It was just me, moving alone. Only me, keeping myself afloat. I managed to tread water for a few seconds before I started sinking a bit. He grabbed me, laughing. “Don’t drown on me, now.”
“I wasn’t going to drown,” I said, slightly offended.
“Now, kick your legs.” He held me at arm’s length and I started kicking my legs, making big splashes in the rainy water. Then he let me go and I put my face in and swam with my arms up and out of the water while kicking my legs, as I’d seen the men doing in the ocean surf. And I was swimming. Not very prettily, but I was swimming!
He hollered out, “Now you got it!”
He swam over to me with four easy strokes and kissed me with wet lips. And I felt a part of this woods, like I was meant to be here and no place else.
I thought briefly of Uncle Jack, when he was saddling up Ace of Spades for one last ride over the plantation before he left for the war. He had breathed in deeply, filling his lungs with breaths of barn air, and said, “I sure will miss this smell when I’m gone.”
I had joked, “What, essence of manure?”
With his face more serious than I had ever seen it, he had answered, “Yes, indeed. Smells like home to me.”
I had laughed sarcastically, and he had abruptly left me then, riding off on Ace with a stony look on his face.
Now I knew what he had meant. Nags Head, with all of its different textures and layers, had become a home to me, and it felt as serious and as important as a dirty barn did to Uncle Jack. I somehow knew that Uncle Jack would have been proud of me for saying so. He would have been proud of this new Little Red Reb.
“I better put my dress in a dry spot,” I said, looking over at the pile of fine pink cloth fallen onto a duff of leaves.
“Too late for that,” Ben teased. But he sighed and made to help me out of the water, gazing unabashedly at my body in the wet underclothes.
We sat down beneath a live oak tree with a thick, gnarled trunk, and he wrapped his moist arms around me. We were silent, listening to the sound of the rain pelting on the leaves of the wax myrtle trees beside us.
He said, “The only thing left for you to do is climb Jockey’s Ridge. Then you’ve officially lived in Nags Head. It’s the tallest sand dune on the East Coast.”
All summer the dunes had gazed down their sloped noses at me like elderly relatives. I had taken them for granted. I suddenly was filled with a feeling of urgency. “Let’s do it today.”
“You sure you can stay away that long? It might take a while. Won’t your mama miss you?”
I snorted, then took the corn bread, water jug, and fruit from the basket. We ate and drank for a while under the live oak, and soon the rain stopped and sunlight shone through the trees once again, shards of jade shimmering in the rain’s remains.
But I found myself missing the rain when it was gone.
Nags Head Woods stretched north to south along the sound side of the dunes, with Run Hill perched to the north of the woods and Jockey’s Ridge anchored on the southern end. It would be a short walk to the dunes through the dense maritime thicket.
We navigated a sandy trail, used mostly by locals, that wound its way beneath a curly arch of tree limbs. Ben made no attempt for my elbow, as Hector would have done. I knew that he’d offer his assistance if I really needed it, but for the most part he just let me walk.
The farther east we went, the more sandy the terrain became. Scrubby live oaks, loblolly pines, and clumps of cottonbush and beach heather were scattered over the gentle hills. I knew that this was where the gray foxes and possums and raccoons lived, out of the sea spray and northeast winds. This was where the mainland men liked to hunt, guiding their sweating horses over the sand hills. Every few seconds, lizards darted across our path, leaving thin snaky trails in the sand with their tails.
Here the trees were forbidden to grow tall. The land quickly began to resemble a desert, where nothing but sand existed. The farther east we went, the more I saw that only sporadic clumps of beach grass had managed to anchor themselves into the shifting sand.
We soon reached the base of one of the three tallest peaks of sand and looked up. It would be a hard climb, even for someone like Ben. I hadn’t fully realized how high the piles of sand were. It must have taken thousands upon thousands of years to create them, and here I was, about to try to climb one.
“Believe it or not, this here slope is the best place to start,” he said, looking up. We began to climb, Ben staying to the back of me. My feet immediately sunk into the yielding sand, so I hardly seemed to move in my damp skirts. The ridge was steep, much steeper than Run Hill.
I got surprisingly winded after a few minutes of climbing, and abruptly sat down, my legs pointing straight down the slope of the dune. Ben, hardly breathing at all, sat down with me and said with a grin, “You’ve got me worried, gal! Too much activity for one day, I reckon.”
I could hardly speak. “Don’t worry about me.”
“Whatever you say, schoolmarm,” he joked, grabbing my hand and kissing the sandy palm.
I huffed, “Tell me this, you braggart. Why doesn’t this sand ever blow away?”
“Well, I’ll tell you, since you asked so nice. In the winter, the winds usually blow out of the northeast, and in the summer, they blow out of the southwest. So the sand is constantly blown to and fro, never disappearing,” he said. “Plus, just below this dry stuff here, the sand’s wet. Helps the dune stay put.”
The top layer had dried quickly in the afternoon sun. The sand was as fine as powdered sugar, quite different from the pebbled, clumpy beach sand, which scrubbed my feet raw. This sand made me want to lie down and sleep on it, bury myself in it for a hundred years. I scooped up great innocent handfuls and watched it pour like honeyed dust between my fingers.
After a while, I caught my breath and stood to continue. Ben stood, too, and said, “Follow me, now.” He started to climb.
I said, offended, “Why is that? Am I too slow for a Banker?”
He laughed. “It’ll be easier for you, following in my footsteps.”
And he was right. The sand was more forgiving once it was broken up a bit by his hardy feet. Inside the skirts of my dress, sweat trickled down my burning thighs. My legs hurt so badly that I started to use my arms to propel myself upward. I grabbed at the sand in front of me, as if it could offer me any sort of leverage.
But soon I could see the crest of the ridge in front of me. With a few more lunges, I was at the top.
And there was nothing between me and the sky, which had been painted with the golden oranges and pinks of a stained-glass sunset, as reverent as a view from a church pew. With the light of the sun to the west, the ocean was bluer than I ever recall seeing it from the beach. The brownish-blue sound rocked contentedly on the other side of the dunes. And the wind whipped freely up here, with no obstructions.
From this vantage point, everything looked temporary. The Banks looked so skinny, as if the webbed water could just cover them up forever and no one would know they were ever here.
From far away, everything fell into its correct place with such clarity that I was sure this was the view that God must have. There was the sand, there the ocean, and there the sky. It all fit like a perfect puzzle. The only thing out of place were the cottages. I could see our house, tiny and burdensome.
I covered my face with my hands as sobs lodged in my throat. Ben quickly drew me to him, and I buried my face in his tattered shirt. I inhaled his scent of sweat and sand and pond water. I felt his hard chest beneath my cheek.
With closed eyes, I imagined the house, down below, waiting for me. The cottage porch was probably empty right now. The table was missing the weight of books. The chairs lacked their occupants.
I ran my hands through Ben’s stiff hair, rubbed his strong neck and shoulders and back with creaking fingers. He placed both hands on my neck, thumbs resting on my jawbone, as he kissed me. My mind emptied of all thoughts. I was a substance of air, of ocean, of sand.
Not even human.
But Ben suddenly pulled away from me. Some climbers had just bumbled onto our dune. With goose pimples of irritation popping on my neck, I turned around and saw a handful of young children, exploring after their supper. They all gazed about as if they had suddenly found themselves on the moon. I breathed with relief, seeing that Charlie and Martha weren’t with them.
Biding our time, we sat down on the sand. The wind eased giant locks of my hair from the pins. I took off my shoes and banged the sand out of them.
Ben watched me with liquid eyes the color of the ocean. He said, “Has anyone ever told you that these sand dunes reminded a man of a place in England called Nags Head? The name caught on with folks, and has stuck ever since.”
I shook my head. Apparently there were many theories regarding the history of the name of Nags Head, but I doubted anyone knew for sure anymore.
“It’s also magical. It’s said that any couple that’s engaged to be married on top of this sand hill will live a long, happy life together. And it always comes true.”
I looked at my hands, the word engaged smoldering in my brain. I said, “That’s just a Banker myth.”
He shook his head. “Can’t always explain everything away, Abby. Don’t you believe in anything that you can’t see or read about in your books?”
I raked the sand through my fingers and across my open palms. It was so soft, I almost couldn’t feel it. “I used to. I used to think that animals could talk to me. I used to hear the trees speak to me.”
I remembered when I used to conduct one-sided conversations with the horses. I paused after every question and sentence, to give the horses time to respond to me. In the summertime, before the war, I used to sneak out of the house and sleep in the tobacco fields, with the green stalks swaying above me. I would talk to the ripe shoots and compare stories of youth.
“But after the war, after my uncle died, I couldn’t hear anyone or anything. The only things that made sense were words in books,” I said.
He nodded. “You could escape for a bit, I reckon. Go to your own deserted island.”
I said, “It’s strange, though. Every time I pick up a book now, I can’t seem to make my way through it. I don’t want to escape anymore.”
He smiled at me. “All I know is, when I’m with you, I believe in something magical. It’s like the feeling I get when I hook a fish on the line. I still can’t believe it happened to me.”
Finally the children ran wildly down the sound side of the tallest dune. I could hear their screams—of fear or delight, I couldn’t rightly tell—grow fainter the lower they went. I hoped they wouldn’t care to climb back up again.
Ben mumbled, “It’s just us up here again.”
“Then why do you look so downhearted?”
He looked in the direction of the cottage. “I reckon we don’t have much time left this summer.”
I ran my finger along his strong chin and jawbone. The gingered stubble scratched my finger like a cat’s tongue. “Then let’s just live up here. Our very own sand dune.”
“Now, I’ve been thinking on this a lot. You don’t have to go back. You could stay here on the Banks. With me …”
I faced away from him abruptly. “Hector proposed to me two days ago.”
Ben spluttered, “What did you tell him?”
“I told him I couldn’t marry him. But the word no seemed unsatisfactory to him.”
Ben stood up, spraying sand all over my dress, and crossed his arms tightly across his chest. He didn’t speak for several long minutes.
Then he looked down at me, his eyes wild and desperate, like a man awaiting the plank on a pirate ship. “I could provide for you, Abby. You may not think as such, but I’m moving up in this world. Won’t fetch what a doctor could bring home, but we’d get by. We could be together.”
He spoke rapidly, without looking at me. “We’ll have enough to buy as many books as you want! Big fat ones with the longest words you’ve ever seen! We could read together, all day and night. Escape the world together.”
I stood up, wanting to calm his agitation. I caressed his fevered face, and he closed his eyes. I ran my fingers over the lines that branched out from his eyes. I paused to lay my finger in the crease between his nose and lip.
I said, “Remember when you told me I’d grown my sea legs?”
He nodded, exhaling slowly.
“I haven’t been able to get the notion out of my head since then. I felt stronger, like I’d learned how to walk again, but in a different direction than everyone else.”
He stood still. A gentle wind blew sand over our feet.
I said quietly, “I’ve got to see where my sea legs carry me.”
With his eyes still closed, tears trickled down his cheeks.
The sky seemed too close now. It smothered me. I struggled to get my bearings, but the sand had blown and blown, covering my path completely. It was disconcerting to realize that I couldn’t go back to where I had started. And I had no idea how I had gotten here, my footprints long gone. The only way forward was down a sucking slope.
I breathed deeply and held the breath for as long as I could. The sky was a deep purplish gold, a healing bruise. I closed my eyes and I could hear every particle of sand skipping along the dune and flying through the air, endlessly connecting with one another.
I pulled Ben down onto the sand. He propped himself up over me and his weathered face was set against the backdrop of the fading sunset. I pulled his damp shirt over his head and ran my hands over his back.
He gently lifted the hem of my dirty pink dress, and the night air cooled my legs. He stroked my sandy toes, one by one. He kissed the freckles on my knees. I lay back in the sand and closed my eyes, his fingertips drizzling over my body like ocean spray. As he caressed my thighs, the insides of my arms, I thought of summer strawberries, ripe tomatoes, sugar and honey.
But then he pushed himself inside me, as strong as an arm pulling in a net. I gasped with the tearing of flesh. My hands dug far down into the sand in a strange agony, trying to reach the cold, damp layer below.
But with one glance at his face, the pain went away. I rolled my head back and forth in the soft cradle of sand. He drove in and out of me, a fierce lullaby.
I could see the beginnings of the stars in the graying sky. His warm tears slid onto my skin. He sobbed out my name until darkness descended. I whispered to him of the love in my heart.
’Round and ’round we all went. Life, and death, would spin and spiral forever, taking and giving. But time stopped on the dune that night. Life suspended herself, like the full moon in a dark, dark sky.
Daddy had finally called Doc Newman to the cottage. He had taken a special packet schooner from Edenton, incurring an inflated rate of passage. His clothing was disheveled and his white hair stringy when he arrived at the western door, but he still had the twinkle in his eyes that I remembered from when I was a small girl. I almost expected him to reach into his pocket for some sweetmeats.
He greeted me more affectionately than he had in the past. “Hector tells me that Nags Head was right beautiful this summer. Hot, and every inch covered with sand. But beautiful nonetheless. He seemed quite taken with it.”
He winked at me, making his bushy white eyebrow plunge over his dark gray eye.
I smiled tentatively and said, “Yes, it has been hot, but more pleasant than Edenton has been this summer, I imagine.”
“Oh, it has been a swampland, to be sure.”
Winnie led him upstairs and I followed along, wondering what, if anything, Hector had told his father about me.
Mama was in bed, her bowl propped on her middle. She looked so downright awful I hardly recognized her. But when Mama saw Doc Newman, she brightened up immediately and handed the bowl to me. It held what appeared to be spit-up watermelon.
Doc Newman sat down in the rocker by her bed and placed his big black medical bag right on top of her white Bible on the bedside table. Mama flinched at the affr
ont, but said nothing.
He smiled at her. “I heard you’ve been feeling under the weather, Ingrid. That baby in your belly giving you some trouble?”
Mama waved a limp hand. “Oh, no, not too much trouble. It’s to be expected.”
“Nolan indicated you’ve been experiencing some mood swings. Not feeling yourself. Not leaving this bedroom. Ingrid, you need fresh air. It’s too stuffy up here. Defeats the purpose of living by the sea.”
He raised the windows and propped open the shutters with sticks. The ocean air filled the room.
Mama’s face darkened at the mention of her husband’s name. “What does Nolan know about carrying babies? Even when he’s here, he’s gone. He’s got other things on his mind this summer.”
“I imagine he does. Your job is to carry this baby.”
“My body doesn’t want this baby. I’m so sick, I can’t even get out of bed. And the smell of the sea makes me ill. I can’t stand it.”
He said rather sternly, “If your body didn’t want the baby, it would have rejected it a while ago. You’re going to have to carry the baby, Ingrid. You’re going to have to try harder.”
Mama’s eyes welled with tears at his advice. “I can’t,” she whispered. “I don’t want to.”
Doc Newman and Mama looked at each other, likely thinking on the many years of blood-soaked, bedridden hardships they’d weathered together. His furry eyebrows knit together in a V.
“You can do it, Ingrid,” he said softly, but without conviction.
She said, “I’ve been reading the Bible. There is one verse that I can’t get out of my head. It comes to me in my sleep. Book of Luke, chapter six, verses forty-six to forty-nine. Do you know it?”
He shook his head. “Not off the top of my head. What is it?”
Mama didn’t even reach for her Bible. She began reciting from memory a passage that I remembered from Sunday school.
“And why call ye me, Lord, and do not the things which I say? Whosoever cometh to me, and heareth my sayings, and doeth them, I will show you to whom he is like: He is like a man which built a house, and digged deep, and laid the foundation on a rock: And when the flood arose, the stream beat vehemently upon that house, and could not shake it: For it was founded upon a rock.” She paused, then spoke in a whisper, “But he that heareth, and doeth not, is like a man that without a foundation built a house upon the earth; against which the stream did beat vehemently, and immediately it fell; and the ruin of that house was great.”
Diann Ducharme Page 21