Blue Water (14 page)

How close, I often thought, two people like that could be. How well they might come to know each other. No distractions. All that time. What a wonderful thing for a relationship.

t
here were three places to meet friends
for a drink on Houndfish Cay. The first was the Ladyslip marina, which operated its own bar and restaurant, complete with white tablecloths, candles, good wine. It catered to the owners of the long, sleek yachts that occupied most of the slips, and the only time Bernadette and I had eaten there, we'd felt out of place with our sunburned noses, our calloused hands, our salt-scrubbed clothes. The second restaurant, Glory, four miles to the south in Martin's Cove, was run by a Bahamian couple who specialized in what I'd always considered midwestern food: pork sandwiches, Jell-O salad, baked macaroni and cheese. Getting there required a long, sweaty hike, too rough for Leon in his portable chair, so we didn't go often, although when we did, we spent the entire afternoon: diving for lobster off the rocky beach, shopping at the island market, enjoying homemade ice cream sold, by word of mouth, out of an elderly woman's kitchen. As we licked our cones, she'd pack a pint of peppermint into a bag of ice. “For that boy of yours,” she'd say, and she wouldn't let Bernadette pay for it, either.

And then there was the Island Girls Pub and Grill, which was actually a grounded yacht, flung thirty feet ashore during a hurri
cane. Two women had claimed it, along with the tractor that washed up beside it, and proceeded to fix it up. They installed a generator, added a porch to disguise the ruptured hull, decorated everything with red Christmas lights. Finally they painted the tractor in swirls of green and neon pink, hung a matching sign from its bent steering wheel, and declared themselves open for business. Patrons could sit inside at the bar, or else claim a rusting metal table outside. Open barrels served as grills, arranged in a glowing crescent, and when the 'Girls got crowded, Gaylee might ask you to pull your own hot dog or burger. Miriam, her partner, seldom spoke, not even when you spoke to her first. She handled the cash, kept an eye on the bar, while Gaylee circulated brightly among the tables, teasing the regulars, helping out the staff, which on weekends included three waitresses, in addition to a grill man and cook.

Every now and then, there was live music, too. Tonight was one of those nights. Even before I stepped off the dirt road that wound past the marina, following the path toward the beach, I could hear the thud of overamped bass, the wandering strains of “Margaritaville.” A few shouts of laughter, like shouts of rage, came from somewhere—the Cove, perhaps, or the honeymoon villas for rent behind the marina—falling all around me like a meteor shower. Sound carried differently, unpredictably, out here, especially on the outskirts of twilight. You might call to friends thirty feet away, and receive, in response, shrugs and gestures. You might pass the swim-up bar by the pool and overhear, in excruciating clarity, the whispered argu
ment of a newlywed couple hunched against the bright, tiled wall.

Of course, my parents would be going to the wedding. Driving all the way there and back because my mother refused to fly. Bundled head to toe like arctic explorers, both of them complaining, bitterly, about the cold. Neither of them had come north since Evan's death, and it had struck me more than once that, without a grandchild to entice them, it was likely they'd never set foot outside of Florida for the rest of their lives. Of course, all that would change if Toby and Mallory were to have—

Children.

Mallory wasn't young anymore; still, it was a possibility. The thought was like a violent cramp, and I walked faster, trying to escape it.

Sandburs caught in my sandals. Lizards rattled through the dry leaves, darted across the wide, flat surfaces of the scrub palms. Wild pigs lived on this island. So did bright flocks of parrots, descendants of exotics that escaped from captivity, survived. So did approximately 150 Bahamians, most of whom fished with hand-cast nets, worked at the marina or the villas. One family was known for the boats it built; another made custom sails. Women sold baked goods, seashells, crafts. There was a one-room schoolhouse. There was a Pentecostal church. The closest full-service hospital was a ferry ride plus a single-engine flight away. Still, a land developer had purchased most of the western arc of the island; a few weeks earlier, a barge had arrived, depositing bulldozers, backhoes, sacks of concrete. Now there was talk of the Echo Island ferry coming directly to the Cove. I'd spoken about it with Glory's owner, a woman everybody called Hal. In fact, her name was Halleluiah, which she'd tell you, if you asked, each syllable rolling from her mouth like clear water conjured from stone.

Praise God, she said, that everything go forward. Praise God
there should be work for us all.

But aren't you afraid that the island will change? All these foreigners moving in?

Her smile was that of the victor, inscrutable and sly. Every person that come here among us come that much closer to God. Every man, woman, and child that eat my good food get a little bit of Jesus inside them.

I dropped back to a walk. Breathing hard, I ducked to avoid a low branch, dark with sap. Poisonwood. The rash it triggered, so they said, made poison ivy seem no more significant than a mosquito bite. Bernadette had warned me, early on, about the poisonwood trees, the same way she'd warned me about nurse sharks, about jellyfish, about the half-wild dogs that prowled the island in rough-coated, glittery-eyed packs. Potcakes, the Bahamians called them. A little of this, a little of that, unlikely scraps cooked together in one pot. Harmless, people assured one another, but still. Out on the paths, alone, it was best to keep a stone in your pocket.

Considering this, I bent to scoop up a fist-size King's crown, heavy as a mug.

Sharp claws scrabbled against my hand.

I dropped it with a muffled yelp. Hermit crab. It motored away. At the same time, something crashed through the underbrush, trailing a rippling green wake. Spooked, I stopped. Listened. The thrum of the band, the thick bass beat, had been swallowed by the hush-hush-hush of the surf. A twig snapped. A banana chit startled, wings scissoring the air. Though I'd walked here dozens of times before, the waning light—tinged with shades of cobalt, steel—made everything appear sharp-edged, unfamiliar, shadows lolling like tongues. Something was watching me. Following me. I began to walk again. Rounding a bend in the path, I saw another stone, mottled like coral, the size and
shape of a robin's egg. I bent down to grab it, and as I did, I was swept by the sense, no, the
certainty,
that I'd done this before, not once, but hundreds of times. Reaching for the bag slung over my shoulder, my arm rasped against the orange vest I wore, only it wasn't my arm, my vest, my body. I was looking down at someone I didn't recognize. Beyond the blinking yellow light, on the other side of the intersection, a small, white cross poked up through the weeds. It was tilting to the side, one arm propped against the ground, which was littered with paper cups, plastic bags, curling strips of blown tire. The sky was low, overcast. The cold wind failed to stir the dull, frost-tipped grass.

My god, I thought, understanding where I was, and for the second time in my life, lightning passed through my body. I could not see. I could not recall my name. I fell, facedown, on the sandy path as a great wailing rose all around me.

Rough hands pulled at my shoulders.

“What the hell,” a man said, his face close to mine. “What was it?” he said. “Where did it go?”

Blinking, I could just make out the baseball cap he wore, a boat logo stamped on its brim. top billing. Beside him was a woman; she clutched at his arm, crushing it against her full breasts.

“Are you hurt?” she said. “Was it some kind of animal?”

“I'm not sure,” I said, struggling to my feet. I was still holding on to the egg-shaped stone; I dropped it as if it had scorched my palm. Overhead, the sky had passed from twilight into darkness.

“Probably a goddamn wild dog.”

“Or a panther,” the woman said, nervously. “I think there are panthers. Are there panthers?”

“Where are you headed? We'll walk you, won't we, Iris?” the man said. He was pink-cheeked with sunburn, his neck haloed by a thin, gold chain. I realized he was waiting for me to answer. Iris
waited, too.

“Island Girls,” I managed to say.

“That's where we're going,” the man said, and he put a fatherly arm around each of us, propelling us along the path. “Nowhere in the world like the 'Girls. I told Iris, you've never seen anything like this place.”

“I've never seen a panther either,” she said. Her pants were the kind issued in travel magazines, little zippers sewn around each thigh so the legs could be removed in hot weather. She wore a pink fanny pack and matching pink sneakers. Tooth-colored braces on her teeth. I clung to each precise detail, proof that I'd returned from wherever, whoever, I'd been. Still, I was afraid to look down at myself, afraid I'd see a body that wasn't my own. Taller, fuller through the chest and hips. Pale hands with long fingers.

A chunky silver ring.

“There's a lot Iris here hasn't seen,” the man said, conversationally.

“Teddy's right about that,” Iris agreed.

“We met at the ticket counter.”

“I'm supposed to be visiting my sister in Cleveland.”

“Iris is a teacher.”

“I'm going to lose my job over this,” Iris said, and her expression was equal parts desperation and cheer.

By now we were climbing the rise to the beach; I could see the red haze of the Christmas lights, smell the cooking meat. I was starting to feel better. I was finding explanations. Something had startled me and I'd fallen. Whatever it had been, these people had heard it, too.

“You going to be okay?” Teddy asked.

I nodded, pointing to a table by the cinder-block stage where
Bernadette sat with Audrey and Pam. Carole Daniels was there, too, and the new girl, Jeanie McFadden. No sign of the twins. At a nearby table, Gaylee took orders, swatting at her ankles with a notepad.

“My friends,” I said. “Thanks.”

But Teddy had already turned to Iris, his hand on the small of her back. “How about a nice Frozen Girlfriend?”

“A what?”

He steered her past the smoking grills, up the crooked porch steps, toward the bar. By now Bernadette had spotted me; she waved me over, the others twisting in their seats to say hello. Every table was full tonight, packed with groups of cruisers I recognized from Ladyslip, King's Point, Martin's Cove. At the edge of the beach, couples were dancing. More couples sat on blankets. Just beyond the surf, sailboats and trawlers were anchored in a twinkling constellation, some with lighted Christmas trees strapped to the tips of their bows.

“Are you okay?” Audrey said, raising her voice to be heard.

For the first time since I'd fallen, I allowed myself to look down. My skirt, familiar, but torn. My own legs, streaked with mud and sand. Gingerly, I touched my knee, beaded with crystals of blood. Pain. The sting came as a strange relief.

“I thought I heard something following me,” I began, but then I stopped, started to laugh. How stupid it all seemed now. “I started running and tripped. I guess if there'd really been anything there, it would have dragged me off and eaten me.”

“You look as if that's what happened,” Pam said.

Bernadette squeezed my wrist; her hand was ice cold, as always.
Cold hands, warm heart:
it was something my mother said.

“Little bastards,” Carole said, kicking at the bugs under the table.

Pam said, “You told us they were in bed.”

“Not funny.”

Gaylee came over with her notepad, aimed her pen at my knee. “Good one,” she said, with a whistle of admiration. “Can I get you something for the pain?”

“One Frozen Girlfriend,” I said.

 

Frozen Girlfriends were the Island Girls' signature drink, the key to the pub's success. They were made of rum and ginger, pulverized ice, peach liqueur, and a mystery ingredient that very possibly might not have been legal. They smelled of high school, of bubble gum and lip gloss; they were the color of fresh cotton candy twisted around a paper cone. They tasted like what, as a little girl, I'd imagined pink champagne would taste like, and this was what got people into trouble. The drink seemed harmless. Innocent. It wasn't. You ordered one, paced yourself, nursed it through the night. Only the greenest of cruisers ever ordered them in pitchers. Above the bar, a hand-lettered sign declared:
MANAGEMENT NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR FINANCIAL INVESTMENTS OR ROMANTIC PROPOSALS MADE WHILE UNDER THE INFLUENCE OF A FROZEN GIRLFRIEND.

“Truth serum,” Gaylee replied, whenever somebody questioned her about the secret ingredient.

Miriam, who'd invented the drink, said nothing, of course, whether you asked or didn't. She took your cash, made your change, slipped the bills into a lockbox. Nobody could understand how she and Gaylee had gotten together, though every now and then an unhappy rumor lifted its diamond head. Something about Gaylee having been married. Something about a child, a girl, who'd gotten in some kind of trouble. Something about Miriam—Gaylee's long-time admirer—convincing Gaylee to chuck everything, leave it all
behind.

By the time my drink arrived, the band had gone on break. “You look different somehow,” Bernadette said.

I took my first sip. It tasted so good that I'd swallowed a third of it before I realized what I was doing.

“I feel different,” I said, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.

“Different in what way?”

“I'm not exactly sure.”

“Easy there,” Audrey said as I took another drink. “You don't want to end up like her.” She rolled her eyes toward the tractor, where a woman in pink sneakers and a pink fanny pack sat teetering on the seat. Iris. She was singing into an imaginary microphone, belting out the words to “Red, Red Wine.” Below, Teddy swayed a little, calling up encouragements.