Isle of Palms

by Dorothea Benton Frank

  “Got it, boss!”

  That was how we made the telephones ring. And ring they did, right off the hook. Lucy made postcards on her computer announcing the new opening and sent them out to all my clients. Nearly everyone I spoke to seemed delighted to know I was going to be available for them.

  Opening day was the following Monday. This was a calculated decision as most salons were closed on Mondays to give their employees two days’ rest. We decided for the summer that we would be open every day except Sunday. After all, we had to maximize the tourist business.

  By Friday afternoon, I was exhilarated. I made one last trip to Abide-A-While, the same nursery I had been using since Jim and I were married. Emily was arriving the next day at noon and I planned to pick her up at the airport and bring her home. I was thinking about everything and wound up buying five flats of pink and white geraniums and two flats of variegated hosta, thinking they would add something comforting to the look of our front yard. They weren’t my first choice of planting materials, but they were the healthiest specimens available. At the last moment, I grabbed two pink mandevillas and two star jasmine vines. Anna the Tightwad had left the building.

  Naturally, I had overlooked the fact that the beds on either side of our front door hadn’t been worked in decades. From the first spade of dirt I knew I had to go back to Mount Pleasant to buy topsoil, vermiculite, manure, and mulch. On my third trip to Mount Pleasant, I bought drip hoses, a regular hose, and, in a moment of abandon, a new outdoor, double faucet with a pelican on top of it. On any other day I would probably have been feeling harassed by my short memory and the long list of chores ahead of me, but on that afternoon the world was my own perfect oyster.

  I decided five or six inches was deep enough to dig and sift. After all, I didn’t want the dastardly Atlantic Ocean flooding my yard and murdering my new beds with salt. My yard looked like a hurricane had hit it with all the equipment I had spread around. The small shed in the backyard had an old wheelbarrow, a shovel, a rake, and some spare screens. I took one screen and the other tools, threw them in the wheelbarrow, and rolled them around to the front of the house. I laid the flats in the shade, pulled out a big garbage can for all the weeds and trimmings I would produce, put on old clothes, and got to work.

  Every shovel of dirt was thrown on the screen laid over the wheelbarrow to sift out rocks, old roots, and debris. I could hear my phone ringing and ringing inside the house but I just let voice mail pick it up, thinking that I would return the calls later. It was probably someone trying to sell me something. After all, it was suppertime for most people and that was when the invasion of telemarketers usually began.

  “Leave a number and I’ll call you back when you’re eating!” I said this out loud to no one and continued to dig and sift.

  Stage two was to dump the trash in a bag and use the same wheelbarrow to mix the old dirt with some good stuff to enrich it and then pile it all back in the beds. Next, I laid the drip hoses down the center and connected them to the faucet by way of a short hose tucked behind the foundation shrubs around the side of the house.

  Inside my house, the telephone was still ringing so many times that I could imagine it flying off the wall and bouncing across the floor. I looked up and could see Lucy on her porch, so I knew it wasn’t her calling me. I was covered in mud at this point and had no intention of tracking it all over my house, making something else for me to clean.

  Ring! Ring!

  “For the love of God! Give me peace!”

  I was still talking out loud, probably not the most mentally healthy activity. I didn’t care. I was almost done and amazed again at the amount of effort that went into accomplishing a task as small as this one was. I laid each of the plants in a small hole, staggering pink with white, pouring water in first, and gently covering them up. Then I put in the hostas on the edges, spacing them six inches apart. When the last one was planted, I spread the mulch over everything and then turned on the water.

  “Now, when Emily gets here, be sure to tell her welcome home, okay? She’s been gone too long, don’t you think?”

  “Who on God’s green earth are you talking to?”

  I looked up to see Lucy standing there with two goblets and a bottle of white wine under her arm.

  “I happen to be talking to my new damn flowers. Got a problem with that?”

  Then we burst out laughing.

  “Honey, you need a glass of wine! You should see yourself!”

  I stood up and brushed myself off a little, removing my gloves and taking a glass from her. My arms and legs were streaked with dirt. We raised a small toast to ourselves.

  “Thanks,” I said, “the sun’s well over the yardarm!”

  “Okay, you sly dog, who’s Jim?”

  “Jim?”

  “Your daddy’s been calling you and so has this guy, Jim. Jim is looking for you, girl! Apparently, he’s in town and on his way over here to see you!”

  “Holy shit! I gotta change!” I pushed the glass back to her and ran inside my house, slamming the door behind me. “If you’ll put all this junk in the shed, I’ll be your slave!”

  “Anna? Who is Jim?”

  I ran back outside, saw she hadn’t moved an inch, and grabbed the glass back. “My ex-husband! You’ll love him to death!” I took a gulp, slammed the door behind me, and headed for the shower.

  Jim’s rented convertible, a white Chrysler Sebring, pulled into my yard before I had a chance to finish dressing or to calm myself. All I could think was, Oh, my God, how long has it been? My hair was still wet, my face scrubbed to a clean shine, and, fast and furious, I threw on the only clean clothes I could manage to rustle up—black ankle-length pants and a black cotton V-neck sweater. I was sliding into my red open-toed mules when Jim walked right in the door. Jim with his short, gelled hair, sunglasses spinning in his right hand, perfect biceps, baggy khakis, woven leather tasseled loafers. No socks. His navy blazer hung from his index finger over the back of his shoulder.

  “Anybody home?”

  “You bad, bad boy! I can’t believe you’re here! Let me just look at you!”

  We hugged and laughed and hugged again.

  “God! You smell good enough to eat!” he said and delivered a gooey lick to the side of my neck. “But, about that hair . . . girlie!”

  It was undeniable that the old familiar and very definite chemistry between us was still there.

  “Take a bite, big mouth,” I said, laughing. “I dare you!”

  “Anna, Anna,” he said, shaking his head and wagging his finger at me, “you know I gave up girls for Lent.”

  There had never been sufficient coal in his furnace to ignite the fire. Nonetheless, I loved Jim and he loved me. Always had, always would. Man, was he adorable, or what?

  But when he didn’t bite, or even nibble, I said, feigning a theatrical pout, “I’m crushed, what can I say? Come on! Let me show you my new house!”

  “Great! Got any beer?” he said, looking around at the living room. “Got a guest room?”

  “You’re in it! Stand in front of the couch and visualize it with sheets and a blanket!”

  “I thought this place looked small; but small is good. Small works!”

  I said, “Listen, this palace is on the Isle of Palms, remember? Everything here costs twice what it’s worth. Besides, I just opened my own business!”

  “Yes! That’s right! Ow! Ow! I can’t believe it! You finally did it! Old Harriet must be scratching her mad place!”

  “Scratching like a dawg fulla ticks!”

  He threw his arms around me again and we spun around and around the room.

  Woo-hoo! She’s got a house on the island!

  Woo-hoo! And her own salon!

  She’s rich! he said.

  She’s broke! I said.

  He’s dizzy!

  So is she! Let me go!

  I landed on the side chair and Jim collapsed on the sofa, after nearly toppling the coffee table and a fake (but very nice
quality) palm tree. We were out of breath, laughing. He was the same old Jim. Thank God for small favors.

  “Beer,” he said in a mutter.

  “You know what? I’m thinking . . .”

  “You’re always thinking, Anna doll.”

  “Yeah, but why is it people always ask me for beer and not wine or a cocktail?”

  “Wet hair and no makeup?”

  My wheels started turning like an express freight train headed from Topeka bound straight to Santa Fe. I could all but smell the smoke. No more Got-a-Beer-Anna. She had to die.

  “Jim?”

  “Yeah, baby?”

  “You taking me out for dinner?”

  Over the next hour and after the two-minute tour, I told him about Daddy and Lucy, the salon, and my terrifying debt. He was horrified when we rehashed the robbery. When I got to the part about getting fired, his blood pressure went up.

  “You know what? Harriet must truly be insane! That’s a lawsuit!”

  “Oh, forget Harriet! Who cares now? It just made me crazy that she fired me, that’s all.”

  “I’ll thrash the woman if you want me to.”

  “God, I love you!”

  He stood in the bathroom doorway while I blew out my hair and made up my face. We talked about Trixie—She drives me crazy—She drives me crazy too—She doesn’t know I’m here—She ain’t gonna hear it from me!—Yeah, but I gotta tell her—Call her tomorrow. I brought him up to date on Emily and her life. He offered to pick her up from the airport the next day, wanting to surprise her.

  “She’ll faint,” I said.

  “I can’t wait to see her,” he said. “Can you believe I haven’t seen her in two years?”

  “She’s not a little girl anymore. Scary. But she’s good, you know? No drugs or any of that weird shit they do in California . . .” I caught his eye from my bathroom mirror, turned off the dryer, and started laughing again.

  “Hey! Watch it now!” he said and gave me a slap on the backside. “You’re talking about the land of my people, you know.”

  “Oh, right! Gosh! Sorry! City of Saints, indeed. Help me pick out something to wear.”

  I went in my bedroom and opened the closet.

  “I live in the aura of Saint Francisco, like you don’t know that. Who are we hunting down? You ain’t catching nothing but a sailor in that outfit, that’s for sure!”

  “The Cheese Whiz. His name is Arthur. Quit rolling your eyes. I’ll explain in the car.”

  Fifteen

  Really Cheesy

  MAYBE it was that I was on the other side of thirty-five, but the hostess at High Cotton that night didn’t appear to be old enough to work in a place that served alcohol. To her credit, she spun around on her ice-pick heels, led us to a great table by the windows, and seated us with the subtle flourish of a trained professional. I took a deep breath and scanned the room for Arthur. No sign.

  Jim looked flawless. In his thirties, he had become a striking man with a movie star kind of élan. He told me I looked pretty divine too, for a girl, that is. He had dug all through my closet and come up with a black blazer, short black skirt and a lecture.

  “What the hell has happened to you? You used to have this, like, whole costume department from MGM in your closet! This stuff looks like an undertaker’s leftovers from a ragpicker’s fire sale! Dreadful!”

  I narrowed my eyebrows and thought about the truth of what he said. “Yeah, well, I haven’t shopped in a while, I guess.”

  “Apparently.” He shook his head. “Anna, Anna. I can see I have work to do on you, dearie. Next week, we shop.”

  “Next week, I’m opening my salon.”

  “Right. I’ll shop. You work and I’ll shop.”

  “We’ll see,” I said and thought to myself that a ragpicker’s fire sale would be all my emaciated wallet could bear.

  But my simple black skirt and single-breasted blazer saved the night. I usually wore it with a tank top but Jim said no.

  “Use your pretty head, honey. This Arthur fellow is standing by his odiferous cart of decomposing dairy. You’re sitting at the table, legs crossed, one extended for his viewing pleasure. If you lean ever so slightly, in a certain way, you could create a stir in the old codger’s jewels. With a little luck.”

  “He’s not old but your point’s well taken.” I reminded myself to cream the daylights out of my legs.

  The fact was that I couldn’t remember whether or not Arthur actually had said that this was where he worked but I did recall that he had made some reference to High Cotton. I told myself that even if this was the wrong restaurant, at least Jim and I could have a great meal. There were so many things to talk about and ever since Arthur had mentioned the place I had wanted to have dinner there. Just to see what it was like, you know? And I could immediately see why people lined up to get in—the restaurant was gorgeous, spacious, elegant, and, if what was on the plates of our neighbors was an indication of what our dinner would be, it was a safe guess that the food was fabulous.

  Despite the fact that I had yet to lay an eye on Arthur, I sat to the side a little so that my crossed leg was discreetly positioned against the white tablecloth. The one advantage of being born with a body like an asparagus was that I had reasonably decent, long legs. I was getting crow’s feet and I wasn’t too happy about the recently arrived creases on either side of my mouth, but I still had a few guns in my arsenal.

  Our captain arrived, all starch and protocol, handed Jim the twenty-two-pound leather bound wine list, and said, “May I offer you a cocktail before dinner?”

  “Yes! Why not? I’ll have a Gibson,” Jim said. “How about you, Anna?”

  Okay, I’m not a cocktail person. I start to giggle thinking of cocktails with naughty names—Fuzzy Navel, Sex on the Beach, Screw Driver—realizing I had to say something, anything, except to ask for a beer. The captain was waiting with limited patience and Jim’s face was curious, wondering what was so funny to me.

  “A Martini,” I said, just like I had them all the time, looking at Jim evenly.

  “Why not have a Cosmopolitan?” Jim said.

  “A Cosmopolitan,” I said, like a good parrot, wondering what a Cosmopolitan was.

  “Very good,” the captain said, nodding his approval, and walked away, clearly thinking we were a couple of jerks.

  We opened the menus and scanned them. Sure enough, there was a cheese course among the desserts. Maybe this was the right place after all. If not, I was wasting enough nervous energy to light a small city.

  “Did you even hear what I said?” Jim said.

  “Oh, God, I’m sorry, Jim. My mind was wandering. Tell me again.”

  “If you’re not going to pay attention to me, I’m going to make you pay half of the bill!”

  I closed my menu and smiled across the table. “Oh, please don’t be an old woman with me, just repeat it, for heaven’s sake.”

  “I said, Gary left me.”

  Gary and Jim had been living together since Jim and I broke up.

  “Good Lord! Why in the world? When were you going to tell me?”

  “He’s sick.”

  “Oh, God. Jim. I’m so, so sorry.” I knew what that meant, at least I assumed it meant Gary was HIV positive. If Gary had it, there was every possibility that Jim did too. Before I could think another horrible thought, Jim spoke again.

  “I’m not sick. I had blood work done and I’m fine. But, I can’t stand”—his eyes filled up with tears and his bottom lip quivered—“the thought of . . .”

  I reached across the table and grabbed his hand, squeezing it.

  The captain reappeared, sighed deeply in ennui at the sight of our joined hands, and placed our drinks in front of us. Jim stood.

  “Excuse me,” he said, leaving the table to go to the men’s room and compose himself.

  Poor Jim! Poor Gary! He hadn’t said much but what was there to say? His tears said it all. Over the years, just like the rest of the world, we had lost too many friends, me
n and women, all of whom contracted AIDS in different ways. In fact, I had arrived at the age where I had lost friends from all kinds of diseases. Breast cancer. Colon cancer. Early heart attacks. I knew that an insurance company’s actuarial table would show that the odds were that x amount of people died in their twenties and more in their thirties and so forth. It didn’t matter what statistics said, I had a terrible time getting my brain wrapped around the fact that young adults were dying left and right. And worse, who would raise their children and live their dreams? Never mind car accidents or suicides. Car accidents were arbitrary and suicides were another subject entirely. Anyway, true to form, I never went to the funerals but I always sent flowers and a card. Would I let Jim go to this funeral without me at his side? Would I always be a coward about seeing dead bodies? Probably.

  I sat there staring at my glass, thinking that if I had my life to start over there was no doubt that my career would’ve been in medical research. How much longer would it be before we could stop these horrible diseases? The newspapers continued to report huge advances, but all around people still died way too young.

  I wondered if Gary was taking the “cocktail,” that now infamous jeroboam of chemicals designed to sustain the lives of HIV patients. But the way Jim had revealed the news implied he was too far along. God, I was filled with such sadness, not only for Jim and for Gary but for all of us. I just hated death. I hated it.

  I needed to cheer myself before I slid into a maudlin pit, knowing I had to give Jim the compassion he deserved. I took a sip of the pale cranberry-colored drink that I decided was wrongly named a Cosmopolitan. It was delicious, but it should’ve been named something like Pink Quicksilver because it was going to slip down my throat with alarming speed. Jim had been right to think I would like this and that’s how Jim had always been—the kind of man who thought about what you might like and then saw to it that you got it. I took a few more sips, thinking it didn’t appear to have any alcohol in it.

  I couldn’t stop thinking about Gary. I wasn’t overly fond of him, because he was the one who I blamed for jet propelling my life back to Daddy’s house, but I most surely did not want to know the man was going to die a terrible death. It wasn’t right.