Folly Beach

by Dorothea Benton Frank

  “Well, darling, I just came back here to say knock ’em dead.”

  “Thanks, Mom,” she said.

  “Need anything?”

  “No. I’ve got it all covered. And Mom?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “Thanks for this, you know, this chance.”

  “My pleasure.” My eyes started to tear. “Okay then, I’ll be the wild one in the back row with Aunt Daisy and the gang.”

  The theater was filled and the lights were going down. The stage manager was calling places and a few minutes later the curtain rose. Sara climbed out of Dorothy Heyward’s grave, brushed herself off, kissed her fingertips, and touched the headstone of DuBose right next to hers. Then she came down center stage and spoke.

  “I married an actual renaissance man. Yes, I really did! The story I have to tell you is about the deep and abiding love we shared . . .”

  Ninety minutes later the curtain fell, the audience was silent, and then, after what seemed like a year, there began the sound of thundering applause that grew so loud I started to cry. Sara took her bows, John his, and then they waved me up to the stage. People stood as I tried to make my way there without tripping or just falling out of my shoes and dissolving into a pool of relief. I couldn’t believe how well it had gone but it was true. They cheered, they even whistled, and I joined Sara and John onstage. Somewhere in the back of the theater a small woman arose from her seat, a small woman who was the clone of Dorothy Kuhns Heyward. She smiled at us, we acknowledged her, she saluted us, and she vanished in front of our eyes. I caught John’s and Sara’s faces and their eyes were wide in surprise. But we should not have been surprised. After all, this was the Lowcountry, where impossible becomes possible every single day.

  Epilogue

  September 2010

  “Hey, I got here as fast as I could!” John said. “How’s Alice?”

  “Screaming her brains out,” I said. “Poor thing, she’s waiting for the anesthesiologist to show up and give her an epidural. Poor Russ is in there, sweating. And she’s two weeks early. She’s probably scared to death.”

  “Is her mother on the way?”

  “Maureen? Last I heard she was trying to get a flight,” I said.

  We were gathered in the lobby outside the emergency room where Alice was being admitted. They were going to move her up to labor and delivery as soon as they finished the paperwork.

  “You want a bottle of water or something?” he said.

  “Gosh, that would be great,” I said, “it’s only about a thousand degrees.”

  “Yeah, and it’s not humid, either,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

  It was so humid that when I took off my sunglasses, there was water under my eyes. Even the hair on my arms, which wasn’t much more than light fuzz, was swollen and going in different directions. Never mind the hair on my head. It was a ponytail day, with gel.

  Russ appeared from behind the swinging doors.

  “Mom?”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I can’t take it, Mom. She’s calling me things I didn’t even know she knew the names of!”

  “Get back in there! This instant! All you have to do is listen! She’s going through it! She’s dealing with the pain the same way most women do! They scream and yell because it hurts like hell! Where’s the anesthesiologist?”

  “I’ll go find out!”

  “Good idea.”

  He disappeared again.

  John came back with ice-cold water and I was glad to have it.

  “There was a Russ-sighting.”

  “Oh, yeah? Is everything okay?”

  I laughed and said, “Yeah. But it might be nice if the doctor would give her an epidural soon. Russ said she’s calling him some very naughty names. I don’t blame her.”

  “Yeah, you’ve been there.”

  “I called Addison every filthy thing under the sun. But then he was every filthy thing under the sun.”

  “Oh, did I tell you I heard from Manhattan Theater Club?”

  “No! And?”

  “They want to present Folly Beach in the spring!”

  “With Sara?”

  “With Sara, and you and me!”

  “Wait, John! I have Aunt Daisy’s business to see about. I can’t go anywhere!”

  “Yes, you can. It’s only a two-week run and I already called Miss Daisy because I knew that was what you’d say. She’s home that whole month and she’ll cover for you.”

  “She will? Wonderful! So how many productions does that make?”

  “Including San Francisco? Fourteen.”

  “Unbelievable.”

  “Yeah, so what are you writing about next?”

  “You’re kidding right?”

  “No, ma’am! You’ve got to get back to the desk and write!”

  “After the baby’s born.”

  “Well, in most cases, that would be in a few hours.”

  “After they bring the baby home then.”

  “That could be as soon as tomorrow.”

  “After the baptism then.”

  “Do I detect a little reluctance on the part of America’s newest playwright sensation to get back to business? Do you want to be known as a one-hit wonder?”

  “No!” But what was I going to write about?

  Russ reappeared. He looked haggard.

  “We’re going upstairs.”

  “Did she get her epidural?”

  “No, the doctor said it was too late. She’s nine and a half centimeters. But she’s gonna be in room 516.”

  “What? You’d better get upstairs on the double, boy, or you’re gonna miss the whole thing!”

  Russ spun around and was gone. We took the elevator up to the fifth floor and waited. About an hour later Russ came and found us. He was smiling so proudly, just beaming really.

  “She’s a girl. You have a granddaughter, Mom. Her name is Daisy Ella and she’s the most beautiful little girl in the whole entire world.”

  “Oh, Russ!” I threw my arms around him and hugged him with all my might. “Oh! I can’t wait to meet her!”

  “Congratulations, Russ!” John said and shook his hand soundly.

  “Thanks!”

  All summer long, Aunt Daisy and Ella had been planning nurseries for the baby. Ella was crocheting blankets and Aunt Daisy was shopping. They decorated an elaborate baby’s room for Russ and Alice at their house but they made another even more elaborate one at their own house on Folly Beach. We could already see there was going to be a lot of bickering about to whom that baby really belonged.

  “How’s Alice?”

  “Alice? She’s thrilled. Tired but thrilled. Come say hello!”

  We went in room 516 and there was Alice, propped up in bed with her hair brushed and wearing a fresh gown, holding beautiful little Daisy Ella Cooper in her arms. I looked at my granddaughter and wept. In fact, we all did.

  A month later, as the temperature became bearable and the marsh grass began to turn brown, we had a lovely christening at the Catholic church on Folly Beach. Once again, Patti and Mark, who were to serve as godparents, were staying in the Jolly Buddha. Maureen was still staying with Russ and Alice as she had been since she arrived two days after the baby was born, which was driving Russ seriously crazy. And Sara, who was suddenly in demand for a role in this movie or that play could not be with us.

  “I still don’t understand why she didn’t come,” Alice said over dinner at Aunt Daisy’s.

  “Are you serious? Because she’s reading for the second time for a leading role in a Julia Roberts film,” John said. “As I understand it, she’s the most likely candidate.”

  Alice’s face turned beet-red. The corners of Patti’s mouth turned up.

  “You always said she had what it took, Cate. I’m just so happy for her,” Patti said.

  “You never stop believing in your kids, Patti. That’s just what a parent does.”

  Well, later on we were to learn that Sara did indeed win the p
art.

  “Mom? Julia Roberts is so cool.”

  “Do you call her Julia?”

  “Yeah! She’s like totally grounded and normal and I love her, but so does everybody . . .”

  Sara gushed. I listened, happy to know she was at last getting that chance she wanted, to act in a grand arena. Movies. What could be more exciting for her? I still preferred theater, but I was so happy for my Sara.

  Maybe it was a week later, or maybe it was two weeks, but I know it was sweater weather on the beach. I found one of Dorothy’s recipes for something called Widow’s Punch and thought, what the heck? John and I both qualified for that one. So I mixed up a batch, chilled it, and poured it into a thermos. We had plans to take a walk down to the far end of the beach that overlooks the Morris Island Lighthouse. He was bringing sandwiches and I had beverage duty. I put the thermos in a canvas tote bag and when he arrived I got in his car and off we went. We passed locals, surfers, and tourists and finally came to the place where we parked and walked the distance to the part of the beach we wanted to see. Once there, I spread a blanket on the soft sand and John sat down beside me.

  “Want a glass of Widow’s Punch?”

  “What? You want turkey or ham?”

  “Let’s share half and half,” I said. “Yeah, it’s Dorothy’s recipe.”

  “Hmmm. Well, I brought something else with me,” he said and pulled out a pair of wire-cutters. He was going to cut my ring off and I was going to cut his.

  “Finally!” I said and stuck out my palm. In one snip and a twist, the shackles of Addison Cooper were off. “Let me do yours.”

  And I did.

  “What should we do with them?” he said, holding the broken rings in his hand.

  I stood up and offered him my hand. We walked to the water’s edge.

  “I’ll bet you ten bucks you can’t throw them to the lighthouse,” I said.

  “Really?”

  He did the windup for the pitch and threw them far out into the water, but not far enough. The same thing happened with the second one.

  “Too bad,” I said. “Ten dollars is a lot of money.”

  “Too bad,” he said, “what a waste of two good rings.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because I’m thinking pretty soon we’ll just have to buy two more.”

  “John Risley! Are you asking me to marry you?”

  “I don’t know. I was just thinking of making an honest woman of you. Really. That’s all.”

  “Oh, you want to marry me for the sake of the neighbors? The bohemians out here on Folly Beach? You think they care? You’re such a terrible liar.”

  “Nah, I guess I wanted to ask you to marry me because I really love you, Cate.” He reached in his back pocket and pulled out a little satin sack. “Tricia Gustofson at Crogan’s said you’d like this. What do you think?” He held up a perfectly gorgeous diamond ring, the center stone surrounded by so many little diamonds it was almost blinding in the afternoon sun.

  “You’re asking me to marry you?” I said, as he slipped the ring over my knuckle.

  “What would you say if I did?”

  “Well,” I stepped in close to him and kissed one cheek. “I’d say they got married on Folly Beach,” I said, and kissed his other cheek. “And then they moved into the Porgy House and lived happily ever after.”

  “Isn’t that a coincidence? That’s exactly what I’d say, too.”

  Author’s Note

  I became interested in the Charleston Renaissance when SCETV Radio’s finest personality, noted historian and friend to authors everywhere, Walter Edgar asked me if I had read Three O’clock Dinner by Josephine Pinckney. I had not and he loaned me a copy, which I read and enjoyed tremendously. It seemed so contemporary but in its day (1945) it must have been controversial, as it touched on some topics that were still taboo in 2011.

  I couldn’t forget the book or the writer’s voice, and as fate would have it, I mentioned that to Faye Jenson, the executive director of the South Carolina Historical Society, where I have served on the board for a few years. She said that she thought I should come down and read the papers of Dorothy and DuBose Heyward and others. So last summer, the summer of 2010, I did, beginning with the Heywards. My first discovery was that DuBose was a high school dropout and that Dorothy was very well educated, having studied at Columbia University and Radcliffe College. Then I discovered the huge economic disparities between them. Dorothy was a wealthy woman and DuBose was comfortable at the time they met but he had grown up in poverty. I ran across a copy of her birth certificate, on which her name is “Dorothea”—my name—and letterhead that stated she lived on Fifth and Twelfth in Manhattan—my old address—and that she was a member of the Cosmopolitan Club, and so am I. I began to wonder if Dorothea/Dorothy wasn’t trying to tell me something, and if so, what was she trying to say? I then discovered a letter from a friend to her, calling her “Dottie,” which my friends and family have called me all of my life. Every time I turned around, it seemed I was bumping into another coincidence or similarity. Okay, I thought, there’s a story here and I’m going to try and tell it. Who was Dorothy Heyward?

  The most interesting and curious fact of all might be that because she survived DuBose by many years, what is in those boxes at the SCHS is there because it was what Dorothy wanted us to know. Every single letter from her to DuBose is absent. Perhaps he did not save her letters or perhaps she disposed of them. We will never know. But scores of letters from DuBose to her were carefully preserved. It appears that Dorothy wanted us to have a one-sided conversation with DuBose, not her. It is my opinion that Dorothy always wanted DuBose to be the celebrity, the icon, the one who was remembered and revered. She loved him that much.

  It is a matter of historic fact that Dorothy herself adapted DuBose’s book Porgy for the stage and that she also had a great hand in creating the adaptation of Mamba’s Daughters for the stage, the two most successful works with DuBose Heyward’s name attached to them. But she shied away from taking credit for herself and, in fact, spent her widowhood making sure that DuBose’s name appeared in the credits of all of Gershwin’s productions of Porgy and Bess so that his estate would receive the royalties that were due.

  And, finally, while Dorothy Heyward seems to have gone to great lengths to disappear into history as “just a girl from Ohio who wanted a career on the other side of the footlights,” the facts appear to be different to me. True, she was diminutive in the extreme, and the fact that she was from Ohio may have rendered her more easily dismissed by DuBose’s crowd, but Dorothy Kuhns Heyward was a powerhouse, who married into one of Charleston’s most prestigious families and spent her life doing everything she could for the man she fiercely loved. Theirs may be the most powerful love story of the Charleston Literary Renaissance.

  For those who want to learn more about the Charleston Literary Renaissance, I offer the following reading list:

  Renaissance in Charleston: Art and Life in the Carolina Low Country, 1900–1940, James M. Hutchisson and Harlan Greene, editors

  Mr. Skylark: John Bennett and the Charleston Renaissance, by Harlan Greene

  DuBose Heyward: A Charleston Gentleman and the World of Porgy and Bess, by James M. Hutchisson

  A DuBose Heyward Reader, James M. Hutchisson, editor

  Folly Beach: A Brief History, by Gretchen Stringer-Robinson

  The Morris Island Lighthouse: Charleston’s Maritime Beacon, by Douglas W. Bostick

  A Talent for Living: Josephine Pinckney and the Charleston Literary Tradition, by Barbara L. Bellows

  The Devil and a Good Woman, Too: The Lives of Julia Peterkin, by Susan Millar Williams

  For those who want to read the work of the writers of the Charleston Literary Renaissance, I offer the following reading list:

  Sea-drinking Cities, poems by Josephine Pinckney

  Three O’clock Dinner, by Josephine Pinckney

  Mamba’s Daughters: A Novel of Charleston, by DuBose Heyward


  Porgy, by DuBose Heyward

  Peter Ashley, by DuBose Heyward

  Carolina Chansons, by Hervey Allen and DuBose Heyward

  The Doctor to the Dead: Grotesque Legends and Folk Tales of Old Charleston, by John Bennett

  Scarlet Sister Mary, by Julia Peterkin

  Green Thursday, by Julia Peterkin

  Acknowledgments

  I always say that many hands go into the making of a book, but this time the population is so very important that I want to try and thank each person for their contributions. Where to start? It would have to be with Harlan Greene of Charleston. I was introduced to Harlan by mutual friends and now I hope I can say that he is a friend of mine, too. First, he is the consummate gentleman and a brilliant one at that. And he is a fascinating writer and wonderful historian. I devoured his books, notated them to death, but when we got together and discovered our mutual interest in the Heywards, he opened his generous heart and told me what he knew about Dorothy and DuBose, about the whole literary scene in Charleston and indeed in America during the twenties and the thirties. I think I tortured him with questions, but he was always so gracious and patient with me and he encouraged me to keep digging for new truths. Harlan, I am deeply in your debt and very grateful. Next would be James M. Hutchisson of the Citadel, whose biography of DuBose Heyward kept me up at night as did his work on the Charleston Renaissance that he edited with Harlan Greene. Like Harlan, Jim also answered my countless questions and encouraged me to take literary license with my story, because, after all, I’m writing fiction. So, Professor Hutchisson, I thank you mightily for your time, good humor, and support. Without these two gentlemen, this book simply could not be.

  Well, shoot me, but I just put age before beauty. Now I bow and scrape to Faye Jenson, the executive director of the South Carolina Historical Society, and her lovely assistant, Mary Jo Fairchild. I had such a wonderful time learning about the Heywards within the walls of the Fireproof Building that houses this venerable institution and again, this book would be so much less rich without the treasures I found and the ones you led me to within your archives. Many thanks for all your insights and thoughts and most especially for your incredible hospitality.