“I drank a six once. Threw up for three days,” Lila said. Her dice earrings rocked. Eddie put his hand on her knee.
The crabs they'd put on the stove earlier plopped and tangled in the big kitchen pot.
“Why?” Eddie asked, eyeing the racing magazines in piles by the bed and remembering the one smuggled Playboy down near the bottom.
“I was bored,” Lila said. “It was at a bonfire on the beach. Everybody else was either passed out, or making out.”
Eddie got a tall brown bottle. “Dark's stronger,” he said, putting his hand back on her knee and thinking of the scars there, a design like fishhooks and question marks. Like an instrument in its velvet cradle, the small dark room seemed to fit them perfectly. She leaned onto his shoulder and Eddie felt little mad-scientist currents between them. As in the movies he kissed her full on the mouth, then moved an unsure hand to her. There was worry that if it came down to it, he wouldn't know what to do, he would be awkward, and the chance to make love to Lila would crackle and evaporate. His mind ran with scattered bits friends had told him and information he had gotten from other girls.
Lila whispered, “What's that noise?”
Eddie heard crabs, crabs bailing out, a quick claw over the edge and then one by one each hurling its weight over. “Water's not hot enough,” he said.
“They'll get all over your house.” Lila giggled. “Like little trolls.”
“I like it,” Eddie said, pulling her to him and trying to roll them horizontal on the sandy sheets. Crabs continued to jump like paratroopers. Lila's body felt as fragile as the swans glassblowers form. A breeze that smelled of leaves goose-pimpled his legs and blew the curtains inward. He heard drunken voices singing up the road. A man said something about warm water. “That's my mother,” Eddie said and sat up.
Emily sang: “How does it feel?” And the man joined in, “To be on your own—”
“That's Birdflower,” Lila said. “What's he doing with her?”
“How am I supposed to know? Maybe they're drunk from the boat,” Eddie said. “Let's go.” He got up and pulled her hand. “Come on.”
“I thought you said your mother was taking a break.”
“Lila, let's go.” Eddie saw his mother up the road under the moon. With her skirt held up she kicked her legs.
They left with a bang of the kitchen door, running fast in the moonlight along the sand road. Eddie slowed only when he could no longer make out the words of his mother's song.
“This is the oldest operating lighthouse on the east coast,” Lila said, fingers pinching her nose, putting on her tour guide voice. The key clicked in the lock and the door opened. Eddie stepped behind her into the complete roundness of the lighthouse. He looked up the spiral stairs to the latchdoor with light around the cracks, as if the sun was on the other side. Their feet made metallic sounds on the stairs. “Around three times,” Lila said, taking Eddie's hand. “For luck.”
He watched her climb the stairs to the light. When Lila turned, her eyes flicked red like dogs in photographs. “We would be dead if we fell,” she said.
Eddie caught his breath.
“What's with you?”
“Nothing,” Eddie said.
“My grandmother said one keeper fell and that he deserved it because he was drunk.”
Eddie dragged a hand on the cool wall. “Did he break his legs?”
“Both legs were folded under like a doll's,” Lila said and pushed the wooden door open.
They climbed into a round room with windows. Three giant bulbs in cone-shaped silver reflectors elevated in the middle spun and flashed. “Like a spaceship, I always think,” Lila said as she walked to the side with the view of the Atlantic. Eddie thought of sea captains in heavy wool coats with velvet collars looking up to the light on shore. Maybe in a split second, this one captain in his boat, at the wheel near Bermuda or farther, would see Lila and him leaning against each other by the window. Eddie looked down to the jagged shoreline, rocks below thinning threads of water.
Lila broke from him. “Look at the island,” she said, and walked barefoot to the other side. The view flashed of white cottages, small sailboats, a few motels, the community store, the bar, and even the beginnings of the beach—a hint of motion on the far side.
“It's like it's play from up here,” she said. “I think the lighthouse keepers were really afraid of water. I think they came up here, not really looking to the water for ships in trouble, but instead standing and looking over the island trying to see their wife's tiny hands in the kitchen window drying a dinner plate.”
Eddie wanted to say something. The wind keened around the lighthouse. Quickly he spidered his fingers up Lila's back and felt for the hook of her bra. It came undone easily, slackened, and fell lazily. Light pulsed on their mouths pressed like kissing fish. He and Lila kneeled together on the floor like children, then fell under the beams of strong light flashing above them and out over the sea for miles.
EIGHT
THE FOURTH
The firecracker, tossed from the cracked door of the men's room, rolled like a cigarette, then exploded.
“Get ‘em out of there,” John Berry said from outside to the boy's father who lay flat out, bare-bellied, on the hood of his car.
“Let the kid have some fun. It's the U.S. of A.’s birthday,” he said, cocking one eye as he spoke.
John Berry shook his head. “Look,” he said. He smelled barbecue and Budweiser on the man's breath. “We're not on solid ground here.”
The boy in the bathroom opened the door. John Berry saw his thin arms and hands lighting the tip of another firecracker. John Berry lunged for him, but the boy tossed the cracker, slammed the door, and laughed. The firecrackers rang and smoked near the car's front tires. “Bring me some more matches, Pop,” the boy said.
“Get out of there, kid,” John Berry said. He pounded on the door, then looked pleadingly at the boy's father, who gave him a lazy stare and calmly tipped a beer to his lips. “I'd bet today must have been hell for a guy like you.”
John Berry stared at the father. He could see, even in the dusk, the white lines on his stomach that in the sun had been shaded by fat.
“Tell your kid to get out of there,” John Berry said.
The door cracked open and he saw the boy's face. “You don't own this boat,” he said. He lobbed a whole row of firecrackers past John Berry's arm and all the way to the railing. Rat-a-tat-tat. John Berry's neck tightened. He really didn't want to hassle the kid. He was afraid to see even a shade of that expression, the one Emily'd had before he threw the bottle—pretended innocence and then fear.
“I've got some sparklers,” he said to the boy. “Would you come out for that?”
The boy didn't answer and John Berry heard his feet scuffing on the tiles as though he was shadowboxing.
John Berry turned. “Yeah,” the father said. “We're driving straight through to Jersey tonight.” He gestured in the air with an open hand.
John Berry shook his head and walked down the metal steps. Opening his locker, he grabbed the sparklers out of the bag that contained his beer and cigarettes. The long red and white box reminded him of last year when he'd gotten off for the Fourth and Emily and he had gone to a cookout. He remembered her bare shoulders in a sundress and how, as it darkened, her skin blurred as if she were underwater. Most of the night she sat on a low-slung wooden porch chair with a floral cushion, talking to Tom's wife, and he'd sat across and watched her. Even then he was beginning to suspect that there could be others.
As he climbed the stairs back to the deck, he lit the end of two sparklers: long, metallic cattails that buzzed and threw sparks every which way. He stuck one into the crack between the boat wall and door so the boy would see tiny stars shooting into the men's room.
“This man brought you something,” the father said, his eyes still closed.
The door opened slowly. John Berry watched the kid, shirtless in cutoffs and tennis shoes, walk over and take the wir
e handle from him.
He wrote out words in orange cursive: Bird, Sand, a swirling Water. He announced each one.
Both flames went out then with a tired crackle and whiff. The boy eyed the box of sparklers in John Berry's pocket.
John Berry took three more out, lit them with his lighter, and passed one to the boy and another to his father, who put the handle into his mouth and shut his eyes. It made his face reddish and sparks tattered over the edge of his brow onto his bald head.
The boy wrote out his name, Billy, then his father's, Paul, then girls: Ann, Sue, Cathy . . .
John Berry tipped his and wrote Emily in the dark, etched it slowly, and saw it float there.
“Turn that shit off,” Birdflower said, his hands moving over the grill like a magician.
Lila walked over to the cassette player which was balanced above the microwave and ejected a tape. “You wouldn't think you'd be so grumpy, now that you got yourself a girl.”
Birdflower turned toward her and she thought she saw a smile edging up around his mouth.
The owner yelled out: “Three Fourth of July fish fries.” She hustled to the grease bin, dropped the frozen fish patties into the metal basket, plopped them down with a sputter. Birdflower was wiping his face with a bandanna and sticking little toothpick American flags in a line of burgers.
“I don't know what your problem is lately,” he said, shaking his head.
“I did it,” she said casually. She waited for him to move. His wet T-shirt clung to his back. After a moment he turned his head and looked at her over his shoulder. “Did what?”
Lila walked over to him, leaned her stomach on the black knobs, and bent around, over the grill, so she could see his face. “You know,” she said.
Birdflower flipped a hamburger, rolled the hot dogs, and pressed the cooked onions into a tighter pile.
Lila got closer to his face. “I said—”
“I get it,” Birdflower said. “What do you want me to say?”
A kid screamed out on the porch and Lila moved away from him. “I don't know,” she said, reaching for the prongs to get the fish. “I just thought you should know.”
Emily wet a dish towel and put it on her neck and wrists. “There are millions out there. The seating list is two pages long. I never should have agreed to wait tables.”
“You'll make good money for just wiggling your tail,” Neal said.
She threw the towel across the counter at him.
“Very funny,” he said, rocketing it back. “Your platters will be up in a minute.”
Neal turned to check the scallops whitening in a skillet on the stove. The kitchen was damp with steam, and other waitresses hurried in and out without speaking to anyone.
She watched Eddie separating silverware into plastic canisters; knives, forks, soup spoons, the occasional long iced tea spoons all lay scattered under his hands. He'd worn jeans to work, and Emily knew that meant he was meeting Lila later.
The bell dinged and she walked over, set the broiled platters on the tray, twisted a lemon slice on each fish fillet, and grabbed a cocktail sauce cup for the shrimp. Over her shoulders she watched Eddie lobbing rinse tablets into the huge sinks. The water turned Caribbean blue in seconds.
Emily delivered the seafood and refilled water glasses. She saw about twenty old women in bright-colored pantsuits file into the dining room.
Some sat right down at the tables the busboy was pushing together for them. A few clustered around the entrance, rubbing their loose upper arms and pulling their jackets around them. Most of the women had gray hair tinted blue or purple and the styles were similar: short, with a loose curl on each side, and one lying like a little mouse on top.
She walked over and introduced herself to a few of the women at one end of the table and told them she'd be their waitress.
“We're the Georgia Songbirds,” a big-breasted woman said. “We gave a concert down in Morehead.” She was tanned on her forearms, as if from going onto the beach fully clothed.
Emily went around the table.
“My stomach,” the last lady said, fingers clenching the menu, “is thinking of jumping clear out of my mouth and searching down food on its own.” Emily wrote the order onto her pad. “Your tan is lovely,” the woman said, and laid a pale hand on Emily's arm.
The big woman motioned to the others. All stood in a slow way, as for the Gospel in church, and began singing. Emily looked around at the other customers, and most smiled and nodded toward the women. “God bless America,” they sang out. “Land that I love. Stand beside her, and guide her . . .”
The other waitresses paused around the coffee maker. They put their hands on their hips and shook their heads. For the first time that night, a few of them smiled. Eddie came out and stood beside the waitresses. Neal leaned in the doorway and placed a hand over his heart. The hungry woman at the end of the table began the next song with a voice like a young child's: “Yankee Doodle went to London riding on a pony . . .” The rest lifted their arms to, gether and, with gusto, came in on the chorus, “I am that Yankee Doodle boy!”
“Usually I go down with my father in his truck,” Lila said. “He always tells stories of other Fourths.” They walked across a weedy lot toward the seawall. “How many pieces you got?” She pointed to the brown bag Eddie carried.
“Six,” he said. Above them, the first white lights of fireworks.
Lila seemed a little nervous; her hands flittered while she talked on the walk over, and she wouldn't look at him, as she always did, directly in the eye. “Do they always start at midnight?” he said.
“Ever since I can remember.” She held on to his arm and shook a pebble loose from her sandal, then she moved her hand. “Look,” Lila said evenly. She stared at a point just past his face. “Did you get some things yet?”
Eddie nodded, his cheeks flushed.
“Not that I'm worried or anything,” she said and kicked at the sandy dirt with the toes of her sandals. “I just wondered.”
Eddie smiled. “Yeah, I got them at the gas station, in the men's room. They're called french tickle—”
“I don't want to hear about it,” she said, and walked on.
A creeping greenish firework zipped up and burst.
They settled on the concrete sandbags—water nipped at their heels as they leaned their heads back so they could see the fireworks shooting up over the island. Eddie handed her a slice of watermelon. She took it in one hand and nibbled at the corner; a seed slipped off into the water. “Will we get drunk?”
“Maybe,” Eddie said, mushing a bite in his mouth. “We put a whole bottle in.” He watched the horseshoe crabs wading in the shallow water, some joined together, others resting, sand edged up on their shells. They reminded Eddie of space bugs because of the way they moved in that small horrible way, rattails rotating behind.
Three red spinners went crazy, self-destructing in the sky.
Lila ate down to the rind. She flung the green smile out into the sound; it plopped and was gone. “I'm kinda worried,” she said.
Eddie watched her eyes watch a few traveling sparks dissipate into the water. She had on a sleeveless white blouse, one Eddie knew had been her mother's. It had a stain up on one shoulder. She hugged her knees and rocked slightly. “Lila,” Eddie said. She didn't answer, so he handed her another half-moon of pink melon.
She took it, laid it wetly on her shorts, and pressed a hand to her hair. “You know?” she said, and looked at him. “You know what I mean?”
Birdflower sat up on his elbow and filled Emily's cup with champagne. Both lay long-ways on a quilt spread out on the van floor.
Emily paused to watch the dark sky bloom with three yellow wheels of hissing light. “We eloped on a Friday night. He came and got me like a regular date. We crossed over the line and headed into Tennessee. I imagined the baby already kicking. We found this justice that ran a gas station—what I remember was the back room, yellow pine and girlie calendars all over.”
&
nbsp; Birdflower shook his head.
“Signed the divorce papers five years to the day,” Emily said.
Birdflower drank from the big green bottle and put his palm on her stomach. “Plan it that way?” he asked.
“No. Things turn out,” she said. “You know how it is.”
Fireworks whizzed up. Emily put an arm around his hips and pulled him forward. “Let's close the doors,” she said. “Let's do it here.”
John Berry swung himself around the dock post and splashed into the water. He moved his legs like riding a bicycle, treading water, watching the sky crackle and flare—the Fourth of July midnight finale was beginning.
From here he saw no one: no tourists cheering like morons, no locals or summer help who'd recognize him. He pulled his shoes off and threw them up onto the private dock, gulped air, and pushed his face under. He watched the last red, white, and blue gunpowder bursts from below the surface. Globes of light widening and shrinking, blurred and broken, like the image he'd seen when he jumped a minute earlier: his own face shifting in water.
NINE
THIS PLACE WAS REAL NICE
The bartender, playing his fingers across the glass bottles like piano keys, said, “We have Ancient Age, Beam's Blacklabel, Century Brooks, Fighting Cock, Jim Beam, Old Crow, Old Fitzgerald, Old Forrester, Rebel Yell, Sam Sykes, and Jack Daniel's Number 7.”
John Berry's drink showed brown melting to clear, swirling like maple syrup. “Aw . . . just give me a beer,” he said. The bartender sulked over to the tap and tilted a glass. He set it down in front of John Berry, the glass curved in the middle like a girl's waist.
“How was your Fourth?” the bartender asked.
“Okay,” John Berry said.
“You back or just visiting?”
“Testing the waters.”
The bartender wrapped plastic silverware in napkins and stood the white cocoons up in containers marked TAKE-OUT. John Berry thought he was intentionally trying to act busy. He didn't want to hear it, especially now in mid-afternoon when he wasn't making any money. John Berry knew that hundreds of men had sat on these bar stools and talked about women. He saw their female faces on the mirrored beer signs, smiling, pouting their bee-stung bottom lips. It didn't matter that much because he wouldn't say out loud what he'd decided anyway—that Emily was the love of his life. And that to ruin things, as he had, without trying to set them straight again would make him mean, crazy, and drunken forever. John Berry knew the bartender didn't trust him. He called him Blackbeard, and once last year he'd shown a painting of a pirate and pointed out to everybody who came into the bar for days how much it looked like John Berry. And it was true he had Edward Teach's blue-black hair and rubied cheekbones. He had the body type too, a mass of solid squares and rectangles placed against one another.
Up Through the Water Page 7