Folly Beach

by Dorothea Benton Frank

  We scanned the menus and I was drawn to the pastas.

  “Wow,” I said. “I’m thinking about a big ole bowl of spaghetti and the house-cured salumi with the . . . well, with the stuff that comes with it.”

  “And I’m torn . . .” John finally settled on the braised meatballs and polenta. “I’m having mussels to begin,” he said.

  I’m having muscles later, I thought and did not say. Anyway, I loathed mussels and hoped I could watch him eat them without getting ill.

  “Sounds good,” I said.

  He ordered a bottle of Chianti Classico and we got down to the contents of the bread basket. As soon as the wine was poured, John said he wanted to propose a toast.

  “Sure! To what?”

  “I say let’s drink to the memory of the Heywards, John Bennett, Josephine Pinckney, and . . .”

  “Hold it right there, Dr. Renaissance. It’s all I can do to hold the Heywards in my head!”

  He laughed and said, “Okay. To Dorothy and DuBose!”

  “How about just to Dorothy? DuBose is not exactly my favorite guy right now.”

  “All right, then, to Dorothy.” We touched the sides of our glasses and took a sip. “So, do you want to tell me what poor old DuBose did to offend you so? We certainly have become a bit judgmental haven’t we? A few hours in a library and one of Charleston’s greatest icons is a scoundrel? ’Fess up, woman! What did you find?”

  “Oh, please. Make fun. I mean, you’re right, of course. I’m no expert but the facts are a little strange. Where to start?”

  “Start anywhere.”

  “Well, all right. I’m assuming you’ve read everything they’ve got down there. Is that right?”

  “Yeah, and everything from Harlan Greene and James Hutchisson and Barbara Bellows . . . but I’ll admit, it’s been a while. I can give you their books, too, you know, to round out your education.”

  “That would be great.” I took another sip of wine. “I’m really loving this whole era, the beautiful gowns and the way women wore hats and gloves and what went on. Okay, so look, here’s the first thing I’m sure of. I am absolutely convinced that Dorothy Heyward was in love with DuBose like Cathy was with Heathcliff. Like Scarlett, like Anna Karenina, like Juliet . . . I mean, her love for him was epic, the stuff of the greatest classics in the whole of time. Obsession! Totally consuming obsession.”

  “And what’s the matter with that? Isn’t that how a woman should love a man?” John had this tiny little smile creeping across his face.

  “God forbid. That kind of love is a lethal prescription for misery. It’s what got me a room at the Porgy House. I mean, if you find yourself falling for someone, really falling? You’d better keep both eyes open.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind. Anyway, tell me more.”

  Our appetizers arrived and I tried not to look at his so I dove right into mine, taking a bite of the chicken livers on crostini.

  “Wow, this looks perfect. Okay, so, as you know, Dorothy got shuttled around from one aunt to another during her childhood and then shipped off to a boarding school, right?”

  Then it happened.

  “Yes. Say? Would you like a mussel?” John offered me one, with the dark slimy bulbous thing hanging from the tines of his fork like a horrible goober on a miniature gigging pole.

  I gagged a little but held on.

  “Uh, no, thanks. Listen, you may as well know, the only way that thing is getting in my mouth is if it can fly. Have you ever cleaned one of those bad boys?”

  “Can’t say I have.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s a totally nasty trip. They’ve got this beard you have to remove and then this blue cone-shaped phallic thing you have to pull out . . .” I shuddered. “Sorry.”

  “Gross,” he said. “That was truly gross. Maybe I’ll have carpaccio instead. Does raw meat bother you?”

  “Not at all.”

  He signaled for the waiter and explained that he had changed his mind, they could charge him for the mussels but I was offended by their presence and this was a very important night. The waiter, thoroughly confused, took them away and promised to take it off the bill anyway.

  “Jesus, Risley, I’m sorry. You must think I’m really crazy . . .”

  “No. I know what crazy looks like and you’re not it.”

  I paused then and looked at him, pushing my platter of antipasto toward him to share.

  “Have some. Please. You want to talk about her?”

  He helped himself to a slice of mozzarella and a piece of red pepper.

  “I’ll tell you about her. I promised you I would if you’d like me to, but finish telling me about Dorothy and why DuBose is such a bum.”

  “Okay,” I said and helped myself to more wine. He took the bottle right out of my hand and poured it himself.

  “Forgive my oversight, ma’am.”

  “Thanks. Well, first of all, I think that having some sense of permanence, you know, a place where she truly belonged, was the most important thing in the world to her. And I think being respected and famous in the world of serious literature was way too important to him. And when they met, she had this great education, she was a promising playwright, and she probably had wads of money that was left to her. He was adorable, soft-spoken, and most likely very attentive and probably had a pretty sophisticated demeanor.”

  “So, he’s a bad guy because . . .”

  “He saw her as a ticket for him and his momma out of poverty. That’s not to say he didn’t care for her. I think he must have, because in all the old photographs and press he sure seems devoted to her. But she had been treated like an orphan . . .”

  “Well, she was one.”

  “No, I know that, so was I, so maybe I’m sensitive to that. But here was someone who also appealed to her intellectually, socially, and yes, despite all of his grotesque infirmities, he appealed to her physically, too. She, who had never enjoyed anything close to great health, was in far better shape than he was. She could save him. Women adore saving men. And he needed saving.”

  “From what?”

  John was smiling and relishing his carpaccio, picking up the parmesan shavings with his fingers. He was clearly enjoying himself.

  “Poverty. His mother. The ravages of polio and all the other diseases he had in his life. And professionally, too.”

  “And what did she get out of it?”

  “A home. And the great satisfaction of restoring his family’s name in Charleston and helping to build his name in the literary world and in the theatrical world. And she got the love of her life.”

  “So, you think he married her for her money?”

  “Yep. Definitely. I mean, he was living with his momma! And the fact that she understood writing for the theater and had a real gift for it. Dorothy was happy for him to give up his business and try to live on only what they earned. And she was meek enough to stay in his shadow and let him be the star.”

  “You think DuBose wanted Dorothy’s thunder?”

  “No, I just think it was there for the taking and he took it but he always kept her at his side. Look, you don’t have to read very far to discover how ambitious he was. What man has his portrait made that often? What straight man, anyway?”

  “There were rumors.”

  “No kidding?”

  “Yeah. I mean, the guy was a shrimp with deformities and so soft-spoken people had trouble understanding him. Oh! You’ll love this! When they started up the Poetry Society, he went around with this petition for incorporation asking people to sign it and they thought they were signing up for a Poultry Society.”

  “That’s pretty funny.”

  John sat back in his chair and stared at me for what seemed like an incredibly long period of time. I just continued eating, finishing up the last of the olives and caponata, waiting for him to say something.

  “You know,” he said, “I’m not sure that I agree with what you’re surmising about them but here’s something. I don’t think contemporary hi
storians have ever looked at their marriage and career from her point of view.”

  “Well, that’s not hard to believe, because her letters to him were destroyed. He probably dumped them so his Nosy Nellie mother wouldn’t read them.”

  “Maybe.” John laughed at that.

  “Or, she threw them out after he died, trying to cover her footprints so he could be all shiny and bright when he took his place in history next to Gershwin.”

  “Maybe. I mean, what if that’s all true, everything you’re proposing?”

  “Who cares?”

  “Well, I do. And you know what else, Nancy Drew?”

  “What?”

  “So would others. Who cares if it’s speculation? This story would make a wonderful play for Piccolo Spoleto Festival. I mean, you said you wanted to write a play, didn’t you? Give it a shot!”

  “Oh, no, I couldn’t. I mean, I don’t know enough. And isn’t it sort of treasonous to screw around with DuBose’s reputation?”

  “Absolutely not. Have you been to the theater lately? Nothing’s sacred. I say, go have a ball!” He reached across the table and took my hand in his. “I’m not kidding, Cate. Do it.”

  Holy hell, wait until I told Patti about this. I was holding hands with this gorgeous man who was telling me to become a playwright. Maybe I would! I looked at his hand and thought, wow, it’s beautiful. I loved the shape of his fingernails, the light brown color of his skin . . . the waffle of my virtue was gaining speed.

  “Well, I’ll think about it. Anyway . . .” Our entrées arrived and the aromatics of pancetta and pecorino riding on the steam rising from my spaghetti were divine. “This looks amazing. Italian food in Charleston. Wow.”

  Our waiter grated some additional cheese on our food; then he stepped back.

  “Buon appetito!” he said and walked away.

  “So, John?”

  “Ah! Yes, you want to know about Lisa, I guess?”

  Her name was Lisa.

  “Yeah, well. Yeah.” I wound several strands of spaghetti around my fork and blew on it. “Hot.”

  “Lisa is in a small hospital slash jail where she will spend the rest of her life.”

  “What’s the story?”

  “The story. Well, we got married right out of college. We were young and foolish. We were living in Maryland then. She was working for an insecticide company and I was teaching ninth-grade English. For a while we were getting along just fine and then she started acting paranoid and accusing me of running around on her.”

  “Were you?”

  “God, no. I was working every minute I could, trying to save money to buy a house for us. Anyway, one night I came in sort of late and she flew at me with a knife, saying she was going to kill me. I got the knife away from her but then she kept on screaming and it became obvious to me she didn’t know who I was.”

  “She snapped or something?”

  “Yeah. So I got out of there and went to a buddy’s house to spend the night on the sofa. The next day, I went back to get a change of clothes and she acted like nothing at all had happened. When I asked her about what the hell she was trying to do, she didn’t know what I was talking about.”

  “But, she must have.”

  “Well, who knows but anyway, I stayed with her. Then the same thing happened a few more times so I moved out. She refused to see a doctor or anyone. I felt terrible for her but I couldn’t live like that.”

  “Who could? Where was her family?”

  “Father took off when she was a kid and her mother was basically a street person in Salem, Oregon, making jewelry with beads made out of recycled paper, selling the stuff for whatever she could get.”

  “You mean useless?”

  “Exactly. Anyway, Lisa wanted us to get back together and all that but I said no, I really didn’t think it was a good idea. And, there were lots of hysterical phone calls and crying and I just held my ground. I mean, I was as nice as I could be. I kept telling her she needed help but she refused, saying she was fine. Somehow she continued to function. Then one day all the phone calls stopped.”

  “And you had not filed for divorce yet?”

  “No. I didn’t have money for a lawyer and I wasn’t seeing anyone so it didn’t matter. Anyhow, she found out where I was living and one day when I was out . . .”

  “So she was watching your house?”

  “Had to be. Anyway, she climbed in through my kitchen window and poured thallium into my grapefruit juice. Then she left.”

  “Nice. Very nice. That’s an insecticide, I assume?”

  “Yes. It’s rarely used these days.”

  “The world’s probably better off for it. Then what?”

  “I came home, drank part of a glass, thought it tasted funky, then my stomach started killing me. I thought I was having an appendicitis attack so I went to the emergency room. They did blood work, found traces of the poison in my bloodstream, and called the cops.”

  “Holy hell! So, did you say you thought it was her?”

  “No. Stupidly, I did not. Look, I felt bad for her, you know? And I thought well, it won’t happen again. But it did. Then I realized she really was trying to kill me so I let the police search my house. They found all kinds of forensic evidence that nailed her. She was convicted but sent to a high-security hospital instead of a jail. Anyway, she’s not coming out.”

  “How do you know? I mean, don’t people go to a hospital to get well and go home?”

  “Yeah, but apparently she tried to stab a few of the orderlies with a fork and she’s had some other issues with other patients.”

  “So she’s violent.”

  “Very. And delusional.”

  “Gosh, that’s so sad. So, how come you never got a divorce?”

  “For a lot of reasons. First, I struggled with the whole in sickness and in health part of the vows. I thought if I don’t forgive, I will become angry and bitter. Then, as I began to teach at a college level, I realized it was probably better if my rambunctious coeds thought I was married. And now, I can’t get the ring off. Seems like my knuckle grew. I mean, I could have it cut off, I guess, but there’s never been a reason to.”

  “Oh.” I understood now and didn’t feel so guilty.

  “Oh? Oh, I see what you’re thinking. I got close a couple of times but life always got in the way of serious commitment for me. You know, either I moved or they moved or something.”

  “Wow.” That was very disappointing news. After all he’d been through, the chances of him ever making a commitment were probably greatly diminished. What good-looking straight man with a job makes it to his age without a family? One who doesn’t want one. I was forewarned but not completely discouraged.

  “Okay, I can hear what you’re thinking. Listen, I’ll make you a deal.”

  “I’m all ears, Risley, and this had better be good.”

  “When you get rid of yours, I’ll get rid of mine.”

  I looked down at my left hand and there it was. My wedding band of disappointment. My phony diamond, that unforgettable deception, was in a box somewhere, packed with other costume jewelry. THE TALE OF THE WIDOW AND HER INFAMOUS CZ was another story to tell him on another night.

  There would have to be some kind of a ceremony to mark my liberation from the confines of my inglorious farce of a marriage. Maybe I would wait for Patti to come to town. We could stand on the last tiny bridge to the island with a couple of lit sparklers and a thermos of something wicked and toss the lying thing over into the water. Or maybe I would toss it from the Ravenel Bridge. It was higher and would be more dramatic. This required thought.

  “It’s kind of like a battle memento, isn’t it?” I said and smiled.

  He looked at me and smiled so sweetly that I believed then that his relationship with me was going to be different from all the others. I knew it. I did. Okay, I didn’t know it but it didn’t really matter because I was already in the soup. The way we were looking at each other? All I could think about was how we wou
ld be together. We may as well have already been in bed. And soon we were. But here’s how the evening progressed.

  First, I put my fork down and John immediately said, “You don’t want dessert, do you?”

  And I said, “I was thinking of something else but if you want dessert? I don’t mind if you do.”

  “Let’s polish off this bottle. I’ll just get the bill, and let’s get out of here. I have some ideas of how we might spend the rest of the night, too.” He signaled the waiter with the universal check mark written in air and the waiter nodded. “Before we go, I mean, since I laid it on the table about Lisa, is there anything you want to tell me about your husband?”

  “Well, his name was Addison, he killed himself, which I think you know . . .”

  “God, no. Actually, I only knew that he was deceased.”

  “Yes, well, lemme tell you, committing suicide was the only noble thing he had done in years. Very few people mourned. My children did, of course. But not many others. I don’t miss him one little bit, which surprises me sometimes. That’s not to say finding him wasn’t a terrible shock, but I am sort of over that now. I think. But the reality is that he was such a terrible husband for so long that I am more relieved than anything else. The Tale of Addison Cooper is a really strange story about arrogance and self-deception, but yours is actually more bizarre.”

  “Well, it’s not every day that your spouse tries to murder you. What did he do for a living?”

  The waiter placed the bill on the table; John glanced at it and put his credit card down.

  “He ran a private equity firm and managed a portfolio that was once worth about twenty billion dollars in assets. His friends and former partners think he found out that he was going to be indicted for every crime in the books he cooked but he preferred to die rather than go to jail. How stupid is that?”

  “Seems like a drastic way to deal with things, doesn’t it?”

  “To say the least. Maybe someday I’ll tell you just how unbelievable he was. And I was so busy trying to keep him calm and keeping things going I had no idea how much trouble he was in.”