GOLD RIBBONS TRAILED over the blue carpeted floor of the Cove’s conference center room. Pumpkin satin dresses swished to reggae. We all were jumping along in a line dance. The party mood and Mac’s turning the thermostat to a higher temp was warming us. It half convinced us that snow weather wasn’t headed our way, and that we hadn’t just attended a funeral. Locals turned out after the ritual wedding party dances and speeches and cake cutting were done. The dark had descended, but the party was ardent with the desire to forget trouble and to dance.
When Laura had moved to the islands, she’d wondered what the word “locals” meant. I’d shrugged and said, “I guess anybody who’s endured the place for longer than the rest of us can remember.”
The word locals meant more. Locals fought to keep this way of life alive, or fought to stay alive in this place. They’d watched as wealthier folks had come with big boats and pushed the real estate market to the levels unreachable to locals and their children.
Due to the difficult nature of the fishing industry, it was understandable that the locals had a word for folks who’d moved in—outsiders. But locals were slowly learning how to get what they needed from the wealth of the outsiders.
The locals gave the outsiders something, too. A way of being. Locals knew how to party, how to relax urban rules. High school boys danced with old ladies, people actually stomped and danced loose-hipped on the floor. The outsiders appreciated this live-and-let-live on the island. This meant the two groups generally intermingled with no thought of consequence. Live for today.
The bride and groom had sneaked off to change their clothes to escape for their honeymoon. The wedding guests had changed clothes and knew they’d be staying at the Cove Condos for the night. They had more champagne, punch, and food. I watched locals sneak in cheap bottles of vodka under jackets and spike the punch. Then I noticed the nearly full moon, crisp and white, rising in the velour black sky.
Fletch, the grieving widower, arrived in his funeral clothes, bolo and all, and danced with some of the wedding party. Cooter would stop in once in a while, strut around like Barney Fife, and then disappear to swagger on Main Street. The weather had cleared. The opaque Gulf reflected the moon in silver ribbons. Beyond, on Spangle Island, only a shadow of craggy trees—pines, water oaks, palms—shapes that exposed the island.
Dad had come to town for the festivities. He loped up and put his arm on my shoulder, nodded out towards the glistening Gulf, the night birds diving and rising again. The haunted island beyond. “This is why we moved here,” he said. He was always apologizing for raising me in a Cracker island town by touting its uncultivated beauty. He couldn’t help that my mother had died, leaving him at the helm to raise me. I’m sure he’d felt like the last sailor aboard ship to do the job of captain.
“I’m so glad to be back,” I said. I’d moved a lot—to Gainesville for one degree, to North Carolina for a master’s, scholarships to Ireland, England, and Spain. Then to Jacksonville with the kids after I married. My husband Walter, when he was around, began to ridicule me as soon as Tay was born. It started with my family. My father, a Cracker bureaucrat; Grandma Happy, a crackpot. Then it was me. Flaky, eccentric, selfish, a gypsy. I was trying to forget. But I got the message—my choices about having kids were peripheral to his life. He had no interest in being a dad.
When I was pregnant with Daisy, I had a recurring nightmare that I was trapped in a burning house. I couldn’t move my arms or legs to get the kids or budge to get myself out. Two months after Daisy was born, Walter had wanted me to get back to work. He started calling Tay, who was six at the time, a loser. My father had just had a heart attack and a double bypass. I left with the kids. In the middle of the night, so he couldn’t bully me into staying. I had come right home. Dad had welcomed me like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Now, I wrapped my arm around my tall father’s waist. We were about the same height now, but I always thought of him as taller. “I love it here,” I said to him. “I’m glad my kids are growing up in St. Annes.”
He smiled, read my thoughts and took a sip of Diet Coke. “I don’t think we’re gonna see oil. I have a feeling other things are sneaking into the water anyway. But we’ll just keep rolling, like always.” He squeezed my shoulder. I wondered what he meant, but I let it go for now in the momentary bliss.
It hadn’t been easy. The child support payments had slowed to a halt, and they didn’t cover squat anyway. Then a second mortgage on the Panther Pit property. I moved to town to start the business. Local friends supported me, but they didn’t have much. Fishermen usually don’t. Neither do most small businesses. But I kept finding ways to keep afloat, like weddings, conventions, specials during tourist season. My nightmare now was the possibility that I’d lose my business ten years after losing the idea that a husband would contribute to the raising of his kids.
“Fletch doesn’t look like he’s just buried his wife, does he?” Dad said. Fletch held Mary close as a slow song played. She tilted her head back and laughed.
“This town is full of drama,” I said. “Always has been.”
“That’s why I like the pit,” Dad said, glancing at his watch. “Almost nine, my bedtime. Your grandma wanted me to remind you to take your tonic.”
“Oh, lord, yes, the tonic,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Tell her I drank it, okay?” He gave me a quick wink and headed out the door.
The bride and groom fled from the downpour of sunflower seeds that the crowd threw, and the reception settled into a late party. The band cranked up, and the locals hit the punch. Most remaining wedding guests danced in a big knot of jumping around.
I scanned the room. Tiffany shook hands with Randy. Soon, they had their heads together in deep conversation. Mac Duncan was sidling up to Tiffany, too. They started talking furiously, and Randy began to use his hands to explain something. Suddenly someone was tugging on my arm. Taylor and Daisy had shown up. I’d paid Tay to babysit his sister on a Friday night. A real sacrifice for Taylor. So I had agreed that they could walk down Main Street to the reception. I’d take Daisy after the reception was over, so Tay could do his teen thing at eleven.
“Come on,” Daisy said, pulling my arm, wanting to dance. I put down my drink and danced. Gumby and Tinkerbell. People made room for my daughter. She didn’t know how good she was, but she took up the space naturally, spinning and swooping and tapping. Thank you, Trina, for the lessons, I thought. My eyes suddenly felt too full. I blinked back the teary pressure behind them.
Tay noticed and pulled me out of the center. “Mom, you okay?” he said. I nodded.
“It just hit me,” I said. “How much Trina did for you. That’s all.” I shrugged and stared at the floor.
He put his arm around me and sighed. “Don’t cry here, okay?” I nodded. No scenes from Mom. A cardinal rule of teens.
“I don’t like dramas, anyway,” I said. At least not those I was in. “Go on and take the night off. I’m fine.” He asked if I was sure. He thought he needed to assume the masculine role in our household. He looked world weary, and impatient. “Go on,” I insisted. “I’m fine. Have fun.” He skulked off, then thought better of it, tickling his sister in the sides as he left. The wedding party finally departed. But the locals stayed. Mac had asked the band to play on.
Up walked Mac.
“You look like you just stepped off the plantation,” I said.
He leaned over and kissed me on the cheek, unruffled. Weird, he had always treated me as if I was a sister, a daughter, and a lover, all at the same time.
“Where’s that haircut you promised me?” he said.
“You want it now?” I said. He nodded. He was one of those vain clients who had to get his hair cut every two-and-a-half weeks.
“Now’s as good a time as ever,” he said. “I’ll give you a hundred bucks to cut it right now.” The locals were dancing, stumbling around. I had cut hair in many situations. One night at a late martini party on Live Oak Key for a bunch of bankers, I cut hair. The brother of the bank president had always worn long hair, and we convinced him to cut it all off. He did. The next day, he freaked out. But he never grew his hair long again. Once, I’d shaved the head of a friend who was losing her hair during chemo right there in the hospital. People sometimes gathered around when I cut hair in those situations. I looked at Mac, shrugged, said, “Let me finish this drink,” and then nodded. I owed him for this gig.
I walked to the opposite side of the room and grabbed my bag. A sauced Mary was bending Randy’s ear. I checked my watch. Already ten, and Daisy was dancing with her school friends in a circle. “It’s just so sad,” Mary was saying. “I can’t imagine why she’d have done something like that.” She was wandering that path towards more sodden.
“Hi, LaRue,” Randy said, so I stopped. He’d changed out of his funeral shirt and wore cargoes and guayabera shirt. He wore everything well, being lanky and broad-shouldered.
Mary went on. “I heard you talking to Cooter about Afghanistan,” she said to Randy. “Don’t ever talk to him about that stuff,” she said. “He gets so mad. He blames it on Clinton.”
“What?” Randy said, exhaling in exasperated disbelief.
“Why?” I said.
“Oh, you know,” she said, shifting unsteadily. “Bush.” She stared at nothing in front of her. “He doesn’t like Bush either.”
“Which one?” I asked. “Former governor of Florida or his bro the former prez?”
“Both. Governor. He says even Bush let the lefties put all these rules on us about the wetlands and regulations out the wazoo. Can’t anybody do business anymore. And now we have that, that . . . black for a president. That Muslim.” Her face had turned blotchy red, shouting the way people drinking do when they don’t know how loud they’ve become. “Cooter says people have been building houses out there by the St. Annes River since time began. Then here comes the government, telling us what to do. And saying they won’t pay us but ten percent of what we’d have made after this oil spill. Some say they did it on purpose.” Randy sighed, looked at the ceiling, nodded at me, and then walked off.
“I wanted to thank you,” I said, calling after him. He stopped, turned, his jaw clenched. I didn’t get this guy anymore. “You’ve been so good to Tay. This is a hard time for him.”
“He’s a great kid,” Randy smiled, glancing at me, and then back at Mary. “I enjoy his company.” End of conversation, unless I said something. I turned away from Mary and took a few steps toward Randy.
“I’m about to cut Mac Duncan’s hair, but I was wondering. You walked away fast from that conversation.”
“I don’t have to listen to all that about the wetlands, our fragile situation here, contaminants that are going into the water, especially now. Redneck conspiracy theories.” He shook his head. He took a sip of his drink.
“Well, besides Mary, how’re you doing?” I said.
“What do you care?” he said. Whoa. Hostility city, I thought. That was exactly what he’d said to me the night I told him I was moving to Gainesville to attend college. He’d had another year of high school. I’d told him I needed to get out of St. Annes and see the world, use the small minority scholarship I’d been offered. I had told him then I still loved him. “No you don’t. I’ll be stuck here, and you’ll be off partying, finding another boyfriend. What do you care?” he’d said as we swung in the kiddy swings looking at the blinking stars above the tiny county beach next to the Cove. Just beyond this hotel.
That night, I’d wondered if he was bitter about his holy roller father. His dad couldn’t accept a son who didn’t have Pentecostal beliefs. His father would never understand Randy’s passion for the natural world, his need for science.
But this wasn’t my problem now. I had two kids, two mortgages, and times were damn hard. He had money, a home, nobody who needed him. “What do I care?” I said. “Good question.” I pointed a finger at him, and stomped off to get my stylist bag. After a minute, I saw that he was bewildered at my behavior. I felt a little smug, and then bored with myself over it, so I wandered over to Mary, who stood by the piano. Alone, she stared at the wall across the room.
“These are the best rolls and coffee I’ve ever tasted,” I lied. “Come on.” She followed me to the coffee table. Mac stood across the room sitting in a chair, waiting. He caught my eye, raised an eyebrow and beckoned, pointing to the chair. I nodded, waved, then poured Mary and myself a cup of coffee from the urn, and asked her if she took cream and sugar. Neither. I handed her a roll, which might soak up some alcohol. She watched with slow eyes. I took a bite of roll and a sip of coffee. “Really good.” I glanced over at Mac. I gave him the hang-on-a-second sign.
Mary took a bite of roll. “Ummmm, delicious. You know, I haven’t eaten all day.”
“Well, here’s to us,” I said, clinking my mug gently against hers. She took a swig as I did. I remember my college roommate doing this for me one night when I was hog-faced drunk, as she called it. We’d been playing pool in a Gainesville bar called Hogsbreath. I remembered following her every movement, and being glad I’d eaten the biscuits later.
Now, I poured Mac a cup of coffee from the urn and set it on the table. I put my bag on my shoulder and walked over to Mac.
“Where do you want to sit?” I said. He pointed to the corner I’d just left by Randy and Mary. We moved back over to the corner. I fetched his cup of coffee from the table. He loved java and could drink it any time. I draped the salon cape around his neck and snapped it shut. As I started trimming his white hair, I glanced up to see Mary watching us. Was she having a fling with Mac, too? Three men would be tough to handle. She’d been ballroom-style dancing with Fletch half an hour ago.
“Nice reception, huh?” Mac said. The party began to thin out. About twenty-five people still milled around, some dancing, some nibbling desserts, some sitting or standing, talking, helping themselves to the spiked punch and the dregs in the bottoms of the wine bottles.
“Especially now that the wedding party’s gone,” I said. De Lions of Ja, the reggae band with a hip hop flare, were playing their last set.
“Your daughter is a natural out there,” Mac said. Daisy danced alone now, twirling and choreographing her own world.
“My daughter didn’t get that dance grace from me.” I said. Laura had begun a conversation with Madonna, who’d just waltzed in. Then they began dancing. Mac took a slurp of coffee. I asked him for a sip. It tasted bitter. “Mac Duncan, how do you drink coffee so bitter? Black coffee is awful.” He showed off by taking a big drain. The only thing close to me was the tonic, so I took it out of the bag and began drinking it. Delicious—sweet and sour together.
“I’m sure needing this, even if it is bitter,” he said holding the coffee. “And you’re right—it must be old and burnt.” I noticed Mary was still watching us glumly as she chewed bread from across the room. Mac’s mane already had the coiffure of a woman, so this cut was easy. A trim to the back and sides, some gel to flatten the long bangs in front. I felt slightly dizzy. I hadn’t been drinking, just coffee and then just one big swallow of tea. Folks on the dance floor were laughing and shaking their heads at the “whatever, man” way we islanders have, cutting hair at odd hours in strange places.
“Want some of this,” I asked, holding out the tonic that could easily substitute for such bitter coffee. “Grandma Happy’s concoction.”
“No way,” he said, draining his cup. I drained the entire bottle of tonic down. Well, here’s to the day of opposites, Grandma, I thought. I finished up Mac’s hair with a little wax to keep it in place in the winter wind. Cooter had walked in again, and stared at his wife. Randy headed out, and glanced at me and waved as he left. I shook some talcum powder on the barber brush and flicked prickly hairs off Mac’s neck.
“You need to come in tomorrow and get this neck shaved,” I said. He nodded. “But not too early, hear?” I added. He got up to head across the room. I wiped the hair bristles out of the chair and made a note to use the hotel vacuum later. I gathered the cutting supplies while the reggae band played “No Woman, No Cry.” The dance floor moved in my peripheral vision like an old mirror’s reflection, slightly wavery. Maybe I’d sit down rather than dance, feeling this dizzy.
That’s when I heard Daisy scream. I whirled around. Daisy was backing away from a heap on the floor, a human heap. In Mac’s clothes. No, it was Mac. Huddled on the floor, wheezing. He was coughing, almost convulsing.
The band stopped, one member at a time, and people quit dancing, moving towards Mac on the floor. Daisy ran towards me, grabbing my legs. Mac was writhing on the blue-carpeted floor. He lay holding his throat, his face red. And why was I dizzy?
I patted Daisy who was saying, “Mama, what’s wrong, what’s wrong with Mister Mac?” People were gathering around Mac, watching. A buzzing shout rose up from the crowd into the ceiling.
“Move back, move back,” Cooter said, pushing away the group who’d crowded around.
“What’s going on?” I said to Cooter. He was already on his police radio, calling the county sheriff’s office.
“You!” Mary pointed at me. I pushed Daisy behind me. She looked blurry moving towards me. “I saw you—you gave him that coffee! You poisoned him! You tried to give it to me, too. But I wouldn’t drink it!” She had drunk it, but I hadn’t the time to argue. The crowd of people looked from Mary to me. My face flushed, embarrassed. I shook my head no.
“He keeled over just after you cut his hair and gave him that coffee,” she said. “You tried to kill Mac Duncan!”
I wheeled around and squatted, holding my daughter’s arms, looking at her square on and said, “Don’t listen to this.”
“I’m not,” she said, scratching her nose. “I don’t like Miss Mary. She’s weird.”
Laura walked over, taking Daisy by the hand and said, “Come on, Daisy, let’s go outside.” She glanced at me, nodded, and led Daisy out the door.
Daisy looked at me, questioning. “It’s fine, honey. I’ll be out there soon. Let me just get this straightened out.” I smiled, but saw in my mind Trina’s cut throat and felt the cold of her skin. I shivered when Daisy turned to walk outside with Laura.