Folly Beach Read Free Page B

recession couldn’t last forever, could it? I worried deeply and constantly. Sure he had always had a quick temper but never like this. I was afraid he was going to have a stroke or a heart attack.
    As fate would have it, about a year ago, he became fanatical about his health, complaining of every ailment in the Merck manual. Good, I thought, now he’ll get some help. And he did. Not a week went by that he didn’t visit a doctor of one sort or another to medicate everything from his ears (tinnitus) to his big toe on his right foot (gout). He swore he’d clean up his diet but Addison following any of these doctors’ orders didn’t last long. The gastrointestinal specialist told him to give up lunchtime martinis and hard liquor of every kind, that his liver and esophagus were turning on him. For a short period he was sober but then I heard him say to someone laughingly that he didn’t give a rip—not exactly the language he used—that he would send someone over to a Chinese prison and just buy a liver from some coolie on death row if he needed it. He thought it was a riot to look upon the horrified faces of his politically correct listeners. He bellowed with laughter, recounting his outrageous conversation with his doctor. I was mortified over and over again by his behavior and even his partners’ wives, some of the most calcified, impervious women on earth, even they began to regard me with sympathy. I was so glad our children were out of the house by then so they didn’t have to witness their father’s slide into madness.
    It just went on and on. His pulmonary physician told him he had to give up cigars, that his blood pressure was dangerously high, and I wouldn’t even want to tell you what he said about that. Addison’s humidors were bulging with imported Cohibas that he fully intended to smoke. Needless to say, his cholesterol was out of control, too, just like every other aspect of his life. Addison continued to drink what he wanted, eat what he wanted, and to smoke whenever the mood struck. No one could make Addison listen. No one could tell him what to do. In the end, still in charge, he died on a day of his own choosing. Ironically, all of these terrible habits had not killed him. Addison had the final word. He always did. If he had listened to his doctors’ advice, maybe he could have dealt with his stress in a healthy way and he’d still be alive.
    I looked around at the small crowd of people, shivering from the cold. Suddenly, it seemed that their jaws were tight and their faces unsympathetic. Was I imagining this? No. If that’s how they felt, why had they come?
    Amen.
    The service was abruptly over, Pastor Anderson stepped over and shook my hand, and everyone stared at me. I had my arm around Sara then. My poor daughter had wept an ocean of tears. Look what you’ve done, Addison. Look what you’ve done. I just wanted to scream. I invited Pastor Anderson back to the house but he begged off. The weather, he said. I knew he was rushing back to that hot young thing he had married recently. Judi was her name and there wasn’t a woman in our church who didn’t want to be her. I thanked him for everything and thought, Gosh, everyone has a purpose in their life except me.
    As Pastor Anderson turned and walked away, Addison’s blond twenty-two-year-old secretary was the first one to approach us.
    “Lauren, thank you for coming,” I said. “You’ve met our daughter, Sara?”
    “Yeah. I can’t believe he’s dead, and what he did, you know? I mean, he was so great back when we were together . . .”
    “When who was together?” I said.
    “Uh, you know,” Lauren said and then paused, her eyes growing wide. “You mean, you didn’t know?”
    “Know what?” I said, the sordid truth dawning.
    “Jesus, Mrs. Cooper, don’t look at me like that! I thought everybody in New Jersey knew it! It was all over Twitter last year! He hooked up with like every girl who ever worked in the