Bulls Island (15 page)

It was around five when I pulled into the garage and walked back to my building. As I did so I noticed a man standing on the corner
observing my approach. He flipped open his cell phone, made a speed-dial call, turned, and walked away. Was I being watched? The very thought of it made my skin run with goose bumps.

There were piles of clothes I intended to take to Charleston all over the bed in my room. Two months would be my minimum stay, and I thought, well, if I needed anything more than what I was packing, I could either fly home or buy it down there. It’s not like I was going to Siberia, I thought, and that reminded me of Adrian saying he could be home for dinner in fifteen minutes, if need be. But given my business assignment in Charleston, I might as well
be
in Siberia as far as fixing dinner for my son was concerned.

Actually, where I was going was more a version of the Roman Colosseum than Siberia. I would be facing off against metaphorical man-eating lions and literal alligators, pretending to be businesslike and competent when all the while I’d be quivering with self-doubt. The timing of this trip was terrible.

Ben Bruton was always reminding me that developers were notorious crooks, payoffs were hidden in almost every aspect of the deal, and I’d need to go over every detail with a fine-tooth comb. If we ordered quarter-inch plywood, I had better carry a tape measure with me to check its width. Like I could really do this? But I would have to try.

I had plans to return for parents’ weekend at Columbia, and no doubt I would, but what would happen between now and then…seeing J.D., my father and sister…These imaginings were the cause of so many stomachaches and restless nights, I cannot begin to tell you.
Anxious
had taken on new meaning. And what had I done? How was I, Ms. Sophistication and Righteousness, handling all of it? I had chosen the ostrich approach and buried myself in Vinny Braggadocio’s bed. Pretty shameful. And now there was someone watching my comings and goings? Maybe I was going crazy.

My head filled with such thoughts, I took a shower and dressed
for dinner, having arranged with Vinny to call for me at seven-thirty. We were having dinner uptown at Rao’s, a wildly popular restaurant where customers had to die or move to Finland to make room for new ones. Vinny was very proud of the fact that he knew the restaurant’s number by heart and that he could always get a table on Tuesday at eight. A good table, where he could be seen by celebrities and power brokers, all of them spellbound by the heady aromas of linguini with red clam sauce. I had never been there because it had always seemed like too much trouble, but I was excited to see the place.

Speaking of visiting new places, Vinny had yet to see the inside of my apartment, not that I would have objected if he had wanted to. But I knew there was some inexplicable bug in Vinny’s psyche that prevented him from crossing the threshold of a Park Avenue co-op. In a way I understood this, because such buildings could be intimidating, but it wasn’t like anyone would actually insult him or sniff at him. People in my building sniffed because of allergies to cat dander or because their deviated-septum surgeries had been unsuccessful. Their self-absorbed bubbles seldom deigned to make contact with their neighbors’ self-absorbed bubbles. Had Charles Manson been in the elevator with them, they would have examined their cuticles just as they did with everyone else. Paradoxically, I found this kind of systemic arrogance one of the more appealing features of my building. Being invisible gave one a comfortable sense of privacy. It made my apartment building feel like a private house.

It was seven-thirty. When Sam rang to tell me that Vinny was downstairs, I was just turning off lights and checking to see that the stove was off, the normal list of things I would do before I went out for the evening. I had a lump in my throat because of the things I needed to discuss with Vinny. The discomfort I felt with him was growing, like an angry incoming tide across a shore. I was okay in my mind as long as there was a lot of beach between me and the wa
ter, but there loomed a great possibility that the ocean would soon cover the land and I would be drowned.

Vinny had no idea what I’d be facing in Charleston. We didn’t talk about me very much. I thought, well, for the sake of honesty and integrity, such as it was, I would attempt to give him a reasonable explanation of why I needed time off for good behavior…On second thought, that term might ring too many bells with him.

I went down the elevator accompanied by the coiffed, emaciated corpse who lived in Eleven West. I lived in Nine East. The apartments in the west line of the building were larger, implying greater wealth and importance. Therefore, according to the unspoken protocols, East did not speak first. East would nod, and if West wanted to engage, West would make an innocuous remark, and further remarks could then be exchanged.

West cleared her throat and said without emotion, “I heard your son’s going to Columbia.”

“Yes, he is. I moved him into his dormitory today.”

“Yes, I know because the front door was locked when I came in this afternoon. Sam is not supposed to leave his station, you know. Co-op rules.”

“Sam frequently locks the door to drop off your Sherry-Lehman deliveries.”

Sherry-Lehman was the specialty wine merchant around the corner and West was a wino of house renown. West shot me a daggers-filled glance and I shot her one back. The door opened. We stepped out and sized each other up.

“Well, you must be very proud of your son,” she said. “Congratulations.”

“I am. Thank you.”

She walked away. I walked away. In the building, everyone knew everyone and no one knew anyone. Perhaps life had given Eleven West valid reasons to polish off a bottle or so every night. You see,
we put our garbage by the service elevator at the same time each morning and hers always made a distinctive clunk. It was always fascinating to me what you could learn just from the sound of someone’s garbage.

Vinny was parked by the curb. Sam opened the door for me and I got in. Vinny was wearing so much cologne I thought I might have an asthma attack.

“Hey! You look good. So how did it go?”

“Like an amputation.”

“Sounds like somebody could use a vodka with cranberry and a slice of lime.”

“Isn’t that how cosmos started?”

“Whodahell knows? Hey, we’re going to a private party. Frankie’s wife’s birthday. Don’t worry; I got her a bottle of smell swell.”

“Oh. I didn’t realize we were going to a party.”

“This ain’t like a regular party. You’ll see.”

I had preconceived notions of what dinner at Rao’s would be like. I thought it would be like a mafioso hangout, a former speakeasy, or a funky joint, jammed with tables and old guys who all knew one another. Well, it had been all those things at one time or another in its history, but it turned out to be a good deal more than that. As we arrived we were greeted by one of the owners.

“Vinny! How are you? Thanks for coming!”

“Fraaaaan-kie. Like I’d miss your wife’s birthday?” Vinny made a fake pout and then gave Frankie a little punch in the arm. “Who else could get you guys to open up the doors on a Saturday night? Here, I brought her a little something…” He handed the gift bag he was holding to Frankie, who handed it off to a minion.

“And who’s this?” Frankie said, meaning me.

“This? This lovely lady is Betts McGee! I can’t believe you two don’t know each other.”

“We go way back,” Frankie said, addressing me and nodding to
ward Vinny. “My old man used to play stickball with his old man. That’s a long time ago.”

Frankie was a good-looking devil if ever I saw one. And Rao’s? From the moment we stepped in, we went hurling back in time to the 1920s or maybe the 1950s. You could hear Jerry Lewis telling a joke and Frank Sinatra humming a tune. It was as if every person who had ever been there had left some piece of themselves behind in the time warp that was Rao’s.

We made the rounds, saying hello to everyone who seemed to know Vinny well, and smiling widely, all the while I was worrying about my dreaded conversation with him. Obviously it would have to wait. But if all these well-heeled folks seemed so honestly happy to see Vinny among them, maybe I was acting in haste to say it was over between us.

We were seated at a table with another couple, older, who knew Vinny’s parents, and they began to tell stories about the old days, the street festivals at Our Lady of St. Carmel’s and how, during Prohibition, Rao’s had run homemade wine from the building next door through a hose in the basement and sold it for a dollar a bottle. We began to eat and drink and all the while people came and went from our table to the next, spreading goodwill, while I faded into the paneling, which was perfectly fine with me. The food was absolutely delicious, the toasts were heartfelt, and whatever snippets of conversation I managed to have with the older lady next to me were perfectly charming. Unknowingly and without preparation, I had stepped into Vinny’s world at its best, and had a wonderful, warm, boisterous evening whose only agenda was to have a great time feting Frankie’s wife.

Crazy Vinny. Maybe not so crazy after all. I began to doubt my judgment and thought it might be better to leave things as they were and deal with Vinny on an as-needed basis. I would go to Charleston, and if he wanted to visit, I would find a way to wiggle out of
it. He would get the message. He might be crass, but he was no dummy.

But it wasn’t to be that easy. On Sunday we had brunch downtown at Pastis, and over Bloody Marys and eggs Benedict, he began to ask the impossible questions.

“So, you’re leaving tomorrow?” he said.

“Yes. Three o’clock wheels up.”

“When am I gonna see you again? You want me to fly down next weekend?”

“Vinny…I’d love to show you Charleston, but I have a pretty complicated agenda in front of me.” I swirled a piece of the English muffin around in Hollandaise sauce, hoping he would just let the subject drop.

“So whaddaya saying?”

I looked up at him with what I hoped was an expression that said,
Please try to understand, without making me spell out the details.

Lockjawed and clearly angered, he slammed his napkin on the table, got up, and walked out.

I
could deal with any burly honcho from a teamsters’ union without flinching. I could do an assessment of a hundred-million-dollar company that was hemorrhaging cash, roll a few heads, and turn it around to a profit without breaking a sweat. I could deal with all sorts of things in the world of business and never lose sleep. But as my plane approached Charleston and the Corporate Wings jet strip and we waited for clearance to land, the hard ball of a knot I had in my stomach was killing me. I was terrified.

We came to a quick stop, my right foot touched the steps, the humidity grabbed my hair, and the heat slammed my whole body. The porters blithely unloaded my luggage onto a trolley as though it were a perfect spring day. My hair was turning into corkscrew pasta on steroids. Fusilli Head. That was me.

After my conversation with Sela, I hadn’t really packed all that much, but I knew enough to bring clothes to layer, as the weather in Charleston was very changeable during hurricane season. Hurricane
season. Yeah, boy, I was back in Charleston and small-craft warnings were in effect until further notice.

Through the glass doors of the terminal, I spotted Sela waving, a welcome deliverance from my inner turbulence. I picked up my pace to greet her. May as well get the show on the road, I said to myself, thanking God she was there. And to think I had not wanted her to go to the trouble to meet me. What had I been thinking?

She pushed the door open and stepped out onto the tarmac. Her whole face was smiling.

“Hey you!”

She threw her arms open wide for a sisterly bear hug, complete with backslapping and giggles. I hugged her back and thought, Good grief, it felt like I had not seen her in a thousand years. It had been a long time, but to my surprise, she had not changed in any significant way.

“Look at you! You look fabulous!” I said.

“Oh, please, I’m an old thaing…”

“Then what does that make me?”

“Girl? You got so much on your plate you don’t even know it!”

“What?”

We were going through the tiny terminal at a clip, my luggage piled high behind me.

“All will be revealed. I’m parked right out front.”

“Great. More problems to deal with? Worse than facing my father, my maniac sister, my once-future mother-in-law, and oh, let’s not forget the father of my child? What could be worse than that?”

“Um…you’re right.”

“So, who cares? No matter what’s happening, it can’t be any worse than what I’ve dealt with in the past. Lemme tell you, it’s tough out there in the world. Gosh, it’s good to see you!”

“You’re right. I should relax. I forgot that you’re a Xena clone.”

“My costume is in the hanging bag.”

We loaded my four suitcases, laptop, duffel bag, and hanging bag and in minutes we were off, headed for the Isle of Palms.

“So, okay. Read these. And did I tell you that Big Jim had a heart attack?”

“No! Is he okay?”

“Of course! Honey, that man is gonna bury us all.”

Sela handed me a manila envelope containing a small stack of recent op-ed pieces and articles from the
Post & Courier
and the
State
.

“Still, that’s too bad. What happened?”

“Let’s just say it could have been embarrassing, as he was in a compromising position, but of course the long arm of Langley spin control put the kibosh on details. I heard it from my good friend who’s an ER nurse at MUSC.”

“Figures.”

I began glancing through the articles. To say that public sentiment was against the development of Bulls Island would be putting it mildly. It appeared that every organization from the Nature Conservancy to the South Carolina Coastal Conservation League was vehemently opposed to it. Every single solitary suddenly-green-thinking local- and state-level politician jockeying for reelection had grown a conscience overnight and was foaming at the mouth, rabid with outrage at the prospect of a further rape of the land.

“Boy, there’s nothing like a little development project to get the South to rise again, is there?” I asked.

“Hmmph.”

“How come no one complained this loudly about developing Daniel Island or Kiawah?”

“Dunno. Perhaps they were blissful in their ignorance at the time? Who knows? Listen, you’re walking into the cause du jour and I’m just giving you this stuff as heads-up.”

“Great. Thanks. Well, maybe someone will buy Capers Island to develop and divert attention from this.”

Sela shot me a sideways glance that said, Yeah, sure.

“Well? One can dream?”

“You’re right. You’re dreaming.”

We continued chatting away like long-lost girlfriends do. Her business was doing great. Ed was fine, but she worried about his safety constantly. He had just broken a major drug ring that was importing cocaine from the Philippines in tightly wrapped Ziplocs concealed in five-gallon jars of mango puree.

“How bizarre!” I said. “Mango puree?”

“Yeah, for ice cream and margarita mixes, I guess. Anyway, there was something funky about the X-rays, so they notified Ed, who notified SLED, who notified, I don’t know, the freaking FBI? Yeah, it was all over the papers. But he scares the hell out of me sometimes.” [SLED was the acronym for South Carolina Law Enforcement.]

“Scares me, too.”

“Right? But then, you know Ed! He gets to talking about when he played for the Falcons? God, these men love to relive gridiron glory, don’t they?”

“All men are boys.”

“Isn’t that the truth? But he says there’s nothing scarier than a three-hundred-pound linebacker raging toward you, planning to rip your head off with his bare hands. I guess it sort of puts risk and danger in their proper perspective. This stuff was just in a container shipment. To him it was no big deal. But that’s not what I worry about.”

“What do you worry about?”

“I worry about guns. I worry about guns a lot. And homemade bombs and stuff like that.”

“What a world.”

“You can say that again.”

I looked out the window at the gorgeous landscape, thinking about what Sela had just said. It was true that Ed didn’t walk a beat or drive a patrol car, but he was in a big enough position that some
body with a grudge and a gun could try to end his life anytime they wanted to. Scary.

The marsh on either side of the road was so beautiful. I thought about that and the wildlife and was more than a little apprehensive to be involved in its destruction. Although the first shovel of dirt had yet to be lifted, it was clear that the Bulls Island project was going to need a serious PR campaign and the entire project needed a comprehensive review.

Soon we were pulling through the security gate of Wild Dunes, and within minutes I was dragging my suitcases, bumping up each step to my new home for the foreseeable future. Sela, with a duffel over her shoulder and a rolling bag in tow, opened the front door and tossed me the keys.

“Welcome home,” she said. “I even bought you some groceries!”

“Sela? I’m going to have to give you a kidney or something. This is gorgeous!”

It
was
gorgeous—for a rental, that is. At the far end of the living room were sofas and chairs, the requisite metal-framed sliding glass doors that opened to a reasonably sized balcony overlooking the ocean. On the close end of the room was a glass-top table with eight armchairs on wheels, and behind that was an open kitchen that was more than adequate for the amount of cooking I would probably ever do. I guessed whoever owned the condo had chosen a decorator’s prefab package because no part-time resident would have been able to find the wide range of Wedgwood-blue fabrics that covered every upholstered surface or so much distressed-bamboo furniture. It wasn’t my taste, but for a temporary home, it was just fine.

“The master bedroom is over here and there is another bedroom upstairs with a storage room that I guess could have been a third bedroom, but who knows? Maybe they have their old crazy aunt Tillie locked up in there.”

“Well, this
is
the South,” I said, and we laughed at that.

“Actually, Mizzy Betts, we don’t do that anymore down here in God’s country. We Dippity-Do their pin curls, buy them a new housecoat, and send them off to
Jerry Springer
.”

“Think about those poor people. Disgusting.” There was a desk in the living room and I was already unpacking and hooking up my laptop and the chargers for my BlackBerry and my digital camera.

“Seriously. So tell me, did you ever talk to your dad?”

“Nope. He never called me back. Can you believe that?”

“No kidding,” Sela said, and shook her head. “What a sin.”

“I know. That tells me a lot.”

“Maybe. Or maybe your crazy sister picked up the message and never even told him you called.”

“Possible. Why in the world would Joanie do that?”

“Well, let’s see. There are two possibilities. One, she’s the one with dementia, or two, she didn’t want him to know you called.”

“I’ve got a hunch that I should go with knucklehead,” I said, knowing in my heart that she hadn’t told him I called.

“Good choice. Just call him again, then. If you run into him without him knowing you’re here, it would be very embarrassing for both of you.”

“You’re absolutely right. I’ve been in a petulant funk about it, but unfortunately I think you might be on to Joanie.”

“And, FYI? Your sister? I’ve seen her around town with much older companions lately.”

“Oh Lord. She just can’t get that daddy-worship thing of hers under control, can she?”

“Who said they were men?”

“Holy crap. Sela? You think she’s gay?”

“I think she’s a lonely dowdy frump who would be grateful for any and all attention.”

“I’ll add her to my list of puzzles to decipher. Good grief.”

“So when are you going to see
himself
?”

“You mean J.D.?”

“No, I mean freaking Kaptain Kangeroo.
Yes,
I mean J.D.!”

“After I get my hair completely flat-ironed and find some makeup that won’t melt. That will probably be Wednesday.” Two days from now. I said it as though seeing J.D. would be nothing of consequence, but Sela knew better. We had been reading each other’s mind for over twenty years.

“Umm!” she said in a cautionary tone, and wagged a finger at me.

“You said it. You know it’s so funny because part of me can’t wait to lay eyes on him and another part of me is dreading it.”

“I’m sure. Small prediction here…”

“What?”

“Your hormones and your conscience are about to get a workout. Come on, drive me back to the city.”

On the way to the island, Sela insisted that I use her SUV during my stay, saying she and Ed had four cars that just sat around all day and it was stupid to blow the money on a rental. I didn’t want her to know that I had an expense account the size of our national debt, so I accepted. It was another very thoughtful gesture. I would send her flowers for the restaurant every week.

We talked constantly on the short ride back to the city, trying to squeeze everything into the short time we shared. Topics were skimmed over. Like how did I really feel about J.D.? Hard to say. Was I ever going to be emotionally prepared to see him? No. We both knew that to be true.

When I dropped her off in front of her restaurant, I got out to give her a hug.

“Thanks for everything, Sela. Really.”

“Ah, it was nothing. Why don’t you come back for dinner?”

“Oh, gosh. Thanks for the offer, but I want to get unpacked, check my e-mail, call Sandi and Dad, and start bracing up.”

“Well, you’re welcome here every night, if you can stand the fare! The food’s about the same as it’s always been.”

I got back into the car and closed the door. “It’s the company and the seal of the confessional I’ll be needing,” I said in my best Irish brogue.

“Anytime!” She waved, blew me a kiss, and disappeared through the doors of O’Farrell’s.

All the way back to the beach, I sort of blanked out and let myself fall under the spell of Charleston and its natural grandeur—the smells of the marsh, the clusters of snowy egrets, the sparkle of the Cooper River. Charleston was the quintessential chameleonic dowager queen of cities if ever one existed. Over three hundred years old and every bit as beautiful as the day she was born. In fact, she was more interesting for all she had seen and all she knew. She was sultry, determined, cultured, and wise beyond any other American city because the sons and daughters of Charleston knew what mattered—taking care of their mother. Mother Charleston was going to tan my hide if I allowed the Bulls Island project to turn out like some others had.

The first thing I did when I got back to the condo was call Sandi. She was at her brother’s in Summerville. I had grabbed Sandi from Human Resources for two reasons. She understood everything like a true psychic and, by coincidence, she was from South Carolina, the land of my people.