Free The Land of Mango Sunsets by Dorothea Benton Frank Page A

the steering wheel in time with the rim of his wedding band. I relaxed a little more. We drove along Route 526 East, which was especially beautiful. Here and there were lovely patches of marsh and short docks rooted in glisteningwater. Natural creeks cut the marsh grass in serpentines from the Wando and Cooper rivers. Pelicans swooped down on unsuspecting brim and drum, gobbling them up for snacks. Birds of prey circled, their keen eyes zeroing in on rabbits and squirrels, which all went about their innocent daily business in the thicket unaware that death was on the way.
    The small patches of remaining forest surrounded yet another housing development that seemed to have popped up overnight like Jack’s beanstalk. Rows upon rows of nearly identical slapdash houses were ugly and cold-looking. There were no trees above six feet to be seen and the minimal shrubs of boxwood and azalea were uniform. There was no shade where children could play, no charm in the development’s layout, and no neighbors who would have known one another for more than a year. Some developer was getting filthy rich, poor people were getting cardboard houses with mortgages they couldn’t afford, and the Lowcountry was being raped between the eyes. This was one topic on which Mother and I always agreed. Developers had all the conscience of a hungry predator.
    As we rounded the corner at the Piggly Wiggly and Royall Hardware, I began to relax. I had not visited Sullivans Island in almost a year, and filled with anticipation, I welcomed the fact that I could leave my worries behind for a few days.
    When the cab stopped in the driveway on Raven Drive, I could hardly believe my eyes. What had Mother done? The whole front yard that had been home to flower beds was now fenced in behind a wall of bamboo. Did I hear chickens? Was that a nanny goat?
    I paid the driver, dropped my suitcase at the base of the steps, and went to have a look. There was my mother, Josephine, with a hoe in her hand, hacking away at the earth. I gasped so hard you could have knocked me over with the flick of a finger. Hearing the car pull away, she turned and spotted me.
    “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