Shem Creek

by Dorothea Benton Frank

  “He went to Lovett in Buckhead.”

  “Private school?”

  “Thought you had me?” He gave a small grin.

  “Just kidding!”

  “Lovett was Loretta’s doing, not mine. Anyway, things are going to be very different for him now.”

  “As they are for Gracie too.” I looked at him and he seemed so subdued. “Look, anything I can do to help . . .”

  “The school thing would be great—where is Wando High School anyway?”

  “Out on Mathis Ferry Road—hey, we can carpool!”

  “Excellent. We can meet at the Piggly Wiggly.”

  The office phone rang and Brad picked it up.

  “It’s for you,” he said, holding his hand over the mouthpiece. “It’s a man named Jason. Who’s Jason?” He narrowed his eyes in suspicion.

  The old Brad was back, at least for the moment.

  “My next husband,” I said. I held out my hand to take the receiver and he held it over his head out of my reach. “Oh, grow up and give me the phone!”

  He handed it to me and said, “Someone you met in a chat room?”

  “Hello? This is Linda Breland speaking,” I said, in my very professional voice.

  “Hi! This is Jason Miller calling—I’m a friend of Jack Taylor? He said I would call?”

  “Yes! Of course! How are you?”

  “How are you?” Brad said in a little girlie voice, teasing me.

  “Great!” Jason said. “I thought maybe we could meet for a drink or something?”

  “Sure! That sounds fine! When?”

  “Sure! That sounds fine!” Brad said, then whispered, “You’d better make sure he’s not a serial murderer, you know.”

  “I’m sorry, what did you say? I missed it because I have a juvenile delinquent in my office harassing me!”

  “No problem,” Jason said. “I said, how about tonight around seven? How’s the Shem Creek Bar and Grill? We can spy on the competition!”

  “Perfect! See you then.”

  I hung up and looked at Brad, who was pretending innocence.

  “I have a life, you know,” I said.

  “I hope so,” Brad said.

  “Hey, Brad? You okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. Seriously, I am.” He stared at me for a minute and then said, “This weekend is gonna be crazy—Fourth of July and all that. You’d better get your rest.”

  “What do you think I’m gonna do? Carry on with this guy all night?”

  “No. Of course not. I just . . .”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be home before curfew.”

  I had a date. Brad was teasing me about it. Was he jealous? Was that it? Not a chance. Maybe Jason Miller would be the man of my dreams. Who knew?

  TEN

  SOUTHERN ITALIAN WEDDING PLANS

  I went to work early the next morning because I had a ton of phone calls to make. Louise had to run up to Pawleys Island to take care of her cousin who was recovering from an emergency appendectomy. Fourth of July weekend and we were shorthanded again.

  “I feel terrible,” she said.

  “Don’t think a thing about it,” I said.

  I was in my office, drinking my third cup of coffee for the morning when Brad arrived.

  “So, how was your hot date last night?” he said.

  I was reasonably sure that his question, his itsy-bitsy innocent question, was intended as polite. But the prior evening’s close encounter had been one of the terrorist kind. Reliving any part of it put me in a foul humor.

  “That guy can kiss my endangered species,” I said. “Would you like to hear why I’m gonna be single for the rest of my life?”

  Yes, Brad was mourning but all the signals he was sending my way said that he wanted life to be normal around the restaurant, and as normal as humanly possible when dealing with him. If he wanted to talk about Loretta, he would probably do so with Robert and with his son. Or if he wanted to talk to me, I would gladly listen.

  “Sure, why not?” He sat opposite me. “We got any fresh coffee around here?”

  “Oh, sure! I juss run fetch ’em fuh yah, massah!” It was not evolving into one of my better days. The feminist bitch in me climbed not quite all the way back in its cage. “Let me get you a cup.”

  I leapt from my seat, bolted from the office, poured him a cup of black steaming coffee and presented it to him, bowing low, indicating my grasp of my lowly stature. A serf. A peon. An indentured servant. An untouchable. A little joke.

  “I like a shot of half-and-half in mine,” he said, shooting me a grin of mock disappointment.

  “Get it yourself,” I said and sat back down in my chair.

  He sort of laughed and I pretended to be wildly irritated, making the same kinds of teeth-sucking sounds my daughters made when I served Brussels sprouts. Snnnk! Snnnk! Snnnk!

  “Ooh, hoo! Somebody didn’t have fun last night! What happened? Rape artist?”

  “I wish! Listen . . . oh, God! Can I just tell you something? Ever since I divorced Fred, if there’s a psycho, or a nut bag, or a freaking maniac out there on the loose, he’s got my phone number and I’ve been out with him at least once!”

  “Come on, tell Uncle Brad what happened.”

  Uncle Brad. I thought, well, he wants a diversion so I’ll give him a story to lighten things up.

  “You’re not going to believe . . . okay, so I’m supposed to meet this guy Jason Miller at seven o’clock at Shem Creek Bar and Grill, right? I walk in and there are three guys at the bar. One of them is wearing a suit and has a briefcase, so I say, nah, not him. The next one is wearing camouflage and rubber boots—not him. And the third guy is wearing khakis and a knit shirt. . . .”

  “So you go up to the guy in the khakis and . . .”

  “Right! Guess what? Jason Miller is wearing camouflage and rubber boots to meet me for a drink. Nice?”

  “Very polished! Suave fellow, this Jason.”

  “Sure! Snicker! Go ’head! He looked like he had been crawling around in the freaking swamp! In fact, he had been! Anyway, he starts impressing me right away by telling me what he does for a living. . . .”

  “Reenacts war games?”

  “Worse. He just moved here from North Carolina, where he got himself in trouble—almost—for being a political activist. Seems they’ve got some kind of problem with the runoff of hog waste from farms that’s trickling down to the Cape Fear River. You may not know this, but if you pile enough hog waste in the river, it can kill everything in its path.”

  “I’m just . . . shocked! Do I look shocked?”

  “Exactly! Like who cares, right? I just sat there, drinking my miserable little glass of white wine listening to his whole way-too-well-rehearsed lecture on watersheds and waste management, thinking I might throw up any second.”

  “Hog poop is some toxic shit.”

  “Very funny, boss. Anyway, that was my date with Mr. Wonderful. You know what I think?”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “I think that even though it’s not fair, that love is for young people. You know?”

  “That’s pretty depressing, don’t you think?”

  “No, yes, maybe . . . but it sure seems that way. I mean, I have two almost grown daughters, spider veins in my ankles and little wrinkles around my eyes. I know that I’ve got mileage and that should be okay, but it’s not.”

  “Of course it’s okay! What kind of a mood are you in?”

  “Look, Brad, on the rare occasion when I meet someone who is available, I look at every possibility and try to see myself in that person’s life. But you get to a certain age and your own world is already so orchestrated, there’s almost no room for somebody else and their whole load of stuff. And, you know what else? I’m tired.”

  “Tired? Tired from what? One date with a tree hugger?”

  “No, I’m just tired of the whole mental exercise of sifting through other people’s minds and struggling to see myself with them or that I’m like them—it
just never works. For me, anyway.”

  “Well, Robert actually has a woman he wants me to meet. She’s supposed to be gorgeous.”

  “She’s probably just out of high school.”

  “Oh, come on . . .”

  “So, call her up!”

  “Sure. Easy for you to say. Loretta’s not even cold yet!”

  “True, but listen, you hadn’t lived with her in ages. You’re entitled to some female companionship. If you’ve got the strength.”

  “I’ve got the strength, Miss Jersey, thank you. But, Alex just got here and I think it would upset him, you know? I’m just going to wait for a little while, that’s all. Besides, I’m not ready for women yet and this may sound funny, but I don’t think Alex realizes that Loretta is really gone. And in a little ironic twist, here I am divorcing her for adultery and she dies before I have the pleasure. There’s just no justice in the world anymore.”

  “Boy, you can say that again.”

  There was a long pause in our conversation then. I was thinking that my girls probably still viewed being in South Carolina as a temporary vacation. Moving into the boathouse would alter that for sure. When I looked at Brad again I sensed that he was confiding things that perhaps he would not have told someone else. I was getting to know him and we were becoming friends.

  “I think losing parents is hard enough when you’re our age, you know? I mean, Alex is young and Loretta didn’t exactly die easily. You know, it was pretty tragic.”

  “Yeah, tragic for her and for her father. I couldn’t tell you what Alex is thinking for the life of me.”

  “Well, boys are notorious for not talking about what’s bugging them. I mean, that’s what they say, anyway.” I waited a moment before speaking again. “About boys. Have you heard from her father?”

  “He calls Alex every night.”

  “That’s intense.”

  “Yeah.” Brad breathed a deep sigh. “Yeah, it is.”

  Brad got up to leave and begin his workday.

  “Hey, Brad?” I said. “Maybe you should have Alex see a therapist for grief counseling? I mean, it’s done all the time . . . very normal and all that.”

  “Maybe in New Jersey,” he said.

  “Oh, fun-gool!”

  “Um, that’s Italian for something very bad. . . .”

  “So what? And, how do you know?”

  “I’m Italian.”

  “Yeah, right, and I’m the Queen of England.”

  “I became Italian when I moved to South Carolina—at least in my brains. I decided they have a better attitude. You know, about life.”

  “You’re a little odd, you know. Anyway, my sister knows all these doctors and if you decide a counselor might be a good thing . . .”

  “I just want to get Alex settled in school. When does it start?”

  “August the eleventh.”

  “That’s soon! By the way . . .” Brad reached in his shirt pocket and pulled out a piece of paper, handing it to me. “Here’s the name of his guidance counselor at Lovett . . . you had mentioned you might . . .”

  “Sure, no problem. I’ll call him first thing. I’m taking Gracie in to register at Wando next Tuesday at noon—want me to pick up Alex?”

  “Sure. You know what? Let’s go together—Alex would probably feel better if I’m there too.”

  “You’re right. I’ll arrange it.”

  Needless to say, the weekend was crazy on Shem Creek. Countless boats decorated with red, white and blue balloons and crepe paper, and of course American flags, floated by the restaurant and the take from the sunset bar broke all records. That night on the sunset deck, you could see fireworks from every direction, and although my feet were aching, the display was so fabulous that I was exhilarated and giddy every time another blast of fire and color would explode in bursts and waterfalls all over the dark sky. We all were. Brad was up top with O’Malley and while none of us were the types who would wax patriotic, all of us were misty-eyed by the depth of the meaning behind the holiday.

  O’Malley said, “Thank God for the Chinese!”

  To which Brad added, “Thank God for our forefathers!”

  I just remember nodding my head and continuing to take drink orders.

  I was exhausted by Tuesday, but ready and determined to do battle again. One of the wonderful things about public schools was that they were very accommodating. I had set everything up at Wando in less than five minutes, including an appointment with a guidance counselor for Gracie’s curriculum planning. Getting the copy of Alex’s transcript was more problematic.

  The gargantuan endowment funds of private schools landed me on the other end of yet another experiment in technology. First, I had the pleasure of listening to an electronic laundry list of what extension I wanted and none of them fit the bill. I redialed the number and sat on hold for so long that I forgot who I was calling, who it turned out was not there anyway. I finally got somebody in the guidance department who said Brad had to sign a release form and then . . . I mean, the whole world had become so suspicious . . . I mean, were they really worried about identity theft of a fifteen-year-old boy? Probably.

  I was trying to think about my blessings and finally finished preparing the bank deposit from last night’s business when a flashy blonde appeared at the reception area with an old geezer who was at least twice her age. Not only was she flashy, but she was buxom. Now, I’m not an expert in plastic surgery, but I would venture a guess that she was something of a graduate from a spot on Extreme Makeovers.

  We were not open yet, but the front door was, so occasionally someone would wander in, looking lost. It probably wasn’t a good idea to leave the door wide open until I returned from the bank, just for security reasons. We took in a large amount of cash every night, especially at the bar because some patrons didn’t want their watering habits to show up on their credit card bills.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Hi!” she said and stuck out her hand. “We’re getting married Labor Day weekend, that Saturday—just a small wedding and my fiancé and I—um, this is Douglas Lutz. . . .”

  When the old man smiled, twenty years fell away from his face. He was mad for her. I thought she said her name was Lucy.

  “So, Doc and I thought it might be fun to have a little dinner reception here.”

  “Sure!” I said. “What’s the date?”

  “Saturday, August thirtieth.”

  “How many people will you be?”

  “Oh! I think around twenty to twenty-five. It’s not exactly our first waltz around the barn, if you know what I mean?”

  I just nodded my head and thought, well, there’s hope for everyone.

  “I’ll be right back,” I said, “why don’t y’all just look over the menu for a minute.”

  Shoot, I thought, Louise usually handled private parties. I had zero experience with special events. But how complicated could it be? I decided I would show them around and give them a menu to take home. Then I would call Louise and find out what to do.

  I was on my knees, putting the bank deposit sack back in the safe because I had decided to go to the bank after the bride and groom left or maybe on the way to Wando High School, when Gracie and Alex bounced in. Gracie’s bounce nearly scared the liver out of me.

  “Hi, Mom! Waddup?”

  “Good Lord, honey! I didn’t even hear you come in!” I threw the sack in the safe, which was hidden in the closet. I turned the key to lock it and returned it to its hiding place on the top of the door frame. “What time is it?”

  “We’re early, but I figured if you weren’t busy maybe we could go get this root canal over with. Besides, I’m starving to death.”

  “Well, we have an appointment. We can’t just go walking in. Go get yourself a crab cake or something.”

  “You want a crab cake?” Gracie said, turning to Alex, who was leaning against the door to the office, exuding young masculine scent, which I could not have caught a whiff of in a thousand years but which had
Gracie thoroughly intoxicated. “I mean, we should eat something before we go sign our lives away to this redneck hell.”

  “Sure,” he said.

  “It’s not hell. Hell is no air-conditioning and I’ll be about ten minutes—just finishing up with a bride and groom.”

  “Okay,” Gracie said. “Come on, Alex.”

  “Okay.”

  This Alex kid may have been short on conversation but he was way long on dangerous good looks. And although Gracie was still taking cheap shots at the south in general, the arrival of Alex had mitigated her pain.

  I found Lucy and Douglas out on the dock. There they were, just as I was every day, completely mesmerized by the continuous rhythm of Shem Creek’s dance. They were holding hands and cooing like young lovers. They were thoroughly adorable. A shrimp boat was attempting to tie up at the far end of the docks. Several small fiberglass boats were motoring by, barely observing the no wake rule. Pelicans and seagulls swooped all around while others stood guard on the pilings. It was a gorgeous morning with a sky so blue and the air so sweet with salt and breeze it would have lifted the heart of the worst curmudgeon. Even mine.

  “It’s beautiful out here, isn’t it?” I said.

  “I was just saying to Doc that I could feel my soul flying all around, like it had thousands of eyes and just wanted to take it all in. Do you know what I mean?”

  “Yeah,” I said, “I do. Everything here is so alive, right?”

  “Yes,” Lucy said, “like us.”

  I smiled at that. “Sometimes I try to memorize it and I can’t hold it all in my head. When it rains and it’s overcast for a few days, I forget how everything just sort of pulsates when it’s clear because it’s all moving, all the time—the water, the birds, the sun—well, it really is something.”

  “It’s just what we wanted,” Doc said, “someplace unpretentious, lively and romantic all at the same time. And, slightly Italian. No better spot that I know of.”

  “Me either,” I said. “Tell me. If you don’t think I’m being nosy, how did y’all meet? I love stories about brides and grooms.”

  “I’m marrying the girl next door,” Doc said. “Well, actually, she lives next door to my daughter on the Isle of Palms.”