Brine (6 page)

Ishmael heard Diane moving into the front seat, seatbelts buckling.

“What do you say to rushing this special delivery?” Diane asked.

Ishmael peeked through the curtain between the camper and the cab of the truck.

“Drive straight on through. Cross country like Kerouac. I’ll grab us some energy drinks at the next gas station.”

“Yeah. Sure,” he said.

“Allen, beneath all that confidence, you know she’s afraid.” Diane lowered her voice to a whisper. “Her life’s been turned upside down.”

Allen cranked the car and then pressed the gas pedal, revving the engine.

“And you don’t think mine has?” he asked.

“You’re being selfish.”

Allen struck the steering wheel with the palm of his hand and then looked over at Diane.

“Am I?”

Ishmael admired his tousled hair through the slit in the curtain. She had to admit, he looked handsomely tortured in the moment.

“Sugar, I can think of far worse things,” Diane said. She put a hand on his shoulder. “Now let’s get this mermaid to the Atlantic before she dries out.”

SLOWLY ROUNDING THE LAST TURN, the truck navigated the dirt road toward number 38 White House Road, an address obviously stemming from the fact that it was the only house at the end of the road—and it was white. Thirty-eight ancient oak trees lined the road, nineteen on each side, left over from pre-Civil War days when the property had been a magnificent plantation with rice fields and slave quarters.

The house, built before hurricane building codes, was two storied but sat low to the ground, vulnerable to floodwater, and was topped with a gabled roof that was known to act like a sail in the high winds of a seasonal gale. The roof miraculously hadn’t been ripped off, and number 38 stood sturdy and unscathed.

The truck pulled to a stop in a cloud of dust, and Ishmael rose from her cocoon in the camper to peer out the window. Overflowing potted plants were scattered all over the property, growing vibrant and untrimmed. A garden was off to one side in the only spot of the dirt yard not shaded by the sweeping oak trees. A tall woman with deep walnut skin swept the back steps in the shadow of these trees: there was something arresting about the way she moved in the dappled light, her apron strings swaying with her movements. Ishmael grabbed the art supplies Allen had bought for her in Albuquerque and turned to a fresh page in her sketchbook.

Diane got out of the truck, adjusting her shirt, and immediately started to apply lipstick in the side mirror. She and Allen obviously hadn’t noticed the woman.

Ishmael peeked out the window, blowing on the page to get rid of the charcoal residue. Her hand slid across the paper, a character coming to life with swift, dark lines. The woman was hefty, sturdy like a tugboat. Her hair was short, wiry, and winter white—a dust of snow cresting on a mountain of a woman. Ishmael admired her quick rendition and set the sketchbook aside just as the woman on the steps rested her broom against the banister.

“I feel so rude,” Diane said. She fixed her hair in the mirror and then tossed the lipstick in her purse and shut the door. “Not calling ahead. How do people not have a phone these days?”

Ishmael climbed out of the camper, squinting in the white afternoon light.

The woman on the steps crossed her arms over her large breasts. It was apparent she wasn’t expecting any visitors.

“Thank y’all kindly for stopping by, but this here ain’t no motel.” The woman’s voice was strong. The words came out thick, like blackstrap molasses—bitter but good for you.

“Oh my! How do you do?” Diane fluttered right in with all her Southern charm once she saw the woman. “Name’s Diane Dunaway. And this here is Allen Wilson.”

The woman on the steps didn’t move or speak.

Diane giggled nervously, “Our apologies for showing up unannounced. We’re looking for the grandmother of our friend here. Any chance you’re hiding a long-lost grandmother in that lovely house of yours?”

Diane pushed Ishmael closer to the woman on the steps. “Lord, have mercy,” the woman whispered, staring at Ishmael. “Good-
ness
be.”

The woman came down the steps. She got right in Ishmael’s face, studying it. She was taller than Ishmael and much heavier, with muscle and thick skin. An intimidating presence.

“You’re Anna and Richard’s girl,” the woman said. “I see it in those eyes. No hair on that head of yours, but I figure it’d be like your momma’s if there was. Color of a yellow raspberry.”

“You knew my mother?” Ishmael asked. She was ecstatic, hope rising in her chest.

“Why sure, child. I knew your momma and daddy when you were just an angel up in heaven waiting to come on through. I’ve been with Maggie a
long
time.”

The woman stepped back and grinned wide. Her tone changed completely as she spoke again—she nearly giggled.

“Leon—he sent word by some boy pedaling a bicycle like he was on fire. Boy tell me we got us a package coming.” Her deep laugh seemed to shake the air around her. “I couldn’t for the
life
of me figure out what could be so important that Leon would send a boy on a bike pedaling that cut-through in the woods.”

Ishmael relaxed at the change in the woman’s tone.

“Name’s Lena,” she said. “Y’all come on in and I’ll get you something to drink.” She turned her bulky frame and marched up the steps, talking over her shoulder. “Lord Almighty, this is a big day. A big day, indeed.”

She held the screen door open, smiling at them as they entered.

“It hot like the devil himself outside. But that breeze’ll pick up. Later in the day it’ll come on through and cool us right off.”

She offered them a seat at the kitchen table, her deep and reverent humming filling the room while she retrieved a glass pitcher from the fridge. Round yellow lemon slices floated in the dark liquid. The kitchen smelled candied and succulent, like an orchard basking in the sun.

Allen took a seat at the table, glassy-eyed after the traveling. Diane seemed to be in her element, complimenting Lena on the house and offering to help in any way she could. Ishmael surveyed the room, trying to fit herself into this house that was somehow a piece of her history.

“Maggie’s on a walk,” Lena said, filling three glasses she’d put on the table. “We’ve got us a few hive boxes under them pecan trees, so we check on them time-to-time. That’s our own honey I use to sweeten that tea y’all are sipping. Good, ain’t it? Y’all staying for supper? Making fried okra, and I got us a pecan pie in the oven.” She pronounced pecan as
pee-can
.

“Why, that would be lovely, Lena! Thank you,” Diane answered for the group as she sat down at the table. “I was wondering what smelled so good in this kitchen. And this tea is just de
lish
ous.”

Ishmael wanted to laugh at Diane’s syrupy politeness, but she was grateful someone was taking the reins. She was in no mood for chit-chat now that she’d crossed the country and was sitting in her grandmother’s house.

“Tell us, Lena,” Diane said, “where should we get a hotel room around these parts?”

“Ho-
tel
? No, Diane. Y’all stay here tonight. We’ve got plenty of room.”

“Well that will be lovely. Won’t that be lovely, y’all?”

Diane walked across the room and winked at Ishmael as she yanked a tissue from a box on the counter and wiped the sweat from her upper lip and brow. Lena had her back turned toward the sink but seemed to sense exactly what the tissue was being used for.

“Flip that switch over there—in the corner there,” she said. “I’m used to the heat by now so I always forget to turn that on.”

Allen flipped the switch, and the overhead fan spun to life. Ishmael immediately felt the relief of the breeze cooling the sweat on her skin.

“I don’t know how you do it, Lena,” Allen said, pulling his shirt in and out to fan his chest. “I’ve never felt heat like this in my life.”

“Oh, you get used to it. Got no need to have that fake air-conditioning sealing us up in this house. This is just a still time a day. Like I said. Tide changes and the breeze’ll come on through.”

Lena went back to humming as she moved her cumbersome frame about the kitchen. She was completely relaxed, even with these last-minute visitors suddenly in her kitchen.

“Y’all are so tucked away,” Diane said. “It’s so nice and peaceful.”

“And private! No phone, no TV, no radio, and no paper! The mailman don’t even come down this road! Maggie likes quiet, and she figure if anything important is going on, Leon’ll tell us.”

“And Leon hasn’t said anything lately about Ishmael?” Diane asked.

Lena’s back was turned; she looked out the window over the sink as she snapped the tops off beans and divided her work into different bowls.

“None I heard, Diane. Been slow round here lately. August is so hot we don’t get nothing done.” She turned around, smiling. “Why? We got us a wedding or something?” She turned back to the window. “Everybody like a wedding. But around here at this time, with it being so hot, we don’t get—”

Diane choked on her tea. “Can I trouble you, Lena, for a restroom?”

“Right down the hall thataways,” Lena motioned with a handful of beans. “Second door on the right.”

Diane left the room and Lena went back to chatting.

“Y’all ladies gonna have to both sleep in that bedroom with the ceiling fan or else one of you’ll have to sweat it out in that small room. Somebody might as well sleep on the porch. We got a cot. That bed is mighty nice and cool if you don’t mind the bugs tap-tapping on them screens all night.”

“The guest room sounds perfect,” Ishmael said, feeling like she had to say something. “We’re glad to share a room. Thank you.”

She got up and walked over to the window. Allen joined her, sipping his tea and looking out at the dock and the creek.

“Gorgeous piece of property you’ve got here,” he said.

“We think so,” Lena said, looking at the same view out the other window over the sink. “Glad y’all here to share it.”

A modern dock house cantilevered out over the water, poised over the marsh grass on its wooden stilts like a great blue heron. The grass gently swayed at the slightest breeze, and the majestic old oaks swept out over the creek, casting elegant shadows on the water.

Something caught Lena’s eye out the window and she craned her thick neck to get a better look through the slit in the curtain. She turned to Allen. “You’re gonna have to excuse me—I’m getting tripped up on that name of yours. Keep wanting to call you
Woodrow
for some reason.”

“Allen. No worries. Last name is Wilson.”

“Woodrow Wilson! Thought I was about going crazy. Knew there was something in there with a ‘W!’” Lena laughed and her eyes softened to slits as her cheeks rose with a wide smile. “Woowhee. You see that boat coming up the creek yonder?”

Allen nodded.

“That’d be Hector. He lives in the dock house and he must be having some engine troubles because he’s out there paddling those oars like a fool. Take him some beers, if you will. You two can have some man-time and discuss fixing that crazy good-for-nothing boat of his.”

“Sure—sure—of course,” Allen said, springing to action.

Lena laughed at his hastiness. “Lord, you must be happy to get some male company after being cooped up in that truck with them hens for so long.”

Lena opened the fridge and retrieved the beers. Moments later, the screen door slammed and Ishmael watched Allen walk across the yard toward the dock, waving at the man in the boat. She could almost hear their muffled voices and the crack of the beer cans. She felt a twinge of jealousy. Men had it so easy. A female chance encounter like that would have involved far more time before it became that relaxed.

“Lena, you sure there’s nothing we can do to help you with supper?” Diane asked, reentering the room.

“I’m fine. Y’all go on and get cleaned up. Make yourself right at home. The guest bedroom with the ceiling fan is down the hall past the bathroom. We keep those two twin beds in there made up with clean linens. Towels are in there by the commode.”

Lena picked up a knife and started peeling a tomato. Her fingers were thick, but she wielded the knife with ease. The bright red rind fell like confetti in the porcelain sink.

“Let’s get a move on, sugar,” Diane said to Ishmael. “You should get cleaned up before you meet your grandmother.”

Ishmael stood her ground. She wasn’t about to leave the kitchen until her grandmother returned.

Lena shifted bowls around, her hands keeping busy in the sink.

“I know it’s hard, child,” Lena said. “To lose your momma so young and have your daddy just drive off like he did. And now you’re about to meet your grandmamma. That’s enough to make the heart pound something crazy.”

Lena looked out the window and took a deep breath.

“But Maggie—she’s got answers for you. You got family now, child. Don’t you worry. You got family now.”

Lena went back to humming. A voice called from the back porch. “Lena! You won’t believe what I found!”

The back screen door slammed, and a woman rounded the corner in a wide-brimmed sun hat, her hair swaying behind her in a long white braid. The woman pulled the hat off her head and set it on the table, turning slightly. Just enough. Ishmael caught a glimpse of her profile—the eyes, the slight smile, the chin—and she knew exactly who it was.

THE MOMENT CHANGED ISHMAEL. Her heart thundered in her chest. She was in the room with her own blood. She instantly felt the connection.

Maggie, breathless with her news, didn’t seem to notice the guests in the room.

“A whole
field
of zinnias are still blooming on the back lot! I’d forgotten we’d planted all those seeds in the spring. Our bees were
all
over them!”

“Well, that sure is some good news, Maggie. But we got some company,” Lena said.

With a colorful bouquet of flowers in one hand, Maggie was on tiptoe trying to retrieve a vase from a high shelf.

“I saw the truck. Friend of Hector’s?” Her voice was strained. She couldn’t reach the vase and gave up.

“No, Maggie.” Lena nodded in Ishmael’s direction. “Good friend of
yours
.”

Ishmael’s pulse quickened as her grandmother turned and gazed at her, holding the flowers in one hand, covering her mouth with the other.

“My
word
,” Maggie said, softly, as if not to disrupt the perfection of the moment. “Ishmael?”

Ishmael stood still. All eyes turned to her. Her heart pounded in her ears.

Maggie crossed the room slowly, as if in a trance. As she walked past Lena, Lena took the flowers from her hand, and snatched the vase off the high shelf, filling it with water.

“You look
just
like her,” Maggie said. “Just like my Anna.”

Ishmael was suddenly swept up in her grandmother’s arms, her own arms pinned at her sides. Maggie kept the embrace short—nothing too intense, as if she didn’t want to overdo it—then stepped back and patted Ishmael’s upper arms. Ishmael’s heart sank as her grandmother’s soft hands slipped off her skin.

“I’ve waited a long time for this moment,” Maggie said. “We have a lot of catching up to do.” She looked back at Lena, who nodded. “Lena and I would love for you all to stick around for as long as you like.”

“I’d . . . sure,” Ishmael said. She felt ready to explode with questions but didn’t think she’d make much sense right now. “I do have a lot to, ah—to talk to you about.”

Maggie smiled, a slight tilt to her head.

“I’m sure you do. And we’ll get around to all that—but you do look just like your mother. You’re as lovely as she was. I miss her terribly.”

Ish saw genuine longing on Maggie’s face. She
had
to ask. “So—where are . . . the photos of her?”

Shoot. Did that sound rude?

“I mean, I didn’t see . . . ”

Diane stepped up to them. “Maggie, it’s so nice to meet you. Name’s Diane Dunaway and the pleasure is all mine. We’ve come a long way. I’m sure Ishmael’s just tuckered out.”

“No, no. It’s okay.” Maggie shook Diane’s hand. “She’s right. It’s just . . . pictures make me sadder than anything else. And I don’t want to be sad. So I took them all down. Does that make any sense?”

Everyone waited for Ishmael to speak.

“I guess. Yeah, it does,” Ishmael said. She thought of the empty walls of the trailer when she was growing up. “Dad and I took all the pictures of her down when she was gone too. I always thought we’d put them back up one day. We, ah—we never did.”

“Your mother was a remarkable woman. It was a shame she had to leave this place at such a young age.” Maggie looked into Ishmael’s eyes. “This is just such a nice surprise. Such a marvelous surprise.”

The screen door slammed, and seconds later Allen walked into the room with wet hair, obviously having gone for a swim in the creek.

“Smells even better in this house than I remembered!” he said, joining everyone in the kitchen. “And did I hear someone talking about sticking around for a bit? I’m all in. This place is incredible.”

Allen looked over and noticed the silver-haired woman for the first time. Ishmael could see the recognition developing in his expression.

“Wow,” he said. “You’re Maggie, aren’t you?”

“I am,” she said with a smile, reaching out a hand.

Allen crossed the room and shook Maggie’s hand.

“Well, you’re a lovely treasure to find at the end of our hunt,” he said. “Not to be rude, but I’m seriously not going anywhere until someone forces me back down that dirt road. You’ve got an amazing place here. Warm water, the marsh, the dock, the trees. I’m in heaven.”

These were the moments when Ishmael admired Allen: he was already as relaxed around Maggie as if she were his own grandmother. His presence was comforting.

“You three are welcome to stay for as long as you like. Unless— are there more of you? We might not have enough beds!”

“Just the three, Maggie. We’re fine. Ain’t this a glorious day...” Lena said.

Maggie beamed over at her granddaughter. Ishmael smiled back weakly, overwhelmed.

Another man came in the room. Ishmael hadn’t even heard the door slam this time. Hector was younger than he’d looked from afar. He seemed about Ishmael’s age. Broad, bare chest, only a towel around his waist, fresh from a swim in the creek. His sable black hair hung down below his shoulders and was tied back in a loose ponytail. His skin was the rich color of caramel. He snatched a slice of tomato from the plate Lena was arranging. Lena playfully smacked Hector’s hand.

“Well, well, well . . .” Diane sang, eyeing Hector. “Who is
this
?”

“With no shirt on! In my kitchen!” Lena bellowed. “Boy, you better put some clothes on!”

“I’d say he looks fine just the way he is,” Diane said.

Hector beamed back at Diane with a charming grin.

“Diane. Ishmael. This is Hector,” Maggie said. “He’s our resident male. He lives in the dock house, but you wouldn’t know it for all the meals he shares with us up here in the big house.”

Hector nodded. “Nice to see y’all.” He gestured to the newly filled vase on the windowsill. “Like the zinnias, Maggie. I see you discovered the back field.”

“You knew about that field?” Maggie thrust her hands onto her hips. “Hector, you’ve got to remind us old ladies when we forget where we planted our seeds!”

“I knew you’d find them,” he said, reaching over to dip his finger in whatever it was Lena was stirring in a bowl.

“Git!” Lena spun so the bowl was out of reach. “Alright, Maggie, it’s time to clear out my kitchen! I’ve got work to do. And take this fool in the towel with you.”

Lena cut her eyes at Hector, but he simply put a hand on her shoulder and kissed her cheek. He went to the fridge and retrieved two cold beers, offering one to Ishmael.

“No. Ah—thanks. I’m good,” Ishmael said.

Hector gestured the second beer toward Allen and then tossed the can across the room.

“Well, I’m sure everyone’s hungry, and I know Lena has quite a spread for us,” Maggie said. “I’ll open some champagne and we can celebrate on the front porch. I’m sure I have a bottle hiding around here somewhere.”

“I got it all under control. Y’all just give me my space,” Lena said.

“Hector, you better go put on some clothes before Lena has a fit,” Maggie said, searching through a cabinet. She looked up for a moment toward Allen. “Shower’s right down the hall. Help yourself, if you want.” She paused and turned around, touching Ishmael’s arm. “I’d be honored if my granddaughter would join me on the porch for a celebration toast.” She turned back to her search and talked over her shoulder. “Oh, here I am being all forward . . . Do you even drink champagne, Ishmael? There’s so much I don’t know about you.”

“I, ah, I love champagne.”

“Good. Me too.” Maggie winked. “Do you still swim, dear?”
Yeah, I swim.
Ishmael’s heart pounded at the question.

Maggie spun around with champagne glasses in her hand.

“I was only asking because your mother was such an avid swimmer. And I knew you won a few trophies back in middle school before you quit the team. Your father sent me a newspaper clipping about that.”

“Oh, you mean competitively?” Ishmael asked, playing off her delayed response. “Not anymore.” She turned the tea glass she still held in her hand. “My father wrote you letters?”

Maggie struggled with the cork in the bottle, and Lena came over to help her.

“How we thinking we should set the table, Maggie? Y’all want to eat out on the porch?” Lena asked. “Should be a mighty fine night.”

The conversations all around Ishmael trailed off into background noise. Ishmael suddenly felt as if she were watching the scene from afar. It felt surreal to be here, standing in her grandmother’s kitchen, in South Carolina.

“Hang in there, champ. I know it’s overwhelming, but I’ve got your back.”

It was Hector. He’d snuck up behind her, whispered in her ear. He moved away and grabbed the dishtowel from Lena’s shoulder, snapping the cloth playfully near Lena’s arm. Lena spun around, pointing her finger at him, a smile barely concealed on her face.

“Get on outta here! And put some clothes on!” Lena shouted.

“As you wish,” Hector said, throwing the towel back onto Lena’s shoulder just before he left the room.

Ishmael moved closer to the window. She watched Hector glide across the lawn, his skin glistening in the sunlight.

Diane took hold of Ishmael’s arm and squeezed it lightly. “You seem a little flushed there, darling.”

“It’s just hot in here,” Ishmael said, yanking her arm away and fanning her face with her hand.

“That’s why I’m putting you on ice duty. Cool you down.”

Diane shoved a bucket into Ishmael’s hands. She turned to the window and the two women watched as Hector navigated his way down the dock.

“And I can see why you’re all hot and bothered,” Diane added. “But you better look out. Because a man like
that
—who’s single— has got to have some sort of baggage.”