Free Folly Beach by Dorothea Benton Frank Page A

so hard. I hate Addison.”
    “Me too.”
    Patti and I had returned my SUV to my house and took another walk around. The electricians were there, doing their reprehensible best on removing the lighting and the home theater components. Another team of men were breaking down the gym equipment and I wondered how they’d ever get it put back together again. And what would the banks do with all the stuff left behind—old Christmas decorations, old bicycles, curtains of no value, CDs, old linens that I didn’t want . . . I imagined they’d bring in a Dumpster. It was sort of amazing how quickly you could pack up a life when you were only taking the things you really wanted. We had simply left all our clothes on their hangers, tying their necks with garbage-bag twist ties like the dry cleaners did, and covered them up with lawn-size black garbage bags. I walked away from all of Addison’s clothes, because Albertina said she would give them to her church. We tied a ribbon around all of them with a note.
    Mark took Addison’s golf clubs that had been overlooked yesterday. He couldn’t resist and I didn’t blame him.
    “Just take them,” I said.
    “Do you think I’m a crook? I mean, we were exactly the same height and it would be a shame. But if you’re not one hundred percent comfortable, just tell me and I’ll put them back.”
    “Good grief! Is your widdle bitty conscience having a renaissance?” I said.
    Mark’s face blanched.
    “Come on,” I said. “They’re used anyway. And Addison would want you to have them. If we leave them here they’ll wind up in the garbage. Besides, you don’t know what I have.”
    “What?” he said and the color in his face returned.
    “My piano. It’s out being repaired. Tell no one. The banks can’t have it. Screw ’em. I don’t know how much they’re going to charge me to fix it but . . .”
    “Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of that one. You’re sure you don’t want to switch some wine?”
    “Oh, Mark.” Mark was going to cover my piano repairs? Thank heaven!
    Earlier around noon and over some deli sandwiches they brought in, Patti had asked for the tenth time, “How much stuff do you have left to pack?” How much more became the mantra of the day.
    There were about five inches of snow on the ground and going back and forth to their house was starting to become a real challenge, even with four-wheel drive.
    “Not a whole lot. I mean, the kids left what they wanted on their beds, Albertina boxed it up. I told them I’d send it to them tomorrow. Weather permitting, of course.” I said that and remembered I had just forty-eight hours to vacate and I wanted to go over the house a few times. The clock was ticking too fast. “Jesus, Patti, do you think they’d throw me out in the snow like the freaking little match girl?”
    “No. Maybe. How the heck should I know? But I know this—the longer we let this drag out the worse it’s gonna be on you. Emotionally, I mean. FYI, I took your saffron. That stuff is way too expensive to leave.”
    “Definitely. Gotta love your practical side. And you know what?”
    “What?”
    “I’m gonna call Aunt Daisy tonight. I think I’m going back to Folly.”

Chapter Seven
    Setting: The Porgy House kitchen, condensed-milk cans, a large sack of potatoes and onions, loaf of bread, carton of eggs, bananas.
    Director’s Note: Photos of the Porgy House kitchen on the back scrim. A photo of Jenifer as an infant and show Dawn Hill, their North Carolina home. Switch to the dancing.
    Act I
    Scene 4
    Dorothy: It was always a struggle to figure out what to cook for supper, when we lived on Folly. Some days the kitchen seemed like another planet to me where I wandered around like an alien, unable to tell a good onion from a bad turnip. That’s when I made soup. Onion, water, done! On other days, when the pantry was just about bare, I felt like Harry Houdini, producing a meal from thin air. Thank heavens for condensed milk