by Tom Poland
Cameron pulled out a sleeve of transparencies from the envelope. “One tree intrigued me because some large seashells had lodged in its branches.”
He placed the slide on the light table’s milky, luminous glass, and handed me the loop. I moved it over the photo. Three white shells sat in the forked branches of a large tree, bleached by the sun and sculpted by the surf.
“The waves must have wedged the shells in there,” I said.
“Check this out,” said Cameron, pulling a large print from the envelope. “I enlarged it and enhanced it on the computer.” He threw the print onto the table. Three human skulls faced the Atlantic.
“What did you do about this?”
“Nothing. Watch your back on Sapelo. It’s a strange place where bizarre people come and go … outsiders, poachers, and oddballs. Some huge alligators live there atop a food chain that includes you. Poachers and drug runners take advantage of the island’s lack of law enforcement, and there’s a decent deer herd on the island poachers work year round.”
“It sounds barbaric,” I said.
“The island’s primitive all right. There’s no way to communicate from there unless you take a cell phone and I know you won’t. That’s another thing. What if you get sick? Or a snake bites you? I don’t think you ought to go down there without a phone.”
“I’ll be all right. Just tell me what to expect before I set foot on the island.”
“Okay, expect the unexpected and expect nothing to be easy. Don’t fool yourself into thinking it will be. You’ll get attention fast. If some white guy goes poking around asking for Rikard, no one’s going to tell him a thing. You could search the island for a year and find nothing … or something might find you.”
“Well, let it find me whatever it is.”
“Oh, you can be sure it will. Listen, I know Hell or high water won’t stop you from going to Sapelo, so I’m going to give you some advice. Take the back roads to see what it’s like to go back fifty years or more, then understand that Sapelo is a hundred years behind the back roads. Don’t even think about taking the Interstate. It can only get you so close to the island anyway.”
“A backroad skirts the Georgia line and ends near Sapelo. I’ll take it.”
“I know the road. Runs smack into the Atlantic where the pavement crumbles into the surf. Right before you get to Savannah Wildlife Refuge, take Botany Bay Road, an avenue of mossy oaks that leads to the landing where you’ll put out for the island. You can get provisions at an old store. Look for old-fashioned Coca-Cola signs that say ‘Prices Store.’ ”
“Thanks, I’ll do that,” I said, looking forward to backward time travel.
“You’ve got to cross the river Styx, so to speak,” said Cameron. “What’s your plan for getting over to Sapelo? It’s seven miles off the mainland.”
“The river Styx … You make it sound like I’m going to my own funeral. I need someone to ferry me over there.”
“There’s an old swamp rat—Jackson—who, for money, will ferry you to Sapelo from Chamberlain’s Landing at the end of Botany Bay Road. Jackson works at Tatum’s Shell Station, about five miles before you get to Prices Store. I hope you catch Jackson sober. Make it worth his while, and he’ll come back to check on you. Give him money and promise him liquor.”
“If he’ll settle for Southern Comfort, I’m set,” I said. “I brought along a summer supply to sip on. Inspiration for writing on the salt.”
“That’s good. All he’s used to is rot gut.”
“Where’s a good place to camp?”
“You want a place that’s easy to get in and out of. Your best bet is the island’s south end in some major sand dunes. Onshore winds will drive away mosquitoes and it’s easy to pitch a tent in the dunes. You’ll be hidden in the swells, and driftwood is nearby for fires. The marsh is close too if you want to net some crabs or shrimp, but ….” Cameron paused as if reconsidering what he’d told me.
“But …”
“You’ll be vulnerable. The surf will keep you from hearing anything or anyone coming up on you, and behind the dunes you won’t see much either. Then again, maybe no one will see you. Sleep with one eye open just in case.”
“I can rig a makeshift security perimeter around the campsite … an old buddy who went to Vietnam taught me how.”
“If a hurricane comes howling in, the sea will rush through the gaps between the sand dunes and cover the marsh. You’ll have a long swim to the mainland … provided the winds don’t blow you there first.”
“Why don’t you go with me? We can blow away together,” though I knew better. Cameron would come, but at a time of his choosing. He always had a schedule to keep.
“Don’t expect me for a month at least. I’m leaving Sunday for the Blue Ridge Mountains to photograph waterfalls for a New York ad agency. They’ve got this campaign promoting a soft drink company’s entry into the bottled water market, Cascade. You know, fresh from nature stuff.”
“Sounds refreshing,” I said. “The mountains should be cool, a lot cooler than the coast and a damn sight cooler than Atlanta.”
“It’s always hot in this place, hot and dry, but it’s never been this hot before. The heat wave can’t last much longer I don’t think, but it makes a cold beer that much nicer. What do you say we continue this over dinner and catch a beer or two? There’s a new restaurant up the street.”
We walked three blocks to a place called Willie’s where slanting shadows crept toward, then over people drinking beers beneath sluggish ceiling fans. A musician singing 80’s songs worked a rowdy young crowd, urging it to sing the chorus to AC/DC’s “Highway To Hell.”
We found a table away from the crowd, where the music was low enough to talk, and ordered beers from a waiter with a pierced tongue and tattoo-covered arms. He walked with a swagger, as if his life amounted to something. Rivulets of condensation ran down the bottles, and the heat soon warmed the beer.
“When I’m a few thousand feet above sea level, I’ll think about you down there, sweating. Sapelo is hot, mighty hot, and dangerous. Murder’s no big deal there. The city’s made you a brave man all right. Here’s to your courage.”
We clinked beers, then tipped them up. Over dinner, I told Cameron about the young mother’s murder and he agreed escaping the city for the summer was good. We finished eating, paid, and walked back to the studio parking lot.
“When I wrap up the waterfall assignment, I’ll come down to the island. Maybe we can convince Rikard to pose alongside his potions and talismans with a full moon over his shoulder and sparks from a fire flying toward the heavens.”
“How do you plan to find me?”
“Jackson will know where you are.”
We shook hands and called it a night. Just as I was backing out, Cameron ran over and tapped on my hood. He leaned in my window.
“Have you gotten over the accident enough to go out now and then, to build yourself another life?”
“I catch some beers now and then with a girl in the office, but it’s a casual thing. Now there’s a nurse, Mary, at Brit’s institute. She’s special … not many good women are out there anymore.”
Cameron gave me a pat on the shoulder. “Who knows? Someday you may meet the woman of your dreams.”
“Not in voodoo land.”
“So Brit’s still asleep,” said Cameron.
“Same old story.”
“What’s it been now, four years?” asked Cameron.
“Five. The one thing that keeps me going is hope. I can see her rising from her bed saying ‘Dad, I’m back. I’ve been with mom and she said to tell you she loves you.’ That’s what I hope. That she will rise one day and be all right. I want to see if Rikard, this black man-white man can work his magic on her.”
“Maybe he can,” said Cameron but he didn’t sound convincing.
“Not a day goes by I don’t see her in that room, wired up and hooked to tubes. I just wait, that’s all. If anything ever changes, you’ll be the first to
know.”
***
I stayed at a small motel in the city and left before dawn beneath a full moon. I drove through the sleeping city past a strange building where the words “ADLUH” glowed red above deserted bars and dance clubs. I took the Interstate for a few miles then departed the land of fast food, billboards, tire chunks, and deer carcasses and headed south on a narrow state road that would take me to the Lowcountry.
A full moon turned the land silver and the highway’s center stripe glowed as if beneath a black light. Rounding a sharp curve, moonlight bathed a cotton field with silver light and thousands of silver-gilt cotton puffs glowed with unworldly brilliance. The cotton field’s beauty overwhelmed me and I pulled over and walked into the field. Using an old Swiss Army knife, I cut a few stalks to take to the island.
For a long time, daybreak remained out of reach, and I hurtled through darkness into a foggy bottom where three night phantom deer wheeled, eyes aglow, and faded into some woods.
Lights began to appear in homes and trailers. A pink glow flooded the horizon and the land began to reveal itself. About an hour after dawn, I rounded a curve where a hill peaked and had to hit the brakes. Slanted across the road and leaning hard into the ditch sat half a mobile home hitched to a Mack truck. The trailer’s side had hemorrhaged, spewing pink insulation and copper wires. A crumpled grill hissed steam.
Split-oak baskets of peaches, the kind you see at Farmers Markets, littered the road. Peaches, bruised, torn, some intact, were everywhere. One sat in the centerline, its yellow-red flesh clinging to an almond-colored pit.
A man in jeans and a light blue shirt waved a red bandanna.
I pulled over.
He leaned into my window, breathless.
“My—my—radio’s broke. Can—you—call the law.” Above his shirt pocket a white oval with red stitching spelled “Sonny,” the kind of shirt shade tree mechanics dream of wearing someday.
Sonny had the face of hard living, the look of a smoker, a mustache in need of a trim, and mistrusting eyes.
“I don’t have a cell phone,” I said, curious as to why peaches lay scattered beneath a mobile home. I eased out and walked past the driver holding the bandanna, leaning over, hands upon his knees, catching his breath. I stepped around the trailer. Knocked sideways into a shallow ditch was an olive International pickup, ’49 I guessed, with its driver side door crushed. A man’s arm stuck out the driver-side window at a 45-degree angle.
I walked over to peer through the passenger window. A farmer, 75 maybe, slumped in his seat, eyes wide open, stared at the dash. He could not believe the road had betrayed him. Blood—scarlet-purple and wax like—oozed from his right ear, a trickle yet to dry.
The old man had pulled out of the orchard through some high grass. The hill had hidden the old man from Sonny and the high grass had blinded the old man. Sonny had smashed into him full speed.
The old man’s left hand stretched out the window, as if reaching. Then it hit me. The hand was shoving. Just before the Mack truck had careened into him, the old man had seen death coming. His arm had instinctively shot out to push the Mack truck away.
I looked at the dead man. Running between two liver spots, a faded brown leather band held an old chrome Timex. The second hand ticked away.
I looked back toward the curve. No skid marks.
“He pulled out in front of me. I never saw him I tell you. There was nothing I could do,” Sonny said, grabbing my shoulder. “I didn’t mean to hit the SOB.”
“I see that. Take it easy. I’m sure the law will see it too.”
I walked back to look at the dead countryman. Sonny came over with me.
“Look here, the other half of this here mobile home has gone on down the road. And this half is all busted up now. It’s gonna cost me my delivery bonus. Ain’t nobody but you and me seen this. What do you say we check the old man’s wallet? I hear these old farmers keep a lot of cash on them. Let’s just split whatever he has, but leave some money so it don’t look funny.”
“How do you know I’m not a cop off duty?”
“Well, by God, are you?”
“No. I’m not a thief either.”
“Well I’m just gonna see what the old man’s got.”
“They call that stealing,” I said. “You don’t want him to haunt you, now do you? First you kill him, then you steal his money.”
Sonny stepped backwards, stumbling over some peaches. I picked up a peach and the fragrance mingled with the smell of death.
I backtracked to a pay phone I’d passed a few miles earlier outside an old hardware store. A clanging rotary phone of the old days finally connected me with an operator who said she’d call the highway patrol. I headed south again. Sonny was leaning against his truck, eating a peach.
I dropped the Land Rover into low and drove into the ditch around the trailer past the dead farmer. About ten miles later, a gray patrol car glimmering blue sped by. Then, after a few more miles an emergency vehicle of no use barreled wreckward, its siren abating. Three miles later I passed Sonny’s partner, pulled over waiting. I drove on not caring if he knew his partner had killed a man, not caring if he lost his bonus as well.
***
I tried to throw off an idea that was gaining strength, an idea clawing at me. That I was a jinx. My presence or proximity was enough for people to die. And now the old man’s tag had brought religion into it. His co-pilot wasn’t much help. The black lady at the voodoo shop said bad things would haunt me. It occurred to me the trip to Sapelo wasn’t a good idea, but it was too late to back out.
I drove for hours and each mile took me deeper and deeper into a primitive land and then a sign of civilization. Nailed to an old gnarled oak tree, a sign advertised the “Last Chance Café” two miles ahead, the lettering slopped onto plywood with blood-red paint. I stopped for lunch at this frayed café in the middle of nowhere.
Sunlight fell onto clay pots of wilting Impatiens flanking a rusty, screen door with a shiny new spring. The door slapped my back, shoving me into this wayward eatery where locals eyed me with suspicion.
An old TV, sporting a mangled coat hanger, broadcast a snowy chase scene—two trucks racing down a country road. Black women in white aprons plunged their hands into steaming blue-and-white enamel pots boiling greens.
A stout old black lady ambled over. She asked me where I was heading and when I said Sapelo, she rolled her eyes and told me to enjoy my last good meal. The restaurant's name was for real. It was the last restaurant on the road to Sapelo, the last chance to eat.
A chalkboard listed the menu: fried chicken, venison, rice and black-eyed peas, greens, and stewed squash. I settled into a booth where cotton stuffing protruded through cracks and tears.
The place had some locals and a teenage girl who thought she was pretty but wasn’t. A magnificent forty-something blonde in jeans and a red blouse sat alone, out of place, and for certain not the kind of woman who’d dine on venison. Elegant fingers nonetheless held an old worn knife, cutting venison into tiny squares. After each bite, she placed her fork upside down on a paper square torn from a napkin, as if the table would infect her. Her face was perfect like a wild animal’s: brilliant blue eyes and lips like intoxicating tropical fruit.
Twice, when she thought I wasn’t paying attention she stared at me. Dotted lines stenciled the air, connecting our blue eyes and some vital part of me surrendered. An aura surrounded her, and she made me nervous for some inexplicable reason. I couldn't finish eating, paid, and left, glancing at her. She flashed a smile and resumed eating in a patrician manner, and I knew a woman like that surely was unknowable.
I left and drove coastward past haunted, green swamps and oaks dripping with Spanish moss. Shanties with bright, blue doors began to appear. Late afternoon brought the heat to critical mass as I wound my way into serious, deep woods. Breaking into a clear stretch where some logging had taken place, I could see white clouds massing. Thunderheads were gathering, fanning smoky rays of light i
n soft spokes toward the earth. A fork of lightning splintered the sky, and thunder came low and resonant. Another peal of thunder preceded a spattering of rain. For a long time a storm raged, making the driving difficult. Then the sun came out and the land steamed as the Coastal Plain’s old dune ridges flattened into the Lowcountry’s ancient sea bottom.
A storm-cleansed July sky streamed light across the land’s green face, and I flashed by a dead tree in a marsh dangling plastic milk jugs with strange markings. Peculiar dolls with outstretched arms hung from tree limbs. I had entered the land of tricks, hexes, and incantations. Images of root doctors conjuring spells with graveyard dust and menstrual blood filled my head.
Once I saw a makeshift wooden cross right by a large oak bearing a fresh gash. At the base of the cross, lay fragments of broken glass from shattered dishes. I had read that voodoo dancers ring magic trees, dancing into the night. A ring of crazed people dancing upon broken glass … I would have liked that.
I’d come a long ways and I remained confident something good would come of this island journey, but the signs were not promising. They seemed more about death than life, like Cameron’s skulls in a toppled tree washed by the sea. Then his words came back to me reassuring me in an odd way.
“Death can be beautiful.”
THE CROSSING
Like everything else in this time-forgotten land, Tatum’s Shell station was of the old days, a concrete block structure with an old red and yellow Shell sign leaning inland.
Jackson was out back using a crowbar to work a huge tire off a truck rim and was sober, though you can never be sure with true drunks. I told him I’d pay him $20 if he’d ferry me to the island and promised him a fifth of Southern Comfort once we unloaded my gear on the island.
As he wrested the giant tire from the rim, his eyes lit up. “Fine.”