Isle of Palms (40 page)

“Come on,” he said, “the moon’s rising.”

There was the opening creak and a closing clack that came with a screen door on any old island porch I had ever known. All doors of this type would swell with rain and shrink with cold. They never hung quite right or worked completely to keep out bothersome mosquitoes. But they were a sound I identified with something soothing. Someone was coming or someone was going. You wouldn’t hear the person walk across the damp grass of their yard but you would hear the creak and the clack of their screen door. It was a safe sound.

We walked down the wooden steps and at the bottom he took my hand.

“Watch where you walk,” he said, “the ground’s uneven.”

I was definitely wearing the wrong shoes. It wasn’t long before I stumbled and he steadied me. So for the third time that night, I took them off and hooked the heel straps over my finger.

“You do realize that at this rate, you’ll never wear out those shoes?”

“Very funny, bubba. I don’t know where I thought we were going.”

“Well, maybe we’ll go to the Boathouse for a nightcap later.”

“We’ll see,” I said. “It’s already pretty late.”

We walked down the slope of the yard, me moving like an old woman navigating cobblestones. Reaching the end of the floating dock, we sat on the edge, swinging our legs over the water. The tide was coming in.

“Where’s the boat?” I said.

“What boat?”

“Arthur, even a Yankee boy like you must know that there’s no point in having a dock if you don’t have a boat.”

“I don’t know. Mike doesn’t have one. Maybe I should rent one. Take us sailing under the Carolina moon. Actually, my neighbor uses this dock sometimes. Maybe we can borrow it.”

“Ask. Let’s do that. I’d love it. I’ll pack us a picnic or something.”

Something was wrong. Arthur had become distant, as though his thoughts were far away from here. I guessed he was thinking about his ex-wife and I wished I hadn’t asked him about her or about his son.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” my inner masochist blurted.

“That I wish . . . I don’t know,” he said and pulled me to him, “that I wish I knew how to
really
love. There’s something wrong with me. Anna?”

“Hmm?” I was so lost in the breeze, his arm around my shoulder, the moon, the sparkle of the salty water, that he could have been saying
I’m sorry; it was blown off in the war.
And I would’ve heard that we were perfect, anything else but what he had really said. To me he had said he wanted to love. Not that he couldn’t love.

He kissed me again as all the surroundings insisted that he should. I mean, you got a girl on the edge of a dock in the moonlight and what else are you supposed to do? You kiss her again and again and your heart speaks to her and she hears you cry for her to heal you.

“Don’t get involved with me, Anna,” he said, “I can’t deal with it.”

“You must be kidding,” I said, lying through my teeth, “I never get involved.”

If it was the last thing I ever did, I’d make Arthur love me. He needed me. I was sure of it.

The Hole in the Bottom of the Sea

I HAD become Madame Ovary. During the rest of the week, Arthur was taking over my brain. He was my first thought in the morning, my last thought at night, and the rest of the time, I fantasized about him. It was those darn lips of his and those dimples. Not to mention the way his arms felt, the way he smelled, his eyes, the way his eyebrows grew, the spray of freckles across his nose, his height, weight, complexion, and did I mention how it felt to be kissed by him? Other than these minor but frequently distracting thoughts, I was in full control.

We hadn’t seen each other since Sunday night—between his work schedule and mine, life was a cyclone. More importantly, we had not slept together. Somehow, when I realized how late it was, I had said something stupid about the time. We were still on the end of the dock, fooling around.

“Oh, my Lord! It’s eleven-thirty!” I said.

“Is it? Come on, I’ll take you home.”

Take me home? What was I supposed to say then?
Oh, my mistake! It’s too early?
Right.

The man had my mind in a French twist. Get it? French twist? Okay, that was stupid. But look, I couldn’t decide whether he was really serious about not getting involved. Weren’t we already almost there? We had talked briefly on Thursday—I called him, actually, because I got antsy (read:
possessed
) that he hadn’t called me. It was all right to call him, I told myself, because this wasn’t like the fifties or something. I was a liberated woman. Anyway, I got my satisfaction because we made plans for Sunday again. I was also nervous because even though he wanted to see me that weekend, he sounded less enthusiastic than he had when we were together on Sunday. Well, when the next Sunday rolled around, I would be at my best and he would see what he was treating so casually was seriously worth having. And, I would talk about it with Jim. And Frannie. Not Emily, who had been hanging around with David every single night after work. Why was it so easy for her? Shoot. Young people.

It was Friday and the salon had been extremely busy all week. The neon men had shown up and installed the new sign, the stationery had arrived, Lucy had changed the website, and the phone rang all day long.
Anna’s Cabana
was a wild thing, honey.

Shock of all shocks, Lucy had flowers on her desk from whom, Daddy? I had never known Daddy to send anyone flowers, but Jim and I decided they’d probably had some kind of a tiff and he had sent them to make up. I imagined it was over the past weekend, but we didn’t ask. I figured Lucy would tell me if she wanted me to know. She did.

I was in between clients. Jim and I were discussing his return to San Francisco while eating tuna salad sandwiches standing over the washing machine, which was another demonstration of the unglamorous reality of salon life. Lucy came back to download, thinking we were curious to know where her flowers had come from. We had assumed correctly.

“I don’t want you to think I’m dragging you into this, Anna,” she said, “but I got mad with your daddy.”

“He probably deserved it,” I said, not missing a beat.

Jim arched his eyebrows. “What did he do, the onerous cad?”

“Well, it’s just that I like to go out and he doesn’t. He just wants to play house,
if-you-know-what-I-mean.”

“Please!
TMI!”
Jim said, throwing his arms in the air.
Too Much Information.

I shuddered as the briefest of all thoughts of Daddy in the rack with Lucy tore a hole through my brain.

“Well! It’s the
truth!
I just gave him a piece of my mind. I said, Dougle, darlin’? I don’t mind making dinner and all that but, shoot, I like to go to restaurants too!”

“Sounds fair enough to me,” I said, and tried to not look her in the face.

“He said that he couldn’t imagine anyplace better than my house and that I shouldn’t tell him how to spend his money. Is that the rudest thing you’ve ever heard of? So, I went out to dinner Saturday night with somebody else.”

We tsked and shook our heads.

“Sounds like him,” I said. “It’s not the absolute
worst
thing I ever heard. But it ain’t great.”

“Classic Dougle,” Jim said. “He’s tighter than a gnat’s ass.”

“Who’d you go out with?”

“A very nice man I met in a chat room,” she said. “He took me to Cypress and paid for it too!”

A chat room. One of these days she was gonna get herself in trouble. She trotted away, vindicated by our support and twenty-five dollars’ worth of hideous pink carnations. I have always hated carnations—they reminded me of FTD and sick people who get flowers from people who left it up to someone else to understand their obligations and impotent emotions. I could barely even acknowledge Daddy as sexual and, believe me, impotent was nothing I cared to consider. Carnations said it all. Gee, God.

Yeah, Jim was bailing out on me, returning to San Francisco, and I just hated it.

“Have you told Trixie when you’re leaving?” I said.

“Yup. The Queen Mother is still chewing her cuticles over Emily,” he said. “How much of a bind will her rescinding of dinero cause? I mean, I can help, you know.”

“Precious, you have already done too, too much! Besides, she’s earning some money. I say we let her sweat it for a while. There’s a good lesson in that.”

“God, you’re tough. When did you become so tough?”

“Okay, I’m gonna let you in on a secret. Mothers know that demonic possession of their teenage daughters arrives on the coattails of the first pimple. So, I guess I started toughening up when Emily was about twelve.”

“Hmm, I seem to recall her phoning me around then, crying because you had slapped her just because she called you an asshole? Does that seem right?”

“Yep. That’s when the party began. God. I think you could raise ten boys for the energy it takes to raise one girl.”

I know it seems strange that Jim didn’t pay regular child support and normal that he didn’t pay alimony. How could I have ever asked him to do that? It wouldn’t have been fair. Anyway, it had always worked out all right. When I had needed anything all I had to do was peep and a wire transfer was there. Jim was the only father Emily had ever known and even though she had voiced her suspicion about that, we were still all letting it ride.

I took a huge bite of my sandwich and washed it down with gulps of sweet tea. Jim and I were eating like it was a contest. I had an appointment in ten minutes and he wanted to do some errands in the city. Every time I reached for a potato chip he slapped my hand.

“Don’t eat those! Cellulite! Here! Do you want my pickle?”

“I used to until I met Arthur,” I said, knowing I should wash my own mouth out with soap.

“
GIRL!
You are
so terrible!
So what’s up with Monsieur Camembert? Anything to report? I thought by now you’d have him sniffing around twenty-four/seven.”

“I wish. This guy is one curious specimen.”

“Curious specimen? How curious is he?”

“Okay. We go for a walk on the beach after dinner last Sunday night, right?”

“Right, I remember.”

“And, he’s all romance and kissing me and smelling my neck and everything.”

“So far, this doesn’t sound like a problem.”

“And then he sends me this tree with the monkey . . .”

“Adorable . . .”

“And, you dress me up and we go out again. This time to his house, after Emily earns ten years on a couch. . . .”

“She told me. Honest to God, Anna! Aren’t you a little old for that?”

“Oh, shut up and pay attention, you old priss!”

“Just listen, ’cause I gotta go do Mrs. Stith’s highlights. So we’re on his dock, drinking some wine, and he’s putting the major make on me. I’m loving it and I can tell he is, too. Then, all of a sudden he tells me not to get involved with him. Like, what the hell does that mean?”

“Age-old man-ploy to get woman to fall like a redwood. Pure and simple. Women always want what they think they can’t have.”

“Jesus.” And, I thought, if he thought I wasn’t going to be infatuated with him, he’d want me more? How utterly stupid! “Jim? Lemme ask you this. Why can’t two consenting adults just enjoy falling in love or lust or whatever it is? How long do people play games with each other?”

“Forever. Your whole problem is that your expectations of relationships are too high. Men are in love with themselves and their Johnsons. Period, end of story. They fall in love when it’s too late to back out or if they can’t get in your shorts. And, unless you spend the rest of your life stroking their ego, they’re gonna fall out of love. Them’s the facts, sweetie.”

“Man. That’s pretty cold, isn’t it?”

“Anna? Your appointment’s here.”
Lucy’s voice sang through the little intercom from Radio Shack.

“Life’s rough, Anna, you know that. Look at me and Gary. Look at you and me.”

“Yeah, but we love each other, don’t we?”

“That’s different. We’ve known each other all our lives and we have a child. Starting a new history with a new partner at our age is optimistic, at best. You’re hot for the guy, right?”

“Smoldering.”

“Then, just go screw your head off with him and forget about it. Have fun, you know?”

I walked away thoroughly discouraged. Was that really how it was?

I did Mrs. Stith’s highlights and Mrs. Clarkin’s perm and cut four more heads that afternoon. All the while I was trying to figure out if I knew anyone who had married and stayed in love for decades. I thought about Daddy and Momma. Daddy had loved Momma with a great passion. Everyone knew that. But, why? I
knew
why! The ugly truth was that he loved her because of how she made
him feel,
not because of who
she was.
Was that the nature of a man’s love for a woman? Not what you bring to the table, but how you make him
feel?

I was drinking a cup of coffee when my last client of the day arrived. Caroline Wimbley Levine.

Miss Tall Pines never made an appointment without using all three names. Stuck up, rich, and a bit of a pain in the behind, she had been a client for about a year. I was surprised that she was willing to drive to the Isle of Palms just for me since she lived near Jacksonboro on her momma’s plantation. Well, actually, it was hers now, ever since her momma died. God, I had loved her momma, Miss Lavinia. What a sweetheart she was! Caroline couldn’t shine her shoes, at least not in my opinion. But, money was money and I could perform miracles on her stringy hair because it was just like mine. She was in my chair, combed out by Emily and waiting.

“Hey, Miss Caroline,” I said, pleasantly, “thanks for coming all the way over here.” I pressed the pump with my foot and raised her chair.