by James Villas
Of course, by the time the authorities had put out a routine bulletin with a description of the Cadillac, Ella and Edmund were sailing down the coastal highway in the car like carefree youngsters on their first sightseeing tour together of the South Carolina Lowcountry. Ella was now decked out in a colorfully designed silk blouse and white duck pants, and he was wearing a handsome safari jacket over a red polo shirt. At one point, she had apologized for her hair and said she would have to go to the beauty parlor at the inn, but he assured her it didn’t matter to him what her hair looked like. Nor did it seem to matter much that Goldie and the others had been left to lounge, swim, or hold further powwows on the beach.
Since so little between Myrtle Beach and Georgetown had changed over the years, Ella recognized nearly every place name, historical landmark, and bend in the road, enlightening her companion about the great rice, indigo, and cotton plantations that once flourished from this area down to Charleston, the gracious mansions and glamorous way of life that existed all along the large inland rivers before the War Between the States, and, to be sure, the slave culture that made it all possible for the fabulously wealthy barons. Ella knew her Lowcountry history, and, as she related the facts and stories and myths, there was a melancholy nostalgia in her voice that suggested to O’Conner that she would love nothing more than to be able to return to those faraway days.
“There it is,” she suddenly exclaimed, spotting The Hammock Shop on the left of the highway and turning into a complex of small wooden buildings nestled beneath gigantic oaks festooned with Spanish moss. “Finest rope handmade hammocks on the eastern seaboard, and the place looks almost like it did when I was here last. For years, they’ve also carried fine prints, and Lowcountry crafts and foods, and all sorts of fancy doodads, but I can recall when there was just one shop selling the hammocks.”
Parking under a majestic gnarled oak, she suddenly seemed disoriented as she stared wistfully through the window at the ancient tree and had a vision of the time she’d stopped here with Jonathan Green on their excursion up to Myrtle. Clear as crystal, she could see him friskily leaping into one of the display hammocks strung between two of the old trees at the side of the shop and swinging higher and higher by sweeping his hand forcefully across the hard ground below. At one point, he reached up for her hand. She resisted at first, but when she finally relented, he playfully pulled her down on top of him and resumed propelling the two of them as they both howled with laughter. Then Jonathan stopped sweeping the ground, and, wrapped tightly in the coarse ropes, they simply lay in each other’s arms as the hammock swayed slowly in the warm, humid air and they gazed up through the thick moss and listened to the crickets. Ella could have remained there forever, but, in a few minutes, a woman appeared from inside the shop, and accused them of not having any breeding, and told them in no uncertain terms that this was no playground and that the two would have to leave if they couldn’t behave themselves.
Of course, this had all been shortly after Jonathan returned from the war and not long before the shattering episode that would alter the course of Ella’s life forever. When he turned eighteen, Jonathan, like Ella’s brother before him, had been called up almost overnight to serve in the conflict overseas and instructed to report to Fort Dix in New Jersey for induction into the army. Ella couldn’t help but be proud of him as she and a few friends and his parents watched the train pull away from the station on a sweltering Charleston summer afternoon, but she was also heartsick, sadder than she’d ever been in her life as she caressed a cigarette case in her hand and wondered gloomily if she’d ever see him again.
It was during their last dinner at Perdita’s that Jonathan had given her the gold-filled case with EPH monogrammed on top, and it was an evening that would remain as rooted in her memory as the faint tufts of dark hair on the backs of his almost delicate hands and the ruddy aroma of his skin when they danced close. As usual, they had both dressed appropriately for the rather formal occasion; on their intimate table along a wall were two votive candles that caused the crystal glasses and ashtray to sparkle; and in one corner of the restaurant, a small combo played soft popular tunes. Both decided to have Bulls Bay oysters as an appetizer, and though they were tempted to order the stuffed flounder once again, when the waiter described a special shrimp bog for two served in a copper casserole, they followed his recommendation.
“Do you promise to write?” Ella had asked about midway through the delicious bog, looking into his luminous eyes.
“Don’t be crazy. Of course I’ll write,” he said nervously, reaching into the pocket of his jacket and handing her a small packet wrapped in brown paper. “And so you don’t forget about me, here’s something I got you.”
For a moment, Ella simply sat and gazed at the case, rubbing its shiny finish and tracing the engraved letters on the lid with a finger. “Oh, it’s beautiful, Jonathan, so beautiful,” she then said, almost choking up and forgetting about the rest of her food.
“Not really much,” he said nonchalantly. “Just something I thought you could use while I’m away.”
She kept stroking the case, then reached over and squeezed his free hand. “Honey, it’s the most beautiful thing anybody’s ever given me. Thank you, Jonathan. It’s something I’ll treasure always. Believe me.”
Drinking and talking late into the night, they had been almost the last customers to leave the restaurant, and before letting her out of the car at the house, Jonathan had pulled her over on the seat and, for the first time, kissed her really passionately. Ella’s parents had lectured her repeatedly about getting too serious over a Jewish boy, but especially after that wonderful evening, the last thing on her mind were silly warnings that made no difference to her whatsoever. All Ella knew was that she’d never experienced such emotions over another human being, that the feeling was not just overwhelming but genuine, and that just the possibility of never seeing this boy again was too unbearable to even contemplate.
Although Earl Dubose was as anxious as other young men to serve his country in wartime, he was rejected at his physical because of poor eyesight and instead given a job helping to administer the city’s gas-rationing program. For a while, Ella worked as a tour guide, escorting tourists through the historic cobblestone, palmetto-shaded streets and through some of the pastel-colored houses along Rainbow Row near her home, but when this began to bore her, she enrolled in courses in American literature and art appreciation at the College of Charleston, hoping to gain knowledge that would impress Jonathan when he got back. Although Earl had been as aware as everyone else of Ella’s involvement with Jonathan, he had remained stubbornly determined to see her whenever possible and, one evening after a big oyster roast they attended up at Boone Hall Plantation given to raise money for the March of Dimes, had finally made his first move to be intimate with her when they parked outside her house.
“Do you realize, Peaches, how serious I am about you?” he openly declared, putting his arm around her shoulder and pulling her closer.
“Honey, you know I’m crazy about you too,” she teased, inhaling his familiar scent, which had a woodsy quality and blended with the alcohol on his breath, “but I’m really not ready to be serious about anybody yet.”
“Well, I just want you to know once and for all how I feel,” he tried to stress, nudging her even closer when she didn’t resist. “And there’s something else I want you to know, and that’s…” He cracked a mischievous smile and sort of chuckled “…well, sweetheart, one day I’m determined to marry you. Do you hear? If you’ll have me, one day I wanna marry you. And that ain’t the booze talking.”
For a moment, Ella sat staring through the front window of the car, then, looking up tenderly at him, said, “Earl, that’s one of the sweetest things anybody’s ever said to me.”
“Well, I’ve said it, so now you know.”
And with no further hesitation, he clasped her head in his husky hand, and when he gently kissed her on the lips, Ella responded by putting her hand
around the back of his neck and squeezing.
“That was nice,” she whimpered, releasing him and reaching for the door handle. “But I mean it when I say…Can you understand why I’m just not ready to be serious about anyone?”
“Sure, honey, I guess I understand,” he said quietly, the bulge in his trousers almost aching. “But I’m pretty patient, Peaches. I can be patient for as long as it takes.”
Ella did genuinely respect and care for Earl. After all, he was a gentleman, he was fun, and never had there been a time when she didn’t feel comfortable around him. Even at her young age, she was fairly certain that probably no man would make a better husband and father, but she also knew that her emotions were still too confused for her to affirm any further commitment. Of course, the major problem was that she simply was not in love with Earl.
Trained as a medic in England, Jonathan was eventually shipped to the Continent not long after D-day, and while he was not subjected to active combat, he was always close enough to the front lines to witness the horrors of war and watch the wounded die by the hundreds. He described much of the experience to Ella in the many letters he wrote from the battle zone, and she, in turn, never allowed a week to pass without sending him news from home that meant so much to him and assuring him how he was missed. Actually, it was through their steady correspondence that Ella began to realize to what extent she’d fallen truly in love with Jonathan. Now, she never for once doubted that he would return unharmed, and though she rarely mentioned Jonathan to Earl or her parents, and refused to even contemplate possible social and religious problems the two might be forced to confront in the future, her only dream was to be soon reunited with him and to pick up where they’d left off.
Little did she know that the worst problems concerning Jonathan would be neither social nor religious but directly related to dramatic events overseas that even Jonathan had little reason to anticipate. As it happened, after drinking heavily one night with buddies in a London pub shortly before leaving for France, Jonathan ended up going back to a jovial and handsome friend’s flat close by to sleep it off. But there was more drinking when Sonny played swing on the Victrola, and lots of talk about being horny, and some horseplay, and, at one point, innocent frolic got out of control on the sofa and the two men found themselves unwittingly rubbing and stroking one another passionately.
“I don’t know about this,” Jonathan slurred fearfully when Sonny began grazing his neck with his lips, fighting the instinct to respond but aware of the wonderful sensation that ripped through his body.
“Just relax,” the other man muttered, reaching down almost frantically to unbuckle Jonathan’s belt. “God, I’m so horny and know you must be, too.”
For a short time longer, Jonathan tried to disregard the impulses being awakened in him, but the more Sonny pecked his neck up and down and grasped at his rigid erection, the greater was the urge to reciprocate the lust and release desires that had either remained concealed or gone unacknowledged till this pivotal moment. Consequently, when Sonny blew spit into his hand, began steadily pumping Jonathan’s cock, and guided Jonathan’s hand to his own thick, swollen rod, all Jonathan could think about while caressing the man’s strong body with his other hand was the helpless sudden longing to go a step further. Then, without warning, they both exploded almost at the same time. The following morning there was no mention of the erotic experience.
Recollections of this carnal incident did disturb Jonathan from time to time afterward, and maybe he would have been able to simply blame it all on booze and the trauma of war had it not been for a much more intense and revealing episode that occurred one night in Normandy when he and an older medic from Brooklyn who’d recently befriended him were billeted in a small, partially burned-out farmhouse. It had been another sickening day of dealing with the dead and wounded, the heat was almost stifling, and, after eating a few rations washed down with some apple brandy that an old Frenchman had given Roger, the two stripped to their underwear and stretched out on part of a singed rug in what used to be a dining room. Reeling slightly from the potent alcohol, Jonathan couldn’t help but notice Roger’s slight but solid build in the glow of a lantern they’d found, unaware that he was actually staring.
“How serious are you about this girl back in Charleston who keeps writing?” the older buddy asked at one point, lying on his back and blowing smoke rings in the air.
“She’s a close friend,” was all Jonathan could muster. “We’re very close friends.” He waited for Roger to continue, but when he said nothing, he asked in turn, “I guess you have a gal back in Brooklyn.”
“No, not anymore,” he answered, snuffing out his cigarette in a plate and taking another swig of brandy. “I figured a good-looking guy like you must have girls coming from all directions. Here, want another slug?”
Jonathan felt his heart beginning to pump faster and faster as he took the bottle. He was also aware of what was happening in his boxer shorts, so much so that he was forced to turn on his side and face Roger as he drank from the bottle.
“Got problems down there?” the other man then asked.
“What problems?” Jonathan stammered, but before he could think of an excuse, or shift around, or even get up, Roger reached up and grabbed him and pulled him down on top of him.
“Buddy, I’ve noticed the way you’ve been looking at me, and I think you need the same thing I need, and it’s time we stopped playing games.”
Every instinct told Jonathan to resist the lurid temptation, but when Roger held him close, and began licking his neck, and he felt the other man’s hardness pressing steadfastly into his own, he could only yield to overwhelming desire as their lips met and tongues began lashing wildly. Now unrestrained, they kissed and groped and kneaded one another into utter frenzy.
“Are you all right?” O’Conner whispered to Ella as she continued to gaze at the old moss-covered oak that evoked just another memory of Jonathan.
“Of course I am,” she said, snapping back to reality. “I guess I was just daydreaming. I do that sometimes.”
More agile than a man half his age, he then rushed around and opened her door, after which they meandered through a number of the shop’s rooms till his eye caught a beautiful old map of Georgetown with surrounding illustrations of rice plantations. Holding the map up for Ella to see, he commented that it might look good on the wall of the Marianis’ den back in Englewood—a perfect momento of their trip. Ella agreed it was a lovely map; then she noticed the price on the back.
“Are they crazy?” she proclaimed indignantly. “Two hundred twenty-five dollars for a map! That’s highway robbery!”
O’Conner simply laughed, told her to calm down, and said that would be a very reasonable price up North for a large antique map such as this.
“Well, this is not the North, and I think it’s outrageous, and I intend to tell these people so.”
Once again, he took her arm and said gently, “Now, now, Miss Ella. No need to make a scene over nothing. We both agree it’s a beautiful map, and when it comes to my family and all that they do for me…I can afford it.”
“It’s not a question of affording it or not. I just don’t like to be made a fool of,” she huffed as he rolled up the map, nudged her toward the desk, and took out his credit card.
“Young lady,” Ella said to the pretty clerk despite O’Conner’s plea, “I just want to say that your prices have become disgraceful. This gentleman is visiting from up North, and I’m downright embarrassed over what he’s being charged for this map.”
The girl appeared taken aback for a moment as she secured the rolled-up map with a rubber band. “Oh, I’m sorry, ma’am, but I have nothing to do with the prices. I just work here. Would you like to speak with the manager?”
“No, no,” O’Conner interrupted before Ella could get further worked up. “It’s all right, miss. Don’t worry about it.”
He was coaxing Ella out of the shop when, abruptly, she turned back around and ask
ed the clerk if she lived in the immediate area.
“Yes, ma’am. At Debidue.”
“Well, then, dear, perhaps you could remind me of the exact turnoff for All Saints Church. I know it’s close by, and I’d like to show it to my friend.”
The girl gave the specific directions, Ella thanked her politely, and in no time she was steering the car slowly down a narrow dirt road shrouded by massive cypress and oak trees dripping with moss that O’Conner believed might well be leading into some spooky swamp.
“I take it you’re Catholic,” Ella commented casually as the car bumped over holes and crevices in the road and he gawked nervously straight ahead.
“With the name O’Conner?” he said. “Are you sure you know where we’re going?”
“Positive,” she reassured calmly. “I’ve been down here many times with my husband and children, and nothing’s changed in Waccamaw Neck for three hundred years—unlike up in Myrtle. In case I didn’t tell you, I’m Episcopalian, as is this lovely church you’re going to see. Goes back to the French Huguenots who settled much of the Lowcountry and built rice plantations all along the Waccamaw and other rivers around here. That’s one of the first things we learned as kids in Charleston.”
Eventually, there appeared in the distance a handsome iron gate that was open, beyond which stood an imposing white stucco structure with classic Doric columns, a brick chimney, and ordinary frame windows like those found on any elegant Southern mansion. Since there was not even a lock on the front door, the two merely wandered in and gazed around the simple old interior decorated with little more than a small altar, straight pews made of cypress, a few old tablets on the walls, and a beautiful marble font to one side. Outside, the silence was broken only by the persistent trill of insects in the thick surrounding forest, and when Ella suggested they sit momentarily on a weathered bench near a small, iron fence–enclosed cemetery in the ancient churchyard, O’Conner almost felt he was in the midst of some desolate jungle.