33.
Swell
October: my favorite month. Most of the tourists have packed up and gone back to Ohio and New Jersey. The beaches have cleared, and so has the humidity. Temperatures hover in the high seventies. The water holds the summer’s heat; it’s a few degrees warmer than the air. This oceanic heat fuels the big storms, sending them churning across the Atlantic. When hurricanes spin off the coast, we get swells. Today, Folly Beach has serious waves.
I tuck my keys in my wheel well, grab my board, and head for the beach access. I tiptoe past a new puddle, now the fourth permanent one on this footpath, even without a king tide. An elevated boardwalk built to protect the fragile dunes rises at the end of the trail. At its crest, the ocean comes into view. The sea is wild, alive, thrashing. Gray walls of water rise tumultuously, fall in crescendos. Crowns of spray leap and scatter in high arcs before collapsing into the thunderous booms.
Pelicans twist nimbly in the open sky, hunting for fish pushed upward by the choppy waters. One spots a fish and readies itself for the attack. The bird cocks its wings and torpedoes down into the chop. Splash. It pops up from under the water with a silvery menhaden suspended in its beak. The bird’s gular pouch, the stretchy flesh under the beak, balloons to swallow dinner whole.
I place my board on the sand to rub on a layer of wax.
A child, maybe five or six years old, runs past me to dump a bucket of water into a hole in the sand. He hurries back and forth, absorbed in his project. His plastic toys litter the beach: an orange shovel, purple castle mold, red sand sifter. A muscle-bound action figure rolls in the surf. On my way into the water, I pick it up.
“Mine!” he shrieks. The child has an ear-splitting scream, a cry sharper than a gull’s.
“I’m not taking your toy. I’m putting it over here so it doesn’t end up in the ocean.” I lay the action figure in the dry sand.
“Mom!” he shrieks. A woman walks toward us, her lips flat as the horizon. Her shirt reads: “lib·tard: noun 1. A person so open minded their brains fall out.”
Instead of explaining why sand and shells make fine, natural toys for kids—that the world doesn’t need any more plastic—I grab my board and run off into the waves. No one wants to hear my speech about plastic. Plus, judging from her shirt, we probably wouldn’t have had a productive conversation.
I hop on my board to paddle out into the deeper waters. A massive wave rolls toward me. I attempt a duck-dive, pushing the board beneath the steamroller of a wave, but I don’t get deep enough to pop up safely on the other side.
The wave tosses me like a rag doll and chucks my board high into the air. The leash tugs at my leg, like a giant hand curling around my ankle, yanking me back to shore.
Once I regain my footing in the shallows, I pull on my leash to retrieve my board. I squint to measure the incoming set and plot my course back out to the ocean. My only option is to try harder.
Eventually I make it past the break. As my reward, a plush, slow-rolling wave rumbles my way. I point my board toward the shore and kick hard. I catch the wave and pop up to a wide stance. I steer my board up and down along the ever-changing wall of water. I’m flying.
My ride ends. I’m back in the shallows, exhausted. I can manage one, maybe two more rides. Panting, I survey the surf, looking for patterns. Waves come in sets, and if I can paddle out between a group of waves, I’ll have a better chance of making it past the break.
I hear a loud screech and turn to see the kid from the beach. He’s pretending to shoot the laughing gulls soaring overhead. He jumps up and down in the surf, unaware that the outgoing tide carries him closer to me.
I start to put distance between me and this airhorn, but then I spy a surfboard torpedoing right at him.
“Watch out!” I race toward the kid and pull him under the water, pinning him down until I feel the wave has passed and the wayward board is safely between us and the shore.
Seconds later, we emerge. He is stunned. I look to shore, where his mother flips through a magazine; she wasn’t watching. Thank God. First I steal his toys, then I dunk him underwater. What would she think?
The boy wipes his eyes, coming to his senses. He starts to cry and runs to his mother. Not wanting to stick around to explain, I hurry back into the ocean.
“Are you okay? Is your son okay?” A guy about my age hurries toward me. He wears a worn rash guard and blue board shorts. His skin reminds me of the pink and tan mottling on whelks. His eyes are the exact shade of palmetto fronds. While this man is definitely sexy, I wonder if he’s the type of surfer to claim part of the beach. I know one thing for sure: he’s an idiot. Who surfs without a leash, especially during a swell? There are kids in the water. Shitty kids, but kids nonetheless.
He lopes to pick up his board, flipped upside down and buffeted by the surf, and jogs toward me. His forehead is crisscrossed with fine wrinkles from marathon-long days in the sun. He’s cute. Very cute.
“We’re fine. Just got to be careful out here, you know?”
“I’m so sorry. My leash snapped.”
Oh. So, he’s not a total bonehead. “He’s not my kid,” I say, maybe with a little too much force.
“That could have been a disaster. I don’t know how to thank you.”
A pickup game of tonsil hockey? “Don’t worry about it.”
“What’s your name?”
“Simons.”
“I’m Ben.”
“Nice to meet you.” I hold out my hand.
“That’s a good handshake. Is this your usual spot?”
Hmm. Maybe this is his territory? Fine. It’s mine, too. “Yes, it is.”
In my periphery, the mother to the vuvuzela is waving her arms, trying to get my attention. I half expect her to scream at me, but instead she calls out, “We want to thank you!”
Ben turns to look at the mother, who has lifted her son to her hip.
“Looks like they want to talk to the hero.”
I pick up my board. “I guess I’ve got to go.”
“I’ll keep an eye out for you.”
“Ditto.” And that’s the thing about life and love. One random person, at some random time, can make the day better. Chances are, I’ll never see him again. But it’s intriguing to think that I might. I’ll keep my eyes open.
34.
Called Back Home
A north wind slices across Charleston Harbor, rocking my car as it reaches the pinnacle of the Ravenel Bridge. Finally, some cool weather has arrived—hopefully for good. The marsh grass below has begun its steady transition from a spring green to a winter-wheat color. The Lowcountry summer water—hot, soupy, and teeming with marine life—has morphed into a cleaner, clearer version of itself. No pudding-thick thunderheads cover the city, no tropical storms whip up suddenly. Wispy cirrus clouds meander overhead; migratory birds head south.
Dead leaves skitter across the parking lot. Angela is uncharacteristically outdoors. She’s on her phone, pacing under the oak tree. I pull into a parking spot closest to the employee entrance, giving her some space. Whatever the call is about, she came out here for privacy. To my surprise, she motions me over.
Joining her under the old tree, I’m grateful that at least one developer in this town chose a living work of art over yet another asphalt parking spot. “Well, how much would that cost? Okay. But you say you don’t think it would help much?”
Damn. It’s gotta be her dog. “Cooper?” I mouth. Angela nods and resumes pacing, crunching acorns underfoot.
It’s almost time for the morning meeting. I tap my wrist to let Angela know. She cups her hand over the phone and asks, “Can you tell the team to start without me? You run the meeting.” I tell her to take her time.
* * *
The newsroom is arctic cold. A thin film of condensation coats my keyboard. I pull my blanket around my shoulders, chewing a piece of candied ginger while scanning the news feeds.
My cell phone rings. “Hi, Mom.”
“Honey, your
grandmother died.”
What? No! I was just with her this morning. She was as she had been for the last week—her breaths were labored, but she was pink-skinned, at least in her face. That’s why I didn’t tell her goodbye. I thought I had time to gather the courage. I feel sick. “Was anyone with her?”
“Tito was in the room. And Shaniece. She died peacefully, honey.”
“Wow.” It finally happened. For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction, right? So why didn’t the earth shake or a meteor fall on Charleston? How is everything around me exactly the same? A momentous transition just occurred, and here I am, hunkered down for another day at News 14. “How are you holding up, Mom?”
“I’m hanging in there.”
“I’m so sorry, Mom.” Sorry I took her to the ballet, are my unsaid words. Sorry I took her away from you sooner. “Is there anything I can do?”
“We’re going to need help with the reception. I already put in an order with the caterers, so that’s covered, thank goodness. Maybe you could help your father arrange the furniture.”
Mom babbles on about what couch should be moved where, but I am wondering where Laudie is at this very moment. Still in that hospital bed? Or—yikes—in one of those body refrigerators?
Beep. Bop. Beeeep. “Simons? What on earth . . . ?” Mom is randomly mashing telephone buttons. “Can you hear me?”
“Yes!” I shout, a little too loudly. A couple of heads spin in my direction.
“So, can we count on you to pick up the liquor?”
I duck behind my computer monitor, cup my hand over my mouth. Personal calls are frowned upon. “Sure, what kind?”
“Honey, I just told you. Write it down this time. Gin, vermouth, sherry, vodka, and whiskey,” she says exasperatedly. “And some tonic water. Oh. That’s Jim Mackey. I’ve got to go.”
The Mackeys are the undertakers for South of Broad residents and have been for generations. “Okay, bye, Mom. I love you,” I say, but she’s already hung up.
* * *
At my door are two large square envelopes. On both, my name is written in elegant calligraphy: Miss Simons Parks Smythe. In the bottom corner of each is also written: By hand. In Charleston, “by hand” is considered the more elegant way to send formal mail, when possible. My mother carries the invitations on her walks, slipping the cards into mail slots along the way. When Weezy debuted, I delivered most of the invitations. Mom even made me drive over the bridge to Mount Pleasant to drop some off, which was ridiculous, but she paid me, so I kept my mouth shut.
I study the first, slimmer envelope, running my fingers over the edge, which feels more like fabric than paper. Laudie would have done the same. She appreciated the details—watermarks, fonts, paper weight, and whatnot. It’s an invitation to Caroline’s debutante party at Mom and Dad’s, the one Mom asked me to proofread at Laudie’s.
The bulkier envelope is for the ball, a large and lavish event that will honor perhaps ten young ladies at once. They will be formally introduced to society. (In previous generations, when the sexes didn’t commingle so freely, this was a momentous occasion, an opportunity for potential marital alliances to be made.) As with all formal society events, the paper stock is always white or ecru; the printing is always in black. For an extra touch, some invitations include a family coat of arms at the top. Elegant yet restrained script spells words the European way: “honour” and “favour”; the word “o’clock” written out. The heavy card is protected by a flimsy square of tissue and feels wet to the touch. And the invitees’ names are handwritten, often in gorgeous, painstaking calligraphy.
Also inside: the dance card. It’s a tiny booklet tethered to a silky white loop. The women wear it around their wrists during the formal dancing before dinner. A tiny pencil dangles from the rope to write the names of dancing partners on the dotted lines next to songs chosen probably a century ago for the evening: a waltz first, two foxtrots, and so on until the midnight dinner.
Years ago, at my debutante ball, Trip jokingly started to write his name next to every song. Laughing, I snatched the dance card from him before he could finish. Now, I wonder whose name will be written on the dotted line.
35.
The Wake Up
Downtown Charleston is a labyrinth of one-way streets. The maze forces drivers to venture blindly into intersections, execute tight turns. It drives the tourists—expecting logic in the traffic patterns—absolutely bonkers. I’ve always liked the capricious, unpredictable layout of my town. It forces me to tack like a sailboat through hidden alleys and narrow lanes: Bedons, Zig Zag, Stolls, Horlbeck, Philadelphia, Little Lamboll. I wend my way through the antebellum warren until I reach South Battery. My grandparents’ oyster-shell driveway jostles the liquor bottles in the trunk.
Before heading inside, I make my usual detour to Laudie’s garden. The herringbone brick pattern along the pool points toward the wall of greenery. I walk beneath the camellias and into white sunlight. When I enter her garden, I feel hollow, weak-kneed. Only now do I fully understand that my grandmother is gone.
Most everything in her garden is dead now, or at least dormant. The dried, brittle lantana crunch beneath my feet. The bare stalks of hydrangeas make me think of the hands of scarecrows. The rosemary remains green, but the mint has shriveled.
The last of the zinnias look like something out of an old photograph. Time-faded. Sepia-toned. I grab my shears to cut the last of the good ones. Their tough old stems don’t yield easily.
The remainder of the zinnias, the dead ones, need to be removed. When I pull them up from the ground, it’s as easy as lifting a tissue from its box. I rake my hands through the soil, gathering the soft webs of tired roots and tossing them in the shade of the sago palm. Soon, the garden is nothing but a mound of freshly turned soil. I can’t help but think it looks like a grave.
I return the shears to my hook in the potting shed and search for a rag to wipe my hands clean. A drawer houses her tools: shears, florist’s tape, narrow-gauge wire. Also inside, rolled up neatly, is an opened zinnia packet containing around thirty seeds. An unfinished project. I rescroll the packet tightly, keep it safe in my fist.
I head back to the car and stash the seed pack in my purse. I lay the wilted zinnias over the box of booze and haul it up the back steps. I hip-check the kitchen door to let myself inside.
I had expected to come into a house somber with death, but instead the atmosphere is festive with party preparations. But why am I surprised? Partying is what Charleston does best, and always has for more than three hundred bourbon-soaked years.
Ashley runs past with a stack of silver platters. In the dining room, Louisa takes inventory of the vases. Dad’s bent over a folding table, snapping open the legs. He looks up. “Let me help,” he says. He takes the heavy box from me, placing it on the massive mahogany table where Laudie had served thousands of meals. It seems he’s warming up to me, but by no means am I out of the doghouse yet. “Tell her about Dr. Legare,” Dad says to Louisa. “Simons could put it in the news!”
Oh gosh, parents with news tips—never a good idea.
Lousia holds two vases out for me to choose. “You knew Dr. Legare, of course. The widower.”
I guess so. There are so many Legares in this town. I nod and place the papery flowers in the crystal one, Laudie’s favorite. “Thanks, Louisa.”
“Well, just before he died, he told Mr. Mackey he wanted to be buried with his dog. And Mr. Mackey said, ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t put your dog to sleep,’ and Dr. Legare said, ‘Oh, no, Coon’s been dead for years.’ He told him he buried Coon in his garden, but that he amputated the dog’s tail first. And of course this was easy for him to do, since he was a surgeon. He kept the tail in the back of his freezer for four years. Four years, can you believe it? He phoned Mr. Mackey right after he did it. Told him to fetch it when the time came and put it in his coffin.”
“You forgot the best part!” Dad interjects. “When his housekeeper was cleaning out his refr
igerator, she nearly put it in the garbage. Apparently, he had told her it was a corn dog and that he was saving it for a special occasion.”
“Oh, that’s right. And then Mr. Mackey had to go and pick it up. And, of course, his housekeeper was wondering what on earth the funeral director was doing in the freezer. Isn’t that a trip?”
I wish she wouldn’t say “trip,” but no one seems to notice. Dad and Louisa laugh, sharing details of rummaging through frozen hamburger patties and ice cream bars.
The buzz inside the house dies when Mom enters the dining room; the kitchen door swings shut behind her. She looks nearly like she always does: neat, pulled-together. She wears a kelly green shirt, matching cardigan, and khaki trousers. But her hair is a touch out of place, and she had buttoned her sweater incorrectly—one side hangs a smidge lower than the other. Mom drops into one of the Queen Anne side chairs pushed up against the wainscotting. “Andy’s plane just landed.” Andy is Mom’s younger brother. He lives in Dallas. No one born in Charleston can understand this.
I circle the dining table to sit beside Mom. The stuffing in the chairs is so worn down from the decades I may as well be sitting in a shallow bucket. “Are you doing okay, Mom?”
“About as well as I can.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
Mom blows her nose. “Can you go upstairs and get some photographs of Mother? So people can see her in her glory days.”
“Of course.”
* * *
Upstairs, it’s déjà vu. The bedroom looks as it always did, before Laudie entered hospice. Most noticeably, the curtains are open; full sun enters, strafing, as it always did this time of day, the bureaus, highboy, pillows, paintings, and chairs. On her dresser, the pearls she wore to the ballet spill over a silver dish. Her matching, monogrammed silver hand mirror and hairbrush rest beside her jewelry box. The medicinal vials and ointments have been removed from the bedside table. Her nightgown and robe hang on a hook at the bathroom door. Everything is in its place, as though she might walk in at any moment to change for a session at the barre.
In Polite Company Page 18