To the right, a tight gathering of two brown leather chairs, one with an ottoman and a small couch of the same leather covering, rested in the corner around a low square table that held an ash tray, two large white candles and some old books. Across the wall were two more shelves crowded with books and other ornamental items including some sand dollars and shells that must have been gathered from the beach. A corner table held a small kerosene lamp for reading. Two doors on this far wall opened into a bunkroom and the main bedroom; and that was the extent of the Headley’s beach house.
The family had a far more elegant winter home down on the beach at Siesta Key, south of Sarasota. James Headley had told me this place had been used over the years mostly by the Headley brothers and male friends to sneak away from Atlanta to drink and gamble and chase girls over in Panama City.
I walked into the bedroom and pulled a curtain on the wall aside revealing a small closet. There was an assortment of casual shirts and trousers hanging there and two pair of more comfortable shoes and sandals on the wooden-planked floor. A large-brimmed straw hat hung from a hook on the wall and I placed it on my head just to check the fit. It was a bit large, but certainly serviceable. A dresser held several drawers full of other necessities including short pants and a bathing suit. I pulled a pair of worn khaki shorts out and took one of the soft cotton shirts from the closet. I threw them on the bed and then stripped off my clothes and walked back into the main room and over to the kitchen area.
I pumped water from the well handle into the small cast iron sink and did my best to wash up with a bar of soap that was lying on the wooden counter. I found myself scrubbing harder to try to wash away the filth and blood I felt all over me from the past night, as if a layer or two of skin would sluice away the lingering pain and regret. Several large towels had been hung on the wall by the back door. I dried myself and put on my new selection of clothing. It felt somewhat therapeutic, both physically and emotionally, to lose the formal suit of clothes from the previous night in exchange for the more comfortable beach apparel, although it was all a bit large as the hat had been. The Headley boys were somewhat bigger around the middle than I, but the loose fit was actually welcoming. My bare feet also felt pleasant against the cool wooden floor, freed from the confines of socks and heavy leather shoes.
I went back outside and walked around the cottage, releasing the shutters and securing them to the side behind wooden latches to let in some light. The pigs were gone and the streets were empty. I assumed whatever few residents and visitors in town this time of year were either down at the beach or napping in the afternoon heat. Back inside I opened all the windows to let some fresher air in through the screens and then checked the cupboards for any food left behind, finding a sparse collection of stale crackers, two cans of beans, a jar of pickled herring that looked very far beyond fresh and two more jars of contraband hooch. A small icebox stood in the corner next to the heavy wood stove. Inside were three bottles of Mexican beer, probably secured by James from one of the local smugglers. Without ice for many months from the store over in Point Washington the beverages didn’t look very refreshing.
I walked across the room and sat down in one of the old chairs, checking the selection of books on the table. It was an odd assortment; Flaubert’s Madame Bovary, Marcel Proust’s Within a Budding Grove, and Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe, which I picked up and took with me along with the jar of local whiskey out the front door to the porch where I settled in to one of the old wooden rockers. Placing the book on my lap, I twisted the top off the glass jar and held it up to the light. The contents were the color of a weak tea and sediment from the bottom floated up from the jostling. I brought it to my nose and took a sniff. The fumes exploded up into my brain. My recoil was so sudden I almost dropped the whole jar onto the deck of the porch. What the hell, I thought to myself. Trying my best not to inhale I took a quick drink and again, the first sensation was the rush of the whiskey up into my sinuses and brain. As I swallowed, a deep burning sensation flared that I could feel all the way down into my gut. I coughed and gagged and then let the sensations settle. I had tried some of the moonshine whiskey my family distributed up in Atlanta, but none of it had the jolt of this concoction. As I contemplated a second swallow, I couldn’t help but wonder where this batch had been made and just how poisonous the brew might be.
I rubbed a thin layer of dust from the book cover and then glanced up across the barren white dunes down to the beach. I smiled for the first time, thinking of the irony of my similar abandonment and isolation with the character from Defoe’s novel. I began to read, but within a few pages the events of the past evening and the long trip south finally caught up with me. I dozed off into a deep sleep full of dreams and scattered fragments of memories of lost women and murderous relations.
Chapter Seven
As I opened my eyes to the blinding glare of the late afternoon sun now down below the roofline, I felt a cramp in my leg and stiff back muscles from sleeping too long on the porch chair. I stretched to get more comfortable and watched as a fat little bird flew up and perched on the railing in front of me. Its head and breast were a light gray with darker gray wings and a long feathered tail trimmed in white. Our eyes met and the bird cocked its head to the side to get a better look. It scratched around for a few moments on the wood rail, then turned back to me and let out a loud cackle that caught me by surprise. It seemed it was asking to be fed and yet I found that unlikely for a wild bird with so few people around.
I got up slowly and walked into the house. I came back a moment later with the box of old crackers. My bird friend was still there waiting. It watched as I pulled a single cracker out and held it over close to its mouth. Without hesitation, it stretched out its neck and took the cracker from me and then placed it down on the railing where it could begin pecking away smaller bites. I watched with great curiosity and amusement and soon added more crackers for this little character’s afternoon snack. When it was finished, it turned to me again and squawked some new bird message I was supposed to understand; perhaps thank you, but more likely, I want more. Then a friend flew up and lighted next to the bird. The first made a huge fuss in trying to convince the new arrival this was his dining room and there was only room for one at this seating. The new bird finally gave up and reluctantly flew away. I laughed at the proud strut of my friend along the rail.
“Well, we must find a name for you,” I said out loud, feeling a bit silly I was talking to a bird. “How about Champ, young friend?” I asked. “You seem to have won that last fight.”
The bird bobbed its head and jumped around in a little dance, its tail working rapidly to maintain balance on the narrow rail. And then it was gone in a flurry of wings and bird talk, away up into a tree over to the side of the house and out of sight. When I looked back from the tree I noticed I had other company coming through the picket fence gate and up to the porch.
It was a woman, holding the hand of the young girl I had seen earlier on the porch of the hotel. The woman was of a middle age, perhaps near fifty, and her face beamed a bright smile of even white teeth. Her light brown hair was gathered up in random disarray on top of her head. She wore a green colored print dress that fell down well below her knees with a white apron drawn around her waist. Her bare feet were dressed in open leather sandals. In spite of her somewhat plain attire there was a commanding presence about the woman that was quite striking. The little girl stared straight ahead as she had before, but her face was a picture of joy and contentment. She too had the light hair of her grandmother, but curly and hanging loose down past her shoulders.
“I see you’ve met one of our pesky mockingbird friends,” the woman said as they stopped at the foot of the stairs. I stood and walked down the steps to greet them. The little girl spoke first.
“You mustn’t feed them,” she said with a surprising tone of assurance. “They’ll be a terrible bother to you.”
The woman laughed and bent down beside the little
girl. “You should follow your own advice, young lady. We wouldn’t have so many birds all over the hotel.” She stood again and held out her hand. “My name is Lila Dalton. I own the little hotel over there.”
“How do you do, Miss Dalton,” I said and took her hand. “I'm Mathew Coulter. I’m from Atlanta, down for a little getaway at my friend’s place here.”
“Yes, I heard from Rebecca you had some trouble along the way, but welcome to Grayton Beach, Mr. Coulter.”
“Please, call me Mathew.”
“Likewise, I’m called Lila by the folks around here, who I’m sure you’ll meet soon. There aren’t many of us, particularly at this time of year. What on earth happened to your face,” she asked, staring at the open wounds along my chin and cheek.
“Just managed not to duck in time,” I answered, not wanting to get into the details of the past night. “And who do we have here?” I asked, looking down at the little girl.
“This is my marvelous granddaughter, Melanee. You will find she is quite something.”
Melanee reached out her hand, staring blankly past me. I bent down to shake her hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Melanee,” I said. “I saw you over on the porch when I came into town earlier.”
“Yes, I know and Rebecca came back to tell us all about you. You’ve come all this way with no clothes or food,” she said, not with surprise or as a question, but as a simple statement of fact.
She caught me a little off guard and then I managed to say, “Yes, I left town a bit unexpectedly. I just needed to get away…”
She was still holding my hand. “Yes, it must have been quite troubling.”
“Excuse me?” I had to ask.
Lila interrupted by picking the girl up in her arms. “You must understand, Mathew, little Melanee is quite perceptive.” She kissed her on the cheek and the girl turned and kissed her grandmother back on the lips. “We thought you might be a little hungry and thirsty after your long trip, so we brought over a few things for you.” Melanee held up a small basket I hadn’t noticed before and I reached out for it.
“Thank you,” I said, pulling back the white linen napkin to see an assortment of bread and meats and fruit, as well as a cold bottle of cola. “This is awfully nice of you.” I reached into my pocket for money, but realized my wallet was in my other pants inside on the bed.
“No, really, this is our welcome gift for you, Mathew,” Lila said.
“But you must come for dinner tonight, Mr. Coulter,” little Melanee said. “My grandma is the best cook in the county and then Rebecca’s party is tonight.”
“We serve dinner at six o’clock, Mathew, if you can join us. Another family has made reservations and I have two guests in for the season.”
“That sounds very nice,” I said, though I had very little interest in any social interaction. “But, I don’t think I’ll be able to get ready so soon this evening.” I looked down at my wrist and remembered I had left my watch inside as well. “What time is it?”
“Just a little past four, Mr. Coulter,” Melanee said, and again I was surprised by her response.
“We do need to get back now to finish with the dinner preparations,” Lila Dalton said.
“Grandma cooks and I set out the dishes,” Melanee said with great pride.
“I will try my best,” I said. “I’ve still got a lot of work to do to get this place opened up.” I was trying to find some logical excuse to let me hide away in the old cottage for the night and be alone with my thoughts and recriminations. Lila just nodded. Holding up the basket, I said, “I’ll bring this back as soon as I can.”
“Whenever you’re through with it,” Lila said and smiled. “We’ll see you tonight then, Mathew Coulter?”
“I’ll certainly try.”
They turned and walked back out through the gate and on down the sandy road back to the hotel. The aroma of the food in the basket made my mouth water and I started up the stairs into the house, turning for a moment to look again at the woman and her remarkable young granddaughter before I went inside.
To clear my head from the nap and the effects of the local whiskey, I decided to take a walk on the beach before considering whether there was any chance I would ever go over to the hotel for dinner. As I walked in bare feet through the break in the sand dunes, the full view of the Gulf of Mexico stretched out before me. The sight was breathtaking; the long expanse of white sand beach in both directions as far as you could see and the aquamarine blue of the clear water shimmering in the late afternoon sun, which was beginning its descent into the southwestern sky. A flock of sea birds just offshore had found a school of baitfish and were creating quite a frenzy as they dove repeatedly into the water from great heights to gorge on the little fish.
A boardwalk had been constructed to walk down to the beach and just past the dunes a long deck with a covered pavilion had been built looking out over the sand and water. There was a flurry of activity as people were setting up tables and chairs and a band was getting ready to rehearse in the far corner. Several people were standing against the rail with drinks in their hands, taking in the view of the Gulf. I saw Seth Howard and Rebecca’s brother Jonas were among the men getting all of this organized and it occurred to me this must be the preparations for the engagement party. I thought back on the extravagant preparations my parents always stressed over for their parties back in Atlanta. Then I quickly tried to chase away any memories of the city and of a girl named Hanna.
Seth Howard looked up and noticed me as I walked by. His expression turned sour and menacing. He walked away across the deck to help with something else. I tried not to let his lack of hospitality bother me, but it was clear he was unhappy with my earlier encounter with his bride-to-be, Miss Rebecca Bidwell. He certainly had nothing to worry about, as another woman in my life was the last thing I wanted to deal with at the moment. Her brother also noticed me and he was at least gracious enough to manage a brief wave and nod as I walked past on down to the beach.
The sand was even softer and more difficult to walk in than up in town. With each step it was like the ground was reaching up to swallow you clear past your ankles. Down closer to the shore break the sand became firmer as the relentless tides washed against the beach and walking became less of a chore. I decided to head east away from the sun and I hadn’t gone far before I came to a small inlet with water rushing into the Gulf through a narrow channel that snaked its way back through the dunes and away out of sight. It was only a foot or so deep and maybe twenty feet across. The water was a darker tea color with the ripples of the light sand evident along the bottom. A few small fish darted about as I came up. I followed the channel back to the north, walking in the water and enjoying the cool freshness of it. Tall pines loomed ahead and as I came around the edge of a high dune a large lake spread out before me. Marsh grasses lined much of the shoreline and the water was still, but darker than the Gulf by some measure. As I continued on, the sand bottom became softer and then almost a muck. I stepped up out of the channel onto the grass bank. Along the left shore I could see two white cottages tucked into the pines with docks coming out into the lake. One had a small rowboat tied up. I looked up to see an osprey floating high on the wind looking down with a lofty and carnivorous attitude.
I walked on a little farther and stopped suddenly as something moving in the knee-high grass ten feet out caught me by surprise. Standing motionless, feeling the beat of my heart picking up, I waited to see what critter I may have stumbled upon. The thought of big snakes came to mind and I started backing up slowly. Then with a great explosion of sound and grasses flying about and water splashing, a large alligator ran across in front of me into the lake. I was so unprepared for the sight of it I stumbled back and fell, my heart now hammering in my chest. I crawled backwards a few more yards before standing. I watched as the big gator swam smoothly across the surface of the water and then turned to look directly at me, its two big round eyes and long snout visible above the wate
r.
“Holy mother of…” I managed to say as I stood staring at the big gator. I took a deep breath and then in somewhat of a panic, looked around me in the grass for signs he might have a friend nearby. I walked warily backward through the grass which had sharp edges that scratched at my bare legs. If you had just come up and not seen it in full view before you on dry land, the gator now looked like a big lifeless black log floating on the lake.
In short time, I was back to the beach and gratefully away from the marshes and snakes and gators and who knew what other forms of menacing flora and fauna. The wide-open expanse of beach and water was certainly more tranquil and welcoming.
Chapter Eight
Back at the Headley cottage, I questioned the decision to even consider the invitation to dinner at the little hotel with Lila Dalton and her granddaughter, Melanee. I was in no mood for social interaction and having to explain my arrival to a room full of strangers was more than I cared to consider. A few nights alone in this old cottage with the left-behind jars of moonshine liquor seemed more appealing to drown the memories of the past hours in Atlanta. I took a glass from one of the cupboards and sat down at the table in the kitchen and poured it half full. The first swallow was again devastating, but I managed the second and third more easily. I could feel the connections in brain function quickly beginning to unravel.
I began to contemplate the actions of my brother the night before with Hanna Wesley. In our years growing up together we had always been as close as two brothers could be, even with a few years between us, although it occurred to me I was much closer to my sister Maggie in those years. When we were younger, Jess was always running faster, playing harder, always accomplishing more than Maggie and me, and we accepted this, I suppose, as the natural order of things, he being the oldest. It was only when we got into our later years in school and both Maggie and I began to advance more in our studies, that it became apparent Jess was not necessarily superior in all things.
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