by K. Bromberg
This will be the easiest way to disappear. So Katie won’t worry. I’ll find a job in Florida, find a fresh start.
Over the next few hours, I convince Katie this is true. We read Gertrude’s poems aloud, and Katie orders Chinese food, which I devour so quickly I puke it all back up once Katie leaves.
Late that night, I’m curled up on a blanket in my empty bedroom, wearing the pink iPhone ear buds I used to wear when I wrote at work. I’m lying on my back, my face striped by the streetlight streaming through my blinds. I’m listening to Lana Del Ray, surfing the internet for what will be one of the last times ever on my phone; I’ve just sold it on Craig’s List for $90.
My leg itches and I reach down to scratch it. One of my nails is jagged. I scrape my calf just a little, and it stings.
I start to sob. I tug at my hair.
“How did this happen? What the fuck is wrong with everything?”
I rip the ear buds from my ears and toss my phone down. I jump up and tug my sneakers on without socks. I stab my arms into my coat and run toward Beacon Hill, where the bar crowd’s out in full force and creepers stand in alleys with their heads lowered. The air is so cold it feels like a corporeal thing.
I continue toward Boston Commons, and when I reach the pond, I spend five bucks on skates, because why the fuck not? I skate furiously in circles, until the dim stars that wink through spindly tree branches are nothing but a blur, and the faces passing by and the strings of lights and crying of a child and icy wind that slaps my cheeks seem like slivers of some dream.
This is not my life. It cannot be my life.
I skate until my feet are numb, and by the time I make it home, my hands are so frostbitten they burn terribly.
I take a hot shower and bundle up in my blankets. I check my Facebook, my e-mail, and feel the morbid compulsion to check my bank account. I do this fanatically now, sometimes like every five minutes. I’m not sure if I’m trying to motivate or torture or…holy shit.
The page has loaded. I blink. And blink. And wipe my eyes and blink.
My heart is pounding hard. Blood roars inside my ears. This can’t be right. It just…can’t be. But there it is. In simple, sans serif font, black on a white screen underneath my bank’s emblem:
$30,377.12
I can’t believe my eyes. I must be going crazy. I log out, in, and out again. Twice. Four times. Six.
My phone vibrates: an e-mail. [email protected]
She has written only one word: “Come.”
Attached is a photocopy of a hand-drawn map, sketched with an ‘X’ on one Rabbit Island, a blip about two miles off the coast of Charleston, South Carolina. At the bottom is Gertrude’s e-signature.
I’m pretty sure my “FUCK YES! HELL YES! FUCK!” is heard all through my building.
I throw my snow-damp sneakers back on and dash all the way to Fred’s Coffee & Bagels, where I order a grande latte and four extra-fattening, buttery, cinnamon-crusted bagels.
I walk slowly home to my nearly empty apartment, thanking God and sleet and smog and dirty snow for what this night has brought me. I’ve made some stupid choices, but e-mailing grandma is not one of them.
As I climb behind the wheel of my new-to-me ’04 Camry the next afternoon, I’m beaming from ear to ear. I’m going to meet my mom’s mother, and after that—or maybe before if I’m extra lucky—I’m going to find a way to end this two month dry spell.
*
WOLFE
I leave the island four times annually—one trip inland for each season—and that’s mostly for Trudie. Was for Trudie. She needed things on occasion, and with her bum hip, it was easier for me to get them.
After she passed, I debated ever leaving the island again. No reason to. I’ve got food and supplies. I can get Bob, my cousin and my manager, to arrange a courier to get the paintings. Maybe pay him to haul his ass down here and do it himself if he doesn’t trust a third party. Not my problem. Keeping me anonymous is Bob’s problem. Has been since we started.
The only thing that made me second-guess confinement to the island was pussy.
When I first came here four years ago, I didn’t leave for months. I started dreaming of pussy. Smelling pussy. Even tasting it. So I found Clarice, a lonely young widow in one of the row houses by the water. She likes it like I do, and she never wants to see my face.
She’s a good enough fuck. But I have to go to her. I would never bring her here. I would never bring anyone here.
I could pay for pussy. Liplocked pussy. Motor boat some discreet escort to the island. But escorts are boring.
Even Clarice—predictable, submissive Clarice—could conceivably say “no.” She could fight me if she wanted. And I need that. Need to think that maybe one day, she’ll decide to twist around and grab my hair and look into my eyes.
Without that possibility, without the chance that it could all implode, it’s not fucking worth it.
So, no escorts in motor boats.
After I’ve had some time to digest Trudie’s death and my subsequent inheritance of Rabbit Island, I decide no more Clarice, either.
I’ll find another way to deal with my dick.
Peace follows my decision. Peace: the closest thing I’d found to happiness. I think Trudie would have been glad for me.
I celebrate my vow of seclusion by wandering the forest. Pines and oaks, cypress, swampland. The island is an eighth of a mile long, and I love every fucking inch of it. I leave my cabin for two nights and pitch a tent on the boulder on the northwest side of the island. Sit beside it with my feet in the sand and listen to the whip-poor-will, to the lapping of the waves. Watch cypress branches drifting in the salty breeze. And when I can’t keep my hands still any longer, I let myself paint. A gull in the water. A squirrel on an oak. Simple shit.
The next day, I call Bob. Set up the courier.
And then three days ago, when I’m up at Trudie’s cottage, archiving her unpublished poems, the phone rings.
Trudie wasn’t a lover of technology, and she especially hated talking on the phone. In her honor, I let her archaic answering machine pick up. I wonder who the fuck has her number. The old woman was more reclusive than even me.
A second later, a male voice fills her little office.
“This is a message for James Wolfe. I’m Michael Halcomb, partner at Halcomb & Mallory and Gertrude O’Malley’s new estate attorney. I need to talk to you about her attempted deeding of Rabbit Island to you.”
I sit there a moment, absorbing the echo of my name; resisting the urge to grab the phone. Then I pluck it off her desk. “What do you mean attempted?”
I can tell the lawyer is surprised to hear my voice. I’ve got a deep voice. Distinctive. Shit… It’s fucking infamous.
I’m fucking infamous.
Bet the bastard was hoping he wouldn’t reach me.
“Mr. Wolfe?” His voice sounds tinny.
“You mentioned a problem?”
He clears his throat. “Er…yes sir. I’m glad I reached you. There’s an issue with the deeding of the island. Nothing insurmountable—”
“Spit it out.”
“I’m afraid the attorney in charge of Ms. O’Malley’s final arrangements was a junior colleague. He was only on the—”
“Spit. It. Out.”
“The island can’t be deeded to you, despite your being temporarily in charge of her trust. In the event that no family member is helping govern the trust, conservation land like the island can’t pass hands. For ownership of the island to change hands posthumously, it’s got to be done via Gertrude’s family. There’s only one living descendant, according to my research. A granddaughter—”
“Sarah Ryder.” A redhead. Freckled and pale, from the look of her in the photo on Trudie’s desk. Despite some kind of family feud, Trudie kept track of the girl. Subscribed to the Boston Journal online. Even had me program Google to send Trudie an e-mail alert when it picked up the name “Sarah L. Ryder.”
In the last
few weeks of Trudie’s life, I corresponded two times with her oncologist via e-mail. Which is how I found that little, red-haired Sarah lost her job. About a week before Trudie passed, Sarah e-mailed, wanting to meet up. Trudie asked me not to reply.
“I waited too late,” she told me.
Why hadn’t Sarah reached out to her until now? I did some checking around, had Bob call up a mutual friend from our Bridgewater days, and found out little miss Sarah was looking for a job. Looking unsuccessfully. Applications out all over Boston.
So…a moneygrubber.
“You’re right,” Halcomb says. “Her name is Sarah. She needs to take a position with the trust. She can then decide if the island should be sold to an individual. You. You’ll need to convince Sarah to get involved, and convince her to sell the island to you.”
“I hope your office intends to handle this. It’s your fuck-up. And I don’t leave the island. Ever.” That’s a stretch, but I’m damn sure not going to this bastard’s office.
“I can send someone out to help you—”
“Not someone. You.”
“Ah, well, I—”
“If you and I have to meet for any reason, you come to me. I don’t want to deal with an intern or some fucking first-year lackey.”
I enjoy his silence. Nervous silence.
He clears his throat again. The fucking pussy.
“Er…yes. Of course. Just tell me when and…well,” he chuckles, “I don’t need to ask where. Gertrude paid my firm well to be…considerate of her preferences. Her solitude. Yours as well, by extension, sir. But there won’t be any paperwork to sign, no business between you and me, until you contact Sarah.”
Fuck.
Chapter Two
RED
I arrive in Charleston in mid-morning. There are so many more trees than I remembered, many of them adorned with beautiful gray moss. Water spreads out around the city like an obsidian plate of glass. The historic homes—Federal style, Queen Anne, Italianate—are painted in pastels, and arranged in neat rows along lamp-lit sidewalks. The day is overcast, with dark gray clouds like rain, so some of the lamps are already glowing.
I drive around, reacquainting myself with iron-gated cemeteries and sprawling plantation homes. Finally, about 3:30 p.m., I stop at a little local produce store and ask about the Briar Bay boat dock, which I’m told is in a cove near Dill Creek, on the James Island side of Charleston Harbor. I head across the Ashley River, find a shrimp shack, and spend the next hour and a half eating and obsessively checking my phone. I fire off a quick e-mail telling Gertrude I’ll be the girl with long, red hair, wearing jeans and a long-sleeved gray t-shirt.
When I got the call from my bank confirming that an anonymous donor had infused my account with new life, I renewed the lease on my apartment, but I didn’t have time to buy new furniture or clothes, so here I am, in my slightly baggy jeans and a Northwestern shirt I’ve had since...spring my junior year. So yeah, meeting grandma for the first time in a six-year-old t-shirt.
I refresh my red lipstick about twelve times before leaving the shrimp shack, then point my Camry toward the water.
The clouds are darker now, hanging low over the harbor. Gulls crisscross the sky, moving in frenzied zigzags. I follow the instructions of my GPS and pull into a parking lot that reaches to the water’s edge, where there’s a long, wooden dock lined with boat slips. Mossy trees shade the deck and walkway, hanging over boats big and small. I run my eyes over the larger boats, wondering which one is my grandmother’s.
I pull my phone out of my cup holder and shoot off an e-mail. “I’m here.” Then I grab my duffel bag and purse, lean against my hood, and wait.
What will Gertrude look like? I watch the docked boats, serviced by fluttering figures, heads bowed against a swift but muggy breeze.
There’s a luxury boat, maybe fifty feet, with a pelican’s post on the top. I wonder if she’s wealthy enough to own that. I guess she probably is. I cast my gaze to a smaller boat, this one blue and white, with the name Dirty Sammy scrawled across its back in cursive.
I’m holding my breath when my phone vibrates. ‘The boat name is Fog.’
My heart hammers. My mouth feels dry. I tuck my hair behind my ears, adjust the bag on my shoulder, and start toward the dock. The big, square wood deck adjoining the parking lot is dotted with a few benches and an abandoned fishing pole. I take a left onto one of the long planks that runs parallel with the shoreline. Boats bob all along it, settled into little, wood-framed slots.
I walk slowly, glancing at each boat for Fog. Double Trouble, Choppy Cass, Stupid Does, Great Escape. I think the big beige and crimson sailboat a few slots down looks like a Fog, and am disappointed to find its name is Rammer Jammer. I pass a few smaller boats, the kind you might ski behind, as well as a massive yacht that looks almost too big for its allotted docking space.
The wind blows my hair across my cheeks. A few strands stick to my lips.
I’m pushing at them with my fingertips, glancing down the dock for a woman with gray hair and my mother’s mouth, when I see him: a tall man blocking my path. He’s wearing a pair of loose, charcoal slacks and a battered-looking white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, so I can see his muscled forearms. His face is partially shaded by a baseball cap. And even so, I know he’s here for me.
My cheeks heat up, as if I’ve been sunburned; my stomach aches; and, swear to god, my pussy actually clenches like it’s saying “hey Hottie, right here.”
Then he takes a slow stride toward me, lifts his head a little, and I see his face.
Holy fucking wow. This man is brutally handsome.
He must be a fucking pirate. A short, scruffy black beard covers his face, begging for my fingers. His jaw is hard, as if maybe he’s clenching it. He’s got Elvis Pressley cheekbones, and his mouth, which twists when he sees me, looks made for naughty words. And his eyes. Holy shit, those eyes. They’re dark brown—intense and long-lashed—but that’s not what gets me. There’s something about them… About the way they sweep me up and down, as if assessing. Does he find me wanting? Find me satisfactory?
I can barely breathe. I forget to swallow and almost choke on my own spit.
My eyes flit to his mouth again as my finger twitches. Oh, how I’d like to touch those full lips.
I want to take a step closer and yank off his Mets ball cap. I want to run my fingers through his hair.
I notice I’m breathing fast and shallow, like I’m recovering from a panic attack.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
He steps toward me and I lick my lips.
“You’re Red.” His voice is so low, I can feel the timbre of it in between my legs.
“You’re…not my grandmother.”
His mouth presses into a tight line. “Red,” he says slowly, “I’m afraid I’ve got some sad news. Gertrude passed a few days ago.”
“She died?”
He nods once. “She did.”
He swipes his cap off his head, revealing short, black hair.
I stare at it as if it might help me comprehend. I waited a lifetime to meet my grandmother, longed for her since my mother died, and came this close to knowing her? How could she be gone?
My eyes water—from shock or disappointment? Maybe from the wind.
“When did she die?”
“Earlier in the week,” he says.
“So the money…? It’s an inheritance?”
His face twists. “So it was the money?”
“What?”
“You needed money.” His tone is harsh and judging.
“What does my financial situation have to do with anything?”
He makes a face that starts out as a wince and turns into an angry smirk. “That’s how I got you here. Money grubber.”
My stomach tightens. “I’m not a money grubber. What do you mean ‘got me here?’” It hits me like a cannon ball that I don’t even know who he is, this man who’s suddenly so angry with me. “Who the fuck are y
ou?”
“My name is Race. I was Gertrude’s assistant.” He folds his arms in front of him, revealing thick forearms.
I look beyond him, down the dock, where a group of men are unloading fish into several large, white coolers. If I need to, I can run.
“You said you got me here with money. What does that mean?”
His eyebrows narrow. “I deposited thirty thousand dollars in your account. Gertrude didn’t leave you anything.”
“What?”
“She left her island to me by putting me in charge of her trust. But it turns out the trust can’t transfer ownership of the island to me without you, because the island is conservation land, and conservation land can only be passed down within a family. I can’t have it unless you become involved with the trust and sign off on the sale of it to me.”
“If you want to keep the money that I gave you, what you have to do is simple. Sign on to oversee her trust, and decide the island should be sold to me. The money will go to the trust, but I’ll give you an additional thirty thousand dollars.”
I blink a few times. “Are you bribing me?”
He pins me with that awful look again. The condemning one. “Do you consider yourself above that?”
“I don’t know. Yes. You called me a money-grubber. That’s not a good way to get my help.”
A beam of sunlight pushes through the dark clouds, illuminating the man’s black hair. “So you’re saying you won’t do it?”
I rub my eyes, noticing as I do that my hand is shaking. “I don’t know if I will. I don’t know.” I draw a deep breath in. Force myself to look into his dark eyes. “I don’t think I would agree to sell her island to you. You seem like an asshole.”
“Do I?” He steps closer, and my chest and cheeks go molten hot.
I grit my teeth. “Yes. You are an asshole. I can spot one.”
“You’re a beggar.”
“How did she die?”
“Excuse me?”
“How did my grandmother die, asshole?”
His face hardens. “It was cancer. Do you care?”
“Of course I care!”
His sneer tells me what he thinks of that, but I ignore him. “Pancreatic cancer?” I ask.