Folly Beach Part 38

"That story is the why of how we all came to be together tonight," I said.

We dropped Sara off at Aunt Daisy's and when she went to give me a good-night hug she whispered, "He's fabulous, Mom."

"I know," I said and smiled with relief.

John walked her inside to check for robbers and thieves and came back a few minutes later.

"She's a wonderful girl," he said. "She's going to make an incredible Dorothy Heyward. She even looks like her a little bit."

"Thanks! And I think you're right. She's tiny like Dorothy was. If she bobbed her hair like they did in the thirties she might be a dead ringer with the right makeup."

"Well, we can fit her with a wig and see," John said. "Anyway, I'm anxious to start rehearsals, aren't you?"

"I'm just anxious period," I said.

"I've got the cure for that," John said, and made a low-pitched growl that sounded like a leopard getting ready to pounce.

Men. So silly.

We arrived back at the Porgy House and I was still chuckling to myself.

"Want to have a nightcap?" I said.

"What do you think?" he said.

My anxiety was completely addressed and it magically dissolved before the night ended and I thought, whew, if Sara had been in the next room during this steamy episode, she'd spend the rest of her life in a.n.a.lysis.

Monday at ten Sara and I made our way to the Dock Street Theater.

"I fully expect the spirit of Emmett Robinson to open the door," I said, opening the door myself.

"Who's he?" Sara said.

"He was the most cherished artistic director of the Footlight Players and he was Alfred Hutty's best friend. His daughter is a new friend of mine." I told Sara how Jennet had helped me tell Heather Parke to get lost.

"Wow. I want to meet her."

"Oh, you will! I'll make sure you do."

We were meeting John with a lighting person, a sound engineer, a stage manager, and two a.s.sistants to see about props and costumes. The main stage was free so we decided we would begin there and just do a read-through to get used to the acoustics. Everyone trickled in and by ten thirty had introduced themselves to one another and we got started. A familiar face arrived with a cooler of drinks and sandwiches.

"Don't I know you?" I said.

"I'm Christi Geier. I think we met at the Red Drum."

"Oh, right! Well, how nice to see you again. Wow, you've got a job, your LSATs, and now this? That's a lot to juggle."

"Yeah, but you know what? I loved Professor Risley's playwrighting cla.s.s so much, when he put out a call for volunteers, I jumped at it! Who wouldn't want to work on a play about the Heywards?"

"Actually, it's more about Dorothy."

"Oh, really? Have you read the script?"

"Yeah, about a thousand times. I wrote it."

"Oh! I didn't know you were a playwright."

"I didn't either. Well, now I am . . ." I could feel myself blus.h.i.+ng.

"Oh my goodness. Congratulations!"

"Thanks! And that's my daughter . . ."

I sat in the audience in different places to see if I could hear Sara. Her young voice was so clear and carried so well, the only place I had a little trouble hearing her was the far corners of the house. John and the sound engineer decided to place several discreet and tiny wireless mikes on the floor stage left and right, which corrected that issue. Lists were made of props and costumes scene by scene and over the next three weeks, the props and costumes were found and approved or not and it looked like we were finally getting our proverbial act together.

At last, we got to dress rehearsal and it was almost flawless. Sara said, not to worry, she would be the reincarnation of Dorothy herself within twenty-four hours. The word was out that our play was a must-see and every single performance was sold out.

Aunt Daisy and Ella were home, for a change, Patti and Mark were flying in that afternoon. Alice and Russ were coming for an early dinner and we were all mighty excited. As soon as Patti and Mark checked into the Jolly Buddha, her favorite, we were all to gather with John at Aunt Daisy's and Ella's for moussaka and feta cheese salad and what other Greek delights Ella had taken a s.h.i.+ne to on their trip. Patti apologized at least ten times for not making the cake. She'd had a wedding to bake for or she would have come down days ago. I told her it didn't matter one bit. There was no way I'd be able to swallow food. I just wanted to get to the theater and have the first performance of Folly Beach behind me.

"I've been stuffing grape leaves over here, Mom. Gross. When are you coming over?"

"I'll be there soon." I was just waiting for John to arrive. It was just three.

A few minutes later he knocked on the door.

"Hey," he said. "You look beautiful! Success must agree with you!"

I had on a new dress, something kind of silky and retro that I thought Dorothy might have worn.

"Oh, John! What a journey this has been. How can I ever thank you?"

"Oh, I know a few things . . ."

"Bad!" I said and then, "oh, John, I'm so nervous about tonight."

"Don't be. Sara's got this baby nailed. All you have to do is show up and collect tons of applause and bouquets with your daughter."

"And you, too, Mr. Director."

"I only had the slightest hand in this entire venture, ma'am," he said in what I think he thought was a Rhett Butler accent.

You see, this was one of the small peculiarities with theater people-they spoke in accents whenever they felt like it, leaving you to guess who they were imitating.

We went to Aunt Daisy's and stayed for only an hour. Sara was anxious, too, so we thanked everyone, kissed everyone, and they all told us to go break a leg. Happily, we arrived at the Dock Street unscathed and before we knew it, our eight o'clock curtain time was gaining on us. I went backstage to kiss Sara for luck. She turned to me in her dressing room, and with her wig, makeup, and period dress, she was almost Dorothy Heyward in the flesh. I was dumbfounded.

"Well, darling, I just came back here to say knock 'em dead."

"Thanks, Mom," she said.

"Need anything?"

"No. I've got it all covered. And Mom?"

"Hmmm?"

"Thanks for this, you know, this chance."

"My pleasure." My eyes started to tear. "Okay then, I'll be the wild one in the back row with Aunt Daisy and the gang."

The theater was filled and the lights were going down. The stage manager was calling places and a few minutes later the curtain rose. Sara climbed out of Dorothy Heyward's grave, brushed herself off, kissed her fingertips, and touched the headstone of DuBose right next to hers. Then she came down center stage and spoke.

"I married an actual renaissance man. Yes, I really did! The story I have to tell you is about the deep and abiding love we shared . . ."

Ninety minutes later the curtain fell, the audience was silent, and then, after what seemed like a year, there began the sound of thundering applause that grew so loud I started to cry. Sara took her bows, John his, and then they waved me up to the stage. People stood as I tried to make my way there without tripping or just falling out of my shoes and dissolving into a pool of relief. I couldn't believe how well it had gone but it was true. They cheered, they even whistled, and I joined Sara and John onstage. Somewhere in the back of the theater a small woman arose from her seat, a small woman who was the clone of Dorothy Kuhns Heyward. She smiled at us, we acknowledged her, she saluted us, and she vanished in front of our eyes. I caught John's and Sara's faces and their eyes were wide in surprise. But we should not have been surprised. After all, this was the Lowcountry, where impossible becomes possible every single day.

Epilogue.

September 2010 "Hey, I got here as fast as I could!" John said. "How's Alice?"

"Screaming her brains out," I said. "Poor thing, she's waiting for the anesthesiologist to show up and give her an epidural. Poor Russ is in there, sweating. And she's two weeks early. She's probably scared to death."

"Is her mother on the way?"

"Maureen? Last I heard she was trying to get a flight," I said.

We were gathered in the lobby outside the emergency room where Alice was being admitted. They were going to move her up to labor and delivery as soon as they finished the paperwork.

"You want a bottle of water or something?" he said.

"Gosh, that would be great," I said, "it's only about a thousand degrees."

"Yeah, and it's not humid, either," he said. "I'll be right back."

It was so humid that when I took off my sungla.s.ses, there was water under my eyes. Even the hair on my arms, which wasn't much more than light fuzz, was swollen and going in different directions. Never mind the hair on my head. It was a ponytail day, with gel.

Russ appeared from behind the swinging doors.

"Mom?"

"What's the matter?"

"I can't take it, Mom. She's calling me things I didn't even know she knew the names of!"

"Get back in there! This instant! All you have to do is listen! She's going through it! She's dealing with the pain the same way most women do! They scream and yell because it hurts like h.e.l.l! Where's the anesthesiologist?"

"I'll go find out!"

"Good idea."

He disappeared again.

John came back with ice-cold water and I was glad to have it.

"There was a Russ-sighting."

"Oh, yeah? Is everything okay?"

I laughed and said, "Yeah. But it might be nice if the doctor would give her an epidural soon. Russ said she's calling him some very naughty names. I don't blame her."

"Yeah, you've been there."

"I called Addison every filthy thing under the sun. But then he was every filthy thing under the sun."

"Oh, did I tell you I heard from Manhattan Theater Club?"

"No! And?"

"They want to present Folly Beach in the spring!"

"With Sara?"

"With Sara, and you and me!"

"Wait, John! I have Aunt Daisy's business to see about. I can't go anywhere!"

"Yes, you can. It's only a two-week run and I already called Miss Daisy because I knew that was what you'd say. She's home that whole month and she'll cover for you."

"She will? Wonderful! So how many productions does that make?"

"Including San Francisco? Fourteen."

"Unbelievable."

"Yeah, so what are you writing about next?"

"You're kidding right?"

"No, ma'am! You've got to get back to the desk and write!"

"After the baby's born."