Bulls Island

by Dorothea Benton Frank

  “Vaguely. I mean, I remember you calling. But I sure don’t remember you asking me to run away with you.”

  “Because I was so young and stupid I thought you hated my whole family after what happened.”

  “Well, I did. I always liked your father well enough, but your mother? She’s yours and you can keep her. She had a lousy attitude toward my family…still does. Who needs it?”

  “That bull goes back for generations. It should be ancient history…”

  “Except that it seems to keep repeating itself,” I said. “And I was innocent enough to think we might have been the generation that stopped all the craziness.”

  “Well, maybe this project for Bulls Island will build something good between all of us.”

  “Aren’t you the optimist? There’s a lot of bad ink out there, you know.”

  “Yeah, I saw the papers. Look. We will just prove them wrong, that’s all. One issue at a time. We’ll have a series of feature articles or something placed in the press that shows how sensitive we are to the island’s fragile ecosystems. Maybe some public lectures. I was thinking of hiring a publicist for the short term. What do you think?”

  “A publicist. Might not be a bad idea. How much?”

  “A couple of thousand a month. Not terrible.”

  “Well, while we’re working on image, can we get someone to undo that picture of us? Jeesch!”

  “Why? I love that picture. Screw the Langley women. Moody bunch. I’m just glad to have the chance to see you again, Betts. You have no idea how many times I have thought of you.”

  Here it came, I thought, a little seduction on the beach. Finally!

  “Um, me, too. You know that without me saying it. But pictures like that just don’t look good, J.D. And you know it.”

  “Well, it’s not like we’re having an affair, Betts.”

  “J.D.? It’s not like we aren’t on the brink of one either.”

  “Well, I won’t let that happen.”

  “Really? You’re lying there looking at me like this? Honey, your mouth is saying one thing, but your eyes are saying something entirely different.”

  He was very quiet then, just staring at my face. He smelled so good that I wanted to wipe my hand on him to take some of that scent home. If you don’t think the sounds of surf pounding on the shore and the squealing of gulls, the sight of J. D. Langley’s eyes, and the feel of a salty breeze floating across your face are an aphrodisiac, please tell me what is.

  “Betts? You’re right but, and this is a very big but, there are two things a life of mediocre satisfaction teaches you. One is to lower your expectations and the other is how to control yourself. I am the unfortunate master of self-control.”

  I sat up then, no longer feeling the rush of anticipation I’d felt on the drive here. In fact, I was let down. And annoyed.

  “Well, bully for you,” I said, “and your ‘masterful self-control.’ I guess my question is why? You want to kowtow to a drug addict and alcoholic, that’s your business. Have a happy life. Now let’s see those golf-course plans.”

  “Hold on there, partner. Aren’t you?”

  “Aren’t I what?”

  “Entitled to personal happiness?”

  “Who says I’m not happy? And besides, what’s happy worth if making yourself feel better makes everyone else feel worse? Doesn’t it become some kind of exercise in narcissistic self-indulgence?”

  “I don’t know, Betts McGee. These are the kinds of questions I’ve been avoiding for years. Let’s get moving.”

  “No, wait. Are you saying it’s better to just ‘keep the evil that you know’?”

  “I don’t know, Betts. I don’t know.”

  “Whatever. ‘Master of self-control’ sounds like ‘big fat wimp’ to me.”

  “Ooh! Betts! Them’s strong words! That sounds like a challenge.”

  He was actually smiling at me—and I could feel my temper rising, so I backed off to recoup my composure.

  “Take it however you want,” I said. I’ll admit that the smile on my face was a forced one, put there in order to veil the bruise to my ego.

  He had no intention of seducing me.

  We cleaned up the remains of lunch in weighty silence and walked back to the truck. J.D. cleared his throat and pulled out a folded piece of paper from his pocket.

  “Okay. Are we speaking now?”

  “Of course we’re speaking.”

  “Good! All right. Look.”

  He showed me how the second nine holes would wind around Boneyard Beach, using the existing freshwater impoundments as water features. I had to admit, it was a brilliant plan.

  He infuriated me.

  We talked for a while at the Dominick House then rode to the northeast end of the island, where the most expensive houses would be constructed. Our conversation was focused on plans and budgets, and then, before we knew it, it was time to go back to the mainland as it was getting late.

  “So, you think a publicist is the answer?” I said, still fuming.

  “In the short term.”

  He looked at me with an expression that gave me no personal satisfaction whatsoever, except that I knew from our meeting that I could report back to Bruton that we had a fair partner in Langley Development. He knew his business inside and out. So far.

  We headed back to the dock, and despite the fact that there were no protesters that day, I was surprised at the depth of my own petulance. In my fantasy world, J.D. still loved me, we would have a blazing-hot affair, maybe he would or would not dump his wife, and I didn’t know what else. I was very confused about everything except that it had seemed fair to assume that my return to Charleston would rock his world a little harder than it had. I felt like a fool, that I had revealed too much of my own feelings, that he was confident that I wanted him, and that it would give him just as much pleasure to tell me no as to tell me yes. What kind of masochistic nonsense was this from him? Worse, what kind of a woman was I to contemplate interfering in someone’s marriage, no matter how ill matched they may have seemed?

  We rode across the water in silence, stealing a glance at each other now and then, smiles of resignation passing between us. I just kept thinking how different things might be if he knew about Adrian, but I wasn’t going to use Adrian as a weapon to get what I wanted. If J.D. had no desire for me, there was no reason to tell him about his son now. I knew in my heart that the time was coming closer when I would tell J.D. about his son, but not yet, not now. We had a huge job to do first. A very lucrative job. Seven hundred million lucrative.

  When we docked, I climbed off the boat with the help of the boat’s captain and J.D. was behind me. He followed me to my car—Sela’s car—and he caught my arm with his hand as I went to open the driver’s-side door.

  “What?” I said.

  “I’m stuck, Betts.”

  I looked in his eyes and knew exactly what he meant. He was in a loveless marriage with nothing to keep him there except his sense of duty and honor. And where would he go anyway? To me? And where was I? I had raised our son, he had gone off to college, and now who was there for me? No one. I was one of those people who was excluded from all the alleged joys of marriage and a traditional place in my community. And why? Because of three choices I had made almost twenty years ago during the worst trauma of my life—to leave Charleston, to have my baby, and to keep that child a secret. It didn’t seem fair. But life, the universe, fate—call it what you want—the Force did not seem to be particularly concerned with an equitable distribution of happiness.

  “So am I, J.D. So am I.”

  We stood apart from each other and sighed. I was certain he didn’t know why I thought I would be stuck in any way or in any thing, but he accepted what I said as though if I believed it to be so, therefore it was.

  “We should get together tomorrow,” he said. “Why don’t you come to my offices?”

  “Sure. What time?”

  “Well, I’m meeting with the power-and-gas guys ou
t here at ten. I should be back by two or two-thirty, so why don’t you come at three? I’ll bring you up-to-date on our plans for waste management.”

  “Do you need me to come out here for that?”

  “Nah, just come to my offices at three and we can go over everything.”

  “Okay. Sounds like a plan.”

  Neither of us moved an inch to get into our cars. We just stood there, like a couple of discombobulated teenagers, waiting for the other one to say, “Don’t worry, things will be fine, just go about your business. Don’t worry.” Or something, some words of solace or encouragement.

  “What are we supposed to do, Betts?”

  A crack in the wall had finally appeared.

  “You’re asking me? Well, I’ll tell you, then. We are going to build the most amazingly smart and gorgeous development in the history of the world and then we will see where we are. I guess?”

  “If you say so.”

  “You said so, Mr. Master of Self-Control.” I smirked at him and he shook his head.

  “Touché.”

  I finally clicked the button to unlock my door.

  He opened it for me and I climbed in.

  “Hey? J.D.?”

  “What?”

  “I’m having dinner with my sister, Joanie, tonight. Jealous?”

  “Please. I have my own personal hell, you know.”

  “Your choosing! See you tomorrow!”

  We were laughing then, at the impossibility and the stupidity of our own lives. At least we were laughing together, and if nothing else, we had reestablished a friendship within the confines of what was acceptable behavior.

  Later, as I dressed for dinner, I relived the day I’d spent with J.D. What had I gained? Well, first and most importantly, I knew for sure that his marriage was in rigor mortis but he had no real intention of doing anything except to honor his vows. Gentlemen like J.D. did not go sleeping around. It was cheap and reprehensible. No. It also appeared that J.D. had taken over his family’s business to a great extent, because, I’d noticed, he never mentioned his parents’ names in the context of business. Finally, I was greatly reassured that he understood and agreed on how critical it was to keep Bulls Island’s ecosystems intact.

  “Isn’t it odd,” I said to Sela over the phone, “that I worried so much about seeing J.D. again? Being with him is the easiest thing in the world.”

  “It sure looked like it in the Post & Courier. Besides, remember he doesn’t have all the facts.”

  “I know. I know. But I mean, I thought he would be hostile or something. Not that Louisa wasn’t and that Valerie wasn’t…”

  “Do not underestimate the power of those two. They can make your life a living inferno, you know. Valerie would love to scratch your eyeballs out, even though their marriage is a joke.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “For sure.”

  “Hey! Did you ever hear of a drug with cotton in the name?”

  “No. Why?”

  “J.D. says Valerie is a vodka hog and that she takes these pills that I can’t remember the name of except that it has cotton in it.”

  “Listen, I’m concentrating on learning about Napa and Sonoma. But I can ask Ed. He knows all about drugs.”

  “Yeah, ask him. I’d love to know what that little snit is up to.”

  Then I ran a brush through my hair one last time and attempted to muster the strength to go downtown to my childhood home. I had not been there in so many years; I couldn’t help but wonder how many memories it would raise from the dead.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Home

  It was as if I were floating inside a taupe-colored bubble filled with some kind of malaise—which is to say that I was feeling disoriented. I stopped the car in front of the house. First, Daddy’s and Joanie’s cars filled the two parking spaces. There was no place for me to park in our driveway, so I had to park on the street. No space for you. Out in the streets with you.

  With a bottle of red wine under my arm, I climbed the three steps to the street door, opening it the same way I’d done millions of times. The door seemed to be more crooked than I remembered. I thought, Well, the house is old and probably continuing to settle, and after all, the foundation of the peninsula of Charleston is nothing but plough mud.

  The overabundance of ancient wicker porch furniture was exactly the same as it had been in my grandmother’s day, but the crumpled cushions had been changed and things were rearranged enough to feel odd and unfamiliar. I felt out of place before I even went to the house door. The next thing that happened was that I almost knocked. Stopping my arm in midair, I realized I was hesitating about simply walking into my own childhood home. To bypass that awkwardness, I opened the door and called out, “Knock! Knock!”

  “I’m out here!” Dad’s voice called from the direction of the kitchen.

  He sounded cheerful, and that allowed me to put my discomfort aside for the moment and go in search of him. But I had this overwhelming urge to inspect the house first. On the left was the living room, and at first glance I thought it looked exactly the same as it had the day I left. Mother’s portrait still hung over the fireplace and the red-and-yellow chintz prints that covered the sofas and chairs were the same. Her collection of Staffordshire figurines still stood in the bookcases. Their number appeared to be unchanged. In fact, every single detail of the room seemed to be exactly as it had been years ago.

  The dining-room furniture stood in their original positions, but in the dim light of early evening, I could see that everything was covered in a thick layer of dust. The room had not served its purpose in aeons. At that moment I figured we would be eating dinner in the kitchen, which was fine with me. I was right.

  The kitchen table was set for three with straw place mats, paper napkins, and stainless flatware, but with mother’s best china and crystal. Daddy probably couldn’t face cleaning the dining room, Joanie would have refused to iron linens or polish silver in my honor, and apparently Daddy no longer employed any domestic help. I decided it would be best to keep these observations to myself. Daddy had made his best effort, no doubt without a finger of help from my sister.

  There was a platter of seasoned steaks and a bag of prewashed mixed greens for salad on the crowded counter. How they managed to put together meals with so much clutter was baffling to me. I hated disorder. Especially in the kitchen.

  The back door was open and I could smell charcoal and lighter fluid. Dad was in the yard fanning the grill with a folded section of newspaper.

  “Hey, Daddy! Need a hand?”

  “Nope! I’ve got it all under control. Come give your old man a kiss!”

  I hugged him and gave him a noisy smooch on the cheek. Beyond the grill area, the backyard was filled with dog pens and dog toys and dog paraphernalia from one side to the other. At least the animals slept outside, or so I assumed.

  “This looks great!” I lied. “You know, I can’t believe I’m actually here.”

  “Neither can I. Long overdue, to be sure!”

  “Where’s Joanie?”

  “Out walking her brood. You won’t believe this, but she’s been cleaning up all day because you were coming.”

  “Really? Gosh!”

  “She even gave the dogs a bath. Much needed, I’d like to add.”

  “Gee whiz, Daddy. Why does she have so many dogs?”

  “She’s a softie at heart.”

  “So was Hitler,” I couldn’t stop myself from blurting.

  “Well, dogs are better than snakes. And she went to the beauty parlor.”

  “You’re kidding. The beauty parlor?” Holy cow.

  “Yep. How do you like your steak?”

  “Medium rare, more rare than medium.” I could only imagine what the house and yard had looked like before I got there. The day after Armageddon? But I kept a smile on my face and followed my father inside. “What can I do to help? Anything?”

  “Yes. You can watch me make a perfect Manhattan. Would you l
ike one?”

  “Sure, I’ll sip on one of those. I brought some wine, too.”

  “Good, good. Thank you. So, tell me. How was your day? You look sunburned.”

  “I probably am. I spent most of it out on Bulls with J.D., going over the plans.”

  “Joanie told me she was at the groundbreaking.”

  “Actually, Joanie was with a bunch of screaming protesters on the dock and I took her over to Bulls to try and show her the other side of the coin.”

  “That’s your sister. She said it was interesting. And she said she met a veterinarian? Now, where’s the vermouth?”

  “Right here.” Of course it was right in front of us. “Yeah, he’s the older brother of my assistant, Sandi. Lives out in Summerville.”

  “Think there’s a spark there?”

  “How would I know?”

  “Two cherries?” He had them ready to drop into the glass.

  “Who would I be to mess around with tradition?”

  He raised his eyebrows at that: I was the very embodiment of someone who messed around with tradition, and we both knew it.

  “Cheers!”

  “Cheers. Yeah, well, I like cherries anyway. All that red dye and sugar.”

  “This whole meal is unhealthy—cooking red meat over charcoal, loading up potatoes with butter and sour cream, salad that’s probably absorbing chemicals from the bag itself—you can’t worry about everything all the time. Sometimes I just like to eat what I want. Life’s too short!”

  “That’s for sure.”

  We could hear dogs barreling across the front porch and out to the backyard and Joanie hollering after them.

  “Julius! Slow down! Hang on! Let me just…”

  She took all their leashes and came in through the back door.

  “Whew!” she said. “Hey, Betts. Hey, Daddy. Whew! Crazy dogs. What’re y’all drinking?”

  “Manhattans. Can I pour you one?” Daddy said.