Plantation (57 page)

“Well, we got ourselves a real gourmet treat here!” I said, and lined everything up on the counter. “Would you look at this?”

“Good. I can’t find the crackers.”

She ripped open the bag of Doritos and poured them in a basket. Then she handed it to me with the bowl of crab dip. “Tell the boys I made the dip, okay?”

“Why would I tell them? Admit nothing!” I said and took it outside to the chefs, thinking that Doritos and crab dip was about the worst possible combination of foods on earth.

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I could smell something burning and when I got to the grill, I saw that the chicken was completely black. I put the chips and dip on the picnic table and went for a closer inspection. Jack handed me a glass of wine and I took the long fork from Simon. I stabbed a piece of the chicken, which was all but unrecognizable and ined-ible.

“I think it’s done,” I said, trying to be polite about its condition. “What do you think?”

“A few more minutes,” Simon said, “it’s Susan’s specialty.

Hand me the basting brush, will you? She likes it crispy.”

Jack rolled his eyes at me and I laughed.

“Okay! Whatever you say!” I said and went back to the house.

Susan was leaning against the kitchen counter, smoking a cigarette, sipping a glass of wine, looking out the window at the boys.

“Isn’t he great?” she said. “He lets me pulverize, marinate, and kill that chicken a thousand times and he still eats it just like it’s food. God bless ’im.”

“He loves you,” I said.

“He must,” she said and looked at them, musing, and turned to me. “I knew Jack’s wife. She was sort of a halfway friend of mine.”

“What was she like? Can I set the table?”

“No, already done. Want some more wine?”

“Sure,” I said and held out my glass. “Thanks.”

“Are we friends?”

“Are you kidding? You’re wearing my Blahniks!”

“Okay, seal of confession?”

“You got it; what was she like?”

Susan stubbed out her cigarette and took a deep breath. Then she sort of sucked in her cheeks. “First of all, I know it’s a thousand years in purgatory to speak ill of the dead, but if meanness were a disease, that woman woulda been dead years ago.”

“That bad?”

“Honey, you and I don’t know any bitches like this woman.

She was in a class all by herself. She ran around on Jack, spent his 4 6 2

D o r o t h e a B e n t o n F r a n k money like she was crazy, lied to him all the time, and treated his momma like hell. I couldn’t stand her and neither could anyone else. I know it’s horrible to say this but when we found out she had throat cancer, it was like justice had been served.”

“Jesus! Susan! That is a
terrible
thing to say!”

“Listen. I know it is. But you didn’t know her. What kind of mother leaves her five-year-old son at home on Christmas Eve when her husband’s at the hospital for an emergency so that she can go get drunk and screw one of his colleagues? They got so crocked, they wrecked the car and wound up in the emergency room where Jack was on duty!”

“Holy hell!” Damn, I thought, she
was
bad!

“That ain’t the half of it! You smoke?”

She offered her Marlboro Lights to me, but I waved my hand, declining. “No, thanks,” I said, “I quit.”

“Yeah, well, me too. I only smoke at night and never in front of Simon!”

She lit another one and blew the smoke, checking the yard to make sure the guys weren’t on their way inside. “Yeah, old Valerie!

She must have gone down with half the staff at the Medical University before Jack would believe it. He was devastated. It was a good thing she died because I don’t think Jack would have divorced her under any circumstances.”

“Why? Are you kidding?”

“Nope. He loves his son so much; I guess he was afraid she’d get custody and take him to another state.”

“Well, that’s exactly what I did to my husband, but it was okay with him.”

“Oh, God, Caroline! I am so sorry! I had no idea! I didn’t mean to say . . .”

“It’s okay,” I said, “it really is!” I laughed because she was so upset that she had offended me. Then she laughed too. We could hear the men coming. She quickly drowned her cigarette under the faucet and threw it in the garbage can.

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“Me and my big mouth,” she said. “Why don’t we open another bottle of vino? It’s gonna take a lot of grapes to digest my cooking!”

She wasn’t kidding. We drank three bottles of wine on top of the beer the guys had. The chicken was torched and unchewable, so I pushed it around the plate, eating salad, which did not absorb the alcohol. That explained my extreme state of inebriation. I was so busy listening to them talk and tell stories, I just continued to drink.

I was very sleepy and just wanted to close my eyes. The next thing I knew, Jack had me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, and was telling them good night. Everyone was giggling and I knew it was because of me.

I don’t remember a thing about driving anywhere. All I knew was that I woke up and he was tucking me into a bed and saying,

“I’ll call your mother and tell her you’ve decided to stay over.

Don’t worry. Just sleep. You’re gonna need to get in shape, Miss Caroline, if you want to run with this crowd.”

I slept so hard, I sat up with a jolt from the morning light. I was in a man’s pajama top. Jack’s. Shit! What had I done? I looked around. It was a very nice room, although it was covered in posters of race cars and sports trophies. I must have been in his son’s room.

Okay, I haven’t been raped, I thought. I still had on my bra and panties. Thank God. And, I didn’t put out. Oh, sure, there I was commending myself for my high morals when I had been carried out of a dinner party over his shoulder.

I fell back against the pillows, cursing myself for being such a damn fool. Jack was a nice man and I liked him a lot. Now, I’d never see him again. The door opened and I had no place to hide.

“You alive?” he said. “Want some coffee?”

I groaned, dove under the pillow, and pulled the covers over my head. “I’m so embarrassed I could die.”

He sat on the side of the bed and fished around under the covers for my hand. He took it into his and leaned over the layers of 4 6 4

D o r o t h e a B e n t o n F r a n k cotton and duck feathers that covered my head and whispered, “If you
could
drink like those characters, I’d have serious doubts about your character, Miss Caroline. The fact that you caved in is a good sign.”

“It is?” I said, from under the pillow.

“It is. Now come on out like a good girl and drink this. Doctor’s orders.”

I know I looked like a shameful thing—if I didn’t, I sure felt like one. I took the mug from him and drank. It was delicious coffee.

“Thanks. What is this? Guatemalan roast with a touch of Colombian, ground by Juan Valdez’s own little hands?”

“Maxwell House,” he said, smiling. He smelled so good.

“Figures. Jack? I’m sorry.” I said this trying not to breathe my funky breath in his direction.

“Don’t be silly, nothing to apologize for.”

I rolled over and sat up. My head was a little squirrelly. “I need a shower.”

He stood and pulled me to my feet. “Aspirin’s in the medicine cabinet.”

Twenty steamy minutes later, I was dressed and smelling bacon.

He was making breakfast. What a doll! I made up his son’s bed and wandered out into his kitchen. It was beautiful—state-of-the-art everything. I glanced at my watch. It was eight o’clock.

“Don’t you have to work today?” I said, munching on a piece of perfectly fried bacon. I knew I should call home and speak to Eric.

“Show me a doctor that works on Wednesday, and I’ll show you a desperate man. In Charleston, Wednesday is golf day.”

“Ah! Do you play golf ?” I said.

“Nope.” He motioned for me to sit at the table and I did. My mouth watered at the scrambled eggs and grits before me.

“God, this looks good,” I said. “Thanks! This is so nice of—”

“You look good,” he said.

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In the cold light of day, sun on the rise, heat climbing and stone-cold sober, we took a long hard look at each other. This was it. Yep, that was just about all it took. I was about to be taken back to bed by Jack Taylor, and we had no intention of sleeping. He took my hand and I followed him.

He was amazing. The whole thing was amazing. We fit. I loved the way he looked, he smelled, and tasted. His skin was cool and smooth; his arms and chest were firm and beautiful. I was stunned.

It was real. Right there and then, we were falling—together—into something that felt very much like real love. The kind you can’t deny and can’t fake—the kind that lasts forever. The genuine article. I was transformed. I knew real love was out there, but not out there for me. Or so I had thought. I rested my cheek on his chest, listening to his heart, and he stroked my hair. And, it wasn’t just the sex. Hell no. It was me letting my defenses down, letting him into my heart, him letting me into his. For whatever reason, it seemed we had chosen the same moment to surrender. I knew he could take care of me and I knew I could take care of him. I could love him more and more.

“Where have you been all my life?” he said, lifting my chin to him.

“Ah, Dr. Cliché, obviously in the wrong places,” I said.

He smiled at me again and said, “I mean it.”

I said, “Amazing.”

Forty-six

Rolling! Rolling!

Rolling Down the River!

}

ACK, Trip, and Eric had all gone out on Trip’s boat Friday afternoon while Mother, Millie, and I put the J final preparations on Saturday morning’s party. I had pretty well exhausted myself running around gathering all the things we needed. It was to be a pontoon party—a flotilla of three, closely joined, slowly traveling the Edisto—to mark Mother’s life as a celebration.

I had rented two pontoons from a company in Summerville and borrowed one from a friend of Trip’s. Millie and I set about decorating them while Mother, reclining in a lawn chair on the dock, gave out liberal advice, to which we said, “Yes, yes!” and then promptly ignored every word.

The railings of all three were festooned in navy and white sheer fabric for the colors of South Carolina’s flag. The lead boat would fly the flag of the United States, the second, the state flag, P l a n t a t i o n

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and the third, the flag of England—in recognition of our ancestors.

No Confederate flag, thank you.

Boat one would have music and speakers; boat two, the ice bucket, refreshments, and a microphone for sending messages to the shore. All three boats would have fake palmetto trees and huge bouquets of fresh roses to signify Mother’s love of this place and the flowers she grew with such care and pride. A cameraman hired for the occasion would be on boat three with Mother (in her fan-back rattan chair) to film the others.

“I don’t see why you’re not on the lead boat,” I said.

“Because I want to watch my family and friends, that’s why. Is Frances Mae coming with the girls?”

“Yes, and she’s making ham salad sandwiches,” I said.

“Dear heavenly Father, please ask her not to put olives in it. I hate olives.”

“My pleasure. Any excuse to tell Frances Mae she’s screwing up is a welcome invitation,” I said. The wounds weren’t healed completely.

Mother arched her eyebrows at me. “Claws in, Sheena. I don’t want any trouble tomorrow. Did y’all invite Reverend Moore?”

“Yes, Lord, I did,” Millie said.

“Good; see that he gets enough food and booze. The clergy love to drink and they are always starving,” she said. “Everyone knows that.”

“Like she’s the expert on clergy,” I said to Millie.

“Don’t make jokes, missy, your mother has changed her heart about many things lately. Many things. And it’s all good, yanh?”

I knew that meant that Mother was praying. Hell, I was praying, especially since that Bible kept showing up on my night table.

If I put it in my closet, it was back by nightfall. If I put it in the drawer, it was out again. You bet I was praying.

I was praying Mother wouldn’t suffer, I prayed my affection for Jack was going to grow and that he wouldn’t turn out to be 4 6 8

D o r o t h e a B e n t o n F r a n k another freak from sex hell. I prayed that Eric would come to understand his grandmother’s illness and death without a painful trauma, that Frances Mae would somehow become civilized, that Trip—recognizing her complete metamorphosis—wouldn’t dump her, that Trip would never gamble again, that Millie would live forever, that we would all be all right. And, I prayed that my daddy would be there to take Mother’s hand. I was praying with all my might that somebody, God, somebody was listening.

It was mind-boggling to me. Mother was dying before my eyes and there wasn’t a thing in the world I could do. And, not a single complaint from her either.

By Saturday morning, the world had changed. It was the day of the beginning of Mother leaving us, and in her own way. She seemed pretty much the same, except that she refused the tray of breakfast I brought to her. She didn’t appear to be in any pain—at least, if she was, she didn’t say so.

“Is it a crime if I don’t feel like breakfast?” she said.

She was brushing her hair in front of the mirror over her chest of drawers. I turned around, looking for a spot to place the tray, stepping by Shiva and her shoulder bags hanging from his arms.

“This is actually rather practical,” I said, adding, “Weird, but practical.”

I could feel Mother’s smile without looking at her, but when I raised my eyes to meet hers in the mirror, I caught her in a grimace of discomfort. She leaned forward on the chest of drawers, holding on to its edge for balance.

“I’m all right!” she said.

“No, you’re not,” I said. “Where’s your medication?”

“In the bathroom medicine cabinet, third shelf, on the left.”

I hurried to find the bottle, and saw that she was taking Darvoset. Jack told me that the time would fast approach when Darvoset wouldn’t do the job, that she’d need morphine.