Wreckage (17 page)

Today’s my favorite day in the rotation. Lillian and I work very well as a team. When she’s on the rocks I know I’m safe. Of course, Kent’s efficient and we get more food collected when he’s holding the spear, but I don’t trust him one little bit. When Kent’s the lookout, I find myself scanning the water, unsure if he’d tell me if Jaws himself was heading my way. When Lillian’s fishing with him, I try to stay close to the beach, not willing to leave her safety completely in his neglectful hands.

Lillian yelps up on the rocks. She’s standing on her tiptoes waving frantically. Squinting tightly, I watch her hands. If she sees a shark, she’ll put her hands together fingers extended pointing toward the sky. If she sees a large grouping of fish, she’ll hold her hands parallel to each other, flipping them from fingertips to wrists. I hope for fish but watch for large dark shadows in the water around me.

Before I can recheck the warning, I’m surrounded by a school of yellow tuna. The tuna are huge. Sporting a bony fin on their spines, they look almost as fierce as the sharks, but at least these guys don’t have teeth.

It’s rare to find tuna this close to the island but Kent’s been telling us for weeks that certain types almost throw themselves ashore during monsoon season. I don’t have time to be annoyed that he was right.

Holding the spear high, I’m ready for attack. Two things I’ve learned from my crash course in spearfishing are—strike fast and strike often.

The fish surround me, the featherlight flick of their tail fins tickling my knees, and I stab at the water with rapid-fire movements. The spear makes a sloshing sound, slipping in and out of the water, making no splash.

When Lillian finally reaches me, the water creeping up her bathing suit top, I have a glittering yellow tuna flipping on the end of the spear. Its weight bends the reed relentlessly.

“That was amazing!” she gasps, out of breath from her run from the rocks. “You were like a ninja with that thing. Kent’s gonna die when he sees this.”

I’m smiling so big it hurts my cheeks. “I’m as surprised as anyone. I think I might have a little amnesia, because everything before your freak-out on the rocks is a little hazy.”

Nearly jumping through the water, she grabs my arm holding the spear. “Let’s get out of the water, Bourne Identity. You did just kill some fish and you know what sharks like to eat.”

“You worry too much.” I try to be confident, hating that she thinks I’m a wuss, but when she turns away, I quickly scan the water with a hint of panic. Whew, no fins.

When we reach the shore, she flops down on the beach. Sand clings to her wet, bronze legs where they stick out from her cutoff shorts. I toss the still-twitching fish to the ground and then hop down next to her, winded but happy.

“Mmmm, I can almost taste that fish now. Fillets for us all—perfect.” She shakes large drops of water out of her tied-back hair.

“I caught it, I should get first dibs. Who says there’ll be any left once I’m done with it.”

“Well, I saved you from the sharks so I should get something in payment. We can let Kent eat all the snails I collected.” Her eyebrows rise in that way they always do when she plays along with one of my games.

“Yeah, good idea, he’d
love
that.” I grab a smooth white shell tossing in the tide by my feet and rub it between my fingers silently. “I know—you tell him about the snails and it’s a deal. He’d so kill me if I tried to keep him from food. Especially fresh fish.”

“I’ll tell him.” Her eyes flash like steel. “I’m not afraid of that man. You know I’ve never even heard him use my real name. He calls me ‘babe’ or ‘hon’ all the time?” She wrinkles her nose like the names give off an offensive odor.

I turn onto my side so I can look right at her. Her face peers out from the crook of her elbow, squinting against the afternoon sun. “I think it’s because of your name. He kind of hates it.”

“My
name
? He told you this?”

“He may have mentioned something.”

She laughs, digging her fingers deeper into the mane of hair, green eyes picking up some of the blue from the ocean. Somehow she’s still as beautiful as the first time I saw her sitting on that plane. I run my hands through my own thick curls. I didn’t get the haircut I wanted before leaving California and now it’s catching up with me. Between the curly black poof on my head and thick rough beard on my face I feel like Sasquatch.

“It doesn’t really fit you. Lillian. In my family you would’ve been Lily.”

“For real? Lily? How’re you so sure?” Thankfully I’m over my initial nervousness around her but there are still times when we’re alone and really talking I find it hard to look at her without my heart pounding. I concentrate on the sand, hoping my pulse will slow down.

“Believe it or not, my dad was a florist. As a kid I spent the majority of my spare time in his shop, The Enchanted Florist.” My eyes roll instinctively; I’ve always hated that name. “Lilies, any kind, were his favorite flower. He would’ve called you Lily, I’m sure of it.”

“I kind of like that.” She taps her teeth thoughtfully. “Hmm, Lily. I’d love to meet your dad one day, when we get home. He could teach me about arranging flowers and I’d even let him call me Lily.” We do this a lot, talk about going home, make plans like it’s really going to happen.

“I’d love for you to meet my dad. He’s the best man I’ve ever known. But he passed away a few years ago.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Dave. I didn’t mean to . . .”

“No, no, it’s all right, I’m fine.” I brush the niggling grief away. It’s behind locked doors where it can’t hurt. I certainly won’t let it loose out here, where it would distract and ravage me. “It’s been five years. We were very, very close. My mom left us when I was three, so it was only the two of us my whole life.” I sit up and draw a circle in the undisturbed sand in front of me. “I’m glad he didn’t live long enough to worry about me back home.”

“It’s nice you were that close to your dad. I’m not close to either of my parents. My dad’s a minister, and I know he loves me but I’m sure he’s not proud of me. Everything I’ve done in my life is good but just not good enough.” She digs her toes into the sand, flecks of pink nail polish still clinging to a few of her toenails.

“What, do you have a secret past full of drug convictions and traffic tickets?”

“Noooo.” She giggles. “Daddy wanted me to marry Mike Henshaw, the junior pastor in our home church, and be a minister’s wife. I tried, I really did, but we didn’t work together.” She looks out into the water, any sign of humor erased from her face.

“I’m sure poor Mike was disappointed.”

“I don’t think so. He ended up marrying a girl he met on a mission trip a year after Jerry and I walked down the aisle and now has six kids and his own church in Tennessee. I couldn’t make him that happy. Dad thought I was being selfish.”

“I don’t think you’re selfish. I think your dad wanted you to be someone you’re not, as if you were a defective piece of furniture from Ikea.” I stop short when my voice wavers with anger.

“I guess.” She bites the inside of her cheek. “Whatever it is, I’ve come to terms with it and I don’t beat myself up about what he thinks anymore. Once we had Josh and Daniel, things were better. Now they can obsess about the boys.”

“You need to introduce me to your parents. Then they’ll be thanking their lucky stars for a daughter like you.”

“Ha, ha. You’re totally wrong.” She cocks her head to the side, sizing me up. “My parents would like you. You’re funny, you’re educated, and you have the best quality of all—you’re religiously unaffiliated. Daddy would scoop you up like a spoonful of homemade ice cream.”

“Wow, that sounds . . . fun?”

“I should warn you, though; he
will
call you David just like he calls Josh ‘Joshua.’ It’s his thing. He likes the biblical names, for obvious reasons.”

“So, David? Like David and Goliath?” I wrinkle my nose.

She nodded. “Yeah, that David. But he didn’t just kill a giant. He went on to be one of Israel’s greatest kings and father to another famous king—Solomon. My Dad says Jesus’s line goes back to David as prophesied in the Old Testament.” She lowers her voice like she’s passing on a secret. “He’s kinda a big deal.”

“Well, in that case, I think you and Kent should call me ‘your majesty’ from now on.”

“Yeah, you wish.” She slaps my arm lightly.

“I definitely like the sound of it. King David. KING David.” I try to make my voice deep and booming, royal-like. Lillian scrunches her face. “Your dad would like it even if you don’t.”

“No, I think he’d call it ‘irreverent and sacrilegious,’ ” she drawls in imitation. “But, David,” she sighs, “I like that name on you.” Her lips pucker and I imagine touching them.
God, Dave, control yourself.

“If you get to call me David then I get to call you Lily.”

“I think . . . I like it,” she says, pulling her hair off of her shoulders. “Now we have our island identities, our secret identities. It’s not like we can be the same people we were before, so why not mark that in some significant way?”

“That’s a great idea, let’s do it. Lily,” I say, putting out my hand in front of her. We shake twice before letting go.

“Well then,
David
, now that we have that settled, maybe you can teach me how to gut a fish?” Up on her knees, she looks like a kid on her birthday, dying to dig into her presents.

“Sure, if you really want to know.” I hope she wants to know, so I can have a few more minutes of my day melt away in conversation with her.

“Of course I do.” She stands up, wiping her hands on her legs. “Do you have your knife?”

“Yeah, I do. We can clean it over there by the rock.” My hand darts to my right hip pocket, checking for the lump that I know will be there. I never leave my knife behind, never. There’s something else there, something I’ve been meaning to talk to her about. “That reminds me of something I wanted to give you—come back and sit down.” I clutch her fingertips.

Lily’s eyebrows rise with curiosity and she sits again, this time her legs crossed Indian style. That nervous flutter has returned. I hope I can keep my breakfast of snails and coconut milk down. Reaching into my pocket, I pull out a small package, wrapped in palm frond pieces that overlap into an arrow that points right at Lily. It seems smaller than I remember, no longer than my hand, palm to fingertips, and about the width of two fingers.

“Here.” I hold it out. The sun’s behind her now and I squint to see her face.

“Oh, what’s this for?” I drop it into her palm with a plunk that echoes in my bones.

“I guess you can call it an early Christmas present. I was going to wait but . . .” I can’t find the right words. “Open it.”

Her fingers fumble with the shoelace bow holding the tightly wrapped leaves together. She unravels it so fast, as if she’s following the insane pace of my heart. Then it lies in her hands: stone, wood, and cloth made over long hours by my hands—for her.

“A knife? Where? . . . How? . . . Did you make this?”

“No, I bought it at Ace Hardware—of
course
I made it. Do . . . do you like it?”

Her fingers creep around the hilt, thumb running up and down the twisted fabric covering the heavy wooden handle. She inspects the three-inch blade.

“I do like it. I love it. It’s amazing. I can’t believe you made this. Does it work? Can I use it on the fish?” She points the short blade at the now-dead tuna.

“Yeah, it works.” I have to dodge away from the blade. “Be careful waving that thing around, it’s sharp. I’ve been sharpening it for a week now.”

“So that’s what you’ve been working on when you’d disappear for hours at a time. Aren’t you clever? Kent’s going to be so jealous.” Her feet patter out a dance. Why does she have to be so happy? This is the part of the conversation I’ve been dreading.

“Lillian . . . Lily.” She smiles at our joke name, but I can’t smile. “I don’t want you to let Kent know about this knife. I want you to . . . to keep it a secret.”

“But, why not? I thought you gave it to me to use around camp. What good is it if I can only use it in secret? It’s my secret knife? I don’t get it.”

This is harder than I thought it’d be. During the hours I spent chipping the stone and carving the wooden handle, I pondered thousands of ways to say this to her.

“Kent’s dangerous; he can’t be trusted.” I say it fast. She opens her mouth, perhaps to protest, but I grab her gently, one hand on each shoulder. “You need this knife for more than just completing chores. You need it for protection.”

“Protection?” She glares at the knife like it’s burning her hand. “Protect me from what? Are you insinuating you made this knife for me to use against Kent?”

My right hand moves to her face, my fingertips curling into the downy hair at the base of her neck. “Listen, neither of us is entirely safe with him but you’re the most vulnerable.”

“Why?” she scoffs, pulling away. “Because I’m a woman?”

“No. I mean yes, I mean, in a way,” I stumble.

“Thanks for your concern but I’m sure I can take care of myself. What do you think he’s going to do—get me in a holdup? Assault me with his overwhelming misogyny?” She holds the weapon out like she’s going to give it back and puts more space between us. I can’t read the dark cloud that’s settled on her face.

“No, it’s because of the way he looks at you, Lily. He watches you like a predator with his prey. He thinks he can do anything on this island and get away with it. I’m starting to think he can. Bottom line is—you’re not safe with him and it’s only a matter of time before . . .”

“Before what, Dave?” Her voice trembles and I can’t tell if she’s angry or frightened. Taking her hand, the one holding the knife, I bend her fingers over the hilt, holding them in place like that will make them stick.

“Before he takes it beyond looking. Be aware, be careful, because if anything happens to you, I don’t know what I’ll do.”

The thought of Kent touching her burns me from the inside out. She must feel it in my fingertips because she pulls away, knife still clutched in her hand. She’s shaking.

“Don’t do anything stupid, Dave. Don’t try to cross him. He’s not a twelve-year-old Boy Scout playing pretend.” Her voice quivers and her stone mask of bravery cracks momentarily, and I see she’s vulnerable, breakable. “I’ll keep the knife if it makes you feel better, but promise me you won’t try to handle him on your own. I’ll only keep it if you promise.”