“Biaggio has a record, you know,” Arla said to Elizabeth. “I mean, a criminal record. He has a checkered past.”
“Oh, well,” Elizabeth said. “We all do, in our own ways, don’t we?”
The smell of biscuits and onions had begun to creep in from the kitchen, a comforting smell, solid and familiar and good.
“Elizabeth,” Arla said. “You think she’s going to be okay?” Her voice caught. She looked at Sofia.
Elizabeth watched as Biaggio leaned in when Sofia spoke to him, as he kept one hand in the small of her back, his huge frame soft and pliable.
“I think she will, Arla. I think they both will.” She smiled, and Arla believed her.
Frank came over, sat down next to Arla, though there was an empty chair next to Elizabeth.
“Well,” he said. He looked very tired.
“Well, hell,” Arla said. “You’re just getting started. You’ve got a party to put on here, mister. You’re in charge.”
“Not for long,” Frank said. He looked around the restaurant. The wedding reception was the last stand for Uncle Henry’s. They’d closed to the public the night before, and Arla had made sure to stay away, stay home at Aberdeen, away from the last call and the rowdy, sloppy good-byes, and the tears and the memories. She’d heard the music, though, from where she sat on the back porch of Aberdeen, heard the last strains of Patsy Cline and Bob Marley winding through the trees, and as the night wore on she heard the customers break into bawdy song at closing time, “Freebird,” of all the foolish things.
But tonight was a private party, though it was hard to see much of a difference from last night’s crowd, with all the usual suspects in their customary places: Mac Weeden, having evidently worked up a thirst from his stint as wedding celebrant, holding full court with his brother George from his regular perch at the center of the bar; Irma stomping through the dining room with a serving tray on her shoulder, though tonight dressed in a long, lacy black number that had Arla and everyone else scratching their heads; Susan Holm flitting from table to table and making eyes at Frank from across the room; and Bell, lovely little Bell, feeding pieces of conch fritter to a pair of cats who’d wandered in from the parking lot. Oh, health department be damned, Arla thought. We’re closed, anyway.
“Why don’t you make yourself useful, get me a Chablis,” Arla said to Frank. The bar was self-service tonight, and he watched uncomfortably, it seemed to Arla, as the guests wandered freely behind the bar—
his
bar—and helped themselves to whatever was left in stock. It was going to be quite a party, Arla thought, all these ’necks declaring open season on the bar at Uncle Henry’s.
“What can I get you, Elizabeth?” Frank said. Arla did not miss the softness in his voice, and neither did Elizabeth, who looked up at Frank and hesitated a beat. “Get me a daiquiri, bartender,” she said. “I’m celebrating tonight.”
“The wedding?” Arla said as Frank headed for the bar.
“That, and Independence Day,” Elizabeth said. She narrowed her eyes, watched Carson chatting up a blonde at the end of the bar.
“It’s September. You’re a little late for that,” Arla said.
“We’ll see,” Elizabeth said.
An-Needa Lovett approached the table.
“Hey baby,” she said to Arla, leaning forward to envelop her in a hug. “You lookin’ good, Arla.”
“Huh,” Arla said. “Looking good for an old bat, you mean.”
“Take one to know one,” An-Needa said.
“Well, that’s true,” Arla said.
Elizabeth laughed. “You’re both beautiful,” she said. “Aren’t they, Bell?” Bell looked from An-Needa to Arla and back, but did not answer. An-Needa chuckled. “Oh, mercy!” she said. “She don’t need to say a word!” Arla smiled.
“What’s funny over here?” Mac Weeden said. He pulled an extra chair over to the table and sat down, and Arla was touched that he’d given up his spot at the bar to come and pay his respects to her. She’d known Mac since he was a boy, since they all were boys. Where did the years go? Mac was joined a moment later by George, who carried a plate of hoppin’ John and a bottle of Budweiser. An-Needa stiffened at the sight of him. When Frank returned with the drinks, he’d brought an extra glass of Chablis for An-Needa, and she accepted it, nodded at Frank, and began fanning herself. Susan Holm approached, perched herself on the edge of Frank’s chair. Elizabeth looked away.
“I got new estimates on the Mazda,” Susan said to Frank. “It’s down to three thousand, five hundred, you’ll be glad to hear.”
“Glad for you, you mean,” Frank said.
“Glad for
you
, big boy,” she said. “You’re paying for it.”
Frank stared at her. “I wasn’t the one driving around with no insurance,” he said.
“Well, I wasn’t the one threatening a lady in a motor vehicle.”
“How ’bout them Gators, Frank?” Mac said.
“How ’bout ’em, Mac,” Frank said. He rolled his eyes, but then turned to Mac, and Arla sensed he was grateful for the subject change.
“We gonna kill Miami just like we killed Hawaii. You watch.”
“I’ll take your word for it, Mac.”
“Coach better get his offense together,” George said. “It’s like he’s stuck in first gear.”
“There’s a lot of that going around,” Susan said, tapping her fingernails on Frank’s shoulder.
Morgan walked up to the table with a whole Key lime pie and a handful of forks. He put the pie in the middle of the table and passed around the forks.
“No wedding cake?” Susan said.
“Nah,” Arla said. “Sofia wanted An-Needa’s pies. Who needs cake when we’ve got An-Needa?” An-Needa smiled broadly, leaned forward, and waited her turn to dip her fork into the pie.
“Morgan,” Elizabeth said. “What are you going to do now? Mr. Big Bucks.”
“Hell,” Morgan said. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”
“That will be Wednesday, my friend,” Frank said.
Morgan shook his head, scooped another mouthful of pie. “Hard to believe it’s all really happening,” he said. “But I’m going to Memphis. I got me some kids in Memphis. I figure I’ll spend some time up there. Maybe plant a garden, hunt a bit. I think I’m done frying fish.”
“I’ll bet you are, Morgan,” Arla said. She caught his eye, and she smiled, though she could see worry in his face, and uncertainty.
It’s okay,
she wanted to say to him.
I’ll be okay. We’ll all be okay.
“So you hear about Tip Breen?” Mac said. “Warming up a cot at the county jail.”
“No shit?” George said. “What for?”
“Watch your mouth, Weeden,” Frank said, exasperated. “There’s ladies present.” George looked around, surprised. “Oh,” he said. “I’m sorry, Elizabeth.”
Susan cleared her throat, tapped her foot.
“Vandalism, reckless endangerment,” Mac said. “They picked him up hiding in the woods outside the new Publix, the day after it opened. He’s been shooting out the bulbs in the big parking lot lights. And he missed and hit the manager’s car, while he was still in it. Tip’s in a heap of trouble. He’s going nuts over all the building around here. He thinks it’s killing the old Utina.”
“He’s the one been doing that?” Frank said. “Every time I came by there another one of those lights was out.”
“So he’s been shooting them?” Arla said. “My word.” She didn’t think Tip Breen had it in him. But good for him, she found herself thinking. Damn Publix, yuppie supermarket. And all those horrid housing developments springing up all along Monroe Road and heading out to the beach. Next thing you knew they’d be putting in a Starbucks on Seminary Street. A Wine Warehouse. A Sports Authority. And where did that leave Tip Breen? Where did that leave Lil’ Champ? Where did that leave Utina? She felt a shooting bolt of guilt, then. The Bravos. They’d sold Aberdeen. And Uncle Henry’s. Where did
they
leave Utina? It wasn’t the first time this conundrum had crossed her mind. She pushed it away. It probably wouldn’t be the last time, either.
“Is he going to get out?” Frank said.
“He can’t make bail,” Mac said. “He’s broke. He’s too poor to pay attention—was about bankrupt even before he got arrested. Can’t compete with that supermarket.”
“Shoot,” Frank said, and they were all quiet for a moment.
“No more Lil’ Champ,” George said.
“No more Uncle Henry’s,” An-Needa said.
“This place is going to change,” Elizabeth said.
“Already has,” Frank said, and it seemed to Arla that he was looking at Elizabeth, waiting to catch her eye, but she looked away.
And then it was all winding down. The dinner, the drinks, the dancing, the music, the chatter. Dean hadn’t drunk a drop. Arla was impressed, though he’d sucked down one Diet Coke after another and Arla was sure with all that caffeine he’d be roaming the halls of Aberdeen all night long. But he was not her problem, and she had no intention of making him so, tonight or ever. Arla walked over to Sofia and Biaggio, where they stood at the deck railing, looking out over the water. It was dark now, though the lights from Uncle Henry’s still illuminated the shore.
“Well, darlings, I’m done,” she said.
“You get enough to eat, Miss Arla?” Biaggio said.
“Oh, yes. Don’t I look it?” Arla said. She smiled. “He’s a good man, Sofia.”
“I know,
maman
.”
“There aren’t many of those.”
“I know.”
Biaggio shifted from foot to foot, embarrassed.
“I’ll take you home now, Miss Arla,” Biaggio said. “You must be tired.”
“Oh, Biaggio, don’t be ridiculous. You’re the groom. And you’re a married man now,” she added. Biaggio looked startled to hear this. “You can’t be running around with other women, hear?” She hugged him, surprising even herself. She was not a hugger. His face turned red. “I’ll get Carson to take me home,” she said.
She walked out to the back deck, where the reflection of the moon was now splintered across the water and the cries of the barred owls had begun to echo in the trees. She’d had too many glasses of wine, she knew, though she didn’t particularly care. She clutched her cane in one hand and her purse in the other and made her way to the end of the boat dock. She looked left, to the distant glow of the porch light at Aberdeen. She looked right, to where Morgan’s restaurant had stood years before. Along the reedy shore, in the light of the full moon, were a series of small, newly cut wooden posts, each tied with a bright red band. Surveyors’ marks, she supposed. The beginning. Or the end, depending on how you looked at it.
The placid wash of water against the few boats moored at the dock was making her sleepy, and a bit dizzy, so she gripped her cane and picked her way back along the dock to the restaurant. She circled the main dining room, not going inside, until she reached the edge of the property and the sandy parking lot. Turning her back on Uncle Henry’s, she walked to the edge of the lot, where the path to Aberdeen shone, lonely, before her. How many years since she’d taken this path? She thought of Drusilla, alone in the woods for so long. She wanted to go home, but she didn’t want to go with Carson, to hear his angry banter. She tried not to think about the stack of packing cartons piled up on the front porch at Aberdeen, the condo keys on their bright plastic fob hanging from a hook under the Felix clock in the kitchen.
She stuck her cane out in front of her, shook it into the underbrush. “Everybody out,” she said. “I’m coming in.” And indeed, something thickish rustled in the brush and then crashed away, but Arla was brave tonight, and she shook the cane again and started into the path.
The mud under the pine needles and oak leaves was slick from recent rains, and the air in the thicket smelled musky and cool. The mosquitoes were ubiquitous, buzzing around her eyelids and ears, but the wedding guests had all sprayed themselves with Cutter while sitting out on the deck, to ward off the no-see-ums, and Arla was glad for that now as she pushed thicker into the woods and squinted her eyes to make out the remnants of the path.
Oh, what a lovely place this was, Utina. Sweet and wild and rare. She was not surprised that the rich people wanted to live here. She’d never appreciated Utina as much as she should have, and she knew that now. Here in the woods was where it was best of all, this little stretch off Aberdeen, where the ghosts of all the palms that had lived and died still flitted lovely and light through the canopy, where the aches of lost loves dissolved and the searing pain of death was cooled.
She pushed on, farther, looking for the place she remembered, where the three red cedars formed a triangle just to the right of the path. When she came to it, she was afraid in the darkness she would not be able to see, but she waited for a moment, and a cloud which had obscured the moon shifted, and then Drusilla’s headstone shone bright and radiant and spoke to Arla in a language only she could understand.
“Oh, there you are, darling,” Arla said. “My friend. There you are.”
She sat down on a thick pine that had fallen lengthwise along the path. This was new; she hadn’t remembered this tree here before, though it was covered in lichens and rotted at the broken end in a way that suggested it had been down for some time. She’d missed Drusilla. Her ailing body had kept her out of the woods for so long. She’d forgotten what solace Drusilla provided, what sweetness, what quiet, patient love. When Arla could still get around better, she came into the woods almost every day after washing the linens to pour buckets of consecrated water around Drusilla’s grave, feeling foolish at first for doing it, like some myopic zealot, but persisting just the same, all those years, all those buckets of water laced with holy wine, sacred bread, the microscopic particles of priestly deodorant and facial hair and dandruff. It meant something to Arla. And it meant something to Drusilla, too, she believed. In more recent years, when she couldn’t get down the wooded path, she’d poured the buckets directly into the Intracoastal, where the water mingled with the faraway ashes of her honey-haired boy, now dissolved into sediment at the bottom of the channel, miles and miles away.