The House on Fripp Island

by Rebecca Kauffman

  Poppy laughed. She kissed Lisa’s forehead and felt a pang of discomfort, realizing she couldn’t honestly say the same of Lisa. Lisa was a very distant fourth in Poppy’s life. Maybe not even. Yikes. Better not to discuss rankings ever, with anyone.

  Lisa seemed unbothered by the silence. Eventually, she straightened up and refilled her wine. “I’m just gonna try and keep things cool between Scott and me for the rest of vacation. I want Scott to get as much quality time in with the girls as he can, so hopefully we can all have some good memories of this week regardless of what happens down the line.”

  “I concur,” Poppy said. She rinsed her wine glass. “Do you want to come back to the beach?”

  “Not just yet,” Lisa said. “I’m going to have another glass of wine, maybe lie in bed for a few minutes. You go on ahead.”

  Everyone had reconvened at the beach umbrella by the time Poppy returned, except for Scott, who was out in the water. It appeared that he, or someone, had filled in the grave he’d dug while she was gone. Rae had returned from her long walk. John, Ryan, Alex, Rae, and Kimmy were playing a rousing game of Twenty Questions.

  Poppy fanned her greasy face with both hands. The shade of the umbrella was wonderful after the sweltering walk from the house.

  She was relieved to observe that Kimmy seemed entirely unaffected by her father’s mood. As usual, Rae wore a slightly sour and indecipherable expression, and Poppy expected that she too was oblivious to her parents’ troubles.

  Poppy said, “I’m gonna go for a quick dip.”

  Rae said, “Where’s my mom at?”

  “She’s having a quick rest at the house,” Poppy explained. “She wanted to get out of the sun for a few minutes.”

  Rae said, “I’m gonna go in for a little bit too.”

  Poppy didn’t see much use in trying to talk Rae out of this; it would only draw attention to the situation if she objected to Rae going in. “OK, hon, but I think your mom might be taking a nap in her room. I’d let her sleep if you can, she seemed really tuckered out.”

  Rae looked mildly insulted by the suggestion that she was going inside in order to spend time with her mother. “I just want to get out of the sun,” Rae said. “I don’t care if she’s sleeping.”

  As Poppy approached the water, Scott was facing away, staring at the horizon, bobbing with the gentle rolling waves. She dunked and paddled out his way, and when she reached him, she said, “Glad to see you’re still with us.”

  Scott turned. “Huh?”

  Poppy nodded toward the shore. “When I saw the grave was all filled in I got worried.”

  Scott pinched his nostrils.

  “I’m joking,” Poppy said. “But . . . is everything alright?”

  “What’s that?”

  “It seemed like you were in such a mood when you got back from golfing. Then digging that hole and all.”

  Scott reached up a hand to slick back his hair in a glamorous sort of gesture. Poppy’s eyes fell on a bubble of bright red the size of a pencil eraser at the base of his thumb. The blister.

  “Just played a bad game,” Scott said. “That’s it. I hate to lose. I’m over it, though. There’s always tomorrow. Or the next day.”

  “Tomorrow or the next day?”

  “Sure,” Scott said, adjusting his sunglasses. “I’ll definitely want to play another round with those guys before we head home. Gotta redeem myself.”

  Poppy reared back. “Oh, come on, you really think that’s a good idea?” she said. “Disappear for four hours and come back in such a funk you have to go for an hour-long swim before you can spend time with your family? And you’re gonna do it all again tomorrow or the next day?”

  “Jesus, lady,” Scott said, taken aback by her tone. He scowled at her.

  “Isn’t that why you go on vacation? Isn’t that the point? To spend time with your family? You’re here to make memories with your girls, aren’t you? It’s like you’re trying to come up with ways to piss off your wife. What’re ya thinkin’, man?”

  Poppy didn’t give a shit what happened between Scott and Lisa once the vacation was over, but she’d had about enough drama for the rest of the week. The two of them were treading on thin ice, thinking they could get through vacation with their daughters none the wiser if they kept this up.

  Scott said, “You really think Lisa even cares what I do? Pop, you know we’ve got our problems. I know Lisa confides in you, and I’m fine with that. She talks to you more than she talks to me. My wife can’t stand me!” He seemed half amused by this, but there was also an edge to his voice, there was a wound. “Anyway, I figure I’m doing Lisa a favor spending half the day on the golf course. Otherwise we’re gonna be at each other’s throats all day.”

  Poppy considered this. “You might be right, actually,” she said.

  “Of course I’m right,” Scott said. “My wife really and truly hates me. Serious. She doesn’t want to touch me with a ten-foot pole.”

  “Are you saying . . .” Poppy paused. She didn’t want to reveal too much. Even if he wasn’t lying about playing golf, an affair still seemed the best explanation for their troubles—the erratic sex life, the emotional gulf between them, the callous resentment. “Are you saying you don’t think you’ve given her any reason?”

  Scott grew quiet. He stared far out over the charcoal ocean. “I don’t know,” he eventually said. “I often wonder.”

  Poppy felt a sudden pang of consternation. Unsure of herself. She pictured Scott (if he really was innocent in all of this) seeing his wife day after day and wondering in earnest, What have I done to deflate her yet again? This made Poppy seriously sad.

  “Sorry I snapped at you,” she said. “I take it back. What do I know?” She blew her wet nose into her wet fingers and rinsed them in the ocean. “I don’t know nothin’.”

  Scott laughed. “You’re OK,” he said. He took off his sunglasses, dunked, surfaced again.

  He looked old and tired, eyes as red-rimmed as a hound’s.

  The possibility that she might have misjudged the situation with Scott and Lisa depressed Poppy in curious ways. Was it possible for two people to fall this badly out of sync with each other without either of them being to blame? No discernible letdown or betrayal, just . . . the love ended? God, could that happen? No, no, that didn’t just happen to people. It couldn’t. There had to be more, had to be something Poppy didn’t know.

  11

  THE FAMILIES DINED outside that evening: corn on the cob, grilled pork chops, salad with walnuts and peaches, store-bought key lime pie and Cool Whip. The air was very warm but silky and light, less humid than the previous evening. Sunburns were turning to suntans, eyes bright against browned faces, toes cracked from hot sand and salt. It surprised Poppy how pleasant the company felt around the table, considering the drama from earlier in the day. Lisa and Scott seemed relaxed in one another’s presence. Kimmy and Alex made daggers out of their corn cobs and prodded each other. Ryan wore a sleepy, affable smile. Even Rae seemed to be in good spirits.

  Everyone helped clean up the meal when they had finished, loading the dishwasher, corn cobs and fatty edges of pork to the garbage, a quick Windex wipe-down of the table.

  The entire group played a few hands of Crazy Eights, then Poppy went to get some fresh air on the patio.

  The sky was hazy, a gorgeous, dreamy shade of pink.

  Poppy poked her head back inside. “Anyone wanna walk up the path toward the golf course through that jungly part before it gets dark? Might see some wildlife, dusk’s the best time.”

  Ryan said, “I’m in.”

  All the others quickly agreed to join as well.

  Poppy led the way, using a little map from the pamphlet provided at the house. “We’ll cross the road up there,” she pointed, “then take the footpath, and when the trail forks we’re gonna go left into the woods instead of right to the golf course. Our path will lead through some marshy bits. There should be a wooden bridge for us to cross. Supposed to be a pr
etty lagoon up the way.”

  “What sort of animals?” Kimmy said. She tossed a small shell up and down in her hand, and when she dropped it on the ground, she gave it a kick.

  Poppy read from the pamphlet. “Says here we’re likely to see herons, loons, pelicans, turtles, deer, raccoons, and . . .” She paused dramatically and swooped her face down, near to Kimmy’s. “Gators,” she snarled.

  Kimmy said, “I’m not even that scared. I’ve already seen some gators here, they just lay around and don’t do anything. Right? They wouldn’t eat a person. Well, maybe like a baby if you dropped it right on top of them, but it wouldn’t just up and eat a person person. Right?”

  Alex turned to her brother. “What do gators eat?”

  Ryan said, “Worms when they’re little, move on to bigger stuff as they grow. Fish and turtles and birds. Squirrels. Whatever they can catch.”

  Lisa said, “Nobody on Fripp Island has ever been killed by a gator. I looked it up before we came.”

  Poppy said. “Seriously?”

  Lisa nodded.

  Of course she did, Poppy thought. Lisa studied the local sex offender registry in the weeks leading up to the vacation, for Christ’s sake, so why wouldn’t she look up deaths-by-gator?

  Poppy stuffed the map into the back pocket of her denim shorts.

  Kimmy and Alex ran ahead of the adults with a burst of spastic energy. Poppy and John were next, followed by Scott, who walked with his hands looped behind him, like a maître d’ sent to check on everyone’s meal. Lisa had engaged Ryan in further conversation about wildlife on the island; she claimed a particular interest in birds of prey.

  Rae brought up the rear of the group, and she observed all the others before her. Poppy and John were holding hands. Poppy was half the size of her husband. Maybe a third of him. Rae wondered how sex worked for a couple like that. Poppy on his lap and bouncing like a Pomeranian was the only way Rae could picture it.

  Rae couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen her own parents holding hands. Had they ever? Yes, she recalled the two of them holding hands while walking to mass on Sunday mornings and on walks around the neighborhood and during Friday-night movies at home, draped all over each other like teenagers. These memories awoke a painfully sweet nostalgia in Rae, as though her whole body had been bathed in gentle light. She knew her parents still loved each other, surely they must, but they never touched anymore, and it hurt her to recall a time when they did. Not that she had ever liked that—in fact, back when they used to kiss on the lips, Rae would cover her eyes and beg them to stop. But the distant memory of those times, the knowledge that that warmth was once present between them and now was not, sent a powerful rush of sadness through Rae. It was surprising to feel something so intensely that for once did not directly involve her. It did involve her, though, she thought with sudden indignation. It wasn’t fair for something to be ripped away before you had the chance to decide if you should cherish it. It wasn’t fair for the people you lived with every day to change.

  “. . . Now, herons are typically monogamous for one breeding season,” Rae overheard Ryan saying to her mother.

  “And how long is that?” Lisa chirped, like a total moron. “Their breeding season, I mean.”

  “A year.”

  Even I know that, Rae thought, her sadness turning to disgust. Why was her mom being so idiotic, and why was Ryan politely accepting it, patiently explaining things to Lisa as though she was fresh off a rocket ship from Mars?

  Eventually, they reached the secluded lagoon, with a narrow wooden bridge overlooking it. They lined up shoulder to shoulder along the bridge to admire the scene. In the deep shade and dusky light, the water looked as black as ink. Lily pads decorated its surface, and bright orange flowers lined its perimeter.

  Ryan was the first to spot the fawn. He inhaled sharply and whispered, “Nobody move . . . Look across the way.”

  Everyone froze in place and looked to the far side of the lagoon, where a startlingly small and beautiful fawn was approaching the water’s edge. Its body was no bigger than a two-liter bottle, its arched back thickly spotted with bright white thumbprints. Its little face was so sweet it took your breath away, eyes black and large, white spots on the bridge of its nose and lining its upturned ears.

  The fawn stepped cautiously toward the water’s edge on matchstick legs that seemed to bend wrong, ill suited to support even this tiny thing. The fawn nosed down to a pink bloom that rested on a lily pad. Would it eat the flower or simply smell it in appreciation? It was such an impossibly gorgeous moment, it seemed the world might end right there, in a dreamy poof of smoke.

  Kimmy’s breath came out in sharp and desperate bursts—it was just too beautiful and too exciting to bear. Even Scott was touched and transported by the scene, a quiver rising within and awakening a nameless desire so intense he almost could have mistaken it for sexual arousal.

  Poppy had a disposable camera in her pocket, and she made a move for it, slow and steady, willing the fawn not to scamper off. Just as her fingers closed around the camera in her pocket, the fawn made a sudden move, and for one split second Poppy regretted her greed for a picture, certain that her movement, careful as it was, had caused the creature to panic.

  But in the next moment it was clear what had startled the fawn, when the head and upper torso of an alligator surged out from the black water, as thick and strong and ugly as a demon. Lily pads spread in both directions, except for one that was attached to the gator’s thickly textured back as it gripped the fawn by its front leg and pulled it into the water, whipping its powerful head back and forth to stun the fawn.

  The gator was fat and warty—a horror, a monster—and once it had the fawn in its grasp, its jaws opened only once, in a swift and measured move to grip higher on the fawn’s leg. The poor animal screamed, high-pitched and pure as glass, as the gator dragged it fully into the water.

  The small lagoon was not deep, and even after it had been dragged several feet from the edge, the fawn could clearly be seen thrashing, releasing tortured shrieks. Blooms of bright red blood reached the surface of the water. The fawn continued to kick, and when a breath shot out from its wild nostrils, so did a spray of blood.

  Everyone stood in silent, stunned horror except for Kimmy, who let out a blood-curdling cry directed at no one in particular: “Do something!”

  Before anyone could stop him, before he rightly knew himself what he was going to do, Scott was running down the wooden bridge to the far side of the lagoon where the fawn was still fighting, three or four feet from the water’s edge. Scott wrestled a thick dead root from the ground near his feet, jumped on the thing to break it into a manageable, baseball-bat-sized weapon. He took a step into the water, soaking his sandaled feet, and Lisa screamed, “Scott, no! Stay back!” But her voice did not reach him—at least not the part of him that wished to acknowledge or obey her—and he waited only a few seconds before he got a clear view of the gator’s head, then he went for it with a two-armed, over-the-head, ax-to-chopping-block swing. The stick met the reptile’s thick skull with a satisfying thud, like he had just struck a bed of clay.

  The gator reared back in stunned surprise, unclamped its jaws, and moaned deeply. The fawn, released from the gator’s grip but too weak to stand or flee, remained where it was.

  The gator’s head emerged from the water, and without hesitation Scott struck it a second time, with the same accuracy and success he’d shown on the first swing. This time, the gator appeared to lose consciousness for a few seconds. Its huge head bounced, then lolled lopsidedly. Shortly, the gator came to, grunted, and slunk back into the lagoon and out of view.

  The fawn panted at the water’s surface and Scott let out a desperate sound. He dropped his weapon, stepped farther into the water, and leaned down to grip the animal around its torso. He pulled it from the water, cradling it with both arms over his chest, like a baby. His wrists were covered in black slime from the lagoon. Blood poured from the fawn’s neck. It
s legs were splayed, tiny and limp as ribbons, down over Scott’s belly. It wheezed. Its black eyes were glossy with pain. Blood and more blood, a steady torrent from its neck.

  Scott looked down at the animal, his face stricken, and he didn’t make a move to bring it any closer to the others nor lay it to rest elsewhere. The fawn’s blood quickly soaked Scott’s shirt. Its mouth was open, pink tongue visible and erect, no bigger than a coin. Scott didn’t move.

  Next to Poppy, John whispered, “For fuck’s sake,” which would have registered surprise in her—John never cursed—had it been under less shocking circumstances.

  John said, “Pop . . . go now. And take them with you.” John nodded in the direction of the others on the bridge.

  Still too stunned to speak, but understanding John’s intentions, Poppy made a move to corral everyone else back from the bridge, toward the path from which they had come. All of them left willingly except for Kimmy, who stood her ground until Lisa picked her up and wrapped her legs around her waist. She held Kimmy tightly, swaddled like a baby against her chest, and they all hustled away from the lagoon.

  Tears streamed down Kimmy’s cheeks as she stared back over her mother’s shoulder, craning her neck to see. “What’s going to happen?”

  Poppy walked quickly, trying to encourage everyone to keep pace, and said, “You don’t want to know. You don’t want to be there for it.”

  Kimmy said, “Will they save it? Can they stop the bleeding? Can they bring it back and we’ll feed it with a bottle?”

  Lisa said, “I don’t think so.”

  “Why? What’s going to happen?”

  Rae’s face was pale and drawn. She said, “They’re going to kill it, Kimmy. It wouldn’t be able to live, so they’re going to kill it.”

  Lisa said, “Rae, for heaven’s sake.”

  Ryan looked at Alex, attempting to gauge her response to all of this. Alex had been hunting and fishing with her father enough times for Ryan to assume that her reaction to a natural death would be measured, and it was. Alex shed no tears, and she had left the scene willingly, accepting the inevitable outcome.