Mrs. Darcy and the Blue-Eyed Stranger

by Lee Smith

  “You feel okay, honey?” Larry says when I get to the top of the stairs, where at first I can’t see a thing, the sun is so bright, it’s like coming out of a movie.

  “Sure I do.” I give Larry a wifely peck on the cheek.

  “Damn,” Mack Durant says. “You sure look okay.” Mack himself looks like Burt Reynolds but fatter. I choose to ignore that remark.

  “Can I get somebody to run me in to the beach?” I ask. “I need to make a few purchases.”

  “Why not swim in?” Bruce suggests. “That’s what everybody else is doing.” He motions to the other boats, and this is true. “Or you can paddle in on the kickboard.”

  “I can’t swim,” I say, which is not technically true, but I have no intention of messing up my makeup or getting my hair wet, plus also I have a basic theory that you should never do anything in front of people unless you are really good at it, this goes not just for swimming but for everything.

  Bruce claps his hands and a Negro gets the dinghy and I ride to the beach in style, then tell him to wait for me. I could get used to this! Also I figure that my departure will give the men a chance to talk business.

  There’s not actually much on the island that I can see, just a bunch of pathetic-looking Negroes begging, which I ignore, and selling their tacky native crafts along the beach. These natives look very unhealthy to me, with their nappy hair all matted up and their dark skin kind of dusty looking, like they’ve got powder on. The ones back in Atlanta are much healthier, in my opinion, though they all carry guns.

  I buy some sunscreen in the little shack of a store that features very inferior products, paying with some big green bills that I don’t have a clue as to their value, I’m sure these natives are cheating me blind. Several Italian guys try to pick me up on the beach, wearing those nasty little stretch briefs. I don’t even bother to speak to them. I just wade out into the warm clear water to the dinghy and ride back and then Larry helps me up the ladder to the yacht, where I land flat on my butt on the deck, to my total dismay. “It certainly is hard to keep up your image in the tropics!” I make a little joke as Larry picks me up.

  “Easier to let it go,” Bruce Ware says. “Go native. Let it all hang out.”

  In my absence, the men have been swimming. Bruce Ware’s gray chest hair looks like a wet bath mat. He stands with his feet wide apart as our boat rocks in the wake of a monster sailboat. Bruce Ware looks perfectly comfortable, as if he grew up on a yacht. Maybe he did. Larry and I didn’t, that’s for sure! We are basically two of a kind, I just wish I’d run into him earlier in life, though better late than never as they say. This constant rocking is making me nauseous, something I didn’t notice before when we were moving. I am not about to mention it, but Bruce Ware must have noticed because he gives me some Dramamine.

  Larry and I go down below to dress up a little bit for dinner, but I won’t let Larry fool around at all as I am sure they could hear us. Larry puts on khaki pants and a nice shirt and I put on my new white linen slacks and a blue silk blouse with a scoop neck. The Negroes row us over to the island. I am disappointed to see that Bruce and Mack have not even bothered to change for dinner, simply throwing shirts on over their bathing suits, and I am further disappointed by the restaurant, which we have to walk up a long steep path through the actual real jungle to get to. It’s at least a half a mile. I’m so glad I wore flats.

  “This better be worth it!” I joked, but then I am embarrassed when it’s not. The restaurant is nothing but a big old house with Christmas lights strung all around the porch and three mangy yellow dogs in the yard. Why, I might just as well have stayed in eastern Kentucky! We climb up these steep steps onto the porch and sit at a table covered with oilcloth and it is a pretty view, I must admit, overlooking the harbor. There’s a nice breeze too. So I am just relaxing a little bit when a chicken runs over my foot, which causes me to jump a mile. “Good Lord!” I say to Larry, who says, “Shhh.” He won’t look at me.

  Bruce Ware slaps his hand on the table. “This is the real thing!” He goes on to say that there are two other places to eat, on the other side of the island, but this is the most authentic. He says it is run by two native women, sisters, who are famous island cooks, and most of the waitresses are their daughters. “So what do you think, Chanel?”

  “Oh, I like it just fine,” I say. “It’s very interesting,” and Larry looks relieved, but frankly I am amazed that Bruce Ware would want to come to a place like this, much less bring a lady such as myself along.

  “Put it right here, honey,” Bruce says to a native girl who brings a whole bottle of Mount Gay rum to our table and sets it down in front of him, along with several bottles of bitter lemon and ice and drinking glasses, which I inspect carefully to choose the cleanest one. None of them look very clean, of course they can’t possibly have a dishwasher back in that kitchen, which we can see into, actually, every time the girls walk back and forth through the bead curtain. Two big fat women are back there cooking and laughing and talking a mile a minute in that language which Bruce Ware swears is English though you can’t believe it.

  “It’s the rhythm and the accent that make it sound so different,” Bruce claims. “Listen for a minute.” Two native men are having a loud back-slapping kind of conversation at the bar right behind us. I can’t understand a word of it. As soon as they walk away, laughing, Bruce says, “Well? Did you get any of that?”

  Larry and I shake our heads no, but Mack is not even paying attention to this, he’s drinking rum at a terrifying rate and staring at one of the waitresses.

  Bruce smiles at us like he’s some guy on the Discovery Channel. “For example,” he lectures, “one of those men just said, ‘Me go she by,’ which is really a much more efficient way of saying, ‘I’m going by to see her.’ This is how they talk among themselves. But they are perfectly capable of using the King’s English when they talk to us.”

  I make a note of this phrase, the King’s English. I am always trying to improve my vocabulary. “Then that gives them some privacy from the tourists, doesn’t it?” I remark. “From people like us.”

  “Exactly, Chanel.” Bruce looks very pleased and I realize how much I could learn from a man like him.

  “Well, this is all just so interesting, and thanks for pointing it out to us,” I say, meaning every word and kicking Larry under the table. He mumbles something. Larry seems determined to match Mack drink for drink, which is not a good idea. Larry is not a good drunk.

  But unfortunately I have to go to the bathroom (I can’t imagine what this experience will be like!), so I excuse myself and make my way through the other tables, which are filling up fast. I can feel all those dark native eyes burning into my skin. When I ask for the ladies’ room, the bartender simply points out into the jungle. I ask again and he points again. I am too desperate to argue. I stumble out there and am actually thankful to find a portable toilet such as you would see at a construction site. Luckily I have some Kleenex in my purse.

  It is all a fairly horrifying experience made even worse by a man who’s squatting on his haunches right outside the door when I exit. “Oh!” I scream, and leap back, and he says something. Naturally I can’t understand a word of it. But for some reason I am rooted to the spot. He stands up slow and limber as a leopard and then we are face to face and he’s looking at me like he knows me. He is much lighter skinned and more refined looking than the rest of them. “Pretty missy,” he says. He touches my hair.

  I’m proud to say I do not make an international incident out of this, I maintain my dignity while getting out of there as fast as possible, and don’t even mention it to the men when I get back, as they are finally talking business, but of course I will tell Larry later.

  So I just pour myself a big drink to calm down, and Larry reaches over to squeeze my hand, and there we all sit while the sun sets in the most spectacular fiery sunset I have ever seen in real life and the breeze comes up and the chickens run all over the place, which I have ceased t
o mind, oddly enough, maybe the rum is getting to me, it must be some really high proof. So I switch to beer, though the only kind they’ve got is something called Hairoun which does not even taste like beer in my opinion. The men are deep in conversation, though Mack gets up occasionally and tries to sweet-talk the pretty waitress, who laughs and brushes him off like he is a big fat fly. I admire her technique as well as her skin, which is beautiful, rich milk chocolate. I laugh to think what Mack’s little bowhead wife back in Atlanta would think if she could see him now! The strings of Christmas lights swing in the breeze and lights glow on all the boats in the harbor. Larry scoots closer and nuzzles my ear and puts his arm around me and squeezes me right under the bust which is something I wish he would not do in public. “Having fun?” he whispers in my ear, and I say, “Yes,” which is true.

  I am expanding my horizons as they say.

  This restaurant does not even have a menu. The women just serve us whatever they choose, rice and beans and seafood mostly, it’s hard to say. I actually prefer to eat my food separately rather than all mixed up on a plate which I’m sure is not clean anyway. The men discuss getting an 85 percent loan at 9 percent and padding the specs, while I drink another Hairoun.

  The man who touched my hair starts playing guitar, some kind of island stuff, he’s really good. Also he keeps looking at me and I find myself glancing over at him from time to time to see if he is still looking, this is just like seventh grade. Still it gives me something to do since the men are basically ignoring me, which begins to piss me off after a while since Mack is not ignoring the pretty waitress. The Negro with the guitar catches me looking at him and grins. I am completely horrified to see that his two front teeth are gold. People start dancing. “I don’t know,” Larry keeps saying to Bruce Ware. “I just don’t know.”

  I have to go to the bathroom again and when I come back there’s a big argument going on involving Mack, who has apparently been slapped by the pretty waitress. Now she’s crying and her mother is yelling at Mack who is pretty damn mad, and who can blame him? Of course he didn’t mean anything by whatever he did, he certainly wasn’t going to sleep with that girl and get some disease. “Goddamn bitch,” he says, and Bruce tells Larry and me to get him out of there, which we do, while Bruce gets into some kind of fight himself over the bill. These Negroes have over-charged us. Bruce’s behavior at this point is interesting to me. He has gone from his nice Marlin Perkins voice to a real J. R. Ewing obey-me voice. Thank God there is somebody here to take charge, I’m thinking as I stand at the edge of the jungle with a drunk on each arm and watch the whole thing happening inside the house like it’s on television. The ocean breeze lifts my hair off my shoulders and blows it around and I don’t even care that it’s getting messed up. I am so mad at Larry for getting drunk.

  “You okay, honey?” Bruce Ware says to me when he gets everything taken care of to his satisfaction, and I say, “Yes.” Then Bruce takes Mack by the arm and I take Larry and we walk back down to the beach two by two, which seems to take forever in the loud rustling dark. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if a gorilla jumped out and grabbed me, after everything that’s happened so far! Bruce goes first, with the flashlight.

  I love a capable man.

  When we finally make it down to the beach, I am so glad to see our Negroes waiting, but even with their help it’s kind of a problem getting Mack into the dinghy, in fact it’s like a slapstick comedy, and I finally start laughing. At this point Mack turns on me. “What are you laughing at, bitch?” he says, and I say, “Larry?” but all Larry says is, “Sshhh.”

  “Never mind, Chanel,” Bruce tells me. “Mack’s just drunk, he won’t even remember this tomorrow. Look at the stars.”

  By now the Negroes are rowing us out across the water.

  “What?” I ask him.

  “Look at the stars,” Bruce says. “You see a lot of constellations here that you never get to see at home, for instance that’s the Southern Cross over there to your left.”

  “Oh yes,” I say, though actually I have never seen any constellations in my life, or if I did I didn’t know it, and certainly did not know the names of them.

  “There’s Orion right overhead,” Bruce says. “See those three bright stars in a row? That’s his belt.”

  Of course I am acting as interested as possible, but by then we’ve reached the yacht and a Negro is helping us all up (he has quite a job with Mack and Larry), and then two of them put Mack to bed. “Scuse me,” Larry mutters, and goes to the back of the boat to hang his head over and vomit. Some fiancé! I stand in the bow with Bruce Ware, observing the southern sky, while the Negroes say good night and go off with a guy who has come by for them in an outboard. Its motor gets louder and louder the farther they get from us, and I am privately sure that they are going around to the other side of the island to raise hell until dawn.

  Bruce steps up close behind me. “Listen here, whatever your real name is,” he says, “Larry’s not going to marry you, you know that, don’t you?”

  Of course this is none of Bruce Ware’s business, so it makes me furious. “He most certainly is!” I say. “Just as soon as — “

  “He’ll never leave Jean,” Bruce says into my ear. “Never.”

  Then he sticks his tongue in my ear, which sends world-class shivers down my whole body.

  “Baby — “ It’s Larry, stumbling up beside us.

  “Larry, I’m just, we’re just . . .” Now I’m trying to get away from Bruce Ware but he doesn’t give an inch, pinning me against the rail. He’s breathing all over my neck. “Larry,” I start again.

  “Hey, baby, it’s okay. Go for it. I know you like to have a good time.” Larry is actually saying this, and there was a time when I would have actually had that good time, but all of a sudden I just can’t do it.

  Before either my ex-fiancé or his associate can stop me, I make a break for it and jump right down into the dinghy and pull the rope up over the thing and push off and grab the oars and row like mad toward the shore. I use the rowing machine all the time at the health club, but this is the first time I have had a chance at the real thing. It’s easy.

  “Come back here,” yells Bruce Ware. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

  “Native,” I call back to them across the widening water. “I’m going native!”

  “Shit,” one of them says, but by now I can barely hear them. What I hear is the slapping sound of my oars and the occasional bit of music or conversation from the other boats, and once somebody says, “Hey, honey,” but I keep going straight for the beach, which lies like a silver ribbon around the bay. I look back long enough to make sure that nobody’s coming after me. At least those natives can speak the King’s English when they want to, and I can certainly help out in the kitchen if need be. I grew up cooking beans and rice. Anyway, I’m sure I can pay one of them to take me back to Barbados in the morning. Won’t that surprise my companions? Since I am never without some “mad money” and Larry’s gold card, this is possible, although I did leave some brand-new perfectly gorgeous shoes and several of my favorite outfits on the yacht.

  A part of me can’t believe I’m acting this crazy, while another part of me is saying, “Go, girl.” A little breeze comes up and ruffles my hair. I practice deep breathing from aerobics and look all around. The water is smooth as glass. The whole damn sky is full of stars. It is just beautiful. All the stars are reflected in the water. Right overhead I see Orion and then I see his belt, as clear as can be. I’m headed for the island, sliding through the stars.

  Between the Lines

  Peace be with you from Mrs. Joline B. Newhouse” is how I sign my columns. Now I gave some thought to that. In the first place, I like a line that has a ring to it. In the second place, what I have always tried to do with my column is to uplift my readers if at all possible, which sometimes it is not. After careful thought, I threw out “Yours in Christ.” I am a religious person and all my readers know it. If I put “Yours in
Christ,” it seems to me that they will think I am theirs because I am in Christ, or even that they and I are in Christ together, which is not always the case. I am in Christ, but I know for a fact that a lot of them are not. There’s no use acting like they are, but there’s no use rubbing their faces in it either. “Peace be with you,” as I see it, is sufficiently religious without laying all the cards right out on the table in plain view. I like to keep an ace or two up my sleeve. I like to write between the lines.

  This is what I call my column, in fact: Between the Lines, by Mrs. Joline B. Newhouse. Nobody knows why. Many people have come right out and asked me, including my best friend, Sally Peck, and my husband, Glenn. “Come on, now, Joline,” they say. “What’s this Between the Lines all about? What’s this Between the Lines supposed to mean?” But I just smile a sweet mysterious smile and change the subject. I know what I know.

  And my column means everything to folks around here. Salt Lick community is where we live, unincorporated. I guess there is not much that you would notice, passing through — the post office (real little), the American oil station, my husband Glenn’s Cash ‘N’ Carry Beverage Store. He sells more than beverages in there, though, believe me. He sells everything you can think of, from thermometers and rubbing alcohol to nails to frozen pizza. Anything else you want, you have to go out of the holler and get on the interstate and go to Greenville to get it. That’s where my column appears, in the Greenville Herald, fortnightly. Now there’s a word with a ring to it: fortnightly.

  There are seventeen families here in Salt Lick — twenty, if you count those three down by the Five Mile Bridge. I put what they do in the paper. Anybody gets married, I write it. That goes for born, divorced, dies, cele brates a golden wedding anniversary, has a baby shower, visits relatives in Ohio, you name it. But these mere facts are not what’s most important, to my mind.