They had rarely spoken to each other at school. Isabel could remember watching Harry in the lunchroom, tracing the curve of his ear and the cords of his neck with her eyes. Sometimes he had turned toward her, and her blood had surged and she’d felt a sheen of moisture on her face like the one she felt now.
He had passed by, gone through the door. Time to pay up. He wasn’t supposed to be here. Time to pay up and go.
NINE
Harry had seen Isabel. He saw her turn her face away.
In the office, he unzipped his wetsuit and hung it up and pulled on khakis over his swimsuit. His hands were shaking, but that was from tiredness. He and Scooter had busted their tails today, working against the swells, barely able to see, half the time one of them undoing what the other had just done. On top of it, Harry had gotten seasick, or at least queasy, and had to sit on the bottom with a rock in his lap to hold him still until it passed off. Sitting there with muddy water swirling past him and the current pulling at his body, Harry had questioned how long this could go on. They had found a brass lantern today, and some barrel hoops and a few pieces of broken crockery. Where was the gold?
It was down there. It had to be. They had found enough already to know the big strike was there somewhere.
The stories you heard: barrels of gold, bricks of gold, medallions, chains, figurines, rings. So far, Harry and Scooter had found twenty or thirty cob coins they kept in a tackle box, and a few chunks of silver conglomerate.
Things had to pick up. Harry had read documented stories of people pulling hundreds of coins out of a wreck in a day, finding seventy-pound chunks of silver made up of a thousand reales. It wasn’t necessarily the people with the high-tech equipment who had done it, either. It could be small-timers like Harry. Locating the wreck was the hard part, and they had already found the wreck.
Scooter had found the wreck.
After a day like this, to walk past Isabel Anders. To walk past her, and see her turn her head away.
“I got to go home. I’m late,” he said to Scooter. Scooter grunted, and Harry walked out. Not looking toward Isabel’s table, he went to the parking lot and got in his truck.
Harry lived in a subdivision on the outskirts of St. Elmo, just past Margene’s MiniMart. His house, a two-bedroom ranch-style, was cramped for space, especially since Kathy had taken the family room for her beauty salon. Although it was late in the dinner hour, when Harry drove up he saw only one dim light burning— in the girls’ bedroom. An unfamiliar car was parked in the driveway.
When Harry saw the car, he muttered, “Shit.” He pulled up and parked at the curb. As soon as he walked through the front door, he could smell the smell, all the way in the living room.
Harry wandered into the kitchen, where there was no sign of supper. He checked the refrigerator for beer and didn’t find any. He could hear voices coming from behind the door to the salon. Although the door was closed now, it had been open sometime recently. He knew because of the smell.
Harry peeked into the salon. He saw Kathy in her pink smock, sweeping hair off the floor while a woman with pink curlers all over her head sat reading the Reader’s Digest.
The smell here was strong enough to make Harry sneeze, and Kathy looked up at the sound. She smiled. “Hi, hon. I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Can I see you for a sec?” Harry said.
Kathy’s eyes swiveled to the customer.
“Just for a sec,” he insisted.
Kathy checked her watch, said, “Be right back” to the woman, and came out into the kitchen with Harry. When Harry closed the door behind her, she said, “Wow, what a day! And a late perm on top of everything. Give me a sweet, yummy kiss.”
Harry pursed his lips and bent down, but at the last minute he moved so she got his cheek instead of his mouth.
Kathy didn’t settle for his cheek. She grabbed his ears and planted a juicy kiss on his mouth. Harry pulled away. “For Christ’s sake, Kathy.”
She looked hurt. He ignored it. “Who’s parked in the drive?” he asked.
Kathy put a hand to her mouth. “Oh no! She’s a new customer, Harry. All the regulars know not to park there.”
“Yeah. Did she leave the salon door open, too? The whole house smells like a—”
“The girls left it open. I didn’t notice until a few minutes ago.” She patted his shoulder. “I’m really sorry, Harry.”
He folded his arms. “All I ask is a few simple things. No customer cars in the driveway. Keep the door closed, so we don’t all choke—”
Kathy put a finger to her lips. “Don’t yell, Harry. She’ll hear you.”
“I’ll say what I want in my own goddamn house.”
He watched Kathy’s eyes puddle up. Exactly what he needed. She blinked a couple of times and said, “I’ve got some chili to put in the microwave as soon as I’m finished.”
Harry usually liked chili. “I don’t know. I’ve got an upset stomach.”
“Oh no! Should you take some—”
He nodded at the door. “Don’t you have to get back?”
She checked her watch. “Oh, gosh.” She gave him a worried look. “Harry—”
“Go on. See you later.”
When the door closed, Harry walked through the house to a back bedroom, where he found his daughters, Jennifer and Cissy, lying on their twin beds like rag dolls. Their eyes were glued to their very own television set, which Harry should never have bought them.
Harry leaned in the doorway. “Hey there.”
“Hey.” Their heads didn’t move.
“You girls hungry?”
This time, Cissy glanced his way. “We had a snack. Mama’s doing a perm.”
“Right.” He remained in the doorway, watching them while they watched the tube. Jennifer’s mouth was half open and a shock of hair fell to the top of her glasses frames. Cissy, the prettier one, had her mother’s creamy skin and curly hair. As far as Harry knew, for the last year or more he, their father, had not said one word they thought was worth listening to or done anything they admired.
Harry’s stomach did feel upset. “Cissy. Jennifer. Listen,” he said. Although he couldn’t tell whether they were actually paying attention, he went on: “I’m going out to get myself some supper. I don’t feel like eating chili. Tell your mother. All right?”
“Okay.”
All the way back to the Cape, Harry was light-headed. He had walked out. He had gotten away.
At the Beachcomber, though, the kitchen was about to close. A couple of strangers, almost through eating, were sitting at Isabel’s table. She was long gone.
TEN
Isabel stared into the darkness, listening to the grating rustle of the palms. She wished she had not seen Harry Mercer. She did not want to relive those days. She didn’t want to argue with herself about the way she had treated Harry.
All right, she had treated him badly. On the face of it, her behavior was indefensible. Harry had loved her, and—
And, damn it, she had loved Harry. There you had the problem, and a sad glimpse into Isabel’s psyche. The sickening truth was, she had run away from Cape St. Elmo with Ben Raboski because she hated Merriam, all right, but she had also run away because she loved Harry. She had been afraid of being consumed by her own feelings.
Oh, baloney.
Well, she had been afraid of never getting away if she didn’t go then. She was afraid she’d never get another chance.
Or maybe Merriam had held her too tightly, and she couldn’t stand being held.
Or all of the above.
Isabel tossed. She sat up and punched her pillow with her fist. Who knew why she had done it? She had been a mixed-up sixteen-year-old. Harry had probably forgotten the whole episode by now.
Isabel was having exactly the argument with herself she had intended to avoid. She was not going to allow herself to be thrown for a loop by something that happened in high school. She closed her eyes and emptied her mind. Eventually, she fell asleep and had a dream
about Harry that was so searingly, throbbingly, gut-clutchingly sexy that she woke up vibrating and bathed in sweat.
As she searched Merriam’s medicine cabinet for aspirin, Isabel told herself her irrational response to Harry had to be a displacement of her feelings about Zan and the end of their affair. The explanation was calming. She fell asleep again, this time dreamlessly.
The next morning was overcast. Isabel dragged out her drawings for The Children from the Sea. She couldn’t imagine what had ever appealed to her about the project. Her own voice rang in her ears: It’s something I’ve always wanted to do, and now I have the time. Right.
She picked up her sketchbook and a pencil and went to sit on the front step of the trailer. As the sky lowered, she drew, with intense concentration, a leggy and ugly sandspur plant growing nearby. The sandspur was laden with the spiny, cruel burrs that had been the bane of Isabel’s childhood, and she rendered each tiny needle.
Isabel liked to draw from life. Although she often used photographs, she felt the sketches she did while looking at the actual object were usually better, more vital.
She tried a palmetto. She was in the groove now. This was what she had always loved, creating a world resembling the real world but at the same time all hers. She continued drawing, happily absorbed, until it was time to drive into town and see Merriam.
It had started to rain lightly, a misty curtain sweeping over the car. At Bernice Chatham’s, she found Merriam sitting in a metal lawn chair on the front porch. Azalea bushes crowded against the screen, raindrops sliding off their dark green leaves. After saying hello to Bernice, Isabel pulled up another chair and sat beside Merriam.
Merriam’s spiky white hair had been brushed. She wore a clean dress and bedroom slippers. She made occasional fishlike movements with her mouth. After some minutes of silence, Isabel began to chat about whatever came into her head— Kimmie Dee, the trailer, the weather. Merriam studied her lap, then began smoothing her skirt. She made no response.
After a while, Isabel ran out of steam. She stopped talking and turned her attention to the dripping azaleas. There was something almost hypnotic in the sight of the drops sliding off the wet leaves. She had almost lost touch with her surroundings when Merriam spoke.
Merriam said, “You ought to cut off some of that hair, girl. You look like a haystack.”
Isabel gritted her teeth. Despite herself, her hand strayed to her hair. She said, “So you do know me, Merriam.”
Merriam’s eyes were bright. She said, “We got to cut those fronds back. They’ll be falling and making a mess. We got to do it this afternoon.”
She half-stood, but Isabel caught her arm. “Wait. It isn’t time yet,” she improvised.
“They’ll be all over the place. We got to—”
She was getting agitated. Isabel said, “Merriam, listen. I want to talk to you. Do you understand me?”
“We got to go now!”
“I’m Isabel. Isabel.”
Merriam gave her a look of withering scorn. “I know who you are. Do you think I’m cracked?”
The thought had crossed my mind. “Merriam, sit down a second. I want to ask you. Do you remember being on the beach, walking on the beach? And you saw Kimmie Dee?”
“Kimmie Dee.” Merriam’s face grew sober.
“Yes. You hurt your head somehow. I wanted to know if you remember—”
Merriam had deflated. Her shoulders sagged and her head hung forward. In her lap, her fingers twined and untwined aimlessly. “No,” she whispered.
“I want to know how you hurt your head.”
Merriam began making the fish motions with her mouth. Isabel waited, but she didn’t speak again.
On the way back to the Cape, Isabel stopped to buy groceries. She pushed into the trailer laden with bags. She had put everything away and poured herself a glass of club soda before she noticed the envelope on the floor.
It was a sealed envelope, plain white, with nothing written on it. Judging from its position near the door, someone— Kimmie Dee?— had slid it underneath while she was gone. She tore it open and took out the folded paper inside. The message was printed in block letters with a red felt-tip pen:
GO AWAY YOU WHORE. WE DON’T NEED YOU HERE.
No signature, naturally.
Oh please. Please. Surely Isabel had enough problems without this kind of garbage. She tossed the note on the counter and beseeched the powers that were to give her a break.
Whore. A generic insult or a calculated reference to her youthful peccadilloes? The image of Harry Mercer presented itself. Go away, you whore.
Isabel folded the note and replaced it in the envelope. She didn’t want to look at it. She would be watchful, in case the person came back. She would— this inspiration gave her pleasure— put weather stripping along the bottom of the door so nothing could be slid underneath.
If it continued, she would have to go to the police. Undoubtedly, they would ask whether she had any idea who had done it. She thought of Harry again. She imagined the police asking Harry Mercer whether he had written a note calling Isabel a whore.
She put the envelope in a zipper compartment in her handbag, where it would be out of her sight.
The rain had stopped. She once again installed herself on the concrete block front step with her sketchbook, but she couldn’t recapture her mood of the morning. Either the note, her frustrating visit with Merriam, or something else had stalled her. She was doodling meaningless shapes when the sound of sandals slapping down the drive announced Kimmie Dee’s daily visit.
Kimmie Dee came into view and got right down to business. “Did you mail my letter?”
“I certainly did.”
“Good.” She gave a nod of approval. “What are you doing?”
“Working.”
“No, you’re not. You’re drawing.”
Isabel didn’t argue. She turned back to her sketchbook. Kimmie Dee found a dried magnolia leaf, freighted it with pine straw, and began to sail it on a mud puddle by the steps.
After a few minutes, Isabel said, “Let me ask you something, Kimmie Dee. Did you slip an envelope under my door while I was gone this afternoon?”
“Nope.”
The reply was offhand, without hesitation. The girl seemed to be telling the truth. “Did you see anybody else come down here?”
“Nope. Toby and I were watching TV.” Kimmie Dee pushed the leaf, which wobbled and capsized. “Oh, shoot.” She retrieved it and said, “When do you think my daddy will send those boots? I need them pretty soon.”
“He couldn’t have gotten the letter yet.”
“Fourth of July. The talent contest. My old ones don’t fit.” She stood, kicked off a sandal, and stuck out a mud-streaked foot for Isabel to inspect. “My toes are too long.”
The light dawned. “It’s majorette boots you want?”
“Well, sure.”
Kimmie Dee knelt to play with her leaf boat. She made a charming picture, squatting there by the puddle with her bony knees in the air. Isabel turned to a fresh page. “Has your father been… gone for a long time?”
“Pretty long. He’ll be coming back, though.”
“When?”
“When they let him out.” She picked up sand and added it to the leaf’s freight. “He did something stupid and wrong, so he had to go to jail for a while. That’s what he told me. Stupid and wrong.”
Isabel was sketching, her pencil flying. “Sounds like he’s sorry for what he did.”
“Oh, he is. Real sorry.” The girl crossed her arms on her knees. “They took his boat away and everything. They aren’t even going to give it back.”
“That’s a shame.”
“Yeah. He brought some marijuana over from Westpoint in it and they caught him.” Kimmie Dee gave her a suspicious look. “Are you drawing my picture?”
“Yes. Do you want to see?” It was rough, just a few lines, but Isabel was pleased.
Kimmie Dee looked. The sketch showed her crouched by
the puddle, her hair falling forward. “You can’t even see my face,” she said, sounding disappointed.
“You want your face in it? I’ll do another one. Go back over there.”
Kimmie Dee returned to the puddle and posed, her face stretched into an unnatural “Say cheese” grin. To dissipate it, Isabel said, “You can go ahead and talk to me. I’ll tell you when to be still.”
“Talk about what?”
Isabel had meant to ask Kimmie Dee about Ted Stiles. I don’t like Mr. S. “Oh, about your mother, Toby, Mr. Stiles…”
All semblance of a smile had vanished. “It’s our house, not his,” Kimmie Dee declared. “He bothers us all the time.”
“Bothers you how? What does he do?”
“He comes over and eats, and drinks beer and smokes cigarettes. He piled a bunch of diving stuff in our utility closet and broke Toby’s train.”
“Does he go diving?”
“I don’t know. And he asks me questions.”
Isabel studied her sketch. “Questions about what?”
“What I’ve seen on the beach. Who’s coming and going. I don’t like to talk to him, but Mama gets mad if I won’t.”
Kimmie Dee moved, and Isabel gave up. She didn’t like the second sketch as much as the first. Doing it had given her an idea, though. Kimmie Dee, with her sharp little face, would be an ideal model for Marotte. Marotte was a villain, the evil foster sister, in The Children from the Sea. If Kimmie Dee would pose, it could give the book some needed vigor. Isabel said, “Let me ask you a favor. Would you let me draw your picture for a book I’m working on?”
Kimmie Dee wrinkled her nose. “What kind of a book?”
“It’s a kids’ book. A fairy tale.” No need, at this point, to tell her she’d be the model for the villain. “I was thinking— if you’ll pose for me a few times, I’ll buy you the majorette boots.”
The girl shook her head. “I already asked Daddy. He’ll send them.”
Her faith was touching, but privately Isabel wondered. “I’m worried he won’t get the letter in time. This way, you’ll have them for sure.”
Kimmie Dee hesitated, but Isabel could see it was no contest. “Okay.”
Michaela Thompson - Florida Panhandle 02 - Riptide Page 6
