Folly Beach

by Dorothea Benton Frank

  “I don’t know.” I thought about it for a minute. What was Mark up to? “We could steam it open with the teakettle. I’ve done that before. You know, open it very carefully, read it fast, stick it back in the envelope, and iron it to reseal it?”

  “Iron it? Nah. I never iron,” Patti said. “I’ll get the kettle going.”

  So, there we were in Aunt Daisy’s kitchen like a couple of middle-school truants, waiting for the water to boil so we could see what that letter from the school principal was all about.

  “So you really don’t know why Mark’s writing to Aunt Daisy?” I said.

  “Nope. I don’t have the first clue.”

  The kettle started pouring steam and I picked up the envelope.

  “Well, we’re just gonna find out,” I said, and held it near the spout.

  “Don’t get it wet!” Patti said. “The ink will run!”

  “Quit stressing and get a knife.”

  When it seemed loose enough we laid the envelope on the counter and carefully ran the knife between the flap and the envelope, pulling it ever so slowly and gently until it was open. Patti pulled out the contents. As she unfolded the letter, a check fell out, falling to the floor. I picked it up. It was a certified check for $100,000 from Aunt Daisy to someone named Heather Parke.

  “Who the heck is Heather Parke?”

  Patti was reading and practically gasping for air at the same time.

  “What? What does it say?”

  “Oh my God! It was for that woman, that woman with the baby! Look at this!”

  I stood next to Patti and read.

  Dear Aunt Daisy,

  I am returning your check because after a lot of thought, some mighty serious soul-searching, and lengthy conversations with Addison’s attorney Mel and his accountant Dallas we all agree that Heather Parke is entitled to nothing. Your generous offer to give her this money would only be the beginning of a life of torture for you and for Cate, because we are certain that she would return time and again to try to extort more money.

  History is replete with Heather Parkes, young women who make poor choices and wind up with unexpected dependants and eventual disappointment. Addison died bankrupt. If he had nothing to leave his wife and legitimate heirs, why would this woman and her bastard child be entitled to anything?

  Let her file all the lawsuits in the world. In Mel’s opinion and in the opinion of his partners, her suit is without any merit whatsoever and would be thrown out of court. And Dallas, his accountant, says he will sign any papers necessary to show that Addison was indeed not only bankrupt but in such financial ruin that it is unlikely he would ever have been able to earn enough to satisfy his debts and be solvent again. Finally, you most certainly have no obligation to this woman. But your generosity is a testimony to your special nature and it is what makes us all love and cherish you so . . .

  “That little bitch! Did she contact Aunt Daisy directly?” Patti said.

  “She must have!” I could feel my head starting to pound. “I’ll kill her with my bare hands!” I meant it.

  “We’d better put this back, Cate.”

  We quickly refolded the letter with the check and slipped it back in the envelope. Of course the glue had dried and wouldn’t stick. Patti grabbed it and licked it, leaning on it with the heel of her hand to secure it. Finally, it worked in some places and the envelope didn’t look as though someone had tampered with it too badly. I hoped Aunt Daisy or Ella would just rip it open and not give the seal much attention.

  “You know what’s in glue, don’t you?” I said.

  “Who cares? Here’s my question for you. How are you going to keep your big fat mouth shut?”

  “I don’t know because I am seething.”

  “You’re not going to be able to do that. I know you.”

  “Well, this was a pretty incredible secret for them to keep from me, wasn’t it?”

  “Keep from us, not just from you. I’m going to have a little chat with my husband and see just how this whole thing happened. He has to know everything.”

  “Want to go walk for half an hour? I think I need to, so when I face Ella and Aunt Daisy I can have on my game face.”

  “Yeah, let’s do it.”

  We locked up the house and walked out to the beach. It was getting closer to noon and the tide was out. Low tide and a warm sun were a beautiful combination and I reckoned the temperature to be somewhere near sixty. I began walking quickly and I could see Patti was struggling a little bit to keep the pace and talk at the same time.

  “I can’t believe Mark knew about this and didn’t tell me,” Patti said.

  “I can’t believe that woman had the unmitigated gall to try and get money from Aunt Daisy.”

  “She probably hired some ambulance-chasing lawyer who took her case on contingency and he just figured he’d keep suing the next of kin down the line until he found some money,” Patti said. “Can we slow down just a little?”

  “Sorry. I’m so angry that someone would harass Aunt Daisy, I could just explode!”

  “It’s pretty horrible alright. Listen, she’s just some tramp . . .”

  “Patti? I don’t care if she’s a tramp who works as a stripper or a nice person who’s a . . . who’s a pediatric hospice nurse!”

  “I’m not sure there is such a thing as a pedia . . .”

  “You know what I mean. What’s the matter with people? I still can’t believe she had the guts to come to Addison’s funeral!”

  “Yeah, in that awful weather, too,” Patti said and I knew she was trying to assuage my anger with a little humor.

  “With pictures! I mean, of all the crust! And then, to get some lawyer to go after Aunt Daisy? Is she kidding? I’m so mad I could spit! Heather Parke. What a stupid name. Sounds like a garden in Scotland.”

  “Yeah, her middle name is probably Lavender,” Patti said.

  “Oh, shut up, you stupid ass.” We started laughing then, like we always did when one of us talked the other out of anger or disappointment or any of the less welcome conditions that were visited on all of humanity. “Oh, Patti! What does this all mean?”

  “It means my husband has a brain, Aunt Daisy has a heart, and Heather Parke has some pair of calzones.”

  “Great. All I need is a pair of red shoes and a dog named Toto.”

  Someday, when I was more secure, I was going to do something wonderful for my sister.

  She looped her arm inside of mine and said, “Look, don’t worry. I’ll wrestle the whole story out of Mark and then we’ll think of how to get her to leave Aunt Daisy and all other family members alone. There has to be a legal way to do it.”

  “I’d rather slap her in the face about a million times.”

  “You’re right. That would be infinitely more satisfying. Now let’s get downtown before Aunt Daisy slaps us.”

  “Hey! Are we really going to bring her a thermos of martinis?”

  “Absolutely not. We’ll get her popsicles,” Patti said. “I’m in no mood for bullies. Or olives.”

  “Me either. Let’s move it.”

  What happened next was truly like a scene from a play. The sisters, the two fiercely loyal felines from the sand dunes of Folly Beach, the middle-aged ones with dreams still in front of them to chase until their last breath, they power-walked, fast and furious, until they nearly collapsed at the bottom of the wooden steps that went over the white sand and scrub and buttercups that would be back to bloom in summer, climbing the flight of steps to their aunt Daisy’s deck and returned, albeit begrudgingly, back to reality.

  “I hate reality,” I said to Patti.

  “Yeah, Folly Beach is way better.”

  I knew we couldn’t stop Heather Parke, the tramp with the supercilious name, from suing us until eternity. But she’d never see a dime from us and I was going to handle this from now on. Not Mark. Not Aunt Daisy. Not Mel and Dallas. Me. I’d find a free lawyer somehow, I’d ask John whom to call, and I’d file something in the courts to make
her stop. Or at least to upset her enough to make her go away for a while. That decision meant I’d have to confront Aunt Daisy and tell her I knew what had happened. So what? I was old enough to know that the truth was nothing anyone should ever be afraid to face. Like Ella used to say when we were just little girls, every back was fitted to the burden. Well, I thought then, heaven knows I’ve carried plenty of burdens and I was still standing.

  On the way to the hospital, Patti and I rehashed the letter and I told her my plan.

  “You’re right, of course. But remember, you’ve got the stash money I gave you for just such an emergency. If you need it to retain a lawyer, use it.”

  “I’m buying a laptop and a printer,” I said, apropos of nothing.

  “What?” she said, confused.

  “How am I supposed to write the Great American Play without a laptop and a printer?”

  “Holy Dorothy and DuBose, Batman! Go for it.”

  “You’re such a jerk, did anyone ever tell you that?”

  “Why no, but thank you very much!” she said in the worst Elvis imitation ever. “Thank you.”

  We picked up a box of popsicles at the 7-Eleven near the hospital and dropped them off at the nurses’ station once we got upstairs.

  “How’s she doing?” we asked the nurse.

  “She wants to know when we have happy hour,” the nurse said with a straight face.

  “She’s feeling better,” I said.

  “And you’ll be glad to know she doesn’t need a cast any longer. The X-rays showed her foot has healed just fine. We fitted her with a rocking boot this morning, for a little extra support.”

  “She probably wanted to know how many colors it came in,” Patti said.

  “Boy, you really know your aunt!” the nurse said and took the popsicles.

  We sat with Aunt Daisy while Ella went out to stretch her legs and get a cold drink. It was such a relief to see her with her eyes open and to hear her voice, even as raspy as it was.

  “Where have you been?” she said, in a whisper. “Ella’s boring me to death.”

  “You are incorrigible,” I said, smiling.

  “We got a late start,” Patti said, as though she felt the need to confess. “And we took a walk on the beach to shake out the cobwebs.”

  Aunt Daisy nodded and then she smiled.

  “Tetanus! Who knew?” she said.

  “Yeah, talk about a long shot,” I said. “The doctor said it was only the second time in his whole career that he’d seen a case of it.”

  “He’s single,” Aunt Daisy said.

  I just shook my head.

  “Listen, Miss Matchmaker, I’ve got enough going on with John Risley. He’s practically sending me back to college with this whole Charleston Renaissance business. I don’t want to go to medical school.”

  “I’m meeting him tonight,” Patti said. “But here’s the big question: Is he worthy?”

  Aunt Daisy sat up a little and looked down her nose at Patti. Then she fell back into her pillows and began fanning herself.

  “Got the message,” Patti said and giggled.

  “Oh, Aunt Daisy,” I said.

  There was no lack of drama in this family.

  We stayed for most of the afternoon. Ella had returned and Aunt Daisy began drifting off to sleep.

  “We’re going to go back out to the beach,” I said. “John’s coming at six.”

  “Just call us if you need a single thing, okay? You’ve got our cell numbers, I hope?”

  “I put them into Ella’s speed dial,” Patti said.

  “I marvel at your tech talents,” I said.

  We got in the car and rather than rush right back to Folly, I had this nagging urge to swing by the Charleston Museum to see the piano.

  “Do you mind if we make a stop?” I said.

  “No, of course not.”

  “I just want to check something out before we see John tonight.”

  It was a short ride and in minutes I swung into the museum’s parking lot and parked the car.

  “This will take five minutes,” I said.

  We paid our admission and hurried upstairs.

  “Remember the old museum on Rutledge?” she said.

  “Are you kidding? Remember that mummy?” I said.

  “That thing used to give me nightmares.”

  “Me too. You know, during the twenties and thirties the museum was run by a woman, which was a big deal at the time.”

  “I’ll bet it was.”

  “Yep, Laura Bragg was the first woman in the country to run a publicly supported institution of science and natural history. And she was a lesbian.”

  “Oooh! Le Scandal!”

  “Right? Lemme tell you, sister, back in the day? Charleston was wild! I could write a play just about her!”

  “Who knows? Maybe you will.”

  “I just might. Where are we? I’m lost. I thought it would be in this room . . .”

  Patti asked the guard to direct us to the piano and he pointed the way—after this gallery, turn right, two more galleries, turn right again . . .

  Inside of a minute or two we were standing in front of the glass case that held the piano George Gershwin used to write some of the music for Porgy and Bess. It was identical to mine.

  “How weird!” Patti said.

  “It sure is.”

  On its top was a bottle of Rheingold champagne with two lovely cut-glass champagne saucers that looked like ones Aunt Daisy might have used decades ago for a special occasion. On the floor stood an old banjo and a cigarette in an ashtray rested next to the sheet music for “Summertime.”

  “I wonder who played the banjo,” I said.

  “Didn’t lots of people play it then?”

  “Yeah, but I never read anything about DuBose or Gershwin playing one.”

  “Maybe it’s just a random decoration.”

  I walked around the side of the glass case and got a glimpse of the back. It was uncovered. Mine was covered with a panel of wood, finished just like the piano itself.

  “Maybe. Hey, Patti. Look at this.”

  Patti came around and stood in the exact same spot where I was and looked.

  “Cate? I think most upright pianos have an open back anyway.”

  “Yeah, I know. Usually they’re up against a wall. And it’s probably for sound, too. So why is mine covered up?”

  “Mom or Dad probably had it in an open space or something. Aunt Daisy might know. Let’s get out of here before we get stuck in rush-hour traffic.”

  I looked at my watch. It was almost four thirty.

  “Too late. We’re screwed,” I said.

  And, as predicted, we sat in bumper-to-bumper traffic, not arriving at the Porgy House until ten minutes past five.

  “You take the bathroom first!” she said.

  “Thanks! Maybe he’ll be late!” I said, rushing up the stairs.

  Patti and I made ourselves as presentable as we could in a short period of time and at six o’clock he wasn’t there. Ten after six, no John. Six fifteen, no John.

  “Should you call him?” Patti said. “You know, maybe he’s got a flat or something.”

  “Nice girls don’t call boys,” I said. “You want a glass of wine?”

  “You’re not a nice girl. Call him.”

  “If he’s not here in ten minutes, I’ll do it.”

  I went down to the kitchen and poured two glasses of wine from the open bottle in the refrigerator. I tasted one and then poured them both down the drain. There was nothing quite like cheap wine that had been sitting in a refrigerator for a couple of days to make you want a Diet Coke.

  Finally, there was a knock at the door, which he opened himself and called out, “Cate? Sorry I’m late!”

  “I’m right here!”

  He gave me a kiss and said, “Wow, you smell good.”

  The man was a veritable poet sometimes. Freaking Keats. But it should be noted that he smelled good enough to, well, you know what I mean
. Pretty delicious is what, okay?

  “Thanks! So, what happened? I was getting worried. You know, dead in a ditch?”

  “Wild horses couldn’t keep me away from you. Don’t you know that by now? There was a terrible wreck on Folly Road and my cell is dead. How’s Miss Daisy?”

  “Doing great, thanks! She’s probably coming home tomorrow.”

  “Where’s your sister?”

  “Patti? John’s here!”

  “Coming!” she called back and I could hear her feet scurrying about overhead.

  “Oh! Guess what? We went to the Charleston Museum today and saw the piano.”

  “And?”

  “You were right, of course. It is absolutely identical to mine.”

  “Isn’t that something?” John said.

  “Yeah, it’s another one of those crazy coincidences.”

  “There are no coincidences, Cate. This is another confirmation that you are the one to write Dorothy Heyward’s story. Plain and simple.”

  “I’m buying a laptop tomorrow,” I said. “It’s time.”

  “Hi!” Patti called out too loudly from the top of the steps. “Are y’all coming up or am I coming down?”

  “Let’s get going,” I called up to her. “For the first time in my whole life, I skipped lunch.”

  “Starving?” John said.

  “Like an animal,” I said.

  “Yeah, you are,” he whispered, with a naughty expression.

  “Hush!” I mumbled.

  Patti hurried downstairs, took one look at John, and I wouldn’t say she gasped or went all gooey, but there was a marked change in her normal demeanor. Maybe giddy was the way to describe her.

  “It’s nice to meet you,” she said, in her usual way, but I knew better, because she was talking too loud.

  He took her extended hand and put his other hand on top, holding on to it as though she was a rare and tender orchid he was protecting from a bruising tropical rain.

  “So, you’re Patti, Cate’s beautiful sister I’ve heard so much about. You’re much younger than I thought you’d be. You’re a pastry chef, aren’t you? How do you stay so . . . I mean, Cate said you were a knockout but she didn’t prepare me for this! No, ma’am, she did not prepare me for this!”

  Patti’s eyes opened wide; she leaned her head to one side and said in a new voice, one just above a whisper, “Please marry my sister. We’d love to have you in the family. I’m not kidding.”