Bulls Island

by Dorothea Benton Frank

  Walking down the hall toward the elevator, I decided that George the Wiseass might have had some redeeming qualities after all. That was how I made it to the parking garage without weeping like a fool. I told myself that George had learned how to live independent of parents. Everything was going to be all right.

  Everything was going to be all right and I knew it, but I still had a serious case of the blues. The best thing to do in this case, I told myself, was to call Sela. I drove my car out of the parking lot, pulled over to the curb, punched in her cell number, and hit send.

  “Praise God for cell phones,” I said, sobbing when I heard her voice. “What if I couldn’t find you when I needed you?”

  “Betts? Is that you?”

  “Yes, it’s me! Oh God…”

  “Honey? What’s wrong?”

  “I just left Adrian in his nasty, skanky dorm room! I know it’s stupid to be weeping like a fool, but I can’t help it!” My whole face was wet.

  “Oh, crap. I forgot today was the day. Oh, shit, Betts. It’s not stupid. It’s okay. Really it is.”

  “No! It’s not!”

  “I know…”

  Witness another reason why Sela O’Farrell was such an exemplary citizen of the world. She listened. She understood. Her patience seemed endless. I ran on like dangerous white water, my speech rapid and my thoughts jumbled, telling her about everything from my family’s unreturned phone call to my serious reservations about Vinny to how it broke my heart to leave Adrian.

  “Look. You want my opinion?” she asked after I’d about exhausted myself.

  “Of course I do.”

  “I think putting your only child in college and returning for two or three months to the freaking emotional quagmire that you left behind in addition to dumping a possible thug of a boyfriend is a lot for one week. Even for you.”

  “I have to tell Vinny tonight that it’s over, at least for a while, but I don’t know what I’m going to say.”

  “Since when can’t you unload a guy with some finesse?”

  “Since now. I’ve never had one so determined to own me as Vinny. Sela, he scares me a little. I know I’m gonna be there in Charleston, somewhere, working or having dinner, and I’ll suddenly look up or over to see his face. No warning. Nothing. He’ll just be there. And if I’m not thrilled out of my mind to see him, he might get crazy. I don’t think he’s ever been the dumpee. He’s always the dumper.”

  “He’s a hothead, huh?”

  “Yeah. Big macho Italian ego the size of, I don’t know, Texas.”

  “Texas. Good one. If it was me…? I’d let him down easy and leave the future vague.”

  “That’s what I’m figuring. But still…I don’t know. I’m probably being dramatic.” I knew I was not being dramatic.

  “Let me know how it goes. Well, you know, there is a glimmer of good news in all this.”

  “Tell it.”

  “I got you a two-bedroom condo on the water at Wild Dunes. It’s such a score and it has drop-dead views.”

  “What would I do without you?”

  “Probably die, but that’s okay. I’ll meet you at the airport and give you the keys.”

  “Oh, honey, you don’t have to do that! Just leave them at the gate. You’ve done enough!”

  “Right. The best friend of my life is returning to Charleston and I’m just leaving the keys at the gate. I don’t think so. By the way, you flying commercial?”

  “Can’t. I’m packing like I’m going on safari. How’s the weather?”

  “Sopping-wet muggy? Blistering scorching heat? A travel brochure from the bottom floor of hell doesn’t do it justice. Pack naked.”

  With that, we hung up, promising to speak the next day. I had finally stopped crying, and after hearing Sela’s description of the weather, I actually found myself laughing, accepting the fact that my body and my hair were going to have some adjusting to do when I reached Charleston. And when I began to work in the savage jungles of Bulls Island, I was going to look like Nature Woman. Well, I knew it was good for at least a five-pound drop in weight.

  It was around five when I pulled into the garage and walked back to my building. As I did so I noticed a man standing on the corner observing my approach. He flipped open his cell phone, made a speed-dial call, turned, and walked away. Was I being watched? The very thought of it made my skin run with goose bumps.

  There were piles of clothes I intended to take to Charleston all over the bed in my room. Two months would be my minimum stay, and I thought, well, if I needed anything more than what I was packing, I could either fly home or buy it down there. It’s not like I was going to Siberia, I thought, and that reminded me of Adrian saying he could be home for dinner in fifteen minutes, if need be. But given my business assignment in Charleston, I might as well be in Siberia as far as fixing dinner for my son was concerned.

  Actually, where I was going was more a version of the Roman Colosseum than Siberia. I would be facing off against metaphorical man-eating lions and literal alligators, pretending to be businesslike and competent when all the while I’d be quivering with self-doubt. The timing of this trip was terrible.

  Ben Bruton was always reminding me that developers were notorious crooks, payoffs were hidden in almost every aspect of the deal, and I’d need to go over every detail with a fine-tooth comb. If we ordered quarter-inch plywood, I had better carry a tape measure with me to check its width. Like I could really do this? But I would have to try.

  I had plans to return for parents’ weekend at Columbia, and no doubt I would, but what would happen between now and then…seeing J.D., my father and sister…These imaginings were the cause of so many stomachaches and restless nights, I cannot begin to tell you. Anxious had taken on new meaning. And what had I done? How was I, Ms. Sophistication and Righteousness, handling all of it? I had chosen the ostrich approach and buried myself in Vinny Braggadocio’s bed. Pretty shameful. And now there was someone watching my comings and goings? Maybe I was going crazy.

  My head filled with such thoughts, I took a shower and dressed for dinner, having arranged with Vinny to call for me at seven-thirty. We were having dinner uptown at Rao’s, a wildly popular restaurant where customers had to die or move to Finland to make room for new ones. Vinny was very proud of the fact that he knew the restaurant’s number by heart and that he could always get a table on Tuesday at eight. A good table, where he could be seen by celebrities and power brokers, all of them spellbound by the heady aromas of linguini with red clam sauce. I had never been there because it had always seemed like too much trouble, but I was excited to see the place.

  Speaking of visiting new places, Vinny had yet to see the inside of my apartment, not that I would have objected if he had wanted to. But I knew there was some inexplicable bug in Vinny’s psyche that prevented him from crossing the threshold of a Park Avenue co-op. In a way I understood this, because such buildings could be intimidating, but it wasn’t like anyone would actually insult him or sniff at him. People in my building sniffed because of allergies to cat dander or because their deviated-septum surgeries had been unsuccessful. Their self-absorbed bubbles seldom deigned to make contact with their neighbors’ self-absorbed bubbles. Had Charles Manson been in the elevator with them, they would have examined their cuticles just as they did with everyone else. Paradoxically, I found this kind of systemic arrogance one of the more appealing features of my building. Being invisible gave one a comfortable sense of privacy. It made my apartment building feel like a private house.

  It was seven-thirty. When Sam rang to tell me that Vinny was downstairs, I was just turning off lights and checking to see that the stove was off, the normal list of things I would do before I went out for the evening. I had a lump in my throat because of the things I needed to discuss with Vinny. The discomfort I felt with him was growing, like an angry incoming tide across a shore. I was okay in my mind as long as there was a lot of beach between me and the water, but there loomed a great possibility that the
ocean would soon cover the land and I would be drowned.

  Vinny had no idea what I’d be facing in Charleston. We didn’t talk about me very much. I thought, well, for the sake of honesty and integrity, such as it was, I would attempt to give him a reasonable explanation of why I needed time off for good behavior…On second thought, that term might ring too many bells with him.

  I went down the elevator accompanied by the coiffed, emaciated corpse who lived in Eleven West. I lived in Nine East. The apartments in the west line of the building were larger, implying greater wealth and importance. Therefore, according to the unspoken protocols, East did not speak first. East would nod, and if West wanted to engage, West would make an innocuous remark, and further remarks could then be exchanged.

  West cleared her throat and said without emotion, “I heard your son’s going to Columbia.”

  “Yes, he is. I moved him into his dormitory today.”

  “Yes, I know because the front door was locked when I came in this afternoon. Sam is not supposed to leave his station, you know. Co-op rules.”

  “Sam frequently locks the door to drop off your Sherry-Lehman deliveries.”

  Sherry-Lehman was the specialty wine merchant around the corner and West was a wino of house renown. West shot me a daggers-filled glance and I shot her one back. The door opened. We stepped out and sized each other up.

  “Well, you must be very proud of your son,” she said. “Congratulations.”

  “I am. Thank you.”

  She walked away. I walked away. In the building, everyone knew everyone and no one knew anyone. Perhaps life had given Eleven West valid reasons to polish off a bottle or so every night. You see, we put our garbage by the service elevator at the same time each morning and hers always made a distinctive clunk. It was always fascinating to me what you could learn just from the sound of someone’s garbage.

  Vinny was parked by the curb. Sam opened the door for me and I got in. Vinny was wearing so much cologne I thought I might have an asthma attack.

  “Hey! You look good. So how did it go?”

  “Like an amputation.”

  “Sounds like somebody could use a vodka with cranberry and a slice of lime.”

  “Isn’t that how cosmos started?”

  “Whodahell knows? Hey, we’re going to a private party. Frankie’s wife’s birthday. Don’t worry; I got her a bottle of smell swell.”

  “Oh. I didn’t realize we were going to a party.”

  “This ain’t like a regular party. You’ll see.”

  I had preconceived notions of what dinner at Rao’s would be like. I thought it would be like a mafioso hangout, a former speakeasy, or a funky joint, jammed with tables and old guys who all knew one another. Well, it had been all those things at one time or another in its history, but it turned out to be a good deal more than that. As we arrived we were greeted by one of the owners.

  “Vinny! How are you? Thanks for coming!”

  “Fraaaaan-kie. Like I’d miss your wife’s birthday?” Vinny made a fake pout and then gave Frankie a little punch in the arm. “Who else could get you guys to open up the doors on a Saturday night? Here, I brought her a little something…” He handed the gift bag he was holding to Frankie, who handed it off to a minion.

  “And who’s this?” Frankie said, meaning me.

  “This? This lovely lady is Betts McGee! I can’t believe you two don’t know each other.”

  “We go way back,” Frankie said, addressing me and nodding toward Vinny. “My old man used to play stickball with his old man. That’s a long time ago.”

  Frankie was a good-looking devil if ever I saw one. And Rao’s? From the moment we stepped in, we went hurling back in time to the 1920s or maybe the 1950s. You could hear Jerry Lewis telling a joke and Frank Sinatra humming a tune. It was as if every person who had ever been there had left some piece of themselves behind in the time warp that was Rao’s.

  We made the rounds, saying hello to everyone who seemed to know Vinny well, and smiling widely, all the while I was worrying about my dreaded conversation with him. Obviously it would have to wait. But if all these well-heeled folks seemed so honestly happy to see Vinny among them, maybe I was acting in haste to say it was over between us.

  We were seated at a table with another couple, older, who knew Vinny’s parents, and they began to tell stories about the old days, the street festivals at Our Lady of St. Carmel’s and how, during Prohibition, Rao’s had run homemade wine from the building next door through a hose in the basement and sold it for a dollar a bottle. We began to eat and drink and all the while people came and went from our table to the next, spreading goodwill, while I faded into the paneling, which was perfectly fine with me. The food was absolutely delicious, the toasts were heartfelt, and whatever snippets of conversation I managed to have with the older lady next to me were perfectly charming. Unknowingly and without preparation, I had stepped into Vinny’s world at its best, and had a wonderful, warm, boisterous evening whose only agenda was to have a great time feting Frankie’s wife.

  Crazy Vinny. Maybe not so crazy after all. I began to doubt my judgment and thought it might be better to leave things as they were and deal with Vinny on an as-needed basis. I would go to Charleston, and if he wanted to visit, I would find a way to wiggle out of it. He would get the message. He might be crass, but he was no dummy.

  But it wasn’t to be that easy. On Sunday we had brunch downtown at Pastis, and over Bloody Marys and eggs Benedict, he began to ask the impossible questions.

  “So, you’re leaving tomorrow?” he said.

  “Yes. Three o’clock wheels up.”

  “When am I gonna see you again? You want me to fly down next weekend?”

  “Vinny…I’d love to show you Charleston, but I have a pretty complicated agenda in front of me.” I swirled a piece of the English muffin around in Hollandaise sauce, hoping he would just let the subject drop.

  “So whaddaya saying?”

  I looked up at him with what I hoped was an expression that said, Please try to understand, without making me spell out the details.

  Lockjawed and clearly angered, he slammed his napkin on the table, got up, and walked out.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Betts Is Back

  I could deal with any burly honcho from a teamsters’ union without flinching. I could do an assessment of a hundred-million-dollar company that was hemorrhaging cash, roll a few heads, and turn it around to a profit without breaking a sweat. I could deal with all sorts of things in the world of business and never lose sleep. But as my plane approached Charleston and the Corporate Wings jet strip and we waited for clearance to land, the hard ball of a knot I had in my stomach was killing me. I was terrified.

  We came to a quick stop, my right foot touched the steps, the humidity grabbed my hair, and the heat slammed my whole body. The porters blithely unloaded my luggage onto a trolley as though it were a perfect spring day. My hair was turning into corkscrew pasta on steroids. Fusilli Head. That was me.

  After my conversation with Sela, I hadn’t really packed all that much, but I knew enough to bring clothes to layer, as the weather in Charleston was very changeable during hurricane season. Hurricane season. Yeah, boy, I was back in Charleston and small-craft warnings were in effect until further notice.

  Through the glass doors of the terminal, I spotted Sela waving, a welcome deliverance from my inner turbulence. I picked up my pace to greet her. May as well get the show on the road, I said to myself, thanking God she was there. And to think I had not wanted her to go to the trouble to meet me. What had I been thinking?

  She pushed the door open and stepped out onto the tarmac. Her whole face was smiling.

  “Hey you!”

  She threw her arms open wide for a sisterly bear hug, complete with backslapping and giggles. I hugged her back and thought, Good grief, it felt like I had not seen her in a thousand years. It had been a long time, but to my surprise, she had not changed in any significant way.
r />   “Look at you! You look fabulous!” I said.

  “Oh, please, I’m an old thaing…”

  “Then what does that make me?”

  “Girl? You got so much on your plate you don’t even know it!”

  “What?”

  We were going through the tiny terminal at a clip, my luggage piled high behind me.

  “All will be revealed. I’m parked right out front.”

  “Great. More problems to deal with? Worse than facing my father, my maniac sister, my once-future mother-in-law, and oh, let’s not forget the father of my child? What could be worse than that?”

  “Um…you’re right.”

  “So, who cares? No matter what’s happening, it can’t be any worse than what I’ve dealt with in the past. Lemme tell you, it’s tough out there in the world. Gosh, it’s good to see you!”

  “You’re right. I should relax. I forgot that you’re a Xena clone.”

  “My costume is in the hanging bag.”

  We loaded my four suitcases, laptop, duffel bag, and hanging bag and in minutes we were off, headed for the Isle of Palms.

  “So, okay. Read these. And did I tell you that Big Jim had a heart attack?”

  “No! Is he okay?”

  “Of course! Honey, that man is gonna bury us all.”

  Sela handed me a manila envelope containing a small stack of recent op-ed pieces and articles from the Post & Courier and the State.

  “Still, that’s too bad. What happened?”

  “Let’s just say it could have been embarrassing, as he was in a compromising position, but of course the long arm of Langley spin control put the kibosh on details. I heard it from my good friend who’s an ER nurse at MUSC.”

  “Figures.”

  I began glancing through the articles. To say that public sentiment was against the development of Bulls Island would be putting it mildly. It appeared that every organization from the Nature Conservancy to the South Carolina Coastal Conservation League was vehemently opposed to it. Every single solitary suddenly-green-thinking local- and state-level politician jockeying for reelection had grown a conscience overnight and was foaming at the mouth, rabid with outrage at the prospect of a further rape of the land.