Sullivans Island-Lowcountry 1 (9 page)

know anything about the outhouse?” Daddy’s voice was filled

with thinly disguised mirth. It was a signal to commence telling

whoppers, bobbing and weaving with the facts like a prize-

fighter.

“Daddy, I’ll be fifteen in six months. I’m hardly a rascal!” It

was Maggie talking, of course, covering the sin of telling a lie by

annoying everyone with her offended attitude. She never missed

her chance to remind all of us that we were wet behind the ears,

and that she was the great lady.

“Just answer me without any speeches, okay?”

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D o r o t h e a B e n t o n F r a n k

“What happened?” I asked. Poker face.

“Well, it seems that today, I went off to the post office to

collect the mail,” Tipa reported like a detective,“because every-

body in this family is too busy and too important to do it, and

when I came back our outhouse had fallen down.” He searched

our faces for any slivers of guilt.

“Oh, no! Nobody’s gonna blame me for this one! I was

at Bubba’s house and I can prove it!” Timmy was good at this

lying business.

“You have an alibi too, I assume, Mr. Henry?” Daddy said.

“Yup, went crabbing with Stevie Durst. Ask his momma.

She drove us to Breach Inlet.”

“Girls?” Daddy said.

“Oh, please, Daddy, I wouldn’t go near that nasty old thing

if you paid me!”

Maggie hadn’t lied. Nothing on her conscience.

“Susan?”

“I’ll go with Maggie on this one. I’ll bet that thing causes

tuberculosis! I’d rather hold it till I died!”

“No reason to be so disgusting, Susan,” Maggie said.

“Whose side are you on?” I said to her.

“TB or not TB! That’s the congestion!”Timmy said and he

and Henry started laughing and punching each other. “Con-

sumption be done about it? Of cough! Of cough!”

At this point we were all giggling, even Daddy. But Grandpa

Tipa was steamed. He stood up abruptly and headed for the

door. He stopped to face us, took a deep breath and began to

stutter. I was just about to feel some remorse for us pulling one

over on him. His seersucker pants were all wrinkled and his shirt

had a big spot on the front.Very unusual for a man who was fas-

tidiously neat.The remorse fizzled as he dropped another one of

his bigot bombs on us.

“You all think you’re funny, don’t you? Well, let me tell y’all

something, if you think your daddy is gonna bring another

Negress in ’eah and that she’s gonna use a bathroom in my

S u l l i v a n ’ s I s l a n d

49

house, y’all got another thing coming, you ’eah me? Over my

dead body! This is still
my house!
”

The door slammed behind him. We all fell silent. Even we,

who always had a smart answer, didn’t know what to say. We

looked at our old man, who was folding up his paper, obviously

getting ready to call it a night.

“What are we gonna do, Daddy?” I said.

“We’re gonna build a bathroom on the back of the kitchen,

that’s what. I checked the layout of the pipes when I got home

tonight and it won’t be such a big deal.You boys can help me

and Uncle Louis. Keep you out of trouble for a few weeks.”

“Cool!” Henry said.

“No problem, Dad,”Timmy chimed in.

“And you girls can keep the mess clear and keep us fed.

Sound like a plan?”

“Yes, sir, sure does,” I said, “but, Dad, what’s Tipa gonna

say?”

“Grandpa Tipa to you, young lady!”

“Yeah, Susan’s right, Daddy,” Maggie said,“Grandpa’s gonna

raise the devil over spending money on a colored woman.”

“Let me worry about that. You girls lock up, okay? I’m

gonna go see about your momma. She isn’t feeling so great to-

night.” Daddy looked at us, his face satisfied for once with what

he saw in us. He went inside. “See y’all in the morning,” he

called over his shoulder.

The door closed quietly. Maggie got up and lay down in the

glider, pretending to sleep.The boys whispered and teased each

other in the early evening light. Lightning bugs blinked all over

the yard and the ocean rolled in. Another day was coming to a

close.

I shifted my position in the swing to dream a little, rested

my head on a pillow and turned away from them. I thought

about visiting Harriet’s house and wondered who would be the

next victim she sent us.

My father’s solution was a good one. He was right, about

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D o r o t h e a B e n t o n F r a n k

this at least. I mean he was a big s.o.b. and all that when it struck

him to be one, but Tipa’s point of view was just plain wrong.

What possible difference did it make where somebody sat on a

bus, or which water fountain somebody used? Most of all, I’d be

thoroughly and permanently reviling my grandfather’s guts if he

pitched a fit over the soon-to-be-built bathroom being used by

our soon-to-start new housekeeper. I thought that it must be

hard for old people to know when they were being horrible and

old-fashioned. I doubted that my father would be successful in

changing my grandfather’s heart.

Everyone went to bed except Timmy and me. He was still

full of the devil over the outhouse crash and wanted to talk about

it. In whispers, we continued talking about all that had happened

that day. I was too young to solve the big problems, but I could

swing a sledgehammer with the best of them.

“I went
bam!
And it caved right in!”Timmy said.

“Shhh! They’ll hear you!”

“Think Daddy can build a bathroom?” he asked.

“Daddy can build anything, dog breath, he’s an engineer.

Plus Uncle Louis will really be the one to do it. Quit breathing

on me.”

“Bump you.Think Tipa’s gonna have a cow over it?”

“He’s gonna have a whole barnyard, but if Daddy doesn’t

care, we shouldn’t either.”

Just then we saw the police car pull up in the backyard of

Alice Simpson’s house. We dropped to the floor to watch. The

chief of police, Albert Johnson, known as Fat Albert to the

natives, got out and went up the back steps.Through the olean-

ders we could just make out the shine and clump of his heavy

black shoes—regulation footwear for cops. Maybe she was get-

ting us arrested. I thought,
Oh no, we’re going to reform school!
But,

nope, her windows were wide open and all her lights were on.

The music of Peter, Paul and Mary floated across the indigo

darkness. With our noses near the floorboards, we saw her and

Fat Albert together in the living room, laughing. He handed her

S u l l i v a n ’ s I s l a n d

51

a baggie of something. She gave him something to drink and

turned off a few lights. A few minutes passed and then we saw

them again in the living room. We smelled a trail of the most

curious odor, like burning rope and sweet spices, as they settled

themselves on the sofa in her living room. They were smoking

something in a pipe.

“She’s not getting us arrested,” Timmy said, as quietly as pos-

sible.“Just what the hell do you think they’re doing over there?”

We could see them dancing now, real close, sort of kissing.

“They’re not doing it yet, but they will be soon. Momma

was right. She is a disgrace. Everybody knows old Fat Albert is

married. Hell, he’s got four kids!”

“This explains what Daddy said.”

“What did he say?”This was news to me.

“He said the hinges on her door need replacing every

month or so.”

“My God,Timmy, do you know what this means?”

“What? That we’ve got ringside seats for the wildest show

in town?”

“No! That we live next door to a bona fide whorehouse!

Holy Moly.”

Three

The Lawyer

}

1999

specialized in small acts of defiance when I was

young.The outhouse episode was only one of them.

I But years of Catholic school education and failed

attempts at bucking the system had tempered my character and

I was filled with dread at the thought of ending my marriage. I

was extremely reluctant to file papers against Tom.

Several weeks had passed since that afternoon at Maggie’s

and I still hadn’t engaged the services of an attorney. I’d spent

nights thinking about what Livvie would have told me to do. I

could hear her saying to get moving; the decision had been

made, accept the truth, move on. But I couldn’t move. Once the

lawyers got involved, I knew there would be no going back.

At first, I thought it would be less painful if I used a lawyer

that Tom and I both knew, that a familiar face would make it eas-

ier. I made some phone calls and had a few meetings with a few

of Tom’s colleagues that we’d known since law school. In all their

scholarly wisdom they advised me that they’d seen a lot of men

S u l l i v a n ’ s I s l a n d

53

go through the “young chick thing” and that Tom would proba-

bly tire of it very soon and come home. I should wait, they said.

Sure, I’d let him have his little fling all over Charleston in

my face and I’d just knit him some nice socks in the meanwhile.

“I think not, okay?” I said to them.

One particularly unevolved attorney was on the Broad

Street lawyers softball team with Tom and flat out refused to

hear my side, citing “the team” as a conflict of interest.This idiot

ball league was so uncreative that they called themselves things

like the Lawmen, the Medicine Men, the Home Boys and the

Numbers Guys.You got it. Lawyers, doctors, real estate brokers

and accountants. Cute.

“Well, Harold, why
did
you give me an appointment?” I

leaned forward in the tufted leather chair opposite his burl wal-

nut desk, only to notice he was bestowing on me his lackluster

interpretation of the “come hither” look. Lucky me.

“I was hoping you’d just want a shoulder to lean on. I heard

you were looking pretty fantastic these days and I wanted to see

for myself.”

“Why, Harold Small, you’re married. I don’t think your

Marla’d be too thrilled to hear you’d loaned me her shoulder.”

Sarcasm dripped from my lips.

“Well, I can’t represent you. It’s a conflict.”

“Conflict of what?” I said. “What do y’all think? That y’all

are Mickey Mantle and Yogi Berra?”

“I’m sorry, I’m just not comfortable about taking your case

against Tom. He’s a teammate.”

“Excuse me. I’ve been turned down by better lawyers than

you, Harold.” I got up and went to the door. “Have a nice life.

And, by the way, I’ve seen you play.You couldn’t bat a ball into

the broadside of a barn.”

My list of old friends and Grant and Maggie’s list were prac-

tically the same and it was getting me nowhere. One interview

was more ridiculous than the next. They did, however, fuel the

fire of my courage. I needed to do my own research. On an

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D o r o t h e a B e n t o n F r a n k

impulse suggested from a poster at the library, I called the bat-

tered women’s shelter and asked to speak to the executive director.

It couldn’t hurt. Somebody like her had to be much more in the

loop of what a woman could do to resuscitate herself. I should

have done this in the first place. She gave me the name of a

splendid new attorney who’d moved to Charleston two years

ago from somewhere in Vermont. Michelle Stoney was reputed

to be the most skilled and intimidating feminist lawyer in the

city, handling messy cases like kidnapping by parents, child and

spousal abuse and deadbeat dads.

A Yankee feminist, I thought. Perfect. That should scare the

hell out of him.

That night as I lay in bed, checking and recording the

decline of my thighs with a tape measure, I thought about my

prospective lawyer and burst into laughter. I had called Ms.

Stoney and had spoken to her for a few minutes. She sounded so

capable and understanding. I couldn’t wait to meet her.We had

made an appointment for four-thirty the following day. At last,

there was hope.

I wa s a spastic bag of radiating raw nervous energy when I

pulled into the parking lot outside her office west of the Ashley

River. Miraculously, I managed to get from my car to her office

without convulsions.

I loved her waiting room. It was solid establishment and

reeked of success, but feminine. The overstuffed couches stood

against paneled walls of gleaming mahogany. The enormous

windows, swagged in salmon velvet, were flanked with book-

cases filled with books that looked to be a hundred years old.

A huge arrangement of fresh flowers graced the center of a

round table that offered pamphlets of information on divorce

law. I guess I expected to see pictures of Gloria Steinem and

Susan Faludi on the walls. There were only photos of families

and dogs on a rocky shore that I assumed was Maine, or some

other foreign place.

S u l l i v a n ’ s I s l a n d

55

After taking my name and assuring me that Ms. Stoney

would only be a minute, the smart, young receptionist offered

me a cappuccino or espresso and I declined.

“I have decaf too.You sure?”