Bulls Island

by Dorothea Benton Frank

  “How much does one of these things cost?”

  “Depends. You know, how many bedrooms and all that. Why?”

  “Because I’d like to buy one for my mom. You know? Someday, that is. I’d like to go to college and get some great job and buy a place for my mom, so when she came home she could feel like this. Like I feel right now. You know what I mean?”

  “Yeah, but how does it make you feel?”

  He looked at me hard, his blue eyes so intent, filled with an adult seriousness I remembered in myself from his age.

  “It makes me feel like it’s worth it.”

  “What’s worth it?”

  “Getting up every day and doing what I have to do. If I could come home from school or work or whatever and look at this, I could suffer a lot.”

  I wasn’t going to ask him if he thought his mother was unsatisfied living in our sharecropper’s cottage. The question would have been inappropriate. Their housing came free with the job and was not exactly the Ritz-Carlton. It was adequate, airtight, leak-free, but no frills. And squeaking all of life into that space wasn’t like stopping in your living room to look out at the sparkling waters of the Kiawah River on a perfect August afternoon.

  “You hungry?” I said.

  “Are you kidding? I’m a teenage boy. I could eat twenty-four/seven.”

  “Let’s go get us a burger at the Sanctuary and figure out how you’re gonna earn enough cash to buy you and your mom a place on the water.”

  “Sweet. I’m in.”

  In the parlance of the day, which required watching YouTube or the Comedy Network on a regular basis. Mickey meant he was amenable to the suggestion of lunch and the formation of a long-range plan.

  “Do you want fries with that? Coleslaw or fruit salad?” a waitress, whose name tag read Agnes Mae, Vidalia, Georgia, said to him.

  Mickey looked at me like she was an alien. Of course he wanted fries. To a young man of his years, a burger with fruit salad was a despicable, sissified blasphemy.

  “Definitely fries,” he said.

  “Swiss, Cheddar, or blue cheese?”

  “Blue cheese?” He made the face of horrors. “Cheddar’s good.”

  “And how—”

  “Medium well,” he said, before Agnes Mae of Vidalia-onion fame could finish asking. “Just no blood.”

  “Got it.” She looked to me.

  “I’ll have the turkey club with two slices of bread and fries. Extra pickle, please. Mayonnaise on the side. Thanks.”

  “I’ll get that right out,” she said, and walked away.

  We stirred the lemon into our sweet tea and I decided to give him some sage advice.

  “Want to know how to get rich, young man?”

  “No. I want to know where I sign up for food stamps.”

  “Wiseass.”

  “Of course I want to know how to get rich! What’s the secret?”

  “Well? There are a couple of ways it happens. First, you’re born into wealth. We call it being a member of the Lucky Sperm Club. Or, you can win the lottery. But the best way is to make a plan.”

  “Duh.”

  “No duh. Look, if you want to get rich, you don’t major in third-century European history or spend your life studying the sex lives of newts. You go to business school or law school. You go into a field that’s lucrative to begin with.”

  “Makes sense. What did you do?”

  “Carolina Law School. I started out to study environmental, but then I switched my concentration to real estate…”

  We talked on and on about real-estate development, iTunes, women, and the value of a really great burger. The bill was paid and Mickey was finishing off a slice of pecan pie, sopping up the last puddle of vanilla ice cream with the crust.

  “I must say, Mickey, I have great respect for your ability to clean a plate.”

  “Thanks.” He grinned as wide as he could. “Lunch was awesome.”

  “Good. So, what do you say? Want to ride around Kiawah and I’ll show you some of the early buildings of Langley Construction? See how they’re holding up?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  The temperature had passed its high for the day, and because we had lingered at the table for so long, when we stepped outside we got the immediate sense that evening was already approaching.

  I loved to think about families ending their workdays with some satisfaction and coming back together for the night. Yes, although it was not yet four, people everywhere were looking toward supper. Housewives were already snapping beans, kids were climbing down from the high limbs of trees thirsty for a drink, and beachgoers were packing up their SUVs and knocking sand from their flip-flops. Goober and Peanut were probably sleeping in the shade dreaming about chasing squirrels.

  We climbed into my truck and took off for the Sea Breeze Villas, Langley Development’s first project on Kiawah Island.

  “So what kinda wildlife they got on this island? Anything different from what we got?”

  “They got more alligators, I think, and I’ve seen more river otters over here.”

  “Otters. Weird.”

  “Yeah, they’re funny little devils.”

  Suddenly a distinguished-looking shock of white hair caught my eye. It was an older gentleman leaving his condo. Senator Hazelton. And a woman. Mother. It was Mother. There was no “ladies lunch.” Clearly, it was a damn lie. My mother was screwing Senator Hazelton. Brant Hazelton, who also happened to be my father’s partner in a dozen different deals.

  My shock must have been apparent. Mickey said, “Hey! J.D.? Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” I said. “I just remembered that I have to be someplace that I forgot about.”

  “Oh. No big deal. I got stuff to do, too.”

  I tried to look away from the senator and my mother, but it was like the train-wreck phenomenon—I couldn’t tear my eyes away, and sure enough, I could have sworn that Mother caught my eye. I saw her step back under the building’s overhang and reach for her sunglasses…as though I wouldn’t recognize my own mother? I stepped on the gas to get away as fast as possible. Luckily, Mickey was fooling with the radio, cruising from one station to another, or he might have seen her, too.

  I tried to be friendly and nonchalant all the way home and I thought Mickey didn’t suspect anything. As the afternoon wore on, I struggled with my conscience. Should I tell Valerie? Hell no. What good would that do? Should I tell my father? Absolutely not. Had he not enjoyed enough skirts to fill a department store? Should I confront my mother? What possible good would that do? Zero.

  It was six-thirty. Mother had not called. I wondered if she knew with certainty that I had seen her. Was she avoiding me? This was some bull. I mean, did she think that if she didn’t mention it, she could pretend it didn’t happen?

  I was getting hungry. Where was Valerie anyway? I called her cell and got her voice mail. She would probably be home soon. I poured myself a bourbon. Rosie was in the kitchen, putting the final touches on supper.

  “Looks good enough to eat,” I said to Rosie as I glanced at the platter of sliced cucumbers and tomatoes.

  “Thanks,” she said, “and thanks for the fish.”

  “Your boy liberated them from their watery world…”

  The phone rang and I picked it up in the kitchen.

  “Hello?”

  “J.D.?”

  “Yes?”

  “This is Brant Hazelton.”

  Well, I thought, I’ll be damned. The old codger is calling to defend—or at least attempt to whitewash—mother’s honor with some bit of hasty fabrication.

  “Yes, sir. What can I do for you?”

  “Well, son, I’m afraid it’s not good news. I’m with your father down in Hilton Head. He’s had a heart attack…”

  My head started spinning. They were trying to stabilize him, he said. They thought he would be all right, but just the same, I had better come and bring Mother. I got the address, the senator’s cell-phone number, and I diale
d Mother. The phone rang and rang.

  “What is it?” Rosie said.

  “Dad’s had a heart attack,” I said.

  “Oh no! What can I do?”

  “Nothing. Tell Valerie when she shows up to leave her cell on once in a while.” It wasn’t Valerie’s fault and I shouldn’t have said that. “I’m sorry. I’ll call as soon as I know anything. I’ve got to go see about him right now,” I said. “Why isn’t Mother answering the phone?”

  I redialed. After five rings, Mother finally answered.

  “Mother?” I tried to sound calm, but I was sure she heard the panic in my voice and took it to be the beginning of a lecture from me about her liaison.

  “Now, see here, J.D.—”

  “Mother? Brant Hazelton called.”

  “What?”

  “Daddy’s had a heart attack. I’m coming to pick you up. He’s in Hilton Head.”

  I hung up and looked at Rosie, who was clearly upset.

  “Please! J.D.? Give your daddy my love, won’t you? Tell him I’ll be praying for him with everything I’ve got?”

  “Of course I will, Rosie. Thanks. I’ll call as soon as I know anything.”

  In truth, I didn’t care what my mother did in her spare time. After all, my father had been doing the same thing for as long as I had been aware that people had sex. But I was furious anyway and I didn’t know why. Then I decided it was the lies that made me so angry. There were too many lies in our family. Most of the way to Hilton Head, Mother and I were silent, but as soon as we exited, I-95, we started to argue.

  “You can judge me all you want, J.D. But just how do you think we got Bulls Island declassified?”

  “I have no idea, Mother. Did the family’s generosity buy the senator a new Maserati?”

  “Don’t be absurd. Besides, Brant could buy his own Maserati if he wanted one.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Like Dad never passed an envelope of cash to a building inspector?”

  “Look, J.D. You really want to know what’s going on here? I have enjoyed the friendship of Brant Hazelton for years and your daddy knows it. And guess what? He doesn’t care! Your daddy does as he pleases, too, which is the most likely reason he’s in the hospital right now. Brant’s wife knows, too. And guess what else?”

  “She doesn’t care either. Whatever.”

  “Don’t whatever me, young man. I am still your mother!”

  “So fine, tell me how you managed to have Bulls Island declassified. I’m dying to hear.”

  “Well! He’s ingenious, that’s all. Brant buries it in the budget in a line item. You know, he says something like ‘all islands west of this latitude and south of that longitude shall be offered for sale for specific use of the public good’ or some such vague language. Who on earth is going to catch that in a big old boring budget document that’s thousands of pages long?”

  “Not even Sherlock Holmes, Mother. That’s pretty clever. And you and Daddy snap it up before anyone else knows about the public offering, right?”

  “That’s right. We finalize the sale in the same moment the budget is signed.”

  I saw then that my father and mother were no better than common criminals. Highfalutin, modern-day opportunistic, greedy bastards with no conscience. And there I was, aiding and abetting common criminals. Nice family.

  “So now we own Bulls Island.”

  “Yes, we do. We break ground in two weeks. ARC Partners is our partner. And I guess this is as good a time as any to tell you.”

  “Tell me what?”

  “That Betts McGee is in charge of the project.”

  “That’s nice,” I said, but my heart started to pound.

  If my father could indulge his weakness for strippers and my mother could have a semi-open affair with Brant Hazelton, could I have Betts? I struggled to focus on the fact that we were nearing the hospital where my father was possibly fighting for his life—fighting for his life with his strip-joint partner who was screwing my mother at his bedside. How many other secrets could my family possibly have?

  Betts. Two weeks.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Dad, Joanie, and Vinny

  It was Friday and I was thinking about enjoying the weekend. Aunt Jennie was coming for dinner, so I ordered a special arrangement of flowers for my foyer and for the dining-room table. I had a date with Vinny Saturday night. I had not yet decided how to deal with this budding relationship because he scared me a little. For some reason, that scary aspect of his personality was appealing to me, which was also scary. I guess I liked edgy living. And as you know, he fascinated me.

  I had to start planning Adrian’s move to his dorm and there was a long list of things he needed, linens and so forth, so we planned to melt the credit cards Saturday morning. But rattling around in the back of my mind was the fact that I had yet to give my father and sister fair warning that I was returning to Charleston. Deciding to face the worst music in the repertoire of my life, I took a deep breath and dialed Daddy’s number.

  Then I hung up.

  I repeated the dialing process somewhere in the neighborhood of twenty times and quickly hung up each time, right before I could hear Dad’s phone ring, behaving as though I were presenting some new variant of obsessive-compulsive disorder. I worried that perhaps the phone rang there before I could hear it ringing on my end or that my number appeared on their caller ID. Or, wait! Did they have caller ID? Were Joanie and Dad standing there watching the caller-ID screen and thinking I had truly lost my mind? Finally, I took a Lamaze-style breath, punched in the number one last time, and let it ring until, praise everything holy, I caught a karmic break and got voice mail. Joanie’s recorded message drenched me in a cold sweat of relief.

  You’ve reached the McGees. Please leave a message. Thanks.

  No one had ever accused Joanie of being overly engaging or seductively poetic. I left the following message:

  “Hi, Joanie. Hi, Dad. It’s me, Betts. Just wanted to let you know that I’m going to be in Charleston for a couple of months on business and I hoped we might get together. Please call me. Thanks and I hope y’all are well. Love you both.”

  Perfect. I had sounded chipper and at ease.

  I left my number, which I was positive they had somewhere in their possession in case they had to notify me of a catastrophe, and hung up, wiping my sweaty hands on my skirt. How long would it take them to return my call? What if they didn’t call at all? I was determined to take the high road on this one. I had put them on notice that I was coming. If I didn’t hear from them before I set up camp in Charleston, I would call them when I arrived. I would do the right thing even if they didn’t. Sela was right. It was time for the nonsense to stop.

  Most importantly, I wanted to see them in order to draw my own conclusions about Daddy’s condition. It wasn’t like Joanie held some medical degree or was an expert in geriatric care. But neither was I. If he seemed off-kilter, I would somehow persuade him to get a thorough evaluation from the best doctors I could find. But I suspected that Daddy was just perhaps going through the normal stages of aging, and like Sela said, Joanie used him as a crutch to avoid having an authentic life of her own.

  I had finally concluded that I wanted to repair our relationship as much as I could. They were my family, after all.

  In preparation for dinner, I started flipping through the delivery menus I kept in a drawer in the kitchen. Even though I had spent a fortune designing a hyperorganized stainless-steel gourmet kitchen that looked like a spaceship, my kitchen had a junk drawer like everyone else’s. In it were an assortment of useless things I could never bear to discard in case of a terrorist attack or a blackout—candle stubs, matches, packets of soy sauce and saltine crackers, rubber bands from the mail, loose batteries that may or may not still work, coupons for free extra pizza toppings, long scraps of unwound ribbon, and enough scattered change to feed us for a month. And menus. One of these days, I told myself, I’m going to get this place organized.

  I pulled out th
e menu from Fascino, which was the hot new Italian eatery owned by the De Persio family from Nutley, New Jersey—hot because their two sons, Ryan the chef and Anthony the manager, looked like a couple of movie stars. And because Ryan could do such magnificent things with tomatoes and macaroni that any one of the city’s major food critics could be found there four nights a week, humming to him- or herself in satisfaction. Normally Fascino didn’t deliver, but they did for me because they catered every recent ARC management meeting and we had a hefty house account there. Aunt Jennie would be thrilled with their veal Parmesan (not on the menu) and I also ordered her some fried zucchini flowers stuffed with ricotta cheese and a side of spaghetti marinara, plus a cannoli, a baba rum, and pumpkin cheesecake for all of our desserts.

  Then I called my favorite Japanese restaurant, Dai Kitchi, and ordered California rolls, spicy tuna rolls, edamame, and a double portion of nabayaki udon with tempura shrimp. That mountain of Nipponese delights would surely catapult Adrian straight to hog heaven. Speaking of hog, lastly I called Blue Smoke for a rare personal indulgence of baby-back ribs, a pound of pulled pork to stock the refrigerator’s snacking department, two orders of baked beans, coleslaw, corn pudding, and a dozen biscuits. I knew Adrian would eat all the leftovers, and with my crazy life, it was easier to over-order prepared food than go to the store, schlep it all home, and cook it. Besides, if you paid me a million in unmarked twenties, I couldn’t even make the broth for nabayaki udon much less the soba noodles that go in it.

  Adrian came home around six, just as the deliveries began to arrive.

  “Aunt Jennie’s going to be here any minute. Want to set the table?” I said. “I’ll get the door.” I took three five-dollar bills from my wallet for tips.

  “Sure! Hey, I saw the new Harry Potter film this afternoon.”

  “Thanks a lot,” I said to the deliveryman, and closed the door. “How was it?”

  “Awesome,” he said.

  “Of course it was awesome,” I said, giving him a baby punch in the arm. “Everything in your entire world is awesome.”