Locked Hearts

by D. Brown

  “It’s a cheap way to taste the best in local seafood with shrimp, crab, sea scallops and oysters, boiled with potatoes and corn with special, often secret family spices.”

  “Are there any family secrets in this recipe, Sam?” Maggie asked.

  “I’m good friends with Wanda Byerly at the Crab Shack over on Lazaretto Creek. This is a recipe she uses out there, and then I add a little bit of my own stuff to it.”

  Spread about the tabletop were links of kielbasa sausage, in the shell Savannah Jumbo shrimp, oysters on the half shell, sea scallops, stone crabs, cubed grouper, corn on the cob, new potatoes, onions, carrots, and celery.

  “It smells like heaven,” Maggie said.

  “If heaven is the Georgia coast,” Sam said. “Then you're right.”

  This brought a rolling of the eyes from Robert and Maggie cut him a hard look not to act like a complete ass tonight. He didn’t say anything, but she could tell he didn’t want to be here.

  She hoped Sam didn’t notice her husband’s obvious rudeness.

  “Robert, Maggie says you’re one of them high-brow type attorneys.”

  Robert cut a side-glance at his wife, curious as to how she described him to a strange man.

  “I do what I can,” Robert replied with a natural stiffness.

  “What kind of law do you practice?”

  “Mergers and acquisitions, I’m part of a large Pittsburgh firm.”

  “Impressive,” Sam said.

  “What do you do for a living?” Robert asked.

  Sam cracked a smile and said, “As little as I have to. I hang out here and try to do my best impression of Pat Conroy. Used to do a lot, but these days I do what I have to do to get by.”

  “You don’t look old enough to retire,” Robert said and the side glance he shot Maggie implied that perhaps this suicidal psychopath was unemployed and how could she subject her family to someone so dangerous, unstable, and out of a job to boot.

  Sam shrugged.

  “I pen a little piece for the local newspaper every now and then,” he said. “Back in the old days I worked in newspapers, magazines, a little radio, did some publishing – strictly small time mind you.”

  “So, you’re a writer,” Maggie said. “Impressive.”

  “You could say that.”

  This was as much a dig at her husband’s snide attitude, Maggie decided. She wasn’t going to sit here and let her husband be an ass, especially after the man went to the trouble of fixing them dinner.

  Sam corked a bottle of red and then a bottle of Chardonnay, and said, “Come on, dig in folks. You can do this one of two ways: you can either use a plate and silverware.”

  Sam winked at David.

  “Or not.”

  “I don’t like seafood,” David pouted.

  “David,” Maggie said, “Be polite.”

  Sam smiled, “That’s okay. Davey, I kind of figured perhaps one of you might not like seafood. You want to help me a second?”

  David nodded sure and followed Sam over to the barrel smoker.

  “Can you keep a secret between you and me?”

  David nodded again.

  “I don’t like seafood either.”

  “You don’t?”

  Sam shook his head, no. “I like to cook it, but I don’t much like to eat it. Now, don’t tell anybody that, especially Wanda Byerly over at the Crab Shack.”

  “I won't.”

  “Spit promise?” Sam said and spit in his open palm.

  “Spit promise, David replied and did the same.

  “Besides, she’ll tan my hide with a switch.”

  “Is she your mom?” David eyes grew wider.

  “Worse,” Sam replied with a wink.

  “Worse? How?”

  “She’s a woman,” he said and mussed David’s hair. “You’ll learn about that soon enough, one day.”

  “I hope not. I don’t want to be tanned with a switch.”

  Sam lifted the lid of the smoker to reveal a grill covered with meat: a long row of hot dogs, two lines of hamburger, barbecued chicken, a couple racks of ribs, a stack of corn on the cob, still in the husks, roasting on the side.

  “Hamburger, or hot dog?”

  David’s face exploded in a smile.

  “Hot dogs!”

  Maggie had fixed a plate of low country boil and saw the vast display of food arranged on the grill.

  “Sam, tell me you didn’t cook all of that just for us.”

  Sam just smiled and cut a look over his shoulder.

  “You’re on vacation,” he said. “The last place you need to spend it is in the kitchen. Finch and McGee might come by later and they’re both big eaters, plus, we just kind of cook for everybody here.”

  The remark had been intended for Robert to hear too, and he did, and Maggie saw the dark scowl shadow his expression. She said she wanted her vacation this year to be exciting and not more of the same old thing.

  Be careful what you wish for, she thought.

  5

  The Second Day – Friday July 3

  Maggie couldn’t sleep.

  She tossed and turned for most of the night, until she finally gave up and rolled out of bed around 4:30 a.m.

  Unlike Robert, when he suffered through sleepless nights like these, she didn’t turn on every light in the house or leave the TV blaring so no one else could sleep either.

  She enjoyed these times.

  Not so much the insomnia part but this time of morning when she had the whole world to herself.

  No kids to look after.

  No husband to fix breakfast for or iron slacks or press off a shirt for, or stitch a hemline.

  No nothing.

  She rolled out of bed, grabbed a pair of shorts and a Pittsburgh Steelers T-shirt, and padded out into the kitchen where she started up the coffee pot.

  Their beach house wasn’t as old or as unique as the one next door, still she liked the change of pace from the sterile, cookie-cutter condominiums at Sea Pines. Sure, this wasn’t Hilton Head, and Robert grumbled constantly about how Savannah golf courses didn’t stand up to the same quality as playing Sea Pines, but Maggie liked the quaintness of Tybee Island.

  She found this place refreshing.

  “Pretend you’re Bagger Vance,” she told her husband. “They filmed the movie in Savannah, you know.”

  “But the golf scenes were shot out at Sea Pines, love.”

  Far be it for Robert to ever admit he’s wrong.

  “Then do like Matt Damon and pretend, only pretend you’re at Sea Pines.”

  Sometimes Maggie wondered if she didn’t have four children instead of three.

  The air conditioner hummed its monotonous drone, circulating cool, dry and very sterile air throughout the great room. She remembered how Sam’s house smelled like the beach with all windows thrown open to embrace the salt sea air. She’d love nothing more than to open a front window and listen to the sounds of the crashing ocean surf wafting up to her from beyond the shadows. She couldn’t do that though. There were allergies, Robert's and David’s, to consider.

  Maggie imagined still being able to smell the lingering scent of last night’s dinner, which was superb, or the smoldering ashes of charred hickory and oak from the dying bonfire. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten so much, and everything had tasted so good.

  Feeling restless and not wanting to enjoy the early morning nuances of the beach from the wrong side of the windowpane, Maggie stepped outside.

  The morning air was warm and carried a heavy thickness with it. The oppressing heaviness in the air was one thing she couldn’t adjust to when it came to living in the South.

  How did these poor people ever survive before air conditioning?

  She tasted salt, and caught the ever-present scent of seaweed, fish, and ocean debris wafting up the beach. The humid air swept up the rise of sand dunes, and whispered through the thatches of sea oats and saw grass to caress her cheek.

  Maggie caught the
scent of burned oak – maybe remnants of Sam’s fire last night, until she looked to her right and saw the flicker of orange from out of the corner of her eye.

  Fingers of bright orange licked at the darkness, crackling sharply and spitting a shower of sparks into the half-darkness of the early morning sky. His smoker and fryer vat were still arranged around the L of the picnic tables.

  Spirals of gray smoke sifted through the smoker seams and from the small smoke stack positioned at the top left end of the barrel.

  “He’s cooking,” she said to herself. “What else can he be cooking now?”

  Maggie made her down the rind of beach separating island from ocean to the water line. She saw Sam standing at the shoreline hands clasped at the small of a straight back, such a rigid stance.

  Gaze riveted on the darkness.

  He wore the same clothes he had on last night, and Maggie’s first thought was that he hadn’t been to bed yet.

  He pulled an old fishing cap low over his eyes.

  Something about the way he stood there troubled her. It reminded her of what she saw yesterday.

  He looks haunted.

  Lost.

  Standing there, looking out into nothingness, searching for an answer she knew he would never find.

  Maggie stopped at his side, her toes digging into the wet sand, spilled seawater lapped at her ankles.

  She noticed etched into the wet sand at Sam’s bare feet, a single heart.

  A heart crudely drawn but still, a heart.

  She didn’t even know what questions to ask him right now, so she settled on, “Cooking again?”

  “Breakfast,” Sam replied, looking out over the water to the east.

  “For who? Half of Tybee Island?”

  “Basically.”

  “Sam that must cost you a fortune.”

  He dismissed it with a wave of his hand.

  “What’s money anyway? Somebody’s got to spend my money it might as well be you right?”

  He looked at her and grinned, “‘You,’ metaphorically speaking, of course.”

  “Do you ever cook for just one?”

  Except for the occasional peanut butter and jelly sandwich for lunch, no.

  “Cooking for one sucks,” he said.

  “You don’t do this every day, I hope.”

  “Nope, only when I light the bonfire.”

  “You must be very popular with the beach crowd.”

  “I enjoy it,” he said. “It’s not that bad. The beach-walkers leave behind a buck or two every now and then, so this pays for itself. I enjoy cooking, and lately, I haven’t had much of an opportunity to do that.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” Sam said. “You did nothing wrong. In fact, cooking dinner for your family last night inspired me to get up early and do this. Chances are half the beach crowd will be thanking you sometime soon.”

  One of those uncomfortable, awkward pauses fell between them, as thick and heavy as the humid July air. Maggie looked up into his profile and saw the hard sparkle in his eyes. She saw an intensity there that made her feel uncomfortable.

  She’d heard the stories, the idle town gossip, from Robert, who heard it from the man at the bait shop and the cashier at the gas station in town.

  Sam’s wife died.

  Sam might have even killed her for all she knew – Robert’s idea. Buried her body out in the marsh where the gators made sure no evidence was left behind.

  “They do that a lot down here,” Robert said.

  “You’re husband doesn’t like me much, does he,” Sam said.

  “Robert doesn’t like anything much that doesn’t have anything to do with Robert.”

  “A little self-absorbed I take it.”

  “Just a little.”

  That chasm of awkward silence stretched between them again. Sam returned to watching the horizon.

  Maggie was never one to suffer silently.

  “It’s not your fault your wife died, Sam,” she said. “You did nothing wrong.”

  He offered a sad chuckle in reply.

  “Doing nothing is wrong,” he said.

  Sam dug in his pocket and pulled out something oblong, metallic, cast in silver and gold. Maggie frowned through the darkness at the object and then grimaced when she recognized the oblong shape.

  It’s a bullet.

  Her stomach twisted into a cold knot of fear and the events of yesterday afternoon suddenly rushed back, sharp and fresh in her mind.

  Yes, this really did happen, she hadn’t imagined it like she wanted to convince herself she had. She saw Sam with the gun in his mouth.

  “I want you to keep this for me,” Sam said and handed her the bullet casing. “It’s a nine millimeter bullet.”

  “I know what it is,” Maggie’s mouth went dry from dread. “Why?”

  “Look at the firing cap at the base of the shell.”

  She did.

  “See that little indentation?”

  Maggie felt along the ridged bottom of the bullet casing and felt the small dent in the center, a little dimple actually.

  “Bullets don’t lie, Maggie,” Sam said. “You pull the trigger, the trigger strikes the firing cap, and the explosives in the bullet discharge. The lead projectile is fired toward the intended target. The trigger striking the firing cap is what causes that little indentation you feel.”

  “So this bullet has been fired,” she said.

  “The gun was fired, but the bullet didn’t discharge. That kind of thing doesn’t happen, or at least it’s not supposed to anyway. When you pull the trigger, the bullet is supposed to go off.”

  “You fired this.”

  Sam nodded.

  “At yourself.”

  Maggie’s words croaked over dried lips and a suddenly parched throat.

  “Why?”

  Sam continued staring out into the darkness, at the unseen line of waves marching toward shore. She couldn’t read his expression, and she barely caught the deep sigh swept away by the swirling breeze kicking up from out of the south.

  “Because I’d done nothing.”

  With that, he turned and made his way up the slope of the beach, leaving Maggie to stand there, feeling the bullet’s cold metal growing warm in her palm. She wanted to throw the bullet as far out into the ocean surf as possible, but it seemed seared to her flesh now.

  “How can you have done nothing?”

  But Sam was already up the hill, and didn’t hear her.

  Sam was angry, but he couldn’t understand why.

  Yeah, he could.

  Maggie.

  What the hell were you thinking anyway?

  He was angry she saw him like that, angry with himself for not being more careful.

  Lock the damn door next time, McKenna.

  Shit . . .

  She thinks you’re a couple of French fries shy of a Happy Meal, for sure.

  Why do you care what she thinks?

  She’s married.

  Yeah, she’s married, so what makes her so special? She’s married. She’s not yours for the taking, so, why all the fuss?

  Maybe because, suddenly her opinion mattered to him or her opinion of him mattered.

  Everything, about her mattered to Sam.

  The last thing he wanted was for Maggie to think he was dangerous, or mentally unbalanced, or both.

  The last thing he wanted was for Maggie to be afraid of him.

  Most people don’t care for guns, especially when they’re sticking out of a man’s mouth.

  That was stupid, Sam.

  I thought we put that one behind us.

  It’s been a while since you thought about it.

  More than two years – well, two years, eight months and 11 days to be exact. Back then, he did put the nine-millimeter gun in his mouth, and yes, he damn sure pulled the trigger.

  Sam intended to kill himself.

  It was the only viable solution, the only way to atone for the wrong he committed.
/>   Hell, he should be dead.

  He should have splattered his brains and a good-sized chunk of his skull all over the bathroom wall.

  But the gun didn’t fire.

  It didn’t go off.

  The bullet was a dud.

  Can you believe the luck of that?

  You work up the guts, the bravery to perform the most cowardly act a man can undertake, and maintain the resolve to pull the trigger . . . and the damn bullet doesn’t fire.

  A distinct Click!

  Then nothing.

  Sam didn’t chance a second try.

  He lost the nerve.

  Panic set in.

  The gun didn’t fire.

  For the next two hours Sam sat huddled in a corner trying to fight off a chill that didn’t want to abate, and when it did finally wane, he spent the next six months in firing ranges and shooting galleries around Atlanta firing clip after clip into targets.

  His point though, every time thereafter the gun fired, 12,856 times he pulled the trigger and the gun fired.

  Every damn time.

  Why didn’t it fire the first time? Why didn’t it fire when he had the gun shoved up to the tonsils?

  Bullets do exactly what you ask them to – every time – so be damn sure when you pull the trigger, it’s what you really want to do.

  What about this time, Sam?

  Did it do exactly as you asked it to?

  Sam smiled.

  Maybe the bullet decided to tell him, “No.”

  But when Maggie saw him yesterday, the gun wasn’t loaded.

  He couldn’t tell her why he put the gun in his mouth in the first place, a sobering reminder maybe?

  Like touching a hot burner, it was something he did without forethought. He found the gun in the top shelf of the closet, removed it from its case and promptly stuck it in his mouth.

  Did he do it because it was that time again?

  Diane died three years ago, over the July 4th weekend and the Fourth of July had been hard on Sam ever since.

  Did he do it because Diane deserved something more from him than what he gave?

  Did she deserve his sacrifice?

  He didn’t have an answer and he asked the same question over and over again in his mind all day yesterday.

  Why did I do this?

  The one time Sam put the gun in his mouth, worked up the nerve – or cowardice perhaps – to pull the trigger and the damned thing didn’t go off.