Sullivans Island-Lowcountry 1 (32 page)

if the old codger had a soapbox in the closet I could use.

“So we may assume you have other opinions about other

things?”

“Yeah, I guess you could say that.”Why was I so out of con-

trol? This was no way to charm a guy, even I knew that.“I tend

to get carried away.”

“Carried away can be a good thing. I have two more writers

to interview and I’ll let you know by Monday. Okay?”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really. Fair enough?”

“Oh, God, yes, that’s more than fair enough! Thanks, Max,

listen, this is all just draft, you know, I could polish it up—”

“Quit apologizing for your writing. God, all writers are

the same.” He got up from his desk and opened the door for

me to leave.The interview was over. I had spent eight hundred

and fifty dollars on this black widow’s outfit for a five-minute

interview.

“Max?” I extended my hand to him and he took it.“Thanks.

I really mean it.”

“Sure thing, Susan Hayes, with opinions galore! I’ll call you

either way by the end of the weekend.”

I called Maggie as soon as I got home.

“Let’s get drunk,” I said.

“Love to oblige, but I have to take the boys to football prac-

tice tonight. My turn to carpool. How’d it go?”

“Then can I borrow a Valium?” I twisted the phone cord

around my elbow and hand, knotting the whole thing up.

“God, I wish you’d get your own. Ask your doctor.Tell me

how it went.Was it a disaster?”Why was she so cranky? Get my

own Valium?

“No, I don’t think so, I mean, I don’t really know. It was so fast.”

“Has he got your portfolio?”

S u l l i v a n ’ s I s l a n d

211

“Yeah, he had read the stuff already. I guess he just wanted to

see my face. I’m gonna be a wreck until he calls. Can I come

over?”

“Sure.”

I don’t remember driving to the Island, but I came out of

my trance in Maggie’s kitchen as she put a bottle of peach-

flavored Snapple in my hands.

“Peach-flavored tea? How can you drink this stuff ?”

“It’s better for you than all those nitrates you guzzle.”

“Maybe. Maggie? Is something wrong?”

“I haven’t seen my husband in two days.” She leaned back

against the sink and she had the strangest expression on her face.

“Susan, Grant’s having an affair,” she said.

“What in the hell are you telling me?”

“I’m telling you Grant is putting away some little nurse at

the hospital.”

She burst into tears. I knew she sounded funny on the phone!

No wonder she told me to get my own drugs. I put my arms

around her.

“Come on, now. How do you know this is true? I mean, are

you sure?”

“I found a matchbook with a phone number written on it

in his jacket pocket.”

“Call the number?”

“Yeah. Answering machine. ‘Sheila and Debbie aren’t home

right now . . . ’ What would you think?”

“I’d think what you think, but you know what? You should

ask him. Just ask him.”

“Here I am in this perfect life, in my clean house, and my hus-

band is screwing around and I didn’t even suspect it. But, lately,

he’s gone so much, I don’t know, I just started getting this rotten

feeling in the pit of my stomach, you know what I mean?”

“Do I know? Yeah, I know. I just can’t believe Grant would

do that, Maggie. He’s a Eucharistic Minister, for Christ’s sake, no

pun intended. I mean, guys who dispense Communion every

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Sunday are unlikely to have affairs! I think you need more facts.

Just ask him straight out. Say, ‘Grant? Are you having an affair?’

Just as he’s about to bite into dinner, you know, catch him off

guard.”

“Oh, I couldn’t do that, Susan, I don’t have the nerve.”

“Yes, you do.Then he’ll say, ‘Why no, honey, whyever in the

world would you think that?’Then you say,‘Because I found these

matches in your pocket from the White Horse Saloon with a

phone number, so I called it and a girl named Debbie answered.

I told her I was your wife and you’re HIV positive and on a mis-

sion to infect all the sluts of the world, that’s all.’That’s what you

say. Then you look at his face to see if he’s choking or turning red

or whatever.”

She cracked up. I cracked up. Humor. It never fails.

“You’re the best, Susan. I’m gonna do it.” She paced around

the kitchen table.“What do you think? Should I wash my hair?”

“Definitely. I don’t want to put pressure on you, but pretend

you’re getting your picture taken for
Town & Country,
know what

I mean? Put on the dog and when he takes the bait, whammo!”

“Whammo, huh? At this moment, I’d like to whammo him

straight to McAlister’s Funeral Parlor.The son of a bitch.”

“Maggie! Such language! Honey, get the facts first. I have

the feeling this is all a big misunderstanding. I can’t for the life of

me see Grant sneaking around. He loves you, first of all, and sec-

ond, he’s not the type.”

“Livvie used to say all men were the type.”

“Yeah, well, Gawd rest she soul, I’m sure that even she

would’ve been wrong this time.”

I drove back to the city with a heavy heart. Grant was fifty-

one. Prime target for a nurse and an affair. It was true, he hadn’t

been around much, only to take the boys fishing and Sundays

he’d take everyone to church and then to do something else, like

see a movie. I thought about it some more and wondered what

indeed would Maggie do if she were right. I knew I’d better

prepare myself to step in and help her like she had helped me.

S u l l i v a n ’ s I s l a n d

213

The house was quiet that night. I was watching television

and Beth was reading in her room. I had decided to give myself

a break in the writing business that night and just catch up on

sitcoms and paying bills. At eleven o’clock, I turned off the

lights and went upstairs. Beth’s light was still on.

“Night, sweetie!” I blew her a kiss through the door.

“Hey, Mom! Wanna see something outrageous?”

“Why not? Today’s been a day for the outrageous.”

“Look at this catalog! This is what I’m gonna wear on my

wedding night.”

I sat on her side of the bed and she showed me a picture in

a lingerie catalog of an emaciated blond with enormous breasts

and big, pouty, slippery lips, wearing a white, sheer, nylon, poor

excuse for a gown and robe trimmed in feathers. For a moment,

I didn’t know what to say. It was the worst thing I could imag-

ine she would want to wear in front of anyone. It bordered on

pornography.

“Where did you get this catalog?”

“Cool, huh? Jennifer gave it to me.”

“Who’s Jennifer?”

“A girl in my biology class.”

“That figures. Listen, sweetie, throw that in the trash.When

the time comes for you to get married, we’ll go to Atlanta to

shop.”

“You swear?”

“Mother never swears, Beth, you know that.”

Mo n d ay a f t e r wo r k I was coming through the door with gro-

ceries for dinner and Beth was on the phone, as usual, and ani-

mated like a lunatic, waving her arms at me.The kitchen was a

wreck, also as usual, but I was so stressed out that I didn’t even

start yelling at her.

“Sure, she’s right here.” She handed the phone to me.
It’s him!

she mouthed, pointing to the phone.
The guy from the
Post &

Courier!

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“Hello?”

“Susan? Max Hall here. Nice girl you’ve got, nice girl.”

“Thanks.”

“Well, if you still want the job, it’s yours. I know I shouldn’t say

this, but I saw those other two people and I swear to God, what

some people think passes for entertainment, you wouldn’t believe.”

“Right.Well, I still want the job.Very much!”

“Well then, we need to settle a few things. First, we will use

a number of the essays you’ve given me, but not all of them. So

why don’t you come by and we can talk about them? I have a

list of possible topics for you too.You know, education, the arts,

local sports, that kind of thing.”

“Sure! No problem.”

“Then there’s the ugly business of money.”

“Right, money,” I repeated like a parrot.

“I’m afraid it’s not much, ten cents a word, but it’s something

anyway.”

“That’s fine, I’ll take it!”Tough negotiator, I thought.

“First column runs this Thursday, Living section. I have a

question for you.”

“Sure, what’s that?”

“Do you want to use your name or a nom de plume?”

“Nom de plume, please, too many living relatives.”

“All right. Oh, and one other thing . . .”

“Yes?”

“Tell Jack he’s a helluva guy!”

“Right!” Oh, shit, this beast won’t ever let me forget that one.

“Be in my office tomorrow at four?”

“You bet! Max, thanks, I mean it.”

“Quit thanking me, you deserve a chance, Susan. You’ve

done a lot of living and these stories will give a lot of people

something to think about.”

I hung up the phone and leaned against the wall. Beth

grabbed me and we jumped up and down for a minute, whoop-

ing and hollering.

S u l l i v a n ’ s I s l a n d

215

“My mom! The famous columnist!”

“Oh, God! I can’t believe he called! He’s a little bit of a stiff,

I think, but who cares?”

“Right!”

Beth opened the refrigerator and found a can of Coke and I

poured myself a glass of Chardonnay.We clinked aluminum and

glass and I toasted myself and her.

“To the future!”

“To the future,” she said and gave me a hug.

“Hey, Mom, not to change the subject, but have you heard

from Dad?”

“No, why?”

“Just wondering.” She sat up straight on her bar stool.

“Okay, here’s the dirt. I saw him with
her.
”

“Oh, so what? Look, Beth, you’re old enough to understand

this. People should live where they want and do what they

want. If he wants to come back and he’s serious, you’ll be the

first person I tell.”

“I guess. I wasn’t gonna tell you but now that you have

some good news, I figured it was okay.”

“Right. Let them have each other. Come on!” I opened the

refrigerator. “Let’s make spaghetti. Tell me what happened in

school today.”

“Jonathan finally started speaking to me again.”

“Tell him not to do you any favors. Don’t we have a bell

pepper?”

“Right. In the bottom drawer. So, Momma?”

I loved when she called me Momma.

“Is it hard to write?”

“Nah, it’s sort of like dancing. You find a rhythm and go to

town with it. Know what I mean?”

“Sort of. I mean, it’s easy to write about good stuff, but what

are you gonna do if they ask you to write about bad stuff ?”

“Let’s hope they ask. Like what?”

“I don’t know, death maybe?”

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“That may possibly be the toughest question I’ve had to

answer all day, but even death has humor, wakes and funerals

especially. I guess I’d advise people not to take hams to the

bereaved. Did I ever tell you about the mountain of hams we

always got?”

“You’re weird, Mom.”

Eleven

Tipa

}

1963

T was a bright October morning. The last vestige of

Indian summer before the gray months. I was waiting

I outside for the school bus with Maggie, Timmy and

Henry. The twins had been home for about a month. Momma

had named them Allison (after June Allison, the actress) and Sophie

(after her mother) and when we took them down to Stella Maris

to wash the devil out of them, they were baptized Allison Marie

and Sophie Ann.They had screamed all the way through the cere-

mony, but from the minute they came home from the church they

settled into a routine under Livvie’s care.They were good babies,

Livvie said.

Momma didn’t get out of bed to cook breakfast for us any-

more. Somehow we managed. Daddy was leaving earlier than

ever for work. His construction of the county high school was

well under way and there were problems all the time. Just the

day before, someone had hung him in effigy from a tree by the

construction site. I heard him tell Uncle Louis that there was

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a sign around the dummy’s neck that read hank hamilton loves

niggers. Just last night old Fat Albert and Mr. Struthers came by

to see Daddy.They sat out on the porch talking about the dan-

ger of the threats. I thought they had frightened Daddy. But, no.

They had just made him more determined to finish his project.

But Daddy seemed worried and he was in extremely foul

humor. Needless to say, I was scared by the whole business but

knew better than to bring it up with him.

The next morning, I stood in the driveway looking for the

bus. It was late. Not one of us felt like going to school. The

boys kicked dirt into little clouds that covered the spit shine on

Maggie’s and my Weejuns.We complained in our whiny voices

and they imitated us, irking us to no end.

Finally, the noisy yellow bus rolled to its screechy halt, the