Part 13 (1/2)
”Thanks,” I said.
”Sorry it took so long. The bartenders are slammed. Okay! Got a few specials for you tonight,” she said and began describing the intergalactic heights to which the chef planned to elevate the unsuspecting humble tilapia and how the ceviche was going to change the way we viewed southwestern cuisine, especially now that it had collided into a spectacular fusion of chilies and seafood from the pristine waters around the Lowcountry. ”And, not to be overlooked are some mighty fine spiced shrimp, wood grilled and finished off with a cilantro garlic b.u.t.ter and that comes with a side of sweet corn pudding. Of course there's always the South by Southwest Mixed Grill . . .”
”I'm full from just listening!” I said.
John shook his head, smiling at his former student. ”I always said, Ms. Geier, you should go into theater. You're missing your calling. Do we really need more lawyers?”
Ms. Geier grinned and said, ”I don't know, sir. I hope so. Y'all need a few minutes?”
”No, I think I'm all set. How about you, Cate? See anything interesting on that menu?”
”Sure, I'm thinking the ceviche to start and the Hawaiian sunfish? How's that sound?”
”Very good! And you, professor?”
”I'm thinking all that effort on the tilapia shouldn't go to waste and I'll have the day-boat scallops to begin.”
”Perfect! I'll get your order right into the kitchen.”
”Thanks,” John said, watching her scuttle away. ”She's a real talent. Would've made a great playwright.”
”Hmmm,” I said. ”I always wanted to write a play, a big musical with great ch.o.r.eography like the old days or maybe something for the screen.”
”And why didn't you? Cheers!”
”Cheers!” I said, touching the salty side of my gla.s.s to his frosted mug with a musical clink. ”Well, I started down that road but then I hit a few twists and turns, you know, marriage, children . . .”
”So did Dorothy Heyward.”
”You mean DuBose Heyward's wife?” I took a large sip of my c.o.c.ktail. ”Gos.h.!.+ This is really delicious. But wait, she was a playwright.” Even I knew that much.
”Yep. I know. Dorothy Heyward always intended to be a playwright, from the time she was a little girl but the facts of her actual career make for a very interesting saga on their own.”
”Tell me the saga,” I said, feeling infinitely more relaxed as the alcohol entered my bloodstream.
”I don't want to bore you . . .”
”I don't think you could, but I'll let you know if you do. I mean, I really am interested.”
”Okay. So, in the very beginning of her career one of her professors urged her to get to know the theater from the inside out.”
”Good advice. You should always know the business inside and out.”
”Definitely. So somewhere in between the time she went to New York to study playwriting at Columbia and when she went to Harvard to join George Baker's famous Workshop 47, she got herself cast as a chorus girl in a traveling show.”
”Seriously? I danced in plenty of chorus lines, including the play A Chorus Line, for the exact same reason! So, how did she like it?”
”Hated it. Thought it was demeaning to be a chorus girl, especially back then, in the vaudeville days, when theater people were suspect anyway. I think the whole theater world probably was a pretty s.e.xist environment then.”
”This would have been what year?”
”Early twenties. The story goes that in this particular play, all the girls had to enter the stage in their underwear, carrying a little suitcase and wearing high heels. Then all the girls would file down into the audience, pull out a dress from their suitcase and, get this, sit on a man's lap so he could b.u.t.ton her up the back of her dress.”
”You're kidding, right?”
”No.”
”I am beyond stunned. How many laws would that break today?”
”About a hundred, I'll bet. Talk about creating a hostile work environment?”
”No lie. That was a pretty gutsy thing to do for her time, wasn't it?”
”Yes, it definitely was. Especially given her background. She grew up on the right side of the tracks with her aunts. She lost her parents when she was a young girl . . .”
”What?”
”But her aunts seemed to have done an amazing job of giving her a cultured life.”
”Aunts?”
”Yep. I mean, she began going to the opera as a child and later she was sent to universities and so forth. And this was in the day when women rarely went to college except to become a teacher or a nurse. Dorothy was encouraged to be creative. Her whole family was very musical.”
”Was she? Dorothy, I mean. Was she musical?”
”Not so much. In her papers she talks about the fact that she had a tin ear and couldn't play any instrument very well, except for the piano, a little.”
”This is sounding creepy-like you've been reading my diaries, professor, not Dorothy Heyward's.”
”I thought you might find her history interesting.”
”I do. Where are these papers?”
”Right here in Charleston. They're all in the archives at the South Carolina Historical Society downtown. For a slight fee, like five dollars, you can go read them and you really should. After all, you're living in her house.”
”You're right, you're absolutely right.”
”Yeah, they were quite the couple, old Dorothy and DuBose. She was definitely the pepper in his pot.”
”And him? What was he like?”
”Well, I think he can be described most politely as a man of his time.”
”That's pretty cryptic.”
”Yes. Because I think people should draw their own conclusions about others, especially when it comes to relabeling Charlestonians with aristocratic backgrounds.”
”So, what you're really saying is that anything less than veneration of Mr. Heyward could be considered desecration of something sacred?”
”Exactly. Look, among other things, here's the guy who allegedly put Charleston on the map again with Porgy and Bess.”