Under a Dark Summer Sky (10 page)

“In that case, Trent,” said Dwayne, unlocking the cell door, “they're all yours.”

The men filed out into the grubby early-morning light. Over his shoulder, Two-Step called, “Missin' you already, Deputy.”

• • •

Missy was feeding Nathan his breakfast of mashed banana. She and Mama had stayed all night with him, waiting and talking, getting more worried with every hour that the Kincaids stayed away. To pass the time, Mama made her recount every word that passed between her and Henry, especially the part about going for a walk together the following night.

“And what you say?” Mama had asked.

“I told him I might be able to fit it into my busy social calendar, between the cotillion dance and the mayor's ball.”

Mama was snoring now, head propped on her hand. Mr. Kincaid came in and let the screen door bang shut. He looked like someone run over by a steamroller. “Good Lord,” said Missy. “What happened? Where is Missus Kincaid? We been so worried.”

Mama woke with a start and a “Whuh?”

He said nothing for a moment, and she thought he had not heard. Then he said, so low she had to lean in to hear, “Missus Kincaid has… There has been… She was attacked, on the road. She's hurt bad. Last night, after the party.” He sat down at the kitchen table. “Doc is taking care of her. He don't know how long, or if… It may be…a while.”

“Attacked!” exclaimed Missy. “Who did it? Oh, Mr. Kincaid, who would want to hurt her?”

Nathan began to whine, sensing the distress in her voice, so she gave him more banana while she fitted the pieces together in her mind. Hilda had no friends, no social circle at all, since she had shut herself away. The only people she saw were her family and the folks who did for her: Missy and Mama, Selma and Lionel, and a few other workers. Workers like Henry, who had fixed the hurricane shutter that banged in the wind. It felt like someone had filled her stomach with ice and started to twist, although the morning was already hot.

“I think you know very well who did it,” he said, but calmly, like it was purely incidental.

Mama poured him a cup of coffee. Her eyes flashed a warning to Missy.

“Can I go see her?” Missy asked, wiped her hands on her apron. “She'll need her things. I'll make up her bag.”

Mr. Kincaid sat with his head in his hands. Then he said quietly, “Wilma, you need to go help Doc.”

Missy exchanged a look with her mother. No one ever used her real name.

• • •

In Hilda's bedroom, Missy hurriedly pulled a bag from the top of the closet. Her hands were clumsy. She put in fresh underwear, just ironed from the day before.
The
day
before, when everything was different.
She paused and stroked the fine silk. She imagined Hilda in Doc's office, without all her pretty things around her. Hurt, alone, confused. Her husband had lost interest and didn't care who knew.
She
a
silly, selfish, vain woman most days, but she don't deserve this.

“Missy,” said Mama sharply, “get a move on. Get me her toothbrush, her slippers—”

“She need her makeup,” said Missy. “She cain't be seen in public without her rouge, her lipstick, her face powder.” Missy felt the tears come and blinked hard. As Hilda got fatter and fatter, she had put more and more effort into her complexion, her hair, her jewelry, curling her lashes just so. As if everything below the neck was someone else's department.

“Missy,” said Mama more gently, “she ain't at a hotel. Just the necessaries.”

“Mama, could she die? Could that happen?”

“Doc won't let it,” she said and shoved a hairbrush into the bag. “Why Mr. Kincaid think we know who did this? What went on last night at the barbecue?”

“All kinds of foolishness. Those country club ladies were hanging on Mr. Kincaid like ticks on a dog. And Missus Kincaid, she got so drunk, she even tried to dance with Henry, can you believe that?”

“She what?” Mama froze midzip.

“Yeah, she sashayed up to him, but he was just polite and respectful to her. No harm done.”

“No harm done,” repeated Mama to herself and pulled the zipper closed. “We see about that.”

Across town, Selma lay awake next to Jerome and watched the stars fade into the blueness of morning. It was not his rumbling snores that deprived her of sleep. She was well used to them. All through the night, she had replayed the events of the barbecue in her mind. Images flashed like the glint of Ike's knife, the glee on his face when Ronald's blood flowed, almost the same color as the lake of sauce around the big, fly-covered mound of pork. That ridiculous barrier down the middle of the beach, utterly flimsy yet imbued with such power.
Might
as
well
divide
up
the
sea
or
the
sky. Will there be one gate for coloreds and one for whites when we get to Saint Peter?
And then the veterans had to come and smash the place up. She could not understand Henry's attachment to that bunch of crazy winos in their stinking huts. As time went on, she reckoned, things got no better. Only worse, always worse. Folks never tired of coming up with ever more inventive ways to hurt each other. Seems they had endless energy for that. It sickened her, all of it. At times like these, she felt the best thing for Heron Key would be to sweep it all away—the stupid grievances, going back nearly a hundred years, and the more recent ones. The coral beneath their feet was soaked in these old hatreds. It needed to be scraped clean, and then maybe they could make a fresh start.
Yes, that's what we need. A fresh start.

It was time to act.

She pulled on a robe, shuffled around the partition to the kitchen, and lit an oil lamp. No need to worry about waking Jerome; he had put away enough beer to keep him out until noon. She set the coffeepot on the stove to heat. Morning sounds came to her through the open door. Chickens squabbled, the palms rustled in the stiff breeze, and the ever-present surf shushed in the distance. Sure enough, the raccoon was at the cistern again. She just caught sight of his backside disappearing under the lid. She would retrieve him later. Her grievance was not with the animals. They would be spared, as far as she could manage. But the people…they would learn a hard lesson. She opened the Bible to a random verse, as she often did when needing inspiration, and was rewarded:
We
rejoice
in
our
sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not put us to shame.
It was a sign she was on the right path.
That's what we need around here,
she thought.
More hope. And less shame.

It would be her biggest, most complicated spell ever, and she wondered if her powers were up to the job. It would be better if Grace were there. She would call on her spirit to help. Together, they would do what needed to be done.

As the first warm rays of daylight fell in through the open door, she retrieved the battered book of spells and went to work.

Jenson Mitchell, proprietor of Heron Key's general store, closed his Bible and poured himself another cup of coffee. His morning routine never varied: Bible, breakfast, barometer. It was his favorite time of day, before the store was open, when he could be alone with his thoughts, before customers and deliveries started to arrive. The neatly stocked shelves pleased him with their order and purpose. His mother, Trudy, had cleaned the window at the back where he served the coloreds so it sparkled in the early light.

He turned toward the front window, blew on his coffee, and surveyed the little town with pride. It gave him satisfaction to think that he knew every inch of it. The store occupied the geographical center of the town, which seemed right, well back from the beach but in earshot of it—like everything else in Heron Key. His eyes roamed toward the south end, where Zeke's shack was camouflaged by the mangroves, past the marina in front of him, toward the country club and public beaches to the north. The Kincaids and their wealthy neighbors had their fine houses close to the water, to get the best of the sea breezes. Poorer whites and all the coloreds had more modest dwellings farther from the water, separated from each other by the Key lime grove. The town had been nothing but a speck until the railway joined it up to the rest of civilization in 1906. And now that the veterans were building that bridge, folks rich enough to have cars would be able to drive right across the cut instead of waiting for a ferry. His family had seen it all, having lived in Heron Key for generations, and were proud to be of original Conch stock. Mitchell's store had stood in the same place all that time. The heavy wood construction was tied together with massive steel bolts that fixed the structure down into the coral of Heron Key itself. In a way, he liked to think he was the same, embedded solidly in the town. He was comforted by solid things, things he could see and touch. All was in order on this fine morning.

He dusted some flour off the floor, straightened the measuring scoop inside the sack, and stepped out into the morning with the last of his coffee. The sky was deep sea blue, crossed with great swooping plumes of mare's tail clouds. The sight of their distinctive, feathered arcs stirred a distant memory from his childhood. His daddy used to say, “Mackerel scales and mare's tails make lofty ships carry low sails.”

He stood very still, closed his eyes, and focused on the feel of the wind. He had been following the barometer's descent for a few days. There was news of a storm off the Bahamas. He took his coffee around to the back wall of the store where the barometer was fixed…and promptly scurried inside to call the weather center eighty miles south in Key West.

His old friend, Fred Simpson, was now chief meteorologist at the weather center. Hard to believe, since they had grown up together and Fred had never shown the least interest in, or aptitude for, science.

“Fred? Jenson Mitchell here. The storm that passed through Andros last night. How bad was it?”

“Good to hear your voice, Jenson. Not a picnic, but not a hurricane. They had eighty-five.”

Jenson could picture Fred, in his Key West office, feet up on the deck. Eighty-five-mile-per-hour winds…it wasn't trivial for the little Bahamian island of Andros, but they had seen much worse. “Did a fair amount of damage,” said Fred, “but not catastrophic. We're watching it.”

“Where's it heading?”

“Can't tell yet. It's playing games with us. Ships are reporting that it moves, then stops, then moves again in a different direction. Like it can't make up its mind… Reminds me of my first wife.” A dry chuckle. “We expect it to hit the Straits next, unless, of course, it blows itself out.”

Jenson had seen many a big storm do exactly that. They were highly temperamental creatures. Even small changes in pressure could eviscerate them. Often in the past, the town had been put on high alert only for the roaring lion to come ashore as a fussy kitten.

Even so, Jenson hung up the phone only mildly reassured. The warm waters of the Straits of Florida were a breeding ground for hurricanes. And he trusted his barometer more than anything that Fred's science could tell him.

His mother, Trudy, pushed open the screen door with her generous backside and turned to reveal a fresh orange cake, made with fruit from their grove.

“Brought you a little something to brighten your day. It's getting ugly outside,” she said. The early promise of a fine day had quickly faded. Fat thunderheads squatted on the horizon, blown on by a fractious wind. “What's wrong, Jenson?”

He thought for a moment, considered whether to share what he had learned from Fred. After all, there was still every chance that the storm would be little more than a squall by the time it reached Heron Key. And his mother was fragile, underneath her confident, competent exterior, although it had been years since his father's death from Spanish flu. One day, he'd complained of a sore throat, and Trudy had teased him while mixing up some hot lemon and honey. The next day, he was dead. It seemed that his father's childhood polio had weakened his lungs.

Trudy used to be so active in the community, played the old upright piano in church, led the PTA since forever. Now her only solace seemed to be cooking. She still made enough at every meal to feed several people; she didn't seem capable of reducing the quantity. He must have gained ten pounds since his father's death.

“I'm fine, Momma. Just got a lot on my mind.”

“Jenson Mitchell,” she said firmly and placed the cake down on his desk. “You've never been able to lie to me. Remember that time you broke my anniversary vase?”

“You're right.” He smiled. “I told you a seagull flew in and smashed it.”

She perched on the edge of his desk. “You even claimed to be able to identify the bird, as if we were gonna put together a lineup for you. Now, what is it, Son?”

He stood and studied the map of the Florida Keys, which covered most of one wall of the office. “There's a storm coming. Pass me the pins from the drawer, please.” He fixed a pin over Andros in the Bahamas. “It's just passed through here.”

“How bad was it on Andros?” Trudy had lived through many hurricanes, including the one in 1906 that destroyed her house and carried off her mother, whose body was never found.

“Not too bad. I've been on the phone with Fred. They're watching it carefully, can't say yet whether it will hit here.”

“Are you going to tell Dwayne?” she asked.

Dwayne had come by at first light with news of Hilda and asked Jenson if he could remember seeing her leave the barbecue. The man looked done in. He didn't need any more problems just now. “Dwayne's got enough to worry about.”

“True. And even without that awful business, he won't thank you for getting everyone all flustered for nothing. Besides, everyone in town knows what to do. Won't take us long to get ready if it does head our way.”

Jenson knew she was right. Most people kept a shelter stocked for such events, with ready access to supplies for securing windows and heavy objects. Within a matter of hours, the town could be boarded up, streets emptied, shelters full. Even so, he had a feeling, deep inside, that would not go away. It niggled at him, like a stone in his shoe.

“Okay, here's what we do,” he said. “Keep an eye on the barometer and stay in touch with Fred. Any big changes from either, and we put out the emergency warning.” He paused. A terrible thought presented itself:
What
about
the
veterans?

• • •

Out at the camp, Trent Watts opened his newspaper, brought down specially from Miami. The
Heron
Key
Bugle
might suffice for the Conchs, but he needed a real paper.
A
man
had
to
have
some
elements
of
civilization
in
this
godforsaken swamp.
He had been a professional soldier before taking on the veterans' camp and thought he had seen everything a human being could do to hurt another. But the combination of squalid living conditions and backbreaking work in brutal conditions topped even his extensive experience of misery. He settled down to read the paper in his cabin. It was going to be hot as hell again. No point in trying to get clean. Before he came to Heron Key, he would not have believed it possible to sweat while under the shower.

At least there was more of a breeze than normal, although it smelled of rain. He heard laughter and cussing from the cabins. The men were starting to stir. Two-Step and his pals would pay for their excitement last night, but that smug Henry Roberts also needed taking down a peg or two. It was the only way to maintain order. With a yawn, he noted a small box on the front page of the paper with news of a tropical disturbance in the Bahamas. The pathetic Conchs didn't know what a real storm was like. He had grown up in Kansas: twister country.
Good. We need a storm to freshen up the place.
He scratched the bites on his neck.
And
get
rid
of
these
damned
mosquitoes.

• • •

Henry lay on his bunk, arms crossed behind his head. The smells of breakfast wafted over from the mess hall but got no answer from his stomach. He felt different, somehow changed, like a vital organ had shifted to a new position. For the first time in oh, too long to remember, he felt awake, really awake, not sunk in a numb half stupor. His senses registered the scuttle of cockroaches, the reek of the latrine, the creaks of the cabin's canvas roof. Everything was sharper, crisper, like he had been living behind a pane of dirty glass. Something had happened to him last night, something important. He had glimpsed the person he used to be when Missy looked at him. She still believed. It made him want to believe. He could not do it, not yet, but the first step was wanting to. Was it true, as she had said, that it was not too late for him?

Missy
Douglas. Little Missy. Well, I'll be damned. Little no more. Grown into a fine woman.
She had always promised to be something special. And special she was. He pictured her face. Those eyes, slightly turned up at the corners, which gave her a permanent look of mild amusement; the gap between her front teeth; the smile, which spread across her face like sunshine. Even Two-Step's arrival at the party had not spoiled the night for him. Punishment would follow, for all of them, he knew that. But he did not care. He grinned stupidly.

Franklin asked, “So that was her, in the flowery dress? The little girl you always telling us about?” He stuffed the cuffs of his pants inside his boots to stop sand flies getting at his ankles and tied the laces tight.

“Yep,” confirmed Henry.

“Didn't look so little to me,” said Jeb with a leer.

“She changed while I was away,” said Henry. He sat up on the bunk, took a shirt from the pile, sniffed, and wrinkled his nose. Every one of them smelled rank, even when they were just washed. It was so humid, nothing dried completely.

“I'll say,” said Franklin. “Y'all looked real cozy down there.”

Henry levered himself off the sweaty bunk. “We good friends, that's all. Why that so hard to believe?”

“Then you wouldn't mind fixing me up with her, would you?” asked Jeb. “I could do with some of that, yessir. I mean, seeing as you're just good friends and all.” Jeb had been with maybe two women ever, in France, and both of them were paid for. Women just wanted to mother him.

“If any of you touch her—” Henry began, then stopped when he saw Jeb's triumphant grin.

“Just good friends,” chuckled Franklin. “If you say so, Boss. When you gonna see her?”

“Tomorrow night, we're going for a walk.”

“Oh, Henry,” cooed Jeb, in a high girlish voice. “You so big and strong.” He looped his arms around Franklin's neck in a ladylike swoon.

“Now, my little punkin' pie,” said Franklin, in an eerily accurate impression of Henry. “Open them bomb bay doors. I'm—”

“Enough,” said Henry, smiling despite himself. “Time to go to work.”

That's all we are—just two old friends, out for a walk.

• • •

The men arrived for breakfast to find Trent standing on one of the chairs. “Attention, everyone. Shut your traps and listen.”

The burble of conversation dried up. Trent addressed the crew rarely, and it was never good news.

He lit a cigar. The assembled workers waited while the pungent fumes filled the hall.

“Ladies, you all know about the despicable behavior last night from some of our ranks.” He let his gaze rest on Two-Step, who did not even blink. “You embarrassed yourselves and your government, and worst of all, you embarrassed me.” He jerked a thumb at his chest.

He dropped down from the chair and strolled to the center of the room. “If I could still court-martial you, there wouldn't be enough of you left to form a firing squad.” He gestured at them with the cigar. “You're pathetic, you're a disgrace to the uniform, and it's beyond me how you were ever privileged enough to wear it.”

Henry began, “Mr. Watts, with respect, sir, there were only a few—”

“Shut up, Roberts. I'm talking here. In my day, every man in the unit was responsible for his fellow soldiers. That's what it means to be a comrade.” His gaze traveled around the assemblage. Feet shuffled but no one spoke. “You numb nuts clearly don't understand this word. Since a few of you chose to behave like uncivilized morons, the rest will suffer. For two weeks”—he fixed his stare on each sweaty, disgruntled face—“you are under a 1700 hours curfew.”

There were low grumbles of discontent and a few mutterings about unfairness.