When the people of Tipee speak, I often find myself saying, “Huh?” Most, like my Duffy family, have a buttery, slow Southern accent, sometimes put on thick when they’re frazzled or excited. Others, the native islanders who can trace their family lines back to the first settlers, speak something I like to call Backwoods British, a dialect that would make Eliza Doolittle – pre-Professor Higgins – sound like the Queen of England.
I don’t have an accent. Between my father’s Southern twang and my mother’s curt and crisp Maryland pronunciation, I inherited what I call Normal American English. Mamma Rose used to predict that I’d be a news reporter on television for that reason (Aunt Clara always brushed off this idea saying I was too “pale and freckly for TV”).
Along with their dialects come a slew of colorful cliches` and idioms; these I’m learning, but have far yet to go.
Still, when Great Uncle Joe said “turn turtle,” his tone was enough to give the meaning away. “Turn turtle” is a nautical term meaning to capsize; when a turtle turns over, it is left helpless. Great Uncle Joe was telling me to give up.
He cruised down Starfish and met up with Atlantic Avenue, stopping for pedestrians out for evening strolls or on their way to dinner.
“You promised I’d have through October,” I eked out.
Great Uncle Joe adjusted his bucket hat back, so the rim wouldn’t darken his eyes. “I keep my promises, Bean.”
“Then why-”
“Delilah, listen here, and listen good. It ain’t just about keepin’ a job or makin’ a profit. It ain’t about keepin’ Laura’s memory alive either. She’ll be in our hearts no matter what. It ain’t even about puttin’ it to Clara. You gotta look at the numbers and realize what’s as plain as the nose on your face. You can’t make a real life outta this. You can’t, honey. You’d never make enough, even if all was right in the world and everythin’ was goin’ your way. And is it worth it to even try?”
Tears jumped into my eyes and spilled out, running tracks through my sweat. A flush of embarrassment rushed over me – crying in Great Uncle Joe’s Hummer like a baby homesick for mommy. I kept my eyes out the passenger side window.
He cruised down Coral Avenue, circling the block like a stalker. “I know all about your late car payment, and your apartment with no TV, how you’ve been givin’ every extra dollar you’ve got to your buddy, Henry and tuckin’ hospital bills into a shoe box don’t make ‘em vanish, Bean.”
I shook my head. Great Uncle Joe had asked Grandma Betty to take care of my books. I should have known that included sizing up my whole life. I could picture her rummaging through the office, around the counter, finding my overdue bills and notices. Anger mixed with my embarrassment.
“Numbers don’t lie, Bean. We may not like what they say, but they don’t lie.” Uncle Joe breathed out heavily. “Don’t sink any more of your money into this. There’s a time to press on and there’s a time to turn turtle. Your turn is way overdue.”
I sucked in my tears and shook my head. “I have until the end of October.”
“Yep,” he agreed. “But, there’s somethin’ else.”
“What?”
“Ya see, my old friend Baylor came over with a bottle of Wild Turkey yammering about this great new organization here in Tipee. I got lawyers on speed dial, but since it was Baylor, well, I just signed up for it.”
“For what?”
“TIBA,” he shot back. “The Tipee Island Business Association. You know how ritzy communities got them homeowners associations?”
I nodded, though I’d never been a part of one.
“Well, this is kinda like that ‘cept for businesses,” he continued. “Makes me think of a private school, where everyone’s forced to wear the same uniform. It’s all about makin’ sure the businesses meet standards.”
“I don’t understand,” I eked out. “What’s this got to do with me?”
“Well, Beach Read now falls under the leadership of TIBA,” he said plainly, “and the leadership of TIBA is-”
“Clara,” I finished in a sigh.
“Clara.”
My temples throbbed. I put the window down, letting the warm breezes hit my face. The panic I felt earlier near the water was starting to rise back up again.
Joe cleared his throat. “Not sure what it’ll mean for you yet, but she’s up to somethin’ considerin’ she used my good friend Baylor and the devil’s nectar to pry that signature outta me.”
He parked in front of Beach Read, crooked again, and waited for Willie and me to get out. I couldn’t move right away. Perhaps I was waiting for him to give me some kind of encouragement, just as Great Aunt Laura would’ve done.
Instead, he scratched his head. “I hear you’re goin’ to that party at the Peacock tomorrow night,” he smiled.
I’d forgotten all about the party I’d been suckered into. “Right. I’m Rachel’s wingman.”
Great Uncle Joe laughed. “It’ll be good for ya to get out, have some fun. But, I’ll tell you this, the same thing I tell anyone ‘bout to jump in and go divin’. Watch out for sharks.” He chuckled heartily, and I watched him drive away. Clara waved from her store window and I rolled my eyes before heading inside.