Plantation

by Dorothea Benton Frank

  Josh spoke to the host, a jovial fellow who assured him that our table would be ready in ten minutes—would we like to have a drink at the bar? I maneuvered him through the crowd until we reached the end of the highly polished oak ledge. I managed to wedge myself up to its edge and order two glasses of Sterling chardonnay for us to sip, while we people-watched.

  We were in good spirits, he and I, planning to have a plate of dinner and then drive back to Tall Pines.

  “No appetizers and no dessert, okay? I don’t want to get home so late tonight.”

  “Understood. I think Eric might like to have his mom tuck him in.”

  “Exactly,” I said, grateful that he agreed with my feelings. I looked at him for a moment, knowing that in him, at the very least, I had a friend with some soul. I decided to go freshen up. By the time I returned, our table should be ready. “You hold the beach-head,” I said, “I’ll be right back.”

  He nodded his head and took my glass to hold. I squeezed my way through the guests to the hallway leading to the ladies’ room, and I spotted the back of a familiar head. My brother. My brother, Trip, was engrossed in the company of a woman, one who was not Frances Mae. It was Rusty the tutor! His hand was stretched across the table, holding hers, as they talked.

  My feet were cement. My jaw dropped and my wide eyes could only stare in disbelief. My first thought was to run. Except for my unfortunate feet, which refused to respond. Josh and I could simply leave, and eat somewhere else. Or, we could stay and hope they didn’t see us. Or, I could use this as a valuable bonding experience with my brother, entering into a conspiracy of betrayal and secrets, against the despicable Frances Mae. I didn’t really want any of those things. I seriously wished I hadn’t seen them at all. That was the ostrich in me.

  I finally moved to the powder room, where I asked myself what to do and gave myself a good lecture. It had been Frances Mae’s ovaries from the beginning that had driven the wedge between Mother, Trip, and me. Trip had married her out of a sense of duty, believing at the time that it was his responsibility to parent the child he had fathered. Of course, who would have suspected the challenges his offspring would present? But, his marriage was an honorable act and I respected him for it. Still, infidelity was unbearable to me. To sleep with your spouse and then sleep with someone else at the same time, justifying it how? Hadn’t Richard embraced the position that his needs were more important than our commitment? Was Trip doing the same thing? No, I wouldn’t believe that for a moment.

  I washed my hands and looked at myself in the mirror. I needed to replace the look of shock on my face with composure, thanking the heavens that Rusty hadn’t seen this as the perfect moment to wash her hands as well. I dug around in my purse for my makeup bag, thinking then about my alleged quest for truth, self-discovery, and all the things my marriage with Richard had denied me—or I had denied myself (I couldn’t decide that just then)—and remembered that my original mission had been to see about Mother. Why couldn’t I see about Trip at the same time? Wasn’t there a whole family here to be rescued?

  All at once, while applying Chanel’s Cocoa lipstick, I started to laugh. I couldn’t hold my mouth straight to cover my lips. Mother had the language tutor’s number, I had the fine-motor “coach” running like a Bentley, and Trip was caught on something Rusty! Oh my, what clever irony!

  “You won’t believe who’s here,” I said, rejoining Josh, and telling him.

  I was nonplussed; Josh was neutral. I couldn’t fully believe that Trip had the nerve or courage to do such a thing. I knew this much, though: I didn’t blame him.

  “From what you’ve told me, there’s only one thing to do,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Be gracious. Let’s get the wine list.”

  In a matter of minutes, we had a bottle of Mumm’s champagne delivered to his table with a note that read: IT’S OKAY. MUMM’S THE WORD. CAROLINE.

  MISS LAVINIA’S JOURNAL

  I cannot for the love of God believe that I allowed that man with all that hair to stay in my guest room last night! I never thought I’d say this, but I believe she may have been better off with Richard.Yes, she would. Oh, I know they had their problems, but Merciful Mother, he was a shrink, wasn’t he? How in the world could I introduce this madman to my friends? They would think I’m joshing them! I can just see the faces at Cotillion! Although, in his defense, he is very nice. He holds my door open for me and after all, good manners can forgive other imperfections. And, he was very interesting to talk to—all that karma stuff—well, I imagine that’s what he is for Caroline, a pleasant diversion. Unlike my Peter—did I say my Peter? Oh, Lavinia! You bad girl! I must remember to tell that to Sweetie and Nancy!

  Thirty-five

  Family Jewels

  EVERY family had its secrets, tales of our human weaknesses and how we rationalized them. Now that Trip had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar, it would be harder for him to find fault with us. Harder now for any of us to judge each other. Clearly, it was time for making lemonade from our citric indiscretions.

  So, big deal, Josh slept at Tall Pines, but in another bedroom, thank you very large.

  Saturday morning, I got up at six and ground Mother’s latest on-line purchase—Costa Rican beans with a hint of some damn thing—for coffee.

  The coffee dripped, filling the air with delicious promise. I had to admit it. Even though each day meant the onslaught of packages that nearly crippled the deliverymen, Mother had discovered so many things to buy on the Internet that made life easier.

  I began sifting flour into Mother’s ancient ceramic mixing bowl. This moment of self-examination needed to be marked with some ritual to help me get my brain in gear. I was going to make biscuits—something I hadn’t done in years. No, in New York, I’d be toasting a frozen bagel or eating a low-fat piece of whole wheat bread. Now I was sliding to hell on a slick road of fat grams. And loving the trip.

  I cut in the cold butter and Crisco with two forks, the way Millie had taught me as a girl. In my yet dreamy, early morning state of half awareness, Eric crossed my mind. My angel, upstairs sleeping. I wondered if Eric would ramble downstairs and what he would think about having breakfast with Josh. He probably wouldn’t like it worth a damn.

  New worries blew into town, like small-craft warnings and dark skies—the foreboding kind. How stupid I had been! There was a reason that divorced—separated—estranged—whatever the hell I was these days—people waited until there was longevity to a new romance before introducing the new “friend” to the children. It was just plain uncomfortable.

  And, I had to ask myself, was the puny relationship I had with Josh worth making Eric uncomfortable? Hell, Mother was getting it on with old man Greer, Trip was pussyfooting around with Rusty, and I was hanging with Rastaman! Some stable environment we were! But was it worth it, this stupid game I had going on with Josh? He was my son’s tutor, for Christ’s sake! No, of course not, I told myself, and prayed Eric would sleep late. Yeah, I had that whole pursuit of happiness thing all figured out.

  I preheated the oven, poured myself a mug of coffee, and continued making biscuits. I flipped the doughy mess over on the floured marble slab and kneaded it. Too dry, I decided, and sprinkled it with cream. To hell with calories. I wrapped the whole thing in Saran Wrap, threw it in the refrigerator to chill, and took out eggs to scramble, cracking them into another bowl. I caught a sweet whiff of the ripe cantaloupes in the fruit bowl, so I peeled and sliced one, placing the wedges on Mother’s Herend Rothchild platter, the one with the hand-painted birds and bugs.

  When the oven was ready, I took the chilled dough from the refrigerator and flattened it, cutting biscuits with the floured mouth of a juice glass. I wondered then how many thousands of biscuits had been made by the generations of women of my family for their husbands and children. How many women got up to a cold house, heated the stoves, and began breakfast alone. Did their hands ache in the dampness of winter mornings?

  I t
ried to imagine myself wearing a nightdress and robe, during the Civil War, maybe even a sleeping cap instead of jeans from Banana Republic and a T-shirt from the Gap. It made me melancholy for a past from which I felt such a long distance.

  I would have to ask Mother if she could put her hand on my great-great-grandmother’s diaries. Maybe I was finally old enough or wise enough to have patience for them.

  In New York, I had opted for meals of convenience for too long, at least when Richard was present. His dinners consisted of grilled something, salad bar, and a starch of some kind. Fast everything. And while I truly had learned to enjoy cooking, our lifestyles had shortened time spent in the kitchen and time spent together at a table, so much so, that food had become little more than fuel. All the romance of cooking had been lost along the way.

  At home here in the Lowcountry, I had a new vision of the possibilities of food and cooking. Eric would catch fish and clean it. He would bring it to me to cook. I would marinade it, or brush it with different types of oil and herbs. Its flavor would come to life like it was supposed to, unlike the bland fish I bought at Food Emporium in New York—fish that had been on ice for maybe two weeks! No, food would bring us closer together—the act of a shared meal would resurrect itself as an intimate family experience. It made me laugh a little to think of all the unnecessary pomp that accompanied Mother’s table. I would not teach Eric that I reigned as queen, but that together we had made the meal and that’s how it would be remembered—that we owned those moments together.

  Finally, the kitchen door swung open and there was Josh.

  “Morning!” I said, calling out in a low voice, so that no one would hear me but him. “You ready for a little breakfast?”

  He wore only a white T-shirt and khakis. Bare feet, bare arms. Jesus, he was flammable. He walked toward me. Those peaceful and happy brown eyes of his were a mirror of his disposition.

  “Morning!” he said, and kissed me on the cheeks. “Rest well?”

  “Yeah. You know that I just realized that inside of twenty-four hours, the entire faculty I engaged to educate my son is in one way or another entangled with a member of my immediate family. I got up and did the only thing a southern girl can do in this situation.”

  “What’s that?” He was laughing at me with his mind. I could almost hear him.

  “I put ‘Ironic’ on the CD player, lip gloss on my lips, and I made biscuits! You have any other advice?” I pulled the baking sheet from the oven and rested it on the countertop. “I’m starving. Impending crises make me hungry.”

  “You shouldn’t worry so much. Let’s eat; it smells like heaven in here.”

  Indeed, the sweet air of melted butter and cooking bread saturated the room until my mouth watered. The compulsion to scrape the bottom of a hot biscuit from the baking pan with my fingers and pop it in my mouth was more powerful than the thought of blistering my fingers and mouth. Josh scooped up two biscuits with the spatula, spread them with butter and a dollop of Miss Sweetie’s TBDJOTP Strawberry, and plopped them in our mouths. We rolled our eyes and licked our fingers, steam escaping with groans of delight. Face it; there’s nothing like a hot biscuit.

  At around eight, we put the dishes in the dishwasher and I said good-bye to him on the front steps. I was relieved to see him leave and to know that nothing had changed between us. We had an easy rapport. For right then, I imagined, a part-time friend was all I needed or could handle.

  I had half expected Trip to show up to put the boat in the river, but he was nowhere to be seen. I guessed he was trying to figure out what to say to me when we would meet and still hadn’t decided. I knew I was right because only something as potentially damning as being caught as he had been could keep him from the Edisto.

  It certainly would be interesting to see how our team of tutors interacted on Monday when they would begin their work with Eric. I would see what I would see. I was thinking of all these things when the phone rang. I leaped to answer it, not wanting it to wake Mother or Eric. It was Trip.

  “You up?” he said.

  “Been up since six. What’s going on?” I wrapped the spiral phone cord around my finger, suppressing a snicker the size of Oregon.

  “You alone?”

  “Yes! Eric and Mother are still sacked out. Hot Lips went home.”

  Silence from his end.

  “Trip, for God’s sake! Quit acting like the Fugitive! You want my opinion? Of last night, I mean.” Was I really going to tell him what I thought?

  “Do I have to buy your silence, Caroline?”

  “I’d cut out my own tongue before I’d tell on you.”

  “No, I mean, if Frances Mae knew that I had dinner with Rusty, she’d do to me what I do for my clients.”

  “Trip? Why don’t you come over and let’s go out in the boat. We need to talk.”

  Thirty minutes later, Trip lumbered into the kitchen, sheepish and nervous. I poured him a coffee in a Starbucks traveler and reheated a few biscuits.

  “Well?” he said.

  I put his breakfast in a paper towel and looked at him.

  “I’d like to initiate this meeting with a general statement,” I said, pulling on my denim jacket.

  “What’s that?”

  “That everyone in this family is severely screwed up. Let’s go scare the alligators.”

  I grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator and went out the back door, hoping he would realize that I was more his sister than he had probably thought.

  The engine turned over easily and the smell of diesel gasoline came over us in a breeze. What should have smelled like toxin registered like perfume. Trip stuffed his mouth with the biscuits and chugged his coffee while tossing the loops of rope from the cleats. I pushed off dockside with the heel of my sneakers and put the engine into reverse.

  “I’m driving! Let’s ride over to the Ashepoo,” I said, “I wanna see what’s going on.”

  “Plenty’s going on.”

  They were ominous words. I waited for him to tell me and he waited for me to ask. I slowed the boat down and turned to face him.

  “Okay, Trip, spill it.”

  “I have a question.”

  “Sure,” I said, “fire away.”

  “Do you intend to stay here on the plantation or do you think you and Eric will move down to Charleston?”

  “Why? I mean, I don’t know yet. I just left my husband and my head’s still kind of spinning from that. I was hoping to just take the summer to think it all through, you know?”

  “Eric’s a great kid.”

  I ran my hand through the water and shook it off, wiping it on my jeans. “Thanks,” I said, wondering where this was leading.

  “I’ve been approached by some developers,” he said, “real estate guys. They want to buy a thousand acres and turn it into a housing community—you know, like those gated plantations on Hilton Head?”

  “Mother would never agree to that. This land is hers.”

  “Yeah, but we’re gonna inherit it and this would be a great windfall for us.”

  I looked at him and narrowed my eyes, trying to read his mind. I had sensed some urgency about him earlier on the phone but this was something larger. I didn’t want to pry, but maybe, I thought, I could wiggle it out of him.

  “Trip. What’s going on? This land is Mother’s to do with whatever she wants. She might leave it to us; she might give it to the Nature Conservancy. She’s pretty involved with that, you know. I wouldn’t count on anything except the fact that she has taken her responsibility to hold this land together in one piece very seriously for the better part of her entire life. Did you tell her about this?”

  “No, I wanted to talk to you first. It could be worth as much as four million dollars, Caroline, depending on how much river-front we gave them. That’s a lot of money. Two for you, two for me. Think about it.”

  I let go a long low whistle. It was a fortune. Ten years ago I wouldn’t have thought the plantation was worth anything much. But, real
estate had escalated for a variety of reasons—more people working from home, baby boomers taking early retirement—all sorts of things. He was right about that but missed the greater point. It wasn’t our call to make—it was Mother’s.

  “Move over,” he said, “I want to drive.”

  I gave him the wheel. “Still, Trip, this is so out of character for you. Since when have you been so desperate for money that you’d try to talk Mother into a scheme like this?”

  He speeded up the boat and now we were heading full throttle down the Edisto.

  “I can’t talk about it.”

  “Slow down, Hoss, you’re gonna get us killed!”

  He cut the gas and we slowed down abruptly, rocking in our own wake. “I might get killed anyway,” he said. When he looked at me, I saw a look of terror on his face I had never seen before.

  “Trip! If you’re in trouble, you have to tell me!”

  “It might be better if I let them just put a bullet in my head. I’ve thought about killing myself a lot lately.” He reached over to his cooler and took out a Heineken, draining about half of it before he took a breath.

  I thought about his liver and that he was killing himself slowly. It was finally dawning on me that he was deadly serious. What had my brother done?

  “How deep is the hole, Trip, just tell me that, okay?”

  He looked out at the river, probably debating whether or not to tell me. The birds swooped and squawked and Trip listened and watched as though it would be his last chance—a condemned man, trying to memorize the thing he cherished most. In my fear I began to cry. What in the world had he done?

  “The hole’s deep. I racked up almost five hundred thousand dollars of bad gambling debt and I’m afraid of getting killed. And, while I was pondering my probable shortened life span, I finally admitted to myself that I hate my wife’s guts.”