one gulp, the burn fueling her courage.
“You fake son of a bitch,” she said, her voice steady, loud enough for everyone to hear. “You wanted a doll to parade around. A trophy. But I’m not her. I never was. I’m not your dress-up doll, Jeff. And I sure as hell won’t be your prop any longer. You act like you’re not just another servant to these people like all the rest of the other black folks in this place. Newsflash, Jeff: Even if they make you partner, It’s just so they can check their “we’re not a racist law-firm box. After all, you never know when another negro with money like OJ or Cosby is going to need representation, right?”
She looked around the room defying anyone to make eye contact with her. No one did. She turned her attention back to Jeff.
“Look at you, Mr Jeffery Darrius Campbell III with your upscale degree, from your upscale university, your upscale car, your upscale house, your upscale job and your upscale wife and your upscale, college educated diction. All that education. All the damn brains in the world and yet you’re too damn stupid to know all these people wanna hear from you is ‘Yessuh, Missa Massah.’ You’re nothing but a damn fool. And I’m not having it anymore. Not for even one more minute.”
Jeff opened his mouth like he might say something and then thought better of it.
Vonnie, done with all of it, threw the wig, the dress, and the bra inserts at him as one clump of discard. They landed in a heap at his feet. “There’s the woman you love. I hope you enjoy her.”
Vonnie turned on her heels and walked out. The butler met her at the door, her coat draped over his arm. Without hesitation, she kissed him full on the mouth, firm and deliberate. He froze for a moment, then stepped back, his expression flickering with surprise and quiet amusement.
“Thank you,” she said simply, taking the coat from his arms.
The cold air hit her like a baptism as she stepped into the night. Barefoot and free, Vonnie Campbell walked away, the sound of laughter and clinking glasses fading into the Charleston night.