by C B Cox
Resignation washes through me. A dark invisible hand renders me still. I sit up. Bella’s jaws sit across my lap. There’s a sudden, brittle silence. The rain has stopped. The wind has gone.
I’m all alone in the universe.
I have to bury my dog. I have to bury Bella.
Chapter Forty-One
I choose a cashmere overcoat from Charles’s wardrobe. I scrunch it over my face. Breathe it in. Swallow the lump of overwhelming sadness caught in my throat. The coat is soft and warm. It’s imbued with his musk. From my drawer, I select a silk scarf that lingers with Dolce & Gabbana Light Blue – my favorite summer fragrance.
Bella lies by the fire.
The overcoat wraps easily around her diminished frame. I tie a firm knot in the belt around her middle. I make a pretty bow around her neck with my scarf. She’ll find comfort in these things. She’ll know we’re close.
How will I tell Charles about this? He was cruel to her when he was last here. Yet the truth is, he was angry with me, not her. He adored Bella. He chose her from the breeder, personally. Fell in love with her cheeky, playful personality. There was an instant bond. He bought her for me, but there was no mistaking it, Bella was his dog.
She is – was – a man’s dog.
I take the shed key, stab it into the lock, and the door moves inwards. It swings open without me turning the key. Did I forget to lock it? Garden implements hang from hooks along the wall on the right side. I grab a spade. Bat away the cobwebs. March over the lawn to the border and a patch of summer flowers. The storm has flattened them.
The rain has finally abated. The storm has blown itself out. I start to dig. I dig a trench three feet long and a shovel’s blade wide. Extend the trench to around four feet deep. It’s hard work. The rough wooden shaft rags at my palms.
An hour later, I have a grave large enough for Bella.
I return inside and collect Bella from the rug. I smile. I take her outside, pad over to the grave and lay Bella into her final resting place. I lift the coat away and stroke her head one last time. Collecting the shovel, I steel myself. I’m transported back to the day we buried Mom. That day, Dad was inconsolable. When I tried my best to console him, he twiddled with one of my curls like he did when I was a child. He told me how he believed that when our bodies are returned to the earth, our souls have already arrived at the place they were happiest.
I hold that thought as I plunge the spade into the pile of earth to fill the grave. A pencil-sized splinter tears into my hand. The pain is excruciating. Blood oozes from the gash across my right palm. I suck a long breath and extract the splinter, deposit it unceremoniously into the grave. A bluish-purple bruise forms around it. I press my thumb against the center of the cut. Swirls of color gyrate across my vision. I bite my lip against the pain.
When will the ordeal end!
Back inside, I wrap a towel around my hand. It throbs and burns. Somehow, I manage to brew coffee. I drag a chair over to the window, sit and stare out across the garden. The heat of the strengthening sun starts to evaporate the rain. A heavy feeling consumes me. The weight of the world rests on my shoulders. The feeling won’t go away. There’s a fist-sized hole in my heart. Wiping away non existent tears, I sip coffee.
I sit lost in my thoughts for what feels like an eternity.
When I do finally break free of my torpor, I realize that there’s a foot-wide, half-inch thick pool of blood on the floor at my feet. It shakes me from my grief. I need to get my hand injury seen to.
I ditch the blood-soaked towel in the sink and wrap a fresh one around my hand. I haven’t got a clue where the first aid kit is kept; or if, in fact, there is one. There’s no alternative, I’ll have to seek help from the Wileys.
Chapter Forty-Two
I’ve lost all track of time.
The sun has passed its zenith, so it must be around mid-afternoon. I’m relieved to find the tide is out. The ocean laps gently at the causeway in stark contrast to the tempest earlier. I reach the other side, climb the steps and note tire ruts brimmed with muddy water around the Explorer. It’s proof Martha was here. It seems a lifetime ago since her visit and the sensuous frivolity of our impromptu, hedonistic party.
I expel a long sigh and settle my butt against the driver’s side fender. I’m drained. The causeway spins. Everything goes black.
When I come to, I’m laid on the ground, crumpled against the wheel. I stagger up and try the door. I’m dead on my feet. I need to sit, but the car is locked. Had Curtis repaired it, I’d have chanced a journey to hospital and taken the opportunity to return to New York. If I were to do that, then I’d be letting Charles win. He believes that I’m not strong enough to live and thrive on my own, on Tern Island.
Stop press: he’s wrong!
I turn and gaze at the big house. Wonder if Curtis has a first aid kit. It’ll save me the walk to Wiley’s place. I’m fragile. I’ve lost a lot of blood. I check the towel wrapped around my hand. One corner is white: the remaining part, a deep blood red. I’m light-headed and unsteady on my feet. I remind myself that I’m furious with Curtis for stealing my precious time with Martha and leaving me to clean up the mess afterwards.
I decide not to speak to Curtis Jackson until I’m good and ready. I’ll push on to the general store. The Wileys are kind and practical people. Mother hen, Dorothy, will take good care of me.
Crossing the road to Wiley’s, Levi strides towards me across the yard. As I approach, he averts his gaze to the ground. A brace of rabbits – eyes bulging, pink tongues hanging from tiny, bloodied mouths – sway from a timber stake over his right shoulder. He turns and takes off towards the barn. It’s too late. I’ve seen his gruesome catch. Gooseflesh prickles the back of my neck.
I approach Wiley’s Store.
Eliah sweeps the stoop with an ancient broom. He stops sweeping and rests his hands atop the broom handle.
How could he be expecting me?
It occurs to me that he’s simply cleaning up after the storm.
When he notices the state I’m in, he leans the broom against the wall and rushes over.
“Hope. What is God’s name has happened to you, child? You’re hurt, Hope. Let me help you,” he says, helping me onto the porch. My knees buckle, and I collapse into his arms.
“I… I…” I mumble to my reflection returned in the lens of his glasses.
“Hope… Mrs. Madison… It’s me, Eliah,” he says, eyes wide with shock. I must look pretty bad.
“Where’s Levi?” I say.
He’s nonplussed. “Come inside. Let Dorothy see to you.”
“I’m fine. Really,” I whisper, “I am…”
“You most certainly are not, fine. Look at the state of your face. And your hand.” He cradles my bandaged hand out in front of me.
“Water,” I croak. My throat is desert dry. I’ve not drunk anything all morning. I’m dehydrated, weak and incoherent.
“Come on. Let’s get you inside,” Eliah says. He yells abruptly, “Dorothy! Dorothy! Come quick!”
Chapter Forty-Three
Once again, I’m in the Wiley’s living room. The plump lady with the practical dress and efficient manner fusses over me. I seem to levitate just inches below the rafters. Dorothy Wiley removes the towel and places my hand carefully into a bowl of tepid water. It stings like hell. The sharp astringency of lemon disinfectant assails my nostrils and forces my eyes open. I grit my teeth. The pain is excruciating. Total consciousness regained, I gasp.
“Relax, child,” she says. I find myself mesmerized by the gold crucifix swinging from her neck. It gleams and returns the sun.
“It’s Bella,” I say. “She’s dead.”
Dorothy Wiley rears upright. Bewilderment settles on her face. “Shh,” she says, pressing a cold compress against my forehead, dabbing the grazes on my cheeks. “Everything is going to be all right.”
“Bella’s dead.” I repeat.
“You poor child. Be still. Let me see your hand.” I watch as she packs cotton into t
he wound and wraps a bandage around my hand. It’s an unnecessarily long bandage and takes several minutes to put on.
“You’re running a fever. Were you out in the storm long? Let’s get you warmed up. We don’t want you getting pneumonia,” she says. She’s frowning. A pudgy hand dabs my forehead with a white cotton towel.
“Bella fell over the cliff… She’s dead. I told you,” I say. The wooziness returns. I feel detached. As if I’m floating.
Why won’t she listen?
“Take these. They’ll help you rest. Just swallow.”
She takes my head in her hands and pushes something into my mouth. Cool water trickles down my throat. Then she makes me stand and leads me over to the sofa. Helps me sit. She raises my legs onto the cushion and I lay back, obediently. She places a wool comforter over me and tucks it in.
“Try to get some sleep, it will do you good. You’re safe now, child.”
Chapter Forty-Four
A snarling dog rags at the bandage around my hand… I crash my right fist against its snout… I cover my face with my hands… A dog whimpers… Waves crash over me… Salty seawater fills my mouth, my throat and lungs… I struggle to breathe… I’m laid at the bottom of a rocky ravine, half covered by the frozen ocean… The shadowy figure of a man leers down from the cliff-top… He cackles … turns … swirling mist envelopes him…
“You all right?” Eliah Wiley stares down at me with a concentrated frown of concern.
“Where am I?” I say. I speak before I’ve processed my surroundings.
“You’re safe, Hope. Dorothy’s gone outside. She said to watch over you. Stay here until you came to,” he says, pulling out a high back chair, placing it next to me.
“How long was I asleep?” I feel woozy. Confused. Unsure.
“Two hours. You were in a terrible state when you arrived.”
I raise up, sit against the arm of the sofa. “I’m sorry to have bothered you, Eliah,” I say, swinging my legs to the floor.
He stalls me with a hand. “Stay right where you are, young lady. I’ll go fetch you something to drink. Water okay?”
I nod.
“And don’t you dare move a muscle,” he says. “Okay?”
“Okay.”
I check out the room. Feel my consciousness slowly return. The room is dingy. A narrow slit in the curtains lets in a solitary slither of daylight. Rich aromas of gamey meat and simmering onions hang thickly in the room. My stomach performs somersaults. Fuzzy light shimmers from a vintage 1960s TV sat in the corner of the room by the window. It emits a low hiss of white noise. A neat stack of video tapes sit on the floor beside it.
There’s every chance I might puke.
Eliah enters. “Here, drink this.” He thrusts a glass of water at me. I accept it with my bandaged hand. Wince as the pain stings all the way up to my elbow. “That’ll be sore for a while. The wound … it’s deep.” He nods at my hand. I sink half of the water. Feel it revive me. I recollect where I am. What brought me here.
Eliah sinks into the armchair opposite.
“You’re both very kind. If I’d had transport, I would have gone directly to the hospital and not put you to so much trouble.”
Eliah shrugs. “Don’t worry, it’s no trouble. Dorothy has fixed you up real good,” he says. “She’s had plenty enough practice with Levi. He’s got a bit of a habit of doing himself mischief.”
“Still … I’m in your debt … again,” I say with a thin smile.
“Truck not fixed, yet, I take it?”
“No. Curtis is dragging his feet,” I say. His changed tone sets my nerves jangling.
“Look, I know it’s none of my business,” he says, scratching his nose, “only…”
He falls silent.
“Is there a problem, Eliah?” I remove the blanket from my shoulders. I’m too warm.
“No problem. No. Only… Only… I would have thought Curtis would have had it fixed by now,” he says. “That’s all.”
“Sorry, I’m not with you? What exactly are you implying about Curtis?” He’s holding something back. I can sense it. Is there something he wants to get off his chest?
“As I say, it’s none of my business. It’s not my place to go around spreading idle gossip,” he says, worrying at an invisible scab on the end of his nose, clearly agitated.
“Eliah?” I ask, fixing him with a questioning stare. “If there’s something you want to say...”
He shrugs, hesitates, then says, “Curtis came back here after his folks died. He told anyone and everyone about the accident. Went into great detail about it. Seemed to enjoy doing it. Explaining how the snowplow’s brakes had failed. How it had been the only accident of its kind, in decades.” Eliah folds his arms across his chest and sits back.
“Are you insinuating Curtis caused the accident, Mr. Wiley?”
“Insinuating? No. I’m putting two and two together and playing amateur detective. All I’m saying is… When Curtis Jackson is around, bad things happen. First, Levi. Then, there was that hiker girl. His folks? It don’t take a genius to...” Eliah checks himself mid-sentence, and glances towards the kitchen.
Levi appears in the opening. He’s head to toe in camouflage clothing. He clutches a thick-handled bowie knife in his right hand. Fresh blood covers half of the blade. Drips splatter onto the floor. He lumbers over to the seated Eliah and stands by his side.
“Pa?” he says. “Is everything all … right?”
As he tilts his head down, his eyes rise and he fixes me in his gaze through bushy eyebrows. I swallow hard. Avert my eyes.
Eliah shakes his head and makes to rise. “Everything is just peachy, son.” He settles his hand on Levi’s forearm. “Just you relax. There ain’t nothing to worry about,” Eliah says, standing over me.
Dorothy appears in the opening. Her expression suggests she’s overheard the conversation.
“Eliah,” she barks. “What on earth have you been saying?” She says wiping bloodied hands on a checked towel hanging from her waistband.
“I ain’t said nothing that’s not already common knowledge,” Eliah says, defensively.
Dorothy’s gaze rolls past me to the TV. Anger dances in her eyes.
“Haven’t I told you often enough about leaving those disgusting things laying about the house?” Dorothy barks, pointing to the stack of VHS tapes next to the TV. “It’s time you started taking notice. I’m sick and tired of being ignored.”
She’s incandescent with rage. It accentuates her European accent. She turns to me. Places her hands on her hips. Clutches the bloody towel in a tight fist. She leers at me as if she’s expecting a response.
My eyes flare with surprise. A lump catches in my throat.
I don’t know what to say. Does she expect me to say something?
“Ain’t nothing wrong with watching,” Eliah snaps. “Getting involved, now that’s a whole different ball game.”
Levi stymies a chuckle.
Dorothy glowers at Eliah with contempt.
“I’ll deal with you later,” Dorothy says, directing her gaze to me, again. “You had better get yourself home, my dear. Only if you’re feeling up to it, mind.”
I’m dismissed. Dorothy Wiley has honed the ability to switch the kindness button on and off, instantly.
I nod. “Yes. You’re right. I’d better be going. I shouldn’t have taken up so much of your time. Thanks for everything,” I say. As I rise, the world tilts slightly on its axis. I cast a steadying hand onto the arm of the sofa. Pain shoots along my right arm and reaches my shoulder.
No one moves.
They stand and silently stare.
“I’ll show you out,” Eliah says, eyes flitting to the corner of the room, the TV and the tapes. He places his body between the stash and me.
What did Charles say? Did he mention porn? Was Eliah watching porn whilst I slept on the sofa across from him? It beggars belief.
I shudder at the thought.
Levi and Dorothy stay put. Elia
h ushers me outside and swings the door closed behind me, without saying so much as a goodbye.
I cross the road and set off for Tern Island.
Chapter Forty-Five
By the time I arrive at the big house, it’s dusk. As I suspected, the Explorer hasn’t turned a wheel. The big house sits in total darkness – no sign of Curtis. Eliah’s words ruminate around my head. I know what he said about Curtis. Surely, it’s conjecture and small-town gossip? Still, I wish Curtis would get the darn thing fixed. If I had my cell, I could have called the coastguard to help rescue Bella.
“Oh, Bella.”
I yearn to hold her in my arms again. There’s a paw-sized hole in my heart. I’m bereft. I’ve never felt like this before. Fatigue washes through me. I need to get back to Tern Lodge. Eat. And sleep.
The same infernal orange light glows in an upstairs window.
“I can’t be bothered with you,” I mumble under my breath as I descend the steps to the causeway, leaving the Wileys – their weird country ways, and Curtis Jackson rattling around in the big house – on the wave behind.
The storm has left a disheveled mess in its wake. All manner of detritus is strewn across the causeway: broken branches; a huge tree trunk; plastic bottles; fishing nets; a broken lobster pot, and a rusted-out fender from a VW Bug. I make a mental note to return and carry out a clean up operation when I’m up to it.
I pick my way through the obstacle course. The sole of my right shoe has become detached and flaps against the rough concrete. It’s awkward and annoys me. It lets in water. I’m thinking how pissed I am with my whole predicament, when, reaching the island, the loose part of the sole catches and stops me in my tracks. I try to raise my foot, but it won’t budge. I exhale an exasperated sigh. I look down and see an inch-wide corroded flat iron bar projecting from the ground. I estimate it is four inches long. I slip my foot out of the shoe, hunker down and tug at it. It’s embedded – won’t budge an inch. I slide my fingers under it and feel an opening between the bar and the hard earth.
