Folly Beach - Dorothea Benton Frank [48]
We had lunch, made pleasant conversation, not too heavy, drove to the repair shop, and he brought me back to Aunt Daisy’s. I thanked him, died internally one thousand times to see him drive away, took Aunt Daisy’s car, and bought groceries. Later I called Russ to let him know the mother ship was out on Folly if he and Alice wanted to have supper one night, that it would be great. And I called Sara and even though I didn’t want it to, the story of John Risley slid out and she asked me if my heart was all aflutter for him. Of course I denied it, ha-ha, don’t be silly, I said and I knew she was upset with me. Then I said that she had to come to Folly for Easter and how was the mixology business coming along? Hmmm? But my face was in flames. Who is the Risley guy, Mom? No one, sweetheart, no one. And I passed on dinner with Aunt Daisy, ate a peanut butter sandwich and a glass of milk for supper, soaked for hours in Dorothy Heyward’s bathtub, and didn’t fall asleep until after three in the morning, worrying about what would become of me. And what was I going to do about John Risley? The greater question was would I have the opportunity to do anything about him? I needed to talk to Patti. Where had the day gone?
Chapter Eleven
Setting: The Porgy House upstairs parlor, daybeds and afghans.
Director’s Note: Photos of the book Imitation of Life, Fannie Hurst, Zora Neale Hurston, Claudette Colbert, Langston Hughes, Sterling Brown, Porgy playbill on the backstage scrim. Then photos of the music room, where the barware and brandy were kept. Now to photos of younger Dorothy in Puerto Rico, New York, and finally a photo of Josephine Pinckney. All DuBose Heyward lines spoken off-stage.
Act II
Scene 1
Dorothy: It was that same winter, not long after the night I heard all the crying that DuBose thought was a cat but I knew better. I was thinking about the nature of Fate.
We were in the upstairs parlor, curled up on our own daybeds. During the winter we used them as sofas, but on many of the steamy summer nights when there was not a breath of air to be found indoors, we simply rolled the daybeds out to the porch and slept there, dreaming of wonderful things, lulled by the sounds of the ocean across the street and cooled by the gorgeous salt breezes. Not so that February. It was cold. The supper dishes were put away, a small fire burned in the fireplace, and we were warm and relaxed, each of us absorbed in our reading, with afghans covering our legs and feet.
“You must be enjoying your book, little one,” DuBose said. “I haven’t heard a peep from you in over an hour!”
I moved my bookmark to the page I was reading, closed the book, placed it by my side, and sighed a long sigh of exasperation or frustration. I knew DuBose was not entirely sure which it was.
“I’m not sure if I like it or not but I can’t put it down!”
I was reading Imitation of Life, a novel published the year before that was the subject of wicked high praise from some quarters and suspicious derision from others. Some people said it was a sensitive story, one that portrayed the race issues carefully and truthfully. Others said it stereotyped the African Americans and the idea that black people wished to be white was racist and absurd. I was beginning to think it was wonderful and well done.
“Well, you’ve heard about the author? Fannie Hurst? She’s all involved with the Harlem Renaissance.”
“Good for her,” I said.
“No, seriously! I think I heard she even had Zora Neale Hurston working for her doing secretarial work or something,” DuBose said. “The world is changing every day and right before our eyes.”
“Yes, but is that change for the better? They’re saying that Claudette Colbert is going to play Bea in the film. Can you imagine?”
“She’s very pretty.”
“I guess so, if you like that slick kind of Hollywood look. Big eyelashes? Shiny lips?”
“She’s not nearly as pretty as you are, dear.”
“Humph. You know that movie