“Yo, Mary-girl, you leavin wit dis whiteboy?” His tone rose high in disbelief.
Mary and Edward walked in front of Isaac’s SUV, Edward and Isaac glaring at each other until Edward was across the street.
“Get back on dah boot, boy!”
The car engine roared and tires squealed. Edward forced himself not to turn around as Isaac sped off down the road.
Back on the pier, Mary picked up her bucket, putting her arm through the handle. She climbed down to her boat and waited for Edward. As soon as he was on, she started the engine and moved them away from the pier.
Edward couldn’t figure out if she was embarrassed or annoyed, angry or worried. She might have been focused on her driving or thinking about the encounter with her ex-boyfriend. He hated the silence, but wanting to be the gentleman, forced himself to keep his mouth shut through the quiet ride back to his property.
~~14~~
Sunlight dabbled over his face through the swaying palm canvas, waking him from the beach recliner. For a minute, he tried returning to his dream, but the light prodded and poked and he threw a hand over his face when he had had enough. He rose, dug his feet into the sand, and let his feet absorb the coolness, thinking of breakfast and chores.
Breakfast was easy. He stood and stretched, walked over to one of the banana trees and broke off one of the fruit. He ate this with two oranges from his supply boxes. While he ate, he scratched his bare stomach and admired the tan he had acquired on his chest and legs. He was sure his gut had tightened some during the past two weeks and he hadn’t had indigestion since he’d been forced outside.
“Muscle! Pure muscle.” He squeezed a fold of stomach skin into his hands while tightening his abdomen.
Edward stepped onto the patio deck where an almost perfectly preserved grouper skeleton lay. The chum Mary got him had worked out well, attracting the bigger fish within minutes of him dropping it into the water. He was even able to spear one fish from off the pier.
Since he couldn’t keep the chicken George had brought him, he tried using some of it as chum, but the bloodless meat was like rubber in the water. The fish wouldn’t touch it. The crabs, however, loved it. The crabs seemed willing to eat anything. He had even caught some of them and tried to make a meal out of them, but the small crabs were difficult to grill, their inside meat quickly withered into cartilage over the flame.
His supply of eggs lasted longer as he kept them buried in the sand. He usually ate two for breakfast until he found another use for them. Two days before he had taken a dozen eggs to the village and traded them for cans of Mexican pinto beans and Honduran corn.
Edward finished his banana, and washed it down with water from a bottle he kept under the recliner. He stretched again and then started cleaning up, dropping the cutlet knife, fork, plate and leftover fish into a baking pan he had used to ferry items from the kitchen to the grill. Next, he lifted the grate off the grill and placed it on top of the pan. Still half asleep, he carried these down to the beach, squinting through the brightness of the dazzling bay. He squatted where the surf intermittently wiped the beach and set the pan down.
He plucked out the leftover fish, holding it with an index finger and thumb, and tossed it as far as he could into the water. Next, he began scrubbing the grill top with a rag, using the sand at his feet to scour off the charred bits of last night’s meal, continuing his work until it shined. He wiped off the utensils next, being gentle with the knife to protect the blade. The day after his power had gone out he had used a round stone to sharpen it like a razor and, knowing the value of a good knife, had fondly kept it in its best condition.
As he worked, the surf rippled away and a little white crab ran under his knees. A tiny thing the size of his big toe. Its eyes were as black as obsidian and gave the appearance of paranoia and pleading. Edward held still a moment, seeing if the creature would stay there under him. It stayed about five seconds before scurrying off on its sideways run, leaving behind its minuscule trail across the wet sand.
A short time later, another crab scurried by inches from his heels. He ignored this one, continuing his wipe-down until two more passed, running sideways, watching out for the next wave. Then a group of four crabs scurried around him, two behind, one in front and one actually went between his feet, their trails imprinted on the sand like bands of loose ribbon. He finished cleaning his spoon, dropped it into the pan, and picked up a spatula. He had never seen the crabs crawl so close and knew something drove them. Edward looked up the beach from where the crabs had come. Seeing nothing chasing them, he turned to look the other way, up the beach where they were heading.
There he saw the body.
“What the—” He fell, his backside hitting wet sand.
The form was wrapped in seaweed, partially camouflaged, but clearly a body. If it had been farther away he might have mistook it for a dead dolphin or shark. But there were clothes, a shirt, pants, and shoes.
“Jesus,” he hissed through clenched teeth.
Edward squeezed the spatula in his hand, knuckles white. He got up, took one-step and then another, as if to better comprehend what he was seeing. Was it real? As he walked forward, a wave washed over his feet, startling him. The surf rolled down the beach, under the body, appearing on the verge of moving it until the wave tapered out. When the wave retreated, it pulled at the seaweed hanging off the body, unfolding the vines like tentacles.
Edward walked over, slowly, cautiously to within fifteen feet.
It was a man. His face and body stayed planted face up in the wet sand as the water drained away. His body was perfectly straight, hands at his sides as if lying in state. He looked to have been in his sixties, had on a Hawaiian shirt, linen slacks and deck shoes. The clothes were still wet and glossy. The pallid face was bloated the color and texture of raw pork fat. His thinning hair was in disarray, parts entangled by slimy green leaves. One long vine of kelp encircled his neck like a scarf worn from shoulder to shoulder. Edward looked away after looking over the face. It was a harsh image. The nose and lips looked chewed upon, but the eyes were the most grotesque part. Turned up, irises hidden under the lids. Later, he would tell himself that death was the ultimate indignity.
“Jesus.” Edward looked around. “Jeeezus. A dead man here.”
Horror and disgust rose in him. His heart started off on a wild roll. He looked toward the house, threw down the spatula, and started running. He ran and started to call out. But to whom? The words died in his throat. He made it to the top of the berm and stopped. Where was he running? Who was here to help? If he were in front of his New York apartment, there’d be a thousand people within earshot. But here on Lot 17 on the northern side of Peter Island in the middle of the British Virgin Islands there wasn’t a soul around. There weren’t any doctors or policemen or friendly business people walking down the sidewalk. It was crazy to look for that help. There was no help – he was the help. Whose responsibility was it? The property was his responsibility. And anything that happened on it was his job.
Edward waited a while for his racing heart to calm. He turned around.
He walked back to the body with his palm on his forehead. He had seen dead bodies before. His grandmother lying in state at the church. A man who had been run over by a truck on the Lincoln Expressway. When Edward was twelve, his father and he had discovered a neighbor who had dropped dead of a heart attack in his backyard. “It happens,” his father had said with a somber tone while waiting for the ambulance.
Edward thought about what he needed to do. Walk to the village and tell the police. Poor guy, he thought, probably fell off a boat, drowned while on vacation. What a horrible way to go. It’s sad. Yes. Now, deal with it.