The Land of Mango Sunsets

by Dorothea Benton Frank

  “Strictly gross dregs of yard sales and what germy trash people leave on the curb.”

  “Please! Are you kidding?”

  “Nope. God, this lo mein is to die—”

  “Oh! You got beef with broccoli! I adore it, you know…”

  “Petal, that’s why I got it!”

  “And to think I was going to have a grilled cheese sandwich with a scotch.”

  We dove into dinner and the wine and spent the next hour or so discussing the merits and taste level of Liz Harper’s furnishings from her coffee mugs to her mangy stuffed animals.

  “There’s not a stuffed dog, cat, monkey, or bear left on Coney Island,” Kevin said. “Or at Six Flags.”

  “You’re terrible,” I said with a giggle, pouring out the last of the wine.

  “Wait till you see! You’ll see!”

  “Should I open another bottle? I have some kind of Sterling Pinot Noir.”

  “No. Thanks. I’ll just have a vodka, if you have any. I have to work tomorrow—we’re changing windows on the Fifth Avenue side.”

  If Kevin thought a vodka was easier on his head than a glass of wine, I wasn’t about to argue. I poured him a good shot over some ice cubes and the overhead noises started.

  Thump! Thump! Thump!

  “What in the world?” Kevin said, and looked up at the ceiling.

  “It sounds like someone is…like they’re, you know…”

  Thump! Thump! Thump!

  “When’s the last time anyone had sex in this house?” Kevin said drily.

  Thump! Thump! Thump!

  “Well, I can’t speak for you…” The banging, pardon the expression, was getting louder and picking up speed.

  “Puh! Lease!”

  Ka-thump! Ka-thump! Ka-thump!

  My neck and face got hot and even Kevin’s face was red and flushed.

  Ohmagod! Ohmagod! Ohmagod! Came the voices from upstairs.

  “I’m opening a window,” I said, pulling up the one over the sink. “It’s hot as fury in here!”

  “You said it, Petal!” Kevin opened the back door to the garden and stepped out for a moment, no doubt for a reprieve from the sheer embarrassment of the occasion.

  Kathumpkathumpkathumpkathump!

  I opened the front door and stepped out into my foyer for a moment. The thumping continued in earnest. I thought, God in heaven! I wish they’d wind it up for the sake of the rest of us! But they did not. The Love Boat continued to rock and roll. Finally, it became quiet. When my own pulse returned to normal, I went back inside and closed my door.

  Kevin was in the kitchen reading his fortune cookie as though nothing had happened at all. He had generously freshened his vodka and I poured a large one for myself. Scotch? Vodka? Who cared?

  “It says, Much excitement just landed in your life. Hmmph, Confucius doesn’t know, pardon me, crap. If I smoked, I’d offer you a cigarette.”

  “I’d smoke it, too.” We touched the edges of our glasses for the second time that evening and took a long sip. “Good grief, Kevin. What are we going to do?”

  “Get her a rug to muffle the music?” Then he looked around. We realized at the same moment that Harry was missing. “Harry!”

  “Where’s my baby? Harry? Harry?” No response. I began to panic.

  “He wouldn’t go out in the courtyard, would he?”

  “Oh, Lord, Kevin! I don’t know! Harry? You check there and I’ll check the rest of the house.”

  A thorough search revealed nothing. My pulse raced again. On the verge of tears, I opened the front door of the apartment remembering that I had opened it earlier, only to see Harry on the steps, hopping down from the second floor. Following him was a familiar face.

  It was Agnes Willis’s husband. Liz was carrying on with Agnes Willis’s husband, Truman.

  I scooped up Harry and bolted through my door, closing it as quickly and discreetly as I could. I didn’t think Truman had seen me. My most fervent hope was that he had not. Kevin appeared in the living room. His face was relieved to see me holding Harry.

  “You found him! Where was the bad boy? Harry? You had us scared to death!”

  “Yes.” My heart was pounding like a jackhammer.

  “What’s the matter, Miriam?”

  “Oh, Kevin. You don’t want to know. I’ve got to get out of here.”

  “Miriam! What in the world? Come sit! You’re shaking all over!”

  “What if I told you that Liz was involved in an illicit affair with the husband of a friend of mine?”

  Kevin was slack-jawed and bug-eyed.

  “I’m putting the famous gray on his swing and pouring the Famous Grouse for us. This occasion calls for strong spirits.”

  Kevin took Harry from me and I continued to shake. My hands got cold and then my neck got hot and I began to perspire. I had leased my apartment to a lying tramp. I had to think this through. I had carefully avoided a perv because of Kevin’s instincts and an admitted other woman only because she had come clean with me. But, what about Liz?

  Kevin put the tumbler in my shaking hands and I took a drink, feeling its warmth all the way down my throat.

  “Well? Who is the hooligan?” Kevin said.

  “Kevin. You know I cannot reveal his name. My indiscretion added to his would be too much for me to bear. In any case, that’s not the real problem.”

  “You’ll tell me when you’re ready, Petal. Just calm down and tell me what you’re thinking.”

  I took another long sip. Kevin dropped some ice cubes in my glass and covered them with another measure of scotch.

  “Infidelity makes me crazy, Kevin. I can’t live with it! I simply can’t! I’m thinking that this is a complete disaster and that I don’t want to be a party to this girl bringing home married men and carrying on with them in my house. It would be like a rerun of Charles and Judith night after night! I couldn’t stand it!”

  “I understand why you’re upset. So am I. I was so sure about her, too,” Kevin said. “She didn’t seem like she would resort to that kind of behavior. She’s pretty enough to find single men.”

  “Kevin? I have to think about this, but right now, I want her out of here. I just want her out. Out of my house!”

  Kevin squatted down next to me and took my free hand in his.

  “Listen to me, Miriam. Let’s not jump the gun. Maybe she didn’t even know he was married. Maybe she did a onetime stupid thing, I mean, we all make mistakes.” Then, in almost a whisper, he said, “And, Petal? Face it. You need the rent.”

  It was true. I did. My bottom lip quivered, my eyes filled with tears, and I drained my glass. “Let me ask you something, Kevin? Is the whole world filled with this sort of fooling around? Isn’t anyone faithful?”

  “You know the answer to that. Of course there are plenty of faithful couples. I think what we have here is Daisy Mae from the backwoods of Alabama who did a foolish thing and probably doesn’t even know it.”

  “Maybe.”

  “I think you should try to put it out of your mind for a while, pretend it never happened. Denial can be useful sometimes. And let’s see where things go. You can’t throw her out in the snow like ‘The Little Match Girl.’”

  “You’re right, of course. Oh, Kevin! This is too much. I think I need to get out of here, go to Sullivans Island. Maybe the salt air will clear my head.”

  “I think that’s an excellent idea.”

  Chapter Five

  PHONIES

  Dear Mrs. Willis,

  My, how time flies! It seems like only yesterday that I had the occasion to see you at the museum when we discussed the beautiful floral display in the lobby. I have a special love of flowers, and if I had ever worked in a professional capacity it certainly would have been in the paradise of delphinium and lilacs! In any case, because we obviously share an appreciation of all things beautiful, it is my pleasure to invite you to Bill Blass’s fall trunk show, which will be held on the second Tuesday of March at noon. The details are on the en
closed invitation. All the ladies love Mr. Blass, don’t they? I certainly do! Please let me know if you are able to join me. If you cannot, I would greatly appreciate having the enclosed ticket returned. Many thanks.

  Cordially,

  Miriam Elizabeth Swanson

  I was organizing my clothes for my South Carolina trip, and despite what I knew about her husband, Truman, I wrote a note to Agnes Willis inviting her to see the Blass collection. Subtlety had not worked on the prissy old bitty, so I sent the ticket straight to her in a flowery message. Flowery message? Ah me, sometimes I just crack myself up even if others fail to value my humor. Too bad I wouldn’t be able to afford a button of Blass.

  Speaking of fashion, Kevin was helping me with my wardrobe, which was futility personified, as there was no wardrobe required on Sullivans Island. It was casual in the extreme, unless we ventured across the causeway and downtown to the Holy City. But, truth be told, once night set in, I was never anxious to leave the island. Who knew what magic might come to us once the stars came out? Mother and I might find ourselves twinkling and young in the smitten eyes of an old salt and a retired jillionaire (guess who gets which one?) who would spout poetry and feed us a seafood stew made from their catch of that very day. Everything was possible after sunset when the mists rolled in.

  “Why are you packing these dreadful things?” Kevin held my old sneakers aloft in their Ziploc bags as though they were petite dead skunks.

  “Oyster roast. Those are my oyster-roast shoes.”

  “Dear Petal…you’ll never snag a man in these nasties.”

  “I’m not looking to snag a man. Nor am I looking to ruin a good pair of shoes with oyster liquor! You don’t understand…”

  “Enlighten me.”

  He dropped the bags on the carpet and crossed his arms, waiting. I started to giggle knowing that my description of an authentic oyster roast would strike Kevin as vile.

  “Well, in the old days when I was Miriam the Younger, you would have a gathering of people in their worst clothes, standing around a smoldering, smoky pit, partially covered with a piece of sheet metal. On top of the metal would be a pile of oysters wrapped in soaking-wet burlap sacks. When the oysters begin to steam open they would be scooped onto your table with a shovel. The table is usually a piece of plywood or an old door on two sawhorses with a garbage can on the side.”

  “Stop. This sounds perfectly disgusting.”

  “It gets worse. Then, wearing a workman’s glove, you pry them open with an oyster knife.”

  “Wait! I’m getting a vision! Martha Stewart is arriving in a police helicopter to stop the madness!”

  “She probably should. Anyway, you use the same muddy knife to scoop the slimy devils out and into your mouth. The oyster liquor drenches your shoes, little by little.”

  “Hence the Ziplocs.”

  “Correct. Then you chase it with a soda cracker and take a swig of beer or something.”

  “Miriam, darling, I just cannot see you doing this. Sorry.”

  “Well, nowadays they bring in someone who steams them and delivers them to your table. It’s become pretty antiseptic, I’m afraid. As bohemian as the old days sound, I still hate all this gentrification.”

  “I agree. It’s suspect. Are you sure you want to take these pants?”

  He referred to my flannel-lined jeans that had seen better days.

  “Yeah, it gets damp at night. I like to walk the beach. Anyway, I’ve been going to oyster roasts all my life. If they didn’t taste so fabulous, I wouldn’t go.”

  “Still sounds horrible.”

  “Right? But it’s not. Listen, some bubbas use the hood of their pickup truck as the grill! They put it back on the truck the next day.”

  “Shut! Up! Do you actually know people who do that?”

  “Of course not. And if I did, do you think I would tell you?”

  “Well, it’s just going to be Harry and me while you’re gone. Right, buddy?”

  Harry had waddled into the bedroom.

  “And that harlot on the second floor. Do you know what Liz did yesterday?”

  At the mention of her name, Harry whistled and we shushed him.

  “Please! There’s no telling!”

  “She took my catalogs from Victoria’s Secret, the Walker’s Warehouse, and a number of other places.”

  “That’s a little strange.” Kevin picked up a red wool turtleneck sweater and stuffed it inside a weathered denim barn coat that was lined in red plaid. “What do you think?”

  “Let’s pack it. So, I marched myself upstairs, and what do you think she answered the door wearing?”

  “Her altogether?”

  “Just about…I said, ‘Listen, Liz? Do you know that tampering with the mail is a federal offense? And, why don’t I wait right here while you go put on some pants?’”

  Kevin laughed. “So what did our little pole dancer say?”

  “She did not know it was a federal offense and she did not put on her pants.”

  “Well, JMJ, with a little crucifix over the M!”

  “You can say that again. But here’s the bad part. She said, ‘But I didn’t think you would be interested in lingerie or exercise clothes.’ She was right, of course, and I thought, Well, that’s another cause of my trouble, isn’t it? It made me plenty mad with her and with myself.”

  “Well, honey, you and I have talked about this. Realizing these things is good. It’s healthy. The question is: What-do-you-plan-to-do-about-it?”

  “Oh, Lordy. Well, I think I’m going to lose a little weight. Or attempt to anyway. I have actually been thinking about belly dancing or kickboxing and I can’t decide. Either one might put me in the hospital.”

  Kevin sat down on my bed, grinning and shaking his head. “Petal? Petal? Why don’t we start with something kinder and gentler, like walking?”

  “It’s terrible outside. Ice everywhere? I could break my leg! Or something else!”

  “Like a nail! I’m going to buy you a treadmill…”

  “Be serious. I don’t have room in here for another toothpick.”

  “They make one that folds down and slides under your bed.”

  “I despise treadmills!”

  “Well, Miriam? Precious? Mother used to always say, pride knoweth no pain.”

  “Oh, hell’s bells.” I let a tiny expletive slip. “Buy the treadmill and I’ll pay you back.”

  A few days later I was at thirty thousand feet, en route to Sullivans Island. Although I was landing in Charleston, I never thought of it that way. The island was my destination, as was my mother’s side.

  All it took was a trip to the island to remind me that my boys were not close to me, but I still had blessings. Kevin was so dear and generous to offer to take care of Harry. And to help me pack. And to buy me an instrument of torture that, when used properly—the exercise guru Tony Little himself guaranteed it—would tighten up my, excuse me, buns and lower my cholesterol at the same time. Well, we would see about that part. And I had not heard from Agnes Willis nor had I breathed a word to anyone about her husband, Truman, banging the brains out of Liz Harper, pardon me again, Resident Ho. He had been there the night before I left—at least I assumed it was him as the bouncing and thumping had a familiar ring. I had turned up a CD of Pavarotti singing Tosca, filled the tub with bubbles and my ears with cotton. It was only partially successful.

  The plane began its descent. We circled to land as though the pilot couldn’t spot the airport’s landing strip. Why they always did that I could not conceive, but I can tell you this—the circling reminded me to have my anxiety attack. I white-knuckled the ends of the armrests, squeezed my eyes closed, and begged God to let me live. Once we landed and the door opened, I regained normal breathing and my composure. I picked up my bag on the Jetway and went in search of a taxi.

  And though it was the dead of winter, it was probably fifty degrees outside and the sky was as blue and clear as it could be. It felt like a July heat wave compared to t
he gray-skied and bitter New York I had left behind.

  The polite but thankfully not chatty driver of the clanking taxi van played gospel music and sang along in low tones, tapping the steering wheel in time with the rim of his wedding band. I relaxed a little more. We drove along Route 526 East, which was especially beautiful. Here and there were lovely patches of marsh and short docks rooted in glistening water. Natural creeks cut the marsh grass in serpentines from the Wando and Cooper rivers. Pelicans swooped down on unsuspecting brim and drum, gobbling them up for snacks. Birds of prey circled, their keen eyes zeroing in on rabbits and squirrels, which all went about their innocent daily business in the thicket unaware that death was on the way.

  The small patches of remaining forest surrounded yet another housing development that seemed to have popped up overnight like Jack’s beanstalk. Rows upon rows of nearly identical slapdash houses were ugly and cold-looking. There were no trees above six feet to be seen and the minimal shrubs of boxwood and azalea were uniform. There was no shade where children could play, no charm in the development’s layout, and no neighbors who would have known one another for more than a year. Some developer was getting filthy rich, poor people were getting cardboard houses with mortgages they couldn’t afford, and the Lowcountry was being raped between the eyes. This was one topic on which Mother and I always agreed. Developers had all the conscience of a hungry predator.

  As we rounded the corner at the Piggly Wiggly and Royall Hardware, I began to relax. I had not visited Sullivans Island in almost a year, and filled with anticipation, I welcomed the fact that I could leave my worries behind for a few days.

  When the cab stopped in the driveway on Raven Drive, I could hardly believe my eyes. What had Mother done? The whole front yard that had been home to flower beds was now fenced in behind a wall of bamboo. Did I hear chickens? Was that a nanny goat?

  I paid the driver, dropped my suitcase at the base of the steps, and went to have a look. There was my mother, Josephine, with a hoe in her hand, hacking away at the earth. I gasped so hard you could have knocked me over with the flick of a finger. Hearing the car pull away, she turned and spotted me.