Plantation

by Dorothea Benton Frank

  “Millie? Is there a reason why you are avoiding my eyes?”

  She carefully put down the silver and took off her rubber gloves, placing them beside the pile of forks, knives, and spoons. She took a deep breath, put her hands on her hips, and looked at me square in the face. God’s Bible, those eyes of hers could be unnerving, but after all the years we had been together, I had adjusted to her and her ways.

  “Well? Say something, damn it!” I said.

  “Miss Lavinia? If you don’t want me telling your boy the truth, get yourself another woman to run your business! You don’t pay me enough to lie before the eyes of God.”

  “Is this about money?”

  It was a vulgar question and I regretted it the very second the words left my mouth.

  “No, ma’am, it is not about money. If you don’t want people talking the story about you then you need to behave better.”

  Well, we were both plumb, hopping mad. I really didn’t blame her, but I couldn’t excuse her traitorous deed either. Besides, she didn’t scare me. I slammed my hand down on the table so hard that it stung like mad.

  “You’re fired!” I said.

  “I ain’t fired and you know it! Who else gone put up with you?”

  “I will not have you telling tales on me to my children!”

  She put her hands down on the table and spoke to me in a quiet tone, the kind used when trying to talk a madman into coming off the window ledge.

  “Then don’t give me no tales to tell. If Mr. Nevil were still alive, God rest his blessed soul, he would take a switch to your fanny for using a shotgun and drinking bourbon at the same time. Now you go on and let me finish my work or I will quit, and then what will you do?”

  She was right. With her whole career consumed by the care of my children, my home, and yes, me, it was plain for any fool to see that I should’ve been more grateful. I decided to be gracious and let her win this round.

  “Oh, Millie! I am sorry. Truly. Can you forgive an old woman?”

  “You ain’t old, but you’re certainly making us all old!”

  “Well?”

  “Oh, all right. Why don’t you go have a nap and I’ll call you in an hour.”

  I just turned and walked away. In my mother’s day, her housekeeper would never have spoken to her like that. Anyway, Millie wasn’t a housekeeper, but my estate manager. Also, my mother never had a woman like Millie. Millie would have dressed down the Pope and the president themselves if she thought they needed it.

  I climbed the steps to the second floor, thinking a cool bath and a short nap might be just the thing to revive me. Millie. She always knew exactly the right thing to do. Bless her heart.

  I just adored escaping to my bedroom. It faced a long stretch of the Edisto River. From my windows I watched the sunrise and in the evening I would go out onto my terrace as it slipped into Mother Nature’s pocket for the night. Nevil had restored the suite of rooms for me years ago. It had a lovely large bedroom, a very ample dressing room, and the most beautiful bathroom we could conjure up at the time.

  He always understood my little indulgence for shoes and had built a special sliding storage area that held all two hundred pairs in their original boxes and acid-free paper. Every pair was photographed and the picture was taped to the end of the box so I didn’t have to rummage around to find what I wanted. Each pull-out shelf was like a pocket door on rollers and the shoes were stored by color. The first held all my white and beige shoes, the second reds and navies. The third held blacks and the fourth was all sandals, mules, and slippers. Not exactly a Dewey decimal system, but it worked fine for me.

  My collection of shoes was as expansive as my clothes collection. My mother taught me long ago to buy the very best that I could afford and make sure it was classic. No frills or ruffles. Who listens to their mother? I buy one complete outfit in the spring and another in the fall, and they are as dramatic as possible. I always have a simple black dress for each season and I wear my South Sea pearls every evening for dinner. If I haven’t worn something in two years, I pack it in acid-free tissue and store it. I love clothes and what I wear each day reflects my mood.

  The yellow and rose flowered curtains and bedspread of the bedroom were getting old and beginning to fade, but I didn’t care a fig about that. The room was exactly as it had been before my darling Nevil left the earth. Oh! What a fabulous lover he was! All right. Maybe not, but oh, he was such an elegant man! When he was in the room my heartbeat picked up and I became giddy with the sheer delight of just sharing the same space with him. Even though Nevil was a perfectionist and a little prissy, being called Nevil Wimbley’s wife was the greatest honor I have ever known. I missed him every single minute of the day but I sincerely hoped that he wasn’t watching me from above every single minute of the day. I didn’t think he would have been too terribly happy about some of the company I had been keeping.

  Certainly Trip and Frances Mae weren’t pleased about my last boyfriend and I knew it, although they rarely said a word. Was a widow not entitled to a little happiness? Was I supposed to just prune the roses and wait for the Grim Reaper to call for a date? I think not.

  When Nevil went to his well-deserved rest and reward, I decided to kick up my heels a little—have a little fun. And if that meant having a younger man at my side, what was the harm in that? Men did it all the blessed time!

  My friends thought Raoul was perfectly wonderful. He was as handsome as he was virile. Trip thought he was a common gigolo. Oh, yes! I knew what he thought! Trip and Frances Mae were much more concerned about their inheritance than my happiness. Don’t think I didn’t know that!

  Now if he knew the truth about how I had scraped myself up he would rant and rave until he barked like a fox with a bushy tail. I was wearing those damnable Italian trousers Mr. Armani made and the heel of my new J. P. Todd’s got caught in the cuff when I went to jump down from the quail buggy. I hate cuffs! Does anyone think that my son doesn’t take a cooler of Heineken on the boat when he fishes? Lord! This double standard! How did a woman like me ever blow breath into such a prude?

  Well, we all had our crosses to bear, like my mother used to say. And the opinions and avarice of my son and his disagreeable wife were mine.

  At least there was still Caroline, I thought as I filled the tub. She was my only daughter and my other cross. Oh, yes, my Miss Caroline has announced she is coming for a visit. High time too.

  I undressed thinking about her and caught a glance of myself in my full-length mirror. Not bad for an old lady, I thought. I could go as far as my slip and no one could tell I was a day over sixty. I made a mental note to myself that if I ever got Raoul back in the sack again to have the room good and dark when I got as far as the slip. My assets were depreciating—taking a trip south, if you know what I mean.

  Oh, Raoul! Why did he leave me? Martha Henderson may have more money but I’ll bet she never put on a show for him like I did! Raoul loved to watch me undress. I would put on some music, usually Ella Fitzgerald singing Cole Porter, ice some champagne, light the candles, and then set that boy’s pants on fire. This was my little secret. In the back of the New York Times Book Review, there are all these tapes they sell on how to—you know—be intimate. Let’s just say that I was a good customer and a very good student. And, I was always as feminine as humanly possible because I know that a man wants to dominate. So I would let him think he did. Gigolo? Of course he was! But so what? He was worth every penny I ever spent on him.

  I poured some tea tree oil into the warm water and tested it with my foot. Too hot. For a moment I considered trying to steal Raoul away from Martha. The thought of his young muscular body and his delicious and never failing—you know—well, it did give one pause. But then I decided to let her have him. I’d had the best Raoul had to offer anyway. At least one hundred times. While the discovery of his infidelity had bruised my ego, I recovered well. Okay, I cried for a week. In all truth, he was an insignificant man, a gardener. He called himself
a “landscape architect” and had a truck with the name of his business on the side, but, honey, that was like the garbageman calling himself a “sanitation engineer.” We all knew better.

  The water was finally cool enough and I stepped into the tub, lowering myself carefully. I would never become one of those old biddies who broke her hip in the tub. How undignified would it be to be carried out by some big burly EMS workers in your birthday suit? Perish the thought!

  My thoughts returned to Caroline. For all the money in this world, I could never figure out where I went wrong with her. We just were never close like a mother and a daughter were supposed to be. She was so strong-willed and determined to do things her own way. She must have inherited that all from her father’s side of the family.

  I squeezed the sponge of warm water across my chest, thinking I would just try to have a nice weekend with her. Maybe I could enlist her support against Trip. But she had never understood me really and it was a terrible loss. When she married a Jewish foreigner, I nearly fainted. I suppose I always thought she would come back here to live.

  I never should have allowed her to get her master’s degree in business. It was the beginning and end of her. By the time she was twenty-five and had been out of Columbia University for just a short time, she had become hard as nails. Living in New York City did that to even the most genteel and refined people, they always said. Apparently it was true where Caroline was concerned.

  And that little fellow of hers! Oh, what a sweet child! There is something so dear about little boys that just makes me want to cry. I declare I wish she had brought him back here to me. How could anyone have ever hoped to raise a decent and well-adjusted child in that awful place?

  Lord in His Heaven, I thought as I drained the tub and got out, blotting my bruised and scraped skin carefully. I would just see how it was when she got here and try to take it one day at a time. Maybe I would ask Millie to make a cake in her honor. I creamed my skin with Jergen’s body lotion and slipped a crisp white cotton nightshirt over my head. I had three of them, all from Victoria’s Secret.

  I would venture a guess that my eyes were shut in three minutes. The breeze felt so good coming in through my windows. I could smell Nevil’s cologne. I guessed that since Raoul was out of the picture, Nevil was stopping by. I always knew when he was with me. It was a great comfort.

  My daughter was coming for a visit. That made me happy. Truly, it did. But if she said one word to me or took Trip’s side on this retirement community business, I’d fix her little red wagon and fix it good!

  Twelve

  “Planet Lavinia—Retrograde”

  THE world transformed before my eyes as the Continental Airlines plane broke through the thick blanket of clouds and circled the Charleston Airport. From my window seat I watched the waters of the rivers rise up into view. Turbid on their edges, pristine in their heart. These three rivers flowing together pooled at St. Helena Sound. Morgan Island, Otter Island, Edisto, and St. Helena Island. All of them. Fripp, Hunting, and Harbor Islands. I knew them all better than the birthdays of my best friends.

  I took a quick breath in and murmured Home. Home! What? New York was home! Richard and Eric were home! New York was where I belonged. The ACE Basin had not been home for fifteen years! And it could never be home again.

  What it was, I was willing to admit, was a beautiful place. A starting place. There was simply no resisting the impact of its majestic kaleidoscope of wetlands, waterways, and salt marshes, all of it breathing and pulsating with life. That much was absolutely true. Its beauty was staggering.

  For all sorts of reasons, the ACE frightened me—gave me terrible dreams. I had lost my father there. I had fractured and fragile relationships with Mother and Trip that were easier to handle from a distance. I couldn’t bear the company of Frances Mae for more than a short visit. I had so little in common with any of them.

  Most of my old friends had moved away to Atlanta, Charlotte, or even California and Richard wouldn’t like them anyway. No, I couldn’t get involved—the emotional price I’d have to pay was too high. Besides, New York thrived with another kind of energy—an excitement that fed something in me, some kind of need.

  Then there was Mother’s family’s home at Tall Pines Plantation. There are as many stories about my mother’s family home as there are about the plantation land itself. Tall Pines Plantation held so much natural beauty that it stunted your own growth. Whatever beauty you possessed was smothered by the blinding sunrises and the sighs of red sunsets, all of them over glistening water—water washing the edges of the habitats of hundreds of birds. The perfection of the ACE Basin and every aspect of its natural purity only served to punctuate your flaws. How could you measure up?

  It was a merciless trap—an insidious joke of some horrible devil to make you lazy, boring, lethargic, an imbecile—one I had escaped with wild desperation. And, one where I knew I would never return for any reason other than to visit. No. I was merely here to check on Mother, as was my duty. I would do my duty and return home to New York.

  I would be cordial to Trip, Frances Mae, and Mother. I would take Richard’s advice and remain calm. Richard had given me an arsenal of chemical weapons—Xanax, Valium, Prozac. I would not need them. I would meditate each day, do my yoga, and tai chi. I was ready. And I consoled myself with the forty-five-minute drive I’d make before I had to face any of them at Tall Pines. It would give me the chance to center myself.

  I was feeling sentimental as the plane rolled up to the jet way. I was remembering when the Charleston Airport was a little white building with a tiny tower and one man who announced all the planes over the crackling microphone in his old Charleston accent. Can’a have yo tenshun, please! Tha plane frum New Yak coming to gayet fo! Maybe we had exaggerated it over the years, but the retelling of that silly story (and thousands of others like it) was about the only thing that would put a smile on my sister-in-law’s face during cocktails. Sweet nuggets of the past—the kind Southerners loved to chew.

  My tote bag fit snugly under the seat and my rolling carry-on rested perfectly in the overhead. I never had to worry about someone else taking my luggage. It was too weird. Purple canvas, black leather. T. Anthony on Park Avenue had long been manufacturing a line of canvas bags trimmed with leather. Purple made it easy to spot in the rare event that I did check it.

  I got my things together and walked through the small airport to the rental car desk. Along the way I passed displays of sweetgrass baskets and the gift store whose windows were filled with displays of benne seed candy, T-shirts, more baskets, and various pieces of china and trays decorated with magnolias in full bloom. I had to admit that I liked the familiar.

  I stepped up to the desk and showed my paperwork to the reservations agent. “I have a reservation,” I said. “Levine is the last name.”

  “Oh, Ms. Levine, we are so-o-o sorry! There are jess no cars left. No, ma’am, not nary a one.”

  She wasn’t sorry in the least. She mistook me for a Yankee.

  “But I have a reservation,” I said, just as calmly as a clam. “There must be some mistake.”

  “No, ma’am, there’s no mistake. Ya see? This yanh is tha weekend of the Bridge Run? In addition to the big golf tournament out to Kiawah? They just plum overbooooked and there’s jess nuthin’ a-tall I kin do about that.”

  “I’d like to see your supervisor,” I said. Hell, I’d fried bigger fish than this little pipsqueak from nowhere with the bad perm. I opened my wallet and pulled out the magic card. The one that guaranteed me a car even in times of nuclear attack. I was something of a big shot with Hertz. It was all that fabric I ordered on my American Express card that got me special privileges with Hertz. At least I was a big shot with somebody.

  She took the card, looked at it, sneered just a little, and said, “I’ll be rat back.”

  The balding, paunchy supervisor appeared in a few moments, the last vestiges of french fries and coffee covering his breath like a light blanket of t
oxic waste snow, and said, “Well, little lady, I reckon I kin gi-view my Taurus. Givus about ten minutes to clean her up.” His name tag read Cephus Jones.

  “That will be fine, Mr. Jones,” I said, “thank you. I really appreciate it.”

  “Them’s the rules, Ms. Lee-vine.”

  Whatever, I thought, you big, fat, stupid, ugly ass. I always felt better when I cussed people out in my mind.

  It was Friday, March tenth. Trip had offered to pick me up but I had declined. I knew he really didn’t want to do it. In any case, I preferred having my own car—an escape valve. Mother was less than thrilled to hear that I was coming for a visit, but I think that by the time of our last telephone call, she was almost looking forward to it.

  “You’re not coming down here to reprimand your mother, are you? It’s the height of all disrespect to correct your elders,” she had said to me last night.

  I couldn’t tell if she was kidding or if she knew that Trip was after her. “I hadn’t planned on it,” I lied. “Is there any reason I should?”

  “Well, I have my bridge club tomorrow. I’m the hostess.”

  “Mother, have your bridge club, I’ll take a nap.”

  “Fine then,” she had said, pleased that I wouldn’t upset her routine. “I’m happy you’re coming, Caroline, I’ve missed my girl, you know.”

  “Me too,” I had said.

  Like all adult children returning home, I was filled with a curious mixture of anticipation and dread. But in my case, there was usually good cause for the dread. I loaded my luggage into Mr. Jones’s Ford and took off for Route 17 south.

  I wondered what I would find. Trip would no doubt get drunk and tell me how it was my job to see about Mother because that’s the job of a daughter—an arcane belief if ever there was one. Frances Mae would ask me how much my jacket cost and remark on my haircut and then ask me if I’d brought something from New York City for her spoiled rotten, ungrateful children. Yeah, muzzles, I would love to say. And one for you too. I could see her bony fingers with her French manicure lift a piece of Mother’s silver as she asked her what she intended to do with it when she was gone. In a bizarre way I looked forward to it all. When in doubt, retreat to the familiar. Even if it’s a nest of crocodiles?