Dancing in the Lowcountry

by James Villas

  At first, she thought she was alone, but as soon as she’d taken a chair and lit a cigarette, she noticed a relatively young couple seated farther down the porch with drinks in their hands and their feet perched against the banister. They seemed to be arguing about something and were so absorbed in their squabble that they were unaware of, or impervious to, the presence of anybody else.

  “Dammit, I’ve tried to explain it all, and you just refuse to listen,” the man was declaring loudly enough to be overheard, his chair rocking steadily.

  “Oh, I understand. I understand all too well—more than you think,” the woman said in an equally angry drawl, staring straight ahead at the water.

  “God, you’re impossible,” he ranted.

  “Because I tell it like it really is?”

  “You’re crazy, Zelda. I mean, you get these sick ideas in your head, then accuse me of—”

  “Would you please keep your voice down?” she asked more quietly when she suddenly noticed someone seated a few chairs away. “We’re not at some tobacco auction, you know.”

  Ella tried to ignore the altercation and let her mind reflect on the mellow piano music in the background, and her lovely evening with Edmund, and her plans for Tyler after he arrived, but when the words again became more heated and foul and almost threatening, she was about to move back into the lounge when, very abruptly, the woman bolted from her chair and, obviously in a rage and crying, fled back inside. For a few moments, the man remained seated, rocking anxiously back and forth and drinking, then, with not so much as a glance at Ella, he too jumped up and hurried into the inn.

  Anyone else would simply have been relieved to be left in peace and allowed to relish the balmy night and pleasant thoughts, but what the awkward incident aroused in Ella was the most painful of all her haunted memories, an episode from the early days in Charleston that had been even more traumatic than the near certainty about Tyler’s real father and that she’d spent much of a lifetime struggling to forget. It, too, had involved Jonathan Green, but unlike her one indiscretion that, she was convinced, had resulted in the birth of a child whom she came to love more than any soul on earth, this unspeakable event had had such emotional reverberations that any woman less strong and resilient would have allowed it to totally destroy her.

  The truth was that, unbeknownst to Earl, her parents, and the group of friends who’d been at the Yarboroughs’ home the evening everyone learned about Jonathan’s suicide, Ella had actually been the last person to see him alive. As it happened, the day before the stylish dinner party, and just a couple of weeks after her honeymoon, Ella’s phone rang around noon, while she was sanding some antique wooden orbs to be used on the ends of curtain rods. At first, there was silence on the line, but after she’d repeated “Hello” a couple of times, Jonathan finally identified himself in a slurred voice, said he needed to talk with her, and asked if she were alone.

  “I want to try to explain,” he mumbled, leading Ella to believe he’d been drinking.

  “I think it’s a little late for explanations,” she responded frostily, her stomach already churning.

  “Please, Ella, all I ask is to talk to you for a while and for you to give me a chance to—”

  “Jonathan, we have nothing to talk about—nothing at all. And why aren’t you at work?”

  He hesitated. “I told Dad I hadn’t been feeling too good, and he said to take the day off and rest. But I need to talk to you, Ella, and…we’ve been through too much together, and…I know I should have called before now…. Ella, I don’t have anybody else I can talk to—nobody else. You’ve got to talk to me, Ella.”

  “Have you been drinking, Jonathan?”

  “If I could just come over for a while so we could talk…. I’ve got to try to make you understand. I need help, Ella, and…” He seemed to choke up, as if he might burst out crying. “You’re the only person I can turn to, Ella. Please let me come over.”

  Hearing Jonathan’s voice again stirred confused feelings of fervor and anger in Ella, but when, after he pleaded over and over and she decided he was truly desperate, she realized she had little alternative but to act against her better instincts. And besides, she couldn’t help but be curious.

  “You can’t come here, Jonathan,” she finally said. “I’ll come up to your place. I can’t stay long.”

  Since Earl always needed the car for his work, Ella had taken to riding a bicycle around town when not working part-time at the museum. Jonathan’s apartment on King Street was no more than seven or eight blocks from her house, and she managed, even after taking time to change her blouse and brush her hair, to ride there in about twenty minutes. The front room of the apartment was in disarray, and the first thing she noticed was a half-empty whiskey bottle on top of the cluttered desk. What really shocked her, though, was Jonathan’s haggard appearance, especially his glassy eyes and dull curly hair, which looked as if it hadn’t been washed in days. Also, a slightly foul odor filled the room, suggesting that there might be garbage back in the small kitchen that he hadn’t bothered to take out. She wondered if he might try to hug her or kiss her on the forehead the way he used to do, but he made no move to show any affection.

  “Can I fix you a drink?” he asked groggily, reaching for the bottle and pouring a few shots in a glass for himself.

  “Not this time of day. Aren’t you starting a little early?”

  He had no reply and only pointed to the deep, cracked-leather, burgundy chair where he and Ella had frolicked more than once shortly after he returned from the war. “Have a seat,” he muttered, almost stumbling into the desk chair. “You’re wonderful to come. This can’t be easy for you.”

  “It’s not.”

  “I know how badly I hurt you.”

  “I just don’t understand, Jonathan.”

  He looked down at his drink. “Did you ever tell anybody—about what you saw in the garden, I mean?”

  “No. How could I?”

  “Not even Earl?”

  “Not even Earl.”

  He finally looked directly at her. “You have no idea how sorry I’ve been about that and…how humiliating and frightening it’s been for me.”

  “It should be,” she said coldly, tapping her fingers on the arm of the chair. “And don’t talk to me about humiliation. You told me you could explain it.”

  “I can’t really explain it, Ella. It just happened.”

  “Disgusting things like that don’t just happen, Jonathan. There has to be reasons.” She paused a long while. “Just tell me one thing. Had that sort of thing ever happened before? Tell me that.”

  He dropped his head again and waited. “Yes. Overseas. The first time in London. You see, a bunch of us were drinking one night at this pub, and—”

  “I don’t care to hear the gory details, Jonathan,” she interrupted abruptly. “All I want to know now is if anything…just tell me if anything like that ever happened here in Charleston before that night in the garden.”

  “No, no, Ella, I swear. Never.” He struggled to convince her. “I give you my word. And that night at the party…I don’t remember much, except all the drinking, and the noise, and meeting that guy, and looking up and seeing you out there. How I could have done that? How I could have been so stupid and…weak? I’m so confused about it all, Ella.”

  “But what about me, Jonathan?” she protested strongly, trying to hold back tears. “Did I really mean so little to you? I mean, how did I fit into this sick nightmare? How could you have taken advantage of me the way you did, then do something so disgraceful? It’s just not normal, Jonathan. It’s so sick and disgusting, and I just don’t understand it.”

  He poured himself another drink, his hand shaking, and ran a hand frantically through his bedraggled hair. “Don’t you think I’ve asked myself that question a hundred times, Ella? Don’t you think I’ve been terrified of…But it had nothing to do with the way I felt about you—you’ve got to believe that. You’ve always been so special to me, Ella
.”

  She suddenly got up and began pacing the room, banging her hand fitfully against her hip.

  “Special! Special!” she screamed. “You’ve got some gall saying that, Jonathan. We did things together I’d never, ever done before, and a week later, just one week later, right there with all our friends at someone’s home, I catch you in that disgusting act. And you have the gall to tell me I was special.” Her cheeks were now almost blood red. “Do you know…can you imagine how shocked and deceived and humiliated I felt that night in the garden? I just want to ask you that. I cared about you, Jonathan, I really cared about you and thought we had something good going for us.”

  “But you married Earl,” he said, raising the glass again to his lips.

  Impulsively, Ella reached over and, with one powerful swipe, sent the glass flying across the room. “You’re drunk, and don’t you so much as mention me and Earl. That’s none of your business, none of your concern at all.”

  He placed his knuckles against his mouth, bit hard on them, then began to sob helplessly. “You don’t understand, Ella. It’s something I don’t seem to be able to control. I’ve tried, but it’s something I can’t control.”

  “What I understand, Jonathan, and what apparently has never entered your selfish brain, is that you’re a sick man who could have done me more damage than you could ever imagine.”

  “I know I’ve hurt you, Ella, and I’m trying, God knows I’m trying with all my might, to say how sorry I am.”

  Defiantly, she stood with both hands on her hips and stared down at him. “You still don’t understand, Jonathan. You still don’t understand that it’s more than that—a lot more. What you don’t understand…what apparently hasn’t dawned on you, Jonathan, and what probably wouldn’t make a particle of difference to you, is that I could be carrying your child. Has that ever so much as dawned on you? Are you really that selfish and stupid?”

  He sat silent, still gnawing on his knuckles as she glared at him. “Oh, God, Ella,” he finally uttered.

  “You need help, Jonathan,” she persisted, “and I’m not the one who can help you.”

  “I’m so sorry, Ella,” he cried even more painfully, evidently shocked by the realization of the harm he might have caused.

  “Stop saying you’re sorry. It’s too late for that now. You’re really disturbed, Jonathan, and you’d better do something about it before it’s too late. See a doctor, or talk with your daddy or the rabbi or another close friend, but you’d better do something to straighten yourself out before they lock you up and throw away the key.”

  His head weaving slightly, he grabbed his forehead with one hand, began to open the desk drawer with the other, then, as if suddenly aware of what he was doing, closed it quickly.

  “I don’t have anybody else to talk to, Ella. Nobody,” he repeated. “I thought you might understand and help…. I don’t blame you for being so mad…. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

  “Listen, Jonathan, I’m leaving,” she announced firmly, opening the front door as he remained in the same stance at the desk, his head in his hand and his eyes cast downward. “And I’d appreciate you not calling me again.”

  “Please don’t go, Ella,” were the last garbled words she heard as she closed the door.

  Outside, she realized she was trembling as she stood holding the handlebars of her silver bicycle propped against a side of the building, and, for an instant, she wondered if she’d been too harsh with Jonathan, if maybe she should calm down, and go back in, and hold this boy who’d governed her emotions for so long, and try to show a little more compassion and understanding.

  Tears were now streaming down her cheeks, but, regaining her composure and resolve, she finally pushed the bike out to the sidewalk and was about to climb onto the seat when she heard, like a distant clap of thunder, a muffled blast from inside the apartment that made her stop in her tracks and snap her head around. At first, she imagined it could be some object that had crashed to the floor, or even an electrical fixture or appliance that had exploded, but Ella was not a fool and had heard enough gunshots at reckless beach parties and on duck hunts and in her own backyard during tin-can target practices to recognize the unmistakable crack of a pistol.

  Her heart thumping, she dropped the bicycle in the middle of the sidewalk, raced back to the door, and, when she frantically opened it, her worst fears were confirmed by the sight of Jonathan’s motionless body sprawled faceup on the ragged carpet near the desk, a gun still in his right hand and the chair toppled over one leg.

  “Jonathan!” she screamed. “Oh my Lord! Jonathan!”

  His eyes were wide open, and there was already blood flowing from his mouth and all around his head. Hysterically, she shouted his name over and over, but when it became obvious that he was dead, she stood dazed for a few more moments, called out his name more gently, then, after slamming the door behind her and mindlessly scanning the empty street, jumped onto the bike and began peddling as if racing the devil himself.

  Headed toward her house on Queen Street, she suddenly turned on Calhoun toward the Cooper River, then, frenetically and aimlessly, peddled as hard as she could down Meeting Street past Beth Elohim, then by the Confederate Museum on Market, and down Anson past the Old Powder Magazine, and through Rainbow Row, and along East Bay past the lavish Edmondston-Alston Mansion till, unable to go any farther, she pulled into Battery Park, where she and Jonathan had walked so often and where she and Earl had been married in the Gazebo just a few weeks before. Panting for breath, she collapsed on a bench beneath a giant palmetto and simply sat, in shock, staring helplessly over the harbor. She wanted to cry, but now the tears wouldn’t come. She tried to remember what all she’d said to Jonathan back at the apartment, but her mind was blank. She wondered if what had happened could be only a terrible nightmare, but when the image of Jonathan’s face kept reappearing vividly and mercilessly in her mind, the reality of the tragedy was only confirmed over and over.

  After sitting at least an hour and calming her nerves enough to think halfway lucidly, Ella finally considered calling Earl at work, or her parents, or a close girlfriend, or the police. But then she knew, she knew for certain, that she couldn’t call anybody, not that afternoon, not that night, not ever. The lives, and reputations, and futures of too many people were at stake, and to implicate herself further in a predicament that had already caused enough emotional and possibly other unforeseen damage that could affect not only herself but those dearest to her could only make matters worse. Jonathan was gone, a victim of postwar trauma in everyone’s eyes, and while she tried to rationalize that she was not directly responsible for his death and that his role in her life had ended well before this horrible catastrophe, she already recognized that her knowledge of why he had really killed himself, along with her unwillingness to help him more in his struggle to defeat his demons, were grounds for a sense of guilt that would torment her periodically for years to come. She refused to analyze it further, so, drumming up what little strength and courage she had left, she got back on her bike, peddled slowly straight up Market Street, and tried to concentrate on what she might fix for Earl’s dinner.

  Once he arrived home, it took all the stamina Ella could muster to act and talk normally while they had their usual cocktails and listened to the radio.

  “Three thousand letterheads,” Earl said excitedly, sitting in his deep leather armchair and lighting a cigarette. “Sutter Advertising’s put in a whopping order for three thousand letterheads. And that ain’t bird feed—not for a small company like ours.”

  Ella, her legs crossed and a foot bobbing up and down nervously, sipped her drink. “Oh, honey, that’s grand, just grand.”

  “A few more orders like that, and maybe we could even buy another press.”

  “You’ll do fine, honey,” she tried to reassure in a calm tone, lighting up another Lucky and praying this conversation wouldn’t continue.

  “Talked to Daddy, and he says two or three more ac
counts like this could put us on the road.”

  “And your daddy knows what he’s talking about,” she struggled to comment further, a sudden serious expression on her face betraying the turmoil raging inside.

  Earl got up to sweeten his drink just as Jimmy Dorsey’s band struck up a swing tune on the radio, but before reaching for the bottle of Old Crow, he leaned down and kissed her gently on the forehead. “Cat got your tongue, Peaches? I won’t talk any more business.”

  She laughed haltingly. “Just a little tired, and a small tummy upset.”

  “Busy day?”

  “Yeah, sort of. Working on those curtain rods, and I went over to Happy Home to look through fabrics.” She turned her face up and kissed him on the lips. “Hope cold fried chicken’s okay with you tonight.”

  “Anything you do is okay with me,” he whispered, kissing her again. “But I did see Wade today, and don’t forget we’re due at their place for dinner tomorrow night.”

  Ella was unable to eat more than a couple of bites of chicken and potato salad, her only excuse being that too much country ham at breakfast hadn’t sat well with her all day. As he often did in the early days, Earl made amorous overtures when they went to bed, but, for once, she pretended to be exhausted, yearning, instead, to break down, tell him about Jonathan, and have him simply hold her tightly while she cried her eyes out.

  The following day, Earl reminded her of the dinner party that evening at the Yarboroughs’. At first, she said she still wasn’t feeling up to snuff and wondered if they could back out gracefully, but when he informed her he’d told Wade that he and Trudy could count on them not just to be there but to bring a few bottles of liquor and wine, Ella agreed they had to show up. Too depressed to go to work, all she could dwell on that entire long, frightening day was whether anybody had yet found Jonathan.