The Land of Mango Sunsets

  “Well, hello, hello! It’s my big-city girl! Welcome back to the Island!”

  As you know, in our family’s opinion, all others held no merit.

  “Mother!”

  We hugged and then hugged again.

  “Come, come. I have lunch waiting for us!”

  “Mother? What in the world are you doing? The yard? Are you becoming a farmer?”

  Mother threw back her head and laughed with a sound so young I could hardly believe she was twenty-something years older than I was. She grabbed my roll-on bag as though it was empty, while I, ever the pitiful weakling, struggled under the weight of my duffel bag, hoisting the straps to my shoulder.

  “Well,” she said, “it’s kind of an experiment to see…”

  “What?” We climbed the steps to the porch. “If the gentrification police can lock you up in the pokey for running an unauthorized e-i-e-i-o? Doesn’t the town have ordinances prohibiting, um, goats?”

  Mother laughed again. “No, they actually don’t. And she’s pretty special. Cecelia is a Nigerian dwarf.”

  “Oh. I see.”

  “Let’s get you inside and I’ll tell you all about it over lunch.”

  “Okay. Good. I’m famished. The porch looks good.”

  “Thanks. I re-covered the cushions on all the chairs.” She ascended the steps with no visible effort, sailed through the house and up to the second floor, never pausing for a breath, and dropped my bag at the foot of my old iron bed. “I’ll see you downstairs.”

  I listened to my mother’s feet padding down the long hall to the steps. She had her own clipped and energetic rhythm. There was something so reassuring about the sound that I almost choked up with tears. Her fading footsteps used to be calming and now their sound was an emotional trigger? What was the matter with me? Maybe it was the same for everyone, I told myself. You came home, middle-aged, a marital discard, and therefore a social liability, and your widowed mother—albeit a hippie who would absolutely mortify you in most circles—is waiting for you. Okra soup is simmering for your lunch and the fragrance makes your heart swell. In that moment, you find yourself wanting to relive your childhood, to be young, innocent, and free of guilt.

  In your old bedroom is the quilt, the same one your grandmother and her friends made just for you when you were a little girl…all that predictability in coming home, that there was a time when you could depend on the fact that you were wanted, missed, welcomed, and really loved by someone who knew you and loved you despite your flaws.

  Was I still? Yes. I was.

  I sat on the bed for a moment and ran my fingers over the little squares of floral, striped, and checked cotton. If I was possessed by things like fountain pens and thank-you notes, how obsessed were my presumably female ancestors and their friends who executed these miniature stitches, each of them placed at perfect intervals? How many dresses, blouses, and kitchen curtains had they saved, cut in small squares and triangles, hemmed, and laid out in a star pattern to create this quietly magnificent work of art? How many people had worked on it? Two? Six? Ten? Were they all friends? Were quilts sprung from a sense of friendship or boredom or necessity?

  These days women got together to drink wine and invest money—not that I had a problem with that. Women should absolutely have their own money and wine is a good thing. But what did they really achieve? There was something sacred about a quilt that a bulging bank account and getting looped could not rival.

  I hung my few clothes in the closet, checked my face in the bathroom mirror, and then stopped dead. Maybe it was the bright blue light of the Carolina midday, but I noticed for the first time that the corners of my mouth seemed to be frozen in a permanent frown. Something had to be done about that.

  Over soup and a crusty loaf of bread that she swore she had baked herself, I listened to my mother rattle on about the news on Sullivans Island. There was a gentleman who was teaching her to fish with a net. She pointed through the glass sliding door to a corner of the porch.

  “See that?”

  “No.”

  “Look again. It’s hanging from the nail.”

  “What in the world?”

  “I’m crocheting my own net! Even got the little sinker weights worked in it. Isn’t that something?”

  “Mother? Why are you doing this? I mean, it’s not like you can’t afford to go to Simmons Seafood and buy whatever you want…”

  She laughed again and then turned to fix her eyes on me. “Miriam? That’s not the point! You may think this is crazy talk but I’ll tell you the whole story, if you’d like to hear it.”

  “Okay. By the way, this soup is delicious.”

  “Thank you. Listen; remember that 9/11 fiasco?”

  “Who doesn’t? It happened just down the street from me.”

  “Right. More soup?”

  “Sure. Just half a bowl.”

  She got up to serve us another portion. “Well, it had an impact on me. A powerful one. I just got to thinking that if all the big cities of the world got blasted to smithereens, the odds are they wouldn’t be blowing up this place. Or at least it would take a while to discover it. And, if radiation didn’t kill me, I wanted to figure out how to live without the Piggly Wiggly. I decided that I would surely live longer if I kept a garden and ate organic vegetables and chickens fed without grain-laced pesticides and—” She stopped and looked at me again. “You think I’ve gone batty, don’t you?”

  “Not exactly. This is so good, Mother.”

  “Good. Everything in the soup was grown in my yard or a friend’s yard. Well, what then?”

  I wasn’t sure of what to say. She looked like Farmer Brown’s wife in her jeans and flannel shirt. And she hadn’t colored her long hair in a year or more. It was ponytailed and wrapped in a knot on the back of her head, held up with two sticks—not the garden variety, thank heaven. Her once perfectly manicured fingers were now short and plain but buffed to a beautiful pink patina. She almost glowed with satisfaction and good health. But didn’t she miss her Chanel suits?

  “What are you thinking, Miriam?”

  “I’m sort of thinking that putting up tomatoes and all this stuff you’re into would be hard to execute efficiently in a pair of pumps.”

  She smiled from some deep inner place and shook her head in a way that meant she was resigned to the understanding that I might never understand her.

  “You’re right. But why would I try? And how do you like this?”

  She kicked off her clog, held out her bare foot in my direction, and lo and behold, my mother was wearing a toe ring. Indeed, I thought. She had clearly lost all interest in the genteel outside world.

  “Very nice, Mother.” I was horrified.

  “I think it makes a statement for a gal my age, don’t you?”

  Just then there was a rap of knuckles on the sliding-glass door and I looked up to see a man standing there with a string of fish. Mother got up to let him in.

  “Harrison! Come on in!”

  “Miss Josie? How are ya, darlin’? I brought you some fish.”

  He looked like a medium-size Ernest Hemingway, tanned and weathered by the sun, deeply creased forehead and blazing blue eyes that sparkled from across the room as he caught sight of me. He was dressed like a bum and I suspected his fingernails were dirty more often than clean. And he smelled like he had been rolling around in the marsh.

  “I’m well, thank you! Can I offer you a bowl of soup?”

  “No, thanks. Just ate.”

  “Miriam? This is my friend Harrison Ford.”

  “I’m the other one, ma’am. The good-looking one. Not that wimpy actor.”

  “Hello,” I said, and squinted at him, wondering what he was smiling about. Maybe he thought he was funny. I estimated his age to be in the zone of mine. Or a year or two older.

  “Harrison, this is Miriam, my daughter.”

  He nodded slightly, turned away, and said to Mother, “Want me to put these boys in the freezer?”

  Was he
ignoring me, then? My neck got hot. Well, go right ahead, Swamp Thing.

  “Heavens, no! Let’s eat them tonight. Why don’t you join us for dinner?”

  “Only if you let me fix ’em…”

  “You come back around six o’clock and I’ll have the grill going. How’s that?”

  “Sounds fine.” He slid the door to the left and turned back to me. “Nice meeting you.”

  “Yes, it was nice to meet you, too.”

  A whoosh and a thwack followed as the heavy door rolled into its frame and he was gone down the steps in an instant.

  “He’s a sweetheart,” Mother said. “Brings me fish all the time.”

  “What’s his story?”

  “I met him at Wally’s.”

  “Excuse me? What?” Wally’s Bar was the island establishment for beer, arm wrestling, and more beer. Everyone went there at some point or another, but if you read the police blotter report in the Moultrie News or the Island Eye News, you couldn’t help but notice that most disturbances on the island were somehow traceable to Wally’s. “What in the world were you doing in there?”

  “Drinking a beer with some friends of mine and listening to a little country music. I love the banjo, you know. Thinking I might learn to play it.”

  “Country music? Banjo? Are you serious?” I cleared my throat in disapproval. Country music was like nails across a blackboard for me. I would have preferred rap.

  “Oh, Miriam. Honestly. Sometimes you’re such a prig.”

  “I am not.”

  Mother picked up our dishes and began cleaning up. “I love you. You’re my only child. Trust me. You’re a prig.”

  I snatched the sponge, rinsed it out, squeezed it, and began wiping down the countertop.

  “Thanks a lot,” I said.

  “Miriam? Look at you! You’re at the beach and what are you wearing? A silk blouse all tidy and tucked into your wool skirt, stockings, for God’s sake, little heels with Pilgrim buckles, and pearls! Girl! We have to loosen you up! You need some fun in your life.”

  “Kevin says the same thing, but the last time I let Fun in the front door, it was wearing a thong and cavorting with the husband of one of my friends!”

  “Your new tenant?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “Honey, I always want to know. Don’t throw those vegetables away. I compost, you know. What’s her name? This hussy.”

  I drained the broth and scraped the vegetables into a large can by the sink. I could feel my pulse picking up speed. “Liz Harper, lately of Birmingham. So you want to hear the story?”

  “I said I did, didn’t I?”

  “Well, she seemed like just what the doctor ordered, you know, to add a little life to my otherwise dreary existence. At least Kevin seemed to think she was perfect. I had my doubts.” Just thinking about it caused me to be short of breath.

  “Why? You missed a spot.”

  “Where?”

  “Right there.” Mother pointed to a large smear that I had not seen.

  “I hate black cooktops. And granite. Can’t see a bloody thing unless you lean into the light…Anyway, I thought it was suspicious that she worked at a college in a minor position and was able to afford to live on the East Side.”

  “Where? Are you all right?”

  “I’m perfectly fine.”

  “Okay. What does she do?”

  “Hunter College. Something in admissions, I think. So, then she tells us that she bartends for a caterer and does some nanny work. I mean, who does that sort of work?”

  “Plenty of extremely respectable people, Miss Priss.”

  “Whatever. Anyhow, the next thing I know, she’s got Truman Willis upstairs in the sack with her, going wild. Ka-thump, ka-thump all night long!”

  “You could hear them?”

  “Yes. Kevin says I should not go crazy and throw her out.”

  “He’s probably right.”

  “He says she probably didn’t know Truman was married.”

  “He could very well be right about that, too. But you could hear them?”

  “Yes. Disgusting. I mean, here I am trying with all I’ve got to get Agnes, his wife, to appoint me the chair of the decorations committee for the museum’s spring benefit. Let me tell you, since Charles ran off with that concubine of his, it has not been very easy for me to maintain my social standing.”

  Mother started to laugh and I looked at her like she was certifiably insane. Funny thing, she was looking at me the same way.

  “What?” I said. “Tell me what you see funny about this?”

  “Oh, Miriam. Sit down. Let your mother give you some advice.”

  “Thanks, but I don’t need any advice. I mean, aren’t you the one who taught me right from wrong?”

  “Yes. I was. Would you like a cup of tea? It’s a little chilly in here.”

  “Sure.” It wasn’t chilly at all.

  She removed two oversize mugs from the cabinet and put the kettle on to boil. I couldn’t imagine what she could tell me that would change the way I felt about Liz and her shenanigans. Or about my life.

  “Do you remember how insanely busy I was when your father was alive?”

  “Sure.”

  “I was always chairing a gala or worrying about a raffle prize or trying to sell space in an ad journal. Remember?”

  “I surely do. You’re the one who taught me the value of volunteerism.”

  “Yes, and it is terribly important. But I never depended on my volunteer work to influence or improve or secure my social standing in any way.”

  “That’s not exactly what I meant.”

  “Yes, it is. It is exactly what you are expecting! An able-bodied person has a responsibility to give back to their community. That’s just good citizenship. But it was your daddy’s money that gave me a highfalutin social life and I knew it from day one. Let me ask you something. Do you really think that Agnes Willis is your friend?”

  “Of course she is! We’ve been friends for years!” I knew in my heart that my friendship with Agnes was finito, but I wasn’t prepared to admit it.

  The teakettle roared like a freight train and startled me.

  Mother smiled and lifted it to pour. “This thing’s enough to scare the liver out of you. It should have come with a warning, don’t you think?”

  “Probably.” I took the mug from her and said thanks.

  “Anyway, you don’t have to answer me. Just ask yourself this. If you had the flu, would she bring you soup or call you to see how you were? That’s what friends do.”

  I stared at my mug of tea and then buried my face in the steam, taking a long sip. “What’s the point, Mother?”

  “The point is that social pecking order in that world is nonsense—the way women bicker over napkin folds and a centerpiece is just ridiculous. But! It is noble, even personally fulfilling, to do good works. It is good to give away assets to help others. It is. But that’s not all there is to life, Miriam.”

  “It has been the framework of my life for so many years, I don’t know what I would do without it. It’s what Charles loved about me—I mean, that volunteering gave us a marvelous life beyond his work and raising the boys.”

  “Charles is a shallow bastard, Miriam, pardon me. If you ran the biggest charity ball in New York, do you think it would bring him back to you?”

  “No.”

  “If you were twenty years younger and skinny as could be, do you think that would bring him back?”

  “No.” I felt nauseated. “Why are we talking about this? I don’t like to talk about this. You know that.”

  “Because you need to put this disappointment behind you, for once and for all.”

  “I have.”

  “No, darling girl, Mother begs to differ. Here’s what I see. I see my wonderful, beautiful daughter, very unhappy, clutching at straws, trying to hang on to a life that isn’t worth the effort.”

  “Mother? Charles and my boys and my volunteer life are all I have.
Charles and my boys are gone. My volunteer career is going nowhere. What am I supposed to do?”

  “Get another life.”

  “Easy for you to say. My bills are paid by the rent I receive, a large portion of which is coming from a home-wrecking tramp, like the one who decimated my life. I came here, Mother, to you and to this island to try and figure out what to do.”

  I just stared at the counter and didn’t say a word. Soon the lecture would end. I could go to my old room, crawl in bed, and have a nap.

  “Look, this gal Liz? Don’t use your passion all up worrying about her. Life is so precious, Miriam. You have to realize that this battle cannot be won. Don’t waste any more time, honey. That’s all.”

  Chapter Six

  WHAT’S THAT SMELL?

  Kevin had called me the minute he saw Agnes Willis’s envelope in the mail and read it to me. “Listen to this,” he said.

  “Dear Mrs. Swanson,

  Thank you so very much for your kind invitation to attend the Bill Blass fall show. Unfortunately, I will be hiking in Spain at that time, so I am returning the ticket as you requested. On another note, the gala committee would like to include you on the invitations committee and it is my most sincere hope that you will accept. Your beautiful handwriting will be such an asset!

  With kindest regards,

  Agnes Willis”

  So! Despite the fact that she knew I was salivating to be on the decorations committee, she was throwing me in the invitations dungeon. Hiking in Spain, indeed. Maybe she would twist an ankle. Not enough to put her in a wheelchair, but enough to ruin her day. The invitations committee. I was so mad I wanted to spit, which is just a figure of speech. Ladies do not spit unless they are in the wine country and do not wish to be sauced before noon.

  Invitations. If I had been a teenage girl I would have screamed my head off and then left terrible comments about Agnes Willis at myspace.com. Or facebook, whatever that was. If I had been a teenage boy I would have punched holes in all the Sheetrock walls of my bedroom. My only alternative was to take a shower. Swamp Thing was going to arrive within the hour, and heaven forbid, I shouldn’t please my mother by making an effort to pass for an authentic Geechee Girl, a Daughter of the Dunes.