“What if we can’t get off the island?” Rose asks, wishing she had an alcoholic beverage of some kind. Or at least a cup of coffee.
“If we can’t get off the island, we’ll go home.” He sounds slightly irritated. Or maybe that’s his worried tone.
“But what about the storm?” Rose asks.
He pauses. “We’ll manage.”
Rose’s worry intensifies. High winds. Storm surge. Katie.
“The last thing we need is for Katie to go into labor,” Rose says to Max.
He drums the steering wheel with his thumbs as if this thought hasn’t occurred to him. Meanwhile, the line of traffic moves like inchworms out for a leisurely stroll. The truck finally comes to a stop.
The truck idles. Ten minutes pass. People start to turn off their cars. Max puts on the parking brake, although the terrain is perfectly flat, and turns off the engine.
“I’m going to walk up there and see if I can see anything.”
“I’ll come, too,” Rose says.
Windows down, they get out of the car, telling Lucy and Ethel to stay. They drool their disappointment. Then Rose walks back to tell Spud and Queenie what they are about to do.
“Catching another ride?” Queenie asks when Rose shows up at the window. Despite her joke, she looks concerned.
“We’re going to walk up ahead and see what we can find out,” Rose says.
“It be too late for that,” Old Sally says, looking toward the horizon as if seeing the future. She appears both diminutive and formidable.
“You know something you aren’t telling us, Mama?” Queenie asks from the back.
“Just that we be staying here on this island, storm or no storm.”
Rose and Queenie trade looks. Neither are willing to question her.
“Well, we might as well stretch our legs anyway since we’re stuck in this line,” Rose says.
Everyone mills around among the long line of parked cars. The only person in their makeshift caravan who is still in the vehicle is Old Sally. Violet joins Rose to go check out what is up ahead. They have barely talked since the evacuation began. As they walk, the warm breeze coming off the ocean has a sudden chill to it. Rose zips up her light jacket as though her mother—in the form of Hurricane Iris—has suddenly brushed against her.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Violet
During the evacuation, the lane coming onto the island is closed, and they walk down that side of the road. Violet holds her left shoulder, questioning its silence. This has never happened before when she has wished her shoulder would give her a sign.
The air is filled with the smell of salt marsh. A pungent mixture of land and sea that makes Violet’s nose itch. The marsh creates an ecosystem unique to this area. The salt marshes are regularly flooded with seawater during high tide, servicing the clams, mussels, and snails, as well as various fish that come and go with the waves. Fiddler crabs, ghost crabs, and blue crabs feed on the bacteria in the muds, creating a feast for the seagulls, snowy egrets, and great blue herons. A banquet put on every day by nature.
Along the edges of the marsh are salt-stunted oaks, a few loblolly pines, and scrubby saw palmettos. At low tide, the water gives way to pluff mud and seven-foot-tall spartina grass. But water is coming in with the tide, and all that mud will soon disappear. Later the sea will shift again and call her salty presence home.
Rose points and Violet turns to look. A giant egret flies by on ghostly white wings, its coarse call spreading the word of something coming.
Meanwhile, Violet nods a greeting to people standing by their cars as they wait for the limbo to lift.
“I never noticed what an interesting mixture of people live on this island,” Rose says.
Violet agrees. “The diversity is one of the things I love about living here,” she begins. “As many blacks as whites. As many rich people as poor and everything in between,” she continues. “All ages, too, ranging from newborns to Old Sally, the only centenarian on Dolphin Island.”
“It has a totally different feeling to it than Savannah,” Rose says. “I love living here.”
“I love that you love it,” Violet says, as they lock arms.
Violet’s Gullah ancestors settled this island and named it after the dolphins living in the waters off the coast. White masters didn’t want to put up with the mosquitos, the heat, or being so far away from the luxuries of civilization, so they let the Gullah people live here mostly undisturbed. Her ancestors made their own fishing nets, wove sweetgrass baskets, made their own clothes. Grew indigo, sugarcane, and rice, as well as all sorts of vegetables.
Many of the stories that Old Sally has shared with Violet include Gullah superstitions and the use of folk magic—potions and spells—to protect and heal. She wonders how much Gullah history Rose knows. Someday she will tell her, and maybe the island will come even more alive for her, too.
Without the occasional streetlight, they would have trouble seeing along this stretch. The island didn’t have electricity until Old Sally was a grown woman. She told Violet stories about how strange it was to have a light bulb that lit a room instead of a lantern. Her mother and grandmother sometimes stared at the bare bulb in the evenings like they were witnessing someone walk on water. Miss Temple took pride in the fact that the Temples were the first family in Savannah to get electricity. It came to the island years after that.
An orange traffic cone is placed in the middle of the road where Max has stopped, giving Violet and Rose time to catch up. They unlock arms. On the edge of the marsh, a tree has fallen across the road, bringing down a power line with it. A sheriff’s deputy is on his radio. When he finishes, Max asks him how long it will be before the road is passable again.
“Two hours,” the deputy says. He is a young black man who Violet doesn’t recognize. His uniform is perfectly pressed. He is someone who takes pride in his appearance.
Max thanks him. “We might as well go home and try again later,” Max says to Violet and Rose.
“We can’t evacuate?” Violet asks, aware that Old Sally already predicted this.
“Not for at least two hours,” Max says.
Violet looks at Rose. Are they thinking the same thing? There is no other way off Dolphin Island. For years, islanders petitioned for a second bridge so what happened up the coast on Sullivan’s Island and Isle of Palms during Hugo didn’t happen here, too. But government funds are slow to come to this part of the country.
Walking back to the car, people ask them what they found out. “Two hours,” Violet says.
Various moans come from the cars, and engines start. Exhaust fumes mingle with the smell of the salt marsh, making Violet feel a tad nauseous.
“Let’s go home,” Violet tells Queenie and Spud. “A tree and a downed power line are blocking the road. They hope to have it cleared in a couple of hours.”
“Sweet Jesus,” Queenie says, her eyes wide. “Does that mean we can’t leave the island?”
Violet reassures her that everything will be fine, though at this moment, she has doubts.
“What does your shoulder say?” Queenie asks Violet, as though consulting an oracle.
Violet gives Queenie a quick shrug. “Nothing to report.”
Queenie exhales as though this is good news.
Cars begin making three-point turns, which Violet practiced here on the island before getting her driver’s license and has never used. She is relieved that it is Jack who turns the car around, not her, as they head back toward home. Now the traffic jam faces the other direction. She doesn’t often view their island at such a slow pace. It is interesting to note how things haven’t changed much since she was a girl and rode the school bus to the mainland and observed her world.
The main intersection on the island contains a convenience store that also houses a tiny post office in one corner, as well as a back wall that carries beach balls, flip-flops, and T-shirts with dolphin island written on the front and either a dolphin or a lighthouse on the bac
k. A seafood restaurant called Dolphin Shrimp is next door and is only open from Memorial Day to Labor Day. Alongside the restaurant is a gas station with two pumps that are currently out of gas. Violet goes to Savannah for groceries, gas, and the post office, as most islanders do.
Back at the house, they gather again to talk about Plan B. It feels anticlimactic to be here.
“Do we try again?” she asks Jack.
“Two hours was probably a best-case scenario,” Jack says. “I’d be surprised if they get that mess untangled by morning.”
Max agrees.
“But isn’t the storm supposed to make landfall before then?” Queenie asks, holding onto Spud’s arm.
No one answers.
Violet turns to Old Sally. Every time Violet looks at her, she seems smaller somehow, and older.
“That storm be the least of our worries,” Old Sally says.
A moment later Katie lets out a loud moan, doubling over from the pain.
A flash of panic crosses Angela’s face, and Rose steps to Katie’s side. Meanwhile, Katie looks down at her belly as though an alien is about to burst out of her skin.
“Maybe it’s false labor pains,” Violet says, purposely sounding calm. “I had those a lot with Tia.”
Katie looks instantly relieved, as does Rose, and the relief passes to Angela.
“That’s what it is,” Angela says, giving a convincing look to Katie. Nobody mentions the fact that they couldn’t get off the island if they wanted to. Not to a hospital or a birthing unit. It is a time to stay calm and endure.
“Heaven help us if that sweet baby comes during a hurricane,” Queenie says.
“We’ll be fine,” Violet says, turning toward Queenie, her expression relaying the message to not alarm Katie and Angela. It is Violet’s opinion that babies need to come into this world with love surrounding them, not fear, and the concern in the room is growing.
How people enter and leave this life fascinates Violet. Old Sally calls it a threshold. She regrets she missed Miss Temple’s passing. She would have liked to be a part of Old Sally helping Miss Temple transition. Old Sally describes herself as a midwife for the dying. Perhaps she can be one for the living, too, and deliver this baby if it decides to come.
Violet remembers the bluebird on the rocker. A sign that company was coming. At first, Violet thought the bird was announcing Heather. But could it have been announcing the baby, too?
Katie rubs her belly, Harpo at her feet looking up. At least if they are real labor pains, they aren’t close together yet. Hopefully, the road to the mainland will be open soon.
Violet catches Old Sally watching her, perhaps reading the tea leaves of her mind.
What? Violet asks her. Their unspoken conversations are a kind of underground railroad. Thoughts safely transported to their destination.
We must keep everyone calm, Old Sally answers.
How do we do that? Violet says.
We be examples, Old Sally says.
Whether a baby is coming or a hurricane—or both—they are in for a long night.
“Anybody hungry?” Violet asks.
The response is animated.
Violet unpacks the sandwiches she made before they left to eat when they reached the motel. They forego formality and eat standing at the island in the kitchen.
After they finish their sandwiches, Old Sally suggests that everyone get some rest, even though it is only eight o’clock. Tia and Leisha look at their mom, questioning if this could possibly pertain to them, too. The thought of going to bed now doesn’t appeal to Violet, either, but she knows Old Sally is right. If the storm is coming at three or four, it would be nice to have slept some before the night gets interesting. Violet yawns with the knowledge that her body could actually use the rest. It has been an unusually busy weekend.
Meanwhile, Old Sally is already in her bedroom. Whatever is coming, she appears to know she needs her full energy. Violet trusts she is right. Others leave, thanking Violet for the sandwiches. Finally, it is only Violet, Queenie, and Spud in the kitchen.
“There’s no way I could sleep now,” Queenie says. “Anybody up for a game of Twister in honor of the hurricane?”
Spud laughs. “How about a game of Hearts in the bedroom?” he suggests with a wink.
With this storm on the way, Violet has forgotten that there are newlyweds in the house. She kisses each of them on the cheek as they say their goodnights and go upstairs.
Left alone in the quiet house, Violet washes and dries the last of the dishes and puts them away. This is her favorite time of day, the hour before bedtime when she can look back and see what she accomplished that day. But this hasn’t been an ordinary day.
Being turned away at the bridge was distressing, knowing that they are trapped on the island. At least temporarily. Then Katie’s false or possibly real labor pains. Violet can’t imagine what is to come. A sudden gust of wind rattles the shutters as if to confirm that the night has only just begun.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Queenie
Queenie watches in disbelief as Spud puts on his pajamas and gets in bed like it is any other night.
“How in the world can you think of sleeping with Iris rattling our windows?” Queenie asks.
“Old Sally is right to tell us to get some rest,” he says. “It’s going to be a long night.”
“This is not how I thought I’d be spending my honeymoon,” Queenie says, a pout threatening to form.
“Come lay down next to me, Buttercup.” Spud opens the covers and pats the bed.
“Where in heaven are you getting these names?” Queenie asks. “Is there a book somewhere called Lame Nicknames to Call the Woman You Love?”
As soon as she hears the words, Queenie regrets saying them. Queenie doesn’t know much about relationships, but it seems that apologies are a big part of them. She tells Spud she’s sorry. Sarcasm has never looked good on her. In fact, she has never known anyone it looked good on. Iris Temple perfected it to the point that she could cut you wide open with a few choice words, leaving you to bleed out on one of the Oriental carpets, the blood not even clashing with the design.
During the thirty-five years Queenie lived with Iris, there were a million things done to Queenie that would have warranted an apology. The correcting. The criticizing. The condescending looks. Sometimes downright meanness. Scheduling events on Queenie’s birthday so Queenie couldn’t take a day off. Making Queenie take multiple trips to the bank or post office on any given day, instead of letting her combine trips. The fact of the matter was that Iris Temple loved ordering people around.
But she would never have apologized even if her life depended on it, Queenie thinks.
It takes a certain amount of humility to know that you can be wrong about things or to admit that you can hurt people, even if you don’t mean to. Iris, however, seemed to enjoy gutting people on occasion. Nothing accidental about it.
Spud accepts Queenie’s apology, and they kiss. Love at sixty is the best kind of love. No time to waste or take things for granted. And who cares if they don’t have the bodies of twenty-year-olds. The biggest surprise is how much passion Queenie stored up for so long. Thankfully, Spud doesn’t seem to mind making up for all those years they weren’t together.
Queenie remembers the weekly trips she took with Iris to the Piggly Wiggly where Spud worked. She not only judged that book by its cover, but she put him in the wrong section of the library, too. A section called Not Interested.
Boy was I wrong, Queenie thinks.
They kiss again. When Spud unhooks her plus-size bra to view what he calls her “chocolate truffles,” she gets a hot flash unlike any before. The heat forces her to rush to the balcony and step outside, but not before grabbing the light robe on the back of her chair to cover her nakedness. The warm breeze greets her, and Queenie fans the flames prickling up her arms and neck.
Spud steps out onto the balcony with her, his pajama top blowing in the wind and revealing his pa
le chest, her kimono revealing a glimpse of her untethered breasts. A photo opportunity for the cover of a geriatric, interracial romance novel if ever there was one. Queenie silently scolds herself for comparing him to Denzel in a moment like this. Who cares if the man of her dreams is a different color? It is what’s in his heart that matters.
“You okay, honey bun?” Spud asks.
“I can’t believe how riled up I am over this storm,” Queenie says, fanning herself with both hands. “Can you believe the day after our wedding we are dealing with a hurricane? A hurricane with the same name as your ex-girlfriend and my deceased half sister?”
Queenie knows she is bringing up Iris and this storm a lot, but she can’t seem to get over the coincidence of it. If Iris somehow found a way to transform from a ghost into a natural disaster to destroy Queenie’s life she would do it.
“Don’t panic,” Spud says.
“I’m not panicking,” Queenie answers. Heat climbs up her face and neck, and she bites her lip.
A gust of wind grabs at her robe and the porch light illuminates the dune grasses swaying in the breeze. A figure in white stands on the walkway below.
Is that Iris’s ghost visiting to rub it in? Queenie wonders.
She has no patience for apparitions at this moment. Real or imagined. She retrieves her glasses from the pocket of her robe and puts them on, letting her vision focus. Thankfully, it isn’t a ghost after all. It is Old Sally standing on the walkway, looking out at the dark sea. Her long white nightgown blows in the wind, as well as the shawl that is wrapped around her shoulders, giving her an ethereal look. No wonder Queenie thought she was a ghost.
“Mama?” Queenie calls from the balcony, but Old Sally doesn’t hear her.
“What’s she doing?” Spud asks Queenie.
“Standing on the walkway looking out at the ocean,” Queenie says. “I doubt she can see a thing.”
“Maybe she’s listening,” Spud says. “Should I go check on her?”
Gullah Secrets Page 15