Lexi
Most summer nights kids from both sides of the bridge met out on Sawpit Road by the boat ramp. To drink. To get high. To hook up and afterward go for a swim. On a night when Cristofer went axe-crazy I thought the less dreamtime the better. So I waited for the house to get quiet. Then I put on a dress and flip-flops and went downstairs and out.
The moon hung like a hook in the sky. The shadows bruised the ditches and the trees. The night had laid the heat thick on the ground. Sweat slicked down the back of my neck. I wiped it away and licked the salt from my fingers. At the first bend in the road an armadillo stood on the gravel shoulder as if it was afraid of pavement. I ran at it. Scared it back into the grass. I took off my flip-flops and carried them. Grit on my feet.
Four kids were at our meeting spot. On good nights we had as many as ten and our noise would make dogs bark. Martin was leaning against the Road Narrows sign. He was a blond-haired kid whose family had moved to Big Talbot Island but who kept coming back. I’d done him once when I was sixteen and sworn never again. Which was OK since most nights he didn’t seem interested in repeating that catastrophe either. Martin’s friend Andy was lying on his back on the roadside. Looking at the stars. A can of Lone Star in his hand. A twelve pack at his feet. He was twenty and drunk most of the time. Sooner or later it might happen between us but not tonight. The Hendricks sisters were there. Saying over and over that they wished they had weed. Was Martin sure he had none? He was sure. He said over and over.
A cell phone rang. The Hendricks sisters jumped. You couldn’t get a signal on the island except by the bridge. Even at the bridge it came and went. Sylvia who was the taller sister answered. Mouthed the name Eric. Walked off to talk in private. Andy saw his chance. Brought one of his beers to Kara. They wandered off too. I sat on the gravel where Andy had been lying. Martin sat beside me. He crossed his legs Indian-style. His blond hair hung to his eyes. ‘Hey,’ he said.
I tried. ‘Hey.’
He cupped something inside his palm. Showed me a joint. A magician making a coin. ‘Wanna get high?’
‘The Hendrickses will hate you,’ I said.
He blew the hair out of his eyes. ‘I care?’
I said, ‘I don’t think I’m up to it tonight.’
‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.
I straightened my dress so it came to my knees. ‘Cristofer tried to kill Walter again.’
Martin pulled out a Bic. Flared it. Touched it to the end of the joint. Inhaled. Holding the smoke in his lungs he said, ‘One day I’m going to get out of here.’
‘Buy tickets for two,’ I said.
He coughed. ‘Why? You like this place.’
‘I’ve never known anywhere different,’ I said. ‘That’s not the same as liking it.’
‘I don’t see you leaving,’ he said. And inhaled again.
I said, ‘I don’t see myself coming back like you when I’ve moved off island.’
He coughed and looked up at the sky.
So I got up and said, ‘I’m going home.’ It was a mistake to come.
He coughed again and called after me, ‘Hey come back. I didn’t mean it.’
‘Mean what?’ I asked.
I wished this was one of the nights when clouds covered the moon and stars. On those nights I would get so lost I could stumble off the road and into the grass. One night I tripped and fell. When I was lying on the ground an animal could have stood an inch from my face and I never would have seen it. The fear I’d felt had taken me out of the life I lived on the island. It had made me forget Walter and Mom and axes.
I wished this was one of those nights.
I had walked less than a quarter-mile back up the road when I saw Edgar Allan coming. He was talking on a cell phone. Or trying to find a signal. He looked as surprised to see me as I was to see him. He slipped his phone into a pocket.
‘We’re both out at the secret hour,’ he said.
‘Is that what you call this?’ I said.
‘Don’t your mother and stepfather think you’re home in bed?’ he asked.
‘I figure they aren’t thinking about me one way or another,’ I said.
He looked up at the moon. ‘Some nights I can’t sleep,’ he said.
‘And some nights you want to talk on the phone,’ I said.
He lowered his eyes to mine. ‘I check in from time to time,’ he said. ‘You know. The body business.’
‘People keep dying?’ I said.
‘Always.’
‘And someone needs to pick up the corpses?’ I said.
‘My competitors would if I didn’t,’ he said.
‘You usually work at midnight?’ I asked.
‘You would be surprised,’ he said. ‘City morgues are open twenty-four hours and some of my best contacts are late-shift managers. They get lonely and need someone to talk to.’
‘Uh-huh,’ I said. And started walking home again.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.
‘Nothing. Your being here is making my mom happy,’ I said. ‘She also likes having someone to talk to.’
He caught up with me. Fell in beside me. He asked, ‘Is there anything wrong with that?’
‘Talking? No,’ I said. ‘But flirting?’
He took my arm in his hand. Gently mostly. ‘If there’s one thing I’m not doing it’s flirting.’
I didn’t mind him holding my arm. ‘Your phone will work better if you go the other way,’ I said. He said nothing to that. So I asked, ‘You like working with dead people?’
‘Most of the time I’m on my computer,’ he said. ‘When I’m not on the computer I’m on the phone. People who need something call me and I call other people who have it. I’m a middleman.’
‘You keep your hands clean?’ I said.
‘You’re being sarcastic but I don’t know why,’ he said.
I said, ‘She’s flirting with you.’
‘Is she?’
‘You take her seriously,’ I said. ‘She doesn’t get that from us. She likes it. She likes you.’
‘The owner of the Atlanta gallery where I saw her paintings takes her seriously,’ he said. ‘The magazines do.’
He loosened his grip on my arm so I slid my hand into his. And asked, ‘Do you ever touch them? The bodies?’
‘Others do that part,’ he said.
I said, ‘I would. Touch them. I wouldn’t mind.’
‘Some people don’t mind,’ he said. ‘Others do but then they get used to it.’
‘You can get used to anything,’ I said.
‘Sarcasm again? But it’s not true,’ he said. ‘There’s plenty that you can never get used to.’
‘I don’t think I would need to get used to touching bodies,’ I said. ‘Not after living in our house. Mom and Walter treat Cristofer and me like we’re already dead. I touch myself sometimes and expect my skin to be cold.’
He pulled his hand from mine.
I wanted him to touch me. ‘Do you like her more than me?’ I asked.
‘What? Your mother? No,’ he said. ‘It’s not about liking.’
And I wanted him to laugh with me the way I’d heard him laugh with her. But we walked quietly in the blue-shadowed moonlight. Our hands sometimes brushing. When we got to the gate I said, ‘You can kiss me if you want.’