I looked away quickly and swallowed hard. I knew he wasn’t referring to Fripp Island.
* * *
It wasn’t long before the new house was flooded with guests. Shortly after we got settled in, we had a housewarming that my sister Beckie still talks about. Unlike Nancy Jane and me, Beckie’s down to earth and has always been suspicious of anything she considers weird or offbeat. Pat had brought in Father Mike Jones, an old friend of Pat’s and a retired Episcopal priest, to conduct a house-blessing ceremony. Even as a staunch Methodist, Beckie was impressed with the lovely, joyous ceremony. But afterward, she pulled me aside to whisper, “Tanna, what on earth was that girl doing?”
Puzzled, I looked around at the gathering of our friends, neighbors, and family. “What girl?” I asked.
“Shh—she’ll hear you!” Beckie hissed. She nodded her head toward Maggie Schein. “That girl. Don’t look now or she’ll know I’m talking about her.”
Maggie, a tall, black-haired beauty, was the daughter of our friends Bernie and Martha Schein. After completing a doctorate in Chicago, she’d settled in Beaufort with her Yankee boyfriend, Jonathan. Although Maggie was a lot younger than many of our guests, I wouldn’t call her a girl. But to Beckie I said, “Right now she’s having a glass of wine and talking to Pat. What was she doing when?”
My obtuseness exasperated Beckie. “When do you think? During the blessing of the house! She lit a joint and followed the priest around waving it in the air. I can still smell it.”
I was dumbfounded until it hit me what she meant, and I burst out laughing. “That wasn’t a joint, Beckie. It was the white sage I gave her to cleanse the house with.”
Beckie looked at me as if I’d dropped down from another planet, then her eyes narrowed. “Does Pat know that you’re not right in the head?”
“If he doesn’t know it by now, then he never will.”
Later I saw Beckie bending Pat’s ear and wondered if she was sharing her astute observation about my mental state. “So what did Beckie want?” I asked him that night as we readied for bed.
“Oh, just to tell me how much she likes the house. I told her you did everything.” He patted my shoulder. “Great job, sweetheart.”
I turned off the lamp and smiled to myself as I crawled into bed. Say what you will about sisters, when push comes to shove we have each other’s back. Beckie hadn’t outed me after all.
* * *
Once Pat and I got settled in, we decided to celebrate. Late spring in the Lowcountry, it had been a sun-bright day of clear blue perfection. “Let’s take the boat out at sunset,” Pat proposed. “I want to show you Battery Creek.”
“Just us?” I tried not to sound skeptical. The Grasshopper was now tied to our very own dock, but Pat and I had wondered if the two of us would be able to take it out alone. As we often lamented, we were old coots now, in our midsixties, and not as dexterous as we once were. Pat was overweight with some neuropathy, and I was just flat out of shape. Not long ago, I’d stayed lithe and agile by religiously practicing yoga, swimming, and biking. But now I spent most of the time sitting on my butt at the computer. I still did yoga, but half-heartedly.
“If we can’t do it,” Pat warned, “no need for us to have a boat.”
It was an effective threat. I loved the Grasshopper and would have even if it never moved from the dock. I was content to sit in it while it was tied to the dock, or stretch out and take a nap as it bobbled on the tidal waters like a gently rocking cradle. “I’ll pack us a picnic,” I said.
Late afternoon, I carried chilled champagne in a cooler as we walked down to the dock. A few steps ahead and carrying the picnic basket, Pat stopped and I almost ran into him. “You’re gonna love this, bird woman,” he said with a grin.
I looked up to see a great blue heron perched on one of the tall pier-pilings by the boat, and gasped in delight. Another bonus of the new house, the abundance of sea birds. Even while trying to keep my balance as I climbed on board, I kept my eyes on the heron. Of all the birds, the great blue was a special favorite of mine and Pat’s. To my astonishment the heron not only stayed put but also seemed to be eyeing me back. “It’s a sign,” I told Pat in a hushed tone.
Pat snorted. “Could’ve fooled me,” he said as he too climbed on board, much more nimbly than I dared hope. “Looks like a bird to me.”
When he got behind the wheel, Pat turned his head my way, eyebrows raised. I sat perched on one of the cushioned seats, looking around blissfully as I awaited our maiden voyage into our new life. “Ah, sweetheart? I need a second mate here.”
I looked at him puzzled before it hit me what he meant. I jumped up red-faced, climbed off the boat quickly, untied us from the posts, then jumped back in. Balanced on the side of the boat, I stretched out my leg to give us a push away from the dock. The motor purred, the Grasshopper lunged, and off we went.
It could not have been more beautiful, the weather more perfect, nor the creek more welcoming. Pat steered the boat deftly through the steel-blue, rippling waterways edged in marsh as I perched on a cushion in the strong salty breeze and took it all in. I was enchanted, entranced, spellbound by the marshes lining the creek, the earthy smell of pluff mud, the foam-tipped wake created as the boat parted the silvery waters. Soon we lost sight of the house. Finding the most isolated spot near a low-hanging oak on the bank, Pat dropped anchor so we could enjoy the sunset. There the boat swayed back and forth, the only sound the swishing slap of waves against its sides.
The sun was low on the horizon, hanging just over the top of the marshes across the creek. Neither of us said a word as we reveled in the glory of the place we’d landed. As the sun disappeared into the marsh, the ripples of the slowly moving creek went from soft blue to deep gold to burnished pink. Darkness fell, but neither of us could move, or break the silence. I had no doubt we were thinking the same thing: This is as close to heaven as either of us sinners might ever get.
In the afterglow of sunset, Pat opened the champagne. We toasted our good fortune at living in one of the most beautiful places on earth. I pulled out the picnic basket and we feasted on deviled eggs and boiled shrimp. In a celebratory mood when I’d prepared the picnic earlier, I’d even made cookies. I told myself that a few treats from time to time would help ease us into the healthy new lifestyle I hoped to instigate now that we’d settled in.
Our picnic had been a simple one and hadn’t taken long, but darkness crept in faster than we expected. “Guess we’d best start back,” Pat said as he reluctantly pulled himself up to return to the wheel. I was equally reluctant but packed the remains of the picnic so we could be on our way.
It was only when Pat steered us away from the embankment that we discovered the boat lights weren’t working. Our moods shifted quickly. The night was black as sin, and there we were, two old codgers who had no business staying out so late, on a dark river with only a quarter moon to lead us home. We dared not look at each other in case our apprehension turned to fear. I climbed onto the bow to see if the meager glow from our flashlight could guide the way. And it might have, had we thought to check the batteries before we left. There was nothing to do but creep along through the black waters and pray we wouldn’t hit a sandbar. Now that darkness had fallen, the warmth of the day had faded as well. From my perch on the bow of the boat, I shivered violently in the strong night wind.
When the lights of Beaufort came into view, I turned to Pat in alarm. Not only had we passed our dock, unfamiliar in the darkness, we had come way too far. We were on the Beaufort River, not Battery Creek. Before I could suggest that we dock in Beaufort and call someone to come get us, Pat had turned the boat around. The Water Is Wide, I reminded myself, the book where Pat wrote about the time in his life when he made the journey to Daufuskie Island by boat five days a week, twice a day. Never mind that he was a young man then; he was still an experienced boater. I kept telling myself there was no need to panic.
With the quarter moon and the lights of Beaufort now at our b
ack, Pat steered the boat through increasing darkness to retrace his steps. But my fear increased when I saw that all the docks we approached looked exactly alike. How would we ever find ours? Then we rounded a bend and I saw a familiar sight in the distance. My heart pounding, I yelled out, “It’s our dock, Pat! Pull in.”
And the great blue heron was there waiting for us, I swear he was. I saw him plain as day, perched exactly as he had been when we first spotted him on the piling. As we neared the dock, he lifted his magnificent wings and flew off, a shadow etched in the darkness of the night. It’s not possible, Pat scoffed when I told him how I recognized our dock. We were gone too long. I only imagined that the heron was waiting for us to return, he said. But I knew better. The great blue heron had stayed to guide us home.
* * *
Often a new environment inspires new resolve. The move to Battery Creek would be a fresh beginning for us, I decided, and I was hell-bent on sticking to my guns. The time had come for us to get serious about health issues. In the new Conroy house, there would be no more rich food, lavish spreads, or overindulging. I debated about the best time to discuss my plans for a lifestyle change with Pat, but it had to be soon because The Death of Santini was coming out. It wasn’t just being on the road that made book tours hazardous to one’s well-being. Pat rarely got a chance to eat at events because he was always surrounded by eager fans. His book signings would go on for hours, and he refused to take a break or have a snack.
In truth, I worried more about Pat when I was the one traveling than when he was. When I wasn’t home to give him the evil eye, Pat ate whatever he pleased, as I’d find out. My oldest grandson lived in Beaufort for a few years and worked as a line cook in a local restaurant. Pat not only encouraged his interest in cooking but loved to loan him cookbooks. Tyler told me what happened one night when I was out of town, and he’d stopped by after work to return a cookbook. My grandson stuck his head in the door and saw Pat sitting in his recliner in front of the TV watching a ball game. Spotting Tyler, Pat motioned for him to come in. “You would’ve died, Gram,” Tyler told me later, laughing. “There sat Pat in his boxer shorts. He had a half-gallon of ice cream in one hand and a big serving spoon in the other, and I swear, he ate the whole thing.”
To my surprise, Pat agreed wholeheartedly that things had to change and swore on the rosary to mend his wicked ways. As much as I wanted to believe him, I couldn’t help being skeptical, but I didn’t want to police his behavior. Not only was it a no-win situation, it was bound to cause trouble between us. I had to let go.
I should’ve learned that after my one bold attempt at intervention, which had been a spectacular failure. It happened a few weeks before we moved into town and preceded the worst health scare Pat’d had to that point. We were still on Fripp and just beginning to pack up for the move. For days I’d been concerned about Pat and had tried in vain to persuade him to go to the doctor. Something just wasn’t right. He wasn’t himself. He had no energy and his coloring was waxen.
Then one day it hit me that he hadn’t been out of our bedroom all morning, and I went to check on him. He appeared to be sleeping, but it was two o’clock in the afternoon and he’d never slept that late. When I tried to rouse him and couldn’t, I panicked, sure he’d gone into a diabetic coma. I called the Fripp paramedics then paced the floor waiting for them. Two young men arrived, super nice and professional, but they were hesitant to follow me into our bedroom. Why didn’t I try to wake him one more time, they said. If he agreed, they’d go back and check his vitals. If he agreed? That seemed overly cautious to me, but I figured they had their reasons, most likely Fripp regulations. When I went back to try again, Pat’s eyes finally opened and he looked dazed. I explained that the paramedics were there to check him out, and he pulled himself up.
“Okay,” he mumbled, obviously confused. “I’ll be out as soon as I go to the bathroom.”
I tried to make him stay put, but he insisted on getting up. After I’d helped him to his feet and into the bathroom, I hurried back to report to the young men in the entrance hall that Pat’d be right out. One of them had a pad and began to write down Pat’s history while I tried to keep myself from hyperventilating.
Suddenly the bedroom door flung open and Pat came out with a smile on his face and his hand extended. He’d pulled on a pair of sweats and a T-shirt and looked chipper for someone who’d been unconscious only minutes before. “Hey, guys!” he called out. “Thanks for coming by to check on me. Want to sit at the table?” Turning to me, he added, “Sweetheart, why don’t you get us a glass of tea? Or maybe a Coke. You guys want a Coke?”
I was too stunned to do anything but watch in disbelief as they made their way to the table. Somehow I managed to serve tea over their joking and laughing as the paramedics checked Pat’s vitals. I never found out what they were, since Pat asked me to run back to the room and get the guys a book. While signing their books, he pumped them for their life stories like he always did. After they’d gone, following much backslapping and promises to visit again, I stood over Pat with my hands on my hips, staring at him dumbfounded. “What?” he said innocently. No longer putting up a big front, he looked as ghastly as before. I knew he’d been faking it, the whole thing.
“I’m not believing this!” I yelped. “You’re on death’s door until those guys come in, then you get up to play the Prince of Tides? Gimme a break.”
His eyes narrowed. “You didn’t call them, did you? Tell me you didn’t call them.”
“I did call them, but here’s the good thing. They’ll spread the word that Pat Conroy’s wife is a hysteric, so you won’t have to worry about them coming back.” I stopped my tirade long enough to rub my face in exasperation. “Lord God in heaven—you’re going to drive me insane before this is over.”
A few days later when Pat got so sick he started throwing up blood, I didn’t take time to test my theory about the paramedics. Instead I led Pat to my car, buckled him in, and handed him a towel in case of more bleeding. His head lolled and he appeared to be only semiconscious. I turned on the flashers, put the pedal to the metal, then hit Dr. Laffitte’s home number on the Bluetooth. When he answered, I told him calmly, “I’m taking Pat to the ER. Could you arrange for the gastro guy to meet us there? We’re going to need him.”
Even though Dr. Stewart, our gastro doctor, did a magnificent job of patching Pat up temporarily, he sent him by ambulance to the Medical University of South Carolina (MUSC), the hospital in Charleston, and ICU. Thankfully no one had asked why I drove Pat to Beaufort Memorial rather than calling for an ambulance. If they had, I would’ve had to think fast to come up with a plausible reason. Nobody would believe the truth, that I couldn’t trust the silver-tongued devil not to charm the drivers and talk his way out of what was obviously a very real emergency.
* * *
After we’d lived in town a couple of months, somehow a miracle occurred and the change happened. Whether it was the health scares, the more nutritious meals, or the influence of Pat’s friends now that we saw them more, I’ll never know. Whatever it was, I watched it unfold with gratitude. Pat’s old friend from high school, Bernie Schein, had recently retired from years of teaching in Atlanta and moved back to Beaufort, so he kept Pat company when I was on the road. Bernie was hardly a good influence on Pat since he had most of the same problems, but at least they entertained each other. It helped that both were tattletales: Pat couldn’t wait to tell Martha when Bernie got out of line, and Bernie loved tattling on Pat to me or anyone else who’d listen. Fortunately, Pat was also friends with Bernie’s brother, Aaron. A retired banker, Aaron’s as different from the zany, free-spirited Bernie as night is from day. I enlisted Aaron in my campaign for a better and healthier Pat, which we hoped would rub off on Bernie too.
It was Aaron who urged Pat to work with a personal trainer that he’d discovered at the YMCA, a young Japanese woman named Mina. When Aaron told us about her, I held my breath, afraid to get my hopes up.
T
o my great relief, Pat adored Mina. He joined the Y and started going three or four times a week. After all the years of hoping and praying, it seemed too good to be true. No one else could’ve worked with Pat like Mina did. She had just the right touch and knew instinctively when to push him and when to ease up. She was considerate of his bad back, the neuropathy, and other problems, and she never pushed beyond what he was able to do. When Pat asked me to come to the Y to meet Mina, I eagerly complied.
I too loved Mina, but their workout was hard for me to watch from the sidelines. It wasn’t because Mina was pushing Pat too hard. Instead, it took all I could do to keep a straight face. Poor Mina didn’t know what to make of Pat’s never-ending patter of jokes and just plain bull. If I’d been her, I would’ve taped his mouth shut. The first workout I witnessed went something like this:
“Mr. Pat, how are you today?” Mina said politely, with a little bow.
“Don’t call me Mr. Pat,” he said. “Makes me feel like an old man.”
“In my culture we respect our elders, Mr. Pat.”
“See? You’re saying I’m old.”
“But how are you feeling?”
“You’ve almost killed me, Mina. I need an ambulance.”
Mina grew alarmed. “An ambulance? Are you sick, Mr. Pat?”
“Yeah. I’m sick of exercising.”
“But exercising makes you feel better!”
“I know what you’re up to, Mina. You’re paying me back for Hiroshima.”
Mina became agitated, then caught on. “I think I understand now. My English is not too good. You are trying to be funny. Are you trying to be funny, Mr. Pat? Like, ha ha ha?”
“No, Mina. I’m perfectly serious. I’m dying. You’re killing me.”
Aaron was nearby, and I appealed to him. “Mina’s not going to thank you for getting her into this, Aaron. Go tell her it’s okay to make Pat shut up.”
Tell Me a Story Page 26
