Plantation (44 page)

“Yes, I think we are, Eric.” Eric’s face fell a little. I could tell by one look that he probably wanted me to stay home that night. I put my arm around him. “Tell you what . . .”

“What?” he said, as forlornly as though I had told him I was leaving for a month.

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D o r o t h e a B e n t o n F r a n k

“Mom’s been having some fun. And, admit it, you have too!

Now, I know it’s hard for you to understand that Mom needs a pal to hang around with . . .”

“No, I don’t! Everybody needs friends!”

“Okay, good. I don’t blame you for wondering what’s going on and, in fact, I think you’re probably right that I’ve been gone a lot. So this is my suggestion—you don’t have to say yes—just think about it.”

He looked at me and I melted just like I always did when he looked at me in need.

“Okay,” he said.

“Tomorrow, you and me,
just
you and me. How about if we go on a trip all around Charleston on a boat and stop at Fort Sumter?”

“Lunch too?”

“Yep, and we rent movies and pile in the bed together and eat popcorn and drink Cokes and stay up late. How does that sound?”

“Excellent bribe, Mom! I’ll take it!” He threw his arms around me and hugged me. I could smell his head—the sweat of a young boy who’d been running and was overheated.

“Great! Now, unpack this box. We ain’t got all day and I’m already bored.”

“No problemo!”

Josh reappeared, carrying a picture frame. Before I saw it I knew what it was. Richard and me on our wedding day. Oh, Lord.

“I never thought he’d look like this,” he said.

“And he’d never think you looked like
this!
”

We laughed—all of us together—Eric, Josh, and I; it felt good.

“You know what?” I said. “I’m sick of this dusty barn and all this paper—how about I get a quick shower, Josh, and let’s drive down to your place, get that wallpaper sample, grab a bite, and then come back out here for the night? Wanna come, Eric?”

“Nah, y’all go. Bring me a pizza?”

“Guest room?” Josh said.

“I should say so!” I said and shook my finger at him.

P l a n t a t i o n

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Josh and I drove to Charleston on Highway 17 north in a comfortable silence, slowing down at the speed traps and then accelerating again. Every now and then he’d look over at me. In the failing light of afternoon, the Lowcountry once more took on a mantle of romance. The groaning sounds of the engine as he shifted gears, the tiny breezes and drafts of the sweet air of early evening—it was a subtle but unfailing spell. The mood was dreamy—a time for reflection and mind drift.

I thought about Josh and how I was allowing him to take up space in my life—even as friends, it shouldn’t continue. On the other hand, I couldn’t see anyone suffering for my philandering around with this unlikely choice of a friend. I didn’t have much at stake in it besides the reprieve he offered from Mother, Millie, and Eric. Okay, it was cheap and self-indulgent. I admitted that. But right then, self-indulgent was what I needed. Boy, could I rationalize or what?

We arrived at his home and without any particular ceremony, poured a glass of wine, snipped a piece of his wallpaper, and dropped it in a plastic bag. I was putting it in my backpack when I heard him from the kitchen.

“Do you want to go out, or stay in for dinner?”

It was a warning dressed like a question. It required a certain amount of admission of involvement from me. It was one thing to hang around with Josh and his hair in private, but if I were seen on the streets of downtown Charleston with a man in dreadlocks, talk would follow. I thought about it for a second. Fact was that there were so many tourists in town and I’d lived away for so long that unless we went to the Yacht Club, the odds of me seeing someone I knew were small. If I chose a tourist spot, I could avoid the questions and stares.

“Let’s go out,” I said, calling back to him.
There,
I thought, I’d jumped that hoop with ease. Didn’t make him feel uncomfortable; don’t have to wash dishes either. Also, once out of his house, I could avoid the call of the rack monster. Perfect.

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D o r o t h e a B e n t o n F r a n k

“How about SNOB’s?”

Slightly North of Broad—SNOB—no good. Too many locals.

“Magnolia’s?” I said. “I’m up for crab cakes.”

“Fine. Magnolia’s it is.”

It was seven-thirty and nearly dark. We decided to walk. In the shadows of crepe myrtle trees, to the sounds of slow-moving traffic, in the fragrance of jasmine, we strolled along the ancient narrow streets to dinner. It was a beautiful spring night, the kind you lived for in Charleston, that you tried to recall in the blistering heat of summer. Those nights justified living there; August made you pray for relief from the relentless and withering sun and humidity so thick you could reach out and grab it by handfuls. I remembered being a young girl as we walked along, remembering going to the Dock Street Theater with Mother and Daddy.

Soon we arrived. Josh held the door open for me and I stepped into the low light of Magnolia’s. It was jammed with people, all dressed in their linen finery, ignoring the wrinkles the fabric invariably gathered like so much Spanish moss on a live oak. The noise level was formidable, the crowd obviously enjoying the hospitality of that popular haunt. The bar area was three people deep, small clusters of visitors from elsewhere, in light conversation, toasting this and that.

Josh spoke to the host, a jovial fellow who assured him that our table would be ready in ten minutes—would we like to have a drink at the bar? I maneuvered him through the crowd until we reached the end of the highly polished oak ledge. I managed to wedge myself up to its edge and order two glasses of Sterling chardonnay for us to sip, while we people-watched.

We were in good spirits, he and I, planning to have a plate of dinner and then drive back to Tall Pines.

“No appetizers and no dessert, okay? I don’t want to get home so late tonight.”

“Understood. I think Eric might like to have his mom tuck him in.”

P l a n t a t i o n

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“Exactly,” I said, grateful that he agreed with my feelings. I looked at him for a moment, knowing that in him, at the very least, I had a friend with some soul. I decided to go freshen up. By the time I returned, our table should be ready. “You hold the beach-head,” I said, “I’ll be right back.”

He nodded his head and took my glass to hold. I squeezed my way through the guests to the hallway leading to the ladies’ room, and I spotted the back of a familiar head. My brother. My brother, Trip, was engrossed in the company of a woman, one who was not Frances Mae. It was Rusty the tutor! His hand was stretched across the table, holding hers, as they talked.

My feet were cement. My jaw dropped and my wide eyes could only stare in disbelief. My first thought was to run. Except for my unfortunate feet, which refused to respond. Josh and I could simply leave, and eat somewhere else. Or, we could stay and hope they didn’t see us. Or, I could use this as a valuable bonding experience with my brother, entering into a conspiracy of betrayal and secrets, against the despicable Frances Mae. I didn’t really want any of those things. I seriously wished I hadn’t seen them at all. That was the ostrich in me.

I finally moved to the powder room, where I asked myself what to do and gave myself a good lecture. It had been Frances Mae’s ovaries from the beginning that had driven the wedge between Mother, Trip, and me. Trip had married her out of a sense of duty, believing at the time that it was his responsibility to parent the child he had fathered. Of course, who would have suspected the challenges his offspring would present? But, his marriage was an honorable act and I respected him for it. Still, infidelity was unbearable to me. To sleep with your spouse and then sleep with someone else at the same time, justifying it
how?
Hadn’t Richard embraced the position that his needs were more important than our commitment? Was Trip doing the same thing? No, I wouldn’t believe that for a moment.

I washed my hands and looked at myself in the mirror. I 3 5 6

D o r o t h e a B e n t o n F r a n k needed to replace the look of shock on my face with composure, thanking the heavens that Rusty hadn’t seen this as the perfect moment to wash her hands as well. I dug around in my purse for my makeup bag, thinking then about my alleged quest for truth, self-discovery, and all the things my marriage with Richard had denied me—or I had denied myself (I couldn’t decide that just then)—and remembered that my original mission had been to
see
about Mother
. Why couldn’t I see about Trip at the same time?

Wasn’t there a whole family here to be rescued?

All at once, while applying Chanel’s Cocoa lipstick, I started to laugh. I couldn’t hold my mouth straight to cover my lips. Mother had the language tutor’s number, I had the fine-motor “coach”

running like a Bentley, and Trip was caught on something Rusty!

Oh my, what clever irony!

“You won’t believe who’s here,” I said, rejoining Josh, and telling him.

I was nonplussed; Josh was neutral. I couldn’t fully believe that Trip had the nerve or courage to do such a thing. I knew this much, though: I didn’t blame him.

“From what you’ve told me, there’s only one thing to do,” he said.

“What?”

“Be gracious. Let’s get the wine list.”

In a matter of minutes, we had a bottle of Mumm’s champagne delivered to his table with a note that read: It’s okay.

Mumm’s the word. Caroline.

M i s s L av i n i a ’s J o u r na l
I cannot for the love of God believe that I allowed that man
with all that hair to stay in my guest room last night! I never
thought I’d say this, but I believe she may have been better off
with Richard.Yes, she would. Oh, I know they had their
problems, but Merciful Mother, he was a shrink, wasn’t he?

How in the world could I introduce this madman to my
friends? They would think I’m
joshing
them! I can just see
the faces at Cotillion! Although, in his defense, he is very
nice. He holds my door open for me and after all, good
manners can forgive other imperfections. And, he was very
interesting to talk to—all that karma stuff—well, I imagine
that’s what he is for Caroline, a pleasant diversion. Unlike
my Peter—did I say
my Peter?
Oh, Lavinia! You bad girl! I
must remember to tell that to Sweetie and Nancy!

Thirty-five

Family Jewels

}

VERY family had its secrets, tales of our human weaknesses and how we rationalized them. Now that Trip Ehad been caught with his hand in the cookie jar, it would be harder for him to find fault with us. Harder now for any of us to judge each other. Clearly, it was time for making lemonade from our citric indiscretions.

So, big deal, Josh slept at Tall Pines, but in another bedroom, thank you very large.

Saturday morning, I got up at six and ground Mother’s latest on-line purchase—Costa Rican beans with a hint of some damn thing—for coffee.

The coffee dripped, filling the air with delicious promise. I had to admit it. Even though each day meant the onslaught of packages that nearly crippled the deliverymen, Mother had discovered so many things to buy on the Internet that made life easier.

P l a n t a t i o n

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I began sifting flour into Mother’s ancient ceramic mixing bowl. This moment of self-examination needed to be marked with some ritual to help me get my brain in gear. I was going to make biscuits—something I hadn’t done in years. No, in New York, I’d be toasting a frozen bagel or eating a low-fat piece of whole wheat bread. Now I was sliding to hell on a slick road of fat grams. And loving the trip.

I cut in the cold butter and Crisco with two forks, the way Millie had taught me as a girl. In my yet dreamy, early morning state of half awareness, Eric crossed my mind. My angel, upstairs sleeping. I wondered if Eric would ramble downstairs and what he would think about having breakfast with Josh. He probably wouldn’t like it worth a damn.

New worries blew into town, like small-craft warnings and dark skies—the foreboding kind. How stupid I had been! There was a
reason
that divorced—separated—estranged—whatever the hell I was these days—people waited until there was longevity to a new romance before introducing the new “friend” to the children.

It was just plain uncomfortable.

And, I had to ask myself, was the puny relationship I had with Josh worth making Eric uncomfortable? Hell, Mother was getting it on with old man Greer, Trip was pussyfooting around with Rusty, and I was hanging with Rastaman! Some stable environment we were! But
was
it worth it, this stupid game I had going on with Josh?

He was my son’s tutor, for Christ’s sake! No, of course not, I told myself, and prayed Eric would sleep late. Yeah, I had that whole pursuit of happiness thing all figured out.

I preheated the oven, poured myself a mug of coffee, and continued making biscuits. I flipped the doughy mess over on the floured marble slab and kneaded it. Too dry, I decided, and sprinkled it with cream. To hell with calories. I wrapped the whole thing in Saran Wrap, threw it in the refrigerator to chill, and took out eggs to scramble, cracking them into another bowl. I caught a 3 6 0

D o r o t h e a B e n t o n F r a n k sweet whiff of the ripe cantaloupes in the fruit bowl, so I peeled and sliced one, placing the wedges on Mother’s Herend Rothchild platter, the one with the hand-painted birds and bugs.

When the oven was ready, I took the chilled dough from the refrigerator and flattened it, cutting biscuits with the floured mouth of a juice glass. I wondered then how many thousands of biscuits had been made by the generations of women of my family for their husbands and children. How many women got up to a cold house, heated the stoves, and began breakfast alone. Did their hands ache in the dampness of winter mornings?

I tried to imagine myself wearing a nightdress and robe, during the Civil War, maybe even a sleeping cap instead of jeans from Banana Republic and a T-shirt from the Gap. It made me melancholy for a past from which I felt such a long distance.