The Tramp (The Bound Chronicles #1)

by Sarah Wathen

  “You even had those sultry eyes back then, Candy,” Reagan said, halting in the act of closing an album. A picture of Candy had caught her attention. Candy leaned over and saw her nine-year-old face, gazing forlornly at one of her cousins, who was opening birthday presents during a party.

  “Selkie eyes,” her grandma whispered over Micah’s shoulder.

  Candy’s ears pricked at the description, “What do you mean?”

  Reagan frowned at her. “You’ve never heard the legend of the selkies? My dad used to tell it at bedtime, it’s an old Irish folktale,”

  “Come on, even I’ve heard of selkies,” said John. “The Secret of Roan Inish is one of my mom’s favorite movies.”

  Candy looked from face to face. “Never heard of it. Come on, tell me the story.”

  “Selkies are mythical creatures who are seals in the water, and humans on land.”

  “And they’re beautiful, with deep black eyes.” John nudged her ribs.

  “The story my dad always told was of a selkie woman who shed her seal skin to come ashore, because she had fallen in love with a human. She hid her skin, so that she could return to the sea after seeing him—my dad never said ‘making love’ but that’s the way I think of it now—but the man found the skin first and stole it, so that she would be forced to stay with him forever and be his wife. Apparently, selkies make great wives.”

  “How cruel.”

  “No, she was happy with him, and they had several children together, whom she loved very much. But she was often seen gazing longingly at the sea, kind of like you were gazing at those birthday presents.” Reagan held the album closer, so Candy could see it better. “Anyway, one day while their father was away, the children were playing in their toy boxes and costumes, and they found the seal skin. They showed it to their mother, thinking nothing of it. She took it and immediately returned to the sea, never to be seen again by her husband. Although, the father did see the children playing with a seal and splashing in the water by the seashore.”

  “That’s the basic story in my mom’s movie, too.”

  “Wow, that’s really sad,” said Candy. She wondered if her uncle thought of how young she and her brothers were when their own mother died, ‘never to be seen again.’ “Your dad told you that story when you were how old?”

  “But, look your mom had selkie eyes, too.” Reagan flipped to an earlier page, which showed a picture of Candy’s mom, flashing those haunting eyes at the camera in a close-up. The word “impish” came to mind. “They say the children of a selkie sometimes carries the gene, and that’s why you have Irish folks with black hair and black eyes in a family of green-eyed red-heads.”

  “Well, who had the eyes before my mom?” Candy asked, trying not to feel ruffled at Reagan’s light-hearted manner; she obviously didn’t understand the sudden importance for her cousin. But Candy couldn’t help but imagine that Uncle Pat had been thinking of his dead little sister, with her black selkie eyes, when he told his kids that story.

  “Suzanna was the first in our family, as far as I know,” their grandma answered. Her sympathetic look said that she regretted having brought the melancholy story to Candy’s attention. “It’s just a story, sweetie.”

  Candy watched her grandma disappear up the stairs. “Well, the dark eyes had to come from somewhere.”

  “Oh, Candy.” Reagan snapped the album shut. “There aren’t really any selkies.”

  “Of course not,” John interjected. “But, genetically speaking, there would have to be a precursor somewhere.”

  Candy smiled at him. He understood.

  “Yeah, in the mailman. Maybe that’s why Grandma doesn’t want to talk about it.” Reagan laughed, springing out of her seat and grabbing Candy’s hand to pull her up, too. “Come on, let’s eat.”

  Candy let herself be towed along, looking back and making a crazy screaming face at John. “I’m gonna find those eyes.”

  “I have no doubt,” he said. “When your mind is set...” He went to give her a teasing slap on the rump, but apparently realizing that would be inappropriate, turned it into a brotherly pat on the back.

  Candy felt her cheeks flush and she shook her head at him, “You weirdo.”

  “Too bad you missed the festival today, John.” Reagan’s voice echoed as she entered the kitchen. “It was awesome; you should’ve seen the waltz. Candy was dancing with—”

  “Everyone. And Reagan was in the buck dancing competition and kicked butt,” Candy broke in, cutting Reagan off. She pinched the back of her arm in warning.

  “Ow. What?”

  Sshh, Candy mimed under her hand. She didn’t know why, but she wanted to keep that memory close. Cherish it for a while longer. She secreted a look at John, certain that he hadn’t missed the exchange; John never missed anything.

  “Really? Did you place, Reagan?” He grabbed a paper plate and helped himself to heaping portions of potato salad, macaroni and cheese, baked beans and two hotdogs. He congratulated Reagan when she held up two fingers, for second place.

  Seems to be letting it slide. For now. Candy wondered when John would bring it up again. She had no doubt that he would.

  “Are we grilling these over the fire?” he asked, feigning ignorance and innocence.

  “Probably, I think the grill is still out of commission from Fourth of July, right Reagan?” She fixed her buns up with dill relish, onions, ketchup and mayonnaise, but left an empty space for a veggie dog. She smiled, thinking about what Sam would say of her faux-vegetarianism, as she searched for one in the fridge.

  “What happened on the Fourth of July?”

  “My dad was experimenting with a new recipe again,” said Reagan, rolling her eyes.

  “I thought it was really good,” called Candy from deep within the fridge. Nobody else in the family ate veggie dogs; she usually brought them over herself and stocked them away, where they remained undisturbed by anyone but her. Grandma better not have thrown away the last ones I bought. Finally unearthing a package of Tofurkey in the back of a drawer, she tossed one onto her bun and followed Reagan and John outside.

  Then she stopped short. “Simon?”

  Candy shoved her plate at Reagan. Her cousin fumbled dangerously for a few seconds before John helped her steady the extra load, then finally took it from her once it was balanced. Candy, meanwhile, vaulted onto a backlit shadow of the young man who had been walking across the field between the McBride and Robinson houses. She knocked him down like a professional wrestler, demanding, “Why didn’t Dad tell me you were coming? Is that your new car? Is David with you?”

  “I don’t know. Yes—pretty sweet, huh? And yes,” her brother answered her string of questions with a string of answers, his shoulders pinned to the ground and his little sister straddling his chest. He grabbed her waist and easily removed her. He got his feet back under him again and crouched down to offer her a ride. “I was just coming to get you, wondering what was taking y’all so goshdarn long.”

  With Candy riding piggyback on Simon, drilling him about college and when he had to be back for the final year, the group finally reached the bonfire. The party had definitely already started. Uncle Pat was entrenched in a story with Candy’s dad, Simon’s twin brother David, Uncle Garrett, all of them sitting on folding chairs next to the beer cooler. Carol, who had probably inhaled dinner, was rehashing her performance at the festival for their pre-teenage cousin, Zoë, punctuating with her fiddle. Zoë was one year Carol’s junior, and she listened and nodded and congratulated, clutching her own preferred instrument, a classical guitar, at her side. Joshua and Alex, in their terrible two’s, were shrieking, giggling and crying intermittently. They raced dangerously close to the fire and then sprinted away into darkness, keeping Aunt Cammy on her toes. Ursula stopped wolfing her hotdog for a second to strongly suggest that her husband run after his own son, so she could eat in peace. Candy�
��s cousin, Peter, mired in the middle at the lost age of eight, sat at the edge of the fire looking bored and watching his hotdog turn black on its stick.

  “Someone better give Peter something to do, before he starts burning live things,” Candy surmised aloud, then saw that John already had the same thought. He squatted next to Peter and asked him about the proper method for grilling hotdogs, then offered his uncooked dogs for inspection.

  “Candy, hi.”

  She turned to find John’s dad on his way down the front steps, lugging a heavy cooler behind him with one hand. She ran over to take the handle on the other side. “Hi, Mr. Robinson, let me help you.”

  “Thanks. It’s good to see you, honey.” He straightened his back, his tailored khakis and neat polo unwrinkling like magic (so much like John, Candy had to stifle her smile), to carry the considerable load in a more dignified manner. James Robinson was not the kind of country macho who never accepted help from a little lady, and Candy loved that about him. “My sister’s kids might come out to the fire, if the soda is out here. As it is, Beth has them all inside playing board games, quarantined from everyone else. I don’t get it.”

  “Hmm, that’s funny,” Candy shrugged, wiser than she let on. Of course Aunt Beth would keep her brood tucked away from the licentious horde, with all the beer and secular conversation amidst. Heck, she even kept them from watching Disney cartoons, because of some church boycott about Disney’s Gay Days or something. Candy knew that was the reason John’s cousins were playing board games instead of watching the dangerous television set. John’s Grandma Pearl had showcased all of her Disney movies and artifacts prominently in the den, where the television was located. Pearl had even found a way to make the Disney Channel the home station when you turned on the set, claiming it was some “auto-glitch” in the programming.

  No sooner had they thumped the sodas down next to the beer cooler, than Pearl Robinson herself appeared out of the shadows to plant a kiss on James’s cheek. “Thank you, Jamie. Candy. Don’t worry—they’ll swarm like locusts when we bring out the s’mores.”

  S’mores always reminded Candy of John, and she looked around to find him again. Somehow, she found herself in front of the high school principal, Mr. Warren, instead. A much less pleasant outcome.

  “Well now, Candace Vale. Ready for school to start tomorrow?”

  “Oh, you mean Monday—day after tomorrow, sir,” Candy replied. Big surprise: Mr. Warren was already in his cups.

  “Blessed news about Joe, isn’t it?” he said, slurring without apology.

  “Oh, is there good news about Mr. Robinson?”

  Mr. Warren found someone more interesting to talk to and wandered off.

  “Yes, there is good news,” Candy heard from behind her. She turned around to find John sitting with his back close to the fire, letting the blaze roast his behind so that his front side felt unnaturally cool. Like he always loved to do. “This is sort of a triple celebration—the after-party to the music festival, me and Dad’s homecoming, and the surprise information this morning that my grandfather made a turn for the better.”

  “Really?” Candy felt ashamed that she hadn’t even wondered about the health of John’s grandfather. Though she arranged her face to look concerned and relieved, she had the feeling that John was well aware of her self-centered preoccupation. I wonder if he’s already connecting it with the waltz comment.

  “Yeah, me and Dad went to see him at the hospital this afternoon. They say he might be able to come home in a couple days. He was having a hard time I guess, but late last night things just sort of… ‘turned’ as his nurse said.” John smiled in a way that said he cared, but it was okay that Candy didn’t, and then he motioned to the empty log seat next to him. “I don’t want to bore you with the details. Come on sit down, there’s plenty more to talk about.”

  “Is there?” she asked, plopping down next to him. “Like what?”

  “Me living here.”

  Oh, that. She had been feeling mounting anxiety about that impending situation. John going to school with her meant he would see all the sides of herself she wasn’t sure he would understand. Candy searched her mind for something to deflect the conversation away from herself. “Isn’t your girlfriend going to miss you. What’s-her-name?”

  John looked at his hands and chuckled. Candy knew her name, and John knew she did. “Clara.”

  “Yeah, Clara?”

  “Saw pictures online, huh?”

  “Didn’t everyone. So, aren’t you two going to be broken-hearted?”

  John’s smile faded. “That wasn’t anything serious, Candy. No. I’m not.”

  Sure looked serious. Candy’s jealousy piqued, hearing him talk about her. Clara was very pretty.

  John was good at deflecting, too. “Come on, Candy-cane, you’re the expert on Shirley County. Tell me what I need to know about Andrew Jackson High.”

  “Somehow…” Candy leaned back, appraising his athletic build and all-American face. And the beauty wasn’t skin deep; she was well acquainted with John’s confident spirit and friendly disposition. She shook her head and had to admit (with a sprinkling of shame and a pinch of pride), “I think you’ll probably do a lot better than I ever have here, John.”

  He let her comment sink in, acceptance and understanding in his features. He already knew. “Don’t do well with rules, huh, Red Hot? Square peg in a round hole?”

  He was so perceptive Candy felt naked. Not ugly, but not beautiful. Just her. How could he have such unfettered access to her heart and mind, after all the time he’d been away? It was like they’d never been apart, and she knew with the certainty of death that John didn’t give a crap about how anyone else judged her. Candy was ecstatic to have her best friend with her, once again. Finally. “I don’t want to talk about school. I want you to tell me a campfire story.”

  John’s face split into the grin that Candy had known and loved most of her life. “Funny you should mention that, because I have one ready for you, Candy Vale.”

  “Really? For me?”

  “Just for you. Wait—let’s get something to drink first, this is a long one.”

  “Ooooh, good.” Candy thrilled, clapping her hands with glee. “Need to wet your whistle, I know.”

  When they arrived at the coolers, Candy reached in for a Coke just as her brother Simon reached in at the same time. He pretended to search for a drink for himself, but he grabbed her hand and pulled it out of the ice. The image of stealth, he shoved two beers into her hand instead, blocking the adults’ view with his body.

  “Thanks, Bro,” she whispered.

  Simon gave her a benevolent nod.

  She and John rotated their seating arrangement so that the bonfire shielded them from the adults and the rest of the party. Between the blaze and the deep, black woods, they enjoyed their own private space. Uncle Pat had brought out his guitar, strumming chords and tuning, while Zoë gingerly picked through a melody and Carol tested her strings. But they sounded far away and so did the constant murmur of conversation on the other side of the fire—like the rumble of a dog pack, interspersed with the occasional quacking duck. The muted sounds made the real world sound like a dream, the perfect ambiance for a campfire story. Candy hoped it was a spooky one. She sipped her stolen beer and leaned in closer.

  John cleared his throat.

  “Once, a very long time ago, there lived a beautiful Indian princess—”

  “What was her name?” Candy interrupted, thinking what a strange coincidence it was that John had chosen an Indian princess for his heroine. She had been thinking of that Indian woman in the painting at the Buffalo Lodge almost nonstop. “Bet she had black eyes.”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact. Black as yours. Let’s call her Beloved. It would be a perfect name for her, because not only was she young and lovely, with flowing selkie hair and fathomless dark eyes, but she w
as also a great treasure to her people. Her mother was the matriarchal ruler before she died, and Beloved inherited her mother’s charisma and natural leadership. We come upon Beloved’s story at a most important event in her life—her wedding night.”

  “Wow, that’s so romantic of you, John.”

  “I try to please the ladies when I can. So, Beloved’s tribe decided to join forces with another, more powerful, neighboring tribe. The other tribe chose a man suitable for the princess—”

  “She was actually a princess?”

  “Sure. The other tribe chose a fierce warrior, the son of their chief. We’ll call him Champion. The Indian tribes in the region had a tradition, that when a warrior lost a battle, he had to cut his hair, to the scalp. Champion’s hair had never been cut, since birth, and it hung far below his waist. He won the princess’ heart, and even though the marriage was arranged, Beloved and Champion were in love.”

  “Nice touch.”

  John winked and took a sip of his illegal Budweiser. “On the night of their wedding, both tribes came together in celebration—the party of the century. There was a grand feast, with dancing and music…”

  As if fated, Pat, Zoë, and Carol brought their tentative notes together into a real song. Carol’s fiddle rose joyously above the fire. Pat’s wife, Aunt Mickey, joined the song with a high, trilling soprano. John and Candy froze, fixing each other in surprise. They erupted in stifled laughter, snuffing out their snorts on each other’s shoulders, not ready to be discovered in their hidden seats.

  “…with dignitaries and medicine men.” John continued, catching his breath and clutching his side. “People came from all around to give their blessing. The joining of the hands was presided over with religious chants and incantations. Even the sky above blessed the union,” John mimed a heavenly explosion, “with an unexpected meteor shower.”

  Candy gasped. “Ouch, that could be a bad omen.”