I had hoped so hard against their denial of readiness that they would have children and soon. I wanted Russ and Alice to know the kind of deep joy and happiness that only comes with a family. And while I looked at the world very differently than my daughter-in-law, she made Russ happy. That was what mattered.
“You’d better call Aunt Daisy,” I said. “Wait till she hears this!”
Chapter Seventeen
Setting: The Porgy House in the music room.
Director’s Note: Photos of cardboard theater, cardboard actors, a soup tureen, and Jenifer on the backstage scrim. Voices of Jenifer and DuBose from off-stage.
Act II
Scene 4
Dorothy: I remember like it was yesterday. No change in the weather. No change in our moods, either. Our ship had yet to come in. We had consumed vast quantities of split-pea soup, more from boredom than from hunger, and we didn’t know what to do with ourselves.
DuBose was as sulky as I had ever seen him and Jenifer was whiny. I thought I might go a little crazy. Cabin fever, I thought, that’s what we’ve got. A colossal case of cabin fever. But it was cold and drizzling outside and no weather in which to send her out to play. She would catch her death and then give it to us!
Then I remembered the theater I had when I was a little girl. It was made of cardboard as were all the characters. Every day I wrote a new play and made new characters, forcing my family to attend the performances. I would make one with Jenifer and we would while away the hours reenacting fairy tales until the sun came out. Brilliant!
I remembered that I had some corrugated cardboard boxes whose present use was to hold old clothes I intended to take to the church for the poor. I dumped the contents of one of those boxes on the bed in the room downstairs opposite the kitchen and rattled through the kitchen drawers until I found my serrated knife. I cut off the flaps, turned it upside down, and cut out almost all of one side leaving some edges to be like stage wings. Then I cut a hole in the top of the box, through which I could lower my cardboard characters like puppets, their backs secured to pencils with tape.
I searched the pantry for some paint and all I had was some poster paints, old pots of red, blue, and yellow, almost dried up from neglect. I boiled some water, added a little bit to each pot, and shook them like mad. Then I covered the kitchen table with newspaper and called Jenifer.
“What is it, Mommy?” she said.
“We’re opening a theater!” I announced and put her to work, painting the building in red and blue stripes with yellow stars scattered all around.
Her eyes lit up and she clapped her hands. Jenifer was delighted. Here was my child, whose attention span was about as short as it could be one minute and in the next she was lost in space, completely absorbed in our project. That short attention span and spaciness would cause her trouble later on and all through her life. But then? We passed that afternoon and so many others, stretched across the living-room floor on our stomachs, lost in the world of princesses and every fantasy a childhood could hold. When all our stories were exhausted, we began to make up new ones. DuBose watched and listened, applauding at the end of each performance, praising Jenifer’s ingenuity and natural gifts he claimed she inherited from me.
“No doubt you’ll have a spectacular theatrical life, little one!” he said.
“Oh, no, Daddy. That’s your life and Mommy’s. I’m going to be a ballerina,” Jenifer said with solemn determination and then she rose on her toes, pirouetting across the room.
Fade to Darkness
Chapter Eighteen
The Moon
“What? I can hardly believe it!” Aunt Daisy said, practically breathless, having thrown herself back in her chair from the news, slapping her hand across her heart.
I had suggested to Alice and Russ that it would be thoughtful and yes, respectful to take a ride out to Folly to tell Aunt Daisy and Ella the news in person. I had called Patti and told her myself and she almost fainted.
“So, they have a sex life,” she said deadpan.
“Apparently,” I said and we broke into a fit of laughter.
“My God. Now what? Are you going to get a blue tint for your hair?”
“You know, I’ve got a body part you can kiss, too!”
So the next evening, before I met up with John, we were all gathered in Aunt Daisy and Ella’s kitchen, sitting around the table eating, what else, but a freshly baked pecan pie, still warm from the oven. We were all going to be diabetic soon but nonetheless, I had called ahead to Ella and begged her to make one and told her there was wonderful news, news truly worth celebrating.
“It’ll be on the table by six o’clock,” she said. “Don’t y’all want to have dinner?”
“Well, I’m seeing John and . . .”
“Shoot. I ain’t getting in between you and that man. Not me!”
“There’s nothing to get in between,” I said hoping that my words were a lie.
Anyway, I was all dressed (not to kill but hopefully to seriously maim) and ready to go out with John so I just drove over and met them at Aunt Daisy and Ella’s beforehand. I don’t have to tell you that I did not put on lipstick or cologne. I didn’t want to hear about it and Lord knows, in my family someone always has something to say.
“It’s true!” Russ said. “We’re having a baby, Aunt Daisy. Isn’t it great?”
“Mother McCree! I never thought I’d live to see the day when you were old enough to get married, much less have a child!” She sighed heavily and then, the sentimental nature of the moment getting the better of her, she smiled wistfully. “God, oh how I wish my sister was still alive for this. I miss her something awful right now. I really do.”
“I miss her too, Aunt Daisy,” I said, smiling. “But you did the heavy lifting with Patti and me so you deserve the spoils. Anyway, you have to believe she’s up there somewhere watching over us all the time, don’t you?”
“Humph,” she said with a grunt.
So much for Aunt Daisy’s spiritual side.
“She’s watching alright,” Ella said. “You have to believe that or else what are you going to do?”
“Oh, I prefer to howl at the full moon,” Aunt Daisy said, straight-faced. Then she cut her eye at me and said, “So, somebody’s gonna be a grandmother!”
I laughed and looked at Alice. “And somebody else is gonna be a mother!”
“I sure am,” she said. “This pie is so awesome. Do you think I could have another little piece?”
“You sure can, honey,” Aunt Daisy said. “You can have the whole thing!”
“Just a forkful,” she said.
Ella got up, took Alice’s plate, and cut her another big slice. As she handed Alice the pie, she leaned in and said, “You carrying a girl chile. Uh-huh, got you a girl!”
“Oh, come on,” Alice said. “You couldn’t know that.”
“Aw, come on, Aunt Ella,” Russ said. “I’m hoping for a b-ball buddy!”
“Ain’t no reason why that chile can’t play ball, but she’s a girl all the same.”
“How do you know, Ella?” I said.
“ ’Cause she’s cravin’ shugah! Boys want pickles. Girls like sweets. Mark my word! Y’all all see what come September!”
“No point in debating with Ella on that,” Aunt Daisy said. “She calls ’em all the time and guess what? It’s the only thing we never argue about.”
“ ’Cause I’m right all the time and you know it,” Ella said.
“Did you hear me disagree with you? You going deaf now, too?”
We all laughed and I stood up to leave, taking my plate to the sink to rinse.
“Where you headed, Mom?”
“Humph,” said Aunt Daisy, with her eyes widened to capacity and rolling around for emphasis. She certainly was opinionated tonight.
“I’m having dinner with John Risley.”
“Oh,” Russ said. “Well, that’s great. Have fun!”
“Thanks. Listen, if your sister calls, you might want
to keep that detail to yourself.”
“Oh, heeeere we go again,” Alice said, and put her fork down.
“What does that mean, Alice?” I said.
Now, wouldn’t you think that a twenty-eight-year-old young woman would have more manners than to voice an opinion about her mother-in-law’s social life in front of everyone? Pregnant or not, shouldn’t there be some kind of a filter between her hormonal brain and her flapping jaw? Apparently not.
“I’m just saying that to ask Russ to lie for you? It’s not a good thing. That’s all.”
Would it be so terrible if I put just one strip of duct tape over her mouth?
“You’re just saying? Well, that’s nice. Listen, Alice, I’m not asking Russ to lie for me or anyone else. I just don’t think it’s necessary to go advertising every piece of information you have. Sara is very sensitive and I don’t want her upset.”
“Don’t worry, Mom. I won’t tell Sara.”
“What if she asks?” Alice said.
“Then you just say you don’t know.”
“That would be a lie,” Alice said, finishing off that unnecessary but irresistible second piece of pie.
“No, sweetie, that would be discretion. Big difference. Now, if any of you ever see me having dinner with a known criminal then please, be my guest and alert the authorities. Anyway, he’s a friend and that’s all. It’s nice for me to have a friend, don’t you think?”
I forced myself to giggle so that she wouldn’t feel like it was a direct insult or reprimand and would then take it in stride. I winked at Russ, who was grinning, thankful that I had not really taken Alice to task, evidence of my vow to walk softly but think whatever I wanted. Let’s be honest, everyone knew what I thought of Alice, because it was a widely shared opinion.
“Ah, well, okay kids. I’m going to be on my way. Thanks for the pie, Ella. Y’all have a great evening! Oh, by the way? The piano is coming soon. Aunt Daisy? You don’t mind if I park it at the Porgy House for a while do you?”
“Absolutely not,” she said. “That’s your little red wagon.”
“Oh, my! Well? Whatever that meant!” I gave her a little kiss on the cheek and left.
I returned to the Porgy House, freshened up my face, spritzed all the important targets with cologne, and then went downstairs to look around the downstairs den. The piano would have to go in there. The stairs that took you to the larger room upstairs were definitely too narrow and frankly, I wouldn’t ask the deliverymen to even chance it. They would be singing soprano in a choir. Even so, I’d have to make room in the cramped downstairs. I was thinking of different ways to rearrange things when John knocked on the door. I ran my hands through my hair and answered it.
“Hey! Come on in,” I said.
He breezed past me, smelling predictably addictive, and then turned to face me. “Wow, you look so pretty! What did you do?”
I just stared at him.
“That didn’t come out right,” he said. “What I meant was, you’re always pretty but I thought maybe you’d done something to yourself? You know, different hairdo or something?”
“Pink lipstick, but it’s not new,” I said. “Bobbi Brown says you should always wear pink lipstick because it brightens up your face.”
“Well, I’ll have to try that,” he said.
“Oh, please.” I shook my head and said, “Let’s get out of here.”
“Yes, ma’am!”
There was very little traffic on Folly Road and we were just sailing along. I fell in love with the landscape every time I came this way, crossing the little bridges, spotting the snowy white egrets standing majestically in the quiet marsh and the occasional great blue heron swooping by.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he said.
“Beyond,” I said. “I can’t tell you how many times I tried to remember all of this and describe it to someone but there are no words.”
“Yeah, you really have to see it to believe it.”
“And every time of year is different . . . so pretty.”
The marsh grass was a beautiful tawny color, like the fur of a chinchilla. Whether it was green in the summer or brown in winter, it always seemed like you could just run your hand across it and it would feel so good, like streams of silk. The reality was it would cut your hands to ribbons while you sunk into the pluff mud, waving good-bye cruel world, and banks of coon oysters wouldn’t even blink as you went down, never to be heard from again. Take my word for it: don’t wear your good shoes clamming. In fact, if you ever do go out in the marsh, make sure it’s dead low tide and don’t bring those shoes into your house. Ever. Unless you like the smell of sewage.
“How was your day?” he asked.
“Fabulous. I’m going to be a grandmother!”
“Oh Cate, how wonderful!”
“Yep, in September!” I was thrilled. “And I spent the better part of the day today and yesterday at the Historical Society, reading until I was bleary-eyed.”
“Fantastic! I want to hear all about it.”
“Dorothy and DuBose were a couple of real characters, but you already know that.”
“Yeah, but I am anxious to hear your take on them.”
He began whistling a tune.
“Well, somebody’s chipper over there, Mr. Bluebird!” I said.
“And why shouldn’t I be?” he said as he stopped at a traffic light. “I’m with you and we’re going to have a fabulous dinner together and talk about my favorite subject in the world!”
“I’m beginning to understand the obsession. Reading those papers is like eating potato chips or buttered popcorn. Once you get started . . .”
“Yep! That’s what happens. Most people don’t take the time or have the time to do what you’re doing right now, but wouldn’t it be a great way to spend vacations? I mean, visit different cities and read what they’ve got in their libraries and special collections of other people’s papers?”
“I don’t know. I mean, I’d like to visit a lot of places like Angkor Wat and Patagonia and the Galápagos Islands but on the other hand, you’re probably right. There are so many thoughts I have about Dorothy and DuBose, Dorothy especially. But I wouldn’t be able to verify my suspicions unless I went to Ohio and dug up all of her childhood and got the scoop on her aunts. I feel like Nancy Drew on one hand and like a cheesy reporter for a creepy tabloid on the other.”
“Cheesy reporter?”
“Yeah, you know, out in Hollywood there are these crazed paparazzi who go through people’s garbage cans, looking for receipts to see how much money they spend on clothes and count their liquor bottles to see how much they drink?”
“And their mango skins to see what’s in their smoothies?”
“Exactly! How do you decide who someone was, based on the papers they leave behind? It’s impossible. Especially in this case, because I don’t think Dorothy wants me to know all about her.”
“Why do you say that?”
“There are too many holes. Stuff that’s missing. And things that don’t add up.”
The traffic on Folly Road grew heavier and then it seemed like we caught every single traffic light.
“Hmmm. By the way, we’re going to a very cool restaurant. The Wild Olive. It’s out on Maybank Highway. It’s actually real Italian, if you can believe it.”
“Oh, come on. The only Italian food in Charleston is Pizza Hut.”
“Not true! There are a few now. Anyway, they have this chef, a guy named Jacques Larson, and he’s great.”
“A French guy cooking Italian? Come on.”
“Nope, he’s from Iowa but he trained with Mario Batali . . .”
“No kidding?”
Well, of course, all you have to do is mention Italian food and the next thing I know, I’m salivating, my stomach is growling from massive hunger pangs, screaming to be fed, and I’m already trying to decide what I want to eat before I even see the restaurant much less a menu.
“Was that you?” he said.
�
�Yes,” I said, embarrassed to death.
“Holy hell! Do you want to stop for bread? I mean, can you make it there?”
“You’re hilarious, Risley. Anybody ever tell you that?”
“Yeah, all the time.” He was so pleased with himself. So pleased.
“Listen to you! All that rumbling from such a little person.”
He reached over and gave my leg a friendly slap. It was funny but about every two minutes my stomach would start wailing again. And John would snicker and I would tell him to knock it off.
“This is truly disgusting,” I said.
“There are some crackers in the glove compartment,” he said.
I looked and there were a few packaged saltines in pairs, left over from a chili order at Wendy’s.
“Fine,” I said. “Great.”
“But I can pull into the 7-Eleven if you think you’d like me to. I mean, you know, feed the beast?”
“Just shut up and drive, okay?”
We were both laughing at that point, because what could you do? I turned up the radio. This had happened to me before and it was usually the result of too much acid and not enough carbs. Maybe. Honestly, who knew why it happened but I hated it and wished my digestive system hadn’t started going into overdrive when I was planning to become The Seductress that night. Some siren I was.
We finally pulled into the parking lot of the restaurant and got out. The building was white and new, beautifully lit and landscaped. I had no idea it even existed.
“When did they build this place?” I said.
“I don’t know. A year ago or maybe a couple of years ago?”
“So many things have changed since I grew up here,” I said.
“You’ve been spending too much time in enemy territory,” he said with a chuckle. “I can show you wondrous things in the Lowcountry! You’ll think you’re in . . . well, it’s the Lowcountry and that’s it.”
“But it’s the updated version?”
“Exactly.”
Inside, we were shown to a table for two that was very nicely tucked away near the bar. Once again, as we crossed the dining room, John’s hand was resting on the small of my back. How and why had I ever lived for so long without any of these small demonstrations of affection? It just goes to show you that you can get along on very little.
Folly Beach Page 18
