by James Villas
“But, Mama, the way you’ve been acting lately is just not normal,” he panted, “and, frankly, we’re almost at our wits’ end—as I’m sure Daddy would be if he was here.”
“Earl, leave your father out of this. Now, I have no intentions of seeing Dr. Singer till I need to see Dr. Singer, so you can just pick that phone back up and cancel that appointment. I’m trying to enjoy a little rest and relaxation, and I’m tired of talking about this mess. If I’ve upset you and the others, I’m sorry, but I’m late for lunch downstairs and so am hanging up. For heaven’s sake, Son, just stop worrying and don’t bother me anymore. I’m fine, just fine.”
Putting down the receiver, Ella felt her heart racing in anger, and she was just on the verge of telling Goldie that she had lost her appetite for lunch when, glancing down on the beach at a young couple frolicking like kids at the edge of the surf, the memory of her and Jonathan in front of the Ocean Forest Hotel was awakened as clear as crystal.
Like most soldiers returning from war in the summer of 1945, Jonathan had received a rousing welcome from the crowd that lined the platform at the railroad station, and the most excited among them was Ella, wearing a smart floral dress and her long blond hair tied in a ponytail with a light blue cord. To her, Jonathan looked thinner and more mature in his handsome uniform, but his mellow voice sounded just like before when he embraced his parents, and shook hands with a few men, and finally hugged Ella discreetly. She longed to kiss him, and touch his dark curly hair, and be alone with him somewhere, and when, before heading for his parents’ big Chrysler, he whispered that he’d call her as soon as things calmed down, her head was spinning so fast that all she could do was light a cigarette and stare at a young Negro woman holding a screaming young child in front of a bathroom on the platform with a sign on the door that clearly read WHITES ONLY. The woman herself was almost on the verge of tears as the youngster jerked and howled.
“Is there something wrong with that child?” Ella finally asked with concern.
“She need to potty real bad, ma’am—real bad. I don’t reckon…”
Ella tossed her cigarette on the tracks. “Give her to me,” she said resolutely, “and you wait right here.” With which she reached gently for the girl and disappeared into the bathroom.
Ella did detect some changes in Jonathan during the first weeks after his return, particularly his periodic somber moods and the impression that he was drinking more heavily than she remembered. She attributed this, however, only to his rugged war experience and efforts to readjust to normal life back home. Still living with her parents the way most young ladies who were not yet married did, she’d been reasonably content making extra money by working part-time cataloging artifacts at the old Charleston Museum. Having convinced his family that he now needed his privacy, Jonathan himself had immediately rented a small row-house apartment up on King Street, talked his dad into buying him a used DeSoto, and, in return, agreed to begin working in management at the textile mill. He hated the job from the start, and told Ella that what he really wanted to do was go to college on the GI Bill, perhaps major in Southern history or literature, and get a good education before settling down. He never mentioned that his parents naturally expected him to marry a nice Jewish girl, and, as before, that was a reality that Ella still chose not to think about.
Nor had Jonathan given her the slightest reason to suspect that he might be missing another woman he’d met in Europe, much less struggling with much more alarming emotional matters. In truth, Jonathan had somehow managed to convince himself that what had happened on those two wanton nights overseas was little more than the need for solace amidst all the horrors of war and the consequences of too much alcohol, and the confidence that he loved Ella and was still attracted to her physically served only to foster any denial about himself and confirm his normalcy. It was true that he didn’t seem to be quite as solicitous of her and social with others as he’d been before he left, but he still reached for her hand when they walked, and held her tightly when they danced, and enjoyed occasionally entertaining friends with his mellow piano playing and singing. And it was Jonathan, in fact, who came up with the suggestion that the two of them drive up the coast one Saturday morning, take a camera, and spend the day exploring Myrtle Beach, which was still an unspoiled community with charming family cottages, gracious hotels and rooming houses, and a relatively genteel ambiance that would one day succumb to resort vulgarity.
On the way, they had stopped not only to browse at The Hammock Shop on Pawleys Island but also to take pictures of the mysterious coves at Murrells Inlet shaded by giant live oaks dripping with Spanish moss, and when they reached Myrtle, hungry, they pulled into Mammy’s Kitchen right in the center of town and ordered two fat hamburgers with french fries and Cokes. After lunch they roamed about the downtown Pavilion with others their age, then watched a couple of old salts catch spots on the long fishing pier. But what impressed Ella most was the spectacular sight of the Ocean Forest Hotel looming high and majestically above the dunes at the northernmost point of the beach. Out front were colorful cabanas filled with well-to-do hotel guests relishing the last days of summer, the same guests, Ella imagined, who would later dress for dinner and dance under the stars to the accompaniment of a famous band on the large dance floor she noticed in front of the wide front porch dotted with rocking chairs.
Anxious to dip at least their feet into the surf, they kicked off their shoes and socks, Jonathan rolled up the legs of his trousers, and, shyly, Ella held up the bottom of her gingham skirt with one hand while holding onto Jonathan with the other.
“You’ll have us arrested for indecent exposure,” he had joshed as the gentle waves broke over her feet and she noticed him staring at her smooth and alluring legs.
“Then maybe we’ll get to see the Myrtle Beach jail, and you know what could happen in a jail,” she said suggestively.
He laughed, then, taking her hand, began to gaze over the water at the horizon with a sudden solemn expression on his face. “You know what Newton said about the sea, don’t you?”
“Who?”
“Sir Isaac Newton. He said, ‘I feel like a little boy on the beach finding each shell prettier than the one before, while the whole ocean of truth lies undiscovered before me.’ Something like that.”
For a moment, Ella simply looked straight ahead, and when she turned to study his soft face and the ringlets of shining black hair that now scattered over his forehead, it seemed to her that his eyes were filling with tears.
“That’s one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever heard,” she said soulfully over the murmur of the breaking waves, squeezing his hand tightly.
“Miss Baker,” he muttered. “Miss Baker taught us that in physics class, and I thought about it so often when I was over there.”
Ella again remained silent for a while. Then, feeling his arm around her waist, she finally dared to ask, “Do you want to talk about what it was like, Jonathan?”
He hesitated, looking down and kicking the water. “Not really.”
“You know you can talk to me about it anytime you want,” she persisted, not so much curious about the details of his war experience as anxious to simply help him overcome any lingering trauma.
“Not a very pretty story,” he said. “Most of it I just want to forget.”
Deciding not to pressure him further, Ella reached for the Kodak in her big pocketbook, backed away, told him to say “Cheese,” and snapped a picture. He then took one of her, and, stopping a man strolling on the beach, it didn’t faze her to ask if he’d mind snapping one of them together in front of the hotel. Finally noticing the time, she reminded Jonathan that they’d promised to meet friends that night at the jazz club, so they returned to the car and drove straight back to Charleston without stopping.
And it was after that wonderful excursion, followed by another alcoholic, fun-filled session at the jazz club on a steamy August night, that Ella and Jonathan, letting down all defenses during a
righteous era when even intimate fondling outside marriage was still considered wicked and dangerous, finally made love in the safe confines of his apartment. It all started innocently enough while they were on the second-hand sofa listening to Benny Goodman records, drinking Gin Rickeys, and discussing jazz while a rotating electric fan on a side table stirred the humid air.
“Lord, I love Hazel Scott’s voice,” Ella said, puffing on a cigarette.
“That’s not Hazel Scott,” Jonathan corrected. “That’s Helen Forest.”
“You’re nuts!” she said playfully, reaching behind the sofa to place the needle back at the beginning of the record. “I know Scott’s voice when I hear it.”
Jonathan put his arm around her shoulder and squeezed. “Hazel Scott doesn’t sing with the Goodman band, sweetheart. She sings with Duke Ellington and Dorsey. Forest sings with Goodman and Artie Shaw.”
“But I recognize Hazel Scott’s sexy voice, and I still say that’s Hazel Scott.”
Sipping his drink and aware once again how Ella’s plump breasts more than filled out her pastel blue blouse, he pulled her closer, prompting her to drop her head onto his chest and utter “You know-it-all” while snuffing out her smoke in a large seashell on the coffee table.
“And her voice isn’t as sexy as yours, honey, I can tell you that,” he said a little unsteadily as the alcohol loosened his tongue even more.
With one large gulp, Ella finished her gin, placed her glass on the table, and, almost compulsively and without saying a word, reached up and pulled his head down so they could kiss like they’d never kissed before. Then, sensing that every nerve in her quivering body was on fire and forgetting every social principle she’d always followed scrupulously, she took his free hand and, as they continued to kiss passionately, pressed it against one of her firm breasts and sighed deeply when he began to clasp and caress her.
“Are you sure we should be doing this?” he asked cautiously, his voice still groggy but his heart pounding relentlessly and the tension in his groin almost aching for release.
“We’re now adults, my love, and you should know how special you are to me,” she whispered as the end of the spinning record repeated its scratchy monotonous sound over and over. “I want the first time for me to be with you, Jonathan.”
Ella would have preferred to move into the small bedroom to continue the erotic ritual, but so eager was Jonathan to remove her clothing, and so unbridled were her own efforts to maneuver and stimulate him to the fullest, that they simply yielded to their passion right there on the tattered sofa while the dull repetition of the grating record droned on and on and the fan whirled a refreshing breeze over their perspiring bodies every few seconds. Then, after the frantic preliminaries were accomplished and they had probed the fleshy interiors of each other’s mouths, there was a hiatus when Jonathan softly grazed her rigid nipples with his lips, and very calmly caressed the moist tissues of her groin with his delicate fingers, and, looking into her misty eyes at one point, uttered, “You’re so beautiful.” Even when she felt him enter her, producing a slight pain at first but then a rapture that made her entire body begin to erupt in spasms, she was aware how naturally gentle he was, how tenderly careful not to exaggerate his thrusts, how determined to prolong the adventure to her utmost gratification.
And when it was over and the two, drenched in sweet sweat and smoking cigarettes, lay crunched in each other’s arms, Ella felt not a trace of fear or recrimination, only a fresh sense of joy that was more glorious and powerful than anything she’d ever imagined. As for Jonathan himself, the experience served mainly to exorcise whatever demons remained to threaten his normalcy.
Chapter 10
WISTERIA
The pungent odor of fried seafood literally filled the air as Goldie followed the Marianis’ car into the sandy parking lot of Pirates Cove and pulled up next to another big Cadillac. Like most of the dozen or so other inexpensive, ultra-casual, family-style restaurants packed into the tiny hamlet of Calabash on the Intercoastal Waterway, this one catered as much to regular locals as to tourists from all over eager to visit the so-called Seafood Capital of the World. And, like most of the others, this pine-planked location decked out with fishing nets, an old rusted anchor, a huge salt-water aquarium at the entrance, and other maritime trappings adhered strictly to the same basic menu formula that had drawn customers back for generations: fried seafood with coleslaw, french fries, and hush puppies; fried chicken; some cut of steak; and pitchers of iced tea.
“My late husband used to say you could close your eyes while eating in any restaurant at Calabash and not know where you were,” Ella whispered jokingly to Sal as a young hostess in jeans and a T-shirt showed them to a large, round wooden table under a pair of oars fixed to the wall. “He also said any dedicated alcoholic could die in one of these places,” she added mischievously, referring to the policy of no booze.
“Can we sit next to Goldie?” Tommy pleaded with his father, not waiting for an answer before he and his brother plopped down on either side of her. Edmund, wearing a tan linen jacket, pulled out a chair for Ella, then sat down beside her, leaned over close, and quietly complimented her on her hair and perfume. When the waitress came to distribute menus and pour ice water, Ella debated with herself whether to take out her flask and offer a nip to O’Conner and the Marianis, but, considering the children and fearing what the others might think, she decided to play it safe. Even when she noticed a spoiled, antsy child cutting the buck at the next table, the most she did to calm her nerves was discreetly light up a cigarette and pray nobody stared daggers at her.
“Last year, we ordered the fried seafood platter,” Elizabeth said, glancing at Ella and her father, “and that’s exactly what I’d like tonight. You know, we just never have good fried seafood up in Jersey.”
“Well, honey, you’ve come to the right place,” Ella assured. “Frying seafood is an art down in this neck of the woods, and you won’t find this even up in Charlotte. Calabash style: they say it all has to do with the fresh seafood, and light battering, and clean oil, and quick, shallow frying. Just hope it’s as good as it used to be.”
After lots of discussion of the menu, all the adults ultimately ordered the same platter with fish, shrimp, scallops, clams, oysters, french fries, and coleslaw, while the two boys, who hated seafood, said they wanted fried chicken and mashed potatoes. Soon, the waitress returned with two pitchers of iced tea and a big basket of oval hush puppies, but before she could leave, Ella grabbed her arm frantically.
“Honey, are those hush puppies fresh and piping hot?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Well, you wait here just one minute. These folks are from up North, so they don’t know much about hush puppies, and, even before I taste one, I want to tell you that if they’ve been sitting around out there and aren’t really hot, I’m going to have to ask you to bring us some really fresh ones.”
A little startled, the young lady looked Ella straight in the eyes. “Oh, they’re right out of the pot, ma’am. They was just draining when I put ’em in the basket.”
“Fine,” Ella said, picking one up and taking a bite while the waitress and all at the table watched. She chewed, waited, then took another bite, her expression beaming more and more. “Good. Very good. Light and crisp and hot and…Do I detect a little onion?”
“Oh, yes, ma’am,” we always make our hush puppies with onion.”
“Well, thank you, dear. I didn’t want my friends to be disappointed, and I hope you’ll tell the cook that these are delicious.”
Sal and Elizabeth sat intrigued with Ella throughout the entire evaluation of the hush puppies, then pretended to ignore Edmund when he grasped her hand romantically and proclaimed, “Miss Ella, you certainly put that young gal through the ringer.”
“Well, as my husband used to say,” she explained, passing the basket to Sal, “if the hush puppies in a place like this are not good, you can almost bet the other food will be no better. Of course,
it’s tricky working with any cornmeal, isn’t it, Goldie?”
“Oh, yes, ma’am, especially cornpone and spoon bread.”
“And, believe me, Goldie knows, don’t you, Goldie?”
She then focused on Tommy and Rex, both of whom were now imitating Goldie by smearing dabs of butter on their small dodgers. “Did they tell you boys in school how the Indians taught the first pilgrims all about corn?” Before they could answer, she glanced back at Goldie. “Goldie, why don’t you tell these folks about the Green Corn Moon and the Green Corn Goddess ritual up on the reservation?”
Goldie appeared shy. “Oh, Miss Ella, they’re not interested in things like that.”
“Sure we are, Goldie,” Sal said in earnest, pointing a finger at his sons. “And you boys listen carefully so you can tell your friends.”
“Well,” Goldie began in her low, articulate voice, pushing up the silver bracelets on one arm, “my people believe that the Mother of Earth blessed the Indians with great hills of corn many, many ages ago before there were animals in the forest to hunt and fish in the rivers to catch, and then the Sacred Fire Kituhwa was sent to show us how to cook the corn to protect us from starvation. And so we honor every August as the month of the Green Corn Moon when the corn ripens, and at that time we hold a festival where young girls of the tribe pay tribute to the Goddess of Green Corn by dancing and letting down their long hair just as the ripe ears of corn let down their silks.” She paused, as if wondering whether to continue. “Corn is still a very important symbol to the Cherokees. I remember how dried corn always hung in my mother’s kitchen to protect the home, and today some of the tribal elders still bless a house by sprinkling cornmeal across the doorway during the full moon.”
All eyes remained fixed on Goldie till Ella, a proud smile on her face, said, “I think the story about the girls letting down their hair is one of the most beautiful I’ve ever heard.”