Low Country Daddy

by Lexi Whitlow

“Justin loves being on the water. He loves the boats and the work. You should see him out there. He’s the happiest kid in the world. Smart too, hard-working. Just like his mother.”

  I’m getting to him. His jaw flexes. His fists clench, but he knows better. He’s out of his element, outnumbered, and out-witted. He smiles at me, shaking his head.

  “I should come see what you have my kid doing,” he says. “And if you’re short-handed, I could pitch in, instead of you relying on a little kid.”

  Oh, he’s not… He is.

  “Absolutely,” I say. “Fifteen bucks an hour is the regular rate for an unskilled hand. We start at six. Wear work shoes and bring your sunscreen.”

  Maddie’s not thrilled that Joe’s joining Justin and me on the salt, but while she sets up the movie on the DVD player, I manage to convince her I have a plan.

  “I’m going to break his back out there on the water,” I say. “And then I’m going to show him what a seven-year-old who pays attention can accomplish. I’m going to make him feel as weak and helpless as he made you and Justin feel, and I’m going to show Justin just how much of a pissant he really is.”

  Maddie raises her eyebrows at me. “You can do all that?”

  “Before lunchtime,” I promise, turning my attention to the television. “What are we watching?”

  She grins, settling down beside me on her couch. “Fried Green Tomatoes,” she says. “It’s a favorite of mine. The bad guy gets killed, barbequed, and served up on a plate to the equally bad cop investigating his disappearance. I was thinking I might learn how to make barbeque soon.”

  Damn. Great minds think alike.

  It’s not even nine in the morning, but it’s hotter than hell out here on the water. I feel low pressure and deep, tropical humidity being pushed up from the south, in front of the storm. Amelia – that’s what they’ve named it – changed direction overnight, turning into the Gulf Stream, getting over warm water. It’s blowing up and moving fast in our general direction.

  “God dammit!” Joe shouts.

  I pull a box from the water, letting it drain, watching Joe struggle to do the same, two boats behind me. He’s wearing sneakers, which are slick on the deck, and he just doesn’t have much strength or coordination. He keeps losing his grip on the boxes before he can get them on board to unpack them.

  Justin’s on the other side, on the center boat, using a winch to haul the boxes aboard. He still has to catch them, pull them to the boat, attach them to the winch hook, get them aboard, open them, remove the spat bags and stack them. He’s doing a fine job of it, almost as fast as me.

  Justin and I are clearing three oyster grows for each one Joe manages to fumble around with.

  “This is bullshit,” Joe says. “These gloves are too slick to work with.”

  It’s a poor workman who blames his tools. My great-grandfather taught me that when I was younger than Justin.

  I strip my gloves off, crossing along three boat decks to hand them to Joe. “Try these,” I say. “They work fine for me.”

  We’ve got just a few hours to finish this work before we risk losing the crop to heat.

  “Justin, take a break and hose down the bags,” I instruct. “We need to keep them cool.”

  “Yes sir,” he says, turning the water pump on, going for the hose. Justin has picked up good manners from Philip and Marco, probably strongly reinforced by my mother.

  Even with my gloves, Joe struggles. His hands are too weak or too clumsy to get a grip on the heavy floating gear. He grumbles, and swears, and occasionally glances back to see if Justin is watching him. Justin tries hard to ignore him.

  Before I can move the boats forward to the final group of boxes, Joe’s got to finish his two. I walk back to the last boat again, hauling one of them in myself, clearing it and tossing it back in the water before Joe even has his in hand.

  “Watch me,” I say, showing him again how to snag the thing with just two fingers, drawing it to the edge of the boat. I tip it, then use backward momentum to drag it over the edge of the boat. “Save your back,” I say, “Straighten up, hang on with both hands, and let gravity do the work.”

  He can’t master it, no matter how many times he tries, and I knew he wouldn’t be able to.

  Before we’re done, it’s just me and Justin clearing the boxes, and Joe’s holding a hose over the spat bags because that’s all he’s good for.

  “You did good today,” I tell Justin as he hauls the last cage out of the water, clearing it with the finesse of a pro. “Next year, I’m putting you on a crew, and putting you on salary. You’ll be running your own crew by the time you’re fourteen.”

  He beams up at me, square shouldered, chest out, eyes smiling.

  Joe hocks a lugie into the water, cutting his eyes at me. “My ass,” he mumbles.

  Justin turns, glaring at his father, then rolls his eyes. “What a dipshit,” he says. I let it go, mostly because I’m in total agreement.

  “Let’s go home,” I say, then turn to Joe. “You can stop hosing ‘em down. We’re headed in.”

  Joe drops the hose without turning off the pump. He takes a seat on the nearest bench under the canopy. Before I can say anything, Justin hops across the gap to Joe’s boat, goes to the pump, and pulls the power lever.

  “Thank you,” I say as he comes back to me.

  I head up front to the lead boat and fire up the Yamaha’s, keeping the revs low since I’m towing two boats and about a ton of baby oysters. Justin comes with me, settling himself on the deck at me feet. I glance down and find him looking back at Joe. The kid is wearing a satisfied smile that tells me I accomplished everything I set out to do with this plan I hatched. I reach down, tousling his hair. He looks up at me.

  “You’re gonna make a fine waterman,” I say. “You’re already a fine young man.”

  He smiles up at me. It’s the same kind of smile I reserved for my great-grandfather when I was Justin’s age. Papa is the one who gave me the confidence to try the things I’ve wanted to accomplish in life. My father ridiculed me and tried to beat me down, but he couldn’t undo all the good my great-grandfather managed with just a few, strategically placed, encouraging words.

  Maddie is waiting at the docks for us when we get back, along with eight guys from the hatchery to help us unload these bags and get them under refrigeration. Justin flies off the boat, hauling four spat bags over his head.

  “I pulled almost as many grows at Jeb did,” he gloats, showing Maddie his treasure.

  “That’s awesome,” she says. “You also smell like an oyster. Ick.”

  He burst out laughing, then runs his bags to the truck for the guys to pack in coolers. He joins in the work of clearing the boats. A minute or so later, Joe stumbles off the boat, stiff as a board, sunburned, grumbling.

  “How’d he do?” she asks me, tipping her sunglasses down on her nose.

  “Just about as expected,” I reply, smiling. “With exactly the results I anticipated.”

  She nods. “Give me a minute with him. I’m going to try to put a nail in his coffin.”

  She moves off toward Joe, while I watch closely, just out of earshot.

  “Hey Boss,” Manuel says, coming up to me. “I just saw the newest NOAA forecast. It’s been upgraded to a Cat 1 hurricane and they’re projecting landfall somewhere between Jacksonville and Wilmington, in three days.”

  Shit. We’re right, smack, in the middle of that cone.

  Chapter 23

  Maddie

  Joe, I don’t have a clue what you were trying to prove out here today,” I say, coming closer to him than I would generally dare to. He looks exhausted, and painfully sunburned. He’s pink, and it’s only going to get worse. I look down at his shoes. Two days ago they were brand new, gleaming, expensive Puma sneakers. Now they look like every mollusk in the ACE Basin threw up on them.

  “What?” he asks, shielding his eyes against the glare of the mid-day sun.

  “Joe, go home. Go back to Indy. Yo
u’re wasting your time here.”

  “What did you say to me?” he asks, squaring up, taking a step forward. I know that move, and I know what follows it – but not this time.

  “I’m not coming back to you. I’m never going back. Justin and I are happy here. Happy. I know it’s not a concept you’re familiar with, but trust me when I tell you, we’re doing just fine – without you. I’m filing for divorce and sole custody. I’ve looked into it. The people at Social Services have your file with all the times they got called. They’re sending copy of it to me. They’ll back me up one-hundred-percent.”

  “You’re a fucking bitch,” Joe seethes, taking a step closer, getting in my space. “I’m not leaving here without my son. You can stay put, but he’s my kid, and he belongs with his father, not this bunch of rednecks, fucking illegal immigrants, and ni…”

  “If you’re staying,” Jeb interrupts sharply, stepping between us, moving Joe back half a foot, “then you better find somewhere to hunker down. There’s a storm comin’, and we have real work to do here. I’m done babysitting you. Every hotel and tourist rental in this county is closing down and evacuating inside the next 24 hours. You should get inland, or get fucked, but either way, get the hell off my property.”

  Wow. Jeb Ballentine has a temper. I knew he could get annoyed, but I haven’t seen him actually throw down.

  Joe glares up at him, his sunburned face wrapped with rage.

  “Fuck you,” he spits. “And fuck her.”

  Jeb reaches into his pocket, producing what looks like a check. “Your pay,” he says. “Six hours on the water, plus a bonus for not falling in and drowning. There’s a hundred and five dollars there. Take it to the bank.”

  Joe snatches the check from Jeb’s hand, then spits on the ground beside us. He takes a step sideways, turns and walks to his car, climbs in, and drives away.

  When Joe’s out of sight, I look up into Jeb’s face, trying to measure his anger. He relaxes, offering a tiny smile. “I think he’s gone,” he says.

  I wouldn’t count on it.

  “Why did you pay him with a check?” I ask. I know he always pays his guys in cash.

  Jeb smiles. “‘Cause assholes like that are just the type to report you to the IRS or claim you didn’t pay them at all. The check is my record, and my insurance against his lying bullshit.”

  Jeb Ballentine is craftier than he looks. He’s always thinking three steps ahead. It took me a long time to figure out who Joe really is. Jeb had his number in fifteen minutes.

  Flo’s is closed until further notice, as most of the tourists have left, and the rest are on their way out. I drove Jeb’s Land Cruiser into Beaufort this morning to deliver six coolers filled with ice to Ronny. There’s no more ice left on the islands and the compressor on his ice machine blew up. He’s got a bunch of seafood in the walk-in he’s trying to hang onto, even if the power goes out.

  Crossing the bridge, it was surprising to see how choppy and brown the water was. It’s usually sky blue, and flat. The tide seemed unusually high. Every commercial building on the waterfront is boarding up. The lowlying ones are packing sandbags at their doors. It looks like they’re preparing for Armageddon. Every house is closing storm shutters, tying down potted plants, trash cans, and outdoor furniture. It’s crazy.

  The preparations on Maiden Island are no different. Jeb and his crews have worked non-stop for two days getting ready for this thing. They’re calling the Hurricane Amelia. Yesterday it was a Category 1. Today it’s a Category 2, and it looks like it’s coming straight at us.

  Back at the farm, I’m surprised to see Jeb. He’s with Justin, walking the property, checking barn doors, pulling anything that can fly or float inside the buildings. Rose has filled the bathtubs and sinks in the house with fresh water and filled dozens of empty milk jugs with more. She’s got baggies filled with water crammed in the freezer, and has conjured up enough lanterns, flashlights, and batteries to equip a small army.

  These people are taking Amelia seriously, and it’s freaking me out.

  I take Emma outside, bouncing her on my hip, gazing up at the sky. There are plenty of clouds, but they don’t look so threatening. It’s warm and humid, with a steady breeze rising out of the south, but anything more serious seems a long way off.

  Rose steps out onto the porch with me, following my gaze up to the sky.

  “Those clouds are the first bands of the storm,” Rose says. “You see how they’re stacked in the sky? They’ll tighten up, with more and more filling in every hour, then the wind will pick up. We’re in for a blower. I hope that’s all.”

  “You think the power is going out?” I ask.

  “Oh, yes. No question about that,” she says. “The question is whether we’ll have water when it’s all over. If the storm surge takes out the well-pumps, we’ll be weeks without fresh water. If it takes out the bridge to Beaufort, we’ll be weeks without a lot more than that. We have boats,” Rose adds, “so we’ll be alright. We can get what we need. But a lot of poor people on this island are gonna be in dire straits if we have a big storm.”

  “What about the oysters?” I ask. “Won’t they get washed out to sea?”

  Rose smiles, shaking her head. “No, sweetie. Jeb sunk all his gear yesterday afternoon and this morning. It’s all at the bottom of the estuary, anchored to the floor and chained in place. It’ll take him weeks to get it all back up again after the storm is over, and cost a lot to do it, but the harvest is safe.”

  “I wish I understood more about his business,” I confess to Rose. “I wish I could be more help.”

  “Give it time,” she says. “You’ll pick it up along the way. And Jeb is always happy to talk about his oysters to anyone who will listen.”

  I wake before dawn with Justin crawling in bed with me. Outside, thunder and lightening spark the sky like a fireworks display. Rain falls hard on the metal roof over our heads.

  “Mom, the hurricane is here,” he says, snuggling up to me. “Jeb said when it gets here, we have to go to their house.”

  I got that same speech.

  “It’s not here yet,” I say, yawning, rolling over, pulling him close. “It won’t be here until tonight.”

  Just then a gigantic, deafening thunderclap rattles the windowpanes, jarring me awake.

  “Mom!” Justin exclaims. “I think Amelia got here early.”

  I get up and peek out the window. It’s too dark to see anything. The clock on my nightstand says six-fifty. It’s usually light by this time, but it’s so dark outside.

  “I’m going to make coffee,” I say, dropping the blind. “You’ve got your hurricane bag with your books and clothes. Make sure you have your toothbrush packed. As soon as I’ve had coffee, we’ll head up to Jeb and Rose’s house.”

  Their house is built ten-feet above ground-level. If we get flooding, that’s much safer than our little cottage down the lane.

  A half hour later, clutching a cup of coffee in one hand and Justin’s hand in my other, with a backpack slung over my shoulder, we trudge through whipping wind and an inch or two of standing water to get to Jeb’s place. Our feet are soaked, so we drop our shoes on the porch and come into the brightly lit kitchen barefoot.

  Jeb looks up surprised from a piece of paper he’s holding, then he smiles. “I was just getting ready to go fetch you two,” he says. “I’m glad you’re here.” He holds out his hand, pulling me close, kissing the top of my head. “Justin, Mama’s upstairs checking on Emma. Can you go see if she needs any help?”

  “You just want to get rid of me so you can smooch,” Justin says, grinning at Joe.

  “No,” he replies. “I want to get rid of you so I can talk serious grown-up stuff with your mom. Smooching comes later.”

  Justin rolls his eyes at us, heading upstairs.

  “My kid is turning into a mini-you. He’s become a regular smart-ass.”

  Jeb nods, grinning. “Yes, but I still have so much more work to do on him to truly perfect his smart-as
sedness. He’s still a novice.”

  I really do love this man. He makes me laugh.

  “The storm was upgraded overnight to a Cat 3. It’s a whopper and it’s projected to make landfall just south of Hilton Head in about twelve hours.”

  “Okay,” I say. “So… what does that mean?”

  “What that means is the storm surge, which is always on the leading edge, is going to hit us with a catastrophic impact. It’s coming on at the tail-end of high tide. The Coosaw River is gonna get an ocean shoved into it, with wind pushing even more in every hour that the storm lingers. There’s nowhere for the water to go but up.”

  Okay.

  “There are a lot of people on this island who live in houses just a few feet above sea level. Stu’s on his way over now. He and I, Manuel and a few others, are going out to round up neighbors who live in lowlying areas. We’re bringing them back here and putting them up at Blanc-Bleu for the duration.”

  What?

  “We may even have to evacuate to the big house. This is a catastrophic storm with epic flooding potential. That house is the only thing on this island that’s survived the worst the Atlantic can throw at it for two-hundred-fifty-some years. It’s built fifteen feet above sea level. It isn’t going anywhere, and the water won’t come up past the main floor.”

  What?

  I try to imagine what this place will look like submerged, with only Blanc-Bleu standing, an island in the storm, but I can’t.

  “Jeb, it can’t be that bad.”

  “Oh, yes it can,” he says. “I can. It has been before, and it will be again. This is why we build our houses so high off the ground with heavy, flat roofs. It’s why we have boats instead of nice cars. I may be out in the middle of this thing tomorrow, plucking people off their roofs. We’ll see.”

  He kisses me again, squeezing my hand. “Take care of Emma and Mama. I’ll see you later on.”

  “Jeb?”

  “I’ve gotta go. You guys are fine here. I promise. I’ll be back.”

  And just like that, he’s gone.

  Chapter 24