Wicked Charm

by Amber Hart

  “What’ve you got?” she asks.

  “Ham, egg, and cheese sandwiches with grapes, melon, and sweet tea.”

  I unzip a baggie and take a bite of a sandwich. Gran made them just the way I like—thick honey-cured ham sprinkled with brown sugar, salty eggs, cheese melted into a crispy croissant shell. Suddenly, I’m hungrier than I was a minute ago.

  “Sweet Lord,” Jorie says as she sinks her teeth into a sandwich. “Your gran sure knows her way around the kitchen.”

  It takes all of a minute for us to finish our sandwiches. I eat mine so fast that I forget to get out the mason jars to pour Jorie and me some tea. The mason jars are already packed with ice, lids screwed on tight. The ice has only just barely melted in the heat. I drink the water that’s collected on the bottom of my jar, and then fill it with tea. Sugar shocks my senses in the best way.

  With several gulps in me, my mind finally casts off the last dregs of sleep. I get a feeling sort of like my bones fit right in a place like this. The trees, the murky water, the creatures, all of them are a constant in my life now, and I wonder how I lived anywhere else.

  “You ever get the feeling you’re meant to be somewhere?” I ask Jorie. “Like here, in this swamp? Does it ever call to you?”

  She nods. “It does. It always has. My family and me, we’ve visited other places, sure. But I can’t handle being away for more than a week. I get homesick.”

  Home. That’s what the swamp has become to me. I’m sure of it. This place has completely claimed me.

  “The swamp gives me a sinking feeling in my bones, but in a good way,” I say.

  “I know just what you mean,” she replies. “It’s as though you are chained to a place but somehow totally free.”

  “Exactly. I never did feel that when we lived in Florida, or in another part of Georgia for that matter. But then again, I never did live in the swamp proper, so there you go.”

  Jorie sips her tea, crunching on a piece of ice. Today her hair is pulled up into a messy bun and her lips are painted a deep brown that goes perfect with her skin.

  “You know, it nearly makes me sick to separate myself from this place,” she says. “Where else can I get fresh gator tail, or frog legs, or catfish that tastes just right?”

  “You think after high school finishes that you’ll go off to college? Or will you stay close?”

  There is no college close by, which makes me question what I want to do. And considering that we have only a couple of months left of senior year, I need to make a decision.

  “Haven’t decided yet.” Jorie reaches a thin hand into the wicker basket and pushes aside the flannel towel to grab a bundle of grapes.

  “My mom asked me today if I had applied,” I say.

  “What’d you tell her?”

  “The truth. I haven’t applied anywhere.” I don’t tell Jorie that Beau, his family, and the murderer have occupied my mind and time. “But I might. Suppose it can’t hurt to take classes a few days a week at the community college. It’ll be a long drive, but I’m sure I want to stay in the swamp. Maybe I can even take some of the courses online.”

  “There’re people who will tell you to get the hell out of the swamp while you can, b’fore you get stuck, but I happen to like being stuck,” she says, popping a grape into her mouth. “Seems better than having wandering feet, always taking you places, never laying down roots.”

  It feels good to know that someone else understands. The swamp is both of our homes.

  “Whatever happened to Brody?” Jorie asks, out of the blue.

  I shrug. “We’re friends. Nothing more.”

  “Brody’s nice,” she says. “You know you’ll never make a nice boy out of Beau.”

  “I don’t think I want a nice boy,” I reply honestly. “I think when you find the boy who makes you feel like you’re wearing your skin backward, who turns you inside out and heats your blood and sets you on fire with want, it doesn’t much matter.”

  Jorie sighs heavily. “I just want you to be happy. I don’t think there’s a chance that Beau won’t hurt you. You’re setting yourself up for it.”

  Maybe I am, but I can’t stop now.

  “You’re a good friend, Jorie,” I say. “You really are.”

  Something flashes in her eyes, an emotion gone too quickly for me to name it.

  “I’m still gonna warn you away from him. You know that, right? I probably always will.”

  “Because you think he’s dangerous,” I say.

  “Because I know he breaks hearts, and you aren’t set up to handle something like that.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean, that I’m not set up?”

  I try to keep the edge out of my voice, but for a second there it sounded like she was saying I’m not strong.

  “Don’t take it the wrong way.” She lays a gentle hand on my arm. “You know I care what happens to you, and I think you’re getting in deep with Beau. At first, I figured you’d be like the rest. He’d use you and toss you aside, because that’s what he does. But it’s been different with you. He’s not backing off right away. I think it’ll make everything harder when he finally does.”

  “So you’re trying to tell me that I shouldn’t see him anymore? That I should end things with him?”

  “Better you breaking it off with him than him hurting you.”

  Isn’t that the exact philosophy that made Beau so guarded in the first place? The one that kept him from opening up and truly feeling something deep? I don’t want that kind of darkness. I prefer to feel emotions, even if they do hurt. I want to love and be loved. The risk is worth it to me. It will always be worth it.

  “Says who?” I ask. “If you’re happy with a person, why end it?”

  “Because you won’t be happy for long.”

  “But I’m happy now.”

  Jorie leans back into the tree, taking her touch with her. “I’m just saying that you are my friend, and as your friend, I want to encourage you to be happy and healthy.”

  “And Beau’s not healthy?”

  I’m getting defensive. I can’t seem to help it.

  “He’s Beau, Willow. What do you expect? He uses girls. You are filling a use for him now, but what about later?”

  She’s wrong. I’m more than a spot to fill.

  “Stop,” I say. “Please.”

  She frowns. “See how much you like him now? See how much it pains you to think about splitting from him? Imagine how much worse it’d be in another month or two.”

  This was supposed to be a nice breakfast. Sit in the swamp and watch the sun take steps up the sky until it is as high as it can go. My best friend wasn’t supposed to discourage me from being with the boy who makes me feel more alive than ever.

  “Willow, listen. I just don’t want to see you wrecked like the others.”

  I look steadily at Jorie. At her messy hair and wide eyes and relaxed body, legs crossed at the ankles, skin pressed into the Georgia dirt.

  “I know,” I say. “I’m sorry. I’m just defensive because it’s Beau.”

  “Think about what I’m saying, okay? Try to get away while you still can.”

  I don’t want to get away. I suppose, being my friend, she needs to say it. But then again, if she knows I’m all in, why try to call me out?

  “Promise me that you’ll try,” she says.

  I can’t promise her such a thing.

  “Jorie,” I plead.

  She waits for words that will not come.

  “You won’t do it, will you?” she asks.

  “I can’t,” I admit. “There are things you don’t understand. I know you want to look out for me, and I can’t tell you how much I appreciate that, but there’s more to Beau than what everyone else sees.”

  “And you see these things that are more?” she asks.

  “I do.”

  “Tell me about them,” she says. “Maybe then I’ll better understand.”

  It’s a request I can’t grant. “Don’t take this t
he wrong way, but it’s sort of his story to tell, you know?”

  She absolutely takes it the wrong way. Suddenly, she’s stiff, and her look is hurt.

  “I’m your friend, Willow. You’re saying you can’t tell me?”

  It’s not right for me to discuss his parents, the losses he has sustained, and why he’s so guarded.

  “I’m saying it’s not my place. Surely you understand that.”

  But she doesn’t.

  She grows quiet.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

  The once delicious food turns sour in my stomach. I have to choose between my best friend and my boyfriend. Between stories that are not mine to tell and requests to tell them. So I keep quiet and let the silence stretch between us.

  36

  Beau

  “It’s been a week already,” Grandpa says. “I think I’m out of time.”

  But it’s not his voice anymore. Now, he whispers, and even that is an effort. He’s not eating, and he swears it won’t be much longer.

  In the next room, I hear the television. On my insistence, Charlotte has taken a break from her constant vigil at Grandpa’s side. She needed a shower, a meal, a rest from her own mind.

  “Ready for that goodbye yet?” Grandpa asks.

  He bursts into a coughing fit that cuts off any remaining words. I wait patiently. When he finally stills, I help him wipe a dribble of blood from his chin.

  “He’s okay!” I say as I hear Charlotte’s feet on the ground. “You come back in here and I’ll lock you out, so help me.”

  I suppose another reason I don’t want Charlotte in the room when it happens—when Grandpa finally goes—is because I know her, and she won’t take well to seeing him pass. Afterward, yes. But the final moments are not meant for her, and she knows it.

  There’s a pause, and then Charlotte’s footsteps retreat.

  Grandpa smiles. I’m sure going to miss his grins at the banter between my sister and me.

  “I guess I could do that goodbye,” I say, mustering every ounce of bravery I own.

  I’ve brought Grandpa his Sunday paper and a cup of coffee, though it remains on his bedside table, untouched. I dread the tradition coming to an end, but I know it inevitably will with his passing.

  “I don’t want to, though, you know,” I say.

  “I know.”

  Grandpa’s breaths are worse than I’ve ever heard them, and this time I believe him when he says he won’t see another morning.

  “I wish you would have told me about the cancer. I wish I would have had more time with you,” I say.

  That’s about as close to a goodbye as I’ll ever give. I’m no good at goodbyes. I never wanted to have to say another one.

  “It’s the same amount of time, either way. Telling you hasn’t increased my days, so don’t beat yourself up. Move on afterward. Live life and be free, full of fun and mischief. Don’t let my sickness drag you down. Your days are numbered, too, you know. All of ours are. Spend them happily. And please make sure your sister moves on. She deserves every moment of happiness that comes her way. Don’t let my death rob that from either of you, you hear me?”

  I do, but it’ll take time. He must know it won’t be easy.

  “Remember what I said about”—he stops to cough—“letting the swamp have me.”

  I nod, hating the thought.

  “One more thing, though.” His breaths are shallow. “Tell Virginia that I love her. Always have. Always will.” He smiles. “And tell her to stop feeding those gators, already.”

  “Now, you know I can’t do that,” I reply. “I’d be at risk of her wrath, and I’m not inclined to have her tell me off for this love of yours.”

  That’s when Grandpa laughs for the very last time.

  …

  Grandpa was right.

  Come evening, he’s gone. There as can be in flesh and bone, but gone. I watch for the rise and fall of his chest. It never comes. I check for a pulse. But there isn’t one.

  “Charlotte!” I say.

  My sister bursts into the room.

  “Did he…?”

  She looks down and sees for herself.

  I lean toward Grandpa’s ear and whisper one final word before I call the ambulance to take him away.

  “Goodbye.”

  37

  Willow

  “You always did say that the brightest light casts the darkest shadow.”

  Gran eyes me suspiciously. The porch swing groans under both our weights, moving so slowly that the source of the rocking could be confused with the wind and not the occasional tap of my foot against the wooden floor to push us.

  “Since when do you agree with any of my sayings?” she asks.

  Gran reaches a curled old hand into the lime-green bowl that sits in her lap.

  “Since I realized what you meant by it,” I say. “Love is the light…and the shadow, too, isn’t it? Bright and happy but also sad and painfully dark at times. You were talking about loving Mr. Cadwell that day in the kitchen, weren’t you? You wanted to protect me from that kind of joyous pain with Beau.”

  “Willow, you’re too observant for your own good.”

  Gran removes small, chopped chunks of unseasoned pork and chicken—bone and all—from the bowl and throws them into the front yard. The crazy woman.

  “Here gator, gator, gator,” she calls sweetly.

  Wouldn’t you know that only seconds later, a gator emerges. Then another. And another. As though she up and called them by their first names. They don’t bother getting close to the porch steps. They prefer to stay on the muddy, mossy ground where they can collect their treasured treats and escape quickly. Funny that they are more scared of Gran than she is of them.

  “How are my babies today?” she asks, like she’s talking to beloved furry friends.

  “Lord, Gran. You and your pets.”

  She grins. “Well, now you know my darkest secrets. I can’t stop feeling like these gators need a friend, and I never did stop loving the crooked boy next door.”

  There’s a shine of tears in her eyes.

  “May he rest in peace,” she whispers.

  A car pulls into the driveway, careful to not hit the gators. Jorie steps out of the passenger side and says goodbye to her mother. As though the gators don’t bother her one bit, she walks past them and heads toward Gran and me.

  “Will you be okay, Gran?” I ask. “I’ll cancel my plans, you know I will.”

  “Don’t you dare do such a thing,” she says, throwing the last of the treats into the yard, some even into the open mouths of the gators. “Go have fun. Be careful. And if you do decide to give that damn boy your heart, don’t make the mistake of giving him the best part of it like I did, okay?”

  “But Gran, that’s the only way to really love, isn’t it?”

  I’d rather have my heart infected with love than live a day without it.

  …

  “Y’all better spring for a new boat soon,” Jorie says. “Only a thin layer left to this one. Reminds me of the crust on the pan after your grandma bakes that delicious cornbread of hers. Which, by the way, I’m looking forward to eating when we get back.”

  I smile at my best friend as I row leisurely through the murky water. Today it’s colored like honey, sun shining brightly through it to illuminate an underwater forest of lily roots and green vegetation. A timid breeze softly brushes hair away from my face, and I have to squint through the blaring brightness of the day.

  I pat my bag out of habit, just to make sure I have my phone. Never can be too careful, since they still haven’t caught the Mangroves Murderer. Pretty sure Jorie and I would make the perfect victims if we don’t keep our wits about us. I have my phone. I have the shotgun under my feet. And I have a will of steel. Nobody’s taking me from this swamp. And they’re sure as hell not taking this swamp from me. I plan on enjoying it, no matter what the killer has done. I refuse to be a jack-in-the-box, stuffed inside the house, waiting to explode out.
Life is meant to be lived, damn it. The dead girls, and hearing about Beau’s grandpa passing, have taught me that.

  Jorie smacks loudly on her gum, blowing bubbles so big they almost cover her face, reminding me of bright-pink balloons. She pops them and starts all over again.

  We haven’t spoken of our last fight, sweeping it under the rug where we can pretend we don’t know it’s there. We row under a thicket of leaves. Here, the water points us to a channel, trees like walls on either side.

  Jorie sits at the front of the boat, picturesque with the swamp all around her.

  There’s a spot I’m taking her to where the ground is raised into what could almost be called a hill. The gators don’t often trek up it, making it perfect for sunbathing. Gran showed it to me a couple of years back. Said it’s one of the only places that stays constantly dry. Unless a hurricane blows through and the waters rise enough, which hardly ever happens. I even brought a bag full of stuff—sunglasses, bottled water, magazines, and a few books. A girls’ day all the way. A quiet spot for Jorie and me and no one else.

  When we pull up, I slip out my phone and quickly shoot a message to Beau, asking him how he’s doing, knowing he’s grieving his grandpa’s passing and that he and Charlotte are planning the cremation. I tell him that I’m at the hill in the swamp with Jorie and that I’ll stop by his place later tonight. I place my cell back into the zippered part of my bag. Who knows if the text will actually go through, horrible as the service sometimes is.

  We climb the hill to the top where a perfect circular sunspot awaits us. Jorie smiles at the sight.

  “Well, haven’t you just found a slice of heaven?” she says. “Come on. Might as well take advantage.”

  I lay two towels on the ground, which is mostly dirt and rocks and the occasional grass shoots. The rocks are uncomfortable at first, but after a minute, we get used to them. Jorie holds up the books I brought.