Pawleys Island-lowcountry 5 by Dorothea Benton Frank Page B

beginning point for the discussion. But let’s just say this. I was not the kind of woman who could stand by with my mouth closed and watch a bloody crime unfold. And Huey was not that kind of man. We didn’t bring home kitties from the rain, but whenever we could stomp out a wrongful fire, we did. We dispensed plenty of unsolicited advice for the good citizens of our community who, believe it or not, actually thanked us. On occasion. Well, not often.
    There are all levels of transgressions that people commit against each other. In Rebecca’s case, it was one of two things. Either Rebecca had been so thoroughly demoralized by her husband that she had somehow been fooled into believing the courts had done the right thing. Or Rebecca was an unfit mother, a concept that we absolutely could not swallow. I was coming in on the side of bamboozle. The courts had made a terrible mistake, probably based on trumped-up evidence or hearsay or some campaign gone awry. Huey had taken the first step in helping her by giving her a job.
    We had liked her right away. Her talent was rather astounding. She fit a need in the gallery for a framer, and I would have advised Huey to give her a try, which he did before I could even articulate an opinion. As her employer, there was no reason why we—that is, Huey—shouldn’t know a little more about her. Despite its global fame, Pawleys Island was a small town. It would be better for her when the inquiring minds asked questions, and we knew they would, if we knew what to say. If someone new moved to Pawleys and Fate plopped them in the spotlight, as it had Rebecca, then the residents of Pawleys and Litchfield were going to want to know every detail about them.
    We were a little worried. For all we knew her ex-husband might be a lunatic. Pawleys Island was just a short drive from Charleston, and who could say what form his anger might take? People committed crimes of passion every day, and far-fetched as it may sound, Huey and I didn’t want to be caught in the middle of some risk to our personal safety—that is, if there was risk. Who knew? So the pragmatic side of us wanted to know and the humane side just wanted to be helpful.
    I thought about all this as Rebecca and I drove in near silence to Huey’s. She was on her guard, and so was I. I had a CD playing of Ella Fitzgerald singing great crooner music to try and put both of us in a social state of mind.
    “I think I would have enjoyed living in the forties,” I said, trying to lighten the air. “Life was so much more civilized.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Well, men were gentlemen and women were ladies. People were modest about themselves. I mean, they knew what they were supposed to do and how they were supposed to act. Life now is so, I don’t know, loose.”
    A pithy pause ensued.
    She finally said, “That’s true, but I don’t know if it was really any better then. There was polio and TB.”
    “Polio and TB? Heavens to Betsy, girl! What a thing to think of! What about the good things? Like the fashion? All those padded shoulders and platforms? And women worked in real jobs…”
    “And got pushed out of the workforce after the war. It just seems like we’re smarter today. But they did have great shoes. And cars.”
    I smiled and glanced over to her. She was smiling then. I said, “Love the cars, the clothes and the music. But I’m not sure we’re any smarter.”
    I could see her head swinging in my peripheral vision, weighing the question of our collective national intelligence.
    “Well, we’ve got technology. Yeah, boy. We’ve got technology in spades. But you’re right. We’re probably not any smarter. We’re just flooded with information that nobody knows how to use. God knows, we still have war. So how far have we really come?”
    “I always say that women should run the planet. Don’t get me started on the politics of war. It would be even more interesting if our elected officials actually had a voice.