Part 18 (1/2)
”No. I know what crazy looks like and you're not it.”
I paused then and looked at him, pus.h.i.+ng my platter of antipasto toward him to share.
”Have some. Please. You want to talk about her?”
He helped himself to a slice of mozzarella and a piece of red pepper.
”I'll tell you about her. I promised you I would if you'd like me to, but finish telling me about Dorothy and why DuBose is such a b.u.m.”
”Okay,” I said and helped myself to more wine. He took the bottle right out of my hand and poured it himself.
”Forgive my oversight, ma'am.”
”Thanks. Well, first of all, I think that having some sense of permanence, you know, a place where she truly belonged, was the most important thing in the world to her. And I think being respected and famous in the world of serious literature was way too important to him. And when they met, she had this great education, she was a promising playwright, and she probably had wads of money that was left to her. He was adorable, soft-spoken, and most likely very attentive and probably had a pretty sophisticated demeanor.”
”So, he's a bad guy because . . .”
”He saw her as a ticket for him and his momma out of poverty. That's not to say he didn't care for her. I think he must have, because in all the old photographs and press he sure seems devoted to her. But she had been treated like an orphan . . .”
”Well, she was one.”
”No, I know that, so was I, so maybe I'm sensitive to that. But here was someone who also appealed to her intellectually, socially, and yes, despite all of his grotesque infirmities, he appealed to her physically, too. She, who had never enjoyed anything close to great health, was in far better shape than he was. She could save him. Women adore saving men. And he needed saving.”
”From what?”
John was smiling and relis.h.i.+ng his carpaccio, picking up the parmesan shavings with his fingers. He was clearly enjoying himself.
”Poverty. His mother. The ravages of polio and all the other diseases he had in his life. And professionally, too.”
”And what did she get out of it?”
”A home. And the great satisfaction of restoring his family's name in Charleston and helping to build his name in the literary world and in the theatrical world. And she got the love of her life.”
”So, you think he married her for her money?”
”Yep. Definitely. I mean, he was living with his momma! And the fact that she understood writing for the theater and had a real gift for it. Dorothy was happy for him to give up his business and try to live on only what they earned. And she was meek enough to stay in his shadow and let him be the star.”
”You think DuBose wanted Dorothy's thunder?”
”No, I just think it was there for the taking and he took it but he always kept her at his side. Look, you don't have to read very far to discover how ambitious he was. What man has his portrait made that often? What straight man, anyway?”
”There were rumors.”
”No kidding?”
”Yeah. I mean, the guy was a shrimp with deformities and so soft-spoken people had trouble understanding him. Oh! You'll love this! When they started up the Poetry Society, he went around with this pet.i.tion for incorporation asking people to sign it and they thought they were signing up for a Poultry Society.”
”That's pretty funny.”
John sat back in his chair and stared at me for what seemed like an incredibly long period of time. I just continued eating, finis.h.i.+ng up the last of the olives and caponata, waiting for him to say something.
”You know,” he said, ”I'm not sure that I agree with what you're surmising about them but here's something. I don't think contemporary historians have ever looked at their marriage and career from her point of view.”
”Well, that's not hard to believe, because her letters to him were destroyed. He probably dumped them so his Nosy Nellie mother wouldn't read them.”
”Maybe.” John laughed at that.
”Or, she threw them out after he died, trying to cover her footprints so he could be all s.h.i.+ny and bright when he took his place in history next to Gershwin.”
”Maybe. I mean, what if that's all true, everything you're proposing?”
”Who cares?”
”Well, I do. And you know what else, Nancy Drew?”
”What?”
”So would others. Who cares if it's speculation? This story would make a wonderful play for Piccolo Spoleto Festival. I mean, you said you wanted to write a play, didn't you? Give it a shot!”
”Oh, no, I couldn't. I mean, I don't know enough. And isn't it sort of treasonous to screw around with DuBose's reputation?”
”Absolutely not. Have you been to the theater lately? Nothing's sacred. I say, go have a ball!” He reached across the table and took my hand in his. ”I'm not kidding, Cate. Do it.”
Holy h.e.l.l, wait until I told Patti about this. I was holding hands with this gorgeous man who was telling me to become a playwright. Maybe I would! I looked at his hand and thought, wow, it's beautiful. I loved the shape of his fingernails, the light brown color of his skin . . . the waffle of my virtue was gaining speed.
”Well, I'll think about it. Anyway . . .” Our entrees arrived and the aromatics of pancetta and pecorino riding on the steam rising from my spaghetti were divine. ”This looks amazing. Italian food in Charleston. Wow.”
Our waiter grated some additional cheese on our food; then he stepped back.
”Buon appet.i.to!” he said and walked away.
”So, John?”
”Ah! Yes, you want to know about Lisa, I guess?”
Her name was Lisa.
”Yeah, well. Yeah.” I wound several strands of spaghetti around my fork and blew on it. ”Hot.”
”Lisa is in a small hospital slash jail where she will spend the rest of her life.”
”What's the story?”
”The story. Well, we got married right out of college. We were young and foolish. We were living in Maryland then. She was working for an insecticide company and I was teaching ninth-grade English. For a while we were getting along just fine and then she started acting paranoid and accusing me of running around on her.”
”Were you?”
”G.o.d, no. I was working every minute I could, trying to save money to buy a house for us. Anyway, one night I came in sort of late and she flew at me with a knife, saying she was going to kill me. I got the knife away from her but then she kept on screaming and it became obvious to me she didn't know who I was.”
”She snapped or something?”