by Gina Rossi
But alligators are restricted to Florida, aren’t they? Or haven’t I concentrated properly on the National Geographic Channel that forms the greater part of my knowledge bank of the Great Outdoors? Maine is not swampy right here on the coast. How come there’s an alligator? Didn’t I hear they’ve existed on planet earth for ninety million years? Or is that sharks? Or crocodiles? Aren’t alligators and crocodiles fundamentally one and the same? Cold blooded killing machines, perfectly honed for survival? Whatever, there’s one in the underbrush, here and now.
And me? I lick my sandy lips. What if he smells me? Perhaps if I freeze he’ll keep going and pass me by. I stay completely still and the alligator slides past. On my stomach, head down on my arms, nose full of sand I wait for the alligator to smell me, and turn. I wait to die.
“Fuck,” the alligator says.
I lift my head, blinking. In front of me, wreathed about with leaves, two feet ahead of my nose I see the worn soles of a pair of size twenty boots. “Buck?”
“Shaddap you.” He crawls forward on his elbows, hardly making a sound. I stay where I am, spent. Buster must choose now. Life or death. He might well choose death with Buck looming, the peak of his battered, brown baseball cap penetrating the vegetation like the muzzle of some prehistoric reptile. I wait for Buster to die of fright while I try not to do the same. There’s more creeping from Buck, some waiting, leopard crawling, and then a pounce, “Goddamn,” and a scuffle. I drag myself upright, pushing upward through the bushes, to see Buck dragging Buster out of the thicket in some kind of sack. I reverse, scrabble, trip and stumble back to the entry point, but it’s no good. I have to go back the way I came, crawling. On the ground again, in the composted slushy sand that’s never seen the light of day, all the twigs and branches I’ve pushed forward, snap back and scratch and tear me, like I’m not scratched and torn enough. A big branch jumps back and knocks me sideways. Eew! My hand’s on something cold. Is it a glob of cat sick? I’m not looking.
Clink.
I look. To be frank, there’s not much space in the dingly dell to look, but I twist my head sideways and see, out of the corner of my eye that it’s a key. Here’s a bit of luck, to find something you didn’t even know you’d lost. It’s my key, the sea horse-shaped one Lucas told me never to lose! OMG, close call. I grab the key and reach behind me—more scratches—to shove everything into the torn pocket of my jeans. Determined, eyes squeezed shut against the whip of the retaliating branches, I reverse the way I came, surprised, actually to see how little progress I made. Whatever. In my memory, this misadventure will lodge as ten miles’ worth of hacking through the barbed and stinging plants of the Amazon jungle, at its impenetrable heart.
Buck and I emerge from the jungle in different places. He sets off immediately across the lawn, gripping the thrashing fur bomb in a bag that is Buster. I chase them around the side of the house.
“In the truck,” Buck barks. “Quick!”
I jump in and grapple for the seatbelt, somehow knowing we’re in for a wild ride. There’s no seatbelt, only a terse “Hold tight!” instruction from Buck, who wrangles the reluctant ignition with gritted teeth, rams the truck into gear, spinning the wheels as we rocket down the drive. By the time we get to Jay’s Automotive, Buck is driving foot flat, and talking on the phone. Somehow, he also has a hand on the horn, due—I suppose—to the lack of hazard lights on this rusting wreck.
“Tell Doc Foster to stand by,” Buck roars over the noise of the engine. “Operation Black Cat Down. I’m on my way with Buster Dalton. He’s in a bad way.”
We’re gunning down Main, when we’re stopped by a tour group crossing the road to the fish market. There’s too much of a crowd for Buck—even Buck—to take a gap. Nate Harris pulls up alongside and eyeballs me through the open window.
“Excuse me, Uncle Buck, sir.” He leans forward to speak to Buck. “Would you pull over, please, so we can—”
“Nah! This here ain’t a tea party. This here is an emergency situation. Buster ain’t breathin’. I need an escort to Old Mill Veterinary, boy, not a friggin’ tail. Get your fancy ass out in front of me and step on it. We’ll talk after.”
Now there’s traffic. Nate eases the police car forward, siren on and blue lights flashing. Buck lurches into his slipstream, and we scream off. I close my eyes, waiting for the smash.
As for Buster, he’s completely limp. I’m terrified he’s dead.
Chapter Thirty
“Well, well, well. What have we here?” Dylan Foster strides out of the surgery into the reception area, taking Buster, still bagged, out of Buck’s arms. “Buster Dalton, what’s up this time?” With a quick word to the receptionist, she puts the waiting room—full of patients from goldfish to golden retriever, their owners wide-eyed in silent wonder—on hold. “Walk with me,” she says. “Tell me what happened,”
Stupid as it sounds, I think I’m in shock. “Buck,” I gasp, “can you…can you?” Spots jiggle in front of my eyes. I grab his arm.
“Nah, c’mon!” he says, arm firmly around my waist, supporting and propelling me, so all I must do is move my feet forward, one at a time. “We need to work with the doc now, ya hear? Coupla deep breaths is all ya need.”
I suck oxygen that smells of squashed vegetation, tobacco, old lawnmower oil, veterinary disinfectant, and dog. “He’s choked on a duck bone he got out of the rubbish, or something. Or maybe he’s been poisoned.”
We’re in the surgery where a nurse awaits, masked and gloved. Dylan puts Buster on the operating table, cuts off the sack, scrubs up and pulls on gloves. Buster is nothing but a huge pile of motionless fur. The nurse locates one of his front legs and shaves a small patch so she can insert a drip.
“I can’t look,” I say to Buck, knees shivering.
He swings a chair to face the wall. “Sit,” he says, and goes across to a water cooler to fetch me a cup of water.
“All done,” Dylan says, “and there are no symptoms of poisoning as far as I can see.
“What?” I reply through chattering teeth, water slopping on my shirt. I look down at myself.
Oh. Not much clothing. No pullover, ripped shirt, camisole hanging by one strap revealing whole of left breast, admittedly in bra, though mud-encrusted. Unwittingly, I have invented a fashion leader in my spare time: shredded jeans. One of my shoes is missing. My earrings! My hands fly to my earlobes, sending the cup spinning across the floor. I’m so relieved they’re both in place I start to cry. Cherri’s right: classics for every occasion, indeed.
“Duck bone all right,” Dylan says.
I turn around. She holds up a pair of narrow tongs, displaying the cause of Buster’s near-death experience. “Lucas sure will be grateful. This fella means everything to Alice.”
“Is he alive?” The bone is surprisingly small. I had imagined a giraffe’s femur, at least.
“Oh yes,” the nurse says, eyes down, hand stroking Buster’s side. “Shall we move him to a cage?”
Dylan and the nurse carry Buster between them to a roomy mesh-walled compartment in the next room. I get up and follow. “Can I take him home?”
“We’ll keep him overnight for observation. He’ll be fine tomorrow, sure thing.”
Buck joins me. “I called Lucas.”
“He’s in Boston,” I say, staring at Buster, willing him to move.
“He’s back. Jus’ pullin’ into Lobster Cove this minute.”
The nurse brings me a chair, a blanket that smells of shampooed dog to wrap around my shivering self, and a cup of tea. No way is it as good as Lucas’s tea, but it’s hot, strong and sweet, and exactly what I need this moment.
Buster opens heavy-lidded eyes, aims a couple of weak licks at his chest fur and falls asleep again twitching his whiskers. Thank God for that.
Ten minutes later, Lucas arrives while I’m sitting in front of the cage, keeping watch. He talks to Dylan in the next room, quickly, and next minute, he’s on his haunches in front of me, one hand on my shoulder, the other
arm around Alice, who’s gazing at me speechless, eyes round.
“Buster’s all right, Alice darling,” I tell her. “Did Daddy explain?”
She nods, finger in her mouth. I grip Lucas’s arm, drawing strength. “You came back early.”
“Alice was really keen to get back, from the minute we arrived. In fact, before we arrived.”
I frown into his eyes. “Why?”
“Once she’d seen the puppies she begged to come home. We spent the night and left early this morning to drive back.”
I glance at Alice, who’s pulled away from Lucas to go and sit cross-legged at Buster’s cage, one small hand through the mesh, tickling his neck. “Thank God she wasn’t here.” Buster’s in a deep sleep, and it’s hard to believe it’s not permanent.
“Buck told me what happened. Are you okay?” Lucas asks, his voice low, eyes anxious.
“Of course.”
“Because you don’t look okay. I think we should take you down to the emergency room at the hospital.”
We stand up together. “Don’t be ridiculous,” I say. He kisses me, and it stings.
Moments later, in the clinic bathroom, I see why he’s concerned. Torn clothing aside, my face, chest and arms are scratched and bloody, my knees grazed. There are twigs in my hair and splinters in my hands. A sight to behold. But, it’s nothing serious. I wash up as best I can, pat myself dry with paper towel and go out into the parking lot where Lucas and Alice, already in the Mustache, are waiting for me.
“Where’s Buck?” I ask.
“Gone back to Blue Rocks to finish the mowing. He’s real sorry for causing the incident.”
“He wasn’t to know.”
“He said you were incredible. Says you should join the Navy SEALs.”
“Really? Why on earth?”
“You’re a real fighter. ‘Warrior’ was the word he used. You honoured the motto ‘Leave no man behind.’ He’s impressed.”
I laugh. “All’s well that ends well, in that case.”
We get in the car. “I left the sea porch doors open,” I say, as we turn right onto First and head home. “I hope nobody’s wandered in and cleaned out the house.”
“Not much to clean out.” There’s a grin in Lucas’s voice. “Besides, who would do such a thing?”
“Agat, for one.”
“Uh, we need to talk about her.”
I turn to look at him. “What about her?”
He glances at Alice in the rear view mirror, and then stares ahead. “Later” is all he says.
The beautiful day has turned ugly, as forecast. We drive up to Blue Rocks in swirling sleet, the sharp-edged wind ripping the trees, layering the road with slippery, fallen leaves. Lucas parks close to the front porch. I reach into the back to release Alice from her car seat, and we run for it, the howling wind snatching our clothes, blowing our hair upright, chilling my already frozen body.
Agat’s circles of fiery leaves are nowhere to be seen.
“Keys please.” Lucas holds out a hand.
Hair in my eyes, I dig in my back pocket and hand them over. They rattle into the lock and Lucas pushes open the sea horse door. We go inside, I scrape my hair out of my eyes and look at my watch. Nearly suppertime for Alice. Don’t ask me where the time’s gone.
Lucas goes straight to the kitchen, finds a tube of antiseptic gel, gives it to me and shoos me upstairs. “Go lie in a hot bath. Sort yourself out. I’ll do Alice.”
****
In the bathroom, I run hot water into the bathtub and undress, inspecting my naked, battered body in the full-length mirror. Blue bruises bloom on my shins and forearms and I’m criss-crossed with sand-filled cuts and scratches. I throw my clothes in the laundry basket and kick my crumpled jeans across the floor to the door. They’re beyond saving. I’ll throw them in the big kitchen bin when I go downstairs.
Forty minutes later I’m clean and warm in the baggiest clothes I can find in Lucas’s closet—I went in there to borrow a pair of thick socks and kept going. Going downstairs, I meet Alice coming up with Lucas, to bath.
“You look amazing,” Lucas says.
“I hope you don’t mind?”
“Why would I? I mean, would you mind if I came downstairs dressed in your clothes without having asked if I could borrow them?”
“It’s not the same.”
He grins. “If you say so.”
Together, we bath Alice and then take her, wrapped in a towel, to her bedroom.
“Alice, where are all your bunnies and teddies?” I survey her bed while helping her into her pyjamas. It’s bare. There’s no sea horse or blue knitted bunny either. All her Winnie books are gone.
“In Daddy bed,” she says. “Come and see.” She pulls me along the gallery to Lucas’s room, and there’s everyone, higgledy-piggledy, tucked into Lucas’s bed, Winnie books—and others—spread everywhere.
“What’s this, Alice?” I ask.
“It’s for you. You must get in Daddy bed.”
“Why?”
“When I am sad, I get in Daddy bed.”
“I’m not sad.”
“But you have ows and blood. Get in.” She pulls back the covers, toys and books tumbling everywhere. “You sleep here now.”
Lucas, leaning against the doorframe, chuckles. “Looks like the arrangement’s been formalized.”
Alice climbs in next to me and Lucas reads us a story, followed by another, by which time Alice is asleep. Lucas carries her to her own bed and we go downstairs to eat. On the way, I gather my jeans from the bathroom floor. In the kitchen, I throw them away.
“There’s something in the pocket,” says Lucas, freeing the cork from a bottle of Italian red. “I heard something.”
“A dirty dime Alice found on the pavement. I didn’t really want her to pick it up.”
“Not my money you’re throwing away, then?”
“I wouldn’t do that.”
“I read somewhere that you are in the top one percent of the world’s richest if you don’t pick up anything less than a dime on the street.”
“That’s not much of an accolade.”
“I guess it’s the same if you throw money away.”
“Are you trying to make a point?”
He hands me a glass of wine. “Not really.”
“You were going to tell me something about Agat.”
“Yeah. Angie rang earlier. Agat’s in a bad way. She’s in the hospital for now. They’ll attempt to operate, but it doesn’t look good.”
“That’s sad.”
He nods, thoughtful. “Angie said Agat’s been rambling on about Bonny, and Alice, that’s why she called me.”
“Alice?”
He hesitates. “Agat gave up a child for adoption when she was sixteen. Turns out, over the years, she convinced herself it was Bonny.”
I stare at Lucas. “Was it?”
“Not a chance. Think of the age difference.”
“How can you be sure?” Agat being Bonny’s mother would explain a lot.
“Angie persuaded Agat into DNA tests when Bonny died because things, as you can imagine, got out of hand.”
“What was the conclusion?”
“No conclusion, meaning the tests were inconclusive.”
“So?”
Lucas bites the side of his right thumb, something I’ve never seen him do. “I always thought that, maybe, just maybe, Agat was Bonnie’s grandmother.”
“Why?”
“I once suggested it to Bonny. She went ballistic. I thought she was going to kill someone.”
“Kill someone?”
“Me, or Agat, yeah. She went mad. Insane.”
“She protested too much. Is that what you mean?”
Lucas shoves his hands into his pockets and nods, head down.
“Poor Agat,” I say. “How dreadful for her.”
“She was okay with it for a while, but over the last six months I guess the tumour was growing, and affecting her reason. She’s telling everyone
in the hospital that she is Bonnie Dalton’s mother, and insisting that she is Alice’s grandmother. Who knows? But Angie thought it best to tell me.”
I lift my wine glass and sniff. The bouquet is glorious, the colour deep garnet. I close my eyes and sip. Heavenly. Putting the glass on the counter I open the bin. I’m drinking expensive Italian wine and throwing away money. This isn’t right. I bring out the jeans, covered in scraps of fishy dinner Buster wasn’t here to eat. Serves me right for not recycling. I almost give up but, holding my breath, I poke two fingers into one side pocket—nothing—and then the other—also nothing. One back pocket is torn right off and hanging by a thread, and the other…
“Honestly, why does the damn dime have to be in the last pocket I—” This is no dime. I pull out the object.
A key.
Chapter Thirty-One
Not any key, but the key to the sea horse door. Another key, because Lucas used mine to open the door this evening and it’s lying on the table at the bottom of the stairs. I know, because I’ve just seen it there.
“Lucas?”
“Mm?”
The key is attached to a decomposing cork and…
I lift it closer to my eyes to make sure I’m actually seeing what I’m seeing.
A diamond ring. A large, round-cut solitaire in a tarnished setting.
Bonny’s ring.
If it’s lost, you can find it.
“Lucas?” I turn away from the bin, closing it on the ripped jeans that have given up their prize, and face him. “Look what I found.”
He strolls over to see what I’m holding. To say he does a double-take doesn’t cut it. It’s more like an electric shock. He stares at the key in my hand for a moment, looks up at me wild-eyed and pale, and then back at the key. He steps back, recoiling, and then leans forward to look again. He prods the key with a forefinger, here in the palm of my hand, and picks it up, letting the diamond ring dangle.
“God,” he whispers, walking to the table, mesmerized. He sits heavily in a chair and lays the key and ring in front of him like an expert with a rare treasure on The Antiques Roadshow. Head in hands, he stares. Helpless, I look on. I can barely imagine what he’s feeling.