by James Villas
“Well, heavens to Betsy, if it isn’t dear Gore,” Williams exclaimed as Vidal leaned down and pecked him on the cheek. “How ya doing, baby? Obviously in better shape than I am.” He hooted loudly again. “Let me introduce you to this nice young gentleman from Charleston by the name of Tyler Dubose. Mr. Dubose is a writer—a novelist. Tyler, meet Mr. Gore Vidal, eminence grise of the literary world. Heeheehee.”
“It’s my pleasure,” Vidal said in his dignified, deep voice, rubbing Tyler’s shoulder instead of shaking his hand. “I read your first book. Well done.”
Tennessee appeared a little perplexed as a stranger from nowhere handed him another drink, and he turned to Tyler. “Well, I guess I’m the only illiterate one around here. Baby, have you written something I should have read?”
Vidal cracked a wicked smile at Tyler. “The Bird here must have been asleep for the past couple of years.”
“Baby, I’ve been asleep for the past decade,” Williams pronounced in a shriek of laughter. “Between the liquor and pills and…”
“Well, I can tell you, my dear, you haven’t missed much,” Vidal said, leaving Tyler in even greater awe.
Once Vidal had moved on to socialize with others in the large room, Tyler, nursing his second gin and tonic, mainly sat and listened as Williams rattled on about his physical problems, and his recent mistreatment by the vicious press, and the role he himself was undertaking in his new play opening soon at a theater in the Village. Periodically, people would come over to wish him happy birthday, chat for a moment, and perhaps even compliment Tyler on his latest book, and, from time to time, Tennessee would interrupt one of his rambling stories and, out of the blue, ask Tyler some personal question about himself that had no relevance whatsoever to anything being said. Finally, at one point, when it appeared the playwright might actually pass out right there on the sofa in front of dozens of friends and associates who’d come to celebrate another year of his survival, he raised his eyes and took Tyler’s hand.
“You’re a very attractive and interesting young man, but I suspect something about you. Yeah, there’s something that’s just dawned on me. And what I suspect, what has become more and more evident the longer you sit and converse with me, is that…Well, how do I put it? The more we converse, baby, the more evident it becomes to me that you have already lost the capacity for surprise. Heeheehee.”
Tyler sat stunned, unable to respond to the daunting remark as Tennessee casually sipped his drink, his expression almost glazed.
“Now, what I was wondering,” Williams resumed in his distracted manner, “I was wondering if you might enjoy having a civilized dinner one evening with an elderly gentleman who needs a little good company from time to time.”
And thus began a relatively close but strange friendship that would endure till Williams’ sudden death over a decade later and that Tyler would one day recount in some detail in his memoirs. Since, at the time, Tyler was often seen in New York with Tennessee everywhere from seedy bars to deluxe French restaurants to front-row seats in theaters, it was naturally assumed by many that the two were involved in some sort of affair. It was true that, after many late nights of carousing and heavy drinking, when Tyler had to virtually put the playwright to bed in a stupor, it became almost routine for him to conduct the pill-taking ritual, then hold and hug Tennessee till he finally fell into a deep, drug-induced sleep. But, if his later revelations were to be believed, that was the extent of any physical intimacy between the two men. Tyler was no more and no less than what Williams often referred to as “a necessary companion,” an arrangement that made sense given the novelist’s penchant for much younger men and need for steady sexual diversity.
Of course, after Tyler and Barry Livingston were utterly smitten by one another at an exclusive party in the East Side townhouse of none other than the notorious and closeted lawyer Roy Cohn, the two soon began living together in Tyler’s duplex and his social life settled down considerably. Eventually, he and Barry bought a secluded house out in the Hamptons, which was not only a perfect retreat from the chaos of Manhattan but the ideal place for Ella to visit from time to time. To be sure, every time she announced in Charlotte her plans to go spend a week up North, tongues wagged privately, especially those of family members and friends who simply could never imagine why Ella would want to subject herself to such degeneracy even if it did involve her own son. Elsewhere in the country, the gay lifestyle was coming more and more to the front as an inevitable fact of the modern world, but for Southerners like Little Earl and Betty Jane Dubose and Lilybelle Armstrong and a large clique of other Charlotteans still bogged down in bigoted morality, Tyler, despite his celebrity, was considered a disgrace not only to the community in which he was raised but to his very heritage. “First the squaw, next the Catholics, and now those two perverts,” was the way Little Earl referred in disgust at one point to his mother’s increasingly shocking fancies, and when, by some chance, the society column in the liberal Charlotte Observer once reported that Mrs. Earl Dubose Sr. on Colville Road was visiting her famous son and his companion at their home on Long Island, Olivia was so mortified that the following Sunday morning in church she was unable to walk up to the communion rail.
Not that Ella wouldn’t have preferred a more traditional way of life for her son, or that she didn’t have heated words with Tyler when, in his memoirs, he exposed enough about his family and growing up in the unsophisticated Queen City to warrant a good tar and feathering. But she made the best of everything despite the antipathy all around her at home, for she never forgot for a moment that there were probable reasons for Tyler’s unconventional nature and personality that had never been discerned by anyone, factors that only she had understood and kept buried deep inside her as only a loving mother can do. That the two shared few intellectual, cultural, or even social interests was immaterial to them both and never seemed to affect their relationship in the least. Tyler simply respected and loved his mother for her practical sense and steadfast devotion, and even though they could argue and fight like cats and dogs, she not only admired his success and independence but always knew he was the one person she could turn to in times of critical doubts and adversity.
“Son, I know you’re busy with all your highfalutin friends up there,” Ella had said on the phone in her typical half-mocking manner that Tyler was completely used to, “but I was hoping you might be able to pull free in the next week or so and join me for a few days at the beach. It should be nice down there this time of year before the crowds arrive.”
“Where, Mama?” he asked almost in dismay from the study in his Manhattan duplex, slightly irritated to have his concentration on the important new novel interrupted during the middle of the day.
“The beach. The Priscilla down at Myrtle. You certainly remember the Priscilla. Well, I tell you, Son, I’ve got to get out of here and away from your meddling brother and sister and all the rest for awhile, and, well, I thought how nice it would be to go back to the Priscilla after all these years. Goldie and I are driving down the first of next week, and I don’t want a living soul—not a soul—except you to know where I’ll be.”
There was a long silence on the phone. Then Tyler, in his soft but startled voice, declared, “Mama, have you gone stark raving mad? What in hell’s this all about?”
“Tyler, please mind your language, and I don’t appreciate that insinuation. Of course I haven’t lost my mind—not yet, at least. I need to go somewhere peaceful, and I also need to talk with you about some other things that have been on my mind. It would mean lots to me, Son, if you could spare a few days and fly down to be with me.”
“Mama, I’m really involved in this book promotion,” he reminded her firmly, well aware that such a thing actually meant little to his mother.
“Oh, honey, I know you must be busy as a bee and that this comes as a little surprise. But I haven’t seen you in a coon’s age, and you used to love the Priscilla, and we can fish and do things, and there really are some m
atters I can’t discuss on the phone.”
“What matters, Mama?” he tried to prod.
“Just some family matters I need to talk over with you. And I want to hear all about what you and Barry did in my favorite city.”
Tyler was on the verge of resisting further when Barry, dressed in shorts, stuck his head in the door and silently pointed to a cup of tea in his hand as if asking whether Tyler wanted some. Rolling his eyes, Tyler signaled him to come in, then spouted over the phone, “Here, Mama, Barry wants to say hello.”
“Hi, gorgeous,” Barry almost crooned, sitting on the corner of the desk. “How’s my favorite Southern belle?”
For a couple of minutes, the two made small talk, then Barry handed the receiver back to Tyler.
“I tell you what, Mama, would you consider maybe spending a little time in Amagansett instead? Actually, Barry’s got to be out of town visiting galleries the rest of this month, so we could be pretty much to ourselves when I’m not in the city.”
“Honey, you know how I dislike being in that house by myself, and besides, I have other important reasons for wanting to go back to the beach after all these years—reasons I’ll explain if you’ll come down. And we could fish, and eat crab cakes, and do everything we used to do, and…one day I’d even like to drive down to Charleston and look around. Of course, Goldie and I would meet you at the airport.”
By this time, Tyler had learned how futile it was to debate his mother when she was about to get her dander up. Perhaps, since the two were so much alike in temperament, they often argued to the point where others thought they might actually hate each other, but, deep down, Ella believed that Tyler could do no wrong, and he, in return, was virtually incapable of denying his mother anything—no matter how unreasonable or absurd—that he felt would make her happy. Consequently, although her strange request that he drop everything and meet her at Myrtle Beach couldn’t have come at a more difficult and inconvenient time, the slight sense of urgency in her voice was enough to convince him that he was truly needed.
“This all sounds crazy, Mama,” he finally said, “but…well, next week’s out of the question, since I’m scheduled for three TV interviews, but I guess I could fly down over the weekend and stay a few days the following week.”
“You’re an angel,” she said as if addressing a child. “And we’ll talk, and eat well, and maybe do a little fishing, and have a good time. I’ll call the inn and make the reservation for you. But remember, Tyler, that Earl and Liv are to know nothing about this, and that I’ll be incognito there in case they try to find me. Don’t call me, Son. I’ll call you. And don’t forget to bring a nice jacket for the dining room.”
After Tyler put down the phone, he explained what his mother wanted and was aware of Barry staring worriedly at him.
“Don’t you think you’re pushing things a little too far?” his boyfriend said.
“What can I do?” Tyler answered. “Something strange is up, and you know Mama.”
“When are you going to tell her about your condition?” Barry then asked, rubbing the back of Tyler’s neck affectionately. “She’s bound to notice some physical changes.”
“I don’t know. Mama’s tough, but I’m not sure how she could deal with something like this. Maybe the doctor will have some good news to report; then I can take it from there.”
Chapter 6
GRITS AND GRUNTS
After her first dinner at the Priscilla, Ella was about to tell Goldie that she was tired and wanted to turn in early, when, as suddenly as on the porch earlier on, Edmund O’Conner approached the table by himself, apologized cordially for bothering the ladies, and asked if they’d had a good meal.
“Excellent, thank you,” Ella said, once again admiring his radiant white hair and handsome outfit. “I had the she-crab soup and stuffed flounder, and Goldie had clam chowder and fried chicken. Delicious, overall, as good as Goldie does back home. Just wish we’d had room left for some of that blueberry cobbler.”
“I agree with you completely,” O’Conner said in his soft, articulate voice. “I also had the she-crab soup, then the deviled crabs, and I was telling my family that Southerners seem to have a way with crab that we Yankees just don’t understand.”
Ella chuckled, said that was not always the case, then asked if this was his first visit to the Priscilla.
“Actually, it is for me, but not for my daughter and her family. They started coming down here a couple of years ago when friends told them about the place, and, well, ever since I retired, they’ve been trying to drag me along. They love Myrtle Beach, especially when there’re no crowds, as I gather you do.”
Ella laughed again a little nervously, fingering the cloth napkin still in her lap. “Oh, heavens yes—the Priscilla, that is. Of course, Myrtle itself now appears to be vulgar honky-tonk, but, then, what isn’t these days? If only you could have seen the beach back in the fifties and early sixties. But thank the Good Lord, the Priscilla seems to have changed very little since I and my family had so many happy times here. This is Goldie’s first visit, isn’t it, dear?” Goldie nodded her head and smiled. “There’s really no place like it—especially if you’re as old-fashioned as I am.”
She laughed still again and was about to ask him to sit down when, gazing intently at her as a much younger man might stare at a beautiful girl, he disclosed that his daughter and her husband had decided to take the boys downtown to the Pavilion and wondered if he could buy the ladies a drink out in the lounge.
“Why, how gracious of you, Mr. O’Conner,” Ella said in her refined, lilting accent, turning to Goldie. “Would you like that, dear, or were you planning to go straight up?”
Even if the offer had not intimidated Goldie, just the polite but firm tone of Ella’s voice made it clear that the other woman’s presence at such an occasion would hardly be appropriate, prompting Goldie to shake her head and say, “Thank you, but I do need to go up and finish unpacking our things.”
After all three had told Riley how nice dinner had been and Goldie had said good night, Ella, with renewed energy, accompanied her attractive new friend to a small table in the quiet, paneled lounge not far from a talented black pianist with slicked-back hair playing soft, romantic tunes on a small grand.
“So you’re from Charlotte,” he began.
“Well, actually, I was born and raised in Charleston,” she said proudly, “but yes, I have to call myself a Charlottean. And your home is New Jersey?”
“For over seventy years.”
“And I take it Mrs. O’Conner is deceased,” Ella prodded politely after ordering a Grand Marnier on the rocks.
“Oh, yes, my wife passed away some time ago. Cancer. I continued my dental practice for a couple of years, then finally decided to retire.”
“A dentist. Mercy me,” she said.
“Yes. Periodontics. Over forty years.”
“Well, Dr. O’Conner, I’m impressed. My husband was in printing and engraving, but, Lord, he’s been dead now going on fifteen years. Hard to believe.” She reached into her purse for the gold cigarette case. “Does this offend you?”
He frowned, took the lighter, and lit her cigarette. “Shame on you. You know it can stunt your growth.”
Ella chuckled in her nonchalant way. “I’ve been giving it up for forty years and guess it’s a miracle I’ve made it to seventy-three.”
“Well, Mrs. Dubose, you have me beat by a couple of years, but I must say you look remarkable for seventy-three.”
Blushing slightly, she took a big sip of her drink, breathed in deeply as the pungent liquor burned its way down her throat, then said playfully, “Get on with you, Dr. O’Conner. And, please, everybody just calls me Miss Ella.”
For maybe an hour, she elaborated on who Goldie was and told the doctor all about Charlotte and her children and grandchildren there, and he, in turn, related a few details of his long, rather routine but happy career and life in Englewood, his passion for tennis, and his active involvemen
t in New Jersey’s Democratic Party campaigns. While he talked, and the piano tinkled, Ella studied his features and mannerisms as carefully as she would have if he’d been fifty years younger: intense dark eyes shaded by heavy eyelids that betrayed his age; pinkish, smooth cheeks broken only by moderate crevices on either side of a small nose; a prominent dimple in his chin flanked by slightly puffy jowls that rested on the tips of his bow tie; thick, nicely groomed hair white as a cloud; a slow, slightly nasal voice; and the habit of waving an index finger while trying to make a point. As Ella perceived the man, he couldn’t have been anything other than a highly capable, intelligent professional, and while she was under no silly illusion over either of their advanced years, she couldn’t deny the mild flutter inside as they talked and he fixed his eyes avidly on hers.
“Do you by any chance fish, Dr. O’Conner?” she asked out of the blue.
Cupping his snifter of brandy, he seemed taken aback by the question, then, cracking a smile, confessed, “No, not really, not since I was a child.”
“Well, I do, and I love it. Of course, it’s been years since my husband, Earl, and I fished down here. Mercy, I doubt I have the strength to cast a line ten feet now, but I brought the rods along, and when my other son arrives on the weekend from New York, I certainly plan to give it a big try—if not before.”
“Your other son?” O’Conner asked.
“Yes, I guess I got wound up about Charlotte and forgot to mention my older son, but Tyler is a writer up in your neck of the woods, and he’s flying down to join me for a few days. I’d like for you to meet him.”
The doctor appeared to be ruminating over what she’d just said. Then, waving his finger as a sign that something important had just dawned on him, he uttered the name Tyler Dubose twice and exclaimed, “I knew that Dubose rang a bell. Tyler Dubose. Of course, he’s a famous author, and I read one of his novels a few years ago. I’ll be damned. So he’s your son?”
