The frail light from a single candle illuminates the sparsely furnished room. The presence of a small dining table, dilapidated sofa, sink, and stove indicate that this one room serves many purposes. An open door leads to a lightless room that I assume is the bedroom. The poverty of her situation is marked. Gwen notices it, too.
“This woman’s entire home is no bigger than the bathroom back at our bungalow,” Gwen whispers to me. “No wonder the islanders are trying to kill us.”
I crawl to the entrance and listen for the whereabouts of the thugs.
Dazed, Pamela sits on the floor, her back pressed to the door. When she speaks, her voice is frail and weary. “Anything?”
“They are farther away,” I answer, straining to detect every sound. “They’re calling to each other… trying to figure out where they lost us, I think. It’s hard to tell, but they don’t sound close. Maybe something else distracted them.”
Pamela closes her eyes and releases a trembling sigh.
“I’m so sorry,” I rest my hand on her shoulder. “Bill died to save you… to save all of us.”
The hardships and horrors of the last few days have taken a toll on Pamela. Her eyes flutter behind her closed lids like trapped moths. Scores of tiny wrinkles that I did not notice before line her eyes and mouth.
“How could this happen to us?” she places a sun speckled palm on the flat of her chest. “One minute Bill was with me… and now he’s gone. I’m alone.”
She buries her face in her hands and silently weeps, her shoulders convulsing from the strain.
“You are not alone. We’re with you,” I rub her back and say. My sentiments are flimsy things to offer a widow who just saw her husband slaughtered in front of her, but they are all I have. I sit beside her until her weeping subsides.
Staying low, I creep back to Gwen who sits before the island woman.
“I am Gwen and this is Phillip. What’s your name?”
The toddler is quieter but not at peace, still stirring fitfully in the woman’s arms. She regards us with open hostility.
“You should not be here,” she says. “You put my baby in danger if dey finds you here.”
Gwen nods solemnly. “I know, and we are sorry. The woman by the door—they murdered her husband and they would have killed us, too, if we did not hide here. As soon as it is safe to go we’ll leave.”
The woman settles into a scowl, patting her fussy child, and then accepting the fact that we are not going to harm her or immediately leave she says, “Dellas”
“What?” Gwen asks.
“Dellas. You asked my name. My name is Dellas,” she responds. “Dis is my little girl, Rhodesia.”
“Hello,” I wave.
“Do you have any watt-tuh?” Dellas asks, pronouncing the word “water” with a heavy accent.
We shake our heads, to which Dellas purses her lips.
“You plan on leaving when it is safe,” she says. “It won’t be safe—not now, and not in de morning. De gangstas—dose rotten bums—dey will watch de roads in and out of town for you.”
I inch closer so that I will not have to raise my voice. “What happened here, Dellas? Where are the authorities?”
“All dead. Once de gangstas learn dat no more food or watt-tuh is coming dey
get to drinkin’ and den de run wild,” she shakes her head with righteous disgust. “We only had de sheriff and two deputy—no match for de gangstas. Nobody could stop dem, robbing and carrying on like such.”
Rhodesia starts to bawl again. Dellas rocks her back and forth with diminishing results.
“She is hungry,” Dellas explains.
“Dellas, is there another way out of town?” I ask.
“Over de hills, through the countryside, yes, if you know de way.”
My eyes narrow. “And you know the way.”
“I do.”
“There is plenty of food and water at our resort. If you guide us safely back we can give shelter for you and your daughter.”
Dellas cannot be more than twenty years old, but she regards us with the steely-eyed circumspection of a banker considering a loan. I wait expectantly, knowing her cupboards are bare and that rocking and tender words will not soothe Rhodesia much longer.
“Okay, I take you,” she agrees. “First light, we go.”
Chapter Eleven
Long past midnight, as the last hour of darkness surrenders to the coming dawn, Rhodesia’s restless cries rouse me from sleep. How long have I been asleep? I glance at my watch; an hour has gone by, but it seems I only closed my eyes a second ago. I sit on the floor against the entrance, blocking the door from opening with my body. Pamela dozes nearby and appears as light-hearted as when I first met her. Perhaps she dreams of better times. What a shame it will be to awaken her and steal her from this blissful state.
Snoring on the couch, an exhausted Dellas is oblivious to the child fidgeting in her arms. Gwen lifts the child and coos sweetly to her. Rhodesia falls silent, mouth agape, trying to comprehend whom this new, strange woman is that holds her. Gwen rocks her back and forth, tickling the little girl’s chin and any other gesture to distract and placate her.
As Gwen coddles Rhodesia, Gwen’s apprehensive expression becomes tender and dreamy. Watching her, I recall our own plans to have a baby. I used to picture how beautiful our child would be, and I imagined that Gwen would be as caring and warm to our child as she is now to Rhodesia. Early in our marriage, we discussed having a baby, but she was not ready. “When we’re more financially stable,” Gwen said, and so we put it off. Whenever I mentioned the subject, she raised the same objection, pointing to a stack of bills that was hard to refute. Maybe we’ll have a baby next year, I told myself, and told myself again the year thereafter.
“What?” Gwen asks, startling me. I did not realize I watched her so intently.
“Uh, nothing,” I stammer. “It’ll be sunrise soon.”
She nods and quietly asks, “What’s going on outside?”
I peek through the curtains. “It looks like most of the fires have burned themselves out. The sky isn’t red anymore. I don’t hear the thugs… maybe they’re asleep.”
The air in the home is stagnant and still.
“I’m so thirsty,” she swallows hard. “Back home I’d turn on the faucet and there it would be—clear, cold water. What I wouldn’t give to be able to do that now.”
“I know,” I agree. “I’m starving. These past few days I must have dropped 10 pounds—and I didn’t have any weight to lose. By the way, you were pretty impressive back there—kicking that guy in the crotch the way you did. Did you take a kung fu class over the summer?”
A slight smile crosses her lips. “It’s surprising to find what you’re capable of when you have no choice.”
It feels good to talk so easily with Gwen, but something has been weighing on my mind.
“Gwen, when we get back to the resort what’s going to happen with us? I suppose you want the bungalow to yourself.”
She pauses, perhaps trying to find the right words, and then, “My main goal is simply making it back to the resort alive. I hadn’t thought of anything beyond that. I could move out of the bungalow if you prefer.”
What I really want to say is that I prefer Gwen to share the bungalow with me. The strength of this desire surprises me, and the fact that I even have this desire at all is bewildering. However, the ease by which she yields the bungalow is certainly not the sign of a wife who would insist on remaining with her husband, so there is no point in entertaining this desire.
“I can keep the bungalow, but I’m not going to have you sleeping on the beach,” I counter.
“Someone will take me in… maybe Conner and Alexandra.”