Sanibel Scribbles

by Christine Lemmon

  “Oh.”

  “Come on now, you’re the one who started talking to me,” he said.

  “Don’t just sit there in that fearful silence. I’ll tell ya, parents need to do a better job of telling and reminding their children that, someday, they’re gonna die.”

  “Well, there’s only so much time for the essentials, how to drive, balance a checkbook, and how to …”

  “Wouldn’t this be a better world if children grew up aware of the fact that this life is quite short?”

  “Well, it might frighten them.”

  “Bah, humbug! Why should death frighten anyone?”

  “It scares me, Howard.”

  “Why? Tell me why!” Howard squashed a bug on his arm. “Everything lives and dies. Why should it frighten anyone?”

  “It means separation from loved ones, it’s unknown it’s …”

  “The separation from loved ones is temporary. It’s like going away on a trip, saying good-bye, but not forever. You’re scared because the topic of death is taboo, and you’re not prepared to handle it. You’re an educated woman, preparing for a career, for a house and family someday, for wealth and vacations, but I’ll bet you’re not taking any time out to prepare for death.”

  “Prepare for death?”

  “Yes. It’s stupid and simple. All you have to do is live. I’m guessing you’re book smart, and that is a fine thing to be. However, now you need to live, become world smart, experience the world. Take it from me, the exploration vessel.”

  “Well, since I’m talking with a caravel, I’ll admit that I was planning to go to Spain in the fall, but I’m not sure it’s a good idea now.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, I was going with a friend of mine, but things got in her way and now she can’t go, and I don’t want to go without her. I guess in a way, I feel guilty.”

  “Are you asking me for permission to set out for Spain?” He slid his eyeglasses back up onto his nose using his middle finger and looked as if he was about to peruse the New York Times.

  “No, of course not.” She couldn’t help but laugh.

  “Then it sounds like you need permission from your friend before you set off. Let me help you with that. Get past the guilt phase. Live your life. Your day to die will come. If she’s a good friend, she’d want you to go; she’d want your dreams to come true.”

  “Howard, you’re wise.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And easy to talk to. I’ve also got this anger.”

  “Forgive. You’ve got to push yourself out of your anger and your guilt. It might feel like walking a plank into dangerous water, but do it. Push yourself to move on.”

  Vicki tore a vein out of a fallen palm leaf. “I don’t know that I’d feel comfortable going alone.” She wrapped the leaf around her finger, looking only at her project as she spoke.

  “I can give you a contact to look up when you get there.”

  “You know someone from Spain?”

  “Quite well. I’ll give you the contact information soon, not now, so don’t rush me on it.” He tore a jagged sliver of wood from the lighthouse and split it in two, as if fiercely competing in a turkey-wishbone contest. “When the time comes, go and explore new worlds, new people. Sail away to Spain. It should only take about five and a half weeks with a crew of ninety. Sail away, young woman! Sail away!”

  “Fine. Thank you,” she said to this eccentric character.

  “But remember, no matter where you go in life, and I know you’ll go far, please don’t ignore the small things, the details. Pay them attention, notice them.”

  “Like what?”

  “Look at that lizard over there, behind you.” He laughed as he picked the lizard up by its tail, which subsequently fell off. “When cornered, did you know one type lizard sprays the intruder with blood from the corner of its eyes?”

  “I had no idea. My college doesn’t offer classes on lizards, Howard.”

  “And another sort of lizard, uh, the chuckwalla lizard—when he’s being hunted down, he runs into a crevice of some sort and breathes extra air into his lungs, so he gets bigger and can’t be pulled out of his small hiding space. Oh, and the alligator lizard—he’s got scales as mean as armor. The poor old lizards that don’t have rough scales, they can dart quickly, to hide behind things and escape. The chameleon, well, we all know they change colors.”

  “They’re like artworks, detailed art,” said Vicki, smacking a mosquito that landed on her arm. “Death comes to the mosquito, too.”

  “Yes, it does. And I hope I’ve answered your question, Vicki. I’m here on the island to notice things, smaller things in life. It is my own personal therapy right now. I’m here for one other significant reason, but it’s personal.”

  His words echoed above the palm tree tops, and this she noticed. His words sounded refreshing, and she felt mad at all the thoughts she had allowed in her mind over the past several weeks; all the thoughts that smeared over her canvas in dark, dramatic, depressing colors. He got up and opened the trapdoor of the light room, then nodded for her to climb through. She carefully climbed down a ladder, and then down the black iron stairway. He followed.

  “Howard, my canvas has been ugly lately. I’d like to paint a really fun picture tomorrow. Any tips on how to do this?” she called up to him.

  “Yes, meet me at the dock tomorrow night after dark.”

  Her interest brewed strongly, like a pot of freshly ground Colombian coffee. She lived and worked with all sorts of vessels. There was the ferryboat. He usually operated over short distances and wore out before the end of the working day. Others had to pick up where he left off. There was the speedboat. She ran around from table to table with so much intensity. The afternoon rush thrilled her as much as a speedboat hitting bumps. It was the slow times she couldn’t stand. These people were like vessels surrounding her in a crowded harbor, carrying secrets, stories and precious cargo.

  Dear Grandma,

  I’ve finally made my decision regarding Spain. I am definitely going! I find it difficult to make the big decisions in life, maybe because there are so many options to choose from. Were there really hundreds of cereal types to choose from when you were my age, Grandma? I could walk down that aisle for hours, reading all the nutritional information on those boxes before choosing the best-tasting, most nutritious one.

  When I started school, I was sure that I wanted to become a meteorologist until one day I decided the Weather Channel simply brought me comfort. I didn’t want to be the one standing out in the downpour, wearing the hooded jacket and trembling from the cold. Then I wanted to become a writer so I took a bunch of English classes and wrote for the school paper. Then I switched my major to Spanish, and that’s what bonded Rebecca and me. Then I decided psychology is where I can leave a mark in this world. I would still go to Spain with Rebecca, like I promised, and I could possibly counsel Spanish-speaking people. Anyways, I want to be a psychologist, and my scramble to decide exactly what I want to do in life is over. Now I’m scrambling to make it happen.

  When does the scrambling end? When can I just be me and not be someone working toward being something? At what age did you feel like you were an adult? Did it happen once you got married? Had babies? I know it didn’t happen once you landed your career because you never worked outside of the home. So did it happen once you and Grandpa owned your first home? Once you learned to drive at age fifty? Did you go crazy not having a car? Did you actually have time to sit with your babies on the lawn in one of those inflatable baby pools in the summer? I’ve got a picture that shows you did. How did you find the time to sit and do that? Gosh, how did you ever find time to get married and have babies? Did you belong to a gym and go to kick boxing? How did you decide what you wanted to do with your life? Sometimes I feel like too many choices are tougher than no choices at all. Oh Grandma, I feel like a scrambled egg - still being scrambled, that is.

  P.S. Don’t feel bad. You aren’t missing too much here. I
can’t begin to imagine the sites and souls you are encountering there!

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THE SUN AND MOON REPLACED clocks, and the crickets wildly warmed up as the island dressed for the occasion called night, so unlike daytime attire. But first it pranced around for a short yet comfortable time with its trousers from day not quite pulled down and its nightshirt not pulled overhead. There was only limited time before the sun set and the moon rose, and it was the most comfortable time of all.

  Working lunches, then dinners, with no time but a water break and wardrobe change in between hadn’t given her the opportunity to explore the rest of the island. She decided to do so before meeting Howard on the dock after dark. Perhaps this way she could come to him with a few adventurous colors already on her canvas.

  “Knock, knock, knocking on Heaven’s door. Can I come in?” Denver entered her room without knocking and collapsed onto the mattress as she was getting ready to sneak out alone. He always looked like he was physically falling apart, and this time his ragged shoelace dragged on the floor and strands of long, frizzy hair poked down across his eyes.

  “Make yourself at home.” Vicki pulled her nightgown out from under him, stuffing it under her pillow. “I’m heading out,” she said. “I want to explore the island a bit.”

  “Swift. You can go on two conditions. First, you spray this stuff all over you.” He tossed her Skin So Soft. “And second, you take me with you.”

  “Oh,” she said. “You can come.”

  “Swift,” he replied again. “You better bring a lantern. There ain’t no lights out there. And put real shoes on. You can’t run in those things. They’ve got diamonds on them,” he stated, pointing to her feet.

  “They’re not real diamonds. And run? Who says we’re going to run?”

  “Well, if you see a snake, you’ll run. I guarantee!”

  As they made their way on the rugged path that formed a circle—not a safe and perfect circle, but more of a twisted, curvy circle—around the plush two-mile island, Denver carried a tree branch, using all his power to dig it into the ground with each step.

  “That over there is what ya call old age,” said Denver as they walked over a hill and passed the old back dock with the houseboat that was creaking and cracking as it softly bumped the dock. “It’s another major stop on the path. Ruth prances around on that old thing as if she were a weightless insect. I guess old age is what ya make of it.”

  “Ruth isn’t that old,” replied Vicki.

  “Oh come on, can’t ya see deeper than that? Don’t ya get it? Does my tour of the island and my clues mean nothing to ya?”

  “I appreciate you showing me around.”

  “You don’t need me to show you around. The path naturally takes ya to each destination. But you do need to figure out how ya wanna reach each spot, what kind of fuel ya wanna use and what sorts of repairs you might need along the way,” he said. “Oh, and how many times ya might wanna go off the path, and how far do ya wanna go?”

  They made their way along the path as all the islanders in history had done before them. After the old dock and houseboat, the path took them inland over a small wooden arched bridge with dark, shallow water stagnantly standing below it. Vicki stopped on the top of the bridge and didn’t feel like moving forward. It felt like a safe, comfortable spot to rest and she wanted to stay there. She shut her eyes and traveled back to the house she grew up in.

  “Time to move on,” interrupted Denver in an unusually loud voice. “It’s up to you. You wanna move forward?”

  She opened her eyes and replied, “Yes, of course.” She felt the splintery wooden rail of the bridge. “Then, again, I really like standing here.”

  “Of course you do. It’s the bridge. I repeat it’s the bridge. Everyone likes stopping here, and some never make it to the other side. You wanna move on or go back?”

  “You’re a strange one,” she laughed. “Let’s go. I’d like to see the rest of the island.”

  As they moved forward on the path, low-hanging branches reached out to them, and the trees, standing tall and proud, peacefully, silently reigned, holding age-old secrets and accepting new.

  “I’ll tell you, it’s funny seeing you making your way on this trail,” Denver said as he pointed to a turtle, frozen in the sand. “You don’t seem like the type to be living out here.”

  “Why not?” Vicki hopped over the hard-backed creature and bent down to knock lightly on its shell. “Hello in there. Can anybody hear me?”

  “Well, you’ve been here a couple of weeks, and I’ve never seen your hair messy,” he said. “You remind me of Ginger, you know, on Gilligan’s Island.”

  She looked at the top of the dark palm tree, its own mane blowing freely. It never bothered to tidy itself. The raccoons of the island didn’t bother to brush their hair, and the spiders, well, their webs were a mess, always under construction. “I didn’t realize I came across that way. I don’t want to be Ginger! Marianne was always my favorite. I’ll try to be her instead!” She was like a foreigner in a strange place and knew that in order for a place to become comfortable, it had to feel so with her. She respected this place and didn’t want to be an intruder, overwhelming the salty scent of the air with her strong Red Door perfume.

  “I bet you spend a ton of money at spas. I hear they’ve got tons of those spas in the Netherlands.”

  “I’m not from the Netherlands, Denver. I’m from Holland, Michigan. A city in the state of Michigan, the United States.”

  Denver used his walking stick to tear down a banana-colored spider spinning a huge web. The spider fell hopelessly, probably already beginning to plan where next to rebuild after the devastation caused by man. No wonder their webs were a mess out here. “Gosh, hope the Ginger comment didn’t offend you. That’s why I classify people as vessels—less offensive.”

  “Right. You told me you’re a makeshift raft in need of repair. So, what sort of vessel do you think I am?”

  “You? You’re an underwater ballistic submarine.”

  That was definitely not the answer she expected. “Oh, how glamorous. I’d rather be Ginger. What kind of submarine did you say I was?”

  “Underwater ballistic,” he stated.

  “Ballistic.” She paused to look at him questioningly. “That does not sound like a compliment.”

  “Well, what were you hoping to be?”

  “I don’t know, a luxury liner or a cruise ship, like the Love Boat!”

  “No, no way. You hide the imperfections of your life. Nothing bad shows on the surface. Your sadness is deep and, hey, I don’t for a single minute believe your life is perfect. You look like you’ve got it all together, but you don’t,” he said in his rough, splintery voice that sounded nothing like his singing voice. “That’s all I’m going to say about you as a vessel right now.”

  “But I don’t know a thing about submarines. You’ve got to tell me more, anything.”

  “Nope. You need to work on yourself. I’ve got my own repairs to do,” he replied, as if diagnosing a patient with an illness, and then telling them the recovery was completely up to them. There were parts to a person that were inaccessible to the naked eye, but Denver somehow saw through to those areas like an X-ray. Once he gave his diagnosis, his job was done.

  “All I’ll say is this. Most people don’t realize what kind of vessel they are, or where they might need repairs, until it’s too late.”

  “Too late for what?”

  “We’re back at the boathouse. End of the journey,” he said as he reached into his pocket and pulled out quarters.

  “And what’s that red, glowing Coca-Cola machine? The light at the end of the tunnel?” teased Vicki.

  “Hey! I like that. I think I’ll plug that into my future tours. You’re deeper than ya seem. Wanna go to the bar and get a bottle of rum for our Coke?” asked the makeshift raft.

  “No thanks. You go without me. I’ve got plans,” said the underwater ballistic submarine.

&nbs
p; She glanced up at the sky with a new appreciation of the moon. It was the governor of night. Tonight’s yellow moon formed a perfect circle, unlike any she had ever drawn or traced. She had never taken notice of the moon before, at least not like this.

  She didn’t know what Howard had in mind, only that he had promised to turn her boring white canvas into something interesting. Having been told she was a submarine—and all she knew of subs was that they were ugly and gray—she felt desperate to brush new strokes of color onto her own canvas.

  As she walked out onto the dock behind the boathouse, she held her lantern high in her right hand, like the Statue of Liberty, ready to declare her independence from living life like a dull, dark, depressing canvas. She joined the man with the scruffy auburn hair and together, lying on their backs with the ripples of water breaking against the moorings beneath them, they watched a lightning show overhead. Distant thunder rolled through the heavens like bowling balls striking pins. They could see dark, angry clouds mounting the horizon, and the Gulf turned murky and mean. For an instant, they spotted fireworks going off near Sanibel Island.

  As they talked, they stared up at the gathering madness. Both enjoyed talking about deep things. Howard pointed out how scary the sky was, while Vicki explained what she knew about the enormous spiral nebula called the Milky Way Galaxy. Howard described gut instinct while Vicki described intuition. Howard shared his feelings of loss as Vicki discussed grief. Both talked of loss in their own words, but neither discussed what they had lost.

  Howard sat up and threw a flat stone. They heard it hit somewhere out in the water. “So you said you wanted today’s canvas to look fun.”