“Something.”
She twirled her finger through the strap of her bikini. “Should’ve taken it a few minutes ago. More fun to look at.”
“I got what I needed.”
“Needed or wanted?”
This girl was smart. “I’ll bet somebody’s looking for you right now.”
Something rested on her tongue but she smiled and swallowed it. “You ever write letters, Padre?”
“I write some.”
Her eyes wandered across the pews and everything about her darkened. Even the playfulness of her voice. “I wrote a letter.”
“Can I read it?”
She looked directly at me. “It’s not addressed to you.” She swallowed again. “I wrote it to my mom, but I’m pretty sure she didn’t like it.”
“Why?”
She didn’t answer.
The foghorn sounded again. Last time she heard it; this time she considered it. Having done so, she turned and studied me as if she were taking a picture of her own. Then she glanced up at the confessional, took another, and hesitated. Finally, she spoke without looking at me. “You think God gives us credit for showing up even when the priest didn’t?”
For the first time, I spoke through the cloud, directly to her. “If this life is based on credits and debits—” I shook my head. “Then we’re all gone anyway.”
In a rare moment of lucidity, she turned to me. “What do you think it’s based on?”
The wall of names painted the backdrop behind me. “The walk . . . from broken to not.”
She nodded, wrapped herself in the rain jacket, and silently stumbled out into the rain.
I stood at the water’s edge, my face shrouded in shadow, and watched her walk out my dock and step aboard the waiting vessel. A yacht. Eighty feet or better. The muscled captain tipped his hat to me, cranked the engines, and used his thrusters to move ninety degrees away from the dock. He did so against the current and a contrary wind—again suggesting experience. Moving fore to aft, the girl swayed, bouncing between railing and cabin wall as she walked toward the rear deck and the other partygoers. Blue lights lit the aft deck, revealing a Jacuzzi. A bartender. DJ. No expense spared.
The girl was met by a man, older than her. Even in the darkness, his eyes were dark. He was fit. Muscled. Tight shirt. Veins in his neck. Gold hanging from it. She handed him the rain jacket, and he wrapped an arm around her waist. He handed her a shot glass of something, which she turned up and downed, and then he held something glowing to her lips. She inhaled, causing the tip to flare. Having rallied, she fell out of her clothes and into the hot water along with what I could only guess were a dozen or more equally plastered people. Then the lights of the yacht faded south down the Intracoastal. Another promised party on the sunrise.
Yachts that size were a statement. In my experience, the wealthy invested in homes, but they bought yachts to draw attention. To showcase their power. Something akin to artwork hung on the water. And whereas most boat owners wanted everyone to know who they were and how cunningly they’d imagined the name of their vessel, the name of this boat was covered, shrouded in darkness.
That meant people got on, but not everyone got off.
And that was bad.
Chapter 3
The slaves who once inhabited this island worked just across the river from the plantation that encompassed Fort George. At low tide, the slaves could walk from home to field without getting more than knee-deep; most of that walk was on a dry sandbar. For community, and possibly protection, the slaves arrayed their tabby homes in a circle, at the center of which sat the chapel.
The walls of the chapel were made from cobblestone ballast rescued from English trade ships. The ships would navigate the Atlantic, arriving in one of several nearby ports, and dump their ballast of cobblestones to make room for cargo. Over the decades of trade, islands of stone rose up from the sea floor. The slaves gathered the cut stones and built the chapel, which looked like something straight off the streets of London. Given that the walls were four stones thick, almost two feet, it was cool inside during the summer and, come September, a strong shelter against the Atlantic storms. On the other hand, the slaves’ homes were made from tabby—a form of durable, pourable concrete made from available elements, including small shells.
I lay in bed listening to the rain on the tin roof above me. Soft at first. Then a downpour.
The dream is always the same, and unlike most dreams, I know I’m dreaming this one. I just can’t wake up. Or maybe I don’t want to. It’s my wedding day. Sunshine. Breeze. She is resplendent. Glowing. She walks the aisle. Takes my hand. “I will.” “I do.” I lean in and try to kiss her. Millimeters from her touch, I can feel her breath on my face. But it’s a dream where one millimeter equals a million miles. No kiss.
We are whisked to the limo where my best man dons a “James” hat and cracks jokes. “Yes’m, Miss Daisy.” She and I sit in the back seat. Giddy. Over the moon. It’s a dream, so I can say things like that. She looks with longing out the window, places a hand on my thigh. “Can’t we just skip the reception? I don’t want to wait.”
We arrive at the reception. There is champagne. She pulls me aside, her bottom lip trembling. A tear in the corner of her eye. “You sure you want me?”
I lean in, try to kiss her. A millimeter stands in the way.
We process in. Or parade as the case may be. First the wedding party. Then us. Applause. Shouts. Whistles. A band plays. Lights flash. A disco ball spins. We wind our way around to the head table amid well wishes and handshakes and hugs. The room is a sea of flowers and tuxedos and diamonds and high heels and laughter. Another toast, another attempted kiss, but the distance is now two million miles. We stand, and she takes my hand to lead me to the dance floor. Our first dance. Mr. and Mrs.
All the world is right.
My best man stands. Wobbles. He’d started early. He toasts us. Just so happy for you. He has a gift. From him to us. He’d worked hard on it and wanted to wait until now to give it to us.
The room is silent as I open it. She watches. She has slid her hand inside my arm.
Even in my dream I know I’m about to wake up. I try to stop. To stay sleeping. But it’s no good. I never make the dance. Not in the dream. Not in real life. Not once.
I wake sweating. Heart racing. Unable to catch my breath. It’s always the same. I hate that dream.
On that morning, I splashed my face and was in the process of boiling water for my Chemex when the phone rang. I didn’t need to look at caller ID. Obviously, she’d read my email. She was crying when I answered. She collected herself enough to say, “Hey . . . You okay?”
“I’m staring at the green side of the grass.” She laughed, a release of emotion. I continued, “How are you making it? How’s New York?”
Another sniffle. I heard paper shuffling. “Didn’t know I could hurt like this. Even for someone as jaded as me.” She blew her nose. “You really doing it?”
“Told him I would.”
“And Marie?”
I leaned against the wall and my eye fell on the purple urn. Resting on the kitchen table. “Not yet. One at a time.”
“Want some company? I’ll fly down. Whatever you need, you know that.”