The High Tide Club

by Mary Kay Andrews

  “I was surprised he showed up at the reunion, to tell you the truth,” Mickey said. “I’ve never missed one since I left—been president of the alumni association. But that’s the only time he ever came to one. I don’t judge, but it looked to me like he’d had a hard kind of life.”

  Brooke glanced at Lizzie to see if she’d thought of any more questions for Mickey Beaman.

  Lizzie cleared her throat. “Mickey, there’s something I’m curious about. The nuns named him Charles, after the priest who found him, and they called him Charlie. So why did everybody at Good Shepherd call him Buck?”

  “It was just a nickname. Everybody had a nickname back then. My name was Mickey, but the guys called me Mouse. You know, for Mickey Mouse? We had a guy called Jughead because he had big ears.”

  “Where did the name Buck come from?” Brooke asked.

  Mickey glanced at Felicia, then looked away. “It was different times back then, you know? We weren’t what you’d call politically correct. If you really want to know, Buck was short for Buckwheat. You know? Buckwheat, the little colored kid from the Our Gang shows?”

  “I remember Buckwheat,” Felicia said, her voice icy.

  “How did he get the nickname Buckwheat?” Lizzie asked.

  The stockroom door swung open, and Yvonne stuck her head inside. “Dad, I’ve gotta go home and get supper started. I need you to come run the register until Michael comes back.”

  “Sure thing,” Mickey said, lumbering to his feet, eager to escape the prying eyes of these three women. “Sorry, ladies, I gotta go to work now.”

  “The nickname,” Lizzie repeated. “How did Buck get that nickname?”

  Mickey squirmed and gulped his beer. “I didn’t name him that, you understand. It was one of the older guys who started it, and after that, it just stuck. Charlie, or C. D., whatever you wanna call him, he had this wild, kinky hair. You know, like that colored kid from Our Gang.”

  Lizzie thought about that for a moment. She pulled out her cell phone and pulled up the photo she’d copied from the Good Shepherd yearbook.

  “This is a photo of the boys from your cottage, isn’t it?”

  The old man’s face softened. “Son of a gun. It sure is. Look at that. We look like the Dead End kids, don’t we? There I am, right there in the middle.”

  “Which of the boys is Buck?” Lizzie asked, handing him the phone.

  He stared down at the photo and finally tapped one face. “I can’t be sure, but I think maybe this is him. He was for sure the smallest kid in our cottage, and he’s wearing a ball cap, like Buck always used to do. Maybe because he was trying to hide the kinky hair.”

  Felicia’s eyes were blazing, but her voice was calm. “Are you saying Charlie looked black? Like he was African American?”

  “His skin wasn’t all that dark, not as dark as yours,” Mickey said. “Like maybe just real tan. You know how kids are. They say stupid stuff. The guy who gave him that nickname, he said he bet Buck was part colored. And that’s why his mama left him in a church. Because she didn’t want anybody to know she had a colored baby.”

  “Dad! Are you coming?” Yvonne screeched.

  Mickey downed the rest of his beer and scurried out of the stockroom.

  52

  “What planet was that old dude from?” Lizzie asked as they drove away from the liquor store. “‘Buckwheat’? ‘Colored kid’? What a dinosaur.”

  “Nothing new to me,” Felicia said, turning around from her perch in the front seat of the Volvo. “You’ve been living in your little bubble out in California all this time. Wake up, girl. This is the Deep South. We got more crackers here than a box of saltines.”

  “Could it be true?” Brooke asked. “Could C. D. be Josephine’s son? And biracial?”

  “You think just because I’m black I can spot that one drop of chocolate in the glass of milk?” Felicia demanded.

  “That’s not how I meant it, and you know it,” Brooke said, the blood rushing to her face.

  “Relax,” Felicia said, laughing. “I was just yanking your chain. ’Cause I’ve lightened up.” She held out her hand to Lizzie. “Let me see that picture again.”

  Lizzie pulled up the photo and handed over the phone.

  With two fingers, Felicia enlarged the image until the blurry face of a runty six-year-old filled the iPhone screen. Shadow cast from the bill of his cap obscured most of the upper half of his face, but the slight smile was visible.

  “It’s possible,” she said, studying the photo. “His lips are sort of full, and maybe his nose is a bit flatter and broader. His skin tone? No darker than some of my Italian friends. Of course, I can’t see his hair because of that cap. But yeah, he could be passing.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen C. D. without a hat. And a cigarillo,” Brooke said. “And he’s spent a lifetime out in the sun. The question is, what do we do with this gem of information?”

  “Let’s go see Sister Theresa, show her this photo, and ask if there was ever any discussion that Charlie, or Buck, or whatever you want to call him could have been biracial,” Lizzie said.

  “Can’t. I’ve gotta pick up Henry from Mom’s by five, and I’m already late,” Brooke said.

  “And I’ve got to make sure Auntie Vee has eaten and taken her meds,” Felicia said. “Louette’s been great about letting us stay there, but I’m the one responsible for Vee’s health.”

  “Maybe you could tactfully broach the subject of C. D. with Varina again, given what we learned today,” Lizzie said.

  Felicia laughed. “She was absolutely adamant that Josephine never had a child. I don’t know what her reaction would be if I ask her if Josephine had a child with a black man. Her head might just spin all the way off her head at the very idea.”

  “If C. D. would ever return my call, I’d ask him about it,” Brooke said, glancing at her own phone, which hadn’t rung. “I guess I’ll let Gabe know what we learned today. After all, he’s the administrator of Josephine’s estate. Let him sort it all out.”

  53

  By the time she’d fed and bathed Henry and yawned her way through story time and bedtime, it was after nine o’clock, which was an hour past his normal bedtime and what felt like an eternity past her own.

  Brooke peeled out of her clothes and crawled into her unmade bed wearing an old T-shirt. Her laptop rested on her nightstand, but she didn’t have the energy to even lift the top. She had emails to return, legal issues to research, documents to draft. The corner of her bedroom was piled high with this week’s dirty laundry and last week’s laundry that she’d never gotten around to folding. She wouldn’t get to any of it tonight, and based on what she knew of her upcoming schedule, tomorrow wasn’t looking good either.

  Which left only Saturday. In her past life, Saturdays were for long runs followed by endless Bloody Mary–soaked brunches, followed by a trip to the nail salon and maybe shopping with a girlfriend, and then date night with Harris.

  But that life was ancient history. It would be a miracle if she managed to muck out her house, get to the grocery store, and maybe do some laundry this Saturday.

  Saturday! She flopped backward onto the mattress. This Saturday was supposed to be date night with Gabe Wynant. She’d allowed herself to be sweet-talked into going to a dinner dance with him at the Cloister, but she’d forgotten to line up a babysitter.

  She reached for her phone, keeping her fingers crossed that Farrah would be available.

  There was a missed call on her phone from an unfamiliar number and an area code she’d never seen before. The caller had left a message. She touched the Play button, and as soon as she heard the voice her pulse rocketed.

  “Hey, Brooke. It’s Pete. Look, I know it’s short notice, but I’m back on the East Coast, headed to a conference in Miami. I’ve got a stopover in Savannah, where one of my former colleagues from the Park Service is picking me up, then we’re driving down to the conference together. I’m wondering—no, I’m hoping, you might agree t
o meet me at the Savannah airport. I bought a cheap plane ticket, which means I’m about to board my first of three legs of the flight, which is supposed to get me in around ten tomorrow morning. Maybe we could do an early lunch and catch up before my colleague picks me up? Okay, anyway, I really hope to see you tomorrow. I’ve missed you, you know?”

  Pete Haynes missed her. He wanted to see her. Have lunch. Catch up. After three plus years. She could already picture the conversation.

  Her: How was Alaska? How are the caribou? Is it really cold there?

  Him: Alaska’s great. The caribou are awesome, and it’s cold as shit. How about you? What have you been up to?

  Her: Oh, you know, the usual. Practicing law and raising your son. Wanna split dessert?

  She ran her fingers through her hair and groaned. This could not be happening. The call had come in while she was bathing Henry. It was too late to call Pete and try to beg off.

  Instead, she texted Farrah.

  Hey. Can you keep Henry for me tomorrow morning? Gotta run up to Savannah. Also need sitter for Saturday night. Heavy date. I’ll pay double your usual rate.

  Farrah’s reply came back in less than a minute.

  So sorry! Can’t tomorrow. It’s graduation. I’m a maybe for Saturday night. Can I tell you tomorrow?

  No! she wanted to shout. Commit already. But she couldn’t really blame Farrah. This was a big weekend for a graduating senior. Who wanted to be saddled with babysitting? And maybe it was for the best. Maybe this was the universe telling her she needed to stay home and take care of her kid and concentrate on building some kind of a career.

  Or maybe it was the universe telling her to call her mother.

  Good thing Marie was a bit of a night owl, Brooke thought.

  “Hi!” Marie said. “Shouldn’t you be in bed by now?”

  “I was, and then I had a missed call. From Pete.”

  “Oooh. Tell.”

  “He’s got a layover at the Savannah airport tomorrow on his way to a conference in Miami, and he wants me to meet him for lunch and to catch up.”

  “You’re going, right?”

  “Not sure. He gets in at ten. But Henry gets out of day care at noon tomorrow because of teacher conferences. And Farrah’s graduation is tomorrow, so she can’t pick him up and keep him. I hate to ask, especially after you had him all day today…”

  “Bring him to me,” Marie said quickly. “How was he tonight? I didn’t want to jinx anything, but he was a little crabby. And he hardly ate anything.”

  “He seemed fine,” Brooke assured her. “We were both wiped out after the long drive home. In fact, he fell asleep in the bathtub after dinner.”

  “How are you feeling about seeing Pete tomorrow? Are you excited? Nervous?”

  “I haven’t had time to process it yet. A little of both. Oh, shit!” Brooke wailed. “I have to figure out what to wear. I haven’t even done laundry since I got home from Talisa.”

  “I looked in your closet when I was putting away clothes last time I was there,” Marie said. “You have half a dozen pairs of white jeans. Put on a cute top that shows some cleavage. Wear those sexy black sandals I gave you for your birthday. Pull your hair back with those tortoise clips, and wear some dangly earrings.”

  “Mom! Pete gets in at ten. I’ll look like a hooker on the stroll for a john if I show up at the airport in cleavage and spike heels at that hour of the morning.”

  “You wish. And don’t forget to wear makeup, for heaven’s sake. You do still know how to apply makeup, right?”

  “Very funny. I wear makeup all the time.”

  “Like when?”

  “Like if I have a court date or something.”

  “You’re going to tell Pete about Henry tomorrow, aren’t you?”

  “I haven’t decided,” Brooke said. “I thought I’d see how it goes.”

  “No matter how it goes, you have to tell him,” Marie insisted. “Henry is his son. He has a right to know, and you have a responsibility to your son to allow him to have a father in his life. Even if you decide that your relationship with Pete is over, you need to do this, Brooke.”

  “We’ll see,” Brooke said. “I gotta hang up now. See you in the morning.”

  “Makeup. Heels. Cleavage. Earrings,” Marie said. “And courage.”

  * * *

  She rang the doorbell at her mother’s Ardsley Park house and then fumbled in her purse for the house key. The door swung open.

  Marie stood in the hallway dressed in her bathrobe and slippers, which was unheard of. This was a woman who never left her bedroom unless she was dressed and perfectly groomed.

  But there she stood with lank, unwashed hair. Her eyes were red-rimmed with dark circles beneath. She held a tissue to her nose.

  “Mom!” Brooke shifted Henry from one hip to the other. “You look like death. What’s wrong?”

  “Fever. Chills. Started an hour ago. You look nice,” her mother said, giving an approving nod to Brooke’s deep V-neck top and eyeliner. “I, on the other hand, feel like I’ve been run over by a dump truck.” Marie’s voice was a hoarse rasp.

  “You should have called before I left home. I would have just canceled,” Brooke said. She stepped into the hallway and took Marie by the elbow. “Come on. I’ll fix you some tea with lemon and honey, then you need to get back to bed.”

  “No,” Marie croaked. “Go. Just go. I’m going back to bed. But you need to go to the airport and see Pete. Go. Shoo.” She made shooing motions with her hands.

  “And take Henry? Are you nuts? What’ll I say? What will he say?”

  “You two will figure it out,” Marie said, turning her head aside to cough. “No matter what else happens, he’ll fall in love with Henry. Who wouldn’t? Promise me you’ll go. Promise me you won’t back out and run away again.”

  Run away. Again. Like she had the weekend of her wedding. The words stung. Because they were true.

  “All right,” Brooke said. “We’re going.”

  * * *

  Pete had neglected to tell her where he was flying in from, so she had no idea of his flight number or where they should meet. She’d been so keyed up about the meeting that she’d arrived at the airport thirty minutes early and had spent the past ten minutes pacing up and down the airport’s carpeted retail concourse. Her back ached from carrying the heavy toddler, so she finally put him down.

  “Toy!” Henry cried, pointing to a gift shop where a giant stuffed Snoopy was perched in the front window. He set off at a run for the shop.

  “Whoa there,” she said, following after, scooping him up just before the boy made it to his quarry. The back of his pants were damp. She held him aloft, sniffed, and gagged.

  “Oh, Henry, nooooo. Not now.”

  “I poop,” he said proudly.

  “We poop in the potty, remember?”

  “No potty,” Henry said.

  She’d almost left his diaper bag in the car but at the last minute had shoved her purse inside and looped the bag over her shoulder. It was navy blue, quilted cotton with a pattern of elephants and tigers. Not nearly as cute as the black designer clutch she’d planned to carry. She hurried to the ladies’ room, breathing through her mouth while she stripped off the boy’s shorts on a drop-down changing table. “What we have here is a shituation,” she muttered, stuffing his soiled shorts, shirt, even his socks into a plastic sack she kept in the diaper bag for just such emergencies. She used half a bag of baby wipes cleaning him up, then dressed him in a fresh outfit.

  Finally, she went to the sink to wash her hands and check her makeup. “Oh God,” she moaned, looking at the mirror. Her cute low-cut top had somehow come into contact with Henry’s soiled backside. Gagging, she scrubbed at the top with a wet paper towel. The quarter-sized damp spot grew to the size of a half-dollar, directly over her left nipple.

  Brooke grabbed Henry’s hand and dragged him in the direction of the gift shop. Surely they sold a few items of women’s clothing, right?

&nb
sp; She was in the process of paying for the only top she could find, a hideous bile-green tank top with SAVANNAH spelled out in sequins when Henry spied his heart’s desire. It was a board book featuring his favorite thing in the whole world, the hairless Canadian cartoon character, propped on a display next to the cash register.

  “Caillou!” Henry crowed, grabbing for the book at the same moment Brooke was in the process of handing her credit card to the cashier.

  Without thinking, Brooke snatched his chubby hand away from the book, which shared shelf space with dozens of tiny cheesy breakable souvenir trinkets. “Henry, no,” she said sharply. “You already have that book.”

  Her son’s face crumpled into agony. “I want it!” he cried. “I want Caillou!”

  “Anything else?” the cashier asked, her hands poised over the register. “Chips, gum, soft drinks, magazine?”

  “Just the shirt, thanks,” Brooke said tersely, keeping an eye on the concourse. It was ten after ten, and a sudden wave of passengers had disembarked their flights and were passing by, laughing and talking.

  “Please, Mommy,” Henry whined. “I want Caillou.”

  “Can I have your email for your receipt?” the cashier asked.

  “No!” Brooke said. “Stop it right this minute.”

  “Excuse me?” the clerk said.

  “Sorry, I was talking to my son. Just print out the receipt and put it in the bag, please,” Brooke said through clenched teeth. She released Henry’s hand to retrieve her card.

  Henry saw an opening and seized it. He grabbed the book with both hands. “Mine!”

  Without thinking, she snatched the book back. She knelt down so that she was at eye level with her son. “Absolutely not. You have this exact same book at home, and I am not buying you another one.”

  She stood up and tried to compose herself. Another wave of passengers was passing. She saw a familiar face in the crowd. It was Pete, striding down the concourse, one arm flung casually across the shoulder of a young blond woman. She was in her midtwenties, slender and petite with a long Nordic-looking braid cascading down her back. She wore form-fitting green hiking shorts and had a backpack over one shoulder. Pete leaned in, laughing and talking with her.