The Purgatorium (13 page)

He stood staring at her and then took a few steps toward her. She squatted down and put an open hand on the wet ground. “Come on, then.”

He stopped, sniffing the air.

“What are you doing out there?” Stan asked through the screened window without getting up from his chair.

“Saying hello to the fox. I also wanted to see if Pete really was doing what he’d said.”

“You don’t trust him?”

“I don’t know.”

The fox turned back and sat beneath a short scraggily tree. Daphne stood and scanned the bridge toward the ranch house. She felt sticky and stinky and wished she could take a shower and brush her teeth. She gazed back at the ocean, and its gentle lapping waves invited her. She needed to pee.

“I’m going to bathe in the ocean,” she said. “Be right back.”

She walked in her sneakers across the gravel to the sand, which was grassy in places, until she reached the pristine area washed smooth by the tides. Leaving her sneakers and socks on a rock, she walked in her bare feet, fully clothed, to the water, the sun warming her back. The cold water lapped over her feet, calming her. She decided the wind must have been playing tricks on her and Stan, but another part of her knew it was too unlikely that both of them would have heard their names whispered to them in the dark.

I don’t believe in ghosts.

She looked toward the house, and seeing no sign of Pete and his horse, continued on till the gentle waves reached her waist. Then she knelt on the soft sand, pulled down her shorts and underwear, and relieved herself.

She strolled further out in the rolling waves. After a while as she rinsed her gritty arms and face, her memories of Joey and Kara at Santa Barbara Beach with their parents flooded her, and she stood, shaking them off, only to see Brock lifting her hair to kiss her shoulder, her neck. Daphne dived into the water and swam out to sea several yards, too deep to touch bottom. She turned on her back and floated, allowing the ocean to carry her back toward the shore, stealing glances back at the house for Pete and his horse. When she saw them coming across the bridge, she swam back and met them near the house.

“How was the water?” Pete asked.

“Nice. Clean. There wasn’t a lot of sea weed or shells like I’d expected.”

“I suppose I could use a dip myself.”

Pete tied his horse to the white fence spanning the side of the house and followed Daphne into the bunkhouse, where Stan had already rolled up the sleeping bag and packed everything in his backpack.

“Ready then?” Stan asked when they entered.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Pete said. “Though, I never did get y’all’s names.”

They each introduced themselves. Then Stan took up his pack and hobbled to the mare where Pete helped him mount. With Pete holding the horse’s lead and Daphne walking beside him wringing out her hair, they headed toward the south side of the island.

As they walked up the hill from the bunkhouse toward the road, Daphne combed her long hair with her fingers, drying it in the gentle breeze, all the while looking about for people from the Purgatorium and wondering what her parents would think when they found out what was going on. At the top of the hill, the wind grew stronger, whipping her hair around her face. She fought with it until it was nearly dry, then she fastened the band in back to make a ponytail.

The road was not paved and was rocky and muddy and as wide as a single car lane. From the top of the hill, it leveled off onto a headland that dropped sharply to the water below. The wind was fierce on the headland, and the sky was cloudless. In a short while, Daphne’s clothes were dry except for the thin padding of her strapless bra.

The water below was much more volatile on this side of the island, crashing against the bluffs with such force that Daphne was sure the ground was trembling beneath her feet. As high as they were, Sierra Blanca was still higher, blocking her view of the rest of the island, its grassy knolls and streams much different from this endless rock. Sparse, tall grass grew along the side of the road, occasionally tickling Daphne’s arms and legs as it danced in the wind. There wasn’t a tree in sight as they trudged a mile or so across the headland. Daphne felt her shoulders getting burned.

Kara would have enjoyed this hike. She had been shorter than Daphne, but more athletic and faster, even though she had cared more for music and dancing than sports. Daphne was the one who had participated in sports all through school, and she used to get frustrated, when Kara played with her, at how unevenly they were matched despite Daphne’s hard work. But both girls had loved the outdoors, unlike their mother, especially when they went fishing, because that’s when their father was the most talkative and the most relaxed around Joey and his growing antisocial behavior.

Once they were out on their pontoon boat at Inks Lake, all but their mother.  Joey, fifteen, sat quietly, as he had been doing lately, slumped on the sofa seat.

“Don’t you wanna fish?” their dad asked him.

Joey didn’t reply.

Daphne punched his shoulder. She would have been twelve or thirteen. “Fish with us. Let’s see who can catch the first one.”

“What’s the point?” he asked. Then he whispered over and over, “What’s the point? What’s the point? What’s the point?”

“Just for fun,” said nine-year-old Kara. “It’s better than sitting there.”

“That’s alright,” their dad said. “Sit there and enjoy the lake.”

Her mother didn’t usually go along because she wasn’t the outdoorsy type and because she was busy. Although she didn’t work, she was involved in activities that kept her stressed and uptight. She was a board member of their homeowner’s association, led a book club, volunteered as a mentor at the elementary school, belonged to a Bunco club, and, when Kara was still alive, studied to become a master gardener. She could be the most giving person in the world. The gifts at Christmas were over the top, and there were often little surprises waiting for all three kids on their beds when they got home from school, like a new book, or a poster, or brand new markers. In spite of her tendency to be giving and loving, Daphne’s mother spoke out in anger without thinking, always regretting her words and making apologies, but the stinger of her words penetrated Daphne’s skin and could not be removed.

She should have gotten out of bed that night she heard the banging when Joey went to Kara’s room. He couldn’t help himself. It was Daphne’s fault. She gazed at the ocean, full of longing and regret over a mistake she couldn’t undo no matter how badly she wished it. She could sail through the air and into the sea right now and end her agony.

Daphne stared longingly at the ocean and might have made a run for it had Stan not spoken.

“Damn, it’s hot.”

Daphne was shivering, cold as ice.

The road turned down the headland toward a gravelly beach below. As they descended, the sun moved in front of them. Behind her, up on the headland, was the little island fox.

Pete said, “I have a daughter about your age.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Stephanie. She’s eighteen.”

“I will be, in August.”

“My son’s twenty-five, but I never see him. He lives with his new wife in Costa Rica. They have a baby girl I’ve never met.”

“Why don’t you visit them?”

He held out one hand and then dropped it to his side. “I will. Some day.”

“Why not as soon as possible?”

“Oh, it’s complicated. My son doesn’t want to see me.”

Daphne crossed her arms at her chest and, without thinking, asked, “What happened?”

“To make a long story short, his mother died, and he doesn’t want me to go on with my life.”

“Maybe he just needs time.”

“Maybe.” Then he asked, “You get along with your parents?”

Daphne sucked in her lips and nodded.

“You tell them you love them?”

She shrugged. “It’s been a while.”

“How come?”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s too bad. Life’s short and goes by fast.”

They’d been walking for what seemed like an hour when Stan lifted his finger toward the sea and said, “That’s Morse Point over there, but I don’t see any boats. Why don’t we go on down to Punta Arena and eat? We can talk about what we want to do from there since it’s about halfway to the resort.”

As they continued their descent in silence, Daphne was unwillingly immersed in images of Brock—Brock blowing her kisses from across the pool, Brock swimming his magnificent butterfly, Brock playing chess with Joey, Brock begging her to please get help. Daphne loved him. As soon as she saw him, she loved him.

She now saw him, weary-eyed and frowning. “Maybe we need a break.”

A swarm of butterflies lifted from the morning glory and into the air around Daphne.

“There’s someone down there on the beach,” Pete said, stopping the horse. “A man.”

Stan dug through his pack and found a pair of binoculars. He pointed them toward Punta Arena. “I’ve seen that man before. He works for the resort.”

“Let me see.” Daphne took the binoculars from Stan. The man below was pulling a kayak onto the beach, his oversized bathing suit hanging low over his fleshy, bulky form. A long ponytail whipped in the wind. “That’s Larry.”
Hairy Larry
.

“What’s he doing?” Pete asked.

Daphne handed him the binoculars.

“He’s alone,” Pete said. “Thank God there are no others.”

“But they could be close by,” Daphne said. “Searching for me.”

“And me,” Pete said.

“Let’s sneak up on him,” Daphne suggested.  “Maybe we can get information out of him.”

“I think we should avoid him,” Stan said. “Continue around from up here and catch the road at the next point.”

“But he might have answers for us,” Daphne said. “We could use your gun to make him talk and tell us what the heck’s going on. I need to get my things. My purse has all my money and my ID. How can I get home without it? But I’m scared to death to go back there. I want to know what Cam and Dr. Gray and the others are really up to.”

“I agree,” Pete said. “If nothing else, we could take his kayak and one of us could go to the mainland for help.”

“No way anyone’s getting to the mainland in a kayak,” Stan said. “The waves are too strong to make it that far. You could get lost at sea.”

“Or come upon a boat,” Pete said. “I’m willing to take my chances.”

“Come on, Stan,” Daphne said. “Pete’s right. This could be a chance for us to get help.”

“I hear you, kiddo, but I don’t think I can do much sneaking with a bum ankle.”

“I’ll go alone,” Pete said. “Give me the gun.”

“That’s not happening,” Stan said. “No offense. I don’t know you.”

“I’ll go. You trust
me
, don’t you?”

“If he wrestles that gun away from you, kiddo, we’re screwed,” Stan said.

“I won’t let him get close enough. Come on. I can do this.”

“We’ll be right behind her, man.”

“I have a bad feeling about this.” Stan took the pistol from his pack and handed it over to Daphne.

“Is the safety on?” she asked.

He showed her how to turn it off if she needed to, a button right by the trigger, like the reverse button on her dad’s drill. “But for God’s sake, don’t turn it off unless you’re absolutely sure you can shoot it.”

“Got it.”

Pete led the horse behind a large boulder to wait while Daphne crept down the hill alone. She carried the pistol in her shorts pocket so as not to alarm Larry if he happened to see her coming. She had never felt so singularly focused. She wasn’t a soldier going into battle, but it occurred to her this is what it felt like as the adrenaline pumped through her and she floated slightly above her own body. The earth could have trembled, a tidal wave could be threatening in the distance, and the only thing she would see was the man she knew as Larry on the beach of Punta Arena.

She was about twenty yards away when he spotted her and waved.

“Over here!” he shouted. When she got closer, he said, “Man, has everyone been worried about you.”

She took out the gun and pointed it at him, hands trembling so much more than she had anticipated. “Wait right there.”

“What? What are you doing? Where did you get that gun?” He came toward her.

She took a few steps back. “I’m not alone.” She called out for Stan and Pete, and they showed themselves. “Let’s go. You first.”

Stan had dismounted by the time Daphne and Larry reached him near the boulder. Daphne was glad to be rid of the gun when she handed it back to Stan and let him do the talking. She’d never felt so much power over another individual, and she did not like it, afraid she could be responsible for another tragedy like Kara’s. She took a deep breath and tried to shake off the nervousness.

“What’s going on, Stan?” Larry asked. “Why are you doing this?”

“Nothing’s going to happen to you as long as you answer a few questions. Sit down.”

There were a few smaller boulders beside the larger, and Larry sat on one. “What questions?”

“We want to know what’s going on back at the resort,” Pete said.

“Yeah,” Daphne chimed in. “Is this really about therapy? And can we leave when we want?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Larry said.

“Don’t pretend like we were stuck in that cave by accident,” Daphne said. “Cam has already told me it was a set up. What was the point? To get me to face my fears?”

“I didn’t like being in that dark hole with the mice,” Pete said. “That was cruel and unusual punishment and grounds for a lawsuit if you ask me. And those terrorist types? You folks crazy?”

“Look, I don’t call the shots, and I’ll lose my job if anyone finds out I talked to you.”

“What exactly is your job?” Stan asked.

“I give the cave tours, buddy. You know that.” Larry got up. “And you and I both know you aren’t going to shoot me, so I’m outta here.”

Larry turned for the beach, but Pete tackled him to the rocky ground. “You son of a gun better start talking or I’ll beat the living daylights out of you.”

Stan pointed the gun at Pete. “Enough. Get off him.”

The two men pushed each other and sat on the rocks glaring at Stan.

“You guys got this all wrong,” Larry whispered, rubbing his sore elbows. “The therapy isn’t for you. It’s for them.”

Daphne leaned in. “Who?”

“The paying customers. The watchers.”

“Who are they?” Pete asked. “You mean Dr. Gray?”

“No, no, no. You still don’t get it. Dr. Gray is the master of her domain. She uses the word improvisation. Living art. She talks about the catharsis of tragedy. But it’s not for you. You’re the actors, but in a way, you write the script. The therapy is for the watchers.”

“Are they watching us now?” Daphne asked. She followed Larry’s gaze. His eyes rested on the island fox a few yards away.

“There,” Larry said.

“The fox?” Daphne asked.

“There’s a GPS chip and digital camera on his tail. He’s been trained to follow you.”

“You gotta get us outta here,” Pete said, jumping to his feet. “I didn’t sign up to be tortured for the pleasure of others.”

“You can run, but you can’t hide on this island,” Larry said. “Just ask Stan here. He knows.”