As we went by the Larsens’ place, Abaco recognized the sound of my tug’s engine, crawled out from under her favorite bougainvillea bush, and jumped around barking at us. When Zale turned his face to look back at the begging dog, I saw that his cheeks and nose were glowing bright red from the cold. I waved him into the deckhouse.
“You look like you’re freezing out there. Why don’t you come in here and warm up?”
The noise of the tug’s Caterpillar engine made conversation difficult, but you could hear as long as the other person was willing to shout.
“I like it out there on the bow. It’s always my favorite spot on a boat.”
“Me, too,” I said. “It’s a good place to go to feel alone. A good place to think.”
He nodded, but didn’t go back out to his post on the bow. It was not until we were entering the Intracoastal Waterway at the mouth of the New River and turning northeast toward Bahia Mar that he spoke again. I’d idled the engine down a bit and the noise level was kinder to conversation.
“Are you religious?” he asked.
I had been reaching for the VHF microphone to hail the harbormaster at Bahia Mar, but I paused with my arm in the air and stared at him for a second. “Not in the sense of any kind of organized religion,” I said, dodging the real question as I usually did, and lifting the microphone out of its holder. “Why do you ask?”
“Well, you know my mom,” he said, climbing onto the wheelhouse bunk and crossing his legs Indian-style. Sitting like that, he looked even younger. Much too young to be juggling these issues. “She never really took me to any church when I was growing up. The only one who ever talked to me about stuff like that was my great-grandmother. ”
I hailed the harbormaster to ask where he wanted us to dock, then said, “I remember meeting Molly’s grandmother. She’s quite a character.”
“Yeah? You know Gramma Josie?”
“When I was little she used to scare me.”
“How come?”
“She was so different, so foreign. Molly’s mom, your grandmother, she grew up on the Seminole reservation, but she never really wanted to talk about Indian stuff. But when Gramma Josie came, that was all she talked about. I guess I’d seen too many movies where Indians were bad guys.”
“Nah, Gramma Josie’s cool. She lives in this neat house out at Big Cypress, in the Everglades. Mom and I used to go out there for the weekend sometimes and stay with her. It was fun. When I’d go outside and play with other kids out there, they always thought it was a big deal that my gramma was Josie Tigertail. I guess she’s like an old medicine woman in the tribe or something. She’s kinda’ hard to understand because she doesn’t speak English too good. She says her language is called Creek. She used to tell me these stories about animals and stuff, and they would, like, have secret meanings to teach kids to be good and all.”
“Do you remember any of them?”
“Sure. Mostly, though, I was thinking about when she used to talk about God and heaven. She called God the Breath Maker, and she said when people died they went to a place called Skyland.”
“I don’t ever remember her talking about that to your mom and me.”
“Gramma Josie calls me an ‘old soul.’ She says I’m too serious for a kid my age. I can’t help it. I’m interested in stuff like that. I read a lot. She once told me that the Seminoles believed that they had to leave a place if a person died there because their spirit would haunt that place. Then, the spirit wouldn’t go on to join the Breath Maker. And she said when you buried someone, you always had to bury their possessions with them so they could use them in the afterlife.”
I nodded. I wanted to comfort him, to tell him that I was sure his dad was happily residing up in Skyland, but I had too many of my own questions on that count. Besides, even if I believed in heaven, I thought it might be a stretch to think they’d let Nick in.
It was dark by the time we started back up the river in Gorda after docking the ketch at Bahia Mar and turning the keys and the responsibility over to her new owner. The guy had looked ashen-faced after Zale and I had thrown off the towlines, setting B. J. and the new ketch adrift. I’d docked Gorda on the T-pier, and then he’d watched as B. J. started the engine and brought his fifty-seven-footer in so easily that Zale and I were able to reach up and grab the dock lines neatly coiled on her bow.
The three of us were huddled in Gorda’s deckhouse now, headed home, just waiting for the warm lights of the Larsens’ place to appear around the next bend. B. J. came up behind me and reached around to put his hands in the pockets of my sweatshirt. I leaned back into his chest, rested my head in the hollow of his neck, and pressed my butt against him. The instant rise in my temperature was due more to the thrumming I felt inside than to the mere combination of our body heat. With his hands still inside my sweatshirt pockets, he began tracing small circles on the front of my jeans. We had a couple hundred feet of clear water between us and the next channel marker, so I let go of the wheel and turned into his arms. Over his shoulder, I saw Zale sitting on the wheelhouse bunk, wrapped in a blanket, his head lowered, and I heard him sniffling in the darkness. I nodded my head and B. J. looked over, too. I didn’t know if it was the cold making the kid’s nose run or if he was crying again. I saw in B. J.’s eyes that he felt as I did—either way, we were helpless to cure it.
Once we’d tied up the tug at my dock and I’d shut down the engine, the night seemed eerily quiet. As is typical the day after a cold front comes through, the night was dry and cold, with temperatures in the forties already and headed for the thirties by morning. The unusual lack of humidity made the night air crisp and clear, and the stars and the lights of the city all seemed to pierce the black night with uncharacteristic clarity.
As the three of us walked up the path toward my cottage with Abaco bounding ahead, Zale stopped dead, staring upward. Without looking at me or B. J., he asked, “Where do you think he is right now?”
I didn’t know what to say to that. I tried not to let on how often I wondered that same question about all the people I’d loved and lost.
“Do you think he still is?” Zale looked at me, the starlight reflecting off his wire-rimmed glasses. “I mean, is my dad up there somewhere in the heavens—like Gramma Josie says, in Skyland—watching me? Is he still, you know, my dad?”
B. J. slid in between us and put his arms over both our shoulders. He hugged Zale especially tight. “Hey kid, there’s no way we can really know for sure about that, is there? We humans are always asking that question, the question of another life, of whether there is such a thing as an afterlife. But you know what I think? You know that feeling inside you right now? That hurt, that sense of loss?”
Zale nodded.
“That’s your dad settling in right here.” He took the arm off my shoulder and patted Zale on the belly. “You’ll always have that feeling there when you think about him. You’ll always carry that part of him with you.”
“I miss him so much already,” he said in a choked whisper. Then he wrapped his thin arms around his midsection, shrugged off B. J.’s embrace, and stepped off the path. He swung his torso back and forth as though he were suffering from a bellyache. Then, turning to us, he asked, “Why?” The tears rushed back and his voice cracked with emotion as he struggled to say between sobs, “Why would somebody shoot my dad?”
VII
When I pulled my Jeep to the curb in front of Molly’s house, I thought at first that she wasn’t home. The house looked dark and there wasn’t any sign of a car parked in the drive. We climbed out and B. J. lifted the seat so that Zale could get out of the Jeep’s backseat, and as soon as the kid’s sneakers hit the pavement, he trotted up the walk, opened the front door, and disappeared inside. He’d left the front door standing open, and from inside I could hear faint strains of Norah Jones’s voice coming from the stereo. I recognized the song “I Don’t Know Why.”
I looked at B. J. “Think we ought to go in?”
“Yeah, just
to make sure his mom’s there and the kid’s safe. And to close the front door, anyway.”
“She’s there. You could go close the door.”
“Sey, what’s the matter with you?”
“B. J., I don’t have time to tell you the whole story right now, but Molly and I used to be friends. Best friends. And then it ended.”
“So, that was then and this is now. Now we need to get in there and make sure the two of them are okay. It’s about basic human decency, Seychelle. It’s what we’re going to do.”
It was only when we got to the front door that we saw the light from the single candle burning on the coffee table. Molly was wrapped up in an old hand-crocheted afghan, sitting upright on the couch, staring at the flame. She looked up at us when we entered, her face expressionless.
“Oh, Sey,” she said, “come in. Thanks, you know,” she said, nodding toward the back hall. She spoke in an odd monotone.
“Hey, no big deal. Molly, this is my friend, B. J. Moana. B. J., Molly Pontus.”
Molly scooted over and patted the couch next to her. B. J. obliged and sat down. I’d been hoping we wouldn’t stay long, so I remained standing, edging a little closer to the door each time I shifted my weight from one foot to the other.
“So how was he today?”
She had directed the question to B. J.
“About as good as you could expect for a kid going through this, but he had some tough moments. He’s feeling typical survivor’s guilt.”
“Ha!” she said, but it wasn’t a laugh. “Tell me about it.”
“It’s a normal part of the grieving process—as is the crying,” B.J. said. “He needs to cry, and you shouldn’t discourage him from it. On the other hand, he also needs to laugh, and he shouldn’t feel guilty when he does.”
“You seem to know what you’re talking about.”
B. J. shrugged. “I read a lot.”
I wanted to tell her that she was sitting next to a walking library, that he had two college degrees in fancy stuff like Asian and Classical Studies, whatever the hell that was, but I kept quiet. I felt like I was on the outside again. Like way back with Molly and Pit. The two of them were already talking as if they were old friends. B. J. had that effect on people. They warmed to him instantly and often told him things they wouldn’t tell their own families.
“It’s so hard to know what you’re supposed to do with yourself at a time like this,” Molly said. “Someone you love is dead, and it’s still true whether you ride in a car or sit on a couch. Nothing you do can make that fact go away.” She hiked the afghan up around her shoulders and sighed. “This has been the longest day. Jeannie took me to the police station and they took my statement. That was pretty simple—we were back here by two, but I didn’t know what to do then. I’ve just been sitting here, watching as it got dark. I lit the candle when I got cold.”
“Have you eaten anything?” B. J. asked.
“I’m not hungry,” Molly answered, shaking her head.
B. J. slapped his hands on his thighs. “That’s it. You’ve got to eat. Do you mind if I make myself at home in your kitchen?”
She shook her head. “Feel free,” she said.
After B. J. left the room, I stood there for a while, my hands snuggled deep into the pockets of my sweatshirt. It was clear I wasn’t going to get him to make this a short visit. The silence in the room was like a black hole, sucking all my energy into it. It’s hard to come up with small talk when you haven’t spoken to someone for over thirteen years. I leaned against the wall in that darkened living room, trying to get up the nerve to talk to Molly, to make it like it was in the old days when it was effortless, when we didn’t have to think of what to say. I opened my mouth but the words wouldn’t come. It wasn’t like she was making it any easier, either, just sitting there staring at that damn flame.
“She called me this afternoon.” Molly spoke so softly, I wasn’t sure I heard her right.
“What?”
“She didn’t say anything, but I heard her breathing. I knew it was her,” she said. Then she got up, rearranged the blanket wrapped around her shoulders, and mumbled something about checking on Zale before disappearing down the dark hall.
I walked into the kitchen, where B. J. had turned on the lights. He was chopping some onions on a wood board. Leaning my cheek against the cool steel of the refrigerator door, I wondered what the hell that was all about. She had to have been talking about Janet. I didn’t want to think my old friend was losing her grip on reality, but it didn’t make any sense to think that a new widow was making crank calls. I wondered if Molly needed more help than any of us could give her. I fought down the urge to unload on B. J., to complain about the ache I felt deep in my gut whenever I was around her. He would tell me to let it go, to forgive her and move on. He wouldn’t understand me when I told him it wasn’t that easy.
My stomach growled. I could smell the garlic sizzling in the frying pan on the stove next to another lidded pot. B. J. stepped over to me, slid his hand under my sweatshirt, and rubbed my belly with his free hand while he kissed me on the mouth. His tongue tasted of cool mint. “Hungry?” he asked when he stopped for a breath.
“Hmm, ummm, yeah,” I mumbled, trying to get my brain back in gear. I always had to do that after one of his kisses. “Can I help?”
B. J. turned back to the counter, swept his onions into the pan with the garlic, handed me the chopping board and knife, and pointed to a pile of zucchini.
Now what kind of man gets romantic, then hands a woman a knife and a zucchini? I looked at the vegetables and then at B. J.’s back as he lifted the lid, stirred some rice in butter, then poured in water from a measuring cup. “Uh, B. J., what do I do with these? I mean, do I cut them this way, or like this?” I demonstrated with the knife over the squash.
He sighed and took the knife from me. “Why don’t you find the cutlery and go set the table? Then maybe see if you can round up some wine somewhere. Red, preferably. I’m making ratatouille.”
“Ummm,” I said, rolling my eyes as I started opening drawers, not willing to show my ignorance and ask him what the hell that was. “Sounds yummy.”
B. J. did an admirable job of keeping the conversation going during the meal. The more they talked, the more he and Molly found they had in common. They were both fish-eating vegetarians and both were really into all that Eastern religion stuff. Molly’s voice had lost that deadpan tone, and she seemed to be enjoying herself. She leaned her chin on her palm and listened, fascinated, as B. J. told her about how the Samoan people eat taro cooked in a coconut sauce back in the islands. I didn’t know how she was finding a description of eating roots so fascinating—or if it was really his gorgeous face that was keeping her so engrossed. All through our teenage years, every time I liked a guy, Molly wiggled her ass or batted her eyelashes in his direction, and he was drawn off to follow after her. Old habits, apparently, die hard.
As we were finishing up and B. J. was carrying plates out to the kitchen, loading them in the dishwasher and brewing some hot tea, I said under my breath to Zale, “Anytime you want to break out of here and go for a Big Mac, just call me.”
He attempted a smile and gave me a thumbs-up, then asked his mother if he could be excused and disappeared back into his room.
Molly watched him go. “He’s just sitting in there in the dark with his headphones on, blasting that music of his into his ears. He’s going to go deaf.”
“Be careful,” I said. “You’re beginning to sound like your mother.”
“Yeah, right,” she said disgustedly, turning her head away.
B. J. set down the mugs of steaming tea and honey and was about to sit down while I remained standing, my arms straight, hands pressing down on the back of my chair. “I hate to be the party pooper here, but I really need to be getting back. Think you could just take a couple of swigs of that and we could get moving?”
B. J. gave me a quizzical look that reminded me of Abaco when I talk to her.
“Okay, if you’re in a hurry, we can do that,” he said. “I’ll just go finish straightening things up in the kitchen.”
“Please, B. J., you’ve done enough,” Molly said. “Really. I can take it from here. If Seychelle has to leave, I understand.” She took his hand in both of hers. “Thanks so much for dinner and for the good company. I needed it tonight, but I’ll be fine now.”
We didn’t say much on the drive to the boatyard, where I was to drop him off to pick up his truck. The zippered side windows did little to keep out the cold night air, but there were other reasons the atmosphere in the Jeep was so chilled.
When I pulled into the parking spot next to his El Camino, I didn’t shut off the engine. The noise made conversation more difficult, and I hoped B. J. would get the hint.
“What’s bothering you, Sey? You hardly said a word tonight, and that’s not like you.”
I took in a deep breath and blew it out, staring at the Jeep’s overhead as though I might find the answer to his question written on the inside of the canvas there. “B. J., I think I just need time. You don’t know the whole story. Hell, I don’t even know what really happened. There’s still a mountain of hurt there between me and Molly. For eleven years—basically my whole childhood—we were the best of friends, more like sisters.” I turned and looked out the Jeep’s window. He sat there, knowing I wasn’t finished, waiting for the rest of it. “Then one day,” I said, turning to face him, “she just disappeared. She’d moved out of her parents’ house and got married to some guy I thought she didn’t even like. I’d been under the impression that we told each other everything, and yeah, she talked about him, but to me she’d always kind of made fun of him. She never even told me she liked him.” But even as I said it, I wasn’t sure a man could ever comprehend the immensity of that. “She never called, never made the slightest effort to reach out to me. I know I’m older now, and I should be able to get beyond this, but I just can’t. The way it ended back then, so abruptly, with no explanation, no communication, and now we’re just supposed to start up again as though the last thirteen years never happened? I can’t do that. There’s a whole lot that needs saying right now, and it’s not about tofu and taro.”
Bitter End (Seychelle Sullivan #3) Page 6