Isle of Palms

by Dorothea Benton Frank

  By the summer’s end, I had money in the bank and Miss August was thrilled. I cleaned up the old wrought-iron table and chairs in the garden and on occasion I’d spot her there from my window just looking around, smiling and enjoying a cool drink.

  As Emily became more blond and her eyes more green and passed from infant to baby, Trixie was butting into our lives full force, undaunted by the clear evidence of questionable paternal identity.

  My father-in-law, Jimbo, who just shrugged his shoulders the first time he saw my tiny infant daughter, knew better. After being driven to the outer edges of sanity by Trixie’s bossy personality for nearly three decades, he took up tournament bridge with a vengeance and traveled the world competing. He was in London when he died of an aneurysm at the Connaught Hotel. He was only fifty-seven years old and holding enough spades to trump the planet. Trixie made a swift recovery and Jim took a turn.

  Jim’s father’s death was the beginning of the end for my marriage. He began staying out late and coming in sweaty reeking of cigarettes and beer from dancing all night in Charleston’s private gay bars. I would find him in the morning, sleeping in his clothes on the couch. When I woke him he would say, “Oh, my God, Anna! I can’t believe you let me sleep like this! I’m late for class!” He’d hardly finish brushing his teeth before he was out the door, returning home to sleep until ten or eleven and go out again until all hours. I mean, he didn’t do this every single night and when he was around he still gave generous time and attention to Emily. He loved her to pieces. But by her third birthday, his behavior had become a resolute pattern. And it was obvious from the phone calls and the way he responded to them that he was seeing someone.

  With his father dead and his inheritance secured, his end of the bargain was technically fulfilled. He wasn’t asking me to leave or anything like that. No, there was a tremendous bond of affection between us but I was really uneasy. I knew he wanted to get on with his life and I couldn’t blame him.

  I mean, I had always known in my heart that our marriage would eventually come to some kind of watershed, but I wasn’t prepared for it. And, I didn’t want Trixie to know the truth. It’s true what the old people said, that when families started keeping secrets, trouble came in the door.

  Trixie pretended to be oblivious. She was as attentive to Emily as a grandmother should be, which is to say she never missed a birthday party or a Christmas morning. When Emily had the chicken pox, it was Grandmomma Trixie who put the calamine lotion on her blisters with a Q-Tip, while singing her Broadway show tunes. Under her tutelage, Emily learned all the words to the theme songs of Beauty and the Beast, The Lion King and Les Miserables. Emily also sang the title song to Cabaret like a miniature Ethel Merman, which was not necessarily the best thing in the world, but never mind.

  Trixie’s attention to Emily was not the problem. The trouble started when Trixie began to recognize Jim’s general discomfort. Jim was her son and, as they say, blood has always been thicker than water. No mother wanted to see her son unhappy. She also suspected that I was sitting on a pot of money from Miss August, which she intimated all the time and I ignored all the time.

  Trixie began to give me the chill while she investigated our lives. At first, it was subtle. She would call late in the evening and ask for Jim. He wasn’t home, of course, and I would tell her some fib, like he was at the library. These excuses were met with prolonged silences and deep sighs.

  The phone calls led to seemingly innocent I-was-just-in-the-neighborhood unannounced visits. Trixie would arrive with a little something for Emily and sniff around for evidence like a bloodhound. She would take note of the crumpled state of the couch or the single bed in Emily’s room, where Jim usually slept. She knew exactly what was going on and what wasn’t. There was no marital bed and therefore, no marriage.

  Finally she said something, breaking the wall of dishonesty between us. Emily was in her stroller and we were walking her down King Street, stopping to look in the windows of all the antique stores. We paused in front of Birlant’s Antiques and she said, “You know, Anna, this can’t go on fuh-evah. Ah mean, it isn’t right for me to be supporting you and Jim while you garden and he goes catting around.”

  Was my life about to be dismantled again and would I have no say in it? She had caught me very off guard. Of course, I had given massive thought to my marriage.

  “It’s a problem,” I said, but that was all I had intended to say.

  “It’s more than a problem,” she said, “it’s a terrible sham.”

  I felt the heat then, rising in me like a furnace. I had to get away from her. I began to push Emily’s stroller faster and faster and Trixie had to almost jog to keep up with us.

  “Slow down, Anna,” she said, almost breathless, “let’s talk about this.”

  “No,” I said. “I don’t want to talk about this with you. I’m going home.”

  I rushed down the streets and away from her until I was safe, back at our house. Emily’s eyes were wide when I reached down to pick her up. She sensed that something was wrong and began to cry.

  “Momma!”

  “Hush, baby. Everything’s all right. You need a nap, honey, come on. Momma’s gonna put you in your bed.”

  “What’s wrong, Momma?”

  “Nothing, sweetheart.”

  Sometimes Emily and I napped together on her single bed in her room. I would put her between me and the wall and she would snuggle next to me like a baby cub. But that day, she needed to stretch out and sleep and I needed to think. I tucked her in under her favorite quilt, closed her blinds and put on her favorite cassette tape of lullabies. There was something extra reassuring to her when she slept with her music. Maybe I was giving her an extension of permission to be a baby.

  “You go to sleep like a good girl,” I said, handing her Lulu, her favorite baby doll.

  She struggled to keep her eyes open, and I left her room, leaving the door ajar. I didn’t know what to do so I called Daddy. His receptionist, Naomi, put me on hold. It wasn’t often that I called Daddy at his office but he never failed to speak to me when I did.

  “What’s up, Anna? Emily all right?”

  “Emily’s fine. I’m not.”

  “What’s the matter, Sugar?”

  “I need advice, big time.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Not on the phone. Can you come over?”

  “As soon as I vaccinate the Salerni triplets and take a throat culture of the McGinnis child, I’ll be on my way.”

  While I waited for him, I paced the floor. Emily was sleeping like a stone. There was no point in lying to Daddy. I would just tell him the truth about everything. I imagined that he already knew anyway. True to his word, he was in my living room within the hour.

  I gave him a kiss on the cheek and said, “You want a glass of tea?”

  “Sure. What’s this all about?”

  “Me and Jim and Trixie,” I said.

  “You got any beer?”

  “Sure.” I opened one for him and one for myself. We clinked bottles and he braced himself for what I was sure he didn’t want to know.

  “Daddy, I have to leave Jim,” I began. “I can’t live like this anymore.”

  “What has he done?” He put his bottle on the coffee table and sat on the edge of my sofa. “What’s happened?”

  “It’s not really his fault or mine . . .” I said.

  I told him the whole story and by the end of it he was standing by the window, staring out at the yard. Silence so penetrated the space between us that I could hear my own pulse beat in my ears. When he turned to face me I could feel his sadness and disappointment.

  “I never should have let you marry him,” he said, holding his hands up in surrender. “I’m sorry. I should have been, I don’t know, stronger-willed or something.”

  “Daddy,” I said and put my arms around his waist and my head into his chest, “it’s not your fault.”

  “But Mother had just died . . .”

  �
�It’s not anybody’s fault.”

  He patted me on the back and moved away from me. “Let’s consider all the alternatives,” he said, picking up his bottle and finishing its contents with one long drink. “You could get an apartment, put Emily in day care, exposing her to God-knows-what kind of diseases and pedophile abuse, and get some kind of menial job flipping burgers and super-sizing people’s fat rumps. Or, you can come home with Emily until you get on your feet. You can go to school. I can probably find someone to watch Emily for you. Then you can move out and support yourself.”

  “That second one sounds good. Great, in fact. Thanks, Daddy.”

  The tears started to flow and like a river rising over its banks, I wept until my shirt was wet. We sat on the couch and he rubbed my back, around and around on my shoulder blade, the same way he had when I was a child. Around and around, until I had cried myself out.

  “I never should have allowed you to marry him,” he said again. “I should have stepped in. It was a terrible time, with Momma dropping dead and all.”

  “She hated me,” I said, “blamed me.”

  “So what? Listen, it doesn’t matter and, believe me, I’ve given this a lot of thought. She was as mean as a Chihuahua and a Bible-beating, judgmental, heartless old witch who’s probably shoveling coal in hell, God rest her soul.” Daddy faced me then with his lop-sided grin and the same sentiments I held about her.

  “Yeah, bless her heart, the old bitch.”

  “You said it!”

  It didn’t matter if he really believed that about his mother. He was trying to make me see that everything was going to be all right and that it was the two of us, no, the three of us that were a family. Daddy brought me a glass of water and I drank it, hiccuping and gulping. Even though I was still crying I began to laugh at the same time. The vision of her shoveling coal in hell was too heavenly to continue weeping. If she could have seen me and the fix I was in, she probably would have burst another vein.

  “God, I love it. Thanks, Daddy, I needed that.”

  “Well, her self-righteous nonsense may have sent her to the devil, but you are still my little girl.” He put his arm around my shoulder again and gave me a firm squeeze. “Emily too. Always will be.”

  I could hear Emily playing and knew I had to pull myself together and be Mommy. And what would I say to Jim?

  I turned to Daddy, hugged him around the waist and said, “I need to figure this out. Thanks, Dad. I love you so much!”

  “Call me later,” he said. “Now, can I see my granddaughter?”

  Emily came walking out. “Doc! Doc! Pick me up!”

  Over the following hours, after Daddy had played with Emily and left, and until Jim came sailing through the door, I made a makeshift plan. Daddy had never said anything unkind about Trixie. He had never said, “I told you so.” He had simply, and with love, offered shelter. Thank God! I had thought he wouldn’t, but when he came to understand the depth of my problem and when I admitted it was my own doing, he came through. I would talk to Jim. If not that night, then the next.

  I wanted to hate Trixie and say it was all about money. That wasn’t true. She did always make me feel like I was a blood-sucking leech, but I don’t think to this day that she could help herself. I wasn’t a blood-sucking leech. I was too stupid and lazy and preferred painting myself as a victim. Was I going to be that kind of person forever? A coward? I had to face it that it—my marriage, the entire arrangement—was about deceiving others. What was honest and true was my father’s generosity and the innocence of Emily. I took an oath that I would never be a liar or play a game with my life again. Or anyone else’s.

  Eight

  Changing Tide

  2002

  MY first week on the Isle of Palms was comprised of working at the salon during the day and, when I came

  home, still unpacking, daydreaming, organizing, and sunset cocktails with Lucy, and that almost always included Daddy. Sometimes it seemed that he was there because of me and sometimes because of his fascination with Lucy. Whatever the reason was, he became animated with a shot of Lucy’s attention. And, he was obviously assured that he was still relevant in my life with all the little tasks I had for him to do. It was a good thing he had a cordless drill.

  Naturally, I was indulging myself in a lot of looking back. It was so easy to be swayed into delicious sentimentality when the hours slipped by on the rise and fall of sunlight and tides. During the mornings I was surrounded by glittering water and brilliant blue skies. The night was sensual, damp, salted and insistent on its deepest urges being fed. I found myself not wanting to ever leave the island.

  I went to work every day at Harriet’s House of Hair, but my mind was elsewhere. It was time to stop dwaddling in my dreams, get serious and pull everything together before Emily arrived from D.C.

  I was walking on the beach and stopped to fold my newspaper and weight it against any sudden breezes with my coffee container on the bottom step of a walkway. I began to jog a little. It had been so long since I had run anywhere (except away) I wondered if I could even run without tripping. I probably looked like an ass, but my only audience was feathered. So, who cared? I figured I would jog a while and then walk a little, see how my pulse was doing. I had read about doing that in a magazine in the checkout line at Harris Teeter. All those magazines were designed by pathetically young men and women and aimed at letting people like me know we were on the way to a sagging, clogging imminent death unless we signed on to pump and sweat. I knew I was out of shape and I wasn’t fond of the idea of reckless running until my heart exploded. So I checked my pulse, walked a ways, and then jogged some more, figuring I wasn’t going to turn into a jock in one day.

  The tide was going out and the wet sand was packed hard, glistening in the morning sun. In minutes, the same two Irish setters from the other day were running at my side, in front of me, around me and seemingly involved in a canine conspiracy to make me land headlong in the sand. It wouldn’t have taken much. I stopped and looked at them.

  “Listen, you silly dogs, do you want to break my neck?”

  One went down on her front paws, fanny poised high in the air, tail wagging, ready to play. The other yelped, stood on his hind legs, and then took off running toward something behind me.

  “I’m sorry.” I turned to see the owner standing there behind me, clamping a leash on the collar of one dog. “Crazy dogs! Come here, Nikki!”

  Nikki, the friskier dog, had a cute name. She began to run in circles while I stood there with this guy, waiting for him to take control of his animals. But, instead, he waited too. Apparently he thought Nikki would wear herself out and come to him. It was certain that her energy could outdistance his patience, so he held out the leash for her to see and said, “Hey! Let’s go!” Nikki slowed to a halt and then came to his feet, lowering her head for him to attach the leash to her collar as well.

  “They really are good dogs; just full of the devil, that’s all,” he said. “I’m Arthur, by the way, Arthur Fisher.”

  “Hey, Arthur, I’m Anna Abbot.”

  We shook hands and he said, “Well, an abbot is better than a monk.” Then he chuckled, proud of his precious wit.

  “And I’ll bet you think that’s the first time anyone’s said that, right?”

  “Sorry, couldn’t resist.”

  He had dancing eyes, nice, deep brown eyes with thick lashes. Brown hair cut short, sort of spiky. A few gray hairs here and there. About five ten or so, I guessed. Old jeans. Chambray shirt. He looked trustworthy. Not gorgeous, but nice looking. A little rugged. Harrison Ford type. No wedding ring.

  “It’s okay, you’re a riot,” I said. “So, do you live around here?” Boy, was that an inane remark or what? Think I was going to be single forever?

  “Uh, yeah. I’m actually keeping a friend’s house for him while he’s in Alaska. These are his dogs. He’s doing research for National Geographic on the mating habits of puffins.”

  “Good Lord!”

&
nbsp; “They’re birds.”

  “Thank God. For all I know, that could’ve been a tribe.”

  He smiled wide and I could see his dimples. “I’ve been working in Charleston and thinking of staying. You?”

  “I grew up here, first on this island and then in Mount Pleasant, the city, for a while and now I’m back here.”

  “Why do I get the feeling you’re leaving out something?”

  “What?” Off guard again. God, couldn’t I talk to a man without sounding like a living brain donor?

  We were walking along at that point, watching the Atlantic suck out the surf and sand. The sound of it was music, raw and demanding then quiet and satisfied. Pardon me, but the racket made you think about sex. It even made me think about sex.

  “Your life?” he said. “Lots of geography, not much else?”

  I bristled. Who in the hell was this guy, this stranger, a possible pervert, asking me personal questions about my life? But I decided to be charming, thinking he might not be a pervert, but an available man with a mind and some assets and a hankering for a gal like me. You never knew.

  “So,” I said, mustering all available poise, given the hour and the fact that the beach now had other joggers who might possibly come to my rescue if necessary, “you’re kinda nosy, aren’t you?” I laughed a little and looked to see if he had taken this in good spirits. If he didn’t have a sense of humor, I wasn’t interested anyway.

  “Let me guess. You buy cottage cheese premixed with pineapple and eat it on Ritz crackers?”

  “Jeezaree!” Okay, he was weird. “What a thing to say! Why in the world . . . ?” And how could he have known that? Was he spying on my refrigerator?