Folly Beach - Dorothea Benton Frank [130]
“Thanks, it’s adorable!”
The evening began with necessary and serious discussions about Heather Parke and Lisa. He assured me that he didn’t think Heather had a leg to stand on in any court in the land. And that if I called Jennet Alterman, all my fears would be put to rest. And of course, Patti echoed his sentiments.
Patti and I reassured him that it was normal and perfectly all right to be saddened to hear about his long-estranged wife’s impending death, because she was someone he once loved enough to marry and because her story was so very heart-rending. There were few illnesses more misunderstood and debilitating than mental disease. I promised him that I would go with him or help him plan some kind of ceremony for her, even if we were the only two people in attendance. Then we talked about Aunt Daisy, her endless stamina and how grateful we were that she would be home by tomorrow night.
“I just want to be like her when I’m her age,” Patti said.
“I’d like to be her now,” I said. “To the irrepressible Daisy McInerny, Iron Woman 2010!”
“To her good health!” John said and we all took a sip of a martini from the tiny glasses I lifted from the display case, ones actually used by Dorothy, DuBose, and George.
With so many serious issues scratching at our doors, and ignoring the fact that it was a weeknight, we threw caution and prudence to the wind and let the evening have its way with us. Maybe because we drained a full penguin, dinner was especially delicious. And of course all of it was enhanced by my salad in a bag and the frozen garlic bread I baked, fresh from the Pig’s freezer to mine. We told one another the red wine we drank was a health food and refilled our glasses as we saw fit.
We had so much fun, singing “Summertime” at the top of our lungs and “Bess, You Is My Woman Now,” and “I Got Plenty o’ Nuttin’,” and all the songs I could limp through. But no one seemed to care that I had not played the piano in ages or that we sang off-key more than half the time. We giggled, ate cake with our fingers, and told each other we still had it going on, wondering why Broadway had yet to call. I can’t remember who it was that first noticed we were standing in a puddle, but I stopped playing and turned on all the lights. It was still too dim to see very well. Patti went to get paper towels to soak up the water.
“It’s that window,” John said, pointing to the window behind the piano. He put his hand back there and then ran it around. Then he got up close to the piano and pulled it away from the wall a little. “You’re not going to like this.”
“What?” I said, handing him eight or so paper towels to wipe up the windowsill.
“The whole back of your piano is warped,” he said.
“Oh no! I just had it refinished!”
“I know. Tomorrow morning when the light’s better, I’ll pull this out and have a good look at it.”
“Cate? You know what?” Patti called out from the kitchen where she went to throw the sopping paper towels away. “Maybe you can just pull the back off. You don’t need it and it’s not original to the instrument anyway.”
“Maybe,” I said. “Bummer.”
“It’s nothing that can’t be fixed,” John said. “Don’t worry. This is no big deal.”
“Cunningham? You’re ruining my night,” I said, and John gave me a hug.
As we all made our way upstairs to sleep, it struck me that we seemed to belong together, a small tribe of merrymakers. John was staying the night, because we agreed that his blood alcohol level might land him in the Big House if he got pulled over. I took some bedding and made up one of the daybeds in the living room for him while he looked on.
“DuBose slept here, you know,” I said.
“Like George Washington?”
“Yep. We should put a plaque on the door. You know, if you’re miserable out here all alone you can climb in the sack with me,” I said, feeling silly and light-headed from the wine.
“Temptress that you are, I don’t want Patti to be uncomfortable,” he said. “When’s she going home?”
“Day after tomorrow,” I said. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m a slut.”
“Don’t you go calling