“Damn you.” Frank sunk both hands into the moist ground.
In the early morning darkness, the men engaged in a muck war. Before sunrise, the reeking pair staggered back to the Palms Hotel.
Chapter 11
The following afternoon, in a rowdy crowd of horsemen, Boone stood close to Belle. Cowboys beside them were shoving each other in jest, one falling into Boone, who shoved him back into the scrum. Belle was glad to have him by her side. Blevins Park was full of out-of-towners, mostly scruffy men in spurred boots and similar states of drunkenness.
Nearby, the Fort Myers Band was playing a march, but Merle and Abigail danced as if a spirited waltz were under way.
“Spin, my gal!”
Merle twirled Abigail, stout but agile as she rotated effortlessly below his raised arm. Belle watched, imagining their dance ending with a passionate kiss. Merle would dip Abigail halfway to the ground and pull the pin from her bun, creating a waterfall of wavy hair. Their lips would meet until the music stopped. Boone’s voice ended Belle’s make-believe scene.
“I think they’re about to start,” he said, pointing toward some commotion at the far end of the park.
The four had met up to watch the annual Knights of the Scrub Tournament. Cow hunters from all over the region traveled to Fort Myers to compete in the unique tournament that tested a rider’s coordination and strength. A contestant would storm across the park, carrying a “lance,” a long piece of lumber donated by Ritter’s Mill. The goal was to race at top speed and knock coconuts off tree stumps placed around the park. The lumber was heavy, and most riders failed to clear all ten stumps. Excessive drinking made the event even more outlandish. Last year, the newspaper reported that intoxicated cowmen lowered an unconscious contestant into a freshly dug grave in the cemetery.
“We welcome to the start line: the Knight of the Spittoon.” Press editor Stephen Fitzgerald’s hands were cupped around his mouth as he shouted across the park. He served every year as tournament announcer and took great pride in dreaming up silly names for each “knight.”
While Merle and Abigail stayed near the band to help with a booth offering hand pies and coffee, Boone and Belle found a shady spot under a wild cinnamon tree with a good view of the riders, the first under way. She spotted Augie sitting next to Mr. Fitzgerald and also noted her replacement at Duggan’s, ten-year-old Henry Metzger, who proudly donned his father’s captain’s cap, too big and tilted to the starboard side of his head. As the first rider crossed the finish line, the town’s saloon owner walked by with a tray full of free whiskey shots.
“I’ll pass,” Boone said.
“That ride’s not going to be good enough,” Belle noted after counting six downed coconuts. Last year’s winner had cleared eight stumps.
“Our next contestant,” boomed the announcer, “is the Knight of the Pickled Beet!”
Amused by the nickname, Belle looked up at Boone and grinned. All around them, people clapped and let loose high-pitched whistles. Belle applauded, too. The rider removed his straw hat and circled it in the air, around and around, pumping up the crowd.
Suddenly, Belle stopped clapping. The noise around her began to fade. She shielded her eyes from the sun and squinted at the rider. Could it be? She hadn’t seen him in eleven years, but . . .
Frank.
With the hat removed, she now recognized the rider as Frank Dolland, a childhood friend of Julius’s. She despised them both. As youngsters they would point out how obvious it was to everyone that she was adopted: her brunette hair to Julius’s flaxen, her wiry body to his bulk. Frank made up stories about how her mother died—wild tales that ranged from Seminole squaws roasting her on a spit to teams of alligators feasting on her from head to toe. Frank had relocated to Tampa not long after Julius moved there more than a decade ago. She hadn’t seen either of them since nor ever heard word they were back in town.
As Frank thundered across the park atop a stocky pinto, Belle scanned the cheering crowd. Her line of sight was obstructed by people jumping up and down or waving palm fronds in the air. Familiar faces mixed with those of strangers, all focused on the knight firing off coconuts like hairy cannonballs. Belle crossed her arms, no longer relaxed or enjoying the event.
Frank raced across the finish line and threw his lance to the ground, apparently frustrated at his low coconut count. A man in a suit approached the rider, his back toward Belle, and handed Frank a shot of whiskey. They bumped fists. Belle’s stomach flipped. Oh dear God. She’d witnessed that move countless times. She shrunk down slightly and began to shake.
“Are you all right, Belle?” Boone lightly placed his palm on the small of her back.
Belle flinched at his touch. She sidestepped away from him and continued to shield herself from the rider’s view. Then, she leaned in and wrung her hands. Gradually, from behind a thick cloud of white cigar smoke, the face she hoped to never see again emerged, as Julius turned around to grab Frank another shot.
“I need to leave,” Belle said, her mouth dry. “I don’t feel well.”
She turned and darted through the crowd. Somehow Belle’s rubbery legs were powering her forward. Maybe she was floating, rising quickly so the Past couldn’t grab her ankle and yank her down to the floor of a musty shack. She exploded out of the throng and onto the street, slowing to a brisk walk in the direction of her cottage.
“Belle!”
She closed her eyes at the sound of Boone’s voice. Please go away, she thought.
He caught up to her, breathing hard. “What’s wrong? Do you need help?”
She shook her head. “I just need to lie down. Thank you.”
“Should I come by and check on you in a while?”
You’re too late, Belle thought. “Please don’t. I just need to rest.” She thanked him again and scurried along, eventually reaching the cottage where she shut both windows and barred the door.
She flopped down in the corner farthest from the door and welcomed Coquina into her lap. The cat was warm and purred with a soothing rumble. She tried to blink it away, but the wretched image of Julius—his eyes half-shut, his jaw hanging open—wouldn’t disappear. In the quiet of the cottage she heard him panting and whispering.
You’re a hideous, stupid, smelly orphan. No one else will ever want to do this to you. You’re lucky I’m willing.
Her stomach lurched, churning with a jolt of acid.
“I hate you,” she growled.
Hideous, stupid, smelly orphan. Why had she thought for a moment that Boone could ever one day care for her? Memories of Julius’s yellow teeth and fat fingers flashed through her mind.
Belle slammed both fists on the floor, launching the cat from her lap. If she hurried, she could put a few more miles between Julius and her young self.
•••
The beaches of Sanibel were quiet but for the waves and seabirds vying for fish and the loudest call. The crescent-shaped barrier island was twelve miles long, dotted with twenty-one homes, population ninety. Settlers had requested for years that the United States government construct a lighthouse on Point Ybel, the eastern tip of the island and the entrance to San Carlos Bay. They hoped, through light, to draw passersby and trade to Sanibel. Finally, Congress allocated funds to construct one, a pyramid-shaped iron skeleton tower with an interior spiral staircase. The lighthouse was crowned at ninety-eight feet by a lantern room featuring a kerosene lamp that produced a fixed white light, interrupted every two minutes by a robust flash.
Belle had caught the one o’clock mail boat to Sanibel and was walking barefoot along the beach near the lighthouse. Her boots hung around her neck, tied together by their laces. The breeze was cool, the sun welcome. She’d left her straw hat at home and instead tied a strip of fabric around her forehead. Her hair was loose but kept in check by the headband.
At that very moment, Julius was somewhere in Blevins Park
. Seeing him was so unexpected that she hoped maybe it hadn’t really been him. But she knew it was. In an instant, she’d recognized his close-set eyes, crooked nose, and crossed front teeth. That ugly face—she’d tried to erase it and everything about him from her thoughts, but still, images of him remained crouched in the dark corners of her mind. She sighed and looked down the beach, no end in sight. Somewhere off in the distance, her young self was heading toward her, trailed by bad memories.
Walking slowly, Belle began to revisit the terrifying trips to an abandoned fish shack near a creek that ran along the western edge of Fort Myers. Julius would tell her it was time to fetch sawdust from the lumber mill or to check on a bridle under repair at the harness and shoe shop, the ever-helpful son. Always, though, he took her first to the shack. In the summer it smelled like moss and mud. In the winter, fish. Her mouth twisted in disgust as both scents came back to her.
On the first trip, Julius told her that it was her job in the family to do this, and if she didn’t, she would have no family, no food, and nowhere to sleep. With each repulsive visit, the shack experiences became more involved. Julius would shove her to her knees and threaten her, warning about a panther that would attack her if she told anyone about the shack. He claimed the yellow cats could smell tattletales and were always hunting for them. By nine, she learned to displace herself during the trips. She’d imagine lying down in a field of blooming wildflowers, weeds like her that had discovered their beauty. Then, the truth would return with the sound of his grunts.
She stopped for a moment in front of two wooden keeper houses built atop iron pilings. Where were my keepers? A gust of ocean breeze fluttered the ties of her headband. All alone, she’d endured the physical and mental torments inflicted by Julius. Of course, looking back, he was manipulating her with his threats, but one in particular had stuck with her through the years. Quietly, she spoke.
“No man will ever want you.”
Admittedly, part of her believed that. She wanted so badly to completely dismiss the idea, to finally fight it off for good like she had Julius. Closing her eyes, she thought back to that stormy night. Fourteen years old, she was asleep on the floor of the Carsons’ living room. Heavy rain hammering the roof had kept her awake, but she’d finally fallen asleep. Then, suddenly, a sweaty palm covered her mouth.
Belle winced and opened her eyes. Peeping sandpipers zipped and zagged across the sand in front of her.
Her heart pounded as she remembered details of the seconds that changed her life. Julius hadn’t attacked in several years and had rarely ever done so in the house. But that night, he’d kneeled beside her and covered her mouth, his face inches above hers. She stared up at him, shocked and incensed that he’d expected to take from her yet again. As he grabbed at her nightdress, she sunk her fingernails into one of his cheeks and slammed her fist into the other. He reeled backward but with a swift move smashed his arm across her face, launching her onto the hearth. She scrambled for a fire poker and swung it as hard as she could, landing a blow on his ribs as he lunged toward her. He cried out in pain as she dashed out the front door into driving rain and darkness. As fast as she could, she ran through the storm in the direction of Duggan’s.
Belle dug her toes into the sand. She had beaten back Julius once and for all, with the merciful help of Merle. Now, she and Julius were adults and he couldn’t hurt her. The sight of him had unnerved her, but as she thought back on the strength she’d found as a girl, it was clearly time for her, as a grown woman, to break free from the ugly words of a disturbed boy. She looked out across the Gulf, cupped her hands around her mouth, and yelled.
“You’re wrong! You are wrooooong!” She screamed until her lungs ran out of air, her throat raw. “You are nooobody!”
Coughing, Belle flopped down onto the beach. Slowly, she dropped her body back onto the soft sand and stretched her arms out to her sides. The cool surf licked at her hand. She rolled her head sideways to watch as a small heron stepped near her. Its head jerked at odd angles, trying to swallow a green anole wriggling in its beak, the battle nearly over.
“I’m somebody,” she whispered. “I’m somebody . . .” She kept saying it, grabbing handfuls of beach on either side of her. Small, shiny coquina clams burrowed back down into the wet sand she’d disturbed.
When the tears began, Belle realized why she came to Sanibel, who she came to be near. She imagined her mother’s body buried directly below where she lay right then.
“Are you here somewhere, Mama?” she said quietly. “I’m right here.”
Belle wrapped her sandy arms around herself and hugged her ribs. Slowly, she curled up into a ball, lying sideways, facing the turquoise sea. Tears rolled down her cheeks, dripping onto the sand to join an outgoing wave.
•••
After the Knights’ tournament, Julius and Frank strutted around Billy’s Saloon, boasting about their “major role” in Tampa’s booming cigar industry. Julius pulled gold doubloons from both pockets of his striped, spike-tailed coat and bought shots for locals and strangers alike. Both smoked several cigars, dipping the tips in whiskey before puffing each to life.
Irwin and Collette sat at the bar, discussing the highlights of their visit to Fort Myers and offering toasts.
“To the sunset-pink flamingos,” Irwin said.
“Just extraordinary,” Collette agreed. “To Abigail’s heavenly biscuits.”
Irwin nodded. “And to all the fine people we’ve met at Baker’s.”
“Oh, so true, dear. George and his sweet son, Professor Ricalton, and that lovely Belle Carson. I told her what a wonderful job she’s done, decorating the porch of her little cottage in the backyard.”
Standing behind the couple, Julius threw back the last of his drink. He stumbled toward the door while Frank continued drinking on the opposite side of the saloon.
Chapter 12
The evening was eye-catching, the sky a moody mix of pink and purple fighting for dominance. Belle watched the battle from her bed. Slipping both arms under the covers, she listened to the soothing coos of mourning doves. The breeze smelled of pine straw and honeysuckle. She yawned, exhausted. Seeing that face had rattled her deeply. She’d hoped to never again be anywhere near Julius once he’d left town at twenty-two. Still, as draining as it was to see him, the jolt had made her rethink the notion that he could limit her, stop her from exploring the many opportunities unfolding before her. She was a capable woman now, not a powerless little girl. When the sky finally turned black, Belle closed her eyes and fell into a deep sleep for hours.
Then, an explosion. The cottage door came crashing open. The board that braced it shut split in half, spitting shards of cypress across the floor. Coquina flew off the bed to the half-open window and sprang out into the night.
Terrified, Belle sat up in bed and froze, her hands clutching the covers. The silhouette of a large man was framed in the open door. He stumbled toward her, his hat crooked, an empty bottle of whiskey dangling from two fingers. It dropped to the floor with a thud as the man fell forward onto Belle.
The blow from his heavy body knocked the wind out of her. She gasped for air just before the man clamped his large palm over her mouth. A scream was trapped in her windpipe as she drew in oxygen through her nostrils. The man’s bulk immobilized Belle’s legs but not her arms. She beat and slapped the intruder’s ears and head, managing only to knock off his hat. He seemed oblivious to the blows. With his free hand, the man began to grab at Belle’s nightclothes. When his fingers found skin, he began to moan.
That’s when she smelled it. With one whiff, Belle’s level of fear tripled. The potent scent of alcohol was overpowered by the unmistakable and unforgettable sour-mash-and-rotting-onions odor of Julius. Adrenaline surged through her body. She grabbed his hair and lifted up his head, punching his face with as much force as she could muster in her pinned position. He glared at her with bloodshot eyes. With a
clumsy sweeping motion, he drew back his arm and smashed Belle across the face.
When she regained consciousness, Julius was still on top of her, snoring deeply. Her head throbbed. As quickly as her aching body would allow, she extended her right arm toward the bedside table. With shaking fingers she reached underneath the drawer, pushed up from the bottom, and pulled it open. Whatever was forming this plan, she stayed out of its way. Rage, fear, revenge—get on with it.
Mumbling something, Julius drooled on her shoulder. Belle kept her body still while her fingers frantically searched for the skinning knife, her nails scratching the bottom of the drawer. When she finally located the knife, she plucked it out by its blade. Carefully, she worked her fingers toward the wooden handle, then gripped it tightly. She inhaled and, with one swift jab, drove the knife into her attacker’s greasy, beefy neck.
Julius groaned loudly and stiffened. Three more times she thrust the knife into his neck, twisting the handle on the last blow. His dense body finally went limp. With no idea whether he was dead or unconscious, she pried herself out from under him.
Dazed and drained, Belle stood in the cottage, shaking uncontrollably. She forced herself to move. Feeling her way around the dresser, she located the pie pan with a candle stuck to it. It took her three tries to light a match, but with trembling fingers she touched it to the wick. The light revealed that her chest was covered in blood, her hair moist with it. Terrified, Belle tried to make a plan. The conch shell on the dresser caught her eye, so she grabbed it and hurried out the door, holding the candle, too.
When the fence between the Baker and Edison properties ended at the riverbank, she slipped around it and headed toward the long wharf. Halfway along it, Belle set down the candle and blew into the conch shell toward Boone’s boat. She assumed he kept guns on board and didn’t want to startle him. Out of breath, she waited several seconds before firing off another blast on the shell.
After the Rain Page 10