“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” Edward said as he stood up with the first aid kit and wad of bloodied towels in his hands.
“What?” Mr. Murrell looked up at him.
Edward realized it hadn’t been a show, a face Mr. Murrell had put on for his son’s benefit, a lesson in keeping one’s nerve. Mr. Murrell looked up at him as if suddenly remembering the accident. Using his chin, he nodded toward the house.
“Oh, that’s nothing. I know what an emergency is, and that little scratch was not one. You know what an I-beam is? They’re the steel beams used to make buildings. Weigh two thousand pounds. About twenty years back, when I was a factory manager, I saw one of those I-beams fall on a guy. That poor son-of-a-bitch was standing under a jib crane when it broke. Had his hardhat on, but that does nothing when something big hits you. Tore through him like a butcher’s cleaver. We called 911 and got the beam off him, but you could see his rib bones, side of his spine. It was me and about ten mill workers standing around. Mill workers are tough guys, but you could see the shock in their eyes as they looked down at that man, blood leaking out of him. His eyes stayed open for a long time, staring up at something. There was nothing we could do. Nothing but wait for him to die.” Mr. Murrell nodded as if answering a regrettable question. “Anything that doesn’t kill you is just a scratch.” He winked before putting his magazine down.
Mr. Murrell took a swig of his Corona, and watched Edward with his dark eyes. Edward thought he might say more, and waited a moment longer before turning and reentering the house.
~~21~~
The aches in his joints were the greatest of his pains. His muscles felt rigid like he’d just started a heavy workout routine. His joints clicked and popped as he stretched and walked out of his house toward the beach. He stepped down into the water, letting the tickling coolness rise up his skin, licking the night sweat off. When he was up to his waist, he turned, and fell into it, floating on his back and sweeping his arms back to propel himself. As the sun was just starting to emerge from behind a layer of clouds, he took in shallow breaths and rested on the bay, its surface calm and mirror-like at the early hour.
The silence and stillness seemed well-deserved after the previous night. Mary and he had argued more after dinner, and she had gone home early. Edward wanted to be mad at her, but when she left, she had disarmed him. She said he only cared about himself. And it was true. He wanted her to do what he was doing. He wanted her to go where he was going.
The slow swim helped his body break the stiffness. Exhausted and sore, he had gone to bed early. Around midnight, Mr. and Mrs. Murrell were out on their front deck, yelling at each other. Their arguing woke Edward and he looked out his window. He could see their forms in the darkness, both smoking, Mrs. Murrell pacing to and fro while her husband sat. It was as if a force had descended on the island, a murky cloud of psychic energy, infecting the inhabitants. Perhaps microbes had been inhaled. Something had gotten into their blood stream that made them all pissed.
Before Mary left, Edward had asked her why she’d returned to help him.
“One of us needs to be the adult,” she had said.
“Adults think about their future,” he had replied.
She didn’t speak after that. When she closed herself up, she became as tight as a fist, and he hated it. But he hated himself more for how he had kept talking, asking her about her education to belittle her. The Murrell’s shouting had reminded him of his dense apartment in Queens and he’d gone back to sleep easily.
Just as the sky brightened, Edward swam back to the shallow water and stood, brushing back his wet hair. He tested his black eye with a finger. The bloated skin was still numb. As he walked out of the water, his foot hit something, a familiar piece of jetsam. As it did the day before, the face on the juice box gazed up at him with its orgasmic smile, drops of fruit juice saliva shooting out. From its location up on the dry sand, he knew the carton had washed up during high tide the previous night. The current had carried it from where he had thrown it on the far side of the inlet island to the spot he stood at the back of the bay. It was the same spot where the body had washed up. He picked up the juice box, carried it to the back of his house and put it in the plastic bag filled with dead leaves and trash.
Edward showered, ate breakfast and started putting Mary’s makeup on his eye, dabbing at the purple and black flesh. With his artist’s eye, he felt confident about the cover-up. The skin was still puffy, but it would only be noticeable if they were looking straight at him. After he finished, he put on clean shorts and a shirt, and started walking toward the master house to start breakfast.
~~22~~
Three days later, Edward whistled as he walked up the road to the Road Town public library. Of course the Murrells didn’t remember that they wanted steak. They probably hadn’t ordered it in the first place. It had been one of John’s secretaries who told Ms. Sarah or maybe Ms. Sarah had long before written down that he liked steak and it was forevermore expected that he wanted steak. The Murrells didn’t even care that there was an extra person helping out who didn’t work for them. They didn’t care that Edward was walking around with a limp. They didn’t care that they had a second house they never used. They didn’t care about these things because they were rich and rich people didn’t bother with trivial details. Even little Jimmy’s wound looked minor in the morning when they had reexamined it while putting on fresh bandages. Maybe Mr. Murrell was right about everything being just a scratch.
All Edward’s fretting about ruining his impression had been a waste of time. The family had no complaints, appearing occupied with their next destination as they boarded the taxi boat to leave. Just before Mr. Murrell stepped off the pier, he pulled out a wad of bills from his back pocket and proceeded to peel off three one-hundred dollar bills. He passed these to Edward in a handshake.
Edward adjusted his sunglasses and patted the pocket holding the tip Mr. Murrell had given him. He was thinking of buying Mary flowers, two dozen roses. He was thinking of buying her dinner at that expensive French restaurant on the wharf. He just hoped three days was enough time for her to cool off. Two cars passed him as he walked up the street. Then a Suzuki SUV flew by, dusting him with sand. Forty feet up it braked and skidded to a stop. The reverse lights came on, and the gears whined as it rolled backwards toward him. Again the car skidded to a stop, its bumper only a dozen feet away from his kneecaps.
Isaac jumped out.
“Yo, boy, you remember me, huh? You do, don’t you? You remember my car, yo?”
Edward had stopped, and tried looking as unconcerned as he could, forcing himself not to look at the SUV’s tires. He yawned and tried to act completely confused.
“Yo boy, you touch my car?” Isaac jolted toward him, stopping about two steps away and flapping his arms around, making the gold chain he wore under his silk shirt jump. He flexed his arm muscles as he pointed at Edward and then his car.
“Sorry. What?” Edward tilted his head.
“What? So, you not rememberin? Let me give you a flashback then. Few month ago, someone messin with my tires. Yeah, someone stick ’em right outside my business. You rememberin now, boy? Remember stickin my tires?”
“I don’t understand.” Edward wiped the bottom of his nose. “What happened? Why do you think it was me?”