Sweet Caroline (28 page)

A gust of wind crashes against the house. The lights flicker off. But before we can moan and complain, they flick back on.

“Howard best not leave us in the dark.” Mercy Bea rises from the breakfast nook with a Wal-Mart bag dangling from her fingertips. “Caroline, I brought a surprise.” She holds up the bag. “Hair coloring.

Let’s get you fixed up.”

“Color my hair?” On impulse, my hand reaches to the edges of my rough, dry, once-a-rich-brown hair. “Now?”

Mercy Bea shakes the bag. “Miss Clairol with extra conditioning. Now, come on. Aren’t you tired of that dried-out, mousy brown?”

“Who brings hair color to a hurricane party?” I sink my backside farther into the cool, leather couch.

“Mitch, convince her a little conditioning and color wouldn’t kill her?”

Mitch munches on an Oreo cookie from the coffee table junk-food pile—MoonPies, potato chips, M&Ms, Oreos, boiled peanuts. “It
is
a little mousy.”

“What?” I lean forward to see his face. “You would hand me over to this wanna-be stylist? Besides, what’s wrong with mousy brown?”

“Caroline, let’s
goooo
.” Mercy Bea motions for me to march to the bathroom, like a kid doomed for a Saturday-night bath. “Come on; it’ll be fun.” She produces a pair of shears. “I’ll trim the ends for you too.”

“Don’t you need a license for those?”

Elle calls from the kitchen, where she’s washing out her brushes. “I’ll do your nails.”

“Now, wait a minute, y’all.” I slide forward and slap Mitch’s knee a few times. “We can’t turn this into a girls’ night. What about poor Mitch?”

He waves off my comment. “After hearing Mercy Bea read out loud from
Cosmo
the past hour, I’m pretty much immune to girlie stuff in all its forms. Besides . . .” He points to the built-in shelves, “I’m going to peruse Jones’s old LPs.”

“That’s your last excuse, Caroline. Get cracking.” Mercy Bea shuffles me off to the master bathroom.

Mumbling as I change into an old, I-don’t-care-if-it-gets-stained T-shirt, I submit to Mercy Bea and let her dump a bottle of hair color on my head while Hurricane Howard howls over us like a hungry panther on a cold winter night.

“In twenty minutes, you’ll have lovely auburn hair, Caroline.” Mercy Bea scoops my hair on top of my head, secures it with a big clip, and tucks a towel around my neck.

“If you say so.” My skin tingles as the color slips down my scalp.

Mama was a naturalist. She gave up shaving her legs and underarms about the time I hit puberty. “Bondage,” she claimed. “Makeup, hair color, false nails, tweezing, shaving—tools to keep women in bondage to man’s idea of beauty.”

So, any discovery for me about
bondage
came from
Cosmo
, Hazel, Jess, and Elle.

I emerge from the bedroom. “Ta-da.”

Mitch looks around from the bookshelves, grinning, then laughing. “What? No mud mask?”

I pistol my fingers at him. “Shutty uppy.”

“Caroline, Iamoverwhelmedbyyourbeauty.”

“That’s more like it.”

Back to the albums lining the shelves, Mitch slips one from the row. “Have you looked at Jones’s collection? It’s amazing. Hundreds of albums in mint condition.”

“Y’all want popcorn?” Mercy Bea hollers from the kitchen.

“Popcorn is good,” I reply, standing next to Mitch, wiping my brow with the edge of my T-shirt. The strong scent of hair dye mingles with his fading cologne.

“The Carter Family, Bob Wills, Bill Monroe, original 78s and LPs.” Mitch flips through the stack. “Buck Owens, Homer and Jethro, Dixieland jazz, Glenn Miller—this is incredible.”

“Do you want to play one?” Jones’s record player from the seventies is on the bottom shelf. I lift the lid and click on the fuzz-covered turn-table. “Elle, can you mute the TV?”

Mitch eases a Buck Owens LP down the spindle, then sets the needle down on the spinning disc. The old speakers crackle and pop.

“Oh, that sound takes me back. The crackle of a needle on vinyl.” Mercy Bea leans across the kitchen counter, waiting for the microwave to produce a bag of popcorn.

Buck sings:
“They’re gonna put me in the movies.”

Mercy howls along, almost drowning out Howard’s eerie wind song. Elle and I wince. However, Mitch takes the high harmony.

“All I gotta do is . . . act naturally.”

When the song ends, Mercy Bea jumps up for the popcorn. “Are there any Johnny Cash albums, Mitch? Now there’s a
man
for you.”

Howard shrieks with a surge of intensity. The muted TV screen shows us the hurricane’s eye looking down on Savannah.

“Mercy Bea, what’s the time on my hair?” I ask.

“Five more minutes.”

Mitch pulls out an obscure-looking disc. “Here’s a record marked ‘State Fair, ’49.’”

Elle gets up to see over his shoulder. Her bracelets clink softly as she reaches, turning Mitch’s hand for a better look. “What do you think it is?”

Mitch slides the disc from the white paper sleeve. “Fairs used to have recording booths. For a few bucks, a person could record a song or message.”

“Let’s hear it.” Mercy Bea tosses in a second bag of popcorn.

The old disc protests the needle with a pop when Mitch sets it down. In the next second, a very familiar voice emanates from the speakers. “This here is Jones Q. McDermott at the South Carolina State Fair, nineteen and forty-nine, singing a song to my true love.”

Clunk, twang, thunk.

Elle and I exchange a quizzical glance.

Mitch chuckles. “He must be having a hard time with his guitar in the booth.”

Mercy Bea comes over munching from her first bowl of popcorn. “He sounds so young.” Her words fade away. “I miss him.”

I grab a handful of white popped kernels. “Me too.”

“This is for my gal
—”
Jones says.

(“Hurry up, kid. Ya ain’t got but two minutes!”)

“
Ah, hush up, old man. Here’s for you, darlin’.”

The guitar strings squeak and Jones begins his serenade.

You captured my heart

With your lovely smile

We was young

But for a while

I’ve been in love with you—

(“Ha-ha-ha! What’d you do with the money your mama gave you for singing lessons, kid?”)

Always loved you

Darling, will you marry—

(“Not if she’s smart. Time, kid. Time.”)

The recording is over. Abrupt and rude. My emotions cry foul. Jones McDermott captured me with his heartfelt, fifty-eight-year-old song.

Mitch lets the needle scratch against the paper label for several long seconds.

“What happened? Where’s the rest of the song?” Elle yips. “Mitch, check the other side. Who was that man yelling?”

“The booth operator.” Mitch somberly flips the record over, but there’s nothing on side B. So he plays A again.

“This here is Jones Q. McDermott . . .”

The four of us listen and fuss to each other about the rude booth operator, then wonder who in the world stole Jones’s heart.

“Mercy Bea, did you ever hear him talk of anyone?” I ask.

She tosses popcorn into her mouth. “I may be the oldest among y’all, but I’m not that old. By the time I met him, he was a cranky, committed bachelor.”

Mitch carefully slides the 45 into the white sleeve. “Sounds like he really loved this woman. But the man yelling . . . Not cool. Poor Jones trying to sing his heart to a woman he loved.” He laughs lightly. “I remember my first recording session. I was petrified.”

I jab his ribs with my elbow. “You were not.”

“Yes, I was. Terrified. If someone yelled at me like that, I would’ve bolted. Never sung a note.”

Mercy Bea rams her wrist in front of my eyes. “Time, Caroline. Time.” She runs toward the bedroom. “Hurry, we best get you rinsed out.”

“Mercy Bea—” Eight extra minutes have passed. “If I look like Lucille Ball . . .”

“You won’t look like Lucille Ball.”

Howard chooses that exact moment to shake Beaufort as if we are a tiny town encapsulated in a snow globe. The lights flicker.

“Come on, baby, stay on.” Mercy Bea grabs a clean towel from my closet with a quick review of the coloring directions. As she grabs the shampoo, Howard bears down with another giant gust.

The lights flicker off.

And stay off.

Frogmore Café Feeds the Neighborhood After Howard

BY MELBA PELOT

WEDNESDAY, SEPT 5

By normal standards, Caroline Sweeney is an average twenty-something, lowcountry born and bred.

But Sunday, after Hurricane Howard blew through, she became the belle of Beaufort.

Along with the Frogmore Café’s cook, Andy Castleton, Caroline and her crew fed more than a thousand people over the past two days at the Bay and Harrington Street café.

Many customers brought food from home to be fired up on the grill, contributing to the giant block party.

“Caroline shows extraordinary heart. Giving from the Café to people in need,” said Councilman Dave Williamson. “She donated all the food, water, and time she had.”

“I saw people Sunday night after the storm I hadn’t seen in years,” said Beaufort dentist Dr. Gerry Collinsworth. “Mini reunions happened all around me.”

Sunday night became even more magical when country great and Beaufort son Mitchum O’Neal pulled guitars with local favorite Branan Morgan and filled the hot, humid night with music. Later, they were joined by other local musicians, Penny Collins and Red Stebbins.

“In times like these, I’m reminded of how many great people live in Beaufort,” said Connie Stern, a local realty receptionist.

“Caroline Sweeney being at the top of my list right now.”

DAILY SPECIAL

Friday, September 7
Fried Chicken
Mashed Potatoes w/ Real Gravy
Green Beans or Corn
Andy’s Raspberry Cake
Tea, Soda, Coffee
$7.99
Live Music
Penny Collins

32

E
lle sits at the Café’s counter, scowling over her Operation Wedding Day list, scribbled with lines and notes. It’s worn from being folded and unfolded so many times.

“So, the preacher didn’t work out?” I refill her mason jar of soda, noting she’s been consuming a lot of Diet Coke and very little food.

She lifts her shoulder with an exaggerated inhale. “No.” Exasperated exhale. “He hasn’t called back since our date.”

Squeezing her hand as if to ease her pain, I search for comforting words. “Elle, you can’t schedule love. Are you losing weight?”

“I’m not hungry.” She slaps her paper to the countertop and draws her soda close. “It’s stupid, and I know God has the perfect man for me, but I can’t see it, you know? The future seems dim.”

“Just believe. Look at all the things God’s done for me, and I didn’t even know Him until a month ago.”

Elle sighs. “Yeah, and it’s wonderful to see.” She folds the list. “Enough of this for now. So, Caroline, what’d Mercy say about your hair?” She squints. “It’s downright blinding.”

I slip my hand over my very red ponytail. “She called her hairdresser, but they had some water damage from the storm. They should be open in a few weeks and Mercy’s going to pay for my appointment.”

“A few weeks. You want to look like Carrot Top for a few weeks?”

“It’s not that bad, Elle, and everyone’s already seen me. Shoot, I was photographed for the paper the day after. Splashed all over the front page.”

Elle sips her drink, hesitates, then orders a cheeseburger with the works. When I come back from the kitchen she says, “I’ve never seen a grown woman so afraid of the dark.”

“Well, the storm didn’t help. All that banging and shrieking.”

“That wasn’t the storm, that was Mercy Bea.”

The memory makes me laugh. “I thought Mitch would never get her detached from his arm. Don’t tell her, but he has fingernail scars.”

“He was amazing. Calmed her down with prayer and a few songs. In fact, I was feeling a little scared myself until he started playing.”

“Too bad music couldn’t save my hair.”

The front bells ring as several customers enter the Café for a late lunch. I grab a couple of menus and lead them to a booth.

“How are you folks today?”

“Fine, fine. Been meaning to get by here since we saw the article in the paper.”

“We’re glad to have you. Can I get you something to drink?”

Beyond the Café windows, the sun is high and hot in a hazy blue sky, the memory of Hurricane Howard a small dot on the horizon. Yet, the storm did something for the Café no advertising, raft racing, or singing Mitch O’Neal could do: endear us to the heart of Beaufort.

Opening up to feed the neighborhood simply seemed like the right and honorable thing to do. Giving away food in crisis is what love is all about, right? I didn’t even bother to calculate the cost.

Once power was restored and life returned to the mundane, our business boomed. Here it is Friday midafternoon, and ten of our twenty tables are full. And we’ve had a dozen calls from folks checking on our dinner hour.

I’m praying to add an additional five hundred in my payment to Buster this month.

“Paris, customers in your section, table 12,” I say as I pass her on my way back to the counter. “Both want sweet tea.”

“Caroline.” Luke appears around the kitchen opening. “Phone for you.”

“Be right there.”

Ol’ Luke. So faithful. Comes in for breakfast with the boys, then dons his apron. He keeps the floors mopped, the tables bussed, and the bathroom Lysoled without so much as a “will you?” from me. He sees what needs to be done and does it. With all his hustle, Luke’s silently challenge Russell to put more into his work.

Smiling, I reach for the kitchen receiver. “This is Caroline. Can I help you?”

“I certainly believe you can.” The timbre of his voice, the accented words . . .

“Señor Longoria?”

“What’s up with you? Your cheeks are flushed.” Elle’s eye’s follow me as I return to the dining room. Three more patrons have arrived at the counter. Mercy Bea indicates with a wild gaze she’s done covering for me.

“Carlos Longoria called. Hi, Mr. Peterson, what can I get you?”

While I take care of my customers, Elle interjects questions. “What did he want? Why are you trembling like a scared pup? Is there any more raspberry cake?”