The Marsh

by Bill Noel

  Amber was right; something definitely was up.

  Cindy was dressed in an oversized, white T-shirt and pink short-shorts. During her work day, she would be attired in the dark-blue uniform of the Folly Beach Department of Public Safety, where she had served as a police officer for the last two years. She had moved to Folly Beach from East Tennessee and become the first sworn female member of the force, a distinction she still held.

  Cindy was in her mid-forties, full-figured and a couple of inches taller than Larry. Even with the additional two inches of altitude, she was still short. Larry under-weighed her by twenty pounds and had been mistaken for a jockey most of his life. He was equinophobic and wouldn’t get within a furlong of a horse; but his diminutive size was an asset in his previous career of breaking into houses. He wisely chose to change careers after spending an eight year time-out as a guest of the Georgia State Department of Corrections.

  “What’s the occasion?” I asked.

  “Just hold, you hyena,” said Cindy. “Wait for the rest of the party.”

  How many prisoners has she said that to? I wondered.

  Amber leaned on my shoulder and whispered, “Told you the rumor was true.”

  I felt like I was in the middle of a chick flick but was saved when Charles and Heather walked through the dining room and out to our tables.

  “Sorry we’re late,” said Charles as he looked at his watchless wrist. “My darling date dallied.”

  “Oh hush, Chucky,” she said as she took off her straw hat and waved it at us. “We’re still early.”

  I almost choked on my wine. Chucky! Charles would nearly go ballistic if anyone called him Charlie; duck if you heard Chuck. Dude gets away with an occasional Chuckster, but only because Charles ignores most of what Dude says.

  The smell of frying onions was replaced by the fattening aroma of French fries. The waitress delivered two heaping baskets of Rita’s Folly Fries. “On us,” repeated Cindy for the sake of Charles and Heather.

  All the outdoor tables were full, and the dining room wasn’t far behind. Small groups of vacationers walked across the street from the Tides. Most would have a long wait for a table at any of the nearby restaurants. The sun was low in the sky and heading for a stunning, late-spring sunset over the marsh.

  Charles stuffed a couple of fries into his mouth and then looked at Cindy. “Anything new on the murder?” he mumbled.

  “What a pleasant conversation,” said Heather.

  Cindy had known Charles longer than Heather had; she knew he wouldn’t be distracted until he got an answer. “A friend in the sheriff’s office said that they were looking at rumors about Sean Aker and Connie, Tony’s wife.”

  “Fling?” asked Charles.

  “Yeah,” said Cindy. “Rumors.”

  “I don’t believe it,” said Charles.

  “Well,” said Cindy, “like we say back home, where there’s smoke, there’s barbecue.”

  Even Charles—alias Chucky—didn’t know what to say to that.

  Larry jumped in and filled the silence. “Umm, Cindy, don’t we have something to tell our friends?” He leaned close and put his arm around her.

  “Oh yeah,” she said. “The honor is yours.” She turned back to Larry and smiled affectionately.

  Larry gave her a tender hug and then tapped two empty beer bottles together. Charles gave Larry his attention, even though I knew he wanted clarification of Cindy’s barbecue comment.

  Larry slid off the bar-height chair and stood erect. He didn’t gain much altitude from the move. “Cindy is giving up her apartment,” he said and paused.

  Cindy shot him an exasperated look. “Larry!”

  “And we’re getting married.”

  “I knew it,” said Amber.

  “Whoopee!” said Heather as she waved her hat in the air. An elderly gentleman sitting at the table behind her came within an inch of having his toupee removed by the flailing, wide brim of Heather’s headdress.

  John, Rita’s owner, magically appeared at the table; he carried a bottle of Moet and Chandon champagne in a bucket of ice and six plastic champagne flutes. With much aplomb, he uncorked the bottle of bubbly.

  “Go, hardware store man, go!” yelled a man from two tables away. I didn’t recognize him.

  Larry turned the shade of five hours in the sun. His face clashed with his bright-orange polo shirt with the Pewter Hardware logo on the breast pocket.

  The older I got, the more emotional I had become. I was thrilled for Larry and Cindy and brushed back tears.

  Charles smiled at Larry. “Congratulations,” he said and paused for a moment to savor the excitement, and then turned to Cindy. “Rumors?”

  I elbowed him and said, “Later.” Cindy gave him her official, police, you’re-drunk-but-I-won’t-arrest-you-if-you-just-shut-up look. He did and gulped the champagne like it was Budweiser.

  “Blah!” he said.

  “When’s the hitchin’?” asked Heather.

  “Could be July,” said Larry. He raised his flute to the sky.

  “Will be July,” countered Cindy before she raised her drink even higher.

  Charles leaned over to me and whispered, “President Jimmy Carter once said about his wife, ‘I’ve never won an argument with her; and the only times I thought I had, I found out the argument wasn’t over yet.’”

  Conversation over the next hour and over burgers could have been an episode on the Wedding Channel—dress options, guest list, location of nuptials, reception or not, kind of flowers, maid of honor, on and on. During each lull, Charles asked Cindy if she were pregnant. Other than tipping over her water glass the first time he broached the subject, she never responded. Occasionally, the conversation was interrupted by others on the patio who garnered the nerve to walk over and congratulate the happy, not-so-young couple. Traffic on Center Street and East Arctic Avenue was heavy and added to the distractions. The patio was fewer than twenty feet from the busy intersection.

  “Isn’t that Harley?” asked Heather as the pulsating rumble of a Harley engine drowned out Cindy’s comment about holding the wedding on the beach.

  We turned in the direction of the sound. “Who’s with him?” asked Larry.

  “Colleen, the waitress from GB’s,” said Charles. “She looks like she’s on the Burundi diet.”

  “Huh?” said Heather. She spoke for all of us.

  “Burundi,” said Charles. “One of the poorest countries in the world. Starving people; no food; scrawny. Get it?” He shook his head. “Gee, there’s skyrocketing ignorance in my midst.”

  “Oh,” said Heather. “Colleen, the anorexic-looking chick. She’s real sweet; always says nice things about my singing.”

  Cindy stared at Harley’s Harley that was parking directly across the street in front of the Sand Dollar Social Club. His bike sparkled under the streetlights. The Sand Dollar was a private club that tripled as a biker bar, an occasional movie set, and the perfect hangout for vampires, blood and beer drinkers who couldn’t go out in the sun. It was a Folly Beach landmark. Harley hopped off the bike and wasn’t much taller than when he was on board. He was no more than five foot five and was low, wide, and loud—same as his bike. He wore a bright-blue Harley-Davidson jacket and a helmet that looked like one soldiers wore in World War I. Colleen towered over him at six foot one or more but weighed about the same as the handlebars on the hog. A Harley-Davidson jacket wrapped around her body twice.

  Larry noticed Cindy staring at Colleen. “What?” he asked.

  “That bod isn’t from diet,” she said and continued to look across the street at Harley’s date. “I’d put money on drugs. I’ve seen too much, way too much, of that look on addicts.”

  I only knew Colleen from GB’s; she was friendly and even laughed at some of Charles’s comments—rare for any
one sober. Her pleasant, attentive attitude made even the most mundane item on the menu flavorful.

  Heather watched Harley slip his left arm around Colleen and open the door to the Sand Dollar with his right hand. “I hope she’s a good influence on him,” she said. “He’s been a constipated horse’s keister the last week or so.”

  “Bad vibes?” asked Charles.

  Heather looked around the table. “Vibes; couldn’t hear them. He’s louder than his motorcycle, so all of us in the B&B hear everything he says.”

  Cindy nodded. The rest of us waited for Heather to continue.

  “He’s been obnoxious—says he’s going to be rich; nobody will be able to stop him from splitting this ‘backward, backwater burg’ … same stuff over and over, over and over. O-B-noxious.”

  “Any idea what the three of you are going to inherit?” asked Larry.

  “No,” I said. “Neither does Harley. Could be a pile of debt. Sean has to get more information before he’ll know.”

  “Hope he figures it out soon,” said Heather. “I’ll be happy to see Harley put his big butt on his hog and rumble off to the gone-land.”

  The drink choices headed to the slums when beer and pedestrian-quality wine replaced champagne. Two hours later, I was thrilled with the lower priced drinks; Charles told everyone that I would pick up the check for the announcement ceremony. He was generous like that.

  I quickly forgot the major expenditure when Amber invited herself to my humble cottage for the night. I momentarily pondered ways to find her son more friends to spend nights with.

  No sooner had we entered the front door than my cell rang. I would have been terrified of getting a phone call after midnight in my earlier life; I had learned that Folly Beach was much like Las Vegas—time was meaningless.

  “Yo Chrisster,” began Dude’s distinct voice, “Tour guide here.”

  “What’s up?” I said and shrugged at Amber.

  “Be at Folly View Marina; next little hand lands on seven, big hand on six; Mad Max be debarkin’.” The phone went dead.

  As frightening as it was, I understood what he said and translated for Amber, begged her to give me a minute, and called Charles to see if he wanted to go.

  “Does a bear meditate in the woods?” he said and then followed Dude’s precedent and hung up.

  I had no idea about bears’ meditation habits, but knew he meant he’d be there. I love my world!

  Then I wondered what I would think of it after a trip to where Long’s corpse had been dumped and eaten by marsh creatures. And then I turned to Amber, and my world bloomed with happiness.

  The Folly View Marina was just a hop, skip, and two blocks off-island, a three-minute drive from my house. Charles hadn’t mentioned me picking him up, but we both knew I’d be at his door no later than ten minutes before the time we were to arrive at the marina.

  Charles paced the gravel and shell lot as I pulled into the small parking area that served both his apartment building and the Sandbar Seafood and Steak Restaurant. He wore a long-sleeved, navy-blue T-shirt with an angry-looking animal with “Fear the Goat” and “Navy” on the front in block letters. The new T-shirt contrasted with his ripped and wrinkled, tan cargo shorts and mud-stained Nike tennis shoes. His ever-present Tilley topped off his outfit. His left shoulder held the camera strap for the Nikon I had given him. He waved my direction with his homemade cane.

  “Come on, come on; where’ve you been? We’re almost a little early,” he yelled.

  I stopped beside him and lowered my window. I ignored his obsession about time and nodded toward his shirt. “Join the navy?”

  “Not navy,” he said. “Naval academy; goat’s their mascot.”

  “Then let’s head to the ship.” If he caught my attempt at humor, he ignored it. I would have done the same.

  He moved to the passenger side and threw his cane in the rear seat. He looked over at me. “Boring, boring, boring.”

  Years earlier, I had chosen not to make statements or commercials with words on my shirts, and Charles had never failed to remind me how boring my clothes were. Today’s faded-red polo shirt and khaki shorts were no exception. He never commented on my hat, since it was identical to his, just a few years older.

  The sun had been up for more than an hour, and the fog lifted as we crossed the two-lane bridge leading off-island. A few early-morning fishermen were already navigating the river on their optimistic quest for food. Immediately past the large Mariner’s Cay condo complex and marina, we turned left at a hand-painted wooden sign that read, “Folly View Marina, private property.” The marina was in stark contrast to its upscale neighbor. The tire-rutted parking lot was covered with a mixture of crushed shells, gravel, and dirt. Parking spaces were unmarked, and the lot would be challenged to hold more than a dozen cars.

  Only two vehicles were in the lot. Dude’s El Camino was parked perpendicular to a new, shiny, black, retro-styled Chevrolet Camaro. An equal number of people were standing in the lot beside the Camaro. Dude either had a closet full of tie-dyed, peace-symbol-adorned T-shirts, often washed the one he had on, or stank. With his disheveled, long, white, curly hair and sun-wrinkled face, he looked nearly the same as he had every day I’d seen him except when the temperature dipped below forty degrees. He was in deep, animated conversation with the other man, whom I deduced to be the infamous Mad Mel.

  Dude heard my door slam and walked toward Charles and me. His acquaintance followed. Mel was at least a half-foot taller than Dude and had what appeared to be a surgically implanted frown on his face.

  “Chuckster, Chrisster,” said Dude, “see Mad Mel, a friend.” Dude turned and pointed to the man now standing beside him.

  Mel stared at Dude. “Friend—shit!” said Mel, his frown still permanently affixed. “Damned, draft-dodging hippy druggy.” He then turned to Charles and stared at his T-shirt. “You a damned sailor?”

  “Nope,” said Charles. “Naval academy shirt.”

  “You went to Canoe U? Un-damned-believable.”

  “Nope,” said Charles, repeating his word for the day. “Eighty-five percent off at the army surplus store.”

  “Overpriced,” said Mel. “Damned navy.”

  Charles looked directly at Mel. “Your mom must have been psychic to name you Mad,” he said. A sly grin appeared.

  What could be construed as a smile in some circles appeared on Mad Mel’s face. “You must be smart-assed Charles.” He grabbed Charles right hand and gave a vice-like squeeze.

  Mel wore a leather bomber jacket with the sleeves cut off at the shoulder; his woodland camo field pants were sheared off at the knee. What appeared to be a bald head was topped by a camouflaged fatigue cap with Semper Fi in script on the crown. His camouflaging would have been successful if he hadn’t been wearing a pair of bright-white Adidas tennis shoes.

  He turned to me. “Then you must be the damned dull one—Chrisster, or something like that.”

  I saw Charles giggle as he massaged his smushed right hand. “I’d prefer Chris,” I said and reluctantly held out my hand. Mel took my hand and squeezed. Apparently, the “dull one” got a more socially acceptable handshake.

  “We be going?” said Dude. He was standing behind Charles and was tapping his left foot in the loose gravel.

  Mel tilted his head toward Dude. “Shut the commie-pinko trap up,” he said. “We’re breaking the damned ice … Oprah bonding.” He turned away from Dude and looked at Charles and then to me. “Damned surfing hippy.” He shook his head.

  “You and Dude been friends long?” asked Charles.

  That was the last question I would have asked after Mel’s comment.

  “Too damned long,” said Mel. He turned to Dude and gave a big stage wink.

  “Been buds two decades,” said Dude. “The last two.”

  �
�See?” said Mel. “Too damned long.”

  “Bonding be done,” said Dude. “Vamoose time.”

  Without another word, Mel turned and walked toward a wooden bridge on the left side of the small parking area. The bridge led to a floating pier that had twenty slips that would hold small to midsized boats. Half of the slips were occupied. The three of us followed like baby ducks paddling along behind their mother. Dude turned to Charles and gave a thumbs-up sign.

  I wasn’t nearly as much of a detective as Charles thought he was, but I quickly figured out our destination. A low, white boat bobbed in the water in the slip farthest from the bridge we were on. The craft was about twenty-five feet long with Carolina Skiff, 24DLX in small letters near the stern and a huge Evinrude engine. The rest of the fiberglass side was covered with “Mad Mel’s Magical Marsh Machine” in nine-inch-high, black letters.

  “Step aboard,” said Mel. “And when on my craft, you call me Major.” He held out his right hand to offer leverage. His muscular forearm sported a faded-blue tattoo that said “Dale.” The name was in the center of a heart.

  “Major Mad Mel?” asked Charles.

  “Did I say that, smartass? No, I didn’t,” he answered his own question. “Just Major.”

  I looked to the beautiful sunny sky and prayed that Charles wouldn’t say, “Aye aye, Just Major.”

  My prayer was answered when he limited his response to a nod.

  “Before we shove off, the damned law says I have to tell you there are lifejackets in the storage area up there,” Mel—whoops, Major—pointed to the front of the boat. “For damned wimps,” he continued. “And if we start sinking, you have to throw all damned pinko commie draft dodgers off first.”

  Dude smiled and shook his head. “Law be silent on that.” He covered his mouth with his right hand. “Law say Captain Major go down with ship.”

  “Commie crap,” said Mel as he untied his mystery machine and started the one-hundred-fifty-horsepower Evinrude. “Sit!”

  We didn’t have to be told twice. Dude and I sat on the bench seat along the gunwale near the bow, and Charles scooted toward the stern, close to Med and the instrumentation. We slowly pulled away from the marina, the only slow thing we did for the next fifteen minutes. As soon as we were past the no-wake zone, Mel gunned the powerful engine and we headed east on the Folly River—Folly Beach to our right, the marsh on the left. Despite the warm morning, the sea air was brisk in my face. I felt like I was a gnat sitting on the back of a water bug, scampering on a narrow pond. I had been on Folly Beach for nearly four years but had never seen the marsh from this view. From land, the marsh and river appeared to be one continuous plain; from water, there was a distinct channel we followed.