Under a Dark Summer Sky (19 page)

When Missy had arrived earlier that day, she had obviously been surprised to find him packing. “Mister Kincaid, sir,” she had said. “You going on a trip? In this weather?”

“Yes, Missy,” he had said. “Yes, I am.”

She began to bustle about, opening drawers and cupboards. “Then you'll be wanting Nathan's travel cot and his bottle and his—”

“Take him,” Nelson had said.

She had looked at him with a strange, shocked sadness. “Mister Kincaid, I—”

“He's better off with you,” he had said. “I got to go away.” He handed her a thick wedge of dollars. “Here. This is for you.”

“But when you comin' back?” She had hefted Nathan onto her shoulder, a small bundle wrapped in a blanket.

Nelson noticed the boy clung to Missy like he never did to his daddy. He felt nothing, absolutely nothing. “I don't know. It may be…a while.”

They had stood there for a moment as the wind thrashed the trees. He could tell she knew what he was saying and was grateful she did not make a fuss.

Time
to
go.
The wind suddenly strengthened, and with it came the rain. A roof tile sailed past. Water surged over the lawn, frothy waves blown clear up to the porch steps. Sam raced back and forth on the porch in a frenzy of barking. The dog had always hated water. Nelson wanted no encumbrances in his new life: no wife, no girlfriend, no baby, no house, no dog.

He ducked inside the car and fired the engine with a sense of pure exhilaration. He was free. Free! At last. For the first time since he had become a man, there was no woman hanging on him, begging him for more, always more. Their bodies, so soft and inviting, inevitably proved to be like quicksand for him. It had always been the same. At first, it had seemed like such a gift. The women could not get enough of Nelson, any of them. Over time, he made a specialty of rich widows. He was their drug, their legal high, and in return for that, they gave him things—money, Cuban cigars, the Cadillac. He didn't even care much what they looked like. Servicing them became like a vocation. It was his job.

But after a few disastrous breakups, which included one successful suicide and other botched attempts, he had learned to read the signs when they became too possessive and hit the road.
Should
have
done
this
long
ago.

He steered the car in the direction of the coast road and just managed to avoid a fallen tree branch. Hilda had been a mistake. He had known it from the very beginning, but she was just so sweet, so pretty, so naive and fresh. And so responsive, it had electrified him. It was like meeting a female version of himself. And then she had tricked him and he was caught, the noose tight around his neck. After the baby, when she got so fat, he had found distraction with the country club ladies. He allowed himself a bitter chuckle as he moved the car into the middle of the road, where there was less water. But Dolores had turned out to be just the same. She wanted to keep him all to herself too. She would have trapped him, if it had carried on.
That's what they all want.

He recalled the night of the barbecue. It was a rare lapse of self-control, which luckily had turned out all right for him. On his way home, he had found her, waddling down the road in the dark. She had refused to get in the car, just continued to pick her way barefoot over the stones, those ridiculous shoes in her hands. The car's headlights had illuminated every lump and bump, every sweaty fold of her body in the unfashionable dress. She had reminded him of some kind of farm animal, and then the thought hit him with bone-shaking force: this was his future, he and Hilda yoked together forever, in an unending series of embarrassments and compromises. Meanwhile, his real future, the one he deserved, sailed off without him. He was disgusted, as much with himself as with her, for allowing it to happen.

He had no memory of grabbing Dolores's racket. It just seemed to appear in his hand. It was his one chance, and he took it. Hilda had fought back, more than he'd expected. He kept hitting her until the racket broke and she lay unmoving on the ground.

It was over. Henry Roberts had been arrested, thanks to that fool deputy sheriff and some well-placed pressure on Ronald. If Hilda ever woke up, which seemed unlikely, she would probably remember little. And even if she did, he would be long gone.

Nelson was made for better things, better places, with civilized, intelligent people. His time in the stinking swamp of Heron Key was almost over. No more of Hilda's reproachful eyes, no more of Dolores's clinging arms. He was still handsome and vigorous enough to attract the older ladies who had always found him irresistible. Canada appealed, very much. Plenty of rich widows there. And cool pine forests.

He whistled as he steered the car around more debris. The Florida weather was another thing he would not miss. He could already smell the fresh scent of Canadian pine.

• • •

On the coast road, Dwayne fought for control of Doc's lumbering pickup truck. The wind suddenly increased in intensity. The truck swerved toward the ocean, like it had been punched by a giant fist. Out of control, he could only wait for the vehicle to stop. Water seeped up through the pedals on the floor. The engine coughed once, twice, and then died. He tried to restart it. Nothing. He tried again but could hear no sound over the wind. One of the heavy beach picnic tables flipped over beside the truck.
Come
on, come on.
Water covered his shoes. He pumped the pedals and cursed Henry Roberts for perhaps the hundredth time. His own truck would stand up to this treatment a whole lot better. He turned the key again and felt the hulking vehicle come to life. He steered to where he hoped to find asphalt, felt the tires grip. Noreen was going to give him hell when he got home. She hated water, had never learned to swim. He had tried for years to persuade her, with no success. Roy, on the other hand, loved bath time and at the beach would splash happily for hours in the shallows.

He pushed the engine harder. Of all the crimes he had dealt with as deputy sheriff, the attack on Hilda had affected him the worst. He was used to the petty larceny and other offenses against property. There were plenty of drunken brawls and, during Prohibition, some pretty nasty characters.

And of course there were plenty of couples with marital problems. He had been called to a fair few disturbances, mostly when people had a drink. But no one talked about it. The problems stayed in the home, where they belonged. For Nelson to treat his own wife so…to beat her nearly to death, and on a public road. Well, it was completely beyond his experience or understanding.

The windshield fogged up. He rubbed it clear and Noreen's face appeared in the glass. He was careful never to hit her where it would show. There was no doubt that he possessed the physical strength to do to her exactly what Nelson had done to Hilda, but the thought of it revolted him. The idea of a grown man using all his strength against someone so defenseless, swinging the racket again and again at her head…it made him feel sick. He wanted—no, needed—to believe he was different.
I
am
not
that
person…or am I?
There had been a few times (not many, but enough) when Noreen's unbreakable silence had pushed him so far, he had needed every ounce of willpower to hold back. He thought of her eyes, so reproachful and frightened yet resigned and determined at the same time. When the wipers cleared the windshield, it was Hilda's broken, bruised face he saw.

It had gone very dark outside. He turned on the headlights. Between swipes of the wipers, he got glimpses of the road ahead. It was almost covered by water, blocked by big tree branches. He was about to turn off to use a different route when he saw the lights. As he got closer, the distinctive lines of the creamy-yellow Cadillac came into view. Its headlights illuminated the horizontal rain. He could see, by the Caddy's dashboard light, Nelson in the driver's seat, staring straight ahead. Dwayne pulled up alongside and signaled Nelson to roll down his window. There was no response.

“Well, if that's the way you want to play it,” Dwayne said as he grabbed his handcuffs and flashlight and stepped out into the deluge. House arrest might have worked for Dolores, but he would have to take Nelson in, storm or no.
Noreen
is
going
to
love
this.

The rain hit his head like a shower of marbles. He put up a hand to shield his eyes. Nelson did not appear to notice him.

“Nelson!” he hollered. “Get out of the car! I'm arresting you on suspicion of—” He did not need to finish the sentence. Nor, he realized, did he need the handcuffs. In the beam of his flashlight, he could see why Nelson did not answer. A massive banyan branch had penetrated the car's soft roof and gone straight through his torso, pinning him fast to the seat. His hands were still on the steering wheel, mouth open in a last gasp of complete surprise.

At Doc's office, an argument was in progress.

“It's simple,” Doc explained to Mama. “We can't move her and I'm not leaving her. I can do this on my own. Go on, get to the shelter. We'll be fine here. This building has stood through seventeen hurricanes. What's one more?”

Mama scowled. “You doin' what I think you doin'?”

They had watched Hilda deteriorate for the past few hours as the pressure inside her skull mounted. She had had a small seizure an hour previously. Without relief, her brain would mash itself to pulp against the walls of its bony container.

“We have to reduce the pressure. It's the only way.”

She tied an apron over her dress. “Best make it quick, for all of us.”

Doc knew the procedure, had done it more than once in the field. But he wished there was another way. He went to the back room where his rarely used instruments were stored. He found the trephine in the box of tools inherited from his grandfather, who was a field surgeon in the Confederate army. The saw's circular blade resembled a set of shark's teeth. The instrument looked much older, like something from the Middle Ages.

When he came out, Mama had arranged the other tools he would need on a clean cloth. The wind sounded like it was trying to shake the glass from the window frames, even behind the heavy shutters. The lights failed, then came back on a few seconds later.

“Get the lantern,” Doc said. He injected morphine into Hilda's scalp. He positioned himself at the crown of her head, scalpel in hand.

“We got to sterilize that,” Mama said, setting the lantern at his elbow.

“This'll have to do.” He doused the instrument in bourbon.

Carefully he cut away a small square flap of Hilda's scalp until he saw the white of bone. Hilda whimpered and thrashed despite the morphine. It took all of Mama's prodigious weight to hold her down. Blood trickled onto the floor. It looked like a pool of ink in the glow of the lantern. Mama dabbed the wound with sterile gauze. Doc poured more bourbon into the hole. “Keep her still, Mama. I'm so sorry, my dear,” he whispered. “So sorry.”

The lights went out and stayed out this time. Mama brought the lantern close. Doc hefted the trephine. Its circular serrated blade had not seen action for many years, but he had kept it clean and sharp.

Doc placed the blade gently against the exposed surface of Hilda's skull and began to turn the handle. It bit into the bone with a gritty, grating sound, like sandpaper on rough wood. The bone seemed to glow with a pure light of its own.

“When you last done this?” Mama asked.

“Oh, not for a while,” he said, slowly sending the blade farther into Hilda's skull. He had not used it since the war. The noise of the storm took him back. If he could keep a steady hand with shells exploding all around, he could do it with a little wind.

He set his glasses straight on his nose. He had trepanned quite a few soldiers and never lost one because of it.

Something big slammed into the side of the building. Mama jerked the lantern and began to mutter what sounded like mingled prayers and curses.

“Bring the light here.” It was crucial that he go no farther than the bone itself to avoid damaging the delicate underlying brain tissue.

The room shuddered. The blade slipped out of its cut. A fine shower of dust and dirt drifted down from the roof to turn Doc's hair instantly gray. Mama stretched her apron to make an awning over his head. He met her eyes, saw the question there. But there was no choice—not for him or Hilda. The only thing to do was carry on.

He continued to twist the blade until he felt the resistance cease. With a slight
pop
, the disk of bone dropped to the floor, propelled by a gush of blood and fluid that splashed his shoes.

“We need something to cover the hole,” he said.

“I got it,” said Mama and fished in her pocketbook. She handed the quarter to Doc, who doused it in bourbon and took a swig himself.

He inserted the coin into the space left by the blade and quickly stitched the flap of skin closed. “Bandage,” he said, “and then you must go to your family. I insist.”

Mama wrapped the bandage around Hilda's head and fastened it expertly. The wind battered the building like an enraged beast. “You comin' with me.” It was not a question.

“No,” he said. “No, I don't think so. You go to your family, Mama. I'll see you when this is over.”

She retrieved her hat and pocketbook. It was clear from her expression that she considered him beyond reason. “You take care of yourself now,” she said. “You hear?”

“Will you be okay getting to the shelter? I'd give you a ride, but the deputy took my truck.”

“Never mind about that. It ain't far.” She fixed her hat firmly. “I be fine. Don't you worry.”

“Thank you, Mama,” he said. “Thank you.” But his eyes were on Hilda.

• • •

Once Mama had gone, Doc settled himself next to Hilda with the lantern and took her hand. The swelling in her eyes had already diminished. For the first time since the attack, she opened them fully. They were still glacier blue but very bloodshot and took a few moments to focus. Her tongue emerged from her mouth to lick cracked and broken lips. He brought a cup of water to her mouth.

“What…? Where…?” she asked. “My head hurts.”

“You're in my office,” he said. “You're safe now. You've been asleep for a few days.”

“What's that noise?” Her voice had a new nasal quality from the broken nose. Her speech was distorted by the swelling in her mouth.

“Just a storm,” he said, stroking her hand. “Nothing to worry about.” It seemed to Doc that the world outside the circle of lantern light had ceased to exist. Despite the crashes and bangs from outside, there was just him and Hilda, together.
Let
the
wind
blow. I don't care.
He was exactly where he wanted to be, where he belonged.

“Where's Nathan? I need to find Nathan.” She tried to rise off the table but immediately fell back in a dizzy slump.

“Take it easy. You've had a bump on the head. He'll be with Missy, at the shelter. She'll take good care of him. She's a sensible girl. They'll be fine. You just rest.”

“Face feels funny,” she said and raised a hand but he stopped it. Her tongue found the space where her tooth had been. Her eyes widened in alarm. “Oh, Doc, am I…? Am I still…pretty?”

His eyes took in the network of red-lined black stitches, puffy with the first stage of healing. He was no plastic surgeon. The work was without finesse. Yellow-green bruises covered most of her face. When these had faded and the stitches came out, the true extent of the permanent damage would be revealed. “Beautiful,” he said. “Just beautiful.”

She tried to smile and winced where the stitches pulled. “Guess I'll need to keep a serious face on for a while. Nelson used to make me laugh, all the time…” Her eyes clouded with pain. “Oh, Doc, I never thought—I never thought he could—he would…” Fat, slow tears slipped down the sides of her bandaged head.

“There now,” he said, mopping the tears with a handkerchief. “Don't upset yourself all over now.” He frowned in confusion. Dwayne had passed through earlier, waving the broken tennis racket in triumph, on his way to arrest Dolores. “Nelson is the one who did this to you? Can you… Do you remember…anything?”

“Yes. Yes, I do.” Her tone was flat, without emotion. No tears now. “I fought, at first, but then I just lay there and let him hit me. Part of me was glad it was finally out, how much he hated me. No more pretending. I'm so tired of pretending. The racket made a sound when it broke, like a bone breaking. I think, Doc… I'm pretty sure he only stopped because it broke.” She said nothing for a few moments. The wind hissed through the building, testing it for weakness, searching for a way in. “Can I have more water, please?” He held the cup to her lips. “I thought I would die, Doc, right there in the road.” She turned reddened eyes to him. “And other than Nathan, I couldn't think of anyone who would mind.”

Rage boiled up inside him, so fierce that he had to turn away to shield her from the murderous heat in his eyes. Nelson had vowed to protect and cherish Hilda all her days, and instead he destroyed her face and nearly killed her… Worse, almost, he had made her want to die. And why? So he could have his fun with Dolores and her friends, once he decided domestic responsibilities didn't suit him? He could imagine Hilda's pain as she lay there in the dirt under his blows… Her parents gone, no friends in town, and now her husband wanted her dead. During his worst moments, after Leann left, he too would have welcomed the darkness, had planned it all out, to the last detail. An overdose of barbiturates and bourbon, the coward's death of choice. But now he realized he was happy, for the first time in many years. “Hilda,” he said, “I would mind. Very much.” He looked hard into her eyes, hoping to make her see what he could not say, hoping to find, if not an answer to his feelings, at least some comprehension. That would be enough. “I will never let any harm come to you again,” he said. “I promise.” And he planted a light kiss on her hand.

There was surprise in her eyes. And something else. Her voice was soft. “Doc, I…I never realized—”

The wind tore away one of the heavy storm shutters like it was a flake of paint. Water seeped under the door. Hilda asked, “Shouldn't we get to the shelter?” But still she held his gaze.

In her weakened state, with a fresh hole in her head, they would never make it to the store.
Whatever
happens, we're together.
“Better to stay put,” he said with more confidence than he felt. “We're fine, and the shelter will be so crowded and hot. Much more comfortable here.”

“Yes, you're right,” she said, and the trust in her eyes nearly broke his heart. “We are better off here.”

• • •

Missy looked out through a crack in the plywood over the window. It had taken her all afternoon to nail it up around the place. A single candle cast a jittery glow around the familiar contours of the room. She tried again to decide whether to stay or go. Mama had said to wait, but it had been hours since she had gone to help Doc, and the weather had suddenly worsened. Only a little while before, everyone had said the hurricane was still a long way off. No one had been in much of a hurry. Selma had gone to get Jerome and some necessaries.

Missy hated storms. Mama said it was because she was born during a big one. It had nearly carried Missy off. One of her favorite stories as a child was how Henry's mother, Grace, had fought a battle with the wind that tried to wrest her away. Mama said the storm didn't like to lose and, having been denied once, would try again. Missy knew some people like Selma who found storms exciting, were exhilarated by the wildness and the danger. Some crazy fools even liked to ride the storms staked out on the beach. She hated everything about them. She hated the way Mama's little house shook like a frightened puppy in the wind. She hated the dirty flood water that came up through the floor and soaked everything in a stench that lasted for months.

She searched her mind for the right word to describe the unsettling tingle of dread that had been with her for days.
Personal.
That was the word. If it didn't sound so purely ridiculous, she would have said this storm felt personal in some way she could neither define nor understand.

She tried to picture Henry. He was probably out of the state by now. There was only one occasion when she had ever left the county, to accompany the Kincaids to a family wedding in St. Augustine. It was a long, long way to drive in the Cadillac, almost as far as Georgia. They had passed by so many fields and towns, more than she could have imagined. She had wondered if other states had the same air as Florida. Would it smell different? Would she feel different? Would her body know if she had crossed the border into Georgia? She had never found out.

Ever since Henry had gone, she had been telling herself that he was safe. Nothing else mattered. Other feelings had no place. She swallowed the lump of bitterness in her throat as she surveyed the tempest outside. He was right to go—she knew that for sure. She had nurtured a tiny kernel of hope that maybe he would come back. One day, far in the future.

But when she had said as much to Mama, her mother was very clear that she should abandon such ideas, and quick. When Missy had protested, Mama had just fixed her hat into place and said, “Folks have long memories, Missy. It won't never be safe for him here.” And with that, she had left for Doc's.

Missy looked out the window one final time. No sign of either Mama or Selma. It was unnaturally dark outside, more like evening than late afternoon. And suddenly she was overwhelmed by the certainty that they must leave immediately.

“Time to go,” she said to Nathan and wrapped his blanket tighter. “Most likely we'll meet them on the road.”

Once outside, she realized the strength of the wind was far greater than she'd thought. It hit her with such force that she staggered and nearly fell over. Rain stung her face, her arms. Briefly she wondered if she had left too late, that maybe she should go back inside, but Mama's little house had started to sway. One of the posts that supported the porch gave way and the roof sagged. The shelter was not far. They would be fine. It was just a matter of one step then another. She gripped Nathan tighter to her chest. He made no sound at all, just looked up at her with his trusting blue eyes. “Don't you worry, Nathan. We be fine.”

Small missiles buffeted her all over. With every step, the strength of the gale seemed to increase. She had to lean over, almost parallel to the ground.

She tried to picture Henry's face again, which helped to calm her in most situations, but it only made her sad now. The wind grew stronger. An icy trickle of fear seeped into her heart. It got worse with each step, although they should have been closer to the store by now. So she did what she always did when she was scared: she sang.