Folly Beach - Dorothea Benton Frank [8]
“You’re Ms. Cooper, right?”
“Yes. Did you know my husband?”
“I sure did but believe me, I didn’t know he had a wife. Good thing I read the obituaries.” She reached in her purse and pulled out a small album of photographs. “Have a look.”
I flipped through them and there was Addison, with the woman before me and a baby boy of about two years old. The boy was the spitting image of Addison.
“Mom! What is this?” Sara said. “I’m gonna throw up!”
“Oh, my God,” I said. My head began to spin. How could all of this be happening?
“So, what I’m wondering is who has the mortgage on my condo? And who has the lease on my BMW? I mean, I’m sure he provided for us in his will . . .”
Sara, who had stood by completely dumbfounded, doubled over and began gagging. That was the last thing I remembered before the ground came up to get me.
Chapter Three
Setting: The Porgy House downstairs drawing room. There is a bar cart, a penguin cocktail shaker, cocktail glasses, assorted liquors, and an ice bucket. In the corner stands an upright piano made by Cunningham Piano Co. and two comfortable armchairs.
Director’s Note: When DuBose speaks, a head shot of him should cover the downstage scrim and a man’s voice is heard from offstage. Use a shot of the downstairs drawing room. Dorothy is now wearing a pretty silk dress.
Act I
Scene 2
Dorothy: At five in the afternoon, in perfect synchronicity, we would meet in the downstairs drawing room. Out came our silver-toned penguin martini shaker and our cut-glass ice bucket. And, as this was our greatest daily indulgence in the name of pleasure (at least one that may be spoken of in polite company), the time was reserved for reminiscing and grandiose daydreams. Dreams didn’t cost you a dime and what would life be without them?
The year was 1934 or 1935. It had been about ten years since DuBose left his insurance business and yes, I was the one who made him give it up. Our Jenifer was just a little girl then, I know that much. It doesn’t matter which year but I remember clearly it was one particularly bone-chilling February evening. Lord! It got cold on that beach! We were downstairs and DuBose was shaking the penguin like mad. He was mixing up Albert Farmer’s special recipe for mint juleps to cheer me up. I was feeling a little out of sorts. (Don’t worry; the recipe is in the back of your program.)
Where was I? Oh, yes. Mint juleps coming up! To be completely honest, I knew a good drink would also ease the pain of his arthritis. His arthritis was so terrible and had twisted the bones of his hands so badly that on the worst days they resembled claws. Please don’t say I told you—I wouldn’t offend DuBose for the world! To be honest, neither of us was blessed with the best of health but we were so attuned to each other that we practically felt each other’s aches and that seemed to help us endure.
I was usually a chipper soul, sometimes a little too chatty but almost always good-natured. But not that night. The combination of freezing damp weather and the dreary gloom of the fog, which blanketed the island? Well, it was as though the whole mess had leaked through the rattling old window frames and crept in under the uneven doorjambs like tear gas. I felt like indulging in a good cry. I sat at the piano and pushed back the cover over the keyboard.
DuBose knew I was really in the dumps when I sat down to play the piano. He began to shake the penguin in earnest. Although I had studied piano for years, I would surely never solo at Carnegie Hall. The music just wouldn’t come out of my fingers the way I heard it in my head! And let’s face it, I knew that the sound of me plunking out a tune was downright depressing to everyone within earshot. The neighborhood cats and dogs literally howled along with my music, which should tell you a lot.
I watched as DuBose hurried to pour two teaspoons of brandy