Land of Mango Sunsets, The

by Dorothea Benton Frank

  I turned around to see that I had walked ahead of Mother and Harrison. They had not heard a word I said. They were huddled together trying to light something. Maybe Harrison smoked. That’s pretty nasty, I thought. But within seconds the sweet-smelling memories of an old rock concert reached me. My mother and Harrison were burning a special kind of weed. This was something I absolutely could not abide.

  I felt sickened with disgust. My mother must have been absolutely crazy.

  I waited until they caught up to me and then I looked at them both and said, “Have y’all gone mad? Y’all must be out of your cotton-picking minds. Gross!”

  I started walking back to the house. I could hear them calling after me but I ignored them. I was too furious and too shocked and it was too late to fly back to New York. I would leave first thing in the morning but not until I had given her a piece of my mind. And him? Maybe I’d push him into the Ashepoo and let him look for his golf clubs. Didn’t anyone lead a respectable life anymore?

  Chapter Seven

  Mellie Slowly Emerges

  Dear Mrs. Willis,

  Many thanks for your thoughtful assignment to the invitations committee. I will serve with pleasure. At present I am in residence on Sullivans Island in South Carolina, but on my return, I will be in touch.

  Cordially,

  Miriam Elizabeth Swanson

  Old habits died hard. I began my day fulfilling my obligations and that was that. It didn’t matter if I was in Timbuktu. But I have to say that I was beginning to think my obsession with writing all these thank-you notes was becoming slightly more than disingenuous. Besides, what I really wanted to say to Agnes Willis would never find its way into ink. Moreover, it was becoming clear that I had been taking my lead from others for about as long as I could stand it.

  I was restless and couldn’t sleep. Never mind that I was awakened at the crack of dawn by my mother’s manly rooster crowing his head off loud enough to make his harem lay scrambled eggs. So I got up, packed, wrote my phony thank-you note to Agnes Willis, and walked down to the post office via the beach. It was a perfect morning. The damp air was chilled, but I welcomed the warmth of the rising sun on my back as I made my way toward the lighthouse.

  Agnes Willis. Boy, she thought she had the world in the palm of her liver-spotted hand, didn’t she? And why was it that women like her always seemed to come out on top? Maybe it was because their husbands had trained them to look the other way and because they all knew divorce was just too bloody expensive. I really needed to get over her. No, I realized that what I really needed to do was stop letting the whole freaking world contribute to my horrible inferiority complex I seemed to be carrying around in the chip embedded in my shoulder.

  I looked around me at all the “dog people” people on the beach—they were actually frolicking, dogs and people! Out in full force, they were tossing things that their pets chased—Frisbees, sticks, and tennis balls. This was one of the things I loved about the tiny kingdom of Sullivans Island. The ruling town fathers and mothers passed a law allowing dogs on the beach only during very specific time slots. They loved passing laws, it seemed.

  I imagine that in the years of my absence some big old black Labrador had licked the leg or snatched the egg-salad sandwich of some crazy rich Yankee who owned a house on the front beach worth millions. That northerner complains and the council agrees that it’s not right; in fact, it’s terrible. Let’s be honest, since the south ceased growing cotton and our senators lost the support of the navy yard, tourism has been the cement that held the Charleston area’s economy together. Crotch sniffing, jumping, untethered wet dogs running wild all over the beach just wouldn’t do. The dog-owning local homegrown citizens moaned and complained but the law stuck.

  What no one counted on was that a new society would spring from the cause of canine discontent. The “dog people” came to recognize, greet, and talk to one another. They became friends and I heard several marriages had come about as a result of the Island’s new mandate. Who knew? It was clearly one of the details of Sullivans Island living that only added to its magical reputation. It was charmed.

  I walked past their gathering and over the dunes to the post office thinking about Mother. When she came home last night she did not say a word to me and I did not come out of my room to say a word to her. I was so flabbergasted. What if she had been caught? What if she went to jail? If her arrest was written up in the papers in Charleston, surely someone in New York would pass it along, and inside of a city minute, my life would be completely finished. And hers. And who was this ridiculous man jeopardizing our lives over a cheap thrill? It really was too much.

  I bought a stamp from the machine, slapped it on the envelope, and tossed it through the out-of-town mail slot. Out-of-town? It should have been labeled ANOTHER WORLD. After all, Sullivans Island was not exactly a microcosm of the known planet. It wasn’t Charleston. It wasn’t Manhattan. It had no real claim to fame outside of Fort Moultrie, which, all right, I’ll admit was pivotal in the American Revolution, the War of Northern Aggression, and every other war in our history, and Edgar Allan Poe was stationed there, and then there was the Pest House and oh, shoot…in the time it had taken to leave the beach, I had worked myself into a snit and was not thinking straight. I removed my cell phone from my pocket, dialed Kevin, and started walking home.

  “Miriam? Is that you? Is everything all right?”

  “Yes. No. Oh, Kevin, are you up yet?”

  “Of course I am. I’m up, dressed, and just fed Harry his breakfast. What’s going on? Are you ill?”

  “No. Well, sick in my heart. Kevin, you won’t believe what happened last night.”

  “Spill it, Petal. Tell Uncle Sigmund everything. Nothing like a little morning drama to get the blood moving.”

  “I caught my mother smoking pot.”

  “What?”

  Kevin exploded with laughter. I joined in, only because he had the most contagious laugh in the world.

  “Kevin! This is not funny! Stop!”

  “You’re right! It’s not funny. It’s hysterical! Puh-lease! You have to tell me the details! Was she using a bong?”

  His laughter continued and mine did not. The idea that my mother, a heretofore dignified woman—former Junior League president for eons, a trustee of the Gibbes Art Museum for decades, on and on her involvement went with every traditional organization Charleston had that you can name—now the Queen of the Beach, might have stooped so low as to purchase a bong annoyed the devil out of me. I stopped and sat at a picnic table in front of Dunleavy’s Pub, which still made the best burgers in the world.

  “No. She was not using a bong, Kevin, and this is serious! I mean, what if my mother gets caught? What if it’s all over the papers? I would be ruined! Ruined, do you hear me?”

  He was silent.

  “Are you there?”

  “Yes, I’m here. Oh, Miriam, Miriam, Miriam. Listen to me. Smoking pot is stupid…”

  “It also happens to be illegal, you know.”

  “I’m aware. So is taking catalogs from the hall that belong to a certain someone else. But Miriam, who died and put you in charge of the world?”

  “Just what is that supposed to mean, Kevin?” I sighed deeply. Sometimes even my sweet Kevin could be exasperating.

  “I mean, as I was saying before my dearest friend interrupted me, that smoking pot is stupid and illegal, but heavenly days, it really shouldn’t be. Millions of people smoke marijuana, and if they’re not selling it or in possession of massive quantities or giving it to little children, well, the world doesn’t really care. Neither should you.”

  “Listen, Kevin, my position is precarious enough without my mother getting busted and ruining my life.”

  “Perhaps, but I’ll bet you a thousand dollars that she won’t get busted and you’ll still have your self-righteous indignation to keep you warm at night.”

  Ouch. But my indignation, self-righteous or not, had nothing to do with the fact that my moth
er was using illegal drugs. They were separate issues.

  “Not nice, darling.”

  “Sorry. But, Miriam, you are such a harsh judge. Cut your mother some slack. How old is she?”

  “If I told you, I’d have to kill you. But she’s old enough to know better, that’s for sure.”

  “So, what do you propose to do about it? Send her to the Betty?”

  “Very funny. No. I’m going to have a talk with her and then I’m coming home. I actually called to tell you I was coming home early.”

  “Well, you know I would love it if you did, but I think you should stay. When you talk to her, try not to do it from the saddle of a high horse, okay?”

  “I haven’t changed my ticket yet. It’s nonrefundable. They’ll probably charge me a fortune…”

  “Blasted money hogs those airlines are. Can’t even carry my moisturizer on board anymore. Calm down about this, Miriam. Seriously. You haven’t been to visit your mother in ages, and if you stomp off in a huff it would hurt her feelings, I’m sure.”

  “And there’s something else.”

  “You’ve been holding out on me! What?”

  “There’s a man.”

  “And…”

  “His name is Harrison Ford.”

  “Shut! Up!”

  “Different Harrison Ford.”

  “Oh. Okay. And…”

  “And I thought he was flirting with me but he might be my mother’s boyfriend. I can’t figure it out.”

  “Any resemblance to the other one? Hmm?”

  “Stop it! He’s like my age practically.”

  I could hear Kevin gasp and could envision his fingers brought to his lips as if to say, Well, shut my mouth.

  “Do you know how bizarre this is to me?”

  “It’s fascinating is what it is. You simply have to stay. That’s all there is to it.”

  “Maybe.”

  “But report back every six hours. I’ll tell you, Petal, you make my life up here in the frozen tundra seem frightfully boring. There’s only old Harry to hear my prayers.”

  “I’ll call you later.”

  I could hear his signature giggle as I closed the phone.

  Maybe I was too serious.

  I looked up from my bench to see the stream of luxury cars heading for the Ben Sawyer Bridge and another day of work off the island. BMWs and Benzes were rolling down Middle Street and waiting to turn. Jaguars, Lexus SUVs, Land Rovers, and custom pickup trucks were lined up to my right, zipper-merging with the others. I marveled at the spectacular surge in wealth they all represented. The occasional minivan and school bus passed and I was reassured of some normalcy for a moment. But when the Perrier truck pulled up to deliver to Dunleavy’s, I got up to go home. The Sullivans Island of my youth had been gentrified beyond what my heart could endure. At least at that moment.

  Then like a lightning bolt from the clear blue, it hit me. Strange and peculiar as my mother’s existence here may have seemed to me, since she had retired here, she was one of the last remaining authentic islanders—minus the marijuana, of course. If people like her didn’t live the way she did, Sullivans Island would dissolve into just another overpriced, mainstreamed, McMansioned piece of branded Americana. That same authenticity was why Sullivan’s was thriving, as well as Station Twenty-two Restaurant and Atlanticville and all the other little restaurants and businesses that dotted both sides of Middle Street. It was probably the reason the age-inappropriate-for-my-mother Harrison Ford loved it there, and others I had yet to discover. They were all on a mission to preserve or find their true identity and shunned the outside world as unnecessary. Maybe they weren’t wrong. Perhaps Harrison would benefit from a manicure and a younger girlfriend, but maybe he and Mother were onto something. Why else were the streets of this island jammed with cars each morning, evening, and night all year round if all those people weren’t seeking some sliver of unmanufactured, unplastic-coated reality?

  I reached Mother’s yard. Her chickens were pecking the ground, Cecelia was eating some kind of greenery, and I was almost wondering why she didn’t have a couple of ducks to round out the symphony. In a much-improved state of mind, I started up the back stairs and heard the sliding-glass door open. There stood Miss Josie at the top of the stairs with her hands on her hips. Her body language was clear.

  “I see you’ve packed your things,” she said in a humorless voice.

  “Good morning, Mother. I was thinking of going home.”

  “Is there a reason?”

  What was I supposed to say then? That she was getting toasted and fooling around with a man more suited for me? I tried to find the words. “Look, Mother, last night I saw you—”

  “You’re not old enough to lecture your mother, missy.”

  “I wasn’t planning to.”

  “Good. Do you want some breakfast?”

  “That would be lovely.” I arrived at the porch and kissed her cheek. “How did you sleep?”

  “Well enough.”

  I went inside and made myself a cup of strong instant coffee, thinking it was probably in order instead of tea. Mother cracked some eggs into a bowl and stirred them around with a fork. There were three of us then—me, Mother, and Her Attitude.

  “Would you like me to put the bread in the toaster?”

  “If you wish,” she said.

  “Are you angry with me?”

  “No, of course not. But I had hoped you’d stay more than one night, Miriam.”

  So that was it. Back to “Miriam,” were we? Kevin was right. She was upset that I was leaving. “Well, then, I will. How long would you like to have me around?”

  She stopped, pushed a few stray hairs back from her forehead and sighed. Then she looked at me with the strangest expression. “For the rest of my days?”

  We smiled almost identically. All at once it was wonderful to be with her, even if she was a card-carrying loon.

  “Well, I’ll stay two more days but you have to make me a promise.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That you’ll be discreet. I don’t want to have to bail you out of jail.”

  She put her hand on my arm and told me not to worry. She fed me the most delicious scrambled eggs I had ever eaten. She told me she loved me, I told her that I loved her, and neither of us said a word about Harrison.

  “So, what would you like to do today?” she said.

  “Maybe have that long walk on the beach?”

  “Sounds like a good idea. How about after two? The tide will be low then, and in the meanwhile, I have some things to get done.”

  “I can help you. If you would like, I mean.”

  The next thing I knew I was on the receiving end of instructions in the fine art of crocheting fishing nets with my fingers and a small stick. She left to do her errands and I was deep in thought, comparing and contrasting my life in New York with island living.

  The differences were enormous. It certainly was pleasant to be in the winter morning air without a coat and gloves looking at the marsh. It practically shook with the bustle of its life. Gulls, ospreys, and pelicans were swooping and soaring all through the sky. Little wrens chirped from deep inside the fronds of Mother’s tall palmetto trees, which curtsied in greeting with every gust of wind. Crows were everywhere.

  Now, crows fascinated me, despite the fact that their incessant cawing was not exactly Chopin. People said that they were the most intelligent birds on the planet, but only because they didn’t know my Harry. I would concede that crow habits did ring slightly human, except that, unlike people, they mate for life. They were a curious breed. Once, years ago, I had seen one standing guard in a treetop while his buddies fed on the ground. And I had seen the lazy things drop pecans in the road so that cars could crack them open. Around dusk, you would see them start to gather in groups on wires and rooftops. At some signal that surely eluded me, they would depart for their nightly roost. Hundreds, even thousands of them, would roost together in a field because their vast number
s protected them from the jaws and claws of owls and hawks.

  To even think about this was one of the biggest differences between living in any large urban area and living on an island—that you noticed what was going on with birds and tides and all these other aspects of life that never crossed your mind in a city. I giggled to realize that just around the time the crows were taking off to roost, I was having my first evening cocktail. Whoop-dee-do. Me, Harry, and the Famous Grouse. Some bunch of birds we were.

  I remembered then that I had not asked Kevin about Liz. Well, if she had been carrying on with Truman Willis again, he would have brought it up. Nonetheless, I made a note to check on her nonsense the next time we spoke.

  I thought again about serving on the invitations committee and how unfair the world was. All I wanted was to do something that made me happy for once, and I couldn’t even manage to wangle a desirable committee assignment. Maybe the universe was trying to tell me something.

  I heard a car stop and looked up. It was Harrison. There I was with my hair twisted up into a clamp, no makeup, and my collection of haute couture was on vacation. I could feel my face turning scarlet.

  “Well, good morning!” he called out.

  “Good morning,” I said politely. I stopped working on Mother’s net and tied a big loop with string to mark the ending spot. “Mother’s not here.”

  He was coming up the steps and didn’t even pause at the news.

  “Oh. Well, that’s too bad.”

  Those fiery blue eyes of his were boring a hole through mine, and I was embarrassed for no good reason except that it seemed weird for Mother’s boyfriend to be so familiar with me. I did not return his smile.

  “I imagine she’ll be back soon. Was she expecting you?”

  “No. I was just gonna take a ride out to Awendaw and thought you gals might like to come along. I have a friend out there with a big farm, beautiful land—raises pheasant and quail. All organically fed, of course. I thought y’all might like some for your supper.”