Plantation

by Dorothea Benton Frank

  “You can order them on the Internet if you don’t feel like gone to the store,” she said, and gave me the Web site.

  She opened each bottle for me to smell, handling each one like a religious artifact. Some were sweet, some were vaguely medicinal ; I suspected that if Millie owned them, all were potent.

  All along the way, she told me stories of various cures. One woman had anxiety for no good reason. Three drops of aspen essence in her orange juice, three drops in her afternoon tea, and three drops in water before bed washed away her fear.

  “Millie?”

  She was putting away all the bottles, and making note of those that needed to be replaced.

  “Need some water violet,” she said. “What?”

  “Remember when Daddy died?”

  She stopped and turned to me. Her face was solemn. “How could I forget?”

  “Remember how Mother changed overnight—how she was so mean to Trip and me? How she ignored us? How she was so critical of everything?”

  “She couldn’t help it, Caroline, you know that.”

  “Then remember when Trip and I went away to school, remember how she went wild?”

  “That was my fault.” A grin covered her face. “Oh, God! I was giving her enough Saint-John’s-wort to drive ten women wild!”

  “Oh, God! Millie! Even I know that acts like Prozac! And you knew it in nineteen seventy-four? That’s amazing! No wonder!”

  “Shoot, I knew it in the fifties! But, yeah, it was terrible. I didn’t figure it out until I caught her in bed with the UPS man! Don’t you say I told you that either, or I’ll call you a liar!”

  “The UPS man! Millie! God in heaven!”

  “Yeah, God! They were just going to town! She was happy as a lark, but I cut back her dosage after that.”

  “Well, it’s a good thing you did! I can’t believe you overdosed Mother!” My face was scarlet. Jesus!

  “Listen, she had fun and I ain’t perfect.”

  “You crazy old woman! I gotta go—Mother’s gonna think I ran away again.”

  “I’ll be along directly,” Millie said.

  I walked home along the banks of the river, watching the afternoon sun sparkle and dance on its surface. Lost in thought, I wandered down to the dock and leaned over the railing. The water moved with such resolute purpose. It knew exactly what its mission was—swift and sure, never looking over its shoulder.

  I toyed with and then decided that perhaps I would trail Millie’s footsteps for a while and see where they led. It would be almost impossible to work as a decorator out in the country, where people prided themselves on the age of their chintz and the bagginess of their faded upholstery. No. My decorating days were over, unless I moved to Charleston. So far, aside from the one conversation with Miss Nancy, I’d not thought about being anywhere but Tall Pines. I was willingly in her grip, as comfortable as a swaddled baby in her cradle. I had a halfhearted thought that we’d homeschool Eric and move for the fall. Summer at Tall Pines was the best time of year anyway. No reason to go right away.

  If I wasn’t running down to Charleston to establish my independence, I knew I needed something to occupy my time once we were settled. I didn’t need money, beyond what Richard had promised to provide. For the first time in my life I had no expenses! This could be very interesting, I thought.

  All my life I had compared Millie to the witches in Macbeth. Double, double, toil and trouble . . . it wasn’t true. She was basically a homeopath. Okay, not just a homeopath, but so far there wasn’t anything really bizarre about what she had told me. It wasn’t like I had to drink rat blood or something. And who knew? Over time, I might be able to settle into her faith. I didn’t know enough about it to make a judgment yet.

  Homeopathy. Better for Eric than Ritalin if I could make it work. Much better. Besides helping Eric focus and concentrate, maybe I could straighten out a few family members. God knows, they needed it. Then I chided myself for the critical thought. Hadn’t I, minutes before, bristled from the memory of Mother’s criticism? How much of her was in me? How many of the traits I loathed in her could I finger in my own behavior?

  And what Millie said about life being all about service to others. That was heavy. Very heavy indeed. It would freak her right out of her mind to feel the blast of the prevailing winds of self-centered frenzy that blew down the canyons of New York City—the ruthless deals on Wall Street, the cutthroat competition on Madison Avenue, the Seventh Avenue circle of deceit. And the monstrous law firms that defended them against each other—a virtual war between billable hours and integrity. All of it about money, status, and power. Not exactly Woodstock.

  No, I had found plenty to mull over. Away from the glare and tumult of New York, the veils of denial lifted. In my heart, I knew Manhattan was no place for a boy like Eric. Sure, the museums were great, but I could take him there a couple of times a year. Charleston did have an airport, after all.

  Here I could concentrate on him, make him well rounded, and teach him to do all the things unique to Lowcountry living. Even Mother and Trip had demonstrated their desire to let Eric know he belonged. Taking him fishing, showering him with breathtaking generosity.

  And Richard? I would always love him in spite of everything. I wished things were different but it wasn’t in my power to change them. He had given me Eric. I could never hate him. I just didn’t want to be his wife and live his life of hedonism. Wasn’t I entitled to pursue happiness?

  Just what would make me happy? I wondered.

  I had existed in my marriage like a gerbil on a wheel—every day the same repetition of activities; this didn’t serve anyone well, including myself. Or Eric. All that running, running. Where? I had a lot to think about. I had not taken enough care in the way I’d allowed my life to unfold. Maybe that was the problem—that I’d been standing by on the sidelines of my own life too long: not really living, belonging nowhere and to no one. Hiding behind Eric. Trying not to be my mother.

  The sky was turning red and I was feeling blue. Jesus, Caroline, you sound like bad country music, I said to myself. What would your father say? I stood at the rail a few minutes longer watching the sun slip behind the trees on the bank opposite me. I’d never felt so alone and began to examine my conscience to understand why. What kind of a daughter had I been to Mother? Passable. Sister to Trip? Fair. Never mind what kind of aunt to my nieces or what level of sister-in-law to the whore from hell. Not so hot. No, I’d been hiding behind motherhood all snug and cozy seven hundred miles away. I’d drop in from time to time and judge them. Surely I could do better than the vapid and shapeless life I’d left behind.

  Millie was right. If I embraced my duty to my family and to myself, maybe I’d find happiness and purpose. Food for thought. Correction. Buffet for thought.

  Thirty-two

  Square One

  Tuesday

  AT one o’clock sharp the next day the doorbell rang. It was the math and science tutor, Ruth Perretti.

  “Hi! Come on in!” I said, holding the door open for her.

  “You must be Mrs. Levine?” she said and extended her hand.

  “Yes, call me Caroline, please.”

  We shook hands and on the way into the living room, I got a good look at her. She was gorgeous, and I don’t mean maybe. She must have stood five ten, if an inch. Her red hair was swept up with a clamp. She wore khakis, a blue shirt, and a white sweater tied around her shoulders. Thirty? Maybe.

  “Well, then, you call me Rusty. All my friends do. It’s the hair.”

  “I figured that! Would you like a glass of tea?”

  “Sure, thanks.”

  At first blush, I liked her. A lot. She was old enough to have had some experience. Her personality was lively and she was pretty. Eric would like that. I poured and handed her a glass.

  “Please sit down,” I said. “Tell me about yourself. How did you become a tutor?”

  “Thank you,” she said, and took her seat on the wingback with a definite grace.
“Well, I’ve been teaching for eight years as a substitute in Walterboro. The problem is that the average age of the faculty is fifty. They’re not going anywhere for a while. Supply-and-demand theory. So, I tutor. To tell you the truth, I think I like doing this better than I would being in a classroom.”

  Her green eyes twinkled with an honest gaiety. Here was someone who liked her life and her work.

  “Why’s that?”

  “When you teach a child one on one, you have them in your hands. And, homeschooling is so flexible. We can use the Internet for research and build a Web page and link it all over the world. We can take field trips to the library, collect specimens from the river for science. When it’s a nice day, we can study outside. When we want to study astronomy, we can have a night class with a telescope.”

  “Eric loves the constellations.”

  “How old is he?”

  “He’ll be twelve soon. He’s adorable,” I said.

  She went on to tell me that she had special certification in special education for dyslexic children. Her younger brother was dyslexic, she said, and it had not stopped him from becoming a veterinarian. It wasn’t a big deal, just a learning-style difference.

  She got points for good attitude.

  “And what curriculum of math do you use?”

  “Standard math—the old-fashioned kind. There are all these horrible new systems of math out there that confuse the kids more than teach them.”

  “Chicago math?”

  “That’s one! Lord, what a disaster it is! You see, I know from my own education that without a good solid foundation you fall apart. Once the foundation’s in place, then you can go crazy and have fun.”

  “Do you let your students use calculators?”

  “Only when they can spit out their basic math facts as well as they do their own name.”

  Okay, one down, two to go. I hired her on the spot. Eric would adore her. I adored her. Forty dollars an hour. I didn’t care. Eric would learn something from this woman. I showed her the textbooks and workbooks Eric had been using. Rusty, the red-headed, long-legged science and math tutor, accepted and would start the following Monday. Six months with her and Eric would be Einstein.

  At three on the nose, the doorbell rang again. It was Peter Greer, the language arts tutor.

  “Hi!” I said. “I’m Caroline Levine, Eric’s mother. You must be Mr. Greer.”

  He switched his briefcase to his other hand and we shook hands. He was every bit a southern gentleman, insisting I enter the door first and that he would close it behind me. He wore a perfectly pressed tan suit, polished brown wing tips, a white shirt, and a little bow tie. From behind his wire-rimmed glasses twinkled blue eyes of understanding and patience. I guessed him to be near seventy and retired.

  We went through the same routine that I’d just been through with Rusty. He was a darling, darling man.

  “So you were the assistant superintendent of schools in Charleston?”

  “Forever, but my real love was curriculum planning.”

  He was about to reveal all to me when Mother appeared in the hallway. Mr. Greer just about fell over himself getting to his feet when she entered the room. Mother couldn’t take her eyes away from him. He was a pussycat—even I thought so!

  “Mother? This is Mr. Greer. He’s here to discuss tutoring Eric in foreign language and English.”

  “How lovely to meet you, Mr. Greer.” Mother extended her hand with a slow and deliberate movement, causing Mr. Greer to clear his throat and consider proposing marriage to her. I’d seen it a million times. When Mother flipped the Miss Lavinia switch, she was not to be trifled with. “What foreign languages do you speak?”

  He still held her hand as though he were in a trance, but finally found his voice.

  “Please. Call me Peter.”

  “Languages?”

  Mother rolled her eyes at him and batted her eyelashes for good measure. I couldn’t believe that a woman in this day and age could bat her eyelashes at a man without him laughing right in her face. But he didn’t laugh. He went nearly catatonic.

  “Mother?”

  He dropped her hand, cleared his throat again, and, thank God, recovered his dignity.

  “Mrs. Levine? I’m fluent in seven—”

  “Peter? I’m not Mrs. Levine. My daughter carries that name. I’m Lavinia Boswell Wimbley. Please. Call me Lavinia, won’t you?”

  Well, the rest of that interview was shot to hell. He called her Lavinia, all right—all afternoon! They walked the yard together, her arm looped through his. I saw him wipe off a chair with his linen handkerchief before he would allow her to sit in bird squat. The last sighting? They were on the way to the chapel on the bluffs with a picnic basket. I watched them from the kitchen window. Millie was at the desk, paying bills.

  “Millie! Come yanh!”

  She got up, grumbling. “What you want with me, huh? I got things to do! I’m trying to reconcile the phone bill. It’s full of nine hundred-number calls and I can’t imagine . . .” She looked out of the window at Mother and Mr. Greer as they ambled and sashayed their way across the lawn. “Jeez-a-ree!”

  “He’s a dead duck,” I said.

  “Humph,” she said, “ain’t no fool like an old fool, yanh?”

  “Which one are you talking about? Mother or poor Mr. Greer?”

  Millie and I had a good laugh.

  “Don’t make no never mind to me,” she said.

  “Me either!”

  It was almost five and Joshua Welton, who was supposed to have been here at four-thirty, had not called. I was mildly annoyed. His résumé was so fabulous, I decided to refrain from judgment until I knew something. Hell, he could have had a flat tire. That had happened in the history of travel.

  I was upstairs when the doorbell rang. I looked out the window and saw an old white Triumph TR6 convertible. Cool. Millie answered it and I assumed she showed him into the living room. I applied a little lip gloss and hurried downstairs to meet him, stopping dead in the entrance. His back was to me as he stood before a portrait of one of my ancestors. He had dreadlocks. Nearly down to his waist, gathered up in a ponytail. This wouldn’t work. Too weird. Oh, well, I thought, I’ll just interview him briefly and let him be on his way. I cleared my throat and crossed the room.

  “Hi!” I said, “I’m Eric’s mother, Caroline.”

  “Hi!” He turned to face me and for the second time in ninety seconds I stopped in my tracks. He was so handsome, I gasped. I mean, we were talking male model—and not gay male model, okay? Industrial-strength testosterone filled the air. I nearly fainted.

  “Is this a Sargent?”

  His voice was melodious and soft. He was probably my age. Maybe younger. When he smiled, his gold-flecked brown eyes flashed. This guy had more sex appeal in one eyeball than I could handle.

  “No, he was a corporal. That’s another one of our . . . Oh! You mean, did John Singer Sargent paint it! Oh, golly!” I slapped the side of my head. “How silly! Of course it’s Sargent. Here, would you like to sit down? Can I pour you some tea?” I started to blather. I was mortified by my lack of control. Oh yeah, Mrs. Freaking Cool from New York is a big-time freaking ass in front of the freaking art tutor with the freaking dreadlocks.

  “Tea would be great.”

  The pitcher was long gone so I excused myself to refill it in the kitchen. Millie was just putting away the accounting books. I opened the refrigerator and stared into it, trying to remember what I had come in here for in the first place. My breathing was uneven and Millie couldn’t let it pass without comment.

  “What’s the matter with you, Caroline? You taking a shine to hippies now? That boy in your mother’s living room looks like a drug dealer!”

  “He ain’t no boy, Millie. He’s hot. I need tea. Please?”

  “You need a cold shower, that’s what! Between you and your mother today! I don’t know what’s come over the women of this house! Go on! I’ll bring it out!”

  I st
ared at her. A drug dealer? A hippie?

  “Get! Skedaddle!”

  I went back through the swinging door and heard her say in Gullah under her breath, “Hot, my foot. Humph! Dese women ain’t know hot was iffin it bit ’em in dey behind!”

  I reopened the door and she looked at me. “Oh, yes, we would!” I said and she started to laugh.

  In the living room, Joshua Welton was looking from painting to painting.

  “Whistler?” he said, pointing to a seascape that had belonged to my grandmother.

  “Yes, he gave it to my grandmother as a gift when she got married. They were friends.” Okay, it was a damn lie, but I wanted him to be impressed. He was.

  “Well then, that would explain why I’ve never seen it. I did a paper on him in graduate school. It’s probably always been on this wall.”

  “That’s right. It has.”

  It felt like he was the source of all air in the room, that I could only breathe when he did. What in hell was the matter with me?

  “Do you want to ask me any questions?” he said.

  He had a smirk on his face that I should have slapped but all I wanted to do was lick it. Jesus! Was my estrogen out of whack?

  “Of course! Let’s sit for a few minutes. Millie’s gonna bring some tea for us.”

  I sat in one of the oversized rolled armchairs and tucked a leg under me. Realizing it was an unprofessional posture, I sat up straight. He smirked again. Every move I made held his notice. He was playing with my head and I couldn’t get control of myself. This had never happened to me before. Who was this guy? He wasn’t arrogant. No, that wasn’t it. He seemed to be as off-kilter as I was. But not quite. He sat opposite me. Waiting for me to speak.

  “So! You’re an occupational therapist, I see? Tell me about that.” There. That was officious enough to get back on professional footing.

  “Are you married?”

  “No, separated. Are you married?” This was stupid. Stupid but inevitable.

  “No, divorced two years ago. No kids. No dogs. I live alone in downtown Charleston on East Bay Street in the home I grew up in. Parents left it to me. I’ve been knocking around the world studying indigenous cultures and religions.”