Here Legrand, having re-heated the parchment, submitted it my inspection. The following characters were rudely traced, in a red tint, between the death’s-head and the goat:
53‡‡†305))6*;4826)4‡.)4‡);806*;48†8¶60))85;1‡(;:‡*883(88) 5*†;46(;
. . . “These characters, as any one might readily guess, form a cipher—that is to say, they convey a meaning; but then, from what is known of Kidd, I could not suppose him capable of constructing any of the more abstruse cryptographs. I made up my mind, at once, that this was of a simple species—such, however, as would appear, to the crude intellect of the sailor, absolutely insoluble without the key.”
—Edgar Allan Poe, “The Gold-Bug”
Annie
Jackie left for work and I sat at the kitchen table, waiting for Buster to mosey out of his cave. Deb and I had decided to suspend our morning walks as long as Buster was there because I wanted to have breakfast with him. I was taking our marriage out of storage and, sort of but not completely, trying it on for size.
“If you feel like walking, call me.”
“I will,” I said.
But more important, I was going to have a granddaughter. Oh! I was so happy! Who would be the father? Would she get married? She had better get married, or I’d take off my belt and wail on her little fanny. Wait, no, I wouldn’t. I had not worn a belt in years. I wasn’t sure I even owned one anymore. But I told Deb the story of Jackie’s dream. She understood and agreed with me.
“That girl sure is a spitfire! May I just speak as one Lowcountry old salt to another? Don’t you just love it when people think they’re actually in charge of their lives?”
“Yes, ma’am! Makes me laugh. You see, she’s forgotten that in the Lowcountry, the hand of God is alive and well.”
I had no intention of telling Buster the news. Over the years, every time I had told Buster something from a dream meant thus and so was going to happen, he’d told me I was crazy and looked at me like I was one of the old witches from Macbeth stirring the pot. And when that predicted event came to pass, he’d harrumph that it was merely coincidence. Well, there were too many coincidences to be coincidences, okay? So Jackie’s remarriage and daughter-to-be would remain my secret, but maybe I’d start to crochet a pastel pink afghan and just let him wonder why. Wouldn’t that be fun?
“G’morning, Mrs. Britt, how did you sleep?”
Buster was up and poised for his morning hug. Because there was no one around to take our picture and put it up on Facebook, I gave the old bear a full frontal, arms around the neck, the whole nine yards. He did not object.
“Coffee?” I asked.
“Sure,” he said and released me. “What’s for breakfast? Something smells very good.”
“You’re smelling brown sugar. Sit, I’ll get you a bowl.”
I scooped out a generous serving of oatmeal, gave it the full garnish, including a pat of butter, and put it on the table before him.
“Thanks. I didn’t know oatmeal could be so . . . well, so dang pretty!” He smiled at me, and I thought he was still handsome, in an appealing rugged weather-beaten kind of way.
He was probably living on cornflakes, and cooking oatmeal probably never occurred to him.
“Thanks,” I said and handed him a mug of coffee.
“Is Charlie up?” he asked.
“No, but it’s time for him to go get the dogs. I’ll go wiggle his foot.”
“You mind if I make some toast?”
“Gosh, no. Help yourself to whatever you want.”
I heard Buster grunt as I left the room. It wasn’t a grunt of disapproval; it was one that sounded like Well, how do you like that? I can help myself! Don’t read too much into it, I thought.
I opened Charlie’s door quietly and peeked inside his room. The only movement was the gentle turning paddles of the overhead fan and the rise and fall of Charlie’s back. He was sleeping on his stomach; his torso and one leg were on the bed and the other leg was in midair, hanging over the floor. At some point he had kicked the covers off, and the leg of his pajama bottom was pushed up to his knee. He was a study in boyhood, and if I’d been an artist I would’ve set up my easel right there.
“Charlie?”
“Huh?”
“Time to get up, sweetheart. Gotta go get the dogs. And breakfast is ready.”
“ ’Kay. I’m coming.”
Was it possible that he had grown overnight? He rolled out of bed and walked past me, headed for the bathroom. It seemed that his bottoms were too short.
When Charlie came back with Stanley and Stella and settled them on the front porch, we all sat down at the table. Buster announced that he was going fishing and did Charlie want to come along? I said that I would like to come along too, and they looked at me like I had just said Barack and Michelle were coming for dinner or some kind of crazy thing like that.
“Why can’t I fish with y’all too?” I said, feeling a little defensive, but one of the things I’d told myself is that if we should ever flirt with a reconciliation, I would try to find out what it was about fishing that held such an attraction for him and thousands of other men.
“No! Of course you can! You just never wanted to go fishing before!” Buster said.
“Well, where are you going to fish?”
“I was thinking Breach Inlet,” Buster said.
“Wonderful! Can we stop at Thomson Park for a few minutes?”
“What kind of Thomson Park?” Buster said.
“I like parks,” Charlie said.
“No, no. Not that kind of park. Buster, I’ll bet you a dollar that you never even heard about Colonel Thomson, did you? Because the whole site is pretty new. I just learned about him myself.”
“What is it? More historical markers?”
Buster was highly skeptical about combining a fishing trip with history or anything that smacked of a nonrecreational event. I knew him. I could see disillusionment on his face.
“Don’t worry, sweetie,” I said, “if it’s boring, I’ll bait the hooks!”
“I want to see that!” Charlie said. “Glam touch a live wiggly thing? No way!”
“Way! Glam’s not afraid of bait! And this park is not like those boring plaques along the highway,” I said. “It’s an inspiration. No lie.”
“We’ll see about all that,” Buster said.
“Charlie, why don’t you go run the dogs? I’ll clean up the kitchen and get dressed. And Dr. Hemingway? Prepare your mind to be boggled by how many fish I bring home.”
“Yes, but are you going to rise to the challenge of cleaning them?” Buster said.
“Absolutely not! Nasty! That’s a boy job. I cook them. That’s my job.”
“I’m gonna go get everything together,” he said, kind of laughing to himself. “Is my cleaning table still under the house?”
“Well, yes, but it’s been repurposed as a potting table for my plants,” I said.
“What?”
“I guess you can just move everything to the ground and hose it down.”
“Oh, fine. I leave the house for a little bit, and my cleaning table becomes a home to begonias and geraniums.”
“A little bit? How’s eleven years? Should I have made it a shrine?”
“Humph. Well, I’ll just go see about it, then . . .”
“Well, you just go on and do that!”
What did he think? That his slippers were still tucked under his side of the bed and his reading glasses were still on the end table next to his favorite chair?
Even the newly allegedly mellow Buster could be exasperating.
Buster knew a spot on the back of the island where you could throw a cast net and catch shrimp. He intended to use live shrimp for bait. Yikes. I wasn’t so sure that I felt comfortable about stabbing them with a hook and murdering them in cold blood, although I suspected they didn’t even have blood, and if they did, it wasn’t red or warm. In any case, Charlie had never thrown a cast net, and he was excited to try it. I had my camera ready because there was nothing more beautiful than a young boy throwing a net, set against the long green marsh grass and the brilliant blue of the Carolina sky. My camera was the size of a deck of cards, making it extremely easy to carry in a pocket (which was why I ever used it) and it’s the most high-tech gizmo I owned.
Buster began to give Charlie a lesson. “You see, Charlie, you really need three arms for this, but since we only have two, we use our teeth to help. Watch this.”
Buster took his net, which was only about forty-eight inches in circumference and stretched it out between the full breadth of his arm span.
“See? You hold it like this. But you take the middle point in between your teeth like this.” He demonstrated.
Then he took the net out of his mouth; it had surely seen better days and had been in God only knew whose mouths. I was certain that it had never been washed and that it had to be infested with germs.
“I think catching bait with a cast net is a feat better accomplished by males of the species,” I said.
Charlie, who now held the net between his teeth, started to giggle. He looked at me and said, “Gross, huh, Glam?”
“Yes, gross. Just remember to let go with your teeth,” I said, “or it might pull your teeth out.”
“For real?” Charlie looked a little horrified.
“Aw, Annie! Don’t go scaring the boy! I’ve been throwing cast nets since I was half his age.”
“Is it true, Guster? I just grew these teeth, you know. They’re new.”
“Sort of. Look, I’ll tell you what. I’ll throw it a few times and you watch. Then if you want to do it, you can give it a try. Watch the timing, okay?”
I pulled out my camera and got ready. Just as Buster sent the net flying across the water, I snapped a picture. Perfect! Buster pulled the net back in, and it had a few shrimp inside.
“See these little guys? This is what shrimp look like before they get their stupid little heads snapped off.”
“Wow! Cool! Look at them jumping around!”
“Well, they prefer water to land, so let’s put some water in that bucket, pick them off the net, and drop them in.”
Charlie was mesmerized by the whole process. And pretty soon, with Buster’s guidance, he was handling live shrimp and throwing the cast net like he’d been doing it all his life too. Within a short period of time they caught plenty of bait. Best of all, I had wonderful pictures to show Jackie. It was so thrilling to witness the patience Buster had with Charlie and just as amazing to witness Charlie’s utter joy at discovering something new that he could now do with very reasonable proficiency for a boy of his age.
“Charlie?” Buster said. “If a man can fish? In this part of the world, he can feed himself and feed his family. It’s important to know how to do these things. Very important.”
Charlie nodded his head in agreement, Buster ruffled Charlie’s hair, and we went back to the car.
Buster started the engine, and as we backed out from the oyster-shell road, I could hear the water sloshing around in the bucket.
“What if that water gets on the floor of your car, Buster? It’s going to smell pretty funky.”
“Ah, Annie, real men don’t worry about that kind of hoo-ha, do they, Charlie?”
“No, sir, especially when the floor of the backseat has these rubber containers that the bucket’s in.” Charlie started to laugh.
“Now, don’t go telling all my secrets, Charlie, or Glam-ma will know too much!”
“Humph. Disrespectful naughty boys,” I said, pretending to be offended. “Let’s park right over there by Thomson Park.”
We did and we unloaded all the fishing gear, letting it rest beside the side of the SUV. The Breach Inlet Bridge was only steps away. We walked over to the tiny park that had been erected to the memory of Colonel Thomson and all the men who had fought with him.
Charlie and Buster looked at the weather-protected placards that told the basic story of the Battle of Breach Inlet, and I could see they were thoroughly uninterested.
“Okay, guys! Listen up! Now! Imagine this! It’s June twenty-eighth, 1776. You’ve got the American patriots on Sullivans Island and the British army on the Isle of Palms. There’re over three thousand Brits and less than eight hundred patriots, and we kicked their butts. I mean, kicked their butts the whole way back to Buckingham Palace!” God, I missed teaching history. “Right here! Right where you all are standing!”
“No way,” Buster said.
“Really?” Charlie asked.
“I never heard those numbers,” Buster said.
“On this very sandbar. Yep. Right here. Try to envision it. Can you imagine? No wonder Colonel Thomson’s nickname was ‘Danger’! Yep, that’s what they called him. Y’all want to drop a hook in the water now?”
“Wait a minute. Why didn’t they have more men to fight?” Charlie asked.
“Yeah, and how’d they win against odds like that?” Buster asked.
I had them right in the palm of my hand. “Because they outsmarted Major General Henry Clinton every step of the way. They had a few other things working for them too. Number one, part of Thomson’s troops were Indians and excellent fighters in nontraditional ways. And all the men were very good shots and the hot summer didn’t bother them one bit. Clinton’s men came over here, in June, mind you, dressed in big heavy wool uniforms, they had to sleep on the beaches, the alligators and snakes scared the devil out of them, and they were just eaten alive by mosquitoes.”
“Worse than I was?” Charlie said.
“Even worse, Charlie, even worse. But the main thing besides great leadership and knowing the terrain better than the British guys was that the American patriots had a real passion. They wanted their freedom more than anything else in the world, and they were willing to die fighting for it.”
“Wow,” Charlie said.
“Wait a minute,” Buster said. “Where the hell were General Moultrie and all those guys while this was going on?”
“Oh, come on, Buster! You know perfectly well where they were!”
“Yeah, I know, but I want you to tell our boy here.”
“Okay, they were at the other end of the island fighting another battle. You see, Charlie, in those days, this end of the island was all wilderness. There were no houses or anything. It was like a jungle. So, the other battle for Sullivans Island was fought with the British navy, and General William Moultrie was down the island in charge of that.”
“Tell him the best part, you know, about Parker,” Buster said, egging me on.
“Okay, but very briefly. You see the plan was that Admiral Sir Peter Parker and his nine Birtish ships would wipe out Fort Moultrie and then General Clinton’s men would swarm the island, wiping out anyone who was left. But Thomson, who fought against Clinton in this very spot, pushed back Clinton’s troops. So the British navy never got the ground support they were hoping for. And General Moultrie was focused on a couple of the ships in particular and one of them was the Bristol. That’s the one Admiral Parker was on. So don’t ask me how they did this, but one of Moultrie’s men shot Parker in the region of his backside and Parker’s fanny was exposed all through the battle.”
“WHAT?” Charlie yelled, he was getting so excited.
“And his leg was hurt too, but who cares about that?” I added, but Charlie was already gone to heaven on the tidbit about Parker’s butt. I couldn’t blame him. I had not had a class of kids in all my years teaching who didn’t lose it when they heard the Parker story. “But anyway, it was the Americans’ passion for freedom that carried the day in both battles. And better leadership. Now can we go catch a fish? I’m starving!”
“How come I never heard any of this stuff in school?” Charlie asked.
“Oh, I’m sure they’ll give it to you eventually. Pretty exciting, huh?”
“Wow, I’ll say,” he agreed.
“And your Glam has a way of making it all come to life,” Buster said and smiled at me.
Lord, I knew this man too well to think it was a random compliment. He was gunning for a ticket to the Magic Gate in the Master Suite. Uh-huh. I knew him better than I knew my own name. Maybe I’d let him pay a visit. IF he was very sweet.
We walked out to the bridge and across it a little ways.
“What are we going to catch, Guster?”
“Oh, we might get us some spottail bass or some trout. They’re running pretty good this time of year. Let’s just see. Can I bait your hook, Annie?”
“If you insist,” I said and was grateful that I didn’t have to put those darling little shrimp on my spit. Privately in my head? I gagged at the thought.
We stood by the railing on the bridge and fished until we had plenty of catch and the sun was becoming too much to bear. When Charlie pulled in his third trout, which had to be at least twenty inches long, we decided it was time to give it up for the day.
“This fishing rod is lucky, Guster! Thanks again!”
“It’s easy to cast, isn’t it?”
“Smooth as silk!” Charlie said, barely able to contain his enthusiasm each time he got a strike. “Ooh! Y’all! I got a whale on the line! I swear it’s a whale!”
“Don’t swear, darling! Let Guster help you!”
And of course, Buster would help him reel in his fish and get it off the hook.
I had caught two lovely bass. Buster caught one. We had enough fish to have a party. We gathered our gear and began to make the short walk back to the car.
“We can give a fish to Deb,” I said.
“And Steve,” Buster said.
“And I can make bouillabaisse. Bass is perfect for that.”
“What the hell is that?” Buster asked, and I was reminded that he despised anything that smacked of pretension. And in his mind anything French would meet that criterion, maybe even including Brie.
“It’s a French seafood stew,” Charlie said. “Aunt Maureen and I love it. Every time Mom got deployed she’d take me to this place called La Bouillabaisse. Just me and her.”
“See?” I said.
“Really? What’s in it?” Buster said.
“Tomatoes, fish, onions, garlic, I don’t know what else. I can look it up on the Internet if you want. Want to make some?”
“If you learned how to make it, wouldn’t your aunt Maureen be delighted?” Charlie got a peculiar look on his face and I asked, “What is it, honey?”
“I thought you understood,” he said. “I can’t go back there.”
“Why not?” Buster asked.
“Because it will be a disaster.”
“I have to talk to you about this, Buster,” I said. “I need your help.”
I looked at Buster, and his eyebrows were knitted in that old familiar way that showed his concern.
“Come here, Charlie,” he said, dropping the bucket of fish to the ground by his SUV. He kneeled down to look Charlie straight in the eyes. “What can I do to help, son?”
“Let me stay,” he said and began to cry. “Please let me stay.”
Buster stood up, put his arms around Charlie, and hugged him for all he was worth.
“Oh, dear,” I said and dug in my pocket for a tissue. “Here, sweetheart.”
“Come on, buddy,” Buster said. “There, now. Let’s go home and make some sandwiches and talk about this. It’s lunchtime. We’ll figure something out.”
Well, wasn’t that just like Buster to tell Charlie we’d figure something out? What? Just what did he think we could figure out to solve this? It was Jackie’s call to make, not ours.
Charlie climbed into the backseat of Buster’s SUV, and we were home in a few minutes.
“All right, young man. It’s time to clean the fish. You gonna help me?”
“I guess so.”
A very somber Charlie and a deeply concerned Buster took the bucket of fish under the house, and I climbed the steps to the house.
“Tomato sandwiches all right with y’all?” I called out to them.
“Yeah, God, it’s too hot to eat anything else,” Buster called back. “Thanks.”
The very first thing I did was wash my hands. Please! I had touched the handrails of a bridge and a fishing rod, and I felt so sticky that if I didn’t have to make lunch I would’ve hopped in the shower. Actually, my hopping days were behind me. Now I stepped cautiously into the shower.
The second thing I did was take Buster my largest rectangular Pyrex dish, in which he could put the cleaned fish. It was like the old days. He would bring me beautifully cleaned and filleted fish, and I would figure out what to do with it.
“Thanks,” he said and smiled at me. “Feels like old times.”
“You’re welcome,” I said, thinking, Well, it’s not. There’s been a lot of water under the bridge in all these years. Then I looked at Charlie. “You okay, baby?”
“Yeah, I guess. Boy, cleaning fish is a messy business, isn’t it?”
“Well, yes. I think I would faint if I had to cut the head off a live fish.”
“Well, they’re not exactly alive,” Buster said. “They’re sort of stunned.”
“Okay, well, I’m going to go back upstairs and make lunch. Y’all come on up when you’re ready.”
“Will do,” Buster said. “We won’t be too long. Right, Charlie? Hand me that knife, please.”
When Buster and Charlie came inside for lunch, the table was set for three. A platter of tomato sandwiches cut in half was in the middle with a bowl of potato chips and a smaller bowl of pickles. I had a pitcher of iced tea, of course, and a small bowl of lemon wedges. But I had a new beverage for Charlie: the Arnold Palmer. Half iced tea and half lemonade. Surely Jackie couldn’t object to that. And, most important, I had rinsed the remaining guts off the fish before I let them near my Big Chill refrigerator.
“I’ll just cover this with plastic wrap and put it in the fridge for now,” I said. “We’re going to have an amazing supper.”
Buster washed his hands at the kitchen sink and encouraged Charlie to do the same, which he did. That simple act of washing hands together, the sight of their backs at the sink, well, it was a diamond-sharp example of why grandparents loved being grandparents. The little boy who feels so much and knows so little yet about the world and about life, standing next to the older man who would love to show him everything he knows that’s of value and worthy of pursuit. And most important, it’s as though they both know that time is the enemy, working against them, so the time they do have together is so cherished.
We sat down, and I passed the platter of sandwiches around. I had made a fast recipe for basil mayonnaise in the blender and used it instead of the store-bought goop.
“Wow,” Charlie said. “This is really good, Glam.”
“Yeah, it really is, Annie. I’ve missed your basil mayonnaise. Nothing like it.”
He was on his best behavior, and I suspected that the closer we got to nightfall, it would improve even more. By bedtime I might have Prince Charming on my hands.
“Thanks, guys. So you liked fishing, did you, Charlie?”
“Yeah. I wonder if Edgar Allan Poe could fish.”
“Probably. I mean, it’s not that hard,” Buster said. “But who knows?”
“Well, that’s an interesting question to ask, because I’m pretty sure the answer is no. The early part of his life was spent in urban environments and in boarding school in England. Then he attended the University of Virginia, got tossed out, joined the army, and arrived here on the island. It was in November of 1827, I believe.”
“Using a fake name,” Charlie said, taking a bite of a pickle. “Edgar Perry, right?”
“That’s right. Anyway, his job was to order and organize all the food and supplies they needed for the whole fort. It wasn’t exactly like being a general, but he did such a good job handling his duties that he was promoted to sergeant major. But there’s no evidence he caught the fish they ate.”
“Annie? Since when do you know all this about Poe?”
“Well, darlin’? I’ve had a lot of time on my hands in the last few years, haven’t I?”
“Hmmm. Yeah, I reckon so.”
“Charlie, I hope you and your momma can be here when I give my talk at the library.”
“Me too!”
“What talk?”
“Well, Deb wants to raise some money for the library, so she asked me if I’d give a talk on Poe. Listen, he was a real interesting character.”
“Was he ever!” Charlie said.
“You don’t know the half of it, Charlie. Come back and see me when you’re eighteen! Anyway, so, she’s going to ask her volunteers to make some sandwiches and cookies and whatever, a punch bowl of something, I guess, and charge a little admission. Hopefully, it will work.”
“Well, put me down for a front-row seat,” Buster said.
“Really?” I said, a little surprised because I had thought Buster would never be interested in Poe.
“Yeah, really. I’m real proud of you, Annie.”
“So am I, Glam. Now if y’all could just figure out a way I can stay here, the world would be awesome.”
“What’s the real problem, Charlie? Just spill it,” Buster said.
Charlie told Buster basically the same things he had told me, and Buster shook his head.
“Do you want me to talk to our daughter?” he asked.
“I’ve wanted to ask you to do that. Yes, please, talk to her.”
Buster reached over and patted the back of Charlie’s hand. For some reason it gave me hope.