Folly Beach Part 1

Folly Beach.

Dorothea Benton Frank.

Dedication.

In memory of Dorothy Kuhns Heyward.

Epigraph.

DUSK.

From Carolina Chansons.

They tell me she is beautiful, my City, That she is colorful and quaint, alone Among the cities. But I, I who have known Her tenderness, her courage, and her pity, Have felt her forces mould me, mind and bone, Life after life, up from her first beginning.

How can I think of her in wood and stone!

To others she has given of her beauty, Her gardens, and her dim, old, faded ways, Her laughter, and her happy, drifting hours, Glad, spendthrift April, squandering her flowers, The sharp, still wonder of her Autumn days; Her chimes that s.h.i.+mmer from St. Michael's steeple Across the deep maturity of June, Like sunlight slanting over open water Under a high, blue, listless afternoon.

But when the dusk is deep upon the harbor, She finds me where her rivers meet and speak, And while the constellations ride the silence High overhead, her cheek is on my cheek.

I know her in the thrill behind the dark When sleep brims all her silent thoroughfares.

She is the glamor in the quiet park That kindles simple things like gra.s.s and trees.

Wistful and wanton as her sea-born airs, Bringer of dim, rich, age-old memories.

Out on the gloom-deep water, when the nights Are choked with fog, and perilous, and blind, She is the faith that tends the calling lights.

Hers is the stifled voice of harbor bells m.u.f.fled and broken by the mist and wind.

Hers are the eyes through which I look on life And find it brave and splendid. And the stir Of hidden music shaping all my songs, And these my songs, my all, belong to her.

DUBOSE HEYWARD.

Chapter One.

Folly Beach.

A One-Woman Show with Images.

By Cathryn Mahon Cooper.

Setting: St. Philip's Cemetery in Charleston, South Carolina. Dorothy Kuhns Heyward rises from her grave and dusts herself off. She kisses her fingertips and touches the tombstone of DuBose Heyward, which is next to hers. She walks to center stage near the footlights and speaks.

Director's Note: Images to run on back wall scrim: photo of Folly Beach, the beach itself including the Morris Island Lighthouse, photo of Murray Boulevard with an enormous full moon, map of Ohio and Dorothy in evening dress, and DuBose in smoking jacket. Dorothy has a serious side but she's also very funny.

Act I.

Scene 1.

Dorothy: I married an actual renaissance man. Yes, I really did! The story I have to tell you is about the deep and abiding love we shared. Not the carnal details, please, but some of its other aspects such as the sacrifices we were willing to make and the lengths to which we would go for each other. DuBose Heyward was the real and only true love of my life.

It was the summer of 1921 and when we met for the first time, we were both guests at the MacDowell Colony in New Hamps.h.i.+re. Mrs. MacDowell was a wonderful woman who had a very large estate but a very small family. But she loved the arts! So every summer she invited certain writers and artists of every genre and we packed our gear and took ourselves there to work. The minute I laid eyes on DuBose Heyward I knew he was going to be mine. We sized each other up and, without so much as a nod, we knew our feelings were mutual. When the summer had ended, he returned to Charleston and I returned to New York. We wrote to each other each week and sometimes more often and saw each other when we could. Finally, after our third summer together at MacDowell we were married on September 23, 1923, at the Little Church Around the Corner in New York City.

DuBose returned to Charleston without me because my play Nancy Ann was about to open in New York. That set the Lowcountry jungle drums thumping like mad! Where was his wife? And who was she anyway? From Ohio? She writes plays? A lady in the theater? Well, I had to do the work I was being paid to do! But I knew enough about Charleston to know I'd better watch my step, so early on I adopted the zippered lip posture and took my lead from DuBose. It was his reputation we had to protect and he was so much smarter about those things than I was.

Oh! There is so much I want you to know. This was a crazy time in the world. The economy was going down and hemlines were going up. Women were bobbing their hair, throwing away their corsets, and kicking up their heels, doing the Charleston, especially in Charleston! And in the arts? In Charleston? Well, DuBose and his friends decided that big nasty misunderstanding with the Yankees was behind them and they had to look to the future. I mean, please! Charleston was spared a visit from Sherman but sentiments still ran so strong sixty years after the war ended? Honey, the way people whined and carried on, you'd think old Sherman barged into every lady's house on the Peninsula, broke all her china, stole her daughters, and punched her husband in the nose! Just ridiculous. I mean, people moaned and moaned about how much better things were before . . . wait, do you know the story about Oscar Wilde? No? Well then, listen to this. Oscar Wilde came to Charleston sometime around 1885, the exact year is a little fuzzy to me, but anyway, there's Oscar standing on the High Battery with a Charleston gentleman admiring the full moon. Oscar says, My word, would you look at that extraordinary moon! The Charleston gentleman says, Ah, you should have seen it before the war! So now you see, Charleston was reluctant to embrace the future if it meant deemphasizing the past one tiny iota. DuBose and his cohorts wanted to hold on to all the glories of the past but have their work reflect their observances of their present day and their hopes for the future.

G.o.d, I loved that man. We're not talking about moonlight and magnolias here. This is about the magic of a spectacular marriage and how it fueled our creative life and shaped our worldview.

There have been so many stories about DuBose and me and all of them are wrong. Not diabolically wrong, but just skewed at an off angle, enough to make our lives seem like something other than what they were. In public we were both extremely quiet, especially DuBose. In private we laughed about everything and argued loudly over every issue of the day. Well, maybe I was the one who provided the volume. The point is, very few people really knew us.

Maybe my words will be kind of a memoir of the Charleston Renaissance. I don't know. But someone has to paint the mood of the time and set the record straight. I guess that will have to be me, the spitfire from Ohio who was never afraid of the truth. Or pa.s.sion. Not that DuBose was afraid of pa.s.sion or of the truth. He was never a coward. It's just that his heart pumped the holy blood of old Charleston. Let me tell you this, old Charlestonians would just as soon be caught in their birthday suit walking down Murray Boulevard as reveal their hearts to outsiders. But in Canton, Ohio, we ladies were perhaps more inclined to gently speak our minds.

DuBose and I may not ever have earned a lot of money at one time, but ah well, such is a writer's lot in life. After he published Porgy with Doubleday in 1925, we had a few more cookies in our cookie jar and were able to acquire a little house in the wilds on Folly. We adored the island and every peculiarity about it. Yes, we did. In fact, the happiest days of my life all happened on Folly Beach. We were young then, our heads spinning with creativity, and we thought we had plenty, because we were rich in so many other ways. Who needed a telephone anyway?

And we had daily rituals that brought order and all the dignity of a Park Avenue parlor to our lives. For example, to celebrate civility, my darling DuBose and I enjoyed our own private happy hour every afternoon around dusk. Right before the sun turned deep red and began its slow descent into the horizon, we dressed for dinner. We both loved Hollywood glamour and sometimes referred to Folly Island as Follywood for the fun of it. And why not have a little glamour in our lives? No, I didn't put on a long satin frock and call for Jeeves to make highb.a.l.l.s. Oh, no. Our life was substantially more modest! I simply reapplied my makeup and cologne, put on a fresh dress, and brushed my hair. DuBose slipped on his velvet smoking jacket and carefully slicked his hair back, so that in the rose-hued early evening he resembled a very dapper Fred Astaire, but younger and with more hair. And he always smelled like something delicious.

Fade to Darkness.

Chapter Two.

At the Cemetery.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death . . .

The minister's voice was a booming gothic drone. Pastor Edwin Anderson, our pastor with the movie-star looks, suffered from the unfortunate delusion that he was Richard Burton. He really did. Today of all days, it seemed he was brus.h.i.+ng up to deliver the soliloquy from Hamlet. It was ridiculous. On any other occasion I would have been chewing on the insides of my cheeks until I tasted blood. I didn't dare look at my sister Patti or I'd surely blow my composure. What was the matter with that portion of my brain? Gallows humor? Wait! Did I really say gallows humor? Honey, that is the last term in the world I should use and that's for sure. But there it was. Some small twisted secret pocket of my mind, with no permission from me, plucked out the most insensitive detail of this somber and terrible event, made a joke of it, which would surely and extremely inappropriately reduce me to a snickering idiot if I didn't pay attention to myself. I cleared my throat, hoping it would send a signal to Pastor Anderson to bring it down a notch. He shot me a look and continued channeling Burton. G.o.d, he was unbelievably good-looking. Another inappropriate thought. It was true; I was verging on hysteria but who wouldn't?

The miserable weather just added icing to the unholy dramatic cake of a day. One minute, the skies above New Jersey were dumping snow and in the next, sleet fell like tiny ice picks. I was amazed that the governor had not closed the turnpike and the Garden State Parkway. Everything was a sheet of ice, the temperature around twenty. It was only by G.o.d's holy grace that we had all made it to the cemetery without flying off the highway and into a ditch. I was pretty sure the ditches were filled with mangled bodies.

There were probably only twenty of us huddled under the tent at the gravesite, standing, because the seats of the folding chairs were soaking-wet. We all attributed the spa.r.s.e turnout to Mother Nature, but to tell you the truth I was in such a fog I barely knew what was going on around me. I could not have cared much less who showed up and who didn't. Over the last eighteen months, my life had become so isolated and my circle of friends had narrowed to almost no one. And now this.

We had skipped the traditional wake, deciding on a simple graveside service with the most accommodating pastor from our church. I didn't feel like talking to a lot of people, especially given the circ.u.mstances, and Addison was not particularly devout.

"Are you all right, Cate?"

Patti spoke in her normal tone for the hearing-impaired right over the minister, the sleet, the rain, and the wind. Considerations like when to say what and how loud did not occur to Patti. At all or ever. Sometimes that could be humorous, but other times it was unnerving. I was definitely startled by the pitch of her voice. Was I all right? Was I? No. I wasn't all right and we both knew it. Sisters can read each other's minds. I just looked at her. Answer this, Patti, I asked her telepathically, how could I possibly be all right? We were gathered in the most inclement conditions February in New Jersey could offer to bury Addison, my husband of way too many years.

"I'm okay," I lied, pus.h.i.+ng aside my stupor and trying to gather my thoughts. I stepped forward and put my gloved hand on Addison's polished casket.

In the last two days, I had relived our entire twenty-six-year marriage, looking for clues for how Addison's zeal for life had deteriorated and how all the love we had shared over the years had completely and totally become unraveled. In the early days, we were insane over each other. I had never met a man like Addison. There I was, playing Ca.s.sie in a revival of A Chorus Line, when I caught his grin in the footlights. Sure, he was much older (twelve years) than I was, but he swept me right off my feet and then the stage forever, which, oddly enough, I never missed.

I was crazy about him. All I wanted to do was make him happy, and even now I believe that for a long time he had felt the same way. Our eyes were filled with each other and everything we did together seemed so perfect. A simple meal was a royal feast because we shared it. A country club waltz in a crowded room belonged only to us. He was ambitious, funny, charming, and so, so smart. The almost manic exuberance we felt was clear in every single photograph of us, and there were dozens of them from our early years all over our house. But as the children came along, demanding most of my time, he became consumed with business and slowly, slowly my diamond of a marriage began to lose its sparkle. I guess no honeymoon can last forever.

Oh Addison, I thought, how could you do it and why did you do it? Other men his age died from heart disease or cancer. But not my Addison. As he did most things, he leaped into projects full-strength and was a mad dog gnawing and growling until his battle was won. He leaped alright, but this time it was from the top of my piano with the extra-heavy-duty extension cord from our Christmas decorations tied around the rafters and his neck. I was the one who found him. I'd never get that vision of him out of my mind if I lived to be one hundred and ten years old.

I was white-hot furious with him for doing this to himself and to us. Who's going to walk your daughter down the aisle, Addison? I strummed my fingers on the top of the casket and began pulling flowers from the blanket of white roses until I had six or eight clenched in my fist. I just needed to pull something apart. I dropped them on the ground and began pounding the casket with my fist. That was when I felt the strong hand of Mark, Patti's husband, on my arm.

"Come on now, Cate. Come stand by me."

I backed away from the remains of my husband and let Mark put his arm around my shoulder. Mark was a great human being, even though he could be very cheap, which to my way of thinking was a really terrible and unattractive trait. Still, I considered myself lucky to have him as a brother-in-law, because he was the one who would step forward in a situation like this and take any potential problems in hand. Following his uncle's lead, my beautiful son Russ moved away from his contentious wife, Alice, and took my hand.

"It's gonna be okay, Mom. You'll see."

"I know," I said and thought I should be the one rea.s.suring him.

But I had rea.s.sured him and Sara, my daughter. I had told them at least one hundred times in the last forty-eight hours that we would get through this together and everything would be all right. Talk about self-delusion? I didn't believe that any more than they did. Together was over. We would get through the funeral together. But then they would go back to their lives and resume them, maimed a bit, sad for a while, but they had lives and careers that waited for them. Well, to be honest, Russ had a satisfying job teaching and coaching high school basketball. But my daughter, Sara, did not. Sara was my souffle, soft in the center but always in danger of falling if the temperature wasn't perfect. Even though we resembled each other-pet.i.te, dark-haired, blue-eyed-I was much stronger than she was. Still, she was on her own in California and reasonably solvent.

Anyway, at that moment, I had lost my rudder, because life without Addison wasn't a life I could simply pick up and navigate without missing a beat. You see, I lived in a world of his making, not mine. Everything, every single material thing we owned was a product of Addison's image of himself, how he thought he should live and how he wanted to be perceived by the outside world. The wine cellar, the cars, the art collection, the antiques-he had scoured auction houses and galleries, collecting and ama.s.sing that which was worthy of a financial czar. And the house? It was one of the largest homes in Alpine, located in the fourth most expensive zip code in America, roughly ten times the house that would have satisfied me but Addison wanted it all. He wanted just a mere glimpse of our home to make his investors, partners, and his enemies weak in the knees. And it did.

Every now and then I would moan a little with him in private, that I'd surely prefer a simpler life, one that (until I found Albertina, that is) was not so burdened with bickering staff who chipped your crystal, cleaned your silver with steel wool, and used Shout! on your vegetable-dyed antique rugs from Agra. Never mind the unending stream of workmen that came with the constant repairs and upkeep a large home required. Too often my days were defined by waiting for someone to show up to do something the right way, because Addison held me responsible for every last detail of our life outside of his business. Sometimes, no, a lot of the time, I felt more like a building superintendent than the beloved wife of a successful man. There were times-often, in fact-when I was merely the director and producer for the domestic theater of his life, and I knew it with certainty when he would rate my performance after a holiday or a dinner party for clients.

"The centerpieces looked cheap, Cate," he might say. Or, "The meat was overcooked. Shoe leather." Or, "Your staff didn't show well tonight, Cate. Service stunk. I thought you knew how important this dinner was to me."

It was never, "Gosh, honey, you went to so much trouble! I'm a lucky man! Thanks so much!"

He was so self-absorbed and pressured with work that days would pa.s.s without him saying anything particularly personal or pleasant to me, or without even making eye contact. I knew he was preoccupied because he was extremely worried about his investments, but still, his freezing-cold att.i.tude chipped away at whatever affection I felt for him and I felt more and more detached from him. But I was grateful to G.o.d to have my children and I gave them everything there was in my heart. I had Patti. And Mark.

It didn't pay to moan about life in the gilded cage. Not a single member of the human race would have felt sorry for me for one second. Especially Addison. His familiar bark went like this: "Look, Cate. I work like an eff-ing animal, putting in crazy hours, dealing with more stress than the GD eff-ing president himself. So? When I come home I want to look around and believe, somehow believe, even if it's just for five minutes, that it was all worth the sacrifice! Why is that so eff-ing hard for you to understand?"

Nice, right? My neck got hot even then, remembering how terrible he made me feel. How low. How insignificant. The belittling, the judging, and then the terrible silences that followed.

Addison became possessed by the decadent spirits of his own desire. If he wanted to get in his Lamborghini and run it, he did. If he wanted to open a five-hundred-dollar bottle of wine and drink it with microwave popcorn, he did. Many afternoons I would find him downing an old Bordeaux while he watched the Golf Channel ad nauseam on our home theater screen that rivaled an IMAX. Once he paid to play with Tiger Woods to raise money for some charitable cause he could not have cared less about just so he could tell that story over and over as though he was Tiger's best friend. He stored a set of custom Majestic golf clubs in ten different locations from St. Andrews to Pebble Beach so he didn't have to say, "Gee, I wish I'd brought my clubs." He kept his G 550 at the ready, in case he wanted to fly to Vegas with a few of his partners or friends and hear Barry Manilow sing or watch Siegfried and Roy play with their big cats. Sick.

I hated all his toys because they represented just how horribly shallow he could be. We could've done so much good with all that money. If I wanted to support something like the library or the children's schools, he refused, saying he only wanted to give money to things that would thrill him. And he also never missed an opportunity to remind me that he earned the money, not me. He could and would do as he wanted.

He wanted, he wanted, he wanted . . . well, the wanting was at an end because the greedy, covetous, acquisitive son of a b.i.t.c.h was dead. Did he run around? Probably, but I never really knew for sure. That didn't mean I didn't have some very real suspicions.

In the last few years, it came to a point where Addison barely resembled the wonderful extraordinary man I had married. How, I wondered, had I managed all those years to keep my mountain of frustrations and deep disappointments out of the conversation with my children? It was either a miraculous accomplishment of mine or ma.s.sive denial on their part that they merely viewed him as a well-meaning, very distracted man who was sometimes a difficult and demanding grump. I mean, they had their criticisms of him. When Russ was a teenager, he thought he worked way too much and would shrug his shoulders in disappointment when his father missed a basketball game. Russ was the captain of his team and had gone to the College of Charleston on a full ride, which was a point of pride for him to say he didn't owe that part of his education to his father. And Sara? She didn't fare as well. Sara suffered horribly from Addison's lack of attention and spent her high school years dating the wrong boys, getting her heart broken all the time. College had not been a lot better for her socially and so she turned to acting in theater, where she could express herself.

But when they heard the news about their father's death, they both swore that they adored him and they were honestly devastated to learn that he was dead.

The only person who knew the truth about how I really felt about my marriage was Patti, and she would never betray my confidence. Never in a million years. We both figured we may as well bury the old b.a.s.t.a.r.d on a high note.

In some bizarre way, I still cared about Addison and always would. He had given me two wonderful children, a luxurious life, and a long list of things for which I would always be in his debt. After all, we had traveled the world as a family, the children had been sent to good schools, and he gave them incredible opportunities to learn, see, go, and do. If I had ever really felt our lifestyle was that unacceptably vulgar or that his cruelty was too much, could I have left? Of course I could have but we were a family, with all the good and bad, and I wasn't tearing my family apart over something so stupid as Addison's conspicuous consumption or because he became more unsatisfied with his entire personal life when the markets declined. It would only have made a bad situation worse. And living with Addison was generally a tolerable situation. Not a joyous one, but tolerable. But let me tell you, markets may rebound but chasing great wealth is a delusional trap.

Two years ago, Patti and Mark began to notice a marked difference in Addison, too, as he slid even further into a new h.e.l.l. Mark would offer to talk to him all the time but I knew that would probably complicate things so we just held our breath and hoped that whatever problems he was dealing with would be resolved and the old Addison would soon reappear. He never did. And besides, Addison held Mark at a polite arm's length, because in his mind, he had no peer. He had liked Mark well enough but he probably believed his issues with declining global markets, international currencies, and what other troubles a Jedi like him had to endure and solve were far too complicated for someone like Mark, a mere podiatrist, to comprehend.

It was after Russ married Alice and Sara moved to Los Angeles that the most dangerous aspects of Addison's transformation began to materialize. He stopped sleeping regular hours and his normal voracious appet.i.te seemed to disappear. He lost a staggering amount of weight. And he was frequently out of the house until late at night. And the outbursts began. I heard him raging for hours on the telephone with his partners. Like a lot of men, Addison didn't hesitate to raise his voice if he felt like it, especially in business, but this rage was something different, frightening. It was as though he had developed some kind of an evil personality disorder. I began to suspect he was using cocaine or something like cocaine. He had to have been. Or some kind of pills? But when he left for the office and I searched his office at home, his bathroom, and his drawers, I could find nothing. I looked under the mattress, in the toes of his shoes, and behind the books in his study. I read the labels of everything in his medicine cabinet and looked them up on the Internet. Not a speck of anything untoward. If he was abusing drugs, I couldn't prove it.

So what then was the source? I had seen him pitch tirades before but they had always blown over pretty quickly. Not lately. This anger was smoldering, always right under the surface, ready to explode. Anger became his new way of dealing with his life. Sure the economy was terrible, but the recession couldn't last forever, could it? I worried deeply and constantly. Sure he had always had a quick temper but never like this. I was afraid he was going to have a stroke or a heart attack.

As fate would have it, about a year ago, he became fanatical about his health, complaining of every ailment in the Merck manual. Good, I thought, now he'll get some help. And he did. Not a week went by that he didn't visit a doctor of one sort or another to medicate everything from his ears (tinnitus) to his big toe on his right foot (gout). He swore he'd clean up his diet but Addison following any of these doctors' orders didn't last long. The gastrointestinal specialist told him to give up lunchtime martinis and hard liquor of every kind, that his liver and esophagus were turning on him. For a short period he was sober but then I heard him say to someone laughingly that he didn't give a rip-not exactly the language he used-that he would send someone over to a Chinese prison and just buy a liver from some coolie on death row if he needed it. He thought it was a riot to look upon the horrified faces of his politically correct listeners. He bellowed with laughter, recounting his outrageous conversation with his doctor. I was mortified over and over again by his behavior and even his partners' wives, some of the most calcified, impervious women on earth, even they began to regard me with sympathy. I was so glad our children were out of the house by then so they didn't have to witness their father's slide into madness.

It just went on and on. His pulmonary physician told him he had to give up cigars, that his blood pressure was dangerously high, and I wouldn't even want to tell you what he said about that. Addison's humidors were bulging with imported Cohibas that he fully intended to smoke. Needless to say, his cholesterol was out of control, too, just like every other aspect of his life. Addison continued to drink what he wanted, eat what he wanted, and to smoke whenever the mood struck. No one could make Addison listen. No one could tell him what to do. In the end, still in charge, he died on a day of his own choosing. Ironically, all of these terrible habits had not killed him. Addison had the final word. He always did. If he had listened to his doctors' advice, maybe he could have dealt with his stress in a healthy way and he'd still be alive.

I looked around at the small crowd of people, s.h.i.+vering from the cold. Suddenly, it seemed that their jaws were tight and their faces unsympathetic. Was I imagining this? No. If that's how they felt, why had they come?

Amen.

The service was abruptly over, Pastor Anderson stepped over and shook my hand, and everyone stared at me. I had my arm around Sara then. My poor daughter had wept an ocean of tears. Look what you've done, Addison. Look what you've done. I just wanted to scream. I invited Pastor Anderson back to the house but he begged off. The weather, he said. I knew he was rus.h.i.+ng back to that hot young thing he had married recently. Judi was her name and there wasn't a woman in our church who didn't want to be her. I thanked him for everything and thought, Gosh, everyone has a purpose in their life except me.

As Pastor Anderson turned and walked away, Addison's blond twenty-two-year-old secretary was the first one to approach us.

"Lauren, thank you for coming," I said. "You've met our daughter, Sara?"

"Yeah. I can't believe he's dead, and what he did, you know? I mean, he was so great back when we were together . . ."

"When who was together?" I said.

"Uh, you know," Lauren said and then paused, her eyes growing wide. "You mean, you didn't know?"

"Know what?" I said, the sordid truth dawning.

"Jesus, Mrs. Cooper, don't look at me like that! I thought everybody in New Jersey knew it! It was all over Twitter last year! He hooked up with like every girl who ever worked in the office!"

"What?" I felt all the air rush out of my chest and I thought I was going to faint. Did she mean that Addison had s.e.x with all of them? Little Lauren read my mind.

"Like we had a choice? If Addison Cooper wanted something, he got it and you know it! A bunch of us were gonna file suit for s.e.xual hara.s.sment but now that he's gone . . ."

"Mom!" Sara said. "Do something!"

"Lauren?" I was at a loss for words. "I think it's time for you to leave. Now." It was all I knew to say. If I had been in possession of my mind, I might have given her the back of my hand right across her face. Who was this horrible young woman? The Lauren I had known over the phone was polite and kind. True or not, how mean and unforgivably rude to say such a thing at Addison's funeral.

I turned away from her and nearly knocked down s.h.i.+rley Hackett, the wife of Addison's most senior partner.