Muddy Waters

by Ellis Quinn

  “You will,” he said near her ear.

  Then he hugged Pris, standing and sniffling, not crying, but his eye whites had gone pinky. “We’ll see you,” he said, choked up, gave them a brief and timid wave before putting his hands in his pockets and shuffling around the front of his pickup truck and getting in the driver side.

  Truck started up, loud rumbling that had her worrying if the truck was roadworthy enough to make it up to Delaware (just let them be, Bette) and she and Pris went to the side window to wave.

  They kept waving while the truck rolled out of the big gravel drive, Sam giving a brief double honk to say farewell, still waving then as the truck headed down her drive and was swallowed in the colonnade of yellowing trees.

  They stood waving even when there was no one left to wave to. And slowly their hands went to their sides and they stood quiet a moment.

  Prissy said, “You want to go to Cherry’s, grab some coffee?”

  Bette said, “I’ll get my coat.”

  Epilogue 1

  OCTOBER 25

  Scarlet Whaley’s favorite flower was the black-eyed Susan, and on the passenger seat of her Bronco lay a bouquet of them, handpicked from the garden at Fortune, tied in a neat bundle with a fuzzy red string. Her stomach and heart sank with heavy uncertainty.

  Her destination was Hickory Point, a narrow extension of land running into the Bay off the north crescent of Duck’s Head Cove, a twenty-minute drive south of Chesapeake Cove, passing over the Black Creek Bridge that spanned the gap between the chain of islands that made up the lower ridge of Blackwater.

  It was a barren and treeless expanse, and she drove slowly on the narrow two-way asphalt that wove in snaky swoops through the browning grass and granite boulders. Most of Hickory Island were farms, farms close to the water where families could combine agriculture and crabs and oysters to meet their existence. She hadn’t been to Hickory Island in almost thirty years.

  Now ahead, the awful, signifying landmark: a red brick square with a tall green spire. She held her breath, coasting now.

  She pulled off the side of the road, driving over the rough, grassy terrain before stopping. Buster jumped up, eager to see where she’d brought him. She looked out the window and sighed, staring at the Hickory Methodist Episcopal Church. Historic, but long abandoned, a hundreds-year-old church with a limestone gable front above the front door and a tall belfry with an octagonal dome and copper-covered spire reaching up from the roof to the mottled gray sky.

  Next to the church was a cemetery held inside the perimeter of uneven and incomplete wrought iron fencing. The tombstones there were simple stone, blackened with age and pitted by rain. None of the dates of death were newer than 1875. But it wasn’t the cemetery she came to see.

  She clicked open the Bronco door and stepped down to the grass, leaned back in to retrieve the bouquet. Flowers held against her chest, she went to the rear and opened the Bronco’s barn gate door to let out Buster.

  He jumped down and trotted through the leaned-over dead grass. Today was frigid and gray, but she walked in a patch of weak sunlight that cast a faded shadow around her feet as her boots crunched over rock and hard ground, and she waded then through waist-high grass the color of chewing tobacco. Ahead was the Bay, or more accurately, Duck’s Head Cove. The shore here was rocky, no sandy beach, just grass meeting limestone rock, charcoal waves crashing against the rock in dancing arrows of pale green foam.

  Buster stayed close to her, heading in her direction but exploring around her in a clockwise circle, nose to the ground, tail curled up and wagging. When they came to the rock, he joined her and they stood for a while staring out at the waves. It was a desolate spot. No boats on the Bay, either, and no traffic on the abandoned island.

  She looked to the sky and drew in a shaky breath, and allowed sadness that she pushed away every day of her life to seep from her pores.

  You thought it was a puzzle why you’re always ready to fly off the handle?

  It’d be easy to trace back her life from the point where she was at now through vectors and milestones of bad choices. Things she’d done wrong, mistakes she’d made. She held all that inside her for so long, wrapped tightly together, black rocks of regret wrapped in bundles of burlap and tied tight with bright-colored ribbon to make it all seem presentable. In the last year it’d all come loose, and now being home in Chesapeake Cove was like starting over. But she’d come here acting like she’d run away because she’d just been a surly teenager who got swept off her feet by a handsome guy from the big city. Sure, in retrospect, one could say that that was one of those mistaken milestones. But without Roman Waters there would be no Vance Whaley-Waters. And that was the best thing she had. The best thing she’d done since she left Chesapeake Cove.

  In the last year, her seams were splitting, the pressure inside raising to gargantuan proportions that she could no longer contain. Those black rocks inside the burlap stretching and expanding, the burlap tearing.

  And you wonder why you fly off the handle.

  She approached the shore, careful not to twist an ankle on the jagged rocks, advising Buster to do the same. “Careful, buddy, these rocks are jagged.”

  She looked to the left, and out to the right, situating herself in the exact spot, and then she knelt, plucked one of the black-eyed Susan’s from the bundle, held it up and twirled it, watched the pale sunlight rim the edges of the deep yellow petals. She tossed the flower in a lull in the breeze, watched it fall without a sound into the Bay. A wave dashed up, and the flower was gone. Gone like her mother.

  She smiled now, thinking of better times when Scarlet Whaley was alive. She stood then, reached down to pat Buster’s shoulder, saying, “This was the last place I saw her, Buster. The last place I saw my mom.”

  Though Scarlet Whaley hadn’t been alive, this was the last place she’d seen her.

  When the wind died down again, she plucked one end of the fuzzy red string, and let loose the bundle of flowers with both hands, stepping one boot forward and thrusting them to scatter into the Bay in a kaleidoscope of fluttering yellows.

  Then she stood with hands in the pockets of her long woolen coat and watched as within three pulses of waves the flowers were swallowed by the Bay.

  She stood a long while, then brushed at her eyes with a calfskin glove knuckle, said to Buster, “Come on, buddy, it’s time to get going,” and they headed back to the Bronco.

  Epilogue 2

  MIDNIGHT ON HALLOWEEN

  The hardest part was trundling her heavy beach cruiser bike up Haunted Hill. Sure, she could’ve hoisted the bike into the Bronco and driven around to the Ninth Line and parked somewhere on top of the hill. Would’ve preserved energy, essential energy she needed to store for maximum efficacy in tonight’s challenge. But the truth was, tonight she didn’t care about winning. She’d won a week ago when she realized the prize wasn’t winning the Haunted Hill Ghost Slalom, but having the privilege, the gift, of time to take part in this old ritual. So instead she’d walked her bike most of the way here, happy Buster at her side, chasing into the surf and jumping chest first into the waves.

  Buster Crab wore his bright blaze orange vest, one she’d bought for him at the hunt shop. High visibility, reflective racing stripes down the side; he also wore a reflective collar with a blinking light on it. She was also adorned with safety in mind. Though dressed all in black, she still shrugged her arms into a blaze orange vest with a reflective X on the front and the back. She was a rebellious teenager no longer, now a woman who recognized running a ghost slalom in the middle of Halloween night was still a fun thing to do, but for crying out loud, you must be responsible.

  Buster trotted happily at her side up the hill. Halloween was over, most of the pumpkins brought in, all the candy put away. All the children had eaten their bounty—at least what their parents afforded them before hiding the rest away—and they were in bed, maybe staring at the ceiling buzzing from too much sugar. But the houses she passed still bore th
eir spooky decorations. Fake tombstones in front lawns, ghosts hanging from trees. All Hallows Eve was truly a peculiar night, and when you’re seventeen and your imagination ran wild, creeping around at midnight seemed outrageous. Only, it was still outrageous.

  She chuckled to herself, cresting the top of Haunted Hill, leaving her cruiser bike against a white picket fence, clapping her hands together for warmth and waiting for her competition to arrive. She pulled forward her mask, a teeth-baring skull, grinning with frightfully angry eyes, two flashing red LEDs as pupils. But her eyes peeked out above those lights, scanning for her friend’s arrival.

  Soon he came into view, the sound of rubber on gravel before she ever saw him. Her heart skipped a beat, and she bounced on her toes. “He’s coming, Buster.”

  And here he was, another frightening specter, more frightening than her own visage. A large-framed man pumping pedals on a mountain bike, tattered black fabric hanging off him and fluttering behind. Under the cowl of his black hood, a frightful mummy face peered out, its bandages slipping and showing off red blinking LED eyes much like her own. The mummy in the tattered black robes skidded his bike to a halt in front of her.

  She laughed at him, saying, “You’re wearing a bike helmet?”

  He tapped his head under the black robe and it let out a hollow plastic shell sound. From behind the mask, Marcus’s voice: “I knew you wouldn’t wear one.”

  “I’m not a nerd,” she said.

  “I’m shocked, Bette. I thought you’d grown up.”

  “Says the forty-two-year-old carpenter-slash-detective-slash-fire-and-rescue-guy riding his mountain bike at midnight dressed like a mummy.”

  He planted his feet out on either side of his bike, the bike’s top tube nudged up to his crotch, his black robes hanging around his legs. He swiveled at the hips, unclipped something from his saddlebag, turned and presented her with a helmet. “Chesapeake Cove municipal bylaw M7–105. Operators of bicycles must wear a helmet.”

  “When you’re right, you’re right,” she said, grudgingly accepting his offered helmet. “My size?”

  “Picked it out just for you.”

  “Aw, you didn’t find this in the garage somewhere, you went out and bought me one special?”

  “Gotta protect that empty noggin of yours.”

  She chuckled, tilted up the chin of her skull mask and breathed fresh air. It was hot in there, anyway. She pushed the mask off now, with the strap over her ears, the skull at the back of her neck. She fitted the bike helmet on and clipped it in place. Gave her head a double rap with her knuckles. “Safe and sound.”

  “You any good on a bike now?”

  “A couple months ago, I tell you what, Marcus, I couldn’t even ride a bike. I wouldn’t have been able to walk up that hill I just walked up. Pris keeps me in shape.”

  “We can all aim to be as active as your auntie when we’re older.”

  “But for now . . .?”

  “For now, you and I have a score to settle.” She held up a peace sign, flipped it back and forth, saying, “We’re two for two.”

  “Tonight’s the decider.”

  Her two fingers became one, and she pointed it toward Marcus’s chest. “You’re going down, my clumsy friend.”

  He unclipped his helmet, pulled back his cowl, moved his mask rearward as well. “It’s hot in that,” he said.

  She said, “You’re all sweaty.”

  “That’s not sweat, it’s condensation. I was huffing and puffing . . .”

  “And you think you’re going to win.”

  “Oh, like you’re Lance Armstrong.”

  “We’re about to find out,” she said.

  Marcus nodded his chin toward Buster as he clipped his helmet back in place. “Is he going to be our referee? Our judge, make sure nobody with red hair cheats like I know she’s going to do?”

  “I don’t need to cheat to defeat an oaf who hasn’t been on a bicycle since he was probably eighteen-years-old.”

  “Once I beat you, we’ll have to find a new competition.”

  “What else are we good at together?”

  He said, “Maybe you’ll hang around the Cove long enough we’ll find out.”

  “Marcus, I can tell you right now, that’s a fact. I’m a Cover once more.” She lay a hand over her heart.

  “Good,” he said, gripped his handlebars and with his thumb operated a switch on a little bell mounted by his headset.

  Bring-bring

  She broke out laughing, leaning forward and chuckling into her palms. “All right,” she said, shaking her hands out. “Enough witty banter, time for Marcus’s reality check.”

  He said, “On your mark . . .”

  Now they both lined up, their wheels even with each other just at where the Haunted Hill began its steep descent toward Main Street and the something antique shop below.

  “No hopping,” she said.

  “Don’t bump my wheel,” he said.

  She said, “Three.”

  He said, “Two.”

  “One—”

  And with that, they were off, the race to see who was slowest down the Haunted Hill began. They stood up on their pedals, and both began an unsteady zigzag down the hill. A light misty rain began, and every time she pulled back on her brakes, the rubber grippers howled on her aluminum rims.

  They zigged and they zagged. They seed and they sawed; Marcus bumped a red Hyundai with his ankle, and she said, “Better stop and leave a note.”

  He laughed and tried to balance himself, moving at a crawl. He said, “I’ll run back up and leave a note after I win, Miss Whaley.”

  “Suit yourself, but, boy, if the owner comes out and sees you leaving the scene of a crime . . .”

  “A real hit-and-run.”

  “You probably scuffed that car up real good with that ankle of yours.”

  They continued, their zigs and zags began intersecting, where they went cross ways against each other, her slowing and trying to get him to pass. One time she braked too hard on her front wheel and felt the back wheel lift from the ground. It was almost over right there. She almost went off and would’ve collapsed on the pavement.

  Buster didn’t know what to make of it. To him, the only thing that made sense if you were in a competition was to get to the bottom as quick as you could. At first he jumped along with them, running, trying to figure it out, watching their faces with his little triangle years bouncing. He would hop on his back feet, his two front paws raised up, but when he saw that nobody was going to get going, nobody was going to open it up nose-down the hill and pump the pedals till their hearts exploded, he got bored. She would see flashes of his reflective strips as he perused the sidewalks, nose down, tail up.

  Her stomach muscles complained in tight zipping messages to her brain. It took a lot of effort, a lot of body stiffening—a veritable plank position—and her shoulders throbbed, her fingers ached, the knuckles singing pain right up into her elbows.

  “This is going to take forever,” Marcus grunted.

  “You can give up,” she said.

  He laughed, let go his brake too much and sped ahead. “Whoa,” he said, yanked the brakes hard and made his bike jack forward. His rear wheel lifted off the ground, and both his legs stuck straight out, feet off the pedals.

  “He’s going down!”

  “No, I’m not,” he called out, getting his feet back on the pedals, standing up on them hunched over the handlebar.

  When she was seventeen, the journey down Haunted Hill was fraught with fear she would never admit to Marcus. That was the whole point of the Ghost Slalom. He’d taunted her she was afraid of ghosts and she said she wasn’t. He challenged her to this competition to prove it, and she was too feisty a Whaley to back down. But when they’d do it, come to the Hill together, midnight on Halloween, she could recall how her heart would pound. And the slow bike ride down definitely freaked her out. She’d picture some suppurating Confederate soldiers with frightful eyes, contorted faces, comin
g at her with clawed hands tipped with long, jagged fingernails. Their stained and grubby prison uniforms hung from their gaunt frames as they lurched out from between parked cars to come for her, seeking to feed on her hidden fear. Hidden fear was the juiciest fear. They’d pull her off her bike and eat her screams, endless blood pouring from the bullet holes punched in them by their Union jailers. It of course never happened. Truth was, Marcus was correct about her being afraid of ghosts. Why wouldn’t she be? But even at seventeen and afraid, she’d never’ve been able to get down Haunted Hill unless Marcus Seabolt was at her side.

  They made it seven-eighths of the way, both of them weaving so slow their wobbly front wheels oscillated from side-to-side as they struggled for balance. Both of them chuckling through their noses, their bodies held so tight laughter could barely escape.

  They were close to the finish line and Marcus was ahead. Marcus was going to lose. He began getting his bike to jump up and down, using the pedals to hop in place like he was still seventeen and still rode that bad-boy BMX bike he had, black with silver letters and stripes.

  “No hopping,” she warned him.

  “I’m not,” he said, “that’s hardly hop— Oof!”

  And that’s when he went down.

  Too hardy a pull on the front brake lever, and whoop, that rear wheel came up. Then he was struggling to jump over his handlebars before he went face first into the pavement.

  Her first instinct was to laugh, but when she saw him hurtle to the ground shoulder first and roll two somersaults, laughing was the last thing she was thinking. “Oh Marcus!” she called out, jumping off her bike now and running to him.

  He sat upright on his butt, legs splayed out in front of him. He laughed and groaned like he was sore.

  “Are you all right?” she said, and the fact he was alive permitted some laughter to giggle from her.

  “I’m all in one piece, but I think I got a boo-boo on my elbow.” He raised his arm to show her. She pulled down his black ragged sleeve and saw that he’d scraped it.