Dancing in the Lowcountry

by James Villas

  Goldie, to whom the travel references meant nothing, took a fork to her macaroni and cheese, but it was still too hot to eat so she blew on it. “I know just how he must have felt, ’cause when it’s hot and crazy in Charlotte, and I have to drive around fighting for a parking place in the shopping center, I sometimes remember what it was like in the cool air back on the reservation when my brother and I would go riding in the Nantahala Forest and all I’d hear were birds singing in all directions—just the birds and the sound of twigs cracking under the horses’ feet. I’ve thought about that so many times.”

  Ella cut into her biscuit and dragged a morsel in the gravy. Then, gazing down at the table while Goldie attacked the macaroni and thinking about what her companion had just said, her mind drifted involuntarily back to a late spring evening in Paris when she and Earl had celebrated her thirtieth birthday with dinner and glass after glass of champagne at La Tour d’Argent, after which he unexpectedly told the taxi driver to take and drop them off at an entrance to the Bois de Boulogne. Ella didn’t know he was even aware of the massive park, but there he hailed a horse-drawn carriage for a ride down some of the romantic, tree-lined lanes, and there she experienced one of those moments in time that can never be forgotten. She remembered that she was wearing a fancy, hand-tailored, light green dress with a frilly, plunging neckline that Earl had insisted on buying for her at a shop on the rue Cambon. She remembered the steady clomp of the horses’ hooves and the tweeting of birds in the trees overhead. But most of all she remembered his arm around her and the way he pulled her close to kiss her passionately, and how, under the coverlet across their laps, he gently but steadily caressed her thigh till she thought her entire body would explode. She could still almost smell the tangy sweet aroma of champagne on his breath, and just the thought of the prolonged, unbridled manner in which they made love back at the hotel still made her tingle. She knew, of course, that the charm of Paris and just being away sparked instincts in Earl that were much more restrained, or often nonexistent, when he was under the pressures of work at home, but she knew it was also true that, under the right circumstances, there was no man on earth capable of making her feel more like a desirable woman and satisfying her most fervent desires and needs the way her husband had that magic night in Paris.

  “Looka there, Miss Ella!” Goldie suddenly interrupted the reverie, trying to talk with food in her mouth while pointing eagerly out the window at a long, slatted van loaded with hogs that, for some reason, had come to a halt in the road.

  “Pigs,” was Ella’s only comment as she picked up the bill the waitress had stuck under the salt shaker and took cash out of her pocketbook. “Don’t rush, dear, but I really do think we should be getting on our way soon if we want to arrive at the inn in time for a good nap.”

  Goldie offered to help her up from the table, but Ella fluttered a hand fretfully to indicate she could manage very well herself. “Mercy, woman, you’re worse than the children.”

  Chapter 2

  FLESH AND BLOOD

  Ella had been as aware as everyone else of the sad demolition years ago of the majestic Ocean Forest Hotel and other landmarks at Myrtle Beach, and she remembered friends back in Charlotte also complaining about other modern changes over the past couple of decades that had transformed much of the entire Grand Strand into a major resort that now engulfed the hitherto independent small beaches of Ocean Drive, Cherry Grove, and Crescent. Nothing, however, could have fully prepared her for not only the sleazy theme restaurants, amusement parks, and strip malls that now lined both sides of Kings Highway but also the towering concrete oceanfront hotels and condos that had replaced most of the gracious old family cottages and inns. Of course, Goldie was awed by all the spectacle and glitz, but she kept her excitement to herself when it became obvious that Miss Ella was nothing less than shocked as they slowly made their way along Ocean Boulevard past one flashy high-rise after another, looking anxiously for a sign that read THE PRISCILLA.

  Then there it was, the same pinkish white, shingled, dignified structure recessed off the road that Ella had known in the old days and that stood in noble defiance of progress and trendy vulgarity. Both the inn and its spacious parking lot were virtually camouflaged by old palmettos and tall, thick borders of well-trimmed myrtle hedges that guaranteed an optimum of privacy for the privileged guests, and when she looked up from the car, Ella noticed that every window was now graced by a neat blue awning with a small white P in the center of each. On the front was a long, white, bannistered porch with rocking chairs overlooking a wooden terrace and plush lawn between the inn and the ocean, and, as all the locals knew, the formal dining room inside still served what was without question the finest Lowcountry cuisine on the entire beach.

  Pulling through the front gate to the main entrance of the inn, they were greeted immediately by an older, uniformed attendant, who opened Ella’s door, directed them to the reception area, and said he would park the car and handle the luggage and fishing rods. Inside the quiet, wood-paneled hall, furnished with deep cane armchairs, a handsome bookcase, and tasteful seascapes on the walls, it was as if time had stood still, and when the familiar, salty aroma of fresh sea air swept through the front-porch doors into the vestibule, Ella had the strange, comforting impression that she’d been here only yesterday.

  “Young man, when you’ve finished checking us in,” she told the attractive clerk behind the desk, fishing in her pocketbook for a credit card while he glanced furtively at Goldie, “I’d like to have an important word with you.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Dubose, by all means,” he acknowledged cordially in a thick Lowcountry accent, taking the card, running it through a machine for an imprint, and indicating where she should sign the registration form. Ella thought about commenting on the vulgarity of credit cards, but she’d learned that she was just wasting her breath ridiculing this modern phenomenon.

  “Do you know what ‘incognito’ means?” she almost whispered, leaning up and touching the sleeve of his blue blazer.

  The lad looked perplexed. “No, ma’am, I can’t say I do.”

  “You don’t? Well, I’ll tell you. It means somebody who prefers not to be recognized, who’s in disguise, and that’s the way I’m traveling on this trip—incognito.”

  “Oh,” he said, still baffled by what the elegant lady was trying to put across.

  “You see, I and my family were coming to the Priscilla years ago—before you were even born.” She stopped to laugh softly to herself. “And I’m now returning with my companion here mainly to rest and relax and not be disturbed—total privacy.”

  The clerk, his blue eyes wide open, remained quiet a moment, then said, “Oh, yes, ma’am, we try to respect the privacy of all our guests.”

  Ella frowned slightly, her hand still on his arm. “I don’t think you fully understand, young man, so let me try to put it another way. As far as this inn is concerned, I don’t exist, I never checked in here, and if there should be any phone calls for me, you’ve never heard my name. I have my own very personal reasons, and, take my word, there’s nothing shady going on, but can you assure me that this request will be honored, and your telephone operator notified, and—”

  “Don’t forget about Mr. Tyler,” Goldie interrupted quietly, nudging her arm.

  “Oh, yes, my son from New York City, Mr. Tyler Dubose, will be joining us on the weekend for a few days—I believe you have his reservation—and he also will be staying here incognito.”

  By now, the poor clerk, who was trying to be sophisticated in accordance with his training, was so confused that all he could do was excuse himself, tap on an office door just off the reception area, and speak momentarily with a much older gentleman dressed in a beige linen suit.

  “Good day, Mrs. Dubose,” the man greeted, approaching the desk and eyeing the dark-skinned woman with the beads and bracelets before turning his full attention to Ella. “I’m Albert Glover, the general manager, and I understand that you’ll not be accepting any incom
ing calls during your stay with us.”

  “That’s correct, Mr. Glover. In fact, I’d like our registration—and my son’s this weekend—to remain anonymous, if that’s no problem. I have my reasons.”

  For an instant, the manager wondered to himself if perhaps the perfectly respectable-looking lady might be either a celebrity or a kook, but then he quickly determined that she was no more than a well-off, harmless eccentric with a peculiar companion who, for whatever reasons, simply wanted to be left totally alone.

  “No problem, Mrs. Dubose,” he assured in a friendly manner. “As you might know, we’re still a very old-fashioned, traditional place and go out of our way to accommodate all our guests’ every wish, so our lips are sealed if that’s what you ask. And please let us know if there’s anything at all we can do to make your stay more pleasant.”

  Once Ella had thanked him, the two women were shown to their adjoining rooms on the third floor, Ella’s on a corner with sweeping views of the sea and coastline, and Goldie’s much smaller connecting room on the side. The first thing Ella did was cut off the air-conditioning and open all the windows, and, after hanging up a couple of dresses and leaving the rest of the unpacking to Goldie, she looked down at the blue and white cabanas that were similar to those where she used to sit sewing and watching Big Earl and the children romp in the waves. She now felt tired and a little groggy, and as she gazed out over the ocean with thousands of small whitecaps reflecting the hypnotic afternoon sun, what came to mind first was the day so long ago when she and Jonathan frolicked up the beach in front of the Ocean Forest, and he held her tight around the waist, and she was so in love. Then she remembered worrying, years later, about Tyler one morning strolling all alone up the beach while his father pitched baseball with Little Earl, and how she caught up with him and they searched together for beautiful shells. And next surfaced the vision of pier fishing with Earl, and pulling in a large blue, and standing back in horror as he ripped the hook from the struggling fish’s mouth while Little Earl and Liv cheered him on. One by one, the disparate memories emerged and clashed, and if, sitting there in a partial trance with the warm, familiar breeze blowing across her venerable body, Ella sensed a remote happiness being back in her beloved Lowcountry, where important chapters of her long, rather ordinary life had unfolded, she was not so distracted by the promise of pleasure and relaxation to forget the primary reason for this deviant trip. Nor could she disregard some of the irritating family circumstances back home that threatened to darken her entire mood.

  “We’re concerned, Mama, and not just about your physical health,” had been Olivia’s exact words that day at Bull’s Barbecue.

  “When somebody gets to your age, there’re changes in the system that can affect everything we do, from making important decisions to…driving a car,” had been Little Earl’s added two bits.

  Not that Ella had really wanted to go to lunch with her son and daughter on that hectic Saturday. It had been a trying week, so much so that if one single thing else went wrong, she thought she might reach for the gun in her pocketbook and blow her own brains out. First, she was still recovering from a nasty touch of the colic, most likely brought on by a strange shrimp dish she’d ordered at Phoenix Garden when her old friend Lilybelle Armstrong invited her out to celebrate Ella’s seventy-third birthday. Because of a terrible, really inexcusable mix-up, the man due to clean the crystal chandelier in the dining room had yet to show up. Nor had young Billy next door come over on Wednesday after school as promised to help Miss Ella move one of the two heavy artificial Christmas trees on wheels from behind a large Indonesian screen in the sun room to a corner of the library.

  All week long, her soaps on TV had been preempted hour after hour by the news of some factory or house or bus that had been blown up over in Israel. And as if that annoyance were not enough, Ella now had good reason to worry that the garbage man might start asking questions about the potted marijuana plant growing taller each day in a remote sunny area of the spacious porch that wrapped itself round two sides of the house. She had almost burned the bottoms of jelly cookies intended to be served at her charity league luncheon, then Lucy, sick as a dog with a migraine, had called to change the regular hair and manicure appointment at the beauty parlor. And what should arrive in the mail from up North but a copy of Tyler’s new memoirs revealing not only certain aspects of his unusual life that should have been kept private, but also a few embarrassing details about the family that were not at all necessary.

  All of which meant that Ella Dubose was not exactly in the best frame of mind when Little Earl called out of the blue to announce that he and Olivia would like to drop by the house on Saturday and take their mother out to Bull’s Barbecue for lunch. Ella immediately suspected something shady since it just wasn’t normal for her younger son and daughter to pay a visit together, much less pick a Saturday to eat barbecue when everybody in Charlotte knew how horrendous Saturday crowds could be at any restaurant. Maybe if Earl had said that he and Betty Jane, his wife, were simply planning to drive over to visit, Ella wouldn’t have been so leery, but no, it just wasn’t normal for the two of them to be coming together and wasting a good Saturday that could be and usually was spent with their own children or some friends.

  “Son,” Ella began to beg off, “that’s awfully sweet of you both, but to tell you the honest truth, it really doesn’t suit this weekend. I’ve had a pretty bad week, and besides, much as I love it, I’m not one bit sure I should be eating barbecue after this little intestinal spell I’ve had.”

  “Oh, Mama, you know as well as I do that half of that’s in your head,” he had said in the nonchalant way he adopted when trying to sway his mother. “What you need is to get out of that big house and forget about your problems for a while. If you don’t feel up to barbecue, you can always have a good bowl of Brunswick stew, and a few hush puppies, and plenty of iced tea, You know how much you love the Brunswick stew out at Bull’s, and it might do your tummy lots of good. And Liv’s dying for a barbecue plate.”

  Ella stood her ground. “Earl, honey, please don’t try to humor me, for heaven’s sake. As I said, this has not been a very good week, and I’m aware when my nerves are on end, and I certainly know what I should and should not eat after I’ve had a little setback. I also know that I have no intention, no intention whatsoever, of waiting over there for a table on a busy Saturday.”

  Earl could be as persistent and stubborn as his mother, not only at his company but when dealing with any of his kin. “Now, Mama, I think you’ve forgotten, I think it’s completely escaped your mind, that I’ve known Bull Godwin ever since we started coaching Little League together, and that Bull will have me a table ready anytime faster than you can shake a stick. All it takes is a quick phone call, so you can’t use that as an excuse.”

  “Son, I’m not going to argue with you till I’m blue in the face. Some of the girls from the church are coming over this afternoon to strip palms and make crosses for Sunday, so I don’t have time to argue. Goldie’s here now helping me fix tea sandwiches and roll nutty fingers, and we still have to straighten up the sunroom. If you and Liv want to drop by just for a visit, fine, but I’m not making any promises about going to Bull’s. Just depends on my condition.”

  Ella had every right to wonder about her son and daughter coming over together to take her out to lunch on Saturday. Not that she’d ever had any reason to distrust her own flesh and blood. It was simply because she couldn’t remember the last time just the three of them had gone out together to eat barbecue or anything else, and her maternal instincts told her that something odd was up—something peculiar that she could detect merely from the tone of Earl’s voice on the phone. Of course, had she been a fly on the wall at his and Betty Jane’s home the previous weekend while the two of them and Olivia sat around the kitchen table drinking cola or coffee and nibbling on snacks, she’d have known in an instant why any wariness was justified.

  “Haven’t you noticed some weird chan
ges in Mama Ella’s behavior the last few months?” Betty Jane asked Olivia, twisting a clump of tinted blond hair with her thumb and index finger.

  Olivia, wearing a jersey with CAROLINA stenciled over the front, was sipping coffee from a mug with the figure of a blue ram on one side. Her short, auburn hair was flecked with gray, and it was obvious that one day it would be as radiantly silver as her mother’s.

  “Nothing Mama does these days really surprises me,” she answered, snickering in a childish way.

  “Well, we’ve noticed, and it worries the hell out of us,” Earl said, popping another small cheese biscuit from a tin into his mouth and washing it down with Diet Coke. “And I think we need to talk about it before…” He stopped to listen to the TV in the den when there was a roar from the crowd at a basketball game. “Did B. J. tell you what Mama was doing just the other day when she drove over there to return some of her china? She was baking dog biscuits. Dog biscuits!”