The Last Original Wife

by Dorothea Benton Frank

  I heard a voice behind me and I knew I recognized it from somewhere in my past.

  “Cocktail parties were invented in Charleston, you know.”

  I turned around and ran right into the smirking smile of Jonathan Ray, my first serious boyfriend. I knew immediately that Harlan had invited him for my sake. As good as he was, Harlan liked being controversial from time to time.

  The years had been kind to Jonathan. He was gray around the temples, but he still had a full head of hair and the prettiest blue eyes the good Lord ever gave to a man besides Paul Newman.

  “Well, look at you! Jonathan! How wonderful to see you again! And what do you mean cocktail parties were invented here? I’ve never heard that.”

  “That doesn’t mean it’s not true. Thirty years later and she’s still the skeptic? Can I freshen up your drink?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  We stepped over to the bar where Marge was shaking one mini cocktail shaker after another with such enthusiasm I wondered how her elbows could stand it.

  Clack! Clack! Clack!

  The super cubes banging against the stainless steel made a riotous noise.

  “What are you drinking?” Jonathan said.

  “Oh, just vodka with a bunch of tonic and a lime,” I said.

  “I’ve got one for you!” Marge said. “How about a Georgia Punch?”

  “For a Georgia Peach!” Jonathan said. “Perfect!”

  “Great! But I’m a transplant, you know,” I said and managed a weak smile, thinking that this peach had already been bruised enough.

  “Haven’t you been there long enough to claim Georgia?”

  “Jonathan, when you’re born in Charleston, you should know it’s impossible to be anything but a Charlestonian. The last thing you want is dual citizenship.”

  “That’s actually comforting to hear,” he said.

  She handed the frosty glass to Jonathan, and he handed it to me with a napkin. No ring. Wedding ring, that is. Why was I even looking?

  “I’ll have a Manhattan,” he said to Marge.

  “Right away!” she said, and inside of a minute she handed the tumbler to him.

  “Thanks,” he said and turned to me. “So why don’t we sneak out to the garden where we can hear ourselves think?”

  “Sure, but shouldn’t we tell your wife where we’re going?”

  “Can’t do that,” he said, with the funniest expression. “She’s ancient history.”

  “Really? Didn’t you marry Clare Mullarney? What happened to her?”

  We worked our way through the dining room to the kitchen and finally to the open French doors in the den. Then we stepped out onto the terrace where fig ivy climbed the walls and the sweet smells of Confederate jasmine were all over us as though we had walked into a cloud of it.

  “Wow? Smell that?” he said and I nodded. “What happened? Well, let’s see. We got married, we had two children, she started painting landscapes with a bunch of en plein air pot-smoking hippies.”

  “Nuh-uh. She must have lost her mind to leave you!”

  “Exactly. She said being married to me wasn’t interesting enough. Then soon after painting no longer interested her, she was overcome with an all-consuming urge to go make artisanal cheese in Vermont.”

  “Yikes. She sounds like my son.”

  “Oh?”

  “He’s currently in residence in Nepal, smoking weed with hippies from all over the world. He’s a stoner on an international level. I’m so proud.” I could hardly believe I was actually saying what I was saying, and then I thought, It’s the damn truth, isn’t it? Until that moment I had always made excuses for him.

  “I thought Harlan said he was a photographer for National Geographic?”

  “I think he’d like to be one, but so far? No go.”

  “Too bad.”

  “It’s okay; he has an IV right into his father’s wallet. It keeps him in clean water for his bong. So what happened to your wife again?”

  “So I just told her, fine, she should go make cheese, just leave me the kids. I was in my third year of medical school. She said I was a workaholic.”

  “Well, here’s another nice mess you’ve gotten me into, isn’t it, Ollie?”

  “What?”

  “You never watched Laurel and Hardy when you were a kid?”

  “Oh, right! Right! Now I get it! Nice one!”

  “Yeah, nice lead balloon, but continue.” My face was flushed. I was so embarrassed. Maybe Wes was right about my sense of humor—it was pretty dumb.

  “Well, she left me the kids, I raised them, my mother helped, God bless her heart, and it all worked out okay. When my grandmother passed away, she left me her house out on Sullivans Island. Remember that house?”

  “I surely do! We spent as much time with her sitting around that kitchen table as we did walking on the beach. She was a great lady.”

  “Thanks. Yeah. I love to remember those days with you. Anyway, my daughter’s married to a dentist and they live out in Portland. She teaches first grade and my son’s doing his residency in sports medicine out in San Diego.”

  “Really? Weren’t you in sports medicine too?”

  “Yeah, I actually run it for the Medical University. I treat all the big athletes in the Southeast.”

  “Really?” Why was it when men made their careers sound grandiose it was okay, but if a woman had said the same thing she’d be bragging?

  “Yep. I had hoped that when my son graduated, he’d come into my practice and eventually take it over. Now I think I’m going to move out there, maybe live in Napa.”

  “Ah, Napa. Is he married?”

  “Not yet. And I wasn’t going to bring it up, but what happened to your arm?”

  “Oh, this? I sort of fell in an open manhole in Edinburgh last month. It’s just a crack.”

  “How in the world did that happen?”

  “It’s a long story. But you never remarried?”

  “Not so far. There have been sort of a long series of women who came and went, but between my practice and my children I was too busy to get serious.”

  “Oh, come on . . .”

  “Okay, there was Blanche, but she had five children.”

  “Five children. I’d run like hell.”

  “I did.”

  We both laughed. I looked at him and thought, Oh boy, here comes the chemistry, racing across the decades like a freight train. I was just as physically attracted to him as I had been when we were teenagers. But I pulled in the reins of my imagination with the thought that he probably had fifty Barbies in his life and couldn’t be less interested in me. I needn’t worry that he would do or say a thing that was inappropriate. Jonathan wasn’t that kind of guy. Maybe he had a big ego, but he was the consummate gentleman.

  “So where’s Wesley?” I was surprised he remembered his name. “See? I kept up with you through Harlan.”

  “Wesley is in Atlanta.”

  “What’s he doing there?”

  “Hmmm.” I looked at Jonathan’s wristwatch. It was seven thirty. “Right about now? Probably scratching his head.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “He wants his supper and I’m not there to serve it to him on bended knee.”

  Jonathan stared at me in concerned amusement—if there is such a thing.

  “Aha! You went AWOL?”

  “Yep.”

  “First time?”

  “Yep.”

  “Well, you know what? I never liked Wesley anyway.”

  “You never met him. But that’s not to say you’d like him if you did.”

  “I wouldn’t like him. I’m sure of it. Wesley is a stupid name.”

  “I don’t like him much either. Hmmmm.”

  His eyes traveled every inch of my face. “I know this sounds very cliché, but how is it that you haven’t changed a bit? You and Harlan have those crazy hazel eyes that look like magic, and your dark hair has a bit of silver here and there but it’s beautiful.”

&nb
sp; “Oh, Jonathan. You’re so funny.”

  “No!” He smiled wide, charmed by my protest. “It really is. Show me a woman your age who still has a great figure like yours. I mean, dang, Les, you look really great! I always said you should’ve been a model or something.”

  “Oh, Jonathan. What a silly thing to say.”

  “No. It’s not. My eyes aren’t liars, and you know doctors are notoriously unflattering.”

  “If you say so then.” I giggled like a sixteen-year-old girl.

  “So Wesley turned out to be an insufferable bastard?”

  “Yep, pretty much.”

  It was incredible that I was telling Jonathan these things. I was normally extremely discreet. But where did being discreet ever get me? Nowhere. And besides, even though I hadn’t seen him in almost thirty years, Jonathan Ray knew my heart. There was and had never been any point in playing games with him. We had known each other at that rare, sweet time in our lives when we were in our childhood one day and on the next day our childhood was a million miles behind us. The only problem was that I went to college in Atlanta, met Wes, got married, and never lived in Charleston again. Everyone thought I’d wind up married to Jonathan. But even if I had wanted to, I couldn’t very well marry Jonathan and then give birth to Wes’s child. Talk about bad taste?

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to give my life a lot of thought. That’s why I’m here. To think.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Wes’s Great Annoyance

  I was starving when I got home. Thirty-six holes is a lot of walking even with a golf cart and all I had for lunch was a BLT. The house was dark and I could feel it, funny how you can feel it, there was no life. At first I was annoyed because Les knew I was expecting dinner. She always made dinner on Sunday nights. But then I got scared. Her car was in the garage. What if she was lying on the floor upstairs dead? What if she had another fall, like maybe she had a brain tumor or something that was making her lose her balance? Jesus! So I ran all over the house looking for a dead body, praying that she was just unconscious. I ran from room to room and she wasn’t there. I started getting really nervous. What if someone broke in the house and kidnapped her? You know, like a botched robbery or something and they didn’t mean to but they took her as a hostage because she’d seen their faces? I ran to the silver closet. It was locked up tight as a drum. I found the key in the kitchen drawer and unlocked it. Everything was there. Well, for as much as I could tell.

  What in the world was going on here? I checked her jewelry box. I couldn’t tell if anything was missing or not, well, it’s not like she ever had anything of real value worth stealing anyway. She was never the whaddya call it, the bling type. No, Les liked good leather and nice perfumes. At least that’s what I always bought her and she never complained.

  I decided to call our daughter. There was probably a simple explanation and I was getting all riled up for nothing.

  “Where’s your mother?” I said to Charlotte. “Is she with you?”

  “No, Daddy. I haven’t seen her all day. Why?”

  “She was supposed to be home and she isn’t. That’s all.”

  “Is her car in the garage?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you try Danette?”

  “No. I don’t even know if I have her number. Do you know her number?”

  “Look where Momma keeps her cookbooks. There’s a plastic-covered list on the right-hand side of the shelf. Everybody’s phone number is on there. The plumber, the electrician . . . you know.”

  “Okay, I’ll go look.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m sure she’s over at Danette’s talking and she probably lost track of time. Or maybe they went to a movie.”

  “Okay, you’re probably right.”

  “Call me back, okay?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  We hung up and I went to look for Danette’s phone number, but even as I found it and dialed it I had a lousy feeling in the pit of my stomach. And it wasn’t just hunger pangs. I have the kind of guts that know when trouble is coming. I can smell it a mile away. I mean, to be honest, it was one of the reasons I was so successful.

  She answered on the third ring.

  “Wes Carter here, Danette. You got a minute?”

  “Well, Wesley! What a surprise. Howdee do to you! You think I forgot your last name?”

  “Look, Danette, this is a serious call. Sorry if I didn’t use the right hello.” I wanted to say, Now I know why Harold dumped you, but I didn’t. “I can’t find Les and I was just wondering if she’s with you.”

  “Nope. I haven’t seen her since last week. What’s going on?”

  “Oh, nothing. I’m sure she’s fine.” I paused for a moment. “We were supposed to have dinner at the club,” I lied. “Maybe I just missed her in the dining room. Okay then. Um, thanks. You okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine, Wes. Thanks for asking. You?”

  “Good. I’m good. Okay, so if she calls, will you ask her to call my cell? I’m gonna go back up to the club and look for her.”

  “Sure. I’m sure she’s fine, Wes. She’s a big girl.”

  “Right. Okay, thanks then.”

  We hung up, and I thought about how Danette wanted to nail me for announcing myself with my last name. It was how I talked all day long at the office. I’d answer the phone and say, Wes Carter. So shoot me, you tired old hag. One good thing I had to say about Les was that she never played the Gotcha Game with me. She was real decent about all that kind of BS.

  I jumped in my car, turned on the Sinatra station on my satellite radio to calm myself, and drove back to the club as quickly as I could. Inside I checked the bar. Maybe she was waiting for me there. There were a dozen or so people milling around but no Les. I stopped to talk to the bartender.

  “Hey, Louis? You seen my wife tonight?”

  “No, sir, Mr. Carter. And I’ve been here since noon.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  Just where the hell was Les? I decided to have a beer and a burger and think it through. I drained my current beer, went to the grill room, said hello to a bunch of people as I passed them and they all asked for Les. Where’s Les? How’s Les? I said, Oh, she’s fine. It was a rare occasion that I ever came to the club without Leslie at night. It felt weird. I took a seat at the bar under the huge flatscreen overhead. The Braves were playing. Nothing like a good ball game.

  “What can I get for you, Mr. Carter?” Jack the waiter said.

  “I think I’ll have that bacon cheddar burger. Medium. With fries. And I’d like an Amstel with a cold mug if you’ve got it.”

  “Sure thing.”

  “Thanks. What’s the score?”

  “Braves are ahead by two.”

  “That’s the way we like it, right?”

  Okay, number one, I know she was really irritated last night. Why Cornelia and Lisette had to rumble with those girls I don’t know. I just thought Les should’ve stopped them, that’s all. What did she say? That she didn’t want to be their babysitter? But she’s older and she ought to have been able to finesse that one. What made her so mad? I thought I was paying her a compliment. Okay, to be honest, I think I raised my voice a little because I was disappointed that it seemed like she just sat there sipping her white wine and watching the crazy train roll through town. Maybe she’s trying to give all the young girls enough rope to hang themselves. Maybe this behavior has to do with her loyalty to Danette and I guess she probably still misses Tessa. Maybe it’s because I said she should have that party with Lisette. Who the hell knows how women think?

  I do know this now. After the disaster in Edinburgh, she sure doesn’t love Cornelia and she probably never will. Lisette either. She’s probably threatened by them. I mean, there’s Cornelia with that flaming red hair of hers, and over there is Lisette with a body that ought to be illegal. And there’s my Les. She’s almost twice their age, and to be blunt, the bloom is way off her rose next to those girls. There’s just no n
ice way to say it. It’s the truth. I mean, Les has many redeeming qualities. She’s the mother of my children and she’s been my good and loyal companion for all these years. She’s extremely dependable all around the board. But she ain’t no looker anymore. Not to me anyway.

  So we had a little disagreement last night in front of the world and she took a cab home. I guess that was pretty unprecedented. Yeah, come to think of it, it was the very first time she’d ever done anything like that. And now she was nowhere to be found. Could she have left me? Why would she do a crazy thing like that? Maybe she left a note? Maybe I missed something?

  I signed for my meal, drove home, and turned on every light in the house. First, I went over every inch of the kitchen and the laundry room for clues. That’s where she was half the time, so I might have found something there, but I didn’t. Maybe she left something on my desk? No, she did not. I went upstairs and looked in the closet where she stored our luggage. It looked to me like a suitcase might have been missing, but I wasn’t sure. How the hell should I know how many suitcases we owned? It finally dawned on me that I should check her closet to see if there were clothes missing. Now, do you think I could really tell? There was so much stuff jammed in there you’d have to be a forensic expert to figure that one out. But it was possible. There were some empty hangers on the floor and it seemed like there were fewer shoes.

  So. She left me. Just like that. She left me? Really? No warning. No note. No nothing. I called her cell again and left a stronger message.

  “Les? It’s me. Look, I don’t know what kind of a game you’re playing and I don’t care. I just want to know that you’re all right. Just call me and tell me where you are or else I’m calling the police!”

  That ought to put the fear of God in her. Let her worry that the police are out in the streets looking for her. I poured myself a nice big scotch, a single malt reserved for special occasions because this might be one, turned on the television, and got comfortable in my recliner. People could say what they wanted about recliners but I loved mine.