Island of Saints (14 page)

Wan nodded, but before he could speak, another chimed in. “He ain't selling fish. Nor oysters neither. You know he ain't, Wan. But he sure seems to have plenty of money . . .”

“Not that he's spending any of it on that old death trap of a boat,” Billy interrupted. They all laughed, but the implication was clear.

“Got to catch the man to arrest him,” Wan said with a shrug.

“Aw, hellfire, Wan,” Hal Briggs said as he slid his chair back from the table and stood up. “Ever'body and God knows that creepy old weasel is helping the krauts. Now I say the sheriff and you or somebody ought to go down there and haul him in! Lock him up!” Several of the other men murmured and nodded in agreement.

A big man, Briggs was the president of First National Bank and a deacon at the Baptist church. People tended to listen when he talked, but Wan had an idea no one enjoyed the sound of Briggs's voice as much as Briggs himself. Wan glanced at Billy behind the counter. Billy didn't think much of Hal Briggs and Wan knew it, but Billy merely crossed his arms and smiled at his young friend.

Briggs spoke once more: “Deputy Cooper? Do I need to ask again? Does the sheriff's department intend to do something about Harris Kramer, or do we have to handle it ourselves?”

Helen was watching from the kitchen. She saw Wan flush with anger, but was impressed when he replied in an even, cool voice. “I've already said,” he began, “‘got to catch the man to arrest him.' You know, guys, there's that tricky little thing about ‘innocent until proven guilty.' So right now, no, I can't do nothing. But you, Mr. Hal . . . you go right ahead. That's a mighty nice offer to help. 'Specially since you got the biggest boat in town. I'm thinking all you guys'd fit on it. Get out there tonight. You can catch that joker red-handed, I'm thinkin'.” Wan stood up, pulled the money for what he'd eaten out of his wallet, and slapped it on the table. “Matter a fact, when you catch old Kramer tied up to a U-boat . . . arrest the Germans too. Hellfire yourself, Mr. Hal. Bring 'em all in. It'd be a big help.”

As Wan walked out, Billy turned toward the kitchen to keep the banker from seeing the grin on his face. Helen had watched the scene anxiously, well aware that she had still not said anything to anyone about the German sailor who was, presumably, still at her house. Helen had intended to tell Wan about the man as soon as she got to the café that morning, but she hadn't—and didn't know why. And she had come close several times. At one point, Helen had even told the deputy she had something to tell him. He followed her to the kitchen, but she froze. Helen ended up stammering and saying again how much she appreciated Wan not saying anything about her being late.

She got off at two o'clock and drove home, furious with herself for having said nothing.
I should have told Billy,
Helen thought.
I should probably go back and get him now.
Or Wan. Or somebody.

When Helen wheeled the truck into the sandy driveway that led to the cottage, she came close to stopping and going back to town. Instead, she parked the truck farther from the cottage than usual, got out, and retrieved the tire tool from the truck bed. The man was not by the steps where she had left him. He was, she knew, either inside or gone . . . neither of which was good.
I am an idiot,
Helen thought.
Go back
to town. Helen Mason, go back to town.

Stalking carefully to the cottage, Helen quietly climbed the stairs and saw a dark stain on one of the steps. Was that blood? Had it been there before? She wasn't sure. The door was not open.
But he could have closed it, right? I wish I
had a gun.
Helen stopped. Now, here was a thought that had not occurred to her.
What about him? Does he have a gun?
I didn't see one, but then I wouldn't have, really, isn't that
correct? What am I thinking?
She reached out with a trembling left hand and placed it on the doorknob.
Helen, you
are smarter than this . . . go back to town. Get Wan and
Billy. Do
not
go in that door.

But she did.

CHAPTER 9

“DADDY, WHY DOES HELEN ACT MEAN?”

The question from Danny came out of the blue, as so many of them did, and did not surprise Billy at all. His son often used the time they spent in Billy's truck to talk endlessly about whatever came to his mind. At least twice a week, the two of them drove to Mobile or Pensacola for supplies. They rode with the windows down—even in the winter, except on the worst days—so that Billy could smoke and Danny could stick his hand out the window and let his fingers “ride the air.”

“So why?” Danny asked again.

Billy flicked a cigarette butt out the window. “Well, let me ask you this. Do you think Helen
is
mean?”

“No, Daddy,” Danny said impatiently. “I don't think Helen
is
mean . . . I was saying, ‘Why does she
act
mean?'”

“Does she always act mean?”

“No. Helen is nice to me. But sometimes, she is mean to Wan. And I saw her be mean to you one time.”

Billy turned left onto Highway 98 and steered with his knees as he lit another cigarette.

“Mobile today, right?” Danny said, recognizing the direction.

“That's right, Buddy Boy,” Billy answered. “Mobile today.”

“So, Daddy, why does Helen act mean?”

Billy had long ago created a level of patience just for Danny. He loved the boy with all his heart. And he was a boy, really, even though he was bigger than most of the men in town. The doctors had told Billy and Margaret that they would discover special gifts in their son that “normal” people did not have. Through the years, Billy especially had found that the doctors had been right.

For one thing, Danny had a persistence about him that tended to annoy others, but allowed the boy successes in many areas. He simply would not stop trying until he achieved whatever he had set out to do. He would not stop asking until he got an answer that satisfied his question. He was not bothered by failure or the passing of time or the seeming impossibility of a task. Billy had been surprised to discover that he admired his son and was grateful for his presence. There existed a wisdom in his child that was different . . . and that he had not expected to find.

Billy blew a thick cloud of smoke toward the window. “Okay . . . ,” he said, “why does Helen act mean? Well . . . you know Helen has had some tough things happen in her life . . .”

“I know.”

“. . . and because of those tough things, Helen has gotten mad.”

“Mad at what?”

“Well, Buddy Boy . . . Helen is mad at everything right now. She is a good person, and you are right . . . she is not really mean. But sometimes when a person is angry, that person can
act
mean. Helen has let her anger consume her. Right now it has
become
her. And anger is about the only way Helen expresses herself. You know, if all you have is a hammer . . . everything pretty much looks like a nail.” Billy paused. “And that's why Helen acts mean.”

Danny was quiet for a bit, looking out the window. Soon he spoke again: “Mama says that if Helen would forgive some people, then she would not be so sad. You are Helen's boss, Daddy. If you tell her to forgive those people, then she will have to do it, and she won't be sad anymore.”

Billy chuckled. “I wish it was that simple, sweet boy.” He rubbed his face briskly with his hand. “Now, let me see . . . how to explain this . . . Danny, forgiveness can occur only because we have been given the ability to make choices. We have the choice to forgive or not to forgive . . . and nobody can make us do either one. You understand?”

Danny nodded.

“We begin to forgive by
choosing
to forgive . . . by deciding, not by feeling. Our feelings don't lead us to forgive. Most times, our feelings lead us the other way. That's why a person has to decide to forgive first. Our feelings always follow along behind our decisions.”

“Forgive and forget, you mean?”

“Hey, Buddy Boy,” Billy said, pointing to a gas station ahead, “you want to stop and get a Coke?”

“No, sir.”

“You hungry?”

“No, sir.”

Billy sighed. Danny wore him out sometimes. He never had to think or focus as much as he did when he was with Danny. He lit another cigarette and glanced at his son, who was leaning against the opposite door, just looking at him. Billy knew it was just a matter of time before he . . .
Okay,
here we go . . .

“Daddy . . . forgive and forget, you mean?”

“Awright.” Billy smiled. “Lemme think here.” He thumped his ash down in the floorboard of the truck.

“Mama says not to do that.”

“Well, she'll just have to forgive me, okay?”

“It's a choice she'll have to make.”

“Right. Danny, be quiet. I'm trying to think.” Danny crossed his arms and settled back against the door. “Now, you asked,” Billy continued, “did I mean ‘forgive and forget'?” Danny nodded. “And the answer is no.

“Forgive and forget is not reality. It's not really possible anyway, which is a good thing, because it is not necessary. Forgiveness does not erase history or excuse what happened. What has happened . . .
has
happened, and nothing can erase the memory of it or its consequences.

“Forgiveness means relinquishment. It is that simple. Danny, do you know what relinquishment means?”

“No, sir.”

“It means giving something up. To relinquish something means to give up whatever power it holds over us. If you forgive somebody for something he did to you, that means you choose to never again allow that event to determine how you feel or how you act or even how you treat that person. You may
remember
the wrong, but by choosing to forgive, you have disarmed it. Then it can no longer determine what you think, what you say, or what you do.” Billy flipped his cigarette out the window. “You got it?”

Danny nodded. “I do.”

HELEN DIDN'T KNOW WHETHER SHE WAS RELIEVED OR SCARED to find the German sailor on the floor in the bathroom. “Hey,” she said and prodded him with her foot.

Josef was lying on his back. When he opened his eyes and saw her standing over him with a tire iron, he flinched and said, “You aren't going to hit me with that, are you?”

“Maybe. Get out. I have to use the restroom.” Helen noted the bruises on his face—both eyes were black—with an odd mixture of happiness and horror.
Did I do that?

Josef struggled to rise, but fell back almost immediately. “I'm sorry,” he said. “I will do it.” He tried again.

Helen reached down and took hold of the front of his shirt and pulled. “You're still wet,” she remarked.

Josef was scared and having trouble thinking clearly, but the woman's comment still irritated him.
Of course, I am
wet,
he thought.
Where do you think I would get any
clothes?

As Helen helped him out of the bathroom and into the hallway, she inadvertently felt his skin. He was burning up. “Wait here,” she said. “Give me a minute, and we'll look at your wounds.”

While she was in the bathroom, Helen looked through the cabinet. It contained mostly her aunt Jean's medicines that Helen hadn't touched since the final days of the old lady's life. Other than the usual home remedies, the medicine chest was filled with painkillers and experimental drugs for cancer that obviously hadn't worked.
I suppose I'd better
look at him first,
she thought,
before I give him any of this
stuff. What if it kills him?
Helen shrugged as she unlocked the bathroom door and answered her own question.
So what
if it does?

“Have you looked at your shoulder at all?” she asked.

Now on the floor in the hallway, Josef shook his head no and said, “I am freezing. May I have a blanket?”

Helen stopped briefly, her mind racing.
This man is
dangerous. Stop, Helen! Stop right now! Get back in the
truck and go for help. Move!
“First we need to get you out of the wet clothes. Take them off and I will look at the wounds.”

Josef looked aghast.

“What's wrong?” Helen asked.

“I cannot take off my clothes,” Josef said. “You . . . are a girl.”

Helen smirked. “Hurry up and don't be stupid. I am not a girl. I am a woman and I have seen a man before, so just do what I say. Besides, I hate you, remember?”

As it turned out, Helen had to help him out of the wet clothes. To spare him the embarrassment, she didn't insist Josef take off his boxers until he was beneath the blanket. The bullet hole in his shoulder was matched by an exit wound in his back. Helen supposed that to be a positive—that the bullet was not still in his body—and also noted that no bone was broken. The hole in his back was much larger than the one in the front, and although the bleeding had stopped, in its place a yellowish discharge had begun. It was infected, Helen knew—without a doubt.

She poured a whole bottle of rubbing alcohol over the wound and scrubbed it out with a clean rag. The pain was unbearable, and Josef passed out immediately. To Helen's dismay, he was not even conscious to experience the agony as she treated the leg wound in the same manner.

In any case, the leg was not as bad. The bullet had dug a vertical furrow about four inches long and less than an inch deep. While he was out, Helen found a powder labeled “For Infections” and poured it generously onto both wounds and bandaged them up.

When Josef came to, he was still on the floor in the hall way, the blanket over him. The woman was not there that he could see. “Hello . . . ,” he called.

Helen came from the bedroom. “How do you feel?”

“Cold.”

“Can you get up?”

“Yes.” But he couldn't.