Lessons of a Lowcountry Summer (16 page)

BOOK: Lessons of a Lowcountry Summer
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“Let's go inside before Chris and Brandon get jealous.”

“What do they have to be jealous about?”

His expression stilled, becoming serious. “I'm the one with the smart, pretty girl.”

“Would it make a difference if I wasn't smart or pretty?”

“No, Hope. It's not outside that matters, but in here.” He pointed to her heart.

A warning voice whispered in her head that she had to stop him. Now. “What is it you want from me, Theo?”

“Anything and everything you're willing to give me.”

“And what do I get in return?”

“Anything and everything you want.”

“What if I want something you're unable to give me?”

“I wouldn't know what that something is until you tell me.”

“I can't tell you, because I'm not certain whether it is what I really want or need.”

“Try me,” he said, challenging her.

“Later,” she countered softly.

“When?”

She smiled up at him, and for the first time he noticed the slight dimple in her chin. “At the end of the summer.”

Theo pushed out his lower lip, the expression reminding her of a petulant little boy, even though there was no trace of a boy in the very adult Theodore Howell. “I'll be leaving before the end of the summer.”

Hope affected a seductive moue. “Then I'll tell you before you leave.”

“I never thought you'd be a tease.”

“I'm not, but what I am is honest. The day before you leave McKinnon Island, I will tell you what it is I want.”

“I'm going to hold you to that promise.”

Reaching for her hand, he held it in a firm grip, leading her into the house.

Eighteen

 

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow, dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings.

—W. B. Yeats

 

 

E
zra Smith watched
the play of emotions cross the face of the woman sitting at the opposite end of the rowboat. He had known Rebecca Owens a week and was completely enchanted with her. At first he'd thought it was her delicate beauty, but after spending several days together he realized it was her enthusiasm, her thirst for knowledge, her intense need to know more and more.

She had come to his sister-in-law to learn to weave baskets from dried sweetgrass and palmetto strips, and subsequently had become his companion and his friend. She pulled her fingers from the water, shaking them. Pinpoints of light piercing the thick overgrowth of trees glinted off the diamonds on her delicate left hand. The rings were a constant reminder that she was committed to another man.

Rebecca opened her eyes at the sound of a loud crack. A flock of squawking birds flew overhead. The sound echoed loudly in the early morning quiet, then the area surrounding the swamp settled back to a shrouded eeriness punctuated by the
slip-slap
sound of oars slicing through the murky water.

She spied a graceful white bird with a long neck and plumage perched on a fallen tree limb. “What's that?”

Ezra glanced over his shoulder. “A heron.”

“Beautiful.”

“Yes.”

He was looking not at the bird but at Rebecca. She had chosen to wear a long-sleeved white linen shirt, jeans, and a pair of leather boots for their boat trip to an abandoned slave cemetery at the northernmost tip of the island, and he found her casual attire more provocative than if she'd worn a bikini. The denim fabric defined every curve of her compact body.

Palmetto trees and ancient oak draped in Spanish moss, lined the bank of the swamp, closing in around them as the water narrowed until it was little more than a meandering stream. The elderly man who had given him directions had warned him to look out for snakes—water moccasins in particular—and for the earth that moved under his feet. It had taken several minutes for Ezra to interpret that to mean quicksand. Steering toward the bank, he pulled the oars into the boat, then jumped out.

From the bottom of the boat he retrieved a large, ornately carved wooden cane, then he curved an arm around Rebecca's waist and hoisted her out of the boat. The entwined serpents on the walking stick, also known as a “conjure stick,” symbolized the magic and religion coiled around every facet of life of the sea islanders. His conjure stick was for snakes and quicksand. He planned to tap the ground before he placed one foot in front of the other.

“Stay behind me at all times,” he warned, as he turned and headed in an easterly direction.

Rebecca stared at the back of Ezra's head. At sixty-two, he still had all of his hair. Streaks of silver shimmered in a mane as pale as moonlight, the color incongruent against his deeply tanned brown skin. He wasn't the type of man she would have found herself physically attracted to, except for his intelligence. He was a brilliant historian.

“How far is it?” she asked after ten minutes.

There was no road, only narrow foot trails where the forest had yet to reclaim the land. There came an occasional rustling in overhead trees and brushes, but except for the heron, she hadn't caught a glimpse of any wildlife. The cloying smell of flowers mingled with decaying foliage and animal waste.

Ezra stopped, pointing. “It's just up ahead. See where the woods thin out a little.”

She nodded. Massive oak trees formed a natural canopy, shutting out the rays of the hot sun. Ezra started up again, and she followed until they stood outside the rusty gates to a cemetery. There were gravestones covered with mold, moss and mildew. She was fascinated by the number of bottles, cups and shells around the graves.

She waited outside while Ezra pulled a digital camera from the pocket on his denim shirt and began taking pictures. The longer she waited, the more uncomfortable she became. She hadn't visited a cemetery since burying her sister. Her parents went back every year on the anniversary of their youngest daughter's death, but she refused to join them.

The sun rose higher, along with the heat and humidity, and forty minutes later Ezra was finished. He had seen and photographed enough. Some of the items left at the graves were interesting, most were familiar, but there were others he'd never seen before.

He smiled at Rebecca. “Are you ready to go back?”

She flashed a dimpled smile. “Yes.”

“May I offer you breakfast before I take you back home?”

Her smile widened until it was a full grin. “Yes, thank you.”

The return trip to where they'd left the boat was accomplished in half the time it had taken to reach the cemetery. Rebecca got in and sat down while Ezra pushed off the bank and got in with a nimbleness that belied his age. By the time they were underway, the swamp was alive with movement and sound. A large water snake came within several feet of the rowboat, swimming in the direction from which they'd just come.

“Why was the cemetery filled with so much litter?” She had to say something, anything to keep her mind off of what lurked under the slow-moving boat.

Ezra smiled, steering the boat toward the opposite bank. “It's not litter, it's grave decorations. Broken bottles and other ornaments in an African-American cemetery are expressions of religion and magic. Offerings to the deceased are much like the ancient pharaohs, wherein the dead must be given whatever they may need for the next world, lest the spirit come back. And woe to one who steals anything from a grave, even a broken mirror, because bad luck will follow him.”

“It sounds more like magic than religion.”

“Gullahs practiced their West African beliefs in relative isolation until the 1840s. After that the Baptist religion dominated the culture. However, the abundance of Moslem practices on the Georgia coast in the 1930s indicate the importation of people from northern Nigeria or the Western Sudan. I interviewed a woman on Sapelo Island who told of the regular ritual prayers of her great-grandfather on his prayer rug. Despite Christianity, superstitions still govern the lives of sea island natives from birth to death.”

Resting her elbows on her knees, Rebecca leaned forward. “What are some of them?”

“The left eye jumping means bad news, the right one means good news. If someone wears a dime on their body, and it turns black, then it is a sure sign that one has been conjured or root-worked, and when you hear an owl hoot that means someone is going to die. You never sweep up and throw out your trash after dark, or someone will die. Never leave hair in your comb or brush. Burn it, because someone can use it to cast a spell on you. The same goes for nail clippings.”

“That sounds ridiculous.”

“It may sound ridiculous to you, but it is very real to some. I spoke to a woman who'd moved to Little Rock from Savannah to escape the evil influences that she said would drive her crazy. To her the curse put on her by a jealous neighbor was so real that it defied Western psychiatric practices.

“Dr. Ramsay Mallette, a former professor of psychiatry at the Medical University of South Carolina in Charleston, trained his residents to perform root magic to reverse the hexes placed on patients whose fear of death was paralyzing. He showed a videotape of the healing procedure, complete with the instruments of conjure that produced recovery, as a demonstration of the power of belief.”

Rebecca's gaze did not waver. “What do you believe, Ezra?”

“It has nothing to do with what I believe, Rebecca. I only report what I see and hear. A woman who'd had her hex reversed told me, ‘She wuk a root on me so strong dat she put a big snake in muh bed, and uh could feel tings moobin in tru muh body. I could feel duh snake runnin all tru me.' ” His inflection was pure Gullah.

“Hey, that was good.”

Ezra wiggled his eyebrows, grinning. “You understood me?”

“Yes.” There was no mistaking her delight.

“Let's see if you understand this: ‘Day clean broad.' ”

She shook her head. “I can't figure that one out.”

“Broad daylight. Placing an adjective after the noun it modifies is an example of word order that makes the Gullah language colorful and distinctive. For example: ‘a child bad,' ‘tree high,' or ‘I not see him.' Opening a sentence with a subject and repeating it with a pronoun is attributed to African syntax. So is the frequent repetition of words or phrases. ‘I go,' ‘I went,' ‘I shall go' may also be said in the same phrase. Suppose a woman tells her doctor, ‘I bees sick,' she connotes both that she is, and has been, sick.”

“Are the differences between sea island peoples that discriminating?”

“Yes, but they are subtle. Although early rice planters along this coast were aware that Africans were as diverse as Europeans, they molded them into a cohesive workforce, ignoring ethnic differences and discouraging native customs. For survival, slaves had to repress differences and create a common Gullah culture.”

 

Ezra maneuvered into the driveway
behind Rebecca's Mercedes and shifted into park, but he did not shut off the engine. Turning toward her, he stared at her profile. It had been a long time since he'd enjoyed a woman's company. Usually they bored him—to tears. But Rebecca was different.

Ezra rested his arm over the back of her seat. “Will I see you tomorrow?”

“I don't think so. I plan to sleep in this weekend.”

He nodded. “If that's the case, then I'll use the time to input my notes into my computer. Call me when you're ready for another field trip.”

Leaning over, she brushed a light kiss on his cheek. “I will. Thanks for everything. Good night, Ezra.”

He inclined his head, smiling. “Good night, Rebecca.”

She hesitated, waiting for him to come around and open her door, but when he didn't, she got out of his truck unassisted. Spending more than twelve hours with Ezra Smith had changed both of them. In the past they had only discussed his research, but today that had changed. As they'd strolled a historic section of Hilton Head, he'd talked about growing up within sight of the Mississippi River, his mother, father, and his brother, Thomas, who was born the day after he'd celebrated his eighth birthday. He'd also talked about the young woman who had captured his heart in the first grade and their elopement.

Pushing open the door, Rebecca got out of his vehicle and made her way up the porch to her summerhouse. She had come to discover what she wanted and what she should do with her life.

It took less than half an hour for her to brush her teeth, wash her face, and take a bath. Not bothering to dry off, she lay facedown on the bed. A hint of a cooling ocean breeze filtering through the screens swept over her nude body. Like the simplicity of the little beachfront house, the intense heat no longer bothered her.

The cell phone on the bedside table rang. She rolled over and reached for it. Her home number showed in the display. “Hello.”

“Hi.”

“Hello, Lee.”

“How are you, Rebecca?”

After their last telephone conversation, she had promised herself she would be civil to him. “I'm doing well.”

“I'm glad to hear that. What have you been doing?”

She told him about picking sweetgrass and palmetto leaves, then visiting the slave burial ground, unaware of the rising excitement in her voice.

Lee chuckled softly. “It sounds as if you're enjoying yourself.”

“I am. I never realized how rich our heritage is. You must come down and see for yourself.” There was silence. “Lee?”

“I'm here, Becky.”

“Did you hear what I said?”

There was another moment of silence before he said, “Yes, I did. Do you really want me to visit?”

“Of course I do.”

“I'll let you know,” he said slowly, as if monitoring each word.

“When?”

“I'll call you.”

She did not know why, but she felt so alone. She'd invited her husband to join her on her magical island and his reply was, “
I'll let you know.

Her jaw hardened. “Call me before you come, so I can pick you up at the ferry.” Pressing the End button, she terminated the call.

“You spiteful bastard!” she screamed. His decision not to commit to coming to McKinnon was his way of paying her back. She had extended the olive branch, and he had rejected her peace offering. It would serve him right if she had an affair. How would he feel if she slept with another man? She scrolled down the cell phone's directory and pushed the Talk button.

“Ezra?”

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