Under a Dark Summer Sky (12 page)

“That asshole, Two-Step,” said Franklin. “He's ruined it for all of us. Violet Hudson seemed to like me.” His one eye registered angry disappointment.

Henry studied his scarred face. It had been a long time since anyone treated Franklin as a civilized man instead of a dangerous vagrant. Henry had seen him give Violet the little sandpiper carved from driftwood. It was Franklin's favorite.

“The Bible tells us
it
is
hard
for
thee
to
kick
against
the
pricks
,” Lemuel said.

Henry laughed. “For once, Lemuel, you got it just right.”

“When you gonna see your ‘old friend' again?” asked Jeb, just audible over the grinding of the truck's gears. His slight frame was nearly jostled out of his seat.

Henry and Lemuel each laid a hand on him to hold him steady. “She busy tonight, serving at a dinner party up at the country club. We supposed to meet tomorrow night, but I need a plan for how to get out of camp and back.” There was no way he could fail to turn up for Missy—worse still, without being able to communicate with her. She still believed in him after everything he had done.

“You wait till it gets dark,” said Jeb. “Then you sneak out. We cover for you.”

Henry thought about this. It would mean arriving late, but he was sure Missy would understand, once he explained.

“Uh-huh.” Lemuel nodded. “We sure will.”

“That right, on one condition,” said Franklin. He scratched at his empty eye socket. “You be back before dawn and you bring us some of Selma's peach cobbler.”

“That two conditions,” Sonny pointed out.

“Hey, fellas,” said Jeb. “At least the weather's on our side. I hear there's a storm coming.”

“You wouldn't know it to look at that sky,” said Franklin.

“It's coming, all right,” said Henry. There was a brisk wind, laden with moisture. It was a welcome change from the baking heat of the past few months, but he knew to be wary.

“Good news for us!” exclaimed Jeb. “Means we get a day off!”

“And we lose a day's pay,” said Sonny gloomily.

The truck hit a particularly deep pothole, which threw everyone onto the floor of the bed at the back, even Lemuel. A muted “Sorry, boys!” came from the driver's cab.

“I always wanted to see one of them big storms,” said Franklin as he raised himself painfully back onto his seat.

Henry eyed the racing clouds. They looked to be in an awful hurry. “I believe,” he said, “there's a good chance you may get your wish.”

• • •

Later that evening, Ronald wiped his mouth and sat back with a satisfied if lopsided smile. “Missy, please tell the kitchen they have done themselves proud. I do love that okra.”

Missy circulated with the coffeepot. “Yes, Mr. LeJeune.”

“It was all delicious,” said Cynthia.

George Mason was drunk, slumped in his chair, although Missy noticed everyone pretending not to notice. Dolores said with a tight smile, “Honey, have some coffee.”

Missy poured some into his cup on its dainty bone china saucer.

“Dwayne seems to be making progress,” said George. “I assumed you're pleased he went to the camp today?” His accent sounded funny to Missy. Mr. Mason was originally from New York.

Ronald forked the last bite of lemon meringue pie into his mouth. The bandage on his cheek constrained the movement of his jaw. It clearly pained him to move. “It's the obvious place to look. But he's running out of time. If he doesn't come up with something by tomorrow, then…” He passed his fork around the plate one more time.

“Then what?” asked George.

“Then the good people of this town will decide,” said Ronald, “what…additional measures may be needed.”

“Measures? What do you mean?” George sat straighter in his chair. “This is America, Ronald, not the jungle.”

“That's right, George, and we aim to keep it that way.”

“And the law? Where does that fit with your plans?”

“The law works differently down here,” said Ronald, with a sip of his coffee. “Missy, this needs a drop of brandy.”

“Yes, Mr. LeJeune.”

There was a small pause. George regarded Ronald through half-closed eyes. “I hear from Jenson Mitchell that a storm could be headed our way. They'll have to evacuate the veterans. They've got no chance out in the open if it does get bad.”

“As my daddy used to say, God's will be done,” Ronald said.

George opened his mouth to respond, but Dolores interrupted. “How is he… How is Nelson holding up?”

“As you'd expect,” said Ronald. “He's mad as hell. He and Hilda have their problems, but she's still his wife, after all.”

Missy thought this made Hilda sound like an expensive possession, like a car or a prized golf club. She watched Dolores's eyes brighten at Mr. Kincaid's name. Some months before, Missy had taken the beach path for a change on her way home and come across the Cadillac parked in the shade of some sea oats. It rocked steadily on its wheels. She had hurried past, but not before glimpsing Mr. Kincaid's familiar face pressed against Dolores's neck. Her mouth was open, her eyes closed, arms locked around his shoulders. When Missy had reported the sighting to Selma, she had just shrugged and said, “The whole town knows. Now you know too.”

Missy saw a look of pure, distilled sadness on Mr. Mason's face.
So
does
he.

He lowered his eyes. “Missy, my dear, I find that my coffee requires some brandy as well.”

The next afternoon, Mama's face told a tale when she returned from Doc's. Missy met her with a glass of lemonade as she heaved herself up the steps to the Kincaid porch.

Mama took off her favorite hat, the blue one with red flowers. She sank into a rocking chair and narrowly missed Sam's tail. He had arranged himself on his back to catch the breeze on his pale, rounded stomach. After a long drink, Mama asked, “Got anything stronger?”

Mama didn't drink. Not ever. It wasn't like some people, who say they don't drink but really mean
except
at Christmas or
except
on their birthday. Being married to Billy, she liked to say, would drive anyone sober.

“No, Mama. Mr. Kincaid, he drank it all. He got some put away secret, but I ain't found it yet.”

Mama drained the lemonade glass. “Where he be?”

“Gone to the country club, I think. How is Missus Kincaid today?”

Mama shook her head uncomprehendingly. “Wife at death's door, and he out cattin' around.” It was the first time Missy had heard her say a slur against the Kincaids. Mama stared for a long moment into the mangroves. “I ain't never seen anyone hurt that bad and still breathin'.”

“But Doc will fix her up, won't he? He can do that?”

“Doc is tryin', chile, and if tryin' is savin', then she'll surely walk out of there alive, with God's grace. But she hurt real bad.”

“Who would do such a thing?” Missy asked. The person who had enough hate in them to do this to Missus Kincaid was still out there, somewhere. He could be close by, maybe crouched behind the hibiscus or listening beneath the honeysuckle. She pulled Nathan's basket closer to her chair. He stirred slightly, then settled, fists bunched.

“I don't know.” Mama rubbed her eyes. “Someone strong, Doc said. And fast.”

“Last night, when I was servin' at the club, I heard Deputy Campbell been out to the camp to look for him.”

Mama shrugged and placed her glass on the wrought iron table by the potted geranium. “He got to, baby.”

“Why he ain't lookin' at the men in town? Coulda been any one of them. What about Ike? He mean and crazy enough to do it.”

“Ike a magician, far as you know?”

“No, but—”

“Because Ike was locked up in jail when it happened. Deputy Campbell not lookin' only at the veterans, but it sure makes sense it was one of them. You seen how they carry on.”

Missy sprang to her feet, which startled Nathan into crying. She lifted him from the basket onto her shoulder and stalked up and down the porch. “Why people here have to be so lazy? Always jumpin' at the first thing they think of?” Her voice rose above Nathan's cries. Mama eyed her curiously. “All's I'm sayin' is just because somethin' looks like a rock and holds still don't mean it be a rock.” When she was eight years old, showing off to Henry, she had leaped onto a great, greasy turtle carcass, thinking it was a big rock. Up to her ankles in rotten turtle guts, it was the shock of that slimy flesh between her toes… That was the worst, she decided, when you think you know what something is and then find out it's something completely different. “Just because,” she said more quietly, “something seem like it should be true don't make it true.” She sat down and hugged Nathan to her. He squirmed, clearly unsettled by her voice. Usually the warm baby smell of his neck made her feel calm and safe, but now it put her in mind of little Roy, and she returned him to his basket.

“You hear somethin' else over at the country club last night?” asked Mama, and from her expression, Missy could tell she had heard it too.

Missy nodded. Nathan's cries subsided into whimpering, but he stared up at her in confusion.

“That crazy talk,” said Mama. “Just sewage from dirty minds.” A pause. “What? You think Henry be Roy's daddy?”

“I don't know, Mama. I just don't know. He changed so much, since he been away.” She was due to meet him shortly at the beach, only now she wasn't sure if she wanted to. One thing she did not doubt was that he would give her the truth, whatever it was. That much she could count on.
What
if
I
don't want the truth?
“You really think…you think he didn't do…this?” Mama knew Henry better than she did.

But instead of answering, Mama picked a crimson hibiscus from the bush next to her chair. “One thing for certain, chile, you won't find out nothin' by sittin' on this porch.” She stuck the flower behind Missy's ear. “Now go on, he be waitin'.”

• • •

After Missy left, Mama lifted Nathan from his basket and rocked him back to sleep in her chair. Missy wanted the comfort of her certainty, but Mama had lived long enough to know that there was no such thing, not where people were concerned. Missy's life had been clearly bounded so far, with a rhythm as predictable as the tides. Mama bore the responsibility for that. After Leon and Billy had died, her only thought had been to keep Missy safe. Henry was not safe. He oozed anger from his skin. Something deep inside him had broken while he was away. Missy would have to decide for herself about Henry, damaged as he was. And there was nothing in the world, she thought, harder than that.

• • •

Henry was not at the beach when Missy arrived, although she was fifteen minutes late because she had dawdled on the way. She paced the sand, trying to come up with a way to ask the question. Now the time was upon her, it was more difficult than she had expected. It had seemed a lot easier that afternoon, when she decided that all she needed to do was ask him, straight up. Now she realized there was more at stake. His answer could change things between them, forever. Just as she had gotten used to the idea of him being back…it felt like her heart had been pulled up and down and around again since she first saw him on the Kincaids' lawn, only a few days before.

A dead crab washed up to her shoe, the pale pink shell almost translucent. When she was little, storms were a source of special excitement because the waves brought so many treasures onto the beach. The whole town went out the next day to scour the shoreline. They found chunks of mahogany, brass deck fittings, glass flagons, and once a fine leather satchel. She knew, as did everyone who combed the beaches, that every piece of booty had been fashioned by tragedy. Somewhere far out to sea, a ship had been broken by the wind and water. People had died, fast by drowning or slow, clinging to wreckage. Their belongings had made it to dry land, but they had not.

This evening, the beach was a sorry sight in the weak, watery light. Nothing interesting or valuable had washed up. The sand was littered with tattered palm fronds, assorted fishing floats, ragged coconuts. Parcels of dead fish, bound up in broken nets, jostled bits of splintered timber.

There was only one way to find out what she needed to know. “Just ask him,” she said aloud.

Outwardly, he had changed so much. The gaunt, scarred person beside her at the party looked like the older, sadder father of the man who she had seen off at the station, all those years ago. The things he had seen and done were beyond her imagination. How could a person not be changed by that? When she looked real close, into his eyes, there was still a flicker of the old Henry there. Weak it was, just a fragment of light, but still there. Just enough to give her hope.
Only
too
late
when
you
dead.
She had said that, and at the time, she really believed it. But now…

The waves brought more trash onto the beach in an ugly, oily rolling motion. They seemed to hang back, like they didn't want to get caught up in the twisted mess on the sand. It put her in mind of the conversation at the country club dinner. Marriage, it seemed to Missy, was just a lot of empty words, forgotten as soon as they were said. Married folks reserved the worst treatment for the one they had promised to cherish for life. Mr. Mason seemed to love his wife, but she only had eyes for Mr. Kincaid. Mr. Kincaid had a beautiful wife and child but seemed to care for neither. Doc Williams's wife had run off with their baby when he had only been back from the war a little while. And then there was Deputy Campbell and his wife, and their little brown baby. She prodded the crab with her foot. It rolled over to reveal its underside, eaten away by other creatures. Only the shell was intact.
That
all
bein' married is about, makin' things look good on the outside, while inside is just…empty. I'd rather be alone all my days.
She figured this was, on current evidence, exactly where she was headed.

Mr. LeJeune's words came back to her. She wasn't sure what he had meant by “additional measures,” but it could not be good for whoever got scooped up in Deputy Campbell's trawl through the camp.
That
could
be
Henry.
At the time, she had been too distracted by other thoughts to pay much attention, but now the importance of this registered like a slap, and worry joined the mass of feelings that swirled inside her. Mr. LeJeune's tone of voice and the glitter in his eye put her in mind of a rattlesnake. She had disturbed one once, in a pile of dead leaves beside the Kincaids' porch, and had only been saved by the swift strike of Lionel's shovel. The snake had the same look of malevolent purpose that she had seen on Mr. LeJeune's bandaged face last night.

She straightened the hibiscus behind her ear. Darkness cast its net over the sky. Lights twinkled along the shore. She scanned the beach in the direction of the camp, squinted to make out Henry's familiar shape against the dingy sand and cloud-colored sea. It was the hour when day turned to night, when the light played tricks on the eyes. A bluish-gray haze settled over the outlines of the palms. Early stars began to appear.

He was not there. He was not coming.

Part of her was not surprised.
What
did
I
expect?
Some things never changed. She felt foolish and tired and old. Her knees ached from scrubbing the Kincaids' floor. Her back ached from fetching Nathan every time he cried, which was often, as if he could sense something bad had happened. That Mrs. Henderson had arrived, all full of concern for Nathan and his father. Missy didn't trust her, any more than the other country club ladies, but Mr. Kincaid accepted her help with a shrug.

Part of her was relieved. For a little while longer, she did not have to face whatever truth Henry had to tell.

Another part of her was desperately, childishly disappointed, which was ridiculous. After all, they were just old friends, out for a stroll together. Nothing more.

She pulled the flower from her hair and tossed it into the restless water.

• • •

Out at the camp, Henry waited impatiently for darkness. He could easily imagine the names Missy was calling him about now and grinned to himself at the look she would have on her face, all surprised when he turned up.

It was too late for their planned walk on the beach. He would go straight to Mama's to find her. They could sit on the porch, do anything, he didn't care. At least the rain had stopped. Wisps of cloud crossed a shining sliver of new moon, which he took to be a sign.
I'm a lucky man. Not many people get a second chance.

When they had returned from the bridge site that afternoon, Trent had counted them all back, reminded them of the dire consequences of breaking curfew, and retired to his cabin for the evening. He had seemed even more bad-tempered than usual.

Henry and his boys were playing gin rummy by candlelight. The night sounds of the camp came to them through the open flap. Crickets sang to each other. Men cussed as they sloshed through puddles on the way to the latrine. From the drinkers in the mess hall, there was laughter. At least Trent hadn't decided to punish them by cutting off the beer. That, Henry knew, was likely to lead to mutiny. But for the time being, it seemed that everyone had heeded the curfew.

When it was finally dark enough, Lemuel dug out some sand from under the edge of the back side of the cabin. Henry wiggled out. He wore a black shirt borrowed from Franklin that had the advantages of being clean and rendering him almost invisible.

“Have fun, Son,” whispered Jeb, “and don't be late. You know how your mama worries.”

“Henry,” said Lemuel seriously. “
Walk
while
you
have
the
light, lest darkness come upon ye.
That's Job.”

“Um, okay. Thanks, Lemuel,” said Henry.

He slipped quietly up to the perimeter fence using the same stealth that had brought him so close to German lines that he could smell them before they knew he was there. Cutters taken from the bridge site made a hole in the fence. Once on the other side, he made for the road. All the tiredness left his body. His legs felt light and springy, the night air moist in his lungs. Coral crunched under his boots. The friendly moon smiled down at him.

He was home. He said the word aloud, quietly: “Home.” It felt good. His long dormant habit of planning had returned in full. The first order of business was to persuade Trent to fix up the camp so it was fit for humans. The latrines should be moved away from the swampy low ground that was forever drawing filth into the open. The cabins all leaked in the rain, the canvas rotted to the point where it was almost transparent in places. The cabins were never meant to stand up to conditions in the tropics. No amount of patching would fix the roofs. They had to get new ones. Better yet, some solid structures that would give real protection from the weather. They needed a hurricane shelter. They needed to hire Selma to oversee the cooking. He had made these points to Trent before, but with no result. Now he felt as if the power of his logic would just demolish any resistance.