by Nat Burns
“It’s Nancy,” Cathy said. “She wants me to come over and watch the kids while she takes Eddie to the doctor.”
I was alarmed. Eddie was the youngest of Cathy’s sister’s four children and had been sickly since birth. “What’s wrong with Eddie?”
Cathy held up a calming hand. “Just a well visit, Ange. Nothing to get worked up about. He’s actually been doing pretty good, gaining weight even.”
I sighed with relief. “Oh, I’m glad. So you’re going over there?”
“Yeah, wanna come help?”
I shook my head. “Gotta work at the center all afternoon.”
Cathy rose. “Well, let’s go shower. Good workout, huh?”
I hesitated. “Listen, you go ahead. I want to stretch out this calf.”
Cathy studied me. I knew she knew I still wasn’t comfortable being naked with her. A small glint of victory shone in her dark eyes, which angered me. I hated that she still thought she was irresistible to me. Cathy really believed it, and she also believed that, although it was certainly over between us, I’d be hard pressed not to take advantage if she offered. As if.
I leaned back and smiled at her, determined to knock her down a notch. “Besides, I just saw Steph go into the locker room. You better jump on that. You know she has the hots for you.”
Cathy swiveled her head toward the locker rooms. “How do you know that?” she asked eagerly.
“Trust me,” I intoned importantly. Actually, I was fishing, but beautiful Stephanie Rutherford had recently broken up with her longtime girlfriend, Molly. It wasn’t hard imagining Cathy and Steph hooking up.
Cathy glanced at me and frowned before she walked toward the locker rooms.
I wondered what she was thinking. Sometimes I wish my so-called gift worked across long distances.
Grey
The books were unpacked at last, surprising because I’d had to pause and deal with several business phone calls during the morning as well. All the books were not placed perfectly yet, but at least the packing crates were empty and stacked in a corner near the front door. The local branch of the trucking company I had used would pick them up the following day.
I rested my forearms on the long coffee counter in the back and studied the space. I was pleased. It was large and wide open, but I had made it cozier by trundling in and utilizing some of the antique wooden displays from the side storeroom. They provided interesting focal points down each side of the room as well. Some of the larger, educational books had found a nice perch there and their covers intrigued me.
I had shelved the books in the categories Mary had set for them and placed handwritten labels on each of the shelves. I would print more permanent ones on the computer before opening day. I grabbed my phone and made a note to pick up shelf placards on my next trip into Harlingen or Brownsville.
I also began counting. Altogether, I planned to set up six conversation areas in the main room and three in the storeroom. I studied the room, visualizing as I furiously typed into my phone. I would need about ten floor lamps and a half dozen table lamps. I mentally placed four sofas and a good dozen easy chairs, as well as coffee tables, end tables and accent tables. Plus the two counters flanking the back of the room would each have two Keurig coffeemakers with racks of K-cup possibilities.
I tapped my phone against my chin, still undecided about how the customers would pay for coffee or tea. I knew I had to hire an attendant, at least one, so I needed to pay his or her salary, plus the cost of the beverages and the expensive cups. I envisioned a chalkboard behind each counter, listing the usual costs plus daily specials. That would work. I added them to my list.
I agonized over whether to buy a fancy computerized cash register, but decided to table that issue for now and just keep physical books for a while to see how things went. I did not want to charge a reading fee, never would, because in honor of Mary I wanted to provide her books to everyone, no matter their ability to pay. I realized suddenly that I hadn’t thought of her all day. I’d been busy enough to set aside my grief. I sighed.
Checking my Facebook account, I saw that several friends had commented on the pictures I had uploaded earlier that day, some wondering how I’d managed to “shop” in such an effect. Frowning in puzzlement, I called up my mobile uploads and saw the photos.
Not seeing much beyond a shelf of books, I walked to the front of the store closer to the daylight brightening the front windows. I rotated my phone to make the photos larger and that was when I saw what they meant. If you looked at the photo just right, you could see a ghostly hand reaching out to touch the spines of the books. The effect was only in one of the photos, so certainly had to be an errant shaft of sunlight that looked hand-like.
I laughed at the illusion and typed in a joking response even as I stretched my shoulders and neck, deciding I’d had just about enough work for one day. I glanced toward the sky, through the front windows, and saw there was still a good bit of daylight left. With my back and legs cramped from lifting stacks of books, I quickly left the Bookmark and locked up, eager to walk off the stiffness and explore my new home.
The foot traffic in Lighthouse Square had lessened markedly as the day eased into afternoon. Though the parking slots in front of the lighthouse were all filled, I knew the passengers were likely settling in at the string of restaurants surrounding the area.
As it was getting late, I made a beeline for the crosswalk and crossed over the four lanes of highway. After walking two blocks, I came to the mesquite-shaded entrance of the Port Isabel Museum, a place I had read about in a brochure picked up at The Fat Mother.
I passed through a small gift shop and paid seven dollars to enter. As soon as I stepped into the museum proper, I was surrounded by shell artifacts from the 1500s. My interest was piqued as I’ve always been something of a history buff. I studied the conch shells the natives and early settlers used as hammers and the sharpened shells they used as scrapers and knives. The ingenuity of early man never failed to amaze me. I also saw a fossilized mammoth tooth as big around as my thigh. The thought of a creature that size was daunting.
Settling the lower Rio Grande Valley had been hit or miss for a good while, it seemed. The Spaniards had numerous deadly encounters with the natives. Not until the late 1600s was a successful colony set up near Port Isabel. The next case held photographic and artistic displays about the development of ranches and the establishment of the vaqueros or Mexican cowboys.
I was intrigued to see that most of the ranch land in the lower Rio Grande Valley had been granted by Spanish royalty to a select handful of families. These families set up huge cattle ranches throughout the area, including what would become Padre Island. I had no idea the island had been a cattle ranch for so long.
I learned that Texas and Mexico fought for independence from Spain using pirates and smugglers to get valley products to ports such as Corpus Christi and New Orleans. Land disputes led to the Mexican War of 1846 which set the Rio Grande River as the boundary dividing the two nations. I studied lists of soldiers’ names and imagined the young, eager faces falling under enemy fire.
I followed the serpentine layout of the museum and chased the history of Point Isabel which became Port Isabel in 1927. I learned about the steamboats on the Rio Grande, transporting cargo north and bringing back goods to the valley. The Civil War placed South Texas in a strategic tug of war that caused it to suffer a good bit of destruction. The 1870s brought the rise of railroad barons and the 1900s saw South Texas dealing with the Mexican Revolution, and later becoming a prime fishing and tourist destination. My head was spinning by the time I finished the last display and stepped out of the coolness, back to the steaming sidewalk of Port Isabel.
I made my way back across Highway 100 and entered the old light keeper’s cottage where the Port Isabel Chamber of Commerce had established a tourist bureau. I checked out a few brochures, picked up a detailed history and a phone book, walked across the lawn, mounted the ten or so steps, and walked into t
he dimness of the lighthouse. Black iron stairs spiraled into the air above me.
“Think I’ll make it?” I asked the young college student minding the table just inside the entry.
“I think so,” she said with a shrug. “You look pretty fit.”
I laughed at her. “Okay. Well, I’ll give it a try.”
“Just remember to hold onto the railings,” she cautioned.
I took one more glance at the cautionary placards, especially the fact that there were almost seventy steps to the top, and began the trek.
By the intermediate landing, I was breathing hard and feeling just a touch claustrophobic. I made it all the way to the supply room level, and up the ladder into the lantern room. From there, the view was breathtaking.
The Queen Isabella bridge stretched into the distance. South Padre Island, with its friendly fat hotel fingers reaching toward the sky, hovered on the horizon like a peaceful daydream. I noted the huge fishing pier that stretched into the bay and the stylized pirate ship moored at the end, and made a mental note to check it out on my next exploratory foray.
Over to my right, I saw a huge smiley face and realized it was a parasail following a speedboat, both small from my vantage point.
I moved to the other side of the lantern room. The town of Port Isabel sprawled before me in all its historic waterfront glory. I saw bristling, needle-masted shrimpers off in the distance, resting at dock in the many little inlets that made up the calm union of land and ocean. I stayed there enjoying the beauty and the movement below until I heard a young couple mounting the stairs beneath me. When they entered the lantern room, I greeted them and made my way carefully back down to terra firma.
I strode down the grassy knoll and let myself into the Bookmark, my mind whirling with the information I now knew about my new home. Port Isabel had a strange and wonderful history, and I was glad I’d chosen to live there.
I bolted the door behind me and reset the alarm. My footsteps echoed as I crossed the floor. I realized anew how glad I would be to fill the remaining floor space with furniture and warmth. As I started to go into the apartment, I paused at the door. Something was different.
I turned and studied the huge room, my heart tapping in my chest. I saw nothing unusual. I moved to open the storeroom door, thinking that I should check there when it hit me.
I whirled around and gasped. Every other bookshelf bore a neat stack of books. They weren’t side by side vertically, as I had left them, but stacked horizontally, one atop the other, on the front of the shelf, in front of the other books.
I took a moment to wonder about the oddity of it. Why had someone come in and stacked them on every other shelf? What could be the purpose? Why not each shelf?
I eased my cell phone from my pocket as I walked slowly, carefully, back toward the front door. How had someone bypassed my alarm system? I had even changed the code after moving in so no one, not even Maddy, had that information.
I glanced at the alarm panel, noting that the alarm appeared to be working correctly. I punched in my code and opened the door, glancing back one more time even as my fingers pressed the emergency call button on my phone.
Angie
It was just like Frankee to keep me waiting.
I stared grumpily at Amy, who’d been a secretary at the courthouse since we were in high school together. She felt my stare and glanced up apologetically.
“I’m sorry, Ange,” she whispered. “She can be such a bitch.”
“I know,” I mumbled, and sighed. “It’s just I’m supposed to be working this morning and instead, I’m here doing this crap.”
Amy nodded sympathetically just as the chime on her phone sounded. “Cool! You can go in now,” she told me perkily.
I bolted for the door before she had finished her comment. Frankee sat behind her overlarge wooden desk, peering at me from over the top of her small reading glasses.
“In a hurry, are we?” she said sarcastically, removing the glasses and setting them aside.
“Frankee, you have no right to keep me out there for almost a solid hour. I got stuff to do,” I fumed.
“I hope packing up is on your to-do list.”
My mouth dropped open. “Man, you are one heartless—”
“Now, Angie,” She indicated the chair in front of her desk. “I’m not unsympathetic to your plight. I kept you waiting because I was on the phone with several realty companies, trying to find you a new place. No luck yet.”
I sat down and leaned forward. “You know we can’t afford anyplace else. If not for Captain Petey, we wouldn’t have what we have now.”
“Don’t forget the kindness of the council. We’ve given your little home school a venue for a measly hundred a month for many years now. I think that’s pretty generous. But now we have to take that property back. We need it back.”
“But Frankee, why do we even need another marina? We’ve got Charlie’s place, the Sea Ranch, the Tarpon, a dozen others!”
Frankee frowned and rolled a pencil back and forth on her desk. “You know as well as I do, Angie, that the Fingers are going to waste. They could be generating all kinds of revenue.”
“Are we that poor that we have to dump a bunch of special needs kids out on the street?” I eyed her, willing her to get it.
“That’s not fair.”
“Neither is what you guys are doing!” I stood and paced across her beautiful red Oriental rug. “I don’t have enough to put down on a place and you know what rents run around here.” I paused and glared at her. “You are effectively closing my school.”
Frankee frowned. “Look, Angie, I may be new to this community, but I understand how close-knit everything is here. But maybe it’s time to let it go. You have, what? A master’s in education now? You could be a principal in a real school somewhere.”
I nodded angrily and dramatically. “True, but that’s not what I want. Mama needs me at the restaurant and these kids need me. They need their school.”
Frankee stood, dismissing me from her busy schedule. I suddenly realized the futility of our conversation.
“It was voted on, Angie. The building will go April first, after spring break. You have until then,” she said calmly. “We’ll help you in any way we can, but I’m afraid our decision is made.”
***
I couldn’t go into The Fat Mother right away so I sat outside in my Jeep. Keen disappointment rested in my stomach like I’d eaten a bag full of rocks. I wasn’t real clear on what I had expected from Frankee, maybe a heart, but I now realized how unrealistic any expectation had been.
My mind lit on possibilities like butterflies searching from flower to flower for nectar. My three-room cottage was way too small and not on any main routes. There was a hall that the Elks had used for a while, but it had huge plumbing and sewage problems. The rest of The Point was mostly made up of tourist businesses.
I let my mind roam further out. Los Fresnos had recently abandoned a youth center due to its age and built a brand-new one. It was an old community. Most of the buildings there had issues and were priced high regardless. Bayview had nothing suitable. Brownsville did, but they were way expensive and the kids would have to be transported pretty far. Ditto Harlingen. The island was way out of our reach financially and property was severely limited anyway.
I felt as though my head was going to explode. Even though I tried hard not to, I was getting a bit miffed with the universe. I’m one of those people who believe that all things happen for a reason, a reason generally made evident at some point. I was usually willing to wait. This, though, was ridiculous. What purpose could there be for closing the school? Yep, I was definitely getting attitude.
I looked up at the sky and made a face at whatever powers were up there. “Thanks!” I muttered. “Thanks a lot.”
I left the Jeep reluctantly, wondering how I would manage to smile and act like everything was okay. Pausing outside the battered wooden door at the back of the restaurant, I tried on a smile and clea
red my mind. The kids had to come first. I would focus on them and not what the future held. They deserved that.
I guess I wasn’t fooling Father Sephria that afternoon. He stayed for the entire spelling class, even taking over the signing for Emilio and Carter so I didn’t have to sign as I taught—a good thing as Sally was acting up and wouldn’t take her turn defining the words from Tuesday. I didn’t give her the usual time-out because I felt certain all of them were picking up on the tension filtering through all the teachers in the school. I set them on the task of reading over their next unit while Father Sephria and I retreated to the back of the room.
“So what did she say?” he asked in his heavily accented English. His deep brown eyes searched my face intently.
“Nothing changed,” I replied. “She said it was a done deal. We have till the first of April.”
“Dios mío,” he said, crossing himself. “What will we do?”
“Close the school. We have no choice.”
“There has to be a church that will allow us to use it,” he said with conviction.
“Every weekday? I don’t know about that. And what about access for the wheelchairs and Freddy’s hospital bed? You know how old the churches are around here.”
He shook a finger at me. “No bad allowed!” he scolded.
I had to smile at him. “You’re right, Padre, no pessimism allowed. Something good will happen.”
“Yes, I will pray. God will see us through.”
I glanced back at the class, at the kids with their heads bent over their textbooks. “We’ll all pray…while we pack.”
His disapproving tsk followed me when I returned to my students.
