Red Ruby Heart in a Cold Blue Sea (9781101559833) (14 page)

25

M
aybe it was the full moon on that early March night, or maybe we all read each other's minds at the same time, but Bud, Dottie, Glen, and I ended up going for a moonlit walk. The night before, a wind storm with some snow, but mostly noise, had blown in from the ocean and up the harbor, making the houses on The Point shiver and shake. I don't know how everyone else felt, but I curled up like a periwinkle, worried that Grand and I would be picked up, house and all, and hurled into the harbor without so much as an apology. So maybe the relief we felt when the next night gave us a moon bright enough to see the pimples on each other's faces made us want to band together and just take a hike. I guess I might have started it, or maybe Bud. I was sitting on the porch at about nine o'clock that night, rocking away and soaking in the moon rays, when I saw him come out of his house and start to walk up the hill. It seemed a perfect time to join him, so I threw on my coat, told Grand that I was taking a walk with Bud, went outside, and waited until he walked up to me.

“Mind if I come along?” I said.

“Company would be good. Ain't the moon something?”

We heard a door slam and looked over to see Dottie coming up from her house to us. “What's going on?” she asked.

“We're taking a walk,” Bud said.

“Where we going?” Dottie asked.

“Let's see if Glen's around,” Bud said, so we trudged up to Ray's and convinced Glen to leave the television behind him. Then the four of us, bundled up and moon mad, stood in the middle of the road, huffing our breath out into the cold air.

“Well, you got me out here,” Glen said. “What now?”

“Let's go into the State Park,” I said. “Not too much snow. I'll bet it's pretty in the moonlight.”

We walked through Daddy's yard to The Cheeks, which were only a little icy, scrambled up over them, and headed into the woods, single file. I thought about that summer night only a few short years before when we'd gone on a mission.

“Remember?” Glen said, and we did. We laughed about it as we walked along, although I got quiet thinking about Carlie, for not realizing back then that she wouldn't be around much longer after that adventure. Would missing her ever go away? I didn't see how. It was different now, like a deep splinter grown over by skin. I could see it but I couldn't get to it, yet if I pressed it, my heart broke every time.

Dottie led the way that night. She plowed along, snow boots and thick legs making short work of what snow there was. I followed her, then Bud, then Glen behind him. A couple of times, I could have sworn that Bud touched my shoulder, then my back, but this was a night that anything was bound to happen. We all felt it.

We walked to the cliffs and looked out over the grumbling, tired ocean, so recently tossed and thrown by the wind. “I wonder if we'll always come back to this spot,” I said.

Bud cleared his throat. “Don't know if I will,” he said. “But if you do, be sure and wear your coat.” Dottie and Glen laughed, and I punched him, and we started back up the path.

“Home?” Dottie asked when we got to the crossroads in the woods. The path leading to Barrington's was to the right.

“Let's go that way,” Bud said, and pointed into the woods. So we walked to the summer houses, the path lit this time by the light of the full moon instead of a small flashlight. As we came out of the woods, the eye of the moon stared us down, causing us to blink, then take it in full on.

I wondered at the big dark house, left behind by summer to stand against the loneliness of the winter. “Hard to believe summer's ever going to come,” I said.

Glen pointed past the house, to the lawn. “Look,” he said. A big pine had snapped, probably in last night's storm, and it now covered half the lawn. We headed that way, drawn to its downed splendor. Glen and Bud climbed up onto its trunk and began to walk along, grabbing and weaving around branches. I breathed in the scent of freshly fallen pine, took some of the needles, and crushed them in my hand.

I turned to let Dottie take a whiff, but there she stood, hypnotized by the moon. The moon sapped the color from her face, leaving her all eyes, nostrils, and mouth. Her eyes held the moon, or the moon held her eyes. It was hard to tell. “Can't remember when I've seen anything like this,” she said. “Looks like heaven's bowling ball.”

Bud jumped from the tree and headed down the lawn to the private beach and we followed him. When we reached the edge of the lawn, we all gasped at the same time, because the edge of the lawn was what was left of the beach. The ocean had taken a bite out of the earth and chewed up and swallowed the beach, whole. Wave and wind had won this round. In its place, the ocean had hurled snarls of lobster traps and gear onto slick rocks.

“Think we should call someone?” I said. “Maybe they don't know.”

“They'll know when they show up here,” Glen said.

“They'll have to rebuild the beach,” said Bud. His eyes glittered and threw back the moon at itself. “Well, the bastards can afford it.” He turned away and walked up the hill, past the fallen pine. His hand touched the needles. I did, after him. “Sorry,” I whispered to the tree.

We walked into the woods, away from the mess, back toward home. As we passed my secret path, the place where I went to talk to Carlie, I stopped suddenly, and Bud put his hands on both sides of my waist to keep himself from falling. “What?” he said. Glen stopped, and then Dottie. I couldn't say anything for a few seconds, because Bud's hands on my waist, even over my thick coat, felt like fire.

“Want to see something?” I asked them. I led the way down the narrow path, to my clearing in the woods. Under the moon, the circle was an ivory carpet, surrounded by black-walled trees.

“What's this place?” Dottie said.

“I came here one day,” I said. I didn't add, “. . . after I trashed Stella's bedroom.” I thought it might be a good idea to leave that alone.

“Good place to come,” Bud said. And then a bloodcurdling scream split the night into a million pieces and we stood frozen in time and space, the moon looking down on our smallness and terror with a smirk on its face. Glen grabbed Dottie and she grabbed him back. “Jesus Christ,” she shouted, her voice muffled by Glen's winter coat. Bud and I had turned toward the sound and I had my back to him. Suddenly his arms were around me and he breathed into my ear, “What the hell . . .” I put my hands onto his arms as we all withstood another godless shriek, and then Bud began to laugh and he let me go.

“What is that?” I said, missing his touch even as I wanted to know about the noise.

“Listen,” he said, and the scream came again. “It's a screech owl,” he said. “Gotta be. What else could it be?” And he hurled his own shriek toward the woods. Glen let go of Dottie, who let go of him first.

The woods gave nothing back for a few seconds, and then the screech came again, and we all screamed and shouted back at the sound. Then, on quiet wings, a disgusted white-feathered ghost flew out of the darkness of the trees, crossed over our heads, and headed for where it wouldn't have to listen to bad imitations of its nature-given voice.

The owl, the moon, Bud's closeness, and the night had shaken me up, and I wobbled a little bit as we trekked down the path and found ourselves at the crossroads of The Point again. “See ya,” Glen said. We stopped at Grand's house. “Night,” Dottie said, and started down the road. Bud followed her, but before he got too far, he turned to see me watching him. He stopped, gave me a half wave and a smile, then trotted after Dottie.

26

B
y the time I turned fifteen in May, my fingers had grown into the beautiful emerald ring that Carlie and Daddy had gotten me for my thirteenth birthday. I took it off the gold chain and slipped it onto my right ring finger. During boring classes, I shone it so that a shaft of green fell on my classroom desks, warming their scarred metal tops. My fingers grew perfect half-moon nails, and I painted them pink or red. The colors reminded me of that day at Mulgully Beach, when Carlie's and Patty's pearly nails had glistened against their summer hands.

One day after school at Grand's house, Susan said to me, “You have the most beautiful hands.” These days, she often rode down on the bus with us to spend the afternoon with Bud. Sometimes, she joined Dottie and me at Grand's house first for a cup of cocoa and snacks. We'd sit around the kitchen table and shoot the breeze until she wandered down to Bud's house. I liked her in spite of myself. Not liking her would have been like hating Bambi.

Susan held her own hands up against mine. I could have bent the first joints of my fingers over the tops of hers, they were so small.

“I'll never be a model.” Susan sighed. “Too short.”

Dottie, who had been picking the chocolate chips out of one of Grand's homemade cookies and putting them in a pile to eat last, said, “Why would someone want to look like a bony-ass broomstick? Can you imagine not being able to eat cookies?”

“You could be a model, Florine,” Susan said. “You're tall. I can see you on some runway somewhere.”

“Maybe I'll run off to Portland and give it a shot,” I said.

“Why think small? Try New York or California,” Susan said.

“Shoot!” Dottie said, slapping her hand on the table. Susan and I both jumped.

“What?” I said. I took a cookie, watching the way my slender fingers—the fingers of a future model—clutched it as I brought it toward my mouth.

Dottie said, “I need two people tomorrow for bowling. You up for it?”

The last thing I wanted to do was stick my beautiful fingers into the hard, cold, dirty holes of a bowling ball. “What if I break a nail?” I said.

“What, now you're some friggin' pinkie girl?” Dottie said.

“No,” I said. “But it takes awhile to grow these things just right.”

Dottie shook her head. “I never thought I'd see the day,” she said.

Dottie's bowling team, the Gladibowlas, was in first place in their league. Susan, who substituted sometimes, said it was because of Dottie's high scores.

“Come on, it'd be fun,” Dottie said. “We could kick some butt.”

“I don't know,” I said. The thought of taking the bus to the bowling lanes along with thirty-two other girls gave me the hives.

“Don't be a poop, Florine,” Susan said. “Come on. Live a little.”

“I suppose you won't leave me alone until I go,” I said.

“Probably not,” Dottie said. She reached for another cookie.

“That's four,” Susan said.

Dottie arched a perfect brown eyebrow. “Stop counting my food,” she said. “I got to keep up my strength. I'm a growing girl.”

On the bus ride to Bowla Rolla, the three of us sat in the very back seat of the bus. Dottie was as excited as I'd ever seen her.

“I'm going to knock 'em all down,” Dottie said. “I'm going to get a perfect score.”

“I'm going to be right behind you,” Susan said.

“You're going to wipe the floor with me,” I said.

“Stop thinking that way. You got to think you can beat everyone,” Dottie said. “That way, you start thinking up here”—she raised her hand and touched the roof of the bus—“instead of settling for something down here.” She touched the floor of the bus. She sat back and birthed a huge, pink bubble full of veins from the three pieces of bubble gum she had crammed into her mouth. The bubble stretched until the light outside the bus windows shone through it.

“Oh my god,” Susan squeaked. Dottie's eyes went wide and I held my breath. When it finally popped, it covered Dottie from her hairline to the top half of her blouse. When we reached Bowla Rolla, we were still picking pieces of it out of her hair. In spite of her gum handicap, Dottie was the first one off the bus.

By the time Susan and I caught up, she was at the counter, trying on her used shoes.

“We have to wear other people's shoes?” I asked.

“You going to take this serious?” Dottie said. “I don't want to look like an asshole.”

“That happened before you got up this morning,” I said. She ignored me and I gave my shoe size to the person behind the counter. She passed them over to me as if handling stinky used shoes was second nature to her. I didn't know whether to admire her or feel sorry for her. Susan and I walked down to our lane behind Dottie and Holly, her other teammate. We put the shoes on in our little seating area. I double-knotted mine, like Carlie had taught me. “Two knots is stronger than one,” she'd said.

Holly and Dottie sat together a little apart from Susan and me, talking over their plan for the game. They looked over at us from time to time, then went back to talking.

“What do you suppose they're saying?” Susan whispered.

“Holly's asking Dottie how she got stuck with the loser with the bushy hair. She's wondering if it wouldn't be just as good to tell me to go back to the bus now.”

“They need four to a team,” Susan said. “I can do this. You can do this, too.”

I watched a girl walk up to a line and throw the bowling ball down the lane. Some pins fell. “Doesn't look so hard,” I said.

“Let's get our balls,” Dottie said.

When we reached the rack, I picked out a pretty red marbled ball. It was much heavier than I thought, and I dropped it about six inches from Holly's foot.

“Watch it, for chrissake,” Holly said.

“Here,” Dottie said to me, handing me a scarred black ball. “This is a ten-pounder. You can handle this.”

I cradled it to my chest to see how it felt, stuck my fingers in the holes, and hefted it. “I can do this,” I said.

“Atta way,” Dottie said.

It went downhill after that. My first ball went crooked and headed for the gutter like it was the shortest way home. I couldn't look Dottie in the eye. After one throw, I said to Susan, “I think my ball is afraid to hit the pins.”

“Maybe if you broke a couple of nails, you'd do better,” she suggested. She got a strike the first game, although she was all over the place as far as what she knocked down. Sometimes three pins fell, then eight the next time, then one. Holly kept a steady score, with eights, nines, and an occasional spare.

Dottie was on fire.

Whenever her turn came up, she stood back to us, her thick legs—the calves shaped almost like bowling pins themselves—ready to go. She went still for a few seconds, like she was praying to some bowling god. She quick-stepped from foot to foot, glided forward, bent down on one knee, and let her ball fly. Straight it went, right to the heart of the lane. Pins scattered. She stayed in her crouch until she knew the verdict, then she stood up, turned around, and walked back to us, grinning like a sassy gull. She sat down, wet her score pencil with the tip of her tongue, and colored in her score boxes. In spite of my pathetic efforts, or because of her high scores, Dottie's team still remained on top. Afterward, we went to the snack bar and bought French fries.

The big guy at the snack bar, Dottie called him Gus, said to her, “You're good, Dottie. You're gonna be a champ.”

Dottie sucked ketchup off a fry, bit little pieces off it, and swallowed it down before she said, “Thanks.”

On the ride home, we missed grabbing the back seat of the bus. I sat next to Susan, while Dottie and Holly sat across from us. I looked out the window at the dark flying by, fingering my broken nails and wishing I could have bowled better. Carlie, I was sure, would have done a fabulous job. Her little form would have sashayed up to the line, said a few words to the ball, and let it go home to strike heaven.

“You're good at other things,” Susan said, beside me, like I had spoken out loud.

“Like what?” I asked.

“You can knit great scarves. You make good bread. Bud and I think you're pretty.”

I was glad the bus was dark because my face went bright red. “I'm not,” I mumbled.

“Well, if Bud says it, it's true,” Susan said.

I knew that, well enough. I didn't need Susan to tell me that.

“Sometimes,” she said, changing the subject, “I wish he talked a little more.”

“He's just quiet,” I said. I pictured his dark eyes and his sudden, sweet smiles. My memory caught hold of the candy heart he'd left for me in Petunia once, and the thought of our game made me smile out the window at the dark.

“Why are you smiling?” Susan asked.

“No reason,” I said. Maybe I couldn't bowl like Dottie, and maybe Susan had Bud for a boyfriend. But I had a heart that said S
OME
G
IRL
hidden in the bottom of my underwear drawer. I had a feeling that somewhere deep in Bud's heart, he remembered setting it on Petunia's seat for me.