Shem Creek

by Dorothea Benton Frank

  “Hey, honey! Whatcha watching? Anybody call?”

  “Hey! Nothing to watch! And, nobody called.”

  I noticed that the counters were sparkling, all the food was put away and the dishwasher was humming. I knew I would be wise to acknowledge it. “Good. Hey, thanks for cleaning up the kitchen.”

  “Well, this place is so small every little mess really sticks out. I washed everything but the coffeepot—I ain’t touching wet coffee grounds. Ew!”

  “I don’t blame you. It’s pretty gross. I’ll be right back.”

  I was pulling the plastic off the clean clothes and hanging them in my closet when Gracie came in and plopped herself on my bed.

  “Wassup, baby doll?”

  “Juss chillin’ with my momma. Wanna go see a movie today?”

  “Oooh! I’d love to but I have to work! Four people called in sick.”

  “Yeah, there’s a concert out in Awendaw this afternoon. Is this a cosmic coincidence?”

  “I’ll tell you what. Brad’s gotta stop hiring these kids and get some real waitstaff.”

  “No shit, Mom. . . .”

  “Language!”

  “Sorry, but you should hear them talking—half of them are a bunch of stoners anyway.”

  “They don’t smoke pot at work, do they?”

  “No, they burn a little bud in church and then they come to work,” Gracie said.

  “Smart-ass!”

  “Mommy! Such language! I’m telling Mimi!”

  “You go right ahead and tell her,” I said and pinched her bottom. “So, what’s up with you today?”

  “Well, I’ve basically recovered from last night, which is a good thing because I’ve got that river sweep late this afternoon. I thought for a while it would get rained out, but no such luck!”

  “I thought you were so enthusiastic about it! What happened?”

  “Mom? What happens in the creek after a big rain?”

  “Um, eighty billion, kazillion mosquitoes hatch?”

  “Exactly! And, they love the back of my knees for some reason. God, I hate mosquitoes.”

  “Honey, nobody likes them but they feed the fish and the bats—food chain, you know.”

  “And tadpoles, dragonflies and sweet little girls like me too, okay? I do my homework, you know. Anyway, Lindsey left a pair of drawstring pants that I can stuff into waders, so I guess I’ll go. I mean, I said I would. Maybe I can talk Alex into coming with us! Then Lupe can bring us and I’ll have a ride! Excellent idea!”

  She bounced from my bed, was out the door in the blink of an eye, and once more I was left to marvel at the energy of youth, and as my mother used to say, it was most surely wasted on the young.

  I dressed for work and when I was ready to go, I stopped by Gracie’s room. She was on the phone.

  “Gimme two seconds of your time, okay?”

  “I’ll call you back,” she said. “Alex is coming with me.”

  “Good. Um, listen, Gracie, we didn’t really talk about last night and I didn’t want to say anything in front of Aunt Mimi, but what do you think actually happened?”

  “What do you mean?”

  I leaned against the door and found myself drawn in by the details of my daughter’s face. Her features were almost perfectly symmetrical and her eyes were so expressive, her smile so perfect . . . had I ever looked like her?

  “Mom?”

  “Oh, sorry, baby. I was just thinking that if I had known at your age what I know now I could’ve changed the world.”

  “Probably. So, waddup?”

  “Um, can I ask you something? When did wassup become waddup?”

  “When people your age started saying it,” she said.

  “I see. Thank you for that enlightenment.”

  “On the house.”

  “Listen, last night, Alex brought you home and then he stayed for a while.”

  “While I was having my NDE?”

  “In English?”

  “Near Death Experience.”

  “Yeah, okay. Anyway, Alex never said anything directly but he implied that the girls who gave you the brownies knew they had pot in them. I guess one of my questions is did you know?”

  “Not until my head started spinning . . . do you mean they did it on purpose?”

  “Yeah, that was what Alex seemed to think and he didn’t like it very much either.”

  “Oh, my God! Mom! That completely sucks!”

  “Exactly. Anyway, there was apparently some funny business with the boys that Alex rescued you from. Um. I guess what I’m getting at is that, you know . . .”

  “That’s right! Oh, God! Now I remember! Look, Alex is a little bit of a worry wart too, Mom. I mean, I was glad he cared but he totally didn’t have to hit anybody. He just went nuts. I think he thought we had a date or something. Anyway, things got a little out of control.”

  “So, you’re satisfied that none of the boys tried to get you to do something you didn’t want to do?”

  “Are you asking me if one of those little assholes tried to like rape me or something?” She looked at me and when she sensed that I wasn’t breathing in a normal manner, she said in her usual Gracie speak, “Mom! Do you think I’m completely stupid?”

  I knew that what she said had been intended to assuage my fear and panic. For a moment, I felt like an airline passenger in a nosedive, grabbing her words like an oxygen mask, then coolly laying it aside when the terror of a crash had passed. I took a cleansing breath as discreetly as possible. Remember: when dealing with teenagers, most especially your own, always appear unflappable.

  “Okay, I just wanted to be sure that you were all right. That’s all. I love you, you know.”

  “Mom! Stop! I’m fine! Listen, all these southern boys? They talk with this sweet accent and everything? But boys are the same everywhere. Believe me. I can handle myself. What really pisses me off is that the girls would do that. Girls are supposed to stick together.”

  I didn’t say anything to her about her language. I was so relieved that she wasn’t compromised, that is, beyond what I had seen. I mean, every, well not every, but most teenagers do something stupid at some point and suffer for it. I knew that. It made no sense to be a prude—it was about the same as being delusional, because believing your own idea of their reality came at a much larger price.

  “Well, now you can remember this and don’t trust those girls so fast. I gotta go.”

  I gave her a light kiss on the top of her head.

  “Ah, hell. I guess I’ll spend the afternoon in the marsh, picking up beer cans.”

  “It’s a worthy endeavor! I’m very proud of you!”

  When I got to the restaurant, the dining room was almost empty. I went to my office, read over the real estate agreement, and having no freaking idea what I was signing, I signed it and faxed it back to Gretchen in New Jersey after making the sign of the cross three times. The three times was a Romanian superstition I had acquired from my New Jersey days in the dark with a coworker, trying to start a truck with a dead battery. Three times is the charm, he had said. Okay, I thought, the truck started and I never forgot it.

  I took a bin of bar supplies up to the sunset deck and found Louise there with Duane. She was draping white tulle all around the banisters and tying it up at the columns with white ribbons and bunches of daisies. Duane was rattling off the menu and she was arguing with him as usual.

  “Doo-wayne? What the devil is Key o Pino?”

  “Cioppino! It’s fish chowder, Louise! The only significant difference is some red wine in the stock base and that you leave the clams in their shells!”

  “Gonna be clam shells all over kingdom come too!” Louise said and looked up to see me. “Come here, Miss Linda. Look at this fool business! Doo-wayne’s printing up menu cards for the table with all these Eye-talian names and I ain’t letting him do a thing without me seeing it first!”

  “I swear! Y’all are like two cats in a bag! Whatcha got, Duane?”

  He h
anded me the draft for his printed menu, sighing with frustration. “You know, you try to add a little sophistication to this dreary world and you’re met with nothing but derision!”

  “Poor Duane!” I said. “Listen, honey, every act of true genius requires courage. You know that, don’t you?” I gave him a little elbow on his arm and although he continued to pretend to be insulted, he knew his ally had arrived and would save him from Louise.

  “Well, this time my precious mettle has been tested nearly beyond my endurance!”

  “Oh, shush! Let’s see. Okay. Cioppino—I heard about that one. Okay, what’s Fritto Misto?”

  “Fried seafood,” Duane said, “on plates, not in a basket! It is a wedding, after all. And during the cocktail hour we have platters of roasted funghi . . .”

  Louise’s eyebrows, which got a lot of exercise on any given day, were arching, dipping and stretching all over her forehead. “Foon gee, my big fat foot,” she said, under her breath, “sounds like something you can only do in the eyes of God if you’re married!”

  “Sounds like something that grows under your toenails,” I said, laughing.

  “I heard that!” Duane said. “Funghi cotti di portabello, gamberi grille . . .”

  No one was paying attention to Duane and naturally he was miffed. He probably spent two days on the Internet finding all the correct Italian spellings.

  “Sorry, Duane! How do you say puppies in Italian?” I said.

  “Cuccioli, I think,” Brad said, coming up the steps. “What’s going on up here?”

  “Hey, there! Afternoon comedy hour! And, how do you say quiet?”

  “Ah! That one’s easy! Silenzio!”

  “Ha! I see where you’re going! Let’s put that on the menu! Silenzio cuccioli!” Duane said. He grabbed the menu from me. “Oh, God! I love it! Linda! If you ever leave, I definitely quit! The rest of the menu is tricolore salad and cannoli wedding cake. And of course there’s pollo champagne if somebody is allergic to fritto misto. Does that meet everyone’s approval?”

  He didn’t wait for nods. He just spun and flew down the steps.

  “What kind of fool thing is he talking about now?” Louise said. “Silenzero Cucco? What did he say?”

  I was dying laughing and so was Brad. “Hush puppies, Louise. Silenzio cuccioli! He’s serving just about the same thing we always serve—fish chowder, fried seafood and hush puppies with a green salad. I think we should serve mucca pazza bistecca,” Brad said.

  “What kinda fool... ?” Louise’s agitation had disappeared and she was laughing now too.

  “Mad Cow Steak, with an amusing fungi sauce on the side, of course!”

  “I love this job,” I said. “There’s a store in Ridgewood, New Jersey, called The Nut House. I always thought it would be funny to work there. But this is way better!”

  “Yeah, this is some nut house, all right,” Louise said. “I’m going downstairs. We got flowers and ferns coming. Better see about that and make sure the Fat Bastard got here too.”

  “Louise!” I said, shocked by her language. “Who are you talking about?”

  Now it was Louise’s turn to laugh along with Brad.

  “What?” I said. “What’s so funny?”

  “Fat Bastard is the brand of wine they insisted on serving,” Brad said. “Lord only knows why! It’s terrible! But she wanted Fat Bastard and frozen margaritas. Some sentimental thing, I guess.”

  Louise started to leave again but Brad stopped her. “Louise? This looks awfully nice. Isn’t it great to have a wedding here?”

  “Yes, it surely is,” Louise said, and disappeared down the steps. “Bring us all good luck!”

  Brad and I were left alone for the next ten minutes or so and I decided it was a good time to thank him for his concern last night. I had the bar almost ready to open.

  “Hey, Brad, um, well, thanks. You know? For last night and everything.” What was the matter with me, stammering all around?

  “Oh, shoot. It was nothing.” He grabbed a handful of pistachios from the bowl on the bar.

  He stared at me the same funny way he had the night before. I was glad that at least this time I had on makeup.

  “Yeah, it was. It was a big deal to come out at that hour. Thanks.” I leaned down and pulled up a handful of ashtrays to put around the deck on the odd chance that someone still smoked.

  “No problem. Everything okay today?”

  “Yeah,” I said, and went behind the bar to unlock the liquor cabinet. “In fact, Alex is going with Gracie on this river sweep thing.”

  “Cleaning up the riverbeds?”

  “Uh-huh,” I said. Jeez! Why did I always talk like such a moron around him? I could do better! “Uh, actually I think they’re onto a good thing actually. Learning about the environment is surely more beneficial than sitting in front of a television. Don’t you agree?” With the exception of that one uh and the two actuallys I felt better about my facile use of the language.

  “Definitely,” he said, with a smirk. “Hey! Here comes the bride!”

  I rushed around to the railing to see the long white movie-star limousine pull up in front of our poor little dump of a seafood joint. Her bill for the car would probably be twice as much as the dinner. O’Malley was right—I was too cynical. But the romantic in me waited to see the bride emerge and when she did, what a sight she was.

  She was wearing a skintight white spandex halter dress to her knees with a veil that went to the ground. She had more cleavage than Dolly Parton and more razzle-dazzle fake diamonds than all the vendors on QVC! Wow! Four other cars were behind her, loaded with guests, and I suspected there were more to follow.

  Brad looked at me with his jaw hanging and said, “Well?”

  “Well, what? I say, gentlemen? Start your blenders!”

  The sunset deck was bulging with wedding guests within minutes and it was all I could do to keep up with the drink orders. But everyone seemed to be having a wonderful time. O’Malley had come up to help, which I appreciated very much. Erica and Lisa were passing hors d’oeuvres on bamboo trays.

  “Thought this was a party of twenty-four,” he said quietly. “So far, I’ve counted over fifty people.”

  “Well, that’s typical,” I said.

  “Yeah, I’ll go tell Duane to add water to the soup.”

  “Get another blender!”

  So far, it didn’t appear that Brad was going to lose one dollar on the cocktail hour judging by the rate of consumption. There was an excitement in the air that only comes with a wedding reception. One of the guests was leaning on the bar, trying to get my attention.

  “Hi,” I said, “what can I get for you?”

  “A glass of white wine would be great,” he said. “Hey, do you need a hand back there?”

  “Are you a bartender?” I put the goblet in front of him and filled it.

  “My dear lady, I happen to be the Cheese Whiz of Charleston!”

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  “I’m Arthur Fisher, by the way.” He extended his hand; I gave it a good shake, and he winced. “Some grip!”

  “Sorry.” Unfortunately, first impressions are sometimes all we are given and I decided this fellow was a little peculiar.

  A great-looking blonde woman who must have been his girlfriend came through the crowd and took his elbow. “Don’t bother the nice lady, Arthur.”

  I giggled and said, “Glass of wine?”

  “Sure, thanks,” she said, “he’s really harmless. Did he give you a whole cheese education yet?”

  “No,” I said.

  “I actually offered to help her, Anna,” Mr. Whiz said. “She’s running this whole bar by herself and I just thought . . .”

  “Actually, the other bartender will be right back. So, where do you perform your cheese wizardry?”

  “I just left High Cotton downtown and I’m at Cypress for the moment.”

  “Never been there,” I said. “I just moved back here a couple of months ago.�
��

  “That’s the thing, isn’t it?” Anna said. “Once you get the South Carolina sand in your shoes, you always come back.”

  “Sure seems that way,” I said and turned to help some other guests, but Arthur kept talking.

  “Come see us at Cypress,” Arthur said, “I’ll make you a green apple martini and dazzle you with dairy.”

  “How cheesy can you get?” I asked, and put a batch of margaritas in the blender.

  Arthur would have been happy to stand there all day making cheese jokes but Anna finally pulled him away.

  Finally, the bride approached.

  “Hi! Congratulations!”

  “Thanks! Isn’t this just wonderful? Isn’t life wonderful? Isn’t the world wonderful?”

  I smiled and just shook my head. “Yes, it is. Can I get something for you?”

  “Yes! I believe I’m gonna have me a big old martini! But, don’t tell Doc!”

  I crossed my heart and opened two mini-bottles of gin.

  “You married?” she asked.

  “Nope?”

  “Got a man?”

  “Not right now,” I said, shaking the gin and vermouth.

  “Well, you should go on and find yourself one and take the plunge! There ain’t nothing in all this cotton-picking world like being in love!”

  Lucy, the bride of Doc Lutz, dressed like, saints preserve us, a pole dancer from a border town, was dead serious. And, I suspected she was dead right. In a peculiar twist of Lowcountry artistry, the beaming light behind her made her look radiant. In that moment, she looked absolutely angelic despite all her wardrobe and cosmetic attempts to appear otherwise. Maybe that was what made me really hear what she was saying. I poured her drink into a glass, added two olives on a toothpick, and placed it before her.

  “Mrs. Lutz . . .”

  “Call me Lucy, darlin’! But I do love the sound of Mrs. Lutz!”

  “Lucy then. Lucy? I believe you. How do you know when it’s the one?”

  “Oh, honey, that’s easy. You find the right man when you put out the vibe that you’re the right woman! And, one other thing, you have to be ready.”

  She raised her glass to me, took a very large gulp and moved back among her guests.