Without a Grave

by Marcia Talley

  ‘Yes you can. I insist.’

  Alice stared at me, lips pressed together, as she came to a decision. Her hand shot out to claim the earrings, and she grinned like a six-year-old on her birthday. ‘I’ll pay you back some time, I promise.’

  I watched as she unhooked the hoops she was wearing and replaced them with the pair of earrings I’d just bought her. She turned to face me and tilted her head from side to side. ‘How do I look?’

  ‘Beautiful,’ I said. ‘The blue glass perfectly matches your eyes.’

  How was I to know that the next time I saw Alice Madonna Mueller, her eyes would be anything but blue?

  We caught the last ferry home. Just. We’d lost complete track of time at the art show, overstaying so long that we had to hustle, blowing five dollars on a cab that dropped us at Crossing Beach with no seconds to spare. Paul pounded down the dock shouting, ‘Wait! Wait!’ after the departing ferry, but fortunately the driver had seen us coming, turned his side thrusters on, and eased the boat back to the dock.

  We jumped aboard, and called out our thanks, barely getting into our seats before the ferry took off again, with us on it this time.

  Close call. A night at a Marsh Harbour hotel, even the modest Lofty Fig, could set you back a couple of hundred bucks.

  For that time of day, the Man-O-War ferry was surprisingly full. From the bags everyone carried, I deduced that half the population had been to Price Right for groceries and the other half had attended the art show, like we had.

  The ferry had just nosed into Sugar Loaf channel when Paul said, ‘There’s somebody I’d like you to meet, Hannah.’ He dragged me to the opposite side of the ferry where we sat down on the bench next to a rugged, suntanned fellow who’d spent so much time in the out-of-doors that his sandy hair, eyebrows and even his watery-blue eyes looked bleached. ‘Hannah, this is Gator Crockett. He runs the dive shop on Hawksbill Cay.’

  I leaned forward, my elbows on my knees, so I could talk to the fellow face to face. ‘Paul tells me you’re taking us snorkeling on Monday.’

  ‘Yup. Over to Fowl Cay.’

  ‘They say Fowl Cay’s spectacular.’

  Gator nodded wisely. ‘Only place better is Snake Cay down Little Harbour way, but the wind’s rarely in the right direction down there. Kicks things up.’

  A potcake lay at Gator’s feet, his wheat-gold head resting on his paws, liquid-brown eyes considering me soberly. ‘Hey, pal.’ I reached down and scratched the dog’s ears.

  ‘Name’s Justice.’

  I smiled. ‘Good dog, good Justice.’

  Justice rolled over and offered his stomach for some quality scratching. I obliged, and Justice’s tail thumped happily until the ferry pulled in to Man-O-War and some of the passengers prepared to disembark.

  Gator picked up his backpack and collected his dog. Holding Justice’s leash, he stepped to the stern, put one foot up on the steps, then turned around and stuck his head back inside the cabin. ‘Best not to get too chummy with Alice.’

  I blinked. ‘Why?’

  Gator slung his backpack over his shoulder. ‘Just saying.’

  And he was gone.

  FOUR

  SO THEY PAVED PARADISE AND PUT UP A PARKING LOT

  WITH A PINK HOTEL, A BOUTIQUE AND A SWINGING NIGHTSPOT.

  DON’T IT ALWAYS SEEM TO GO

  THAT YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU GOT ’TIL IT’S GONE

  THEY PAVED PARADISE, PUT UP A PARKING LOT.

  Big Yellow Taxi, Joni Mitchell

  How to recycle an ashtray.

  In an uncharacteristic exhibition of do-it-yourself know-how, Paul had drilled three holes into the rim of a 1950-style melamine ashtray, threaded shoestrings through the holes, and suspended the ashtray from a hook just outside our kitchen window.

  Voila! A bird feeder.

  I’d filled the feeder with sugar water, and the bananaquits were frisking around, squabbling over a foothold on the wildly swinging perch. The yellow and black wren-sized birds were so tame that they’d sit on your hand if there’s something in it for them. Try granulated sugar.

  A dark shape passed over the sun, distracting me for a moment from the cheerful little birds who were squeek-squeek-squeeking like wobbly wheels on a grocery cart. I craned my neck to see a frigate bird soaring effortlessly overhead, riding the thermals, his silhouette jet black against the blue sky. ‘They’ve got eight-foot wingspans,’ Paul informed me lazily from his spot in the hammock. ‘Soar for days without flapping their wings, snatching food out of other birds’ mouths.’

  ‘I’m impressed,’ I said, admiring the bird’s forked tail, like a swallow, only twenty times bigger.

  ‘That’s how Man-O-War got its name, you know.’ Paul swung his legs out of the hammock, stretched and shook out the kinks.

  ‘I thought the island was named after a racehorse, or vice versa.’

  Paul winced. ‘A frigate is a warship, my dear, sometimes called a man-of-war.’

  ‘Ah ha,’ I said. ‘Always useful to be married to someone with Navy connections.’ I watched as he wandered into the back garden, picked up the business end of the hose and twisted the tap.

  From the depths of my pocket, my iPhone began vibrating. ‘Speaking of connections, darling, my phone demands attention.’ When I pulled it out, I saw from the display that the caller was my daughter, Emily, but in spite of repeated hello-hello-hellos on my end, the signal was too weak, so I lost the connection.

  Paul was conscientiously watering the banana tree, once weekly, per our landlord’s instructions. Holding the phone loosely in my hand, I let him know that I was heading out to the point to see if I could get a decent signal.

  I set out on the sandy path that circled behind the bunk house and led into the woods. Daniel and his trusty machete kept the path itself clear, but bushes grew tall and lush on both sides, forming a natural canopy over my head. The foliage was so dense in places that the sun could barely penetrate to the forest floor, but where it did, the delicate shafts of sunlight reflecting through the steam that rose from the rain-wet leaves made me feel like I’d wandered into an episode of Lost.

  The path tunneled through the trees for another hundred yards or so, then opened into a clearing. Shielding my eyes from the blazing sun, I stepped out on to a jagged limestone cliff. Twenty feet below my feet the Sea of Abaco surged and foamed benignly against the rocks. I sat down on a primitive bench – two cinder blocks and a two-by-six – and punched in my daughter’s number.

  My granddaughter, as usual, picked up. ‘Shemansky residence. Chloe Elizabeth Shemansky speaking.’

  ‘Hey, pumpkin. It’s your grandmother.’

  ‘I know that!’

  Of course she did. How many people called her ‘pumpkin?’

  ‘Did you get my postcards, Chloe?’

  ‘Uh huh.’

  ‘Does that mean yes?’ I teased.

  ‘The horse pictures were cool, Grandma. I like Bellatrix the best.’

  At the ripe old age of eight, Chloe had two passions in life: ballet and horses. The wild horses of Abaco in particular, a critically endangered breed of Spanish barbs that had been reduced over the last century, by human intervention and habitat reduction, from a herd of several hundred to just eight – four stallions and four mares. Like the horses made famous by Marguerite Henry in her children’s book, Misty of Chincoteague, the wild horses of Abaco had been shipwrecked on the island during the time of Christopher Columbus. But unlike Misty and her foals, DNA tests had proved that the Abaco barbs had been so isolated, their pedigree so pure, that they were unique in all the world.

  ‘I’m looking forward to your visit, Chloe.’

  ‘Can I see the horses?’

  ‘Of course you can. I’ll call the woman who takes care of them and arrange a trip out to the preserve.’

  ‘Wanna know how my Brownie troop is raising money to help the horses?’ Chloe asked.

  ‘Of course I do. That’s wonderful! How?’

  ‘We baked c
ookies and cakes and went to the Naval Academy and sold them all to the Mids.’

  It was a brilliant idea, and I told her so. Midshipmen had been known to eat just about anything, including baked goods prepared by eight-year-olds.

  ‘We got two hundred and twenty-three dollars and thirty-five cents. When I come, I’m gonna give it all to W.H.O.A.’

  W.H.O.A. The Wild Horse Preservation Society of Abaco. Never had an acronym been so apt.

  ‘Where will I sleep, Grandma?’ Chloe asked, suddenly shifting gears.

  ‘You and Jake can sleep in the snore box.’

  ‘What’s a snore box?’

  ‘When Bahamians need another bedroom, they don’t build a room on to their house. They build a cottage nearby and call it a snore box.’

  ‘I thought you said I could sleep in the bunk house.’

  ‘It is a bunk house, but because people sleep in it, they call it a snore box.’

  ‘I don’t snore, Grandma.’

  I decided to shift gears myself before this conversation with my just-the-facts-ma’am granddaughter started running in circles. ‘Can I talk to your mother, Chloe?’

  Chloe ignored the question. Something else was weighing heavily on her mind. ‘Where’s Timmy going to sleep?’

  ‘Timmy can sleep in a bedroom with your mother.’

  ‘Good,’ she said, clearly satisfied. ‘Well, bye!’

  The line went silent for a few seconds, and then Chloe belted out ‘Mommy!’ so close to the mouthpiece that I feared it would rupture the teeny-tiny speakers on my iPhone. They were still working fine, though, when Emily came on the line a minute later. She told me she’d arranged two weeks off from work, their e-tickets were already purchased, and all she needed was the ferry schedule. I gave her the URL for Albury’s.

  ‘We can’t wait to share this magical place with you,’ I told my daughter.

  ‘It’s going to be the best Christmas ever. You’re terrific, Mom.’

  ‘I may be aces in the Mom department, but I’m a failure as a housewife,’ I confessed to Paul a few minutes later as we sat at the table having lunch, a couscous vegetable sauté with bits of his favorite spicy sausage thrown in.

  Paul shoveled a forkful into his mouth. ‘You could have fooled me,’ he said, chewing thoughtfully. ‘This is delicious.’

  I’d planned macaroni and cheese, but mac and cheese was a challenge without milk. We’d barbecued the last of the steaks the night before and, in a weak moment, I’d fed Dickie the remaining can of tuna. Water-packed white albacore, too. I hope the greedy cat was grateful.

  Tip for island living: Never run out of something on a Saturday night because the stores don’t open again ’til Monday morning. Or, Tuesday, if Monday’s a holiday. I was once caught for three days without eggs before becoming familiar with Bahamian holidays. Labor Day is the first Friday in June, Independence Day is celebrated on the tenth of July and Whit Monday, a moveable feast like Easter, can slide around and sneak up on you in May or even June. Hawksbill Cay residents took Sundays and their holidays seriously.

  ‘Nothing in the cupboard for dinner, though,’ I told him as I got up to clear my plate. ‘Unless you want to go all caveman on me and club some protein to death.’

  ‘Bahamian ground squirrels?’ he suggested.

  I snapped him with the dish towel. ‘You could try fishing,’ I suggested sweetly.

  ‘I have a better idea. Let’s go to dinner at the Cruise Inn and Conch Out. My treat.’

  ‘Brilliant!’ I kissed his cheek. ‘I think I’ve tried everything except Cassie’s curried crayfish.’ I paused for a moment. ‘Lobster’s in season, isn’t it?’

  ‘August through March,’ said my husband, trotting out his nautical knowledge once again. ‘So unless she’s got some frozen, you’re out of luck.’

  I folded my arms and pouted.

  ‘Poor Hannah,’ Paul said, rising from his chair with his plate in hand. It was his turn to do the dishes. ‘You better call Cassie, though, to make sure they’re serving tonight.’

  While Paul squirted dish liquid into the sink and started the hot water going, I went to the radio, picked up the microphone and pressed the talk button. ‘Cruise Inn, Cruise Inn, this is Windswept. Come in.’

  ‘Windswept, this is Cruise Inn. Up one?’

  ‘Roger.’ I turned the dial to Channel 69 and pressed the talk button again. ‘Windswept on six nine.’

  ‘Go ahead, Windswept.’

  ‘Cassie, this is Hannah Ives. Just wanted to see if you were open tonight.’

  ‘Sure thing. Just you and Paul?’

  ‘Right. No visitors as yet, but I’m expecting our family over the holidays.’

  ‘That’ll be nice.’ I could hear the clinking of crockery in the background, then white noise as Cassie released her finger from the talk button while she consulted the notebook in which she kept track of reservations. Several seconds later, she was back. ‘See you tonight, then. Six OK?’

  ‘Perfect. Thanks. Windswept, out.’

  ‘Out.’

  I slipped the microphone back in its slot, then turned to my husband. ‘Five hours until dinner. What do you want to do in the meantime?’

  Paul had been wiping the countertops down. He tossed the sponge he’d been using into the sink and crooked his finger at me. ‘I have an idea.’

  I walked into his open arms.

  He cupped my chin, lifting it for a kiss.

  As the bananaquits squabbled outside the window, I drew away and looked into his eyes. ‘Uh, let me guess. Hunt for sand dollars?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘Hike around the island?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘I guess you’ll just have to show me, then.’

  So he did.

  The sun was still high and the Sea of Abaco smooth as glass when we set out for Hawksbill Cay that evening in Pro Bono, dressed in our Sunday best: chinos fresh off the clothesline and long-sleeved T-shirts.

  After crossing the channel and entering the harbor, Paul aimed Pro Bono straight for the government dock. Just as it seemed he would crash into a piling head-on, Paul shoved the tiller all the way to the right causing the boat to drift sideways where it came to rest neatly against the foot of the ladder, starboard side to. ‘Show-off,’ I said, as I clambered up the ladder with the painter in hand and tied the boat off. Paul followed, grinning hugely, carrying a tote of white wine.

  Hawksbill Cay was dry, and you couldn’t buy cigarettes there, either. There was no law against it. In this conservative, deeply religious community, it simply wasn’t done. At the Cruise Inn and Conch Out, thank goodness, it was BYOB, and almost everyone except the locals did.

  At the restaurant, we stepped into a blast of welcome air conditioning to find Albert standing behind the counter, drying glasses with a clean white towel. ‘Hey, Al.’

  ‘Hey!’ A mountain of a man in any case, Al’s ever-expanding waistline bore silent testimony to his wife’s culinary talents. He wore his trademark tropical shirt tucked into Bermuda shorts belted low around his hips, Teva thongs on his feet. A diamond stud decorated his left ear.

  The restaurant was already crowded, but I could see a few free tables. ‘Where shall we sit?’

  Al eased his bulk from behind the counter and escorted us to a table for eight near the door with a plastic ‘Reserved’ card propped up against the salt, pepper and D’Vanya’s Junkanoo hot sauce caddy. As the popular restaurant filled up we knew we’d probably end up sharing a table with other diners, family-style, but that was sometimes half the fun.

  Paul and I took seats across from one another at the end of the table farthest from the door. By the time we got settled, Al had returned with the menu, hand printed on a tall, narrow chalkboard with ‘Cruise Inn and Conch Out’ painted across the top in pink and orange script. He propped the chalkboard up on a chair and gave us time to study the selections while he went to fetch iced tea and glasses for our wine.

  Around these parts, there are us
ually only four entrées: mahi-mahi, grouper, conch and lobster. It’s how they’re prepared that makes all the difference, and Cassie was a genius. No lobster, alas, but that night the mahi-mahi came broiled with a Parmesan cream sauce, and Al must have made a visit to the grocery in Marsh Harbour because there was a special – prime rib – heading up the menu.

  No need to specify sides. I knew everything would be accompanied by coleslaw and by a rice and bean combination Bahamians called ‘peas-and-rice.’ Fried plantains, too, if we were lucky.

  While Paul made up his mind, I looked around, checking out the other diners and admiring the décor. Plantation shutters covered the windows, with valences made of Androsia, a colorful batik woven and hand dyed on the Bahamian island of Andros, many miles to the south. Matching fabric covered the tables, which were protected from stains and splatters by paper place mats printed with a fanciful, not-to-scale drawing of Hawksbill Cay and the neighboring islands. Numbers on the map were keyed to local businesses whose ads framed the place mat.

  One of Andy Albury’s ship models hung on the wall over the salad bar, and paintings by other local artists decorated the remaining walls. One image in particular caught my eye, a huge satellite photo of Hurricane Floyd.

  I excused myself for a moment to use the restroom, stopping on my way to take a closer look at the photo. At the moment it was taken, in September 1999, Floyd was a dense white donut almost six hundred miles in diameter, and the hole of the donut – the eye of the storm – was smack dab over Abaco. Floyd looked surprisingly benign from that altitude, yet underneath that snow-white swirl I knew that from the Abacos to Key West to Cape Fear, homes and lives were being devastated.

  I found the restroom – a small room with two stalls – clean, as usual, and pleasantly pine-scented. Curtains made of patchwork Androsia covered the single window and hid the spare rolls of toilet paper, paper towels and cleaning supplies Cassie kept under the sink.

  I did what I had to do and was washing my hands when the door to the other stall creaked open. In the mirror, I saw the reflection of a young woman wearing white shorts, a blue T-shirt, and a pair of oversized Jackie-O sunglasses. In spite of the sunglasses, I recognized her right away. I turned around. ‘Alice!’