Fox Island

by Stephen Bly

  “Let’s get to the Island, ladies. We can talk on the way. Where’s your car, Melody?”

  “The green VW bus. Over there with the Deadhead poster covering the broken window. I’m going to get that fixed before winter. But it kind of gives it character, don’t you think?”

  Chapter 2

  Indians called the Island ‘Bu Teu,’ which means ‘sea person.’ Fist-sixed clay pebbles washed ashore on the west end of Fox Island often resemble the shapes of birds, fish, animals, and even infants. Legend labels them Mud or Clay Babies. According to Indian legend, a beautiful princess spurned her own kind and married the handsome son of the Old-Man-of-the-Sea. Underwater lifestyle so changed her she could no longer visit her parents on land. So, when she is homesick for her former people, she tarries near her favorite beach, forming small clay figurines that wash ashore. She leaves her artwork behind to be found by adventurous pilgrims who scout along the sand and mud.

  But then, not everyone sojourning on Fox Island has time to explore the beaches.

  Tony burst through the kitchen doorway, still dressed in his all-black running gear. Sweat streamed down his face. “What time’s that interview?”

  Price glanced up from her Hannah Whitall Smith devotional book. “So what do you think of this? ‘Man’s part is to trust, and God’s part is to work.’”

  Tony grabbed a red-and-yellow striped beach towel and twirled it into a twist. “Of course, that depends on the context,” he shrugged. “If you’re talking about salvation, it’s on the money. But if someone uses it as an excuse never to do anything, to just sit on his duff and wait for his ‘welfare blessings’ from the Lord, then it’s kind of shallow.”

  “Thanks for the theological lesson of the morning.”

  “Do I hear a twinge of sarcasm?” Tony briskly wiped his free and neck. Tufts of hair stood up, making him look like a middle-aged light heavyweight boxer after a tough first round.

  Price sighed deeply. “For as long as I’ve been a Christian, I feel like I do so little for God. I do a lot of busy work for the church, but I never seem to talk about Him to others. I guess I keep looking for some grand God-given task.”

  “I’m not sure we all get something grand, spiritually speaking. But we keep busy, that’s for sure.” He tossed the beach towel across the deck railing. “Is that interview at 10:00?”

  “What are you going to wear today?”

  “What difference does that make? It’s on radio.”

  “But we’re going to the Yacht Club luncheon benefit. I don’t want us to clash.”

  “Honey, I absolutely don’t care. You pick something out.” He flung open the refrigerator door and stared at a half-empty gallon of nonfat milk and a dozen radishes floating in a container of water.

  “I’m going to wear my teal skirt and silver blouse… and maybe my silver boots,” Price informed. “How about you putting on that teal green shirt with the southwest design and your silver Apache scarf?”

  “Nah, I don’t want to wear that.”

  “Tony, you just said it didn’t matter.”

  The back door squeaked open and slammed shut. Tony and Price stared down the hall.

  “Hi, guys, it’s just me. I’m headed downstairs to the shower.” Robe-wrapped in royal blue, Melody Mason disappeared down the knotty pine stairway. A scent of something sweet and sour from the kitchen followed her.

  “One weekend. She was only going to live in the garage a single weekend.” Tony hauled out a nearly empty carton of orange juice hiding behind the nonfat milk.

  Price grabbed his arm and ushered him to the bay window. “It’s only been eight days.”

  Sea gulls circled the narrow strip of rocky beach stretched beyond the lawn. A boy and dog chased the birds with a stick, then ran next door.

  Tony plopped down in a brown canvas director’s chair, took a swig of juice, and untied his running shoes. “When she said ‘garage apartment,’ I figured there would surely be a bathroom out there. Day and night we never know when she’ll pop in.”

  “It is rather distracting.” Price stood behind him and rubbed his neck and shoulders. “But she said she’s moving in with Kim on Wednesday, whether or not this Amigo guy leaves.”

  “What time was that interview?”

  As Tony quaffed the last of the juice, Price stepped back into the kitchen and returned with a bright pink notepad.

  “Here’s what Liz gave me. Ten o’clock with WBAC from Boston. The host is Shari LaPointe….”

  “Do we know her?”

  “You remember Shari… last April at the booksellers convention? She wore the dress made of book covers.”

  Tony’s eyebrows raised. “Oh … that Shari.”

  “The bleached blonde who said, ‘Oh, Tony, I want you to know I purposely put the cover of Shotgun Creek close to my heart.’”

  He jumped up, shoes and socks hanging from his fingertips. “I can’t believe she’s in radio.”

  “I can’t believe I’m letting you do this interview.”

  “When did you say she’s going to call?”

  “In twenty-five minutes.”

  Tony poured Rattlesnake Blend coffee into a blue enamel tin cup. “You want to listen in on the extension?”

  “Nope, but thanks for the offer. I’ll be tied up going through old newspapers. I read the strange book on the Jessica Davenport paintings, about famous pieces of original art hanging on the walls all around you. Of the dozen samples they mentioned, ten are here and two at the museum.”

  “Anything we can use?”

  “You mean, besides the fact the great prisoner escape of 1952 happened on Anderson Island instead of Fox Island?”

  “I still can’t believe that.”

  “We made the mistake of going by the newspaper account. The story broke during the night. Seattle papers got word the standoff happened on Fox Island, so that’s the way it was printed. The news services picked it up before the retraction appeared.”

  “But how did it get in that book we read?”

  “The author must have read only the Seattle paper account. We happened onto a first printing that had the error. They say all subsequent printings changed to Anderson Island.”

  “But that was one of the strong points of coming to Fox Island,” Tony complained. “It provided us with an angle, an entry, a little excitement. Now that whole scenario’s gone.”

  “We’ll find another hook. I get the feeling there’s something here we haven’t discovered. There’s plenty of potential.”

  “I think I like writing fiction better than nonfiction. Did I ever tell you that?”

  “In the last ten days?”

  Tony banged several cupboards and drawers. “Where’s the foil?”

  “Above the refrig.” Price pulled half a bagel from the toaster and smeared it with strawberry preserves. “Hey, I did find a place called Smuggler’s Cove, but no one really knows why the name.”

  “I could make something up.”

  Price laughed brief but hearty. “I’m sure you could. But please, don’t. When the world-famous novelist Anthony Shadowbrook gets through with Fox Island, the place will sound as intriguing as, say, Fall River Mills. Every summer it’s the same thing. We wonder if we’ll ever find enough fascinating data for a book. Somehow we manage. ‘Man’s part is to trust, and God’s part is to work.’”

  “That’s exactly how that phrase can be misused. We’ve got to do our work and trust God to do his work.”

  “You fell for that bait.”

  “Are you going to flog me with that line all summer?”

  “Maybe.” She grinned. “Now, what are you going to wear to the luncheon?”

  “I decided on the green shirt with southwest print. How do you think the silver Apache scarf will look with it?”

  “Stunning, I’m sure. Did anyone ever tell you what excellent taste in clothes you have?”

  “Never.” He kissed her forehead and turned toward the door. “I think I have time for a shower
before the radio interview.”

  “You better not. Melody’s downstairs. Remember? Not enough water pressure for two showers at once.”

  He threw up his hands. “Sort of like bringing the girls along after all. Guess I’ll drag the laptop out to the deck and clean up that section on the Indian occupation of the Island.”

  “Take the remote phone. You can do the interview out there. Only…”

  “Only what?”

  “Watch out for dive-bombing sea gulls.”

  Barefoot and still wearing black jogging shorts and black t-shirt that read “Cheyenne Frontier Days,” Tony studied the strip of McNeill Island appearing out of the distant fog across Carr Inlet. He couldn’t believe they didn’t escape over there. He could see it now: armed and desperate men fighting the currents, breaking into a small cabin dripping wet … in the dark of night. Terrified, pajama-clad children clutching their mother’s gown as a frightened father gropes for his now-broken glasses so he might see his attackers and face a violent challenge to protect his children and defend his wife’s honor.

  Why didn’t that happen on Fox Island?

  He could write a chapter like that in four hours. Now, a week’s worth of research and writing would replace it. He needed to be reminded why he was writing this book. That is, besides spending time alone for the summer with the most beautiful woman in the world. Maybe that was a good enough reason.

  “Isn’t it great out here?” Melody suddenly stood beside him, wrapped in royal blue and topped with white head turban.

  “Summer’s a great time. How’s the rest of the year?”

  “Foggier. Colder. But each season has its beauty. Say, did you get a chance to read my story yet?”

  “The one about the hot dog stand?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Eh… I think Price is reading it now. Listen, Melody, I don’t want to sound rude, but I’m doing a radio interview in just a minute. So, I’ll need a moment to collect my thoughts.”

  “Oh, wow! What station is it? Maybe I could tune in.”

  “I don’t think so. It’s WBAC in Boston.”

  “That is so cool. Isn’t it great being a writer? I can’t think of anything I’d rather do. Tell Dr. S. I’ll be ready to go in about forty minutes.”

  “Oh? This morning?”

  “I’m giving her a Davenport tour of the Island … all the places connected with my family.”

  “You’re not going to interview your grandmother today, are you? I wanted to sit in on the first public visit with Jessica Davenport in fifty years.”

  Melody rubbed her hands together, then tried to wind the turban tighter around her head. Several dark locks of hair sprawled from the top and she nervously tried to stuff them back in. “Actually… I know I told you about getting an interview. But Grandma Jessie just hasn’t been doing too well. Old age and crankiness and such. I’m not sure she’s up to the interview.”

  Tony shrugged. “I understand. We do have all summer.”

  “Yeah, well…” Melody stuck one crimson-nailed foot out of her navy slippers and reached down to scratch a toe. She peeked back at Tony, lips pinched tight together before she said, “I told Grandma Jessie about you guys wanting to talk to her, and she sort of, you know, blew up. She started yelling and screaming and stuff.”

  Tony’s eyes narrowed. “I’m sorry it disturbed her so much.”

  “It’s okay. Really. She has her good and bad days. I’ll wait for a better one. When she’s okay, she remembers the old days real good. Isn’t that weird? She can’t remember what happened yesterday, but she can describe every moment of June 2,1942.”

  “What happened on June 2,1942?”

  The telephone rang. Melody spun around and ran down the stairs. “I’ll tell you later, Mr. S. Have a good interview.”

  “Hi, Daddy… it’s me.”

  “Kath? What’s up, sweetheart? I’ve got a radio interview any minute now…. “

  “I’ll make it quick. Did Josh call you last night?”

  “No. Was he supposed to?”

  “Well, he said he would, but I knew he wouldn’t. He promised to call from the hospital.”

  “Good grief. What happened?”

  “Some props gave way or something out at Rawhide, and he broke his arm. Only a slight fracture, that’s all. He’s okay, and their insurance covers the whole thing. I thought you’d want to know. Talk to you later… have a good interview.”

  “Kath… wait….”

  He gaped at the buzzing instrument.

  The sliding glass door rolled open. “Is your interview over?” Price stood there, brushing her hair, which looked dark brunette in the shadows.

  “They haven’t called yet. That was Kath. Josh had an accident at Rawhide last night and busted his arm.”

  “I knew it. I hate when I’m right about impending disaster. Where is he? I’ll call him.”

  “Kath said it was minor. Could we wait until after the radio interview?”

  “We need two phone lines.”

  “You want the phone? Go ahead and use it. Listen, babe, I couldn’t care less about this interview. Who wants to talk to some blonde in a cardboard dress?”

  Price grabbed her purse off the kitchen counter. “I need to buy bread and juice at the market. I’ll call Josh from the pay phone.”

  “Melody said her grandmother wasn’t up to an interview. I guess she even got hostile about it.”

  “Oh, brother. We aren’t going to get a Jessica Davenport scoop?”

  “Not today. Melody figures sometime in the next few weeks it will work out. Her grandmother sort of bounces in and out of reality.”

  “Don’t we all?” Price dug in her purse and pulled out her car keys.

  The phone rang again from the deck railing.

  “That will be WBAC,” Tony said.

  “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  “Tell Josh I’ll talk to him later. Find out what doctor he went to. Maybe we can find out what really happened.”

  “Answer your phone. Your public is waiting.” Price blew him a kiss.

  “Hello, Tony Shadowbrook here.”

  A male voice on the other end startled him. “Tony! Man, am I glad I finally caught you.”

  “Are you with WBAC in Boston?”

  “No, I’m your stepping-stone to incredible fame.”

  “If you’re selling something, we’re definitely not interested. I either already have it, or don’t want it. I’m really busy.”

  “Wait, this is Terry Davidian.”

  “Who?”

  “Terry Davidian of Terrance Davidian and Associates. I talked to your son and daughter last week.”

  “Son and daughter?”

  “I was at your house in Scottsdale. I guess I just missed you. Kathy and Kit, if I remember.”

  “Daughters. They’re both girls.”

  “Oh, my, well, one was, eh, one was under the car. There was grease and…”

  “No problem. Look, Davidson, I need…”

  “Davidian. Terry Davidian. Formerly with Michael Ovitz.”

  “Davidian, I’m scheduled for a radio interview right now. I’ll have to call you back.”

  “I’m on the road, so let me call you. I’m just north of Portland… driving up 1-5… how about us doing lunch on Fox Island? You name the restaurant and I’ll meet you there.”

  “No restaurants on this Island, Davidian. Besides, I have a previous commitment. Maybe you ought to talk to my publicist. Her name is Liz….”

  “No, no, no! Tony, my main man, I didn’t drive over twelve hundred miles to talk to a publicist. This is big, real big. I’ll check back with you later. Save me some time in your afternoon schedule.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  Tony pecked at his laptop computer on top the redwood table, the cordless phone on the bench beside him. He flipped through the pages of a locally published book entitled How the U.S. Government Covered Up a Japanese Submarine Invasion of Fox Island, written by a man n
amed Harvey Peterson, who claimed the credentials of “Supreme Commander of the Fox Island Chain Saw Militia.” As far as Tony could determine, they had a membership of one.

  The guy ought to be writing headlines for tabloid rag sheets. Who read this boring stuff? Surely no one believed it. But he probably sold more copies than Tony’s latest novel. Why did writing with integrity never sell as well as garbage? They kept telling Tony if he’d write his stories to be more violent, sexy, and vulgar he’d sell more copies. But his goal was to write the last, decent bestseller that could be read aloud to a sixth grade class without shame. Maybe after the River Breaks series, he’d do a historical saga to end all sagas.

  Minutes later he stared across the waters of Carr Inlet. He could faintly hear water sloshing and bubbling against the driftwood and beach. An acrid vegetable smell stung him, like stewed chard, pot herbs, and rancid sea plants.

  “Radio! Where is that interview?” He punched familiar numbers into the phone. “Liz? Tony here.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Fox Island.”

  “You’re supposed to be on the radio.”

  “That’s what I thought. They never called. Check it out for me, would you?”

  “I confirmed it with LaPointe yesterday. Don’t go away. I’ll see what’s happening.”

  “Hey, do you know an agent named Terrance or Terry Davidian?”

  “Book agent?”

  “Movie agent.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “Yeah, well, call me back about the interview.”

  He poured another half cup of Rattlesnake Blend and the phone rang.

  It was Liz. “Tony, Shari LaPointe got fired last night from WBAC, and no one knows anything about the interview.”

  “Fired?”

  “Yeah, isn’t that nice? And you won’t believe what for.”

  “I don’t want to know.”

  “Good. Anyway, they offered to re-book you next week. What do you think?”

  “Tell them to forget it. I’m too busy with this Hidden West project.”

  “How’s it coming?”

  “Slow. By the end of summer I’ll be ready to write Standoff at Rifle Ridge. Listen, I’ve been thinking about…”