The Last Original Wife

by Dorothea Benton Frank

  “Last-ditch effort for what?”

  “To regain your affection?”

  “It’s not possible, but even if it was, it would take a lot more than a bunch of roses packed in Styrofoam in a vase. With baby’s breath. Which I now don’t like because Harlan said it’s gross.”

  “I’m making a mental note—no baby’s breath. Ever!”

  “And no Styrofoam,” I said and giggled.

  As we crossed the Ravenel Bridge that spanned the Cooper River, I looked down at a cruise ship that was in port, docked there among all the container ships. It looked so pretty with all its white lights that stretched from its bow to its stern.

  “Now, tell me why the cruise ships are such a problem, Jonathan. Apparently if I’m going to resume living in Charleston, I’m going to have to form an educated opinion.”

  “Let’s see. Well, they dump their sewage too close to shore. Nasty. The smokestacks blow sticky black ash all over the historic district, which makes them unpopular with the South of Broad set. In addition, the passengers seem to wander around South of Broad, peering into the windows of our citizens like a tribe of Peeping Toms. And worst of all, their passengers don’t really seem to boost Charleston’s economy because they eat their meals on the boat. Maybe they buy some trinkets in the market, but that’s about it.”

  “And I should like them because?”

  “Well, Charleston’s entire history is all tied into being a port. And because we are reputedly the most desirable tourist destination in America, that should include those who travel by water. We have to hope that the cruise ship owners will work out their problems with the town fathers. Theoretically, they should be good for our local economy and behave as guests should.”

  “Can’t they make them follow some environmental regulations? You know like, if they blow ash or drop sewage, they have to pay a fine?”

  “You would think you didn’t have to legislate common decency, but since these ships are usually registered in some foreign country, they are far out of the jurisdiction of Charleston and are not bound by law to comply. Or something like that.”

  “Well, that stinks.”

  “Yeah, it really does.”

  “You know, I look at those cruise ships and even the container ships and I wonder where they’re going and where they came from. They’re so dramatic.”

  “Yes, they are. See the Yorktown down there?”

  We were just passing over Patriots Point, where the decommissioned battleship the USS Yorktown was permanently docked and open as a museum to the public.

  “Speaking of drama,” I said, “can you imagine leaving here to go into combat on one of those? Holy cow. Those poor boys must have been terrified.”

  “No, I can’t imagine it. Have you ever been on a cruise?”

  “Jonathan, I am the most undertraveled woman you know. I don’t even know if I would get seasick, but I think I might like to go on a cruise if it was a smaller boat that didn’t roll.”

  “We should look into it. In fact, I’ll do that. I’d like to see Croatia and the Dalmatian Coast. It’s very popular.”

  I didn’t tell him, but I wasn’t even sure where Croatia was, and the Dalmatian Coast? Was it populated with dogs?

  CHAPTER 24

  Les Goes Red

  The morning after my birthday, Jonathan took me home and, needless to say, I was smiling from ear to ear. We had a wonderful night.

  “Want some toast?” Harlan said, calling out to me from the kitchen.

  “Sure!” I dropped my tote bag at the bottom of the steps.

  “How was your evening?” he said. “There’s coffee. Help yourself.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You know, if staying over at Jonathan’s becomes a habit, I might have to talk to you about birth control.”

  I giggled and said, “You might have to talk to me about self-control but birth control? Probably not.” I sat down across from him and stirred a drizzle of half-and-half into my coffee.

  “Oh dear, look at you.” Harlan smirked at me and then smiled wide. “What on earth did you do last night? Your hair is a fright, and your eyes are all puffy!”

  “It was wonderful, and that’s all I’m going to say.”

  “My word! Well, did he bake a birthday cake?”

  “Harlan? He made a whole Italian dinner of veal marsala and some sautéed escarole and little potatoes, and he made a cake. Yes, he made a cake. It was delicious. Yellow cake, chocolate icing. From a mix but it was absolutely delicious.”

  “And how much red wine did you drink?”

  “What makes you think we drank wine?”

  “Because there’s a rather impressive red wine stain on your blouse?”

  “Oh.” Sure enough when I looked down, there it was. “Just one bottle, I think? Anyway, guess what?”

  “What?” Harlan said, wiggling his eyebrows. “He tried to have his way with you?”

  “Oh, please. No! He gave me a trip to Italy! And he’s coming too, but only if I say so, which I will. He just doesn’t want to push me. And of course, we need you to help us plan it. But it’s only valid if we go before my next birthday. Isn’t he great?”

  “He sure is. Did he buy tickets yet?”

  “No, he wants me to tell him when I want to go and then he’ll buy tickets. Yep! I’m finally going to Italy. Isn’t he marvelous?”

  “Yes, he is. That’s fabulous! Absolutely fabulous. I’ve always liked Jonathan. Well, I got you something too. I was going to give it to you yesterday, but I didn’t have the paperwork yet.” Harlan got up from the table, picked up an envelope from the kitchen counter, and handed it to me. “Here. It was the best gift I could imagine for the woman who now has everything.”

  I opened the envelope and inside was a picture of a magnificent Havanese surrounded by puppies.

  “What’s this?”

  “This is Miss Jo’s sister and she’s just had another litter. I’ve reserved you a male. His name is DuBose. We can’t have him until he’s weaned. Eight weeks—and I’ll housebreak him.”

  “A puppy? Harlan? Have you lost your mind?” I started laughing.

  “No, and whenever you and Jonathan want to go off on a trip to Madagascar or some crazy place, DuBose can stay with his uncle Harlan! We can go to the tailor together. When he’s fully grown, I’m going to have a white dinner jacket made for him.”

  “Oh, Harlan! You are too funny!” I got up, hugged him, and kissed him on his cheek. “You are simply the most wonderful brother in the world.”

  “True enough. And I’ve got a broker to help you find a house. When you’re in the mood to shop, that is. I mean, you could just stay here and we could become one of those famously weird families that wind up in Southern gothic novels. I could call you Sister and you could call me Brother.”

  “Probably better if I get my own place.” I giggled.

  “Probably,” he said.

  Being with my brother had become a great source of lighthearted happiness for me. It was wonderful to share a space with someone who held you in the same regard in which you held him. I wanted to see that Harlan was happy and he constantly went out of his way to do the same for me. The fact that Wes worked so hard all those years to deny me Harlan’s splendid company and that I had allowed it? It made me sick inside. Those years were gone and I’d never get them back. But I’d spend the rest of my life being the greatest sister I could manage to be. That was the best scenario I could envision.

  The following Thursday, Harlan and I dropped an excited Miss Jo off with Jonathan for the weekend and tore up the road in my sporty new car, heading for Atlanta. The car was packed to its last square inch, and both of us were eager to get there. Harlan had loaded the CD player with beach music and chamber music.

  “Harlan? Do you still like to dance?”

  “Yes, but usually when I’m alone. And after a martini. You’ve seen me dance!”

  “Think you might dance with me at this wedding?”

  “If
you let me lead. As I recall, you always liked to lead.”

  “Harlan, the only dancing I’ve done since high school is the walk around.”

  “And what, may I ask, is the walk around?”

  “Wes held one of my hands and put his other hand on my waist and we walked around the dance floor.”

  “Dear Mother. I don’t know if that’s more pitiful or tragic. All those years you could’ve been doing the watusi and the limbo.” He snapped his fingers in the air. “Gone!”

  “That’s the old Les. Danette tells me they’ve hired an outrageous band. The new Les intends to dance her way into old age. I’m excited!”

  “Well, hoochie coo, I’d be glad to help.” He was quiet for a minute and then spoke again. “Not to bring up a sore subject, but does Wes know I’m coming?”

  “Yes, he does. I called him the other day because he had not called me with his decision about the division of our assets, which, by the way, he said he wanted to talk to me about this weekend. And if he thinks I’m interested in discussing my financial future in the middle of a wedding, he’s out of his mind. I told him you were coming, and he actually apologized for his prejudice all these years. He’s trying to change. At least that’s what he says. Somebody must have dressed him down.”

  “He’s such a stupid man,” Harlan said in a matter-of-fact voice.

  “And foolish,” I said. “Very foolish. But like Josephine said, I’m going to row my own boat in the future.”

  We were quiet for a few minutes.

  “Good for you! So we’ve never really talked about Josephine Pinckney. What did you finally decide about her?”

  “Well, I read Sea-Drinking Cities and Three O’Clock Dinner and part of Splendid in Ashes, which I hope to finish when we get home. But then I read the Bellows biography and got a whole insight into her life that made her fiction make a lot of sense. I guess I think a lot of things. For one, she was way ahead of her time.”

  “Agreed. She was probably the original liberated woman, if you don’t count Julia Peterkin, of course.”

  “Now who’s Julia Peterkin?”

  “Oh my word! She was the only woman from South Carolina to ever win a Pulitzer, that’s all. And she was and still is probably twice as controversial as Jo Pinckney.”

  “Oh. Gosh. There’s another one I don’t know a thing about. But I imagine you’ll bring me up to speed on her sometime?”

  “You know it. But back to Jo?”

  “Well, I feel like her overbearing mother sort of ruined her prospects of a husband and family. But I’m not certain she was ever interested in having children anyway.”

  “But she sure liked having a man in her life,” Harlan said, “even if his availability or his proclivities were dubious.”

  “You said it. She had as many men as she liked, but you know when she was young I think she was more interested in having a career and making a name for herself. And she was so close with Amy Lowell, who was a great mentor for her. When she was older, she was attached to that fellow Waring, who, like her own father, was so much older than she was. And to be honest, who knows what really went on there?”

  “Probably not much.”

  “Exactly! And then Amy Lowell died young, DuBose Heyward died so young, and then her mother and Waring and her old nurse, Victoria Rutledge, all died; and I think death terrified her. Each one of those deaths had a profound effect on her. It was almost as though she couldn’t believe they were really gone or that they had left her. Except for her mother, whose death liberated her even more.”

  “And then she winds up dying herself, alone in a hospital room in New York at sixty-three years of age. Her worst nightmare.”

  “Everyone’s worst nightmare.”

  “But this doesn’t answer the question of why she slipped into obscurity,” Harlan said. “She wrote wonderful poetry and fascinating fiction and helped found the Poetry Society of South Carolina. She traveled like mad, knew and ran around with all the important people of her day, and yet . . . you had no idea who she was. Why?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe poetry fell out of fashion and people started watching television? Maybe because she never got her movie made.”

  “And I think there was a general change in the taste of the public too. After World War II, Hollywood became more serious. All that Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire stuff seemed frivolous in light of the times. Maybe.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said. “I loved her writing.”

  We became quiet, and as soon as the music changed from the Four Tops to Vivaldi, Harlan put his head against the window and drifted off to sleep. I began to remember our childhood. While he dozed I wondered how many indignities my sweet brother had endured because of his sexual orientation. I remembered then how he was bullied in school and for the longest time I was too young to understand it. Once when I was about eight years old, some high school kid, Tommy Something, called Harlan a terrible name and I kicked him in his shins as hard as I could. That got me in hot water with everyone except my mother, who thought I was pretty wonderful to do it. After that, the kids at school never called Harlan names or teased him in front of me. But when I was pregnant with Bertie and had to marry Wes, well, after that Wes dictated every aspect of my life. I was glad I remembered then because it strengthened my resolve that leaving Wes was the only way to salvage what was left of me. I’d never ever be in that kind of a compromised position again.

  At last we pulled into the drive of the Loews Hotel in Atlanta after crawling along in traffic and gave the car to the valet. We quickly registered, and the bellman took us up to our room. He opened the door for us and began turning on lights. We entered a large living room with a wet bar and a half bath. There was a beautiful sofa and two club chairs, a table with four chairs and a large flat-screen television. The bedroom had two queen-size beds and a beautiful low and long chest of drawers on which stood another television.

  Harlan peeked in the bathroom and said, “There’s a swimming pool in here.”

  I looked, and sure enough, the bathtub seemed like a small swimming pool to me too.

  “Can I get y’all anything else?” the bellman said as he brought in our bags and placed them on luggage racks. “Ice?”

  “No, we’re fine,” Harlan said and walked him to the living room door. I heard the door close and then Harlan called me. “Les? Come here!”

  I walked out to the living room, and there on the coffee table was a vase of two dozen red roses packed to death with baby’s breath.

  “How did we miss this?” Harlan said.

  “I’m afraid to ask, but is there a card?”

  “Dare we open it?”

  I took it from the plastic stick and opened it.

  “It says, Meet me for a drink tonight? Love, Wes.”

  “He really went all out, didn’t he?”

  “Mother Machree,” I said. “I guess I have to do this?”

  “No, you don’t,” Harlan said. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do ever again.”

  “He’s never sent me two dozen roses in my whole life.”

  “He’s never had to give anybody this much money in his whole life either. I mean, I’m sorry to be so blunt, but . . .”

  “No, no. You’re right, Harlan. Whatever he has to say to me, he can say it over the phone.”

  “Absolutely. And you might remind him that this is better than going through lawyers. He knows that. In fact, this is such a transparent effort to get you back in his fat clammy hands, I’ll even guess that he’ll go along with whatever you propose. Watch. Call him right now and watch what happens.”

  My stomach cramped and I felt slightly nauseated. “What do I say?”

  “Girl? Where’s your spine? You just tell him that you’re busy and what does he want to talk about, that we’ve got plans for tonight and that’s it. Soooo, what’s up, Wes?”

  “Harlan? I love you but don’t push me. But you’re right. Damn it. I may as well do it and get it ove
r with.”

  “That’s the spirit! I’ll be in the other room. Call me if you need me.”

  “Okay. Thanks.” I reached into my purse, took out my cell phone, and thought, I really didn’t ever want anyone to tell me what to do, but Harlan was right. I pressed in his number. Wes answered on the second ring.

  “Leslie? Is that you?”

  “Yes, Wes. It’s me.”

  “Did you get the flowers?”

  “Yes, thank you. You didn’t have to do that, you know.”

  “Please! I just wanted to welcome you home, that’s all. So where should we meet? Want to come by the club around six? We can get a nice corner table and talk about things.”

  I didn’t say, This is no longer my home or The last thing I want is for you to put me in a corner ever again.

  Instead I said, “Well, first of all, I have plans and as I told you the other day, there’s really nothing to talk about, Wes. I’ve said all I have to say.”

  Harlan stuck his arm into the living room and gave me a thumbs-up gesture. Then he came in the room and whispered, “Is everything okay?” I shushed him away.

  “But I haven’t,” Wesley said.

  “You can tell me right here and now, Wesley.”

  “Well, it’s just that . . . I don’t know, Les. Things aren’t the same without you.”

  “This is how it is now, Wes. I’m sorry, but this is how it is.”

  “Yeah, I know, but the difference is that I really miss you, Les. I do. In fact, it’s become sort of stunning, this hole you left in my life when you walked out. I don’t like it. I’m not happy.”

  “Well? I don’t know what to say to you except I think for the sake of our old friends, we should attend this wedding as two civilized adults who love them. This weekend is not about us. It’s about Danette and Harold and Molly. And I hate that this may sound so cold, but I think you need to write me a check or hire a lawyer. Sorry, Wes.”

  “I see. So, there’s no, um, changing your mind? I mean, Les, have a heart.”

  “That’s the whole problem, Wes. I do have one and you broke it.”

  “And there’s nothing that can put it back together again?”