Folly Beach (21 page)

“This is truly disgusting,” I said.

“There are some crackers in the glove compartment,” he said.

I looked and there were a few packaged saltines in pairs, left over from a chili order at Wendy’s.

“Fine,” I said. “Great.”

“But I can pull into the 7-Eleven if you think you’d like me to. I mean, you know, feed the beast?”

“Just shut up and drive, okay?”

We were both laughing at that point, because what could you do? I turned up the radio. This had happened to me before and it was usually the result of too much acid and not enough carbs. Maybe. Honestly, who knew why it happened but I hated it and wished my digestive system hadn’t started going into overdrive when I was planning to become The Seductress that night. Some siren I was.

We finally pulled into the parking lot of the restaurant and got out. The building was white and new, beautifully lit and landscaped. I had no idea it even existed.

“When did they build
this
place?” I said.

“I don’t know. A year ago or maybe a couple of years ago?”

“So many things have changed since I grew up here,” I said.

“You’ve been spending too much time in enemy territory,” he said with a chuckle. “I can show you wondrous things in the Lowcountry! You’ll think you’re in . . . well, it’s the Lowcountry and that’s it.”

“But it’s the updated version?”

“Exactly.”

Inside, we were shown to a table for two that was very nicely tucked away near the bar. Once again, as we crossed the dining room, John’s hand was resting on the small of my back. How and why had I ever lived for so long without any of these small demonstrations of affection? It just goes to show you that you can get along on very little.

We scanned the menus and I was drawn to the pastas.

“Wow,” I said. “I’m thinking about a big ole bowl of spaghetti and the house-cured salumi with the . . . well, with the stuff that comes with it.”

“And I’m torn . . .” John finally settled on the braised meatballs and polenta. “I’m having mussels to begin,” he said.

I’m having muscles later, I thought and did not say. Anyway, I loathed mussels and hoped I could watch him eat them without getting ill.

“Sounds good,” I said.

He ordered a bottle of Chianti Classico and we got down to the contents of the bread basket. As soon as the wine was poured, John said he wanted to propose a toast.

“Sure! To what?”

“I say let’s drink to the memory of the Heywards, John Bennett, Josephine Pinckney, and . . .”

“Hold it right there, Dr. Renaissance. It’s all I can do to hold the Heywards in my head!”

He laughed and said, “Okay. To Dorothy and DuBose!”

“How about just
to Dorothy
? DuBose is not exactly my favorite guy right now.”

“All right, then, to Dorothy.” We touched the sides of our glasses and took a sip. “So, do you want to tell me what poor old DuBose did to offend you so? We certainly have become a bit judgmental haven’t we? A few hours in a library and one of Charleston’s greatest icons is a scoundrel? ’Fess up, woman! What did you find?”

“Oh, please. Make fun. I mean, you’re right, of course. I’m no expert but the facts are a little strange. Where to start?”

“Start anywhere.”

“Well, all right. I’m assuming you’ve read everything they’ve got down there. Is that right?”

“Yeah, and everything from Harlan Greene and James Hutchisson and Barbara Bellows . . . but I’ll admit, it’s been a while. I can give you their books, too, you know, to round out your education.”

“That would be great.” I took another sip of wine. “I’m really loving this whole era, the beautiful gowns and the way women wore hats and gloves and what went on. Okay, so look, here’s the first thing I’m sure of. I am absolutely convinced that Dorothy Heyward was in love with DuBose like Cathy was with Heathcliff. Like Scarlett, like Anna Karenina, like Juliet . . . I mean, her love for him was epic, the stuff of the greatest classics in the whole of time. Obsession! Totally consuming obsession.”

“And what’s the matter with that? Isn’t that how a woman should love a man?” John had this tiny little smile creeping across his face.

“God forbid. That kind of love is a lethal prescription for misery. It’s what got me a room at the Porgy House. I mean, if you find yourself falling for someone, really falling? You’d better keep both eyes open.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Anyway, tell me more.”

Our appetizers arrived and I tried not to look at his so I dove right into mine, taking a bite of the chicken livers on crostini.

“Wow, this looks perfect. Okay, so, as you know, Dorothy got shuttled around from one aunt to another during her childhood and then shipped off to a boarding school, right?”

Then it happened.

“Yes. Say? Would you like a mussel?” John offered me one, with the dark slimy bulbous thing hanging from the tines of his fork like a horrible goober on a miniature gigging pole.

I gagged a little but held on.

“Uh, no, thanks. Listen, you may as well know, the only way that thing is getting in my mouth is if it can fly. Have you ever cleaned one of those bad boys?”

“Can’t say I have.”

“Yeah, well, it’s a totally nasty trip. They’ve got this beard you have to remove and then this blue cone-shaped phallic thing you have to pull out . . .” I shuddered. “Sorry.”

“Gross,” he said. “That was truly gross. Maybe I’ll have carpaccio instead. Does raw meat bother you?”

“Not at all.”

He signaled for the waiter and explained that he had changed his mind, they could charge him for the mussels but I was offended by their presence and this was a very important night. The waiter, thoroughly confused, took them away and promised to take it off the bill anyway.

“Jesus, Risley, I’m sorry. You must think I’m really crazy . . .”

“No. I know what crazy looks like and you’re not it.”

I paused then and looked at him, pushing my platter of antipasto toward him to share.

“Have some. Please. You want to talk about her?”

He helped himself to a slice of mozzarella and a piece of red pepper.

“I’ll tell you about her. I promised you I would if you’d like me to, but finish telling me about Dorothy and why DuBose is such a bum.”

“Okay,” I said and helped myself to more wine. He took the bottle right out of my hand and poured it himself.

“Forgive my oversight, ma’am.”

“Thanks. Well, first of all, I think that having some sense of permanence, you know, a place where she truly belonged, was the most important thing in the world to her. And I think being respected and famous in the world of serious literature was
way
too important to him. And when they met, she had this great education, she was a promising playwright, and she probably had wads of money that was left to her. He was adorable, soft-spoken, and most likely very attentive and probably had a pretty sophisticated demeanor.”

“So, he’s a bad guy
because . . .”

“He saw her as a ticket for him and his momma out of poverty. That’s not to say he didn’t care for her. I think he must have, because in all the old photographs and press he sure
seems
devoted to her. But she had been treated like an orphan . . .”

“Well, she
was
one.”

“No, I know that, so was I, so maybe I’m sensitive to that. But here was someone who also appealed to her intellectually, socially, and yes, despite all of his grotesque infirmities, he appealed to her physically, too.
She,
who had
never
enjoyed anything close to great health, was in
far
better shape than he was. She could save
him
. Women adore saving men. And he needed saving.”

“From what?”

John was smiling and relishing his carpaccio, picking up the parmesan shavings with his fingers. He was clearly enjoying himself.

“Poverty. His mother. The ravages of polio and all the other diseases he had in his life. And professionally, too.”

“And what did she get out of it?”

“A home. And the great satisfaction of restoring his family’s name in Charleston and helping to build his name in the literary world and in the theatrical world. And she got the love of her life.”

“So, you think he married her for her money?”

“Yep. Definitely. I mean, he was living with his momma! And the fact that she understood writing for the theater and had a real gift for it. Dorothy was happy for him to give up his business and try to live on only what they earned. And she was meek enough to stay in his shadow and let him be the star.”

“You think DuBose wanted Dorothy’s thunder?”

“No, I just think it was there for the taking and he took it but he always kept her at his side. Look, you don’t have to read very far to discover how ambitious he was. What man has his portrait made that often? What straight man, anyway?”

“There were rumors.”

“No kidding?”

“Yeah. I mean, the guy was a shrimp with deformities and so soft-spoken people had trouble understanding him. Oh! You’ll love this! When they started up the Poetry Society, he went around with this petition for incorporation asking people to sign it and they thought they were signing up for a Poultry Society.”

“That’s pretty funny.”

John sat back in his chair and stared at me for what seemed like an incredibly long period of time. I just continued eating, finishing up the last of the olives and caponata, waiting for him to say something.

“You know,” he said, “I’m not sure that I agree with what you’re surmising about them but here’s something. I don’t think contemporary historians have ever looked at their marriage and career from
her
point of view.”

“Well, that’s not hard to believe, because her letters to him were destroyed. He probably dumped them so his Nosy Nellie mother wouldn’t read them.”

“Maybe.” John laughed at that.

“Or, she threw them out after he died, trying to cover her footprints so he could be all shiny and bright when he took his place in history next to Gershwin.”

“Maybe. I mean, what if that’s all true, everything you’re proposing?”

“Who cares?”

“Well, I do. And you know what else, Nancy Drew?”

“What?”

“So would others. Who cares if it’s speculation? This story would make a wonderful play for Piccolo Spoleto Festival. I mean, you said
you
wanted to write a play, didn’t you? Give it a shot!”

“Oh, no, I couldn’t. I mean, I don’t know enough. And isn’t it sort of treasonous to screw around with DuBose’s reputation?”

“Absolutely not. Have you been to the theater lately?
Nothing’s
sacred. I say, go have a ball!” He reached across the table and took my hand in his. “I’m not kidding, Cate. Do it.”

Holy hell, wait until I told Patti about this. I was holding hands with this gorgeous man who was telling me to become a playwright. Maybe I would! I looked at his hand and thought, wow, it’s beautiful. I loved the shape of his fingernails, the light brown color of his skin . . . the waffle of my virtue was gaining speed.

“Well, I’ll think about it. Anyway . . .” Our entrées arrived and the aromatics of pancetta and pecorino riding on the steam rising from my spaghetti were divine. “This looks amazing. Italian food in Charleston. Wow.”

Our waiter grated some additional cheese on our food; then he stepped back.

“Buon appetito!”
he said and walked away.

“So, John?”

“Ah! Yes, you want to know about Lisa, I guess?”

Her name was Lisa.

“Yeah, well. Yeah.” I wound several strands of spaghetti around my fork and blew on it. “Hot.”

“Lisa is in a small hospital slash jail where she will spend the rest of her life.”

“What’s the story?”

“The story. Well, we got married right out of college. We were young and foolish. We were living in Maryland then. She was working for an insecticide company and I was teaching ninth-grade English. For a while we were getting along just fine and then she started acting paranoid and accusing me of running around on her.”

“Were you?”

“God, no. I was working every minute I could, trying to save money to buy a house for us. Anyway, one night I came in sort of late and she flew at me with a knife, saying she was going to kill me. I got the knife away from her but then she kept on screaming and it became obvious to me she didn’t know who I was.”

“She snapped or something?”

“Yeah. So I got out of there and went to a buddy’s house to spend the night on the sofa. The next day, I went back to get a change of clothes and she acted like nothing at all had happened. When I asked her about what the hell she was trying to do, she didn’t know what I was talking about.”