“Are you screwed up? No. Is it screwed up that he didn’t call? Yes. Let me tell you something about men who can’t commit to relationships. They don’t call. They live their whole lives looking for excuses on why they can’t have a relationship with anyone. You’re too tall, you’re too short, too fat, too thin, too ugly, too pretty, too smart, too stupid, too rich, too poor, too something! The only thing they value is themselves. They are emotionally bankrupt pretenders.”
“You go, honey!” When Jim got on a tear it was like mashing the pedal to the floor in a Ferrari.
“It’s the truth.”
“I know. I just miss him, you know?”
“You really liked him, didn’t you?”
“I guess. Yeah, I guess I did. The bastard.”
“That’s my girl.”
“Jim, what’s the matter with people?” Another invitation for a lecture but I knew it was good to just let him talk. Anyway, filling my night talking to Jim was good for me too.
“I don’t know. I think that people just don’t understand, Anna. And they don’t have strong values. They don’t understand what’s worth it and what isn’t. And, they put themselves first.” He stopped for a second and sighed. “I’ll tell you what. I’m gonna miss Gary every day for the rest of my life and for the rest of my life I’ll be damn glad I was here with him in the end. There just aren’t that many people in your life who ever really love you. You know?”
“That’s for sure,” I said, and thought about how much I loved Jim. And Daddy. And Emily. And Frannie. “I can count ’em on one hand, just like they say.”
“It’s true. They know you inside and out including all your evil ways and they still love you. That’s what you gotta hang on to. The rest of these players are just not worth our sweat.”
I knew he was right, but I still wished Arthur would call and give me some reasonable explanation for dropping off the map. Like that he was shopping for a diamond for me and he got kidnapped, conked on the head, and was in the hospital with amnesia.
I spent my Sundays going to Mass and gardening—which involved cutting flowers from my wild and woolly garden to fill every container I owned. My garden had reached warp-speed progress. I would take flowers to the salon, to Lucy, and to the Snoop Sisters next door and they grew back almost overnight.
On that Sunday, after talking to Jim, I had dinner with Miss Mavis and Miss Angel, which I heartily enjoyed. Later, I was in the yard again working. Emily and David were at the beach. When I gardened I was my most serene self, thinking through my life and seeing it for what it really was. Mentally, I was still savoring the warm apple pie Miss Angel had served for dessert.
Our dinner conversation had centered around the island in the old days, when there had been a Ferris wheel, a merry-go-round, cotton candy, and Jones bingo. I laughed listening to Miss Mavis talk about the dried lima beans people used to mark their numbers on their bingo cards and the teddy bears, radios, and horrible Nubian lamps you could take home, if you won the “cover all.” When she was barely married to my father, my mother had gone with her several times and she said they’d had a grand time. On one occasion, Momma had won a Scotch plaid metal ice chest.
“She was so excited, you’d have thought she’d won the Irish Sweepstakes! I can still remember her eyes sparkling when she chose that prize. The man who called out the numbers was named Gabe, which is an unheard-of name in these parts. He was Italian, I think. B-12! Under the O-64! He had the most masculine voice! Don’t you know that Yankee winked at your mother and she liked to have died? Oh! We laughed so!”
I remembered that cooler being on our back porch, slightly rusted on the hinges of the handle. I used to sit on it when it was full of ice because it was cool.
Miss Mavis talked about the trolley that brought her parents from Charleston, all through Sullivan’s Island to the Isle of Palms, and how they fell in love with the place.
“I wasn’t even born but I heard the stories so many times, I remember them like I was there. My momma and daddy would go to the foot of Cumberland Street to catch the Sappho—that was the name of the ferryboat they took. The ride across the harbor was so beautiful, the wind blowing Momma’s hair and Daddy hanging on to his hat. Momma had a hamper filled with sandwiches and their clothes for the beach. They’d dock in Mount Pleasant and take the trolley up Railroad Avenue on Sullivan’s Island—that’s Jasper Avenue or Boulevard now—and then over to this island. The Fourth of July was so beautiful with all the fireworks. They were so wonderful, Momma said. And they’d always have some special entertainment, like men jumping out of airplanes in parachutes—one year some fool stunt pilot got himself killed. Oh, yes, I remember hearing about that. Terrible!
“There was a long boardwalk where she’d walk with Daddy under the stars. The big bands would play and Momma and Daddy would dance in the pavilion until it was time to catch the last trolley car home. They always took the very last trolley.”
Her parents had loved the island so much, they had built one of the first summer cottages there. It had no heat or plumbing but it did have electricity. I was such a sissy, I couldn’t imagine agreeing to that kind of inconvenience and calling it fun. But those were the stories of the past, and how wonderful that women like Miss Mavis’s mother had valued the great beauty of the island over something like running water.
The richest conversation and the best advice came from the oldest people you knew. I wondered why we seemed to let their wealth of knowledge and experience go by the boards. But we had become a country of youth goals. Women of sixty were supposed to look thirty while they worried about women who were actually thirty snatching their husbands of sixty-five. Go figure.
As far as I could tell, the Isle of Palms hadn’t completely sold out to the outside world of consumer noise. People still dropped in on their elder neighbors, not out of a sense of duty, but for the genuine pleasure of their company. It was what I loved best, I suppose, that no one was really alone on the island. Life made room for everyone.
Daddy and Lucy were all patched up again and they seemed to be getting serious. And even though Lucy was heavily invested in the media bull of Botox, nip and tuck, liposuction to reduce, saline to enhance, Love@AOL, Barbie clothes, excess alcohol, and the sporadic use of psychotropics to alter her state of mind (whew!), I couldn’t really blame her. My daddy was drawn to outer beauty and considered any other good that came with the package to be a bonus. If Lucy was going to be attractive to a man, it would only be an older man and she would have to do everything in her power to be the young girl of his dreams. No matter how big a man’s paunch, how thin his hair, most men wanted their women to be as good looking and youthful as possible. If some women committed the sin of valuing themselves through men, some men found their immortal virility through a woman’s looks.
As much as I didn’t like those realities, I understood them. Nobody—except the hopelessly depressed—really wanted to die. All these seemingly neurotic and shallow acts were really about survival. Maybe there was an element of survival tactics in what I gave to the women who were my clients. Certainly, I had even helped Marsha from Clearwater feel better about herself.
While I weeded the front flower beds, I was chewing on that thought and wondering if Joanne Fairchild had thrown out our photograph. I was also thinking that maybe a walkway with mondo grass borders would be nice—give the front of the house some warmth. I looked up to see Emily returning from the beach with David.
David was rushing across the steaming asphalt, barefooted, carrying two beach chairs and a small cooler. Emily, who had had the brains to put on her sandals, had a beach bag on one shoulder and sandy beach towels over her other arm. She followed him, laughing at his antics. They were beautiful and happy, without a care in the world. And even though Emily insisted they were nothing more than friends, I knew my daughter. She was in love.
“I’m gonna rinse off under Lucy’s shower, okay?”
“Hey, Miss Abbot,” David said, “the beac
h is fabulous! You should go for a swim!”
Lucy had smartly installed outdoor showers for all sand rats returning from the beach. I should do the same, I thought, then I wouldn’t think twice about my daughter being in a shower with a boy, even though they had on their bathing suits. But I also knew that Emily wouldn’t be so stupid as to do anything sexy twenty feet from my nose. Would she?
“Yeah, good idea! Get the sand off and then come right home. You’re as red as a beet!”
“Okay! I’ll be home in ten minutes!”
One of the many things I liked about Emily’s relationship with David was that they dealt with each other as equals. He was a year older and she was a little bit more accomplished. He had his own car, she knew the lay of the land. They were nearly the same height, both lanky but toned, and they looked like they fit together. He teased her, she teased him, and, as far as I knew, they split expenses. They were both film hounds and had seen every movie that had come out during the summer. They both loved books and had finished their summer reading already. They liked crossword puzzles and bought the New York Times from Barnes & Noble on Sunday, spending the late afternoons lazing around in hammocks, trying to remember a four-letter word for a three-toed sloth. If they weren’t in love, they should’ve been. They had been off and running since the moment they laid eyes on each other and she’d dropped her “angry woman” act and gone back to looking like and being herself.
What a summer it had been. I stood up from the ground and arched my back, looking at the sun. Maybe I would take a swim and then shower up. I wondered what Lucy was doing about supper. When I went into the house to change into my swimsuit, I called her.
“Hey! Wanna go for a swim?”
“Sure! This weather is so sticky! Gimme five minutes!”
True to her word, in minutes, Lucy was at the door. She had on a red bandeau bikini with a man’s red Hawaiian print open shirt. She wore an enormous straw hat and oversized red sunglasses. Needless to say, her sandals were red too. She was ready for the French Riviera.
She held the shirt open and said, “Hey! Look at me! I’m censored in red!”
“Lucy? I swear! You must be the most exciting thing to ever hit this beach since the Seewee squaws!” There I was in a black tank suit, flip-flops from the Gap, a baseball hat, and Ray-Bans. At the last minute, I had grabbed a cotton T-shirt in case my skin started to burn.
“Who? Thanks!”
“When the English landed up around Awendaw, the Seewee squaws ran out to meet them. They were wearing skirts made out of Spanish moss and check this out—they were topless.”
“You swear?”
“Yep. Cross my fingers, hope to die! Let’s go.”
I took two beach chairs from the shed and we walked the short distance, crossed the dunes, and looked for a place to settle. The tide was coming in and the beach was shallow. We decided to park ourselves in the soft sand, facing west toward Sullivan’s Island. The sky behind us was growing dark, a sure sign that within the hour we’d have a thunder boomer to cool off the night. Over Sullivan’s Island, the sky was as clear and beautiful as it had been all day. Lucy and I chatted, reminiscing over what the summer had brought.
“I’ll tell you what,” she said, “if somebody had told me a year ago that within a few months I’d have a real job and a real man, I woulda said they were crazy as hell, ’eah?”
“And, I’ll tell you what, if somebody had told me a year ago that I’d have my own house and my own business, I would have said they were crazy as hell too!”
“And, I’d be in love with my boss’s daddy?”
“And that my daughter would be head over heels over your nephew?”
“And that I was the one who would locate Everett Fairchild?”
That stopped me for a second.
“What’s the matter?” she said.
“I don’t know. I guess it’s that his wife was such a turnoff and I had hoped she’d be different than she was. Just disappointed, I guess.”
“Well, you know what, Anna? I’ve been thinking about this. Look. We set her up for the kill. She didn’t know she was being interviewed, did she? Maybe if she’d known what she was walking into, she would’ve shown us her best side instead of her worst.”
I looked at Lucy and realized that once again, Lucy had sliced it just about as thin as you could. We, or I anyway, hadn’t wanted Joanne to be a good woman. We had all but tricked her into sarcasm and cynicism. Maybe under all her hoopla there was a decent person. I hadn’t played fairly. I had hated her before I ever saw her.
“Damn it, Lucy. You’re right. You kill me when you say these things. Why didn’t I think of that?”
“I don’t know, but she really might be a big old bitch just like we thought, you know. Let’s not forget that she was pretty horrible. No tips?”
“That’s true also.”
I felt a little better. Her second comment had left me in a place where I could excuse myself for plotting against Joanne, and justify the judgments I had made against her. My capacity to rationalize my worst behavior was not something I was proud of. But there it was. Just like the rest of humanity, I had my warts too.
We were quiet for a few minutes and then, out of nowhere in particular, I said, “I went to Mass this morning. Nine-thirty. The choir was amazing.”
“You did? I used to go to church when I was real little. I loved to sing. Haven’t been to church in years.”
“You know what’s really crazy, Lucy?” I said that and then thought to myself that asking Lucy a question about craziness carried with it possibilities of a new understanding of the team.
“What?”
“Well, maybe crazy isn’t the right word. But have you ever noticed that you live your life by hurdles? I mean, I used to say that as soon as I got my own house, my life would begin. As soon as I got my own business, I’d be my own woman. As soon as I did this or that, then I could do the next thing on my list. Why I haven’t gone to church all these years is a mystery to me. I mean, I was sitting in the back pew this morning and thinking about how lucky I am and saying thanks to God for a million things. It made me feel so good. Just to be there. I don’t know, I felt connected, you know?”
“I haven’t been to church in years. But I do know what you mean. When I come out here or when I watch the sun go down at the end of the day, I think about my life. I do. I think I’m pretty lucky, you know, everything considered.”
“Yeah, me too.”
We were quiet again for a few minutes, watching the little sand-pipers run around the water’s edge and then scramble away from the easy flowing waves as they washed the shore. They were so busy and so determined to get their supper.
“Anna?”
“Hmmm?”
“Let’s have us a Labor Day party. Jim and Frannie are coming, right?”
“Yep. They are.”
“Well, remember the cookout we had for Jim? Let’s do it again. He’s been through hell. You’ve had a rough summer too, with all the stress of that Joanne and just everything—moving, opening a business . . . what do you say? Emily’s going to be leaving for school and I could invite my sister down from Greenville. When does Emily go back?”
“Her classes don’t start until September ninth. She’s leaving on the freaking third, unless somebody blows something up.”
“Good Lord, Anna! Don’t even think that!”
“Right. Sends bad vibes to the universe.”
“Exactly! Listen, it’ll be great. Hell, I’d even invite the old biddies next door! We’re closed Labor Day anyway, aren’t we?”
“Yeah, but Lucy? Here’s the problem.”
“What?”
“If you do the cooking, we’ll all wind up dead in the morgue.”
We started laughing.
“Oh, Lord! Isn’t that the truth? Do you remember when I first met y’all? And I brought over that awful casserole? It had been in my freezer for two years! I can’t cook worth a S-H-I-T! But I’ll make you a deal
.”
“What?”
“You cook and I’ll buy the food. We’ll tell everyone to bring an appetizer or a dessert, like we did for Jim’s party. We’ll put Dougle in charge of the grill, set up a self-serve bar, and do everything buffet. What do you say?”
“I don’t want to listen to Bettina’s disco music, okay?”
“Then let’s call it a Lowcountry barbecue! All beach music! Come on! What do you think? I’ll even make invitations on the computer! Hey!” She sat up in her beach chair and looked at me.
“What?”
“Did you ever call that Jack Taylor guy to thank him for that ugly plant?”
“Hell, no! He’s probably married to Caroline by now!”
“Well, then, let’s invite them and find out. In fact, it would be great to invite a few clients. Why not?”
“Fine. You make the list and call them. Hey! Jim could teach Bettina to shag! Oh! I can see it now! My house or yours?”
“Both! I have a bigger kitchen. And the deck. But we can share the yard, right? We can watch the sunset together. I just bought another digital camera. I’ll take pictures of everyone. You could invite Harriet!”
“Have you lost your mind?”
“Just a thought.”
“Right. Okay. Let’s do it. But no Harriet. We need to do something to mark the end of this summer with a party. You’re right. It’s a good idea.”
“If you entertain clients and employees, you can deduct it!”
She was right. Good old Lucy.
Sunday morning, September first, Jim was snoring on the sofa, Frannie was snoring in Emily’s room, and Emily was snoring in my bed. I couldn’t sleep with all the honking going on so I got up at six. Luggage was everywhere. Glasses, bags of potato chips, and Burger King wrappers were all over the table from our late-night powwow. Frannie and I had listened to Jim talk himself into a stupor over Gary’s death, sympathizing and consoling at first and then, as the night wore on, we became deeply philosophical, deciding there were no accidents and that we were all in each other’s lives for a reason. At one in the morning, I had been convinced of destiny. At six in the morning, I was convinced we had all had too much wine.
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