The Girl in the Maze

by R. K. Jackson

  Main Street was closed up for the day, its buildings turning chalky gray in the afterglow of sunset. She reached the corner of Canal Street, a dead end signified by a distinctly sulfurous odor. Martha looked over the edge of a crumbling wall, down into a murky channel enclosed in concrete. The tide was low. Rafts of pine straw and cigarette butts undulated against the walls.

  The streetlights flicked on, and Martha felt herself tense. Relax. Streetlights come on because they have sensors. It’s not about you.

  She took a deep breath and counted slowly to five, thinking of Vince and the cognitive techniques he had taught her. You will not be defined by this.

  “Want a brochure?”

  Martha stopped in her tracks. A skinny blond woman held out a pamphlet with bold letters on the front: THE TRUTH ABOUT TIDEWATER.

  “Thank you,” Martha said, taking it.

  “My name’s Tammy. I didn’t mean to startle you.” She smiled at Martha, lips glistening salmon. “I’m with the Amberleen Citizens for Progress. Maybe you’d like to sign our petition?”

  Tammy guided her toward a line of folding tables outside the elementary school cafeteria. A cloud of gnats and mosquitoes swirled in the glow of a floodlight hanging overhead, and Tammy used a fan made from a palmetto frond to stir the thick air and its freight of insects.

  “We’ve already got two hundred and sixty-four names, and I think we’ll have a couple hundred more before we’re done tonight. Don’t you think so, Bill?” She nodded toward a burly man sitting next to her. Farther down the table, a man in oily coveralls signed a list on a clipboard. A dirty string dangled from the pen. Several others waited their turn, chatting in the night air.

  “You must be familiar with the plan.” The woman waved her fan mechanically.

  “The plan?”

  “The Tidewater Project. You must be interested, or you wouldn’t be here, right?”

  “Yes, I’m interested. But I’m actually new to this area. I’m not familiar with the details.”

  “Well, you’ve come to the right place,” Bill said. “These are good, professional people who want to build a first-class project out there.”

  Martha glanced down at the brochure. The Tidewater Project means: * Jobs * Economic Growth * Tourism. Don’t let the future slip away!

  “Welcome to Amberleen,” said the blond woman with the fan. “You’ll love it here, because we’re just good people and—mercy!”

  She shot out of her chair, knocking it backward and brandishing the fan like a shield. Martha sensed a peripheral movement overhead, a fluttering whir.

  “Bill—that creature. Make it go away.”

  “That little bat ain’t about to bother you, Tammy,” Bill said, chuckling. Tammy squealed again, jabbing her fan at the swooping bat. “He just wants to get his dinner. Leave him alone.”

  Then the bat was gone, as suddenly as it had appeared. Tammy righted her chair. “You’ll have to excuse me. If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s flying rodents.”

  “That ain’t no rodent, Tammy,” Bill said. “Totally different animal.”

  “Rats, bats, snakes, they’re all the same to me.” She scrunched her bony shoulders together. “All good reasons to call Orkin. As I said, my name’s Tammy. What’s yours?”

  “Martha.”

  “We’re glad to have you here, Martha. If you decide not to sign our list right now, we’ll still be out here after the meeting. Read the brochure, listen to what they say inside tonight, and then make your decision.”

  Martha started to thank her for the brochure, but Tammy had shifted her focus to an elderly couple and was starting her spiel over again. Martha made her way past the folding table, through the milling crowd and toward the entrance to the building.

  Inside, the room was brightly lit by hanging fluorescent fixtures. Banks of orange plastic lunchroom chairs were filling quickly. The hum of conversation blended with the scrape and rattle of chairs. Martha paused, took a deep breath. Her first public meeting since the illness. You can handle this.

  She caught sight of Lydia, near the front, her crown of white hair conspicuous amid a scattering of African American people. There were empty seats nearby, the area apparently shunned. Martha made her way toward them and found a chair next to a heavyset woman in shimmering greens and purples—peacock colors.

  She took out her reporter’s notebook and began jotting down the names of the six commissioners, which were taped along the front of a makeshift dais. The board members entered through a side door and took their seats behind the table.

  “If everyone could please find a seat, we’ll get this meeting under way,” said Wallace Bowden, the commission chairman. “If you plan to make a comment, make sure you fill out a speaker slip and give it to the recording secretary. Mrs. Ortiz, could you please open up the doors, let some air circulate?”

  A woman pushed open the metal double doors at the back of the room, letting in a scent of freshly mowed grass and the chirring sounds of the night.

  After the Pledge of Allegiance and other formalities, Bowden introduced the evening’s “special guest,” a senior executive of Hoshima Corporation, who would share plans for the development of Shell Heap.

  “Hoshima is primarily known for its expertise in developing multi-use residential and recreational developments that have a strong economic impact while preserving or enhancing natural resources,” Bowden said. “Their award-winning developments have stimulated economic revival along Mississippi’s Gulf Coast and in other parts of the world. As their plans will show you in a moment, this is not going to be another Hilton Head Island….”

  As he continued, Martha stole glimpses of the islanders seated nearby. She recognized faces from the cookout—Astrid Humphries, the sweetgrass basket maker; Edwina; and the man on the porch, the one who couldn’t find the rock salt. Three seats down, an elderly gentleman with wire-frame glasses leaned forward, his fingers laced together atop an ornate wooden cane. Martha noticed something underneath his chair, covered by a sheet of dark cloth. Maybe a box…

  Martha turned her attention back toward the front of the room, where the Hoshima executive, a man named Fujiki, was presenting artists’ concepts of the development. The slides showed pastel drawings of lavish houses, a new marina, a clubhouse, a park, and a nature walk. “We realize there is much concern about the rich history of the Geechee people who have lived on Shell Heap in the past,” he said. “We share this concern, and toward that end, Hoshima Corporation has agreed to invest ten million dollars to develop a Geechee Heritage Center and Museum.” Martha glanced at the other members of the audience. Some were nodding their heads in approval, but the islanders near her were tense, motionless. The stout woman sat with her arms folded, scowling.

  Fujiki brought up a slide showing a museum styled to resemble a plantation house. “This facility and its full-time staff will be devoted to the preservation of this important part of the island’s history,” he said, and flicked through a couple more slides—a sketch of an African American woman telling stories to enraptured children on a set that resembled a slave cabin; a delighted audience watching what appeared to be a possum and a raccoon singing onstage underneath a proscenium arch that read FOLK TALE THEATRE.

  “This year-round attraction,” Fujiki told the commissioners, “will utilize state-of-the-art animatronics—”

  The elderly man with the glasses rapped his cane on the floor. “What are you going to do, stick rods up our butts and turn us into robots?” There was a murmur among the group surrounding Martha, chuckles, and approbations.

  Bowden tapped his gavel. “As I said earlier, we have a formal procedure for public comment. If you have opinions to share, please fill out your speaker slips.

  “Thank you, Mr. Fujiki, for your impressive presentation,” Bowden said. “This is clearly a very well thought-out plan.”

  Martha detected movement from the corner of her eye. She turned and saw that the man with the glasses and the cane was now fiddli
ng with the box under his chair.

  Commissioner James Oglesby cleared his throat. “Now, this board is sympathetic to the concerns of the Geechee community, but for how long must our economic future be held hostage by the needs of a tiny minority?”

  The group near Martha huffed indignantly.

  Bowden held his hand up. “Before we get too far into this discussion, the board would like to hear a report on another issue that may have a significant bearing on our decision tonight. Sheriff Morris?”

  A rumpled officer in a khaki uniform approached the podium. He was a large man, but not fat—that wasn’t the right word. Expansive, Martha wrote in her notebook. He leaned against the podium, smiled affably, and scanned the audience. He made fleeting eye contact with Martha, winked. Martha looked down at her notebook and felt her cheeks grow hot.

  “How y’all doing?” Morris said.

  “Sheriff Morris, I think most of us saw the report published in last week’s Gazette,” Bowden said. “We’ve read about the recent increase in crime in our community over the past three quarters. Could you share with us the statistics your department has compiled?”

  Martha heard a stir from behind, squeaking chairs and hushed whispers. She turned and saw what the hubbub was about—a trio of young African American men who were entering the room. The first one was muscular, with dreadlocks, dark glasses, and an olive vest. The next wore baggy jeans and silver chains. The third was a lanky young man in a football jersey and a baseball cap turned backward. They paraded slowly around the edge of the lunchroom and came to a stop lined up along the wall near Martha, arms folded.

  The noise level in the room rose, and Bowden banged his gavel. “Sheriff, if you will please continue.”

  Morris wiped his hand across his mouth, frowned at his clipboard, and rattled off statistics showing an increase in criminal activity over the past year—destruction of public property, defacement, and what he called “drug-related” activity.

  “You mentioned thirty-five drug-related felonies,” Oglesby said. “How much of an increase is that from the same period last year?”

  “One hundred fifty-three percent.”

  “Some of those hooligans are here tonight!” someone shouted. “Why don’t you arrest them, Sheriff?”

  The tension in the room felt oppressive to Martha. It was hard to breathe. She doodled in her notebook—a sailboat riding choppy waters.

  Bowden gestured toward the sea of faces in the lunchroom. “I think we’ve all seen the graffiti that has begun to appear in our city streets and neighborhoods. We’ve all seen some of the vandalism that has occurred, both in the Planters Walk area and more recently down to the Bay Marina.”

  “Aubrey, in your fourteen-year career here, have you ever witnessed this level of criminal activity before?”

  “No, I have not. Jerry, could you put up that photograph?”

  The screen at the front of the room showed a close-up of graffiti painted on a corrugated tin wall. The design was a piece of chain in the shape of an S. The last link of the chain formed a snake’s head, mouth open, fangs bared. Martha sketched the figure in her pad.

  “As many of you know, over the past two months, my department and I have conducted an intensive investigation into the emergence of drug-related activity in and around Amberleen and the surrounding islands.”

  “Would you describe this activity as organized?” Bowden asked.

  “Yes, I would. We have determined that most of this malfeasance can be attributed to a single group. They have a distinctive insignia, which you see in this photograph. My department has found this symbol in many parts of the community as well as out on Shell Heap.”

  “I found that same thing painted on my boathouse last week,” someone in the audience said aloud. Martha heard snatches of other comments from the audience.

  “Now, as we all know, gang activity is something new to us here in Amberleen,” Bowden continued. “Has your department made any progress in determining their base of operations?”

  “Yes, we have. After extensive investigation, we have determined that this organization is using Shell Heap, and some of the surrounding islets, as a hub for drug trafficking.”

  A murmur rumbled through the room. Several of the elderly people seated around Martha looked at one another, shaking their heads vigorously.

  “My deputies and I have recovered numerous items on Shell Heap used not only in the consumption of illegal drugs, but also in their manufacture and distribution.”

  The city attorney stood.

  “If I may, Chairman?”

  “Go ahead, Jerry.”

  “There is a maze of channels and waterways on both sides of the island. These hoodlums know the marshes out there very well…they travel to and from the mainland in small motorboats. Their very mobility, and the number of potential hiding places in the coves and streams, have made this a very difficult problem for law enforcement to control. Isn’t that correct, Sheriff?”

  Morris nodded. “With our limited resources, it’s nearly impossible for us to patrol those canals and waterways with any regularity.”

  Bowden broke in. “I don’t think I’m alone if I say I never thought Amberleen would see days like these, Sheriff. But I’d like to thank you and your men for your ongoing efforts to control it.”

  Morris turned toward the panel. “The elders of Shell Heap, they’re good people—”

  Bowden held his palm up. “Sheriff, we all appreciate your affinity for some of the long-term residents, which most of us on this panel share.”

  “Thank you, Wallace.” Morris nodded somberly and returned to his seat.

  After that, Bowden introduced the public comment portion of the evening. The first to the podium was Lydia Dussault, who wore an understated dress and pearls. Her air of aristocracy, hinted at in the office, now seemed unmistakable.

  “I don’t have fancy videos and laser pointers,” Lydia began, gazing across the roomful of faces. “But what I do have is a sense of tradition and a love for the things that are natural, beautiful, and irreplaceable in our community.” She gestured toward Martha’s area of the room. “These people are a living treasure, and I speak tonight on their behalf.

  “As all of you know, there is a bill being prepared in the Georgia legislature, a bill that would preserve this area against future development. Currently, the Amberleen Historical Society is working with members of the legislature to provide the information they need to establish the historic value of these communities. We just need a little more time to complete this process. We request that this board delay action on this matter until the full environmental and historic risk can be assessed.”

  “Thank you for your input, Lydia,” Bowden said. “I know I speak for the entire panel when I say that we hold you and your family’s name in the highest respect and appreciation.”

  Lydia turned to face the commissioners. “Look to your consciences. Our ancestors may have been cruel, but let’s get it right this time. We can give more people access to this natural and historic resource, but let’s respect human rights. Let’s keep Shell Heap beautiful.”

  There was scattered applause, mostly on Martha’s side of the room.

  Astrid Humphries stood up. “If there’s crime on Shell Heap, as you claim, let’s fix that,” she said. “Put a police precinct on Shell Heap, if you have to. But to just steal our land, that has been in our families since slavery—”

  Bowden cut in. “No one’s going to steal anybody’s land, Astrid. Every resident will get fair compensation for their property. We need to follow the rules for public—”

  “It’s our heritage and way of life that’s at stake and you can’t put a price on that,” Astrid said. “If you sell our land, it will be like selling our ancestors all over again.”

  Bowden exhaled into the microphone, producing a sound like a blast furnace. “Astrid, there’s no reason to play on those kinds of emotions. The issue here isn’t race; it’s about the economic future of thi
s county.”

  A procession of other speakers followed Astrid, most registering complaints about the crime surge or the county’s economic stagnation. Forty-five minutes later, they reached the end of the stack of speaker slips. “Is there anyone else present who would care to comment on this matter?” Bowden asked wearily.

  The young man with the sunglasses and dreadlocks stepped away from the wall and headed to the podium. “Please state your full name, and affiliation,” Bowden said.

  “My name is immaterial,” the youth said. But Martha could hear a name being whispered by the people seated around her—Jarred? Jamal?

  The young man took off his sunglasses. His eyes were large, dark, and intense. “On behalf of my associates and the rightful owners of the Shell Heap tract, I speak here in protest against this criminal seizure of private property. This so-called ‘evidence’ of drug activity is a hoax. The artifacts were planted, and later discovered, as part of an effort to justify an immoral and mendacious landgrab.” He turned toward the commissioners, pointing toward each one of them with a slow sweep of his hand. “Let the public record show that we charge this board of commissioners, and the sheriff of Amberleen County, with criminal conspiracy.”

  The audience gasped. “Throw him out!” someone yelled, followed by an “Amen!”

  “This will be a civil proceeding,” Bowden said, slamming his gavel. “We want to be sure that all voices are heard, but this kind of inflammatory outburst will not be tolerated.”

  “Arrest them, Sheriff,” said a voice from the far side of the room.

  Bowden looked toward the secretary. “If all public comment has been heard, the board will entertain motions.”

  Commissioner Eunice Shelby, the only woman on the panel, spoke first. “I hereby move that this panel delay action on the Shell Heap tract until a full assessment of its historical value can be completed, in cooperation with the state agencies.”

  The room fell silent, except for the sound of the crickets outside and the faint hum of the fluorescent lights overhead.