Last Light over Carolina

by Mary Alice Monroe

Nancy reached out to pat Lizzy’s hand. “Why don’t you get some fresh air? I’ll hold the fort for a while.”

  6

  September 21, 2008, 10:05 a.m.

  On board the Miss Carolina

  It was the pain that brought Bud back to consciousness. A constant throbbing of intense hurt. He blinked heavily, his eyes stinging from a salty crust of sweat and tears. His left arm ached like someone had tried to rip it from its socket. Turning his head, he saw that he was hanging from his left arm, half slumped on the winch and half lying on the deck. He’d pulled muscles that he didn’t even know existed. They burned both hot and cold.

  He tried to raise himself but cried out and collapsed as though he’d been shot. Burning pain exploded in his left arm. Bud retched and gasped for air, trying to steady his balance. He was pinned. Through the blur of pain his memory kicked in, and his heart began to pump wildly. In his mind’s eye he saw himself slipping, and in a rush he realized what had happened.

  His hand was caught in the winch.

  His mind repeated this over and over, not wanting to accept it.

  “Noooo,” he groaned, closing his eyes. “No, no, no. This can’t be happening to me. How could I have been so stupid? Stupid. Stupid.”

  Bud lowered his head into the crook of his arm. The salty trickle down his face mingled with sweat. Bud wept for the loss of his hand. He wept for the loss of his livelihood. He also wept from fear. For in his heart he knew he’d been wrong to go out alone today, a fool to travel so far out in off weather without a crew. He was pinned here, helpless as a baby. He couldn’t get to the radio, couldn’t call for help. He was going to die out here.

  Bud gulped hard, warding off nausea as he worked up the courage to try again. Not that he wanted to—he had to. He had to fight for his own survival.

  Gathering his wits, he figured his arm was dislocated from the fall. Bud held his breath and, grunting with the effort, lifted himself to his knees. Shifting his weight, he paused, gulping for breath as sweat poured down his face. Slowly, he tried to straighten his back, rising in degrees. Blood drained from his head and he almost keeled over from dizziness, but he gripped the winch with his good hand and waited for it to pass.

  When he felt ready to face the damage, he wiped his forehead against his sleeve, took a breath, and looked down his left arm. His arm was wet with blood and what was left of his hand was crushed between cable and drum. What had once been a thing of God-given beauty was now a mutilated mass of torn muscle, bone, and blood. He jerked his head up, eyes wide, instinctively looking for help.

  The first-aid kit was in the pilothouse. So was the radio.

  He felt bile rise in his throat as the full reality slammed into his brain. He was pinned to the winch. He couldn’t move, couldn’t get himself free. Couldn’t call for help. All of the misery, pain, and fear was compounded by the fact he was alone, deathly alone. Bud wasn’t a man who shook easily, but he was scared of what might be coming.

  “Stay calm, stay clearheaded,” he chanted as a mantra. Bud knew his survival depended on it. He’d been in bad patches before. Once Pee Dee had fallen from the rigging and the bone from his leg had stuck clear out from the skin. Man, could that kid scream. Bud had kept his head and done what he had to do to help Pee Dee, but it was harder to help himself. He gritted his teeth and shook his head with a guttural growl. You can do this, he told himself. He had to take stock. Putting on his war face, Bud forced himself to look at the carnage again.

  A trickle of blood dripped from his hand to a pool on the deck. It looked like veins were severed. First, he had to stem the bleeding. If it were a major artery, he’d already be dead. A bit of good news, at least. His arm was slightly raised; also good. How much blood had he lost? He squinted and looked closer at the pool of blood. It was surreal to feel so detached, as if the blood had come from someone else. Then he almost retched; a severed finger lay on the deck.

  His first thought was to save it. He’d heard stories of body parts being reattached. Pain burst anew as he stretched his good arm toward the finger. Try as he might, it was a few inches too far under the drum. He tried again, then stopped, panting from the effort. It wasn’t going to happen. What was the use, anyway? He couldn’t get to the ice. Here he was, sitting over a vast hold of ice, and he couldn’t get to a single cube. Pee Dee would have a laugh over this one.

  “Don’t give up,” Bud told himself. “Stay alert. I just got to hang on. Someone will figure out where I am. Someone will come. Stay alive…that’s it. C’mon. I can do this. I can do this!”

  He shook his head in disbelief. Was he losing his mind, talking to himself like this? But it made him feel better. And what the hell. Who was listening?

  He needed to make a tourniquet. Bud patted his rear pocket, then pulled out the Swiss Army knife Carolina had given to him as a gift years before. No sailor worth his salt would leave home without a pocketknife. He looked at the black and red case lying in his palm. It was a solid knife with a good, heavy feel to it. Thank God it was his left hand that was mangled or he wouldn’t live long enough to open this thing, he thought. It was described as a one-handed pocketknife. Bud had never had call to test that claim before and prayed that wasn’t just some fancy name. He slumped with relief when he could actually open the knife with one hand.

  He was wearing a long-sleeved shirt over his T-shirt. Spots of blood splattered the white cotton. He managed to cut a narrow strip of fabric from the hem. Sweat stung his eyes as he bent his head to grip one end in his teeth, painstakingly tying a tourniquet using his free hand and his mouth. Simple movements he’d taken for granted as a two-handed man took his full concentration with only one.

  He racked his brain, trying to remember facts he’d learned about tourniquets. There was a limit to how long he should wear one…. Was it an hour? Two? Shit, he thought, his dismay deepening. He wasn’t wearing a watch. He wouldn’t know when sixty minutes had passed.

  “You really did it this time,” he muttered. “Going out alone…. You didn’t have the sense to tell anyone where you were headed. Secret spot, hell. So secret I’m going to die out here with the stinking gulls. Now no one knows where you are! I should have told Carolina. Or Pee Dee.”

  A thought burst in his head, and he held his breath. Pee Dee knew this spot. They’d been talking about checking it out to see if the shrimp were running. If Pee Dee had his wits about him, he might remember. Surely he would….

  Bud jerked his head up, but he couldn’t see over the railing. Even if the Miss Carolina drifted some, the boat was moving slowly. He took heart, thinking there was a good chance Pee Dee could find him. He’d tied the tourniquet. All he could do now was wait.

  The wind gusted, billowing the frayed edge of his shirt. He looked down at it, ripped and spotted with his blood. Once upon a time, this had been his best shirt. Carolina had given it to him back when he’d gone to see her parents in Greenville to announce that they were getting married. It was his first visit. There hadn’t been many more.

  He lowered his head to rest against his arm, feeling the muscles of his neck stretch. Closing his eyes, Bud let his mind wander back to the day this shirt was new.

  February 1975

  Greenville, South Carolina

  It was a cool night, and the heater in Bud’s truck was broken. Carolina cuddled against him, smelling of her own special brand of sweetness, her flame-colored hair blowing in the wind. She’d been chiding herself for forgetting that in the mountains, no matter how warm the day, the air was chilly once the sun lowered. Bud told her she’d been in the lowcountry too long and was getting cold-blooded, expecting a retort. Instead, she’d said softly that the lowcountry was her home now. Bud was of the school where a man didn’t get giddy, but Carolina made him so damn happy. They were busting with the news that they were going to get married.

  The sky was dusky when they arrived at the country club Carolina’s parents belonged to. Bud paused at the pretentious black-iron gates. They stood open, more a st
atement about exclusivity than serving any real function. Bud lifted his arm from around Carolina’s shoulders to lean forward and cut off the music. Quiet suddenly descended, save for the truck engine purring like a well-fed cat. Talk ceased between them, too, as anxiety tightened their throats. Carolina sat up and with prim strokes smoothed her pink cashmere sweater.

  Bud leaned over to give her a quick kiss. She smiled, seemingly relieved. They both knew they might not get another chance in front of the old man.

  With a deep breath, he rammed the stick into first gear. Shadows dappled the winding driveway as they passed a meandering creek, towering hardwoods, and the rolling fairways of the golf course. A couple of die-hard golfers were trying to squeeze in a few holes before the sun set. Bud felt apprehension tighten his gut at seeing the white pillars of the country club, looming like a facsimile of Tara or the White House on top of the hill. Closer, he saw a young valet, probably a college boy from Clemson, leap forward to open the door of a Cadillac for a woman in a fancy dress and high heels. The driver, a middle-aged man in a gray suit, handed his keys to the valet with hardly a backward glance.

  Bud ran his finger around his collar. Carolina had purchased the white button-down shirt for him on King Street in Charleston. She’d also bought him khaki pants and a navy wool blazer. “Just because,” she’d told him, but he knew full well it was because she wanted her fiancé to make a good impression on her parents. Because he wanted the same thing, he wore them.

  “This tie is choking me.”

  “You look handsome.”

  He could hear in her voice that she found him attractive in his new getup. “I feel like I’m about to get lynched.”

  “They’ll love you. I promise.”

  “I don’t know why we had to meet them at some country club. Why couldn’t we just go to your house for barbecue like normal folks?”

  “It’s just a local club. We hang out here all the time. Mama and Daddy like to invite people here for dinner. It’s so easy. Between golf and meetings, Daddy practically lives here, and Mama doesn’t have to fuss. I think cooking makes her nervous.”

  Bud looked at her askance. “You’re not going to take after your mama, are you?”

  “I’m not a good cook, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “Doesn’t matter, sweet thing, because I’m a great cook. I’ll spoil you with my barbecue.”

  “Thank God,” she said, unbuckling her seat belt. “Our marriage is secure. What does any successful marriage need other than a good barbecue recipe?”

  “Don’t knock it, babe. No self-respecting southern male doesn’t have a good recipe for sauce.”

  The valet took his keys, uttering, “Cool truck!” Bud put his hand on the small of Carolina’s back and guided her inside. He’d give the boy a tip that made him feel as good as that comment did him.

  The moment he stepped into the country club, he felt his skin crawl. The boldly colored walls seemed out of sync with the reproduction American furniture and the oriental porcelain that filled dark wood breakfronts. Carolina slipped her arm through his and led him across the black-and-white-tiled foyer toward the main dining room. The club was bustling with activity. Couples in evening dress talked to others dressed in golf shirts who had finished their games and were looking to have a quick drink or two at the bar before heading home. Bud tried to compare it to a night at the Crab Shack back home, then chuckled. Where were the clouds of cigarette smoke and the Jim Beam?

  “Carolina!”

  “Mama!”

  Carolina released his arm and he followed her across the foyer to a tiny woman with blond bouffant hair. She stood trim and erect in a blue silk pantsuit with hefty pearls at her ears and neck. When Carolina stepped back, Mrs. Brailsford’s eyes darted to Bud. He noticed they were the same blue as Carolina’s, but while Carolina’s eyes were as warm as the embers of a fire, her mother’s were like chips of ice.

  “Mama, this is Bud Morrison. Bud, my mother, Allison Brailsford.”

  She offered a polite smile. “So, you’re the one we’ve been hearing so much about. Bud is a nickname for…?”

  “William, ma’am,” he replied, taking her extended hand. “William Morrison III.”

  Her hand was limp, her smile weak.

  “Where’s Daddy?” asked Carolina.

  “Oh, you know your father. He’s got to stop and say hello to everyone he passes.” She looked down the hall. “There he is now, over by the Pub.”

  Bud turned his head to see a tall man about the same age as his father. But unlike the barrel-chested Oz, who loved his plaid flannel shirts, this man looked distinguished in his navy blazer with brass buttons, gray pants, and Italian leather shoes. His hair was the color of burnished copper streaked with gray. His deep voice boomed, and Bud overheard scores shared and quick comments that ended with a burst of hearty laughs and pats on the back. Mr. Brailsford caught his wife’s gaze, signaled with his hand that he’d seen them, and broke from his friends.

  Carolina trotted forward to be swept into her father’s embrace.

  “Carolina adores her father,” Allison Brailsford said, her gaze on the pair. “She’s never done anything to disappoint him.”

  Bud heard the velvet warning.

  Carolina’s cheeks matched her pink sweater as she brought her father closer. Bud could see where she got her hair color and height. He saw, too, the same imperial radiance.

  “Daddy,” she announced as they drew near, “this is my Bud.”

  He saw her father’s brows rise slightly at her emphasis on the word my. Bud worried that she was trying too hard.

  “Bud, this is the other man in my life, my father, Edgar Brailsford.”

  “Mr. Brailsford,” Bud said, extending his hand.

  Edgar Brailsford’s eyes were flinty as they inspected Bud, and he let Bud’s hand hang in the air for a second too long.

  “Hello, young man.” He grabbed Bud’s hand in his own large paw and delivered a bone-cracking squeeze. In that grip, Bud felt the strength of a man who could deliver a rock-solid punch. No number of years behind a fancy desk in a bank could mask the bully in a man’s handshake.

  “Your table is ready, Mr. Brailsford.”

  “Shall we?” Edgar Brailsford said. He placed an arm around his daughter’s shoulders and guided her toward the dining room.

  “I’ll just be a minute,” Bud said, excusing himself.

  While the Brailsfords walked toward their table, Bud hastily retreated to the Pub down the hall, rubbing the pale finger imprint on his hand. He went straight to the bar, lifted his hand to draw the bartender, and ordered bourbon, neat.

  “Are you a member, sir?”

  “No. I’m with the Brailsfords.”

  “I can put it on his account.”

  “My cash isn’t good here?”

  “I’m afraid not. I can put it on the Brailsford account,” he repeated.

  Bud was tempted. “No, I’m good,” he said, pocketing his wallet. He walked back to the dining room, cursing the system that wouldn’t let a man buy a drink with good, hard cash when he needed one. He didn’t like feeling obliged, but that was just what Brailsford had intended, Bud realized.

  The large dining room was dominated by an enormous crystal chandelier. Beneath it were dozens of round tables draped in white linen and adorned with flickering votive candles. The low buzz of conversation was spiked with occasional bursts of laughter. Bud spotted the Brailsfords at a prime table in front of a wall of windows draped in pale blue floral chintz. The shadowy outline of the golf course spread out beyond them.

  Bud straightened his tie and wound his way through the room, unaware of how many women cast furtive glances at the strikingly handsome, deeply tanned man in a crisp white shirt and dark blazer.

  Brailsford stood when he reached the table and pulled out a chair for Bud beside him and opposite Carolina, closest to the impressive stone fireplace in which burning logs crackled. Within minutes of being seated, Bud could feel
the heat seeping through his wool jacket.

  Edgar Brailsford brought his hands together in a soft clap. “We’re all here now,” he said jovially, then turned to Bud. “What will you drink?”

  “Do you have anything on tap?” Bud asked the waitress.

  “Wait, Daddy,” Carolina said, placing one hand on her father’s sleeve. “Let’s order champagne.”

  Brailsford’s gaze shot to his wife. He quickly collected himself. “Are we celebrating tonight?”

  Carolina was smiling, but her eyes were blazing, imploring her father not to embarrass her. This wasn’t the way Bud had wanted to lay out his hand tonight, but these were Carolina’s parents and it was her play.

  “Well, I wanted to do this with a champagne toast, but why wait? Bud and I have some wonderful news.” She stuck out her hand, revealing a modest diamond. “We’re getting married!”

  There was an awkward pause while Brailsford sat immobile and his smile hardened on his face. Beside him, Bud could have sworn he heard Allison Brailsford’s sharp intake of breath. She released a soft, “Oh, my….”

  Bud felt the heat of the fire on his back and looked to Carolina for his cue. She looked momentarily lost.

  Bud cleared his throat. “We’d like your blessing, sir.”

  Brailsford leaned back in his chair. He clearly was not a man who appreciated surprises. He turned to face Bud. “Well, sir, in my day we asked the father for his permission before his blessing.”

  “I understand that, sir. But the lady already said yes.”

  “Daddy, don’t be old-fashioned,” Carolina quickly interjected, striving for levity. “Bud and I love each other and are getting married. That’s all there is to it.”

  “Then my blessing isn’t really necessary, is it? Not if you’re going to do it whether I approve or not.”

  “Oh, Edgar, be happy for them. Our baby is getting married!” Allison Brailsford exclaimed. Her icy composure had melted like a spring thaw at the prospect of a wedding. Bud saw that Carolina got her dreamy, idealistic side from her mother.