The Benevolent Lords of Sometimes Island

by Scott Semegran

  “How did you survive out there this long?” she said, a hushed silence following her question. She jabbed her microphone at my face.

  “I don’t know. We just did.”

  She tilted the microphone back at her. “What did you have to eat on the island?”

  The microphone pointed at me again. “Nothing. I tried to eat a leaf, but it was gross!”

  A smattering of laughter.

  “Nothing to drink either?” she continued. She moved the microphone again closer to my face.

  “Well,” I said, looking at my friends. Brian nodded for me to continue. “We tried to drink the lake water, but it was—”

  “I found a can of Pepsi Light in the lake! We shared that!” Miguel blurted. He folded his arms across his chest in a self-congratulatory kind of way, a toothy grin gleaming. He was really mugging for the camera.

  “Pepsi Light?” Cokey Ramirez said, then chuckled. “They may offer you a sponsorship after this!”

  “Nah, I like Big Red better. Can I get a sponsorship from them?!”

  More smatterings of laughter. The reporter continued, now aiming the microphone at Brian—his face beaming. I could tell both of my friends were enjoying this bit of media attention. It was a stark contrast from the last few days stuck on that unforgiving, rocky island with little hope to survive.

  “You know, I’m surprised your time on the island didn’t turn into a Lord of the Flies situation. That’s what they always say about people who get stranded from civilization, that they devolve into savages. Did that ever occur to you while you were out there?”

  She pointed the microphone at Brian. “Who do you think we are, lady? A bunch of jerks?!”

  Cokey Ramirez was caught off guard by Brian’s proclamation, but she forced a smile, then chuckled nonetheless. She wrapped up the interview by asking the three of us to stand together so they could film a conclusion for the segment. Camera lights flashed. Salutations were given. People clapped. It was a surreal moment for me and my friends.

  But the celebratory moment didn’t last as long as I would’ve liked. While Cokey Ramirez wrapped up the interview, my mother unceremoniously grabbed me by my arm and pulled me close to her, her manicured nails digging into my upper arm. A dour look hung on her face and she gripped my arm even tighter as she knelt in front of me. My step-dad towered behind her, his hands on his hips, his squinty eyes on me like hot glue.

  “Billy?” she started, then cleared her throat. That damn nickname again. “There’s someone that wants to ask you some questions.”

  I covered my heart with my hands. “Questions?”

  “Yes, he’s a lawman,” she said.

  From the gaggle of people and the thrum of their chatter appeared a burly hand the size of a baseball mitt, extended to me for a shake. As I grabbed the leathery hand, I followed the arm it was attached to up to the face of the man hoping to question me: Sheriff Samuel Hill.

  “Or you can simply call me Sam. That’s what all my friends call me,” he said with a baritone drawl, then chuckled. His grip was firmer than I could bear, reminding me that I was not as mature as I would’ve preferred. He pumped his shake three times. My hand continued to throb after he released it. “Can I ask you a few questions?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  My mother and step-dad stepped aside, leaving me with Sheriff “Sam” Hill and his deputy, a tall and doughy Hispanic man with a nametag announcing his surname to be “Gonzalez.” Sheriff Hill was brusque and monumental like a granite boulder, his furrowed brow dipping in the middle with a penetrating “V,” pitch black aviator sunglasses with gold frames disguising the color of his eyes, a government-issued cowboy hat capping his bristly maned head, his grizzled visage punctuated by a mustache that perched above his thin, chapped lips like a corn bristle broom. A toothpick danced across the row of yellow kernels at the bottom of his mouth.

  “I understand there were four of you,” he began, hocking up a loogy, then swallowing it. “Excuse me. There were four of you to begin with, is that correct?”

  “Yes,” I said sheepishly.

  “Speak up, son. It’s loud out here.”

  “Yes!”

  “What happened to him? It’s a him, I presume.”

  “His name is Randy.”

  Sheriff Hill smirked. “Randy is a fine name. What happened to Randy?”

  “He got bit by a snake—”

  “A water moccasin!” Brian blurted. He must have been listening to my interrogation and wanted to help.

  “And you are?” Sheriff Hill said to Brian.

  “I’m one of his best friends,” Brian said, a smile as big as a cumulus cloud in the Texas sky.

  The smirk on Sheriff Hill’s face returned. “Is he dead?”

  “No,” I told him. “The helicopter took him away when I told the soldier he got bit by a snake.”

  He rubbed his stubbly chin. “I see.”

  “Are we in trouble?”

  “Why would you think that?” the sheriff said, the toothpick two-stepping from one side of his mouth to the other.

  “Because you’re talking to me,” I said, my vision darting between the old sheriff’s face and my worried friend.

  “I just need to ask you a few things before you go home with your parents. Is that OK?”

  “I guess,” I said, looking up to my mother. She returned a stern look along with a slow nod of her head. “It’s OK with me.”

  “Good. So, I overheard you say a little while ago to the fine reporter lady that you were being chased. Is that right?”

  “Chased?” I said, looking over to Brian. A look of concern wallpapered his face.

  “That is what you—”

  And just like a spring shower appearing in the sky out of nowhere, my eyes sprung a leak. I was consumed with so much guilt and anxiety and worry that I couldn’t contain the wrestling emotions. The spring shower of tears quickly transformed into a full-on thunderstorm.

  Sheriff Hill was caught off guard by my unabashed display of emotion. He patted me on the shoulder—his face turning the color of fresh tomatoes—then handed my mother a business card he pulled from his breast pocket.

  “Maybe it’s too soon to speak to your son,” he said to my mom, clearing a fresh loogy from his throat, then swallowing it. The toothpick danced a jig back to the other side of his mouth. He pulled another card from his pocket as well as a black pen. “If I could have your home number, then I’ll call you in a matter of days. My contact information is on my card.”

  My mother recited our home telephone number to the sheriff, who dutifully scribbled it on the back of the card, then inserted the card in his breast pocket.

  “Good day, ma’am,” he said, lifting his cowboy hat ever so slightly, tilting his head in a conciliatory fashion. He repeated the friendly tilt to my step-dad. “Sir.”

  He quickly left the marina, followed close behind by Deputy Gonzalez, which had the effect of pulling a stopper from a full bath; the rest of the boaters milling about slowly filed out, too, as well as Cokey Ramirez and the TV news crew.

  My step-dad leaned close to my mother. “Maybe we should take Billy home.”

  “Good idea,” she replied, then patted my shoulder. “Ready to go home, dear?”

  I pulled up the front of my shirt to wipe my blubbering face, then noticed my friends receiving similar looks from their parents (time to go!) and the last of the onlookers: Tony and Victoria along with their parents. I wanted to say goodbye to my friends and conceded as much to my mother. She obliged me with a nod. So, I gave quick hugs to Brian and Miguel.

  “See you tomorrow?”

  “Yeah!” they said. It was wishful thinking on my part. Little did I know we would all be grounded the next day, to varying degrees of punishment and lengths of time. I would get the worst of it.

  Then came my goodbyes for Tony and Victoria. I hugged them both.

  “Thanks for helping to rescue us.”

  “Right on, little dude,” Tony said.
He patted me on the back.

  “Maybe we’ll see you around again,” Victoria said.

  “That would be so coooool,” I said.

  Then my mother put her arm around me and escorted me out to our family car. I got in the backseat of our silver 1984 Honda Accord and watched the marina shrink into the distance as we drove home to Converse, Texas.

  28.

  Little did I know that my coveted prize for being rescued from a deserted island in the middle of Canyon Lake was a sentence of solitary confinement for the rest of the summer. My parents forbade me from seeing any of my friends, watching TV, talking on the telephone, or riding my bike. I was to stay in my room and think about what I did and the pain I caused my parents as well as the other parents, every day until it was time to go back to school. And I did think about that just a little, but the rest of the time in my room was dedicated to drawing cartoons, writing stories, and reading comic books. In that sense, being sentenced to solitary confinement wasn’t half bad. In fact, I rather liked sitting in my room while I drew, wrote, and read to my heart’s content. I did miss my friends, but it could’ve been much worse. I knew I would see them eventually, and I had whatever I wanted to eat and drink whenever I wanted it. It wasn’t all bad. Much better than being stuck on that goddamn island, if you’d asked me. But still, I was grounded. My parents were always the strictest during the first week of a grounding, especially the first day or so. But once the week went on and they became distracted by their own bullshit, their watchful eyes wandered and they pretty much left me alone after that.

  The following Monday while Steve was at work and my mother was grocery shopping, Brian paid me a quick visit. He rode his bike to my house as fast as he could because he wanted to let me know that Randy was OK and that he was recovering at home. He received antivenom at the hospital soon after the helicopter landed and was sent home after staying one night in the intensive care unit. Being so young and strong also helped his speedy recovery. I was relieved to know he didn’t die, which was my worst fear. I didn’t see Randy for the rest of the summer because he told Brian his mother was taking him to his grandparents’ house in Louisiana, where he would stay until school started again in September. He told me all this while we ate an entire package of Double-stuffed Oreos in my room while my parents were away.

  “My parents say Shreveport is a dump and filled with racists,” Brian said while patting his auburn Afro with one hand and shoving an Oreo into his mouth with the other. He was always patting his Afro, even though its shape never changed. He wiped his mouth with the back of his free hand after he swallowed his cookie.

  “I see. How’s Miguel?”

  He fished in the package for another cookie, but they were gone. “Good. He told me his parents are making his brother join the army. The jerk deserves worse than that, though.”

  “Totally,” I agreed, but quickly pivoted to more important matters. “Want a vanilla Drumstick?”

  “Can’t. I gotta go to Sheila’s house.”

  “Sheila?” I said, quite shocked at the unexpected sound of a girl’s name. Since when did Brian talk about girls? And why was she more important than eating ice cream with one of his best friends? “Who’s that?”

  “Oh, oh, Sheila,” he sang, then jumped up and attempted a goofy dance move. “Let me love you till the morning comes.”

  We both laughed as I knew the popular song he was singing by the R & B group Ready for the World, or at least tried to sing. He quickly left on his bike afterwards without saying who Sheila was or where he met her or how attractive she was, although I learned later that summer that he was sneaking out of The Mansion late at night and into Sheila’s house, where he loved her till the morning came—just like the song said. To this day, whenever I hear the song Oh Sheila, I think of Brian and the mysterious girl who he had clandestine intercourse with, under the roof of her unsuspecting parents’ house. This was just the beginning of many bad decisions for Brian concerning girls and women.

  Miguel kept in contact with me that summer by mailing letters he typed using WordPerfect on his Apple IIe personal computer, then printed on a dot matrix printer. He confirmed what Brian had told me about his brother, Rogelio, and by the end of the summer, that jerk was stationed at Lackland Air Force Base for six weeks of basic training in the blistering Texas sun, although the bit about the army was incorrect. He enlisted in the Air Force instead, as was his father’s bidding. I never saw Rogelio again. And I wouldn’t see Miguel in person until the first day of school. But I did enjoy his neatly typed, lengthy letters about his specific fascination with history. I got about one a week in the mail. He was busy studying the history of benevolent and malevolent rulers as well as prophets and a variety of religious saviors. He was branching out his knowledge of history and wanted to tell me all about it. Typical Miguel stuff.

  He also used the letters to confess secrets like a Catholic used Confession with a priest to shed the guilt from sin. One of the secrets he revealed was his father was the reason the helicopter and soldier saved us from Sometimes Island, being that the helicopter pilot from Randolph Air Force Base owed him a favor. Turns out the pilot was caught drinking and driving one night on the military base by an M. P. (that stands for military police) and when he was taken into the base police station, he begged the commander for leniency, as he didn’t want to lose his position as a pilot. Turns out the M. P. commander was Miguel’s father. So, when Miguel’s father learned where we were stranded and that it was a treacherous place for us to be, he called in his favor to the troubled helicopter pilot who was obliged to help. In the letter, Miguel begged me not to tell anyone about what his father pulled off and I never did, until now. Funny how the world works.

  A couple of weeks after my parents brought me home from Canyon Lake, Sheriff Samuel “Sam” Hill paid me a visit. I wasn’t told in advance that he was coming. My mother just stuck her head in my room unannounced—as she was prone to do—and blurted it out while I sat on the floor with all my precious belongings spread out around me.

  “Someone is here to see you, dear,” she said sharply. “Make yourself presentable.”

  “Who is it?” I said, standing then closing the fly on my jeans.

  “Sheriff Hill.”

  I felt my face scrunch. “Who’s Sheriff Hill?”

  “From the lake,” she said, then opened the door to my room. “Here he is.”

  “Oh.”

  I had completely forgotten all about Sheriff Samuel “Sam” Hill, as was standard operating procedure for a boy my age and with such a limited attention span. But once he appeared in my room with his very recognizable features—bristle broom mustache, tanned leather skin, baseball mitt-sized hands, tan and brown uniform, dancing toothpick in his mouth—the memory of who he was, and what he wanted, quickly dislodged from the swamp of my distracted mind. When he entered my room with his cowboy hat in his hand and pressed to his chest, he nodded to my mother, then she closed the door.

  “Howdy,” he said to me, then scanned my room. He wasn’t wearing his sunglasses this time, exposing his penetrating, dirt-colored eyes. Finding a chair at my desk, he extended his large hand to it. “Do you mind if I sit?”

  I shook my head. He pulled the chair around and sat down. He motioned for me to sit down on the floor, so I did. His ominous presence in my room made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. He smelled of cigarettes, coffee, and gun oil. He looked around, first at all the things scattered on the floor, then at the pictures I had taped to the walls. He chuckled.

  “This is a boy’s paradise,” he said, rubbing his stubbly chin. The toothpick in his mouth danced back and forth on his chapped lips. “You like living here with your parents?”

  “Yessir,” I quickly responded.

  “That’s good. That’s good,” he said. “You like comic books?”

  “Yessir.” As you can see, my answers became stuck in a broken groove, like a scratched LP record under a bouncing needle. Anxiety will do that to a
boy.

  “I liked comic books, too, when I was a young boy. Superman was my favorite. Where was it he liked to go?” Sheriff Hill swept a hand across his bald crown, smoothing down a few wild strands, then he placed his cowboy hat back on his head where it belonged. “The Fortress of...”

  I was shocked at the quick turn of events. A grizzly, old lawman discussing comic books with me in my room? It was unfathomable! My own mother didn’t even attempt to discuss comic books with me. How strange.

  He continued. “Solitude! That’s it. My old brain still works as it should. Sometimes, anyway. The Fortress of Solitude. You like Superman?”

  “Yessir,” I said, even though Superman wasn’t my favorite hero. He was kind of hokey to me and my friends. He was old-fashioned, just like the sheriff.

  “Do you have a favorite hero? And don’t say yessir again, son. I can see you’re being polite.”

  I lowered my head and rubbed my neck. A dozen or more comic books were fanned out on the floor in front of me, in plain view of the sheriff. I felt he already knew my answer to the question.

  “Spider-Man. He’s my favorite.”

  “Spider-Man, Spider-Man. Does whatever a spider can,” he sang with his gravelly voice, then chuckled. “Figures. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

  I slowly nodded. What else was I supposed to do?

  “Do you know a boy named Billy Callahan?”

  I felt a twist in my gut, an awful malicious twist from an evil spirit. I didn’t know what to say, so I just stared back at Sheriff Hill. Bloody Billy’s ugly face appeared in my mind’s eye, staring back at me.

  “He went to Robert E. Lee High School. Worked at the sporting goods store last spring. Volunteered at the American Legion on Saturdays helping disabled veterans. Everyone says he was a good kid.”