The Accidental Hunter

by Nelson George

  “Okay,” she said, leaning toward D and the now steady fire. “What do we do until then?”

  “Let’s take a walk.”

  In back of Night’s summer house was a toolshed filled with fishing gear, three surfboards, a ping-pong table whose green had faded to lime in the salt air, and a dirt path that led over a low ridge to a wooden staircase. Standing on that staircase gave one a panoramic view of Ditch Plains, a place where families and surfers (and surfing families) had gathered for decades. The water was gray and churned harshly, and the sand bunched together like mushy oatmeal. Seagulls dipped in and out of the water for lunch. Two hard-core surfers could be seen in the far distance defying high tides and frigid water. Montauk was definitely out of season, but for Bridgette Haze the insistent crashing of white foam against the shore was a melody of peace. She found a spot about twenty feet from the sea and plopped herself down, her head pressed against her hands and knees. D walked back toward the wooden staircase and made a call.

  “Where are you?”

  “By the dark sea,” D told Jeff, knowing he’d understand and wondering if his phone was tapped.

  “Cool. You straight?”

  “For a couple of days. But Tuesday’s the big city day.”

  “Yeah, I feel you. Well, motherfuckers are all over me like red beans on rice. Fly Ty. Ivy. Jen. Reporters. On and on to da break a dawn.”

  “I caught the news. Is there any truth I need to know?”

  “Ivy and that Rodney Hampton are dancing like divas, but you really need to call Ivy.”

  “How’s the rider who fell down?”

  “His name is Antonio Douglas. He lives in Brownsville. Says he was on his way to a bike rally when he hit an oil slick. Turns out there was a bike event out in Jersey that morning, so that’s the excuse he and the other bikers are sticking with.”

  “He hit you with assault charges?”

  “Nope. He whispered some nasty shit to me but kept mum to the po-po. Feels like he’s got some paper coming and he’s loyal. By the way, you still have my toy?”

  “Can’t play video games without it. Listen, my two-way doesn’t work out here, so I want you to go to Ivy—don’t do it via the phone—and tell him our friend will be back Tuesday. I’ll call later with the details. Cool?”

  “Very. Got one other thing to tell you.”

  “Go.”

  “Mercedez and I are trying to work out our differences. After what went down, we both thought our hating was crazy and counterproductive.”

  “When I get back we’ll all sit down and talk it out. Anyway, don’t even try to get at me unless shit’s real.”

  “Got it.”

  When Bridgette came back in she sat down on the sofa, watched a bit of MTV, and fell deeply asleep again. D laid a blanket over her sprawled-out body and ordered takeout from Harvest, a restaurant known throughout the east end of Long Island for huge family-style portions. He pinned a note to Bridgette’s body, called Pink Tuna (no Eamon, but an Irish lass named Fiona), and picked up lobster, steak, baked potatoes, and vegetables.

  Back in Ditch Plains, D prepared his surf-and-turf feast, placing the food on paper plates. He had spent many such evenings at Night’s, eating well, sleeping deeply, letting the waves work as a lullaby. Granted, that was usually in July or August, but even in the chilly spring, Montauk slowed his heart rate. The morning’s madness seemed to have happened in another country, instead of on the other end of this island.

  D was eating and watching CNN when Bridgette awakened. “I have a plate for you when you’re ready. All you have to do is microwave it.”

  Bridgette went into the kitchen, readied her plate, and picked up the phone.

  “If you’re dialing the city, it won’t go through. As a precaution against ungracious guests, the phone here only works in Long Island area codes. To dial the city you need a calling card or a cell. You can use mine. But I have to ask who you’re calling.”

  “I understand. Just Jen. No one else.”

  Bridgette took her plate and the cell up to the master bedroom and closed the door. D put down his food and rested his head against the sofa. He’d been asleep like that for a couple of hours when Bridgette tapped his right shoulder.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “You’re a lying motherfucker,” she said.

  D laughed and said, “You should stop being so wishy-washy.”

  “I want you to build a bonfire on the beach.”

  “It’s cold as a witch’s tit out there, Bridgette.”

  “But it’s a full moon tonight, D. Come on.”

  * * *

  Ninety minutes later, after much digging, lugging of Duraflames and real wood to the beach, and the removal of several blankets from the guest bedrooms, Bridgette and D sat under a full Montauk moon. A huge patchwork cloud floated across the sky, slicing the moonlight into hundreds of rays that illuminated bits of sand and surf. Waves scurried toward the shore like colonies of black ants. Out on the horizon, beyond the huge cloud, an oasis of soft white light fell upon the water, looking tender and delicious, tempting to the eye and mouth.

  “You know I’m ruined,” Bridgette said to D and herself. “When I’m an old has-been like Debbie Gibson or Tiffany, I’ll lie in bed and wonder what the fuck happened.”

  “Sounds grim.”

  “It is grim. I’ve read up on all the teenage pop stars and it is harsh. People who want to grow up but remain perpetually seventeen to everyone else. I’ll even be nostalgic for the kidnap plot, you know. At least I’ll know I once had value.”

  “Do you really think that, or are you just being dramatic for me?”

  “I mean most of it. Not all, though.”

  “Just know this shit will pass.”

  “New York’s been more than I imagined.” Bridgette was going to continue with that thought when the big patchy cloud finally passed the moon and a vampire-like midnight light enveloped the beach. “Wow!” she exclaimed.

  “Yeah,” he said as he stared at the moon.

  She turned and looked at him, watching the light carve the outline of his brown face. He felt her gaze and, reluctantly, met it.

  “You act like you’re afraid of me.”

  “Why would I be?”

  “’Cause I’m famous and rich and, yeah, white too.”

  “And cocky.”

  “No, I’m just into the truth. Now,” she said, leaning closer, “are you gonna let this moment pass or what?”

  “I don’t have anything,” he said.

  “We can be creative.”

  “Oh yeah,” he agreed. “We can do that.”

  They moved closer and then against each other with most of their clothes on and a few pieces off. He was gentle at first, almost timid in how he pressed against her—she was aggressive, almost hungry for a body large enough to engulf her. Wrapped under blankets and bathed by moonlight, they crawled all over each other. In their blanket cocoon things got primitive and creative, and brave bits of flesh were exposed to the ocean breeze. Bridgette looked up at the bright white moon and then at D’s dark skin and saw the moon reflected in his eyes. Her hands rested against his chest. Then she put a finger in his mouth. His large hands moved around her thighs, cupping them and squeezing firmly. Something good surged through her body and she moaned loudly. It was a voice that had poured out of millions of TV sets, radios, and CD players. Now that voice floated into the air, barely audible over the sound of Montauk’s waves.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Monday morning the sky was bright and it felt warmer than the day before. Bridgette listened to the ocean for a while and turned over and looked at D’s back, which was marked with a few bruises and cuts. His back suggested a life of hard knocks, of situations she’d read about in The Source and glimpsed in the rhymes of her favorite MCs. But D’s body bore no tattoos. No jewelry adorned his neck, ears, or fingers. Aside from the marks made on him by life, D hadn’t altered himself to fit any fashion. Br
idgette felt as if she’d seduced a monk. There was something sacred about the man. Yeah, he was her type—broad, big, wide—but he was also very much his own man. There was something mysterious about him. He wasn’t a good liar but he could easily hide his truth. Today they’d be alone together for, perhaps, the last and only time. She wanted some answers and lay there wondering how she’d get them.

  Last night she’d called her sister and, after the talk of the frightening kidnap attempt and the unbelieved lies to the police (a Detective Williams was particularly contemptuous), Bridgette asked Jen whether sleeping with the help was a good idea.

  “You’ve done it before,” Jen observed dryly.

  “But they were boys.”

  “Listen. Ever since that day in Times Square everyone thinks you’ve been fucking him anyway. Only a man in love acts like he did, so why not?”

  “Are you jealous?”

  “No,” Jen said. “Don’t ask such stupid questions.”

  Bridgette took a bit of pleasure in the fact that her older sibling’s New York adventure had turned messy. They hadn’t planned to sleep with black men in the Big Apple, but it had worked out that way and, so far, Bridgette’s adventure had been much better. Jen had messed with a publicity man and had a slick time; Bridgette had boned her bodyguard and had her life saved. Even if the sex had been lousy (and it sure as hell hadn’t), Bridgette would already have gotten the better deal. Besides, Rodney was married, which, as D had pointed out, made Jen as culpable as the PR man was.

  Somehow their affair had gotten twisted up with their talk of managing Bridgette. Pillow talk can be a dangerous thing.

  D stirred, drawing Bridgette back to the here and now. If she was ever to get him to open up, it had to be now. She moved her body close to his, wrapping one arm over his torso, and whispered, “Good morning,” into his ear.

  His eyes opened and he turned onto his back. “Good morning to you.”

  “So, can I ask you a question?”

  “It’s a little early, but I know that won’t stop you.”

  “Why are you such a liar?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I know there’s more to you than you say.”

  “No, Bridgette,” he said, pulling back the covers to reveal his naked body, “this is it.”

  “Don’t try to distract me.” She pushed the covers back over his waist. “I watch you and I hear you. You are always biting your tongue.”

  D was feeling a little self-conscious. Bridgette had been paying closer attention to him than he’d given her credit for. He asked, “Why do you say that?”

  “It’s from experience. I bite my tongue for a living. All day I’m not saying how I feel or I’m telling a lie to smooth over something. I mean, I’m scared to death of hosting the Source Awards. I have no idea how real hip hop fans are gonna treat me. They could boo me all night. But you know what? That would be all right too.”

  “You’re funny, Bridgette,” he said, surprised again by her.

  “It’s something that everyone would remember. Years from now they’ll be going, Remember when that little white pop bitch had the heart to come to the Source Awards and fuck with the real? Yeah, they booed her ass back to VA. And then people will laugh and slap palms and see me in their memory.”

  “You really are obsessed about being immortal, aren’t you?”

  “I think about my legacy all the time. Just like you think about whatever you’re hiding all the time.” Bridgette could feel his breathing change. She’d touched some spot inside with that last comment. “You all right, D?”

  “Always,” he said, obviously lying.

  “So, are you gonna tell me your real story?”

  “No.”

  “But will you tell me part of it? Not every detail. Not all of it. But something that lets me know who you are?”

  He looked her in the eyes. He suspected he’d never be alone with her again and that she could keep a secret. Besides, he felt weak and tired and in need of a real human connection, even one sure to be fleeting. So he said, “Okay.”

  D’s story was about his family. Fred and Zena Hunter already had three boys—Mathew, a.k.a. Matty, Rashid, and Jah—when Dervin was born. He was the “accident” child and the runt of the litter, smaller and more introspective than the rest, who were all muscular, charismatic, and star-crossed. Matty was the oldest and biggest. He strode through Brownsville’s Tilden projects with a bully’s swagger. He was notorious for his brutal brand of basketball. To win was not enough for Matty. He always attempted to emasculate the competition, punishing them with his elbows and belittling them with his mouth. Rashid was the handsomest Hunter. With his prominent cheekbones and bedroom eyes framed by thick eyelashes, Rashid made girls (and a great many of their mothers) swoon. And because he was so beautiful, Rashid had a chip on his shoulder as high as the projects’ sixteen-story buildings, scrapping at a moment’s notice when he felt dissed (which was often). Jah was a sour, bitter spirit, quick to anger and difficult to placate. Being a natural pessimist, Jah was never disappointed by the world, since he expected the worst of everyone, including himself.

  So Jah was the Hunter family member who took Fred’s departure the best. When Dervin was only five, his father left the family for a Jamaican barmaid named Peaches and, as far as the boys knew, disappeared into the Caribbean with her.

  “You know what he used to say?” D asked rhetorically, not really waiting for the singer to reply. “He used to joke that you knew you were a man when you could do the worst and accept the consequences of your action. That was manhood to him. That was his lesson to his sons. Told that to a five-year-old boy.”

  “He was a monster, huh?”

  “No, Fred Hunter was no monster. He was just a crazy Virginia boy who should have stayed his ass down in Newport News. My brothers were all crazy the same damn way.”

  “What happened to your brothers, D?”

  “All three of them got themselves killed.”

  Bridgette’s body stiffened involuntarily, but otherwise she didn’t move. Even her breath was briefly paralyzed by the horror of D’s revelation. From 1987 to 1993, the heart of crack’s plague years, the three oldest Hunter boys were murdered at two-year intervals.

  “They were all shot,” D said flatly, “and all of them died at a corner on the same block as our building.”

  Bridgette said a weak, “That’s terrible,” but didn’t really know how to deal.

  D continued: “I was a little boy trying to figure out what death meant. I knew my brothers kept leaving but I didn’t know where to. Was it with my father? Had they gone with him and left me and Ma alone?” He paused and then said with a small smile, “I used to crawl into the living room closet because I felt safe there. I’d sit in the dark on evenings while my mother played ‘Green Lights.’”

  D’s story was one Bridgette hadn’t heard before. It wasn’t ghetto glamorous. It wasn’t cool or edgy or exciting. It made her feel uneasy about everything, but especially about how close she lay to D Hunter.

  “You don’t want to know more, do you?”

  “If you wanna keep talking I’ll listen. I will.”

  “Don’t worry. That’s enough for me too. I talked to shrinks all my childhood and it didn’t make me feel any better and never has. Talking just doesn’t do that for me. It wasn’t until I got into protecting people that I felt better. That’s why I’m here with you. I’m keeping you safe now, so safe that in a few days you can move on, ’cause that’s what people do when they feel safe. When you don’t feel safe, you are stuck. Afraid to make a move. Afraid to even be. Everybody in Brownsville was like that. They lived in fear, never felt safe, and even found it hard to shake the fear even if they moved away. They wouldn’t show it in the street but my brothers felt that fear. In the street they were bold motherfuckers. I’m not as bold as they were. I know what it is to feel safe. That’s why I’m still alive.”

  Bridgette, afraid of D and for D, found herself rol
ling closer to him again, her head curled onto his shoulder, tears running down her cheeks, the water falling onto the bed and onto his chest. D just looked up at the ceiling, happy to be silent again.

  * * *

  It was, of course, cold out on the Atlantic Ocean in March. And the water was choppy enough to make the fishing boat rock roughly at times. But the first mate, Sammy, rolled two fat joints to forestall seasickness, and suddenly Bridgette found the rhythms comforting, like a particularly potent drum program. There had never been much time for fishing when she was a child—too many dance rehearsals and theater workshops for anything so sedentary. So she savored the feeling of the rod in her small gloved hands, the challenge of balancing the long pole in the metal cup attached to the swiveling fisherman’s chair, and the chuckles emanating from D.

  “You should see the look on your face,” he said, “like you’re ready to eat the fish now if you catch one.”

  “There’s no if in it, D. I’m catching one—even if we have to sit in this boat all afternoon.”

  D had retired for the day, having pulled in seven striped bass with the cool detachment of a longtime fisherman. Night and he had rented Captain Barry’s boat so many times in the past few years it felt like a second home. He sat on the step that led into the ship’s cabin and watched Bridgette jiggle her line just as the first mate had showed her.

  “I got something!” she exclaimed. Her line grew taut and the force of the hooked fish pulled her slightly forward. D told her to start reeling. She hunched her shoulders and began winding the reel with her right hand. “Oh,” she said as the first strain shot up her arm, “I can’t do it.”

  Sammy came out of the cabin and looked at the line. “You got a good one there!” He reached back and pulled out a handheld net from a rack inside.

  “Oh!” Bridgette said again.

  D responded, “Just keep reeling it in. Come on, Bridgette.”

  “Oh,” she said once again, “this is hard!”

  “Yeah,” Sammy said, “but it’s gonna taste good later.”

  Bridgette tried to act as if she believed him, but there was doubt etched all over her increasingly red face.