Folly Beach - Dorothea Benton Frank [49]
“The devil has a special place in hell for critics of all types,” DuBose said.
“What’s that again?”
“I said, the devil has a special place in hell for critics of all types.”
What a marvelous and consoling thought that all the critics might actually be in hell. We’d certainly wished them there often enough!
“I’ll say. We had some of the same kind of rubbish over Porgy. Remember? It takes place in Charleston but it can’t be performed in Charleston? Bigots. It’s so wrong.”
“I wish I could forget! I’m going to pour myself a little bit of brandy to warm my bones. Can I get some for you?”
“Oh, why not? Now I’m all riled up again! I mean, DuBose! Listen! What’s life without risk?” I threw back my afghan and stood, slipping my feet back into my flats. The floors of the house were cold and drafty.
“Pretty darn dull if you ask me. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”
“I’ll come with you. Maybe I’ll have a pretzel.”
“This book really has your motor going, doesn’t it?”
“Yes. Look, all this brouhaha is a little bit like saying that you can’t write about Italians if you aren’t Italian. Or that you can’t write about women if you’re a man! It’s just ridiculous!”
DuBose opened the cabinet and took out two snifters. He reached for the decanter of brandy, removed its heavy top, and poured out a measure with his left hand. I stood there ready to help him. DuBose’s left arm had been greatly compromised by polio when he was a young man. Fortunately or by necessity he was right-handed. We didn’t talk about it and he was very modest, keeping it hidden as much as possible. But the task was completed without incident and he handed a glass to me.
“You’re right, my dear! Here’s to taking a leap, to taking chances with words and in life!”
“Cheers, darling! Cheers!” We touched the sides of our glasses and took a small sip. “Oh, DuBose! That’s so perfect! I can feel the brandy warming me up all over!”
“Good, sweetheart! Shall we check on Jenifer?”
“I’ll go. In a minute. DuBose? Do you remember my big leap? When I left the University of Minnesota and moved to Puerto Rico?”
“I didn’t know you then, little Dorothy.”
“Oh, phooey! You know the story well enough.”
“But tell me again!”
He was humoring me and I didn’t even care.
“Oh, you . . . all I’m saying is that there is such a thing as the hand of Fate or something because think about it. When I was in Puerto Rico at Uncle Charles’s house I wrote that mess of a play? Then I had the pure temerity and stupidity to send it to Professor Baker. I remember that all I wanted to do was be in New York City. Oh! I wanted to be in New York so badly!”
“You are a born playwright, my dear.”
“Thank you. But remember? Professor Baker told me to keep at it so I went to Columbia? And there I wrote Jonica and that landed me at MacDowell! If I had not taken that risk, I would never have met you! Don’t you see? Sometimes Fate pushes you to take a chance on something in life and it can make all the difference!”
“Thank heavens you had the courage to roll the dice!”
“Yes! Or you would have married Jo Pinckney!”
“What? Ho! I don’t think so! I was not meant to marry Jo.”
“That doesn’t mean you never considered it.”
DuBose paused for a moment and I could see his wheels turning. He always wondered how was it that women were so sly and clever? How did I know things I had never been told? There was no real reason for me to be jealous of Jo Pinckney, her social standing, or her intelligence. But I kept my ear to the ground and the gossip mill said that Jo’s mother had made it plain ages ago when DuBose was scratching around Jo’s door that he didn’t have enough to offer her daughter and that was the end of that business. They remained good friends to this very day. Besides, he knew Jo was happier to be single, to entertain numerous gentlemen, and to have her freedom to travel the world. I hope you all got what I meant