by S. L. Naeole
I turned around and saw Grans standing there, her arms loaded with crates that skimmed the ceiling. “Sorry,” I mumbled and raced out to find one crate still sitting on the ground beside the truck’s rear tire. I picked it up and saw Jameson leaning against the doorframe. “Move,” I growled.
“There you go, calling me fat again. You know, if you keep this up, I might just go out and find someone else who’ll appreciate me like I deserve,” Jameson joked.
I squeezed past him and placed the last crate on top of the counter now that there was no space left. Grans was already busy cleaning the small fish, her hands moving so fast that the fish looked like they were being born straight from her fingers.
“Do you need me to do anything else?”
“You wanna help me clean?” she asked, not bothering to look up.
“Not really.”
“Then why ask?”
I shrugged. “I just thought-”
She turned to face me, the knife in her hand covered in scales and fish blood. “You thought that you’d ask just to be nice. Well, I don’t need nice today, boy. I need help. And since you’re not planning on giving me any, you’d best leave me alone. I’ve got customers lining up outside and fish to fry.”
I began to leave when she grabbed my arm, her sharp nails clawing into my skin. “And you’d better not think to cause a scene in front of my place again. We don’t need the tourists thinking that they can’t walk around here without one of the locals attacking them.”
“I didn’t attack any-”
Her bony hand slapped across my face, the hard knobs of her fingers finding familiar places to hit and hurt. “Don’t you lie to me, boy. I saw you. You always act without thinking. You’re just like your mama and look where she is now, in a bottle on your daddy’s nightstand. You’d better wise up and realize that the world we have here only exists because of the world out there, their world.”
“So I’m supposed to be grateful to them for having to work my ass off on a boat for sixteen hours a day? I’m supposed to be grateful for Audrey being stuck in a wheelchair for the rest of her life? I’m supposed to be grateful for Mom being dead and you beating me every day, you old crone?”
The look on her face wasn’t one of shock. She didn’t look hurt either. Instead, she seemed pleased, like something she’d been wanting or expecting to happen did. “Nice to see you finally find your balls, boy. Now get out of my kitchen. And tell your sister I said hello.”
I gave my grandma one final look before doing as she said and leaving. Jameson smirked at me as I passed.
“If you say anything about what just happened, I’ll tell everyone about your membership to that boy band’s fan club,” I warned.
His grin disappeared. “It was a gift!” he said as he followed close behind. “And I wasn’t gonna say a damn thing to anyone. Hell, considering how many times your grandma’s hit me, I should be the one telling you not to say anything.”
We climbed into the truck and I started the engine, the loud, angry roar of the motor rattling the windows. From the back, every single shop and eatery looked like the coffins of buildings long since dead. Even if life still beat inside them, even if the voices of the living flowed out of every window, the fact that they and Black Cat Rock were nothing but graveyards, cemeteries where the bodies of dreams came to be buried, couldn’t be ignored.
My mother’s dreams died here. The dreams of my father died here. My sister’s would soon enough and join the dead dreams of mine that were buried beneath the tires of the truck. It didn’t matter what the dream was. Whether it was to become doctors, or lawyers, celebrities, or hell, even teachers, reality always came roaring forward with its claws out and teeth bared, ready rip the throat of that dream out and let it bleed to death in front of you.
We were told in school that it didn’t matter what we wanted, we could get it if we worked hard. We rode that ferry in the cold, in the wet, and even in the darkness to hear those words spoken to us every single day. We rode that ferry home, rushing to finish our homework before we docked because no one knew when we’d be able to do it after that.
We studied when we could get an extra minute, but it was hard. We were all so damn busy working with our parents or for them on their boats or in their shops that there wasn’t really any time to do much else. And because our parents worked so hard and so long, it was up to us to take care of the younger kids and make sure they ate, got clean, and went to bed before the sun came up again so that at least they could say they slept.
Then we did it all over again the next day. We took those tests and spoke to those counselors, all that career and college planning bull they tell us to do, but in the end no matter how hard we worked, it wasn’t good enough. But still we rode; we rode that ferry for the lies and for the dreams we didn’t want to see die because we were kids, and kids live on dreams.
And when we finally accepted that our dreams were dead, we rode that ferry for food.
“Let’s go hunting, Jameson. I’m ready for some fresh meat.”
CHAPTER THREE
Fallon
The house was small, with dirty white siding, a black tarpaper roof, dark green shutters framing old paned windows, and a path of dead flowers that lead up to the sagging porch. A red door with peeling paint opened up to a small, yellow living room filled with horribly mismatched furniture. It was flanked by two bedrooms with white, narrow doors. A bathroom the size of a cell phone was accessible only through the kitchen, with a small clawfoot tub, pedestal sink, and toilet all crammed inside.
The kitchen was painted a glaring white, with a round, red wooden table at its heart, two chairs each holding a flattened, dirty-orange cushion on its seat tucked beneath it. A yellowed doily sat in the middle of the table with a set of black cat salt and pepper shakers on top. Mom pulled out one of the chairs and sat down, taking those salt and pepper shakers in her hands and pressing them against her cheeks.
She sighed, and closed her eyes. Dad pulled me away and showed me to my room. I knew it was Mom’s before I even walked through the narrow door; the faded posters of bands and celebrities that I didn’t know on the wall, and the old quilt on the metal bed with the chipped white paint made it seem like I’d walked back in time.
“Your mom and I used to sit on that bed and talk about our future, what we wanted to do, where we wanted to go.” He pointed to a map that was stuck to the wall with pins. “We wanted to see the world and picked out places that looked good in our geography books. We didn’t know how, but we knew we were gonna do it. Your mom and me never wanted anything more than we wanted that.”
I sat on the bed, flinching as the springs squeaked and the mattress dipped so low my knees touched my chest, and touched the red pushpin that was sticking out of Germany. I picked up a photo frame that held a picture of Mom and Dad when they were younger. “Did you guys ever dream about having kids?”
Dad sat beside me, the bed crying under the weight of his six-foot frame. He took the picture from me and looked at it intently. “Your mom found out when she was about your age that she couldn’t have kids, so whatever dreams we might’ve had for bio kids didn’t matter. When we joined the Air Force, we didn’t think anyone would let us adopt, and going from one base to the next, getting deployed…it just didn’t seem like a good idea to try. We resigned ourselves to growing old and alone and maybe owning an auto repair shop once we’d retired.”
He reached over me and touched the red pin in Japan. “That’s where we met your parents.”
I nodded and touched his finger. “You told me. You guys were all stationed there together and when you returned the states and I was born, they made you my godparents. When they died, you adopted me because they had no other family.”
“We had to go across the world and then back again to realize that our dream could never match real life. You’re the best thing to happen to us, and for the rest of our lives, your mom and I will be grateful to your parents for bringing you into this world and for trusting
us with your life.”
Guilt washed over me at his words. “I’m sorry for being such a brat about coming here,” I said to him before throwing my arms around him, my fingertips barely touching each other as I pressed my head against his shoulder.
“It’s not me you should apologize to,” he pointed out. “But…don’t go doing it right now. She’ll think you’re just doing it because I told you to.”
“Well…isn’t that what you’re kinda doing?”
He laughed. “Smartass. Just give it a day or two, all right? She’s had a pretty big shock.”
“All right,” I agreed, feeling him push my arms out of the way so he could return my hug, his grip strong and firm.
“Hey, can I join in on this bonding moment, or is this a father-daughter thing only?” Mom looked at us from her position in the doorway, her eyes glittering with unshed tears.
Dad pushed me over as he made room for Mom beside him. “Fallon and I were just talking about how we used to map out where we’d be going when we were in high school.”
Mom’s eyes traveled to the map and she smiled. “We’ve been to almost all of them, too. Let that be a lesson to you, Fallon: it doesn’t matter how big the dream, if you want it badly enough, you can have it. Want to know another life lesson?”
I looked at Dad and then back at her. “What?”
“The sooner we unpack, the sooner we can go and check out the rest of the island.”
A deep, disappointed groan slipped out of me as I flung myself back on the bed, thinking about the truck bed and trailer that were filled with boxes. “By the time we’re done, I’ll have to start school.”
“Oh, stop being such a drama queen, Fallon. I just want to bring in the boxes from the truck. We can unload the trailer tomorrow,” Mom laughed. “It’ll take us a couple of hours, max, and then we can go looking around and maybe get something to eat in town for dinner.”
“Fine,” I huffed before sitting up and following my parents out of the room. “But can we eat somewhere that has something else on the menu besides fish?”
***
Despite how small the island was, it was made clear to me that I could get lost very easily if I didn’t know where I was going. One side of the island was nothing but beaches, with inns and shops fronting the shore. Some gigantic homes were scattered after them like rocks. They were surrounded by high, wrought iron fences with spikes that blocked public access to the beaches hidden behind them
“Cat walls,” Dad called them, “To keep the cats out.”
“Cats?” I asked, laughing. “Those are pretty high gates just to keep some cats out.”
“Not housecats, Fallon,” Mom said, her voice serious. “Wild cats. Black Cat Rock was named for the big cats that live around the cliffs and in the woods.”
“There are mountain lions here?” My voice sounded squeaky, panicked.
“Don’t worry. There hasn’t been an attack here in over fifty years. The cats just like being a little destructive, that’s all.”
The other side of the island held the cliffs, forest, and huge vacation homes that dotted the scenery like white freckles. “Why don’t they have one of those cat walls?” I asked as we passed one with just a dirt path leading up to the front of the house.
“Those houses don’t need them; the cats leave them alone,” Dad explained simply. I never thought to ask why.
When Mom had been talking about the main road, she wasn’t kidding; it was pretty much the only real road on the entire island. It took you completely around without stopping in just over an hour – even in the old truck – but Dad wasn’t content with just one turn. We drove through the town again, past the little shops and the restaurants, the place we stopped at for breakfast, past the inns and the beach homes, until we came to a stretch where both sides of the road were covered in tall grass.
“They call this area the maze,” Dad said as we slowed down, stopping at the point where the road disappeared around a turn. He climbed out of the truck and walked around to the passenger side, opening Mom’s door and then pulling the seat forward so that I could climb out as well. He and Mom walked through the weeds, disappearing in them and leaving me behind.
“Hey!” I called out, running after them.
In an instant, I was swallowed up. The smell of dry, dead grass was so thick, it made my nose twitch. I could hear the hum of crickets and the buzz of other insects as they moved away from me, but I couldn’t hear my parents.
“Mom! Dad! Where are you?”
I pushed the grass out of my way as I tried to head in as straight a line as I could. I listened for their movements, for them to respond to my call, but I heard nothing except the bugs and my feet crunching down. “Okay, this is ridiculous,” I mumbled before turning around. “What the heck?”
The grass that should have been tamped down was standing straight up, as if I hadn’t just walked through there seconds ago. I spun around, confusion and fear taking turns in my chest as I began to shout frantically for my parents.
And just like that, they appeared, popping out from between the blades of grass as though they’d always been there. “Not cool,” I scolded. “I’m freaking out here and you guys are just…you’re just…what were you guys doing anyway?”
Dad looked at Mom and they both giggled – actually giggled – before grabbing my hand and pulling me, the three of us plowing through the field of yellow. On and on the grass went. I looked up and the sky was blue and clear and endless. My feet moved against their will.
“And we’re here!” Dad shouted as the grass disappeared and the sound of our feet crunching on grass turned into the soft shuffle of sand.
I looked down and squeaked. We were standing in front of a beach that was so small, a simple turn of my head would cause it to vanish. The grass ended where clean, creamy sand began. It stretched out for only about ten feet before water the color of a jade storm reached up to touch it.
“Wow,” I said, letting go of my parents’ hands and walking up to get a closer look. “Does the water look like this on the other beaches?”
Mom kicked some of the sand up into the water and laughed. “Nope. Those beaches smell like coconut grease and are for the tourists, baby. This place, this is only for those who know how to get here and no one can just show you or draw you a map. Your feet have to learn which way to go.”
“My feet-”
Dad came behind me and scooped me up. “Yes, kitten. First lesson? Getting them wet!”
I screamed as he waded into the water, my cries for Mom’s help falling on deaf ears; she was too busy laughing at what was happening to care. With no effort at all, Dad tossed me into the chilly water, my body sinking quickly in the salty liquid. I hit bottom in seconds and brought my legs beneath me, standing up and coughing out water as my parents playfully splashed me even more.
“That wasn’t funny!”
“Yes, it was,” Mom laughed. “Come on, Fallon. It’s the beach! You’re supposed to get wet!”
“Yeah, but not fully dressed!” I shouted, pushing my wet hair out of my face. “Are we gonna go home before we go back to town?”
“Are you kidding? You’re an islander now, kitten! No one is going to care if you’re dripping wet and covered in sand. You’ll see.”
“I’ll see, my butt,” I grumbled as I trudged out of the water and plopped onto the hot sand. My t-shirt and khaki shorts squished as I did so, while water sloshed out of my sneakers. I pulled the shoes off and held them upside-down, watching as water and sand poured out, landing in clumps on the sand by my feet.
Dad and Mom played in the water for a little while longer before returning to my side. They grabbed my arms, Dad grabbing my sneakers, and dragged me back through the grass to the truck. We climbed in, my parents’ laughter and the sound of old, cracked vinyl meeting wet clothes somehow making everything feel right for the first time today.
We drove back into town and parked in a sandy lot next to the tiny theater. The people traffic
was heavy as the tourists made their way from shop to shop before heading back to the inns or to the beach. The smell of sunscreen and tanning oil was heavy, and I could have sworn I saw a trail of grease following every one of them.
I read the title of the movie on the marquee out loud. “Dark Veil? Is that some kind of crime drama or something?”
Dad’s face crinkled up. “A really cheesy murder mystery. It’s the only thing the theater’s played since it opened up thirty years ago.”
“And we’re going to watch it?”
Dad’s head bounced up and down. “If we have time after dinner. Good God, look who’s heading this way, Vangie.”
Mom and I turned our heads and Mom cooed while I groaned. A man with bright red hair was approaching us. He wore a plaid, button-down shirt over a gray t-shirt. He had jeans on and a pair of thick, black boots covering his feet. His face was wide, with weathered lines marking his forehead and spraying out from the corner of his eyes. His skin was a sun-baked brown, and as he came closer, I could see that his eyes were the same color as the water at the beach we’d just came from.
But he wasn’t why I groaned.
Standing beside him, pushing Audrey in her wheelchair, was him, the jerk who’d shoved me to the ground.
“Johann Mace, good to see you!” Mom said as she leaned in to give him a hug. I was surprised when she stood a couple of inches taller than he was.
“Vangie Dowd, am I seeing things? Have you finally made it back to the island? And you brought your old dog with you. How’s it going, Ray?”
He and Dad shook hands, patting each other on the shoulder and laughing at the obvious height difference between them.
“Doing good, man; doing good. We’re here to stay; we’ve moved into Vangie’s grandparents’ place.”
“You mean by the junkyard?” Johann laughed, the sound of it deep and hoarse, like he’d been shouting all day. “Oh hey, these are my kids. They were just babies when you last saw them. Guys, this is Evangeline and Raymond Timmons. They grew up on the island with your mom and me.”
