Chapter 39
They stepped in unison, walking meditatively along the packed dirt of the cemetery path. The soft harmonies of the Praise House choir floated in the cool air of early spring. They paused and looked out across the field of gravestones, toward the lush maritime forest. Pennants of Spanish moss waved in the light breeze.
It was good that he’d come. It was so good to see him again, and to see him here. Martha fingered the whelk shell on her necklace, searching for the words. She needed the right thing to say, some hex that might allow her to break through.
Jarrell put the rubber tip of his cane against a flagstone and leaned. “It all looks the same.”
“Yes,” Martha said. “It was worse on the mainland. Some parts of Bay Street still aren’t repaired.”
“That’s because part of the island is protected by the sand dunes. Always has been.” Jarrell glanced toward the island road. “Where’s your new place?”
“Over in the village,” Martha said. “It’s pretty basic. No insulation, and it’s patched with tar paper, but the locals helped me fix up the inside. The owner is letting me use it rent-free while I work on the project.”
They came to a bench and sat. Martha sensed that Jarrell was looking at her, his gaze lingering a little too long. She set her bundle of camellias on the bench and smoothed the front of her shorts. Her fingers traced a bulge in her pocket—the buckeye nut she carried everywhere now, for good luck.
“You seem different,” Jarrell said.
“Really?”
“Healthier.”
“Thanks.” Martha hoped she wasn’t blushing. “I’m outside a lot. You know, no car. I just walk and bike everywhere. Also, I’ve cut back on meds. That helps. The new doctor—” She hesitated, winced at the memory of Vince’s murder that night. “About three months ago, my new doctor, Dr. Goodwin, decided to try reducing my dosage. I’m on a new drug now. It’s called clozapine. I take just three milligrams a day.”
“Does that get rid of all the symptoms?”
“No, it doesn’t. I still have them.”
Jarrell nodded.
“But I’m managing them better. Now I talk back to the voices. Sometimes I argue with them.” She chuckled, and watched Jarrell’s face for his reaction. She saw none.
“That’s cool.”
“I’m sleeping better, too.”
Jarrell waved the tip of his cane toward Martha’s leg. “How’s the calf?”
Martha raised her leg, showed him the blackened, dime-sized scar. “It’s ugly, but no functional damage. When does your brace come off?”
“Next month.”
“Sorry you were laid up so long.”
“It’s all right. It wasn’t altogether bad. I was able to do a lot of studying, get ready to go back to school. I had time to think about a lot of things, too.”
Martha turned toward him. “What kinds of things?”
“I’ve decided to change majors. I’m going into pre-law. I can make more of a difference in that field. I don’t know, maybe I’ll go into politics.”
They sat for a moment, watching the forest. Overhead, a squirrel chittered at them. It darted back and forth on the bough of a live oak.
“Jarrell—”
He turned toward her. “What?”
Martha’s heart was beating. She ran her fingers over the buckeye.
“I’m glad you came back.”
Jarrell nodded, twirled the cane in his fingers. They looked at the trees.
“How’s your book coming?” he finally blurted.
“It’s a massive job, just trying to get all the material organized. Seventy-five interviews. Every living resident of Shell Heap. There were some who were shy about it at first. But after they got to know me, they agreed to do it.”
“Seems like folks have really accepted you around here. I can tell you, that’s no small accomplishment.”
Martha nodded. “Yeah, they invite me to their social gatherings. I even attend church with them. And there’s a funny thing…”
“Yeah?” He turned toward her.
“These island people—especially the old ones—they ask me for advice.”
Jarrell chuckled. “Why does this not surprise me?”
“Seriously, they ask me for spiritual advice. Like, just over a week ago, this old man found a snakeskin in his yard. He thought it was a bad omen. He brought it to me and asked me what it meant. I told him I didn’t know. He insisted that I ask my voices.”
“Did you?”
“Yes. But they were silent. The voices had no comment. That’s what I told him. He seemed incredibly relieved. It was like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. I just…”
“Yeah?”
“I’m just afraid of what else the island people expect. I don’t know if I can do this. Do you think it’s wrong?”
“Well, I don’t hold truck with that mumbo-jumbo, but folks here are going to believe what they’re going to believe. Speaking of which”—Jarrell stood, reached into his jeans pocket—“I think this belongs to you.”
He held out a coil of root. It was flattened, part was broken off, but its serpentine character was intact. Martha smiled and took it. “Oh my God. How did you—”
“You gave it to me, remember? I had it that night. The whole time.”
Martha closed her fingers around the talisman.
“Come on,” Jarrell said, taking Martha’s hand. “I want to get this over with.”
He led her to a fenced plot of graves marked by polished granite blocks, the fronts slanted. An engraved sign on the iron fence read HUMPHRIES. Jarrell took a camellia from the bundle in Martha’s hand and placed it on the faint mound of earth in front of Astrid’s headstone. Next to it stood an older grave, fronted by well-established grass. His father. Jarrell turned away, looked out toward the trees. Martha could see his jaw tightening, a vein bulging on the side of his forehead.
“I’m so sorry, Jarrell.”
“I’m just glad they found her. Pulled her from the river.”
“I am, too.”
“At least people found out what really happened. That’s the way she would have wanted it.”
What really happened…the details took months to come out. Long, draining months. Interviews, inquisitions leading to depositions, and those leading to indictments. Conspiracy, accessory to murder charges. At least Martha, with her disability, was spared the ordeal of courtroom testimony.
They went on and reached a corner of the cemetery and the plot where Lady Albertha was buried, marked by a rough granite headstone. The inscription was simple—her name in capital letters, and below that, no dates, just a single word—SEER. Like many others here, it was decorated with shells and trinkets. Two halves of a broken bowl and a cracked mirror leaned against the headstone. Broken things, to stop the chain of death. Martha took another camellia and leaned it against the mirror.
—
At the ferry dock, a sizable group of tourists, including a noisy clutch of grade-school students, filed onto the boat.
“Looks like the island’s getting pretty popular,” Jarrell said.
“We’ve been getting more visitors since the Atlanta paper ran that series about Shell Heap last March. It got picked up in some other regional papers.”
“Well, at least you won’t have to deal with any hotels or golf courses for the time being.”
“Maybe not ever, if Senator Crumbley’s legislation passes,” Martha said.
“I’m working on that, too, you know. In Atlanta. Making phone calls, building up a base of support. I feel I can do more good there now than I can here.”
The ferry sounded its low-throated horn, a final summons to stragglers. Martha felt a catch in her throat. Please, not yet.
“Do you think you’ll be back?”
Jarrell looked at the boat, the river. “Nah. Not for a while.”
Martha looked at the grass, nodded.
Jarrell turned. “Could we—” Martha started.
He turned back toward her. “What?” His dark eyes were wide, conflicted. The emotions swirled like eddies.
“It was a short visit.”
“But you’ll be back in Atlanta sometime, right?”
“No. I mean, not right away. Dr. Goodwin said—”
Jarrell nodded. “I want a copy of your book, when it comes out. Will you sign one for me?”
“Sure, soon as it gets published. I mean, if it gets published.”
“It will be.”
The boat horn sounded again. Jarrell took her hand and held it, like a pale starfish in his large palm. He looked at her for a moment and she felt a warm tremble inside.
“You know, I just need some time to sort myself out,” he said.
“Me, too.” Her hair was blowing in front of her face. Jarrell brushed it aside. He bent down and gave her a soft kiss on the cheek.
Then he let go of her hand and her hair was fluttering again and she held it out of the way so she could see, so she wouldn’t lose sight of him as he crossed the metal ramp with his cane, moving slowly, head erect, shoulders straight. He went into the passenger cabin and then came to the window. They watched each other as the boat eased from the dock. It cruised downriver, followed by a churn of foaming water. She lost sight of him as the ferry curved around the bend and the wake dissipated.
With the bustle of the visitors gone, a hush settled over the island, and she was alone, separated from the busy world by the wide ribbon of water.
Martha wiped away her tears and took a deep breath. She cradled the serpent root in her hand and turned and headed across the dirt track that led through a green field of wild azaleas, ablaze in the late afternoon sun. The path led through a stand of hardwoods, and beyond that the shaded community and her little makeshift house.
Already, she could hear them waiting for her—incessant whispers, clamoring to tell stories of what might have been, of possibilities yet to come.
For my parents
Acknowledgments
The author would like to thank his creative writing mentors, Barbara Lebow and Frank Wittow, for their inspiration and example; his wife, Elizabeth St. Andre, for reintroducing him to the Sea Islands; his first-draft editor, Marcia Meier, for her valuable feedback and advice; his agent, Jennifer DeChiara, for her unwavering support; Barbara St. Andre, for her legal counsel; Amanda Barnett, for her advice about psychotherapy; and Judith Defrain, late proprietor of Eye of the Cat, for her advice on the ancient art of bone-throwing.
He is grateful to the fine team at Random House/Alibi, especially his editor, Dana Isaacson.
Thanks also to the readers of messy early drafts and excerpts from this book: Laura Butler, Richard Casey, Leslie Claire, Vickie Elliott, Maitreya Friedman, Ann Hennessey, Susan Marschner, Dan McNeill, Laura Otis, Alexes Razevich, Elizabeth St. Andre, Leslie Stuart, Julie Sullivan, and Megan Xuemei.
Acknowledgment also to Drums and Shadows, an account of oral folklore collected by the Georgia Writers’ Project and published in 1940, which was a source of inspiration and helped inform some of the dialect and customs of the Geechees portrayed in this novel.
PHOTO: ELIZABETH ST. ANDRE
R. K. JACKSON is a former CNN journalist who now works at Pasadena, California’s Jet Propulsion Laboratory. He lives with his family in the Los Padres National Forest and is at work on a second Martha Covington novel, The Kiss of the Sun.
randalkjackson.com
Facebook.com/rkjacksonAuthor
@JacksonJPL
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The Girl in the Maze Page 29