Bulls Island (6 page)

“Oh! How wonderful!” J.D. got up to shake his father’s hand, but his father pulled him
into a big bear hug. With a free arm, he pulled me up into the embrace and said, “Just call me Jim, Betts. There will be no standing on ceremony between you and me!”

“Well, okay. That sounds just fine.”

We talked longer about all our plans.

Then the telephone rang. Big Jim answered it in a jovial tone that turned somber almost immediately.

“Yes, yes.” Pause. “Yes.” Another pause. “Oh my God. Oh no. Where?”

I started shaking. I knew something disastrous had happened.

“Okay. Yes, of course. Of course.” Big Jim gently replaced the telephone in its cradle and turned to face us. His eyes welled up with tears. “That was the head of the emergency room at the Charleston County Hospital. There’s been an accident, Betts. A terrible accident. Your father has been treated and is going to be released from the hospital, but I’m sorry to tell you, sweetheart, your momma didn’t make it.”

“What do you mean?” What did he say? “My mother is dead?”

“Yes. I’m so sorry.”

“Oh my God,” J.D. said. “Oh, no! What happened?”

“A truck hydroplaned, swung around, and hit the driver’s side of your parents’ car. Adrianna died instantly.”

“How can this be? No! Please! Tell me no! Tell me it’s a mistake!”

I dropped to the sofa, put my head in my hands, covered my eyes, and wept. I wept and wept, sobbing convulsively, and I could not be consoled. Not by J.D. and not by Big Jim. Big Jim rubbed my shoulder and J.D. brought me tissues. Finally I knew I had to get out of there.

“I have to go to my father,” I said.

“Yes, of course you do,” Big Jim said. “Just tell me what I can do to help, honey. I’m so sorry.”

“Tell Mother to go to hell,” J.D. said. “This is all her fault.”

We knew it was true, and J.D. finally had the courage to say it. J.D. drove slowly. The storm had blown itself out to sea, but it was still drizzling and the streets were flooded in many places. Limbs were down. Trees were broken. I was broken.

I stared out of the passenger window, trying to get a grip on myself, but my mind couldn’t hold a thought. We were silent. J.D. and I knew what this catastrophic night meant for us. We were finished.

Louisa had driven my parents out of the house with her insults and hateful words, her ugly vindictiveness. If she had been a better woman, a kinder woman—yes, any kind of a
lady
—this never would have happened. How could I marry J.D. when his mother had been the cause of my mother’s death? We both knew I could not. But we couldn’t talk about it then. I was in shock. We both were.

When we arrived at my parents’ house on Tradd Street, we found my father in the living room, sitting in Momma’s favorite chair, crying like a baby. His arm was in a sling and his head had a bandage that covered a terrible gash that had required over fifty stitches. My sister, Joanie, was at his side, sitting on the floor, weeping uncontrollably. She was only seventeen. She looked up at us.

“Get out!” she screamed when she caught sight of J.D. “And you, too! This is your fault, Betts! Yours and his rotten family! Just get out! Both of you!”

She got up and started toward us, with her hand raised as though she was going to slap J.D.

“Joanie! Please!” I cried, reaching out to stop her. “Don’t make things worse than they already are!”

“She was so beautiful,” my father said in a whimper. “I loved her so…”

I grabbed Joanie’s hand in midair and she dissolved into tears again. I did, too, and put my arms around her and held her.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“It’s okay,” I told her quietly. J.D. stepped away to the hall and picked up the telephone. Then he dialed some numbers. Who he was calling? His father, I assumed. When the doorbell rang minutes later, I saw that I was wrong. There, in torn-up jeans and an old T-shirt from an Allman Brothers concert, stood my best friend since kindergarten, Sela. Her face was streaked with tears.

W
hile I drove home from dinner at Sela’s in Charleston, Valerie slept in the passenger seat. In our family we euphemistically referred to these traveling naps as
sleep
, but the truth was, she was passed out cold.

Her present state was a curious thing because why would two short watery vodkas and one small glass of white wine turn a grown woman into a taxidermist’s prize? But there she was. Yeah, boy. Perhaps, just maybe, the medication the neurologist gave her was not intended to be chased by a cocktail. Yes, that was a distinct possibility.

Let’s see, now. Would my wife err on the side of caution? Hell, no. What kind of side effects could the medication have? Nausea? Blackouts? Could she stop breathing? Now, there’s a thought. With my luck, she’d live. Who knew? Oh great, I thought. Was I supposed to sit up all night to see that she had a pulse? I sighed and shook my head, knowing I would be holding a mirror under Valerie’s nose until the sun came up. Common decency demanded that much. I
mean, after all, I was her husband. I told myself to look up her prescription on the Internet because as sure as anything, she would ignore any warnings about alcohol and I could wind up with a comatose wife for the next twenty years. Great. Nice thought.

But there were brighter aspects to life. Such as Sela. Now, there was a great gal if ever there was one. Yes, she was fiercely loyal to Betts, and she was also my lifeline to her. Sometimes a reluctant lifeline, I’d admit. The reason Sela told me anything, other than the fact that she pitied me, was that years ago I’d bailed her out of a financial hole and solved a small legal problem. I guess she felt she owed me. So Sela would toss me little nuggets about Betts the same way I threw scraps of pot roast to my dogs. And I gobbled them up like Goober and Peanut gobbled up peanut butter on Ritz crackers.

For years I had waited for her to say that Betts was coming home. Yes, that’s right.
Home
. That was the curse of all Charlestonians. If you’d been born there, you could never call anywhere else home. So Betts McGee was coming back to Charleston, was she? In my mind, Betts had been living
only temporarily
in New York for nearly two decades. Now she was coming home. Why? I wondered. For how long and what would it mean?

I knew Sela thought Betts and I should have married despite the odds. Part of her sided with me because she understood the profundity of my feelings for Betts.

Not to cast aspersions on my dear wife, but if I had married Betts and if sexual chemistry had any relationship to fertility, shoot, we probably would have had seven kids by now. Hell, I would have had me my own football team! Well, okay, maybe we would have had four or five children, or two or three. But the point is I would have gladly given Betts as many as she wanted. What I felt for her was the kind of love that only comes along once in a man’s lifetime. Every time I thought about Betts, I was faced with the knowledge of how little I had.

I looked over at Valerie’s head bobbing lightly against the passenger-side window like a wonton in a bowl of soup. I sighed hard. Not to sound like a whiny old woman, but long ago I had reconciled myself to a half-baked love life, and now I was facing the likelihood that children would not be in my future.

I blushed in the dark to realize how excited I was at the thought that I might see Betts again. I was having a moment of romantic foolishness and didn’t care. What if I did see her? Would the heat still be there? Or would it be incredibly awkward?

You can imagine what happened between us. After her mother’s death, she broke off our engagement and ran away from home. Since I had the luxury of long consideration, I know with certainty that the breakup was inevitable. Long ago my dad and I accepted the fact that my mother’s behavior had been the catalyst for the entire debacle. Everyone acknowledged it…except Mother, that is. And let me tell you, my mother and I fought about the death of Adrianna McGee for years until there was nothing left to be said.

I guess that in the end, I dealt with the loss of Betts the same way Betts dealt with the loss of her mother. We both withdrew, except she took the added advantage of geographical distance. But one thing was certain. I would never allow myself to love anyone again as I had loved her. My long-standing marriage to Valerie was proof of that. For years I had been just going through the motions with her and working longer and longer hours.

But that night, knowing Betts was coming back, I relived it all. I relived it all. I was barely a kid back then, but I was so in love I couldn’t see straight. Then that telephone call came. The next thing I knew I was looking for a dark suit and a clean shirt.

There must have been five hundred people at that wake and so many flowers that they spilled out into the hall. Somehow Betts and I got through that night, but we got through it separately. Betts stood at her father and sister’s side, rooted there like a slim sapling. She
was still wearing the diamond I had given her. But she was barely speaking to me or anyone else.

That was no surprise. The shock was immense. My parents made a brief and extremely uncomfortable appearance at the wake and the room fell silent. True, they sent a basket of flowers as big as a Cadillac, but it didn’t change the facts. Everyone watched to see how the McGees would greet the Langleys. The McGees were stoic and looked right through Louisa and Big Jim as though they were invisible. Once again, my family had driven a stake through Betts’s family’s heart and every tongue in Charleston was wagging about it. Another generation, another blow, and the divide between our two families would widen again, this time perhaps forever.

The funeral was the following day. After the emotionally charged yet solemn service at her mother’s family church, we drove in a long procession out to St. Lawrence Cemetery, where Betts, her sister, Joanie, and her father, Vaughn, visibly struggled to remain composed. To begin with, they were all as pale as cadavers. But the moment that the priest began to sprinkle the casket with holy water, any self-control they had just evaporated.

I think they call that kind of crying “keening,” a piercing wail at such an acute pitch that you never forget it. It’s still inside me to this day. It was so awful. So awful. Finally, by God’s mercy, the interment ended and we made our way back to the grand old McGee home on Tradd Street for a reception. In true southern tradition, there was enough food for everyone on the entire peninsula and the liquor was flowing like water. The guests ate and drank aplenty, but the McGees had no appetite for anything but their own grief.

They were inconsolable. Vaughn blamed himself, telling anyone who would listen that if he had been better able to drive or if they had stayed at my parents’ house—as my father had asked him to do, however insincerely—the accident would never have happened. Joanie was whispering and sneaking around the rooms, blaming Betts, say
ing she should have known the Langleys were a curse. Betts said little or nothing, but I knew she blamed my mother, thinking she was the worst kind of person there could be—disingenuous, manipulative, and rude to the point of indecency. Finally, when everyone was almost gone, Betts spoke.

“Why would anyone even want to
know
her?” she asked.

Her voice was weak, like someone who had cried so much that she barely had the strength left to speak. She wasn’t accusatory. It was how she truly felt.

“Because she gives lots of money to charity,” I said. “And that’s the long and short of my mother’s magnetism.”

It was the worst damn day of my life.

The last time I touched Betts was when she removed the ring and put it in my hand, folding my fingers over it. Then she backed away from me and cried. I told her I understood and that I would never stop loving her. She said the same. At that point I believed that our families were truly cursed.

Until Valerie came along, I kept thinking that somehow we—that is, Betts and I—might find a way to get away from all the anger and be together again. Valerie. I looked over at her unconscious body, bouncing a little with every bump in the road. Valerie was a good-looking woman, no doubt about it. But she had been offered up like a turkey on a platter and I guess I had been hungry enough to go for her.

I had to hand it to old Louisa. Looking back, my meeting Valerie was another of her subtle “orchestrations.” At least Mother had the manners to wait until the Christmas holidays to debut someone she thought was a suitable date for me, someone she deemed close to being worthy of the Langley name.

Betts was long gone to New York by then, a choice I never quite understood, but then volumes could be filled with the things about the fair sex that eluded the likes of me. Anyway, my parents were throwing a huge holiday cocktail bash to celebrate the Christmas
season. I was in no frame of mind for a party, having just spent my first semester of law school studying all the time and moaning over the state of my personal life.

That fall I had lived in the condo that had been meant to be
our
home. Out of deference to my extreme misery, I had refused to do more than barely furnish it. There was a mattress and box spring on the floor of the bedroom with some cheap chest of drawers and an end table that I picked up at a yard sale. I had taken a desk and a chair with a lamp from a departing student. I never bought a sofa, just a recliner chair and a television that I put on a stand. If there had not been built-in bookcases already, my books would have been stacked against a wall.

Mother was appalled by the way I was living. It was a good thing she bought out the local Belks, or I never would have had a pot or a drinking glass. I just accepted whatever she brought to the condo and said thank you in the most civil tone I could manage. Throwing worldly possessions in my direction did not compensate for the evil of what she had done. Living like a bum and having the most minimal conversation with her as possible was my revenge.

The only thing I was happy about was that I was out of my mother’s house. I didn’t have to look at her face every day and constantly be reminded of what she had stolen from me. But there seemed to be no escaping Louisa. I would come home from classes and find her there, unpacking and putting away whatever she thought I couldn’t live without. A wine rack. A wall clock. An area rug. She would make the effort to begin a conversation, but soon every word between us was filled with recrimination.
You need to get over her! How can I? You ruined my life! I did not ruin your life! Yes, you did!
Then, when she wanted to really stick it to me, she would pick up the framed photograph of Betts I kept on my desk and sigh.

She would say something really insensitive, like, “Why don’t you just throw this away, son? She’s out of your life now.”

And I would say, “Why don’t you mind your own business, Mother?”

“Don’t you speak to me that way, J.D.,” she would say.

I would curl up the corner of my mouth and shrug, an indication that I didn’t give a damn what she thought.

“You’re acting like a zombie,” she would say.

“You made me one,” I’d say.

When Mother and I weren’t arguing, she pretended to be perky while I smoldered. I swear, in today’s market, someone would have carted me off to some classes in anger management and some serious grief counseling. But years ago things were different. Back then I called a buddy, we just went out to the woods, bagged a deer, drank a bunch of beer, and I came home to smolder some more. Pitiful.

It’s funny what you remember and what you forget. In those first months, I had tried many times to reach out to Vaughn and Joanie, but they wanted no part of me—or of Betts, for that matter. They told me they didn’t have her address or phone number. They hadn’t heard from her. Part of me actually believed them because everyone knew Adrianna’s death had caused a terrible schism in their family. Even Sela advised me to stop trying to find her, saying Betts would find me if she wanted to find me. Betts had been all but officially banished from her family and she disappeared into Manhattan, becoming one of the anonymous swarm.

So there it was—my first semester in law school and life with Betts was behind me. The holiday season was in full swing, and I was unenthusiastically at home. Naturally, pretending that there was peace on earth, Mother had decorated the house from stem to stern. There were Christmas trees in almost every room, wreaths in every window, and candles burning on every table, or so it seemed to me. My toy train from childhood was running around on its track in the den and the old Christmas village was up on display in the sunroom.

The night was dark and unusually cold. Small fires flickered and
burned in three fireplaces to take the chill from the rooms. Someone was playing a selection from Handel’s
Messiah
on my parents’ Steinway. If old Louisa knew how to do anything, she knew how to throw a party. Amazing to me, everyone she invited always came, and they brought their holiday houseguests. There must have been two hundred people in the house, beyond the catering staff. I figured this would be the occasion when Mother would slip in a ringer and she didn’t disappoint me.

As commanded, I put on a tie and a smile and came downstairs, committed to being nice for a while. My plan was to eat a little, drink a little, and then disappear back to my room. My inner smartass taunted me, saying that my mother had planned this party with the singular mission of pissing me off, and it was working. I was feeling sour and cranky. Just then I spotted Mother in Dad’s study, talking to someone. I went in to say hello and make my token appearance. As I came around the corner, I saw that she was talking to a breathtakingly gorgeous young woman around my age with more teeth than I had ever seen in one mouth. My mood took a sudden and dramatic rise. The red dress this creature wore had some kind of a treacherously low scooped-out neckline, with her…you know, propped up like a couple of flawless ivory balloons. Not one freckle. I must say, they were riveting. Was she for real? At that moment I did not care.