Diann Ducharme (19 page)

Abby fidgeted with her white gloves afore she said, real quiet like, “Yes, that’s right. Benjamin knows the Outer Banks like the back of his hand. In fact, he’s usually out fishing this time of day.”

She gazed off a second, then said, “Benjamin Whimble, I’d like
you to meet Hector Newman. His daddy is our family’s doctor back home. And this is Madeleine Adams and Alice Monroe, and Red Taylor and George Wakefield, friends of mine from Edenton.”

So that Hector Newman was her beau, then, all the way from the Yankee school. I’m no judge of men’s outer looks, but I knew a slick catch when I saw one. I tried to keep from staring at the man.

I saluted them all and said, “How do, folks. And those ruffians over yonder in the water are Harley Stickle, Jimmy Juniper, and Jacob Craft. Don’t pay them no mind at all if they start acting like they ain’t got any sense. They don’t know better.”

The boys all waved their arms and grinned like cats in the sunshine, but Abby’s group just muttered “How do you do” and then pulled foot, eager to be away. Even their driver eyed me suspicious.

Her beau stuck out a stiff, clean hand for me to shake. “Good to put a face to a name. I’ve heard a bit about you from Abigail. And I thank you for your offer of assistance, Benjamin, but I think we can manage. It
is
just fishing, after all.”

With that, the fellers all set about helping the ladies into the boat. Never in my life have my fishing skills been so underhandedly slandered. I wanted to say, “I reckon we caught about all there was to catch this morning,” but I didn’t have the heart. I walked back to my boys with my sorry head hanging down.

“That went well, I reckon,” joked Jimmy. “You’re right, Ben, she likes you right well. Have you set a date for the wedding?”

“She’s usually a spot more friendly than that, I will say,” I said sadly. They wanted to laugh at me something awful, but thought better of it.

So we walked away from the pond and their pretend fishing party and lay down in the sun-dappled shade of the old trees, an unspoken agreement for a nap made between us. I rested my head on a duff of old leaves and breathed in the smell that I had loved my whole life. It
was the smell of both rotten death and green growing life, and always reminded me how grand it is to be alive, even in this hard-luck world.

I thought on Abby and that feller Hector for a good while, and wondered what she saw in him. Maybe she liked her men clean and kept up, and in that case, I was up the creek without a paddle. I doubted my toenails could
ever
get clean.

After a while I slept and drooled in the cool forest, lulled in and out of dreams by a woodpecker’s song. I dreamed of stormy ocean waters crashing on a perfect sunny beach, and Abby standing not on the sand but sitting atop the red horse in the middle of that rough ocean, as calm as you please.

In the midst of the dream, I had such a fierce longing to touch her warm face—real gentle like—with both my hands and just look at her for as long as I wanted. No books, no paper, no words a-tall to keep me from staring at her.

When I awoke from the mixed-up slumber, the sun was high in the sky and shining straight down through the branches. I sat up and the boys looked at each other with twinkles in their eyes. They took up their instruments—Harley on the banjo, Jacob on the fiddle, and Jimmy on the harmonica—and struck up a song they’d been working at.

Harley sang real soft:

I smiled polite and nodded my head, then said real peart, “If you ever play that song outside of these woods, I’ll find you where you sleep and bash your brains to kingdom come with your music makers.” They all whooped and hollered, knowing they had just gotten me good.

And I grinned along. The song did have a good beat.

About midday I smelled fish frying and figured Abby’s folks were having themselves a picnic feast. I heard them all squealing and carrying on, so I was right surprised when Hector came picking his way real careful through the leaves and pine needles over to where we were sitting, trying to mend one of my old fishing nets. I couldn’t ask Eliza to do it for me no more.

He bent over at the middle to speak to us like wayward younguns. “Abigail tells me you’re a rather excellent guide, having had such success with her father this summer. I suppose you know how revered Nolan Sinclair is in Edenton for his hunting skills, so it means something to have a recommendation from him.”

Oh, didn’t I know it, all too well.

“Our little group expressed some desire to see the surrounding woods and the ’secret’ sand dunes, so we thought it a good idea to
bring the expert along. How about it, Benjamin? Care to show us around?”

“I can do that, sure. But those ladies don’t look to be up for a nature hike in those clothes.”

“Oh, well, right you are. We were
hoping
to travel in the cart.” ’Course he was. Old Hector looked never to have walked a good furlough in his life.

I bade my comrades farewell, and as I was walking back with Hector, I heard them play the refrain from their new song. I had to stifle a snicker when Hector made comment on the boys’ musical skills.

The ladies had already climbed atop the cart, tiny umbrellas at the ready. I couldn’t get a read on Abby’s shaded face, which neither smiled nor frowned. She had grown a stranger to me, away from the porch.

There wasn’t room on the cart for me, so they all said, so I walked alongside, sometimes parting the thick growth of trees so the cart could make it through the path. I tried pointing out unusual sights, such as green orchids and the woolly beach heather, things you don’t normally see in these parts of the country.

But the yellow-haired gal—Maddie Adams—groaned, “I declare, I’ve never been so bored in my life. I sure do hope you got something better than flowers and sticks up that ratty ol’ sleeve, Benjamin!” She batted her eyes like she’d got some sand in them.

“Okay, Miss Madeleine. I can see you’re a gal to be reckoned with. If flowers and sticks aren’t your thing, maybe freaks of nature would grab your interest.”

She looked me right through. “Oh, yes, I positively adore freaks of nature,” she drawled.

We reached the point on the edge of the sound where the trees met up directly with a big sand dune called Run Hill. My favorite thing to do, when I had the time, was to climb the dune and sit at the top.

In the particular spot I’m speaking of, most of the trees are half buried in sand. See, the sand—so soft you’d never think ill of it—is slowly choking the trees as it marches slowly southwest toward the sound, little by little each year. The naked limbs reach out of the white sand piles like the arms of buried-alive corpses.

When I was no bigger’n a boy, those trees used to scare the daylights outta me. I’d have dreams of getting eaten by giant mounds of sand. The sand monsters had big dry holes for mouths, and they chomped after me as I ran. They’d eat me, and then I’d be a tree, buried alive. I’d reach down and my legs would feel just like bark, and my fingers felt like pine needles. I’d wake up gulping for air.

But I don’t mind the sand trees now. Nature takes and nature gives. Even the trees that are cold as wagon tires, they’re all part of the rarity, which includes a picture of the sound just behind the forest, and actual freshwater ponds that have bled into the skirts of the dunes. There’s deer and fox and raccoons and freshwater fish, all on this tiny sandbar in the sea.

Abby was mesmerized by the sight and made to get out of the cart, so Hector scrambled ’round, trying to give his assistance.

Maddie said, “Oh, mercy, I forgot how much Abby loves to ramble around in nature. I suppose I’ll accompany her this time, since sand drifts
are
so very interesting to look at. If Benjamin will be so kind as to help a lady off this godforsaken cart?” She reached her gloved hand out for me to help her.

The other folks looked cross, but I could see Maddie, being the biggest toad in the puddle, held sway over their attentions. They made a big deal about getting off the cart, and they soon cursed a blue streak when their fine shoes sunk almost knee-deep into the sand.

Maddie sat down on the edge of the cart, wiggled her feet at me, and said, “Now I can see why Mister Benjamin here doesn’t wear
shoes! Mine are so full of sand I can’t stand it. But I can hardly bend over in these skirts to get them off. A little help?”

I stood there gawking at her, wondering if she actually aimed for me to help her off with her shoes. I wouldn’t have the first concept of it, having never owned a pair in my life, ’specially not the ladies’ kind. Thankfully, the feller Red nearly tripped himself trying to help her with the buttons.

Meanwhile, Abby was halfway up the dune, shoes and all, and holding her yellow skirts up high. Hector was trying to keep up with her but was having a devil of a time, huffing and puffing and sinking with his efforts. He stopped midway to get a hankie out to wipe his face, but Abby just kept climbing, hell-fired for the summit. The rest of the group just guffawed.

Maddie said, “Now, I always knew that Abigail Sinclair was cut out of a different kind of cloth than the rest of us. She’s not as soft and delicate as some of us here.”

With that declaration of feminine charms, she pulled a little tickler from the depths of her skirts and unscrewed it. “Anyone care to make this sorry adventure a bit more appealing? I’m not about to scale that dune in this dress Daddy brought me from New York.”

All her friends took a little swig, then passed the tickler back to Maddie. She in turn passed it to me. “I’ll bet you know how to handle your whiskey, am I right? Strong men usually do.” She put her hand on my upper arm and gave a little squeeze, then tittered like a songbird, showing the dimples in her round cheeks.

I reckoned Maddie wasn’t used to being told no, so I took a little swig of the old orchard, and it burned like the dickens going down. I took one more for good measure, then took off up the hill in search of Abby and Hector.

They had both made it to the top of Run Hill and were trying to catch their breath. Abby’s bonnet hung down her back, and her hair
was coming loose from her climb. And I didn’t think I’d ever seen a splotchier face than Hector’s. I had a notion to worry about him, but the feeling passed right quick.

I couldn’t think about much anyhow, this high in the air. We stood there looking off to the Albemarle Sound, and at the very tops of the forest trees bunched along a freshwater pond below.

It was a warm, clear day, the best kinda day to enjoy such a view. Even though it was a good ten, fifteen degrees hotter out here than in the cool of the woods, the breeze blew strong. Abby’s dress whipped backwards like a yellow flag.

It was peaceful here, like an empty church, and it seemed like we were the only folks on earth. I sorely wished skinny ol’ Hector would vanish with the wind. I wanted to push him down the dune and watch his nice suit gather sand as he rolled on down to the pond below. And something told me Hector felt the same way about me. He stood so close to Abby that they shared the same shadow on the sand behind them.

She looked at a nearby pine tree that was buried to mid-trunk in the sand.

“I can’t figure if this tree is alive or dead,” she said.

The tree was a longtime favorite of mine. The dead branches had started falling off into the deep ploughs of sand, but the tree held on to a few sticks at the top that still had their green needles. Even the deader-looking branches had managed to keep some pinecones on them, dangling like ear fobs on a dead woman’s lobe.

To add to her sickly look, brown vines, left over from better times, still wrapped themselves ’round the branches. The brittle vines most surely were dead, but they couldn’t kick the habit of hanging on. I doubted they’d ever let go, their lust for strong branches forever in their veins.

“She’s alive, but just barely,” I said. “She’s been struggling for
years now. But I like to think she’s biding her time. You know, taking shallow breaths, saving her water, staving off death ’til the sand finally moves southward and frees her. Trees are smart like that. It takes something to kill one.”

Hector scoffed. “Trees don’t think. If they did, they would have found some legs and run from this sand dune long ago. They’re plants.”

“I surely didn’t mean to say trees think with
brains
. I meant they think with their hearts. There’s a big difference.”