by Natasha Boyd
It was like the last half hour hadn’t even happened. Perplexed, I did as he said.
It was a long ride through the interior of the island, past the old wooden schoolhouse that novelist Pat Conroy had once taught at. Tom broke our tense silence by telling me about it. “Conroy didn’t call it Daufuskie Island in his book, he called it Yamacraw Island. Everyone here knew it was about Daufuskie, though.”
I simply turned my head, inviting him to continue.
“And it painted island life exactly the way he saw it, warts and all,” he said as we passed the small building that had finally been refurbished as a community center. A regular tour guide, he was.
“Hey, so someone told me Daufuskie was actually Gullah dialect for ‘the first key’. Do you think that’s true?” I asked.
Tom seemed relieved I was engaging in the conversation. “Well, there are two schools of thought. What most people don’t realize is there were Indians here thousands of years before slaves and colonists ever populated the area. Daufuskie, in terms of anthropological finds, is actually considered ancient. Like ten thousand years ancient.”
“Damn, that’s pyramids old.”
“Sure is. Anyway, some people will tell you that Daufuskie is an Indian term meaning ‘sharp feather,’ though whether that’s because of the shape of the island, or a name for the oyster shells that surround it, we’ll probably never know.”
“You’re kind of interesting, you know that?” I scrunched up my nose.
“Well.” He pursed his lips. “I’ve got that going for me then.”
We pulled down a dirt lane, even narrower than the road to our cottage, bordered by dense vegetation. It was dark down here amongst the trees. In a clearing ahead, there were some small cinderblock and wooden houses clustered together and a couple of trailers. A large rusted metal drum was full of soapy water, and a line with various items of clothing draped along it ran between the trees.
The bottoms of the whitewashed buildings were splashed brown from the red clay in the soil. Moss, both Spanish and green, seemed to coat everything. Two chickens flapped and squawked across our path as we slowed to a stop.
We peered at the houses, and I noticed a small child with dark skin who looked to be five or six standing half concealed in a doorway of one of the buildings. Barefoot and dressed in a dirty white T-shirt and blue pants, he watched us, eyes wide with curiosity. Someone behind him spoke, and he scampered back into the dim interior. A woman came out, eyes suspicious. When she saw Tom, she broke into a huge smile. “Jake,” she yelled toward the woods.
“Is there still a school on the island now?” I whispered to Tom, thinking of the building we had passed. Maybe I could do some tutoring again sometime.
“Daufuskie kids get ferried over to Hilton Head Island to go to school. Weather permitting. But some of the Gullah, well, they don’t really feel like sending their kids. I’m sure they’ve got their reasons.”
Big Jake suddenly loomed out of the forest to the left of us, three dead squirrels hanging from a string in his hand. Blood dripped down their silver fur. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the macabre sight.
“You ain’t never eat squirrel?” Big Jake boomed and laughed his high-pitched giggle.
“You couldn’t pay us to try,” Tom responded, climbing out of the cart.
I shuddered dramatically and followed suit.
“She’s come to see JJ about the kitten. Is he here?” Tom said.
Jake indicated a small wooden house set away from the others.
The forest was noisy here. Not the bone-chilling sounds the forest made at night, but the normal gentle rustling and chirping of a place alive and at one with its human settlers.
Tom knocked on JJ’s door and after some scuffling it swung open. JJ looked over our shoulders and seemed momentarily unsure. Tom pointed at me. “She came to ask you about a kitten.”
“Hey JJ,” I greeted him. “I’m so sorry about the two that got hurt by the possum.”
JJ crinkled his almost black eyes for a few beats, then nodded. He closed the door in our faces.
I stepped back in surprise, and we both stood staring at the peeling and cracked blue paint before exchanging perplexed looks.
“What happened to them?” Tom asked me. “The kittens you mentioned.”
“Big Jake said a rabid possum killed them, and JJ had to shoot it.”
Tom scratched his head. “I didn’t even know JJ had a gun.”
“Is it safe for him to have one?” I asked quietly, for Tom’s ears only. “I mean is he okay in the head?” I hated to ask, but it was a valid question, I thought.
“As far as I know, he’s fine, he just doesn’t talk. Never has.”
Suddenly the door opened again, and JJ appeared holding a squirming ball of brown and white fur that was attempting to burrow inside his shirt. He pinched it by the scruff of the neck and held it out. The kitten, the small black heart still on its nose, mewled piteously.
Relieved my little guy had made the cut, I gingerly took him with both hands. His needle-like claws immediately grabbed on to my wrist, and I winced in surprise.
JJ took the kitten’s front paw and squeezed it flat, so the claws spread, then made a scissor motion with his other hand.
“I think he wants to know if you want him to declaw it?” Tom told me.
“You can do that? What, just cut them?”
“No, they’ll grow back. They need to be pulled out one by one at the root.”
“What?” I gulped, immediately feeling sick. “No way, poor thing.”
“Probably a good choice. I doubt there are any pain relievers or antiseptic, am I right, JJ?”
JJ shook his head and shrugged. Then he took the kitten back by the scruff and pressed a kiss to its nose before handing it back to me. It was such an unexpected gesture from this silent man who’d just offered to inflict ghastly pain on the poor creature. He shut the door again.
The kitten immediately squirmed and tried to climb up my arm to my shoulder and head. “Damn, you’re a handful,” I scolded it. “Settle down, would you?”
I turned and headed back the way we came, talking to the kitten, trying to convince it to keep still.
JJ opened his door again, and I glanced back in time to see Tom take a plastic grocery bag from him.
“You got what I asked for?”
JJ nodded.
“Thank you, JJ.” Tom cast his head back to look at me, and I quickly turned away from their exchange.
“You get paint on them shutters yet?” Big Jake asked us as we climbed back into the cart.
“Not yet,” I said. “Now that I’m well, we’ll get on it.”
Jake inclined his large head. “Jus’ lemme know if I can hep. And don’t forget to get those balls chopped off afore he starts sprayin’ everywhere.”
Tom blanched, and I laughed. “The cat, you idiot.”
“I know,” Tom said thickly. “It’s just the idea makes me cringe.” He started up the cart.
“You better take me home and go to the store for cat food without me. I’m not sure how I’ll manage to hang on to him much longer.” As I spoke, the cat had burrowed into my jacket and was now making his escape out the back of my collar.
Tom reached behind me and grabbed hold of it, causing it to hiss and scratch me.
“Ow. Motherfucker,” I yelled in surprise.
Tom snorted with laughter. “You wanted a cat.”
“What should we call him?”
“Oh, so it’s we now? Earlier he was your cat, and now that we know he’s gonna be a pain in the ass, he’s ours?”
I shrugged innocently.
“Well, whatever you call it, you need to clip its nails.”
“Ivan?”
“I’m not naming him. Pick what you want, he’s your cat.”
“Ivan the Terrible. Oh, wait, what about Terrance? Terror for short?”
“I told you, I’m not doing this.”
“Fine. Lancelot it is
then. Because he’s got nails like little lances, and I hope he’ll be my knight in shining armor if any of Bert’s cousins show up.”
Tom pressed his lips together.
“Hmmm. Perhaps not. What about something sweeter, like Buttercup?”
“You can’t call him Buttercup,” Tom objected then grunted, clearly irritated at rising to the bait.
I grinned. “So you have an opinion at least. That’s good.” Leaning my face down, I cooed and tried to rub noses with the little feline demon, who promptly bit mine.
“Fuckhead!” I howled.
Tom shrugged. “That’s a good one.”
AFTER PEELING THE Tasmanian devil off the curtains for the fourth time, I locked him in the bathroom while I rummaged in the kitchen cabinets for some antibiotic ointment. Little asshole. I was scratched all over.
His favorite game so far had been to wait on the ceiling beam until I walked underneath, then launch himself at my head.
I came across some old nail clippers at the same time the cottage phone rang. Bingo. Now I just had to keep his paws still.
“Hello?”
“Olivia, it’s Bethany.”
“Oh, hey, Bethany. How are you?” There was a crash from the bathroom. I winced.
“So I was wondering what time I should come over to make dinner?”
Oh. Bethany. Of course. Was it just yesterday I’d discovered Tom had a girlfriend?
“Uh, Tom went to the general store. You can call him on his cell.”
“Actually, I was hoping to ask you if I could, uh, well…”
Oh, God. “What?”
“Well, I was thinking we could spend a little girl time, uh, bonding. In case you haven’t noticed, there aren’t many young folk on the island, and well…” she trailed off. The unspoken aspect was that I lived with Tom, and she needed to assess me to see if I was a threat or something. I was fairly familiar with female jealousy.
I took pity on how obviously uncomfortable she felt since I felt the same way. “I, uh, I’m not very good at girly stuff, I mean I haven’t really…” had a lot of friends, I finished in my head.
“Oh good, phew. Okay, we’ll bond. Somehow we’ll figure it out. I’ll bring makeup.” How did she get a yes out of that?
“No, you don’t need to do that.”
“I insist.”
Awesome.
We hung up and I texted Tom.
Tommy, your girlfriend is coming over to cook for you and “girly bond” with me. And hurry up. Fuckhead is tearing up the bathroom.
You? Girly bonding? Impossible. I’ll see if they have anything pink here.
The brick in my belly was the only sign I’d noticed he didn’t dispute the girlfriend label. And why would he? Even if they weren’t boyfriend and girlfriend, he didn’t owe me that explanation. Me and my stupid, stupid crush. The sooner I got used to the fact he was dating Bethany, the better. Bring on the girl time. But, oh God, what if she stayed the night?
I SAW A movie once where this thirteen-year-old girl was invited out to a restaurant to meet her father’s new girlfriend, her future stepmother. The girl was well brought up and was excruciatingly polite all the while wanting to pounce across the table and stab the woman with a fork. That was a vague approximation of how I felt.
“So where do you live, Bethany?”
I was on one side, they were on the other, the table having been set by Bethany of course. How it could have been arranged better, I wasn’t sure. Maybe the two bonding girls could sit on one side, Tom on the other? Or maybe Tom should have fucking cancelled dinner.
I was seething and felt raw and exposed. Our quiet, safe, comfortable little life had been ripped open this morning, and before I’d even had a chance to assess the damage, Tom had allowed a stranger into our domain. He knew all the revolting, sordid things about me, and now he was sitting opposite me with his pretty little girlfriend, leaving me feeling like a smelly piece of shit on the other side.
The rubbery chicken and mushy noodles made their third circuit around my plate.
Bethany’s left hand was on Tom’s shoulder, fiddling with his hair where it curled over his collar. Was his hair soft? “I rent a guest house over a garage at one of those lovely big houses in Haig Point,” she said.
I’d forgotten what I even asked her.
She looked at Tom. “It’s nice there, isn’t it, babe?”
Why didn’t she just piss on him?
And the whole, let’s have some girl-bonding?
Lie.
“Yeah, it’s all right.” Tom shrugged, his movement dislodging Bethany’s hand.
“All right? We never stay here at the cottage, so I thought you preferred it.” She never stayed here? Hallelujah!
Tom caught my eye. “You wouldn’t want to stay here anyway. It’s a bit isolated.”
“Well you’d be here with me, silly.”
“It’s really drafty,” he tried and looked at me. Was he asking for backup?
I cleared my throat. “Oh, yeah, really drafty.”
“And massive spiders.”
“Oh God, yes.” I shuddered. “You should have seen the size of the one I killed last night.”
“Ugh, I hate spiders,” Bethany said, eyes wide.
“Mmmm,” both Tom and I agreed at the same time. On the same wavelength.
He winked.
And all of a sudden, the evening took on a whole new aspect. My Tom was still there.
“So about that girly bonding, we should totally do that now before Tommy runs you home,” I said.
Tom’s eyes widened.
Bethany looked confused.
“Well, we already established that Tom prefers to stay at your place, right?” I assured her, warming up to my idea of making sure Bethany didn’t stay here tonight. Eyeing her tight, low-cut pink T-shirt I realized I still might have to contend with him staying at her place. “So let’s talk girly stuff. I’m dying to see what I look like in pink.”
Tom made a small choking sound.
“Shall we go to my room? Tommy will clean up the kitchen. Won’t you, Tommy?”
I dragged Bethany to my room and sat her at the dressing table. Peeling my shirt off, I unclasped my bra too. Her eyes flicked away, embarrassed. “I need my push-up to try on your shirt, don’t you think?” I was deliberately trying to make her uncomfortable. I didn’t know why, but I couldn’t seem to help it.
Fishing the bra out of a basket of clean clothes, I put it on and fluffed my boobs, gratified with the effect.
“Yes, totally!” Bethany finally found her voice and joined in my enthusiasm. “So what is your plan for your hair?” she asked.
“Oh, I know, growing out dark color is the worst. Luckily, I didn’t choose a permanent dye, but the way it looks now, I feel I might never get back to my natural color.” I studied myself in the mirror, turning my head this way and that, then glanced at her reflection. “Look at your gorgeous chestnut hair. I wouldn’t have had to dye mine if I could have your color.”
She smiled, pleased with my compliment. I was relieved I’d managed to get my weird cattiness under control. “Thanks. Come switch places with me,” she said, hopping up.
I sat down and she rummaged around in her purse and pulled out a large black makeup bag. “Oh, yikes,” I said.
“Trust me,” she said. And I did, but only because I knew she’d never risk Tom being irritated with her. She pulled out tweezers and went for my eyebrows.
“Ow!” I yelped, eyes watering.
“Hold still. It’ll get better.”
She shaped my eyebrows, then carefully painted things on my face layer by layer. That’s what it felt like anyway, but she wouldn’t let me see.
It took a while.
Tom knocked at the door eventually. “Go away,” we both yelled and laughed. Bizarrely, I was actually having fun.
“What’s going on in there?”
“A makeover,” said Bethany. “Dang, girl, your cheekbones are insane. Like Keira Kni
ghtley insane.”
“A what?” Tom said through the door. “Oh, never mind. I don’t want to know. Liv?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you want Fuckhead to stay in the bathroom permanently?”
“Don’t move,” said Bethany to me. “She can’t talk now. And please, for the love, give the poor cat a real name.”
“I have to answer,” I whispered, then raised my voice so Tom could hear me. “He needs to stay in a small room for his first few days in a new house. So leave him be.”
“Do I get to see what you’re doing in there?”
“When we’re done,” Bethany called. “Okay, let me fix your hair before you look,” she said. “And here’s my T-shirt. Careful you don’t smudge anything pulling it on.”
She took her T-shirt off revealing her ample assets that put even my pushed-up pair to shame. I gingerly took it. I’d been kind of joking about trying it on. “It sure is very… pink,” I said and held the neck hole open as I eased my head through. It wasn’t as tight as on Bethany, but with the push-up, it was still formfitting. No matter how racy my clothes got, they were usually black. Black seemed safer, somehow. Pink was practically nude. I leaned over and pulled a largish shirt out the hamper for her to borrow. “They’re clean, I just haven’t folded. I’m sorry I don’t have anything more stylish.”
“No worries. Wait.” She put the shirt on, then stepped behind me and fussed with my hair, pulling it back and then loosening it and twisting it around itself. She stuck a clip in it to keep it up, and then artfully pulled a few strands free around my face. “There. Are you ready to see?”
“Sure,” I said and turned to face the mirror to take stock of the garish look.
Except it didn’t look garish. At all.
Holy shit.
“Holy shit,” I whispered. “What did you do?”
“Looks great, right? And you could always cut your hair short and start from scratch,” she suggested. “I used to work in a hair salon, I could give it a go. It would look spectacular short.”