Sullivans Island-Lowcountry 1 (31 page)

chat rooms and meet some stud muffin?” Her face was serious.

“Gimme a break, will you? I leave the chat rooms to Beth.

Would you believe I caught her talking to some guy, saying she

was a twenty-three-year-old blond aerobics instructor from

Malibu who loved Mexican food?”

“Good Lord, Susan. But, hey, it’s another story you could

write!”

“See what I mean?”

“Susan? Are you going to use your real name?”

“I don’t know, probably not. Because if nobody knows who

I am then I think it would be easier to really say what I think,

you know what I mean?”

“I wouldn’t use anybody’s name in the column either. You’ll

get your butt sued for libel.”

“Yeah, I thought of that, unless it’s a politician.”

“I could help you with lots of stories from when we were

kids.” She liked the idea. I could see it.

“I have a trunk full of them! The journals, remember?”

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“Right! Well, when you run out of stuff to say, let me know.”

“Maggie, people will be spending the weekend on the

moon before I run out of things to say.”

We started to laugh and our laughter grew. Pretty soon, tears

were running down our cheeks as we were remembering all the

crazy things we had done as children.

“Remember that kid Stuart?”

“Oh, God! What a little creep he was!”

That was how it all began. I spent the next two weeks writ-

ing like a maniac. I wrote a piece about going crabbing with an

illustration of kids on the beach attached to it. I wrote a piece

about sibling rivalry with a cartoon of kids choking each other.

I particularly loved the one I wrote about Livvie.That one had

a picture of a little white girl on the lap of a black woman.There

was something to be said about single parenting, a lot, in fact, so

I burned up the keyboard of Beth’s word processor on that. I

wrote about the sexual revolution and how it had passed

Charleston by. They were all very tongue-in-cheek and some of

them were damn funny, if I said so myself. And the cartoons set

the tone. They were eaten alive with cuteness.

Beth thought I’d gone mad. She was letting me use her

computer, because I couldn’t make up my mind which one I

wanted to buy, and she’d sacrificed her privacy. She moved to

the dining room to study, saying that my laughing out loud, not

to mention my pacing and smoking, broke her concentration.

No doubt.

When I had twenty-five essays together, I was ready to try

to sell them. But first somebody had to read them for me. Catch

the goobers, fine-tune the language, gauge the rhythm, veracity

and wit. I called Maggie.

“Whatcha doing?” I lit a cigarette.“Do you love me?”

“Of course I love you. What choice do I have? Where the

heck have you been?”

“I’ve been impersonating Anna Quindlen for the last ten

days. My fingers are worn down to little nubs from spilling my

S u l l i v a n ’ s I s l a n d

205

guts on paper. My thumbs are callused from the space bar. I need

your help.”

“Name it.”

“Do you think you could pretend you don’t know me and

read what I’ve written and then tell me the truth? I need to have

all this stuff proofread.”

“You’re not really seriously asking me if I like to criticize, are

you? Get your bones in the car and come on over. I’ve been dying

to see what you’re up to! I’ll make supper for y’all tonight.”

True to form, my sister helped me once again. She found tons

of errors that the spell-check feature on the word processor didn’t

pick up and had some good suggestions for tightening up some

of the essays. It took another week to get them polished and

another three days to work up my nerve to call the newspaper. I

just kept telling myself that if they didn’t want to run my essays,

I’d try another paper. No big deal. In fact, I expected rejection.

Finally, on Friday, I looked up the number and dialed. The

computerized voice that answered the phone had me so con-

fused, I wasn’t even sure who I wanted to talk to when the

human voice finally came on the line.

“Hello? Can I help you?” The voice, female, sounded

mature and pleasantly professional.

“Um, I hope so. My name is Susan Hayes and I’m in charge

of literacy outreach programs at the county library.”

“Yes, Ms. Hayes, how may I direct your call?”

“Well, I’m not sure. I’ve written some essays about living in

these hard, fast times we’re in and I was hoping I might speak to

someone about buying them for the paper.”

“Ah, so you’re a journalist too?”

“Well, an aspiring one, I mean, I’ve done a lot of writing—”

She cut me off in midsentence.“Just bring them to the front

desk, any weekday between nine and five, and we’ll have a look

at them. Make sure you have your résumé and phone number

attached to your portfolio and we’ll call you.”

“Okay. Fine.Thank you.”

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I wasn’t used to being dismissed and it felt terrible. But then

I realized I was talking to the receptionist and she probably got

fifty calls a week from people who are sure they’re the next

Dave Barry or Molly Ivins. Can’t blame her, I thought, and then

I realized: Portfolio? Don’t have one! Résumé? Haven’t updated

it in years! I spent all Friday evening composing a new résumé

and successfully resisted the urge to include any wisecracks.

Maybe I should send a copy to Roger Dodds too, I thought.

He
still
hadn’t called either. I could’ve died in the hurricane for

all he knew.

The next morning I bought a black leather portfolio, to

hold my essays, from Huguley’s on Wentworth Street. I prayed

that I’d bought the right kind and that it didn’t look pretentious.

I decided to beat it up a little to make me look experienced, so

I threw it on the asphalt a few times and walked on it. Then I

damp-wiped it and Pledged it. The end result was convincing

enough to me.

On my way to work Monday, I dropped the whole kit and

caboodle off at the
Post & Courier,
held my breath and began a

novena to the Blessed Mother.
O most gracious Virgin Mary, never

was it known that anyone who fled to thy protection, implored thy help

or sought thy intercession was left unaided . . .

It was in the blood. I would be a card-carrying, fish-eating,

bead-pushing, candle-lighting, altar-making, incense-sniffing,

genuflecting, saint-venerating Catholic until the day I died. I

figured the Blessed Mother was my best bet in the Roman

Catholic pantheon of possibilities. After all, she was a woman.

Maybe I would resort to daily Mass in case I’d used up all my

heavenly favors.

Tuesday and Wednesday went by and no one called. Not

Roger, not Tom and not the newspaper. I had indulged in a

thousand fantasies by late Wednesday afternoon. Ones where

crowds roared at my jokes and held their breath while I

spoke.

I was making a meat loaf for supper and had my hands in

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207

the bowl of chopped meat and ketchup when the phone rang. I

was so deep in thought that I jumped at the loud noise.

“Beth! Can you get that? If it’s Oprah, tell her there’s no fee

for me to appear, but I only fly first class!” I had been having a

marvelous time imagining fame and fortune and how cool I’d be.

“It’s for you, Mom!” Beth screamed from upstairs.“It’s some

man, probably wants to sell you something!”

Oh, good Lord, I thought, just when I’m up to my elbows

in gook. I wiped off my hands and picked up the receiver.

“Ms. Hayes?”

“Yes?”

“This is Max Hall calling. I’m the publisher of the
Post &

Courier.
” He paused.

“Oh! Yes! How nice of you to call.” My heart was beating

against the wall of my chest.

“I’ve read your essays.” He took a very long pause again. Did

he hate them? Did he love them? Tell me already and stop the

pain!

“And?”

“Well, it happens that one of our writers who does a col-

umn on Thursdays is leaving us and I might be able to use some

of your work. I’d like to meet with you and discuss it.”

“Fine! When?”

“Well, would Friday around four o’clock be all right with

you?”

I would’ve gone at three in the morning if he had wanted

me to.

I m a rc h e d mys e l f into Berlin’s the next afternoon like I shop

there every day. I bought a pair of black Calvin Klein trousers

with a jacket and a black silk T-shirt and paid the full retail price

for it all.Then, full of beans, I walked down to Bob Ellis Shoes

and bought a pair of black Prada pumps to match and a black

knock-off Chanel bag.Thank you, Jesus, and all those good peo-

ple at Metropolitan Insurance! Friday, I picked up the trousers

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from the alteration woman and hurried home to try on my new

image. As I stood in front of the mirror on the back of my door,

I liked what I saw. I was tall, thin and very cool. No, I was digni-

fied. I went to Beth’s room for the ultimate test.

“If I pull my hair back in a clamp, what do you think? Do I

look like a writer or an Italian widow?”

“Groovy, baby. Shagadelic!”

“Thanks, I think.”

All the way to Max Hall’s office I tortured myself. What if

he hated me? This was not a romance, I told myself, it was busi-

ness. What if he laughed at me and thought my work was idi-

otic? What if he bought it, it was published and everybody knew

it was me and
they
laughed at me?

“Ms. Hayes?”

His door had swung open, and a pimple-faced young man

in shirtsleeves scooted out past me. I marveled that he was old

enough to be a journalist. I was feeling old, but the face on Max

Hall was a lot older than mine. I took a deep breath and jumped

in the deep end.

“Hi!” I shook his hand. Firm grip.That was good.“Mr. Hall?”

“Call me Max.” He closed the door behind us. “Everyone

does.”

His office was exactly what I expected. Behind his old leather-

topped desk was a computer screen on a credenza, flashing news

with a stock tape running across the bottom. His desk was huge

and had several pencil cups and neat piles of paper stacked on both

ends. He took his seat in the leather swivel chair and indicated that

I should sit opposite him.

“Then call me Susan, please.”

“Sure. You want coffee?”

“Sure. Black’s fine.”

He spoke into his intercom, asking the female outside to bring

in two cups of coffee.Then he leaned back and looked at me.

“So, you want to write a column for the
Post & Courier,
do

you? What kind of experience have you got?”

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209

“Jack,” I said.

“Excuse me? You worked for someone named Jack? Do I

know him?”

I cleared my throat and my face got hot. I should’ve

watched a video on how to interview.

“Um, no, Max, I mean I have a lot of experience, but not in

journalism. But I do a lot of writing for my regular job at the

county library. Grant proposals, brochures, that sort of thing.”

“Ah! I see.” He leaned across the desk and said in a low

voice as his secretary left the office, closing the door behind her,

“What you’re telling me is that you don’t know jack about jour-

nalism, is that right?”

The son of a bitch had no sense of humor.

“Well, yes and no. I mean, everyone tells me I write like a

journalist and that I should write professionally and that I’m

funny. Well, they think so, I’m not so sure.”

“Let me be the judge of that.”

“Ah, Jesus.” I had spilled the coffee down my arm.

“Don’t be so nervous. Here.” He handed me a wad of tissues.

“Right. Max, can I be real straight with you?”

“Please. I’m about as good at mind reading as you are on

interviews.” He smiled and leaned back. This wasn’t going as I

had visualized it.

“Look. If you like the twenty-five stories you’ve seen, I have

more. I’ve been keeping a journal since I was knee-high. Here’s

the thing. I need this job. I’m a single parent, my ex-husband is

so tight he squeaks and I need to prove something.”

“Now you’ve got my attention.What’ve you got to prove?”

“I need to prove to my daughter that the human spirit can

overcome any trial life throws your way. These stories are for

women around my age, the boomers. They’re to remind them

that raising kids today ought to be a breeze next to the issues we

faced during segregation and the Vietnam war and all the stuff

that went on thirty years ago that changed the world forever.”

“You think your generation changed the world?”

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“You bet we did. This planet’s never been safer than it is

today. The air’s cleaner, the water’s cleaner and the risk of nuclear

war is practically nil.” You go, honey, I said to myself. I wondered