The Myth of Perpetual Summer Page 10

  First, I do the easy-peasy job of scooping what I can reach. One bucket is about half full by the time I’ve gotten all I can from the nice safe boat. The thunder creeps closer. Occasionally the air brightens with a flash. I’m running out of time.

  The bayou is clotted red with mayhaws, fast harvesting for sure. Good thing I brought Granddad’s waders. Snakes mostly run off rather than chase, but I’m happy all the same to have a layer of rubber between them and my skin.

  I untie my skirt, glancing around like a fool to make sure nobody is seeing me in my slip, then laugh at myself, because the only eyes around belong to birds and raccoons. The boat being grounded makes it steady as I step into the chest-waders. Once I get the suspenders adjusted to their shortest length, they fit nice and snug on my shoulders.

  As I step over the gunwale, I get a little shiver—and not just from the coolness of the water passing through the waders. I keep an eye out for scaly eyes floating in the lazy water of the bayou.

  Grabbing my net and the empty bucket, I start slogging toward the thickest area of floating fruit.

  Suddenly I see a ripple off to my right. A sharp yelp bursts from my throat. The snake—a cottonmouth by the way its entire body is on the top of the water—glides away from me. I take a deep breath and I move forward, splashing more than necessary and singing “Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weeny Yellow Polka Dot Bikini” at the top of my lungs. Gran would not approve.

  While I scoop and dump I think about overhearing Dad and Margo talking in the middle of the night one day last week. Their voices were soft and floating through the darkness that stretched between their bedroom and mine. Dad asked if she would consider spending the whole summer at home. He’s worried Griff’s running too wild. Changing. That word made me shiver a little under my sheet.

  She laughed. “Isn’t that what we want? For them to learn from experience? He’ll figure out the boundaries. We taught him to think.”

  “I know. But what if . . .”

  “What?” she asked.

  “What if he doesn’t? What if he’s inherited . . . bad genes from my side?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Dray. There’s no such thing as bad genes. And if you really believe there are, you should have let me get an abortion when I wanted to.”

  “How can you say that?” Dad sounded as shocked as I was.

  Did she want to get rid of all of us?

  She was quiet for a minute. “It’s not fair that a woman has to be trapped by her own body. Men can enjoy themselves without a thought of the consequences.”

  “Those consequences are our children!”

  I held my breath while I waited for Margo to apologize. But she said, “All I can say is thank God for the pill. Women are finally as free as men.” In a moment she added, “Don’t be mad, Dray. I shouldn’t have said that. I wouldn’t . . .”

  I kept waiting for her to confirm with words that she would not have aborted any of us. But the silence hung heavy—just like my heart.

  Dad was quiet for so long, I thought he’d either fallen asleep or was too mad to talk to her anymore. Then he sighed. “What if he needs limitations right now?”

  “Then you’re welcome to set and enforce them.” Now she sounded snippy, not soft and happy.

  “You know I have summer classes, a double load because Michaels is on sabbatical. And thesis advising. Maybe if you were just around keeping an eye on things. Only until school starts again in the fall.”

  She said, “I’ll think about it.”

  Think about it. All she needed was a little nudge. I decided, too, those words confirmed she didn’t wish she’d ended us before we came into this world. All the more reason to show her how much she means to us.

  Excitement squirms around my insides afresh and I gather the fruit faster. My bucket is heavy and full when the wind gives a good kick and the first fat drops of rain hit the water.

  It’s impossible to hurry when you’re knee-deep in water and the muddy bottom sucks at every step. I take my time as the rain blows in sheets and plasters my hair to my head. I keep bowed, my eyes on the water right in front of me. The surface looks like it’s boiling. When I lift my face and shield my eyes to see how far I am from the boat, my heart drops to the bottom of the waders.

  The wind and rain have moved it off the sandbar and it’s edging into the river current.

  “No!” I scream and throw my shoulders into my forward movement. All I accomplish is nearly falling face-first into the water.

  I hear Dad’s voice, feel him tapping my temple. “Use your noggin!”

  Let go of the bucket; drop the net.

  But I can’t. Letting go is letting go of Margo. Everything depends on this batch of jelly.

  “Help!” I yell against the wind. “Help!”

  Stupid waste of energy. Think. Move. Get that boat!

  I make it over the sandbar. The boat is edging toward the middle and starting downriver.

  The water is at my chest now and getting deeper. I hold the bucket high and let go of the net, using my left hand in a swimmer’s stroke to pull me forward. The rain slaps my face, blurring my vision.

  My toe snags something, and I pitch forward. The cold rushes against my belly, my bare legs. The bucket tips on the water, the red mayhaws spread and scatter on the current.

  I flounder, grabbing to save handfuls of fruit, trying to get my feet under me. Water takes my breath, fills my mouth. I can’t find the bottom. My fists slap against the water.

  I can’t get to the surface.

  The waders are pulling me down.

  My eyes are wide under the murky water.

  I kick again. Reach for the surface. My lungs burn.

  Take off the waders!

  I try to push the suspenders off my shoulders. They’re even tighter than before.

  My eyeballs are going to explode.

  If only I had the arrowhead. Its magic would save me. Magic . . . Griff’s magic . . .

  My arms fall still.

  I feel light, buoyant—even as the water tugs me down.

  Calm. I pull it close, welcome the serenity, the peace.

  Why was I fighting? I wrap myself in the wonder of sweet clarity.

  Softly drifting. Drifting . . .

  8

  Suddenly the serenity is ripped away; a blink, a lightning flash.

  I reach for the retreating comfort with greedy need, turning from the clenched fist of pain in my chest.

  Rough hands pound my back.

  A boom vibrates the air, the ground under me, rolls through my body.

  I’m forced onto my side as I cough and retch.

  “There! That’s it!” The unfamiliar voice is calm. Assured. The hands move with confidence. Another thud on my back. “Get it all out.”

  A spurt of foul-tasting water comes out of my mouth. I wheeze in a squeak of a breath.

  “That’s it. Relax. Breathe.” The man’s voice is raised, not in panic but to be heard over the wild wind and slashing rain.

  I try, but my lungs feel like twisted sponges. Breath is pain.

  I manage a small gasp. Then I cough up my innards: lungs, liver, intestines, maybe even my toenails.

  “Give it a minute,” he says. “It’ll get better. Slow and easy.” A soothing hand settles on my left shoulder. There’s a pain in my right; a rock pressing from the ground. I shift and lean against the knees behind me, taking the pressure off my shoulder, but the hands keep me on my side.

  I try to mentally unfurl my lungs and allow the slow flow of breath.

  “There. Better.” A hand cups my forehead, pulling my wet hair from my face.

  I can finally open my eyes. Rain splashes in the mud before my face . . . and there’s something big. And pink. I blink. It’s a refrigerator on its side, buried to the Frigidaire logo, discarded here or floated on high water. A beached pig.

  That strikes me as insanely funny. When I laugh, it sets off more coughing.

  When I finally stop, the man asks, “Can yo
u sit up?”

  I raise myself on one elbow and nod weakly, the dip of my chin sending a muddy runnel of water into my right eye.

  He holds my shoulders and braces me from behind as I sit. “As soon as you feel like you can make it, we should get in the boat.” As if to reinforce his words, lightning explodes a nearby tree.

  With a scream, I curl in on myself. My ears ring and I’m momentarily blinded. The sharp smell of scorched wood and something metallic stings my nose.

  Finally, I look over my shoulder at him. Not a man. Sixteen? Seventeen? His hair is plastered with rain. There is mud on his face. And his eyes are the bluest blue I’ve ever seen.

  “Wait right here!” He gets up and runs into the river, diving flat and swimming to a boat rocking on the stormy water. The Crescent City Queen.

  I take a wild look around. Raw chunks and splinters from the tree are all around me. Gran’s boat is gone.

  “Oh no!” I croak the words. The mayhaws. Griff’s arrowhead.

  The boy is a fast swimmer and is already pulling himself up into his boat. He hoists the anchor. It comes up dripping mud from the river bottom. The motor rumbles. It moves toward the bank. He cuts the power. He drops the anchor on shore and is back at my side.

  “My boat!” I shout.

  “We’ll search after the storm. Can you get up?” he asks, his voice buffeted by the wind and words slurred by the rain.

  A wall of wind bends the trees. I hear a sharp snap, followed by a low, woody groan.

  “Let’s go!” He pulls me to my feet.

  Clutching my fists to my chest, I start to take a step, registering for the first time my naked legs and soaked white blouse. My knees buckle.

  Keeping a strong arm around my shoulders, he catches the backs of my knees and carries me to the boat, lifting me high enough to sit on the gunwale. I wait, as if I can’t figure out how to move on my own as he pushes off and jumps in. After he helps me to a soaked cherry-red-and-white upholstered seat, he starts the powerful motor and we head downriver, me hunched and huddled into myself, the storm and the woods fighting like titans all around us.

  Every boom of thunder and slash of wind takes me back. Back to another storm.

  * * *

  I was nine. Angry slaps of rain and rough shoves of wind battered our house on Pearl River Plantation. Inside, in the living room, there was a hurricane; raised voices and breaking glass. Three-year-old Walden clung to me as we crouched in my pitch-dark closet. He smelled of sweat and baby shampoo. His cries slowed to sobs as I pressed one ear against my chest and covered his other with my hand.

  I wished Griff was home.

  I’d learned to sense the mood between my parents. They were extreme, fully one way or the other, no regular days, no middle ground. Obsessive, Gran called it, the way they saw only each other, sometimes with eyes of love, sometimes loathing, but always full to the brim.

  I’d been barely breathing for hours, hoping the buzzing tension between them would burn itself out (on the lucky days, it did) before it turned into an explosion of angry words and broken dishes. This was an unlucky day, the worst of the unlucky days yet.

  Daddy hadn’t slept for days; I’d heard him up knocking around all hours of the night. But he was full of energy. It seemed bothersome for him to be packed inside his own skin. He talked constantly, wild and scattery, going too fast to put in all the words. That was how this fight started, with too much talk, too many ideas.

  Margo finally yelled, “Enough! You sound like a lunatic!”

  He got mad. Fireworks mad. The anger quickly spread to Margo, a forest fire hopping from tree to tree. From the things they were shouting at each other, I wasn’t sure if they even knew what they’re fighting about. Which meant there was no way for it to come to an end.

  I edged the closet door open with my shoulder and peeked through the crack. Dharma sat on the floor of our bedroom, humming to herself and calmly playing with her baby doll.

  An ashtray went whizzing past our open door, shattering somewhere down the hall.

  “Dharma, come in here,” I said softly.

  Dharma kept humming, her hands calm as they patted her doll’s back, her body rocking gently, her eyes closed. Dharma never hid when our parents fought, she made her own closet inside her head.

  Margo and Daddy flashed past our doorway, Margo’s face red with rage as she spit out hateful words, her fists slamming into Daddy’s chest as he tried to grab her wrists.

  At that moment, thunder crashed, and I wished the storm would turn into a tornado and blow our house away.

  * * *

  Shivering in the boat, I keep my head down, protection against the pelting rain, but not against memories of storms past.

  The boy angles the boat toward the white-painted house. He cuts the motor and drifts, jumping onto the dock, whipping the rope around the cleat, then knotting it with the speed and surety of experience.

  I’m barely on my feet before he’s holding out a hand and shouting, “Come on!”

  Placing one bare foot on the driver’s seat I keep my arms folded against my chest as I try to step onto the dock. I teeter, nearly falling backward before he grabs my elbow and tugs me to safety. He doesn’t let go as he hurries me toward the long flight of steps that lead up to the screened-in porch.

  I don’t like him walking behind me, not with my wet see-through slip and outline of white panties in his face, but have no choice because the stairs are narrow. When I reach the screened door, I stop dead, Gran’s voice in my head cautioning me never to go into a house with a boy alone.

  “Open it and go in!” He gives my back a nudge. “Hurry up.”

  I turn. “Well, it’s not like we’re going to get wetter!”

  He shakes his head, water dripping off his chin and reaches past me, turning the latch and pushing it open and gently shoving me through. The porch is as fancy as the boat, filled with white wicker furniture with aqua-colored cushions.

  “Coming?” He’s walked around me and opened a French door leading to a brightly lit kitchen.

  Grasping my hands together under my chin, trying not to look like I’m covering up the fact that my bra shows through my wet slip and blouse, I follow. He disappears down the hall, leaving a trail of wet tennis-shoe prints on the polished pine floor and me dripping on a braided rug by the door.

  “Here.” He comes back into the kitchen and hands me a plaid flannel shirt and a pair of men’s pajama bottoms. “It’s the best I can do. There’s a drawstring in the pants. The bathroom is down the hall. I put a towel out in case you want to shower.”

  Something about his eyes paralyzes me. Or maybe I’m just stunned not to be dead.

  He holds the clothes closer to me and gives them an encouraging shake, as if I’m a frightened dog needing to be wooed to a treat.

  I swallow hard. My chest burns.

  “It’ll be easier to take them if you let go of those.” He nods toward the fists tight under my chin.

  I look down and slowly open my hands. This whole time, I’ve had the mayhaws I grabbed from the water in my fists, clutched as tight as if they could save me.

  Staring at them, I gasp. Then a sob jerks from my throat. This handful is all I have, nowhere near enough to save my family.

  With hiccups and gasps, I try to explain how important they are.

  I see he doesn’t understand, but he pulls me to him, hugging me awkwardly, my arms and the handfuls of mayhaws caught between us.

  I realize I sound like Dad during his hurricane time, when he can’t seem to go fast enough to keep up with his brain, when he buys things we don’t need and can’t afford, setting off fights. For a second, I’m afraid that a hurricane time has taken me. But as the boy pats my back and tells me everything is all right, I begin to slow down, both breath and thought.

  Finally, he lets me go. “Maybe you should just sit down for a little bit first.” He directs me to a turquoise vinyl kitchen chair with chrome legs.

  “I’m too wet.”


  “It won’t hurt anything.” His smile encourages me to sit down. “I’m Ross Saenger.”

  It’s weird introducing myself in a wet blouse and underwear. My cheeks get hot. “Tallulah.”

  “Tallulah . . . ?” He raises a light brown eyebrow as he draws out my name.

  He’s even more handsome than I thought. I feel even more exposed.

  “James. Tallulah James.”

  He smiles again. He has nice teeth. I wonder if they’re naturally that way or from braces. I bet Dharma will need braces. She wants to be onstage. Famous. Like Shirley Temple. I watched one of her movies on The Late Show the other night. Is Ross old enough to be out here all alone?

  My mind is bouncing again. Maybe being without air messed me up. I try adding some simple numbers in my head. That part seems to be working.

  “Nice to meet you,” he says.

  He must not see the crazy in my eyes.

  “But sorry about the circumstances,” he adds.

  “How did you . . . ?” I look toward the river, rough under the storm.

  “I saw you go past in that dinky boat right before the storm hit. I was getting the Queen uncovered to go check on you when I heard you scream.”

  I screamed?

  Then I remember. “It was a squeal,” I correct. “I was just startled by a cottonmouth.”

  “Well, it’s a good thing you were startled, otherwise I might not have been there when you went into the river after your boat.”

  “I didn’t see you.”

  “I was still pretty far away when you bobbed under the first time. Sorry about the waders, I had to cut the straps to pull you up.” He patted a wicked-looking hunting knife stuck in his belt. “I was cleaning up in the fish house.”

  The waders. Gran treats everything that belonged to Granddad with the same reverence she does the family Bible. When we honor and respect his things, we honor and respect him. She’s downright zealous about it. Now the waders are gone. Granddad’s boat is gone.

  Maybe it would have been better if I had drowned.