Sweet Caroline(80)

“Dupree, was that you?” I ask again.

Laughter peppers the room. Roland and Dale tuck in next to the wall. Amazon chick studies the Café, firmly gripping her briefcase.

“Sorry, Dupree.” I spot him off to my left with his wife, Helen. Next to him is Pastor Winnie with his Alva.

“I still love you,” he says.

“Love you, too, Dupree. No, Mitch is not here, but I’ll tell him y’all asked about him. Anyway, let me introduce the Café’s fab cook, Andy Castleton.” I motion to the back of the dining room where Andy tips his cap at the sound of applause.

“Also, Luke and Russell are on the crew tonight, bussing tables, washing dishes, cleaning toilets, and are all-around champs. But you didn’t come to hear me talk. You came to reminisce. The ground rules are: one, share whatever’s on our heart; and two, keep the stories as short as possible so everyone who wants to share has the opportunity.” I gesture to the booth right of the stage. “To get things started, please welcome my dad, Hank Sweeney.”

Applauding, I stand off to the side while Dad comes forward, smiling.

“Well . . .” He scratches his head. His voice warbles. “On my way here, I must’ve told Posey a dozen stories, and now I can’t think of a one, other than the fact I was born here.”

“The bridge,” Posey prompts softly.

“Right, the bridge.” Dad’s face brightens. “In light of our high-tech, modern world, this seems downright primitive, but Tom Cantwell and I used to spend our Saturday nights watching the bridge open and close.”

“Me too, Hank” echoes about the tight dining room.

“Of course, I remember things like the Village Pizza Inn. When Ribaut and Boundary were two lanes. Movies at the Green Lawn. Best thing for me was meeting my wife, Posey.”

With that, he quickly exits the stage. When he slides in next to Posey, she kisses his cheek, leaving a red lipstick stain. Dad is proof: no one is too old or too wounded to bloom under the light of love.

The stage is empty. Seconds tick by. I glance around to see if anyone looks close to coming up. No one. More time ticks by. Seconds feel like forever.

Please, Lord, don’t let Reminisce Night begin and end with Daddy.

“Well, guess I’ll take a turn.” A slender, seventyish woman maneuvers forward through the tables. “Hi, everyone. I’m Linda Stewart.” Her voice is sweet and shy. “My daddy was a World War II Marine colonel. About as strict as they come. Pat Conroy and I could swap a few stories. He mellowed when I got into my teens, thank goodness, just in time for me to start dating. We moved here when I was sixteen, and not long after, Keith Randall, the cutest boy in school asked me to the movies. I thought heaven had come to Beaufort.”

All eyes are fixed on her round, pink face.

“Daddy met Keith at the door, invited him in, and asked him his intentions.” Her gaze is distant, as if she’s watching the scene unfold in her mind’s eye. “Poor Keith. But he was a good sport about it and agreed to Daddy’s request to have me home by eleven. Sharp. Once ten o’clock rolled around, Keith checked his watch every two minutes, afraid time would mysteriously slip away from us. We headed home in plenty of time, but don’t you know . . .” She pauses. “We got caught by the drawbridge.”

Gasps rise from the listeners. Heads bob. Snickers chase around the room.

“Y’all know. Been there same as me. We sat there for thirty minutes while the slowest boat in the world sailed the Beaufort River. I could’ve walked home faster. Sure enough, when we pulled into the driveway at eleven-o-five, Daddy waited with rifle in hand.”

Moans roll forward from a dozen or so ladies, followed by the laughter of what I assume are rifle-toting fathers.

“Since we were new to town, Daddy did not believe for one minute Keith and I were delayed because of a bridge. He sent me inside, fearing for my life, then gave Keith a tongue-lashing that curled hair better than Mama’s home perms. Told him to never call his daughter again. Two days later”—she laughs, holding up two fingers—“Daddy was caught by the bridge, making him very, very late to a very important inspection.”

The crowd bursts out laughing, applauding.

“A week later, y’all, guess who came to dinner?” With that, Mrs. Stewart bows, ending her story to great applause.

So, the pump is primed. One by one, young and old, newcomers and old-timers rise to tell their stories of life in Beaufort. Mercy Bea and Paris keep tea flowing, rotating in fresh baskets of Bubba’s Buttery Biscuits. The camaraderie flowing through the room is heartening. I hate for it to end. But at nine, I take the mike. “Can’t believe it, but it’s nine o’clock already. I loved every story.”

Whistles and applause.

“So, I’ll take one or two more stories. Any of you have a burning story to tell?”

“Are you doing this again?” someone asks.

“Yes, in January.” I won’t be here, but . . .

The applause tells me January suits them fine. Take note, Buzz Boys.

“So, last call. Going, going . . .”

Still in the back, Dale and Roland and their long-legged blonde friend seem pleased and amused. Seconds tick by, and I’m about to say “gone” when an older man, thin and shaky, rises from a table near the front door.