A girl’s voice.
I pulled on a shirt, climbed down, crossed the yard in the rain, and crept barefooted through the darkness, staring at her back. Even from behind, she was beautiful.
“Hello,” I said.
She jumped a foot in the air, fell into a squatting position, and screamed. Following that with relieved yet uncertain laughter as I stepped around her and into the light.
She stood and pointed at me, but her aim was slightly off and most of her words ran together. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people. Now I really have to pee. You open?”
I unlocked the latch and swung open the massive oaken doors. Our movement turned on the motion lights, which gave me a better look at her. She was a beautiful young woman. Fashion magazine face. Runway legs. Pilates figure. Bare feet, muddy at the edges. She was holding a rain jacket above her head to ward off the drizzle. She laughed uncomfortably. “You scared the sh—” Suddenly aware of her surroundings, she covered her mouth and said, “I mean . . . I wasn’t expecting you. That’s all. Sorry.”
I recognized her from the sandbar.
Chapter 2
She shook off the rain, tracking mud. She was dressed provocatively. Daisy Dukes. Bikini top. Several piercings—nose, ears, and belly button. Black eyeliner. Maybe the eyelashes were not hers. She smelled of smoke but not cigarettes. Possibly a cigar but I doubted it. Her fingers nervously turned the bikini strap behind her neck. She stepped inside and twirled like a dancer. Something she did both to take in her surroundings and because it was natural. Like she’d danced as a child. Her jet-black hair was not her real color. A recent change. As was the tattoo at the small of her back. The red edges looked slightly irritated.
Her rain jacket belonged to a man and was several sizes too large. I pointed. “May I?”
She folded it over her arms. “I’m good.” I wondered if her present distrust of me was fueled by whoever gave her that rain jacket.
She was fifteen. Maybe sixteen, but I doubted it. The world before her. Something ugly behind her. Her glassy eyes betrayed a stormy and medicated mixture of excitement and fear. Going up or coming down, there was more in her blood than just blood.
Silence followed. I folded my hands behind my back. “Can I help you?”
Her words grew more slurred. “You have a baaaa-throom?”
I pointed at the door, and she went in. Walking provocatively. After a few minutes, her phone rang and I could hear her in there talking more to someone than with. Her raised voice suggested the conversation did not go well. When she returned, she’d settled the jacket loosely around her shoulders.
“Thaaaank you.”
Curious, she studied the small chapel. My voice broke the silence. “How old are you?”
She laughed but wouldn’t look at me. “Twenty-one.”
I paused long enough to force her to look at me. “Are you okay?”
More discomfort. Less eye contact. “Why do you ask?”
I waved my hand across the water where she’d spent the afternoon. “Sometimes getting off a boat can be more difficult than getting on.”
“You know about boats?”
“Some.”
She studied the intricate woodwork. Hand carved. The tops of the pews had been darkened over the years by hand oil and sweat. Her eyes landed on the ornate altar and steps. “It’s beautiful.”
“Slaves built it. About two hundred years ago.”
The moon filtered through the glass and cast her shadow on the worn stones below her. She ran her hands along a pew. Letting her fingertips read the stories it told.
She glanced out the window, which did little to mute the sound of the Atlantic crashing on the beach some several hundred yards distant. “It’s amazing the hurricanes haven’t erased it.”
“They’ve tried a couple times. We pieced her back together.”
She continued, “Slaves, huh?”
I pointed at the wall. At all the names carved into the stone by hand. “Each one a mom . . . a dad . . . a child.”
She walked to the wall and ran her fingers through the grooves of the names, then the grooves of the dates. Some deeper than others. A wrinkle formed between her eyebrows. She asked, “Slaves?”
“Free slaves.”
Hundreds of names had been etched into the stone wall. She tiptoed to the right. A half smile spread across her face. She craned. Quizzical.
I continued, “Most date prior to the Civil War, when this place was one of many stops on the Underground Railroad.”
She studied them and asked, “But some of these dates are from the last decade? Last year?”
Another nod.
“But slavery’s over.”
I shrugged. “People still own people.”
She read the names. “All these people found freedom here?”
“I wouldn’t say they found it here as much as they stopped by on their way to it.”
Her fingertips read the wall again. Her voice was loud and didn’t match the quiet of our conversation. “A record of freedom.”
“Something like that.”
“Why do these just have one date?”
“Once free, always free.”
She walked to the wall, coming to another list. “Why do these have two dates?”
“They died before they tasted it.”
Outside, a foghorn sounded. One long blast followed by a shorter second and third. It pulled her eyes off the wall. She walked to the door only to turn and stare at the wall of names. She turned to me. “Am I the only one here?”
“Just us.”
“You mean you-and-me us, or . . .” She shot a glance upward. “You-me-and-Him us?”
“Just us.”
She considered this and smiled, twirling again. More dancing, but her partner was only visible to her. “I like you, Father.” She pointed at the ground beneath her. “You live on this island?”
“I’m not the priest. And yes, I live here.”
“What do you do?”
“Groundskeeper. Make sure people who sneak up at night aren’t here to spray-paint graffiti.”
She grabbed my right hand and turned it over. Running her fingertips along the calluses and the dirt in the cracks. She smiled. “Where’s the priest?”
Short question, long answer. And I wondered if this was the real reason she’d come to my door. “We’re in between priests at the moment.”
She looked bothered by this. “What kind of da— I mean . . . What kind of church is this?”
“The inactive kind.”
She shook her head. “That’s silly. Whoever heard of a church being inactive? I mean, doesn’t that sorta go against the whole reason for a church?”
“I just work here.”
“Alone?”
I nodded again.
“Don’t you get lonely?”
“Not really.”
She shook her head. “I’d lose my ever-loving mind. Go bat-shi—” She covered her mouth again with her hand. “Sorry . . . I mean, I’d go crazy.”
I chuckled. “You’re assuming I’m not.”
She stepped closer, her face inches from mine. Her eyelids were heavy. Her breath reeked of alcohol. “I’ve seen crazy and you don’t look the part.” Her eyes walked up and down me. “I don’t know. You loooook pretty goooood to me.” She reached out with her finger and touched the scar above my eye. “That hurt?”