“I, uh, I thought you might like to look at my journal. I mean, you said it was like my homework.”
Her smile widened with pleasure. “Of course! Good for you, Jake.” She patted the chair beside her. “Okay then,” she said, reaching out. “Let’s see what you’ve discovered.”
I handed Honey my notebook, then sat beside her, leaning far forward so I could see what page she was looking at. I licked my lips and wiggled my foot.
“Well, lookee here,” Honey marveled. “You’ve done a fine job drawing the dock and the ferry.” She turned the page. “And the golf cart!” She flipped through a few more pages. “Here we are at the critters. An owl and a deer. I’m partial to these. Oh, and an ant.”
“A black ant,” I said.
“Yes, thank heavens. Those big ones are carpenter ants. It’s the little red ones that bite something fierce.” She pointed to the green lizard. “And an anole.”
“Is that what you call it?” I asked.
“The devil is in the details,” she said. “This one’s green. Likely an anole.”
She looked at me with pride. “I’m so pleased you saw fit to include the drawings in your journal. Well done, Jake.”
I felt my chest expand, eager to draw some more.
“My dad’s drawings in his journal are really good.”
“Yes, they are. You inherited his talent.”
I loved hearing the comparison to my father but found it hard to believe. I pushed my hair back. “I don’t know about that. I mean, he’s really good.”
“True. He practiced a lot.” She tilted her head. “Do you draw often?”
I shrugged. “Sometimes.”
“The more you draw, the better your skills will become. Your father never went out without his journal with him. He used to say he never knew what he’d find.” She smiled at the memory. Then looked at me again. “Think of all the opportunities you’ll have to practice with all the new species you’ll find here on the island.”
I brightened at the prospect.
“And, if you don’t mind me suggesting, you might look up the species and add important details to your journal. That’s what a true explorer does. He or she records the details of the discoveries.”
I thought of my dad’s journal and all his notes he’d written on the pages.
“For example,” Honey continued, “when you drew this bird, did you know what kind of bird it was?”
I shook my head. “But I found this nearby. I think it’s one of their feathers.” I handed her the bird feather.
She examined it thoughtfully. “Yes, that’s a good start.”
With a sudden burst of energy, Honey set her book down, handed me my notebook, and rose from her chair, gesturing for me to follow. She was like a dog on a hunt as she prowled one bookshelf to another. When she pulled out three books, we went to the wood table. Honey’s eyes were gleaming as she sat back down. She motioned me closer.
“Now, Jake, you know there are all kinds of birds, countless sizes, shapes, and colors. It can get confusing to figure out what kind of bird you’re looking to identify. But there are tricks to use when you begin your search in your guidebooks. After doing this awhile, you’ll have a favorite book.” She tapped the one in front of her. “This one’s mine. The first thing I ask myself is where I saw the bird. In a tree? On the beach? Or in a marsh or pond?”
“A pond.”
“Then it’s a water bird. Was it floating or standing around?”
“It was standing. It had long black legs.”
“Good detail,” she said as she wrote down the information. “Now, what about its size? Big or little.”
“Big,” I answered, and moved my hand to show her how tall the bird was.
“About three feet,” she said as she wrote down the detail. “Now tell me all the details you can remember about this bird. Its color, eyes, and especially its head. Anything unusual?”
I had to think a minute, recalling the tall white bird. “When I saw it fly up to the tree, I remember it had black on the wings. And,” I added with excitement, “it had the weirdest head. There were no feathers on it. It was bald, real scaly. And it had this long beak.” I gestured to show how long.
“Good details.” She looked again at the notebook. “What color was the beak?”
I scratched my head. “Sorry, I can’t remember.”
“That’s okay. You gave us a lot to work with. Now comes the fun part.” She wiggled her eyebrows. “The hunt!”
Honey’s fingers paged through the book. I could see she was having a good time.
“Here!” she exclaimed, moving so I could get closer. “Given your fine details, we have a couple of choices to consider.”
She pointed to one bird. “This is the ibis. Let’s check it against our list.” She read out of the book. “It’s a white wading bird. Check. It has black tips on the wings. Check. Look at the beak. It’s curved and red.” She looked up at me. “Could it be an ibis?”
I shook my head. “No. It’s too small. And I think the bird I saw had a black beak.”
“The color and shape of the beak are important details.” Honey flipped through more pages before stopping and pointing at another bird. “How about an egret? It’s a white bird. And it’s a wader. And it has a black beak.”
I shook my head again. “The birds I saw were bigger. And the head’s wrong. The egret has feathers on its head. And that bird doesn’t have any black on the wings.”
“Right. You have a good eye. This bird is a snowy egret. You say it’s bigger. Hmmm. I wonder…” She turned a few pages and pointed. “Is this it?”
I immediately recognized the large white bird with the long legs and bald, scaly head and neck. I felt the thrill of discovery. “Yes, that’s it!”
Honey grinned. “You saw a wood stork. You can’t mistake those. They’re easy to tell apart by their size and their bald heads. Though, note how the black beak curves, more like the ibis. You were right about how they roost in flocks in trees by the water.” She once again picked up the long feather.
“I’m old enough to remember when the wood storks mostly lived in Florida and were put on the endangered species list. That was back in the 1980s, when your daddy was born. Then they began to show up more and more in South Carolina. Now just in the time your daddy’s been alive, wood storks are off the endangered species list. That’s something, isn’t it? Though they’re still considered threatened. We’re lucky to have such a good population right here on Dewees Island.” She returned the feather and patted my cheek.
“I’m right proud of you, Jake. You’re on your way to becoming a naturalist, every bit as good as your dad. And you know what? I don’t know when I’ve had such a good time. I like to say, find what you’re good at and have fun with it! You’re mighty good at drawing. So have fun, Jake.”
I smiled back, pleased for the compliment, but more, because Honey was happy.
We spent the evening together with Honey teaching me how to identify a bird by its size and shape, color and habitat, or where it lived. This was the Honey I remembered, someone who was curious about life, always ready to explore. Someone who knew a lot about nature. Now the books bonded us rather than dividing us.
Later that night I lay on my bed with my hands behind my head. I stared out the big, round window at the night sky. There were no city lights to block the stars. They shone bright in a sky as black as the tip of the wood stork’s wing.
I wondered why my mom hadn’t called yet. Did that mean good news or bad news? If I had my cell phone, I could flood Mom’s phone with text messages. My breath hitched. Mom didn’t know I’d lost my phone! Maybe she’d been trying to call me. But she had Honey’s phone number too. I sighed. Mom hadn’t tried to call Honey, either.
How is my dad? I wondered. I wanted to tell him I was reading his journal. That I was trying to be like him. I wanted to hear his voice.
I started getting teary-eyed, so I sat up and went to the small wooden desk in t
he corner. I pulled out my journal. I had a long way to go to fill it up with words and drawings like my dad’s. But the pages were no longer blank. They were beginning to fill with the drawings and details about the animals I’d drawn. I felt the weight of it in my hands. This was my life. My observations. A diary of my days. This journal was important to me.
Honey suggested I write about my day too. Not just what I saw, but how the things I did or saw made me feel.
Easier said than done. But I tried. I wrote down a few sentences, then stopped, bored I wasn’t so good at writing my thoughts and feelings.
In my dad’s journal he wrote when he felt lonely or happy. He described things he did with his pal Red. Reading his words, I felt like he was talking to me. Like I knew him better.
When I looked at what I wrote, it seemed so… school-like. I went to the Nature Center. I got water The cart broke down. I was telling facts, not sharing my feelings. I scratched out the words. How could I make my words mean something? How could I write like my dad?
Then the idea hit me. I could write to my dad.
I tore a fresh page out of the notebook, smoothed it on my desk, took a deep breath, and imagined my dad’s face. The way he smiled. Smiling back, I began to write.
Dear Dad,
I miss you. Mom too. A lot!
Honey gave me summer homework. Can you believe that? At first I was mad, but it turned out to be okay. She gave me a notebook and told me it was my journal. I had to draw and write in it all about the things I saw and did on the island. Just like you did when you were a kid. Honey gave me your old journal. I hope that’s okay with you. I’m reading it and it’s really good. I like hearing what you had to say. It makes me feel like you’re here, talking to me.
Today, I tried to draw these huge white birds I saw in the lagoon. They had scaly heads that reminded me of dinosaurs. Or maybe even a dragon. Can you guess the creature? A wood stork!
But Dad, it’s weird here with no Wi-Fi. Or a cell phone (don’t ask). Not even decent TV. How did you stand it?
I met two kids here. I was worried I’d be the only one on the island. They’re both about my age. Macon is from Atlanta. He’s real smart and big. I think he’s rich, too. Then there’s Lovie. She lives on the Isle of Palms. She drives a boat over here all by herself! I gotta learn how to do that too. Honey said all I must do is pass a test. But guess what? I know how to drive a golf cart!
That’s about it. Tell Mom to call. Honey’s worried about you. She tries to act normal, but I can tell it’s fake. I know how she feels. I’m worried too.
I love you, Dad!
Your son,
Jake
CHAPTER 8
The Phone Call
Look on the bright side of things.
I WAS GETTING USED TO my routine. Each morning I rose, dressed, and showed up for breakfast. Honey was doing better with routine too. She didn’t appear in her pajamas anymore. She was dressed in time for her first cup of coffee. I hopped on the golf cart by 0800 hours—that’s military time for eight a.m.—to get my chores done. By the time I finished, it would already be sunny. And hot.
I was getting to know my way around the island pretty well now. Most mornings, Macon, Lovie, and I liked to drive our carts to the Nature Center. It was kind of our hangout. Inside, the walls and furniture were all wood and the ceiling was arched high, with big whirling fans. All over the walls were maps of the island, posters about plants, ocean life, and wildflowers, and photographs of the island’s history.
Best of all were the glass cases that displayed all kinds of weird things like snakeskins, real turtle shells, and rare seashells. There was also a glass tank with a real, live diamondback terrapin. We named the turtle Pirate because we learned it lives in salty water. It used its webbed feet to swim up to the glass, revealing grayish white skin with a black speckled patterned.
“Come look at this,” Macon called out.
He was standing in front of one of the glass exhibits. Macon was pointing at one that had animal skulls of different sizes.
“Skulls. Cool.”
He read from the sign. “Eyes in front, likes to hunt. Eyes on the side, likes to hide.” He looked up and grinned. “That’s easy to remember.”
“Has a ring to it,” I teased.
Lovie pointed. “Look at that gator skull. Total predator. Its eye sockets are facing forward.” She leaned in to look at another skull. “And this one is a deer. See? Its eyes are on the side. It likes to hide.”
“It’s the fight-or-flight instinct,” Macon said.
I remembered the deer and fawn I saw from the cart and how they jumped away when I was near. I went to my backpack and pulled out my journal, then returned to set it on the glass. I wrote down the phrase and began to sketch the two skulls. Macon and Lovie crowded around me.
“What are you doing?” Macon asked.
“I’m drawing in my journal.”
They watched as the two skulls took shape in my notebook. I felt nervous, remembering how I’d been teased about my drawing before. I’d feel bad if my new friends teased me too. But I remembered Honey telling me I was good at drawing. What was I afraid of, anyway?
“Hey, bro,” Macon said over my shoulder.
My stomach tightened. “What?”
“You’re pretty good.”
I tried to hide my smile. “Thanks.”
Lovie leaned over, watching. “Looks like you have a lot of drawings in there.”
“Yeah. Honey told me to put things I learn about in this notebook. Like my dad used to do. He has this journal with all sorts of cool facts.” I glanced at Macon, knowing he would appreciate that. “She’s teaching me to be a naturalist.”
“Ooh, you’re lucky,” Lovie sighed. “Your grandmother knows more about nature than most anyone on the island. Least that’s what my Aunt Sissy says.”
“You mean, she gave you homework… during summer break?” Macon asked. He made an exaggerated gagging sound.
“Pretty lame,” I replied, finishing my drawing. I looked up at my friends. It was hard to explain what I was feeling.
“It doesn’t feel like homework,” I began. “I mean, it did when she told me I had to do it.” I snorted. “Of course. But… once I started doing it, I got into it. See, when I got here, I didn’t know as much about nature as you two. I admit, I was kind of jealous. So every day I go out and explore. I draw and write things I see in my notebook. I’m real careful because Honey said the details are the most telling when we try to identify them later. Honey and I look up what I found in her books. I’m going to learn the names of the birds, plants, trees, critters—all kinds of things here on Dewees. I think it’ll make me feel more at home here. And not afraid, because, well, everything isn’t strange anymore.” I returned to my sketching. “Plus, it makes Honey happy.”
Macon shrugged. “Yeah, I guess it’s not like homework.” He leaned closer. “Can I give it a try? I’m pretty good at drawing too.”
I shrugged and handed him my pencil. Macon pulled over a chair and bent over my notebook. Lovie and I watched as Macon began to draw Pirate, the terrapin. He wasn’t kidding. Macon could really draw!
“There,” Macon said, and handed the pencil back to me. “What do you think?”
“And you did that in, like, what, a minute?” I asked.
“Well, I took classes. In Boy Scouts,” Macon explained.
“I can’t draw,” Lovie said with a shrug of the shoulders.
“But you’re great at observing,” I told her. “Maybe you can help me identify the names of these things I found today.”
She brightened. “Sure!”
I emptied my backpack on the table.
“Nice shells,” Lovie said, and immediately began sorting them. “This white long one with a curly edge is called an angel’s wing,” she said in her know-it-all voice.
“Because it looks like an angel wing,” Macon said.
I replied, “I knew that.”
Lovie said, �
�But did you know it’s good luck when you find one with the pair of wings still together?”
“Well, my family needs plenty of that right now,” I said.
Macon laughed. “Lovie, you totally made that up!”
“Did not!”
We spent the next hour working together on my journal. Macon drew the shells I’d collected while Lovie and I scanned the wall posters and a few books to identify them.
By the time it was time to head home, Macon and Lovie decided that they were going to begin journals too.
* * *
When I returned home to the Bird’s Nest, I parked the golf cart, plugged it in, then climbed the steps two by two to the front door. With a full water jug in one hand and Honey’s mail tucked under my arm, I pushed open the door and hollered, “I’m back!”
Honey wasn’t in the living room. Dirty dishes sat on the stove and in the sink.
Uh-oh, I thought.
“Honey?” I called out as I walked through the living room. I heard her voice, but it sounded like she was talking on the phone. Her bedroom door was open a crack. Peeking in, I saw her sitting on her bed. It was no surprise that her room was also a mess. Clothes hung over the chair, and her dresser was covered with stuff. None of that mattered, however. Her face looked very serious.
I quietly walked around her unmade bed to face her. Seeing me, she lifted a finger for me to wait. Her eyes were red and filled with tears.
“Yes, I understand,” she said into the phone. “Jake is here now. I’ll put him on.” Honey looked at me and gave me a watery smile. “It’s your mother,” she said in a shaky voice.
I took a breath and felt suddenly afraid. Whatever my mom was going to tell me wasn’t good news, or why would Honey be crying?
“Mom?”
“Hi, sweet boy.”
A rush of emotion filled me at hearing her voice again.
“How are you?” she asked.
“Good.” I clutched the phone so tight in my hand, it hurt.
“Jake, I’m going to ask you to be real strong.”
“What’s wrong? Is Dad okay?”
The Islanders Page 5