Under a Dark Summer Sky (7 page)

“There you go,” said Doc Williams. “All fixed up.” He smoothed more ointment over the rope burn on Jennifer Mason's little hand. She had insisted on taking part in a tug-of-war with some much older children. To her credit, she had stayed on her feet but paid the price with a nasty abrasion.

“Say ‘thank you,' Jenny,” said Dolores Mason.

“Sank you, Doctor Williams,” she said through her missing front teeth.

He tousled her hair, and she ran off to rejoin the big kids.

Dolores sighed. “At that age, all you want is to be older, don't you? Funny how that changes.” She flashed an appraising smile at Doc, her eyes half closed against the smoke from her cigarette. Dolores was one of the country club wives who kept trim on a regime of tennis, caffeine, and nicotine. They migrated like a flock of exotic birds between the beauty parlor, the clubhouse, and the tennis court, all brittle chatter and bright plumage. Doc knew her circle well, the ladies for whom the new antibiotics were such a godsend when their indiscretions led to nasty infections.

Doc followed her eyes to the road where the Kincaid Cadillac had just pulled up. Nelson slammed the driver's side door and set off down the beach, dragging hard on his cigarette, leaving Hilda to struggle out of the car. She emerged shakily from the passenger door, tried to smooth her dress, patted her hair into place, and teetered across the sand after her husband. Her sandals would have made walking difficult even on smooth ground, but in the sand, she staggered and fell to her knees. It was obvious that she had already been drinking. It was also obvious that she would not rise unaided.

“Pathetic, isn't she?” said Dolores with a flick of ash in Hilda's direction.

“Excuse me, Dolores,” said Doc and went to help Hilda. Although it shamed him to admit it, he had had a crush on her for years—something he shared with all the other males from sixteen to sixty. She had been their very own matinee idol, perfect and untouchable. Everyone had been shocked by her sudden marriage to Nelson, but her decline since then had been marked by a distinct lack of sympathy. There were some folks, Doc felt, who actively enjoyed Hilda's swift, complete disgrace, especially Dolores and her crowd. Doc still found her entrancing.

He raised Hilda to her feet. Her brows were furrowed in distress. He sensed that tears were not far away. “Upsy daisy. Here we go,” he said and brushed the sand from her hands.

“Oh, Doc,” she whispered. “I'm so embarrassed. Everyone is looking at me.”

But it was worse than that. A few people glanced her way, but most had spared her only a moment's attention. They had already returned to their conversations.

“Horseflies,” he said. “If I had a dollar for every person who fell in the sand tonight…”

She held his arm for support and smiled uncertainly. Her smile could still melt ice cream straight from the freezer. It took him back to the before time—before the war, before Leann and Cora. Before Nelson Kincaid. Back then, everything had seemed possible.

“I need a drink,” she said.

He handed over his beer. “There are far stranger things on this beach tonight than a lady losing her footing. Just look around.”

Indeed, there was Zeke, knee-deep in the surf with Poncho on his shoulder, ranting at the sea with fists raised. “Stay back, you monster!” he shrieked. “Stay back!”

And there was one-handed Cyril, setting up the fireworks. Everyone figured he was best qualified, since he couldn't lose the same hand twice.

Up near the road, at a picnic table beneath a stand of palms, were five uniformed officers—Dwayne's insurance policy—failing spectacularly to blend in. Doc had hoped they would be in plain clothes, but maybe Dwayne had reasoned that deterrence was better than interference.

“You're a kind, kind man, Doc,” Hilda said with an obvious effort at composure. “Thank you. And now, I should go find Nelson.”

Doc had treated Hilda several times over the years and attended the birth of baby Nathan. He could tell when she was on the verge of breaking down. A small tremor in her left eyelid, the slightly vacant gaze, the pitch of her voice a little too high. He wanted to protect her, to say, “Let's leave all these phonies and find a quiet spot to watch the sunset.” He wanted to stop that tremor with a touch of his hand, to reassure her that she was still beautiful, that she would always be beautiful to him. That she deserved to be happy. But instead he said, “Best you take off those pretty sandals. Not very practical.”

“You're right,” she said and slipped them into her hand. “Thank you, for everything. Now, where is that husband of mine?”

He watched her pick her way across the sand to where Nelson stood with his back to her. Dolores had one hand on his shoulder. The rest of the flock was close by, all sharp smiles and trim-waisted dresses. Their husbands were oblivious, engrossed in golf talk. Doc marveled at the human capacity for self-deception, but then decided the men probably knew exactly what their wives were up to. They just chose to ignore it because it suited them. Sometimes he longed for the certainties of the battlefield. At least the enemy identified himself clearly.

Zeke could feel it coming. The signs were there, all around, in the slow, rolling swells. He counted the waves in, felt the immense power of the monster's wake. He knew the ocean as intimately as he knew Poncho's different calls. The bird flapped his cobalt wings once and settled more comfortably on Zeke's bony shoulder. Poncho did not like the yelling, but Zeke knew his duty. He would not rest or falter. He was Heron Key's only defense.

Selma reclined in a folding chair, legs spread wide, a beer bottle half sunk in the sand beside her. Ronald LeJeune approached, platter of pork held proudly aloft as he crossed to the colored side of the barrier. His chest was out, cheeks flushed. A few people had been dancing to quiet music on the gramophone but stopped when he arrived. Every year, it was the same ritual. Food, then a fight. Everyone knew what would happen, yet they seemed hell-bent on repeating the same old tired routine, like a mule in harness. Round and round.

She heaved herself upright.

“Miss Selma,” Ronald boomed. “Where would you like me to put this?”

“Thank you, Mr. LeJeune. Follow me.” She led the way to the table.

Right on cue, Ike Freeman muttered darkly, “I'll tell him where he can put it.”

Selma flashed her hardest look, the one that could usually be relied on to bring Jerome to heel, but Ike was too far gone. There was something in his bloodshot glare that she did not like one bit, some secret that pleased him no end. His grin oozed malice.

“Call me Ronald, please,” Mr. LeJeune said to Selma. This was another part of the ritual.

“Come on, y'all,” she called. “Mr. LeJeune has brought us some of the hog roast.”

There were appreciative murmurs. People retrieved their plates and made their way to the table. “May I?” asked Ronald.

“Go right ahead, sir,” said Selma. Ronald ladled Mama's thick barbecue sauce over the pork. It smelled smoky sweet, flowed over the meat, and pooled around the edges of the platter.

“Yessuh, nosuh, three bags full, suh,” said Ike, this time not trying to lower his voice. “That how it is, Selma?” There were food stains down the front of his shirt. He leered at Ronald and raised his beer bottle with a loud belch. “Happy Independence Day, Roooooonald,” he said and took a large swig.

Lionel went to take Ike's arm. “Come on now, Ike—”

Ike shoved him hard, and the old gardener went down in the sand. Someone helped him to his feet. The others stood by warily. They all knew what to expect.

“Leave him be,” said Selma with a sharp glance at Ike. There was something different this year—she could feel it. “Mr. LeJeune, may be best you go on back to the other side.”

“It's all right, Selma,” said Ronald in a rather bored tone. “It's a shame that some people have to spoil things for everyone else.” He turned toward Ike as if to deliver a lecture. “And as for you—”

He did not get to finish his sentence because Ike lunged at him, a flash of metal in his fist.

“Ike, no!” Selma screamed.

Ronald roared in pain and surprise, one hand clamped to his cheek. Blood flowed between his fingers. Violet crumpled in a faint, and no one was quick enough to catch her. Two of the men somehow managed to bring Ike down. He thrashed like a rabid dog under their weight, eyes rolling back in his head.

While he was thus restrained, Ronald took the opportunity to land a vicious punch on Ike's belly. “You worthless piece of shit!” He kicked Ike in the face. “I wish my granddaddy had finished the job when he had a chance!”

The men exchanged a glance and released Ike's arms. He flew at Ronald, swinging. They fell to the sand, Ike on top with his hands around Ronald's throat. Blood from Ronald's face stained the sand all around.

The crack of a pistol shot startled everyone, including Ike and Ronald. Dwayne holstered his weapon and stepped over the barrier in one long stride, the visiting policemen close behind.

“Ike,” he said, “you gone too far this time. I'm taking you in. Get him to the station. I'll be along directly.”

One of the cops pulled Ike's hands behind his back and snapped on the handcuffs.

“Oh, Ronnie!” cried Cynthia, dropping to her knees beside him. She tried to mop the blood with the hem of her dress. “Someone help my husband!”

Sand caked a long gash in Ronald's cheek. Doc Williams came running with his medical bag.

“That lunatic belongs in jail!” yelled Ronald, blood spraying with every word. “I want him put away for good!”

“Keep quiet, Ronald,” said Doc. “This is a bad cut.” He stood up and wiped his hands. “I need to get him back to my office, going to require stitches.” He helped Ronald to stand. The man's skin had gone gray, and he shivered in the heat. “Help me get him to the car.” The men who had restrained Ike half carried, half dragged Ronald back toward the road, with Doc and Cynthia behind.

“Excitement's over, folks,” said Dwayne. “Go back to your party. Cyril, get those fireworks going.”

Someone started the gramophone. The music wafted over to Selma on the breeze, a jaunty tune she could not place. “You heard the man,” she said. “Y'all go have fun.” Flies settled on the mound of pork, undisturbed in its lake of sauce.

On the other side of the barrier, the sound of Selma's scream almost came as a relief to Hilda. She had been standing next to Nelson with a smile so fixed it might have been stapled to her face, slowly sinking into the sand and despair. A mosquito stung her neck, but she did not bother to swat it. Her body was already covered in red bites, which would bloom into big welts by the morning. She could not understand why Florida had ever been settled, as everything in the cursed state seemed designed to make her uncomfortable. Everywhere she turned, peril lay in wait, creatures determined to bite, sting, or poison. The very land itself was infested with grasses that cut her tender flesh, innocuous vines that caused painful rashes. The sun was evil, its scorching rays constantly attacking her smooth complexion. The insects nearly drove her insane.

Hilda had downed three mint juleps in quick succession, thinking they would dull the pain of the evening, but they had somehow intensified it. No one spoke to her, so she cast herself adrift from the flow of conversation around her. Everything was magnified and slowed down, so her senses registered each excruciating detail: Dolores's secret smile, the way her hand brushed Nelson's arm oh so casually. The others hung off him like wasps on a peach and he loved it. She could tell, from his half-closed eyes, his lazy grin. Each glance, each touch revealed more of the truth. It cut like a shard of glass being slowly pushed into her flesh. These women, they had once been her friends. Now she understood. It was suddenly clear to her: they were all in on it. Every one of them.
Where
did
they
do
it?
Clearly not in her house, since she had barely left it since Nathan was born. And then she realized.
Of
course: the Caddy. It had worked for him before.

Selma's scream brought everyone rushing over to the barrier to get a good view of the fight. Hilda had the chance to observe them all, as if from an airplane high above. The women, with their cute, tennis-honed figures, their manicured nails, their lacquered lips… How could she blame him? She had done nothing but stay home and get fat. Was it any wonder he sought satisfaction elsewhere? She went to fill a plate with Key lime pie while they were otherwise occupied. On the way, she picked up another mint julep.

• • •

The excitement of the fight over, the crowd dispersed toward the water for fireworks of another kind. Cyril sank the final rocket into the sand at the surf line, pointing out to sea. Zeke stood by, offering encouragement—or at least what sounded like encouragement. “Good!” he cried, bouncing with excitement, Poncho struggling to retain his grip on Zeke's shoulder. “Throw everything you got at him! That'll show the cocksucker!” There were giggles from the small spectators. “Get going,” he implored Cyril. “Blast it out of the sky!”

The sunset had been stunningly beautiful that evening, as if the cosmos was determined to outdo any display of spectacle planned by the humans. The horizon still glowed with embers of gold, orange, and crimson, but the sky had darkened enough for a few stars to show through. Torches had been lit, their flames buffeted by the breeze, casting jerky shadows across the beach. Spectators, white and black, gathered at the ocean.

“Stand back, everyone!” called Cyril, the long match clamped in his claw. The crowd went quiet in anticipation, faces turned toward the sky. He touched the match to the fuse of the first rocket. It charred the end of the fuse and went out with a quiet
phut
.