Under A Dark Summer Sky Part 3

Chapter 6.

When Missy arrived at the beach, Selma already had the gator steaks on the grill, shooing the flies away with one hand while she flipped the meat with the other. A pot of swamp cabbage boiled on the fire with plenty of bacon and sugar. A line of people had formed by the makes.h.i.+ft tables, which were trimmed with red, white, and blue bunting, filling their plates with slaw and fried conch and scoops of sweet coquinas on their way to the grill. A few yards away, a series of posts stuck in the sand ran down the beach to the surf, strung with twine to mark the boundary of the whites' area. Atop each post fluttered a small American flag.

The horizon was awash with apricot light beneath a band of china-blue sky. Ridges of insubstantial clouds mirrored the sand in the shallows. Very unusually, the afternoon thunderstorms had pa.s.sed over them, driven inland by a strong onsh.o.r.e wind. Missy fanned herself with a paper plate, grateful that at least the air moved.

"Can I help?" she asked. Selma took the plate of Mama's corn bread and set it on the table. Mama had delivered a bucket of her famous barbecue sauce earlier that day to grace the roasted pig to come from Ronald LeJeune. Every year, he made a big show of his generosity toward the colored folks; he so loved playing the beneficent white man. Some coloreds took against his preening and posturing, but to Selma, it was simple: food was food. "You cain't eat principles," she always said.

"In that dress?" Selma eyed her up and down. "I don't think so." Selma's ap.r.o.n was spattered with grease, her wrists marked with welts from the grill, her face s.h.i.+ny with sweat. She slapped at a mosquito on her neck. The air s.h.i.+mmered with them, and their wings filled the air with a constant hum, despite the pots of pyrethrum burning everywhere.

Missy felt suddenly conscious of the pristine yellow of the dress, the scent of oil in her hair. All her careful preparations seemed silly and kind of stuck-up. After all, she was not a girl anymore, someone to primp and giggle at the boys, ribbons in her hair. She was stepping out with no one. She should have come prepared to work.

"You look very pretty," said Selma with a squeeze of her arm and a warm, soft smile that Missy had only ever seen maybe once before. "And you can help by makin' sure there's enough food to go around." She waved her turning fork at Ike Freeman, who had piled his plate with about twice as much food as it was designed to hold. He gripped a slab of corn bread between his teeth as he shuffled slowly through the sand toward a folding chair in the shade of some sea grapes.

"Where's Jerome?" asked Missy. He could usually be relied upon to turn up at a party, if not much else.

"Fis.h.i.+ng," said Selma.

A look pa.s.sed between them. Selma never complained about Jerome. Missy was not sure if this was out of love or pride...or maybe both. Her eyes scanned the crowd.

"Henry ain't here yet," said Selma, her tone returned to its normal tartness. "Might not come at all. Get a move on."

Missy took her place behind a big table covered in bowls and platters. Despite Ike's gluttony, there seemed to be no risk of any shortages. She wrapped a spare ap.r.o.n around her waist and let the chatter of the other women flow around her as she served.

She did not know what to expect from the evening, only that a voice in her head said something was going to happen. It did not say whether it would turn out good or bad. Over time, she had learned to listen to that voice.

Lionel, the Kincaids' gardener, stepped up to have his plate filled. That afternoon, he had looked like he might collapse with shock when he learned of the gator's nearly successful raid, then seemed to take special satisfaction in cutting up the carca.s.s. Missy knew he saw the Kincaid family as his personal responsibility. "That a mighty pretty dress, Missy," he said. She spooned some coleslaw onto his plate. "You look like a princess." His weathered features folded into a nearly toothless smile, eyes narrowed to moist slits.

"Thanks, Lionel. Here, have some more." The man was so thin, he looked held together by the ragged clothes he wore every day and washed every night.

He moved away and Missy let her mind wander. She recalled Henry's wry smile, his haunted eyes, that scar on his neck. Who was she to judge anyone, anyway? A woman, no longer young, but still living with her mama. No husband, no babies, no schooling. And why? Because two men had let her down? That was no reason for anything. Men let people down every day, and folks still made something of their lives. She had done nothing, been nowhere. And if she wanted someone to blame, she only had to look in the mirror every morning.

Eighteen years Henry had stayed away, clearly not in any hurry to get home again, not for Grace, not for Selma...and not for her. All this time, she had waited and hoped...for what, she did not even know. She felt safe when he was there, in ways she could not explain, even to herself. She had not felt safe for a long time.

The line of plates kept coming. Someone put a record on the gramophone, but she didn't recognize the tune. How could Henry not find her ridiculous? She, who might as well still be eight years old, clinging to his neck as he boarded his train. She began to wish she was home with Mama in the yellow lamplight on the porch, with the soft sounds of chickens settling for the night. This was a mistake. Maybe I can sneak home early.

And here she was, in this ridiculous, girlish dress, thinking to live out some childish dream. For what? The Henry she had known was gone, that was for sure. If any of him was left, it was buried deep inside him. He had been to the world, to New York, to France. No doubt he had been with fancy, knowing women in all these places, women who wore store-bought dresses and smoked cigarettes in speakeasies. Maybe even, as it was rumored, white women, who wore makeup and curled their eyelashes...women who could talk about things, could do...things...to a man.

Two fis.h.i.+ng boats pulled up on the sand. Their crews splashed ash.o.r.e with garlands of snapper and black drum, dolphin and wahoo, held aloft and heading for Selma's grill. The crowd cheered them on their way up the beach, bare black skin whitened by dried salt.

And then Missy caught sight of something that made her drop her spoon right into the sand.

"What you doing, girl?" asked Violet Hudson on her left. She collected the spoon and went to rinse it in the surf.

Missy just stared, transfixed, as Selma's husband Jerome struggled through the waves with a large grouper on the end of a gaff. The fish must have weighed forty pounds. An even louder cheer accompanied his progress toward the grill. With a grunt, he stripped the fish from the gaff's barbed hook, where it landed with a wet thump on Selma's table.

Instantly, Missy was a little girl again, waiting for her father, Billy, to come home with his catch. More often, the boat would return empty but for Billy and his collection of bottles, and she would have to help him stagger back to the house to face Mama. Until one afternoon, when Leon had woken late from his nap, cranky and fretful, demanding to see his daddy. Mama had been too tired to argue, so they all went down to the beach to wait for Billy.

Leon was Billy's treasure, the only good thing to come from his miserable life, as he liked to say-often. Missy accepted this. Leon was their gift from the Almighty. Everyone doted on him. Mama got special treatment, from white and black folks alike, when she took him to the store. The other fishermen, with sons of their own, saved the s.h.i.+niest seash.e.l.ls for Leon. He kept them in a driftwood box next to his cot.

It had been a dull, windy day, and the other boats had come in early with little or no fish. There was talk of a storm, but the wind could not make up its mind and kept changing direction. One minute the clouds seemed about to burst, and then they would pa.s.s over. Even before the boat landed, Missy could see her father was drunk from the way he swayed in his seat.

"I gonna surprise him!" announced Leon and raced ahead of them to hide behind a coconut palm. He sneaked peeks at his mother and sister, giggling audibly.

"Shh, he gonna hear you, silly," said Missy.

"Hey, y'all!" cried Billy. He stepped clumsily out of the boat and instantly lost his balance. On his knees in the water, laughing, he waved his arms. "Hey, baby, let's have a party tonight!" His smile was broad and crooked, his eyes unfocused.

The only other contents of the boat were an empty rum bottle and his gaff. Mama was clearly not in the mood. "Yeah, Billy," she had said, hands on hips, "and what we gonna eat at this party?"

"Dammit, woman," Billy said and turned his back to retrieve the gaff from the bottom of the boat. "Why you always-"

At that moment, Leon had raced down the beach, his little feet making silent indentations in the sand. Missy felt a puff of breeze as he sped past her toward his father. Leon made no sound until he reached the water, grinning at the surprised faces of his mother and sister. Then he shrieked, "Daddy!"

Missy had no time even to cry out. Billy moved very fast for someone so full of rum. Some primitive part of him just reacted to the noise. He had straightened and spun toward it, gaff held in both hands like a spear. And as he turned, Leon's momentum carried him right onto the gaff's barbed hook. It entered just below his rib cage. The vicious point had emerged with a red bloom on his back. He said "Daddy" again, but quietly, just once.

Not long after that, Billy went to sea for the last time. Even at such a young age, Missy recognized that sadness had taken up residence in their home and made himself good and comfortable there. Sure enough, he had been a resident ever since, a permanent presence who followed her everywhere, like an ugly, smelly dog.

She became aware of Violet's eyes on her. Slowly, the sounds of the barbecue returned.

"Missy," said Violet. "You okay, honey?" She replaced the rinsed spoon in Missy's hand.

Missy took a deep, shaky breath and wiped her face with the ap.r.o.n. "Fine, Violet. I fine." But she thanked the Lord that Mama had stayed home.

On the other side of the boundary, Ronald LeJeune settled a large chunk of fragrant, steaming pork on the platter held by his wife, Cynthia. Every year, he used the same family method for roasting the hog: dig a pit, line it with hot charcoal, add some hickory wood and cornstalks for flavor, and then bury the animal for two days. It had come out perfectly once again. All that was left to do was douse it in a bath of Mama's special barbecue sauce.

Dwayne approached. "Looking good, Ronald, Cynthia," he said with an appreciative glance at the platter. "That going to the other side?"

"It is indeed," said Ronald, flushed with heat and pride.

"Do me a favor this year, Ronald," Dwayne said, "and keep away from Ike."

"You know me, Dwayne. There's no one more peaceable in all of Heron Key. It's his fault that things get out of hand. Pure and simple."

Dwayne knew it was neither but had to admit Ronald was mostly correct. That Ike had a short fuse was beyond dispute, and except for this one night, Dwayne could rely on Ronald to be levelheaded, generous, and sober. But something happened at the barbecue every year. Maybe Ronald just saved up all his bad behavior for a whole twelve months to use in a single night. Dwayne knew from long experience that it was pointless to argue. He grimaced, resigned to the brawl to come.

"Cindy," said Ronald, "give Dwayne a plate. Can't have our protector of life and liberty go hungry."

Dwayne made his way to the long tables where people were lined up to fill their plates. Mabel Hickson proudly removed the cover on the bowl of her infamous potato salad and pushed it to the front of the table. "Deputy, can I help you?" she asked with a coquettish flick of her spoon.

"Uh, thanks, Mabel," he said. "It looks delicious, but Noreen wants me to lose some weight." He patted his substantial paunch, then noted the pointed glance she gave the heaped pile of pork glistening with fat on his plate. But there was no way he was going to risk food poisoning just to spare her feelings.

He walked away, intent on finding somewhere comfortable to enjoy his feast. Whatever else the evening held for him, at least he would not have to face it on an empty stomach.

When he was out of earshot, Mabel said, sounding very annoyed, "So sad for poor Dwayne."

Cynthia LeJeune, standing next to her on coleslaw duty, watched his retreating back, all beefy shoulders and solid legs. He settled down to eat a few feet away, on his face the look of a man who likes his food. Cynthia said, "Yes, he's got a hard row to hoe, that's for sure. More slaw, Cyril?"

Cyril Anderson gripped a bottle of beer in the makes.h.i.+ft claw that Doc had fas.h.i.+oned for him after he lost his hand at the fish plant. "Yes, thank you, ma'am."

Mabel said to Cynthia, "I heard that baby Roy's daddy is one of them, out there at the camp, one of them vet'rans."

"Wouldn't surprise me one bit," Cynthia said quietly, licking cuc.u.mber relish off her finger. "I hear they live like animals. Stands to reason, in time they start to act like them. And that Noreen has always been a flirt. Black or white, didn't matter." She leaned closer. "Do you know who it is?"

Mabel basked in Cynthia's interested gaze. n.o.body usually paid her much attention, not even her husband, Warren. "Um," said Mabel, who wished she had thought this through. Then she remembered what Warren said about one of the veterans, the guy who grew up in Heron Key. Always was a troublemaker, Warren said. "Yes, I do. It's Henry. Henry Roberts. That's what I heard."

At this, Dwayne's fork paused in its trajectory toward his mouth. Even with his poor hearing, Mabel was easily audible. A whisper from her carried as far as a shout from most people. He noted several others glance in her direction, eyebrows raised. The news would be all over town by the morning.

Mabel turned a satisfied smile on the next customer. "Potato salad?"

Chapter 7.

"There you go," said Doc Williams. "All fixed up." He smoothed more ointment over the rope burn on Jennifer Mason's little hand. She had insisted on taking part in a tug-of-war with some much older children. To her credit, she had stayed on her feet but paid the price with a nasty abrasion.

"Say 'thank you,' Jenny," said Dolores Mason.

"Sank you, Doctor Williams," she said through her missing front teeth.

He tousled her hair, and she ran off to rejoin the big kids.

Dolores sighed. "At that age, all you want is to be older, don't you? Funny how that changes." She flashed an appraising smile at Doc, her eyes half closed against the smoke from her cigarette. Dolores was one of the country club wives who kept trim on a regime of tennis, caffeine, and nicotine. They migrated like a flock of exotic birds between the beauty parlor, the clubhouse, and the tennis court, all brittle chatter and bright plumage. Doc knew her circle well, the ladies for whom the new antibiotics were such a G.o.dsend when their indiscretions led to nasty infections.

Doc followed her eyes to the road where the Kincaid Cadillac had just pulled up. Nelson slammed the driver's side door and set off down the beach, dragging hard on his cigarette, leaving Hilda to struggle out of the car. She emerged shakily from the pa.s.senger door, tried to smooth her dress, patted her hair into place, and teetered across the sand after her husband. Her sandals would have made walking difficult even on smooth ground, but in the sand, she staggered and fell to her knees. It was obvious that she had already been drinking. It was also obvious that she would not rise unaided.

"Pathetic, isn't she?" said Dolores with a flick of ash in Hilda's direction.

"Excuse me, Dolores," said Doc and went to help Hilda. Although it shamed him to admit it, he had had a crush on her for years-something he shared with all the other males from sixteen to sixty. She had been their very own matinee idol, perfect and untouchable. Everyone had been shocked by her sudden marriage to Nelson, but her decline since then had been marked by a distinct lack of sympathy. There were some folks, Doc felt, who actively enjoyed Hilda's swift, complete disgrace, especially Dolores and her crowd. Doc still found her entrancing.

He raised Hilda to her feet. Her brows were furrowed in distress. He sensed that tears were not far away. "Upsy daisy. Here we go," he said and brushed the sand from her hands.

"Oh, Doc," she whispered. "I'm so embarra.s.sed. Everyone is looking at me."

But it was worse than that. A few people glanced her way, but most had spared her only a moment's attention. They had already returned to their conversations.

"Horseflies," he said. "If I had a dollar for every person who fell in the sand tonight..."

She held his arm for support and smiled uncertainly. Her smile could still melt ice cream straight from the freezer. It took him back to the before time-before the war, before Leann and Cora. Before Nelson Kincaid. Back then, everything had seemed possible.

"I need a drink," she said.

He handed over his beer. "There are far stranger things on this beach tonight than a lady losing her footing. Just look around."

Indeed, there was Zeke, knee-deep in the surf with Poncho on his shoulder, ranting at the sea with fists raised. "Stay back, you monster!" he shrieked. "Stay back!"

And there was one-handed Cyril, setting up the fireworks. Everyone figured he was best qualified, since he couldn't lose the same hand twice.

Up near the road, at a picnic table beneath a stand of palms, were five uniformed officers-Dwayne's insurance policy-failing spectacularly to blend in. Doc had hoped they would be in plain clothes, but maybe Dwayne had reasoned that deterrence was better than interference.

"You're a kind, kind man, Doc," Hilda said with an obvious effort at composure. "Thank you. And now, I should go find Nelson."

Doc had treated Hilda several times over the years and attended the birth of baby Nathan. He could tell when she was on the verge of breaking down. A small tremor in her left eyelid, the slightly vacant gaze, the pitch of her voice a little too high. He wanted to protect her, to say, "Let's leave all these phonies and find a quiet spot to watch the sunset." He wanted to stop that tremor with a touch of his hand, to rea.s.sure her that she was still beautiful, that she would always be beautiful to him. That she deserved to be happy. But instead he said, "Best you take off those pretty sandals. Not very practical."

"You're right," she said and slipped them into her hand. "Thank you, for everything. Now, where is that husband of mine?"

He watched her pick her way across the sand to where Nelson stood with his back to her. Dolores had one hand on his shoulder. The rest of the flock was close by, all sharp smiles and trim-waisted dresses. Their husbands were oblivious, engrossed in golf talk. Doc marveled at the human capacity for self-deception, but then decided the men probably knew exactly what their wives were up to. They just chose to ignore it because it suited them. Sometimes he longed for the certainties of the battlefield. At least the enemy identified himself clearly.

Zeke could feel it coming. The signs were there, all around, in the slow, rolling swells. He counted the waves in, felt the immense power of the monster's wake. He knew the ocean as intimately as he knew Poncho's different calls. The bird flapped his cobalt wings once and settled more comfortably on Zeke's bony shoulder. Poncho did not like the yelling, but Zeke knew his duty. He would not rest or falter. He was Heron Key's only defense.

Selma reclined in a folding chair, legs spread wide, a beer bottle half sunk in the sand beside her. Ronald LeJeune approached, platter of pork held proudly aloft as he crossed to the colored side of the barrier. His chest was out, cheeks flushed. A few people had been dancing to quiet music on the gramophone but stopped when he arrived. Every year, it was the same ritual. Food, then a fight. Everyone knew what would happen, yet they seemed h.e.l.l-bent on repeating the same old tired routine, like a mule in harness. Round and round.

She heaved herself upright.

"Miss Selma," Ronald boomed. "Where would you like me to put this?"

"Thank you, Mr. LeJeune. Follow me." She led the way to the table.

Right on cue, Ike Freeman muttered darkly, "I'll tell him where he can put it."

Selma flashed her hardest look, the one that could usually be relied on to bring Jerome to heel, but Ike was too far gone. There was something in his bloodshot glare that she did not like one bit, some secret that pleased him no end. His grin oozed malice.

"Call me Ronald, please," Mr. LeJeune said to Selma. This was another part of the ritual.

"Come on, y'all," she called. "Mr. LeJeune has brought us some of the hog roast."

There were appreciative murmurs. People retrieved their plates and made their way to the table. "May I?" asked Ronald.

"Go right ahead, sir," said Selma. Ronald ladled Mama's thick barbecue sauce over the pork. It smelled smoky sweet, flowed over the meat, and pooled around the edges of the platter.

"Yessuh, nosuh, three bags full, suh," said Ike, this time not trying to lower his voice. "That how it is, Selma?" There were food stains down the front of his s.h.i.+rt. He leered at Ronald and raised his beer bottle with a loud belch. "Happy Independence Day, Roooooonald," he said and took a large swig.

Lionel went to take Ike's arm. "Come on now, Ike-"

Ike shoved him hard, and the old gardener went down in the sand. Someone helped him to his feet. The others stood by warily. They all knew what to expect.