The Edge of the Gulf

by Hadley Hury

  Moon looked a bit confused by the unaccustomed trip to the spare room.

  Hudson was not.

  “Goodnight, Kate,” he said.

  Chapter 28

  Terry Main sat on one of the benches that faced the large fountain in the middle of the small city park. Despite the still-throbbing, early evening heat, there were, as he knew there would be, plenty of people milling about and sitting on the benches, on the grass, and along the ledge of the fountain. Giant live oak trees, some draped with Spanish moss, cloaked nearly the entire square block of the park with long shards of deep shade. Parents watched as squealing children took turns on the three-seat swing set, the slide, and jungle gym. A historical marker flanked by tall flagpoles bearing the colors of the various nations that had ruled Pensacola was always a popular site for tourists. They still wrangled cameras in the last light and bumped their knees with huge shopping bags; downtown office workers crisscrossed the square on their way from businesses, or to cocktails; people lounged or strolled idly about, chatting, while others sat here and there still reading, or listening to headsets; a few stalwart runners loped with fixed stares through the humidity.

  He unfurled a newspaper he had already read and hoped that no one would take the other end of the bench. Three or four minutes passed before Michael appeared, also carrying a newspaper.

  “Hey,” he said quietly, scarcely nodding to Terry as he sat down. He looked around the park for a full minute, fingering his beard. He crossed one leg up over the other knee and spread the newspaper. After a few minutes he refolded one section carefully and lay it down.

  “Mind if I take a look?” Terry smiled.

  Michael nodded.

  Tucked within the pages of the paper, Terry found one sheet of plain white paper, covered with cramped but neat handwriting.

  He read with a concentration so fierce that he forgot about the rivulets of sweat coursing down his back. It was perfect. They couldn’t have done better themselves. The awkward phrasing, the misspellings, the ignorance and fear transmuted by a steady diet of demagoguery into hatred and weird, grotesque logic.

  ***

  To whom it may concern (Police, FBI, the Media, Government Officials, the Public)—

  “They will conform to my statutes and keep my laws. They will become my people, and I will become their God. But as for those whose heart is set upon their vile and abominable practices, I will make them answer for all they have done. This is the very word of the Lord God.” (Ezekiel 11:20-21)

  I take no credit for this act. That would be putting myself above the holy justice that is our cause. I am nothing. God has seen fit to use me and that is all I know. “You are my battle-axe, my weapon of war” (Jeremiah 51:20)

  We are Godless in this country and we will answer for it. The colored races are God’s children but they have got dominyon over us and they take the family values down. Some have gone over to the Infedel Alah and dress in his rayments and they want to get down and pray on mats in the schools when you can’t even pray to the true God or have the Ten Commanments by the pencil sharpner. While our so-called leaders (New World Order) sleep with harlots the Devil does not sleep. His handywork is seen thruout the land. The children have no respect for the adults and women do not obey their husbands or God’s laws, dress like whores of Babylon and killing their inocent babies in their own womb. The homosexual agenda is taught in the schools and they infilltrate the t.v. and shown to be acepptable everywhere even by some radicle pastors who are in the cult religions (Jews, Freemasons, Unitarions, Methodists, Episcable, xct.) God’s wrath is upon them with the AIDS (Leviticus 14,15, 20:13) and they do not turn from evil but take more with them to perdision.

  Satan has control of much of the Media and Innernet except for some Godly men who have begun to fight back in the Name of the Lord. Pornography is rampet but it is most the ones that coruppt the soul and the flesh of inocent young ones who must be stopped. There are godless laws that protect evildooers but not those who are inocent. Godfearing people must act. I have been called and I am an obedient and humble servant of The Lord.

  This man Charlie Brompton has made millions of dollars in the trade of Evil. He has a restrant and a bar and owns property and because he has this power of Mammon no one will speak against him or take action. But mostly it is pornography and no one knows this. But now some Men of God do know and it and his evil will be made known. The Lord has said “Do not blot out their wrongdoing or annul their sin (Jeremiah 18:23). So now the sword of truth and Vengefull Justice is risen up to protect other inocents from being abused beyond belief in pornography and killed by AIDS at the hands of this man. I have seen what he sells to make his fortune and I will never forget it. Twice in my life I have seen manifest the very face of the Devil, once the Abortion killing on video and the other is this man’s videos. I can never forget. God has seen fit to torment even my sleep. But I know that is His way of leading me to redemtion as a soldier in his Holy War and I praise His Name.

  Someday you may know who I am. But it does’nt matter. I have been told that God has a plan for me in another place now and so I will follow his chosen leaders. But we do not know the days of our coming or our going. God’s will be done and to Him all the glory. If we must be persecuted as His peculier people then we are truly in the company of angels. The law of man is coruppt and I must answer to the law of God. His is the only true judgment.

  You will find a sacrifice here acording to God’s laws of purification and atonement. When this is on CNN and in the papers, Godefaring people will know this for a Holy Symbol and even the others will know that God’s army is no longer fearfull on the sidelines of this sick culture but on the march. Evil will be driven out by The Sword and Our House will be made pure.

  “In order to rid the house of impurity, he shall take two small birds, cedar-wood, scarlet thread, and marjoram. He shall kill one of the birds over an earthenware bowl containing fresh water. He shall then take the cedar-wood, marjoram, and scarlet thread, together with the living bird, dip them in the blood of the bird that has been killed and in the fresh water, and sprinkle the house seven times. Thus he shall purify the house, using the blood of the bird, the fresh water, the living bird, the cedar-wood, the marjoram, and the scarlet thread. He shall set the living bird free outside to fly away over the open country, and make expiation for the house; and then it shall be clean.”

  Leviticus 14:49-53

  Terry folded the letter and eased it into the fold of his own newspaper. He took off his round wire-rimmed sunglasses and squinted up into a slant of orange sunlight that penetrated the canopy of oaks. He rubbed his hand over his eyes, appearing to be on the verge of tears, and then he turned and looked at Michael.

  “Michael.”

  Michael shifted, uncrossing his legs and, for the first time, lifting his downcast face, questioningly. “Yeah?”

  Terry lay down the borrowed section of newspaper beside Michael and smiled, tapping his finger vaguely as if to indicate something he had read there. “I will take your draft of the message to Miss Rachel and The Reverend, as we’ve talked about.”

  “Sure. I don’t have all the words….”

  “We just want it to be perfect because it’s going to be such an important statement. But Michael…”

  “Yeah?”

  “I feel confident that they will change very little, if anything. It is very powerful and very beautiful. This proves again that you are God’s instrument in this mission. Oh, our leaders may want to touch up a spelling or a phrase just here or there. But this is from the heart and I know what they’ll say. They’ll say ‘Well done, good and faithful servant.’ This letter is filled with God’s inspiration. I’m very….” He hesitated and pointed to another area of the newspaper. “Michael, I’m just very, very moved.”

  He looked away. He was thinking that Michael might not have time for his little ritual with dead birds and marjoram or whatever, but, as he watched some children who had taken off their shoes and w
ere splashing at the side of the fountain, what he said was: “Those children are going to grow up in a cleaner world because of you and because what you are doing will embolden more people to join our cause.”

  He then gathered up his newspaper with the letter inside, and stood. Looking down, he said, “You know, Michael, I look forward to working with you in the open, out front and shoulder to shoulder, when this mission is complete and we go to Houston, or Merida, or wherever the Lord sends us to work with the Reverend and Miss Rachel.”

  Michael said, “They sent me a letter the other day.” He almost smiled. “It made me feel pretty good.”

  “That’s fine. I’m not surprised. They have grown to respect you very much.” He paused. “I have to get back, now.” He looked up again into the sunlight. “My pretending to be a bar manager has helped us gather a lot of useful information for our efforts—but to tell you God’s truth my soul is sick with feeling dirty. I do not see many spirit-filled persons in that place. And if I were to witness, it would draw too much attention to us.” He put on his sunglasses. “But we’re almost there, my friend.”

  Michael nodded.

  Terry locked eyes with him. “Are you ready?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know every step of the plans?”

  “Yes.”

  “You have nothing with any of our names or anything like that on it in your room, or in your truck?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll get you whatever few changes they may need in the letter so that you can copy it over.”

  “Okay.”

  “And should there be any changes in the plan we’ll go over them in our final checklist the day before. I’ll be in touch, the usual way. Goodbye, Michael. Godspeed.”

  “’Bye, Terry.” He looked up, his eyes wide with the only hint of joy Terry had ever noticed there. “Godspeed.” Clearly unaccustomed to the word, he seemed to savor it for a moment before releasing it like a kiss blown hopefully to one’s beloved.

  ***

  Terry sauntered out of the park and walked over two blocks to his vehicle. He would, indeed, get revisions back to Michael for his final copying of his letter. They would be few and they would be minor. The real McCoy couldn’t be improved on and, except to help keep poor Michael on task and feeling that his spiritual leaders were in there pitching with him, they really wouldn’t matter. Michael might feel especially conscientious to think he had a brand-new final edit to leave in Charlie Brompton’s house after the holy act was done, but Terry now had in his possession what he needed as insurance.

  Just in case something went wrong once Terry dispatched Michael himself on an unannounced flight to paradise. Just in case, despite his meticulous planning, the worst case scenario occurred, and he was somehow discovered before getting away from the house with not one, but two dead bodies inside.

  He would produce this perfect specimen (somewhat dusty, wrinkled, and torn), in Michael’s handwriting (perhaps a draft?) of a disturbing letter that he had found under some paintbrushes while putting away cases in the storage room after closing. He would have remembered his concern over some passing comments that the painter had made. Despite the late hour, he would have decided to stop by on his way home to check on Charlie.

  He would seem dazed, distraught, grieving.

  He would have been too late.

  Chapter 29

  Charlie’s first stop had been the farmers’ market in Destin

  He spent quite some time foraging among the vegetables and fruit, gently testing the whorls of the endive, examining the edges of mushrooms and the bending points of asparagus spears, searching for the barely discernible scent that distinguishes the better blueberry, adjusting his menu slightly depending on his finds.

  At one point the owner, a tall black man with stooped shoulders and a soft but very deep voice, walked over and said conspiratorially, “Can’t give those strawberries much, but look at these.” In each plump hand he held a small basket of raspberries, brilliant and perfectly globed. “Sweetest we’ve had this year.” The man’s face was gentle but solemn and he scrutinized Charlie’s face as Charlie took a couple and ate them.

  “You’re right, Frank.” He grinned. “I’d better have some.”

  Frank allowed himself a brief, small smile. “Always a treat, good raspberries. Just for you or you havin’ folks in? I haven’t put these out yet, they’re in back.”

  “A celebration. Six people. Just family really, for my young cousin from Atlanta and his new bride.”

  “You don’t mean. Well, now that is a special supper. You get you some o’ that endive?”

  “I sure did.” He paused. “How do you fix it?”

  Frank managed another smile. “Covered skillet, but not too long. Like it tender but firm. A shot of bourbon and a touch of bacon grease.”

  “Bourbon?”

  “Now, that’s the secret part.”

  “Of course. Have you tried that clove and lemon zest pork loin?”

  “Third time last Sunday.”

  Frank was called away for a phone call, and Charlie finished gathering what he needed. They met again at the checkout counter, and Charlie asked, “When are you and Grace going to get out to the restaurant again?”

  “Our daughter’s coming down from the University next month for her brother’s birthday.”

  “Just let me know. University? That can’t be. Just yesterday she wasn’t as tall as that stack of tomatoes.”

  “Twenty-one.”

  Charlie shook his head and said, “I better get out of here before I get any older,” which made Frank actually let out a little laugh.

  “You fix those young folks up right, tonight, Charlie. I know you will. A happy time for all of you.”

  ***

  He picked up extra bottles of merlot and sauvignon blanc at Ollie’s, seafood for the bisque at the fresh market on Highway 98, and bread from Cesaria. She was an ancient Portuguese woman who, with her daughter, had for years supplied markets in Fort Walton and Destin, and the 26-A, but was now retired. Her widowed daughter had remarried and moved away and Cesaria lived on modest but sufficient investments her husband had made during his years in the Air Force. She resided in a scrupulously and lovingly tended little house set in a scrupulously and lovingly tended little yard in an oak and cypress grove beside Redfish Lake. She spent hours sitting on her deeply shaded porch reading books of poetry from the county library, and in the evenings she listened to an odd assortment of music—Tony Bennett, the Police, zydeco, the odd Broadway anthology—rejects that her daughter had left her along with an old CD player. Cesaria had learned where the bargain bins were in the local stores and enjoyed passing long minutes flipping through the CDs, comparing deals from store to store, narrowing her choices, and finally, once every month, treating herself to something new.

  She now baked only to teach her young nieces and nephews and for events at her church. She had once confided sadly, “These Catholics are not bakers. Italians. Irish. If it’s not pasta or that flat hard soda bread, they do not know.”

  And, on occasion, she baked for Charlie.

  Today, when Charlie drove up, Cesaria was reading Octavio Paz and listening to Cats.

  He always wanted to kiss the fine olive skin of her lovely high cheekbone, but it was not Cesaria’s way. She was capable of wonderful, sly humor, but she was very formal and, Charlie guessed, considered a friendly kiss, even with true affection, somehow a trivialization of the vigilant passion she kept for her husband, who had died in a freakish deep-sea fishing accident at fifty.

  He held both her hands in his for a moment. “You’ll never guess what I have for you.”

  He reached in the pocket of his baggy khaki pants and drew forth a CD.

  She looked at the cover and her delicate brows lifted. “Cesaria?”

  “Cesaria Evora. I’ve just discovered her and, naturally, thought of you. She’s Cape Verdan.”

  “This is your CD?”

  “No, mine’
s out there in the car. I’ve just been listening to it. This one’s yours.”

  Chapter 30

  Chaz watched from the window of the upstairs suite as a small truck appeared through the trees, approaching the house along the long winding drive. It pulled to one side of the turnaround that circled a small stand of sweetbay magnolias. In a moment, the housekeeper, Marianne, emerged from below carrying two grocery bags and awkwardly balancing a rectangular box. Her husband got out to help her arrange them in the back and they drove away.

  “She’s gone.” Just out of the shower, he stood naked, drying his hair with a towel. “Loaded down as usual.”

  Sydney crossed the room, pulling on a long white robe. “Oh, yes. I got an earful this morning when she was doing the library about how fine and generous, etc. etc. etc…. Charlie is definitely in a giving mood. That Libby woman mentioned the other day how ‘good’ he’s been to some abused children’s shelter. On whose board she sits. Of course. They’re all so appropriate.”

  She put her arms around him from behind and they looked out into the scattered pools of sunlight and the shadows stretching toward them from the west. “If we decide to use Atlanta as our primary residence, I intend to rotate through every important non-profit board in town. It shouldn’t cost that much. And I’ll know how to help them give money a lot more usefully than some of these people who’ve always had their own.”

  “Charlie didn’t always have his own. He earned it.”

  She cupped his cheek in her hand and turned his face toward her. She kissed him.

  “He didn’t earn it without using enlightened self-interest. And he didn’t earn the right to revoke your birthright and set himself up as your own personal judge.” She paused. “Terry’s due at noon?”

  “Yeah. I told him Charlie said he’d be back around two. If he gets back early or if anybody else shows up, Terry has stopped by to bring my wallet which I ‘accidentally left wrapped in a towel’ at the Bar last night.”