Folly Beach by Dorothea Benton Frank
“You know, you can stop all your robust agreeing with your sister any time now, Patti. I get the picture.”
“Oh, come on,” I said, seeing that Mark’s pride was nicked. “Have another doughnut. They’re good for you.”
“Right,” he said, defeated, and stuffed an entire jelly doughnut in his mouth.
“Look,” I said, “I’m going to sell my diamonds. They’ve got to be worth a nice chunk of change. And I’ve got about twenty thousand dollars in my safe.”
“Where’s the safe?” Mark asked.
“Behind a fake wall in the wine cellar.”
“You’d better empty that pronto,” he said.
“I’m going to do that this morning. There’s cash in the bank but I’m thinking anything with Addison’s name on it is going to be frozen.”
“Count on it. And everything else is held jointly, I imagine?” Mark said, turning his attention to the newspapers.
“Naturally,” I said and they rolled their eyes to the ceiling. “Stupid, I know.”
“A woman should always have her own FU money,” Patti said.
“You’re right. That’s what the twenty thousand is but in this situation it’s clearly not enough. I just need to get a job and find a nice little place to live and I’ll be fine.”
“Right. And what do you think you’ll do for a living?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t worked that part out yet. I’ve been a little busy.”
“True,” Patti said and smiled at me. “Well, if I were you I’d bail on this whole town. Maybe I’d even bail on the state. There’s no real reason for you to stay here anymore, is there?”
“Well, excuse me, but you’re here. And where would I go anyway?”
“Well, there’s Aunt Daisy, don’t forget. I talked to her right before the funeral. Did I tell you that?”
“Um, no. Wait, maybe you did. I can’t remember.”
“Poor thing. She was just sick about not being able to be here with you and the kids. But, with her broken foot, you know she can’t get around very easily or drive. Anyway, she needs somebody to help her with the Porgy House and all her other houses.”
Our aunt Daisy, who raised us after our parents died and considered herself to be my children’s grandmother, was something of a legend. She was known for her crazy hats and her even more colorful personality. Aunt Daisy purchased numerous rental houses over the years and had become the single largest property-holder on Folly Beach. I knew she had bought the Porgy House, which sounded like a good name for a butcher’s shop to me, and for the life of me I didn’t know why she would want such a funny little place. But it had historic value, as it was the place where Dorothy and DuBose Heyward composed the lyrics for Porgy and Bess with Gershwin. And it was true that she was getting older. Ella, her closest friend (read: life partner), had to be eighty-something, so she couldn’t possibly be much of a help.
“Why in the world did she ever buy the Porgy House? It’s so plain.”
“Well, she’s got her thing for Porgy and Bess, you know. She’s always been crazy for anything about the Gershwins or the Heywards and I think she’s got a little museum going or something like that. Anyway, you might want to pay her a visit for a while, you know, clear your head?”
All of this was certainly something to think about.
“And abandon this lovely climate?” I said sarcastically.
“Right?”
“No doubt some vitamin D would do me good.”
“That’s for sure. Mega doses. Hey, listen, you could help her with all those rentals, I think she has about twelve. That’s a lot to handle at her age.”
What would I do for a living? Like my daughter, I had that handy degree in musical theater, but I was a little long in the tooth to buckle up my tap shoes. But there were other things I had always wanted to do in my life and I imagined I would sit down, make a list, and weigh it all very carefully.
“Maybe. I’ll have to think that one over. You know, after a death you’re not supposed to make any changes for one year.”
“And do what? Starve in the meanwhile? That’s a load of nonsense.”
“Good point,” I said and knew she was right.
Meanwhile, while I considered my almost nonexistent options, I set up paper cups of oatmeal with raisins and honey for them to microwave. When Sara, Russ, and Alice got up, there would be something warm to put in their stomachs. I wondered if Aunt Daisy would even want me there. It suddenly occurred to me that this was a good time to clean the freezer, since I was going to be leaving.
“Hey, Patti?”
“Yeah?”
“You might want to look in my freezer and in the pantry to see if there’s any food you want. I know there are about a dozen containers of chicken stock and there’s pesto, too. And while you’re in there see if there’s any breakfast sausage. Russ loves sausage, you know.”
“All men do,” she said.
Over the next hour, I cooked sausage in the microwave on paper towels and buttered toast while Sara, Russ, and Alice drifted in, took a cup of coffee, and drifted back to their rooms to have a shower. No one was happy about the snow or particularly enthusiastic about the oatmeal. But we did manage to make three pounds of the sausage disappear, picked up from the griddle on the back of the stove with our fingers, stuck between slices of toast like a sandwich, and held in paper napkins. We were in post-traumatic tailgate mode. Plus the plates were gone.
“I’ll bet you a buck that our flight’s gonna be canceled,” Russ said, watching the snow falling through the kitchen window.
“I’ll call the airline,” Alice said.
“Oh, man!” Sara said, looking out the window. “I am so screwed.”
“Maybe not,” I said. “You’re probably flying a big plane that goes on to Tokyo or somewhere. They usually take off no matter what the weather is.”
“Maybe we can get a flight on a bigger jet to Atlanta or Charlotte and then drive back to Charleston,” Russ said to Alice.
“I’m on hold,” Alice said.
There wasn’t a lot of snow on the ground then, maybe an inch or so, and over the next hour of fierce packing and frantic checking with the pathological liars who worked for the airlines, who finally picked up and said everything was on time and running even slightly ahead of schedule, it was decided that Mark would drive them all to the airport in Newark before the tri-state area turned completely white. If they had a problem they would call us and we would rescue them. And if a rescue was necessary, we would all reconvene at Patti and Mark’s so at least we could have a meal at a table and follow the news about the weather on a blooming television.
“I wish I didn’t have to leave you now, Mom,” Sara said. “It’s too soon!”
“Darling, there isn’t much you can do anyway. And we can talk on the phone all you want with my unlimited weekend minutes!”
“I’m glad you still have a sense of humor. I’m just thinking maybe I can get a job as a bartender. They’re supposed to make bank.”
“Give it a try,” I said. We had talked, Sara and I. She knew the Gravy Train had not just pulled into the station, but it had jumped the tracks and rolled down the cliff, never to return. “Our new reality sucks.”
“Yeah, it does but I just feel bad about leaving you now. I mean, there are probably other shoes to fall, you know?”
“Drop. Shoes to drop.” My lovely daughter was known for mixing metaphors. “You don’t worry about me, sweetheart. As things unfold, I’ll keep you posted.”
“Promise?”
“Cross my heart,” I said and made an X with my finger over the spot where my terrified and very insecure heart was lodged. I loved my children so very much and it was so hard to send them back to their lives. A part of me felt like if I could just hang on to them that things might go back to normal. The rest of me knew better. Our family was irrevocably changed now and it was hard to see a future that was anything but unnerving. At least for me.
We hugged
“If you want to talk about anything, anything at all, just call me, okay?” Alice said.
I saw Patti raise an eyebrow in my direction and I just smiled. I knew the child meant well but it would be a subzero day in the deepest valley of Hades before I’d reveal any fears or doubts I had to her. Too inappropriate.
“I’ll call you when we land,” Russ said, knowing I prayed like a cloistered nun on Good Friday while my children were in the air.
“That would be great, hon,” I said.
“Me too,” Sara said.
“Good,” I said. “Travel safe! Love you!” in one breath and in the next they were gone.
“If you want to talk about anything, anything at all, just call me,” Patti said in her squeaky soprano voice. She was perched on our low breakfast counter, swinging her feet in the open space below it.
“Listen, you terrible old biddy, that child forgets that she’s not my equal but I think her heart is in the right place.”
“Oh? She has a heart?”
“Probably. And the last thing she needs is a neurotic mother-in-law destabilizing her life with whining and wailing.”
“If you say so, but still, don’t you want to just slap the crap out of her?”
“About every five minutes. But I know she can’t help herself so I try to keep my gears in neutral.”
“You’re a better woman than me, Cathryn Mahon Cooper. Listen, have you done any packing?”
“My clothes are in boxes all over the floor of the bedroom.”
“Let’s fill your SUV up and start taking stuff to my house.”
“Okay. No! Wait! I can’t go yet. I didn’t even see Albertina yet this morning!”
“Well, you’d better tell her to hustle herself home because the weather’s not getting any nicer out there.”
“You’re right. I’ll call her on the intercom.”
There was no reply when I buzzed her room.
“I’m just gonna go and check on her.”
“She’s fine,” Patti said.
Patti always thought everyone was fine but then she’d never had children to give her panic attacks or found her husband dead, hanging by his neck.
I moved quickly up the back stairs to the third floor and heard the shower running and her singing something in Portuguese. Albertina had a pretty voice, as clear and feminine as could be and I stood there for a moment listening. She had probably never smoked a cigarette or screamed her head off at a rock concert. Suddenly, I could envision her singing to her babies as I had when mine were little. Oh! What a sweet time in my life that had been. So sweet. In my mind’s eye, it was twenty years ago. I was rocking my children at night to help them settle down for bed. I became sentimental and nostalgic. The time had gone so quickly and I would’ve given anything in the world right then to time-travel to those days even for just five minutes.
Russ was a man now and Sara was a young woman. Sara was going to find her way into the world like we all do. Until Addison’s suicide, I had not really been worrying about her too much as I had when she was younger. But how would losing her father this way impact her in the long run? Russ seemed happy in his life but I worried about him for the same reason. I wondered if and when he and Alice planned to have children. I knew the answer for the immediate future was no time soon, because he stammered and turned red when I asked him, which I tried not to do every time the question popped to mind. The question came to mind every time I heard his voice or saw his face. It was all about Alice establishing her practice and she wanted to wait for a while, until they saved money, until the yard was fenced in, until what? Well actually, I had to give Alice her due. Her womb was her own private property and if she didn’t feel ready for motherhood yet, then she was right to wait. The world did not need any more mothers who didn’t want to be mothers. But I was filled with longing to hold a baby in my arms and I hoped that she would soon feel the same way. Dear Lord, please don’t let their children have Alice’s unfortunate disposition. Thank you, Lord, Amen. I frequently said little prayers like this to hedge my bets with the Almighty.
When I heard the water stop I waited a few minutes and then rapped my knuckles on the door.
“Good morning!” I said.
The door edged open and there she stood in a towel with clouds of steam all around her.
“Do you need me, Mrs. Cooper?”
“No, I’m sorry to disturb you. I just wanted to let you know that I’m going over to Patti’s with a carload of stuff. If the wine movers show up early, just show them where the cellar is, okay? And call me on my cell if they do. And the electricians. FYI, there’s some fabulous oatmeal, well maybe not so fabulous, in the kitchen. Just nuke it for a minute. And it’s snowing like the devil outside. I’ll be back. You take your time. No rush! No rush at all!”
By three that afternoon, the streets were plowed, all of my personal possessions, the contents of my safe, and the children’s belongings that they wanted were all piled up in Mark and Patti’s basement, and Albertina was safely home with her children. We hugged and promised to keep in touch. As she was leaving she put a business card in my hand.
“What’s this?” I said.
“This is the number for the piano repair company.”
“Oh! Tina! Thank you. Oh my God, what am I going to do without you?”
“You’ll do just fine, Mrs. Cooper, but I’m going to miss you a lot.”
“Me too.”
When her car pulled slowly away from the driveway I burst into tears one more time. Patti threw her arm around my shoulder and gave me a squeeze.
“Doors close so others can open, you know,” she said.
“I know that but hellfire, do they have to be so hard to close? She was my dear, dear friend.”
“I know, I know. This is so hard.”
“Yes. This is so hard. I hate Addison.”
“Me too.”
Patti and I had returned my SUV to my house and took another walk around. The electricians were there, doing their reprehensible best on removing the lighting and the home theater components. Another team of men were breaking down the gym equipment and I wondered how they’d ever get it put back together again. And what would the banks do with all the stuff left behind—old Christmas decorations, old bicycles, curtains of no value, CDs, old linens that I didn’t want . . . I imagined they’d bring in a Dumpster. It was sort of amazing how quickly you could pack up a life when you were only taking the things you really wanted. We had simply left all our clothes on their hangers, tying their necks with garbage-bag twist ties like the dry cleaners did, and covered them up with lawn-size black garbage bags. I walked away from all of Addison’s clothes, because Albertina said she would give them to her church. We tied a ribbon around all of them with a note.
Mark took Addison’s golf clubs that had been overlooked yesterday. He couldn’t resist and I didn’t blame him.
“Just take them,” I said.
“Do you think I’m a crook? I mean, we were exactly the same height and it would be a shame. But if you’re not one hundred percent comfortable, just tell me and I’ll put them back.”
“Good grief! Is your widdle bitty conscience having a renaissance?” I said.
Mark’s face blanched.
“Come on,” I said. “They’re used anyway. And Addison would want you to have them. If we leave them here they’ll wind up in the garbage. Besides, you don’t know what I have.”
“What?” he said and the color in his face returned.
“My piano. It’s out being repaired. Tell no one. The banks can’t have it. Screw ’em. I don’t know how much they’re going to charge me to fix it but . . .”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of that one. You’re sure you don’t want to switch some wine?”
“Oh, Mark.” Mark was going to cover my piano repairs? Thank heaven!
Earlier around no
There were about five inches of snow on the ground and going back and forth to their house was starting to become a real challenge, even with four-wheel drive.
“Not a whole lot. I mean, the kids left what they wanted on their beds, Albertina boxed it up. I told them I’d send it to them tomorrow. Weather permitting, of course.” I said that and remembered I had just forty-eight hours to vacate and I wanted to go over the house a few times. The clock was ticking too fast. “Jesus, Patti, do you think they’d throw me out in the snow like the freaking little match girl?”
“No. Maybe. How the heck should I know? But I know this—the longer we let this drag out the worse it’s gonna be on you. Emotionally, I mean. FYI, I took your saffron. That stuff is way too expensive to leave.”
“Definitely. Gotta love your practical side. And you know what?”
“What?”
“I’m gonna call Aunt Daisy tonight. I think I’m going back to Folly.”
Chapter Seven
Setting: The Porgy House kitchen, condensed-milk cans, a large sack of potatoes and onions, loaf of bread, carton of eggs, bananas.
Director’s Note: Photos of the Porgy House kitchen on the back scrim. A photo of Jenifer as an infant and show Dawn Hill, their North Carolina home. Switch to the dancing.
Act I
Scene 4
Dorothy: It was always a struggle to figure out what to cook for supper, when we lived on Folly. Some days the kitchen seemed like another planet to me where I wandered around like an alien, unable to tell a good onion from a bad turnip. That’s when I made soup. Onion, water, done! On other days, when the pantry was just about bare, I felt like Harry Houdini, producing a meal from thin air. Thank heavens for condensed milk and potatoes. Anyway, surprises and miracles happened in my kitchen on Folly Beach. And no one ever died from my catch-as-catch-can cooking skills, well, no one I knew of anyway. As a rule, small portions of blandness did not kill.