The Girl in the Maze (4 page)

“Ever tried Frogmore stew?” Nick snapped the lens cap on his camera and slid up next to her.

“That's what's in the sink?” Martha asked.

“Traditional recipe around here. Go on and try some. Don't worry…it's one hundred percent frog-free.”

Martha stepped across the lawn and peered into the enameled basin. Inside were mounds of pale pink shrimp, corncobs, thick sausages, and red potatoes. Martha took a paper plate and tonged out a single shrimp, a half ear of corn, and a potato. She filled a waxed cup with tea from a plastic spigot and glanced around for a place to sit.

“Over here.”

Martha turned toward the sound of the voice. Two women sat at a large wooden cable spool, flipped on its side to form a table. One of the women, the chunkier of the two, beckoned. “Come on and have a seat over here,” she said. “We won't bite.”

Martha crossed the hot grass and put her cup and paper plate down on the spool and introduced herself.

“I'm Edwina and this here is Crystal,” the chunky woman said. Edwina wore a peasant dress and had close-cropped hair. The other woman was petite, with her hair held in place by translucent green clips.

“Do you both live here on the island?” Martha asked.

“Born and raised,” Edwina said, dabbing her cheek with a folded paper towel. “What brings you out to Shell Heap?”

“I'm working with the Historical Society. We're doing a book about the island.”

“Oh, hmm. You part of that oral history thing? They've been out here interviewing folks for months now. Ain't that right, Crystal?”

The thin woman nodded, nibbling daintily at a shrimp speared on a plastic fork. “They been nosin' around like we're some kind of funky tribe.”

“Seems like they're interviewing just about everybody lives out here,” Edwina said. “How come they ain't asked to talk to me yet?”

“I don't know, but I would be interested in interviewing you,” Martha said. She carved off a piece of red potato and speared it with her fork.

“I'll tell you what, I got some stories to tell,” Edwina continued. “Maybe some you don't want to print. Crystal knows what I'm talking about.” Edwina laughed, nudging the woman with her elbow. Crystal used her napkin to shield a shy smile.

Martha returned their smiles and tasted the potato. It was soft, creamy, and redolent of shrimp.

“Hey, Edwina, can you ladies give us a hand with the ice-cream churn?” A skinny man with a salt-and-pepper beard had appeared on the porch, a crank in his hand. “Can't find the rock salt nowheres.”

“I'll be right in,” Edwina said, wiping the corners of her mouth and putting down her fork. “That'd be my husband, Horace. That man could lose a white rabbit in a coal chute. If you'll excuse us just a minute?”

Edwina and Crystal went into the house, leaving Martha alone to survey the yard and the party. She was doing all right. Having a good time, even.
You adjust, life goes on.

Martha put her reporter's notebook on the table, clicked her pen. How to describe it all?
The residents of Shell Heap are friendly, and they project a strong sense of…
What?

Community. This is a village. But something's missing. What? Children. It's a place without children. A place without a future?

Martha was about to start another sentence when she became aware of a new feeling—a familiar, unwelcome sensation nibbling at the edge of her consciousness. It caused her skin to prickle.

She scanned the yard and the party again. People engaged with one another, social interactions. No one focused on her, everything normal. Her gaze traveled beyond the yard, into the surrounding trees, and paused at a spot where a pair of thick limbs diverged, like an old man's fingers. In the shadows between those limbs, a hint of movement.

She squinted, trying to sort through the crosshatch of branches and moss, to discern—what? A shadow, maybe. Or some odd thing that someone had tossed up there—

Then Martha felt as though someone had laid an ice-cold towel across her back. The shape moved. It leaned partway out of the shadows. She saw glints of sunlight, two glassy points of light reflecting toward her. At the instant of eye contact, the thing retreated back into the limbs. Martha clenched her pen and looked down at her Chinet plate, where the potato, shrimp, and corncob sat in the center of an expanding wet stain.

Her heart was pumping antifreeze and her thoughts rolled in different directions, like loose marbles.
Look away, then look back.
She lifted her head to look again at the tree, and saw nothing.
Don't lose focus, Martha. Concentrate.
What did you actually see
? A person, yes. She wrote it down.
Someone green and dull like the moss, dark like the shadows in the tree. But the eyes…large, round, glassy. Like a giant crab.

Martha felt a touch on her shoulder and jolted and dropped the pen. She spun around to see Astrid Humphries standing next to her.

“Sorry to interrupt your note-taking,” Astrid said. “Are you all right? You look like you just saw a Boo Hag.”

“I'm sorry? A what?” Martha's saliva caught in her throat. She glanced back toward the tree. The V-shape between the limbs was once again a mossy tangle of shadows. No sign of movement, no vacant rims glinting sunlight.

“A Boo Hag,” Astrid said, grinning. “It's a creature that some of the old-timers around here believe in. I was just joking; I didn't mean to scare you.”

“I'm fine. I was taking notes and just got lost in my thoughts, I guess.”

“If you don't mind, there's someone here who'd like to meet you.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you,” Astrid said. “Come on and follow me.”

Astrid led Martha onto the shady back porch, past a rust-stained metal glider and stacks of woven baskets. At the far end, an old woman sat in a whitewashed rocker, hands folded in her lap. She stared out toward the yard with an odd expression—maybe a faint smile, but Martha was unsure.

Astrid leaned toward the woman. “Albertha? Here she is…that young woman you asked about. Her name is Martha—”

“Covington,” Martha finished.

“Martha, I'd like you to meet Lady Albertha, one of those old-timers I was talking about.”

The woman tucked the cane next to her knee and turned toward Martha.

“Let me touch your face, child,” Albertha said.

The woman held her hands forward, fingertips open and expectant. Her hands were as wrinkled as lizard flesh, and her eyes were like clouds.

Martha cast a puzzled glance toward Astrid, who nodded toward the woman, still smiling. Martha leaned forward and the woman's fingertips played across her face like the footpads of a kitten.

“When were you born?” Albertha asked, her gray eyebrows arched.

“August twenty-second, 1987,” Martha said.

“Drought year. No turnips. That was the year when the wild horses broke into Fawley's garden, ate up most of the crops.”

Albertha leaned back, rested her hands on her knees. “Sit down over there for a spell. Sit down and have a talk with us.”

Martha glanced back across the porch. Astrid had left them alone, and Martha wondered what Albertha meant by “us.” She took a seat in the ladder-back rocker next to the woman. There was a long pause. Martha waited, wondering what to say, hearing the hum of conversation in the yard, the drone of insects in the palmettos next to the porch. Finally, Albertha spoke.

“You are touched by magic, child.”

“I'm sorry?”

“All of us, what was born that way.”

The woman made a slow gesture, palm passing across her face. “The birth membrane. Some folks even remember it.”

Martha shook her head, forgetting that the woman couldn't see the gesture. Albertha continued.

“But most folks don't realize what they born with till they get older. Myself, I've know'd since I weren't but a child, when I first start to hear them whispers in the grass.”

“You mean voices?” Martha asked. “You hear—?”

“Lord, yes. Whispers and murmurs. Every day. My parents thought I had what they call the ‘busy head.' Spirit talk, children in the woods. Prankster voices. For me, it started at dayclean.”

The woman made a muted, husking sound, which Martha surmised to be a kind of laugh. “My folks, they seen me playin' in the churchyard, talkin' to them spirits alltime, they tried to cure it for a while. Took me to a root worker. But there ain't no cure, those voices always gonna be there. You just got to take charge, get ahold of the reins, 'fo they put the rein on you.”

Martha's head was swimming. “How did you know—?”

“ 'Course, I was born in the alltime night. But I've heard tell of others, what can
see
'em
.
” Albertha leaned forward in her rocker. “Tell me, child, can you see the spirits?”

“Not really…just in my head. But I know what they look like, sometimes, because I can see them in my mind.”

“Now, tell me, child. Tell me about these voices you hear, the spirits you can see inside. What kind of words do they speak?”

Martha felt a flush in her chest, a tingling sensation on her skin.

“Mostly bad things. You see, my voices are caused by an illness.”

“So you try to make them hush up.”

“Yes, I take medicine.”

“And that medicine, does it work? Do they quiet down?”

Martha hesitated. “Sometimes.”

Albertha's chair squeaked softly as she began to rock. “There's a reason you came here, child.”

“I'm only here for the summer. I just want to get some experience.”

“Maybe them spirits want to tell you a story.”

“What story?”

“The story of the old ones. The ones that came before us. Them whose blood and tears salted this soil for a hundred years. Sometimes, I hear their voices in the grass. Most time, they just whisper. But they been getting louder. Them voices won't be quiet, not until they've been heard proper. They want somebody to tell their story out loud, so it can be heard.”

There was a beep of a car horn. Martha turned toward the yard and saw that Lydia had brought the Range Rover around. Nick was climbing inside.

“I have to go now,” Martha said, rising. “It looks like we're getting ready to leave.”

Albertha grabbed her hand. “Be careful, child.”

“What?” A sting of adrenaline shot through Martha's abdomen. She tried to pull free, but the old woman wouldn't let go. Instead, she leaned forward and spoke with a low intensity. “There's big trouble coming. It'll come mos' soft, so you can't hear it or see it. Like the Devil on a butterfly's wing.”

“Excuse me,” Martha said, her voice quaking. “I have to go now.”

Albertha slipped something into Martha's fingers, then released her. “If you need any help with those voices, you come and see me. Come see Lady Albertha.”

The old woman stared at the yard. Eyes of milk. As if they had not been chatting at all. The horn beeped again.

The last stop on Senator Crumbley's tour, the Praise House, was a simple white clapboard structure in the middle of an open, grassy area, surrounded by particularly beautiful moss-draped oaks. The top of the building had a cupola with an iron bell and behind it a field of pockmarked headstones, some tilting like crooked teeth. Along the wall of the church, the bottoms of colored bottles had been mortared into wooden frames.

Inside, the sunlight filtered through the green and brown glass, painting the dim interior with colored light. The room smelled pleasantly of oak, old leather, and human sweat. Not the rank sweat of labor or the sickly sweat of stress, but a rich scent of joyous exertion.

Martha sat in a pew next to Nick, Lydia, and Senator Crumbley. On a platform at the front of the room, robed choristers swayed and clapped in a song of jubilation.

Higher than the highest mountain

Wider than the widest valley

Deeper than the lowest sea

Is the place that waits for me

When I'm in that holy place

When I get to heaven

Ev'ryone can come and see

When I get to heaven

I know there's a place for me

When I get to heaven

Amid the revelry, Martha discreetly reached into her pocket and pulled out what Albertha had given her. It was a dog-eared business card, with letters that looked as if they had been pecked out on a manual typewriter:

Martha walked along the waterfront, feeling fried, but also exhilarated. She'd made it through the first three days of her internship. She liked the work. She'd even finished a draft of one of her first interview transcripts—a little more polish, and it would be ready to turn in to Lydia.

She glanced at a piece of paper folded in her palm that bore the address of the County Commission meeting.
Are you ready for this?
Lydia had told her tonight's meeting was a special session to discuss the future of Shell Heap, and it had been relocated from the administration building to the lunchroom of the elementary school because of anticipated overflow crowds.

Main Street was closed up for the day, its buildings turning chalky gray in the afterglow of sunset. She reached the corner of Canal Street, a dead end signified by a distinctly sulfurous odor. Martha looked over the edge of a crumbling wall, down into a murky channel enclosed in concrete. The tide was low. Rafts of pine straw and cigarette butts undulated against the walls.

The streetlights flicked on, and Martha felt herself tense.
Relax. Streetlights come on because they have sensors. It's not about you.

She took a deep breath and counted slowly to five, thinking of Vince and the cognitive techniques he had taught her.
You will not be defined by this.

“Want a brochure?”

Martha stopped in her tracks. A skinny blond woman held out a pamphlet with bold letters on the front:
THE TRUTH ABOUT TIDEWATER
.

“Thank you,” Martha said, taking it.

“My name's Tammy. I didn't mean to startle you.” She smiled at Martha, lips glistening salmon. “I'm with the Amberleen Citizens for Progress. Maybe you'd like to sign our petition?”

Tammy guided her toward a line of folding tables outside the elementary school cafeteria. A cloud of gnats and mosquitoes swirled in the glow of a floodlight hanging overhead, and Tammy used a fan made from a palmetto frond to stir the thick air and its freight of insects.

“We've already got two hundred and sixty-four names, and I think we'll have a couple hundred more before we're done tonight. Don't you think so, Bill?” She nodded toward a burly man sitting next to her. Farther down the table, a man in oily coveralls signed a list on a clipboard. A dirty string dangled from the pen. Several others waited their turn, chatting in the night air.

“You must be familiar with the plan.” The woman waved her fan mechanically.

“The plan?”

“The Tidewater Project. You must be interested, or you wouldn't be here, right?”

“Yes, I'm interested. But I'm actually new to this area. I'm not familiar with the details.”

“Well, you've come to the right place,” Bill said. “These are good, professional people who want to build a first-class project out there.”

Martha glanced down at the brochure.
The Tidewater Project means: * Jobs * Economic Growth * Tourism. Don't let the future slip away!

“Welcome to Amberleen,” said the blond woman with the fan. “You'll love it here, because we're just good people and—
mercy!
”

She shot out of her chair, knocking it backward and brandishing the fan like a shield. Martha sensed a peripheral movement overhead, a fluttering whir.

“Bill—that
creature.
Make it go away.”

“That little bat ain't about to bother you, Tammy,” Bill said, chuckling. Tammy squealed again, jabbing her fan at the swooping bat. “He just wants to get his dinner. Leave him alone.”

Then the bat was gone, as suddenly as it had appeared. Tammy righted her chair. “You'll have to excuse me. If there's one thing I can't stand, it's flying rodents.”

“That ain't no rodent, Tammy,” Bill said. “Totally different animal.”

“Rats, bats, snakes, they're all the same to me.” She scrunched her bony shoulders together. “All good reasons to call Orkin. As I said, my name's Tammy. What's yours?”

“Martha.”

“We're glad to have you here, Martha. If you decide not to sign our list right now, we'll still be out here after the meeting. Read the brochure, listen to what they say inside tonight, and then make your decision.”

Martha started to thank her for the brochure, but Tammy had shifted her focus to an elderly couple and was starting her spiel over again. Martha made her way past the folding table, through the milling crowd and toward the entrance to the building.

Inside, the room was brightly lit by hanging fluorescent fixtures. Banks of orange plastic lunchroom chairs were filling quickly. The hum of conversation blended with the scrape and rattle of chairs. Martha paused, took a deep breath. Her first public meeting since the illness.
You can handle this.

She caught sight of Lydia, near the front, her crown of white hair conspicuous amid a scattering of African American people. There were empty seats nearby, the area apparently shunned. Martha made her way toward them and found a chair next to a heavyset woman in shimmering greens and purples—peacock colors.

She took out her reporter's notebook and began jotting down the names of the six commissioners, which were taped along the front of a makeshift dais. The board members entered through a side door and took their seats behind the table.

“If everyone could please find a seat, we'll get this meeting under way,” said Wallace Bowden, the commission chairman. “If you plan to make a comment, make sure you fill out a speaker slip and give it to the recording secretary. Mrs. Ortiz, could you please open up the doors, let some air circulate?”

A woman pushed open the metal double doors at the back of the room, letting in a scent of freshly mowed grass and the chirring sounds of the night.

After the Pledge of Allegiance and other formalities, Bowden introduced the evening's “special guest,” a senior executive of Hoshima Corporation, who would share plans for the development of Shell Heap.

“Hoshima is primarily known for its expertise in developing multi-use residential and recreational developments that have a strong economic impact while preserving or enhancing natural resources,” Bowden said. “Their award-winning developments have stimulated economic revival along Mississippi's Gulf Coast and in other parts of the world. As their plans will show you in a moment, this is not going to be another Hilton Head Island….”

As he continued, Martha stole glimpses of the islanders seated nearby. She recognized faces from the cookout—Astrid Humphries, the sweetgrass basket maker; Edwina; and the man on the porch, the one who couldn't find the rock salt. Three seats down, an elderly gentleman with wire-frame glasses leaned forward, his fingers laced together atop an ornate wooden cane. Martha noticed something underneath his chair, covered by a sheet of dark cloth. Maybe a box…

Martha turned her attention back toward the front of the room, where the Hoshima executive, a man named Fujiki, was presenting artists' concepts of the development. The slides showed pastel drawings of lavish houses, a new marina, a clubhouse, a park, and a nature walk. “We realize there is much concern about the rich history of the Geechee people who have lived on Shell Heap in the past,” he said. “We share this concern, and toward that end, Hoshima Corporation has agreed to invest ten million dollars to develop a Geechee Heritage Center and Museum.” Martha glanced at the other members of the audience. Some were nodding their heads in approval, but the islanders near her were tense, motionless. The stout woman sat with her arms folded, scowling.

Fujiki brought up a slide showing a museum styled to resemble a plantation house. “This facility and its full-time staff will be devoted to the preservation of this important part of the island's history,” he said, and flicked through a couple more slides—a sketch of an African American woman telling stories to enraptured children on a set that resembled a slave cabin; a delighted audience watching what appeared to be a possum and a raccoon singing onstage underneath a proscenium arch that read
FOLK TALE THEATRE
.

“This year-round attraction,” Fujiki told the commissioners, “will utilize state-of-the-art animatronics—”

The elderly man with the glasses rapped his cane on the floor. “What are you going to do, stick rods up our butts and turn us into robots?” There was a murmur among the group surrounding Martha, chuckles, and approbations.

Bowden tapped his gavel. “As I said earlier, we have a formal procedure for public comment. If you have opinions to share, please fill out your speaker slips.

“Thank you, Mr. Fujiki, for your impressive presentation,” Bowden said. “This is clearly a very well thought-out plan.”

Martha detected movement from the corner of her eye. She turned and saw that the man with the glasses and the cane was now fiddling with the box under his chair.

Commissioner James Oglesby cleared his throat. “Now, this board is sympathetic to the concerns of the Geechee community, but for how long must our economic future be held hostage by the needs of a tiny minority?”

The group near Martha huffed indignantly.

Bowden held his hand up. “Before we get too far into this discussion, the board would like to hear a report on another issue that may have a significant bearing on our decision tonight. Sheriff Morris?”

A rumpled officer in a khaki uniform approached the podium. He was a large man, but not fat—that wasn't the right word.
Expansive,
Martha wrote in her notebook. He leaned against the podium, smiled affably, and scanned the audience. He made fleeting eye contact with Martha, winked. Martha looked down at her notebook and felt her cheeks grow hot.

“How y'all doing?” Morris said.

“Sheriff Morris, I think most of us saw the report published in last week's
Gazette,
” Bowden said. “We've read about the recent increase in crime in our community over the past three quarters. Could you share with us the statistics your department has compiled?”

Martha heard a stir from behind, squeaking chairs and hushed whispers. She turned and saw what the hubbub was about—a trio of young African American men who were entering the room. The first one was muscular, with dreadlocks, dark glasses, and an olive vest. The next wore baggy jeans and silver chains. The third was a lanky young man in a football jersey and a baseball cap turned backward. They paraded slowly around the edge of the lunchroom and came to a stop lined up along the wall near Martha, arms folded.

The noise level in the room rose, and Bowden banged his gavel. “Sheriff, if you will please continue.”

Morris wiped his hand across his mouth, frowned at his clipboard, and rattled off statistics showing an increase in criminal activity over the past year—destruction of public property, defacement, and what he called “drug-related” activity.

“You mentioned thirty-five drug-related felonies,” Oglesby said. “How much of an increase is that from the same period last year?”

“One hundred fifty-three percent.”

“Some of those hooligans are here tonight!” someone shouted. “Why don't you arrest them, Sheriff?”

The tension in the room felt oppressive to Martha. It was hard to breathe. She doodled in her notebook—a sailboat riding choppy waters.

Bowden gestured toward the sea of faces in the lunchroom. “I think we've all seen the graffiti that has begun to appear in our city streets and neighborhoods. We've all seen some of the vandalism that has occurred, both in the Planters Walk area and more recently down to the Bay Marina.”

“Aubrey, in your fourteen-year career here, have you ever witnessed this level of criminal activity before?”

“No, I have not. Jerry, could you put up that photograph?”

The screen at the front of the room showed a close-up of graffiti painted on a corrugated tin wall. The design was a piece of chain in the shape of an
S
. The last link of the chain formed a snake's head, mouth open, fangs bared. Martha sketched the figure in her pad.

“As many of you know, over the past two months, my department and I have conducted an intensive investigation into the emergence of drug-related activity in and around Amberleen and the surrounding islands.”

“Would you describe this activity as organized?” Bowden asked.

“Yes, I would. We have determined that most of this malfeasance can be attributed to a single group. They have a distinctive insignia, which you see in this photograph. My department has found this symbol in many parts of the community as well as out on Shell Heap.”

“I found that same thing painted on my boathouse last week,” someone in the audience said aloud. Martha heard snatches of other comments from the audience.

“Now, as we all know, gang activity is something new to us here in Amberleen,” Bowden continued. “Has your department made any progress in determining their base of operations?”

“Yes, we have. After extensive investigation, we have determined that this organization is using Shell Heap, and some of the surrounding islets, as a hub for drug trafficking.”

A murmur rumbled through the room. Several of the elderly people seated around Martha looked at one another, shaking their heads vigorously.

“My deputies and I have recovered numerous items on Shell Heap used not only in the consumption of illegal drugs, but also in their manufacture and distribution.”

The city attorney stood.

“If I may, Chairman?”

“Go ahead, Jerry.”

“There is a maze of channels and waterways on both sides of the island. These hoodlums know the marshes out there very well…they travel to and from the mainland in small motorboats. Their very mobility, and the number of potential hiding places in the coves and streams, have made this a very difficult problem for law enforcement to control. Isn't that correct, Sheriff?”

Morris nodded. “With our limited resources, it's nearly impossible for us to patrol those canals and waterways with any regularity.”