Under a Dark Summer Sky

by Vanessa Lafaye

  He dusted some flour off the floor, straightened the measuring scoop inside the sack, and stepped out into the morning with the last of his coffee. The sky was deep sea blue, crossed with great swooping plumes of mare’s tail clouds. The sight of their distinctive, feathered arcs stirred a distant memory from his childhood. His daddy used to say, “Mackerel scales and mare’s tails make lofty ships carry low sails.”

  He stood very still, closed his eyes, and focused on the feel of the wind. He had been following the barometer’s descent for a few days. There was news of a storm off the Bahamas. He took his coffee around to the back wall of the store where the barometer was fixed…and promptly scurried inside to call the weather center eighty miles south in Key West.

  His old friend, Fred Simpson, was now chief meteorologist at the weather center. Hard to believe, since they had grown up together and Fred had never shown the least interest in, or aptitude for, science.

  “Fred? Jenson Mitchell here. The storm that passed through Andros last night. How bad was it?”

  “Good to hear your voice, Jenson. Not a picnic, but not a hurricane. They had eighty-five.”

  Jenson could picture Fred, in his Key West office, feet up on the deck. Eighty-five-mile-per-hour winds…it wasn’t trivial for the little Bahamian island of Andros, but they had seen much worse. “Did a fair amount of damage,” said Fred, “but not catastrophic. We’re watching it.”

  “Where’s it heading?”

  “Can’t tell yet. It’s playing games with us. Ships are reporting that it moves, then stops, then moves again in a different direction. Like it can’t make up its mind… Reminds me of my first wife.” A dry chuckle. “We expect it to hit the Straits next, unless, of course, it blows itself out.”

  Jenson had seen many a big storm do exactly that. They were highly temperamental creatures. Even small changes in pressure could eviscerate them. Often in the past, the town had been put on high alert only for the roaring lion to come ashore as a fussy kitten.

  Even so, Jenson hung up the phone only mildly reassured. The warm waters of the Straits of Florida were a breeding ground for hurricanes. And he trusted his barometer more than anything that Fred’s science could tell him.

  His mother, Trudy, pushed open the screen door with her generous backside and turned to reveal a fresh orange cake, made with fruit from their grove.

  “Brought you a little something to brighten your day. It’s getting ugly outside,” she said. The early promise of a fine day had quickly faded. Fat thunderheads squatted on the horizon, blown on by a fractious wind. “What’s wrong, Jenson?”

  He thought for a moment, considered whether to share what he had learned from Fred. After all, there was still every chance that the storm would be little more than a squall by the time it reached Heron Key. And his mother was fragile, underneath her confident, competent exterior, although it had been years since his father’s death from Spanish flu. One day, he’d complained of a sore throat, and Trudy had teased him while mixing up some hot lemon and honey. The next day, he was dead. It seemed that his father’s childhood polio had weakened his lungs.

  Trudy used to be so active in the community, played the old upright piano in church, led the PTA since forever. Now her only solace seemed to be cooking. She still made enough at every meal to feed several people; she didn’t seem capable of reducing the quantity. He must have gained ten pounds since his father’s death.

  “I’m fine, Momma. Just got a lot on my mind.”

  “Jenson Mitchell,” she said firmly and placed the cake down on his desk. “You’ve never been able to lie to me. Remember that time you broke my anniversary vase?”

  “You’re right.” He smiled. “I told you a seagull flew in and smashed it.”

  She perched on the edge of his desk. “You even claimed to be able to identify the bird, as if we were gonna put together a lineup for you. Now, what is it, Son?”

  He stood and studied the map of the Florida Keys, which covered most of one wall of the office. “There’s a storm coming. Pass me the pins from the drawer, please.” He fixed a pin over Andros in the Bahamas. “It’s just passed through here.”

  “How bad was it on Andros?” Trudy had lived through many hurricanes, including the one in 1906 that destroyed her house and carried off her mother, whose body was never found.

  “Not too bad. I’ve been on the phone with Fred. They’re watching it carefully, can’t say yet whether it will hit here.”

  “Are you going to tell Dwayne?” she asked.

  Dwayne had come by at first light with news of Hilda and asked Jenson if he could remember seeing her leave the barbecue. The man looked done in. He didn’t need any more problems just now. “Dwayne’s got enough to worry about.”

  “True. And even without that awful business, he won’t thank you for getting everyone all flustered for nothing. Besides, everyone in town knows what to do. Won’t take us long to get ready if it does head our way.”

  Jenson knew she was right. Most people kept a shelter stocked for such events, with ready access to supplies for securing windows and heavy objects. Within a matter of hours, the town could be boarded up, streets emptied, shelters full. Even so, he had a feeling, deep inside, that would not go away. It niggled at him, like a stone in his shoe.

  “Okay, here’s what we do,” he said. “Keep an eye on the barometer and stay in touch with Fred. Any big changes from either, and we put out the emergency warning.” He paused. A terrible thought presented itself: What about the veterans?

  • • •

  Out at the camp, Trent Watts opened his newspaper, brought down specially from Miami. The Heron Key Bugle might suffice for the Conchs, but he needed a real paper. A man had to have some elements of civilization in this godforsaken swamp. He had been a professional soldier before taking on the veterans’ camp and thought he had seen everything a human being could do to hurt another. But the combination of squalid living conditions and backbreaking work in brutal conditions topped even his extensive experience of misery. He settled down to read the paper in his cabin. It was going to be hot as hell again. No point in trying to get clean. Before he came to Heron Key, he would not have believed it possible to sweat while under the shower.

  At least there was more of a breeze than normal, although it smelled of rain. He heard laughter and cussing from the cabins. The men were starting to stir. Two-Step and his pals would pay for their excitement last night, but that smug Henry Roberts also needed taking down a peg or two. It was the only way to maintain order. With a yawn, he noted a small box on the front page of the paper with news of a tropical disturbance in the Bahamas. The pathetic Conchs didn’t know what a real storm was like. He had grown up in Kansas: twister country. Good. We need a storm to freshen up the place. He scratched the bites on his neck. And get rid of these damned mosquitoes.

  • • •

  Henry lay on his bunk, arms crossed behind his head. The smells of breakfast wafted over from the mess hall but got no answer from his stomach. He felt different, somehow changed, like a vital organ had shifted to a new position. For the first time in oh, too long to remember, he felt awake, really awake, not sunk in a numb half stupor. His senses registered the scuttle of cockroaches, the reek of the latrine, the creaks of the cabin’s canvas roof. Everything was sharper, crisper, like he had been living behind a pane of dirty glass. Something had happened to him last night, something important. He had glimpsed the person he used to be when Missy looked at him. She still believed. It made him want to believe. He could not do it, not yet, but the first step was wanting to. Was it true, as she had said, that it was not too late for him?

  Missy Douglas. Little Missy. Well, I’ll be damned. Little no more. Grown into a fine woman. She had always promised to be something special. And special she was. He pictured her face. Those eyes, slightly turned up at the corners, which gave her a permanent look of mild amusement; t
he gap between her front teeth; the smile, which spread across her face like sunshine. Even Two-Step’s arrival at the party had not spoiled the night for him. Punishment would follow, for all of them, he knew that. But he did not care. He grinned stupidly.

  Franklin asked, “So that was her, in the flowery dress? The little girl you always telling us about?” He stuffed the cuffs of his pants inside his boots to stop sand flies getting at his ankles and tied the laces tight.

  “Yep,” confirmed Henry.

  “Didn’t look so little to me,” said Jeb with a leer.

  “She changed while I was away,” said Henry. He sat up on the bunk, took a shirt from the pile, sniffed, and wrinkled his nose. Every one of them smelled rank, even when they were just washed. It was so humid, nothing dried completely.

  “I’ll say,” said Franklin. “Y’all looked real cozy down there.”

  Henry levered himself off the sweaty bunk. “We good friends, that’s all. Why that so hard to believe?”

  “Then you wouldn’t mind fixing me up with her, would you?” asked Jeb. “I could do with some of that, yessir. I mean, seeing as you’re just good friends and all.” Jeb had been with maybe two women ever, in France, and both of them were paid for. Women just wanted to mother him.

  “If any of you touch her—” Henry began, then stopped when he saw Jeb’s triumphant grin.

  “Just good friends,” chuckled Franklin. “If you say so, Boss. When you gonna see her?”

  “Tomorrow night, we’re going for a walk.”

  “Oh, Henry,” cooed Jeb, in a high girlish voice. “You so big and strong.” He looped his arms around Franklin’s neck in a ladylike swoon.

  “Now, my little punkin’ pie,” said Franklin, in an eerily accurate impression of Henry. “Open them bomb bay doors. I’m—”

  “Enough,” said Henry, smiling despite himself. “Time to go to work.”

  That’s all we are—just two old friends, out for a walk.

  • • •

  The men arrived for breakfast to find Trent standing on one of the chairs. “Attention, everyone. Shut your traps and listen.”

  The burble of conversation dried up. Trent addressed the crew rarely, and it was never good news.

  He lit a cigar. The assembled workers waited while the pungent fumes filled the hall.

  “Ladies, you all know about the despicable behavior last night from some of our ranks.” He let his gaze rest on Two-Step, who did not even blink. “You embarrassed yourselves and your government, and worst of all, you embarrassed me.” He jerked a thumb at his chest.

  He dropped down from the chair and strolled to the center of the room. “If I could still court-martial you, there wouldn’t be enough of you left to form a firing squad.” He gestured at them with the cigar. “You’re pathetic, you’re a disgrace to the uniform, and it’s beyond me how you were ever privileged enough to wear it.”

  Henry began, “Mr. Watts, with respect, sir, there were only a few—”

  “Shut up, Roberts. I’m talking here. In my day, every man in the unit was responsible for his fellow soldiers. That’s what it means to be a comrade.” His gaze traveled around the assemblage. Feet shuffled but no one spoke. “You numb nuts clearly don’t understand this word. Since a few of you chose to behave like uncivilized morons, the rest will suffer. For two weeks”—he fixed his stare on each sweaty, disgruntled face—“you are under a 1700 hours curfew.”

  There were low grumbles of discontent and a few mutterings about unfairness.

  “You got something to say?” Trent swung his head left, right. “You think I can’t make this worse? I surely can. Want to make it three weeks? Just try me.”

  Henry imagined Missy waiting for him on the beach where they had arranged to meet the next night at sunset. “But, Mr. Watts, that means—”

  “I know very well what it means but don’t recall asking for your opinion, Mister Roberts. You will work at the bridge site each day and return to camp, where you will stay until work begins the next morning. No exceptions. No excuses. No whining.” He spat on the ground. “You brought this on yourselves. Anyone caught breaking the curfew is out of a job. Now git. Go make yourselves useful.”

  • • •

  Dwayne entered Doc’s office and closed the screened door quietly. Hilda was unconscious again. Doc and Mama had repaired the wounds, but the swelling had worsened. Her entire head was a patchwork of purple bruises and black stitches.

  “I don’t like the look of this,” said Doc. “Don’t like it one bit. Pressure is building up in her skull. Look at her eyes.” They bulged slightly under the swollen, discolored lids.

  “What can you do?”

  “The drugs I’ve given should bring down the swelling, but they haven’t started to work yet. If it gets much worse, there will be permanent brain damage, even…” He shook his head. “We’ll give it another twenty-four hours and then get her transported to Miami if there’s no improvement.”

  Dwayne moved closer to the bed. “What’s this?” He indicated the odd pattern of marks on the bridge of her nose.

  “Not sure,” said Doc, washing his hands at the sink. “I think it’s from a boot, the sole of a boot.”

  Someone stomped on her face. The bastard. The marks were of a distinctive crosshatch pattern. “In that case, Doc, we need to find the owner of those boots.” For the first time since they had carried Hilda, bleeding and broken, into Doc’s office, Dwayne began to feel some hope of catching who did it. Her breath came in shallow gasps. “Doc, will she live?”

  Doc steered him into the other room. “She may be able to hear us. I don’t know if she will live.”

  Despite his extreme fatigue, Dwayne heard the pain in Doc’s voice. It was clear he had not slept either. His glasses were greasy and slightly askew, and his eyes were dull with exhaustion. Grayish stubble shadowed his cheeks.

  “Doc, you need to get some rest.”

  “You’re one to talk. I will…when I know she’s going to pull through.” He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Have you got any leads?”

  “Not yet,” said Dwayne, his jaw tight with frustration. He had driven around town all morning, talking to people who were still at the party when Hilda left. No one saw anything, which he could not believe. Someone must have seen something. It stood to reason, with all those people around. “After Hilda’s little performance, everyone lost interest in her. It was like she disappeared. I can’t find anyone who actually remembers seeing her leave.” He had ruled out Ike on account of him actually being in jail at the time of the attack. And Two-Step’s crew were excluded because Hilda was still alive and unviolated when he took them in. He was running out of obvious suspects, which meant only one thing: lots more hard work.

  Doc studied her face again, then turned to Dwayne. “The veterans all wear boots.”

  Dwayne met Doc’s tired eyes with his own. “I am well aware of that, Doc.”

  • • •

  As he pulled up to the police station, Dwayne spotted Ronald waiting for him. His morale slid onto the floor of the truck. Oh Jesus, what is this? A large bandage covered Ronald’s wounded cheek. Dwayne climbed the steps to the door. The weather now well and truly matched his mood. Angry curtains of rain arrived, blown sideways by the sudden wind.

  “Come in, Ronald, and tell me what I can do for you.”

  Ronald took the seat opposite Dwayne’s desk. Papers covered every bit of the scarred wooden surface and flowed onto the floor in gentle drifts. Dwayne skewered a handful on the metal spike on the corner of the desk. “I’ve come to ask about the progress of your investigation.”

  “What is it to you, Ronald? Shouldn’t Nelson be here instead? Jimmy!” he called out.

  A freckled face beneath a green John Deere cap appeared around the door frame. “Yes, Uncle Dwayne?”

  “Get me some coffe
e!” Jimmy was Noreen’s nephew. Dwayne had hired him to do menial tasks, to please Noreen’s family, and already regretted it.

  “Yes, Boss!” said Jimmy. The face disappeared.

  “I’m representing the concerned citizens of Heron Key,” said Ronald. “We are sick of the menace of the veterans. Poor Hilda is the last straw.”

  Ronald had always been pretty sensible, if a little pompous, but there was a new edge to his voice, his words distorted by the bandage on his cheek.

  “I understand your feelings.” Dwayne spread his hands in what he hoped was a conciliatory gesture. “Last night’s display by the veterans was inexcusable, but the superintendent assures me that they are all under curfew for two weeks, and after that will only be allowed in town with a chaperone.” Dwayne felt the need to steer the conversation back in the general direction of reality. “But we don’t know,” he said carefully, “that any of the veterans were responsible for the attack on Hilda.”

  “Oh, yes, we do,” said Ronald darkly. He was sweating, his eyes rimmed with red.

  “What do you mean? Jimmy,” he shouted out the door, “where is that COFFEE?”

  Jimmy hurried in and sloshed coffee all over Dwayne’s papers. As he mopped up the spillage, Dwayne made a silent vow never to employ one of Noreen’s relatives again.

  “Who else would it be?” exclaimed Ronald. “We never had this kind of trouble before they came. They’re either criminals, or sick in the head, or both. It’s obvious: the man who did this horrible thing to one of our ladies is at that camp.” He smacked his fist onto the nearest pile of papers. “We demand justice for Hilda.”

  Dwayne’s tired brain struggled to cope with the wild inconsistencies in Ronald’s argument. Ike’s attack on him seemed to have tipped him over some kind of edge, followed as it was so quickly by the attack on Hilda. They seemed to have merged in Ronald’s mind, into an irrational, unfocused, but very real desire for vengeance.