Under a Dark Summer Sky
Read Under a Dark Summer Sky Online
Authors: Vanessa Lafaye
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Copyright © 2015 by Vanessa Lafaye
Cover and internal design © 2015 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover design by Lucy Kim
Cover image © Lisa Howarth/Trevillion Images
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systemsâexcept in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviewsâwithout permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.
Author's Note photos © Vanessa Lafaye
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Apart from well-known historical figures, any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Published by Sourcebooks Landmark, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data is on file with the publisher.
Life in the Florida Keys of the 1930s was easy compared to many other places during the Great Depression. Although residents lacked most of the modern conveniences we consider necessary today, food was plentiful and winters were mild. Sun-seeking tourists were attracted to the glorious beaches, riding Henry Flagler's fantastic East Coast Railway all the way down to Key West. But it was also a time of high racial tension across the South, with every aspect of life segregated by Jim Crow laws, and Florida was not exempt from this.
Even so, it is not hard to understand why a group of homeless, jobless World War I veterans would jump at the chance to join a public works project there. It was by far the best opportunity they had come across in years. There were three such work camps spread throughout the Keys.
The local people who had lived there for generations, known as Conchs, had to adjust to having these hard-drinking, disturbed, and even dangerous men living in their midst. Imagine the effect today if someone dumped 250 Veterans Affairs hospital patients in a tiny, isolated, backward town with a brutal climate and no adequate facilities. You would expect there to be serious problems. The veterans did nothing to endear themselves. The Conchs were unprepared to deal with them. Nor did anyone receive any help from official sources. Against this backdrop came the most powerful hurricane ever to strike North America, on Labor Day
1935.
This book is a fictionalized account of those events.
The humid air felt like water in the lungs, like drowning. A feeble breeze stirred the washing on the line briefly but then the clothes fell back, exhausted by their exertion. Despite the heat, they refused to dry. The daily thunderstorms did nothing to reduce the temperature, just made the place steam.
Like being cooked alive
, Missy thought,
like those big crabs in their tub of seawater, waiting for the pot tonight
.
She bathed the baby outside in the basin under the banyan tree's canopy of shade, both to cool and clean him. His happy splashes covered them both in soapy water. Earlier that morning, asleep in his new basket, his rounded cheeks had turned an alarming shade of red, like the overripe strawberries outside the kitchen door. You could have too much of a good thing, Missy knew, even strawberries. This summer's crop had defeated even her formidable preserving skills, and the fruit had been left to rot where it lay.
The peacocks called in the branches overhead. Little Nathan's cheeks had returned to a healthy rose-tinted cream color, so she could relax. With a grunt, Missy levered herself off the ground and onto the wooden kitchen chair beside the basin and brushed the dead grass from her knees. There was no one else around, only Sam the spaniel, panting on the porch. Mrs. Kincaid had gone to see Nettie, the dressmaker, a rare foray from the house, and Mr. Kincaid was at the country club, as usual. He had not slept at home more than a handful of nights in the past few months, always working late. The mangroves smelled musky, like an animal, the dark brown water pitted with the footprints of flies.
Nathan started to whimper like he did when he was tired. Missy lifted him out of the water and patted him dry with the towel. He was already drowsy again, so she laid him naked in the basket in the shade. With a sigh, she spread her legs wide to allow the air to flow up her skirt and closed her eyes, waving a paper fan printed with “I'm a fan of Washington, DC.” Mrs. Kincaid had given it to her when they came back from their trip. Mrs. Kincaid had insisted on going with her husband, to shop. Their argument had been heard clear across the street, according to Selma, who didn't even have good ears.
Even so, Selma knew everyone's business. Before anyone else, Selma knew when Mrs. Anderson's boy, Cyril, lost a hand at the fish-processing plant, even before Doc Williams had been called. She knew that Mrs. Campbell's baby would come out that exact shade of milky coffee, even though Deputy Sheriff Dwayne Campbell had the freckles and red hair of his Scottish immigrant ancestors. She just knew things, and Missy had no idea how.
Selma had helped when Missy first went to work for the Kincaids ten years ago. She showed Missy where the best produce was to be found, the freshest fish. People told things to Selma, private things. She looked so unassuming, with her wide smile and soft, down-turned gaze. But Missy knew those eyes were turned down to shield a fierce intelligence, and she had witnessed Selma's machinations. Missy was slightly afraid of Selma, which gave their friendship an edge. Selma was that bit older and had more experience of things generally. She seemed able to manipulate anyone in town and leave no trace, had done so when it suited her. After Cynthia LeJeune had criticized Selma's peach cobbler, somehow the new sewage treatment plant got sited right upwind of the LeJeune house. It took a full-blooded fool to cross Selma.
Missy sighed and stroked Nathan's cheek. His lips formed a perfect pink O, his long lashes quivered, and his round tummy rose and fell. Sweat soaked Missy's collar. When she leaned forward, the white uniform remained stuck to her back. She longed to strip off the clinging dress and run naked into the water, only a few yards away. And then she recalled: there was still some ice in the box in the kitchenâno, the “refrigerator,” as Mrs. Kincaid said they were called now. She imagined pressing the ice to her neck, feeling the chilled blood race around her body until even her fingertips were cool. They would not mind, she thought, wouldn't even notice if she took a small chunk. There was no movement at all in the air. The afternoon's thunderclouds were piled like cotton on the horizon, grayish white on top and crushed violet at the bottom.
I'll only be a minute.
Inside the kitchen, it was even stuffier than outside, although the windows were wide open and the ceiling fan turned on. Missy opened the refrigerator, took the pick to the block. A fist-size chunk dropped onto the worn wooden counter. She scooped it up, rubbed it on her throat, around the back of her neck, and felt instant relief. She rubbed it down her arms, up her legs. She opened the front of her uniform and rubbed the dwindling ice over her chest. Cool water trickled down to her stomach. Eyes closed, she returned it to her throat, determined to enjoy it down to the last drop, when she became aware of a sound outside.
Sam barked, once, twice, three times. This was not his greeting bark. It was the same sound he made that time when the wild-eyed man had turned up in the backyard, looking for food. Armed with a kitchen knife, Missy had yelled at him to get away, but it was Sam's frenzied barking that had driven him off.
“Nathan,” she groaned, racing to the porch. At first she could not comprehend what her eyes saw. The Moses basket was moving slowly down the lawn toward the mangroves, with Sam bouncing hysterically from one side of it to the other. She could hear faint cries from the basket as Nathan woke. She stumbled down the porch steps in her hurry and raced toward the retreating basket.
Then she saw him.
He was camouflaged by the mangroves' shade at the water's edge, almost the same green as the grass. He was big, bigger than any she had seen before. From his snout, clamped onto a corner of the basket, to the end of his dinosaur tail, the gator was probably fourteen feet long. Slowly he planted each of his giant clawed feet and determinedly dragged the basket toward the water.
“Nathan! Oh God! Someone please help!” Missy screamed and ran to within a few feet of the gator. But the large houses of the neighbors were empty, everyone at the beach preparing for the Fourth of July barbecue. “Sam, get him! Get him!”
The dog launched himself with a snarl at the gator, but the reptile swung his body around with incredible speed. His enormous spiked tail, easily twice as long as the dog, surged through the air and slammed into Sam with such force that he was flung against the banyan tree. The dog slid down the trunk and lay unmoving on the ground.
“Sam! No! Oh, Sam!”
The gator continued his steady progress toward the water. Missy swallowed great gulping breaths to hold down the panicky vomit rising in her gut. Everything seemed to happen very fast and very slow at the same time. She scanned the yard for anything that would serve as a weapon, but there was not even a fallen branch, thanks to the diligence of Lionel, the gardener. The gator had almost reached the water. Missy knew very well what would happen next: he would take Nathan to the bottom of the swamp and wedge him between the arching mangrove roots until he drowned. Then the gator would wait for a few days or a week before consuming his nicely tenderized meat.
And then she imagined the Kincaids' faces when they learned the fate of their baby son, what they would do when they found out that a child in her care had been so horribly neglected. The gator's yellow eyes regarded her with ancient, total indifference, as if she were a dragonfly hovering above the water. And then suddenly the panic drained from her like pus from a boil and she felt light and calm. She was not afraid. She knew what she had to do.
That
precious
baby
boy
will
not
be
a
snack
for
no
giant
lizard.
Missy's thoughts cleared. Despite the ferocious mouthful of teeth, she knew that most of the danger came from the alligator's back end. She began to circle nearer the head. She need only spend a moment within the reach of that tail, which was as long as she was tall, to snatch Nathan from the basket. If she succeeded, then all would be well. If she failed, then she deserved to go to the bottom with him. The gator had reached the waterline. There was no more time.
Movement on the porch. Suddenly Selma was running down the lawn toward her, loading the shotgun as she ran.
“Outta the way, Missy!” she cried, stomach and bosoms bouncing, stubby legs pounding. Missy had never seen Selma run, did not know that she could. “Outta the way!”
Missy threw herself to the ground, hands over her head. Selma stumbled to a halt and regained her balance, feet spread wide apart, stock of the gun buried between her arm and her bountiful chest.
“Shoot it, Selma!” yelled Missy. “For the love of Jesus, shoot it, NOW!”
There was an explosion. The peacocks shrieked and dropped clumsily to the ground and fled for the undergrowth. The air smelled burnt. And there was another smell, like cooked chicken. Missy looked up. Selma was on her back, legs spread, the gun beside her. The baby was screaming.
“Nathan,” Missy whispered and scrambled to her feet. “Nathan, I'm coming!”
The gator was where she had last seen it. Well, most of it was there, minus the head. The rest of the body was poised to enter the water.
“Oh, Nathan!” He was covered in gore. It was in his hair, his eyes, his ears. She scooped the flailing baby from the basket and inspected his limbs, his torso, his head, searching for injuries. But he was unhurt, it seemed, utterly whole. She clutched his writhing form to her, made him scream louder, but she did not care. “It all right, honey, hush now, everything gonna be all right.”
“The baby?” asked Selma, propped on her elbows. “Is heâ?”
“He fine! He absolutely fine!”
“Thank the Lord,” said Selma, wincing as she got to her feet, “and Mr. Remington.” She rubbed her shoulder. “Helluva kick on him though.”
Missy said nothing, just cooed and rocked Nathan with her eyes closed. He still cried, but fretful, just-woken crying, and it was a joyous sound to hear. Her uniform was sticky with blood transferred from his little body. She looked up suddenly. The Kincaids would be home in a few hours to get ready for the barbecue, and when they learned what nearly happened, she would be fired. And that might not be the worst of it.
“Missy,” said Selma firmly, “come on. We got a lot to do.”
She felt cold under the hot sun. “Oh, Selma, I'm done for.”
“Listen to me, girl. This ain't the biggest mess I've seen, by far.” She shook Missy by the shoulder. “Come on now, pay attention. First we get him cleaned up, and that basket too.” She scrutinized it with a professional eye. “Yeah, this ain't too bad.”
The bundle at the base of the tree stirred, emitted a soft cry. “Sam! He alive! Oh, Selma, how bad is he?” He had been an awful trial as a puppy, eating the legs right off the living room furniture and weeing in Mr. Kincaid's suitcase, but Sam had been Missy's only companion most days.
“Give me a minute,” said Selma. She bent over the dog, stroked his ribs, felt his legs, his head. “Nothing broken,” she pronounced. “Just knocked out. Be some bad bruises. I'll give you something for that.” She straightened. “Call him.”
“Sam, here, boy! Come here, Sammy!” The dog's eyes opened slowly. He raised his head, whimpered as he struggled onto his front legs, then straightened his back legs. “Good boy, Sammy, good boy!” Missy could not look at the carcass by the water's edge. “What aboutâ¦what do we do withâ¦that?”
“What do you think?” Selma was already striding toward it with great purpose. “We eat it. By the time my people is done here, won't be nothin' to see but a few peacock feathers.”