Southernmost Page 12

  2

  The Everything

  Justin used to think the trees were God. But today, right here, he thinks the ocean might be God. All that power and weakness, spread out for us to see. The ocean can do so much when it wants to, and sometimes it can do nothing but go in and out, waves and smoothness. The ocean is a mystery and so is God. They are both so big we cannot see all of them at the same time but we can catch pieces of them here and there. Justin believes God is big like the ocean. Even bigger. But lots of people don’t. They think He’s small enough to fit in a church house or an offering plate or an ancient book. He’s not, and His mind is even bigger than Him. People look at the ocean and they usually see only blueness. But there are so many other colors. Right now Justin can see ten different shades of blue, and lots of greens. There are lines of brown and the white lips of the waves. When the light hits the water in a certain way there will be even more colors: red, orange, peach, purple. At night there will be gray and the farther he could swim out into the ocean he could find the water darker and darker until it was black on a cloudy night. Justin thinks God’s eyes are that color: everycolor. This is the kind of talk that would horrify his mother, but he believes God is in everything and everybody. Pieces of him. He doesn’t just mean the spirit, he means the actual chunks of God. He thinks He’s not only in the ocean, but also in Shady, and the sand, and the trees, and every person on this beach, every person in the world. Today, right this minute, Justin can see nothing but ocean, and that is Everything. And Justin can feel the Everything beneath his hand where he is resting his palm on Shady’s chest and Shady’s heart thrums in a steady rhythm like the waves on the beach. He can feel the Everything under himself in the gritty sand. He can smell it in the sea­weedy smell smoothing over his face. He can hear it in the laughter of the teenagers down the beach and in the crying of that baby and the metal sound of the airplane sliding over them all and the water coming in and out in and out. The ocean is God but so are we all.

  But this isn’t the kind of thing he can say out loud to anyone. He knows it’s the kind of talk he can say to himself in his own mind when he is sitting on a beach a thousand miles from home, not knowing what will come next.

  3

  His face is covered by thousands of tiny red ants.

  He parts his lips to holler out but no sound comes; his tongue feels like a rusty jar lid.

  His arms are leaden, too much weight to move so he can sweep away the swarm overtaking his head and neck.

  His eyes are so heavy he has to conjure up all of his strength to pry them open and as soon as he does the world is all whiteness until finally he can make out the white ball of sun and the sky around it and the lifting fronds of palm trees above.

  Then he feels the sand biting into him, being driven at him with such force by the ocean’s wind that each grain feels as if it is boring into his skin. The sand clicks at his teeth, gathers in little whirlpools at the base of his nostrils, burrows into the corners of his eyes.

  There is a split second of relief when he realizes the ants are only sand, but then Asher thinks of Justin and draws in such a quick breath that he is choked by the grit he has sucked down his throat.

  He rises up and sprints down the beach for Justin.

  Asher doesn’t see him anywhere. He is looking this way and that, his head darting about like a scared bird. He has no idea how long he had been asleep but everything looks just the same: the volleyball game, the shape of the sky, the startlingly pale family with the baby, the ocean kicking little tufts of waves in the wind. He can’t have dozed off for more than five minutes from the looks of things, but maybe it has been longer.

  He feels as if he’s been punched in the stomach.

  I’ve lost him.

  Asher turns around and his eyes fall on the very spot where he has been sleeping. He sees that Justin and Shady have been lying on the throw next to him the entire time. Shady raises his head and cocks his ears. Justin is sound asleep, but Asher is so scared and glad that he shakes him awake, barking out his name.

  “What is it?” Justin says, cowering away from Asher, his eyes suddenly wide.

  “How long was I asleep?”

  “I don’ know.” Justin rolls over onto his side. Shady crowds in as close as he can get to him and tucks his nose into the nape of Justin’s neck. “Twenty minutes, maybe.”

  A wave of relief sweeps over him. He bends to kiss Justin’s forehead—he hasn’t done this in months—and then lies beside him on the throw again, despite the pounding sand. They have not taken a nap together in so long.

  Asher fixes the top of the throw up around their heads so the sand won’t get into their ears, and he rests.

  4

  Sky huge and tight with blueness.

  Wind.

  Ocean.

  Asher guesses they slept about an hour, and he feels more rested than he has in ages. Neither of them has moved a muscle in their sleeping and as soon as Asher opens his eyes he sees that Justin is completely still. A little old man lying there asleep.

  Asher knows he has to get up and see this place, to feel it and smell it and hear it and taste it. He has to find Luke. And Asher has to get up and press on for himself, too. For Justin.

  That’s when he hears the sirens.

  He stands, ready for them, accepting that this is over, his mind racing but not telling him anything. The family nearby is watching him with some amount of unease, he thinks. Maybe his face is all over the news now; he has no way of knowing. He needs to get to a television. The mother holds the baby close to her chest, eyeing Asher over her shoulder. But maybe he’s just being paranoid.

  Shady howls at the passing sirens, his head thrown back. Justin does not flinch, lost to exhaustion.

  And then the three police cruisers zoom on by, speeding to something on the other end of the island.

  Asher sinks back down on the throw. Vomit rises up in his throat. He coughs the acid off the back of his tongue and wipes his mouth on his forearm. Cold sweat lines his forehead and he puts his head between his knees to keep from throwing up again. Shady pads over to Asher and licks at his ear. After a time Asher gives Justin a little shake.

  “Come on, buddy,” Asher says, acting as brave as he can. “Let’s get this all figured out.”

  On their way to the car they pass a concession stand trailer. Hand-lettered signs cover the side:

  2 hot dogs fries coke $5

  cold cold key limeade $2

  famous smathers burger $3

  fried plantains $3

  A window is cut into the side of the trailer and a man leans on a small Formica counter, reading a battered paperback. This is as good a place to start as any. Asher asks Justin if he wants anything.

  “No,” Justin says. “I’m good.”

  “I’m gonna have a limeade. You sure you don’t want one?”

  “No,” Justin shakes his head, “gross.” He is watching the swaying fronds of palms above them as if hypnotized.

  “Hello, boss,” the concessions man says when Asher approaches, laying aside his book. The cover shows the title: Piedra de Sol. “What can I do you for?”

  Asher orders the drink and watches as the man pours the limeade from a clear plastic pitcher with lime slices floating within. Asher’s mouth waters at the prospect. By the time the man hands over the wax-paper cup its sides are already sweating from the heat.

  Asher gives him two dollar bills. And then, too abruptly: “You don’t know of any work around here, do you?”

  “There’s always plenty work in Key West.” The man’s eyes are very black. He leans his elbows on the counter, his shoulders rising under his ears. “But most of the work down here you wouldn’t want to do.”

  “Why not?” Asher is surprised, but masks it by taking a long pull on his straw. The limeade is tart and delicious.

  “Most of the jobs I know about are done by us brown folks.” The man laughs.

  “I’m willing to do anything,” Asher says. “I�
�ve got to make a living.”

  Justin is pulling at his shirt. “I’m burning up,” he stage-whispers.

  “My cousin used to work at the Casa Marina and they were good to him. They got employee housing, too. I’d start there.”

  Asher thanks the man, then thinks, Why not?

  “You wouldn’t happen to know a man named Luke Sharp, would you?”

  “No,” he says, shaking his head. “I don’t believe so.”

  “He’s my brother. I’m looking for him.”

  “I’m sorry,” the man says, and takes hold of his paperback again.

  “I ’ppreciate ye,” Asher says, the country way of saying thanks suddenly on his lips.

  “It’s nothing, señor.”

  The huge, lumbering woman at the Casa Marina says they have no work, but she directs Asher to the Blue Marlin.

  The Blue Marlin maids—flirty, pretty, laughing, Indian, Cuban, Mexican—sit on a stone wall like birds on an electric line during their break. They tell him to look around down at the Harbor.

  The men at the Harbor, scattered about the deck of a boat called The Lonesome Dove, pluck their cigarettes from their mouths and all talk at the same time. “The paper.” “The classifieds.” “The Citizen.”

  And in the newspaper Asher finds ads for several jobs, most of them restaurant and housekeeping work, but also calls for everything from data-entry clerks to medical technicians. Almost all of the ads demand that the applicant speak English. The one that draws his attention, however, is for a place called Song to a Seagull.

  Help Wanted. No Keys Disease Tolerated.

  Apply only if you are ready to work hard

  and are a good person. I’ll know if you’re not.

  Song to a Seagull Cottages.

  184 Olivia Street.

  Asher has no idea what Keys Disease is but he’s pretty sure he doesn’t have it. And he likes the mystery of the ad. Help wanted for what? I’ll know if you’re not. Something about the vagueness is intriguing.

  So they head to Olivia Street.

  5

  As they turn onto Olivia Street, Justin sounds it out slow, aloud, as if learning to pronounce a foreign word: “O-liv-eeee-uh,” like exhaling four little breaths.

  There’s a white fence with tall palm trees and the eaves of three roofs behind it. Pink and purple flowers drip over the fence. Asher finds the gate and there’s a cardboard sign taped there—help wanted—so they know for sure this is the right place.

  Asher pushes the gate open, easing his way into a courtyard. They are swallowed up in trees and flowers and birdcall. “Bougainvillea,” he says, putting his finger to a small purple flower. He had read about these when researching the island. There’s a bubbling fountain and a still pool. A glass patio table is loaded with all kinds of breakfast food: muffins, a glass pitcher of orange juice, a coffee machine and bowls heaped with fruit—bananas, oranges, apples, grapefruits, grapes. Asher’s mouth waters at the sight of the pink grapefruit.

  In front of them there’s a big old house, painted a pale orange, with the windows outlined in dark green and bright white banisters around the porch. There’s a green swing and a few rocking chairs painted a finger-paint-bright yellow.

  A little metal sign decorated with bright painted crabs—office this way—hangs from the limbs of a gigantic plant, so they make their way down a gravel path where they push tree limbs and pink or purple blossoms aside as if they are walking through a jungle. They come upon what looks like a little tool shed with a hand-painted board hanging over the open doorway: office.

  Inside the shed an enormous woman about the age of Zelda is spread out at a desk stacked with towers of papers and books and receipts. The whole inside of the shed looks like it belongs to one of those hoarders Asher has seen on television. She’s wearing a muumuu that is the color of red Kool-Aid and he thinks of Zelda because they are her favorite things. The woman’s black hair is heaped on top of her head and it is threatening to topple over if she moves her head too quick. She has placed little purple flowers into the clump.

  She scribbles out a list on a scrap of paper before she notices them.

  “Whatta you say, boys?” she says, glancing up. Back home only men say hello this way. She snatches off her glasses, pulls the muumuu out to wipe the lenses. Asher likes the way she moves, like a queen. “Needing a room?”

  “No, ma’am,” Asher says.

  “What can I help you with, then?”

  “I could use work.”

  “You ever done any cleaning work before?”

  “I’ve been cleaning my own house my entire life.”

  Asher doesn’t know any other men back home who clean the house, but he always has. He likes for things to be very, very neat. In fact, the tumult of this office is making him nervous. Back home if Asher had said he cleaned his own house, women would have laughed at him and patted his back as if he didn’t really understand what cleaning meant. Especially the women at church.

  “You keep a good clean house, then?” She looks at Asher over her replaced glasses like she’s making sure he’s not lying.

  “I believe I do,” Asher says.

  “Now who’s this little feller here?”

  “This here is Justin—” Asher says, and cuts the end of Justin’s name off quick, realizing he probably should have used a fake name. “He’s nine.”

  “Oh, he’s real little for his age,” she says, eyeing Justin. She doesn’t seem as big when she stands. She takes a dainty step forward and puts her hand out to be shaken by Justin, who takes it without hesitation. “I’m Bell,” she says, “B-E-L-L, like what you ring.” Then she shakes Asher’s hand. “I’m real pleased to meet you both.”

  “And this’n here?” She nods her chin at Shady.

  “We couldn’t leave him on the side of the road,” Justin says.

  “Where you from, baby?” Bell asks Asher.

  “Tennessee,” Asher blurts out.

  “I could tell it, from your accent. I’m from Notasulga, Lower Alabama.”

  Asher nods. “Don’t know it, but I’ve been all over northern Alabama.” He doesn’t tell her that he had been to Holy Roller church meetings there, plenty of times, especially up on Sand Mountain. Lydia hates it when he says Holy Roller but that’s what they are (or at least used to be), so why not just own it? What she still is.

  “You don’t mind cleaning up after strangers, then?” Bell asks.

  “I’d rather clean up after strangers than people I know.”

  “Why’s that, now?” Bell’s head is cocked to the side as if she sizing him up.

  “I guess because it’s more interesting.”

  “That’s one way of looking at it, I reckon.”

  “And because when I know somebody I would tell them to clean up after their own self.”

  Bell laughs at that. “Amen,” she says and she laughs some more and her large breasts shake. “I agree with you on both counts.” She sinks down to sit on the step up into the shed. Shady strolls over to her, settling himself against her hip and closing his eyes as soon as she starts rubbing his belly. “Human beings can be wonderful and terrible but most of them are disgusting creatures, I’ll just tell you. I reckon you know that already.”

  “I’ve been knowing that my whole life,” Asher says.

  “So you like this old boy?” Bell looks to Justin, still petting on Shady.

  He nods.

  “You can sit right here with me,” she says, scooting over.

  Justin sits next to her and Shady stirs, nuzzles his head so that his face rests against Justin’s leg and his belly’s pressed tight to Bell. He grunts in the back of his throat, too lazy and relaxed to bother with opening his mouth.

  “Oh yes sir, you’ve got you a friend for life in this’n,” Bell says. Her voice is softer now. Dogs did that to people. Asher reckons that’s what he likes most about them. “He’s like everybody else. Just wants to be loved on.”

  Then she’s picking right up whe
re she left off: “I can’t get over some of the messes folks leave.”

  Asher swallows hard and smiles around it, trying to get his bearings. He is still swimmy-headed and suddenly cottonmouthed.

  “I have a guest cottage and then five guest rooms that I let out. Sometimes people think they have to party big-time because they’re in Key West,” Bell is saying. “But a little guest cottage and rooms like this attract the better quality of traveler, you know. I don’t allow guests to bring kids but I can make an exception for your little boy. All the real terrible ones—the college kids trying to get as drunk as they possibly can and the in-debts trying to impress their girlfriends—they stay at the big chains.”

  “Yeah, that’s real good,” Asher says.

  “So you’d have to clean the rooms and the cottage, and go to the store for me. Any kind of errand I needed. I like things done when I want them done.”

  Asher nodded. “Yes, ma’am,” he says.

  “You don’t need to call me ‘ma’am.’ ”

  “Alright.”

  “Evona takes care of the pool and the grounds. You’ll end up working at least forty hours a week, sometimes more. Would that be alright with you?”

  “I’ll do whatever you need me to do,” Asher says. He sounds desperate, even to himself. “I’m not afraid of hard work.”

  “Well, sounds like we’re in agreement so far. So it’s yours if you want it.”

  “A man at the beach said that sometimes inns offer their workers a place to stay.”

  She eyed them all for a moment. Asher, Justin, the dog, then back to Asher. “Well, I do have one side of the worker’s cottage. You’d be sharing the house with Evona. Totally separate, two different entrances. She likes to keep to herself.”

  “Me, too,” Asher says.

  Apparently Justin has made a little game of watching the two of them talk, Asher notices. The boy’s eyes move back and forth between whoever is speaking.

  “Y’all would have to share the porch, that’s all. Evona is honest, I can tell you that.”

  “That sounds alright to me,” Asher says, although he is suddenly thinking how dangerous it could be to share a house with a strange woman who might eavesdrop or try to get to know them. But what he wants more than anything in the world is somewhere for them to lay their heads down at night.