Folly Beach

by Dorothea Benton Frank

  “Wait! Stop! Are you telling me that the Dock Street Theater wants to present my play?”

  “Yes.”

  “For real?” I think I was squealing then.

  “I’m still the director but, ma’am? You are the cat’s ass! I knew you could write! I just knew it!”

  He put the champagne down on the steps, grabbed my arms, and swung me around.

  “They love it?”

  “They adore it!”

  My heart was pounding so hard I thought I had better sit down, so I sat on the bottom step.

  “I am . . . I’m completely shocked! I don’t even know what to say.”

  “Well, why don’t we have a glass of champagne and plan our response.”

  “I think the answer is a big fat yes!”

  “No kidding?”

  “Stop! Listen, I’m drinking out of Dorothy’s glasses tonight and if you tell I’ll pinch you!”

  “I’m not telling a soul.”

  I got up and unlocked the door. “I still don’t have a porch light, you know.”

  “I’ll go to Lowe’s tomorrow.”

  “Talk’s cheap,” I said.

  We drank the champagne and I called everyone I knew. There were screams of delight from South Carolina to California and of course, Patti was beside herself with a hefty case of glee.

  “I’m making a giant cake of the Dock Street Theater for opening night and I’m baking it in Dorothy’s oven.”

  I laughed and said, “Be my guest!”

  “Oh, Cate, this is just thrilling news!” she said.

  “Yeah, I’m pretty thrilled, like right down to my toes. I just can’t believe it.”

  “What did Sara say?”

  “She’s quitting her job tonight, she’s flying here as soon as she can pack, and we start rehearsals next week.”

  “She’s playing Dorothy? Hoo, boy!”

  “Look, she’s John’s problem to direct, not mine. But you know what? I think she’ll do anything he tells her to. She’s stubborn but she’s not stupid. This is an enormous opportunity for her.”

  “For all of you, Cate. This is an incredible opportunity for all of you. Oh, I am so proud of you!”

  “Thanks, Patti. I love you, you know.”

  “I know that.”

  “Yeah, but sometimes you can’t say it enough.”

  That weekend, I picked Sara up at the airport.

  “Mom!”

  I was waiting for her in baggage claim and there she was, hurrying to me. One minute I was alone in the world and in the next I had my beautiful daughter’s arms around my neck. I hugged her back as though I had not seen her in years.

  “Do you have much luggage?”

  “Um, Mom? I have everything that I could cram in three suitcases and ten more boxes coming at some point. My friends are sending them. Whew! I can’t believe I’m here!”

  “Me either. This is so incredibly wonderful.”

  “I’ve already memorized half of the lines, too.”

  “Oh, honey, that’s great. We start rehearsals on Monday. Life’s pretty surreal, isn’t it?”

  “I’ll say. Dad kicks the bucket and boom! Meet Cate the Beach Bunny playwright!” She started to giggle like a schoolgirl and the music of her laughter was so infectious that people, milling around waiting for their bags, too, looked at us and smiled.

  Beach Bunny?

  It was only with the help of two stalwart skycaps that we were able to load her bags into my SUV. Each one was a hernia-maker in its own right. I pulled out of the parking spot, paid the toll, and left the airport.

  “How’re we going to get these terrible bags of mine in the house?”

  “Aunt Daisy has an elevator.”

  “Oh, I thought I was staying at the Porgy House with you!”

  “Aunt Daisy wanted you to stay in her house if you would, because she’s in Greece and you know she worries about bandits all the time.”

  “Mom! Come on! I want to be with you.”

  “And the Porgy House has no shower . . .”

  “No shower? So, like . . . how in the world do you wash your hair?”

  “With considerable determination and about fifty different yoga poses. And it has no television, either.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Nope.”

  “So, what are you doing there? I mean, like what the hell, Mom. You’re a creature-comfort kind of girl.”

  “When you see it, you might understand. It grows on you.”

  “Oh, wait. This is about John, isn’t it? He sleeps over and you don’t want me to hear you guys getting crazy.”

  I pulled the car over to the side of the road and said, “You listen to me and hear me good, young lady. Yes, it’s because of John and you’re right, I don’t want you to hear your mother having sex. Happy? And guess what else? John Risley is the nicest, finest man I know and he makes me happier than anyone I have ever known in my entire life. Furthermore, the only reason you are here is because of him. He is the one who insisted on you playing Dorothy. Sight unseen, he wanted you.”

  “Mom . . .”

  “I’m not finished. I also don’t think it’s a good idea for us to rehearse all day and then be together all night. You’re twenty-five years old. When it gets dark, all adults should retreat to their own camps. You and I have a tremendous opportunity here, Sara. The world comes to Piccolo Spoleto, scouts from every casting company on and off Broadway. Let’s not blow it because you don’t like the idea of your mother being in love with someone you don’t know. Give this a chance, Sara. Now, if you don’t think you can abide by my wishes, tell me right now and we’ll go straight back to the airport and I’ll buy you a ticket to Los Angeles. No hard feelings.”

  “Jeesch, Mom. Seems to me somebody else memorized their lines.”

  “What’s it gonna be?”

  “So when do I get to meet John?”

  “Tonight. He’s so excited to meet you he got a haircut.”

  “He did?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s pretty sweet.”

  We sat in silence for a few more minutes.

  “Uh, Mom?”

  “Yeah?”

  “We can go now. Why don’t we all try to be adults here and give your plan a chance? But if I get scared all by myself in that big house, can I come over?”

  “On occasion. Not too often.”

  “Wow. He must be something.”

  “He is.”

  “Russ likes him. He said so.”

  “So does Alice.”

  “That’s it! I’m not saying one freaking word. If Alice likes him he must be a god. That snippy thing doesn’t like anyone.”

  “That snippy thing is so sick that I actually feel sorry for her. But between us? Her behind is as big as Texas.”

  “Oh my God! Really? When are we seeing them?”

  “Tomorrow . . .”

  We talked and gossiped like old friends the whole way out to Folly Beach. Once the boundaries were established, she took a deep breath and appeared to be acting her age. I hoped it would last. And when I told her that we had the piano Gershwin used in our possession she was absolutely astounded.

  “Mom, that’s like totally amazing!”

  “I know.”

  I helped Sara get her bags into the house and gave her the key I had made for her. Fortunately, there was a guest room on the first floor—and it was a beautiful one—so we didn’t have to push and pull those horrible bags of hers up the steps. I pulled back the curtains and there was the Atlantic Ocean, and Sara stood at the sliding glass doors with me, awestruck. There were millions of white caps and ripples and the ocean was rolling in its glistening cobalt expanse as far as the eye could see.

  “Wow,” Sara said.

  “Yeah, that about sums it up,” I said and smiled.

  “Not a bad room, huh, Mom?” She threw herself on the queen-size bed and bounced, making a guttural noise that suggested exhaustion.

  The
room was a pale shade of apple green and the fabric on the curtains and headboard was a dusty tangerine and green wide plaid that was embroidered over the plaid with olive green vines and flowers a deeper shade of peach. I realize that sounds ungapatched and maybe even fachalata but it was really beautiful. Aunt Daisy’s taste in fabrics was absolutely top-drawer.

  “Not too shabby.”

  “You can come over and wash your hair any time you want.”

  “Thanks, honey. So get yourself settled and call me to let me know you’re ready. John’s picking me up at six so we’ll be right over. Oh, and here’s the key to Aunt Daisy’s car, so you have wheels.”

  “Thanks. You’re right, Mom, as usual. This is the perfect place for me to stay.”

  I gave her a kiss on the cheek. “See you in a bit,” I said and left.

  Dinner that night was just wonderful. We went to Oak Steakhouse on King Street. They gave us a table downstairs near the piano and as coincidence would have it once again, the pianist was playing Gershwin, but he also played a lot of Cole Porter, so I wasn’t completely spooked.

  But the most important thing was that John and Sara took one look at each other and nearly drowned in their mutual delight. All through a dinner of outstanding rib eyes, filets, and asparagus so fresh you could almost hear them growing, we talked about Dorothy and DuBose and that famous summer of 1934 when Gershwin stayed on Folly Beach for seven weeks.

  “I think Dorothy thought he was a colossal pain in the derrière,” I said. “There’s a letter somewhere in her papers where she talks about Gershwin saying that there were so many alligators on Folly that they walked right up to his door, which of course is a wild exaggeration.”

  “Oh, I think old George was just rapturous about being here,” John said.

  “Rapturous?” Sara said, and giggled. “Twenty-five-cent word. Good one.”

  “No seriously, y’all, here comes George Gershwin, Mister Bon Vivant of New York and Hollywood, to a crazy little island surrounded by mosquito-infested marshes and there’s not even a phone. What does he do? He takes off his shirt and goes around the town showing off his muscles and getting a tan. There’s even a story about how he hired Abe Dumas . . .”

  “From M. Dumas and Sons on King Street?” John said.

  “Yep.”

  “Gee, even I didn’t know that!” he said.

  “Or maybe it was his brother or his son, but anyway he hired one of them to be his driver slash tour guide and there are plenty of stories there, too. Anyway, he was quite the character, way bigger than life, practically flamboyant, and I have no doubt that his bohemian shenanigans worked Dorothy’s nerves.”

  “Why? I would think George Gershwin would be a blast?” Sara said.

  “Well, I’m sure he was fun but remember he made the Heywards, who were arch-conservatives, to the outside world at least, wait for years until he got around to making the musical with them. Dorothy was struggling to live on DuBose’s income and that was no easy task.”

  “Oh, I get it. Gershwin was rich and they knew it. And he probably knew they weren’t and she thought he didn’t mind stringing them along?” Sara said.

  “My smart daughter,” I said and blew her a kiss. “What Gershwin didn’t know was that Dorothy was loaded, too.”

  “Wait, I don’t get it. Why was she living on like bread and water when she had a lot of money? I saw those recipes of hers.”

  “Because she didn’t want to emasculate DuBose with her trust fund,” I said.

  “Although,” John said, “it should be pointed out that DuBose didn’t mind dipping into Dorothy’s resources to build a house for his mother.”

  “Listen, John. That could’ve been Dorothy’s idea. Remember they were living with his mother, Janie, and she was some piece of work.”

  “What a story,” Sara said.

  “That story is the why of how we all came to be together tonight,” I said.

  We dropped Sara off at Aunt Daisy’s and when she went to give me a good-night hug she whispered, “He’s fabulous, Mom.”

  “I know,” I said and smiled with relief.

  John walked her inside to check for robbers and thieves and came back a few minutes later.

  “She’s a wonderful girl,” he said. “She’s going to make an incredible Dorothy Heyward. She even looks like her a little bit.”

  “Thanks! And I think you’re right. She’s tiny like Dorothy was. If she bobbed her hair like they did in the thirties she might be a dead ringer with the right makeup.”

  “Well, we can fit her with a wig and see,” John said. “Anyway, I’m anxious to start rehearsals, aren’t you?”

  “I’m just anxious period,” I said.

  “I’ve got the cure for that,” John said, and made a low-pitched growl that sounded like a leopard getting ready to pounce.

  Men. So silly.

  We arrived back at the Porgy House and I was still chuckling to myself.

  “Want to have a nightcap?” I said.

  “What do you think?” he said.

  My anxiety was completely addressed and it magically dissolved before the night ended and I thought, whew, if Sara had been in the next room during this steamy episode, she’d spend the rest of her life in analysis.

  Monday at ten Sara and I made our way to the Dock Street Theater.

  “I fully expect the spirit of Emmett Robinson to open the door,” I said, opening the door myself.

  “Who’s he?” Sara said.

  “He was the most cherished artistic director of the Footlight Players and he was Alfred Hutty’s best friend. His daughter is a new friend of mine.” I told Sara how Jennet had helped me tell Heather Parke to get lost.

  “Wow. I want to meet her.”

  “Oh, you will! I’ll make sure you do.”

  We were meeting John with a lighting person, a sound engineer, a stage manager, and two assistants to see about props and costumes. The main stage was free so we decided we would begin there and just do a read-through to get used to the acoustics. Everyone trickled in and by ten thirty had introduced themselves to one another and we got started. A familiar face arrived with a cooler of drinks and sandwiches.

  “Don’t I know you?” I said.

  “I’m Christi Geier. I think we met at the Red Drum.”

  “Oh, right! Well, how nice to see you again. Wow, you’ve got a job, your LSATs, and now this? That’s a lot to juggle.”

  “Yeah, but you know what? I loved Professor Risley’s playwrighting class so much, when he put out a call for volunteers, I jumped at it! Who wouldn’t want to work on a play about the Heywards?”

  “Actually, it’s more about Dorothy.”

  “Oh, really? Have you read the script?”

  “Yeah, about a thousand times. I wrote it.”

  “Oh! I didn’t know you were a playwright.”

  “I didn’t either. Well, now I am . . .” I could feel myself blushing.

  “Oh my goodness. Congratulations!”

  “Thanks! And that’s my daughter . . .”

  I sat in the audience in different places to see if I could hear Sara. Her young voice was so clear and carried so well, the only place I had a little trouble hearing her was the far corners of the house. John and the sound engineer decided to place several discreet and tiny wireless mikes on the floor stage left and right, which corrected that issue. Lists were made of props and costumes scene by scene and over the next three weeks, the props and costumes were found and approved or not and it looked like we were finally getting our proverbial act together.

  At last, we got to dress rehearsal and it was almost flawless. Sara said, not to worry, she would be the reincarnation of Dorothy herself within twenty-four hours. The word was out that our play was a must-see and every single performance was sold out.

  Aunt Daisy and Ella were home, for a change, Patti and Mark were flying in that afternoon. Alice and Russ were coming for an early dinner and we were all mighty excited. As soon as Patti and Mark check
ed into the Jolly Buddha, her favorite, we were all to gather with John at Aunt Daisy’s and Ella’s for moussaka and feta cheese salad and what other Greek delights Ella had taken a shine to on their trip. Patti apologized at least ten times for not making the cake. She’d had a wedding to bake for or she would have come down days ago. I told her it didn’t matter one bit. There was no way I’d be able to swallow food. I just wanted to get to the theater and have the first performance of Folly Beach behind me.

  “I’ve been stuffing grape leaves over here, Mom. Gross. When are you coming over?”

  “I’ll be there soon.” I was just waiting for John to arrive. It was just three.

  A few minutes later he knocked on the door.

  “Hey,” he said. “You look beautiful! Success must agree with you!”

  I had on a new dress, something kind of silky and retro that I thought Dorothy might have worn.

  “Oh, John! What a journey this has been. How can I ever thank you?”

  “Oh, I know a few things . . .”

  “Bad!” I said and then, “oh, John, I’m so nervous about tonight.”

  “Don’t be. Sara’s got this baby nailed. All you have to do is show up and collect tons of applause and bouquets with your daughter.”

  “And you, too, Mr. Director.”

  “I only had the slightest hand in this entire venture, ma’am,” he said in what I think he thought was a Rhett Butler accent.

  You see, this was one of the small peculiarities with theater people—they spoke in accents whenever they felt like it, leaving you to guess who they were imitating.

  We went to Aunt Daisy’s and stayed for only an hour. Sara was anxious, too, so we thanked everyone, kissed everyone, and they all told us to go break a leg. Happily, we arrived at the Dock Street unscathed and before we knew it, our eight o’clock curtain time was gaining on us. I went backstage to kiss Sara for luck. She turned to me in her dressing room, and with her wig, makeup, and period dress, she was almost Dorothy Heyward in the flesh. I was dumbfounded.