Folly Beach Part 28

"Yeah, but wait. When they got married, DuBose was living with his mother. And she was quite the force to deal with, too."

"That couldn't have been any fun for Dorothy. I mean, a married woman needs her own house."

"Exactly. One too many hens in the henhouse. So, listen to this. The first thing they do is build the mother a house on St. Michael's Alley and then they build themselves this gorgeous Federal-style house in North Carolina on ten acres or more-I can't remember exactly-but they had a writer's cabin in the yard and a little bridge over a stream and these huge fieldstone fireplaces. It was really something."

"So where'd they get the money for all that? We go from two-cent soup to St. Michael's Alley and the glam life?"

"Exactly! My theory is that Dorothy was loaded. Look, her parents were dead so she inherited whatever they had. And she went to boarding school in Was.h.i.+ngton, not cheap, and later she studied at Columbia University and Radcliffe College, which were also no bargains."

"Well, somebody had to pay for all of that."

"Right? So she came from money. He dropped out of school and worked some pretty low-rent jobs to try and help his mother put food on the table. I mean, DuBose and his mother and sister were so poor that his mother took in sewing and rented rooms but she also did some other pretty demeaning things, too."

"Oh, please tell me that she shook her tail feathers in one of those seedy bars up by the navy base?"

"You're terrible. No, she stood in the lobby of the Francis Marion Hotel and recited little rhymes in Gullah, hoping the tourists would give her a dime or a quarter."

"Wow. That's like being a beggar."

"No. That is being a beggar. Anyway, DuBose had all these lofty ideas about living his life as a poet . . ."

"While his mother is killing herself to pay for the gruel."

"Yep! So, he's going to make a living as a poet . . ."

"Now we're really talking two-cent soups."

"Exactly. I mean, DuBose knew how to be a little sn.o.b but he really didn't want to be poor. So, he struggled with the idea of a literary career, which he considered appropriate for a gentleman of his highfalutin background, versus what he considered selling out and writing something more commercial. Dorothy was the perfect solution."

"Because she arrived on the scene with deep pockets?"

"Yes. And she was already a commercial success as a playwright when they met. DuBose Heyward didn't have the first clue about how to adapt Porgy the book to the stage. Dorothy did it."

"You know, it's so funny, you never even hear her name. I always thought DuBose was the creative genius."

"Well, to give the devil his due, he was the one who had the very original point of view about the whole Gullah world that shaped the story of Porgy and Bess. I mean, DuBose took the accepted view at the time, which was that the African Americans were s.h.i.+ftless and lazy and sat around all day just waiting to please Ma.s.sah, you know, Al Jolson in blackface, the whole minstrel thing?"

"I'm with you. Heck, Cate, it was almost that bad when we were growing up."

"Not with everyone. I mean, look at Ella and Aunt Daisy."

"What? You don't remember because you were really little but I remember that Daddy was more upset about Ella's complexion than he was with what went on between them."

"Come on."

"True."

"Oh, for heaven's sake. How stupid."

"That's right."

"That old skunk! All right, well anyway, DuBose turned the stuffy old Charlestonians on their ears when he described the black world as highly desirable, even enviable. He was completely enthralled by their pa.s.sion for living, for religion, for love . . ."

"I'll bet that caused some talk around the old Yacht Club."

"Don't you know it? Well, from what I can gather, people from other places like Boston and New York thought he was avant-garde, but people here didn't understand what he saw in Gullah life that was worth writing about. So, it's safe to say that he was controversial."

"You got a picture of him?"

"Yeah, a bunch. In fact, there's one in the front room. Come on, I'll show you and then let's call it a night. I'll help you take your stuff upstairs."

We put our gla.s.ses in the sink and rinsed them.

"What's this room?" Patti said.

"That bedroom? Oh, that's where their help slept and supposedly that's the desk he used to write Mamba's Daughters."

"Humph."

"Yeah, that's what I say, too. Come in here and look at this."

I turned on the extra lights in the front room and turned out the lights behind us and pointed to a picture of DuBose with George and Ira Gershwin.

"That's him," I said.

"He looks like a total wimp," Patti said.

"Well, there was talk . . ."

"That what? He was gay?"

"There was that rumor but I don't think so. I think he was just a gold-digging, self-promoting, opportunistic, arrogant a.s.s and also a total wimp."

"Oh! That's it? But not gay."

"I don't think so. But who knows?"

"Who cares?" Patti said.

"Not me."

"But you have to wonder what she saw in him?"

"That's easy. He had a name. And he belonged somewhere. She was as smart as a whip, an orphaned vagabond, and she wanted a life in the theater on the other side of the footlights."

"Like you?"

"No, she was totally amazing. I'm just a sniveling novice. But you see, DuBose could give her all of that. But here's the part I'll never understand."

"What?"

"She adored him. She absolutely adored him."

"She must have. Aunt Daisy always said there was a lid for every pot. Gershwin died young, didn't he?"

"Yeah, very. Thirty-eight. So did DuBose."

"Really? How old?"

"Fifty-five. Ma.s.sive heart attack."

"And she never remarried?"

"Nope. She canonized DuBose instead. She spent the entire rest of her life protecting his name and making sure he got all the credit he was due."

"Now that's love."

"That's what I think, too. Come on, I'll even let you use the bathroom first."

All night long I kept waking up thinking I was hearing someone playing my piano. Of course that was ridiculous. And it wasn't like they were playing a whole song. It was a few faint notes here and a few hushed chords there. I thought, boy, Cate, you've got some crazy imagination and I made a mental note to buy earplugs at the drugstore in the morning.

I couldn't tell you when I finally fell asleep but I could definitely tell you when I woke up-it was when my cell phone rang at eight o'clock. It was Ella calling.

"Y'all want some breakfast? I've got my waffle iron heating up and there's a pound of bacon sizzling away in my big cast-iron skillet."

Waffles? Bacon?

"I haven't even seen Patti yet but I'll say heck yeah for both of us. Give us thirty minutes?"

"See you then!"

I threw back the covers and called out to Patti.

"Patti? Ella's making waffles. And bacon."

"I'm up!" she said. "Should we get dressed for downtown or are sweats okay?"

"Sweatpants are fine. Let's walk on the beach after we eat and then we can do all the other things we've got to do."

"Perfect. You've got sheet marks on your face."

"Big shock."

We pulled ourselves together in record time, hopped in the Subaru, and we were off. When we got there I emptied their mailbox and Patti picked up the newspapers. We went inside, using my key.

"Aunt Daisy gave you a key?"

"I thought it was a good idea for a whole lot of reasons."

"It really is."

Ella was in the kitchen watching the Today Show and turning bacon with a fork.

"Morning!" I said and gave her a hug.

"Sure smells good in here," Patti said and hugged her, too.

"Nothing on this earth like bacon. And I have an apple pie in the oven for that nice nurse. Why don't you girls make yourselves useful and set the table?"

"I've got the mail and Patti got the newspapers. No word from the hospital, huh?"

"Not a peep."

"That's good," I said.

Happy birthday from our friends at Smuckers! Here's Bessie Johnson as pretty as a picture. She's one hundred and four, still likes to go bowling and she sings in the choir! Never misses a Sunday! Willard Scott chirped.

"Humph," Ella said. "She looks like she's past dead, if you ask me! Listen to that fool man up there flapping his jaw. She sings in the choir? I'll bet they wish she wouldn't!"

"Yeah, and she bowls, too," I said. "That's gotta be fun to watch! These place mats okay?"

Ella nodded and I put them on the table.

"Someday they'll have you and Aunt Daisy on that show," Patti said. "Do you want me to melt the b.u.t.ter and syrup together?"

"Hush your fool mouth and hand me a plate, and yeah, melt it quick in the microwave," Ella said and shook her head, hooking her thumb in its direction. "Oh, Lord! It's so nice to have my two girls here."

In minutes we were seated around the table, drizzling hot b.u.t.tery maple syrup over steaming waffles and snitching a slice of bacon with our fingers before the first waffle was cut. Patti poured coffee and I turned down the television.

"Let's bless this food with a little prayer for our Daisy," Ella said and we did.

Fully fortified by another hearty meal, Patti and I thought about taking a short walk on the beach. Ella adamantly insisted on cleaning her own kitchen. It didn't matter that Patti was an accomplished chef who cleaned and disinfected a kitchen like a surgical theater preparing to operate on the pope. Ella nearly always cleaned her own kitchen and when anyone else tried to help she twitched.

"We'll be back in thirty minutes then we'll run home and change and go downtown to Aunt Daisy? How's that?" I said to Ella.

"You girls go get a little exercise but don't be gone too long though. I want to get to the hospital before the morning slips away."

"Wait," I said. "We can skip the beach? Right, Patti?"

"Ella? We can take you downtown right now, and then come back," Patti said. "Would that be better?"

"No, I'm just, you know, a little uneasy. That's all. Besides, I can drive myself in my own car!" she said and I could see her anxiety all over her face. She would drive herself to the hospital, stay all day, it would get dark, she'd be scared to drive herself home. "I just want to wipe down my counters and start the dishwasher. You girls go on now."

"No way," I said, feeling stupid and guilty about not rus.h.i.+ng her to Aunt Daisy's side. "You're right. Let's get you downtown. It would actually be better to walk later on when it's warmer anyway."

"Yeah," Patti said. "It's awfully foggy and damp and this morning my throat was a little scratchy. Probably better to wait."

"You girls haven't changed a bit," Ella said, pouring liquid dishwasher soap into its little compartment. "Always in cahoots with each other." She closed the door and turned it on.