We walked out across acres of white sand that had collected on the southern tip, apparently washed down and deposited over the years until a mini-desert had formed, cut off from the mainland by an inlet that wound behind the island and back into the marsh.
"When it's nice out, I'll bring a beach chair and write my sermons," said Asbury, tromping along with the look of a man admiring his own backyard.
"Nice office," said Allie, stepping over sprigs of sea oat.
Hot, squishy sand soon firmed, then cooled as we neared the glassy water of the inlet. I watched a chunk of driftwood float past, then glanced above the dunes at a long line of pelicans, swooping low in a quiet glide of unity.
Asbury stopped and squinted south. "Goodness gracious," he said. "There's two of my members fishing in the bend. Skipped my sermon last week, too. Can y'all excuse me for a second?"
"Sure," said Allie.
"You have good vision, Preach," I offered.
"I'd recognize Theo and his wife a mile away," said Asbury over his shoulder. He removed his sneakers and walked barefoot up the shore. Allie whispered that maybe he kept mental records of attendance, what with his church being so small.
On the back side of the island, the inlet curved itself into a long, reverse C. White sand dropped off quickly from the eroding effect of rushing water, the swift current carving a cliff at the edge, dry at the top but crumbling wet at the base.
We kicked off our sandals. I yawned again. Allie sat beside me at water's edge, and we dipped our feet in the current.
"Think he'll convict them a bit?" she asked.
"Nah, he'll probably bait their hooks."
Her toenails, painted red, sparkled as she bobbed her feet in and out of the water. "So, of Stanley was responsible for our rescue, huh?"
The current pulled our legs to the right. "Sounds that way."
"I know why Stanley might be a little tough on you," she said.
I scooted closer to her. "Because we bought jam instead of jelly?"
"No, because I went out with him a year ago."
Surprising, this news. But I kept my composure. "Oh ... just once?"
"Yeah. Just once."
"One date doesn't really mean much, Allie."
"Very funny." She lightly punched me on the shoulder. "He took me to dinner just before I left for Ecuador. I thought he was just being nice, but then he started writing me every week for two months, so I just pretended I was deep in the jungle and stopped writing back. That wasn't a very nice thing for me to do, but he talks and writes in these big words and I just ..."
"I'm vaguely familiar with those words," I said, snagging a string of seaweed with my foot.
She stole it with her toe. "When we were at dinner that night, I had said one of my long sentences, you know, without the commas, but he never acknowledged it. Just got off on some antidispensational thing, and after I got home, it hit me."
"What hit you?" I asked, watching her fling the seaweed back in the inlet.
"Well, I've never really liked math very much, but Stanley had said a nine-word sentence at dinner and I counted the number of letters in it, and it was the same amount of letters as in my forty-one word run-on sentence. Isn't that weird?"
"Yes, very weird."
Two jellyfish cruised toward us, bobbing at the mercy of the current. She raised her feet, I raised mine, and the pearlescent duo drifted beneath her sparkling red toenails.
"Should we?"
"We should."
We tossed shells at the jellyfish. They did not retaliate.
Watching them drift helped me to avoid admitting what I did not want to admit. But only for another ten seconds.
"You look a bit puzzled," she said, studying my unshaven face.
"I have a small confession too, Allie."
She folded her arms, turned, and gave me a look. "Okay, let's hear it."
"I actually woke up once last night on the beach, around 3:30 or so. Saw you sleeping, thought about waking you. Even considered the possibility it could be embarrassing-with you being a missionary and all. But I shut my eyes and went back to sleep."
She gazed across the inlet for a moment. "That's okay."
"How can you say it's okay? I could've spared you from embarrassment in front of all your church friends."
"Well, I suppose it comes down to grace. You do know about grace, don't you, Jay?"
"I've heard the term . . . two thousand years ago and all that?"
"Not just that," she said, now on her elbows. "Grace isn't date-stamped like that carton of milk in my poem. Even if it were, the stamp would say `eternal' . . . and the gracer needs to be sure and pour a glass, so that when needed, the gracee can have a swallow."
I had no idea what to say, except, "You should get up and preach one Sunday."
"They don't allow women to preach in our church. And I'd much rather be a missionary. Besides, you just heard my one-and-only sermon, and after a couple of times with the same sermon, the congregation would surely go to sleep ... and I'd have to start throwing stuff to wake 'em up
Sitting there beside her with our feet in the current, I was startled by her candor and attracted to her straightforward manner, her uncorrupted realness in a world I only knew as harsh and competitive.
"Speaking of throwing, can you explain the arm?"
"The arm?" she asked, sitting up again and swishing her feet in the water.
"The throwing arm. How did you-"
"I have four brothers, all older. They were a complete infield, missing only a second baseman, so when I turned five I got drafted to play second base. We used to ride our bikes over to other neighborhoods to play for a trophy we called `The Gargoyle,' which really wasn't a gargoyle, just some of wooden head with crazy eyes and a pointed chin."
"And I suppose the Kyle team retained the gargoyle year after year."
"Yep. It's in the back of my closet in Greenville. I used to carry it to the games in the basket of my bike, right next to Barbie."
I flipped another shell in the current. "What about Ken?"
"Didn't you think Ken was dorky?"
"I don't remember."
The breeze whipped her hair across her eyes. She pulled it away as a gull landed clumsily to her left. It hopped closer, begging for a handout. Allie showed it her empty palms, a silent apology for our lack of food. The bird squawked its displeasure, then flew off in search of a more tangible charity.
"Well, that's my childhood. What about yours?" she asked, splashing her feet again.
"You want the whole thing?"
"If you like. Or you can sum it up in one long sentence."
"I ate the paste."
"Me too," she said, her hair continuing to misbehave.
"Ever sprinkle cinnamon on it?"
"Ketchup."
"You're sick."
"Hey, did you ever try drugs?" she asked, crinkling her nose like she'd just sniffed vinegar.
I disliked answering this question, but like the salt air swirling about Pawleys Island, confession seemed to bring about a certain cleansing. "Pot, twice. Didn't like it. You?"
"Helium. I sucked it from balloons."
"A helium addict ... just say no to birthday parties."
"You're insane."
"Maybe so, but you're the one who just used bathroom humor to cajole a fish fillet from a poor Baptist preacher."
"That darker fish grossed me out. I couldn't help myself," she said.
I plucked two more shells from the sand before changing the subject. "You were lucky, Allie, to have all those brothers. I never had any brothers or sisters."
"It was never boring, that's for sure."
"I wouldn't mind having a houseful of kids myself one day."
She gave no response. She just let her head drop and watched the water flow under her feet. She seemed different somehow, distracted.
Her chin quivered. Then a tear.
"I said something wrong?"
"No," she said, her head still
down.
"I brought up a bad memory?"
"No."
"Can you tell me what it is? You all of a sudden became sad."
She raised her feet from the water, wrapped her arms around her knees, and placed her head in between. Her face was hidden; her voice muffled. "I might not can have children."
"I'm sorry." It was all I could think to say, and I felt bad for having said the wrong thing to both a preacher and a missionary, all in the span of one hour.
"It's not your fault," she said, lifting her head and wiping her arm across her face. "It's called amenorrhea, and it has to do with the stress of living in foreign countries. It sometimes makes a woman's body not ... well, it could reverse if I moved back to the States permanently, but I feel a calling to-"
"You needn't say more."
She slid her toes back in the current and continued all the way to her calves. Under the water, our feet touched, and after a few minutes she breathed deeply, snorted once on her sleeve, and seemed herself again.
I marveled at her recovery. "Are you okay now?"
"Yeah. But it's hard for a single girl, I mean, woman, to be back in the center of the Bible Belt, with nearly all the women having kids, and being surrounded by families every Sunday at church. The orphans I work with in South America help me escape, help me to experience motherhood in another way." She sighed. "Please don't tell anyone I told you this, so many people will think the wrong thing and ..."
She stopped talking. Just clammed up and stared across the inlet. A quick glance at me, then back across the water. I thought of all the Southern girls I'd met in my twenty-seven years, and how nearly every one of them yearned to be a mother someday. Sympathy was in order here, but I was a broker, and my learned brand of sympathy was subtle and indirect.
"I won't tell. Won't repeat it ever, if that's your wish. But why did you share this with me?"
Her voice was just above a whisper. "I don't know. Maybe I feel you're trustworthy. Or maybe because you aren't a part of the gossipy church people I grew up around."
Her saying that made me feel good, though neither of us had further comment.
A hundred yards to the south, where the water curved back toward the ocean, Preacher Smoak stood beside his wayward members, hands on hips. A long pole bent from Theo's outstretched arms. We watched them for a moment and, once again, the pudgy one took the pole from the frail one.
Funny how rising tides sneak up on you-the water level of the inlet had risen to our knees, and the force of the current kept pulling my feet into hers. After a while we gently splashed each other. Once, then twice.
"So tell me about college," she said. "And I want the long version."
"This could take a while."
`Just hit the revealing parts, then."
We leaned back on our elbows, and I began to rehash a few chapters from the book of Jarvis. "I was pushed hard to be successful from my family, though I really didn't need their pushes. I'm pretty much selfmotivated. Made the dean's list. Graduated in three-and-a-half years but probably cut short a great time in my life."
"What was so great about it?" she asked, admiring her periscoping toes.
"The freedom, the lack of responsibility other than for grades, which seemed to come easy for me. And, of course, the social life-meeting the opposite sex was a lot easier in college."
"Agreed. But that's an area requiring faith for God's supply-at God's appointed time."
"But if a man waits on God, then he must never allow the girl to eat meatloaf instead of steak, and he must always sit in the cheap seats, and he must always refuse to share hymnals if they break up, and he must never but never allow her to get into compromising situations."
Allie laughed again, and I allowed her laughter to intoxicate me. I even tried to imagine what it would be like to have a daily dose of her giggles.
"Maybe Lydia will give us credit on the book jacket," she said.
"You don't worry about that?"
"What? Finding my mate?"
"Yeah."
She raised her feet from the water and flicked sand with her toe. "Not as much as I used to. I'm certain that God will put the right one in my path when it's time."
"You never try to make things happen?"
"Well, in college..." She stopped in midsentence. She seemed embarrassed as she once again fixed her gaze across the inlet. The far shore was overgrown with marsh grass, and thick clusters of palm trees swayed grudgingly in the breeze.
"Where was college?" I asked, feeling the sun warm my neck.
"Appalachian State. Once, I signed up for a class because this guy I liked was in it."
"Didn't work out?"
"For a little while. But he lives in Kenya now with his wife and two kids. What about you?"
"Never signed up for a class to meet a specific person, but I, uh, did go to a church once to see who was there."
She turned to look me in the eye. "Wouldn't happen to be North Hills Presbyterian Church, now would it?"
More confession, more cleansing. Good grief. "Okay. I admit it. Am I that obvious?"
"Well, when you came to get me by yourself at the grocery store on Friday, I was a bit suspicious. That's why I asked about Steve ... and made up that bit about Jill."
"You mean there is no Jill?"
She smiled and said, "I'm sure there is, somewhere. But I just invented her to slow you down."
"It worked."
"I know." She tilted her head back in mock pride, shut her eyes, and asked, "Do you think I'm attractive?"
I couldn't believe she had to ask. "You're joking, right?"
"No, I'm not. After spending a year in a foreign country and having no dates and not having anyone to say you look nice, well, it makes a girl wonder."
"Allie, you look incredibly nice, especially in that peach two-piece."
A slight blush. "Thanks. I didn't know guys realized peach was a color."
"A few of us do, but probably not Steve."
She giggled again. "Yeah, probably not."
We sat in silence for a moment. I didn't know how to request what I felt like requesting, so I just blurted it out.
"I may want what you have."
"You want my peach bikini?"
"No. I'm being serious. I want to know about that contentment, that whatever it is that makes you happier than everyone else."
"We'll talk about that later. Here comes your fishing buddy."
"And he seems to have what you have, too."
"Well, he'd better," she said, rising to her feet.
With his feet and ankles covered in sand, Asbury Smoak took two swigs from a canned drink. He was strolling beside the inlet and whistling a tune.
"Well, Preacher Smoak, did ya convict 'em?" I asked, rising to greet him.
"Started to," he said. "But they got four nice ones floppin' on the stringer. Then Theo gave me a root beer ... so I thought why ruin their day? Say, I need to get back to my church now, if you two are done chatting."
We wiped moist sand from our legs and derrieres, then hiked back across the hot mini-desert, a Sunday threesome leaning into the breeze.
When we got to the car, I touched Sherbet's hood, and the lime paint nearly scalded my hand. Allie squeezed into the middle again, and while Preacher Smoak was reopening the passenger door to knock more sand from his sneakers, she leaned over to whisper to me. I felt her lips brush against my earlobe.
"You wanna go drifting again this afternoon?"
"Sure, Captain."
"I like drifting."
"Me too."
Leaving the shabby island, we approached the bridge beneath blue skies and one solitary poof of a cloud. Steamy scents of salt marsh engulfed us, a sliver of sandbar awaited us, and I felt the beige vinyl warm against my leg as the sun eased west of noon.
"Thanks for the tour, Asbury," said Allie.
He adjusted his red cap and said, "My pleasure."
I slowed for one more look across the marsh, though the
marsh only served as an excuse for my right hand to slide from the steering wheel and reach for Allie's left. But suddenly her left foot jammed my right foot down on the accelerator, and we were flying across the bridge.
"Put your arms in the air like this," she said to Asbury.
They both reached high, and the preacher laughed as the wind whistled through Sherbet's front seat.
My strongest trait is curiosity.
-Bono
Inside my second-floor office and some 250 miles from its home off the Carolina coast, that lone sand dollar Allie had found in the surf lay flat on my desk, just behind a Rolodex and my burnt-orange University of Texas coffee mug. She'd given me the shell in front of the pink beach house at North Litchfield as 51 singles and a married couple were packing to leave on a cloudy Memorial Day morning. She said it was a reminder of grace, seeing as how we could've drowned, or at the very least washed up somewhere in Morocco with dry mouths and leathered skin.
"Mr. Franklin Gruber on the phone, sir. "
"Thank you, Glenda.... You can afford six hundred shares, Mr. Gruber. We'll just have to sell one of your other stocks."
Try as I did to keep up with the incessant calls from Franklin Gruber, I would often pause from all the buying and the selling to reflect on the latter half of May-and how I ever ended up in a Presbyterian church.
Reflection, though, is an understatement; I'd often catch myself in random daydreams, oblivious to markets in motion.
Sometimes I'd wonder if events were fate, if the real-estate lady was a secret agent or if my picking that church was happenstance. No, surely not happenstance; nothing Presbyterian was ever happenstance, according to Asbury. But Asbury was Baptist, friendly to sharks but stingy with pompano, wrote sermons on the beach, slurped root beer from a can ... and when would I ever be driven to breakfast again by a missionary in a classic Cadillac convertible?
Yes, I often wondered how I'd picked that church.
But she left the church; she left her family; she left her friends and her faded red Beetle. She left her house, her stuff, the three semicircles, and those white powdered donuts.
She left on a Tuesday.
Flabbergasted: A Novel Page 11