The House on Fripp Island

by Rebecca Kauffman

  The rain was heavy and wild and warmish, slapping against the concrete like applause. It pounded against the canvas umbrellas that covered the patio. The sky continued to growl, and it flashed in vibrations with purple-white lightning. John could not deny himself the pleasure of imagining Scott out there in the storm. The rain had come much too quickly, and Scott was much too far from any sort of shelter to possibly have found refuge. He was probably out there waving his putter at the sky, begging to get scorched.

  Once the storm had passed, John waited until the clubhouse had cleared out a bit before approaching a staff member. This young lady paged a manager who paged a maintenance guy named Barry, who drove John out to the eleventh hole in an impressive four-wheel-drive cart with towing power. Their golf cart was just where John had left it, but Scott was nowhere in sight. John stared out over the fairway, and the grass was brilliantly green. The air was thinner now, clean and clear as glass. The clouds were dissolving, the temperature already rapidly increasing with the return of the sun.

  Barry spat out of the side of his mouth and said, “Where’d your partner make off to?”

  John said, “I don’t have a clue.” He looked in every direction, but no Scott. The golf clubs were there in the zippered bag, but when John peeked inside, he saw that Scott’s prized putter was not among them. Scott must have taken that with him, wherever he’d gone.

  Barry confirmed that the problem with their cart was the alternator and said he would tow it back in order to do the work in the shop rather than out on the course. John helped him attach the cart to the tow line.

  Barry said, “I’ll give you a lift back. We’ll get you a new one of these rented out for the rest of the week.”

  John gazed out over the course again. “I guess so,” he said. “Can’t imagine where he went . . .”

  “I’d say you’ve done your part,” Barry said. “The island’s only a few miles long. I’m sure he’ll find his way back just fine.”

  John was not sure about this at all. “I don’t know,” he said. “Guy doesn’t seem to have much in the way of street smarts, and he’s about as tough as the Pillsbury Doughboy.”

  Barry laughed hard at this, and John felt like he’d made a friend.

  John rode to the clubhouse with Barry, used the restroom there, and was provided a replacement golf cart. Barry wished him luck in finding Scott.

  John transferred Scott’s clubs to the replacement cart and decided to circle the perimeter of the course before returning to the house.

  He did this, and it ate up a good chunk of time, but there was no sign of Scott. Not far from the eleventh hole, he passed a young couple on bikes, both of them completely drenched; they too had probably gotten caught in the storm. John slowed the golf cart and said, “Y’all happen to see a guy, on the short side, ’bout five-five, hair’s mostly black with a white streak? Wanderin’ ’round here with a big old putter?”

  The couple looked at each other, then back at John.

  John said, “I just thought, he got caught in the rain too. Not too terribly far from here. Thought maybe you ended up the same place or somethin’.”

  The woman shook her head, her face blank.

  John said, “Alright now,” and the couple cycled away.

  He passed another woman on the footpath. She wore skin-tight blue spandex and a white visor and was pushing a freckled baby in a stroller that looked as complex as a rocket ship. Massive mesh extension on the sun visor. Five wheels, built for speed. The woman nervously steered the baby in a far angle when John approached, so he didn’t bother. Jesus Christ, the way these people looked at him, it was like there was a dead body strapped to the roof of the golf cart. Was it the thrift store polo? The sneakers? The haircut? Coming into this trip, John knew he would feel different from the moneyed vacationers here, but he hadn’t counted on them feeling so different toward him. He supposed he had expected that they might make some effort to let him think he was blending in. That they might at least have the courtesy to pretend.

  Eventually, John drove the cart back to the beach house, preparing to explain the situation to Lisa: why the two of them had become separated, and the territory he had already covered in attempting to locate Scott.

  5

  KEATS WAS AT HOME when the storm hit. His wife, Roxie, had taken the truck across the island to pick up coffee and paper towels. Keats felt bad that she was out when the weather struck its hardest, but he was relieved she had decided to drive to the Quik Mart instead of biking, as she often did.

  He stood at the window as water beat against the glass and thunder vibrated through the walls. Beachgoers fled for cover, books in armpits, flip-flops in hand. The white sand, dimpled with footprints, went brown and flat in the rain, then charcoal and even flatter, as though the world were sinking before his eyes.

  The dog was in the bathroom, the only windowless room in their tiny above-garage apartment. He whined and tittered pitifully, soft and high-pitched, tail thumping the linoleum.

  A gust of wind screamed, the windows rattled. Lightning broke the sky into pieces. Keats felt wild, almost scared, like a kid. Storms blew through practically every day at this time of year, but rarely came on so sudden and severe.

  Keats was startled by a noise at the door—he had expected Roxie would wait out the rain in the truck. As soon as the door opened, it was torn from Roxie’s grasp and knocked hard on its hinges against the exterior of the garage, carried by the force of the wind. Rain pelted the floor of the entrance, there was a howl of air, an invisible force that seemed intent on drawing the outside world in. It was like an angry and insane ghost had just entered the room.

  Roxie grabbed the doorknob, slammed the door shut behind her with great effort, and shuddered. Her pretty face was lively and expressive, eyes large. “Good God!” she exclaimed, squeezing a handful of water from her T-shirt. She was soaked.

  She kicked off her flip-flops and left them at the door, dropped the plastic grocery bag there as well. She moved to the kitchen, where she peeled off her clothing one item at a time until she was completely naked, then she dropped the bundle of sopping-wet clothing on the counter. Keats admired his wife. Roxie’s skin was deeply and evenly sun-bronzed, except for bikini triangles surrounding her nipples and pubic hair and across her bottom, where her skin seemed whiter than white.

  Roxie squeezed her long, wet hair into a rope and wrung it out over the kitchen sink.

  Keats grabbed a beach towel from the basket of fresh laundry next to the couch, went to her, and wrapped her in it, tight and tucked edges, a burrito. He hugged her, and her scalp smelled earthy and fresh, like a root that had just been pulled from the ground.

  He said, “You didn’t want to wait it out in the truck?”

  Roxie sniffed and a shiver vibrated through her. “I didn’t know how long it might last.”

  Keats smoothed wet hair back from her face. “You hungry for lunch? I can make something while you dry off.”

  “Maybe in a little,” Roxie said. “Let’s watch the storm together.”

  They returned to the window, where rain came in such great torrents and bursts that the glass seemed to ripple before them. Pieces of debris went skittering across the sand, some lifted and swirled in the strong wind.

  Without turning to face Keats, Roxie said, “It happened again, didn’t it?”

  Keats nodded. “No big deal.”

  Roxie reached an arm out from under her towel to take her husband’s hand. “How bad?”

  “Not bad,” Keats said. “Just one lady, she took one look at my name on the clipboard, said their fridge was fine after all.” He raised one shoulder.

  Thunder rumbled low. Their heads moved in tandem to follow a blue canvas beach chair that bounced and cartwheeled across the sand, down near the water.

  Roxie said, “Five more months is all.”

  On the beach, a man was sprinting along the tide line, palming a bucket hat to his head. Going after that blue canvas chair, most likely.


  Roxie said, “He’s never going to catch up to it.”

  Keats said, “You don’t think so? I bet the storm peters out before he does.”

  Thunder cracked like a cannon and they both jumped. From the bathroom their dog emitted a deranged sound.

  “Poor Leo,” Roxie said over her shoulder. “Do you think he thinks the world is ending?”

  Keats laughed. “Maybe he knows something we don’t.”

  “Maybe,” Roxie said. She took his fingers and tugged them playfully. “Come on, let’s go listen to the world end from bed.”

  Keats followed her to the bedroom, where she dropped the towel from her shoulders and started to unbutton his shirt. He glanced out over her head just as radiant white lightning illuminated the gray ocean, and the world did not end, but for an instant it looked like it had been turned entirely inside out.

  6

  JOHN PARKED THE golf cart and was surprised to find the front door of the house locked, so he went around the back, where Scott was sitting on the deck in a fresh and dry white linen shirt and khaki shorts, sipping a glass of white wine. Lisa and Poppy and the kids were there too, eating cheese and crackers, all seven of them looking freshly showered and relaxed.

  Poppy caught sight of John first, and she called out, “Look what the cat dragged in!”

  Kimmy sang the tune from a Meow Mix commercial.

  John made his way up the wooden stairs, unspeakably weary. His clothing was stiff and damp, having at one point been soaked with sweat, then with rainwater, now partially sun-dried, with some fresh sweat added to the mix. His hair was matted and his sneakers were soaked. He wheezed with every step.

  Lisa said, “You poor thing!”

  Kimmy said, “Daddy was telling us how the cart broke down.”

  Scott nodded animatedly, evidently both revived and restored to good spirits by however he had spent the past two hours. He said, “I was just telling them we figured it was either the battery or the alternator.”

  John blinked.

  Scott said, “So? Which was it?”

  “Alternator,” John said dully.

  “I had a feeling,” Scott said. “Anyway, after you headed off to the clubhouse, a couple guys came by in their cart, saw me stranded out there. They’d seen the forecast and offered to take me back to their condo for cover, by the north end of the course. I had a cocktail at their place. Missed that storm by the skin of our teeth; rain started up the second we got to the condo. Anyway, we hung out for a while, then they ran me over here.”

  “I see,” John said.

  Alex said, “Daddy, did you get caught in the storm?” She was wearing a backwards baseball cap and stacking cheese cubes on a toothpick.

  John said, “No, I made it to the clubhouse.”

  “Good,” Scott said. “I’m relieved to hear it. Once those guys came for me, I thought about having them come for you too, in case you hadn’t made it back, but figured you had to be close, you’d been gone so long, and I figured you were gonna wait out the storm in the clubhouse. I just hoped that you weren’t worrying about me.”

  John said, “Not really.”

  Alex said, “We didn’t get caught in the storm down at the beach, but it was close. We saw it coming and brought everything in like a split second before it started to lightning.” She gripped a cheese cube with her lips.

  John said, “Reckon I could use a shower,” and he went in the direction of the door. He passed the grill, where many pieces of raw chicken coated with an orange dry rub were laid out in neat rows.

  From his seat, Scott said, “We’ve got dinner under control, don’t worry about a thing. I just put the chicken on. It’ll be ready”—he paused and turned to Lisa—“whaddaya think, hon? ’Bout ten minutes?”

  Lisa was replenishing the cheese plate for the children. Her eyes darted to Scott with a look of annoyance. “The coals are barely even warm yet. I don’t know why you wanted to put it on already. It’s gonna be at least an hour.”

  “Alrighty, then.” Scott shrugged helplessly.

  Kimmy said, “Daddy, you’re stupid!”

  This made Rae laugh, and Kimmy was so pleased by this slight affirmation from her older sister that she said it again: “Daddy, you are stupid!”

  Ryan and Alex shared a nervous glance, unfamiliar with the Daly family dynamic and what sort of consequences might result from Kimmy’s teasing. But Scott appeared to be completely accustomed to this sort. He turned to John and said, “What did I tell you?,” as though they had spent all afternoon commiserating about the abuses of their children.

  Kimmy looked like she desperately wanted to say it a third time, but she managed to restrain herself.

  They lit citronella candles when the bugs came out, set up a boom box on the deck, and listened to Steely Dan as they ate.

  Midway through the meal, Scott tipped his chin in Ryan’s direction and said, “Alright, kid, so what’s this I hear about a fake moon?”

  “What about it?”

  Scott buttered his bread slowly, perfect as a painter, catching every corner. “Your mom was saying you’re big into conspiracies and junk.” He took a bite of his bread, washed it down with yet another generous swallow of whiskey. He now had an empty wine glass, empty beer bottle, and half-empty tumbler of whiskey sitting on the table before him.

  “Not junk,” Lisa interjected. “Personally I find it fascinating.” She smiled broadly at Ryan.

  Scott snorted. “Fake moon, schmake schmoon.”

  Ryan was unaffected. “I like reading about that stuff,” he said pleasantly.

  Kimmy piped up, “Fake moon?”

  Scott gestured toward Ryan with his thumb and spoke with a full mouth. “Einstein here”—he coughed into his fist—“thinks the moon is a hologram.” A large bread crumb had attached itself to his goatee.

  “I think it’s possible,” Ryan said. “True or not, I like thinking about possibilities.”

  Lisa said, “I do too.”

  “Well, isn’t that nice,” Scott said. The crumb was still in the goatee. It trembled when he spoke but did not fall.

  Poppy regretted that she’d brought up Ryan’s conspiracy theories earlier—she certainly hadn’t anticipated that Scott would use this as a source of mockery. It didn’t help that Lisa was falling all over herself with interest. Poppy suspected Lisa was just playing this up to maximize Scott’s irritation, but who knew?

  “Kids and conspiracies, man,” Scott said. “I imagine you’re a fan of that freaky Manson guy too.”

  Ryan said, “Huh?”

  “That singer,” Scott said, “who all the kids are into. The one with the white eyeball who takes his wiener out onstage.”

  Kimmy said, “Gah-ross.” She stuffed her index fingers into her ears.

  The sound of Kimmy’s voice seemed to have an immediate softening effect on Scott, even in his drunken agitation. He reached across the table to rumple her hair fondly. “You’re right,” he said. “Gah-ross.”

  “Oh.” Ryan laughed. “Marilyn Manson. I don’t care for his music. Guy’s got some interesting politics, though.”

  “Figures.”

  Kimmy said, “Who would’ve made the moon, if it’s fake? Why?”

  Poppy tried to save Ryan. “We don’t have to go down this path,” she said, sending around the large bowl of sliced watermelon for the third time. “Let’s talk about the weather instead.”

  But Alex was ready to jump in, having heard her brother’s spiel at home before. “The government,” she explained to Kimmy.

  “The government! How come?”

  Scott leered toward Ryan. “Yeah. How come?”

  Ryan accepted a slice of watermelon. “Some people think that the moon has been eroded in some way, or inhabited, or severely altered in appearance by extraterrestrials, and the government put a hologram in place to avoid mass panic on earth.”

  Kimmy said, “So there are aliens and the government knows, but they don’t want us to know.”
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br />   Ryan said, “It’s just somebody’s idea.” He spat a watermelon seed onto his plate.

  “It’s a bunch of bull is what it is,” Scott said, leaning back in his chair, gripping the tumbler with both hands as though using it to warm himself. “Kimmers, you keep listening to what they teach you in your classes at school. You can leave all the crazy ideas to all the crazy people.”

  John had been watching all of this quietly, and he exchanged a look with Poppy indicating that it would be best if someone else shut Scott up before he had to.

  Poppy got the gist, but Lisa beat her to it. Lisa rose from her chair, went to Scott’s, dug her thumbs into his shoulders, and said, “Let’s go dish up ice cream.”

  He leaned forward. “Ow,” he said. “That’s no massage.”

  Lisa leaned in to pluck the crumb from his goatee, and Scott looked deeply offended, as though he’d put it there deliberately and she’d messed up the plan.

  “Scott . . . now,” Lisa said.

  He followed when she gave him a severe look.

  Lisa pulled the glass door shut behind them, but Poppy could still hear the crescendo of a fight in the kitchen.

  Rae rolled her eyes like this was nothing new.

  Kimmy turned back to Ryan. “Do you think the government is brainwashing us?”

  Ryan cleaned the remaining melon from the rind, all the way down to white. “Could be,” he said. He swatted a mosquito on his knee.

  Kimmy said, “Like they’re sending messages into our brains right now, like, beep-boop-beep, and we don’t even know it? Like . . .” Kimmy’s face radiated with possibility. “The government just made me say that, and they’re making me say this . . . and this . . . and this . . .”

  Alex said, “And they’re making me say . . . this.”

  Kimmy was enthralled. “And me, say this!”

  Poppy was relieved that this topic had already trumped any potential interest in the conflict indoors.