Stones of Sandhill Island

by Peggy Chambers

  She was a proud part of the crew of the Lockheed WC-130J Hercules which flew directly into the hurricanes, sending back detailed information about the anomaly and gathering data on how the storm would track. The squadrons had been flying missions like this since 1946, and everything would be okay—she hoped. But as a scientist she couldn’t show fear, especially in front of the kids. That would be all it took for her ex to have her back in court again as soon as she landed on dry land.

  The first time she’d flown into the eye of the monster, she felt terrified and exhilarated at the same time. She loved her job and she hoped to instill in her kids the feelings of a job well done—a job you could really love—especially in her daughter. Carol, squeamish and clingy, unlike her “tom-boy” mother at her age, was a product of divorce. Major Sandra Miller’s mother stayed at home as well as her dad on many days. His job in the auto maintenance shop he owned in town allowed him to devote his time to his family first. Many times, with nice weather, he would just close the doors and let the customers wait while he announced they were going on a picnic. Sandy and her sister were always happy to go play in the surf and watch Dad fish. As a child, Sandy lived the life of a beach bum. When she joined the Air Force, she soon encountered culture shock. The rest of the world did not have a beach in their back yard.

  But weather had always been Sandy’s first love. As a child, she would lay on the roof she accessed by climbing out her bedroom window and stare up at the puffy white clouds as they rolled overhead. Sometimes they weren’t white and fluffy, though. Sometimes they were black and angry, and then she loved them even more. They were like friendly ghosts one day and deadly monsters the next. Maybe that was why she loved them so much—they were like her.

  Her name had not been lost on her crew members who now called her “Hurricane Sandy” after the deadly nor’easter that hit New York and the eastern seashore. Her data was always accurate and right on point like the hurricane they named her after. In her element in a hurricane, she didn’t know how she would live without the excitement someday when forced into retirement. But that worry was for another day. Today, she would gather information about the beautiful monster forming in the Gulf of Mexico.

  “Mom, I can’t find my blue shorts!” Sandy’s daughter, Carol, could never find anything. It might be in her hand, but she was blind to the world sometimes.

  Sandy walked into the girl’s room which looked like the hurricane had already been through. Her suitcase lay on the unmade bed and shoes were strewn around the room. The closet door stood open, as well as every drawer of the dresser.

  “I can’t imagine why.” Sandy walked to the bed and began looking through what the small weekend bag contained. “You mean these blue shorts? The ones I folded when I did laundry, and you put in your suitcase?”

  Carol looked sheepish. “I guess I didn’t see them.”

  “I guess not. Got your toothbrush? PJs? Got a jacket in case it gets cool?”

  “Dad has toothbrushes, and I think I left my jacket there last time.”

  “Probably. Hustle, we leave in five minutes.” Sandy smoothed her daughter’s hair back from her face. She could be her twin, they looked so much alike, with honey-colored skin and blonde hair that hung straight as a string, unless tied back out of the way. Jake, on the other hand, favored his dad. Same red hair, and his freckled skin did not like the sun the way Carol’s did. Sandy constantly chased him with sunscreen.

  The children were less than a year apart in age but miles apart in personalities and looks. A lot like their parents. John Miller, a contractor to the Air Force, worked in the finance department. The courtship between him and Sandy, like the marriage, was a whirlwind—and then the first child appeared. By the time the second came along, Sandy knew the relationship was on rocky ground. He traveled a lot for work, as did she, but with two babies at home, and a nanny doing most of the child care, John decided one day his wife needed to resign her commission and be a stay-at-home mom. He and the children needed her there. Well, the children did anyway. In the middle of the argument about Sandy’s career choices, he took a long temporary duty out of state. She talked to him often on the phone, but one night when she called him after being up with a sick child, someone else answered the phone in a sleepy voice. Evidently, he didn’t need her as much as he said he did.

  “Okay, in the car in five minutes!” Sandy called down the hall toward her son’s room. She knew he not only packed but probably inventoried the contents of his suitcase. His head emerged from the door of his room with ear buds plugged in and pulling the suitcase. He headed for the front door, hassling his sister along the way about not being ready to go.

  “I’ll be there in a minute!” Carol shouted at her brother, and Sandy knew she needed to head off another argument. Carol sat on the bed with tears running down her cheeks and her suitcase still not fully packed. Sandy held back the sigh she knew would only make things worse and walked back into her daughter’s room again.

  “Okay, let’s see.” She rummaged through the suitcase checking to make sure there were enough clothes. Three pair of shorts and three T-shirts. Shoes, pajamas and Mr. Elephant in the bottom. Carol hid him these days and only took him out to sleep with because of her brother’s merciless teasing, but he was her security blanket with Mom gone.

  “Sweetie, it looks like you need some panties.” Sandy moved to the drawers and closed them one by one pulling out underwear to place in the suitcase.

  “Mom, I hate it when you leave. I think you aren’t coming back.” Carol wiped her eyes with her palms.

  “I always come back, honey. You know that. I have a job that requires me to travel sometimes. Someone has to keep us safe from storms, and the more we know about them, the safer we are.”

  “Well I wish someone else would do it instead of you.” She looked up at her mother with green cat-like eyes.

  Sandy hugged her daughter and looked at her tear stained eyes, then patted her on the back. “When I get back we’ll get ready for Spring Break, okay? We’re going to Grandma’s for a whole week, and we can play in the sand and see Billie and have fun in the ocean. We’ll be on vacation, okay?” Sandy zipped the suitcase closed and pulled it off the bed, handing it to her daughter. She could carry her own case. She needed to learn responsibility, but she also needed more mothering than her brother.

  “Okay. I love to go to Grandma’s and I want to look for starfish again.”

  “Starfish it is.” Sandy put her hand on her daughter’s shoulder and guided her out the door to the car and her waiting brother.

  Chapter 3

  The businesses in the harbor multiplied after the newly built marina. Slips for boats were often rented permanently. Snow birds from up north came down for the winter months to escape the cold. Also called Winter Texans, they lived in the Gulf of Mexico on boats they purchased and learned to pilot, some more adeptly than others. The harbor was cleaned and restored following a major hurricane. After the rebuilding, it became obvious the tourist trade could be prolonged past summer.

  Neil Towers came down from Montana for the winter. Or maybe forever. After the divorce lawyers were finished with him, he lost all reason to go back home. She took the house and most everything else he owned and left him with the bills. He thought her his one true love, but she needed him to be there for her one hundred percent of the time and that didn’t work for him. He thought he didn’t need her, until she told him to leave, and then he found out just how empty life could be. He could have fought harder over the split, but why? The one thing of value he still owned was the convertible, his father’s Mercedes coupe that he inherited from the estate. He packed up the car with the few things that would fit, placed the rest in storage, and drove south.

  Drawn to the water like his dad, Neil’s best memories were the fishing trips they’d shared, and in the Gulf, he could fish every day. Catching something was great, but not necessary. Just sitting on the boat or the beach with a hat on his head and a line in the water w
as more relaxing than any spa. The fishing pole helped him feel the soul of the water—its back and forth motion had a reason, and it might be to relax the mind.

  The boat rocked lazily in the afternoon light. Sun sparkled off dark green waves, and Neil’s hat over his sunglasses covered any evidence that he dozed. Water droplets like diamonds ran down the line and into the larger body of water. The lazy quiet afternoon, only disturbed by an occasional screeching sea gull, came to life when the line jerked and tightened, spinning the reel. Neal, instantly awake, took his feet off the side of the boat and onto the deck; he pushed his hat back on his head and looked out in the water. Slowly winding the fishing line back into the reel, he tugged the pole up now and then. He had no idea what he’d hooked on the other end, but it felt desperate. He might have fish for dinner.

  The silver-gray fish scales sparkled in the water as he pulled it in. Neil leaned over the side of the boat and pulled the fish in by the lip, so the hook would not pull through. The fish struggled, eyes bulging, tail flipping, out of his element. One minute the flounder was gliding along the bottom on its side—a bottom feeder it looked like one-half of a fish when brought on board the boat—the next minute it would be the perfect size fillet for one, paired with an ice-cold beer. Neil smiled. He had been living on canned food to keep from dining alone in a restaurant. Tonight, he would grill the wonderful fresh fish the sea gifted him.

  Down the dock sat an old man in the shade of a building. He perpetually had a fishing pole in hand whenever Neil looked up. Neil had said hello to him a few times, and the man acted friendly but had little to say. Today as always, he sat with a line in the water and the man who owned the shrimper walked past him—stopped to talk a moment—and then gave him a bag of something. Maybe shrimp? Then the shrimper walked toward Neil.

  “That’s a good-looking flounder!” The man walked down the dock toward Neil. He smiled when he spoke, and Neil smiled back. “They go great with a cold beer.”

  “That is exactly what I thought. I’m Neil Towers by the way.”

  “Paul Smith, and that’s my shrimper over there.” He gestured to the large boat on the other side of the cove.

  “Yes, I saw you come in. Did you catch many?” Neil pushed his hat back off his sweaty brow.

  “We caught as many as always. You like shrimp?”

  “Love ’em. Do you sell to customers right off the boat? I saw you give some to the old fisherman as you walked by. I guess that’s what you gave him.”

  “You mean Poppy? He’s a good guy, and I let him have some from time to time. But I’ll sell to anyone. Most of my catch goes to Le Chez in town. Have you eaten there?” The shrimper’s face was lined and leathery from years in the sun; he took off his sunglasses and revealed kind gray eyes.

  “No, but I need to. I came down from Montana for the winter and haven’t checked out the restaurants in town. I hate to eat alone in a room full of people. Mostly I just eat here on my boat.”

  “Snow Bird, huh? Well, it’s great to have you here. You Winter Texans help keep the economy going for us locals. I’ll tell you, though, the chef at Le Chez is great, mostly because he has access to locally grown and harvested ingredients like my shrimp. And there is a lady here on the island who grows a wonderful vegetable garden that supplies a lot of the produce. They also have a new singer in the restaurant on the weekends. Well, she’s not new; she used to live in Corpus Christi, but she is from the island originally and came back home. You should check Billie out, she’s a jewel and has a set of lungs on her that would make Billie Holiday blush if she were still alive. But I’m taking up your time that you need to clean that fish. Enjoy your dinner and come get some shrimp sometime.” Paul waved as he walked away.

  “Will do,” Neil said to the man’s back.

  Sea gulls swarmed overhead, smelling the blood spilled from the flounder as Neil cleaned it. He tossed the scraps overboard and the birds dove for them fighting for morsels. He then rinsed the blood from the back of the boat where he cleaned it. Taking the fillet into the kitchen, he refrigerated it until time to cook.

  The boat, purchased not long after he arrived on the Gulf, became his new home. Before he took it out for a spin, he talked to the old timers around Sandhill Island, and they had told him about the new marina. That was his destination, at least for now. His brain formed a plan for a trip around the Gulf someday, maybe, but so far that thought stayed in the planning stages, just off the horizon.

  The few things he bought at the local grocery store included potatoes, and he would cut one up to cook with the fish tonight. He needed to go in to the grocery store again soon. Maybe tomorrow night he might try out the restaurant. It had been a long time since he heard a talented jazz singer and wondered if an island so small could accommodate the talent Paul talked about.

  Chapter 4

  Billie padded into her mother’s bedroom barefoot in a short spaghetti-strapped dress made of gold lame´. It had a long sheer jacket that flowed in the wind when she moved her arms. The sheer jacket worked as a good stage prop as it reflected light from the setting sun and waved in the ocean breeze. She owned a few cocktail dresses that she wore when she performed and tried to change them up a little now and then. Since she only sang three nights a week, it wasn’t too hard.

  “You look just like a golden sunset.” Giselle smiled her droopy smile at her daughter with high heels in one hand and flip flops in the other. Billie would walk in flip flops the couple of blocks to the restaurant and then put on the shoes that went with the dress.

  “Well, thank you. I hope the voice is as golden.”

  “You know it will be,” her mother replied.

  Billie kissed her mother goodbye and walked out the door sliding into the flip flops as she went. Raven would stay until Billie returned so Giselle would not be alone.

  Billie sang on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday nights at Le Chez. The chef offered her the job as soon as he found out she came home. There weren’t a lot of places to work on the island, and Billie didn’t want a full-time job just yet. She still had a lot of healing to do. A part-time job was better than no job on Sandhill Island.

  Giselle’s house, paid for long ago, and Billie’s expenses small, they could live there for a long time. Billie’s psychiatric bills were paid by the Texas Victims Compensation Fund, and her mother had Medicare for her healthcare needs. The two women lived simply and took care of each other.

  When she pulled open the back door to the restaurant, the smell of spices and fish overwhelmed her. Sam’s little restaurant on the tiny tourist island was one of the best kept secrets in Texas. She walked past the planned chaos of the kitchen and through to the deck that sat off the side of the building. The chef added it to take care of the overflow of customers in the small building. Many people liked to eat outdoors when the weather allowed. Then he had a stage built off one end of the deck near the tables and chairs. With good weather, the deck opened, and the diners were treated to dinner and a show.

  “Hey, pretty lady.” A tall dark-skinned man in a Hawaiian shirt smiled at her from the stage. He tuned his string bass that sat next to the piano. His leathery skin wrinkled when he smiled, and his almost black eyes twinkled. Alfred Stringer, aka String, performed as her bass accompaniment. She played piano and sang most tunes, but he could take over and tickle the ivories better than she could and did on occasion. He could also sing vocals as melodious as his stringed instrument. String, a legend in the Corpus Christi jazz world, came to the island because of Billie and soon made it his home too. Not only her bass player, he was also her mentor and friend. He stayed with her in the hospital after her family died, and through the trial that followed. He cared for her like the brother she never had. She knew he got offers all the time to come back to Corpus Christi for a lot more money than he made at Le Chez, but he wouldn’t leave her.

  His mother had pressed him to live the life of a musician—not a teacher. He had the talent to make a living doing what he loved and not be tied to t
he constraints of a school board and the lessons they forced her to teach. He was a free spirit unlike her, and she wanted to watch him soar.

  Mom called him Ally or Alfred when in trouble. String came later in the smoky bars on dimly lit stages playing music to often-times rude and drunk crowds. But he became quickly known in Corpus Christi circles as the bass fiddle player everyone wanted to play with. He soon would make a living doing what he loved. Mom was right.

  Before he even graduated from high school, Alfred played in the Corpus Christi jazz district on the weekends late at night. Not yet of legal age, he was often paid under the table after being let in the back door secretly. At least he got paid. There were times when some bands could have cheated him out of a paycheck—and tried—but his music kept the crowds coming in; management didn’t want to lose the bass fiddle player known as String.

  Then one night he met her. The dark-haired woman in the gold dress walked in looking out of place, nervous. Her first time at that bar. No one in the band knew her, but somehow, she managed to get an audition. She walked to the microphone, adjusting it to her height like she put off the inevitable, and opened her mouth.

  It was love at first sight. Not romantic love, more like a little sister, but it was love, and String would do anything to protect his sister. Billie Stone had the voice of an angel. She crooned into the microphone, and the crowd stood still. She didn’t just sing into the microphone; she made love to the microphone. No, she became the music, and it flowed in and out of her like the instrument she was. String had a sister for the first time in his life and he would be by her side always.

  They became famous together in the Corpus Christi jazz scene playing and singing together. His strings, whether bass or guitar, melded with her voice as one.