Folly Beach Part 19

"And that new Addison wasn't so great."

"Not so great? No, he was intolerable but at least he didn't put poison in my juice. Jeesch! I have to remember to count my blessings."

"Truly. So not only did you lose your husband, your whole life is now completely different. You weren't exaggerating that night at the Pig, were you?"

"Not one bit." I took a drink of water. "Yeah, it's just me and the Heywards down at Porgy's. But some of my family is here and that's awfully nice."

"I'll bet so." He reached across the table and put his hand over mine. "So you're really feeling okay?"

"Well, yeah. I mean, I haven't been with another man in decades so I'm a little nervous."

"Don't be. I think you're amazing."

"Well, I think you are, too. You know, I keep thinking about all the possibilities."

"You should be really. Who knows? You could be the next Lillian h.e.l.lman!"

Well, that wasn't exactly the response I sort of hoped for. But I took it in stride.

"Or Dorothy Heyward."

"That's right. Look, I can help you get started. I mean, I teach creative writing, you know."

"Would you? Gosh. That is so nice! I mean, if I can find the courage to try . . ."

John added the tip, took his receipt, and stood, coming around to pull my chair away from the table.

I stood and he put his finger under my chin and said, "Ms. Cooper? I have not met someone like you in so long I cannot say. But I have this funny feeling that you're going places with your ideas on the Heywards and I want to go with you."

"Oh, John," I said. Someone had not just an interest in me but also a little faith.

This man was going to be mine, somehow, some way, I was going to make him mine. Actually, so far it didn't appear that he would put up much of a fight.

"It's dark," I said, when we went outside to the car.

"Dark enough to steal away into the night and throw caution to the wind?"

"How fast can you drive those cliches?"

We laughed then, completely comfortable with each other, knowing full well what we were about to do. To sleep with a man after knowing him for such a short period of time was not like me at all, because I never had, but I hadn't been single for decades. Besides, if television represented real life, this was what people did in 2010. They had spontaneous s.e.x. To be honest, at that moment? I was going for it. I'd debate the sense of it later.

Along the road we'd steal a glance at each other and smile. We were excited. It was cold and most of the way home we could see our breath. But this time I had the key to the front door in my hand before we got there and we walked right in like we owned the place. There was only a small light coming from the kitchen, but it was enough to cast a faint glow across most of the first floor. He disappeared upstairs. After all, John knew the house better than I did. He had been coming here for years. Wait! What was he doing? Getting undressed?

"Hey, John? Would you like a gla.s.s of something?" I called out. "White wine? I've got a bottle here in the refrigerator."

Suddenly, I was getting very nervous. Maybe it wasn't the right thing to appear to be so cavalier about something so important. No matter what they did on HBO or in the movies, I didn't want to make a mistake and then be embarra.s.sed if he never called me again. He'd show up with students and I'd have to hide in a closet. What if he had a s.e.xually transmitted disease? Like herpes or something or that awful HPV virus or what if he had a weird one? I'd heard about that, you know, men with weird ones were all over the place.

"Not yet," he said. "Why don't you come up here? I want to show you something."

Oh, G.o.d, come on! What was he going to show me? IT? My mind was racing. Okay, I said, get a grip for G.o.d's sake. What's he going to do? Jump you? That's ridiculous! So I took a few breaths, got the bottle, two gla.s.ses, and the corkscrew. Then I inched my way toward the dark stairs, turning on the light switch.

"Turn off the light," he said.

"Why?" I said, hoping I didn't sound as frightened as I was becoming. What was he doing? I made my way up to the second floor, slowly. "Where are you?"

"I'm in the living room."

Good, praise G.o.d, I thought. He's not in a bedroom.

"Come see!"

There it was. The fullest and largest moon I had ever seen, hanging over the ocean, rising in orange and then turning gold. It was absolutely gorgeous.

"Oh!" It was simply amazing.

"Here, give me that," he said, taking the bottle and gla.s.ses from me. "I remembered the paper said it was a full moon tonight and boy, it sure is something, isn't it?"

While I stood there, dazed by the spectacular display seemingly just across the street, John popped the cork, poured two gla.s.ses, and handed me one.

"Yes," I said and took a sip. "It looks like it's coming to get us."

He pushed away my hair and kissed the back of my neck.

"It's okay, Cate. You're safe with me. I promise."

I turned around to face him and met his beautiful hazel eyes. His face was illuminated in the moonlight. I believed him and let him kiss me, which I already knew was going to be a pretty pyrotechnical experience. It was. I was still holding my gla.s.s, groping around for the edge of the bookcase so I could put it down. I thought I had it and I didn't. The gla.s.s shattered into a million little pieces and wine went everywhere.

"It's okay," I said, in between some unbelievable groping and struggling for breath. "They're really cheap."

"I'll buy you a dozen tomorrow," he said and ran his mouth down the side of my neck.

"You don't have to," I said and let him pull my sweater over my head.

"But I want to," he said while I unbuckled his belt and unzipped his trousers, with every intention of checking out the goods. Bad girl, I thought. Things appeared to be in working order.

"I know you do," I said and thought, screw it if he never calls me again.

And that was it. We hurried to the bedroom where I slept, kicking off shoes, pants, his shirt . . . we were shedding as we went, hands everywhere . . . I pulled back the covers as fast as I could and rushed around to the far side.

"Where are you going?" he said.

"I just thought . . . you know, that's your side and this is my side? What?"

"You come right back over here," he said, looking very serious and breathing pretty hard. "You can pick your side later."

"Right!" G.o.d, I was so awkward. But it didn't seem to matter except in that split moment.

I wondered if the neighbors could hear the bedsprings squealing and making a racket or us moaning, screaming the occasional Oh! Yes! G.o.d! I had a fleeting thought that the bed was going to collapse as it rose and fell in rhythm like the ba.s.s on a Barry White CD, the headboard banging the wall like twenty hammers. Would I have to repaint? I got my leg tangled in the sheets and he ripped them away and threw them all on the floor along with all the pillows. It was insane. All I can tell you is that about an hour later, when I was lying there in the crook of his arm, covered in sweat, glad to be alive, dying for a gla.s.s of water and smelling like something only Satan would recognize, I had an important realization. When doing this dance, it was a far better decision to let John Risley take the lead. Whew.

Chapter Nineteen.

Setting: The Porgy House in the music room at the piano.

Director's Note: Photos of book jacket of The Country Bunny and the Little Gold Shoes, the "Summertime" lyrics, the MacDowell parlor, Marjorie Flack, Janie Scriven Heyward, Eugene O'Neill, and Pearl Buck on the backstage scrim. Voice of DuBose comes from off-stage.

Act II Scene 5 Dorothy: I thought it might be important to tell you one last detail about my mother-in-law, Janie, because DuBose was an honest man and I know he would want the facts set straight. When our Jenifer was a little girl, Janie would make up stories for her, like grandmothers do all the time. But there was one in particular that Jenifer loved her to tell over and over again. It was called "The Country Bunny and the Little Gold Shoes." The last time we were at the MacDowell Colony, we were all gathered in the parlor, quite happy, listening to each other telling stories and applauding loudly after each impromptu performance. Then DuBose got it in his mind to tell a children's story. He had everyone in the palm of his hand as they heard about the struggle of the poor little rabbit to become an Easter Bunny and how wonderful it was when she did. Afterward a good friend of ours, the ill.u.s.trator Marjorie Flack, came up to us and insisted that DuBose write it down. Well, he did and it only took him two hours to do it! Of course, Marjorie ill.u.s.trated it and Houghton Mifflin published it and it's the only book by DuBose that never went out of print. It's also the most money he ever earned in two hours. Anyway, I just thought the old girl should get her due. The Country Bunny and the Little Gold Shoes was completely Janie's creation but DuBose was given the credit. She never complained one bit. She knew that anything she could do to further DuBose's reputation and his earning power was good for all of us. It was the one and only issue on which we always saw eye-to-eye.

And while we're on the subject of credit being given to the right people, we need to talk about some of the lyrics to the songs in Porgy and Bess, because it will help show just how crazy and unpredictable the whole creative process is.

It was another terrible night of fog and rain and the temperature never climbed above forty degrees. We were out on Folly in that same little house that we paid for with the proceeds from Porgy the play and some royalties from the book as well. It's still my favorite place I have ever lived. Anyway, we were having c.o.c.ktails, martinis I think, and I sat down to the piano and began to play a little tune, just a few notes really.

And DuBose said, "Don't be blue, little Dorothy, soon it will be summertime and we'll be living calm and easy!"

"Humph," I said and sang along with my few little notes. "Summertime and the living is easy!"

"Play that again," DuBose said.

So, I did. I could just hear it in my head like someone was singing it to me. He got very excited.

"What is the matter with you, DuBose?"

"I like that, Dorothy! Summertime and the living is easy! I'm going to send it to George! Can you write down the tune?"

"Of course I can!"

"I think this could be the beginning lyrics for a great song for Porgy and Bess!" He refilled his drink and mine and took a pad and pencil from the desk. He was suddenly very animated. "Let's see! What happens in the summer? Corn grows way up high!"

"So does cotton," I said. "Well not so high as corn, I'll admit, but it gets as high as it's going to, doesn't it?"

"Yes! Yes, it does! And what else? We go fishing!"

"Yes, when you walk down by the gullies and docks you can see all the little fish jumping in the sun!"

"Well, I suspect the poor little fellows are jumping because they're trying to avoid being eaten by a bigger fish. But I'm writing this all down . . ."

And he wrote it all down and sent if off to George, who, along with his brother Ira turned it into one of my favorite songs in the whole play. And, lo! Guess what? They gave DuBose credit for cowriting the lyrics! Isn't that swell? Isn't that just the grandest thing? DuBose said oh, no no, he didn't want the credit but they insisted. They absolutely insisted. George may have been a bit of a scene-stealer but his brother Ira was one of the finest men I have ever met and both of them had a terrific sense of fairness.

I'll tell you this. DuBose could have been anything he wanted to-he was already a poet and a novelist of adult and children's books and now he was going to be known as a lyricist! I was so proud of him. Oh! And he was a screenwriter, too! He wrote a script for Eugene O'Neill's adaptation of The Emperor Jones for film, but he didn't really enjoy the work so much. Eugene was an old cla.s.smate of mine. I introduced them to each other and I always wondered if DuBose was jealous of him.

Even though that didn't end so well, DuBose tried screenwriting again for Pearl Buck's The Good Earth and that was kind of a disaster, too, because they had twenty other writers working on it. In the end his name didn't even appear in the credits, which he was glad of, because he didn't like the movie at all. Anyway, the point is that Hollywood never really valued its writers much, which if you think about it makes no sense whatsoever. You could have all the Clark Gables and Vivien Leighs in the world but if the words they spoke didn't enthrall you, what good was the movie? No, I don't care what any of those Hollywood fools say, you have to start with a good story and that story is nothing without good writers.

Fade to Darkness.

Chapter Twenty.

The Piano.

The movers pulled into the yard at around three in the afternoon and began to slowly unload the truck. They were supposed to have been there at noon, but I imagined they stopped for a nice long lunch somewhere and then had a nice long nap by the side of the road and then stopped for ice cream, so three was about right. I just loved waiting around for people to show up. But actually, on that afternoon, I was preparing dinner for John and I wasn't going to let anything ruin my good mood. What was I cooking? Roasted chicken, mashed potatoes with gravy, salad, biscuits, and Ella was making us a pie. It was a foolproof menu and there wasn't a man alive who didn't love biscuits and gravy.

And, at last, the blessed movers had arrived. I stepped outside into the brisk afternoon air to watch them.

I couldn't help but to stop and reflect on my piano's long and checkered history. It was the only thing of any consequence I still had that my mother gave to me. It probably wasn't worth much but, you know how it is, it had great sentimental value. When I was just a little girl, I had pounded away on the keys in the house where I grew up, eventually learning to play simple pieces under the earnest tutelage of some poor bespectacled old man whose jacket smelled like mothb.a.l.l.s and breath like peppermint. It's funny what you remember and what you forget. Then it moved with me to Aunt Daisy's where I continued my lessons but I took up dance with a vengeance. In its next incarnation, my piano became Addison's jumping-off point in Alpine, New Jersey. Now my piano was back where it started on Folly. Full circle. I was dragging that thing around with me like Marley's chains, except that Marley wasn't so fond of his chains as I was of my piano. I loved it.

My childhood home, just an old clapboard house up on stilts, was washed away by a hurricane years ago. But I remember clearly how the piano came into our family. My mother bought it used from Siegling's Music House for my birthday the last year she was alive. I'm told that she always thought I had some musical apt.i.tude and that she thought every house should have a piano, because it added dignity to the home.

Aunt Daisy has pictures of it positioned in the living room of that house but when I look at them I can hardly remember being there, sitting on that bench, practicing scales. I was so little when my momma died and then Daddy, it's hard to remember much of anything about how life was and there were so few artifacts remaining to jiggle my memories.

Even the land where the house once stood was completely eroded away, which had happened to lots of property on Folly Beach in its history. Beach erosion, which travels from north to south, was great for Seabrook and Kiawah Islands, because they picked up acres upon acres of accreted land traveling with the tides from Folly Beach. But it was devastating for our residents, because the jetties around Folly Beach blocked incoming sand from Sullivans Island. So, as a result, from time to time, second-row houses became prime real estate when the neighboring cottages across the street literally fell apart and into the sea. In any case, the hurricanes and erosion surely served as a Buddhist reminder about the impermanence of all material things.

But the sea-salted population of Folly Beach was nothing if not stoic. They simply shrugged their shoulders, told their stories, laughing and happy at their great fortune to be alive, and then they rebuilt on other land bought with the settlements from their insurance companies. "It's why we pay our premiums," became an often-used explanation for why no one worried too much about the weather. Hurricanes were usually simply an irksome fact of life and, to be honest, some of the construction on Folly Beach was, well, long past its prime anyway. In almost every single case, the new homes were st.u.r.dier and certainly much prettier than the old homes.

One of the deliverymen came up to me to scope out the destination.

"Where do you want us to put this, ma'am?"

"In the first room, under the window on the far left wall," I said. "You're welcome to have a look."

"Thanks," he said and stepped inside the door. He came back out, nodded to me, and called out, "Okay guys, let's get this baby inside."

Speaking of island construction, the Porgy House was as ancient a beach cottage as there was left on the whole island and I would bet you a dollar that you couldn't find a right angle in the whole place. The way the house had settled in the sandy yard, probably sinking by a hair each year over many decades, had left the floors sloped and everything just a bit off-kilter. These varying depreciations of symmetry gave the house a distinguished character all its own. In the short time I'd been there I had come to feel some real affection for all the crooked windows and the musical creaks in the floorboards. After all, I was walking the floors where Dorothy and DuBose drank c.o.c.ktails with George Gershwin and wrote the quintessential theatrical work that burst forth from the Lowcountry of South Carolina like a rocket to Mars. If that couldn't inspire me to at least try and pen my own play, what would?

I watched as the men groaned under the weight of the piano, pulling it up the steps on a heavy plywood ramp they carried for just these kinds of occasions and then as they lowered it onto a heavy quilted mat they used to slide it across the floor and put it in position. You could keep that job. My back hurt just watching them.

They unbuckled and pulled the canvas belts from around the piano and lifted the quilted blankets away, folding them as they went. She sure was yar. (I've always wanted to use that word ever since I heard Katharine Hepburn say it referring to a boat in The Philadelphia Story. It's probably a nautical term.) Anyway, I was thrilled with the glossy patina of the cabinet and the fact that they had not retouched the cunningham piano co. gold-leaf signature that was slightly faded from the years. Cunningham Piano Company, coincidentally also from Philadelphia, has been building pianos for symphonies, academies, and concert pianists since the 1890s and they were treasured by those who played them. Considering my rudimentary skill level, I was humbled to own one.

Every ivory and ebony key was immaculate and, miraculously, the bench still held all my old sheet music under the seat, which in the haste and tumult of that horrible day Tina had forgotten to remove. I couldn't wait to sit down and play, even though the sound of my playing would surely send all the neighborhood cats screaming up the trees.

"Can you sign here?"

"Sure! Wait just a minute." I ran upstairs and got my wallet to give them a tip. Fortunately, I had just made a withdrawal from the ATM, so I could give them a twenty. Now, I know, twenty dollars sounds like a lot of money for a widow of greatly reduced circ.u.mstances to be throwing around but it was to be divided among three men and when was the last time I tried to pick up a piano?

"Here we go." I signed the receipt and handed the man with the clipboard the money.

"Thanks a lot, miss," he said and went to join the others, already waiting in the truck.

I closed the door behind him and looked at my beautiful Cunningham, standing there all shiny and new-looking and wondered if I should give the room a fresh coat of paint. This is what happens when you start redecorating-you bring in new throw pillows and then you want to throw the old sofa out the back door. Ah well, I told myself, maybe it was because the piano was new to the room, still a stranger, and I should give my eyes a few days to get used to it and then decide. But one thing was certain, I wasn't going to let the memory of Addison Cooper's death spiral of insanity sully the regard I felt for my most important heirloom. The piano was washed clean of any sign of him and maybe in time I, too, would remember only the good things from the good years. One could hope.