The Land of Mango Sunsets (8 page)

The cleanup was fast and Harrison poured out some of a second bottle of wine. We had not had enough wine to be tipsy, but just enough to feel relaxed and happy. We bundled up in jackets and gloves and rode over to Station Eighteen in Harrison’s Mercury Mountaineer. He opened the
sunroof and I began to let my mind drift as I took in the natural beauty above me.

When we parked, Harrison helped Mother down from her seat and then held out a hand for me. I could feel his strength as he held my elbow and knew that he would never have let either of us fall. It had been forever since I had felt the grip of any man besides Kevin, who was a dear, to be sure, but he did not elicit the same response from my nervous system as Harrison. I blushed again, hoped he could not see it in the dark and wondered what was going on with me. Was I having an episode of “Any Port in a Storm”?

The night was crystal clear and there were countless stars overhead, sparkling and multiplying as our eyes adjusted to the darkness. It was chilly but invigorating to be in the salty night breeze. We moved through the white dunes, pristine even in the dead of night, and began walking east. The tide was low but sliding in quickly enough to be the perfect background music—rising with a muffled roar and receding in whispers. The phosphorus ocean sparkled and in the reflection of its dazzle we found our voices again.

“Tell me more about you,” I said in what I considered to be a rather bold move.

“Me?” Harrison said. “Well, I spent twenty years in investment banking and did all right.”

“He made a killing,” Mother said. “Don’t let him fool you.”

“Mother!” Sometimes my mother’s mouth was a loose cannon.

“That’s okay. Anyway, when my wife told me she preferred my best friend’s bed to mine, I threw my golf clubs in the Ashepoo River and took up fishing. Fishing is good for the soul. Gives you time to think.”

“I imagine so,” I said.

“So after I settled here and as time went on I started finding out about mercury levels in the water, hence
in the seafood
. Then it was chemical runoff from parking lots into the water supply and
into the seafood
. We’re
basically poisoning ourselves. Then I guess it was just
waste
that was bugging me—you know, we are such a wasteful society—all the landfills and so on. Anyway, those were the beginning thoughts that made me want to change my life and to help clean up and preserve the world around me. Just quit wasting stuff, you know?”

He and Mother seemed to share in this wacky concept of living green, but more important, living without the commercial trappings of the world over the causeway.

“So, you don’t watch television?” I said, teasing a little. “No
Desperate Housewives
?”

“No, of course I watch television. Just not for hours on end, that’s all. And needless to say, I’m not interested in desperate housewives, or desperate anybody, for that matter.”

“Understood. Me either.” I wondered if I came off as desperate. “Well, do you use electricity?”

“Yes, of course. Of course I do. But very little. In fact, I’ve been kicking around a small windmill test project for the island.”

“Harrison is absolutely brilliant, Miriam. Lots of people have generators that run on fossil fuel but Harrison wants to use the wind. Think about it. How much wind do we get in a hurricane? A lot. Or even when it’s coming in from the east? We’ve been using solar panels for years, but windmills are so beautiful and peaceful. I wouldn’t mind seeing them in the landscape.”

Was there a twinkle in Mother’s eye? Was
she
his…no way!

“Well, to date, we’re not getting very far,” Harrison said. “We need to come up with a turbine that can produce power at a steady average wind speed. So far, no luck.”

“Meaning?” I said. My throat tightened at the actual possibility of Mother and Harrison together.

“I’m putting my energy into other things—like opening a flex fuel station in Mount Pleasant so we can pump E-85 fuel. And photovoltaic systems.”

“Photo what?”

“Solar cells.”

“Ah. Right. What was I thinking? I thought you were a nice retired banker just catching a few fish now and then,” I said.

I could see him smiling in the dark.

“Banking was another life. I like this one better. It might actually do some good.”

I thought about what he said and decided Mother was right—he was an interesting man. And he may have been flirting a little with me, but I was sure then it was unintentional and meaningless. Obviously, I had misread his signals. He was Mother’s friend and I was pretty sure more. My heart sank from my own vanity. But honestly, I was very glad that Mother had someone in her life. Besides, could I truly envision this guy at a gala in New York? How about never?

Anyway, saving the planet was a good idea. It was surely a fact that most of the population did not live in sync with nature. At all. I had endured prolonged blackouts in New York and always worried about the people on life support. Worse, I worried about old people who lived on high floors of apartment buildings and how they would go out for groceries. Would they simply die of heart attacks trying to get home, climbing forty flights of steps? It was a dark subject to ponder.

I said, “Well, windmills are certainly more aesthetic than those horrible open transformer substations and those huge buzzing towers that we always suspected gave people brain cancer.”

I turned around to see that I had walked ahead of Mother and Harrison. They had not heard a word I said. They were huddled together trying to light something. Maybe Harrison smoked. That’s pretty nasty, I thought. But within seconds the sweet-smelling memories of an old rock concert reached me. My mother and Harrison were burning a special kind of weed. This was something I absolutely could not abide.

I felt sickened with disgust. My mother must have been absolutely crazy.

I waited until they caught up to me and then I looked at them both and said, “Have y’all gone mad? Y’all must be out of your cotton-picking minds. Gross!”

I started walking back to the house. I could hear them calling after me but I ignored them. I was too furious and too shocked and it was too late to fly back to New York. I would leave first thing in the morning but not until I had given her a piece of my mind. And him? Maybe I’d push him into the Ashepoo and let him look for his golf clubs. Didn’t
anyone
lead a respectable life anymore?

Old habits died hard. I began my day fulfilling my obligations and that was that. It didn’t matter if I was in Timbuktu. But I have to say that I was beginning to think my obsession with writing all these thank-you notes was becoming slightly more than disingenuous. Besides, what I really wanted to say to Agnes Willis would never find its way into ink. Moreover, it was becoming clear that I had been taking my lead from others for about as long as I could stand it.

I was restless and couldn’t sleep. Never mind that I was awakened at the crack of dawn by my mother’s manly rooster crowing his head off loud enough to make his harem lay scrambled eggs. So I got up, packed, wrote my phony thank-you note to Agnes Willis, and walked down to the post office via the beach. It was a perfect morning. The damp air was chilled, but I welcomed the warmth of the rising sun on my back as I made my way toward the lighthouse.

Agnes Willis. Boy, she thought she had the world in the palm of her liver-spotted hand, didn’t she? And why was it that women like her always seemed to come out on top? Maybe it was because their husbands had trained them to look the other way and because they all knew divorce was just too bloody expensive. I really needed to get over her. No, I realized that what I
really
needed to do was stop letting the whole freaking world contribute to my horrible inferiority complex I seemed to be carrying around in the chip embedded in my shoulder.

I looked around me at all the “dog people” people on the beach—they were actually frolicking, dogs and people! Out in full force, they were tossing things that their pets chased—Frisbees, sticks, and tennis balls. This was one of the things I loved about the tiny kingdom of Sullivans Island. The ruling town fathers and mothers passed a law allowing dogs on the beach only during very specific time slots. They loved passing laws, it seemed.

I imagine that in the years of my absence some big old black Labrador had licked the leg or snatched the egg-salad sandwich of some crazy rich Yankee who owned a house on the front beach worth millions. That northerner complains and the council agrees that it’s not right; in fact, it’s terrible. Let’s be honest, since the south ceased growing cotton and our senators lost the support of the navy yard, tourism has been the cement that held the Charleston area’s economy together. Crotch sniffing, jumping, untethered wet dogs running wild all over the beach just wouldn’t do. The dog-owning local homegrown citizens moaned and complained but the law stuck.

What no one counted on was that a new society would spring from the cause of canine discontent. The “dog people” came to recognize, greet, and talk to one another. They became friends and I heard several marriages had come about as a result of the Island’s new mandate. Who knew? It was clearly one of the details of Sullivans Island living that only added to its magical reputation. It was charmed.

I walked past their gathering and over the dunes to the post office thinking about Mother. When she came home last night she did not say a word to me and I did not come out of my room to say a word to her. I was so flabbergasted. What if she had been caught? What if she went to jail? If her arrest was written up in the papers in Charleston, surely someone in New York would pass it along, and inside of a city minute, my life would be completely finished. And hers. And who was this ridiculous man jeopardizing our lives over a cheap thrill? It really was too much.

I bought a stamp from the machine, slapped it on the envelope, and tossed it through the out-of-town mail slot. Out-of-town? It should have been labeled
ANOTHER WORLD
. After all, Sullivans Island was not exactly a microcosm of the known planet. It wasn’t Charleston. It wasn’t Manhattan. It had no real claim to fame outside of Fort Moultrie, which, all right, I’ll admit was pivotal in the American Revolution, the War of Northern Aggression, and every other war in our history, and Edgar Allan Poe was stationed there, and then there was the Pest House and oh, shoot…in the time it had taken to leave the beach, I had worked myself into a snit and was not thinking straight. I removed my cell phone from my pocket, dialed Kevin, and started walking home.

“Miriam? Is that you? Is everything all right?”

“Yes. No. Oh, Kevin, are you up yet?”

“Of course I am. I’m up, dressed, and just fed Harry his breakfast. What’s going on? Are you ill?”

“No. Well, sick in my heart. Kevin, you won’t believe what happened last night.”

“Spill it, Petal. Tell Uncle Sigmund everything. Nothing like a little morning drama to get the blood moving.”

“I caught my mother smoking pot.”

“What?”

Kevin exploded with laughter. I joined in, only because he had the most contagious laugh in the world.

“Kevin! This is not funny! Stop!”

“You’re right! It’s not funny. It’s hysterical! Puh-lease! You have to tell me the details! Was she using a bong?”

His laughter continued and mine did not. The idea that my mother, a heretofore dignified woman—former Junior League president for eons, a trustee of the Gibbes Art Museum for decades, on and on her involvement went with every traditional organization Charleston had that you can name—now the Queen of the Beach, might have stooped so low as to purchase a bong annoyed the devil out of me. I stopped and sat at a picnic table in front of Dunleavy’s Pub, which still made the best burgers in the world.

“No. She was
not
using a bong, Kevin, and this is serious! I mean, what if my mother gets caught? What if it’s all over the papers? I would be ruined! Ruined, do you hear me?”

He was silent.

“Are you there?”

“Yes, I’m here. Oh, Miriam, Miriam, Miriam. Listen to me. Smoking pot is stupid…”

“It also happens to be illegal, you know.”

“I’m aware. So is taking catalogs from the hall that belong to a certain someone else. But Miriam, who died and put you in charge of the world?”

“Just what is that supposed to mean, Kevin?” I sighed deeply. Sometimes even my sweet Kevin could be exasperating.

“I mean, as I was saying before my dearest friend interrupted me, that smoking pot is stupid and illegal, but heavenly days, it really shouldn’t be. Millions of people smoke marijuana, and if they’re not selling it or in possession of massive quantities or giving it to little children, well, the world doesn’t really care. Neither should you.”

“Listen, Kevin, my position is precarious enough without my mother getting busted and ruining my life.”

“Perhaps, but I’ll bet you a thousand dollars that she won’t get busted
and you’ll still have your self-righteous indignation to keep you warm at night.”

Ouch. But my indignation, self-righteous or not, had nothing to do with the fact that my mother was using illegal drugs. They were separate issues.

“Not nice, darling.”

“Sorry. But, Miriam, you are such a harsh judge. Cut your mother some slack. How old is she?”

“If I told you, I’d have to kill you. But she’s old enough to know better, that’s for sure.”

“So, what do you propose to do about it? Send her to the Betty?”

“Very funny. No. I’m going to have a talk with her and then I’m coming home. I actually called to tell you I was coming home early.”

“Well, you know I would love it if you did, but I think you should stay. When you talk to her, try not to do it from the saddle of a high horse, okay?”

“I haven’t changed my ticket yet. It’s nonrefundable. They’ll probably charge me a fortune…”

“Blasted money hogs those airlines are. Can’t even carry my moisturizer on board anymore. Calm down about this, Miriam. Seriously. You haven’t been to visit your mother in ages, and if you stomp off in a huff it would hurt her feelings, I’m sure.”

“And there’s something else.”

“You’ve been holding out on me! What?”

“There’s a man.”

“And…”

“His name is Harrison Ford.”

“Shut! Up!”

“Different Harrison Ford.”

“Oh. Okay. And…”

“And I thought he was flirting with me but he might be my mother’s boyfriend. I can’t figure it out.”

“Any resemblance to the other one? Hmm?”

“Stop it! He’s like my age practically.”

I could hear Kevin gasp and could envision his fingers brought to his lips as if to say, Well, shut my mouth.

“Do you know how bizarre this is to me?”

“It’s fascinating is what it is. You simply have to stay. That’s all there is to it.”

“Maybe.”

“But report back every six hours. I’ll tell you, Petal, you make my life up here in the frozen tundra seem frightfully boring. There’s only old Harry to hear my prayers.”

“I’ll call you later.”

I could hear his signature giggle as I closed the phone.

Maybe I was too serious.

I looked up from my bench to see the stream of luxury cars heading for the Ben Sawyer Bridge and another day of work off the island. BMWs and Benzes were rolling down Middle Street and waiting to turn. Jaguars, Lexus SUVs, Land Rovers, and custom pickup trucks were lined up to my right, zipper-merging with the others. I marveled at the spectacular surge in wealth they all represented. The occasional minivan and school bus passed and I was reassured of some normalcy for a moment. But when the Perrier truck pulled up to deliver to Dunleavy’s, I got up to go home. The Sullivans Island of my youth had been gentrified beyond what my heart could endure. At least at that moment.

Then like a lightning bolt from the clear blue, it hit me. Strange and peculiar as my mother’s existence here may have seemed to me, since she had retired here, she was one of the last remaining authentic islanders—minus the marijuana, of course. If people like her didn’t live the way she did, Sullivans Island would dissolve into just another overpriced, mainstreamed, McMansioned piece of branded Americana. That same authenticity was why Sullivan’s was thriving, as well as Station Twenty-two Restaurant and Atlanticville and all the other little restaurants and busi
nesses that dotted both sides of Middle Street. It was probably the reason the
age-inappropriate-for-my-mother
Harrison Ford loved it there, and others I had yet to discover. They were all on a mission to preserve or find their true identity and shunned the outside world as unnecessary. Maybe they weren’t wrong. Perhaps Harrison would benefit from a manicure and a younger girlfriend, but maybe he and Mother were onto something. Why else were the streets of this island jammed with cars each morning, evening, and night all year round if all those people weren’t seeking some sliver of unmanufactured, unplastic-coated reality?

I reached Mother’s yard. Her chickens were pecking the ground, Cecelia was eating some kind of greenery, and I was almost wondering why she didn’t have a couple of ducks to round out the symphony. In a much-improved state of mind, I started up the back stairs and heard the sliding-glass door open. There stood Miss Josie at the top of the stairs with her hands on her hips. Her body language was clear.

“I see you’ve packed your things,” she said in a humorless voice.

“Good morning, Mother. I was thinking of going home.”

“Is there a reason?”

What was I supposed to say then? That she was getting toasted and fooling around with a man more suited for me? I tried to find the words. “Look, Mother, last night I saw you—”

“You’re not old enough to lecture your mother, missy.”

“I wasn’t planning to.”

“Good. Do you want some breakfast?”

“That would be lovely.” I arrived at the porch and kissed her cheek. “How did you sleep?”

“Well enough.”

I went inside and made myself a cup of strong instant coffee, thinking it was probably in order instead of tea. Mother cracked some eggs into a bowl and stirred them around with a fork. There were three of us then—me, Mother, and Her Attitude.

“Would you like me to put the bread in the toaster?”

“If you wish,” she said.

“Are you angry with me?”

“No, of course not. But I had hoped you’d stay more than one night, Miriam.”

So that was it. Back to “Miriam,” were we? Kevin was right. She was upset that I was leaving. “Well, then, I will. How long would you like to have me around?”

She stopped, pushed a few stray hairs back from her forehead and sighed. Then she looked at me with the strangest expression. “For the rest of my days?”

We smiled almost identically. All at once it was wonderful to be with her, even if she was a card-carrying loon.

“Well, I’ll stay two more days but you have to make me a promise.”

“What’s that?”

“That you’ll be discreet. I don’t want to have to bail you out of jail.”

She put her hand on my arm and told me not to worry. She fed me the most delicious scrambled eggs I had ever eaten. She told me she loved me, I told her that I loved her, and neither of us said a word about Harrison.

“So, what would you like to do today?” she said.

“Maybe have that long walk on the beach?”

“Sounds like a good idea. How about after two? The tide will be low then, and in the meanwhile, I have some things to get done.”

“I can help you. If you would like, I mean.”

The next thing I knew I was on the receiving end of instructions in the fine art of crocheting fishing nets with my fingers and a small stick. She left to do her errands and I was deep in thought, comparing and contrasting my life in New York with island living.

The differences were enormous. It certainly was pleasant to be in the winter morning air without a coat and gloves looking at the marsh. It practically shook with the bustle of its life. Gulls, ospreys, and pelicans were swooping and soaring all through the sky. Little wrens chirped from deep inside the fronds of Mother’s tall palmetto trees,
which curtsied in greeting with every gust of wind. Crows were everywhere.

Now, crows fascinated me, despite the fact that their incessant cawing was not exactly Chopin. People said that they were the most intelligent birds on the planet, but only because they didn’t know my Harry. I would concede that crow habits did ring slightly human, except that, unlike people, they mate for life. They were a curious breed. Once, years ago, I had seen one standing guard in a treetop while his buddies fed on the ground. And I had seen the lazy things drop pecans in the road so that cars could crack them open. Around dusk, you would see them start to gather in groups on wires and rooftops. At some signal that surely eluded me, they would depart for their nightly roost. Hundreds, even thousands of them, would roost together in a field because their vast numbers protected them from the jaws and claws of owls and hawks.