Folly Beach Part 15

"I'm just telling you, my dear, don't squander your flowers!"

"What?"

"Oh, stop it Daisy! Let Cate have her fun! See what I mean? O. L. D."

"What's squander your flowers supposed to mean?"

"It's a line from 'Dusk,' a poem DuBose Heyward wrote. Read it and see for yourself. Only decent poem he wrote if you ask me. Anyway, you should memorize it if you want to impress Mr. Risley."

"I'm not worried about impressing Mr. Risley, Aunt Daisy." I already took care of that, I hoped but did not say. Nonetheless, I wrote the name of the poem on the back of a receipt I found in the black hole of my purse and hoped I'd be able to find it again.

"Well, good. I'm just saying . . ."

"I think I know what you're saying. But anyway, by coincidence, we had an amazing discussion about Dorothy and DuBose Heyward at dinner last night, so amazing that I'm taking myself downtown to read the Heyward papers at the Historical Society."

"And then what?" Aunt Daisy said. "You gonna write a book about them?"

"That's highly doubtful. But I have this nagging question that keeps running around in my head and if I don't find out the answer it might drive me crazy."

I told them what John had told me about the huge disparities in Dorothy and DuBose's educational backgrounds and that I didn't quite believe that Dorothy didn't do more than just help with DuBose's writing. They looked at each other slack-jawed and stunned.

"My stars!" Ella said. "I've worked in a library all my life. I've read everything there is in print about them. I never thought to wonder about that. If you're right, Cate . . ."

"It just would be amazing to know, wouldn't it?" I said. "I'm not sure if it's true, but maybe I can find out. Anyway, I'm going digging. It will give me something to talk about with John."

"Women have to do everything," Aunt Daisy said. "It wouldn't surprise me one little bit!"

"Me either, but then the larger question is why? Why would she do the lion's share of the work and let him take all the credit?"

"Who knows?" Aunt Daisy said.

During the drive downtown I kept thinking about the Heywards. From what I understood so far from John, DuBose, his sister, and his mother's inherited social standing had been almost completely truncated by their financial deprivation. Basically, like they say down here in the Lowcountry, they were po'. It would have been very important for his family's pride to try to reclaim their position within Charleston's circle of old families. So then, if that was true, how would Dorothy, a Yankee from Ohio, fit into that plan? And was there a plan? And if there was one, was it openly discussed and was Dorothy aware? Probably not, I decided, because if I had learned anything in all my years growing up in Charleston, even though I was out on Folly Beach, it was that it was poor manners to speak of your losses and certainly money was rarely if ever discussed. I could see the Heywards stiff-upper-lipping it until such time the society hounds caught the scent of improved circ.u.mstances to a degree that would welcome them back into the downy bosom of the circuit. That was the scenario that made the most sense to me. Well, I would see what I would find.

I located the South Carolina Historical Society's imposing but compact building with ease. It was right across the street from the Mills House Hotel on the corner of Meeting and Chalmers Street. I parked in the hotel's parking garage and made my way there, enchanted in the moment by the ancient cobblestones that paved Chalmers Street. How lovely! Cobblestoned streets made me sentimental. Once all the streets of Charleston were probably paved with the ballast of old s.h.i.+ps, or oyster sh.e.l.ls or just packed dirt. But cobblestones, pretty as they were, were the devil to deal with. They had to have wreaked havoc on the ankles of humans and beasts. I was pretty certain they still sent more than one high-heeled tourist, out for an innocent night on the town, right to her knees. But they were lovely to look at, even the ones that held cement mortar in between their uneven edges. I had never really thought about them before, where they came from and so on. It was sort of like when you lived around New York you never went to the top of the Empire State Building or rode the Staten Island Ferry. You took so much for granted. But it seemed to me then that they looked like river rocks. Maybe they were. I'd have to ask Risley. He'd know.

I rang the bell on the ancient door and waited for a few moments for someone to answer. I was met by the smiling face of a pretty young woman whose name tag read mary jo fairchild.

"Come in," she said, "welcome!"

"Hi!" I said and stepped into the foyer. "I'm Cate Cooper."

"And I am Mary Jo Fairchild. What can I do to help you today?"

"Well, I was hoping that I might be able to read the papers of Dorothy and DuBose Heyward."

"Absolutely! That's why we're here. Just sign in there . . ."

I signed the guest book, followed her inside, and she explained the library's rules to me. Purse goes in a locker after I give her five dollars, notes are only taken in pencil, no cell phones please, use only one file at a time . . . I thought that it was probably pretty standard protocol, not that I would have known the difference. Believe me. The process I thought would be so intimidating could not have been easier. In no time at all, I was seated at a large table reading a letter from Robert Frost himself to DuBose Heyward. I held the actual letter in my hands. It just seemed too wonderful to be true and I have to say, the moment made me feel a little light-headed. That was only the first file from the first box of doc.u.ments and I had already b.u.mped into Robert Frost. Amazing! What else was in these boxes? Plenty, I'd bet.

After Robert Frost, I tackled the file of correspondence between DuBose and George Gershwin, and there were many letters to read. There was one most important one though, the one that would change the Heywards' life and seal their fate forever. In its text, Gershwin tells DuBose that he is thinking of setting Porgy to music, saying that the story is the most outstanding one he knows of about colored people. I read on. Every now and then I would flinch from the language Heyward used referring to people of color or the condescending tone in his letters to Dorothy but I had to keep reminding myself that he was using the accepted terminology and customs of his day. The 1920s were nearly a hundred years ago and many things were decidedly different then. Life in Charleston was multilayered and each of those strata followed a strictly prescribed code of conduct. I mean, the only time you'd see a black woman in a white woman's house was if she was doing the laundry. On the other hand, DuBose had no compunction about visiting and partic.i.p.ating in an African-American church service and bringing Gershwin there, too. There were social lines drawn all over town, neighborhood by neighborhood, races divided, ancestors compared, judgments made. But more than that, it was as though everyone worried that they were being watched by some invisible Etiquette Queen and King who would pulverize them to charred smoky bits if they stepped out of line.

Lord knows, DuBose stood on social ceremony in all his letters to Dorothy, being painfully correct, not too personal, and no one would have accused him of being romantic. To be honest, I gagged a little every time I read that DuBose sent his mother's love along with his. I mean, for the life of me, I don't know how Dorothy figured out he was serious about her unless they sneaked off behind the barn when they met at the MacDowell Colony and carried on like lovers do. And for some reason I doubted that there was very much hanky-panky happening between them. From their photographs they both looked pretty prim. And there were a lot of photographs of DuBose-studio portraits, to be specific. Apparently, he liked his own looks. Hmmm, I thought, what gentleman of that day had their portrait made so frequently?

I couldn't wait to read Dorothy's letters to DuBose. All I could find of hers thus far were c.o.c.ktail recipes, budget recipes, diet information, and some correspondence with a friend from the MacDowell Colony named Dorothy DeJaggers, who seemed to be a bit mad. Was she? And then there were some letters to and from the headmistress of Jenifer's school and a plea to Dr. Karen Horney, a noted psychiatrist in New York, to please take Jenifer on as a patient. Apparently, although Jenifer made wonderful marks in her cla.s.ses, she had some behavioral issues and severe absentmindedness. All that was very interesting but it wasn't what I was looking for and I wondered if I would ever find the answer to my question.

There were still boxes of papers to read. Hopefully there was some romance in them. Something!

I read on. The next stack of letters concerned Al Jolson, who wanted to play Porgy-and he would do it in blackface-so eagerly that he formed his own production company with Rodgers and Hammerstein, intending to cut Gershwin out. That took some brash nerve. But blackface? At first it seemed so offensive to me but then I was reminded by Mary Jo that there were laws in those days that forbade black actors from performing on a stage in a theater attended by white patrons. I knew that but had forgotten it. In my mind's eye I suddenly remembered a movie with Jolson singing "Swanee" and I s.h.i.+vered.

"That's why Porgy and Bess was never performed here in Charleston where it was written until there was an anniversary revival of it in 1970."

"It seems so crazy now, doesn't it?"

"Yes. It surely does. Anyway, it didn't matter because DuBose was adamant that the actors would all be black or else no play."

"Well, you have to give him credit for that kind of foresight."

"His mother hammered authenticity into his skull from birth."

"I'll bet!"

And as the day went by, I began to understand all the reasons why DuBose was so heavily influenced by his mother, who I decided early on was a meddler and a Bossy Boots nonpareil. They had been very wealthy once but the Civil War left the family nearly dest.i.tute. Their financial gloom was further exacerbated when DuBose's father was killed in a factory accident when DuBose was just a toddler. When there's no money you do what you have to do and you hang on to what you've got. In their case all they had left was the glory of the historic deeds of their ancestors. So his mother held her head high and took in boarders at their beach house, ironically named Tranquility, on Sullivans Island but she also wondered aloud who was going to cut her fingernails? Gross, I thought. But the answer to that would be DuBose, who became the consummate momma's boy.

Janie Screven Heyward was as resourceful as Scarlett O'Hara, seemingly helpless but really the proverbial iron fist in the old velvet glove, doing everything she could to put food on the table for DuBose and his sister. She even stood in the lobby of the Francis Marion Hotel and recited poetry in Gullah for tourists who were pa.s.sing by, for what pocket change they would spare. That had to be completely demoralizing for someone who considered herself to have the bluest blood in town. But her lobby recitals led to parlor performances in private homes and whatever other honest work she could find until DuBose became a young man. She had surrendered her pride for her son and daughter and they owed her a great debt.

At fourteen, DuBose dropped out of school, because he had to help support the family. He sold newspapers, eventually finding work in a hardware store and later on the docks as a cotton checker. I was so deeply engrossed in spying on the Heywards that I thought I could have spent the rest of my life reading about all of them. No wonder Risley was so consumed. They were real characters who took dangerous risks and somehow life had worked out for them. But, they had no way of knowing at the time that ridicule and more poverty wasn't waiting for them at every turn.

Mary Jo was pa.s.sing by with an armload of books to return to their proper shelves. I stopped her to ask her about DuBose's education and the story on his mother, two of the curiosities in my mind.

"Got a minute?" I said.

"Sure. How's it going?"

"Well, I have to say, it's a little overwhelming! I mean, just how poor were the Heywards?"

"Good question. I know it's been said that many nights DuBose went to bed hungry. But in those days, around the Depression, Charleston was still dealing with the poverty from the Civil War. People said the Great Depression went almost unnoticed in Charleston."

"That's poor."

"Yep. But most people were in the same boat."

"Mary Jo?"

"Hmmm?"

"Do you think DuBose's mother encouraged him to drop out of school?"

"Well, there's nothing in these papers that directly says that but I've always thought so. I mean, he wasn't a very good student and he was sick all the time, so what was the point of going to school? And she needed help."

"I guess. I'm just trying to get a sense of who they really were, Dorothy and DuBose, I mean."

Mary Jo put her books on the table and sat down in an old oak chair opposite me.

"Well, their reputation was that they were both terribly shy and self-deprecating. Very sweet."

"Oh, please. I've read enough here to know that isn't entirely so. I mean, they were diminutive in stature . . ."

"Between us? I think he might have had a food issue."

"Yeah, there wasn't enough to go around."

"That, too. Although in those days, thinness was definitely equated with chic."

"It still is. For women anyway."

"Yes, well, I've thought about them a lot. Seems like he sure wanted to look dapper. But then there was the health thing, with both of them really."

"How bad was it?"

"Well, he had typhoid fever, dengue fever, terrible polio, and a whopping case of arthritis. Plus his left arm was a fright. Check out the boxes of pictures with Gershwin. And she had some very high blood pressure and impressive rheumatoid arthritis. She was frequently on bed rest because of exhaustion. I think they thought in those days that less weight on your joints would ease pain."

"You also go to bed if you're weak from hunger."

"True. You know, it's like they're still here, in these walls."

"No. They're out on Folly Beach. And I have this peculiar feeling that Dorothy is trying to tell me something. I'm living in the Porgy House on Folly. Did I tell you that?"

"No! Oh my! Is that what brought you here?"

"Yes. That and I've made friends with a fellow from the College of Charleston who thinks I'd find them fascinating and I do," I said and Mary Jo stood then. "Do you think I could have a box of letters from Dorothy to DuBose?"

The afternoon was fading and soon I would have to leave but I wanted to take a fast look at Dorothy's letters first.

"There are none."

"What?"

"Yep. DuBose didn't save her letters. She saved his."

"Oh no." The son of a b.i.t.c.h, I thought, isn't that just like a man?

"Well, it is actually interesting, because it might suggest that he never thought her letters would be the subject of any research or debate."

"Or maybe because he didn't want the world to see how brilliant she was?"

"Now, there's a thought. Who knows? Maybe she destroyed them after he died? Remember she outlived him by twenty years."

"Why would she do that?" I said, a little saddened by the suggestion.

"Who knows? Maybe because she wanted the world to remember him as the genius, not her?"

I sat there for a moment, considering the weight of what she suggested. Then I began gathering up my notes and pencils but was suddenly overcome with surprise and confusion. Had Dorothy Heyward destroyed her own letters because she loved DuBose Heyward that much? What was she trying to do? Control the spin? Why, when she seemed to me, at least thus far, to be such a bold and liberated woman for her time . . . why would she hide her light under her husband's bushel?

Had I just stumbled on the greatest love story in Charleston's literary history? If so, just how could I prove it?

Later, as I drove to my son's house, I tried to s.h.i.+ft my attention to the evening but the truth was that I was almost completely preoccupied with my search for the truth about Dorothy. It just didn't make sense to me but then there were boxes left to read. So I shoved it to the back burner in my brain, pulled into my son's driveway, and thought, oh, my, what a simple house they have. If I'd had my old wallet, I'd have made them a gift of some serious landscaping.

I rang the doorbell. Russ answered.

"Hi, Mom! How are you? Come on in!"

"Good, baby. How're you?"

I stepped across the threshold and into their living room, hugged my son, and heard Alice's footsteps coming toward us.

"Hi, Cate! Welcome home!"

I really wished she'd call me something else.

"Thanks, Alice," I said and gave her a maternal hug, patting her shoulder. "Well, now! Don't you both look wonderful?" I stepped back, looking at their genuinely happy, youthful, smiling faces, thinking how important parental approval was at every age.

"Thanks, Cate! And so do you, all things considered," Alice said and Russ shot her a death-ray look. "I mean, the long drive and all the terrible things, you know, Addison's suicide and . . ."

I was thinking, why is she bringing this up? I mean, let's just relive it all one more time and have a nice evening, okay? When Russ was uncomfortable with a situation he rubbed his hands on the sides of his pants. I guess I was staring at her with a very furrowed brow, because Russ was rubbing his legs and his palms.

"You're gonna start a fire," I said.

"Right! Why don't I get you ladies a drink? Gla.s.s of wine, Mom? Alice? You want a gla.s.s of tomato juice?" Russ said, smiling, seeing precisely why Alice compromised my sense of humor.

"Why, I'd love that, Russ! Thanks! What smells so good? Gosh, your house looks so pretty!"

No, it didn't. It was as sterile as an operating room. Didn't they have any tchotchkes? I forced a smile, walked by Alice, and followed my son into the kitchen. My poor son.

"I made fish sticks," I heard her say in a tiny voice. "And a pot of grits."

And it isn't even Friday, the Catholic in me said to no one. Wow. Fish sticks.

We made it to the dinner table, which, for the record, was set by someone who did not share the domestic G.o.ddess's propensity for anything that smacked of style or beauty. That would be Alice. The mismatched forks were jumbled with the knives on the right, and a bottle of ketchup was in the middle of the table along with a paper napkin holder and a bottle of Texas Pete's Hot Sauce. There was at least one stain on every place mat. But I held my tongue. The ketchup was for the fish sticks and Texas Pete was there to enhance the collard greens from the plastic quart container that came from the Bi-Lo, reheated in the microwave and served in the same container it traveled in. Again, I held my tongue and thought, well, maybe I would teach Alice to cook. And to set an inviting table. At the same time I taught myself, that is. I mean, I was a reasonable presence in the kitchen, especially with holiday meals, and I could do some pretty interesting things to a chicken . . .

"Mom? Did you hear what I said?"

I was winding a wad of collards around my fork, thinking about the slow-cooker recipe I had for coq au vin.

"Oh! I'm sorry, sweetheart! I was just thinking that it's been years since I had collards and grits and I love them! They're really delicious, Alice. Just the right amount of salt and just the right consistency . . ." They were staring at me with the strangest expression. "What? What did I miss?"

"We're having a baby, Mom. We're pregnant!"

"You are?" WHAT? I was stunned. "Oh my G.o.d! Russ! Alice! Oh! This is wonderful news!" I shot up from my seat, I don't know what possessed me, but I hugged Alice and kissed the top of her head. Then I ran around the table and pulled Russ up into my arms and hugged him, too, for all I was worth, I hugged my boy. All at once I was filled with a flood of joy and I didn't quite know what to do with myself. I was going to be a grandmother!