Folly Beach - Dorothea Benton Frank [93]
“Yeah, because it would take daggum Harry Houdini to get it up those stairs.”
“That’s for sure. But I’ll bet you they sat around this same room and drank whatever they drank. What did they drink?” John was getting very keyed up.
“Martinis. And a lot of weird punches they made with champagne and liquor.”
“Well, maybe we should make martinis and drink them in their honor.”
“Why not? Maybe a little one. Tomorrow I’ll get us a bottle of gin or vodka and some vermouth and some olives, I guess?”
“I’ll bring my shaker. Cate, this is really unbelievable. If I was a religious man, I’d take this as a sign from God.”
“What? What sign?”
“Cate? I want you to listen to me, very carefully, okay?”
“Maybe I’d better get a little more wine for this?”
“Why not? I’ll get it.”
“I’m coming, too.”
We went back to the kitchen where the potatoes were boiling away. I checked the chicken and it was golden brown. I was no Julia Child but if a woman couldn’t roast a decent chicken she may as well turn her kitchen into a walk-in closet.
John poured me a little more wine and handed it to me.
“So, what are you telling me, Professor Risley?”
“I’m saying that all of this . . . this business of you and me and the Charleston Renaissance and this house and now the piano . . . doesn’t it seem like we’re pawns on somebody else’s chessboard?”
“I like what’s happening. I don’t care if we’re getting manipulated by some unseen force, do you?”
“Listen, there was this guy, one of the Fugitive poets, named Allen Tate, who also had an affair with a nun by the way . . .”
“A nun?”
“Yeah, a nun. He was a pretty wild guy for his day. He divorced his first wife, who he married twice . . .”
“He married the same woman twice?”
“Yep. And divorced her twice. Then he converted to Catholicism, married the nun, fathered a child when he was seventy years old, and oh, he was also married to the poet Isabella Gardner.”
“Holy hell, Risley! Every time you tell me about these characters, they sure sound much more interesting than anybody we know, don’t they?”
“Well, if you’re into this stuff like I am, the answer is yes. Anyway, Tate was of the opinion that detachment, alienation, and living through tumultuous change are what distinguished a Southern writer from writers from say, the northwest. If that’s not your situation, I don’t know what is. If you don’t get busy and write that play the unseen hand might decide we’re not worth the effort of throwing all these signs our way.”
“Well, I have been giving it some serious thought. And I’ve read all the books you gave me. There are about a thousand Post-it stickies on the pages.”
“And?”
“And I devoured them. Speaking of devouring, do you want to eat? The chicken is ready.”
“Which one?”
“Your choice,” I said and laughed. “You sure are full of beans tonight.”
I drained the potatoes and mashed in a whole stick of butter and some half-and-half with the back of a wooden spoon. The chicken was resting quietly on the cutting board, waiting patiently to be dismembered.
“So, tell me about your serious playwriting thoughts,” he said, yanking a chicken leg away from the carcass with his fingers and taking a bite. “Wooo! This is delicious! But it’s hot!”
“Thanks!” I handed him his glass of wine to put out his fire. “Oh, shoot. I forgot to make a vegetable!”
“Who cares? I’ll just eat more chicken. Dang. This is so good! My momma used to make chicken like this.”
“I’ll bet she was a great lady,” I said.
“She was that,” he said.
Soon we were at the table, eating and talking like we’d known each other for a thousand years. We started to talk about my thoughts on the play. I told him I was thinking of an almost one-woman show, where we may or may not bring in someone to play DuBose in a few scenes and their daughter Jenifer in a few others. But mostly it would be Dorothy’s story. In Act I, she starts out as an older woman, talking to the audience and remembering her life, telling stories about her great love for DuBose. Then she would also tell stories about his family and friends,