Plantation

by Dorothea Benton Frank

  Halfway to the house, I stopped to give her another look. God, she was bold! Perched on the rise of the ground like a fortress, she beckoned me from the distance to embrace her. It was impossible not to want to love her every brick and board. All I could think of was the hardships suffered over the years to keep her going. My ancestors, all the men and women before me who had lived and died between her walls. The house pulsated with invisible story-tellers to be discovered through Mother’s collection of journals. I had barely touched them. Too many things had blocked their path.

  The whole business of me becoming Millie’s apprentice had gone by the boards. Even she thought that Mother’s death had changed me and redirected my personality.

  “Just give me that boy of ours! He’s twice as smart as you ever were anyway!” She said this to me one morning over coffee.

  I banged my hand on the counter and looked at her with squinted eyes. “You think you’re gonna turn my boy into a voodoo medicine man?”

  “No, I’m gonna help him learn to be a healer and a scientist!” She grinned a little too wide for me, meaning a zinger was coming. “Anyhow, Miss Lavinia, you’re too busy being Miss Caroline! Or is it the other way around?”

  “Millie Smoak! My mother would’ve had a fit to hear you say that!” Sometimes she said the most hurtful and peculiar things, truly she did. “You mean old woman!” I said, hand to my heart. “You have cut me to the quick! Truly you have!” In fact, I felt a little tweak in my chest muscles. I did! Lord! What next?

  “Mm-hmm,” she said, her eyebrows in the vicinity of the ceiling.

  We both started to laugh. Lavinia still ruled. Sort of.

  “And what about you and Mr. Jenkins?”

  “Don’t you know that old fool come around my house last night to read me poetry by some man who calls himself Amiri Baraka? What kind of a name is that? I like Sonja Sanchez and Paul Genega’s work better.” She was smiling and looking at the countertop, running her fingertip around in a little circle. “Yeah, we drank some wine and sat on my porch until the moon was up and high. Who would’ve thought that at our age . . .”

  “Humph!” I said. “You ain’t dead yet, girl! Go on and have some fun!”

  Go on and have some fun, I had said to her, and she took me at my word, rarely showing up around suppertime in the past weeks, unless Jack was coming for the evening. Even then, I wasn’t sure if she came to help or to listen at the door. Probably both!

  The kitchen was deserted when I arrived there. Millie had taken a casserole of lasagna out of the freezer, and left me a note on how to reheat it. Don’t you know I knew perfectly good and well how to do that? What did she think, that I was so incompetent that I could kill a frozen casserole? No, she probably had a date with Mr. J!

  The dining room table was preset for three; a salad and sliced bread—both covered with plastic wrap—waited on the sideboard. A pitcher of sweet tea was chilling in the refrigerator. Dinner would be a snap.

  I put the oven on to preheat (per Millie’s instructions) and went upstairs to Mother’s room, where I was now fully installed. I loved everything about the space; the only change I made was to move one statue, of Lord Shiva, to the attic. It freaked me out, to say the least.

  I brushed my hair in the vanity mirror, gathering it at the nape of my neck with a gold barrette. I decided to change for dinner. I slipped on a pair of black silk pull-on pants, red suede flats, and a black cashmere tunic sweater. Without even thinking about it, my hands reached for the pearls. I smiled at myself in the mirror and saw I needed lipstick. It was almost as though Mother had told me to apply it! Satisfied with a second look, I picked up a journal, intending to read on the verandah while the lasagna baked.

  I did just that, and found myself completely absorbed by the words of Elizabeth Bootle Kent. She was in her midtwenties at the time of the Civil War. Her daughter Olivia was a little girl of three.

  April 1863

  Little Olivia and I spent the morning in prayer for our valiant troops and then I kept her by my side as I gathered eggs for our lunch. She likes them cooked hard and then the yolks chopped with a little butter, salt, bread crumbs and parsley. Sometimes I add a little cream to the yolk mixture and then refry them for a moment to heat them. Food is scarce and other things scarcer still.The storehouse still holds sweet potatoes, some barrels of flour and corn but they cannot last forever. It is by God’s grace and the intelligence of the servants that we painted the warnings of smallpox all around the property, fending off the troops which would surely arrive after the fall of Columbia.We fear that this wretched cause is far from over. Many of our servants have gone off with General Beauregard’s army to build barricades on James Island.There is talk of an armada of Union ships, gathering at Port Royal. If that horrible Sherman marches to the seas of Charleston, Charleston will never surrender! Never!

  Her words were powerful and I admired her bravery. It must have been horrific to be surrounded by the Union troops, having heard all the stories of rape and plunder from the fall of Vicksburg! So many Charlestonians had sent their silver and valuables to Columbia for safekeeping in the vaults of banks Sherman looted and then burned, losing everything of real and sentimental value. By 1865, there were accounts in her journals of Union soldiers bursting into her home, stealing everything they had, frightening them until they wept. All the time she held a pistol, hidden under her skirt on a belt, and a bag of bullets, vowing to herself to use it if they laid a hand on her little Olivia. I had no doubt that she would have done it too.

  I would see my family through as well. Well rid of Richard and, God forgive me, of Frances Mae, my brother and I could rebuild our lives as a family. I had been given the opportunity to stabilize our future and I would do it.

  The hour drew to a close. I knew that soon Trip and Eric would appear. I brought out three glasses, an ice bucket, sliced lemon, and the pitcher of tea. I put cheddar cheese and crackers on a plate with sliced apple and Goldfish crackers in a little glass bowl and waited for them to arrive.

  The French doors opened and here they came, Trip and Eric, all showered and dressed in fresh shirts and khakis for dinner.

  “How do I smell?” Eric said and leaned into me.

  “Good enough to smooch!” I gave him a kiss on the cheek and turned to Trip. “Putting aftershave on my son?”

  “Drives the women wild,” Trip said.

  “Great,” I said, “just what I wanted to hear.”

  We chatted about every pleasant thing I could think of to chat about in our new alcohol-free cocktail hour.

  “Just because I’m not drinking doesn’t mean you can’t have a cocktail, Caroline.”

  “Oh, I don’t know . . . it’s not import—”

  “Bourbon and branch?” Trip asked.

  “Maybe a small one,” I said, somewhat relieved that his resolve to stay sober wouldn’t impinge on my right to a little indulgence.

  He returned in moments, handing me a tumbler filled with crushed ice, bourbon, and a splash of water. Oh! It was so delicious! I decided right then and there to make my announcement.

  “Here! Got you something today,” I said, and handed him the envelope. “Hope you like it!”

  “Yeah, it’s very cool,” Eric said. He now said cool almost every other word. To tell you the truth, I was delighted to hear him use the slang of his peers. Sounding like a little professor wouldn’t help him make friends with the boys in school.

  “What? What’s this?” Trip said.

  His mouth was filled with a cracker piled high with cheese. He opened the envelope slowly and read the deed.

  “I think Mother would approve, don’t you?”

  “Caroline! Great God! Thank you so much!” He got up, yanked me to my feet, and swung me around. Smack! Smack! Smack!

  He planted three gloppy wet kisses on my face—one on each cheek and one in the middle of my forehead. Eric laughed and laughed.

  “Quit it! I’m gonna throw up! Put me down, you big jerk!”
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br />   When he finally stopped, the world was going around and around.

  I had deeded Trip one hundred acres with plenty of waterfront for a dock. He was thrilled.

  “I can’t believe it!” he said. He was completely overwhelmed.

  “It’s true, Uncle Trip! I can help you design a house or a fishing cottage or whatever you want! I’ve got software for it!”

  “Don’t expect much for Christmas,” I said, deadpan.

  “Amazing,” Trip said. “Why did you do this?”

  “So that we could all live happily ever after, Trip. And, because I love you. I really do.”

  “And here I thought you loved Jack,” Trip said.

  “We’ll see about old Dr. Jack as time goes on, and yes, I love the good doctor to pieces. It just occurred to me that if I felt like I owned the Edisto, you must feel the same way. You need your own place. We can build a little road, and pave it with oyster shells. I’ve already marked off the land. Want to go and see? One hitch. You can’t sell it.”

  “Hell, who cares?” Trip said, still stunned and very excited. “Come on!”

  “Want me to turn off the oven?” Eric said.

  “Yes, thanks sweetheart,” I said.

  Eric ran in and back out while Trip paced, shaking his head in wonder. I took another sip of my drink and stood up next to my brother, looking into his eyes, feeling more like Mother than I ever had.

  “Don’t pace so, Trip. It rankles the nerves.”

  “I just can’t imagine what came over you to do this.”

  “Dear brother,” I said, “what’s the point of being the Queen of Tall Pines if the subjects of my realm aren’t happy? Besides, I promised Mother on her deathbed that I’d keep tabs on you.”

  “Get in the truck, Your Majesty, and let’s go see the future.”

  “If I’m to be Queen of Tall Pines, then you must be King of the Edisto!”

  “You’re insane,” he said.

  “What does that make me?” Eric said.

  “It makes you one lucky kid,” I said.

  All the way across the land we bounced and smiled. We passed Millie’s, Mr Jenkins’s, the barns, the family chapel and graveyard, the old smokehouse and the fields. When we came to the woods, my gift began to be marked off with orange plastic ties on branches, and we walked. In the thicket, we saw deer, who looked at us with astonishment that we were coming through the trees like invaders. Eric’s uncle would live two minutes away. He was thrilled.

  Soon the trees gave way to a clearing and another bluff over the water. By leaning right, you could see our dock where Trip’s boat was tied up.

  “This is beautiful, Caroline. Tell me why—seriously, tell me why.”

  “Because we’re Wimbleys, Trip, and our hearts don’t beat right unless the Edisto is pumping in our veins.”

  “I wish Mother had lived to see this day,” he said.

  “Don’t you doubt for a minute that she doesn’t know exactly what’s going on,” I said.

  We stood at the edge of the bluff, the three of us. It was getting late, starting to get dark. We watched the red sun sink in the purple bands at the bottom of the evening sky. We turned to go home for dinner together, knowing should the rest of the world forsake us, this unconventional tiny family would remain true to each other, to Tall Pines, and forever to the Edisto River.

  Author’s Note

  The inspiration for this story came from visits to two plantations, one of them owned by longtime friends—Florence and Lucius Fishburne (Flo and Boots). On a visit home, at one of so many social gatherings, Boots took me by the shoulders, looked me square in the eyes, and told me I was a bush baby. I suspected the term had pejorative origins, but flowing from Boots, it sounded like a welcome home. It was. He proceeded to share with me his marvelous collection of out-of-print books and indeed, his own writings and remembrances of Lowcountry life. To see this magical and surreal place through his eyes was an unforgettable experience, and one that shaped much of this book.

  The second plantation where I was so congenially welcomed was Ravenwood, owned by dear friends of my family—Frank and Nina Burke. Their enthusiasm for this story was a hailstorm of stories, tours, explanations, late nights on my sister’s porch—the air filled with sweet olive, jasmine, and words. Frank went to great lengths to help me understand all the hows, whys, and details of sporting clays. Nina opened her doors and graciously explained the buildings of her antebellum plantation, the materials used, and showed me how they had adapted it to modern life. They also had much to do with the origins of this book.

  I am profoundly grateful to both families for their generous support.

  To fully comprehend the importance of the ACE Basin takes time. It’s not a theme park but rather thousands of acres of wetlands where a true public private partnership exists to preserve and maintain the habitats of thousands of wildlife species and the overall purity of the waters, marshes, and surrounding land. This goal is accomplished through education, public and private funding, and good old-fashioned heartfelt love of an astoundingly beautiful place. It’s where anyone can go if they question the existence of a higher power and come away in awe, humbled and forever enriched.

  I hope I told this story well enough to satisfy my southern mentors and if I didn’t, this bush baby will try harder next time.

  If you’d like to know more about the ACE Basin, or to take a vacation there or to make a contribution to their many projects in conservation, preservation, and education, contact these good folks and get a little bit of the Lowcountry to reward your soul.

  To learn more about the ACE Basin visit www.walterboro.org/ace-basin/ or write to ACE Basin National Wildlife Refuge, P.O. Box 848, Hollywood, SC 29449. If you would like to make a contribution toward preserving the ACE Basin, send donations to the ACE Basin Fund, Bank of South Carolina, P.O. Box 538, Charleston, SC 29402.