Harsens Island (4 page)

On the last Friday of June, Sam drove to the mainland and purchased a new iPhone and an iPad. The cottage landline had been re-activated for the alarm and house phone, but she’d resisted the use of a cellphone and the internet. 

It was too warm to sit inside, so she took a position on the porch, and there set up her devices. As she touched buttons and slid a finger over the pad’s screen, she heard the harsh sound of a car horn blaring three times.

An Asian woman, perhaps in her late teens or early twenties, was twirling and turning on her feet to the inaudible music of an invisible ballet. She danced across the road, from the beach side to the cottage side – and there, at the edge of her property, she stopped to place her hands on a tree, almost embracing it. She talked to it, as if in conversation, gesturing to the river and a passing freighter.

Sam didn’t know if she was drunk, drugged, or crazy. She called out to her.

“Can I help you?”

The woman paused, bowed slightly, and spun in a circle, continuing her journey, still in tune with her silent lyric.

Sam went inside and dialed 911.

A woman answered.

“Sheriff’s office. What’s your emergency?”

Sam described the woman and her actions. 

The operator laughed.

“Please hold.”

The line clicked, and for maybe thirty seconds she listened to Willie Nelson croon about a train called
The City of New Orleans
. The line clicked again.

“I’m back. Sorry for the wait. Emily will come fetch her. You’re a new islander, I hear.”

“Yeah.”

“You’ve just met one of our more colorful residents. She’s eccentric but harmless. The kids call her Voodoo Child.”

“Pardon me?”

“
Voodoo Child
. She talks to trees, flowers, and the like. Kids made up the name and it stuck. They say she’s a reincarnated river ghost.”

“Well, your ghost is about to be flattened by a car.”

The operator laughed again.

“She’s been plenty resilient so far but I know what you mean. Emily’s on her way and she’ll get her home in one piece.”

Shortly after that, a black and white cruiser arrived. The dancing girl was in the front seat. The driver stopped the engine and stepped out, keys in hand.

“Hi,” the woman said. “I’m Deputy Emily Dowicki. Are you the lady that called?”

“I am,” Sam said, smiling, accepting Emily’s hand. Dowicki was full-figured, but not obese. She had a pretty face, a beautiful smile, and bright green eyes. Her hair was dyed dark red.

“I wanted to let you know she’s safe, and say thanks for giving us a shout. She’s a long way from home.”

“Where does she live?”

There was affection in the deputy’s voice.

“Oh, at the north end, but she loves to walk and dance. I imagine it makes the miles shorter. She’s come a distance today. Normally she doesn’t get this far south.”

“Is she okay?” Sam asked.

“Oh, yeah, she’s fine. She’s just, you know, a special girl. Anyhoo – I’ve got to get back on my circuit. Thanks again.”

Parting, they shook hands a second time.

“Thanks, Emily.”

“What’s your name?”

“Sam.”

“Short for Samantha?”

“Yeah, my middle name.”

Sam waved at the girl in the cruiser.

The girl laughed and waved with both hands.

“We should all be so happy,” Emily said.

“We can try, can’t we?” Sam said.

“Amen,” Emily said. “Amen.”

That same Friday, close to sunset, Rowland arrived in his black and white. He was in uniform but not wearing his hat or sunglasses.

She greeted him from the porch without opening the screen door.

“How are you, sheriff?”

He stopped at the bottom of the porch stairs.

“Evening, Sam. Fair to middling. How’s yourself?”

She noticed a gold band on his wedding finger. “Better every day. Would you like to come in?”

“No, it’s alright, thanks. We can talk outside as well as inside.”

She opened the door and joined him.

“Business or pleasure?”

“A little of both, actually.”

“Okay, fire away.”

He placed his hands on his hips.

“The first is, there’s a rumor you’re using cash to pay for your repairs. Hand in hand with that is a rumor that says you’re sitting on a pile of cash.”

She nodded in agreement.

“Okay.”

“Understand it’s not a problem for me, but I don’t want it to become one for you. A fair warning, if you will.”

“A fair warning.”

Rowland, smiling, ignored her echo.

“I imagine there’s buried treasure involved, too.”

Sam responded in kind.

“As a matter of fact, I was in the middle of updating the treasure map. I keep it under the doormat.”

He responded quickly, eyes bright and mischievous. He extended his arm and gestured with his right hand.

“Take three steps from the north tip of the haunted garage…”

“Bear east,” she said, “until you reach the big W.”

He continued smiling.

“I got a call from a woman named Lynn Hunter. She wanted to ensure you’re alright.”

She said, “Okay.”

“Are you?”

“Pardon?”

“Are you alright?”

“I’m great. Did she ask for anything?”

“No. She didn’t sound worried or anything, but she was insistent, very businesslike.” He removed a card from his breast pocket. “I wrote her number on the back. She’d like you to call ASAP.”

Sam memorized the phone number as she read it.

“What did you tell her?”

“I said you were well, and promised to personally convey the message. I provided her with my direct line if she had any other questions.”

She flipped the card over again.

“Oh, it’s not on there,” he said. “I just wanted to let you know.”

He paused for a moment.

“Ah, listen, there’s a pre-July Fourth event at The Old Club tomorrow, and the locals are invited for lunch and dinner. Do you know about the club?”

“I hear it’s like Bushwood in Caddyshack, but without the gophers.”

Both Catanzaro’s had told her the same joke.

Rowland chuckled.

“You’re really getting in tune with us, aren’t you? Anyway, the owners are good neighbors and this time of year is an ideal time for each of us to say ‘thanks’ to another. The staff has been there forever, and they know pretty much everyone on sight, but they get misguided tourists, or maybe a mainlander angling for a freebie. If there’s any static just drop my name. I’ll be in and out throughout the day, and I’ll be there for dinner, for sure.”

“Okay,” Sam said.

“They start early for the Bloody Mary types, around ten-thirty, eleven in the morning. The whole shebang runs to midnight. They serve teeth-grinding, Tulsa style ribs, and the finest vegetables and fruits. You can’t go wrong.”

“It sounds like fun,” she said. “Maybe I can meet your family there?”

“My two attend college on the mainland. They may visit next weekend but they say that every year.”

“Well, then, your wife at the very least.”

He didn’t hesitate.

“I’m afraid she passed several years ago.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, genuinely surprised.

“No worries.”

They shook hands.

“I hope you can make it,” he said.

“Thanks, sheriff. We’ll see.”             

“Alright, Sam. Have yourself a good night.” He made a motion as if to tip his hat and, realizing he wasn’t wearing it, wiggled his fingers and gave her a weak salute.

“There’s a tough habit to break,” she said.

“All habits are, aren’t they?” 

As he drove away, the sun filtered through thin clouds, streaking the horizon with violet, green, and pink, forecasting rain.

**********

Although it was too early for sleep, she gathered a pillow, a comforter, a light bed sheet, and arranged them on the porch day bed. She dressed for sleep as a calm mist swept in with the wind; the mist soon gave way to the patter of small drops.

Sitting on a small table near the day bed was a 1940’s Zenith Trans-Oceanic
tube
radio. It was portable, with a fold-up, leather case, a carry handle, and a two-prong plug. It received AM and Short Wave broadcasts. In her past, lost life, her mother could finesse the dial like a safecracker, finding stations from as far off as Spain, Germany, and Austria.

Now the radio woke with a short burst of static and hum, its face glowing with yellow light. She rotated the dial and found a sonorous, South African preacher.

“…time is always fleeting, so we must make good use of it…”

She called Hunter, went to voicemail, and left a brief message and her new number.

Within an hour, Sam’s phone signaled she had a voicemail. She hadn’t heard it ring, but the phone displayed ‘Missed Call” from ‘Unknown’.

“Jennifer. This is Lynn Hunter. I will be at your domicile at two p.m. this coming Sunday. We have several items to review and confirm. I will need no more than ninety minutes of your time. You have my number.”

She thought of Hunter as a guard ensuring she hadn’t escaped behind a poster of Raquel Welch.

**********

Around eleven, as the rain fell, she thought of Rowland. He hadn’t asked her on a date, but it felt like he wanted to. She was happy he hadn’t, but wished he had. She wasn’t sure if she liked the foolish feeling it stirred in her.

Saturday morning, she went to Pig’s to buy a few essentials. As he totaled and bagged her purchases, she asked Brian about The Old Club dress policy.

“I’m no fashion expert,” he said, “but you’ve got shoes? Nice ones, I mean?”

“Yeah…”

“Not too high a heel?”

“No, I don’t think so. Why?”

“Jeans or a skirt?”

“Uh…jeans…”

“They aren’t faded are they?”

“No, I own a new pair. Dark blue.”

“No worries. And anything will work in terms of your, uh,” and he motioned to her shirt, “top. But I don’t advise anything too revealing. The old ladies will ignore you if it’s too low or tight, and believe me you don’t want them gossiping after you. You’d be surprised by what they consider tawdry.”

“This place is amazing,” she said, smiling. “I can get a can of soup and a crash course on island etiquette.”

“We pride ourselves in being a full service franchise. What time are you going?”

“I hadn’t decided.”

“Then it’s settled. Me and the Dixie chick will fetch you at eight.”

“No, really, I couldn’t.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want to be a burden…”

“Young lady, there’s no burden except for the one you’ve been carrying around since you pitched your tent. I don’t know what it is, but it’s time to let go of it. You’ll come with us. You’ll drink too much, eat too much, and dance with the wrong fella. Tomorrow you’ll wake up, come here, and buy an Alka-Seltzer and a large Coca-Cola.”

“That’s…”

“Eight o’clock.”

**********

Sam wore her best black heels, her only black heels, her newest jeans, and a thin, black turtleneck sweater. In deference to her hosts, she applied a dash of makeup and walked through a spray of perfume.

They arrived at exactly eight o’clock.

Brian was no taller than five-eight. He was in a dark suit, a white shirt, and a red tie. His black leather shoes reflected the light of the falling sun.

“Oh, mama,” he said, running his hands over her hair, pulling in his stomach. “If I only had me youth!”

He owned an early model, black Lincoln that looked like it had just rolled off the assembly line.

His wife, Dixie, was plain and beautiful the way he was plain and handsome. She had permed brunette hair. She had a broad smile like her husband.

The passenger window was down, and Dixie yelled to her.

“If he gets fresh, pick him up and shake him.”

“Do you see what I have to deal with?” he said, offering an elbow. He lowered his voice, and spoke from the right corner of his mouth. “Say, doll face, how much money you got? Are you, ah, you know, as rich as everyone says?”

“Hell, yes,” Sam whispered. “I’m loaded.”

Brian shook his head. His voice returned to its usual volume.

“Then I’ll need to call off the wedding. I’m used to being broke.”

“Just another bride dumped at the altar,” she said.

“Karma will get me like it always does,” Brian said, giving her a wink and a smile. “You know what they say. Time wounds all heels.”

**********

It wasn’t until they were in the main room of The Old Club that Sam felt like she was on a date with her grandparents. She noticed that every woman – child, teenager, mother, and matron – was in a dress.

Dixie motioned to an empty table.

“How’s this for everyone?”

The table possessed a near full spectrum view, at least 240°, and their backs would be exposed to the kitchen and the buffet tables.

As they sat, Sam said, “Excuse me,” and left them without explanation.

Her father had ingrained in her the habit of assessing a facility’s entrances, exits, and choke points. Her mother shared the practice, but from a different perspective, worried more about kitchen fires than gun-toting crazies.

She circled through the first floor of the building, opening doors, acting as if she owned the place. Several times, she paused to watch the flow of the waiters, servers, and the guests, trying to ascertain the club’s rhythm.

She examined a long bank of doors that opened onto a deck facing the river; those doors swung in and folded on themselves. The bathrooms were where she expected them to be – close to the kitchen, delivery doors, and receiving docks.

She walked through the kitchen, ignoring its bustle, purposely deaf to the comments following her, purposely blind to the eyes attempting to engage her.

When she was done scouting, and as she entered the main room, she was deliberately blocked by a gray-haired man, not quite six feet, dressed in an expensive suit, a brilliant white shirt, and what appeared to be a college or fraternity tie. His eyes were bright blue orbs.

His introduction was precise.

“Who are you?”

“Pardon me,” she said, attempting to step around him.

His right hand caught her left forearm, gripping it like a vise.

She moved deftly, with equal rapidity, and locked her hand over his forearm, breaking his hold, pushing his arm to his side and back. When his left hand reached for her shoulder, it met the same fate.

Another man stepped in behind him; Sam immediately assessed him as a servant or bodyguard.

“Slow down,” she said to them both, “and nobody gets hurt.”

His eyes blazed with anger.

“
Whoa, whoa, whoa
,” came from behind her, and this time softer hands touched her.

“
Sammy
,” Brian Catanzaro said. “
Relax
.”

She released the man.

“You
know
her?” the man said.

“She’s new to the island,” Brian said apologetically. “She’s with us.”

Dixie joined them.

“This is our
host
, Samantha,” she said. “Clayton Ethan Hannibal the Fourth. Clayton this is…”

The man hissed at Brian.

“…She’s in
jeans
...”

“…Jennifer Melillo,” Dixie continued. “She lives in a cottage on South Channel...”

He spoke to Dixie like a jilted lover.

“Do I always need to repeat myself, Dixie? She’s in
jeans
.”

Dixie fired back.

“You’re being rude, Clayton.”

“It’s my fault,” Brian interjected. “I didn’t properly explain the dress code. I just told her to dress nice.”

“Damn right it’s your fault, Catanzaro.”

“Now, Clayton,” Dixie said.

“Did I stutter?”

“C’mon, honey,” Dixie said, and placed a soft hand on Sam’s arm. “The men can settle this.”

Sam didn’t move.

She scanned Hannibal from his gray head to the tips of his gleaming Ferragamo shoes, a slow and purposeful examination.

“Good to have met you,” she said.

She heard Hannibal address Brian.

“If you think this is funny…”

The music drowned the remainder of his sentence.

“Sorry,” she said to Dixie.

“I don’t mind the occasional rescue,” Dixie said.

“I hope he appreciates it,” Sam said.

A few moments later Brian rejoined them just as a waiter appeared.

“Give us a second, E. C.,” Brian said to the man.

“No worries,” the waiter said.

“
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph
,” he said to Sam. “Can you pick ‘em or can you pick ‘em?”

“Are we all good?” Dixie asked, reaching to him, touching his knee.

“By a nose…
mother of mercy
…”

“What was his problem?” Sam asked.

“You’re in jeans. I should’ve known better. I didn’t think you were a dress person and I wanted you to feel comfortable, you know. It’s my fault – I made a bad call.”

“Clayton was still wrong,” Dixie said. “And rude.”

“Sweet lips,” Brian said, exhaling, “the island’s richest man is always right.”

The waiter was standing there, vigilant and silent.

“E. C.,” Brian gestured. “This is Samantha. Sam, this is E. C. Grossman, a fine waiter, a great friend, and a native of sunny Wappingers Falls, New York.”

The waiter smiled generously.

“A pleasure to meet you. What would we like to drink tonight, Miss Samantha?”

“Water, please.”

“The house red,” Dixie said.

Brian patted his brow with a napkin.

“Ketel One, 7-Up, lime, and tell Glen not to be stingy with the booze.”

“Excellent!” the waiter said, and departed.

Brian was undeterred.

“Jesus,
seriously
, Sam, how did you do that Kung Pow stuff?”

“What’s his name again?”

“Clayton Ethan Hannibal the Fourth. Old Detroit money, a trust fund baby. The granddad was one of the first to mold this slice of paradise. You stomped on some pretty big toes, little girl.”

“She’s not a little girl,” Dixie said.

“Jesus!” Brian said. “No kidding!”

He had three drinks before they got in line for the buffet, and Dixie, bombed on one glass, switched to water.

**********

The DJ played a combination of 40’s classics and 80’s dance music,
Glenn Miller
to
Joy Division
,
String of Pearls
to
Love Will Tear Us Apart,
a nod to the span of generations in the room. The dance floor fluctuated between near empty and packed.

Sam was laughing, happy, and for the first time in nearly two years, feeling truly free. Through the night, Brian and Dixie introduced her to more of their friends and acquaintances, customers and neighbors.

As they finished their dinner, entering their second hour, Sam touched Dixie’s wrist.

“I haven’t seen the girl the kids call Voodoo Child? Is she here?”

Brian bristled visibly. Dixie spoke resolutely.

“It’s a horrible name.”

“Dix, she didn’t know,” Brian said, his eyes quickly shifting between them.

“Oh, gosh, I apologize,” Sam said, taken back by their reaction. “I didn’t mean to offend either of you. I met her once but didn’t catch her name.”

Dixie sighed.

“I’m sorry, too. I didn’t mean to snap. You just surprised me.”

“Is she okay or…?” Sam asked.

“She lost her family,” Dixie said. “She’s an orphan.”

Brian, clearing his throat, shot Dixie a sideways glance.

“What?” Sam said. “How?”

“You do know illegal immigrants use the island as a gateway to the mainland?” Dixie said.

“Yeah, I’ve heard that.”

“E.C.!” Brian yelled, signaling the waiter, extending two fingers.

“I really am sorry, Brian,” Sam said. “I honestly didn’t mean anything by calling her that.”

He waved his hand dismissively, avoiding her eyes, and standing abruptly said to Dixie, “Finish it.” He walked toward the bar, again calling out the waiter’s name.

“I really am sorry,” Sam said.

“Oh, that’s just who he is sometimes.”

Then Dixie spoke without hurry.

“She came to us last winter. The ice was too thick for the ferry, so her family tried to cross over by walking on the ice. All of them but her drowned. We think she was sixteen at the time, although none of us knows her real age. An ice cutter spotted her floating on a slab of ice, downriver, almost to the lake.”

“Good god,” Sam whispered.

Dixie touched Sam’s forearm.

“Brian saw them before they tried to cross. They came to the store but he wouldn’t let them in.”

Samantha looked at her in disbelief.

“Why?”

“There’s a rule, honey,” Dixie said. “We don’t feed strays. Nobody can afford it.”

“It’s about
money
?”

“Sam, nothing is about money unless you make it so. Don’t you see? We’d be overrun if we extended the welcome mat.”

“I understand,” Sam responded after a beat. “Forgive me. Go on.”

“No one blames him, but he can’t get over it. He can’t resolve his sadness though we all share it.”

“But if you had been there…?” Sam asked.

“‘If’ is a useless and lonely game,” Dixie said. “I don’t play it.”

“How many were in her family?”

“Six. Her mother and father, grandmother, and three sisters.”

“Where does she live?”