Stones of Sandhill Island

by Peggy Chambers

  “String, how’s it going? Ready for the rowdy shrimp eaters tonight?” Billie adjusted the height on the mic stand and ran her hands over the keys of the piano. How it stayed in tune being moved back and forth from inside to outside with changes in humidity and temperature remained a miracle to her.

  “Oh, I can handle some shrimp eaters, as long as they don’t throw those tails at us.”

  “Just keep on playing if they do.” She smiled back at his teasing. “How about a little Joplin tonight? You up for it?”

  “Always up for Janis.” String ran his fingers over the frets of the bass and picked the tune like he had played it all his life. Maybe he had.

  Waiting until a few diners were seated outside at the tables with hurricane lamps in the middle, the duet began, slowly at first with some of the quieter tunes and then branched out. Everyone knew Janis Joplin’s music, and a certain set was expected of a jazz singer.

  A man Billie had not seen before sat up front. Snow Bird, she thought. They spent their money just like everyone else and without them, there would be little to do in the winter on the island. His pink skin—not used to the semi-tropical sun of the south Texas coast—said he was not from around here. He looked awkward by himself and drank domestic beer with his meal. However, he was no stranger to shrimp.

  He smiled at her, and she looked away. She did not need a tourist hitting on her. Not that it didn’t happen, but she was not interested. Even with his sweet boyish grin.

  She took a drink from the bottled water Sam left for her on the piano and went into another tune when she saw Sandy’s Uncle Paul walk out onto the deck. Sandy’s uncle had never met a stranger, and he walked up to the Snow Bird’s table shaking his hand. Of course, Paul knew everyone.

  “You decided to come out.” Paul sat at the table as if offered a seat. “She’s great, isn’t she?”

  Billie could over-hear part of the conversation as they took a break. She swallowed the water again letting it roll down her over-worked throat.

  “Yes, she is. No offense, but why is she here and not on a bigger stage in a larger community?”

  “She’s home.” Paul gestured to the island.

  “That I understand. This place is wonderful. No traffic and light breezes.”

  “Until you live through one of our hurricanes,” Paul laughed. “Then you might prefer traffic on a crowded freeway. But you can experience that too on your way off the island to safer ground.”

  “Every place has its problems. But do you know the jazz singer? Can you introduce her to me?” Neil fingered the label on the beer bottle.

  “I can, but she’s not interested, man. She is a widow and lost her family in a car accident. Let’s just say she’s fragile.”

  “I’m not looking for a date. Just got over a bad break-up too. I just wanted to tell her how much I enjoyed the show.”

  “There’s a tip jar.” Paul looked at Neil knowingly.

  “Right. Okay. Thanks for the info, and I’ll be by to get some of that shrimp from you one of these days. I might not be able to make it taste as good as this tonight though.”

  “Anytime. See you around.” Paul walked back to his table where his wife waited.

  Chapter 5

  As a used car salesman, Joe Franks once worked at a lucrative dealership. He once owned a house—nothing fancy but a roof over his head. Now he rented a one-bedroom apartment in Corpus Christi and delivered pizzas. Everything he ever owned taken from him, all because of some confusion one night on the road.

  He hadn’t had that much to drink. He and his buddies played cards every Friday after work, and they had beer, but not that much. In a night so dark he got confused going home a different way, suddenly the minivan appeared in front of him. He swerved, too late. He didn’t intend to kill anyone. He never hurt a fly until that night, but the way the woman carried on you would have thought he was a serial killer. If she had died too, it might have been easier for him. As it turned out, he spent a year in jail on an involuntary manslaughter charge and lost everything he ever owned. She had issues, the courts said, and he had to pay her doctor bills. Well, after a year in jail, he had issues too. Issues like no one wanted to hire him anymore.

  The aging Buick bucked one last time as he pulled into the parking lot of the run-down apartment building. It needed a tune-up and maybe some new belts and hoses. It had a lot of miles on it when he bought it, and now even more.

  “That’ll be eighteen ninety-five with tax.” Joe looked at the young man with tattoos standing in the doorway. The smell of weed wafted through the open door. The young man sneered.

  “Hey boys, the pizza dude wants eighteen ninety-five. Anybody got any money?” Laughter came from inside the room. He’d already pulled the pizza from the insulated holder. The man with the tattoos held one end in his hands. “Better come inside, pizza dude, if you want to get paid.”

  Franks knew better than to walk into the room, but he needed the money. He stepped into the doorway holding one end of the pizza box like it would save his life. There were three hoods standing inside, each one bigger than the last, and a woman lay on the bed watching TV, looking bored. No one had their wallet out.

  He looked around the room. “Eighteen ninety-five.” Maybe they needed confirmation as to the price.

  Something hard jammed into his ribs from behind. Franks gasped. “I hope you got more than eighteen ninety-five, pizza dude. I hope you have a lot more.” He could smell the sour breath of old whisky behind him that he knew belonged to the man with the gun in his ribs.

  “I don’t have any money, guys. This is the first delivery of the evening. The only thing I have is some change.” He lied. He always had money in the glove box of the car, but they didn’t need to know that.

  A hand reached in to his pocket pulling the few bills and some change and turned it inside out. Then the second pocket, empty except for keys. Joe felt the wallet pulled from his back pocket, with only a driver’s license and debit card. They could have the debit card—it was attached to a near-empty bank account anyway.

  “That’s it?” The gunman shoved the barrel further into his ribs.

  “I told you, I just got started tonight.” Franks knew there were other deliveries in the back seat and they might be just what saved his life tonight. Maybe they’d believe him.

  The woman looked up and pulled a string of bubble gum from her mouth twirling it on the end of a chipped and ragged nail.

  “I’m hungry man. Let’s see how many pizzas he got with him.” One hood from the other side of the room grabbed the keys from the hand of the first and walked out to the car. The door creaked as it opened, and the hungry man climbed inside. He let out a satisfied yelp, then backed out with a tower of pizzas wrapped in insulated bags. “We hit the mother-load, boys!”

  Franks stood still, wondering what the next move might be. He didn’t need the bags back even though he knew they’d be taken out of the next pay check, along with the price of the pizzas.

  “Go back and look in the glove box, idiot. He’s probably got money in there.” Franks stiffened involuntarily, trying not to show his hand. But the man with the gun was intent on the hood with the pizzas and didn’t notice.

  The man tossed the pizzas on the table with a huff and walked back out to the car pulling the door open. The glove box held maps and receipts from repairs. The money, well hidden in a compartment most people didn’t know existed, stayed hidden. Joe found it accidently one day feeling deep inside the compartment when the flashlight he needed slid behind.

  “Empty, boss.” The hungry robber walked back in the door heading straight for the table full of pizza that the others were already devouring.

  “Well, it must be your lucky day, pizza dude.” The man with the gun dangled the keys in front of his face then threw them out the door and shoved him after them. One last kick in the pants, and the door slammed behind him. The keys twinkled in the street light.

  Franks ran for the parking lot, grabbed the ke
ys off the ground as he yanked open the car door. He jumped into the car, shaking as he turned the key. The car grunted on the first try—and then the engine caught. He left rubber as he raced out of the parking lot, happy to be alive.

  The explanation at the pizza restaurant was not enough. Franks knew it wouldn’t be. He would have to pay for the pizzas he lost as well as the bags out of his own check. But he was done for the evening. Nothing would put him back out on the street tonight, no matter what the boss said.

  Unlocking the door to his shabby apartment with a newspaper tucked in the crook of his arm, he found a letter under his door. Slitting the envelope open, he dropped it on the floor as he shut the door behind him. Due to inflation and the high cost of everything, rent just went up another hundred dollars—and it was a week until the first of the month. He wadded the note and threw it across the room then reached in the refrigerator for a beer. Something he couldn’t have these days, but who would tell his parole officer? He plopped into the worn-out recliner and opened the paper. He no longer shook like a school girl over the incident—a year in the joint and he had seen everything—but one thing was certain, he had to find a different way to make a living.

  An article on the entertainment page caught his attention. Billie Stone, a jazz singer—a popular one. But after the accident, she disappeared. She no longer sang the blues—or at least not in Corpus Christi—according to the paper. She went home. He had no idea where.

  He was sorry for her misfortune, and for his own. He’d paid enough. They called it an accident, and if he could take it back, he would. His old boss at least financed a car for him when he got out so he could work, but would not hire him back. The car dealership had a reputation to uphold, they said, and they couldn’t have jail birds running around the office.

  Maybe he should try to find her—check out where she used to work to see if anyone knew where she went. Maybe if he talked to her she might write him a letter of recommendation or something. He needed a better job, and he had paid his debt to society. Surely, she would see things his way.

  He’d try the jazz section of town to find out if anyone knew where she went.

  ****

  After deliveries the next night, he stepped into the dark and smoky jazz club. He almost choked on the smell of stale beer and cigarettes. His eyes adjusted to the lights, and he walked to the bar. He had enough in tips to at least buy a beer—even if he didn’t drink it. He didn’t need alcohol on his breath while driving, but he knew a bartender would never talk to him if he didn’t buy something. And bartenders knew everything.

  “Whatever you have on tap,” he said hoping the bartender didn’t have much to choose from. He plunked some cash down on the bar and turned around to look at the band. They played loudly, but not well. At least not what he wanted to hear.

  The bartender placed the glass in front of him and gathered up the cash.

  “Thanks, man,” Franks said. “By the way, Billie Stone still singing here?”

  The bartender shook his head. “She hasn’t been here for a couple of years,” and he began to walk away.

  “Know where I might find her?” Franks picked up the beer and lifted it to his lips. The hoppy scent crawled up his nose, but he didn’t take a sip. He couldn’t afford to. Prison was behind him, he wasn’t going back.

  “Murphy might know.” He pointed to the stage. “He’s the bass player.”

  “Thanks man.” As if on cue the band ended the set and began to pick up their instruments. Late, even for a bar. Night had to end sometime.

  Franks walked toward the stage, beer in hand, dodging tables and customers who stood to leave. The stage sat up one step at the front of the room. Amps unplugged and cords stowed, the bass player reached around the equipment picking up his guitar case.

  “You Murphy?” Franks stepped up on the small stage.

  “Who wants to know?” asked the man with the greasy hair.

  “Me.” Franks smiled. “I’m looking for Billie Stone and the bartender said you might know where to find her.”

  “Billie left town. And who did you say you were?”

  “Just a friend. Well, more of a fan. I used to listen to her. Man, that woman has a set of pipes!”

  “Yeah, she does. But I don’t know where she is. You might try some other places down the street. She sang in all of them.” He clicked the guitar case closed and stood.

  Franks walked back toward the front door placing the untouched beer on the bar as he left. He’d try another night, another bar.

  Chapter 6

  The weather during spring break could mean anything. The college kids would be out in full force no matter the conditions. Being seen on the beach during spring break was the important thing, even if you had goose bumps. Sandy and her kids weren’t college kids.

  Sandy made sure her kids had swimsuits, shorts, jeans and jackets. She might have a hard time getting them into them, but at least they would have what they needed. Shoes were another story. She knew about being a barefoot kid growing up on a beach and found flight boots confining, but the Air Force said she had to wear them. She understood the mindset of the kids even if she had to be a responsible mom.

  She drove the loaded minivan to the dock where the ferry went across to the island. Carol loved this part of the journey to Grandma’s. Sometimes they saw dolphins alongside chasing the ferry in its endless journeys back and forth.

  “I can’t wait to see Grandma!” Her straight blonde hair flew in the breeze of the open windows as they waited in line for the ferry’s return.

  “You’re such a dork.” Her brother, with his eyes always on the video game in his hand, still had an ear pointed toward things around him. Good for him. And he never missed an opportunity to hassle his sister. Not so good.

  “Jake, what did we say about picking on your sister?” Sandy hated arguing with her kids on vacation. But the bullying had to stop, and eventually it would be Carol who had to stop it.

  “You said not to.”

  “That’s right. I said not to. So, why are you?” Sandy looked in the rear-view mirror to see Carol sticking her tongue out at her brother. “And Carol, knock it off. We are here to have fun, not fight. Grandma won’t put up with it. She’ll have you both doing chores.”

  “I don’t know why we always have to go to Grandma’s.” A year older than Carol, Jake, almost in his teens, didn’t want to be seen with his little sister or grandmother. Tweens they called them. Children were becoming more and more sophisticated these days. Or they thought they were. They read the articles and knew how they were supposed to act at a certain age. Or how the manuals said they were supposed to act. Sandy disagreed.

  “Because she’s your grandmother and she has an ocean in her back yard. How many kids can say that?” She wouldn’t show up at her mother’s house arguing with her son.

  “Most of the kids that live in Biloxi or up and down the Gulf Coast.” Jake’s eyes never left the electronic device in his hands.

  “All right, enough. Here comes the ferry. You don’t open the doors until I tell you that you can. Everybody got that?” Sandy knew they loved to stand by the railing and watch the trip over to the island. A murmur from the back seat said they understood.

  The car parked and the kids at the railing watching the water for signs of dolphins, Sandy breathed deeply leaning against the van. Jake was right about one thing. They did live near the ocean, but Biloxi was not like Sandhill Island. Island life felt slower, and the beach was just blocks away. The island even smelled different than the city. She knew that keeping the kids within eye-sight would be tough the older they got. The pull of the water just too great.

  Back in the car, they drove off the ferry onto the island and then turned left toward her mother’s home. Like most houses on the island, a small bungalow. Not much to look at, but it was home. She drove past the market area and saw the restaurant where Billie sang. She would take the kids and Mom to see her—maybe tonight. Billie only worked on the weeken
ds. She drove past the blank space in the downtown area that once held a vegetable stand that blew down in a hurricane. Meg no longer sat there selling her vegetables. The rumor that Meg only sold to Le Chez and the grocery store in town now could be true. She was never seen sitting in the heat waiting for customers to come to her. Meg’s little beach house blew away in the hurricane, and she rebuilt in the same spot, a much bigger and nicer home. But she still had her garden.

  Past the few bars on the island and into the small neighborhood where Billie spent her childhood, sat her mother’s home. It needed a good coat of paint. Maybe Sandy could hire a contractor while here and get that taken care of. She’d have to do it on the sly, because Mom would never allow it. But if she paid him in advance, what could Mom do? It had been yellow with white shutters. Sandy wondered what color her mother preferred.

  “Grandma!” Sandy barely stopped the car before Carol was out the door running for the front porch.

  Jake sighed, but for once had no comment. He climbed out of the car slowly, plugged into his phone, and slammed the door. Sandy knew from experience he would not like the wrath of Grandma if he kept up that attitude.

  Martha stood from the rocking chair placing her crochet project in the basket at her feet next to the glass of ice tea. She smiled and walked to the aging steps of the porch with her arms outstretched, enfolding her granddaughter in an embrace.

  “How’s my favorite granddaughter?” She hugged her again.

  “Fine.” Carol smiled up her, and Sandy realized how much her daughter was beginning to look like her.

  “And my favorite grandson?” She tugged Jake’s sleeve as he attempted to walk past her into the house. She pulled him into a quick hug.

  “Hi Grandma,” he said continuing to look bored with the adults.

  Martha nodded at Jake then looked at Sandy.

  “Hi, Mom.” Sandy hugged her mom and rolled her eyes toward Jake. They both knew what it meant. Just ignore him, he’ll come around.