Folly Beach (16 page)

“She’s got cataracts and glaucoma, high blood pressure and high cholesterol. So do I. And we take an aspirin a day so we don’t get a stroke and some other damn fool pill to improve our memory, I forget the name of it.”

I giggled again.

“How’s that one working?” I said. I sliced the cheese and put it on the bread in the pan.

“Not so hot, huh? Wait! It sounds like that Alaskan woman with the whiny voice, the politician . . . Sarah Palin . . . Cerefolin! That’s the one! Whew! I still have it together!”

“Aunt Daisy? You’ve got it together better than I do.”

“Yeah, well, you’ll be all right. Let a little time pass.” She said this and quickly changed the subject. Aunt Daisy’s coddling days were behind her. “Anyway, we’ve got these plastic containers with little pillboxes for each day of the week like I used to have for my old dog, Manny. Remember him?”

Manny was her sweet black lab, who lived for almost eighteen years. And I say
who
not
that
because he was like a person in so many ways.

“He was a great dog,” I said.

“He was the love of my life,” she said. “Ah well, we’re getting older, Cate, but the alternative stinks, too.”

“Yes, it does. But you’re not going anywhere for at least another fifty years.” I flipped the sandwiches onto two plates and stirred the soup. I stuck the tip of my finger in the pot. “I think it’s hot enough. You want to check?”

“You can’t tell if the soup is hot enough? Where’s your confidence, girl?” She was a little incredulous. She poured two glasses of tea over ice and put them on the table. It was barely fifty degrees outside and I could hear the fronds of the palmetto trees slapping the sides of the house.

“It left with the repo guys.” I sat down opposite her, opened my paper napkin on my lap, and lifted my glass of iced tea. “Getting windy out there.”

“Humph. It’s the beach.”

“Right. So, Aunt Daisy, let me ask you a question. What do you know about the Charleston Renaissance?”

“The what?”

“The Charleston Renaissance. I don’t know a thing about it. In fact, I’ve never heard about it. I just thought it might be something interesting to learn about. That’s all.”

“Oh, sure. You think I was born yesterday? This is about John Risley isn’t it?”

“I guess so.”

“He’s calling on you and taking you all around the town and you don’t want to look uneducated if he asks this renaissance business? Is that it?”

“I guess so, yeah.”

“Girl! Don’t you play cat-and-mouse with me!”

“Sorry.”

“Humph. Well, I was just a little girl at the time so I didn’t know there was a renaissance going on, either. But! Ever since I bought the Porgy House, I’m learning something new all the time. This soup is too cold.”

“I knew it. Give it back. I’ll nuke it.”

She passed me her bowl and I put mine and hers in the microwave, setting the timer for one minute.

“Well, you can sure learn a lot from our Mr. Risley. He lectures all over God’s green earth about it. Basically it was a period of time, the twenties and the thirties, when there was a creative fire lit under a lot of aristocratic backsides and a bunch of new thoughts were thought.”

“Like what?”

“Like the Civil War was actually over and maybe segregation was wrong. You know, these are sensitive subjects that took some getting used to.”

“Yeah, but the Civil Rights Movement didn’t really get going until Kennedy was in office.”

“I told you it took a while. The seeds were planted much earlier. Anyway, there were lots of interesting people coming and going in Charleston and, of course, that’s when Gershwin came to Folly while he and the Heywards were working on the music for
Porgy and Bess
. It was 1934. I was only about eight. Hell, I can’t remember anything from yesterday, much less 1934.”

“Oh, come on, Aunt Daisy. Throw me a bone.”

“My mother, your grandmother, used to say she had no idea that the crazy bohemian man running around without his shirt on was George Gershwin himself! Every time she told that story she would hold her heart and pretend to swoon.”

“It must have been a pretty exciting summer.”

“I imagine so. Ask Mr. Risley. He’ll tell you all about it.”

“I’ll do that.” I looked out of the window at the rustling trees. It was after two and beginning to look like winter again in the fading afternoon sun. “I’m seeing him tonight.”

“Big surprise. The Merry Widow rides again!”

“Oh, Aunt Daisy. Hush! It’s not like that at all. I think he feels bad about the poor widow’s car and who knows? Maybe he’s just lonely.”

“Somebody’s been bit by the Love Bug.”

“Oh, Aunt Daisy . . .”

“You can’t help it, honey. I knew this would happen. So did Ella. It’s like he’s been down here just waiting for you to show up. We decided a long time ago that you two are perfect for each other.”

“How do you figure that?”

“Because your personalities are absolutely compatible, you have so much in common that it’s frightening, and because neither one of you has ever had a real love.”

“I loved Addison. No one, even you Aunt Daisy, no one can ever say that I didn’t. Especially in the early years. The last few years are debatable.”

“All right then. But this is what Fate looks like, Cate. Think about it. He even ran into you, literally, before you could even get to this island.”

“Okay, let’s say it’s Fate. I’ve been a widow for about fifteen minutes and he’s got a wife in the nut house. I’m not touching a married man. No way.”

“Great God! Of course not! You’re too old to be jumping in the bed with a man anyway! It’s nasty!”

“What? I’m not even fifty!”

“Well, maybe then . . .”

“Stop! I’m not talking about sex, for heaven’s sake. I’m saying I shouldn’t be running around with a married man. It’s not nice.”

“Nice? Nice? Listen to me. I’m an old lady who’s done a lot of living and who’s been a bit of a scandal, too, when I felt like it. Standing on your self-righteous indignation won’t keep you warm at night. You and Mr. Risley were M. A. D. E. for each other.”

“OMG.”

“OMG is right. Go home and wash your hair.”

“Right. I’ll buy a toaster tomorrow.”

It was six o’clock on the nose when John Risley pulled up into my yard, got out of his car, and knocked on the Porgy House door. Okay, I told myself, be calm. My hands were damp and my pulse pounded in my ears. There was no medicine yet invented that could calm me down, at least none that I had around the house. I pushed my hair back from my face and opened the door.

“Hey,” I said, standing back. “Want to come in?”

Aunt Daisy was right. This was Fate.

Chapter Thirteen

Setting:
New Hampshire.

Director’s Note:
Photos of MacDowell Colony, Josephine Pinckney, and Elinor Wylie fill the backstage scrim.

Act II

Scene 2

Dorothy:
We should probably have a word about some of these other Poetry Society and MacDowell characters while DuBose isn’t around to throw in his opinion. Not that I don’t want you to have DuBose’s opinion. It’s that this is
my
moment to crow and sometimes . . . well, it just seems like I have a hard time being heard. Also, I have the advantage of distance of time now, so I can look back much more objectively and tell you how they all shaped each other’s work.

Before I met DuBose, he was here in Charleston running an insurance company he founded with a family friend Harry O’Neill, who was actually the artist Elizabeth O’Neill Verner’s brother. DuBose didn’t need a formal education. He was so naturally curious he educated himself. Then as you know, in 1920, he founded the Poetry Society with John Bennett, Hervey Allen, Josephine Pinckney, and some others. It was the founding of the Poetry Society that was the primary reason he was invited to MacDowell at all.

Well, while he was there that first summer building up a network of talent to invite to Charleston to speak, he got his head turned by that bohemian poet Elinor Wylie, just like the rest of the men there. This was before we were a couple. I mean, Elinor was beautiful and brilliant but she was a calculating vixen, always setting her sights on other women’s husbands and don’t you know, she got three for herself! She did! That’s quite a tally for the 1920s, when divorce was an absolute scandal. And according to the gossip, she also had more than a passing fondness for DuBose, explaining to him exactly what free love meant. Well, news of that little educational experience traveled back to Charleston and set the tongues on fire like a Pentecost Sunday and they’re still wagging today!

Here’s something most people don’t know. After DuBose and I were married, Josephine Pinckney told me about Elinor trying to seduce DuBose and I just kept that little gumdrop to myself. Like I didn’t know? I was there! I mean, it didn’t matter if Jo was really trying to rattle our trees, because despite Jo’s high opinion of herself, I knew DuBose. He wasn’t going anywhere. I’m sure he was very flattered by Elinor’s attention and if anything went on between them it was none of my business anyway. That’s what I politely said to Jo and for once, she closed her sassy mouth, blinked her big blue eyes, and had nothing more to say on the subject ever again. At least, not to me.

By October of 1922, DuBose was writing poetry,
stunning
poetry all the time, and together with his great friend Hervey Allen he published a small book of their poems together called
Carolina Chansons
. It sold so well everyone was absolutely astonished, especially Macmillan who was their publisher. That was the same time I got a letter from him asking if there was a chance for us. I must not have replied quickly enough because the next letter informed me he was escorting Josephine to a party! But I didn’t worry. I knew DuBose’s heart was mine.

By then, DuBose’s business was becoming rather successful, because my DuBose had wonderful natural instincts and he was keen on the details. But he was
miserable
. In all his letters and when we met the next time at MacDowell, all he could talk about was how he wanted to be a serious poet and that the business of insurance was suffocating him. All I could think about was when we went back to MacDowell, was Elinor Wylie going to pop out from behind the curtains, drag him into the hydrangeas, and have her way with him? After that summer, I encouraged him to quit, because I really and truly believed he was talented enough to make a living as a writer of poetry and maybe of prose as well.

But I can’t take all the credit for DuBose walking away from business, because I think life at the MacDowell Colony also played a huge part in stoking the fires of his ambition. I mean, there we all were—artists, writers, painters, composers, dancers—creative types of all kinds, summering together in the beautiful countryside of New Hampshire, practicing what we loved during the day and then getting together in the evenings, entertaining each other with our work and stories of our experiences out in the greater world. He was surrounded by people who were supporting themselves with their art and he wanted to be one of them. He wanted to be worldly, too.

Anyway, it was pretty heady stuff, I’ll tell you, and some pretty big egos and ideas floated in and out of the rooms every hour of the day and night. So why would someone who was obviously as talented and as sensitive as DuBose want to leave a creative paradise to go home and sell car insurance? It made perfect sense to me that he should at least
try
to give it a go. So, after we became engaged, I promised him I would take care of him. I think those were words he had been waiting to hear all his life. I might not have been as imposing a character as his mother, Janie, and I might have been an orphan, but I was not without certain resources.

Anyway, knowing the sexist and tawdry nature of a theatrical life as well as I did, and I was always dead-set on having a theatrical career, what were the odds that someone as genteel as DuBose would come into my life? I could go anywhere on his arm.

Fade to Darkness

Chapter Fourteen

About Dorothy

L
ook, here’s the terrible and wonderful truth. When I opened the front door and he stepped inside the Porgy House, John Risley smelled like something so good I wanted to get that smell onto my skin and spend a serious amount of time inhaling it. Giving his neck a basset hound slurp also crossed my mind. Even in my state of sudden onset of a feral giddiness, I knew there was no way to do that without him noticing. But! The mental image of lunging with a flailing tongue twisted my facial muscles to hold back a burst of nervous laughter. I was in deep
merde
and nearly unable to handle the sudden and overwhelming urges to behave like a demonic whore.

I am also fully aware how completely juvenile, inappropriate, and ridiculous this all sounds but that’s exactly how it was. Haven’t you ever smelled something that gave you a jolt, made you stop to think of some childhood memory of wild honeysuckle or a kind of candy or the sweet rubber of a favorite toy? Weren’t you immediately time-traveling back to the schoolyard or the playground or the Christmas morning and weren’t you almost knocked off your feet from how fast and how total the distraction was? Your body is in the present but your nose and mind are decades away. They say smell is the most powerful of all our senses and I was just reminded again that it must be so by whatever it was that John Risley had slapped on his face after he shaved. The scent didn’t remind me of anything from my childhood, yet it was just that striking and familiar. I could barely concentrate on anything else.

And all the while I struggled to get a grip on what remained of my composure he was nonchalantly going about doing the normal things a gentleman of the South does when squiring a lady around for the evening. He had opened my car door, adjusted the seat so I’d be at the safest distance from the dashboard, invited me to take my place, smiled at me like the old cat that swallowed the canary while I situated myself, and then he closed the door. It was impossible to tell if he was even moderately rattled by my cologne or shampoo or the combination but he
did
seem inexplicably amused. That gave me comfort and hope.

The whole way out to the body shop we made small talk and smiled and smiled and smiled. Man, pheromones are some powerful juju. Very powerful. It wasn’t like I even had a choice in the matter. I was attracted to him like tiny vulnerable iron filings are drawn to a big old macho magnet.

Fate was on my side. My car still wasn’t ready.

“Gosh! That’s too bad,” I said to the mechanic, trying to sound sincere, but Risley was not fooled.

Whatever part they were waiting for still had not arrived. That was okay, because it meant Mr. Fabulous and I could use the delay as an excuse to see each other again. At least that was what I hoped John was thinking, because I was thanking the good Lord for granting me some extra time. I surely did not want this grand and glorious maybe-not-exactly love affair to evaporate before it even made it for a spin around the dance floor. Right now the relationship felt like a buoy, wobbling over choppy white caps. It needed a chance to right itself, grow some legs, and grant me a plausible excuse to let nature take its course even though I knew the whole idea of a love affair with this gorgeous man was too ridiculous, too soon for me, and let us not forget, immoral to boot. You see, if time was on our side, too, then eventually I would hear some authentic and valid reason why John was still married to this woman who was institutionalized, one that would forgive the onslaught of thoughts that were transforming themselves by the minute into intentions. I was a nervous wreck.

And then I posed the question to myself in one fleeting thought of how would things have played out if I had met John Risley while Addison was alive? Would I have ignored any and all thoughts, twitches, and pangs and would I have walked away with my conscience intact? That was an impossible decision to make, because I had never felt anything like this before.

“Just give me a call,” John said to the mechanic and we got back in the car.

John decided we should have dinner at the Red Drum in Mount Pleasant. I was fine with his choice. It was pretty amazing to learn that Charleston had a chef who had trained at the Culinary Institute of America living and cooking right under our nose, only to find out we had a few of them.

“Yeah, the chef at McCrady’s too. There are probably a half dozen CIA chefs in town and another dozen or more from Johnson and Wales.”

“Wow,” I said, sounding really stupid and uninformed.

He laughed and said, “No! Charleston has become quite the foodie destination for chefs and patrons as well. There’s the whole Food and Wine Festival that happens every year and then remember Johnson and Wales was here for maybe twenty years or longer.”

“What happened to them?”

“Moved to Charlotte but I have no idea why. I heard that North Carolina offered them some sweet deal, like ten million, to make the move and then they reneged. Same story with Bank of America. I don’t know all the details.”

“Aunt Daisy says you should never trust anyone north of Columbia.”

“Aunt Daisy is right! Anyway, I just know some of the faculty stayed behind and cut a deal with Trident so now there’s still a cooking school here. It’s kind of amazing, you know? This town really has come into its own. Everywhere you turn there’s an interesting restaurant with a hot young chef cooking up something floating in a froth or finished with a coulis or some fancy, high-toned thing.”

“Well, I say bravo to all of that!” I hoped I sounded enthusiastic but that wasn’t what was running through my mind. Yeah, big hairy bravo, I thought, so tell me about your wife, Mr. Risley. Tell me about
her
.

We arrived at the restaurant, turned the car over to valet parking, and went inside. The lively and stylish southwestern-flavored bar area was teeming with people of all ages and I thought, well, at last there’s a fun place where I could come for a night out, maybe with Patti when she came for a visit, and we wouldn’t look like a couple of pathetic cougars on the prowl. The pretty and congenial youngish hostess led us to a nice table. As I followed her across the dining room, John’s right hand was lightly touching the small of my lower back in an unmistakable proprietary way, a gesture that meant nothing more than we were together and he would be the guy to catch me if I should trip. I liked the whole idea of it, ceremonial or not, and thought, wow, Addison Cooper had not held my elbow or the small of my back in eons. In fact, I felt a twinge of sadness as I realized how long it had been since there had been any token of affection coming my way except from my sister, my children, my housekeeper, or my caterer.

My sex life was buried in a wasteland of mothballs and if I left it there it was by choice, not by necessity. I knew that but I was still grappling with the cold facts of the day—recent widow and married man. It just couldn’t be a good idea.

John, thankfully, was oblivious to the churning wheels in my head.

“The bartender here makes a drink he calls a Magic Margarita. Want to try one?” Risley was scanning the menu in such a way that I knew he was familiar with it.

“Does it have tons of alcohol in it? Because I haven’t had a drop of tequila in years. You’ll have to carry me out of here.”

“I don’t think they’re as dangerous as all that.”

Too bad, I thought and said, “Then why not? I could use a little magic in my life.”

“Couldn’t we all?” He closed his menu, signaled our waiter, and said, “So what are you in the mood for? Seafood? Chicken?”

“What do you recommend? You’ve been here, right?”

“Yeah, about a hundred times. Most of the waitstaff used to be or still is a student of mine. Including this fine young lady.”

“Hey, Professor Risley! Great to see you!”

“Good to see you, too, Ms. Geier. Cate Cooper, this is Christi Geier, she was in my playwriting class. How’s law school?”

“Nice to meet you Ms. Cooper. Ah, it’s the LSATs, sir. Going to give them another shot. So, what can I get for y’all?”

“The LSATs. They can be rough. Good luck. So how about a Magic Margarita for my friend and a Dos Equis for me?”

“Sounds good. I’ll be right back with some chips and salsa.”

“Thanks,” Risley said and turned his attention back to me. “So, tell me about growing up on Folly Beach. That must’ve been incredible. The Edge of America and all that. Was it?”

I looked at John Risley and then around the dining room for a moment, pausing to frame my answer. I decided to just tell him how I felt at the moment, which I was somewhat unsure about, because I had not been leading the most reflective life until Addison died.

“You know what? I think my childhood was probably like everyone else’s. There were some fabulous things about it and some really challenging moments, too. I mean, there were a few episodes in there where Folly felt more like the Edge of the World than the Edge of America, you know, like we could fall off at any time and you know, spiral out into deep space.”

“We?”

“My older sister Patti and me.”

“I always wished I had a sister. Or a brother. I’m an only child.”

“Being an only child has some real advantages, doesn’t it? I mean, I would’ve been a disaster without my sister telling me what was wrong with me all the time but there were definitely times when she probably wished she had the bathroom to herself and . . .”

John laughed and said, “Well, it was great for me at Christmas but hard to navigate the Department of Great Expectations.”

“Every kid in the world has to pass through the Department of Great Expectations.”

The chips arrived, brought by a very young waiter, and he sort of plunked them in the middle of the table along with some pretty appetizing green sauce for dipping. Then a moment later the drinks appeared via Ms. Geier and she placed them in front of us.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Sorry it took so long. The bartenders are slammed. Okay! Got a few specials for you tonight,” she said and began describing the intergalactic heights to which the chef planned to elevate the unsuspecting humble tilapia and how the ceviche was going to change the way we viewed southwestern cuisine, especially now that it had collided into a spectacular fusion of chilies and seafood from the pristine waters around the Lowcountry. “And, not to be overlooked are some mighty fine spiced shrimp, wood grilled and finished off with a cilantro garlic butter and that comes with a side of sweet corn pudding. Of course there’s always the South by Southwest Mixed Grill . . .”

“I’m full from just listening!” I said.

John shook his head, smiling at his former student. “I always said, Ms. Geier, you should go into theater. You’re missing your calling. Do we really need more lawyers?”

Ms. Geier grinned and said, “I don’t know, sir. I hope so. Y’all need a few minutes?”

“No, I think I’m all set. How about you, Cate? See anything interesting on that menu?”

“Sure, I’m thinking the ceviche to start and the Hawaiian sunfish? How’s that sound?”

“Very good! And you, professor?”

“I’m thinking all that effort on the tilapia shouldn’t go to waste and I’ll have the day-boat scallops to begin.”

“Perfect! I’ll get your order right into the kitchen.”

“Thanks,” John said, watching her scuttle away. “She’s a real talent. Would’ve made a great playwright.”

“Hmmm,” I said. “I always wanted to write a play, a big musical with great choreography like the old days or maybe something for the screen.”

“And why didn’t you? Cheers!”

“Cheers!” I said, touching the salty side of my glass to his frosted mug with a musical clink. “Well, I started down that road but then I hit a few twists and turns, you know, marriage, children . . .”

“So did Dorothy Heyward.”

“You mean DuBose Heyward’s wife?” I took a large sip of my cocktail. “Gosh! This is really delicious. But wait, she
was
a playwright.” Even I knew that much.

“Yep. I know. Dorothy Heyward
always
intended to be a playwright, from the time she was a little girl but the facts of her actual career make for a very interesting saga on their own.”

“Tell me the saga,” I said, feeling infinitely more relaxed as the alcohol entered my bloodstream.

“I don’t want to bore you . . .”

“I don’t think you could, but I’ll let you know if you do. I mean, I really am interested.”

“Okay. So, in the very beginning of her career one of her professors urged her to get to know the theater from the inside out.”

“Good advice. You should always know the business inside and out.”

“Definitely. So somewhere in between the time she went to New York to study playwriting at Columbia and when she went to Harvard to join George Baker’s famous Workshop 47, she got herself cast as a chorus girl in a traveling show.”

“Seriously? I danced in plenty of chorus lines, including the play
A Chorus Line,
for the exact same reason! So, how did she like it?”