Chapter 24
The ferry chugs along narrow waterways, on its way from the mainland to Sapelo Island. I’m seasick but doing my best to repress it. So I lean on the railing of the boat, wondering how old it is. At least forty or fifty years would be my guess.
Aunt Delta sits beside me on a bench, looking silently out at the sea.
”It”s pretty today,” I say. ”Look at all the greenery coming to life.”
It”s true. Every massive oak tree that we sail past is dripping with dark green moss. Bountiful green grasses sprout from the shore to our left. Even the water that the ferry cuts through has a sheen of green algae on the surface.
Delta looks up at the sun with a frown. ”At least it”s not hot,” she allows. ”In a couple of weeks, we wouldn”t be able to come out this way in the middle of the day like this.”
The ferry slows, turning to make its final approach to the ferry terminal on the island. I can see the oversized shed that stores a bus and several golf carts beside the terminal. An older man stretches, eyeing the ferry. He”s probably leading tours of the island today.
”Thanks for coming out today,” I tell Delta. ”I wanted to come out here on a whim.”
My aunt stands up, lifting a large basket on her forearm.
”I”m always glad to come here. This is where our people are from.”
I purse my lip. It”s no use to point out that two days ago, my aunt was railing about how Black people can”t ever feel comfortable in the United States and we all need to go back to the motherland in Africa. Delta regularly flip flops on whether our home is Sapelo Island, our home is the Vintages Resort, or our home is Africa. I let her have her own feelings, because I haven”t lived her life of struggle and heartache.
At seventy-three years old, Delta is an elder worth respecting.
I take her free elbow, guiding her off the ferry as soon as it docks. We rent a golf cart and start down the bumpy main road.
Everywhere I look, things are in bloom. As we drive away from the sea and toward the center of the island, houses begin to spring up. A row of storm-damaged houses wrapped in yellow and blue plastic tarps lean crookedly; two young guys work a band saw out front. One of the men lifts a hand in salute as we pass.
Ever the Southerner, I wave back as I navigate around a huge pothole. Delta points at the next structure, huffing. ”I can”t believe that big, empty house is sitting right in the middle of the island. You know, that”s Jim Parsons”s vacation house.”
I eye Delta. ”Who is Jim Parsons?”
As we drive past, the mini-mansion sticks out like a sore thumb, a three story monstrosity with white columns, and an Antebellum feel. It”s all brand new and flawless, looking like a termite”s dream.
”He”s the only White face on the Sapelo Island Preservation Committee. He and a realtor teamed up to take over the committee and now they”re okaying new construction left and right. They voted to allow construction of private residences up to thirty-five hundred square feet. Then they turned around and made it possible to turn already-built private residences into vacation rentals.” Delta smacks her lips. ”It”s corruption, pure and simple.”
I lift a brow. ”I hadn”t heard about that.”
”You should pay more attention. It”s your birthright that Jim Parsons is turning into a tourist trap.”
I”m about to argue that she”s exaggerating. After all, it”s just one house. But then I see a whole new block of row houses has popped into view. Outside, an older White couple pushes a stroller down the newly laid sidewalk.
”Holy crap,” I say. I have to do a double take. ”It”s only been six months since I”ve been here. But there”s a new block of what looks an awful lot like rental homes.”
Delta fans herself, looking like she smells a rotten egg. ”It ain”t right.”
We head into the main drag of Sapelo Island, Hogs Hammock. The little strip contains a few historic houses, the post office, and the sky-blue general store, which is in an old trailer that”s been recently painted.
Aunt Delta runs into the store with her basket full of jars of jam. She must be doing some visiting, because I’m left sitting in the shade of an oak tree for a while.
While I wait, I take stock of the changes. In the distance, I can just make out the outline of a large structure. The Acworth plantation house, I think. This island has a lot of history to the Black people for miles around. And even here, not all of it is necessarily good.
A school bus lumbers up, letting off a small group of tourists, cameras around their necks, snapping pictures of everything they see. They are Black, but not from the area, because they gawp at everything in sight.
”Will you look at this place!” an old man hoots. ”It”s untouched by time. Carla, come over and take a picture by the store with me.”
It takes everything inside me to look away and not roll my eyes. He probably doesn”t realize that treating Hogs Hammock like it”s a historical curiosity rather than a living, breathing, vital community is kind of heartbreaking.
When Delta finally comes out of the store, I can”t wait to start the golf cart”s engine and pull away.
Aunt Delta clutches the metal railing and gives me a prying glance. ”What got into you?”
I screw up my face and sigh. ”Nothing. I was just thinking that I”m glad I know where I”m from, that”s all. I just watched some tourist who acted like he was visiting Colonial Williamsburg or something.”
”Ah.” Delta puts a comforting hand on my arm. ”I hate that the village relies on visitors to stay alive. If I had my way, the state would pay for the upkeep. Tourists ruin the experience of being here, sometimes.”
I wait a beat. ”I guess you get tired of tourists, hmm? Since you run the Vintages and our main source of income is tourism.”
Delta grunts a laugh. ”I know that”s right. I”ve been running it for long enough to know that we butter our bread from tourist dollars.”
I scrunch my face up. ”And you don”t get tired of that? Sometimes I feel like I live to serve.”
”Look at me.” Delta peers down her nose, pinning me with her gaze. ”You are descended from strong Black folk. Our people worked the lands, tended the houses, and rose up when we had the chance to. They were warriors. They made us all but unbreakable. So don”t you ever let other people make you feel small or less than. You stand tall, just like our ancestors. You hear me?”
A lump forms in my throat. ”Loud and clear, Aunt Delta.”
She purses her lips and looks off into the distance in a way that makes me giggle. We aren’t here for much longer. Aunt Delta has a stop to call on someone from her church, an older lady that has been out sick for several weeks in a row.
I sit in the golf cart as they visit, fanning myself. I find myself chewing over Aunt Delta’s words.
You stand tall.
I don’t feel that tall working at Gem’s. I like the job, but it doesn’t exactly lean toward a lot of self-respect. Then again, what job would? I can’t think of any job but being someone’s mom.
And if I am going to be a good mom, I need to learn to communicate effectively about what’s going on.
I think about the situation with Aunt Delta and her land. Chewing my lip, I already know what I’m going to have to do. I’m just going to bite the bullet and ask Aunt Delta what is going on.
I wait until we are back in the car, headed back home, to bring up the IRS predicament. ”Have you had any luck talking the IRS into a payment plan?”
Delta”s lips twist with a sour emotion. ”The agent said that if I make a lump sum payment of fifty thousand dollars, then we can talk about payment plans.”
”Fifty thousand?” I gasp. That is SO much more than I thought! ”Auntie, how much money do we owe them?”
Delta shifts in her seat and looks out the passenger window. ”A lot.”
“Well, how long has it been since you haven’t paid taxes?”
Delta’s mouth draws together. “Six years.”
I clutch the steering wheel so hard that my knuckles turn white. What the hell was she thinking?
”Where are you going to come up with that kind of money?” I ask.
She narrows her gaze. ”I don”t know. Maybe you could borrow it from your fiancé.”
”River?” I ask, astounded. ”Absolutely not. Even if he had that kind of money, I would never ask him to give it to me.”
”Lend it,” she corrects me. ”You”re not asking him to give you the money. It would just be a loan until... we work something else out.”
I tighten my hands on the wheel. ”No way. Between you, me, Mom, and Aunt Glory, we must be able to pull the money together.”
Delta is quiet. Too quiet. I look at her as I pull the car up outside my trailer.
”No comeback?”
She huffs. ”I already got your mom and your aunt to put in money the last time the IRS was calling. That well is tapped out.”
I stare at her, jaw hanging slack. ”What do you mean the last time? You mean this has happened before?”
She folds her hands in her lap and gives a tiny shrug. ”Yes. A couple of times.”
”A couple--” I cut myself off, because I am either about to blow a gasket or yell at Delta. Tightening my jaw, I point at her. ”You didn”t tell me that little fact. Aunt Delta, I need to sit down and look at the books.”
She waves me off. ”No, you don”t.”
Grabbing her hand, I force her to look at me. ”I really do. If I”m going to move heaven and earth to save my inheritance, I need to be sure that the inheritance is more than its mounting debts.”
Delta looks at me for a long moment. Then she sighs. ”If I promise to think about it, will you let me out of this car?”
Hitting the unlock button several times, I manage to unlock the doors. ”There. But don”t think that I”m not coming over tomorrow to see what you”ve got in the way of spreadsheets.”
Delta climbs out of the car, already closing the door on me and my demands. I sit for a second, wondering if Delta has a long term plan, or if she”s just winging it. An unpleasant pang in my stomach tells me she”s managing this place like freestyle jazz.
Damn. It turns out that everybody is faking it a little when it comes to having life figured out.
When I check my phone an hour later from the relative comfort of my bed, I have a few texts from Aunt Delta.
Pearl, if your man won”t lend you cash for something you need, I think you should rethink the engagement. I hope to high heaven you”re on birth control. Otherwise you”re likely to get baby trapped.
Don”t be ridiculous, is all I text back. I know what River”s game is.
But the thought stays with me all night, following me around like a dark shadow.