Harsens Island (3 page)

The next day she sold the Camaro to the tow operator, Elon Adams, who told her he preferred to be addressed as “Snake”.

**********

Two weeks after the sale, he stopped at her cottage to show off the results. It was worth bragging about: he had rewired the electrical system, replaced the interior, and changed the paint from white to burgundy.

“How much are you selling it for?” she asked.

“Oh, no, I am not selling this car! This is Snake’s!”

Sam couldn’t remember the last time she felt as joyous as this man appeared to be. He was perpetually upbeat and talkative.

“Okay. I have to ask. Why ‘Snake’?”

“Ah,” he said, smiling. “I will give you my honest answer and I will give you my American answer.”

She imagined this was his overture, the beginning of an attempt to seduce her.

“I am from Kenya originally. In Kenya, snakes are reviled the way Americans revile rats. In Kenya, the snakes may
kill
you. They are vile, loathsome creatures. Mambas, Cobras, and Adders. They are
feared
. When I was a boy, I chose the nickname ‘Snake’ to frighten my enemies, the men intent on my abuse. Kenyans not only fear our own kind, but we equally fear the nature we are born in. If you want an education in what men can be like when they are at their basest, visit Kenya.”

Sam smiled.

“They don’t get many tourists, eh?”

He blushed.

“I am sorry. I got on my horse. It is not so bad.”

“So, what’s the American version?”

He smiled proudly.

“I am the Kenyan Kurt Russell!”

“Who?”

Snake said, “Excuse me?”

Sam, arms crossed, shrugged.

“Who’s Kurt Russell?”

The little man reacted with exasperation.

“Please tell me you are joking!”

“Sorry.”

“Kurt
Russell is a
great
American actor. He played Snake Plissken in two John Carpenter classics,
Escape from New York
and
Escape from L.A
. I do not wish to be patronizing, but if you were an American man, you would know these films. Mr. Russell is consistently underrated the way Jeff Bridges was once underrated. A great actor, a
great
actor. You see, in Mr. Russell’s movies, Snake is fearless
and
fearsome, much like an Adder. And
The Thing
? In that film, he is not referred to as Snake but rather his character is named R. J. MacReady...”

When he began to recite dialogue, she interrupted him with a slight gesture, motioning to the road.

“Who are those folks? Are they vacationing?”

Under the shade of the trees lining her side of the road, five people walked silently. They were Asian: two men, one woman, and two children. They carried, dragged, and rolled suitcases, knapsacks, and a cooler. The men and women were in their forties; the children appeared to be no older than twelve. The youngest, a girl, was pulling the cooler, her eyes intent on the heels of the men.

“Ah. Have you not noticed the U.S. Border Patrol vehicles?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Those people are attempting to enter the United States. The
Indians on Walpole
allow them onto their reservation. They promise safe passage to the United States without papers or passports. They are dropped on this island at night, and instructed to ride the mainland ferry in the afternoon, when things are most hectic. If the patrol sees them, they will be arrested. If they avoid the patrol, the ferry operators will allow them to board, notify the patrol, and they may be arrested on the other side. Others are luckier or smarter, with friends or connections willing to smuggle them over. On occasion, the operators look the other way. One cannot discount the effect of emotion.”

“Shouldn’t we help them?”

“Oh, no, it is altogether dangerous as you don’t know their affiliations. Are they carrying laundry, or perhaps a doomsday device like Snake was forced to disarm in
Escape from L.A
.?”

“I imagine they’re hungry.”

“You cannot feed them like stray cats,” Snake said. “If we do they will ultimately devour us.”

She considered this without comment.

“Thanks for dropping by,” she said. “Cool job on the car.”

The lanky man smiled.

“I think Sheriff Rowland is a handsome man like Kurt Russell. You know he is single, like you?”

She disliked the abrupt oddness of the statement. Her lips flattened, her eyes became cold and hard. 

“How do you know I’m single?”

His face expressed surprise.

“I – I should say it is obvious.”

She saw and felt a subtle blend of deception and mendacity.

“How do you figure?”

“You bear no ring.”

“My father didn’t wear a ring. Neither did my mother. They weren’t married.”

“Ah, yes, all things are possible, aren’t they?”

“Take care,” she said, and turned from him. As she stepped onto the porch stairs, he spoke again.

“I did not mean to offend you.”

“I’m not,” she said, opening the door.

“Have you seen Mr. Rowland since our first day?”

She talked over her shoulder.

“You take care, Snake.”

The detached garage had four handmade wood benches. Her father built them the year she was born, shortly after he bought the cottage. The barn-like structure also contained a variety of tools, machines, and devices for home and car repairs. She’d been raised on a farm, and repairs were part of her education.

Under a dusty canvas tarp the last of her father’s project cars rested, a black Ford Bronco. The truck had been sleeping for five years or more, so it needed the usual repairs that result from such a long rest.

She replaced hoses, the battery, and the tires. She tuned the carburetor, replenished reservoirs, inspected and cleaned spark plugs, replaced or tightened belts, and lubricated levers and coils.

Sam enjoyed the bliss of oil-covered palms and blackened forearms. She delighted in her odor mixing with the humidity, the pleasure of sweat dripping from her nose and brow. There was ecstasy in the strengthening of forearms, biceps, and wrists. Her physical joy complimented the summer music: buzzing insects, bird songs, and the wind.

Snake ferried supplies and parts from an auto supply store in Algonac. On occasion, she went with him, and other times he was on his own, insisting he could acquire the parts at a greater discount without her presence.

She was generous with her money, tipping him anywhere from twenty to fifty dollars for each part request, depending on the task and its time. She was also generous with her patience when he detailed – at length – Kurt Russell’s adventures as Jack Burton in
Big Trouble in Little China
, Wyatt Earp in
Tombstone
, and Herb Brooks in
Miracle
. 

In the course of these outings, she was introduced to Bill Catanzaro, an electrician. She hired him to install new switches, plugs and lamps, and to upgrade the electrical panel. As a side job, he worked for The Great American Alarm Company, helping her negotiate a fair price to replace her system.

Bill Catanzaro’s gray, almost silver hair was thinning and swept backward, accentuating a light tan. Blue, curious eyes punctuated his long face; the flesh below his jaw sagged. He carried the requisite belly fat of a man in his mid-sixties. He drove a white and blue, 1968 Ford F-150 pickup truck.

As he worked on her house, he made scant conversation and exhibited no need to be entertained, talking when she asked questions or as he explained a process or a problem.

Late in his second afternoon, he asked, “Do you mind if I smoke?” He was standing on a ladder, installing a new kitchen light.

“No, go ahead. I used to,” Sam replied.

“I didn’t mean a cigarette,” he said, and from his cargo pants produced a silver cigarette case filled with a dozen hand-rolled joints.

“I’ve never tried it,” she said.

“Would you like one?”

“No, go ahead.”

“You won’t be offended?”

“Please…”

“As long as you don’t mind. You’re not missing anything. This is what you might call a generational totem.”

“I’ve heard it’s still popular.”

“Kids,” he said, searching for a lighter. “Amateurs.”

He lit the weed, inhaled deeply, exhaled a cloud, tapped the embers into the case, squashed it, and returned the lot to his pocket.

“A little dab will do you,” he said, holding the smoke in.

“I imagine so.”

He emitted a small cloud and said, “Have you been to Pig’s yet?”

“That general store? Yeah, sure, I’ve been there several times.”

“My older brother owns and runs that cash register. Do yourself a favor, next time you go in, mention you’re a native? He’ll work a tab for you if you need it, maybe part with a few nickels if he thinks you’re not a dick. You’re not a dick are you?”

“It depends on who you talk to, I suppose,” she said with a smile.

Bill, smiling, went back to his work.

“Well, like they say, perception is everything.”

**********

The Blind Pig Hardware & Mercantile carried nearly everything you could want and, as Bill claimed, anything else could be ordered over the internet, bought in Algonac, or stolen. She assumed he was joking about the theft.

The same day, she introduced herself to his brother, Brian Catanzaro. Like his little brother, he was balding and carrying the belly of a life lived well. The facial resemblance between the brothers was keen. 

After she mentioned Bill had rewired most of the house, Brian’s face drooped and his voice fell to a theatrical whisper. His voice was coarse, the voice of an ex-smoker.

“You didn’t actually turn anything on, did you?”

“You know, that’s why I’m here. My place went up like kindling when I plugged in the toaster.”

“Ah,” he said in a serious tone. “So you need a new toaster!”

It was a quiet afternoon and they talked at length.

“I’m curious,” Sam said at one point. “Why’s this place called Blind Pig?”

Brian smiled and said, “There’s a history lesson, young lady. It’s what they used to call speakeasies.
Blind Pigs
. Do you know what a speakeasy is?”

“They were bars, weren’t they? Back in the depression?”

“Back in prohibition days, to be precise. In those days, you couldn’t advertise you sold booze, right? So men like our granddad erected signs that said something like, ‘Come in and see the Blind Pig, five cents.’ He had this prime location, close to the water and mainland, which made it perfect for the bootleggers and rumrunners. Once that time passed, many went legit and built places like this, making hooch a side enterprise. Now it’s what you see – a bit of this, a bit of that.”

**********

That day, and on many that followed, Brian introduced her to neighbors and friends. One late afternoon at Pig’s, she ran into several people she’d met at the store or connected with during the cottage renovation.

“
Hey, Sam, how are you?

“
Sammy! What’s up
?”

“
Settling in okay
,
Sam
?”

**********

Over the next several weeks the roof was replaced, the windows updated, and the screens replaced. She installed a window air conditioner in the living room. She hired professionals to sand, buff, and refinish the hardwood floors. To keep costs down, when she could and when the contractor agreed, she assisted the men who did the work. Finally, she had the house exterior painted white by two teenage boys anxious to make a few dollars in the employ of a pretty woman.

She had Brian order a new microwave. He delivered it to her personally, quipping that the critical thing about a microwave was the necessity of putting something in it.

“You heard about that, huh?” she said.

He solemnly placed a hand over his heart.

“Here lies Jennifer Samantha Melillo. She didn’t know how to boil water.”

By the end of June, the cottage that had been a house was her home, and people who were once strangers were friends.