“You sure you’re okay, Aunt Joy?” It’s so unlike her not to want to join me to mingle at a good fair and hobnob with other island residents. “Can I get you anything?”
She shoos me away. “Naw. I got a brand-new novel, and I’m gonna start it tonight.”
“I see,” I say, yet still I’m suspicious. “Okay, I’ll pack up and come with you.”
We head back to the beach house to clean up as I wonder what in the world to wear to a country fish fry. I decide on a white sundress and flat gold sandals. Mother and Daddy are still not back from their afternoon of antique shopping. Daddy probably took Mother out to dinner on the mainland, so I decide to head over to the fish fry alone. I’m eager to find Chase. I have to talk with him. I want to hear his side of our story.
Chapter Fourteen
I am just one among the scores of folks who have come out to support the local police department and its annual fish fry. Bands are playing, fish are frying, and the laughter of friends and families fill the air. I head into the crowd and smell the sweet aroma of fresh barbecue. Unlike in New York, here in North Carolina, “barbecue” is a noun, specifically referring to our finely chopped pork, cooked with a vinegar or tomato base, and usually served on a warmed hamburger bun with coleslaw, hot sauce, and a side of hush puppies. Now that’s what I call home. We love to share our barbecue, even at a fish fry.
Organizers have set up tents of carnival games and pony rides for the children. A few old women sit underneath one tent, arguing good-naturedly over which one of their families has passed down the best pecan, peach, or blackberry cobbler recipe. Old men argue over the barbecue pit, where a huge pig on a rotisserie has captured the attention of some mischievous little boys—they seem to enjoy tossing pieces of straw into the flames and watching them curl and burn. The little girls love the ponies.
My hopeful eyes pan the crowd of happy islanders as I search for Chase—I can’t wait to reconnect with him again. I don’t know what it is, but from the moment I first met him—even as a child—there has been an indescribable electricity between us. He touches something deep inside my soul, as he always has.
“Hey, hey! Miss! You, over there!” A clown, sitting in a cage, is calling me. He is in a checkered outfit and has a big red grin painted on his face. He wears a foolish hat with a big yellow daisy and a bumblebee dancing around his head on a long spring wire. The crazy clown is perched atop a collapsible bench that will drop him into a pool of cold water if a ticket-buying patron can accurately throw a softball and hit the tin plate target that releases the apparatus. People are buying up the tickets, excitedly champing at the bit for their chance to “Dunk the Clown.” In a booming character voice, the clown reminds passersby that the tickets are tax deductible, because the money goes to the local battered women’s shelter.
The clown is also talking a lot of smack. He seems to be taunting everyone in the crowd, including the island’s mayor.
“Mayor, we’ll forgive you for everything if you can dunk me! Awwwwww!”
The comedic clown charms his captive audience. Folks are howling with laughter as he playfully picks on different local residents in the crowd.
“Harold Mitchell, is that you? When you gonna get that tractor in your front yard fixed? How you gonna dunk a clown when you can’t even fix a tractor?”
The crowd is in stitches, leading me to believe that this is an ongoing story around here.
“Oh-oh, he-e-e-e-re comes Junior!” The clown has now targeted a tall and lanky teenage boy. The kid stops in his tracks. His face turns as red as the clown’s big nose.
“Now, all y’all know this boy can throw a ball—baseball champ at Topsail High!”
The crowd applauds the kid. A few guys around him pat him on the back and ruffle his hair. A young girl in the crowd swoons. I smile, knowing a summer crush when I see one.
“But let’s see if the champ can dunk a clown! Awwww!”
The clown seems to know everybody and their business. This may be why they’re lined up to dunk him. I decide to move on; after all, I have a good-looking police chief to find and some finger-lickin’ southern food to eat. Where are those spots? Where is that man?
“Yoo-hoo! Hey, little lady, you gon’ buy a ticket?” I hear the clown calling out in a silly southern voice to some poor girl as I continue to move, head down, through the crowd.
“You, lady, you!”
People around me start to giggle. I look up and realize that that crazy-ass clown is actually calling out to me again.
“C’mon, sweetheart, lemme see whatchu got. Awww—you can’t throw no ball, sister. Go on back home!” He shoos me away with his hand. The crowd starts chanting, “Dunk the clown! Dunk the clown!” Then, one man steps up and surprisingly hands me three softballs.
“Dunk that clown!” he says.
The crowd cheers. The clown jeers. I look at the three softballs in my hand.
“G’wan now!”
“Poor little girl! She can’t throw no ball! Where’s my Barbie doll?” Waaaaa!”
Oh, that clown is going to pay now!
I step up to the plate as the crowd goes wild. I am trying to tap into any memory of softball anywhere in my life so I can remember how to throw this damn thing. The charity that protects and houses battered women and children gets the extra dollars when we dunk the clown, and so help me, God, for that cause alone this clown is going down tonight.
“Whatchu gon’ do, little girl?” the blabbermouth clown chides. “Show me your big old muscles.”
I focus, zeroing in on that tin plate, imagining it’s the face of every man who has abused a woman. I think of Grossman and the cops that shot Thomas, but mostly I think of Garrett and Eve—and I rear back and throw!
The softball flies through the air as the crowd brings their excitement to a crescendo. It slaps against the back canvas of the pitching stand, missing the tin target by a long shot.
The clown is on fire, laughing and heckling and slapping his checkered knee as he taunts me into another try at victory.
I wind up, lean back, and throw!
Bam!
This time I almost cream the clown. The softball curves more like a hardball and careens directly toward the clown’s head. Had it not been for his quick reflexes and that strong cage, that clown might have dropped all right—dropped dead!
The crowd utters a collective “Whoa!” in surprise and relief. The clown knows that I am serious, and he becomes even more obnoxious, even more grating with his whooping, and hollering, and clownish gesturing.
“C’mon, sister! Hit me! Wi-i-i-ind it up.” He mocks a crazy pitcher on the mound.
“Dunk the clown!” The chanting crowd is hopeful. So am I.
I walk up to a face-down with the clown, final ball in hand. He is going nuts in that cage, and I want to shut his mouth so badly. I wind back with all my might and determination and throw.
The ball flies from my hand, whirling with high speed toward its tin target. Everything seems to be moving in slow motion and then … bing!
The clown falls with a big splash. The crowd goes wild. Between that softball hitting that tin plate’s sweet spot, that clown hitting the water, and the crowd’s victorious roar, this is the best day I’ve had in I don’t know how long.
Even the drenched and humbled clown is clapping, standing waist deep in cold water, with his makeup and wig dripping wet. His little hat with the dancing flower and spring-mounted bee floats atop the water.
“Good girl!” yells the clown. I wave good-bye and turn to walk away. Then the clown calls out, “I really thank ya, ma’am!”
My heart suddenly skips a beat. My skin tingles. I stop, spin around, and take another look. The dunked clown is climbing out of his water pit, with his costume clinging to his very fit swimmer’s body. The clown is “Adonis”—it’s Chase!
I make my way th
rough the crowd and over to the pool where Chase is now drying off with a big towel. He has taken off his shirt, his skin glowing golden in the setting sun. I cannot help but take notice of his strong, cut, muscular arms.
“Hey!” I say as I approach him. “I had no idea that was you in that get up, Chief.”
“Hey, yeah, it’s me all right! And, boy, do you have one curveball,” he says, laughing. “Almost as hard as your mom’s.” Chase extends his hand. “How you doin’ today, Miss Dee?”
“Well, to tell you the truth, I’m still a little bit in shock right now,” I confess. “First of all, I can’t believe I actually dunked you.” I feign a hint of guilt. “Then the situation in the grocery store earlier today, and then to learn—and to remember … but I … I swear … I didn’t know. I had no idea at first … that it was you.”
The clown’s bright red lips curl into a wide grin. “Well, I may not have recognized you either at first, Dee, but I swear I never forgot that little girl.”
I feel a strong bolt of electricity surge through my body. I never knew until this moment how much I’ve secretly longed for those words and dreamed of this moment. I don’t know whether to cry tears of anguish or joy.
“Miss Destiny, I gotta tell ya, you and fate can sure throw some mighty curveballs.” Chase slides off his drenched clown wig. He is just as gorgeous as ever, even in a wet clown suit.
“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” I ask.
“Hurt me? Pshaw!” Chase slings his towel over his broad, bronzed shoulder. “You don’t know who you’re talking to, girlie! I fight the bad guys, remember?”
Chase jumps into the same cartoonish crime-fighter pose that he did as a kid, back when he was Chip. It’s even funnier now, with him in a white clown face, huge red nose and lips, and a stocking cap on his head. But those bright sea-green eyes still sparkle as he smiles down at me in the amber sunset.
“Hey, how ’bout you wait right here, and I go change into some dry clothes, and we go out there and find you your victory meal—some good ol’ North Carolina chopped barbecue and some swaller-yer-tongue fried spots. How ’bout that? I mean, good golly, I know you like them. I betcha everybody on the beach knows that by now—this girl loves her some spots!”
“Are you clowning with me again?” I tease.
Chief Chase McKenzie winks at me and heads into the dressing tent to change. I linger here, waiting for him, blushing like a teenage girl with a summer crush.
Chapter Fifteen
Chase and I are becoming fast friends as we tool around the fairgrounds, laughing and eating just about everything in sight. Oh, the savory taste of that North Carolina barbeque, the amazing freshness of the fried spots, and now, finally, our splurge on sweet caramel apples rolled in salty peanuts. Chase is so much fun. I enjoy being with him. He is a great escape—and a very attractive escape to top it off. Chase seems to know everybody, and everybody seems to know Chase. Even more, they seem to genuinely like him. He has an electric, country-boy charm about him, with a friendly one-liner for every soul he comes across—even when he’s not dressed up as a clown. It’s so refreshing to laugh.
“Now, this here young lady cooks the best chocolate pecan pie in the county. Isn’t that right, Mrs. Jordan?” Chase gently pats the shoulder of an elderly woman who just grins up at him and nods, yet another woman taken by Chase’s charms. “Mrs. Elynora Jordan’s been baking those pies since I was a little boy.” He leans over and kisses the beaming Mrs. Jordan on the cheek. “And I thank ya, ma’am.”
“Aw, Chase, you go on now,” the blushing old woman says with a chuckle and playful pat on his shoulder.
“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Jordan,” I say.
“Pretty girl,” Mrs. Jordan teases Chase in a loud whisper. “You be a good boy now, ya hea’?”
Can she detect this undeniable energy between us?
“Oh, I will, Mrs. Jordan,” Chase responds. “Don’t you worry about me.”
Chase gently nudges me in a new direction, and we head toward a booth where two large black women in crisp white aprons are frying up batches and batches of golden brown spots in huge cauldrons of boiling grease. Hungry, wide-smiling onlookers gather, as they watch these proud women preparing their seasonal gifts from the sea.
“Ah, here we go. Time to make one clown-dunkin’, spot-lovin’ woman happy!” Chase leads me to a picnic table. “Dinner for two, this way!”
“C’mon, Chief,” yells out one of the cooks. “Get in the front of the line. You get ‘po-po privileges’ ’round hea’.” The two women laugh and wave Chase over.
“Be right back.” He squeezes my elbow, winks at me, and then darts off into the crowd. This cop is quite a pistol.
I look at all the folks milling around the fairgrounds. There are very few brown or black faces, leading me to wonder if things really have changed that much since the segregated summers I lived here as a kid. Back then, Chase and I would not have been as comfortable hanging out in public together like this, not even as good friends. It’s hard to believe that at one time it was against the law for us to be together.
“Hope you didn’t get up there to the big city and forget your southern sweet tea.” The chief has his hands full with two oversized Styrofoam cups full of what many call “Southern nectar.” A big slice of lemon floats among the ice cubes.
“Are you kidding?” I ask, grabbing one of the sweet teas. “Gimme that tea!”
Chase grins at me and asks, “Hey, how’d you learn to throw a curveball like that anyway?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I reply. “Just grew up a tomboy, I guess.”
“Yeah, I remember; you sure could fish too.” Chase chuckles. “Only girl I knew who wasn’t afraid to bait a hook with a bloodworm.”
One of the big lady cooks interrupts our conversation by calling out, “Two fried spot dinners for the chief!” We turn to find her holding two paper plates overloaded with mounds of golden-brown spots. I think I have died and gone to fish heaven.
“All right!” Chase claps his hands, rubs them together, and grins like a schoolboy. “Well, I thank ya, ma’am. Mighty nice of you, Miss Mary. You have made Miss Destiny here one happy lady. She’s visitin’ us from New Yawk City. Yankees don’t eat like this!”
Miss Mary radiates her broad smile. “Well, hello there, Miss Destiny. How you doing today?”
“Just fine.” I smile back.
Chase waves at someone in the crowd across the way. “ Excuse me, ladies, I’ve got to say hello and maybe even apologize to the mayor over there. I’ll be right back. Need anything?”
I laugh and answer, “No, I have plenty to deal with here.”
Chase hops up from the table and moves his way into the crowd.
Miss Mary stands there, bright as sunshine. “Well, it sure is nice to meet you, Miss Destiny. Need some Texas Pete hot sauce for your fish?”
I chuckle. “Naw, I’m sure they’re fine just like they are.”
Miss Mary leans over and squints at me. “Why, now, you not li’l Miss Destiny, from Dr. Maurice Newell’s family, are you?”
“Yes, that’s me,” I reply. “Dr. Newell was my grandfather.”
“Well, lawd ha’ mercy, chile! Let me look atcha. Lord, you done growed up to be a pretty li’l ol’ gal. Only li’l girl I ever knowed named Destiny. Idn’t that something.” She clucks her tongue and shakes her head. “Well, just look at you. I used to love yo’ granddaddy—and your grandmama, Miss Nellie, too. They was some good, kind people, and lawd, did yo’ granddaddy love him some spots! Ha! Just like you!” The large-framed woman lets out a hearty laugh that seems to come from the depths of her round belly. “I’d cook him and your grandmama up some spots in exchange for a little teeth fixin’ now and then, ya know. Well, antyway—I’m Mae Mae.” She wipes her hands on her apron and quickly extends one.
“Nice to meet you, Miss Mae Mae,” I reply.
“Yes, my grandfather was a very kind man.” I remember how much my grandpa also loved to fish. “Always have two fishing poles,” he’d remind me, “just in case you meet a friend.”
“Nice to see you come back home, Miss Destiny.” Miss Mae Mae radiates her southern warmth. “Y’all young folks enjoy yo’selves, hear?”
“Hey, let’s eat these spots before they get cold,” Chase says as he hops back into his seat next to me on the picnic table bench.
“God bless this meal! Amen!” I say to the heavens as we lunge into my favorite fish feast.
“A-men!” Chase takes a big bite of the crunchy seafood. “Mm-mm-good!”
Chase makes me laugh. I love the way his eyes twinkle; I love that he’s curious and caring about everything; that he is so interested in so much outside of himself—including me.
“Hey, you like blue crabs?” Chase asks.
“Do I?” I reply. “I love them. I grew up catching them, using half-rotten chicken necks as bait, right back there in Stump’s Sound.” I point toward the intercoastal waterway on the backside of the island.
“Stump’s Sound?” Chase asks incredulously. “I grew up crabbing in Stump’s Sound too.”
“Really?”
“Yep, started crabbing around six years old. A crab wasn’t safe from us kids. Hey, how come I never saw you back there with us kids?”
And immediately, both Chase and I know the answer—it was only because of our differences in skin color. Black and white kids played separately growing up in these parts. My folks feared that with so much Ku Klux Klan activity in the eastern part of the state that it was downright dangerous for a black child to venture too far from home. In fact, my best friend, Macie, a nice Irish girl I grew up with, could never enjoy a summer vacation with me at our beach house, because my folks feared she might be called a “nigger lover”—or worse.
And it wasn’t just white folks with prejudices. Some black folks down here had them too. They wanted nothing to do with the neighboring “trailer-park people,” as they referred to the poor white families living in mobile homes behind this black, bourgeois community of doctors, lawyers, and morticians. Mother would stare out our kitchen window in disgust at the trailer park across the street. It interrupted her view of the sound. “All we need is one good hurricane to take away those dreadful trailers,” she’d say. Did she ever think about what might happen to those poor families living inside them? Could they even survive a strong gust of wind in their flimsy little trailers?
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