by Joe Coccaro
“Damn, Rose. I feel like I’ve stepped into The Twilight Zone.”
“You asked for it, my dear. Welcome to my mixed-up world. Pour me another.”
“No kidding. I should have brought three bottles. I’m gonna have trouble getting to sleep tonight. Unless . . .” Carter glared into Rose’s eyes and flashed a wry smile.
“Not a chance, big boy. Not tonight. Not here with Malcolm on board.”
“Gil said to toss him overboard.”
“Yes. I’m sure he did, and I’m sure you could. But then we’d have another ghost to deal with, and I think Malcolm would be one mighty pissed off poltergeist. Time to go. You want a ride home on the golf cart?”
“Only if you park it at my place and spend the night.”
“Persistent . . . and I thought you were the bashful type. Your buddy Gil was wrong about that too.”
CHAPTER 10
CARTER OPENED THE front door and flicked on the hallway light. Rose stepped gingerly behind him, almost tiptoeing. She stopped in the entrance hall, stared upward, and listened. In silence, she removed her sandals and ran her fingers through her hair to tame the frizz that had been riled by the damp night.
“You okay?” Carter asked. He wondered if she was too woozy to climb the stairs to his bedroom.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Just give me a moment.”
“A moment. Okay. I’m going into the kitchen to get us a couple of bottled waters, or would you prefer more wine?”
“Water’s good. How ’bout both?”
Carter stepped down the hall, past a bathroom and into the galley-style kitchen. He flipped on the light and rooted around in the fridge for a bottle of Dasani and some chilled chardonnay.
Rose rubbed her feet on the old pinewood floors. She closed her eyes for a moment as she tried feeling the wood grain between her toes.
“I love the floors,” she called out.
She walked through the living room and into the dining area off the kitchen, rubbing her hands along the old plaster, pressing her fingertips as if feeling for a pulse. She stepped into the kitchen just as Carter finished pouring the wine. He handed her a glass.
“Cheers,” he said as they clinked. “I stole these from Gil. Look familiar?”
“Our beach glasses. You’re such a romantic, Carter Rossellini.”
“So, what do you think?” Carter hoped for at least an empty compliment about his house.
“Cute, like you. And it’s happy.”
“Happy? What do you mean?”
“No bad energy. Nothing lurking.”
“Like ghosts?”
“Yes, Carter. No evil spirits. I told you, I have to be careful with old houses. I see things, and those things know I see them. They can’t hide from me, and sometimes they get angry or playful. It can get weird or even scary if you’re not use to it.”
“Holy shit, Rose. I think I believe you, and you’re freaking me out.”
Rose put her hand up to silence Carter. She placed her wineglass on the kitchen counter and walked down the hall toward the stairs.
“What is it, Rose? Do you hear something or see something?” Carter whispered.
Rose put her index finger over her lips. “Shh!” She placed her hand on the banister and stepped lightly and slowly up the wooden stairs. She walked gracefully on her toes like a ballerina, her calf muscles bulging and her shoulders back and straight. Despite his fright, Carter couldn’t help but swallow her ass with his eyes. He tucked in one step down from her as they ascended.
Rose stopped on the landing before taking the L three steps to the top. “Hear that?”
“What? Hear what?” Carter asked.
“Which is the master bedroom?” she asked in a whisper.
“Straight ahead.”
“Why is the door closed? Did you close it, Carter?”
“I don’t know. I don’t remember,” he said, his voice cracking.
“Oh my God! Wait here,” Rose said.
Carter suddenly had to piss really bad. But he froze, crunching his shoulder against the wall. The hall light was on, and Rose placed her hand on the doorknob, brass and original to the house. She turned it slightly, cracked the door open, and peered in.
“Oh God! Oh my God! Carter, wait there.”
“What is it?” he whispered, eyes bulging.
“Don’t move.” Rose took a deep breath, stepped into the room, and gently clicked the door closed. Carter could hear the floorboards creak. He heard his closet door open and then close. He heard the window slide open, and then he heard Rose’s voice.
“Be gone . . . be gone.”
Carter was too scared to move. He knew he should crash into the bedroom to battle whatever it was Rose had confronted. But he couldn’t. He felt emasculated, like someone whose swim trunks have come off in the ocean surf and has to walk to his towel naked and shriveled.
“Carter, it’s okay now. You can come in.”
Carter softly eased open the door and stuck his head in. The room lights were off. Sitting on his queen-sized bed with the blue sheets drawn down was Rose, naked and on her side.
“It was stuffy in here, so I had to open the windows.” She giggled. “Got ya!”
“Damn you! I gotta pee.”
“So, Carter, was your fear real or imagined?”
***
Carter buried his face into Rose that night with the unbridled intensity of a starving man being served a full meal. Rose groaned in ecstasy again and again, exhausted from the torrent flowing from her and the boil within.
When Carter finally mounted her chest to breast, he teased, entering and then exiting until she grabbed him from behind and pulled him in, their hips clashing and then locked. Both of them dripped with sweat, their stomachs like Teflon, sliding back and forth without friction or delay. He collapsed on her, heart pounding. She lay breathless, wondering if what she had just experienced was real or imagined. The heat, the moisture, the night air—it was all too perfect, the stuff of the Harlequin novels she had read as a teen.
Carter lay wondering if it had ever been better or more intense. He did what most guys do: He rated this experience against past encounters. Only one came close, a July night in the hills of North Carolina in a hotel overlooking a mountain lake during a drizzle. He had been with his college sweetheart, a dancer, a Southerner whose words covered him like molasses, sticky and sweet, whose perfectly tight orbs were rock hard but inviting. They were in their twenties and knotted in ecstasy until they collapsed from dehydration. They slept ten hours in each other’s arms, their limbs entangled, him sliding into her over and over, then sleeping some more to recharge. His life had been worth living, just for that moment.
Rose lay wondering why such lustful bliss hadn’t happened more often in her life. She was stunning, and she knew it. But was she too cerebral, too demanding, too preoccupied. She thought about her ex, his ribbed abdominals, biceps, and calves. His calloused hands that felt like fine-grit sandpaper when stroking her thighs and shoulders. His thickness. His length. His broad shoulders elevating him like a drawbridge over a river. If only he wasn’t so superficial. If only he had made it beyond trade school. If only he had understood more than bricklaying and hockey.
Rose and Carter lay speechless in thought, both on their backs listening to the whir of the ceiling fan, moistening their throats with Dasani. Carter looked at Rose’s navel, a perfect dimple, and felt himself harden again.
“I need to know if that was real,” he said. “I need to duplicate and verify.”
Rose giggled and pulled him into her arms, whispering, “Yes, Carter, this is real.”
CHAPTER 11
CARTER EXPECTED ROSE to be gone when he awoke in the morning. Instead, her calf pinned his leg and her head rested heavy on his shoulder. The ceiling fan swirled the morning air oozing in through the windows Rose had opened. Sometime during the night, exhausted and damp with sweat, they had pulled the blue sheets over them.
Carter’s mouth felt
pasty, and his head filled with a dull throb from last night’s wine. The dead weight of Rose’s leg surprised him too. He struggled to escape without waking her, hoping she would remain unconscious while he showered and perked morning brew. Carter was nearly zombielike in the morning and needed a java jolt to become approachable and conversant. Without it, he’d drag his feet and his mind would be in a haze so dense his eyes would need fog lights to see through it. It took a few minutes, but he successfully extracted himself, inch by inch, and slipped quietly away, sighing with relief in the bathroom and again as he tiptoed down the stairs.
While listening to the electric pot hiss and chug, it occurred to Carter that he hadn’t spent a full night with a woman since his rendezvous with the hooker. He had been laid a couple of times—once by a woman celebrating her final divorce decree at a Norfolk bar across from the courthouse and the other time by a blind date arranged by a coworker at Sid’s firm. In both cases, the women had hit and run before midnight, stealing away with only a peck on the forehead and then a text the next day. Carter didn’t care. Recreational sex left no casualties. Wear a condom, find their G-spot, and everyone wins.
Shit! No latex with Rose.
After a second mug and a slice of peanut butter toast, Carter checked in on his guest. Still asleep, peaceful. He didn’t want to disturb her. He threw on some shorts and a clean T-shirt.
Back downstairs, Carter scribbled a note and left it by the electric percolator. Coffee’s made. Fridge is stocked. Help yourself. I enjoyed last night, and hope we’ll see each other again soon. He headed to Gil’s. It was almost eleven, and he couldn’t wait to let his ex-brother-in-law and abrasive best friend know about his success. And he had questions, a lot of them, about the pub’s past.
***
In the warm months, Gil and his regular customers often congregated around three patio tables on the sidewalk in front of the pub. A steady Bay breeze agitated flies just enough to keep them in hiding. During low tides and still nights, the insects waged revenge. This late morning was windy but warm as the sun hooked south and exhaled on Mason Way.
Carter rounded the corner and heard a ruckus. Gil and a few other locals were watching an argument between two men. Carter stepped into the semicircle next to Gil.
“What’s going on?”
“Oh man. Mr. Frier and his cousin Nate are throwing down.”
“Over what?”
“A snake,” Gil said. “A goddamn pet snake.”
From what Carter could discern, Nate had bought an albino snake and named it Walter, after Ben Frier’s dad. Ben and Nate were first cousins from a black family whose roots reached deep into Eastern Shore soil. They lived next to each other on the same farm owned by their fathers. Ben, a retired Navy chef and Gil’s head cook, was lighter-skinned than his cousin Nate, but besides that they looked like brothers, both handsome with high cheekbones, thick chests, piercing brown eyes, size thirty-four inseams, and size thirteen feet. In high school, Ben had played middle linebacker and Nate had played defensive end. When games got tight, they’d loosen up teammates by goading each other in the huddle with predictable one-liners.
“You getting fat, Nate,” Ben would say, pointing at his cousin’s distended belly.
Nate would grab his crotch and say, “When you got tools as valuable as these, you need to put a shed over ’em.”
Ben and Nate were two of the smartest kids in their high school, each graduating with honors. Ben had opted for the Navy after graduating, and Nate had studied business administration at a state college. Both loved the Shore and had returned to raise families and be near kin. Ben chose to work at Gil’s because he loved to cook. Many said his culinary skills were five-star.
“This place gets into your blood and never leaves your mind,” Ben would often say.
Ben was fond of just about all things living—except for lizards. He never liked snakes growing up, and Nate used that as ammo. Naming a snake Walter after Ben’s father was a stick in the eye, an insult plain and simple, but harmless like most of the haranguing between them.
“Damn you, Nate. You’re disrespecting my kin, which means you’re disrespecting me. You’re calling my daddy a snake. That’s what you’re doing, and you know I’ve hated those evil things ever since you put one in my bed when we were growing up.”
“Damn, Benny. Hold your shorts. Walter is my pet. If I named my dog after Walter, you wouldn’t be riled like this. I named ’em Walter because he’s light-skinned like your yo’ daddy—and handsome. That’s all.”
“A snake ain’t a dog. A snake ain’t no damn pet either. And your snake is white as those clouds up there, not brown. You just wanted to rile me, and you did, I’ll give you that. Good thing we’re cousins because I’d crack your head with an iron skillet if we weren’t.”
Carter couldn’t tell whether Ben Frier was mad or just fooling around. He hadn’t lived in Cape Charles long enough to know the difference. He knew Nate was a jokester, though. And he’d been in Gil’s enough times to know the dueling cousins each reveled in holding court and exaggerating. It was classic one-upmanship.
“Snakes make great pets,” Nate countered. He bounced on his toes and waved his thick arms as if preparing for a wrestling match. “I carry Walter around with me. He curls ’round my neck. I feed him twice every day. He likes mice and beetles.”
“Nothing wrong with eating mice, but snakes aren’t pets, pure and simple,” Ben crowed. “Pets come when you call ’em. Does a snake? Never! Snakes don’t even have ears. Does the snake let you pet ’em? Shee-it.”
“Yes, Benny, I pet Walter when I feed him and when he crawls on my neck,” Nate said, arms raised. “Sometimes I let him get in the bed with me.”
“Damn, Nate. You’re a fool then. What you should do is put ’em inside your pants leg to make it look like you gotta dick.”
“I’d be downsizing by putting Walter in my pants. My snake’s already longer.”
Gil had just taken a swig of beer and spit it out laughing just as two older women walked by on the sidewalk.
Ben eyed the passersby and continued, “Tell you what, Nate. Go home and get Walter, and then set ’em down about a hundred feet over there in the grass, then come back over here. If you call Walter by his name and he comes, I’ll suck your dick right here in broad daylight on Mason Way.”
Carter, Gil, and the others laughed so hard that they had to sit. Gil was doubled over. Nate and Ben finally busted up too. Lil stood in the doorway watching the ruckus. She shook her head and smirked like a college-dorm-room monitor who had caught coeds in the act. Gil sent Lil back inside for two drafts of summer ale, one each for Nate and Ben and another stout for him.
Ben and Nate high-fived each other and went inside. Gil, Carter, and a couple of the local boys sat around a sidewalk table, laughing and repeating some of Ben’s and Nate’s lines.
“Oh shit,” Gil said a few minutes later while sipping his chocolaty brew. “Here comes Smitty.”
The police sergeant stopped his unmarked cruiser in front of the pub and finger-waved at Gil, who wiped his sudsy mouth on his sleeve and walked to the patrol car. Smitty leaned out of the window. Looks like a male version of his cousin Hattie, Carter thought. He had deep-set eyes, heavy, round cheeks, and a proud, upturned nose.
“Gotta couple calls about a disturbance. Little early in the day for bar fights, ain’t it, Gil?”
“We’re okay here, Smitty.” Gil chuckled. “Just Mr. Frier and Cousin Nate having fun.”
“Yeah, I know. But a couple tourists came into the station a few minutes ago and said there was a fight and lots of swearing. Said two black men were beatin’ on each other, and hecklers were cheering them on.”
“I wouldn’t say lots of cursin’, and nobody was beatin’ on anybody.” Gil smirked.
“Okay, Gil, but it’s summer. We got bird watchers and moms who drive Mercedes SUVs with young kids in tow. They ain’t like the locals,” Smitty said. “I got a complaint that Cyril and Mac we
re telling obscene stories in the hardware store. Somethin’ about blow jobs and Trump and gay men.”
Gil busted a laugh. “You know Cyril ain’t shy about his views. And he’s too old to care about customer satisfaction. Cyril will admit to that. He’ll wear his bowtie and repent for his insults on Sunday, but he’ll be hitting the Scotch and instigating again on Monday.”
“Probably so, Gil. But you boys need to tone it down. I got my orders. The mayor and the chief want us to be family friendly. ‘Good for tourism,’ they say. Just try to keep things under control, okay, Gil, especially on a public street during the day when people are walking around. You and the boys can cut loose in the fall when the place clears out. Hell, I’ll join ya.”
“Gotcha. No worries. Thanks, Smitty. By the way, I could use some more of that summer flounder you been catching. Tourists love it.”
***
Carter and Gil slid into a booth inside the pub’s vault, both limp from laughter.
“Only in Cape Charles,” Gil said. “Hungry?”
“Yeah, I could eat something. Long night.”
“Do tell, Sparky. I’m guessing you were either up whacking off all night or maybe, by the grace of God, you finally grew a pair and scored with a real woman.”
“You have such a way with words, Gil. I’m always ready to slit my wrist after I talk to you.”
“You know I love you, moron. Now tell me how it went with Little Miss Tight Butt.”
“Well, very well. She spent the night. In fact, she may still be there. I slipped away.”
“You got her back to your place, and she didn’t run away? How many bottles did you drink?”
“Three, but we had some help. Her friend, the old guy,” Carter said.
“Don’t tell me—three-way?”
“Stop being ridiculous,” Carter huffed. “No, the old guy is her college professor. Friends and colleagues, that’s all. They’re staying on Neally’s boat at C Pier. We had some dinner and drinks there, and then she came back to my place after he went to sleep.” Carter flashed a grin wider than the painted smile on a circus clown’s face.