Folly Beach Part 29

"What kinda cahoots?" Patti said.

"I don't know," I said. "I don't know what she means."

"I'll get my coat," Ella said.

"Anyway, it's a waste of gas to take two cars," I said. "Russ will bring you home whenever you want him to."

"Why? Where are you going?" Ella said.

"John is taking Patti and me out to dinner tonight."

"Oh! Patti, wait 'til you lay eyes on this man. He's a hunk."

"A hunk, huh?" Patti said and laughed.

When we were in the car, moving down the highway that was indeed like a bowl of pea soup, I remembered to ask if Ella needed help with the bills and so on.

"Ella? Would you like me to spend some time going through the bills and see if anything's due? Check on tenants?"

"Oh, no, honey! I've got that all under control. Don't worry. But you're sweet to ask. I'll let you know if I need something."

"Okay," I said.

Well, that's good. Maybe they were more organized than I thought.

When we arrived at the Medical University, Patti got out of the car, too.

"Know what?" she said. "I'm just gonna run up there really fast to see how she did last night and I'll be right back."

"I can park and come up with you if you want," I said.

"Nah, you look like who did it and ran. I'll be two seconds!"

"Oh thanks!"

"Truth hurts!" she said and stuck her tongue out at me.

I lowered my window and called out, "How old are you?"

She turned to me laughing and slapped her backside, which was sister-code language inviting me to kiss it. I gave her the one-finger salute and hoped that Ella had not seen us. We were still not too old to catch the devil from her.

I looked in the rearview mirror and then the one on the visor. She was right. I looked like I hadn't slept in days. Gosh, what a whirlwind it had been since I arrived here. First, a car wreck that throws a new man into my life, next I find out I'm going to be a grandmother, then John wants me to write a play, and I turn around to put Aunt Daisy in the hospital! Surely things would settle down now. What else could happen?

I listened to Walter Edgar's Journal on National Public Radio while I waited. I swear, if that man could bottle his voice he could make zillions but I suspected that was why he had his own radio program for so many years. He was so nice to listen to.

Soon Patti was back in the car.

"How's she doing?"

"She's awake. They took out the breathing tube and now she's got this thing on her finger, like a clamp. It measures her oxygen in her blood. She's very hoa.r.s.e and oh, did I mention that she's p.i.s.sed?"

"I'll bet she is."

"She wants ice cream and popsicles, and two vodka martinis, vodka because they can't smell it on her breath and we're to sneak it in to her in a thermos. And oh, if she doesn't get what she wants, she's getting out of that bed and walking home if she has to."

"G.o.d, she must be feeling better. And what else?"

"The doctor wasn't around but the nurse, that nice one from yesterday? She said Aunt Daisy is in for at least one more night. Her fever's down so she's responding to the antibiotic. They just want to be sure she's entirely out of the woods."

"Good. Was she happy to see you?"

"She wanted to know if I was here to claim my inheritance."

"Only Aunt Daisy would ask such an outrageous thing."

"And she wanted to know where the h.e.l.l you were. Her words. I told her I just ran up to make sure she had a pulse."

"Nice one."

"She said to tell you that if you expect to inherit a dime she'd like to see you at her bedside. I told her you'd be back by lunch."

"Then we'll be back by lunch."

Chapter Twenty-five.

Setting: Show slides of the theater in Boston, then of the theater district in New York.

Director's Note: Show picture of the Gershwins with DuBose at a piano and then a head shot of George.

Act III.

Scene 3.

Dorothy: When Porgy and Bess opened in Boston, we knew from the enthusiasm of the audience on opening night that we had a hit on our hands. Gershwin of course went out to take a bow and got a standing ovation. DuBose was there, too, standing behind him and you can hardly see him in the pictures. In any case, Boston loved it! But when the critics got hold of it they started to chew. Was it an opera? Not exactly. An operetta? Not technically. Was it a musical? Not really. The critics worked themselves into a snit trying to decide whether it was a white show or a black show and all sorts of really stupid remarks were made. Rouben Mamoulian, who was our director, summed up the bickering pretty nicely. He said, "You give someone something delicious to eat and they complain because they have no name for it." Isn't that the truth?

Anyway, the Boston run gave us confidence for opening in New York and there was one thing everyone agreed on-it was too long. So George began hacking away at it and in my opinion I think he destroyed a lot of its integrity. The New York run was only 124 performances. Now that's great for an opera but not great for a musical. Needless to say, George and DuBose lost their shirts. Another problem was the segregation laws. Oh, what a mess that was, especially here in Charleston! It couldn't be staged here until what? 1970?

Anyway, poor old George was never to know what a controversial piece of theater he created with us. He was performing in Los Angeles, working on The Goldwyn Follies, and began getting these terrible blinding headaches. He said he could smell burning rubber all the time. He thought the headaches were a result of getting hit in the head with a golf ball. He complained of being extremely sensitive to light. People thought he was just being dramatic. But then he began to have seizures. Finally, during a performance, he collapsed.

Not to get too involved in medical terminology, which I can barely p.r.o.nounce, the kind of seizures he had were called automatisms, which made him do very bizarre things. During one of these seizures, he opened the door of a moving car and tried to pull the chauffeur out. He said he had no idea why he would do such a thing. Another time someone gave him a box of chocolates and he smashed them up into a pile of goop and smeared them all over his body.

Doctors finally decided he had a brain tumor and they operated on him at Cedars of Lebanon Hospital. After the operation his temperature went up to almost 107 degrees and his pulse beats were almost 180 a minute. Poor George never regained consciousness and he died. He was only thirty-eight years old.

The world was robbed of his incredible genius and DuBose and I were shocked and inconsolable.

Fade to Darkness.

Chapter Twenty-six.

Aunt Daisy.

"I forgot my purse," Patti said.

"Where? At the hospital?"

"No, at Aunt Daisy's house."

"So, we'll stop and get it. I know the alarm code."

"Okay, thanks. I hate when I forget things. Don't you hate getting old?"

"No, I love getting old. In fact, I don't know which part of it I love the most. Maybe the sagging jowly thing. How about you?"

"I was thinking memory loss but on second thought I'm gonna go with memory loss."

"Nice."

We got back to Folly Beach and were approaching Aunt Daisy's house just as the mail truck was pulling away.

"I'll go get it," Patti said.

I pulled into the driveway and parked. I got out and stretched while Patti unloaded the mailbox.

"Boy, they sure do get a load of junk! There must be fifty catalogs here."

"Here, give me a pile of that. Ella said that ever since Aunt Daisy broke her foot she's been ordering stuff like a crazy woman. I think they breed."

"Oh, I see. Catalogs have a s.e.x life now?"

"Yeah, they get it on like rabbits."

"You're truly demented."

We went up the stairs, I unlocked the door, turned off the alarm, and we dumped all the catalogs on the kitchen counter. An envelope fell out with my brother-in-law Mark's office address on it.

"Hey, Patti? Do you know why Mark would be writing to Aunt Daisy?"

"Nope." I handed her the envelope and she looked at it for a minute. "Let's open it."

"Are you crazy?" I said. "Aunt Daisy would have us arrested, after she kicked our b.u.t.ts the whole way to Iowa, that is."

"Yeah, she'd keep the cast on for that one. But what is Mark doing that he's not telling me about?"

"I don't know." I thought about it for a minute. What was Mark up to? "We could steam it open with the teakettle. I've done that before. You know, open it very carefully, read it fast, stick it back in the envelope, and iron it to reseal it?"

"Iron it? Nah. I never iron," Patti said. "I'll get the kettle going."

So, there we were in Aunt Daisy's kitchen like a couple of middle-school truants, waiting for the water to boil so we could see what that letter from the school princ.i.p.al was all about.

"So you really don't know why Mark's writing to Aunt Daisy?" I said.

"Nope. I don't have the first clue."

The kettle started pouring steam and I picked up the envelope.

"Well, we're just gonna find out," I said, and held it near the spout.

"Don't get it wet!" Patti said. "The ink will run!"

"Quit stressing and get a knife."

When it seemed loose enough we laid the envelope on the counter and carefully ran the knife between the flap and the envelope, pulling it ever so slowly and gently until it was open. Patti pulled out the contents. As she unfolded the letter, a check fell out, falling to the floor. I picked it up. It was a certified check for $100,000 from Aunt Daisy to someone named Heather Parke.

"Who the heck is Heather Parke?"

Patti was reading and practically gasping for air at the same time.

"What? What does it say?"

"Oh my G.o.d! It was for that woman, that woman with the baby! Look at this!"

I stood next to Patti and read.

Dear Aunt Daisy, I am returning your check because after a lot of thought, some mighty serious soul-searching, and lengthy conversations with Addison's attorney Mel and his accountant Dallas we all agree that Heather Parke is ent.i.tled to nothing. Your generous offer to give her this money would only be the beginning of a life of torture for you and for Cate, because we are certain that she would return time and again to try to extort more money.

History is replete with Heather Parkes, young women who make poor choices and wind up with unexpected dependants and eventual disappointment. Addison died bankrupt. If he had nothing to leave his wife and legitimate heirs, why would this woman and her b.a.s.t.a.r.d child be ent.i.tled to anything?

Let her file all the lawsuits in the world. In Mel's opinion and in the opinion of his partners, her suit is without any merit whatsoever and would be thrown out of court. And Dallas, his accountant, says he will sign any papers necessary to show that Addison was indeed not only bankrupt but in such financial ruin that it is unlikely he would ever have been able to earn enough to satisfy his debts and be solvent again. Finally, you most certainly have no obligation to this woman. But your generosity is a testimony to your special nature and it is what makes us all love and cherish you so . . .

"That little b.i.t.c.h! Did she contact Aunt Daisy directly?" Patti said.

"She must have!" I could feel my head starting to pound. "I'll kill her with my bare hands!" I meant it.

"We'd better put this back, Cate."

We quickly refolded the letter with the check and slipped it back in the envelope. Of course the glue had dried and wouldn't stick. Patti grabbed it and licked it, leaning on it with the heel of her hand to secure it. Finally, it worked in some places and the envelope didn't look as though someone had tampered with it too badly. I hoped Aunt Daisy or Ella would just rip it open and not give the seal much attention.