Apparently, it was important that I be qualified. Set into the scheme of things. Booter turned his grin on me.
“Get you something, ma’am?”
“Please call me Anny. I’d like a Diet Coke.”
The crowd at the bar snickered and I flushed.
“Got Mountain Dew and beer,” Booter said. “I could make you some coffee, though.”
“Beer’s fine.”
It was. It was cold and sweating in my hand, and drops of condensation fell onto my arms and hands, cooling them. It was airlessly hot under the canopy of tin. The squadrons of mosquitoes were vicious and relentless. I had lathered myself all over with the strong, piney-green liquid Lewis had given me, but apparently I was fresh meat. No one else at the bar or tables seemed to be bothered. I drank another beer quickly and the bites seemed to sting less.
Junior Crosby came in toting his paraphernalia then, and the steaming of the oysters got under way. The crowd descended on them like locusts, piling the great clumps of adhering shells onto tin plates and attacking them with oyster knives to pry them open and pop the roasted oyster into their mouths. They tasted wonderful, the few that I managed to get open. By the time I had finished my first plate, everybody else had gone back for thirds and fourths, and the beer flowed. Night fell, thick and black and moon haunted. The creek water was silvered with it out into the marsh.
Lewis finally relented and opened the oysters for me, and bought me another beer, and another. I did not even like beer, but this tasted wonderful, somehow, all of a piece with the salt of the marsh and the scent of the faraway mimosas.
“I’ll be drunk,” I said.
“Well, I should certainly hope so,” Lewis said. “Because I promised you dancing, and dancing out here is far better accomplished drunk.”
He went up to the jukebox, a battered old Wurlitzer that looked to me the same vintage as the cooler, and made a selection. All over the dock people were dancing; I had scarcely noticed them, but now I could not look away. Apparently, the only songs Booter had on his jukebox were the old rock-and-roll and country-and-western songs of the fifties, which I barely remembered from my childhood. All around me, burly, light-footed men and willowy, big-haired women were stomping and swaying and undulating to the Platters, Bill Haley and His Comets, Frankie Lymon and the Teenagers, Little Richard, Gene Vincent and the Blue Caps.
“It’s a time warp,” I said. “Where’s Elvis?”
“Too upscale for this crowd,” Lewis said, grinning. “Fats Domino doing ‘Blueberry Hill’ is about as highbrow as it gets.”
He swung me up and out onto the dance floor, and the music caught me as surely as his red-freckled arms, and I was dancing as I had never danced before, intense, sweating, as sure and light of foot as any of the other women present, utterly lost in the beat and the vibration of stomping feet on the wooden boards. They sounded hollow, as wood does over water; it was all a part of the magic of the night. I have never been so sure, before or since, that I was as seamlessly good at anything as I was that night dancing on Booter Crogan’s dock.
Finally, when I was panting and laughing and wilting into his arms, sticky with oyster juice and sweat and wild haired with creek humidity, Lewis put on another record and pulled me against him. This time, it was not rock and roll, but Percy Sledge wailing, “When a Man Loves a Woman.” The beat was slow, insinuating, heartbreaking. I put my face into his shoulder and he rested his chin on the top of my head and we swayed close together, hardly moving. I was lost in him, the feel of him, the smell. I did not want the song ever to end.
When it did, I moved back and shook my head as if I was coming up from underwater.
“Let’s get a beer and go sit on the end of the dock and put our feet in the water,” he said. And we did. My head was spinning so that the moon seemed to double itself, and swim back together before splitting apart again.
“I’ve had too much to drink,” I said. The water was still warm from the day, but just under the surface was the chill of the past winter. It felt wonderful on my burning feet, like bathing them in champagne.
He put his arm around me and I rested my head on his shoulder.
“Why don’t you have a boyfriend?” he said. “Why aren’t you married?”
“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “It just never came up. For a long time the only kind of men I knew about were my mother’s ‘friends,’ the ones who came to the house all the time. We had to go to our rooms when they visited, and one night when I was sixteen or so one of them came after me when my mother had passed out on the sofa. It was no big deal; he was too drunk to do anything to me, and I hit him with a tennis racquet. My mother woke up and threw him out, and promised me it would never happen again, and it didn’t. She drank after that, but she didn’t have any more friends, that I know of.”
“You hit him with a tennis racquet?” Lewis said, beginning to laugh.
“I’m certainly not helpless,” I said. “And I do have boyfriends; I always did. I dated a good bit in school. But I had the kids then, and up until they went away to school, and after that…I don’t know. I just wanted to be still and quiet. It got to be a habit.”
We were quiet for a while, and then I said, “I heard about your wife. About the divorce and all. I’m really sorry, Lewis.”
He didn’t speak, and I thought that I had gone to a place where I was not allowed. But then he shook his head and sighed.
“For a long time it was good, at least for me,” he said. “She was enchanting. She still is. I wouldn’t have let her go if there had been anything left of me in her life. But I couldn’t let…all that…go on in front of the girls. And besides, there was always something about our life…it was a picture-book life. It never did seem quite real to me. And I guess it wasn’t. Real felt like those kids I saw every Saturday. All that pain and despair, no money…not that I wanted that for my family, God, no, but there was just never any…darkness to us. Any contrast to all that light. Somehow I just couldn’t trust that.”
“I know,” I said. I did. I had it in me, too; I needed it, that interior shadow where I could hide myself sometimes, a cavelike protection against the blinding world. I think it was what drew me to the work I do. I understand darkness.
“Look,” he said. “When we get back, I don’t guess I can come in?”
“No,” I said.
“I didn’t think so. So would you like to come out to the island with me one day this weekend? I’ll cook dinner for you; I’m a good cook. And I’ll show you everything that I love. I’d like you to see it all. There’s an alligator nursery you’ll flip over.”
“You sure know how to show a girl a good time,” I said sleepily.
The Ace Basin lies in a great, 350,000-acre wilderness centered by a shallow bay created by the confluence of the Ashepoo, Combahee, and Edisto Rivers. It harbors an estuarine ecosystem so rich in layers and layers of life, so fertile and green and secret, so very old, so totally set apart from the world of men and machines, that there is literally no place on earth remotely like it. It is as far removed from the beautiful, mannerly, infinitely civilized grid of Charleston south of Broad Street, with its verandaed old houses in pink and ocher and yellow and taupe wood or stucco, the colors of soft heat, as Tashkent would be, or Antarctica. Other areas in the Low Country that were once as pristine have irrevocably gone over to man now, and cannot be reclaimed, but a combination of public and private agencies and individuals have set their teeth and shoulders to safeguard the Ace, and now protect sizable swatches of it. In that vast and succoring basin, one third light, one third water, and only one third earth, life in all its abundance has evolved almost unseen for millions of years, infused twice a day by the great salt breath of the tides. I had never really seen it, never really known that it lay there to my south, a dreaming continent, a separate lost world. When I first went there with Lewis, it almost frightened me.
We came off a scabrous paved road onto a dirt and gravel track that seemed to go on forever. There had been no mannerly sign announcing Sweetgrass Plantation, the property’s name, as there were for the big stately plantations open to visitors to the west and north—Magnolia Hall, Middleton Place, Boone Hall, Medway. There was not even a mailbox. It was eleven o’clock on a Sunday morning, and already the heat was shimmering off the road and insects were buzzing in the vast stretches of marsh grass and occasional flashes of black tidal creeks. Lewis did not turn on the air-conditioning in the Range Rover, and my neck and back ran sweat under my shirt.
“I hate air-conditioning,” he said, catching me pulling my shirt away from my body. “People ought to sweat in the summer. Makes it real. Makes you slow down and smell the swamp and the pluff mud. Makes you kind of sleepy and sexy. What do you think?”
“I think it makes me sleepy and smelly. And cross as a bear. I don’t want to smell the pluff mud,” I said, swatting a mosquito that had ridden with us all the way from Charleston. “Where do you get your mail?”
“I don’t, out here,” he said. “Everything goes to the house or the office. There’s nothing anybody needs to tell me that can’t wait till I get back to Charleston. I don’t even have a phone; I use my cell phone, and I wouldn’t bring that if I didn’t have patients.”
“So you really rough it out here,” I said.
“Well, not really.”
The road curved, and I looked down a long alley of live oaks hung with gray moss to a gentle bluff on the river, where the house stood. I drew in my breath. Set into the maritime forest of live oak, cedar, loblolly and slash pine and palmettos, the house looked as if it had risen from the damp earth so it could look over the blue river in front of it. It was beautiful.
“I thought it would be…. I thought there would be columns and things,” I said stupidly. This rambling, stilted, pavilioned gray cypress house spoke to my heart like no columns had ever done. “This is wonderful.”
“Yes,” he said matter-of-factly. “I had it built after the divorce, when I knew that I would be spending so much time here. We had the whole column thing before that, a hundred and fifty years worth of rotting stucco and peeling walls and enough mold to keep the Low Country in penicillin for years. My mother adored it, and wouldn’t even let me make repairs; she said she wanted it kept as Daddy had before he died. By the time she went to live with my sister in Connecticut, it was downright dangerous, and it would have cost more to repair it than to build fresh. So I had it torn down and built this one. I think it’s what a marsh house should be—silvery gray like the marsh grass, raised so the breezes off the water can come in, cool and shaded inside, high ceilings, lots of glass in every direction. And a good kitchen. The old one was a horror. I’ve loved living here, though most of Charleston thinks I’ve desecrated the family name. My mother doesn’t even know the old house is gone.”
“Doesn’t she come back sometimes?”
“No. She doesn’t seem to want to be anywhere she and Dad lived together. After he died she didn’t want the Battery house, either. I think she may be going into Alzheimer’s. My sister says she’s awfully vague and forgetful now.”
“How sad, not to want to be in your home anymore. Are you sad?”
“No. This and Bull Street are home now. You’re not home, not really. Are you sad?”
“No. But I didn’t leave places like a plantation or the Battery house, either. Almost anything else would be an improvement over where I lived. I love my apartment.”
“You’re going to love this even more,” he said, and swung the car into a berth beneath a live oak that literally swept the ground with its branches. I looked up; it was like being in a cathedral. No rain could penetrate that canopy of leaves and moss. After the noise of the car, the water silence was soft and palpable. I could hear the river running a good hundred feet away, at the end of a canopied dock over the marsh.
We went up the steps and into the house. The door was not locked. Inside, I caught my breath again. Beautiful. Simple and light washed and beautiful. The water and the marsh grass and the air and the sun seemed a part of the fabric of the house. This was a house for light hearts.
He had, I was sure, brought many things from the Battery house here to this one. The wide, polished pine floors were pooled in places with thin bonfires of old orientals. A damask sofa, rump sprung and fading but still grand, sat, opposite a pair of buttery, worn-leather Morris chairs, in front of a great stone fireplace. Airy Scandinavian and French provincial pieces melted seamlessly into the whole stew, along with a delicate inlaid escritoire, a formidable partners’ desk before one of the river windows, before the other a chintz chaise showing the unmistakable stigmata of cat scratchings on its leg. I don’t know why it all worked, but it did. The house lifted you up. It would be hard to stay unhappy here. Maybe, I thought, the sheer fact that you love things makes them fit together.
We walked through a cool, dim central hall and into the enormous stone-floored kitchen. There were a professional gas stove, refrigerator, and countertop appliances among the clutter of dried flowers and hanging herbs and cooking utensils. Something wonderful simmered in a big pot on the stove. A thin brown woman stood stirring it, a caramel child capering about her. The rug before the fireplace was strewn with toys.
“Thought I heard you clomping around in there,” the woman said, smiling but not turning from the stove. Lewis went to her and hugged her fiercely from behind.
“Lindy, my love,” he warbled. “Come away with me, Lindy….”
“I’m not going anywhere with you, you sorry hound,” she said, and did turn then, and offered me her hand. I took it, smiling back at her warm smile. Laugh lines fanned around her eyes, but other than that, the severe brown face was unmarked; she could have been any age at all.
“I’m Linda Cousins,” she said. “I’m a nurse at the county clinic on Edisto, but I help Lewis here keep himself decent on weekends. This is my son, Tommy.”
“I’m Anny Butler,” I said. “I’m a friend of Lewis from my work.”
“I hope you’re a friend from more than that,” she said, the smile widening. “This one needs a good stout friend more than anybody I ever saw.”