Lessons of a Lowcountry Summer

by Rochelle Alers

  “I want you to remember that I’m here if you need me for more than cooking and cleaning.”

  “I know that, Helen.”

  She gave him a warm smile. “Good night, Theo.”

  “Good night, Helen.”

  He waited for her to leave before he sank down into the love seat and buried his face in his hands. He hadn’t meant to slap Christian.

  “I’m not cut out for this fatherhood crap,” he whispered. He had lost count of the number of women he had slept with over the years, but he was certain of one thing. He had never fathered a child. There was never a time since he had become sexually active that he had not used a condom.

  Theo had grown up wondering about the man who had gotten his mother pregnant. Had he known Mary was pregnant? Had he offered to help her, or had he walked away, leaving her to face the shame of becoming a teenage mother alone? Had he been so horrible that Mary had sought to exorcise him from her life when she’d relinquished all claim to her firstborn to her mother?

  Bracing his elbows on his knees, he lowered his hands and stared at the floor. Seeing Christian and Brandon with the two cops had shattered his concentration, and he knew he would not be able to go back to working on his script. It was taking him longer than usual to develop the characters for his latest project, and he still had to complete six one-hour television scripts before the end of September.

  There was no way he was going to develop the pilot and the additional five scripts for the cable network to debut next spring. Not with one family crisis after another. Tomorrow he would call his agent to inform him that he would have to find another scriptwriter.

  Eight

  The night has a thousand eyes, and the day but one.

  —Francis William Bourdillon

  Theo hadn’t realized he had spent the night on the love seat until the rays of the rising sun inched their way across the room, settling on his cheek. He had done something he had not done in years— drink while he was writing.

  The possibility that his brothers could have been arrested was a wake-up call that he had to get his priorities in order. Becoming legal guardian to his siblings wasn’t something that had been dumped on him. During a rare meeting with Mary, she had informed him that she and James were drawing up wills, and she’d asked if he would take care of her children if anything ever happened to her. He hadn’t hesitated when he’d given his consent. After all, Mary was only sixteen years older than he was, and chances were she would live to see all of her children reach their majority.

  But fate was tricky and fickle. Mary was fifty-six when she died, leaving a mountain of debts and sole custody of her children to a son she had denied within weeks of his birth.

  Peering at a clock on the fireplace mantel, Theo noted the time. It wasn’t quite six o’clock. Groaning at the effects of last night’s drinking, he made his way toward the staircase to the second level. He met Helen as she came down the stairs carrying a wicker basket filled with dirty bath towels. She cut her eyes at him, then moved closer to the banister when she caught a whiff of the stale alcohol on his breath.

  “Good morning, Theo,” she said cheerfully. “It looks as if it’s going to be a beautiful morning.”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  She flashed a Cheshire cat grin. “What’s the matter, Boss? Did you drink something last night that didn’t agree with you?”

  Theo mumbled a curse under his breath as he concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other until he made it to the top of the curving staircase without falling. He walked past the bedrooms belonging to the three children, and climbed another half dozen steps until he stood outside the door to his own bedroom. The alcove off the sitting room had become his office and his sanctuary. The glass walls brought the outside in, and the natural beauty of the panoramic landscape had become his muse.

  Stripping off his T-shirt, shorts and underwear, he walked into the freestanding shower stall and turned on the cold water. He welcomed the biting sting of the water as it beat down on his head. He adjusted the water temperature and washed his hair and body.

  Twenty minutes later, Theo sat at his desk, dialing the number of his agent, Jeff Helfrick. The call was answered on the third ring.

  “Whoever the hell is calling me at this hour better be talking a multimillion-dollar deal, or your ass is mine.”

  “Jeff, Theo.”

  “Theo?” Jeff’s voice lost its gravelly tone. “What’s up?”

  “I’m not going to be able to do the pilot for you.”

  “What!”

  He quickly related what had happened the night before. “Look, man, it’s too stressful for me to try and play daddy to kids who are still bleeding emotionally.”

  “I thought you had them in counseling.”

  “I did. They went for a few sessions, then they opted out. And forcing them to go isn’t the answer.”

  “Look, Theo, I don’t mean to sound insensitive, but you know you’re the best writer for this project. Didn’t you tell me that you’ve been waiting all your life to write a television drama featuring black actors who weren’t portraying entertainers, cops, inmates or pimps?”

  Jeff was right, but that did not make Theo’s decision any easier. He had written more than a dozen movie scripts, two of which had received Oscar nominations. The nominations had made him a more sought-after writer, but his dream since graduating film school was to write a television drama for a predominantly black cast. And now that he was being offered the opportunity, he had to turn it down because he had promised a dead woman he would take care of her children.

  “I can’t write the scripts while trying to reconcile with my family.” Suddenly it hit him. This was the first time he had thought of Noelle, Brandon and Christian as his family. “My little sister cries and sulks more than she talks, while Christian is hell-bent on turning nerdy Brandon into a thug. They have less than a week of school left, and I’m thinking of taking them away for an extended vacation.”

  “Where?”

  “I haven’t decided where.”

  “Look, Theo, maybe I can help you so we both can get what we want.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I built a little place off the South Carolina coast for myself whenever I need to disappear from my ex-wives. It’s on McKinnon Island. It’s small and laid-back. The tourists have yet to discover it, or it would be overrun like some of the other islands in the region. The house has four bedrooms and four full baths. It’s only a few hundred feet from the ocean, is centrally heated and cooled, and equipped with modern appliances. The kids can hang out, go fishing and crabbing, while you can write your ass off.”

  Theo smiled. “You make it sound very tempting.”

  “I’ll hold off telling the network that you won’t be able to do the project until next week. If you change your mind, then call me. I’ll arrange for a private jet to fly you and your family into Savannah. I’ll also arrange for a vehicle for you to use during your stay on the island.”

  “I won’t promise you anything, but I will think about it.”

  Theo ended the call. Before he made any decision, he would discuss it with his family.

  Three days later Theo sat at the dinner table with Noelle, Brandon and Christian. They ate without talking. It had been that way since Christian and Brandon’s Saturday night fiasco.

  Placing his fork next to his salad plate, Theo cleared his throat. “I’d like for all of us to go away for the summer.”

  “Where?” Noelle asked.

  Theo gave his sister a gentle smile. She was the most vulnerable of the three. Her parents were killed the day before her thirteenth birthday. Tall and willowy, she reminded him of a startled doe, with her large eyes and delicate features. She wore her relaxed shoulder-length hair in a profusion of tiny braids.

  “McKinnon Island, South Carolina.”

  Brandon glanced up and stared at Theo. “What would we do there?”

  “The house where we would stay is close to th
e ocean, so that means swimming, boating and fishing.”

  “Will there be kids our age, or old farts sittin’ around talking about their grandkids?” Theo glared at Christian, who dropped his gaze. “Sorry. We can’t swim.”

  Theo stared at each of them. “None of you know how to swim?” They shook their heads. He smiled. “Would you like to learn?”

  “Yes,” chorused three voices.

  “Then that settles it. We’ll leave for McKinnon Island Sunday. And tomorrow we’ll go to the mall after school and shop.”

  Noelle sat up straighter. “What are we shopping for?”

  “Bathing suits, sandals, tank tops, three disc players, several dozen CDs…” His words trailed off as his sister and brothers exchanged high fives.

  “Is Miss Helen coming?” Brandon asked.

  A powerful sense of relief swept over Theo. He had gotten them to agree to summer on McKinnon Island with him.

  “Yes, Brandon, Miss Helen is coming. She lives with us, and because she does, we have to think of her as family.”

  Family. He was getting used to saying the word. His grand mother had been his only family for many years, but now he had his brothers and sister.

  As a realist, Theo knew it wasn’t going to be easy, but at least spending the next two months on an island off the Carolina coast was a beginning—for all of them.

  Part Four

  MCKINNON ISLAND

  I saw the tracks of angels in the earth.

  —Petrarch

  Nine

  The sea its millions of waves is rocking, divine.

  —Gabriela Mistral

  Hope smiled. She had come home.

  The sight of the saltwater marshes wrapping around the west and south sides of McKinnon Island made her pulse race. She’d left Charlotte before dawn, driven to Savannah, then had taken a road, now referred to as a causeway, to the landing, where a ferryboat made more than a dozen trips a day to Daufuskie, Hilton Head, and McKinnon Islands.

  Slowing the rental car, she became a tourist and sightseer, noting changes in her surroundings. Road signs pointed the way to a new development, Palmetto Haven, advertised as a future gated community. Her heart sank in her chest. Developers had discovered McKinnon. And she knew they would be like the others, offering Gullahs money they truly did not need to leave their ancestral land.

  Her grandparents and their grandparents before them had supported themselves with things that came from the land and water. They grew their own crops, and raised chicken and cattle in their yards. Everyone learned to fish, crab, shrimp, and pick oysters. Nobody had much, but they always had enough.

  She drove along a recently paved road for a quarter of a mile, then turned off to the one that led to her property. Tall pines and ancient live oaks bearded with Spanish moss formed a natural canopy, shutting out the intense rays of the sun. Movement rustled bushes, and Hope shuddered slightly. It would take time for her to get used to the island’s wildlife: snakes, rabbits, coons, foxes, and probably a few surviving bobcats.

  The thick underbrush gave way to a clearing, where the first of a quartet of houses stood facing the water. The last time she’d visited McKinnon, two of the three other houses had still been vacant after their elderly residents had passed away several years before. She wondered if anyone lived in them now. Delicate curtains hung from the windows at two of the once-vacant, one-story clapboard houses, while vertical blinds hanging from the third answered her query as to whether the homes along Beach Road were occupied.

  Hope maneuvered into the sand-littered driveway to the newly painted white clapboard house at the end of the half-mile road. The caretaker had carefully tended the property. A new asphalt roof had replaced the corrugated tin, and the addition of dark green shutters matched wicker porch furniture swaddled in plastic. She cut off the car’s engine, got out and made her way up to the porch. Her key turned easily in the lock, and as the door opened on well-oiled hinges, a blast of heat met her, much like the one that would send her back several feet whenever she would open the door to her grandmother’s wood-burning stove. Working quickly, she opened all of the windows to let the stifling heat escape and a saltwater breeze in.

  It took her forty-five minutes to unload her car of luggage, her computer and printer, and put them in their respective rooms. The food she had purchased in a Savannah gourmet shop was stored in the refrigerator. She planned to take a bath, go to bed early, and sleep late. Driving more than eight hundred miles over a period of twenty-eight hours had left her totally exhausted.

  The sun was high in the sky, the tide had receded and a gentle ocean breeze wafted through the screened-in windows by the time Hope came awake. A smell, peculiar only to McKinnon Island, brought back memories of the mornings when she’d woken up in the large iron bed she’d shared with Marissa. She hadn’t needed an alarm clock to tell her to get up, because the smell of frying bacon, percolating coffee, and baking biscuits was all she needed to propel her out of bed, wash, and dress quickly so that she could eat breakfast with Grandpapa before he left to go fishing. Folks on McKinnon said that Simon Robinson was one of the island’s better fishermen. There was never a time when he failed to return with a boatload of crabs, shrimp, lobster, or oysters. Most of his catch was sold to restaurants in either Savannah or Charleston. What he did not sell he brought home to his family.

  It wasn’t the urge to eat that prompted Hope to get out of bed this morning but curiosity. She wanted to reunite with the people who clung to the old ways and made her proud of her Gullah heritage.

  After completing her morning ablution and letting her sister know she had arrived safely, Hope began the task of mixing tinctures of the six herbs Lana had recommended as a premenstrual formula. A shelf in the small kitchen held a plethora of dark apothecary bottles filled with seeds, herbs, barks, roots, and flowers that probably could be found on the island.

  Fortified with a cup of the herbal tea, dressed in her favored white man-tailored shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, a pair of cropped navy blue pants and running shoes, she left the house and walked along Beach Road and into town to reacquaint herself with her mother’s ancestral home.

  As she removed her sunglasses, Hope’s smile matched that of a man standing behind the counter at McKinnon’s mini-market. “Ya famemba me?” she asked, lapsing easily into the Gullah dialect.

  Charles Hill’s smile widened. “Who be dat?” he teased. “How could I ever forget the prettiest girl to ever step foot on McKinnon.” He came from behind the counter, arms extended. Hope moved into his embrace and hugged him.

  She kissed Charles’s cheek. He was still handsome. His dark gray eyes were incongruent in his tobacco-brown face. It was rumored among the Gullahs that his grandmother had been kept by a white man whose ancestors had owned the island’s largest rice-producing plantation.

  “It’s good seeing you again, Charles.”

  He held her at arm’s length. “How long has it been?”

  Shaking her head, Hope said, “I can’t remember. The last time I visited three years ago, your father told me you’d moved to Tennessee to coach a high school football team.”

  She and Charles had dated briefly during their seventeenth summer. Whenever he hadn’t been working in his family-owned store, they had spent their time together swimming or sitting on the beach reading their favorite novels. He had not had the money to take her to Hilton Head or Savannah, because he’d been saving every penny for college. When Hope had offered to pay for the ferry ride and dinner, he’d broken off with her. It was her first introduction to what she would come to recognize as machismo.

  Charles nodded. “I did. I’m back this summer to help out in the store. Mama called me a couple of months back to say that Poppa’s sugar is up again. She complains that he’s been working too hard, so here I am. What’s up with you, Dr. Hope? Why have you come back?”

  It was apparent her old friend was familiar with her column. The last time she had come to McKinnon, her column
had not yet celebrated its first anniversary. “Please don’t call me that,” she chided. “I’m thinking of writing a book, so I decided McKinnon is the best place to find a little peace and quiet.”

  “It’s so quiet that if you’re not careful you’ll fall asleep standing up.”

  Hope laughed and Charles joined her. They talked, reminiscing about the residents who had passed and moved away, and those who had remained. Charles proudly showed her photographs of his wife and two young daughters, who had elected not to vacation on the island this summer.

  Charles left to wait on a customer, and Hope wandered around the general store. It was stocked with as many hardware items and over-the-counter drugs as foodstuff. A door at the far end of the store led to a space that doubled as the post office. Incoming and outgoing mail was processed in Savannah and transported to and from McKinnon Island by ferry.

  Waving to Charles, she left the store and made her way along the two-block business district. She peered into the plate glass window of The Fish Net. It was noon, and the restaurant was filled to capacity. Vehicles with license plates from Florida, Georgia, North and South Carolina crowded the parking lot. The Jessup brothers’ reputation for fried catfish, barbecued shrimp, and their secret-recipe basted roast pig was legendary throughout the Lowcountry.

  She lingered in front of the small movie theater. The marquee advertised a film Hope had seen more than three months ago. At the far end of the street was a three-story brick structure where bales of cotton had once been stored before being shipped north. After the Civil War had ended the plantation economy, the warehouse had been left empty. In the mid-1990s a North Carolina theater troupe had converted the warehouse into a playhouse for their summer stock productions. This year’s playbill featured an updated version of Leonard Bernstein’s West Side Story. The last production she’d attended at the playhouse had been an upbeat rollicking Motown Revue.