Isle of Palms

by Dorothea Benton Frank

  “Because, madam, I am the Cheese Whiz of Charleston.”

  I burst out laughing. Nerd alert. But a funny nerd.

  “The Cheese Whiz of Charleston. Well, that’s nice. That’s great! Really! It is! It’s great! I’m, um, honored.”

  “No, no. It’s quite serious, this position.”

  “No, of course it is, I mean, every city needs one, right?”

  “But af coss!” he said, with a terrible French accent. But he sensed, correctly, that obscure was only interesting up to a point and then sane people rightly expected explanations. “No, I mean, you know how restaurants have sommeliers to help you pick wine?”

  “You mean like at Dunleavy’s?”

  Dunleavy’s Pub had a billion kinds of beer, but wine came in white, red, and blush.

  “No, wise guy, like at High Cotton or Cypress, where the wine list is leather bound and it takes two people to lift it.”

  “Ah! Well, I haven’t been there, so I wouldn’t know.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him in silent warning not to do the gentrified walleto thing with me. People who threw money around gave me the creeps. But the longer I walked along talking to him, the more engaging he became.

  We chatted about the current status of restaurants around Charleston. New ones opened all the time and people were always in search of the ones hidden by a dock, like The Wreck in Mount Pleasant on Shem Creek or the legendary restaurant at Bowen’s Island off Folly Road. Of course, Shem Creek itself held the record for the most complete choices. There was the Trawler, California Dreaming, The Water’s Edge, and my all-time great favorite, The Shem Creek Bar and Grill.

  The Shem Creek Bar and Grill had a main attraction, besides the views, the excellent food, and the warm service. It was Albert, the man at the back oyster bar. Al was a shucking machine. He could shuck faster than any man on the planet. Oh, my God, the oysters they had were so smooth and delicious, it was like taking a drink of life and finding out what made it tick. Watching Al, and being the recipient of his talent, was my preference for a night out. I mean, everyone has their own list.

  In Charleston’s population, swollen with tourists all year long, we had several kinds of restaurantgoers. There were those who thought the only way to eat anything was fried and refused to go anywhere if they had to dress up, which in the city meant long pants or a sundress that covered your tan line. These mainstream folks could be found, happy as the day was long, in any one of a dozen waterside establishments sharing baskets of batter-dipped everything. Those were the places where I went on the rare occasions I went anywhere.

  Then, there were those who coveted a particular table at a particular chic spot to maximize their visibility, usually to show off their dinner companion, be it business or bimbo or both.

  Last, there were the hordes of tourists who were happy to spend the price of a Mercedes-Benz for dinner, giving our local chefs the opportunity to explore and hone their skills. Now, it seemed, we had ascended or descended to the realm of Fromage Sommeliers—Fromagiers?

  “Are you married?”

  “What?”

  “You know, husband?”

  Oh, my God! Was a man going to ask me out on a date?

  “Who wants to know?” I could feel perspiration growing and spreading.

  “I just thought y’all could come by some night when I am working and I could show you what this cheese business is all about.”

  “Yeah, well, thanks, but my husband is sort of permanently out of town. And I work at the House of Hair in the city.”

  I could have just said I was divorced, but hell no, I couldn’t do that. I had to make a big stupid autobiography out of it. His dogs were pulling on him and I knew we were about to say good-bye.

  “Oh.”

  “Divorced. You know, supporting myself.”

  “Oh. Okay, well, if you ever want to know about the world of cheese . . .”

  Here was the most appealing man I had met in ages, even if he did call himself the Cheese Whiz, and he was about to take off and disappear. Admittedly, his eyes did cloud over a bit when I mentioned divorce. Well, maybe he was married. Just because he was talking to me didn’t mean he wanted to go out with me, I told myself. Why did I get so carried away?

  “Hey! Arthur?”

  “Hang on!” he said to his dogs. “Yeah?”

  “If you ever need a haircut or something . . .” Boy, that was about the dumbest thing I could’ve said. “Just one question. How did you know about the cottage cheese and pineapples?”

  “Your plastic coffee container over there is from Dunkin’ Donuts, not Starbucks, and you’re jogging in regular shorts and a T-shirt, not some coordinated outfit with logos all over it. You’re not concerned with status stuff and you eat on the run.”

  “Dead giveaway, huh?”

  “Whatever.”

  He shrugged his shoulders, smiled, and began following the yanking lead of his rambunctious dogs, waving at me over his shoulder. Nice meeting you, I thought. Go screw yourself.

  By seven that night, I had cut ten heads of hair, given three perms, and I was pretty darn tired. When my work didn’t require my full attention, I spent my time burning fuel over my encounter with Arthur, thinking that I hadn’t handled it right. I should have offered him a cup of coffee. But I didn’t. Not very astute. I didn’t believe you should just walk down the beach picking up men and looking for a little action either. So I convinced myself that I had done the right thing and if he wanted to find me, it wasn’t that hard. I drove to work hoping that he would.

  It wasn’t until Miss Harriet of the House of Hair asked to see my book for the eighteenth time that I decided that maybe our days together were coming near an end. After all the time I had worked for her I couldn’t believe she thought I might be doing someone’s hair and pocketing the fee. But as the years had passed, she had become more and more peculiar. I couldn’t stand her another day. When it had come to the point where I wanted to give her the finger behind her back or some other vulgar juvenile thing, then it was time to leave.

  When I came home, I called Marilyn Davey, my real estate broker. “Marilyn? Hey! It’s Anna Abbot. Um, what do you know of on the market in commercial space?”

  “On the Isle of Palms?” she said.

  “I don’t know. Charleston or Mount Pleasant would be fine too.”

  We talked for a few minutes and when I thought she understood what I was after, we hung up. She promised to call as soon as she had done the research. There was no rush and I was merely considering it. I reasoned that if I could take the jump and leave Daddy’s house, why not go have a look at the high dive? I was daydreaming, trying to figure out whether it was even a possibility, when I heard a rap on my screen door. It was Lucy.

  She was attired unusually conservatively, in black capri pants and a modest, loose black top. Her sandals were flat slides. Okay, the shoes had silk fruit and flowers on the front, but remember, this was, after all, Lucy.

  “Hey! Anna! You home?”

  “Come on in!”

  “Come with me for five minutes. Your daddy’s at my house and he wanted to say hello. I told him I would come to get you. Honey, girl! Look at you! You need a little glass of O Be Joyful.”

  “I need something! What’s going on?”

  “Sunset, sugar plum, and you don’t want to miss it.”

  I followed her over to her house, up the stairs around the porch, and up another spiral flight of steps to her widow’s walk. Daddy was up there, looking out over the ocean.

  “Hey, Daddy!” I gave him a kiss on the cheek and wondered who had called who. Were they dating? Did this make me their chaperone? Lucy handed me a goblet of white wine. There was a bowl of shrimp and cocktail sauce on the small table next to the wine bucket. Given Lucy’s culinary skills, this was one high-tone party.

  “Hey, sweetheart,” he said, smiling.

  He was wearing cologne! What did that mean? Ignore it, I told myself, and I did.

  No one spoke;
we simply watched. The heavens were streaked with deep purple and fuchsia and the blue of day deepened with the passing of each minute. The sun had become a great red pulsating mass and was slowly and with a sure reluctance slipping into a slit torn across the lower sky.

  Soon the sky would be heavy with the white shimmer of countless stars, the breeze would pick up, and another day would give way to history. It was a time for waking dreams. We stood together, each of us keeping them our own. Every thought was not meant to be given in speech. It was good to feel my heart’s muscle pump through the thought of a man in my life, a salon of my own someday, my daughter’s imminent arrival.

  I watched Lucy’s hand travel the rail to rest on Daddy’s. He smiled at her, putting his other hand on hers and giving her a few reassuring pats of affection. I didn’t mind seeing it. We were all just people with our aches and desires, and even if those desires were never fulfilled, it was okay to have them. It was important to take the time to recognize them, examine them, and consider their possibilities, their probabilities. What would this world be if we never dreamed?

  “I called your daddy,” Lucy said, “and then I came over to . . .”

  “Lucy? It’s okay. Don’t stress. I’m just so happy to be here right now.”

  “Oh, thanks, Anna, I just thought you and your daddy would . . .”

  “I’ve met a man,” I said.

  “Who? How wonderful!” Lucy said.

  Daddy just looked at me, dumbfounded.

  “I’ve met a man and I am seriously considering opening my own salon. Maybe.”

  “What?” Lucy said. “How? Why?”

  “Good question, Lucy. These are very good questions. But I will figure it out.”

  “You don’t need your own salon! You just bought a house!” Daddy said. “I mean, have you lost your goddamn mind, if you will excuse my language, Miss Lucy.”

  “I’m not opening a salon today, Daddy. Don’t get all torched!” God! I had just thought about it and made one stupid phone call.

  “Watch your mouth, Anna,” Daddy said.

  “She hasn’t lost her mind, Dougle. She’s just dreaming out loud.”

  “I apologize, Anna.”

  He deferred to her and I began to see that it wasn’t the first time he had done it, either, remembering how he had treated her when they first met, their long absences, and the state of my father’s hair. All signs read that Daddy had big heat for Lucy.

  “It’s okay. Look, y’all, nothing could be a bigger pain than Harriet.”

  “She’s got a reputation for being a little crazy,” Lucy said.

  “I didn’t know,” Daddy said. “I mean, you always seemed happy enough to be working there.”

  “Daddy? In all my life, I have had to be resigned to too many things. If I ever want my life to change, I have finally decided it is me who will have to do the changing. I’m in my thirties! It’s way past time.”

  “I never knew you were that unhappy, Anna,” Daddy said, and the exhale of his voice wrapped itself around me, squeezing my heart. Did he think this was his fault too?

  “Douglas? I think what Anna means is that she wants her life to be hers. I mean, wasn’t it Gloria Steinem who said that thing about history being his story and what we needed was her story?”

  Daddy and I stopped and looked at Lucy. She could not have been more succinct if she’d spent her whole life studying psychology. This was Lucy? Quoting Gloria Steinem?

  “What? Did I say something wrong? I didn’t mean to . . .”

  Even in the twilight, I could see her bottom lip quiver. She was going to cry any second if I didn’t say something. Or Daddy.

  “You don’t know how right you are,” I said. “Gee, God, Lucy! You are so, so right!”

  Daddy, beside her, stretched his arm around her and gave her a squeeze and Lucy’s fear dissolved into a crooked grin of relief. I imagined that Lucy was unaccustomed to any accolades for her intelligence. Probably because she had her dim but well-meaning light completely buried six feet under her bushel.

  “I told you she was a smart cookie,” Daddy said.

  He had said no such thing to me, but Lucy threw her arms around him and old Douglas was rewarded for his remark with a full frontal encounter starring the swell of her saline implants.

  I was sure Daddy’s face was scarlet, but fortunately I didn’t have to see it in the fading light.

  It was growing darker by the instant now, and soon we would be leaving Lucy’s skybox to find our dinner. I would suggest that they go out and bring something back for us. I would make a pot of decaffeinated coffee and set the table.

  “Anna?” Daddy said an hour later, putting a large paper bag on my table. “Who is the man?”

  Took him long enough to ask.

  “What man?” I opened the brown bag and peeked inside, then lifted out the box of chicken lo mein and the plastic container of soup carefully. “Let me just throw this in the microwave. Be right back. Where’s Lucy?” I had temporarily forgotten about Arthur Fisher and was fully focused on dinner.

  “She’ll be over in a minute. She said she wanted to check something. Probably her email. Now. You say you’ve met a man?” He poured himself a beer.

  I stirred my noodles and threw them back in for thirty seconds. “Unfortunately, there’s really not much to report in the man department.”

  “He wasn’t much?”

  Lucy had reemerged, bedecked in a new ensemble of red linen with a bare abdomen, featuring sufficient cleavage to provide flotation for a fleet, and enough lip gloss to slide over the Cooper River Bridge.

  “No, I just met him this morning. If he calls, I’ll make a cake and invite you over.”

  “You gotta prepare yourself,” Lucy said. “I’m gonna give you a book to read called The Relationship Book. Find out his birthday.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “This book is amazing. And I mean that if you want a man to call you, you have to be ready when he does!” she said. “Y’all might think I’m a screwball sometimes . . .”

  “We think no such thing!” Daddy said.

  “Never!” I said. Always, I thought.

  “Just hang on and listen to me. I’m taking you shopping, Anna. Okay? And, you’re gonna find out his birthday. Is that okay? And I’m gonna put some makeup on your face.”

  I started laughing. Lucy started laughing.

  I might read the book but there was no way Lucy was coming near my closet or my face. No way.

  Nine

  Miss Mavis Says, Check Your Roots

  T was another Sunday. Some days it seemed to me that all I do is go from my bed to my kitchen and then to my pink recliner. At least I had Sunday Mass to break things up. Oh, I played with my kitties and watered my violets, but it was pretty dull. I can promise you that! Yes, it was, dull as dirt. Speaking of dirt, I was standing by my curtains, looking down on my neighbor digging up flower beds, and I thought to myself that there was something odd and familiar about her. How could that be? I knew I was getting on in years and that the mind plays tricks on old people, but before I let myself go and turned into some crazy old lady people talk about, I decided to investigate. I took off my cardigan and went outside.

  Moses! It was hot! Well, Angel would say that I was feeling the heat so bad because I kept my air conditioner so low during the day. So what? That’s my business! I paid the bill! In fact, I paid all the bills! What a nuisance!

  The oleanders between our properties were another nuisance, I’ll tell you. No matter how careful I always was walking through them, they always seemed to snag my hair. The stems were like long fingers, just waiting to annoy me. I got my hair washed and set every Tuesday and it had to last me a week. I’d admit that I wasn’t very good with my hair. When a disrespectful branch of some overgrown bush would grab me and a big lock would shoot out from the side of my head, well, there was a good chance it would stay that way until the following Tuesday. That day, I didn’t care. I was determined to find ou
t what it was that bothered me so about that girl next door.

  “Anna?”

  “Hey, Miss Mavis!” She stopped digging her hole and stood around to face me. “How are you this fine day?”

  “Thinking about fixing to go on and get ready for church. Do you go to church?” Now, don’t tell me it’s none of my business what this young woman did with her Sundays. I know that! However, I feel that I am entitled to an inkling of the morality of at least my direct neighbors.

  “No, ma’am. Not in a long time. But I should. Where do you go?”

  I knew it! “Oh, it depends on my mood,” I said, just as sweet as pie, hoping she would understand that decent people kept the Lord’s day holy. “Mostly, I go to Stella Maris on Sullivan’s Island. That Father Michaels is a handsome devil. Smart too. Gets to the point and doesn’t fool around. I like that. But if Angel is in the mood to drive, she’ll drop me off at Blessed Sacrament across the Ashley. I haven’t missed a Sunday in over thirty years!” Think about that, missy!

  Do you think a shred of guilt crossed her face? No!

  “Blessed Sacrament? That’s a long way, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is. But then I can get her to go with me to the S&S Cafeteria over there on Highway 7. That way we don’t have to cook. And, they have bread pudding and I can have as much as I want.”

  “I like bread pudding,” she said. “Fattening, but good.”

  “Humph! I don’t worry about that nonsense at my age. My doctor, that old fool, says I should watch what I eat. But I figure, I’m already past eighty, so what if I don’t live to one hundred! I’ll live to ninety-nine instead.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She was just standing there, shifting her weight from one hip to the other. I kept staring at her and I knew she was waiting for me to say my piece. So, before she thought I had lost my marbles, I just came out with it. Besides, the gnats were out and I hate them! Nasty things, trying to get in my eyes.

  “I know you!” I said. There. It was done.

  “Yes’m, and I know you too.”

  “You do?” Lawsa mercy! Who was this woman?

  “You took me in the day my mother died, Miss Mavis. Don’t you remember? I’m Anna Lutz.”