Kiss of the Sun (4 page)

“Feel the movement of the tides inside your heart. The answer is there.”

Albertha reached into the pocket of her woven skirt and pulled out a carved wooden figure.

Martha leaned forward and looked at the statue. The figure looked ancient, six inches of pitted wood that tapered downward toward a pedestal base. Along the sides of the statue, a faint suggestion of arms. The oversized head had an angular face and a deep, furrowed brow. It resembled one of the brooding statues of Easter Island.

“Do you know who this is?” Albertha asked.

“No, I've not seen it before.”

Martha rotated the figure a half turn, so that the face was in profile. The back of its head was another face, identical to the first.

“Who is it?” Martha asked.

“This is Jamba. He is the trickster with two faces. Look closely. See, one face looks forward, the other looks back.”

Martha leaned closer to the figurine, the unvarnished wood flickering in the light of the stove.

“If you want to understand what is to happen, you must understand Jamba,” Albertha said.

Martha reached forward to take the figure from Albertha's hands, but the lines and shadows, the chiaroscuro of her dream, were folding together, collapsing into a murky haze without definition. Then she heard a faint roar, like ocean waves.

No, not waves—another kind of white noise. The sound of a ghostly crowd, the din of an outdoor stadium.

Her dream was changing and a new scene fading into view, an open field at twilight. She looked around, and though she could hear the muted, reverberating din of a crowd, she saw nothing but empty bleachers in every direction. Light towers rose against an overcast sky.

She looked down, saw the turf, the white lime of the baseball diamond, the red dirt of a pitcher's mound. She was standing atop the mound and had something clutched in her right hand. She looked at it and saw frayed red stitching. Peavy's ball.

“Put it here,” a voice shouted.

Martha looked toward home plate and saw a young boy standing there. Orange baseball jersey, plastic helmet, hands gripping the handle of a wooden bat that he wobbled expectantly over his right shoulder. Behind him, a catcher squatted on his haunches, glove poised.

“Straight across the plate,” Peavy said.

Martha tossed the ball toward home plate, underhand. “Where are you, Peavy?”

The ball went wide, and Peavy swung and missed.

“A little more to the right this time,” he said.

Martha looked down and saw that there was a burlap bag full of baseballs at her feet. She reached down, took another one.

She pitched it carefully toward home plate, and this time Peavy connected solidly. The ball sailed over Martha's head. Peavy stood still where he was, watching it go.

Martha turned to follow the ball, but she'd already lost sight of it. She turned back. “Where did it go?”

“Up there.” Peavy pointed high into the sky behind her. Martha turned and looked up. A ball of flame was moving against the sky, slowly tracing a ring of fire. Then, like skywriting, the two triangles appeared at the center of the ring, also blazing.

The image terrified her with its apocalyptic implications. Martha gasped and clawed her way toward consciousness, ripping through the membrane of sleep. She opened her eyes, propped herself up, and looked around her bedroom. She saw the shells on the windowsill, the books on her bedside table. A purple glow filtered through the gingham curtains. It was almost morning, thank God.

She was breathing heavily, and her heart was thumping.

Martha pulled off the sheet and stepped into her sandals. She stumbled toward her dinette table, where her notebook and pen were open, and wrote down the dream with a trembling hand, rushing to capture the details before they began to fade. Then she gave herself a small squeeze and went to the stove to start a pot of chamomile tea.

She looked out the kitchen window. In the predawn light, she could see Hester Alewine's unpainted cottage across the way, the shadow of palmetto bushes and oak limbs with their hanging beards of moss.

Had the profusion of images meant anything? The baseball diamond. The runic symbol emblazed against the sky. Perhaps a warning? Albertha's statue, with one face looking forward, the other looking backward.

Then she went back to the table and underlined the statement that stood out most clearly from the rest of the dream, the specific words of Lady Albertha:
He's closer than you think.

Martha opened the top drawer of her bureau and pulled out the white envelope that contained her emergency cash: $250. She put $150 in her billfold, started to return the envelope, then took another $50. Just a loan. Her second royalty check was due at the end of the month, and she could replace the money then. The Georgia Council grant, the money for her project, was her real livelihood anyway, at least until the end of next year.

The trip was a small act of rebellion, but it would not be a lie. She would tell Goodwin next Tuesday, in their next weekly session—after the fact. Their therapeutic relationship depended on trust, honesty. But there was a fine line between concern and overprotectiveness, and Martha felt Goodwin had crossed over it by forbidding her to visit the site of Peavy's disappearance. Her first therapist might have had his flaws, but at least he'd had confidence in her. She would go to the place, the address the couple had given her, and see what impressions, if any, came to her. If nothing, then she could send the shoebox back, along with her limited impressions, and move on. This was something she had to put behind her before she could, per Dr. Goodwin's mantra, keep moving forward.

Martha tucked her translucent orange vial of clozapine tablets into the hard-shell suitcase next to her folded jeans and snapped it shut.

It took Martha five hours to reach the outskirts of downtown Atlanta, including a brief stop for lunch at a diner in a small town called Social Circle. She'd watched the rural landscape of central Georgia roll by to the accompaniment of the Cowboy Junkies'
Trinity Session
on the CD player of her rented Nissan Versa. As much as she loved the island, it was the first time she had traveled far from it in almost a year, and everything she saw was refreshing to her: the pastures, the barns, the grazing cows, the occasional grain silo.

She felt a mixture of nerves and euphoria as she passed Turner Field on I-75 north and the towers of downtown Atlanta hove into view. The gold-leaf helmet of the state capitol glinted in the midday sun, surrounded by the spires of office towers, like a set of mechanical pencils stood on end. She pulled into a Hess gas station parking lot to review her map and notes. There was a Best Western near Georgia Tech where she planned to stay the night. But first she would take I-20 across town, followed by a left turn onto Cascade Road.

Martha passed package stores and an Advance Auto Parts store, then an abandoned gas station, its plywood-covered windows tagged with gang insignias. Then a house with cement steps where a group of young African American males were gathered. One of them glanced up at her, but their attention seemed to be focused on something on the ground; she couldn't tell what. After another half block, she spotted the sign for the Woodridge Place Apartments. It was an older complex, perhaps from the late sixties, with blond bricks and wrought-iron railings, but enough green landscaping to keep it from seeming grim. In fact, it looked like a decent place. She parked in one of the apartment visitor spaces. With her windows rolled up, she could hear the subterranean thump of rap music within. She double-checked her appearance in the rearview mirror and looked at the apartment number on the slip of paper: Jarrell's address, or at least the last one she had for him.

She adjusted her hair and brightened her lips with a little gloss. She smoothed the lapels of her white blouse. Well, she looked as good as she looked. She had a promise to keep, that was the main thing. It would be silly for her to obsess over the idea that their reunion might lead to something more.

Martha pressed the doorbell and heard a faint buzz from somewhere within. This was followed by footsteps, which set off a fluttering sensation in her gut. She cleared her throat.

The green metal door was answered not by Jarrell but by a wiry African American male wearing gray sweats, a pair of white earbuds in his ears.

“Hello. I was looking for Jarrell Humphries.”

“Naw, he's not here.”

Martha felt something deflate inside. “This is the address he gave me. We know each other. He doesn't live here anymore?”

“Who wants to know?”

“I'm Martha. We met on Shell Heap Island. Is he home?”

The young man pulled out his earbuds, tilted his head. “Martha…Martha. Are you that chick, the one who—”

“I knew him briefly, from the island.”

“Yeah, yeah!” The young man broke into a big smile. “Martha Covington, right?”

“Yes, that's my name.” Martha smiled back as he took her hand and pumped it.

“Wow. A real author. My name's Wendell Travis. It's an honor to meet you.”

“You've heard about my book?”

“Hell yeah! Now I recognize you from the picture on the back cover. Pleased to meet you, Martha Covington. Come on in.”

“But you said Jarrell—”

“Oh, he's here. He's in the shower. He just came back from the gym. Come inside, Martha Covington.”

Martha followed him through a small foyer into the living room. The apartment was sunny and smelled faintly masculine: leather, vinyl, the slight tincture of soap and aftershave. There was a wall covered with mirror tiles, a dark brown leather sofa. A neon Pabst sign hung next to a counter, which led to the kitchenette.

“I can't believe I finally get to meet you,” Wendell said.

“I'm flattered that you know about the book. It's not exactly a bestseller.”

“Oh, yeah, I know about the book, and a lot more. I'm Jarrell's roommate. He talks about you a lot.”

“Really?” Martha felt a flush of warmth in her chest.

“Come on in and have a seat. Sorry if I seemed rude just now. Jarrell gets a lot of lady callers, you know.”

Martha took a seat in an occasional chair next to the sofa. “He does?”

“Yeah. I try to protect him from distractions. Jarrell doesn't have time for chicks these days.”

“I understand,” Martha said. “I just wanted to check in and see how he was doing.”

“No, no, he'll be thrilled that you're here. I'll let him know.”

Wendell disappeared through a door, and Martha scanned the bookcase on one side of the room. Alongside textbooks about computer science, economics, and sociology, she spotted the familiar beige spine of her own book:
Shadows of the Past.
On the wall next to the bookcase, a pair of framed football posters hung alongside a photo of the wheelchair-bound physicist Stephen Hawking.

Wendell came back into the room and sat on the sofa across from her. “So, you're still staying out there on Shell Heap?”

“Yes, I'm still living in the Geechee community. They've sort of adopted me. I'm staying there while I work on my next book.”

“Another one? Awesome. What's this one going to be about?”

“It's a follow-up to the first book. I'm learning more about the Geechee folklore and pharmacology. It's more personal. The idea is that I'm supposed to live the life of a root worker for a year and write about my experiences.”

“That is really cool. I'm a writer, too. But I write about revolutionary science. The inevitable fusion of modern physics and subliminal consciousness.”

“Are you a student at Morehouse, too?”

“Yeah. I was studying computer science, but I dropped out for a quarter so I could work on my theory.”

Martha could hear movement in the adjacent room. “A theory? That sounds interesting.” She heard the bedroom door open and turned toward it.

“Martha?” Jarrell stood in the doorway wearing a sleeveless T-shirt and jeans. His dreads were shorter and he'd lost the Vandyke beard, but his upper body looked as muscular as she remembered—lean and powerful, like a panther. He wore some sort of polished stone disk on a leather thong around his neck.

As Jarrell walked toward her, she was relieved to notice that the cane he'd been using last time he visited the island was gone, though he still moved with a subtle limp. “Damn. It's good to see you.” He gave her a hug, and he smelled clean from the shower, with a faint lingering fragrance of soap.

“Sorry, I would have called, but you changed your cell number—”

“Wendell, I've told you about Martha.”

“Only about a hundred times. It's not every day we get a visit from a famous author. Let's celebrate. Would you like a beer?”

“No thanks,” Martha said. “I don't drink.”

“Wendell, how about a couple of those Jones green apple sodas we've been saving for a special occasion?”

“Right up.”

“How are you?” Jarrell said, taking a seat on the leather sofa.

“I'm fine. Did you get my last two letters?”

“Uh, yeah, I did. I've been planning to write back, but I've been really busy, you see—”

Wendell came back with three soda bottles and placed them on the coffee table. “My man here's been ferociously busy. I can't even get him to refill the ice trays.”

“It's okay, you don't have to explain,” Martha said. “I thought you might have moved. I didn't really expect to find you still at this address.”

“Congratulations about the new book deal, by the way. Speaking of which…” Jarrell rose, went toward the bookcase, pulled out a hardcover, and placed it on the coffee table
.

“I'm flattered that you bought a copy,” Martha said.

“Of course I did.” He took a pen from a cup next to the bookcase and handed it to her. “I just need you to sign it for me, like you promised.”

Martha turned to the back cover, with its black-and-white author photo. She always thought she looked deceptively sane in that picture. She held the pen poised, considering what to say. Finally she wrote simply,
Jarrell—thank you for making this possible. Martha.

“How are sales?” Jarrell said, taking a sip of the soda.

“Well, it's no bestseller, but regional and academic sales are pretty steady. It's not going to make me rich, but between the royalty checks and the grant from the Georgia Humanities Council, I'm actually making a living as a writer. I guess I'm solvent for another year or two.”

“I saw the review in the Atlanta paper. I was really proud of what you've done. I was going to send you a note or something.”

“You liked it?”

“How could I not? It's the story of my people and the island, preserved for future generations.”

“He shows that book off to everybody who comes over here,” Wendell said. “He likes to point to his own name right up there in the front, in the acknowledgments. He likes to look at your picture on the back, too.”

Martha smiled, hoping the blush on her face wasn't as obvious as it felt.

“Wendell, don't you have something else to do? I thought you were going to the library this afternoon.”

“Yeah, I better not linger,” Wendell said, rising. “I've got a self-imposed deadline to finish my theory by the end of this semester.”

“We call him Professor Wendell,” Jarrell said, taking a pull on his soda.

“Yep. I'm planning to have my own annus mirabilis.” Wendell started gathering up spiral-bound notebooks spread on the dining room table and stuffing them into a backpack. “That means ‘miracle year.' It's what Einstein did back in 1905, but there hasn't been one since then. My intention is to unify astronomy, physics, and the conscious realm. It's a concept that could overturn the entire edifice of modern science.”

“That sounds ambitious,” Martha said.

“Yeah, it is. I'm making real progress, but I could use some editorial advice. You want to take a look?” Wendell stepped toward her, one of his dog-eared notebooks in hand.

“Some other time, Wendell,” Jarrell said. “Martha and I just need a little time to catch up, okay?”

“All right, then—back to the intellectual salt mines.” Wendell stuffed the last of the notebooks into his pack and left.

Jarrell leaned back, arm outstretched along the back of the sofa. “Jesus, Martha, you look great.”

Martha pushed her hair behind her ear. “Thanks. I guess it's the island lifestyle. No fast food. No TV. I'm supposed to be living the life of a shaman. It's part of my agreement with the publisher, to experience life as an authentic root worker and then write about it. You know, fake it till you make it. I don't even have Internet, can you believe it?”

“How do you keep up?”

“It is pretty isolating, but I think that helps me focus. I subscribe to a few magazines and the Sunday paper.”

“So you probably don't even know about the big news this week.”

“What news?”

Jarrell unfolded a copy of
The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
that lay on the coffee table. “UNICON Killer Strikes Again,” the front-page headline screamed. And below that: “Emory Professor Slain in Lilburn Home.”

“Oh, my God. I hadn't heard.”

“Yep, the smile-face killer has come to Atlanta. People are kind of freaked out.”

Martha scanned the article. She'd heard about the other slayings in the past year in different cities. A serial killer who preyed on university professors, whose grisly trademark was a bloody “smile” he sliced into the victim's faces. The FBI's code name for the investigation was UNICON, short for UNIversity CONspiracy. “Who do they think is behind it?”

“There are a lot of theories. They think it might be another Theodore Kaczynski type, somebody with a demented agenda. Or maybe some kind of domestic terrorist group, or even a religious cult.”

Martha looked at the head shots of the professor, who was smiling. “God. Sometimes I think it's a good thing to be out of touch.”

Jarrell leaned forward, fingers laced. His handsome face now seemed calmer, more thoughtful than she had remembered. The small scar on his left cheek registered as an emblem of character. “I guess I owe you an apology. For not writing back more often. I'm taking five classes this quarter, trying to put my law degree on the fast track.”