28
I stare resolutely at the glassy orange eye of the snapper, its black pupil perfectly round and accusing. There’s a case of them—the snapper—all flashy red and silver scales and pink cheeks. The smell of freshly caught fish, salty and sea-rich, spices the air.
It’s 8 a.m. and the sun hangs like a bright nectarine in the sky, ripe with heat. A trickle of sweat drips down my back and not even the scant shade of the gazebo or the breeze off the sea can chase away the rising humidity.
Overhead a flurry of gulls circles, certain they’ll be feeding on entrails soon. In the shallows, at the water’s edge, dark dorsal fins—they look like sharks, but Maranda said they’re tarpon—churn the water impatiently.
I’m at the beach gazebo/makeshift fish market/my job.
Down the sandy road (and sometime runway) the crossing guard—I learned his name is Odie—lounges in the shade of the tall, glossy leaved tree, playing solitaire in the sand. He interrupted his Queen-Jack-Ten layout to hold up his stop sign and then finally give the all clear.
Across the road the shop is open. Junie waved when she dragged a heavy display of mangos and bananas onto the street in front of the store. She huffed and puffed, her pregnant belly getting in the way of the bins, until finally she managed to tug it to a spot in the shade. Jordi came out then, pushed the large bins a few inches to the right, and declared the job satisfactory. Junie shoved him back into the shop.
Charlestown is awake. Amy’s at summer-school classes for gifted students—this includes her, a six-year old named Reija with encyclopedic knowledge of all the country flags in the world, and an eleven-year old boy named Olly who wants to be a marine biologist. Amy claimed it isn’t truly for gifted students, it’s just for kids who want to learn even during the summer.
“If this island is a prison, I may as well expand my mind beyond the gates,” she said this morning as she spooned porridge into her mouth and shoved her books into a scuffed backpack.
And then she was gone, rushing out the door. And Aaron hurried from the shower to the bedroom to the kitchen, strapping Sean into his high chair and giving him porridge and mashed bananas. Then he kissed me, one last feathered touch of our lips, and he was gone.
So when Maranda knocked on my door and said, “You aren’t ready!” I let her stomp in, grab baggy jeans, a long-sleeve cotton shirt, a sun hat, and yellow rubber wellies, and thrust them at me. “Get dressed!”
She was so brisk, her white hair sticking on end, her dark brown eyes sharp and demanding in her sun-wrinkled face, that I tugged on the clothes in a hurry.
After I did she dropped Sean’s baby bag in my arms and pulled him, banana-smothered and happy, from his high chair.
“We’re late,” she said.
For what, I didn’t know. Until we arrived at the little beach across from the “airport.”
Aldon and his tall, wiry son, Chris, were hopping off their fishing boat, dragging crates of gasping or post-gasping fish onto the beach.
Aldon and Chris are in the water now, repairing gear and scrubbing barnacles from the hull. Chris mentioned casually he didn’t get any sleep. Up till midnight searching for Amy, then out at three for the morning catch. He seemed proud of himself, though, with the confident, easy grin of a twenty-year-old.
“Glad she’s all right,” he said. “She’s a funny one. Told me I should read ‘The Old Man and the Sea.’ I told her, ‘Not until I’m an old man—then it’ll be a biography.’” He shook his head and laughed then dropped his final crate of flopping fish onto the concrete floor of the gazebo.
For me.
To clean.
And sell.
And then deliver to the people who have scheduled orders, and also to the restaurant. I’m amazed there is a restaurant on this island.
In the shade of the gazebo, next to the low slatted wooden bench, Sean pats the sand with a yellow plastic shovel. He has a line of small toy cars, and every time he finishes digging a hole, he shoves a car in and shouts, “Uh-oh!”
Standing around the plywood table with glistening snapper lining the surface, Maranda, Essie, and Dee all stare at me.
“What’s wrong with you?” Essie asks, the liver spots on her face dark and her knuckles swollen from arthritis. She grips a knife in her hand and forcefully chops the tail from the fish in front of her. It makes a crunching noise, like scissors cutting through corrugated cardboard.
She picks up the tail fin and tosses it into a lined ten-gallon plastic bucket. It hits with a thunk, and overhead a gull swoops toward us with a throaty, insistent call.
I flinch at the noise, and then at her sawing through the dorsal fin at the top of the chunky fish.
I wish I didn’t have that mango porridge. It was the exact color of the snapper’s orange flesh.
Not that I’m against eating fish. This is just . . . gross.
I could handle this, except for the noise of the knife ripping through the fins. Kwwwwwkkkk. Kwwwwwk.
I take a deep breath of fish-tinged air as Essie reaches a swollen knuckle into the side of her snapper and hooks her finger to tug out the gills. They release with a sharp pop.
“You get paid by how many you clean,” Dee says, not looking up from the pile of fish in front of her. She has a dozen fish in her bucket. Essie has fifteen. Maranda has eight.
Me? I have zero.
“This is my job?” I ask again, just to be sure. “This is how I make money?”
Why in the world would I dream this?
“No,” says Maranda, shooting me a look. “This is what we do Monday mornings. And Thursday mornings. The rest of the time you work at Grinders.”
Grinders?
“Are you still pretending you’re Swedish?” Dee asks, pulling slimy entrails from her fish’s stomach.
“Swiss.” I pick up my knife. How hard can this be? I get five cents per cleaned and prepared fish. Which begs the question, why am I doing this for five cents a fish?
Maranda’s pulled another snapper from the crate and slapped it onto the table. I watch her out of the corner of my eye, determined to do everything she does.
Across the table, Dee tugs a giant, bulbous gray fish with a fat, blobby head onto the table. It hits with a squishy thud.
“Grouper,” she calls, cackling happily. I’ve never in my life seen a tiny, ninety-plus-year-old woman lift such an ugly, fat-lipped, freakishly large fish (it must weigh seventy pounds) with so much excitement.
I concentrate on watching Maranda without her knowing I’m watching. I grip the cold handle of the knife and slice through the fins on the sides of the fish. They cut with a jagged, zipper-tearing noise. I flip the cold, scaled fish and cut through the other fin.
Maranda’s moving quickly. I hurry, trying to keep up with her slicing through the tail, then the dorsal fin.
“You never told us,” Essie says, tossing entrails into her bucket. “What did you do in New York?”
“Me?” I ask, blinking at her.
“Yes, you. None of us have been to New York,” Essie says, a spark of something in her pale blue eyes. It’s then I remember she’s Aaron’s grandmother, my grandma-in-law.
She doesn’t look like Aaron. She’s wrinkled, sun-browned, covered in liver spots. She’s small and hasn’t been exactly warm, but I remember how Aaron said her banana bread was the only thing that could bring him out of the water. He loves her. And Sean does too. He gave her a raspberry kiss when he saw her this morning.
“You and Robert,” Essie says, prying at the fleshy cheek of the snapper under her knife. “What did you do?”
“She had an appointment with her parents’ lawyer. For their will. You know that,” Maranda says, scowling at Essie. She pulls the gills free and I follow suit, tugging my snapper’s gills loose with a pop.
I highly doubt I had an appointment. From what Robert said, the only appointment I had was with him.
“But why was Robert there?” Essie asks, still digging at the snapper’s mouth.
Exactly.
“He was visiting friends,” Maranda says. “Becca and Robert didn’t see each other. They merely took the same plane.”
“They were in the same city at the same time. Of course they saw each other.”
“It’s a big place,” Maranda says, chopping at her fish.
“Not that big.”
“Millions of people isn’t big? How would you know, Esmerelda McCormick? You’ve never left this island! You couldn’t imagine it if you tried.”
“Well!”
“Well, don’t talk about things you don’t know about. That’s what I say.”
I imagine Essie’s about to say something like, “It’s fishy,” but Dee says quietly, “Robert brought back some of the boys’ things.”
Essie and Maranda turn toward her, their argument forgotten. The sound of old grief was in Dee’s voice, like dried flowers left in the pages of a book too long. One touch and they’ll crumble.
“That’s what he was doing in New York. Jay lived there for a few months, remember? His landlord found a box when clearing out the storage unit. It wasn’t much. Jeans, T-shirts, a jar of change, that little good-luck seashell he carried with him everywhere. Robert promised he’d bring it back to me.”
Everyone is quiet. Even the gulls have ceased their shouts for scraps.
“That was good of him,” Maranda says, peering out over the sea. “Jay did love that seashell.”
It’s clear, if Essie has it now, he wasn’t carrying it with him the day of the Gulf Stream swim.
“I was thinking about giving it to Amy,” Dee says, looking out over the slate-gray waves. “Since she wants so badly to leave. She can take a bit of the island with her.”
I don’t know what to say, so I don’t say anything. Neither does anyone else.
Essie reaches over and squeezes Dee’s arm.
Dee’s shoulders lift with a sigh and then fall. “Well,” she says briskly, staring down at the bulbous-headed fish in front of her, “I do love grouper.”
Essie hums an agreement.
“You can never get tired of eating grouper,” Maranda agrees.
Then she slices open the belly of her snapper and hooks her finger inside, dragging out the guts. I follow her motions, slicing deep and then pulling free the insides of my snapper.
My stomach churns at the slimy, gushy feel. I drop the guts into the scrap bucket. Then I lay the fish in my bucket.
I wipe my wet hands on my apron in satisfaction.
“Well done,” Maranda says, a joking light in her eyes. “You’ve done one. Five cents. That’ll get you a banana.”
Dee cackles and Essie hides a smile behind her hand.
I squint across the street at the placard above the fruit bin. Bananas are fifteen cents each.
So, in reality, I can’t get a banana.
The price is high considering there’s a banana grove in the cottage’s back garden, dozens of yellow bananas dripping in great clumps down the pearl-necklace-like chains.
Another drop of sweat trails down my back and the smell of fish guts drifts up on the humid breeze. Sean lets out another “Uh-oh!” while Maranda and Essie begin a heated debate about the best way to cook grouper.
Dee sends me a gentle smile, the soft lines of her face folding, her salt-and-pepper hair sticking up in the ocean breeze. She’s wearing a rubbery apron. We all are, but hers dwarfs her she’s so small.
“Not feeling like yourself?” she asks quietly, the sound of her knife thunking on the plywood table.
“I guess,” I say, considering the fish in the crates waiting to be cleaned and gutted. “I’m trying to figure out why, exactly, it’s my dream to gut fish.”
She laughs then—her high, amused cackle. “You do it to keep us honest,” she says, her eyes dancing with laughter. “Essie always tries to cheat us out of five cents. It adds up.”
“Really?”
“Or . . .” She thinks for a moment. “You do it because you love your Maranda. She loves the fish market, being useful, seeing her neighbors, but she’s not strong enough anymore to carry the crates or do the deliveries. You do that for her now.”
I give Dee a startled glance and then look over at Maranda, my dream grandma. She’s still arguing with Essie about the merits of coal fires on the beach versus cooking in a smoker. Both of them are slicing at their fish, cleaning with efficient, practiced hands.
According to Dee I’m here, on the hot, humid beach gutting fish, because I love my grandma and I want her to feel useful.
I let that knowledge settle inside me. I don’t have a grandma in real life—both of them died before I was born. Neither of my parents ever talked about them.
I didn’t realize there was a hole in my heart the shape of a grandmother with quick hands, no-nonsense eyes, and a ready smile. I didn’t realize I had that longing. But then Maranda looks over at me, catches me staring, and winks.
She slides into my heart right then and there. In that empty space.
A grandma.
One who loves me.
At my stunned look, Maranda pats my hand and I grip hers. Her skin is papery thin and wrinkled, her warm hands fine-boned and calloused.
“Done,” Essie says, wiping her hands on her apron.
Sean hits the sand with his shovel and says, “Bana bana bana.”
Essie gives him a quick nod. “Yes, time for banana bread. You smart, smart boy. He takes after my side of the family.”
Maranda snorts and releases my hand. “Hardly. He clearly takes after Becca, who takes after me.”
And they’re off again.
The next two hours are spent selling fish to anyone who stops by. The remaining fish are packaged in heavy coolers, and I’m pushed by Maranda down the road with a pointed finger to the Saunders’ house, to the restaurant called—from what I can see—EAT, to Junie’s shop, to the community center where a group of kids are playing in a yard with free-roaming chickens, a slide, and a merry-go-round, to the house with the green kayaks out front.
Maranda chats with everyone we see while I carry heavy loads of fish and Sean devours fistfuls of banana bread with Essie and Dee in the shade.
At ten the sun is a bright slice of light lacing through the palm trees, baking the sand. I’m ready for a cold iced drink. The lukewarm water in Sean’s baby bag is not quenching my thirst.
It’s then, after Aldon hands me five cents with a twinkle in his eye, and while I’m cleaning off the plywood table, I see Aaron.
He’s down the sandy road, past Odie the crossing guard, near the edge of town. He’s at a small, square yellow house, kneeling next to the wooden porch, swinging a hammer.
Okay.
I’m not the type of person who gets excited about men with hammers. This is not a fantasy I’ve ever had.
Ever.
I wouldn’t choose to dream about it. Not consciously. And I wouldn’t look forward to watching it.
But Aaron’s leaning forward, and his white T-shirt stretches tightly across his shoulders. The muscles of his back are highlighted by the sun falling through the gables of the porch. As he swings, the muscles in his arms tighten and strain.
If I thought I was thirsty before, now I’m dying of thirst.
Even though he’s fifty meters away, I swear I can see a drop of sweat trickling down his neck. I want to put my mouth over him. I want to know the salt and sweat of him.
He repositions the board he’s working on, places a nail, and swings again.
I catch my breath. It’s sticky-hot and I’m sweaty, covered in fish guts, and dying of thirst, and all I want to do is cross the sun-hot sand, push Aaron onto the shaded grass, and ask him to whisper my name.
“What is he doing?” I ask, my voice scratchy and parched.
“I asked him to fix my porch step,” Dee says, looking in the direction of my gaze.
“Is that his job?”
Is he a carpenter? A handyman? Is that what he does now?
“Job? No.”
I watch him insert another nail. It glints in the sun, and then he strikes it, nailing the board in place.
I’m overheated. The air is suddenly heavy with salt and sand and the memory of lying beneath him as he kissed me senseless. I’m glowing with the memory of his mouth on mine.
“What does he do then?” I ask, watching him work.
Dee glances at me. “What he’s always done. Whatever anyone asks of him.”
I look at her then, tearing my eyes from Aaron. “What does that mean?”
She frowns at me, her wrinkles wrinkling. “You know. He fixes. He helps.” She holds up her hand and ticks off on her fingers. “Repairs—carpentry, plumbing, electric, roofs—whatever you need, he’ll do. Hurricane prep—trimming trees, taking down coconuts—and cleanup in the aftermath—downed trees, flooding, home repairs. He’s our only certified paramedic besides Nurse Nancy—he saved Errol’s life, remember that. He’s island council, organizes beach cleanups, community service. He does import/export paperwork and orders and distributes supplies. He’s president of the council, he goes out with Aldon and Chris if they’re expecting a big catch, he . . .” She narrows her eyes. “Do you need me to go on?”
I stare at her, the waves roaring onto the beach, echoing the strange sensation inside me. “There’s more?”
“Hmm. Swim lessons, swim safety, CPR. Boat repairs. Generator repairs. You have that back garden—he’s out there a lot. He teaches the ocean science class at the school. He’s taken to walking Whiskers every morning since Ayla broke her leg. What else?”
“He’s a dad,” I say, a curious sensation rushing over me.
Dee smiles and pats my arm, studying my expression. “Becca, you look like you’re falling in love with your husband.”
I send her a startled glance and she laughs.
“Do I?”
Am I?
Have I already?
I said I would. I said I’d take all this dream had to offer—the happiness, the love, the everything.
I look back at Aaron, the line of his shoulders, the black flash of his hair, the solidness of him. My heart beats wildly, wings fluttering in my chest.
Would it be so dangerous to love him? Would it be so wrong to fall irrevocably in love with a dream?
I didn’t think so before.
“You do,” Dee says, a satisfied smile on her face.
My chest pinches as I remember Aaron thanking me for coming into the water after him. Anytime, I promised. I’ll come after you anytime.
He stands then, and when he turns his gaze immediately lands on me, as if he knew I was here the entire time. As if he could feel my eyes on him.
And from fifty meters away I feel the heat of him. His dark eyes, the tilt of his head—they make my stomach flutter and my heart race.
For five seconds, ten, we stand separated by a sunlit street, looking into each other’s eyes.
And I decide, yes, I’m falling. It feels like sliding, tumbling, into a dream. As Aaron lifts his hand, holding it up to me, I know that when I fall into this dream, he’ll be here to catch me.
I’ll come into the water after him. And he’ll always come for me.