Little Gale Gumbo (35 page)

The Jeep was silent as Ben steered them through town. Charles's eyes stayed fixed out the window, one weathered hand tapping anxiously on his left knee, the other hand fondling the bulk of his cigarettes through his shirt pocket.

Ben flexed his fingers over the wheel. “I think it would be a good idea if you didn't come back to the island again, Charles.”

Charles squinted. “What did you say?”

“You heard me.”

“You arrogant son of a bitch. You got no right!”

“I've got every right.” Ben pulled them against the curb, throwing the car into park. He turned to Charles, his eyes fierce behind his glasses. “And I'm saying it again: I don't want to see you on this island anymore.”

There was a long pause; then Charles spoke tightly, his teeth clenched so hard Ben could see his jaw pop. “You gonna be sorry—you know that, Haskell? Up until now I been real patient and tolerant of you, but no more. You gonna be real sorry you said that to me.”

“I don't want a war with you, Charles.”

“Yeah, well,” said Charles, his eyes hard on Ben's, “you shoulda thought of that before you poisoned my wife and baby girls against me.”

“No, Charles.” Ben's gaze remained leveled behind his glasses, his voice even. “I'm fairly certain you did that all on your own.”

For several agonizing seconds, Ben believed Charles would finally strike him, and he readied himself for the blow, his hands fisting on top of the wheel. But the punch never came. Charles just reached for his bags, threw open the car door, and climbed out.

He lowered himself to glare through the passenger window. His eyes were slitted, tiny blue specks rimmed in pink.

“It don't matter what you say, Haskell, or what you do. I ain't got much in my life, but what's mine, I keep. And I ain't never gonna let them go. You got me?”

Ben turned forward, his heart racing. “Have a safe trip, Charles.”

Charles stepped back from the window, his eyes still fixed on Ben.

“I'll see you soon, Haskell,” he said. “
Real
soon.”

Ben watched Charles amble down the road, seeing the ferry in the distance, and he stayed parked at the curb until Charles appeared on the upper deck and the ferry belched out its departing horn.

Only when the boat was too far from shore to be called back did Ben finally loosen the knot of his fists, his fingers unfurling like an exhaled breath.

Twenty-six

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

On the first day of November, the island woke to a dusting of wet snow and shiny streets. Matthew had to walk to the café, his car refusing to start, but he didn't mind the brisk exercise, not this morning. When he came into the restaurant, Josie was at the counter. Ronnie Powell and his grandson occupied the window booth, three-year-old Troy Powell using his gumbo as finger paint. Matthew grinned as he passed them, waving to the old man.

“Congratulate me, JoJo.” Matthew slid in behind Josie and gave her a quick peck on the cheek.

She spun around. “For what?”

“I got the job.”

“You're kidding! The one in Portsmouth?”

“No, the one in Florida.”

“Oh.” Josie smiled but her eyes gave her disappointment away. Matthew couldn't believe she still cared so much, when she and Wayne had been married almost three years already.

“Come on, kiddo,” he said. “It only sounds far.”

She nodded firmly, turning as the tears came.

“Hey, there, Matthew,” Ronnie Powell called out. “Did I hear you say you got a job?”

“Sure did, Mr. Powell.”

“So where you goin', young man?”

“Florida. Miami.”

“Oh, Christ, don't do that.”

Matthew laughed. “Have to, Mr. Powell. My pop says he's tired of me messing up his paper every morning.”

“Maybe
he
is,” Josie said, knocking used coffee grinds into the trash.

“Hey . . .” Matthew rubbed her shoulders, dropping a kiss on the top of her head. “It's not like this place will go under without me.”

“Don't even joke,” Josie said, her expression suddenly strained.

Matthew's grin faded. He knew Josie was right to be nervous. He'd seen his father's features grow heavy in recent months, pulled down by fear for the future of the café. For the first time since the Little Gale Gumbo Café had opened, they'd reduced their hours to save on heating costs.

“I'm really worried about this place, Matty. Momma won't come right out and say it, but I know it's bad when Ben's calling the bank and asking for an extension.”

“He did that?”

“Last week, in the kitchen. He didn't know I could hear.”

Matthew shrugged. “They'll figure it out, JoJo. They always do. Besides, they can always let you go when you're up to your neck in diapers and mashed peas.”

Little Troy had climbed out of the booth and toddled over to the jukebox, his tiny fingers stretching to reach the buttons. Josie watched him, smiling sadly. “Not likely.”

“Trust me,” Matthew said, “my father won't let you stand on your feet all day.”

“That's not what I meant.”

Matthew turned Josie gently around to him, trying to read her lowered face, the fragile set of her mouth, the lips ready to crumple at any second. She didn't have to explain. He knew that she and Wayne had been trying to get pregnant for two years now and that it wasn't working. He'd overheard Josie telling Dahlia that they were going to see a fertility specialist in Boston. That had been a month ago. Matthew had wondered about the visit, but he hadn't wanted to pry. They weren't teenagers anymore, huddled around a bonfire on the beach, spilling out their guts about every tiny thing that had irked or crushed them that day. Failed math tests and embarrassing slipups in gym class. Defeats that had seemed so life-ending. Now in their mid-twenties, there were some things they simply couldn't tell one another.

Josie smiled up at him, her eyes full. “That's great news, Matty. Really it is.”

In the next moment, Wayne appeared from the kitchen and saw them standing there, Matthew's hands on his wife's slight shoulders, fingers kneading.

“I can't believe he's really leaving,” Josie said later that day while she and Dahlia shared a beer on Ben's porch, watching Wayne change the oil on the Wagoneer.

“He's been gone before,” Dahlia said.

“Yeah, for college. But he always came back.”

“He'll come back this time too.”

“But it won't be the same. You know it won't.”

Dahlia shrugged. “People leave, Joze.”

“Not everyone,” she said. “Jack didn't.”

The sisters fell quiet, each gazing out at a different point on the horizon. Wayne glanced up from under the hood and waved.

“You could always just tell him, you know,” Josie said, waving back, then pulling her jacket sleeves down over her chilled fingers.

“Tell who?”

“Jack. Tell him you still love him.”

“Who says I still love him?”

Josie gave her sister a flat look. “Don't be dim, Dahl. And don't make me out to be dim either, thank you very much.”

Dahlia sighed. “He made his choice, Joze.”

“Baloney.” Josie grabbed the beer and took a sip. “You made it for him.”

“They have a little girl. A sweet little girl who doesn't need her heart broken. It's too late, and I've made my peace with that.”

“Right,” said Josie. “And that would be why you haven't had a steady boyfriend in over three years now.”

Dahlia took the beer back, swigged it.

Josie reached out and rubbed her sister's arm. “People change their minds, Dahl. That's all I'm saying.”

Dahlia looked across the lawn at Wayne, hunched over a pan of old oil. “Did you?”

Josie smiled weakly. “Yes,” she said. “A little bit more every day.”

 

Matthew stepped into the café the next afternoon to see Thomas Dunham walking out of the kitchen, looking as guilty as a cheating spouse as he wiped his mouth with a napkin.

“Delicious as always, Camille,” Margery's stern husband said on his way past the counter. “Matthew,” he added with a stiff nod, setting his hat on his head and heading for the front door.

Matthew watched the older man hurry out. “Why was Thomas Dunham coming out of the kitchen?”

“Because that's where he eats his bowl of gumbo,” Camille said simply.

“Since when?”

Camille grinned. “Since Margery caught him eating it in a booth and threatened to leave him. We decided after that he'd be more comfortable taking his lunch in the kitchen.”

Matthew smiled.
“We?”

Camille took him by the hand. “Come on back. I have some things for you.”

 

Matthew stood in the café's kitchen and watched while Camille packed him enough gumbo to feed the entire island.

“How far do you think I'm going?” he teased, sliding up beside her. “The moon?”

“It might as well be. Florida's awfully far from here.”

An urge to defend himself rose up unexpectedly. “It's not like I was
trying
to find the farthest place, you know.”

Camille smiled gently, reaching out to smooth down a wild curl at his temple. “Or maybe you were.”

Matthew watched her return to the sink to wash her hands.

“Josie said the café's in trouble.”

He saw her eyes flutter nervously, but she masked her discomfort with a smile as she shook water off her fingers.

“We'll get through it, baby,” she said evenly. “It's nothing for you to worry about.”

But Matthew wouldn't be discouraged. “How bad is it?”

Camille shrugged, smiled, but Matthew could see the faint sheen of tears sparkling in her eyes.

He sighed, his own heart sinking. “That bad, huh?”

She returned to him, her hands still damp, and cupped his face in her palms, reaching up to kiss each cheek. “I have something else for you too,” she said, releasing him and crossing back to the sink.

“No more! I'll weigh three hundred pounds before I get to Edison. They'll have to use the Jaws of Life to get me out of my car.”

Camille winked at him. “It's not for eating.”

She reached up to the shelf above the sink and came back with a red pouch tied with a black ribbon. Matthew eyed it curiously.

“It's a gris-gris bag,” she explained. “Each one is made differently, for different reasons. This one is for good luck in life transitions.” She pressed it against his heart. “Made with love.”

Matthew pulled Camille to him, holding her tightly. When they broke apart and she had returned to her dishes, he looked around the kitchen, unprepared for how quickly the tears rose. He gripped the bag in his fingers, thinking about Camille's words, and an unexpected hope bloomed within him.

 

After dinner, Matthew told his father and Camille that he was going out. It was his last night on the island. He had to make the rounds, he explained. Say good-bye to old friends. The ones who wouldn't be stopping by the house to see him off in the morning.

He forced himself to take the long way to Dahlia's house, steering through town first, as if there was another reason he'd climbed into his car at nine o'clock at night. But the island roads were too quiet, any tourist traffic gone for months now, and hope as he did for some delay, he had none. When her rented cottage came into view, he released the gas pedal without hesitation.