Isle of Palms
written by: Jim Bartlett
With a quick dip of the paddle’s blade, Marcy guides the kayak through the last of the slow breakers and into the calm of the protected bay. It’s shallow here, and though she only needs a couple more strokes before she can ease the bow onto the welcoming beach, she stops, leans back, closes her eyes, and soaks up the sound of the soft waves as they kiss the shoreline on the other side of the berm just behind her.
Lovers since the beginning of time.
Ever since she discovered the magic of the kayak, and the sanctuary of this island of palms to which it carries her, it has become her refuge anytime the stress begins to overwhelm.
The burden too much to bear.
And usually, when the sun’s rays nuzzle up against her cheeks, she feels her troubles and worries fall like a tropical rain from her shoulders.
But today, those rays bring light to something unsettled. Different. She feels the sharp sting of the turbulence of uncertainty stirring within, and it warns her of a brewing storm somewhere just beyond the horizon, ready to unleash its fury.
Filling her lungs with the ocean’s air, she opens her eyes. Though the tiny island’s beauty, with its sugar-white sand, turquoise waters, and swaying palm trees, steals her breath, and she normally feels as though she could stay here, resting on this kayak, forever and ever, today, this moment, she can’t seem to slide out from under the ominous dark clouds building overhead.
She tries to shake it off. Find her normal breathing rhythm. But a group of seagulls, their voices riding a light breeze that carries the fragrance of a patch of hibiscus not far up the way, begin to cackle and caw, almost taunting her as they haggle over the remains of a clam or crab. Wanting more. Wanting more.
There’s something familiar in their cry. What, she’s not sure, but whatever it might be cinches her gut into a knot, triggering memories better left at the bottom of that deep blue sea. As they get louder, more insistent, she looks downward to the bay’s glassy surface, catching her reflection as it stares back at her, every bit as lost as she.
It’s then she notices the ugly mark that takes up most of her cheek, stretching up to her eye. It’s already swollen, soon to be purple at the very least, and the sight of the bruise gives rise to the hair along her arms and sends a chill racing down her back. She takes a deep swallow, her body now tingling with a sudden sense of urgency. Slipping off the kayak and into the knee-deep water, she tosses the paddle toward the berm – it’s only going to slow her down. She turns, ready to run, her focus on the grove of palms at the top of the beach, their fronds swaying as if a beckoning. A calling.
Come now.
Come quick.
Yet, despite her efforts, despite her panic, she’s unable to move a single step in their direction, as something or someone has grabbed hold of her, tugging, twisting the lapel of her Roswell Department Store’s uniform blouse tucked under her sweater – when did she put that on? – stealing away any hope of her making an escape to the safe haven that lies in the thick of those palms.
“You know I didn’t want to do that, right? But you left me no choice. You weren’t listening. It’s all your fault.”
The familiar yet rough voice drowns out the steady slap of the waves. The light rustle of the breeze as it slips through the fronds.
Stunned, she blinks, then blinks again.
The blue sky, alight with the promises of the sun, slowly fades away, her gaze instead filling with the grayness of shadows only seen at the edge of twilight. Her husband, Simon, unshaven, brows furrowed, stands in the midst of that gloom, in fact, from what seems the deepest corner, wearing a blue dress shirt, as if, like her, he’s just arrived home from work, a place he’s not been nor seen in over six months. Though her uniform’s blouse is firmly clasped in his hands, he moves closer, close enough his beer and cigarette breath chases away what little remains of the salty breeze.
“As I was saying, though you seem to have no interest in my well-being, my beer is empty, and the game’s about to start.”
“Hey, Si, don’t forget us,” comes a call through the open door to the “man’s cave.” “We could use another beer, too.”
She remembers now. They’ve been cawing for a while.
Wanting more.
Wanting more.
“Sounds like Jake and Sam are thirsty as well. Have you ordered the pizzas yet?”
“No,” she finally speaks. “Just got home from work.”
He shoves her back against the wall, releasing his grip.
“Well … we’re waiting.”
With that, he turns, making his way to the cave’s doorway, stopping just as he passes through, giving her one last, long look.
Then he slams the door shut.
Putting a hand to her eye, she limps into the kitchen where a soft breeze blows in through the screen door. It carries the fragrance of the hibiscus she planted last year just off the back porch, her only connection to the ocean she’s never seen.
She makes the call for the pizzas, giving consideration for a moment – only a moment, mind you – to adding anchovies – the men HATE anchovies – before giving in and sticking to pepperoni. Setting the phone down, she lingers with her fingers wrapped around the refrigerator’s handle, allowing her bare feet to take in the coolness of the worn linoleum floor. Slowly, she turns her gaze to the screen.
From behind, a cheer finds its way through the closed door to the man cave. The game has started. For her, it’s now.
Or never.
Without knowing how she got there, she finds herself opening the gate at the back fence, the screen door slamming behind her. She hurries out into the alley and to the rear of the garage. The door is open, the car inviting, but the keys hang from a hook next to the refrigerator. She can’t go back. There’s no going back.
She starts right, but stops, reversing and heading two houses up, where she tosses her sweater onto the side of the cracked and worn pavement in the weeds. A distraction to buy time; it was only going to slow her down anyway.
She spins back around and races to the end of the alley, making a left on First Street. She’s running now, hoping to never again feel that hot breath on her shoulder. That smack of his fist. By the time she arrives at the intersection, she’s gasping for air, and her heart is trying to beat its way out of her chest.
Here she must go left, no, wait, right! She darts across the busy road against the light, oblivious to the honking of horns, the squealing of skidding tires, and the vulgar shouts of drivers recommending she make better choices with her pedestrian ways.
She continues to run, two blocks, then three, finally turning left down a street whose name rings a bell. She wobbles more than walks now, her legs nothing but rubber, her feet red and raw. She stops here and there, leaning against trees or fences, hoping to catch her breath, stop the burning in her lungs.
An hour passes, then two. She begins to doubt herself; she thought she knew the way. But none of the street names here sound familiar, allowing the shadow of dread to seep into her bones.
Somewhere into the third hour, the sun nearly done for the day, she stumbles into an intersection, legs and lungs ready to quit, though her will is still strong. She steps up to the sign, her heart jumping.
Shoreline Avenue.
From deep in her pocket, she pulls a wadded receipt from the grocery store, an address and name penciled in on the back side.
1541 Shoreline.
With newfound energy, her legs carry her down the street, racing by house after house until a small rambler in need of paint, a child’s bike out in the driveway, catches her eye.
1541.
Shaking, she makes her way to the door and knocks, not quite believing she is really doing this. From inside, she hears the giggles of at least two kids, a woman telling them to hush, as she needs to get the door.
The porch light comes on, and a moment later, the door opens. The woman who answers is wearing a Midwest Mart uniform, her nametag proclaiming her to be “Kelly,” and her hair is up in a bun. Though the light is harsh, Marcy recognizes her immediately, as this was exactly how she was dressed the first time they met.
Marcy shakes her head. Of course she was. She was the checker that pulled her aside when she noticed the cuts and bruises Marcy wore that day.
Behind Kelly, in the living room, a few toys strewn about, two kids, maybe seven or eight, race across the sofa, shouting in glee as they jump off the end and disappear into the hall. The woman starts to turn, but can’t pull her bulging eyes off Marcy. Finally, after a long moment of silence, she lets go a puckered-lips whistle followed by a “tsk.”
“Good lord, girl. Would you look at you!” Her gaze drops to Marcy’s bloodied feet. “And you’re barefoot. Git yerself in here, let’s not let the flies in.”
Kelly pulls more than leads Marcy into the front room and then the kitchen. She flings open the freezer and grabs some ice, wrapping it in a dishtowel that had been hanging from the cupboard door. She puts it to Marcy’s cheek, then places Marcy’s hand up to hold it. “Keep that there for a bit, missy. You’ve got a heck of a shiner. No use making it worse.” She leans over, grabs a couple of paper towels, wets them, and then wipes a small trickle of blood off Marcy’s lip.
“You done the right thing, Marcy. This is all gonna work out. Just have to give it some time.” She turns toward a hall that leads off the back of the kitchen. “Mama, can you come in here?” Then she turns back, looking Marcy straight in the eyes. “Okay, Frank, my hubbie, is working the second shift today. Gotta git them hours when you can. And I kent afford to miss any more work, they’re already cutting hours at the store, so I’m gonna call someone to come and git you. Mama will be here with you while you wait … okay?”
Marcy nods, but is lost in a trance. Nothing makes sense to her, her body aches from head to toe, and she’s just run away from everything she knew.
A tiny, slim woman, traces of gray in her hair, a smile on her face, steps into the kitchen. “Looks like you tangled with a tiger, young lady. But you come to the right place. We’ll get you fixed up, don’t you worry none. I’m Emma, Kelly’s mama and grandmama to that wild bunch you saw when you first came in. I guess you’re Marcy. Kelly’s been telling me about you.”
Marcy nods, but once again, it’s from deep in a fog.
“Mama, I gotta go. Kent be late again. Call Willie at the shelter. He’ll send someone right over.”
Emma nods and gives Kelly a kiss on the cheek. “Git, you, I’ll watch the kids and make sure our girl here is taken care of.”
Kelly squeezes Marcy’s arm, wipes a tear, and heads for the door. “It’s all gonna be okay. Just wait and see…”
As she leaves, Emma pulls out a cell phone and punches in a number she seems to know by heart.
“Hey Willie. Emma. Can you swing by? We got someone here that really, really needs you guys pronto. That’s great … thanks. You’re a peach.”
She turns to Marcy. “Willie runs the Isla de Palmera shelter. No one, I mean noooo one will ever find you. And you’ll get the best of care, Sweetie.”
“Is-la day … what?”
“Isla de Palmera. It’s Spanish or Mexican, can’t tell ya which. Why they named it something Spanish here in the heartland, God knows.”
“What’s it mean?”
“Oh, yeah. It means Isle of Palms.”
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