Folly Beach

by Dorothea Benton Frank

  Among the many qualities John Risley possessed, he was also able to lower the volume on my sister.

  Massive giggles overtook us and countless disingenuous admonishments flew around the room like a swarm of crazy bees.

  My sister’s such a great kidder, making jokes all the time! Who’s joking? For God’s sake, marry her! Do you think your sister would have me? Are you serious?

  On and on they went until finally I said, “All right, you two? We can plan the wedding over dinner, okay?”

  “I’ll make the cake. John, what kind of cake do you like?”

  “I like every kind of cake,” he said. “Whatever you make is delicious, I’m sure!”

  “And you’re so sweet to take us out to dinner. Can we make dinner for you tomorrow night?”

  “I think that would be wonderful,” he said.

  “Have you seen the things my sister can do with a chicken?”

  “Well actually, only once but I can’t wait for an encore,” he said.

  “I’ll make dessert. Do you like chocolate?”

  “Hoo, boy,” I said, and sighed.

  I followed them, turning out lights, but leaving one on so I could find my way to the door in the dark. Patti was completely, totally, and thoroughly taken by John. I know this to be a fact because she kicked the back of my car seat about every two seconds the whole way downtown and she kicked my shins under the table all during dinner at Rue de Jean. And whenever she thought John couldn’t see, she leaned over and pinched me. I was going to be black-and-blue if dinner didn’t end soon. But truly? I was so happy, blissful really, to see that Patti approved so enthusiastically of him. For the very first time in my life I was with the right man. I had found someone who was genuinely right for me, my sister was talking like a normal person, and I was thrilled.

  He was giving her the story on some aspect of the Poetry Society of South Carolina and Dorothy Heyward’s involvement with the Dock Street Theater, even after DuBose was long gone. Patti was entranced.

  “And I am insisting that your sister write her story,” he said. “She’s always wanted to write a play . . .”

  “That’s true,” Patti said. “She made up tons of plays when we were kids but you should know she always gave herself the best parts. Just once, I wanted to be the princess, just once! But noooooo! Cate always got to wear the crown.”

  “Would you like some more wine, Cate?”

  “No, thanks, two glasses are plenty. The crown was cut from cardboard and covered with aluminum foil,” I said. “And just for the record, she never let me use her Easy-Bake Oven.”

  “So, you were a baker even as a child?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “Patti’s always been brilliant in the kitchen,” I said, thinking, oh Lord, how much manure can these two shovel in one night?

  Apparently, their skills in this department knew no ceiling and they continued piling it on until we were interrupted by the jittery vibration of my cell phone, which I had left on in case someone needed me. It was Russ.

  “Hey! Is everything okay?” I said.

  “Oh, yeah, everything’s fine. I just dropped Ella off and I wanted to tell you that Aunt Daisy was asking for y’all. That’s all.”

  “How’s she doing?”

  “I’d say she’s a little cranky but she’s sure better than she was.”

  “So, we’ll stop by. How’s Alice?”

  “Alice? Let’s say we talk about babies a lot. Maybe nonstop. I mean, do I really need to know all this stuff?”

  “Oh, honey, it’s her first baby. She’ll settle down.”

  “No, I don’t think so. I mean, tonight at supper I said, Can’t we talk about something else? She started crying and went in the bedroom and slammed the door. I finally just left to go see Aunt Daisy.”

  “Nice. Listen to your momma on this one. Before you get home? Buy her some flowers. And when you get there, tell her she’s beautiful and that you’re sorry. That’s all.”

  “Yeah, you’re probably right. I’ll stop at the grocery store.”

  “And we’ll stop by and see Aunt Daisy to tell her good night.”

  We hung up and I said to John and Patti, “It’s only eight. We have one short command performance and then we can go do whatever y’all want to do. Go listen to some music or something?”

  “Not a bad idea,” John said. “There’s a new jazz club on Market Street.”

  “Hey! Is paradise rumbling?” Patti said.

  “No. My son is being insensitive and Alice is weepy. Classic first pregnancy baloney.”

  “Let’s get going,” John said. “We can’t keep Miss Daisy waiting!”

  “Boy, that’s for sure,” I said. “And there’s a storm coming.”

  “Typical Charleston weather for this time of year,” John said. “One day you’re playing tennis or you’re out on your boat and the next day it’s freezing rain.”

  On the ride there, it had begun to drizzle and the temperature was dropping. We told John about how Aunt Daisy wanted us to bring her martinis and he laughed his head off.

  “She is such an original character,” he said. “So adorable. I just love her. Everyone does. You should see how she entertains my students when I bring them over.”

  “I’ll bet so,” Patti and I said.

  Our chatter continued until we rode up the elevator together, which was always a somber experience at a hospital. We were feeling pretty good after a delicious dinner and some wine and I was looking forward to the rest of the evening. As we stepped off we saw Tolli Rosol, several other nurses, and orderlies rushing toward Aunt Daisy’s room. We started running. I was thinking the worst and when I got there I nearly fainted from what I saw. Aunt Daisy was flailing her arms and legs, sitting up in her bed, choking. It was obvious that she couldn’t breathe. She was choking!

  “What’s wrong?” I said to anyone who might listen and give me an answer.

  “Get them out of the room,” Nurse Rosol said.

  “But what’s happened?” Patti said, just as panicked as I was.

  “Please! Leave so we can do our job!”

  John placed a firm grip on Patti’s arm and mine and pulled us outside. We watched in horror through the window. The orderlies were restraining Aunt Daisy, whose eyes were bulging in terror and another person, a man who I assumed to be a doctor, was holding what looked like a big oxygen mask over her face, trying to attach it. At the same time Nurse Rosol was giving her a shot of something. It was all so horrible and I thought they would never get her calmed down, fix what was wrong, and come out of that room. I started to cry and then Patti did, too. John stood in between us with his arms around our shoulders, squeezing us in between our sobs. I felt so completely helpless. What if she died right in front of us? Should we call Ella? No, I knew we should wait, because we didn’t even know what was happening to Aunt Daisy so what would we tell Ella? All we would do is frighten her and she was already at home for the night. Oh God, I thought, please don’t let this be it. Please save Aunt Daisy from whatever is happening!

  “Come on now, she’s going to be all right,” he said and I wanted to believe him.

  I wanted to believe him with all my heart, but I couldn’t, because his words didn’t match what my eyes were seeing. Not even close. But a minute or maybe two passed and it appeared that Aunt Daisy was beginning to relax. They elevated the top of her bed and gently laid her back into her pillows with such tenderness I started to cry all over again.

  Nurse Rosol turned to us and gave us a thumbs-up. Before I could even process the fact that we had gone from near-death to thumbs-up, she came out to speak to us, followed by the others.

  “She’s fine,” she said. “She’s absolutely fine.”

  “What happened?” I said.

  I was still reeling. Nurse Rosol dug in her pocket and pulled out a couple of tissues, handing one to me and one to Patti.

  “This happens all the time. Respiratory arrest. It’s basically a blockage in the ai
rway, usually mucus. The BIPAP machine forces air in, moves the blockage, and then she can breathe. She’ll probably not need the BIPAP for more than an hour. I gave her a good dose of Ativan to make her relax and help her tolerate the machine. She’s breathing normally now so that’s a very good sign. I just want to have the doctor take a look at her.”

  “Does this mean she won’t be coming home tomorrow?” I asked.

  “Not necessarily but the doctor will make that call, not me. My guess is he’ll want to keep her for another day just to be sure she isn’t going to have another episode. Remember, the antibiotics are going to take care of the mucus. And believe me, this is a pretty common occurrence. I’ll be right back.” She went back to her station and picked up the phone, presumably to call the doctor.

  “What do you ladies want to do?”

  “I don’t know,” Patti said.

  “I think we should stay until they take that thing off of her face, don’t you?” I said.

  “Patti? How does my future sister-in-law take her decaf coffee?”

  “Any way my future brother-in-law thinks I would like it,” she said and actually smiled.

  So did I.

  “I’ll be right back,” he said and disappeared down the hall.

  “What a graceful, elegant man, Cate. I think you’ve found the real love of your life.”

  “Me too.”

  “And you know what’s funny?”

  “What?”

  “Well, if I understood everything you were telling me about Dorothy and DuBose, you know, how she gave him all the credit for her work and was always promoting him and never herself? And she was the woman behind the man?”

  “Yeah?”

  “He’s going to do that for you, Cate. He’s going to help you become a playwright. You’re going to have a whole new career. And even though he pointed you to where all the clues are about the Heywards’ private life and even though he will probably help you through the whole, entire process, I’ll bet you anything that he won’t take one ounce of credit. He loves you, Cate. It makes me so happy to see you with someone like him.”

  “Thanks, Patti. I am really in love. It’s a little scary.”

  “Honey, it can’t be any scarier than Addison, okay?”

  “Yeah, he was pretty much the benchmark for scary husband.”

  “But I have to ask you something.”

  “What’s that?”

  “What race is John?”

  “His grandmother was an Inuit. Canadian. So he’s part Inuit, I guess. But he sure is beautiful, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, he’s gorgeous. Whatever he is, his DNA is the perfect genetic cocktail.”

  “You have no idea, sister, you have no idea.” Patti shot me a look of oh ho! And what secrets have you not told your only sister? and I added, “That’s all I have to say!”

  The night flew by. We drank coffee and the medical staff came and went. Aunt Daisy slept, they removed the mask, and when we were comfortable that she was out of danger, we left the hospital to drive home.

  It was pouring rain in torrents and the wind was gusting, swinging the traffic lights and bending the palmettos. I was glad that John was driving. I couldn’t see the road five feet ahead of us. But it was late and there wasn’t much traffic so we just drove a little slower. When we got home I told him not to get out, that we’d be fine and he didn’t need to get soaked to the skin. I was exhausted, and despite the fact that I was not looking forward to telling Ella what we had witnessed, I felt so lucky and so very blessed. I could say that my life was coming back together with at least some shred of confidence. Patti reminded him about dinner the next night, thanked him, and we said good night. We’d talk in the morning.

  Patti and I held our jackets over our heads and hurried to the door.

  “Hey, Cate?” she said, shaking out her jacket over the kitchen sink.

  “Yeah?”

  “I gotta tell you, this guy John is a prince.”

  “I’m going to spend the rest of my life with him, Patti. I mean, it’s almost like the hand of God is in on this one, you know?”

  Patti shook her head at me and laughed.

  “I think we’d better start going to church.”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Setting: St. Philips Cemetery.

  Director’s Note: Photos of New York’s theater district, cover of Mamba’s Daughters, Folly Beach, Christmas in Florida, Janie, and St. Philips Cemetery in the backstage scrim.

  Act III

  Scene 4

  Dorothy: DuBose and I knocked around the New York theater scene for a while after Mamba’s Daughters had its run, and we suffered with the ridiculous relationship we had with our director Guthrie McClintic and his wife. We were in rehearsals and I really thought we should cut a scene. It was just too melodramatic. But Guthrie’s wife was there, weeping at its perfection, and I just stood my ground. Don’t you know he accused me of calling his silly wife a nitwit, which of course I thought she was one but I would never have said it. Anyway, he threw a chair at me, careful to miss me but I thought, that’s it. I can go home to Charleston now and all you crazy people can have New York City. The only thing that saved Mamba’s Daughters was Ethel Waters who sang the lead. Lord, that woman could sing!

  And DuBose was feeling the same way that I was, so we decided it was time to go home. It was 1937 and he was offered and accepted a seat on the Carolina Art Association, which managed this very theater. A little later on, with money from a Rockefeller grant, the Dock Street was able to hire DuBose as the resident dramatist. Well, we worked together really. Our mission was to develop local talent, so twice a week, we’d gather up ten local aspiring playwrights and read what they had, critique it, and they’d go home and rewrite it. I loved the work and for DuBose it felt like the old days. We were supremely happy.

  Of course there was nothing to prepare us for his mother’s death. On June 10, 1939, Janie died from a heart attack. DuBose was devastated and the depth of his shock was a little frightening to me. He didn’t want to work, he said he was too tired and didn’t feel creative anymore. He started writing to his old friend Hervey Allen, who had moved to Florida, and during the Christmas holidays of 1939, DuBose, Jenifer, and I decided to visit them. Well, we had a wonderful time! Robert Frost was in town and we had the chance to catch up with him and everyone was so happy then. I thought, well maybe DuBose is going to come around. But when we returned to Charleston, DuBose became depressed again. He was worried about money. Janie had not left him very much, but she didn’t have very much to leave anyway. We decided to sell Dawn Hill and we did. To be free of that burden should have cheered him but it seemed there was nothing that could. He was sluggish and blue and I was at my wits’ end.

  We were up in North Carolina, staying with our friends, the Matthews. I thought he should see a doctor before we went to MacDowell for the season but he refused. Finally, he agreed to see a doctor who was a cousin of his, Allen Jervey. Allen suspected a heart ailment but didn’t think there was an imminent danger. But on the way home from the doctor’s, DuBose had terrible chest pain. Margaret Matthew, my dear friend, drove him back to Allen at the hospital in Tryon and DuBose died there. Just like that. It was Sunday, June 16, one year and one week after his mother died. I was a widow and my daughter was fatherless, the same way I was when I was her age. Jenifer never spoke her father’s name again.

  We laid him to rest beneath the venerable oaks in St. Philips cemetery. You know, DuBose was not a regular churchgoer. So it didn’t seem appropriate to have a big funeral in the church with music and hymns. But there was a poem he had written that I thought perhaps he might have written with himself in mind. It’s called “Epitaph for a Poet.”

  Here lies a spendthrift who believed

  That only those who spend may keep;

  Who scattered seeds, yet never grieved

  Because a stranger came to reap;

  A failure who might well have risen;

  Yet, ragged sang
exultantly,

  That all success is but a prison,

  And only those who fail are free.

  Fade to Darkness

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  In Control

  The weather was not as violent in the morning as it had been the night before but the skies were still pouring plenty of rain. There was no sign of it clearing anywhere on the horizon no matter in which direction I looked. I got up with the birds, because since before the first ray of morning light crossed my floor at dawn, I had been worried sick that Aunt Daisy was down at MUSC all alone having another attack. Of course she had not, or the hospital would have called me. But as I lay there having all manner of paranoid fantasies, I couldn’t get my mind to slow down long enough to go back to sleep. So I got up, dressed, put on a pot of coffee, and started rereading some of the notes I had on Dorothy Heyward.

  Patti must’ve smelled the coffee in her sleep, because when the pot finished dripping here she came, barefooted, crossing the floor in her flannel pajama bottoms and a T-shirt, scratching her stomach and yawning like a teenager.

  “Hey!” she said and gave me a hug. “You’re up early.”

  “Yeah, I was thinking about Aunt Daisy. Respiratory arrest. Screw that! It scared me to death. Coffee’s ready.”

  “Still raining. Wow.” She ambled over to the windows and looked out. “The yard’s a mess. I’m definitely not washing my hair for this weather. You want a refill?”

  “No, I’m good, thanks. Listen. As long as we’re up we may as well try to get Ella to Aunt Daisy’s bedside as early as we can. When we tell her what happened last night, she’s going to want to teleport herself there.”

  “You are right about that,” she said and pointed her finger at me for emphasis. “Let me just guzzle a couple of mugs and wash my face.”