Where Page 2

  It’s a pleasure to think about them having whatever urgent conversation Steele planned while he’s all distracted and crazy because he can’t let Merrill Poulnot’s lover, her partner see him scratching his butt.

  There is a shift in the air— an atmospheric tremor, as though something tremendous just stirred and came to life, but he is too angry to mark the difference.

  Whatever was about to happen just happened, but Davy doesn’t know it yet.

  Instead, his heart is running on ahead. He has to get done here and rush home before Merrill even thinks about waking up. He has to make things right. The more Davy mulls it, the more he thinks her ultimatum is directly caused by this fucking Steele, an observation he is too messed up to parse. Where is the fucker, anyway? If it gets to be five A.M. and he hasn’t showed, the hell with him. They’re done. He’ll wait until the last trawler passes, guys he knew in high school fixing to cast their nets out there just like their fathers did. When he studied architecture and set up shop on Charlton Street, he had great dreams. Instead it’s a constant tug-of-war between his vision and predators like Steele, and if he envies the shrimpers a little bit? Well, yeah. So cool, spending your days out on the open water, nothing to think about; cast the nets and drift until sunset, haul in your catch.

  Fuck Steele, with his “I’ll explain later.” The light is changing and he has things to do. Get home, take Merrill by the hands and not let go until they’ve ended this, he tells himself, without knowing what this is.

  Then sirens tear up the sunrise, the blat and confusion of some new emergency. Warning? Warning.

  Trouble out there somewhere.

  He is up and running too fast for thought to catch up, shaken, worried and wondering.

  Where?

  2

  Merrill Poulnot

  Yesterday morning

  Nobody saw this coming.

  Waking up in our usual lives on Kraven island yesterday, who knew? Lying there with Davy, doing everything we loved to do, I didn’t have a clue. When we’re linked, we’re one body; when we’re apart, we’re like twins separated at birth— if one of us is hurt, the other flinches, but now …

  Who knew? How could anybody know?

  Look at us the way we were, lounging in the sweet morning air, lazy islanders getting up to go about our business: Davy and me lying close, the hundred other souls stirring around us hitting the snooze alarm, putting off the usual things— making coffee, putting out the dog. We were so ordinary.

  Yesterday.

  Yesterday I was troubled by certain things, but nothing that hasn’t worried me every day since I moved out on Father and left my little brother there with him. Ned won’t have the same problem, I told myself; boys don’t, but I felt shitty about it. He was only six. I put sweet old Patrice in place to make sure of it, she was with us before Neddy was born, before Mother left us in the middle of the night. I ran away to save my life. I had to separate, rent a room and find a job, get into college— with funding— and come back strong enough to turn three lives around. I started with mine.

  “Patrice will take care of you.” I gave Neddy a phone. I showed him how to use it, walked him through a list of things to do in case of this, in case of that, thinking, Thank God he’s not a girl. He was so grown up, reciting the list, all smart and proud. I promised to come see him every day, and I did. Patrice will know what happens before it happens, I told myself; Patrice will take care of him, and she did, and I checked on them daily. I went to junior college in Charlton so I could get back to the house every night, and by the time I went to State, Ned was tough enough to handle Father— and we had Patrice. We talked every night. On the phone with people you love, you can tell whether they’re lying or not. It’s in that vibe, or hesitation: some offbeat note in the voice.

  Neddy doesn’t lie, and Patrice can’t. Every time I came home I looked for evidence: One mark on my kid brother and I come down on him with the full force of the law. I thought, Child Services. I thought, The courts won’t care who Father is or who his people were, when I graduate, Neddy will come to live with me. I thought once I had the job, got this house, the court would let Ned decide, but I was wrong. I’m too young, I’m living with a man, we’re not married, bad influence. QED. Meanwhile Father’s at Trinity every Sunday, front row, kneeling on the spot where the first Poulnots knelt down to pray: solid citizen, the last in a long, long line of Hampton Poulnots. Until he stepped down for reasons he won’t talk about, he was a judge.

  I love my brother, but given what came down after Mother left, I can’t be there at night. Instead I go every day, assess the situation. Make mental notes, one of those things I can’t tell Davy about, or won’t, never let the people hear you grind your teeth. Yesterday I found Father at the kitchen table with his TELL IT TO THE JUDGE coffee mug and his oatmeal, everyday Father, making the smile he uses when he knows he is being watched, sweet old man, wouldn’t hurt a fly.

  “Where’s Neddy?”

  He looks up: Oh, it’s you. “What?”

  Things have always been bad between us. “Ned. You know, Edward Poulnot, your only son?”

  “At that damn computer, he’s always at that damn confuser— I mean computer. If he’s playing those games I’ll go up and…”

  “Don’t.”

  The rest of the sentence goes: Tan his hide. My father, the retired judge, leader of men, back-benched at town meetings, contains the rage, but I know.

  “Just don’t.”

  Blink. Blink. “I wouldn’t think of it.” Pillar of the community, butter wouldn’t melt, sweet old Father, mild as milk. Fine old family, solid citizen— that’s what most people think; they’d rather not know. He needs the applause.

  And what did I need? I needed to go upstairs and speed-read my brother’s face, looking for bruises; ruffle his hair, checking his head for lumps. I needed to look into his face and without waiting for the answer, find out from Ned without having to ask, Are you all right? It hasn’t happened yet, but I worry. All these years and it’s still precarious. Patrice is embarrassed by the extra money, but she understands, and she knows why I can’t be there. Grandmother left me a little so I can afford to do this— did she know before I knew? Father drove me away with his drunken rages, the night crawlers: Father in my room; I was never sure what, or why. Ned’s fine, I told myself. He’s a boy. He’ll be fourteen next month, and he’s already big enough to hit back.

  “I’ll just run upstairs and tell him hey.”

  I found him staring into the magic box. I know what Ned is looking for: power, and in the game, he’s deep into it, scheming, slashing and blasting his way to the top level of that gorgeous CG mountain. He didn’t even hear me come in.

  I began, just the way I always do. “Are you OK?”

  Then I watched reflected fires and explosions playing on his face. He said, without looking up, “I’m fine.”

  Ned, Edward LaMar Poulnot, you look so much like our mother that it breaks my heart, sitting there mousing and grinning as the neon blood flies, lighting you up and filling your world here, and inside that game. I know you have something going with your friends in there; I know you talk to them in the night, tapping into the chat box with one hand while you mouse deeper and deeper into the game, the game! I was a gamer once; I know it doesn’t matter which game it is, when you’re into it, that’s all you are. It swallows you whole, and if I watch for more than a minute or two I’ll get sucked in and there will be two of us sitting here, lost in space and it will be wonderful, at least for a little while.

  “Don’t you have school?”

  “Home sick.”

  “You look fine to me.”

  “Sore throat. Sent home yesterday, in case. If my tongue turns red around the edges, it’s strep.” The magic box makes that kphchuuu sound better than kids do, and on the screen, whatever he is fighting dies. “Got a note from the nurse.”

  “Show me.”

  “Can’t, I’ll miss the…” Kphchuuu!

&nb
sp; “If you say so. If you’re not up and around when I get here tomorrow, we’re going to the clinic on Poynter, so Dr. LaPointe can culture your throat, you hear?”

  KPHU, SKLZZT. FOW! A flying reptile thing swoops down on his character. “I said, do you hear?”

  That thing is poised to destroy you. Neddy, watch out!

  BLAT!!

  Oh, thank God. “Earth to Ned.” Late. There’s a hidden button on that sword. If he can only find that red button in the hilt … One more minute and I’d be late.

  “OK.”

  “Sick, huh.” Oh look, stairs up to a— temple? Neddy, watch out for the … I have to go. “Call me if you get worse. Say hi to Patrice for me.”

  BRAAAACK … Sweet grin as he waves. “Later, dude.”

  It was a relief to get to work, where I know what to do and how to do it and my check comes on the last Friday of the month.

  Then at the end of the day the gorgeous stranger I met through Ray Powell showed up at my front door—Ray’s friend—at least I think he is—Rawson Steele. I looked into his face and I thought, Ray, we need to talk. Rawson tried to smile for me but his face wouldn’t hold still. The lines changed like crystals in a kaleidoscope, so fast that I couldn’t read anything but this: he needed me. It was mysterious. Intense. His voice escaped him almost by accident. “There’s something I have to find out, it’s…”

  It was interesting, Rawson Steele all urgent and vulnerable. Here. I touched his arm. There was a little electric shock as we connected, a current so strong that I had to ask, “Are you all right?”

  “Ms. Poulnot.” He began, but couldn’t quite get it out: this is so hard. “Merrill, there’s something I have to…”

  Davy roared into our driveway just then and broke the connection. He banged on the horn at the sight of us, cutting an angle so sharp that oyster shells sprayed like spit, and when I turned back to Rawson Steele to ask him what he needed from me, or why, he wasn’t anywhere.

  By the time Davy came into the house it was like the stranger was something I had imagined. Davy didn’t kiss me, he just set his jaw and went all stony, so I knew it was real. He stood there waiting for me to explain. He’d rather die than ask, but he wouldn’t let go. We sat down to eat angry, watched TV angry, turning up the volume to avert the confrontation. We went to bed angry, couldn’t sleep. Got up and had the fight, and whose fault was that?

  I was too upset to lie awake feeling bad about it which I did— feel bad, I mean. Last night I didn’t care what Davy said or did to make up, I was that pissed off, so I took a damn pill. If he tried to apologize I wouldn’t know it. If we turned over in the morning and rolled together the way we usually do— well, I couldn’t think about that. Not the way I was. I clamped my pillow over my head and around my ears to shut him out, and I felt good about it. Cut off from Davy, snug and drowsy in the dark.

  Until, without warning and with no sense of transition …

  This.

  3

  Davy

  Thursday

  Two cop cars and an ambulance stream past, heading out Ribault Road. Trouble on the base, he thinks. There’s always trouble at the base. On North Island the front and back ends of war rub up against each other and strike sparks daily, old vets and new war wounded laid up in the base hospital while buzz-cut eighteen-year-olds train to feed the war, result: bar fights and domestic violence. Losses on night marches—AWOL via the marsh.

  Then a procession of EMTs and fire trucks makes the V-turn, heading out Ribault Road. This is bigger than I thought. Davy checks his phone; after five, and no Steele. History tells him that even at this hour, any kind of commotion on the base jams up traffic at the Bartlett Fork. Five more minutes, he tells himself. If he made it around the Fork he’ll be here by then.

  Police set up a checkpoint as he watches, waving island-bound traffic to the old Burton road. Dude, you can get there from here but it takes hours. Right. They’re already backed up bumper to bumper from here to the county’s built-in bottleneck, the circle at the Bartlett Fork.

  He’ll have to wait until the cops step aside and traffic actually moves. With things the way they are, it could eat up the rest of the morning.

  Just when he has to get home.

  Fucking Steele. What did he want with me?

  Home. Why isn’t he here?

  Home invasion by Rawson Steele. Why was he on my porch last night, standing too close to my girl?

  The porch is Merrill’s, but they’ve been together for so long that he forgets. With no sign of Steele and whatever hangs between the two of them still pending, Davy goes back inside his head and broods. She has to see through this guy, right? Walking in with sharp elbows and that loaded smile, who would not? In the South, you’re brought up to be polite, smile for the stranger, at least until he shows himself for what he really is.

  Whatever that is. Davy groans.

  Does Steele want something that we don’t know about? Oil beneath the surface of Kraven island? Confederate gold buried under the Tanner house or in trunks at the bottom of the lake? Pirate treasure in a drowned ship out there beyond the sand bar on the ocean side? Treasure hunters have dug all over the island and sent divers down into those waters for going on two hundred years, and the most anybody ever found was Earl Pinckney’s Spanish piece of eight, and that washed up on the beach when they were ten. Maybe the island is hiding some great natural resource that we don’t know about; turn our backs and he’ll leach it out of the ground, bleed us dry without us knowing until it’s gone.

  Or he’s a developer, all charming at first, vampire just waiting for you to invite him in. He’ll buy out the homefolks one by one and level the island to do … what? Desecrate the place?

  Will it be condos or plastic pseudo plantation houses with vinyl columns on the verandas and fake flowers in PermaStone urns? Great big honking casino, more likely. Megamall, harbor expansion that takes out our waterfront, so giant cruise ships can unload tourists to trash the island, some damn thing to wreck our lives and ruin the terrain, like a …

  Davy is— Oh shit, he’s circling the drain.

  Like he could win me over before the sun comes up. Does he not know what I do for a living?

  That’s the bad thing about meeting: “Someplace convenient to your office.” Yeah. He does.

  If he thinks I’ll cough up deeds and property lines just because he asks, he’s shit out of luck. I’ll kill him first.

  The problem being that Davy isn’t sure. Steele is like a Chinese puzzle— you can’t solve it, and you can’t let it go. His mind is whirring like a rat trapped in a gerbil wheel.

  Wait! While he was brooding, the pink light in the sky turned blue. It’s late! He needs to hurl himself at that traffic jam and hope to God that he gets home before Merrill signs off on him.

  It takes some fancy dancing to make it through the second check point at Ribault Road, but Davy manages. He went through Charlton Primary with most of these guys. He’s making decent headway when sirens pull him over: with Charlton cops already out there, fire trucks and emergency vehicles from towns surrounding stream past him, headed for the Bartlett Fork. Trouble at the base, he thinks. Really bad trouble at the base.

  He’s moving an inch at a time, banging on his car radio because for whatever reasons, reception is totally whacked. Every few minutes another gang of sirens pulls everybody over while more cop cars, fire trucks, wreckers, ambulances pass. Traffic seizes up altogether a crazy half-mile short of the circle. Not now. Not when I’m so close! A good half-mile of outgoing cars clogs the road between here and the circle, more are piling up behind him and the sun is high.

  He should call or text Merrill, but the signal is crunchy and he doesn’t know what to say. Bad idea. Wait. I’d better talk to her; he hits One on his speed-dial, and his phone? His service makes calls from the causeway dicey on the best days. Now the signal is all fucked up. What, did lightning take out the phone towers? He needs to fix what he wrecked, and he can’t do it by phone. He n
eeds to look into those hazel eyes and try to guess what she’s thinking, what he has to do, he …

  Doesn’t know.

  Anybody with half a brain would do what people behind him are doing: crunch over the median divider in a complete U-turn, incoming traffic from the islands or no, and head back to town. Makes sense, the morning’s shot, but he can’t. He’s too in love, or driven, or whatever it is, to quit now. It’s all he can think about. Dumb, sticking wallpaper music into his CD deck, like that would take his mind off the fact that nothing is moving and for the moment, there’s no place to go.

  How long has he been sitting here? Another half-hour, and nothing’s moved. Crazy, stupid, stupid-crazy Dave Ribault, waiting like a toad. It’s time to charge the median, make that Uey and head back to town, where he can make this call from a landline, no interference breaking up the important things they have to say. He guns the motor. Wait.

  This is bad.

  There is no incoming traffic.

  Not one car or truck has come in from the barrier islands—no military personnel or official vehicles coming back from whatever disaster at the base.

  The car in front of him jerks to life and Davy’s heart fast-forwards. At last. Clinch, reconciliation, and then …

  Then he rounds the last bend.

  The causeway to North Island is all but empty. The trouble isn’t on the base. It’s out their way, maybe on Poynter’s island, or, my God! Kraven. Davy’s jaw seizes up. His teeth collide with a padlock click. He tries the car radio again but gets nothing but white noise.

  Five more minutes and all his joints will rust. Time crawls. His car crawls. The skin on the back of his neck crawls. Ahead, orange cones and yellow plastic barrels mark a checkpoint, OK, SOP. Usually checkpoints are manned by guys like the ones he charmed his way past in town; if it’s Bobie or Jack Stankey, he’ll go, “Hey,” and they’ll go, “Well, hey.” All he has to do is grin, hark them back to something they did after the Moultrie game in senior year and they’ll flag him through. But this is a military operation: four Humvees from the base crouch with shoulders hunched, filling the road.