by James Villas
Since this was still the off-season, the dining room, as usual, was only about half-full of mostly middle-aged or elderly guests, but when the Priscilla sponsored this type of evening once a month with after-dinner dancing on the outdoor terrace, the kitchen always tried to come up with a few special regional dishes that would be dramatic to serve and would appeal to all the guests. This evening the distinctive appetizer was tiny crab and lobster cakes with mustard sauce on a bed of red and white coleslaw, the main course an elaborate chicken perloo studded with country ham and various herbs, and dessert a rich Huguenot torte. Predictably, Tommy and Rex opted for fried chicken wings and chopped sirloin steaks, but everyone else followed Riley’s advice and ordered the specials. Originally, Ella had wanted to have champagne with dinner, but when Tyler, seated next to her, suggested they drink a more sensible California chardonnay with the food and save the bubbly for the terrace, she proudly deferred to his idea. Like the two boys on either side of her, Goldie drank Coke, though it was obvious by the way she glanced at the wine being poured that she would have given her eyeteeth for a glass.
“Can you tell us more about this new novel you’re working on?” Sal asked Tyler at one point.
“Well, I’m not sure myself exactly what it’s about, to tell the truth.” He dodged the question, hesitant, as he always was, to discuss his work with anyone.
“I so much enjoyed the one you set in New Orleans,” Edmund said, having already had the three paperbacks for him to sign delivered to the room with a note enclosed. “You really made me feel the spirit of the place and the people, and you had me on the edge wondering what was going to happen to that rascal who walked out on his entire family.”
“Thanks,” Tyler said meekly, now only picking at the rice in his perloo since his appetite was again dull. “I love New Orleans.”
“I’m embarrassed to admit I haven’t yet read any of your books,” Elizabeth confessed, her smooth face especially radiant with a mellow suntan and her lightweight cream suit and tiny sapphire stud earrings in perfect taste that impressed Ella. “But from what Dad’s told us, most of your stories take place in the South.”
“I guess so,” he confirmed. “All but one, in fact.”
“But you haven’t actually lived in the South for a long time, have you?” Sal asked with genuine interest. “Do you still consider yourself a Southern writer?”
Ella, who hadn’t missed a word, glanced across the table. “Why, of course he’s a Southern writer. His background and roots and traditions and…everything is Southern, so of course he’s a Southern writer—no matter where he lives. Aren’t I right, Son?”
“I never gave it that much thought, Mama,” he answered with some embarrassment, looking back at Sal as the other man nodded to the waiter that he’d had enough perloo. “But I have spent lots of time all over the South and Southern subjects do interest me most, I suppose. You see, I’m convinced there’s nobody…there’re no people on earth more complicated—more corrupt, dishonest, and complicated—than we Southerners, and that makes for very good subject matter.”
“Really?” Elizabeth said with a startled look on her face just as Riley approached to pour a little more wine into Ella’s glass.
“Why, that’s a terrible thing to say, Son,” Ella declared indignantly, having either utterly forgotten expressing the same sentiment to Edmund the night before or too ashamed to agree now. “There’s not a word of truth in that ugly statement.”
“Sure there is, Mama,” he said, pointing to his own glass for more wine, then directing his attention again at the Marianis. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m very proud of my Southern heritage, but beyond all our graciousness and refinement and respect for tradition is a certain psychological fraudulence that could be connected with what Southerners had to contend with following the Civil War—the way they came to distrust all outsiders and even each other.”
“Ridiculous, perfectly ridiculous,” Ella grumbled. “I think you’ve lost your mind.”
“But isn’t a degree of dishonesty a fairly common trait in most folks?” Edmund interjected while studying with curiosity the rich torte placed in front of him.
“Probably,” Tyler continued, the alcohol loosening his tongue more and more. “But with Southerners, prevarication and deception seem to be more than just a harmless trait. It’s almost a natural instinct that can cause tremendous damage, as I see it. Oh, I’m not saying it’s necessarily an evil instinct since, from all I’ve observed, Southerners lie as much to themselves as to others, which, at least for a novelist like myself, is what makes them so fascinating. And you don’t have to read just my stories. Read Faulkner, or Tennessee Williams, or Eudora Welty, or most of the other great Southern authors. Not that I’m in their class, mind you, but I do believe they were all aware of this instinct and, painful as it might have been, exploited it fully to get to lots of truths.” He stopped to drink more wine. “And, since you asked, I guess that’s basically what I’m trying to deal with in this new book I’m working on—prevarication.”
All the while Tyler was finally sharing some of his ideas and convictions, only Edmund understood the solemn expression that came over Ella’s face.
“I never realized you hated the South so much,” she said in a tone that could be interpreted as defensive, outraged, or gravely distressed.
“Oh, Mama, that’s not at all what I’m saying—and I’m certainly not accusing you personally, of all people. I’m proud to be a Southerner, and it’s ridiculous to say I hate the South. I’ll probably be buried here when my time comes.”
“Well, I must say you have a strange way of expressing it in front of these nice people,” she scoffed, cutting a dainty bite of dessert with her fork. “And, after all, you haven’t even seen fit to live here for almost thirty years.”
“Now, that’s another story, and you know the reasons why as well as I do, so don’t you prevaricate, honey.” He smiled and patted her lovingly on the arm.
“Why, I never prevaricate, and…just imagine what these fine friends of ours must think.”
Of course, Tommy and Rex had paid no attention at all to the serious conversation, but Goldie, despite having to answer dozens of witless questions the boys shot at her, couldn’t have been more conscious of what was being said across the table.
“I don’t think it’s exactly a sin to sometimes color what we say,” Sal asserted, his cheeks now flushed from the wine. “Like Dad said, that’s pretty normal for everybody.”
“Please, dear,” Elizabeth said, “not in front of the boys.”
“All I’m talking about, sweetheart, are little falsehoods, innocent falsehoods people come up with to avoid hurting others—or to protect them. You, of all people, should know about that.”
Not aware that her father had informed Ella of her adoption, Elizabeth glared daggers at her husband, as did Edmund, not because it had ever been a big issue but because she simply considered it to be a private matter hardly appropriate for discussion with strangers.
“I’m not interested in little white lies,” Tyler persisted, adjusting the dimpled knot in his necktie. “What I like to explore are characters who prevaricate almost pathologically, the ones who can cheat even on those they love and respect the most.” He leaned forward over his plate to prevent the boys from hearing his small diatribe. “I mean, everywhere you look—the papers and magazines, TV, movies, government, and the divorce courts…everywhere it’s the same deceit and hypocrisy and willingness to con others that’s been around for centuries—and, believe me, nobody excels in the practice like us gracious Southerners. Well, people get hurt and damaged, and the worst part, the really frightening part, is that nobody seems to care. Routine behavior, and nobody cares a whit.” He leaned back. “And that’s what I try to write about.”
For a moment, everyone remained silent, staring at him, till Edmund spoke up.
“And, if I might ask, would you include yourself in that dubious cast of characters?”
&nbs
p; “I’m a Southerner, aren’t I?” he jested, the wine loosening his tongue more and more. “And I’m involved not only in a serious personal relationship with someone but with any number of professional people. So of course I’m as guilty as everyone else, though I’d like to think I’m at least aware of my ability to commit fraud, and that I’m learning to care about it. That seems to be the point, Dr. O’Conner. We’re all guilty. Nobody’s innocent. And, as I see it, what matters is how we confront the truth and try to rise above it.”
“I’ll buy that,” Edmund declared, nudging Ella’s arm discreetly. “You’re quite an outspoken philosopher.”
“Believe me, I’m no philosopher, Dr. O’Conner, just a writer searching for good material to write about.”
During this weighty dialogue, Ella hadn’t uttered a word, and now, her eyes blinking rapidly as if dazed, she began very quietly to hum the words of a song to herself, evidently lost in another far-off memory.
“Mama?” Tyler asked softly, touching her hand.
When she kept humming the melody, Edmund shook her other arm gently, trying to break the reverie. “Ella, Miss Ella, what in heaven’s name are you singing?” he asked as Sal and Elizabeth watched nervously.
She stopped only when, in the distance, the small band outside struck up the first chords of an old dance tune, suddenly turning her introspective mood into one of gaiety.
“Listen,” she stammered, snapping back to reality. “‘Slow Boat to China.’” She then pushed away the rest of her torte and reached into her pocketbook for her compact. “Why don’t you folks finish up so we can go outside for some champagne and a few twirls?” She turned to Tyler and popped him cheerfully. “And maybe, young man, you’ll even show me if you still know how to shag.”
Chapter 22
LAST DANCE
In the faded black-and-white photograph, six young people, gathered closely around a table next to an imposing column in a glamorous ballroom, pose for the camera while other faces in the near background look on. Everyone is smiling. Visible on the tablecloth is a centerpiece of flowers, different styles of cocktail glasses and a few bottles, packs of cigarettes and ashtrays, and three small women’s purses, and, in the far distance, the blurred, cropped image of a bandstand reveals only four fingers cupped around the midsection of a saxophone. Earl, Jonathan, and Bobby Foster are all dressed in vested suits and neckties and look trim and handsome, despite Earl’s mussed hair after maybe five or ten minutes of lively dancing with Mary Beth Williams, who has a particularly wide grin on her pretty face. Ella, wearing a crepe de chine dress with ruffles around the neck and jewel earrings, holds a cigarette in one hand and Bobby’s arm with the other, but the way her eyes are cocked slightly to the left, where Jonathan is seated next to buxom Sally Van Every in her low-cut dress and ornate pendant, recalls that he has asked Ella to dance just before the photo was shot. The group’s mood seems overly cheerful, most likely because everyone is tight and anxious to return to the dance floor.
Reaching into her pocketbook for her cigarettes, Ella gazed down long and hard at the old picture illuminated by the flickering glow of a torch lamp on the terrace, remembering uncanny details of the shot and debating whether to pull it out and show it around the table as she’d intended before leaving the room for drinks and dinner. What had compelled her to remove this photo, plus the one of her and Jonathan in front of the hotel and a couple of others, from the album back home was a move she’d never stopped to analyze. Maybe her subconscious reason had been to allow Tyler to see his real father once she’d revealed the truth to him. Perhaps she’d simply wanted to take along on the trip a few sentimental mementos of those magic times in the region when she was so free and happy and…young. Furtively, she studied the photo again, gripped by a pang of nostalgia that threatened to engulf her. Then, her fingers tingling, she tucked it back next to her compact, took out the cigarette case, and waited for Edmund to give her a light.
By the time Ella and her crowd had arrived on the terrace, most of the tables arranged around the edge, each covered with colorful cloths secured with clips, were already occupied, and since each seated only four, Sal had kindly volunteered to join Goldie and the boys at a table nearby. Although most of the other guests were undeniably of another generation, a few of the younger couples, including the one whom Ella had heard arguing on the porch, appeared to be about the same age as Sal and Elizabeth, or at least old enough to know and appreciate the vintage upbeat tunes and romantic melodies performed by a formally dressed four-piece band at one corner of the terrace.
At bars, clubs, and resort hotels all over Myrtle Beach, clods decked out in jeans, tank tops, and sneakers were no doubt listening and gyrating to hard rock, disco, country-western, and other styles of music that Ella had told Edmund were more appropriate for “orangutans in heat,” but here at the Priscilla the scene was a veritable time capsule of a more civilized era not that long ago when respectable dress and polished manners were hallmarks of polite society and the most popular music was easy songs by Sinatra, Peggy Lee, Dionne Warwick, and even the Beatles. That the inn had a virtual monopoly on a sizeable clientele that relished and demanded this old-fashioned, exclusive, downright corny ambiance was not so much the result of some stubborn determination to preserve a gracious Southern way of life as long as possible as of the pragmatic realization that there was still enormous profit to be made in a unique enterprise such as this. Ignoring for years most modern trends and innovations, the inn furnished the fantasy, attracting well-off guests from all over and confident that as long as there were Duboses and Marianis eager to dance to live outmoded music under stars at the edge of the sea, and exploit their dreams, and order lots of French champagne and cocktails, special events such as this were worth every hour of inconvenience and extra operating costs.
“This is the way it used to be up at the old Ocean Forest Hotel,” Ella reminisced, gazing up at the half moon as the waiter filled glasses with champagne and the piano carried the melody of “Lullaby of Broadway.” “Isn’t this charming?”
“Okay, Mama, I can take a hint,” Tyler remarked, holding out the palms of both hands in a gesture to dance. “I’ll be fading soon, so if you’d like to play Fred and Ginger…”
It had been years since Ella had danced with her son, but after they glided smoothly over the floor a few minutes, she looked up at him and said, “Well, you certainly haven’t lost your touch. Almost as good as your daddy.”
Soon Edmund was dancing with Elizabeth. Then Sal broke in on his father-in-law, and Elizabeth later attempted to shag with Tommy and Rex when the band played “My Blue Heaven.” Ella and Edmund demonstrated what the rumba was all about, and at one point, Tyler even grabbed Goldie and led her in his version of the jitterbug. Ella and Tyler prompted a round of applause with their dexterous execution of the shag, but, when she became a little dizzy, she was finally persuaded to stay seated, sip her bubbly, and tell more beguiling tales about the old days.
“From what you and Daddy used to say, y’all must have really kicked up your heels during the war,” Tyler said, his fair cheeks now rosy.
“Lord, we could carry on like this till the wee hours of the morning—me and Earl and Betty-Sue Alexander and that sweet Tootsie Middleton and Jonathan and a boy named Ashley Lockhart…. Ashley went overseas right before Jonathan, and…he never came back. We never saw him again. That’s the way it was during the war. Boys left on the train, and we never knew if we’d ever see them again except with a flag draped over their coffins. So we all drank lots while they were here, and listened to the radio, and collected newspapers and tin cans for the Allied Relief program, and hoped we didn’t see the man delivering telegrams. That’s the way it was. And everybody danced. Mercy, did we dance—at island beach parties, and at hotel proms, and in living rooms, and any place else where there was a radio or record player or band. Jimmy Dorsey, Benny Goodman, Guy Lombardo—the big bands, they all came down here, so far away from the war. Because, you see, ther
e was a war we believed in that had to be won, and nobody knew what tomorrow would bring, and friends were being killed, or they’d come back and were never the same.” She paused to take an unsteady sip and reflect further. “Things happened to boys over there, terrible things, and some who came home were almost like strangers, and just wanted to forget, and get drunk, and dance. So we all drank lots, and paid no attention to the liquor laws, and danced our feet off, and…Lord, did we have fun.”
“And fooled around lots, I bet,” Tyler cracked without thinking. “I bet there was plenty of hanky-panky even back then.”
Ella sat staring at her glass for a moment, then looked up at him. “Why would you make such a remark? We didn’t behave like that in those days. In those days, we had different values, didn’t we, Edmund?”
He waved his finger at her and smiled knowingly. “Don’t get me in trouble.”
“From what I’ve read and seen in films, everyone in those days seems to have been pretty prudish,” Elizabeth commented.
“Not prudish, my dear, just proper,” Ella corrected, glancing at the champagne bottle on ice in the bucket. “Do we need another bottle?”
“Let’s not overdo it, Mama,” Tyler said, raising up the half-empty bottle and gesturing to Sal across the way about a refill. “Nobody’s up to carrying you to your room.”
“Hush up,” Ella said playfully. “I know my limit, for your information, and I’m sober as a judge.”
All the merrymaking and banter continued awhile longer, but when the bottle was empty, and the boys got restless, and the crowd began to thin out, Sal announced that it was time to call it a night since they planned the next morning to drive Edmund up to see Sunset, Ocean Isle, and a couple of other North Carolina beaches. Tyler, also, now looked exhausted after being in such high spirits, so even though all the alcohol made Ella feel she could keep going till dawn, she finally winked hopelessly at Edmund as Elizabeth took her father’s arm and Tyler said he would hold his farewells till breakfast. Goldie, of course, was still glowing from all the excitement, but when Ella grabbed Tyler’s arm as everybody headed up to the porch, Goldie still watched her like a hawk in case she happened to stumble on the steps.