Brine (8 page)

“Just because Allen and I—that’s no reason to hide stuff from your only daughter! It’s absurd! Pisses me off. It was so selfish of him.” Ishmael huffed. “So why didn’t
you
say anything? You obviously knew my dad took off. You didn’t think maybe it was up to you to explain all this to me?”

Maggie shook her head and exhaled. “Sweetheart, I never met you because Richard lost contact with me once your mother was gone. After all, I’m not the easiest person to get in touch with— no phone and all—but he always knew how to reach me—he just didn’t. I sent a few letters to him. Never got a response.”

“But you said he sent you letters?”

“I said he sent me
one
newspaper clipping. Mind you, the clipping was the only thing in the envelope and there was no return address. He only did it that one time.”

Ishmael looked puzzled. “Why would he do that?”

“Clearly, he was proud of you. But I think he didn’t want to complicate things. And also, I think Richard was taking your mother’s side. I had to respect his decision. It proved to me how much he still loved your mother.”

“My mother’s side?”

“I told you that your mother and I were . . . not close,” Maggie said, standing and walking across the porch to rest her glass on the screen ledge.

Ishmael started to settle down as she detected the genuine anguish in her grandmother’s voice.

“What could possibly have driven you and my mother so far apart?”

Maggie sighed, lifting her glass and taking a sip. “We disagreed.”

“About what?”

“Everything.” Maggie gave her a sad smile. “It was just a million little things. They add up, you know?” Maggie looked back at the unsettled look on Ishmael’s face.

“I know it’s a vague answer to such an important question. Let’s just say that I’ve put the past behind me. I’m too old to bicker over things that now seem trivial at my age. I’ve forgiven Anna. I’m just not so sure she’s forgiven me.” Her eyes grew distant for a bit as she looked off. “Goodness, that’s more than enough for now. I’d like to give you some time to process. We’ll pick up later where we left off.”

“What? No. When? This is my life we’re talking about here. My future. I came
across the country
. I’ve been—”

“I know. And you deserve all the answers I can give you.”

Maggie downed the last sip of champagne, pausing in the doorway. “Feel free to make yourself at home. Finish the champagne, if you like.”

Ishmael felt the heat rising in her body, a headache coming on. She sighed.

“Dinner will be in about an hour,” Maggie added. “Shower. Check out the garden. We’ve even got a nice coop around back with some happy hens that would probably love to meet you. Especially if you grab a handful of ripe figs off the tree by their pen.” She smiled politely. “Help yourself to anything and everything. I’m just delighted to have you here.”

Ishmael was left on the porch alone. She leaned forward and rubbed her temples. A hand holding a glass of fizzing liquid appeared in her face. Suddenly the air smelled of Diane’s freshly showered skin.

“Here. Drink this, sugar. Makes it all better.”

Ishmael looked up. “What is it?”

“An old witch’s brew I keep around for times like this.” Diane surveyed Ishmael’s face. “I’m only kidding, sugar-pie. It’s this stuff Captain Harry swears by. He gets it from an Asian market. It’ll cure that headache of yours in a snap. Relax your brain. Make you feel like life is easy for a bit.”

Ishmael took the glass. She drank the contents in one swig and exhaled. She was left with a bitter taste on her tongue, like she’d just licked the rind of a lemon. She rested her head back on a pillow.

Diane swooped in to retrieve the slender champagne glass off the table.

“Don’t mind if I do,” she said, pulling the dripping bottle from the ice and refilling the glass. “That Maggie is just the sweetest, prettiest grandmother I have
ever seen
. You’re so lucky.”

Diane walked over to the screens, setting her glass down and pulling lotion from her pocket.

“Totally. Lucky is the first word that comes to mind,” Ishmael said.

“I’m going to ignore that bad attitude and just say that this place is straight out of a movie,” Diane said, rubbing her hands together.

Ishmael could smell the lotion. Rose-scented. It smelled nice. Really nice. Maybe that bitter stuff was working. Her headache was diminishing. She watched as Diane sipped her glass like a politician’s wife at a lavish party.

“Hey, Ish!” A shout from the dock.

“Damnation. And I know who I’m giving the role of leading male to,” Diane said, peering toward the dock.

Hector was waving up to the women on the porch. Diane waved back.

“Diane, do you actually think he can see you batting your eyes from that far away?”

“I’ll show you what I’m going to bat if you don’t get off this porch! I’m about to call my husband and talk dirty over the phone. I could use some privacy.”

Just before Ishmael walked out the screen door, she reached over and took the champagne glass from Diane’s hand. She guzzled a hefty swig and was going in for another, but Diane snatched the glass.

Ishmael laughed at Diane’s expression. Her laughter was bubblier. Was it the champagne? Or that potion Diane had given her? She was, after all, in her grandmother’s house. And the news of her mother . . . Surely that was why she was giddy.

“Ish! Come join me down here!”

She looked toward the dock. Hector was calling her name— her nickname.

“Now, go on. Get!” Diane yelled. “Get off this porch and go talk to that luscious man.”

Ishmael pushed the screen door open. “Here goes nothing.”

“Nothing, my ripe little ass.” Diane grabbed hold of Ishmael’s arm and spun her around. “Darling, you have an alternate life as a topless chick with a tail.” She hiccupped. “My goodness,” she said, looking at her empty glass. “This is good stuff. Wonder where they got this?” She patted her chest with a flutter. “Anywho, sugar, keep your chin up. Being a mermaid has to count for
something
.”

HECTOR WAS SMILING AS SHE APPROACHED. He took a sip of his beer.

“You don’t recognize me, do you?”

“Ah . . .” She looked at him. She did, but she didn’t. “Should I?”

“My mom’s Maria.” He looked for recognition in her face. “We grew up in the trailer park together? I lived three doors down. My name was Jesus back then.”

“Wait—Jesus?
Jesus Cruz
?” That’s why he’d seemed so familiar to her. “Holy shit.”

“So you remember me now?” He grinned.

How could she have forgotten? Jesus Cruz was the best-looking kid that had ever set foot in a trailer park. She probably still had a painting of him somewhere in her trailer—one of the first portraits she ever did.

She flushed.

“Yeah—wow. Great to see you.”

He reached in for a hug. It was awkward. She stepped back and stuffed her hands in her pockets.

“So what’s with the new name?”

“Changed my name when we moved to the Bible Belt. Try wearing
Jesus
stitched across a uniform around here.” He offered a quick smile. “Hector’s my middle name.”

“I can’t believe you live here,” she said. “That’s so crazy. I mean, you were—” She took a deep breath. “You were a few years ahead of me, weren’t you?”

She’d told Allen that he was her first real crush. And that wasn’t totally a lie, was it? She’d fallen for Jesus when she was only twelve. Did that even count?

“Yeah, four years ahead. That’s why we never went to the same school. I was in middle school when you were still at Clyde-Elijo Elementary. And then when you went to middle school I was already at Costa Crest High.”

“Go Tritons,” she said.

“Go Mighty Seahorses. Remember the mascot from middle school?”

He bent down and turned on a green garden hose that hooked up to a makeshift sink. Water trickled out of the faucet, draining into the creek.

“You want to rinse your hand?” He nodded with his chin. “Other one. You leaned against some seagull crap on the railing.”

She ran her hand under the water and he offered an edge of his T-shirt for her to dry her hands on. She could smell him: laundry detergent mixed with the sweet but spicy pungency of basil leaves.

“It’s good luck,” he said.

She looked at him for a moment, puzzled.

“Oh—you mean the bird crap,” she said. “Yeah, I think that’s only when they’re flying over and you get hit.”

“Yeah, you might be right.”

He sipped his beer. The pause extended into a moment of silence. Hector seemed comfortable in the quiet. A pelican dove in a splash off in the distance, then folded its wings, tucked its bill, and floated on the surface.

“Heard you’re a pretty big artist these days,” he said.

“I make a living off my paintings, if that counts.”

“Counts for me,” he said.

She looked around. The main dock connected to the dock house was faded to a dull gray from the sun and salt. A wooden gateway led down a ramp to a narrower floating dock where a trawler was cleated with heavy ropes: a sweeping cast net hung like a massive spider web from the rafters. Faded orange and once-white buoys dangled like oversized Christmas lights from frayed ropes tied to pilings.

“Dried up fish scales.” He smiled at her, answering her question, the beer can poised at his lips. “That pile under the filet table. It’s fish scales.”

It looked like clipped fingernails.

“Stick around and I’ll teach you the fastest way to clean a fish.”

“It’s so strange that you live here,” she said, attempting to be subtle about her curiosity. “What a—coincidence.”

She smiled. Hector grinned. She could tell that he liked her inquisitiveness, enjoyed stringing her along.

“So how’s your mom?” she asked, as he pulled a knife from a holster on the side of the fish-cleaning table and examined it. “Your mom took me shopping for my first bra.”

Hector smiled, but he didn’t look up from his examination of the knife blade.

“She saved me,” she added in his silence. “Otherwise my dad would have walked me through puberty. Which would have been a disaster.”

Hector reached for a sharpening block on the table and started to work on the knife.

“Your dad would’ve done alright.”

“Sure. Who wants to talk tampons with Richard Morgan?”

He looked up from the slick scratching of the metal blade sliding across the sharpening stone. A half-grin appeared on his face as he picked up his beer again.

“Ea-see,” he said.

The beer was wedged confidently in his fist. She liked his hands. They looked capable, hard-working. She wondered what they felt like.

“Where is your mom now?” she asked.

He set the beer down and went back to sharpening the knife.

“She lives in Charleston with a fluffy dog. Pretty much moved on and went the complete opposite direction of our life in Cali.” He looked over at her and smiled. “It’s cool. She was married to my asshole dad for close to twenty years. That’s enough to make any woman change course.”

Memories suddenly flooded Ishmael. Memories she had long since tucked away. She thought of the times as a kid when she had seen Maria with bruised eyes.

“So that’s why you and your mom left the trailer park, isn’t it? Because of your dad. I remember that night he got so drunk.”

Hector set the sharpening block down and gingerly moved his thumb across the blade, surveying the sharpness. Satisfied, he put the knife back in the holster, then looked up at Ishmael and forced a smile. “Old Joe was drunk pretty much every night.” His smile quickly faded to a more serious gaze. “But the night you’re talking about, my mom went to the hospital. She was there for a week.” Hector looked away. He sipped his beer pensively and paused before adding, “Your dad took charge. Like he always did. Made arrangements for me to stay with a friend in Escondido until Mom got better. I never went back to the trailer park after that night.”

“Richard—my dad—took charge? Are you sure we’re talking about the same person here?” Her smile vanished when she saw Hector’s serious expression.

“Richard locked Ole Joe in a shed until he settled down and sobered up. My dad was a big guy. No one but Richard could have handled him when he was that drunk. Joe’s a gorilla.”

A memory washed into Ishmael’s mind. She remembered how when she was little she had a nickname for Joe. Big Monkey. Joe never could seem to get a coherent sentence out: all he did was grunt.

“But my dad never told me about any of this,” she said. For a moment, Ishmael stood in admiration of her dad. He’d stood up to Big Monkey? It seemed impossible.

“You were young. You didn’t need to hear about some drunk guy beating up his wife.”

Ishmael suddenly realized she was staring. Hector’s eyes were . . . she looked away, trying to regain her composure.

“Hey, you want to give me a hand with this motor?” he asked. “Probably not top on your list, but it would sure help to have someone hand me the right tools. You do know what a wrench is, right?”

“I do,” she said with a casual clap of her hands, happy to have a task.

They walked down to the lower floating dock. In the afternoon sun, she could see the silhouette of a wind-milling kayak paddle far off down the creek.

Hector reached for a wagon full of tools and pulled it closer. “Lena’s gardening cart,” he said, explaining all the hand-painted flowers along the side.

“I’m sure she loves it when you wheel it all the way down to the dock and fill it with greasy tools.”

He grinned and crouched down beside the motor.

“Allen seems to be enjoying his adventure up the creek,” he said. “That’s Allen?” She held a hand to her forehead and squinted off into the distance. “I thought he was taking a nap.”

“He was. Can you hand me a Phillips head?” he asked, opening his hand.

She placed the screwdriver in his hand, and he went to work.

“He woke up and didn’t want to bother you and Maggie.” He handed the little screws that he was removing to Ishmael. “I rigged him up in the kayak.”

Hector pulled his eyes from the motor and grabbed a nearby bucket that he flipped over.

“Have a seat,” he said, patting the bucket.

He took a few specific tools from the wagon and put them in Ishmael’s lap. As Hector reached for a new screwdriver, his hand grazed her thigh. His forearm muscles glistened in the afternoon heat as he cranked the tool.

“So what ever happened to your dad?” she asked.

“All I know is that he went on a rampage after we skipped town. Nearly beat up your dad trying to get information out of him, about where we’d disappeared to. Richard made us lose contact with him after that.”

“I do remember that. You and your mom were there one day, gone the next.” She looked out over the water. “Of course, my dad gave me no explanation.”

Hector reached over and started taking the small screws from her palm to replace the cover on the motor.

“I don’t know for sure, but I think your dad and my mom might have had a little thing going on for a while,” he said.

Ishmael shot up. The bucket tipped over behind her. “No way!”

Hector laughed. “Settle down. Don’t drop my screws.”

He set the bucket back up, and she sat down again.

“That’s why your dad sent us here. To Butler Island. To live with Maggie,” he explained.

Ishmael sat stunned, frozen in place. Her dad—and
Maria
?

But Maria was gorgeous.

Hector noticed the look on her face.

“Aw, you sell your dad short,” he said.

He looked off as he turned the screwdriver, smiling. She was enjoying that smile.

“I think that’s got it,” he said, tightening the last screw. “Let’s hope.” He yanked the cord, and the motor churned. He nodded, pleased.

“So did anything else ever become of it—between the two of them?”

“Maria’s remarried. Right after your dad split and went to South America, she went through this mid-life crisis or something.

Everything changed.”

Hector wiped his hands on a rag.

“I know the feeling,” she muttered.

Hector turned to her. “Oh yeah?”

“So you live in that huge house? With Maggie and Lena?”

Hector started putting his tools away in a metal box.

“I started living in the dock house a few years ago,” he said, shifting the tools noisily. “Built the thing myself. Used all scrap wood from the old slave quarters on the property. It took me a few years to complete it,” he said, looking up at the dock house. “But I like it. I’m satisfied with my handy-work.”

“You built that? I’m impressed.”

He put the metal toolbox back in the wagon, offering only a slight smile at the compliment.

“I don’t see any cars around here,” she said. “Seems odd.”

“Well, Detective Morgan, for your information, I work at a boatyard.” He raised his eyebrows. “So I drive a boat to work.”

“You don’t ever want to go anywhere?”

“I can go wherever I want to go in a boat.”

“Right.” She motioned to the large boat tied up to the dock. “So the big boat is yours too?”

“Bought her from a retired shrimper.” Hector stopped organizing his tools to admire the boat. “My goal is to have her fixed up in a year and go live back in some lonely creek.” He picked his beer off the railing, drained it, and squeezed the empty can. “Damn, where are my manners?” He looked over at Ishmael. “Lena would tan my hide. You want a beer?”

Hector went inside the dock house, and Ishmael felt a blast of cold air from the open door. A moment later, Hector came out with bottled beers and used the railing and a slap of his fist to pop the tops. He handed one to Ishmael.

“I bring out the glass for my special guests,” he said.

They toasted the bottles with a tap and both drank. The corners of his mouth lifted.

“You felt that AC, huh?” he said.

“Pretty steamy around here. Never felt heat like this,” she said. “Get used to sweating day and night. Those old ladies never put in air conditioning.” He motioned toward the house with his beer

“I don’t think I ever slept straight through a summer night in that house.”

Ishmael found herself lingering a little too long when she looked in his direction. His look was refreshingly different from Allen’s bohemian surfer image or the starched shirts, monogrammed belts, and pressed pants of Nicholas. Hector looked like a man who could fix things. Hell, he
was
a man who could fix things. He sipped his beer, looking off down the creek. Turning back, he caught her staring and looked her straight in the eyes, continuing to stare even when she looked away.

“I like your hair,” he said. “Or—your lack of hair.”

Ishmael rubbed her head self-consciously. She kept forgetting that she had shaved her head.

“It suits you. I don’t know many women who could pull that off.” He pressed the beer bottle to his lips and tilted it back. He looked out over the water, stood up, and jogged down the ramp to the lower dock.

“Beer got a little warm,” Hector said, opening the third beer and handing it to Allen. He stabilized the kayak with one hand as Allen climbed out onto the dock.

Allen clicked his bottle against Hector’s.

“Beer’s a beer, man. Thanks.”

They carried the kayak up to the higher dock and turned it upside down. Ishmael realized she was staring at Hector. He moved so fluidly, so relaxed in his own skin.

“Ish, could you believe who this is?” Allen asked. “Never would’ve guessed a trailer park reunion.”

“No joke,” Hector said, tapping his beer bottle with the other two. “Ish Morgan and El Padre in the Deep South. Never thought I’d see the day.”

“Man, it’s been
that long
since that nickname got around?” Allen’s face cracked into a cheeky smile. “I must be getting old.” Ishmael sipped her beer, hiding the roll of her eyes.

“Can you dive off this dock?” Allen asked. “I figured I could now since the tide’s so high.”

“You taking a dip?” Hector was already setting down his beer. “I’ll join you. And yeah, dive all you want. Deep-water dock. That’s how I’m able to keep the big boat here.”

Hector started taking his shirt off and stripped down to a pair of black boxer briefs. Ishmael was sure her jaw dropped at the sight of his body, but she quickly contained herself.