Under A Dark Summer Sky Part 1

Under a Dark Summer Sky.

Vanessa Lafaye.

Historical Note.

Life in the Florida Keys of the 1930s was easy compared to many other places during the Great Depression. Although residents lacked most of the modern conveniences we consider necessary today, food was plentiful and winters were mild. Sun-seeking tourists were attracted to the glorious beaches, riding Henry Flagler's fantastic East Coast Railway all the way down to Key West. But it was also a time of high racial tension across the South, with every aspect of life segregated by Jim Crow laws, and Florida was not exempt from this.

Even so, it is not hard to understand why a group of homeless, jobless World War I veterans would jump at the chance to join a public works project there. It was by far the best opportunity they had come across in years. There were three such work camps spread throughout the Keys.

The local people who had lived there for generations, known as Conchs, had to adjust to having these hard-drinking, disturbed, and even dangerous men living in their midst. Imagine the effect today if someone dumped 250 Veterans Affairs hospital patients in a tiny, isolated, backward town with a brutal climate and no adequate facilities. You would expect there to be serious problems. The veterans did nothing to endear themselves. The Conchs were unprepared to deal with them. Nor did anyone receive any help from official sources. Against this backdrop came the most powerful hurricane ever to strike North America, on Labor Day 1935.

This book is a fictionalized account of those events.

Chapter 1.

The humid air felt like water in the lungs, like drowning. A feeble breeze stirred the was.h.i.+ng on the line briefly but then the clothes fell back, exhausted by their exertion. Despite the heat, they refused to dry. The daily thunderstorms did nothing to reduce the temperature, just made the place steam. Like being cooked alive, Missy thought, like those big crabs in their tub of seawater, waiting for the pot tonight.

She bathed the baby outside in the basin under the banyan tree's canopy of shade, both to cool and clean him. His happy splashes covered them both in soapy water. Earlier that morning, asleep in his new basket, his rounded cheeks had turned an alarming shade of red, like the overripe strawberries outside the kitchen door. You could have too much of a good thing, Missy knew, even strawberries. This summer's crop had defeated even her formidable preserving skills, and the fruit had been left to rot where it lay.

The peac.o.c.ks called in the branches overhead. Little Nathan's cheeks had returned to a healthy rose-tinted cream color, so she could relax. With a grunt, Missy levered herself off the ground and onto the wooden kitchen chair beside the basin and brushed the dead gra.s.s from her knees. There was no one else around, only Sam the spaniel, panting on the porch. Mrs. Kincaid had gone to see Nettie, the dressmaker, a rare foray from the house, and Mr. Kincaid was at the country club, as usual. He had not slept at home more than a handful of nights in the past few months, always working late. The mangroves smelled musky, like an animal, the dark brown water pitted with the footprints of flies.

Nathan started to whimper like he did when he was tired. Missy lifted him out of the water and patted him dry with the towel. He was already drowsy again, so she laid him naked in the basket in the shade. With a sigh, she spread her legs wide to allow the air to flow up her skirt and closed her eyes, waving a paper fan printed with "I'm a fan of Was.h.i.+ngton, DC." Mrs. Kincaid had given it to her when they came back from their trip. Mrs. Kincaid had insisted on going with her husband, to shop. Their argument had been heard clear across the street, according to Selma, who didn't even have good ears.

Even so, Selma knew everyone's business. Before anyone else, Selma knew when Mrs. Anderson's boy, Cyril, lost a hand at the fish-processing plant, even before Doc Williams had been called. She knew that Mrs. Campbell's baby would come out that exact shade of milky coffee, even though Deputy Sheriff Dwayne Campbell had the freckles and red hair of his Scottish immigrant ancestors. She just knew things, and Missy had no idea how.

Selma had helped when Missy first went to work for the Kincaids ten years ago. She showed Missy where the best produce was to be found, the freshest fish. People told things to Selma, private things. She looked so una.s.suming, with her wide smile and soft, down-turned gaze. But Missy knew those eyes were turned down to s.h.i.+eld a fierce intelligence, and she had witnessed Selma's machinations. Missy was slightly afraid of Selma, which gave their friends.h.i.+p an edge. Selma was that bit older and had more experience of things generally. She seemed able to manipulate anyone in town and leave no trace, had done so when it suited her. After Cynthia LeJeune had criticized Selma's peach cobbler, somehow the new sewage treatment plant got sited right upwind of the LeJeune house. It took a full-blooded fool to cross Selma.

Missy sighed and stroked Nathan's cheek. His lips formed a perfect pink O, his long lashes quivered, and his round tummy rose and fell. Sweat soaked Missy's collar. When she leaned forward, the white uniform remained stuck to her back. She longed to strip off the clinging dress and run naked into the water, only a few yards away. And then she recalled: there was still some ice in the box in the kitchen-no, the "refrigerator," as Mrs. Kincaid said they were called now. She imagined pressing the ice to her neck, feeling the chilled blood race around her body until even her fingertips were cool. They would not mind, she thought, wouldn't even notice if she took a small chunk. There was no movement at all in the air. The afternoon's thunderclouds were piled like cotton on the horizon, grayish white on top and crushed violet at the bottom.

I'll only be a minute.

Inside the kitchen, it was even stuffier than outside, although the windows were wide open and the ceiling fan turned on. Missy opened the refrigerator, took the pick to the block. A fist-size chunk dropped onto the worn wooden counter. She scooped it up, rubbed it on her throat, around the back of her neck, and felt instant relief. She rubbed it down her arms, up her legs. She opened the front of her uniform and rubbed the dwindling ice over her chest. Cool water trickled down to her stomach. Eyes closed, she returned it to her throat, determined to enjoy it down to the last drop, when she became aware of a sound outside.

Sam barked, once, twice, three times. This was not his greeting bark. It was the same sound he made that time when the wild-eyed man had turned up in the backyard, looking for food. Armed with a kitchen knife, Missy had yelled at him to get away, but it was Sam's frenzied barking that had driven him off.

"Nathan," she groaned, racing to the porch. At first she could not comprehend what her eyes saw. The Moses basket was moving slowly down the lawn toward the mangroves, with Sam bouncing hysterically from one side of it to the other. She could hear faint cries from the basket as Nathan woke. She stumbled down the porch steps in her hurry and raced toward the retreating basket.

Then she saw him.

He was camouflaged by the mangroves' shade at the water's edge, almost the same green as the gra.s.s. He was big, bigger than any she had seen before. From his snout, clamped onto a corner of the basket, to the end of his dinosaur tail, the gator was probably fourteen feet long. Slowly he planted each of his giant clawed feet and determinedly dragged the basket toward the water.

"Nathan! Oh G.o.d! Someone please help!" Missy screamed and ran to within a few feet of the gator. But the large houses of the neighbors were empty, everyone at the beach preparing for the Fourth of July barbecue. "Sam, get him! Get him!"

The dog launched himself with a snarl at the gator, but the reptile swung his body around with incredible speed. His enormous spiked tail, easily twice as long as the dog, surged through the air and slammed into Sam with such force that he was flung against the banyan tree. The dog slid down the trunk and lay unmoving on the ground.

"Sam! No! Oh, Sam!"

The gator continued his steady progress toward the water. Missy swallowed great gulping breaths to hold down the panicky vomit rising in her gut. Everything seemed to happen very fast and very slow at the same time. She scanned the yard for anything that would serve as a weapon, but there was not even a fallen branch, thanks to the diligence of Lionel, the gardener. The gator had almost reached the water. Missy knew very well what would happen next: he would take Nathan to the bottom of the swamp and wedge him between the arching mangrove roots until he drowned. Then the gator would wait for a few days or a week before consuming his nicely tenderized meat.

And then she imagined the Kincaids' faces when they learned the fate of their baby son, what they would do when they found out that a child in her care had been so horribly neglected. The gator's yellow eyes regarded her with ancient, total indifference, as if she were a dragonfly hovering above the water. And then suddenly the panic drained from her like pus from a boil and she felt light and calm. She was not afraid. She knew what she had to do. That precious baby boy will not be a snack for no giant lizard.

Missy's thoughts cleared. Despite the ferocious mouthful of teeth, she knew that most of the danger came from the alligator's back end. She began to circle nearer the head. She need only spend a moment within the reach of that tail, which was as long as she was tall, to s.n.a.t.c.h Nathan from the basket. If she succeeded, then all would be well. If she failed, then she deserved to go to the bottom with him. The gator had reached the waterline. There was no more time.

Movement on the porch. Suddenly Selma was running down the lawn toward her, loading the shotgun as she ran.

"Outta the way, Missy!" she cried, stomach and bosoms bouncing, stubby legs pounding. Missy had never seen Selma run, did not know that she could. "Outta the way!"

Missy threw herself to the ground, hands over her head. Selma stumbled to a halt and regained her balance, feet spread wide apart, stock of the gun buried between her arm and her bountiful chest.

"Shoot it, Selma!" yelled Missy. "For the love of Jesus, shoot it, NOW!"

There was an explosion. The peac.o.c.ks shrieked and dropped clumsily to the ground and fled for the undergrowth. The air smelled burnt. And there was another smell, like cooked chicken. Missy looked up. Selma was on her back, legs spread, the gun beside her. The baby was screaming.

"Nathan," Missy whispered and scrambled to her feet. "Nathan, I'm coming!"

The gator was where she had last seen it. Well, most of it was there, minus the head. The rest of the body was poised to enter the water.

"Oh, Nathan!" He was covered in gore. It was in his hair, his eyes, his ears. She scooped the flailing baby from the basket and inspected his limbs, his torso, his head, searching for injuries. But he was unhurt, it seemed, utterly whole. She clutched his writhing form to her, made him scream louder, but she did not care. "It all right, honey, hush now, everything gonna be all right."

"The baby?" asked Selma, propped on her elbows. "Is he-?"

"He fine! He absolutely fine!"

"Thank the Lord," said Selma, wincing as she got to her feet, "and Mr. Remington." She rubbed her shoulder. "h.e.l.luva kick on him though."

Missy said nothing, just cooed and rocked Nathan with her eyes closed. He still cried, but fretful, just-woken crying, and it was a joyous sound to hear. Her uniform was sticky with blood transferred from his little body. She looked up suddenly. The Kincaids would be home in a few hours to get ready for the barbecue, and when they learned what nearly happened, she would be fired. And that might not be the worst of it.

"Missy," said Selma firmly, "come on. We got a lot to do."

She felt cold under the hot sun. "Oh, Selma, I'm done for."

"Listen to me, girl. This ain't the biggest mess I've seen, by far." She shook Missy by the shoulder. "Come on now, pay attention. First we get him cleaned up, and that basket too." She scrutinized it with a professional eye. "Yeah, this ain't too bad."

The bundle at the base of the tree stirred, emitted a soft cry. "Sam! He alive! Oh, Selma, how bad is he?" He had been an awful trial as a puppy, eating the legs right off the living room furniture and weeing in Mr. Kincaid's suitcase, but Sam had been Missy's only companion most days.

"Give me a minute," said Selma. She bent over the dog, stroked his ribs, felt his legs, his head. "Nothing broken," she p.r.o.nounced. "Just knocked out. Be some bad bruises. I'll give you something for that." She straightened. "Call him."

"Sam, here, boy! Come here, Sammy!" The dog's eyes opened slowly. He raised his head, whimpered as he struggled onto his front legs, then straightened his back legs. "Good boy, Sammy, good boy!" Missy could not look at the carca.s.s by the water's edge. "What about...what do we do with...that?"

"What do you think?" Selma was already striding toward it with great purpose. "We eat it. By the time my people is done here, won't be nothin' to see but a few peac.o.c.k feathers."

Chapter 2.

As she hurried home, Missy's heart thumped crazily, like a moth trapped in a gla.s.s. Her feet sped along the familiar road, shoes whitened by the dust of crushed clamsh.e.l.ls. To have come so close to losing Nathan... Were it not for Selma's quick action, the boy would now be tucked under the water somewhere, awaiting the gator's pleasure. The very thought of his blond curls stirred by the current, his blue eyes empty and sightless, the gator's jaws open for the first bite... Oh, dear Lord. Sweating hard, she forced her steps to slow. One deep breath, then another, then another. "Breathing and praying," Mama always said. "The only two things you got to do every day."

The pounding in her chest began to ease. Nathan was safe. There was no need for the Kincaids ever to know about the incident. All thanks to Selma...and someone else. She stopped for a moment to say a thank-you to the sky.

Hard to believe that the huge pile of b.l.o.o.d.y meat would soon be cleaned up and gone, but Missy had no reason to doubt Selma's word. It seemed all of her extended family had answered the call to help with the carca.s.s.

Missy had prepared to help too, but Selma had said, "You go home, make yourself pretty for the barbecue. I take care of Nathan till Mrs. Kincaid get home." The baby bounced happily on her hip, all cleaned up, his favorite wooden elephant in his mouth.

Missy had picked a speck of gore from his hair, on his miraculously unharmed head. "Well, okay, then. Thank you. See y'all at the beach."

The Fourth of July barbecue and fireworks display was the high point in Heron Key's social calendar, the only one at which coloreds were allowed-on their own side of the beach, of course, but no one could part.i.tion the sky when those fireworks went up. Most years, she had missed it because of work. This year would be different because Mama was going to watch Nathan for her.

Just as she turned to leave, Missy had heard something that froze her feet to the b.l.o.o.d.y gra.s.s. It was Selma, calling, "Henry Roberts, you think just 'cause you been to Paree that you too good for this work? Get your scrawny a.s.s down here and help." Henry had given his sister a wry salute, stubbed out his cigarette, and joined the others to swing his machete over the carca.s.s.

So he really was back. Selma had gotten the news only a week ago, since which time Missy had lived in a state of feverish antic.i.p.ation. He did not seem to recognize her, for which she was grateful, looking as she did like someone who had been through a wringer. Heart thudding, she studied him with sideways glances, at once desperate to be somewhere else but unable to turn her eyes away. He looked so different, no longer the young man she had seen off to war all those years ago. He was thin, ribs clearly visible through the open front of his sweat-stained s.h.i.+rt. Gray stubble marked cheeks no longer smooth. He took a dirty rag from his pocket and wiped his neck. There was a long, curved scar there, like a great big question mark. He looked, she thought, just like the millions of hopeless souls lined up at the soup kitchens in the North, seen in the newspapers that Mr. Kincaid threw out.

So, she thought, the war's been over for seventeen years and he never saw fit to come home until Uncle Sam sent him and a load of other dirty, hungry soldiers to build that bridge to replace the ferry crossing to Fremont. If this was supposed to make the veterans feel better about having to wait for the bonus they had been promised by the government, she figured the plan was less than a complete success. It sounded like there was a lot more drinking and fighting than bridge building going on at the camp.

Since hearing he was back, she had both dreaded and hoped for a chance meeting. In her daydreams, they met at church or maybe in town. She would be wearing the yellow dress with the daisies, and a white hat and gloves. She would be poised, head high, and would walk past without noticing him. He would be in his uniform, like he was when he left, shoes polished to a high s.h.i.+ne, sharp creases in his pants. He would tip his hat to her, then do a double take and say, "This beautiful woman cain't be Missy Douglas. She was just a child when I left. Ma'am, may I escort you home?"

"Is that little Missy Douglas?" His voice had startled her out of the memory, that voice she had longed to hear for eighteen years but had thought never to hear again. He wiped the blood from his machete and hooked it to his belt. Sweat darkened his collar. He pa.s.sed a dirty rag over his forehead. For a moment, she had wished the gator had taken her down. Blood caked her face, her hair. Even her shoes squelched with it. "I should've known," he had said with a slow smile, "you'd be mixed up in this somehow. You bite that gator's head off all by yourself?"

Her mouth had opened and closed uselessly. She could not think of one single thing to say, still caught up in the daydream she had nurtured for eighteen years. All that time, while he was away, she had prayed and wished and cajoled G.o.d and the angels and the apostles and the universe to bring him back to her, and now here he was.

She narrowed her eyes against the glare off the road. Her steps quickened again. It was going to take some time to get clean of all traces of the gator. Henry was back, yes, but what else? Changed? Most certainly. Broken? Very possibly. She had heard the stories, of how the veterans needed to be drunk to sleep, how their hands shook so badly sometimes that they could not hold their tools, how any loud noise could provoke either tears or vicious violence. Just how badly damaged is he? Her need to know was perfectly balanced by her fear of knowing.

But then, she realized, everyone had changed, including her. Nothing stayed the same, not after so many years. What would he think of her? Of what she had become-or, more importantly, not become? Still living with Mama, doing for the Kincaids, never been anywhere or done anything of note. Taking an encyclopedia to bed every night.

He had stood there, waiting for her reply. That same smile, in a much older man's face. And then, to her everlasting shame, she had fled.

Missy's feet scattered the chickens in a bad-tempered flurry as she raced up the porch steps and flung open the door. Mama shrieked and rushed toward her. "My G.o.d, chile, what they done to you? Where you hurt?" She patted Missy all over. "I knew this day would come, didn't I tell you? But you too smart to listen to your old Mama anymore. When I catch the devil who did this to you, I'm-"

"I'm fine, Mama." Missy stripped to her slip and pulled off the stinking shoes. "There was a gator. He went for the baby, but Selma blew his head right off. Her people chopping it up now. You shoulda seen her; she saved Nathan, and me, and my job. She was"-she paused, choosing the right word for what Selma had been that day-"magnificent."

"Lord, the words you use... Give me those things." She held out her arms. "They got to be boiled right now."

Mama set the washtub on the fire and filled it with seawater. Fresh water was reserved for the rinse. She had warned Missy umpteen times not to use those big words outside the house. One day, for sure, the wrong person would hear, and it would be her undoing. She piled the b.l.o.o.d.y clothes into the water with a scoop of carbolic and stirred with a big stick. Growing up, she recalled as she stirred, Missy had few friends. Her preference for books over swamp games made the local kids think she was stuck-up. And now Missy was a grown woman, she showed every sign of ending her days alone. Too smart for local fellas, too proud to play dumb. At Missy's age, Mama had already had two babies and been married to Billy, a s.h.i.+ftless fisherman. He drank his pay every week before doing them all a favor and going to sea one night in a storm, drunk as a skunk. The boat washed up a few days later down the coast, with only an empty bottle on board and Billy's gaff. He probably just fell in and drowned, but she liked to think of him as Jonah, living out his days in the gullet of some giant fish. He'd have plenty of time to think on what he'd done to them and, most of all, to little Leon. She caught her breath, pressed a hand to her side. Even thinking of the child's name shot a jolt of pain right through her.

She continued to stir. The red had begun to lift from the white of Missy's uniform. She skimmed the pinkish foam from the water. Had it not been for Henry Roberts stepping in to help when Billy died, things would have been a whole lot more desperate. Although he was little more than a child himself, he watched Missy so Mama could go out to work. It gave her time to get back on her feet. He was so sweet with Missy, even when she followed him around everywhere like a duckling, no doubt embarra.s.sing him with his friends. But he was never unkind, always patient with her. Every night, he read her those stories that turned her into such a bookworm, stories of places she had never heard of, with names like Zanzibar, Ceylon, Treasure Island. She'd come in to find their heads together over a book in a circle of lamplight. And when he went away to war, it just tore Missy apart, much more so than losing her daddy.

She had heard he was back, with that group of dirty old vagrants at the veterans' camp. Well, Henry Roberts, she thought as she tipped away the filthy water, you got some explainin' to do.

Missy filled the bathtub with brownish water from the cistern. It had its own aroma, which she was accustomed to, and would at least rid her of the slaughterhouse reek of blood. She could hear Mama's humming from the other side of the part.i.tion. As she stepped into the bath, the water went dark. She scrubbed and scrubbed, held her nose, and submerged her head. Although she came up feeling cleaner, she knew it would be days before she lost the stench.

Water dripped from the end of her nose. Selma had saved every one of Henry's letters from France, had never given up hope, had always believed he would come back, one day, to be with his people. She kept a room in her house for him, prepared for the day of his return. But when that day finally came, it was not as she expected. He was back, but not really back, Selma said. He would not use the nice room she had, would not stay with his people, but instead would live out at the collection of dirty, smelly shacks they called a camp. Worse still, it turned out he had been there for months already-almost a year!-before he made contact, avoiding the town the whole time. He explained none of it to Selma. Missy had never seen Selma cry, but when she learned that he had come home with no word to his people, her face had just crumpled into folds of disappointment. Even so, she still started to take meals to him, walking the five miles each way to deliver her ca.s.seroles, her fried chicken, and of course her famous peach cobbler. She p.r.o.nounced that her hogs ate better than the veterans. The whole town could smell the camp latrines when the wind blew the right way. Missy had heard Mr. Kincaid say many times that the camp was a disgrace, to the men and the country.

Missy sc.r.a.ped dried blood from under her nails as she went over the events of the afternoon. It had been such a close call. The Kincaids would be home by now. They were a strange couple; everyone said so. When Selma first told her about Mr. Kincaid's drinking, Missy had been indignantly defensive of him. Then she began to notice the signs: the mouthwash on his breath when he came home at night, the overly precise way he spoke, the scratches around the lock on the Cadillac driver's side door. It had started when Nathan was born. Selma knew why. "Some men," she had said, "cain't look at a woman the same after a baby come out of there. I've known men to walk right out of the hospital and keep on walkin'." And Mrs. Kincaid kept growing fatter every day, although Missy was careful with her portions. It was as if the woman thought she could get his attention just by taking up more s.p.a.ce in the room. Her secret eating and his secret drinking... None of it made sense to Missy.

And yet the Kincaids must have loved each other once, or else why did they get married? They seemed to have everything needed for a happy life. Such a nice big house, with its wide sitting porch and high ceilings, one of the first in town to get electricity. It was meant to be filled with many more babies, but it seemed certain now that Nathan would be the only one. The baby is safe, thanks be to the Lord, and Mr. Remington.

Missy's stomach cramped with hunger. She had eaten nothing since daybreak. There would be plenty to eat at the barbecue, as always. A hog had been roasting on embers, buried deep in the sand, for two days already. It would take center stage, the meat smoky and succulent, dripping with Mama's famous sauce and surrounded by the platters of salad and corn bread. There would be fresh, sweet coquinas, dug from the beach that morning and cured in Key lime juice, and fried conch. There would be turtle steaks, harvested from the kraal that morning. There would be Key lime pie and Selma's fresh peach cobbler. And there would be bottles of beer, lots of them, glistening like jewels in their barrels of ice. She had heard about the starving folks up north, lined up for hours just for a cup of thin soup, and others in the Midwest, trying to farm land that had turned to dust. Is that why Henry came back after all this time? Because he tired of being hungry?

She scrubbed her hair, her ears, her face, with the precious sliver of Ivory soap she had been saving. There were so many questions she itched to ask him. That long, raised scar on his neck, shaped like a question mark. What tale do you have to tell? She traced a finger down her own neck in the same shape. She hoped he would come to the barbecue and hoped just as strongly he would not. The veterans had been invited, she had heard, against the better judgment of many.

She called from the bath, "He was there, Mama. He came to help." The sounds of slos.h.i.+ng from the kitchen ceased.

"How he look?"

"Like Doc Williams." Henry did not just look older, as Missy expected. More than that, he had the same look that Doc Williams had when he came back from the war. There were the deep, puffy bruises under the eyes that never went away, not even after years of home cooking and Florida suns.h.i.+ne. It was as if the soldiers had been tattooed, from the inside, by whatever they had seen. It had to come out somewhere, Missy thought. It came out through their eyes.

The slos.h.i.+ng resumed in the kitchen. Mama called, "He gonna be there tonight?"

"I 'spect so," she said, hoping Mama might not hear.

Mama's head appeared around the part.i.tion. "You didn't ask him?"

Missy could not admit she had run away without a word, like a silly little girl. She sank lower in the water. Red bits floated on top. She wanted to get out, but Mama stood there, hands on hips. "Not as such, no."

Mama pulled her to her feet and began to rub her dry with a rough towel, each stroke emphasizing her words. "Have. I. Not. Taught. You. Any. Manners. Girl." She turned Missy around to face her.

Missy saw herself in Mama's eyes, not as a grown woman, but as a child again. All the years of worry and hope were there, all they had endured together. Nothing had turned out good in a long, long time.

"Come here, chile." Mama wrapped her in the towel. They stood like that for a few minutes, Missy's head on her shoulder. Mama rubbed her back. "Gonna be all right, everything gonna be all right, you see. Now," Mama said, pulling back to look hard at her face, "big question: What you gonna wear?"

Missy stepped out of the water. "The yellow dress, with the daisies."

Chapter 3.