After listening to my spiel, the woman on the other end had told me to call Else over at the store. I made her repeat the name and even spelled it across the phone to make sure I had it right. The woman who answered identified herself as Elsie Morgan. She sounded old and yet, energetic over the phone, leaving me curious as to what she would look like in person.
I wasn’t sure where one would leave an SUV and a twenty-two foot trailer at a store. She cleared that up quick enough when she told me to stop by on the way in, that she would show me the back yard. It wasn’t exactly what I had in mind, but in Atlantic, the options and people were few. I didn’t argue.
I also didn’t need the address. I’d always been amazed by how the mind worked, how it could focus on the tiniest detail while tuning out a blaring television five feet away. I had no more than set the slip of paper on the passenger’s seat and dragged the gear shifter into drive, when I looked up and saw the large, clapboard building a couple of hundred yards ahead on the left.
I blinked and nearly laughed out loud. Not only had I missed the store, I’d missed the massive sign on my side of the road pointing to it. I’d been so intent on finding the address that I nearly ran right into the place without even recognizing it.
The closer I came, the more appropriate General Merchandise seemed for the building. The structure looked to be stuck somewhere between a convenience store and a grocery store in size. A long, low porch built of cedar and pine crossed the face, covered by a deep overhang roofed with sheets of copper colored tin. A pair of rocking chairs graced one side of the entrance way. Both sat empty at the moment, but would have looked just as picture perfect if a couple of old fishermen had been rocking the day away and complaining about the weather. Ferns hung thick and bushy from the overhang, gracing a central point between each of the posts supporting the roof.
Unlike many of the other buildings in the area that suffered from too much sun, too much wind, and too little paint, Morgan’s General Merchandise gleamed brightly in the late summer sun. Either someone had painted the store recently or taken a high pressure water hose to it.
The parking lot offered a testament to the clientele it served. Like the paint on the building, the asphalt looked clean and dark with rectangular slots neatly separated by crisp white paint. The key feature that demonstrated the owner knew her customers lay in the design. The slots on the left side and front of the building were normal sized, accommodating both cars and pickups. Those on the right side, stretched upwards of forty to fifty feet in long, narrow strips, laid out in such a way that anyone towing a trailer or boat could pull directly into one from the road. The exit looked just as easy to navigate.
I pulled the Durango into a gentle arc and slid into one of those long, clearly marked slots with none of the vehicular gymnastics I had encountered in half a dozen parking lots on the way down.
Reaching over into the glove box, I pulled out a small leather bag stuffed with cash. I’d left Tennessee with a little over nine thousand dollars, separated out into different denominations. The woman at the bank hadn’t blinked when I asked for the money. She had smiled, filled out the withdrawal slip for me, slid it across the counter for my signature, and even politely passed a pen across the counter when I asked for one. The blink didn’t come until I told her how I wanted it. By the time she had counted out half in one hundred dollar bills, another two thousand in fifties and the rest in twenties, both the stack and the look of irritation on her face had grown to impressive proportions.
I slid three one hundred dollar bills from the stack, zipped the bag up and put it back in the glove box. During my call with Elsie, she had reckoned she would let me leave the Durango out back for five dollars a day. Three hundred gave me two months. By then, I figured the Fever would have run its course or, more likely, I wouldn’t be around to worry about the vehicle.
I hated carrying cash. I’d worn out a handful of debit cards in the past ten years and rarely carried more than a few dollars. The sum represented roughly a quarter of what I had left from selling the two houses. I’d considered taking more, but somewhere in the back of my mind the ten thousand mark carried a special significance. It took the better part of a week to remember why. Banks were required to report any transaction ten thousand and over to the IRS.
I had nothing to hide. I also had no desire to draw unwanted attention to myself. I had no idea what shape banks would be in if The Fever hit as hard as the experts were warning that it could. No one knew. Speculation ran rampant with some painting doomsday scenarios, while others thought the situation as overblown as the fears that had surrounded the Avian Flu. The experts hadn’t wasted time issuing their dire warnings then either, over what had been a virtual no-show of a disease.
A few had even scoffed at the idea of La Fiebre doing the sort of damage in the United States that it had done in Mexico, citing the strong health care system and the much stronger U.S. government.
Opinion meters swung widely, highlighting the real truth. No one had any idea what would happen. After listening to the debate rage back and forth, watching every news broadcast be dominated by panelists who offered little more than speculation, I, like the rest of the country, had been left with no clear picture of what the future might hold. The warnings had grown through the summer, reaching a fever pitch in early September. I had no crystal ball, but the overload of alarming predictions spawned an impending sense of doom that cast a shadow on every aspect of life. It clung to every thought, every decision like a black cloud squatting on the horizon that grew bigger and stronger with each passing day.
I had walked past Angel a dozen times without once thinking about running off to the coast. The idea didn’t surface until I ran across a series on one of the reality stations called “The Colony.” It too offered a perspective on disease run wild, one where the few survivors had been reduced to scavenging for food and spent their days battling looters and rival camps over dwindling resources.
I fell asleep on the couch at some point, waking to bright sunlight streaming in through French doors that led out onto the deck. Like most mornings, the first thought on my mind turned to coffee. The second opted for fresh air. I saw Angel sitting in the shed when I walked out on the deck. I sipped the coffee, thinking about the show the night before, mind jumping from one idea to another. My thoughts eventually turned back to the days after 9/11 when the country had run scared to fights at the gas pumps after Hurricane Katrina laid waste to the Gulf Coast. I knew then that if La Fiebre struck with any real force, the disease would only be half the battle. The rest would come from a shocked and terrified population severed from the support mechanisms that kept it alive and thriving.
I had no desire to hole up in my house and shoot starving people. I remember wondering what Dad would do if he were still alive. The answer came instantly. I looked up at Angel and knew in that moment that I would go.
At the same time, the trip had no return planned. Nine thousand would see me through if I lived and would easily pay for the few items I would need. My father had stocked the boat with gear. I had filled it full of provisions along with a scattering of both comfort items and things tied strictly to vices. I’d gone overboard on the latter, loading up a half case of Johnny Walker Black, a few bottles of Captain Morgan, three bottles of Duplin’s Carolina Red, and a dozen cartons of cigarettes. I don’t know why. I hadn’t smoked in years and the last pint of whiskey had taken me months to work through.
Even the whiskey stirred memories. Dad had often joked about being named after a fifth of scotch. With bottles clinking in the box when I loaded it aboard the boat, I’d stopped long enough to pour a shot and raise a toast to John Walker Hill and voyages, those done and those yet to come. The thought running through my mind at the time hadn’t been centered on sailing Angel across the sound, but on the greater voyage I’d be facing when The Fever made it to the island.
When it came to the cigarettes, I hadn’t smoked since my second year of college. I’d bought the
m at a gas station that had the prices posted near the pumps. I hadn’t planned on ever starting again, but knowing death might come in a few weeks took most of the threat out of the Surgeon General. As a side benefit, if by chance the disease passed me over while decimating the rest of the population, the smokes would at least trade well.
I crossed the parking lot, walking against a warm breeze drifting in from the west. I’d left Tennessee the last day of September, a time when the climate along the coast usually carried hot days, even though nights had started to cool. With the seasons in transition, nothing could be taken for granted. A front sliding through could turn what felt like summer into a cold, wet reminder that winter lay just around the corner. At the same time, my one experience with Portsmouth had been in early October and the weather had seemed like a gift straight from heaven with deliciously warm days offset by nights chilly enough to warrant both campfire and jacket.
November would bring cold rains, driving winds sliding down from the north, and gray, storm-tossed seas. A few good days would remain, but the bulk of them would be gone. As fall progressed, the threat of northeasters would grow. I’d experienced both hurricane and northeaster. Trying to choose between the two amounted to sitting between the proverbial rock and hard place. Some might scoff at that idea given the press summer storms generated, but the largest waves ever produced by a storm had been recorded during a northeaster. Even worse, they could drag on for days, turning the ocean into a maelstrom of gale force winds, monstrous waves, and clashing swells as wind and water battled over which direction the currents would flow.
The coast of North Carolina had a long and well-deserved reputation for bad weather. More than a thousand wrecks littered the coastline, lying in mute testimony to the strength and savagery of winter storms. The ship-killing equation had more than one variable. Into the mix could be added the occasional hurricane that drew a bulls-eye on the thin string of islands and a daily potential for intense squalls. The combination of insane weather, steep waves, and strong currents had proven deadly, so deadly the area had been dubbed the Graveyard of the Atlantic.
I knew all of that, and still had chosen this place. Warmer and more accessible islands lay farther south. My father had loved the ocean and insisted on vacations along the coast when I was a kid. The constant trips, year after year, had left me with a decent knowledge of communities from North Carolina to Florida. While more appealing destinations existed, I put no money on the odds of making it to winter alive. If I did, I figured I could pick a nice day for the boat ride back.
I took the front steps two at a time, crossed the shade of the covered porch, and stepped into the store. The smell of cinnamon and apples struck me the instant I entered, the scent neither overpowering nor ripe, but rather hanging at the edge of the senses. The interior had been done completely in wood, with hardwood floors, pine walls, and ceilings giving off a rich, golden glow where sunlight filtered in through windows unadorned with blinds or curtains. A checkout station dominated the center of the entryway and beyond it, a cavernous interior seemingly too large for the building that housed it. Clusters of soft floodlights hung from a ceiling that looked to be at least twenty feet high. Along the walls, sliding ladders gave access to walkways above that separated goods arranged neatly below from storage bins on the abbreviated second level. The shopping aisles were neat and arrow-straight. A quick glance revealed everything from food stuffs to copper pipe for plumbing. Near the back looked to be a feed and seed center, no doubt for the local farmers. The more I saw, the more General Merchandise aptly described the store.
A woman, who appeared to be in her late twenties or early thirties, looked up when I stepped inside. She had dark, shoulder length hair, impossibly blue eyes, and angular features that, like many of the Atlantic’s buildings, had seen too much sun. Her face carried a deep tan spread across skin that looked leathery and hard - too hard for someone her age. In another ten years, the same skin would sport deep lines, wrinkles, and crows feet that no miracle lotion could ever remove. She wore a sleeveless top, Capri pants, and flip flops, all black. A quick glance revealed equally dark fingernails and toenails. A tiny glint of silver flashing from a pierced eyebrow completed the confusing blend of beach babe and Goth girl.
A small rack of over-the-counter medicines stood to the right of the cash register. A dozen different types of sunscreen crowded the bottom shelf. Given the weathered look of her skin, I wondered if she had ever picked up a bottle and read the back of it.
She offered a polite smile.
“Hi there.”
I nodded. “Hey. I’m looking for Elsie Morgan. I’m William Hill. I talked to her a while back about a place to park my vehicle while I spend a few weeks fishing?”
I let the last sentence trail off into a question, hoping she’d pick up where I left off.
She opened her mouth to respond, but closed it quickly when a side door I hadn’t noticed in my quick inspection, opened off to the right, exposing a small office beyond. The woman who stepped out looked old enough to be my grandmother. Her hair had gone past gray, into the solid white of someone old enough to have forgotten things I had never known. She wore it drawn back into a tight bun with wispy tendrils drifting down at the sides. Deep lines scored her forehead, complimenting a spray of fine wrinkles at the corners of her eyes.
My grandmother had passed away when I was six, leaving my memory of her tied to a few specific images. The strongest of them went back to her sitting in a rocking chair, shawl draped across her shoulders, breaking green beans fresh from the garden while describing life in the mountains when she was a child. Elsie Morgan carried the same distinctive blend of age and wisdom, needing nothing more than an ankle length gingham dress to complete the picture. She had the shawl, lacy, white and curled around her neck and shoulders. The similarity in clothing ended there though as she wore a white blouse and gray slacks.
She leaned her head forward slightly and looked over wire-rimmed glasses trimmed in silver.
“I’ve been expecting you,” she said and held out her hand. I took it. Her skin lacked the soft, silky feel that comes with many older people. Instead, her handshake came across strong and firm.
She studied me for a moment with eyes as gray as the ocean on a cloudy day. I had the uncomfortable feeling that she was as busy sizing me up as I had been a moment earlier with her.
Mirrors don’t lie. We do, however. I’m not sure why we do it, other than the fact that staring into a mirror over the course of a lifetime makes one too familiar with the features staring back at them. We tend to forget that first impressions are often dominated by the same characteristics that caricature artists use to create the cartoon portraits that are overdone, yet undeniably us.
When I had left Morehead City earlier that morning, the mirror had shown me a stocky man in his early forties, who at five-ten was neither tall nor short, but stuck right on the average scale. A faded, moss-green ball cap sporting a logo for Stone Mountain, Georgia covered short, sandy hair that seemed at odds with the dark stubble forming on his cheeks. The face was tanned, a bit scruffy, and framed by a strong, squared jaw. The shoulders stretched wide enough to hang a bag or two off them and not have to worry about either slipping off. I looked like I belonged on the beach. With the Jimmy Buffett t-shirt, cargo shorts, and tennis shoes, tourists off the ferry could easily mistake me as one of the locals.
With the old woman staring at me so intently, I shifted, as uneasy as I’d ever been in front of Juanita Whatley and wondered how much the mirror had lied that morning. If anything set me apart, it had to be the eyes. Jayne had once described them as icy blue. “You can be a scary man to look at, William,” she told me once.
I’d laughed. “Is that so?”
Jayne had nodded. “When a woman looks at you, she knows right away that you can fix everything imaginable, from her car right down to the need in her pants. The modeling agencies might look over you because there’s nothing soft or pretty about you, but you c
an take my word for it, the girls don’t.”
She had paused long enough to run her fingers across my brow. “Those eyes though, I swear. They’re just hard, like you could knock back a beer or kill someone with about as much thought.”
As the memory of that conversation swept through my mind, I realized the tension at the corners of my eyes probably came across as a scowl. I tried to relax and offered a faint smile.
Elsie drew her hand back and pulled at the edge of her shawl. ”You’re the one going out to the islands for some fishing, aren’t you?”
She didn’t wait for me to answer, but looked over at the girl. “Tracy, hand me the day book underneath the cash register.”
The girl fumbled for a moment and then passed over a small wire-bound book.
The woman flipped through it. “Yes, here you are. Hill, William, right?”
I ventured a smile that ended up feeling crooked on my face.
“Sorta. It’s actually William Hill. But yes, I’m heading out for a few weeks. Fishing is usually good this time of year.”
She pursed her lips.
“Your boat outside?”
I nodded.
A pause long enough to border on awkward followed, with those old gray eyes so piercing and unwavering it felt like she was looking straight through me to study something on the other side.
“Well, come on,” she said eventually. “Let me show you where you can put it in the water and where you can park.”
I turned to follow her and found myself hurrying to catch up. Elsie Morgan had some years on her, but none of them had affected her step.
She led me back out into the sunlight and across the parking lot. Instead of angling towards the back of the store, she headed straight for Angel.
“I haven’t seen one of those in years,” she exclaimed as she drew up beside the boat.
“One of what?” I asked, confused.
She pointed to Angel.
“That’s an Aquarius, a twenty-three footer, isn’t it?”
The Island - Part 1 Page 5