by C B Cox
Vertical blocks of black fill my vision.
I touch the barnacle encrusted jetty with outstretched fingertips. Pull the stroke. Flip and turn for the second leg. Push off against a timber post with my feet. As I swim underwater, seaweed drags over my torso, legs and arms. The ocean fizzes. Bubbles of air cling to my goggles. Rising to the surface, I resume long strokes. At the shelf, parallel with the boulder, I flip over and head back towards the jetty.
I’ve never felt so alive.
Five strokes in, pain knives into my side. I have the jetty in sight, but I’m losing momentum. The pain increases. It’s like someone is twisting a red-hot blade deep into my gut. I slow. I need to rest. It’s too deep to put my feet down and the jetty is too far away to grab. I start to tread water facing the jetty.
Stay calm. It’s only stitch. It’ll pass.
I bob around on the swell. The pain eases a little.
You’re okay.
I tread water with a regular cadence. When I forget to tread, my chin dips under the surface. I swallow seawater and spit it out. Adjust the goggles. The current has spun me around. I’m facing the open ocean and I’ve lost sight of land and the jetty. I decide it’s time to return to the beach. I better not overdo it. I gather my strength, paddle against the current and head for the shore.
Just as I’m getting into a regular rhythm, and the stitch is subsiding, something hard smashes against my right elbow. It impacts my funny bone. The pain is incredible. I yell, gasp and sink beneath the swell. As I kick for the surface, fingers claw around my neck, and scratch my face. I’m being held under. I feel the presence of another near. I flail, break free and kick for the surface. At the surface, I gasp for air. From nowhere, a hand settles on my right shoulder. Its grip tightens. I’m going under. Ice-cold darkness envelops me. There’s no sound. As I sink deeper, my lungs scream for air. Nothing will make me release my breath. I’m drowning, or I’m being drowned, I can’t decide which. Irrespective, if water enters my lungs, then it’s game over. I’m helpless. Resigned to my fate, I start to relax.
The hand releases. I reel away and kick desperately for the surface.
The hand grabs my right ankle and catapults me upwards. I burst up through the swell, gasping for air. Before I know it, I’m on my back being dragged backwards across the surface of the ocean by a meaty forearm positioned under my chin. It reminds me of life-saving classes at elementary school. We arrive in the shallows. Momentarily, I’m lifted clear of the water. A second later, a huge elbow crashes into my jaw. I’m back in the water, being propelled on my back towards the beach. Waves crash over me. I dig my nails into flesh, to no avail. My butt tugs across rocks. Sharp pebbles tear at my calves. Sea salt stings the grazes. I’m raised up and unceremoniously deposited on the sand like a rag doll. I rip my goggles from my face. Above me, fluffy white clouds race across a sapphire blue sky. I’m pushed onto my side by an unseen hand. Seawater dribbles out of my mouth. I retch and cough up water and bile. A rank acid taste hangs in my throat. I try hard to spit it out.
I whimper. Tears join the liquid oozing out of my face.
My breathing slows. Normalizes. I lay on my back facing the sky. The buzz of adrenalin dissipates.
I close my eyes. The sky dims. Everything goes black.
Chapter Thirty-One
“Miss … miss!” a panicked voice hollers through the ether. I feel myself coming around.
Go away. I want to sleep.
“Miss. Madison.” It’s a male voice. I’m being shaken.
Leave me alone.
“Wake up!” The voice barks. I’m being rocked. My eyelids flicker open. I hear the gentle rasp of the ocean meeting the shore. Recollect where I am.
“You all right, Miss?” I’m being dragged into a sitting position by the shoulders. Caught on a wave of adrenaline, I bolt up, land and spin to face my attacker.
My vision clears. A familiar face is revealed.
“Levi!” I exclaim.
He stands over me, leering with wide eyes. Under my glare, his chin lowers. His eyes divert left, fix on the sand.
“What the hell are you doing?” I say, panting hard.
“You were drowning, Miss. Madison.” His fists clench and unclench. “Drowning…”
I’m confused. “Me?”
“Yup. You.”
“Levi, you need to calm the fuck down. I wasn’t drowning. You appeared from nowhere and started dragging me under. What on earth did you think you were doing?”
A deep frown of confusion settles across his brow. I imagine the melee of disconnected thoughts rioting through his brain. I feel for him.
“Drowning, Miss. Madison… The ocean … is dangerous,” he says, pointing out to sea. He’s dripping wet. Hair plastered over his forehead. Shirtsleeves cover his hands. I notice that he’s still wearing shoes.
I shake my head. Expel an exasperated sigh. “I wasn’t in any danger, Levi. You could have killed me. Stupid boy,” I blurt.
In that instant, I despise myself. Levi’s face freezes. I beg the beach to open up and swallow me whole. “I’m sorry. I ought not have said that. I didn’t mean it. Honest, I didn’t.”
“Drowning, Miss. You were drowning,” he insists.
“Oh, Levi. It was just a stitch. I didn’t need rescuing.”
His huge shoulders heave. He’s confused. In that moment, he’s a toddler who’s had his candy taken away for kicking the cat. Several silent minutes pass. Suddenly, his frown becomes a malign sneer. He steps toward me. Ferocious anger burns in his eyes.
“Levi. Stop. I’m sorry.” I step forward and embrace him. Hug him. We stand and shiver. We must look ridiculous.
I push back from him. Scan the rock. The beach. “Where’s my towel?”
Levi doesn’t answer. His eyes retreat to the ground. He turns, staggers, and limps off along the beach without looking back. I lean across the top of the rock, spot the towel laid on the sand. I round the rock and pick it up. Wrap it around my midriff. Try hard to calm my pounding heart.
Levi must have been watching me swim from the beach. He must have seen me treading water and assumed I was drowning. His clumsy attempt to ‘save’ me almost drowned us both. I’m ashamed of myself for calling him stupid. He genuinely believed he was helping me.
I realize he’d been able to sneak up on me. I shudder at the thought. It could have been anyone. I’d never seen him. My myopic focus on pushing the boundaries could have put me in real danger.
But I wasn’t.
I’m overreacting.
Again.
I resolve to speak to Eliah. I need to discuss Levi’s behavior. I can’t have him, or anyone, sneaking around the island. In particular, I can’t have him ‘saving’ me from imaginary dangers.
Chapter Thirty-Two
I cycle along the causeway towards Wiley’s Store. Adrenaline drives me forward. Despite this morning’s misadventures, there’s plenty of day remaining. The sun sits low on the horizon: its an indistinct yellowish blur hiding behind a veil of white cloud. It’s much cooler and I’m feeling the chill. It may have been a mistake to set out in shorts and a T-shirt.
The Explorer sits forlornly on the gravel by the big house. It hasn’t turned a wheel since I arrived. A thick layer of grime dulls the silver paintwork. Nothing moves in the big house. The weeds beyond the picket fence appear much taller than when I arrived. Slowly, it’s reverting to nature. Dandelions and stinging nettles smother hardy perennials. Once, it was a beautiful English cottage garden and had featured in a well-known gardening magazine. I remember marveling at it. Angela Jackson’s pride and joy, has gone to seed.
I could cry.
I prop the bicycle against the fence and consider knocking to press Curtis for an update. I’m in no mood for compromise. I’m hoping he’s repaired the Explorer. As far as I can see, he’s not even tried. I push on the rickety gate. It moves an inch, then grinds to a halt. I push again. It’s stuck against concrete, weeds and nettles. I don’t relish the prospect
of stinging my legs – legs which are grazed and sore already. I wait at the gate, willing Curtis Jackson to appear.
Why is he never around when I need him?
If he’s at home, he doesn’t acknowledge my presence. Nothing moves in or around the house. I realize that my telepathic powers have abandoned me. I huff hoping he might hear me. Nothing. No twitching curtains. No turning locks. No lights flicking on. A frustrated humph breaks my lips and I stomp off towards town.
As I pass the last of the ground-floor windows, I sense movement in my peripheral vision. I slide to a halt. Spin to face the house.
“Curtis? Are you there?” I call.
The house is still and silent.
I listen. All I hear is the whoosh of the ocean, and wind rustling through the tree tops.
I shake my head.
I need to get a grip.
I must be seeing things.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Eliah Wiley sits on the stoop smoking a pipe. He acknowledges my arrival by dragging the pipe from his mouth and dipping his head. His lips curve into a thin smile. A frown of concentration appears above his eyes; slowly evaporates.
“I thought you’d come by,” he says without preliminary. He empties the pipe into the dish at his feet, settles it on the edge, looks up and gives me a quizzical look. His glasses sit wonky on his nose. His hair is more slicked back than usual.
“I expect you know why I’m here?” I try hard to conceal my irritation. I’ve had my fill of men. I don’t need Eliah Wiley pissing me off, too.
“I’ve an inkling, yes. Levi came home an hour ago. Poor boy was soaked right through to the skin. Shaking like an abandoned dog, he was. He’s locked himself in the barn. It’s taken Dorothy the best part of twenty minutes and a Hershey bar, to have him come out.”
“Did he tell you what he did?”
Eliah nods.
“In his way, he did, yes. Understand something, Mrs. Madison. Levi, he’s never liked the ocean. Matter of fact, he’s downright terrified of it. Under normal circumstances, he won’t go anywhere near it. He must have got confused. I can only apologize,” he says, wringing his hands, shaking his head.
I dismount and settle the bicycle on the ground.
“What was he doing on my beach, anyway? That’s what I don’t understand. If he hates the ocean so much, why was he watching me?” I cast my arms wide. Shrug. “It’s not good enough, Mr. Wiley. It really isn’t.”
“Hope. Mrs. Madison. I can see you’re upset. You’re in shock. Why don’t you come inside and have some tea?” he says.
The sky has turned black. I sense it’s about to rain. I’m cold.
I relent. Force a thin smile. “Coffee. Do you have coffee?”
He nods. “Got plenty. Come in and get warmed up.”
He rises up, pushes open the entrance door and stands aside. I cross the stoop and step inside. Eliah closes the door behind me and steps past me.
“Follow me.”
We pass through the counter flap and a shell curtain into a sitting room with threadbare rugs and a worn leather sofa. An archaic VHS recorder sits atop an ancient TV on a credenza. An archway leads into the kitchen. The sweet aroma of baking bread is thick in the air. I move forward and glimpse a woman standing over the kitchen table, forearms covered in flour.
She’s squat, with healthy pink cheeks. Her ample bosom rises and falls as she expertly kneads a huge round of dough. She’s wearing a belted check dress and a pinafore, tied with a double bow around her thick waist. I’ve never seen her before.
Hearing the shell curtain tinkle, she looks up, smiles and rubs her nose with her forearm.
“Take a seat,” says Eliah, gesturing to the sofa.
I lower myself into the worn leather.
The woman appears in the arched opening. She steps over, stands over me, wiping her hands down her pinafore. She offers me her hand. “I’m Dorothy,” she says, taking my hand in hers. She’s warm to the touch. She collects a hand-knitted comforter from an armchair and drapes it over my shoulders. Swivels to face Eliah.
“Don’t just stand there, Eliah. Make yourself useful. Go make coffee for our guest.”
Eliah jumps to attention.
I figure that this is Mrs. Wiley.
Eliah returns a minute later, cradling a mug of steaming black coffee in both hands.
“I’ve put two sugars in for you. To help with the shock,” Eliah says, handing me the mug.
I nurse it. Enjoy the heat. Blow across the rim and take a sip of the sweet burned caramel liquid. It tastes heavenly.
“Thank you,” I say, just above a whisper.
Eliah hovers by the shell curtain.
Dorothy glares at him. “You got orders to pick, Eliah?”
“Yes, my sweet, I have,” Eliah says, turning, scurrying off through the curtain. I sense his relief.
“What a morning you’ve had, child. Let’s get you warmed up.” She fusses at the throw, pulling it tight around my shoulders. She’s the living embodiment of a mother hen.
“Thank you,” I say. “I’m feeling much better now,” I say. She’s not convinced.
“Breakfast. Have you eaten today?”
It’s a question, but the intonation in her voice suggests it’s an instruction.
“I’m fine. Really, I am. You’re too kind.” I’m embarrassed now. These are sweet, kind people, and I’ve offended them with my combative attitude. “I’ve taken up enough of your time already. I’ll go. I’m sorry I came…”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort, young lady. You’re not leaving until you’ve got something in your stomach. You’re in shock.”
She’s insistent. I have no say in the matter.
“If you’re sure. Thank you, Mrs. Wiley.”
“Please. Call me Dorothy. And the pleasure is all mine. Now, if you’re up to it, come and join me in the kitchen. There’s cheese and fresh bread.”
She beckons me to follow. I rise up and step through the archway into the kitchen. I see where Levi gets his build from. Dorothy Wiley is as wide as Eliah is skinny. She’s a formidable woman.
She ushers me over to a scrubbed-to-white pine table. I sit. She places the mug on the table in front of me. Brims it from a pot taken from the range. Sets the table with earthenware crockery, cutlery, napkins and placemats. She speaks without coming up for oxygen. Races around the kitchen like a dervish on speed. Hard vowels hint at European, possibly German, lineage.
I pull the comforter around my shoulders. I’m cold and I’m still shivering. Only when she stops moving, do her words arrange themselves into coherent sentences in my head.
She stands over me, hands on her hips.
“Eliah, he tells me you’re a writer?”
I nod. “For my sins, yes.”
“How wonderful. What do you write? I love to read. I’d love to write, too. I just don’t have the time. The store, baking, and upkeep of the house, eat up my days. Some poor soul needs to keep this particular house in order.” She sets down a platter of bread, cheese and butter on the table.
“I’m sorry. I talk too much.” She stabs a finger at the food. “Help yourself.” She beams, lowering into the chair opposite, collecting a plate and cutting inch thick slices of steaming bread. The aroma is divine. It’s nothing like the bakeries in New York. It’s a more homely, richer smell.
I remember her question. “Romance,” I say, flatly. “Fiction. Happy ever afters. Mushy stuff,” I say with a chuckle. I didn’t mean to.
“That’s nice. You write books that make people happy.” She tilts her head on one side, gazes into space wistfully.
“They used to,” I say, stalling. “Of late, I’ve lost my mojo.” I collect the plate of bread and cheese.
“Butter?” She slides the butter dish towards me. We are doing a round-the-houses dance – making polite chitchat.
I make a sandwich. Take a small bite. The bread is delicious. The cheese is creamy and light.
“Thank you. This is de
licious,” I say. She’s fixed me with a matronly stare.
“Look … I know it’s none of my business … only…”
It’s none of your business.
“Your husband, I’m afraid he’s not liked around here.”
“Why?”
“Felling all those trees. Building that house. It’s far too big and dominant on the island. Lording over everyone. Bringing his loud friends and his women.”
She’s relentless. Matter of fact. Brutal.
“Women?” I ask.
“Sorry. Ignore me. It was a slip of the tongue.”
Yeah, right.
“We bought the island and built Tern Lodge in good faith. We never meant to harm anyone. How could you think that? We built it as a vacation retreat. Charles has never been here alone … without me … I mean…” I realize I’m jabbering. Shaking my head in disbelief.
“Mrs. Madison. Forgive me. I let my mouth run away with itself sometimes. I’m German. I know little of American sensibilities. I don’t know when to bite my tongue. Eliah reckons my mouth gets me into a whole lot of trouble. Gets us all into trouble. He’s always reprimanding me.” She laughs. I laugh along with her.
I shrug, settle my hand on hers. “There’s nothing to forgive. Really, don’t give it a second thought,” I say. It feels good to have a stranger – another woman – reminding me what a total bastard Charles was … is.
“Still, I ought not to have said anything. It’s none of my business. You’re your own woman. You’re entitled to your privacy. I ought to learn to keep my big mouth shut,” she says with a huff and a resolute nod. “More coffee?” She pushes the chair back and steps over to the range before I can reply.
“You’re being so kind, Dorothy. I feel I owe you an explanation.”
I do. I’m compelled to talk to this woman. She’s my first female contact – save for Bella – in weeks.
