Coastal Disturbance

by Jessica Speart

  “What did you do?” I asked, against my better judgment.

  “I hung a colander on the doorknob and sprinkled salt on the floor. That way, she won’t be able to get back into her skin.”

  Okay. Who was I to judge, when I slept with a TV on to keep my demons at bay?

  “So tell me. What do you see in my future?” I lightly questioned, having always had a weakness when it came to fortune-telling.

  Eight-Ball studied me with wizened eyes. “What I see is a whole lotta pain, and that you’re gonna be alone for a while. You’re also gonna find out what’s killin’ those critters in Purvis Creek. ’Course, there’s a good chance that you’ll wind up dead yourself while working out in the marsh.”

  So much for any humdrum prophecy of marriage, kids, and a house with a white picket fence.

  A bell jar of absolute silence descended upon us, and I imagined this was how it felt to be encased in a coffin. The spell was broken when a bird’s piercing cry shattered the invisible dome. It also jostled Eight-Ball into action. Pulling up the net, he dumped its contents into the ice chest, which was nearly brimming with shrimp.

  “Well, I see you still got beer, and I got fish. So why don’t I cook us up a Lowcountry Boil for supper?”

  Fresh shrimp for supper? He’s cooking? Sounded good to me.

  “Sure. I’ll follow you back to your place. I’m in that black Explorer over there, so you don’t lose me.”

  “It would be hard to do that even if I wanted,” Eight-Ball chuckled. “I’m stayin’ with my cousin these days, and she lives just down the road.”

  This time I drove back along South Harrington not as an intruder, but an invited guest. No matter. The old women in their shower caps still gave me the evil eye. I followed Eight-Ball onto a tiny dirt path marked Mamalou Lane, near where yet another old shack was being torn down.

  No longer was I surrounded by rustic forest, but a near impenetrable jungle. The area was rife with Tarzanlike vines, palmettos, and live oaks weeping tears of Spanish lace. I could have used a machete just to cut my way through the place.

  Eight-Ball came to a stop in front of a tiny house that looked as though a vat of cotton candy had exploded all over it. The exterior color nearly pulsated, so vibrant was its coat of shocking pink. All except for the door and window frames, which were painted an unusual shade of blue.

  Eight-Ball parked next to a lime-green Chevy Caprice, while I pulled up behind an old Pontiac Catalina topped with a red velour roof. Gold tassels hung gaily from the Pontiac’s rear window, but it was the sticker plastered on its bumper that I loved best: Bitch Goddess.

  Equally apparent was that Eight-Ball’s cousin had joined forces with the rest of the neighborhood by the sign on the lawn that declared, DON’T ASK/WON’T SELL.

  Owww ooooh, came a deep howl from around the back of the house.

  Owww ooooh! The call sounded again, only this time much closer.

  Owww ooooh! The yowl morphed into a hairy critter with four legs and a tail.

  I almost thought it was a spectral version of Elvis’s Hound Dog, as a mangy mutt that was greatly in need of a bath came trotting toward us. Eight-Ball bent down and the hound went to work licking his face, followed by another round of baying.

  “It’s okay, boy. I’m home now,” Eight-Ball reassured the lovesick pup. “This is my dog, Jake. I swear the day I die is when he’ll finally stop howling.”

  Funny about that. The day I died was when I wanted my Jake to begin crying bloody murder. I took a closer look at Eight-Ball’s dog and decided that both Jakes shared almost the same exact nose. Only mine had much better breath.

  “Did Venus leave you outside again? Well, we’re just gonna have to do somethin’ about that,” Eight-Ball said, and gave the pooch a loving pat. “You come on in with me.”

  I followed along, figuring that he was probably talking to both of us.

  We walked into a house that literally took my breath away. I’d never before seen a place that looked as though Tammy Faye Bakker and Hugh Hefner had joined forces to decorate. The color scheme in the living room was bright pink and burgundy red, with accentuating touches of black and gold. Tammy Faye’s influence was in all the frills, velvet pillows, lace curtains, and bows, while Hef held sway over the abundance of nudes that filled the room, from porcelain figurines to lamps and paintings. I began to wonder if Eight-Ball’s cousin might not be running a bordello. In fact, it made me curious as to what all those women wearing shower caps had in their homes.

  However, if I’d been expecting someone in a raggedy housecoat, I was in for a big surprise. A vision in pink satin pajamas and a blond Shirley Temple wig floated into the room. Only this was no petite girl, but one heck of a lot of woman. She wasn’t alone.

  Accompanying her was an equally large man dressed in a brown pinstriped suit, and flaunting a gold medallion around his neck. Each of his steps held the heft of a tractor trailer, causing the nude figurines to quiver.

  Eight-Ball’s cousin headed directly for me, shaking her curly head so hard that the rest of her body followed suit.

  “You see that sign out front, girl? That says it all. Don’t ask, cause I ain’t gonna sell. Now if you’re smart, you’ll get outta my house while the going is good!”

  Jake protested for me by emitting a loud howl.

  “And what’s that ugly mutt doing back in here?” she demanded of Eight-Ball, placing an ornery fist on each hip.

  “First off, this is Rachel Porter,” Eight-Ball retorted. “You remember? She’s that Fish and Wildlife agent who didn’t give me a ticket.”

  His cousin’s demeanor abruptly changed, as she now turned to me with a broad smile.

  “Why, Eight-Ball told me all about you. I’m Venus Monroe. In that case, come on in and sit yourself down.”

  I was led to an overstuffed sofa that was missing its springs. I sank into the cushions and was nearly suffocated in velvet.

  “And this is my good friend, Reverend Bayliss,” she said, introducing the man beside her.

  The Reverend’s teeth gleamed like polished pieces of ivory. “God blesses those that fight for the helpless,” he said by way of greeting.

  “But that still doesn’t explain what this damn dog’s doing in here,” Venus remarked with a scowl.

  “Now, Venus. Jake’s one of God’s creatures, too,” the Reverend tried to reason.

  “So is a snake,” she snapped. “That thing can come into this house on one condition only. You gotta give it a bath.”

  I had to admit, she had a point.

  “Okay, but I’ll do it later,” Eight-Ball grudgingly consented. “First I wanna tend to dinner. After all, we gotta eat.”

  Venus and the Reverend vigorously nodded in agreement.

  “Why don’t we all join him in the kitchen where we can talk?” she suggested.

  The Reverend helped to pull me up from my velvet crypt, and I followed them down the hallway. The decor slowly changed until the house looked like any other, without the slightest hint of erotica. In fact, the kitchen was downright homey. Things got even cozier as Venus and the Reverend helped themselves to beer while Eight-Ball prepared dinner.

  “Do you mind telling me why everyone has those signs posted in their yards? I inquired.

  “Why, that’s to keep the vultures away,” the Reverend explained. “There’s a land grab going on in these parts that’s like a damn shark feeding frenzy.”

  I was momentarily taken aback to hear him curse. “Is this something that’s fairly recent?”

  “No, it started about four years ago. Developers kept themselves busy before then with the southern part of the island. But that’s all been built up, so now they’re beginning to move here. They figure it’s time to target large tracts of land owned by poor black folks. Next thing you know, they’re sending letters, calling all the time and knocking on doors. Generally doing whatever they can to harass our senior citizens into accepting their offers.”

  “I guess the de
velopers are getting tired of waitin’ for us all to die off,” Venus sniffed.

  “It seems there’s no longer any room for those folks who’ve been here for generations. All that matters these days is the almighty dollar.” The Reverend’s voice rose in an angry throb.

  “Apparently, some people have decided to take the money and run,” I remarked. “I noticed that a few new houses are already under construction.”

  It was as though I’d lit the fuse on a powder keg as the Reverend turned to me, full of hellfire and brimstone.

  “Let me tell you a little something about those people that sold. We’re talking old folks who were preyed upon and worn down, until their spirit finally broke. Developers came in here offering them what seemed like a whole lot of money. But they soon discovered it didn’t go very far. Not after they paid their lawyers and had to find another place to live. Where they wound up was over in the projects in Brunswick. Now those folks are worse off than before. Their land is gone and they’ll never get it back.”

  “Not only that, but what do you think it does to the rest of us who are trying to hang on?” Venus chimed in. “You got these big fancy-ass mansions being built next door. That means our property values soar. My taxes just went up forty percent. Forty percent! We’re all low income. None of us can afford to pay that kind of money. Soon, we’ll have no choice but to sell. That’s when all the wealthy white folk will move in.”

  “Meanwhile, you know how much those damn lots are going for? Anywhere from three hundred thousand to one million dollars, depending on their size and access to the Frederica River. And this is happening right here, in the last bastion of historic black-owned property in these United States. It’s economic genocide, I’m telling you!” the Reverend indignantly exploded. “How are we supposed to preserve our heritage on this island when we’re losing out to golf courses and resort developments? I’ll be damned if we aren’t getting shafted all over again!”

  The community was clearly under siege.

  “But worst of all is that people are being strong-armed to sell,” he asserted. “You just ask sister Venus here.”

  Venus strenuously nodded, sending the curls on her wig bobbing like a clutch of hungry chicks.

  “Reverend’s speaking the truth. I worked as a maid for a family of rich folk over on Sea Island only to be fired because I refused to sell my house.”

  Sea Island was connected to St. Simons by flyway. Locally referred to as La La Land, the place fully lived up to the name. A drive along Millionaire’s Row showcased a succession of houses with each one larger than the next.

  A profusion of Mercedes, Jaguars, Ferraris, and Porsches sat like motorized jewels in the driveways, while the guy mowing the lawn raked in a cool two hundred grand a year. Residents spent their days either jogging, playing tennis, or shooting a game of golf. And why not? They wanted to stay healthy and live forever, in order to enjoy their money for as long as they could.

  Maybe if I was a good girl in this lifetime, I’d be born wealthy in the next. As it was, I felt lucky just to be able to pay my bills.

  “Why would your former employer have cared whether or not you sold your home?” I asked Venus.

  “Beats the hell outta me. But the good Lord provides in the most amazing ways. Would you believe I’m getting back at him, and he don’t even know it?” she revealed with a mischievous grin. “Praise the Lord is all I can say!”

  “Amen, sister,” intoned Reverend Bayliss.

  I wouldn’t have been surprised if a gospel choir had materialized, singing and clapping their hands.

  “I got my own business now. Well, it’s a school actually,” Venus divulged. “What Mr. Howard damn-the-man Drapkin don’t know is that his wife comes here twice a week to study with me. Hell, she pays double what I used to make, and I ain’t cleaning no toilets or scrubbing no floors. Glory be to God!”

  “Shout it out loud, sister!” the Reverend encouraged.

  I now realized who Bayliss reminded me of, with his pomaded hair and bombastic voice. The good Reverend was a cross between the Godfather of soul, James Brown, and that guerilla politician and PR machine extraordinaire, Al Sharpton.

  I was musing on that, when the name Venus had just mentioned penetrated my consciousness.

  “Howard Drapkin? Is that the same Mr. Drapkin that you work for, Eight-Ball?”

  “Sure enough,” he chuckled. “Funny thing is, he don’t realize that Venus is my cousin.”

  “That’s right. It’s cause we don’t have the same last name. Not that he ever gave me much thought, anyway,” she said, making a face. “Why don’t you tell Miss Rachel what Drapkin did to you, Eight-Ball, and see what she has to say.”

  Eight-Ball grew somber. “That old house we passed around the corner that’s being torn down? It’s where I used to live.”

  “It’s a helluva lot more than just that. Not only was Eight-Ball born there, but also his mama, and Grandma Lulu before her,” Venus interjected.

  Eight-Ball’s expression became pained as he continued on, almost as if guilt were eating him up. “I didn’t wanna sell, but Mr. Drapkin, he badgered me something awful. Then he got me that extra job taking Mr. Williams out in the marsh. After a while, he offered to set me up in a place near DRG. Said it would be real nice and I could even walk to work. Soon, I didn’t have no choice but do what he wanted.”

  “What do you mean?” I questioned. “Did he threaten you?”

  “Not in so many words. But Mr. Drapkin, he let me know that people might be laid off, and he’d only keep those who were loyal. So, I went ahead and did as he asked.”

  Drapkin sounded like a real piece of work. But then again, he was a businessman who knew how to get what he wanted.

  Eight-Ball fell silent as he tended to the mixture of unpeeled shrimp, sausage, crab, onions, rutabagas, white and sweet potatoes, turnips, carrots, and corncobs all simmering together in a big stainless steel pot. He expelled a deep sigh while stirring the contents with a wire scoop.

  “Turns out selling my house was the worst thing I ever done. That nice new home Mr. Drapkin had all set up for me? It’s in the Brunswick projects, not a place fit for man or dog. Ain’t that right, Jake?” Eight-Ball shook his head and a bitter laugh escaped his lips. “Sometimes I hate that man for what he done. Hunnuh ain gwine kno wey hunnuh duh gwine ef hunnuh ain kno wey hunnuh dey frum.”

  “What’s that?” I asked, never having heard the language before.

  “It’s an old Gullah saying Grandma Lulu used that means you won’t know where you’re going, if you don’t know where you’re from. Ain’t that the truth? Our West African ancestors knew it was important not to lose their roots. That’s what my home was to me. Course on the other hand, I still got a job.”

  “And you’ll always have a home and roots here with me.” Venus gave Eight-Ball a hug, as the man wiped a tear from his cheek.

  “That’s enough of that. Let’s eat,” Eight-Ball gruffly announced, ladling the stew into four big bowls.

  We sat down at a pink Formica table and began to eat.

  “So, why do you think Drapkin pressured you to move?” I asked him.

  “Most likely ’cause I inherited five acres of waterfront property along South Harrington Road.”

  Eight-Ball’s metal spoon clinked against his teeth, as I tried to figure out how much money that would amount to.

  Ka-ching! Ka-ching! the spoon responded, tallying it up to millions of dollars.

  “Besides like I told you, Mr. Williams and my boss are friends. I figure he’s just helping Mr. Williams get land for his Golden Dreams Development company.”

  “And probably getting a hefty kickback in the process,” Venus cynically snorted.

  “It’s obvious that Golden Dreams Development and your boss, Mr. Drapkin, are linked in some way,” I responded, having no doubt that she was correct.

  “You want to know what’s really going on? I’ll be happy to tell you,” the Reverend pompously interjected. �
�Drapkin and his kind have ruined Brunswick with all their damn dirty industry, and don’t want to live there anymore. Instead they’ve decided to come here to St. Simons where everything’s nice and clean. But first they gotta move us poor folk out of the way to make room for their big fancy houses. I’m telling you, they’re planning to make St. Simons their own private resort. Hell, it wouldn’t surprise me none if they even gated this place to keep others out, just like those folks on Sea Island are trying to do.” Bayliss stabbed a finger in the air, punctuating each point.

  “I think you’re getting a little carried away,” I offered, dipping a piece of bread into the stew. “There are lots of shops here on St. Simons. No one’s about to close those off to the general public and shut down a good source of revenue. Besides, putting a stop to commercial development would only be counterproductive to someone like Williams.”

  The Lowcountry boil was terrific. I got up to get some more, only to have Jake nail me for the easy mark I was. He waited until I’d lowered the ladle into the pot, and then began to whine as though he hadn’t eaten for days. I slipped a spoonful into his dish to quiet him down.

  “Which brings us around to Clark Williams and his damn Golden Dreams Development Corporation. Golden Dreams my ass! Golden Dollars is more like it,” the Reverend irately huffed. “You can’t tell me that Williams and Drapkin aren’t somehow washing each other’s hands. Hell, we don’t stand a chance, what with Williams now running for Congress. You can bet your bootie he’ll get all sorts of legislation passed that’ll end up helping the ‘haves’ and screwing the ‘have nots.’ I’ve got a good mind to run against him, myself.”

  Bayliss was reminding me more of Al Sharpton with each passing minute.

  “As far as I’m concerned, we got us a case of environmental injustice going on here, what with rich folks messing up their own backyard and then thinking we’re all gonna swap places.” The Reverend stopped speaking long enough to shovel a spoonful of stew into his mouth.