Folly Beach by Dorothea Benton Frank
One of the deliverymen came up to me to scope out the destination.
“Where do you want us to put this, ma’am?”
“In the first room, under the window on the far left wall,” I said. “You’re welcome to have a look.”
“Thanks,” he said and stepped inside the door. He came back out, nodded to me, and called out, “Okay guys, let’s get this baby inside.”
Speaking of island construction, the Porgy House was as ancient a beach cottage as there was left on the whole island and I would bet you a dollar that you couldn’t find a right angle in the whole place. The way the house had settled in the sandy yard, probably sinking by a hair each year over many decades, had left the floors sloped and everything just a bit off-kilter. These varying depreciations of symmetry gave the house a distinguished character all its own. In the short time I’d been there I had come to feel some real affection for all the crooked windows and the musical creaks in the floorboards. After all, I was walking the floors where Dorothy and DuBose drank cocktails with George Gershwin and wrote the quintessential theatrical work that burst forth from the Lowcountry of South Carolina like a rocket to Mars. If that couldn’t inspire me to at least try and pen my own play, what would?
I watched as the men groaned under the weight of the piano, pulling it up the steps on a heavy plywood ramp they carried for just these kinds of occasions and then as they lowered it onto a heavy quilted mat they used to slide it across the floor and put it in position. You could keep that job. My back hurt just watching them.
They unbuckled and pulled the canvas belts from around the piano and lifted the quilted blankets away, folding them as they went. She sure was yar. (I’ve always wanted to use that word ever since I heard Katharine Hepburn say it referring to a boat in The Philadelphia Story. It’s probably a nautical term.) Anyway, I was thrilled with the glossy patina of the cabinet and the fact that they had not retouched the cunningham piano co. gold-leaf signature that was slightly faded from the years. Cunningham Piano Company, coincidentally also from Philadelphia, has been building pianos for symphonies, academies, and concert pianists since the 1890s and they were treasured by those who played them. Considering my rudimentary skill level, I was humbled to own one.
Every ivory and ebony key was immaculate and, miraculously, the bench still held all my old sheet music under the seat, which in the haste and tumult of that horrible day Tina had forgotten to remove. I couldn’t wait to sit down and play, even though the sound of my playing would surely send all the neighborhood cats screaming up the trees.
“Can you sign here?”
“Sure! Wait just a minute.” I ran upstairs and got my wallet to give them a tip. Fortunately, I had just made a withdrawal from the ATM, so I could give them a twenty. Now, I know, twenty dollars sounds like a lot of money for a widow of greatly reduced circumstances to be throwing around but it was to be divided among three men and when was the last time I tried to pick up a piano?
“Here we go.” I signed the receipt and handed the man with the clipboard the money.
“Thanks a lot, miss,” he said and went to join the others, already waiting in the truck.
I closed the door behind him and looked at my beautiful Cunningham, standing there all shiny and new-looking and wondered if I should give the room a fresh coat of paint. This is what happens when you start redecorating—you bring in new throw pillows and then you want to throw the old sofa out the back door. Ah well, I told myself, maybe it was because the piano was new to the room, still a stranger, and I should give my eyes a few days to get used to it and then decide. But one thing was certain, I wasn’t going to let the memory of Addison Cooper’s death spiral of insanity sully the regard I felt for my most important heirloom. The piano was washed clean of any sign of him and maybe in time I, too, would remember only the good things from the good years. One could hope.
I decided to call Patti and let her know that it had arrived in mint shape.
She picked up on the first ring.
“So, missy?” Patti said in a sassy, merry voice. “Just how long am I supposed to wait to hear from you? Do I need to go find a new best friend now that you’re gone?”
“Don’t you dare,” I said. “I’d die.”
“I don’t knoooow . . .” she said in a singsong warning.
“Oh, please,” I said. “We can’t replace each other anyway. Who’re we kidding?”
“I guess you’re right. So what’s going on?”
“Well, first of all . . .” I told her about the piano’s arrival in such perfect condition and thanked her profusely.
“Don’t thank me. Thank old Ebenezer! I still can’t believe he prepaid the shipping. But, he did take that wine.”
“And maybe because he took Addison’s golf clubs and maybe he found out they’re worth like half a zillion? He must have thought he owed me something.”
“Yeah, probably. I married the last man on the planet with a conscience. But you know, not a day goes by that he doesn’t ask me about you and if I’ve heard from you and how you’re doing.”
“He’s really a precious guy, Patti. You’re very lucky.”
“Yeah, I know. So he’s a little tight with his money? You never get it all with one man.”
“Well, he has it all with you! Ha! So, when are you coming to see me?”
“How’s next weekend?”
“For real?”
I got very excited then. For the month since I had arrived here my new existence had everything in it except Patti.
“Yeah, I want to see how our sweet little Alice is doing . . .”
“You’re terrible,” I said.
“And the professor . . .”
“Listen, he’s unbelievable.” I told her all about John and his plans for my future as a playwright but I didn’t tell her about, you know, about us moving the earth.
Then she asked.
“So? Did you throw him down yet?”
“WHAT? What kind of a crazy question is that? I’m . . . speechless!”
“So, you did, huh? Wow. Tell me, what’s it like to make love to somebody new? I’ve been with Mark for so long I can make out a grocery list in my head and still not miss a thing. So how is it?”
There was no point in withholding anything from Patti. She knew anyway.
“Fucking fabulous, and the word order doesn’t matter.”
“OMG! Listen to you, you old perimenopausal slut! I’m telling!”
“Yeah? Go ahead. Tell the world! Listen, at my age? I’m going to do exactly what I want to do. Yeah, I finally am. But I wouldn’t bring it up to the kids quite yet.”
“Of course not!” There was silence for a second or two and then she said, “Well, it’s about time you took your life back.”
Is that what she thought? The more I thought about it I realized she wasn’t wrong.
“Well, if you meet him you’ll see why I’m so, so . . .”
I could hear her gasp.
“Jesus, Cate! Are you in love with this man?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. I mean, I could be at some point. Not now, of course . . .”
“Too soon . . .”
“Of course! It’s too soon. But you’ll see. He’s . . . well, he’s not like anyone else I ever dated. That’s for sure. But Patti, I have to tell you, he’s not divorced. I mean he’s not really married, but he’s not divorced.” I then proceeded to tell Patti about Lisa.
“I’m changing my ticket. I’m coming Thursday. Maybe Wednesday. This is worse than I thought.”
“Actually, you’re going to find out it’s better than you thought possible. You can bring Mark, too!”
“Are you losing your little cat-eyed marbles? You think I want to spend the whole time I’m with you worrying about if he’s entertained? No way.”
We laughed again and I said, “Look, get yourself down here as soon as you can. We’ll talk about all of this over some good but moderately priced vino.”
“We should’ve swi
She promised to call me with her final reservation information. I would pick her up at the airport. She could stay in the bedroom across the hall and it would be like old times. We’d be girls again. For a few days, we’d be girls.
It was time to put the chicken in the oven. It was already four thirty and he was supposed to arrive at six. I wanted the place to smell like roasting garlic and onions when he walked in the door. I wished there was a separate dining room, but alas, there was none. So for that evening we would eat in the kitchen. The table was set and I had to say, while it wasn’t something that would have thrilled Addison Cooper, I knew John Risley would appreciate every effort made on his behalf.
Earlier in the day, while I was shopping at the Piggly Wiggly for dinner, I bought a two-slice toaster, a drip coffee machine, a couple of inexpensive pots, and a cast-iron skillet. I also picked up some red and white dish towels, two red pot holders, and four red place mats. In a final nod to extravagance and in the name of beauty, I parted with ten additional dollars for a bunch of red tulips, hoping there was a vase in the house. I had checked out the flatware, dishes, and glasses and thought, well, they were good enough for a college student and they would have to be good enough for tonight. Spending money made me nervous and even though I was giving Aunt Daisy dozens of hours of help with her business we had yet to discuss a salary or any kind of compensation. After all, I was living in the Porgy House rent-free. But at some point I’d have to do it or get another job. I had to consider things like health insurance for Sara and me. It was foolhardy to be without it and I knew Addison’s policies had a time limit. I’d have to ask Mark to look at all of that for us, because reading insurance policies and trying to make sense of them made my teeth hurt. I think that’s a pretty normal reaction for most people.
I was just putting the plump, herb-stuffed bird in the oven and closing the door when I heard a voice.
“Anybody home?”
It was Ella.
“Hey! Come on in! I’m in the kitchen!”
“I’ve got your pie.”
“Pecan?”
“Lord, no! I can’t even look at a pecan for right now. Too many pecan pies, even for me.” She delivered it in a sweetgrass basket lined with a red-and-blue plaid kitchen towel. It looked like something out of Southern Living magazine. “No, I made an apple pie this time. Is that okay?”
The minute she folded back the towel, the smell of apples and cinnamon filled the air and my mouth started to water. The way my salivary glands reacted to Ella’s baking? You’d think I’d spent the last twenty years in the woods, wandering aimlessly, starving and foraging, living on a few berries and roots. Actually, that wasn’t too far off—the aimless wandering part, anyway.
I clasped my hands together and gave the glossy golden crust a good once-over.
“Oh, Ella, it’s gorgeous. How can I thank you?”
“Humph. You can get your Aunt Daisy to a doctor instead of those Marsh Tacky Races down in Hilton Head. I don’t like the way she’s looking for the last week and I can’t get her to go see her doctor.”
I began to panic inside at the mere thought of anything being seriously wrong with Aunt Daisy.
“What are you saying? What kind of symptoms does she have?”
“Well, it started the night you, Russ, and Alice came over, after y’all left. First, she seemed sweaty, you know like flu. But it ain’t flu. Then she starts getting all kind of cranky.”
“More than usual?”
“A lot more. And I think she’s running a fever. I see her taking aspirin and ask her why and she tells me to mind my own business, which isn’t unusual for her. But something’s wrong. I think her pressure is up. And her breathing ain’t quite right.”
“She’s congested? Maybe she has bronchitis?”
“I don’t know. Anyhow, she’s determined she’s going to get me to drive her to Hilton Head to watch these fool horses run on the beach and I just don’t think she needs to go this year.”
Aunt Daisy loved the Marsh Tacky horses and I knew why. They were like us—a little bit abandoned but adaptable in tough situations. Once, when we were sitting around talking, she told me that if a Marsh Tacky got caught in the pluff mud and started to sink, he didn’t panic like a regular horse. He just lay down on his side and pulled his hooves out. Then he got up and went on his way. They were tough little fighters like Aunt Daisy and me, too, if I could remember how to fight.
“I’ll talk to her. She probably does have the flu. In fact, I’ll make her go with me in the morning. Who’s her primary doctor? She’s not still seeing Harper?”
“Yeah, God. She’s the only woman her age I know that uses a pediatric allergy doctor but all these years after y’all all grown? You can’t get her to change and he doesn’t seem to care. Maybe ’cause she give him and his family a house last summer for two weeks. I don’t know. Maybe he’s her long-lost son. Here’s his number.”
Ella reached in the pocket of her cardigan and handed me the folded paper that revealed his office address and phone number in addition to his cell phone number.
“You’re really worried, aren’t you?” I said.
“I don’t know, but I don’t like what I see and I ain’t no doctor to decide what’s best.”
“I’ll call him tonight.”
“Thanks, honey. That makes me feel much better. What time is Mr. Risley supposed to show up? Your table looks very nice, by the way.”
“Well, thanks. Amazing what you can buy at the grocery store these days. He’ll be here in an hour.”
“Well, I’d better skedaddle and let you young people have your night.”
She turned to go but I could see that she was filled with anxiety.
“Ella?”
“Uh-huh?”
“I don’t want you to worry tonight, about Aunt Daisy, I mean. Let me worry for you.”
“You’re a sweet girl, Cate. That’s a nice thing to say.”
She went out the door and I followed her to the front stoop.
“Call me if you need anything, okay?”
“I will.”
“And thanks again for the pie!”
She waved at me as she pulled away, leaving me to stew over the frailty of her position in the world. She had come here with Dr. Harper’s number, prepared to ask me to step in and get involved with Aunt Daisy’s health care. Life partners. That’s what they were but saying they had a life partner didn’t mean they didn’t need anybody else. Had Aunt Daisy provided for her? I mean, was there an insurance policy naming her as the beneficiary? A will? Would she be able to stay in the house? Would it belong to her? How many houses did Aunt Daisy own at this point? If something happened to Aunt Daisy, which I could not fathom, would others step forward to put a claim on Aunt Daisy’s assets? Like the IRS? Would her estate be obliged to pay exorbitant estate taxes because she had not put her affairs in order? Who was her executor? And, most important, how in the world did you approach a subject like that with someone who might be very ill but was as belligerent as Ella described? You did it tomorrow, honey. You approached these kinds of things delicately and with all the sensitivity you could muster. Tomorrow.
Meanwhile, I had a chicken in the oven and I was in need of a fast bath. My first thought was that if I ever had any money again, I was getting a place with a shower. Baths made a mess no matter how careful you were.
I dressed myself, after a careful but generous application of whatever body moisturizer they were selling in the bomb shelter–size for the least amount of money and targeted spritzes of the last of my Chanel No. 5. It wasn’t going to waste. I wondered if there was a generic version of it out there in the world I could find for less. Not that I was so worried about my resources yet, but it couldn’t hurt to be vigilant about these things.
Risley wasn’t due for another twenty minutes so I decided to use the time to call Dr. Harper. I pressed his number into my keypad and, to my surprise, he picked up.
“This is Tom Harper,” he said.
“Dr. Harper? You probably won’t remember me but I’m . . .”
“Cathy Mahon? Caller ID, you know. The nice girl who ran off and married that old geezer? Addison, right?”
“Yeah, well, that old geezer bit the proverbial dust and I’m back in town.”
“Oh! I’m terribly sorry! I didn’t know . . . please accept my apol . . .”
“No, no, it’s okay. Really.” I stopped for a second and remembered I was a widow, not someone on a travel spree, dropping in on relatives for the fun of it. “Anyway, I’m calling you about my aunt Daisy.”
I told him what Ella said and he was quiet.
“Could be anything. Why don’t you bring her around in the morning and let me look at her. I’ll do some blood work and we’ll see what we’ve got going on.”
I heard John’s car door close. He had arrived. I opened the front door for him and before he reached the house, I thanked Dr. Harper and hung up, promising to be there by nine. I felt so much better.
“Hey!” he said, and handed me a bottle of wine. “What’s happening? Boy! Something smells good. Is it chicken?”
“Yeah, but what about this chicken?”
“I’ve been thinking about this chicken all day,” he said leaning down to give me a kiss. “Where’s the corkscrew?”
“Did you say screw?” I opened the drawer, took it out, and handed it to him.
“Bad girl!” He shook his head, grinning. “You’re driving me a little mad, you know. I mean, there I am sitting at my desk, grading papers on the importance of the Agrarian Poets, and suddenly a memory of us, you know, us . . .”
“No, I know what you mean.” I pointed to the corkscrew and he slapped my hand. “You don’t have to say the word.”
“You are so bad tonight! What got into you?”
I just stared at him as if to say, whaddya think?
“Yeah, it’s way too cavalier to just call it . . . anyway, you know, here comes this memory and I lose total concentration, I start reliving the moment and I’m worthless for the rest of the afternoon. It’s like I’m possessed or something.”