NO MAN AN ISLE
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Chapter 3
The season officially opened on Memorial Day; the beach filled to capacity and still they came, cars bumper to bumper. Weekend lines of stalled traffic occasionally stretched ten miles or more. Except when driven by necessity to do more extensive shopping, Kurt avoided going beyond the village. Erik and he occasionally drove the sixty miles to Elizabeth City for the better selection of goods, lower prices, and to avoid the crowds of the resort area. Still uncomfortable at driving in the heavy traffic, Kurt always asked Erik to drive, but the traffic jams on the narrow two-lane highway invariably sent Erik's incendiary temper spiraling. Now, it seemed, he would have to depend on himself for a few weeks. The chief had been over a few nights before.
"Need to talk to you." He said when he had a cup of coffee in hand and they were seated on the deck.
"What's up?"
"You think Lindstrom could manage to stay out of trouble if he left?"
Kurt felt a sinking sensation. "He’s being transferred?"
"Temporary. It's just for four weeks of training on some new gear we're getting he needs to be checked out on. He's the only man I got what's qualified to send, that's how come I got to take the chance. But he'll be back here; I'll see to that. He's come so far these past few weeks I ain't believing he's the same kid got sent out here near a year back.
"I think he'll manage if he takes it easy. Admittedly it's a gamble, but he's got to make the break sometime."
"That's what I been a'thinking."
"By the way, he's told me about as much of his background as we're likely to get. He had a rough time of it as a child, but I tried to reassure him that it's in the past and best forgotten. If he'll let it go, perhaps it won't affect him any longer."
"I wish he'd confide in me. Mad as he makes me sometimes and ornery as he can get, I still can't help but like something 'bout him. Guess that's why I ain't shipped him out, though God knows he's give me enough reason several times."
"Some day he'll realize that you're the one who understood and gave him the chance to prove himself."
The chief shook his head. "It was you mostly. I don't know what you did, but the change showed up after you come here."
Kurt shrugged. "Let's hope he makes this. If he does, it'll prove how far he's come. When does he leave?"
"Friday. I'd best get back and tell him he's goin'. Just hope he don't fight me 'bout it."
Without Erik popping in, the solitude became almost unbearable. He read until the print blurred on the page, practiced until his fingers ached, then wandered aimlessly about the house and garden. A creaking door, a dripping faucet acquired thunderous volume. Even his heart seemed to beat with audible rhythm in the quiet of the night.
The buzz of the intercom jolted Kurt from his bed. Still half asleep, he swayed on his crutches down the hall to answer and press the button to open the gate. Seconds later he was jarred fully awake by the cacophonous clatter. He cautiously opened the front door and looked out. The battered pick-up swerved around the drive and skidded to a halt on the pine needles with a screech of worn brakes. The face of the middle-aged man who had gotten out of the driver's side and now stood looking at the house indicated clearly that he was the son of the man to whom Kurt had spoken. The old man, himself, climbed out of the passenger-side door, spat a stream of tobacco juice, and looked at his son. "Ya wanted fer to see it. Well, thar she be."
From the bed of the truck two of the three young men in their teens jumped over the side, their bare feet leaving large prints in the sand. All three wore tattered cut-off jeans and T-shirts emblazoned with mildly obscene slogans mostly obscured by Picasso splatters of paint. They grinned as the one still in the bed of the truck began to toss out an assortment of plastic buckets, folded canvas, and other materials.
Kurt was fortifying himself with a cup of strong tea only to splash it over the table when the painters' extension ladder crashed against the side of the house. Seconds later his ears were subjected to a criminal assault reminiscent of his days in the hospital. He glanced through the window to see the youngest of the painters give a new boom-box an affectionate pat and dance away to his work.
"God! How will I ever stand it?" He asked the air and tipped the refilled mug for a generous swallow. The rasp of paint scrapers about the doors and windows filtered through the wails of the radio, grating more roughly on him than the wood.
He set the empty mug in the sink and went outside, gratified to see that the shrubs had been draped in old canvas for protection, that all five men worked at a steady unhurried pace.
By the time the truck backfired and rattled away at the end of the day, Kurt had been seized with a desire to flee the madness, but despite the chief's assurances he preferred to monitor their work.
To afford himself a brief respite from the noise that seemed even louder the next morning, he drove to the village to check his postbox and pick up some supplies. He swung the Jeep from the parking area back into the flow of traffic, eager to be away from the melee of cars and people. Even the pandemonium that awaited him at home seemed preferable.
A diminutive boy leaned back against the post of a highway sign easing the pressure from the straps of his backpack. He held out an extended thumb in fruitless anticipation. Perspiration ran in rivulets, his long-sleeved shirt clung wetly; no shade mitigating the relentless sun, the beating glare from the coarse sand, undulating waves of heat from the blacktop highway. In the still air exhaust fumes suffocated every breath. Weakness pervaded the slight figure. He straightened for a moment. The billfold in his back pocket weighed nothing. His right hand dipped toward the side pocket of his shorts, the switch-blade knife seeming heavier and heavier, but his hand was drawn back against his concave belly as a hollow rumble revived pangs of hunger. He slumped back against the post, his hand touched the knife again before resuming an outstretched position. If someone didn't stop soon, if they'd spent all of their money ...
Traffic slowed. He swept the line of cars with his eyes for any sign that one might relent. Maybe that young guy in the Jeep. No, he's turned away. Traffic stalled, the Jeep just opposite. In desperation he called, "Please give me a ride, mister."
Kurt looked at the boy, his facile mind seeking to categorize. 'Run away? No, something didn't fit. Waif. That's it.' The emaciated, fine-boned frame fit the definition. 'Ridiculous,' his mind footnoted, 'no one throws away a child like this. He can't possibly be more than about thirteen or fourteen.' His mouth opened to say no, but the peeling triangular face essayed weariness, the green eyes filled with despair. He beckoned to the boy. "Okay."
The boy shrugged out of the straps and dropped the pack behind the seat, climbing in beside Kurt just as traffic began to move once more. "Thanks. I've been standing there almost three hours."
"I'm only going as far as the turn to the mainland."
"I might have some luck there."
"Just killing the summer?"
"No, sir. I came down here 'cause I heard there were jobs, but I couldn't find any."
"That's odd," Kurt mused. "I've noticed a number of ads for help in the weekly paper. Have you tried some of them?"
"Everywhere, sir." He hesitated. "I ... I guess it's because of this."
Kurt glanced at him. Where the boy's left hand should have been the sun glinted off the chrome hook.
"You don't have any work I could do, do you?"
"Sorry. I'm afraid not."
"Please, Mister. Just for something to eat?"
Kurt ached for the boy beside him, sharing his suffering. He sensed the boy's plea was not begging. "You don't have any money?"
"No, sir."
"Are you trying to get back home?"
The boy spewed bitterness. "What home? I've been in foster homes all my life. Most of 'em were just after the money they could get. They didn't give a damn about us, 'specially me. Last fall, those old bats from welfare tried to drag me around again. That's when I split." The pleading in the eyes was unmistakable. "Please give me something to do."
"How old are you?"
"Nearly eighteen."
'Impossible,' thought Kurt.
But the boy anticipated him. "I know I'm little, but I can show you my birth certificate."
Kurt suddenly thought of the grounds around the house. Since the little he'd done when he first arrived, neither he nor Erik had touched them. Now, after the spring rains, the growth had become so rank he could ignore it no longer. The painters were sure to cut the shrubs against the house. Perhaps the boy would do a more careful job than they and rake up the leaves and trash.
"Have you ever done any yard work?"
The smile was eager. "I like working outdoors."
"How much do you want an hour?"
The boy shook his head. "Just give me something to eat, Mister, and a chance to wash my clothes. I'll give you a good job at anything you want me to do."
"All right. I'll give you a try."
"Thanks. My name's Don Warner."
"I'm Kurt Lawrence, Don."
"Yes, sir." His even white teeth contrasted against his sunburned face as the smile grew wider, though the smile turned to uncertainty when Kurt turned from the paved road onto the sandy trail to the beach.
"This yours?" He asked when Kurt stopped and handed him the key to open the gate.
Kurt nodded and listened as the boy began to name a number of the plants along the drive. When the boy climbed out of the Jeep at the house, he tilted his head back to gaze up at Kurt's extraordinary height. He swayed then leaned against the fender for a moment, shaking his head as if to clear it. Kurt moved swiftly around the vehicle, grabbing his arm. "What's the matter?"
"I was just dizzy for a minute. I'm okay, now."
"When did you eat last?"
The boy dropped his head. "Yesterday."
"Then you're going to have some breakfast first. Not too much, because we'll have lunch at one, but I don't want you passing out. Think you can manage a couple of those bags?"
The boy followed him into the kitchen, set the bags on the table, and backed away to watch silently as Kurt put the groceries away then started the bacon and eggs.
At the smoky aroma of the sizzling bacon, Don's stomach growled. He blushed, his hand pressed against his concave belly.
Kurt suppressed a smile. "Wash your hands, it's about ready."
Don ate slowly. As Erik had done at first, he kept his eyes on Kurt sitting opposite with a cup of tea.
"Thank you, sir," he said as he finished the milk. "I'm ready if you'll show me what you want me to do."
"You'll have to work out of the way of the painters. Since they've finished preparing the front, it would probably be best to start there."
They went out the front door, Kurt pointing out shrubs that wanted trimming. Leaving the boy to work, he read through the mail until time to begin lunch. For the boy's sake, he fixed a substantial meal.
"Don, lunch."
The boy washed his hand and ran his fingers through his hair, pushing down a stubborn cowlick. Taking his seat at the table, he looked with disbelief at the steak Kurt set before him. "This all for me?"
"Of course. Dig in."
Kurt covertly watched the boy as he began to eat, admiring the skill and ease with which he used the hook, but Don noticed and dropped it from sight, finishing his dinner one handedly.
I certainly collect the odd ones, Kurt mused, first Erik and now this lad.
"How are you doing?"
"I've almost got the front done, then I'll work on the other side so I won't get in their way." He paused at the door. "Could I use that old tub in the tool room to soak my clothes in?"
"Let me have them. I'll put them in the washer with mine."
"They're too dirty; they might mess up yours, sir."
"I'll see. If they are, I'll give them a pre-wash first. Go get them."
"Thanks."
Once the boy had dropped his clothes by the washing machine and gone out, Kurt glanced at his watch. Three hours the boy had been working and he'd not finished trimming the shrubs in the front. Admittedly his handicap slowed him down, but three hours seemed a bit much. The dishes done and the washer running, Kurt stepped to the entry and looked about. The shrubs were neatly trimmed and the grass that had grown around pulled and replaced with pine-straw mulch, exceeding his highest expectation. "Don?"
The boy came around the side of the house, a look of dismay on his face. "Isn't it done like you wanted?"
"It's perfect."
"I hoped I did it like you wanted. Where do you want me to put the trash? I just piled it."
"That gully on the far side of the boathouse."
Don gathered an armful of the clippings and moved off. Seeing clippings tangled in the shrubs Don was still trimming and feeling a need for companionship, Kurt changed into old jeans. With the painter's radio silent for once, he tuned the FM to the area's one classical station, and began to stroke the plants with the rake so that the clippings fell to the ground beneath. He was raking them into a pile when Don returned. "I'll do that, sir," he said quickly.
"I'll work with you. I need the exercise."
When the front was finished and Don had begun to trim the shrubs on the side, Kurt started toward the wooded part of the yard.
"You need me to help you with something else?" Don called.
“No, this is something I have to do myself. Go ahead with what you’re doing.”
Kurt ducked under the trees and knelt at his uncle’s grave, beginning to pull the weeds. When the area about the stone was cleaned, the grass neatly clipped, he pulled himself up and looked about, feeling a sense of peace. After a few minutes of quiet reflection, he returned to help Don.
They worked together for the rest of the afternoon, breaking their effort only when Kurt opened a couple of sodas and called the boy to sit beside him on the deck. Some time later, as the boy pulled the last of the grass from between the bricks of the walk, Kurt surveyed the area about the house with pride. "You did a fine job, Don. About ready for supper?"
"Yes, sir. Will it be okay if I use the shower down there?" He pointed toward the boathouse.
Kurt looked at the dirt-smudged face. "I'm not sure it works. It hasn't been used in a long time and it's only cold water. Come in and take your bath where there's hot water."
"I'm too dirty, sir."
"No more than I."
Kurt led him to the upstairs bedroom next to Erik's and indicated the bath.
Neat in well-worn jeans and a short sleeved shirt Kurt had washed and dried, Don came into the kitchen as Kurt dumped the shrimp into a colander to drain and began to shell them. "I'll help." But as he shrugged the hook open, he winced, the shrimp falling to the floor.
"What's the matter?" Kurt asked, retrieving the shrimp.
The boy shook his head. "Nothing."
"Nonsense. Take that thing off."
Don shrugged out of the harness and dropped the prosthesis on a chair. The stump of his arm was heavily chaffed.
"Why didn't you tell me you were having trouble? We could have stopped. As much as there is to do, I didn't expect you to try to finish it today."
"I owed you, sir."
Kurt went to get the medication Adams had given him. When he returned, he reached out to take the handless arm, but Don pulled away at his touch, eyes wide.
"I won't hurt you. This is medicated cream to ease the irritation."
He held out his arm with obvious reluctance, but as Kurt gently rubbed the ointment into the injured areas, the boy relaxed. "It feels a lot better now."
"Good. I'll finish peeling the shrimp and we'll eat."
Over dinner Kurt noticed that the boy seemed subdued. "Is something wrong, Don?"
"No, sir. It's just I didn't get too much done today, and there's an awful lot left that needs doing. If you want, I could stick around and get the garden looking really good. I can make a place to sleep in that building out there and not bother you."
The wistful tone touched Kurt. "You want to stay after the way I've worked you today?"
"I wanted to do it. It's quiet here and I like the music and all. I ain't likely to find nothin' else to do. Nobody wants a kid with ... with just one hand."
"I'm pleased with the way you do your work, Don. You may stay for a few days if you wish, but you can't sleep in the boathouse. Take the rest of your things up to the room where you changed. I'll help you make the bed."
The bed made, Kurt left the boy to put away his things and went back to the kitchen to put the dishes in the washer. He took a pot of tea to the library with a sense of satisfaction, relaxing before the fire he'd lit to break the damp chill of the strong ocean breeze.
Once he'd arranged his things, Don sat in the rocking chair he'd drawn up to the window, gazing across the yard to the sound where the moon lay a broken silver path across the ripples. Though his muscles ached, he couldn't remember when he'd last felt so relaxed. He glanced around the pleasant room with longing, wishing he belonged here, knowing he didn't, not in a place as nice as this. How could he? Yet the house, imposing as it was, welcomed. The man not forbidding as his height suggested but kind. Gentle, too, as his touch had been, showing concern for him as a person, not just some stranger working for a few days.
He thought back. Only a couple of evenings before he had been looking hungrily through the window of a small restaurant, unaware of having been seen. As he prowled behind the small strip mall hoping to find something to eat in the trash, the backdoor of one of the businesses opened and a man wearing an apron emerged and laid something covered with paper napkins on top of the refuse bin. As soon as the door closed, he'd dashed over to retrieve the heavy paper plate and lifted off the napkins covering it. Unbelievable! There was a generous pile of fried shrimp, a mound of slaw, and french fries as if someone had ordered dinner then not eaten. He moved to the shelter of a storage shed, scooping the food into his mouth with his fingers. His first real food in two days.
The meal finished, he trudged aimlessly, feeling the dark chill of the overcast night gather around him as the lights in the cottages began to flick out. Among a stand of young pines at the foot of a small dune, he spread a piece of cardboard next to a clump of wild bay for shelter and lay down. A flash of heat lightning split the sky. Fearing it might rain, he bent a large piece of plastic lined cardboard he'd found behind an appliance store to make a pup-tent over the newspapers that covered him. His head rested on the soft bulk of his backpack. For a few minutes he squirmed to get away from the particles of sand that worked beneath his shirt. Failing, he pushed the cardboard and papers to one side, slipped out of his T-shirt, and brushed the sand away. More comfortable, he lay back down and arranged his makeshift bed again.
Whether it was the slow rumble of thunder or the nightmare that awakened him, the memory remained: He no longer waded in the ocean's wash, but stood on a busy street in the crowded city. People rushed around him, moving as far away from him as possible. No matter their direction nor how he turned, he faced only their backs. He stretched out his hand to them as they continued to walk swiftly away. Not once did he see a face. He searched for some familiar landmark, but there was nothing. The terror built up. His scream of fear at being alone in the vast strangeness awoke him. He turned to a more comfortable position and closed his eyes again.
He awakened the next morning as the sun rose out of the ocean, first beams striking his face. The wind blew steadily off the ocean, the damp chill stabbing through him. He shivered as he sat up and used his fist to scrub the sleep from his eyes before getting up to stretch. Grimy, unkempt, he brushed futilely at the salt-sticky grains of sand that had blown over him the night before to relieve the irritation and itch, longing to feel clean once again. He picked up his backpack and walked across the sandy trail to make his way cautiously back of several cottages, wary of habitation. Braving the signs of inactivity at one of the cottages, he wet his handkerchief at an outside tap and wiped his face as best he could before walking on. One cottage stood some distance from the others, storm shutters still in place. At the back, he found an enclosed outdoor shower, water dripping slowly from the showerhead. He slipped in and closed the door of weathered wood. A sliver of soap lay on the two-by-four framing supporting the rough plank sides. It produced little lather in the hard water, but using his handkerchief again as a wash cloth, he bathed as well as he could. He picked up a ragged towel dropped carelessly to one side the season before, snapped it in the breeze to remove the sand, and dried. Shaking the sand from the clothes he'd taken off, he slipped them back on, knowing they were cleaner than those in his backpack. He felt better, but his belly rumbled.
He walked a mile or more along the highway, stopping at another small strip-mall to rest at a picnic table outside a fast-food place. On the ledge of the open serving window sat a small plastic tray holding two sweet rolls, the odor of cinnamon enticing. He eased up to the window and looked furtively through the glass. Seeing no one, he grabbed the rolls and ran until he found a thick clump of myrtle. Hiding among the shrubs, he resisted the urge to gobble the rolls down, eating slowly, savoring the fresh sweetness. With the sharpness of his hunger momentarily appeased, he slaked his thirst at a nearby tap, and returned to the strip-mall, lingering in air-conditioned stores until clerks chased him out. Watching the vacationing families left him wondering how it would feel to be wanted, loved. He found nothing more to eat that day. As night fell, he returned to the closed cottage where he had showered, worked his way underneath the structure, and tried not to feel his hunger before he finally slept.
It was late when he awoke in the shadowy recess. After washing his face, he walked to the highway. He paced along the edge of the pavement, having to jump sideways when cars frequently passed too close for comfort. Only when he felt dizzy from the heat and hunger did he stop to lean against the highway sign and stick out his thumb.
Today at lunch, he'd felt the man's gaze and looked up into the dark eyes seeing the kindness. There was trust, too, for he'd been brought into the house without hesitation. Maybe it's because he's a cripple, too. Don felt some of the pain with his own. He dropped his head into his hand murmuring, "No."
A tap at the door broke his anguished thoughts. "Sir?"
"Aren't you coming down and having something warm to drink with me? I have a fire going and I think it's a little cool for you to be sitting up here without any heat."
"Thank you, sir."
Instead of sitting down, he wandered about the library looking carefully, touching nothing. At last he kicked off his ragged sneakers and curled up in the wing-chair Erik always sat in. "You're awfully rich, sir."
"I'm afraid not."
"I don't mean money, sir; I mean all of this."
'How odd that a boy this young should measure wealth in the same way as Erik,' Kurt thought.
"Do you live here all the time?"
Kurt nodded. "Why?"
"It's a great place, but it's awfully far from everything."
"That's why I like it, Don. It's quiet."
"I like that, too."
Don was late coming down for breakfast. "You should of called me."
"You needed the sleep." Kurt pushed his cup aside and reached across the table. "Let's see that arm." A few of the more seriously abraded places remained inflamed. "Leave your prosthesis off and take it easy until you've healed. We ..."
"I can work, sir. I can pull weeds or something like that."
Kurt argued, but Don remained adamant. As Kurt worked beside him, he sensed the boy's shyness begin to fade.
With the boy to care for, time regained momentum. Kurt prepared balanced meals rather than satisfy himself with soup or a sandwich as he would have, for Don ate ravenously of whatever he fixed, the hollow cheeks and sunken eyes already beginning to fill out.
Don followed Kurt into the library with the tea for Kurt and milk for himself. He set the tray down and crossed to the bookshelves. One shelf of books particularly fascinated him. "Do you have any children, sir?"
"I certainly hope not. I'm not married. Why do you ask?"
"There's some kids' books here."
Kurt chuckled. "Every book in that section of shelves is set in North Carolina. Fiction or history, adult or child, my uncle didn't care what the book was or who it was intended for. If it was about North Carolina, particularly northeastern North Carolina, he had to have it."
"Oh. I guess he knew a lot about the state."
"Yes, he loved it. Particularly this region."
Don chose one of the volumes of folk stories of the area and sat absorbed. They both started at the buzz of the phone.
"Yes? ... Thanks, Chief, I'd like to, but there's a young man with me ... Fine, we'll leave it at that. Thanks." Kurt replaced the phone. "Don, that was the chief at the Coast Guard station. He's asked us to the station for dinner Sunday. Would you like to go?"
"If you want, sir."
Kurt missed the lack of enthusiasm in the boy's reply.
Don's devotion to his work wore Kurt down. Once the boy had gone out, Kurt moved about the house, dusting and straightening up. He paused before the closed door of the boy's room then opened it. He had intended only to dust, but was so taken with the order that he opened the closet, a pair of worn jeans, a pair of cheap slacks, and two shirts hung neatly. In the top drawer of the chest, three changes of undergarments were carefully folded. Even so, he knew from seeing them in the wash that they were barely more than rags. In the bath, Don's toilet kit lay on the counter top, the few items placed precisely. Touched by the care the boy accorded his meager possessions, Kurt went down to his own room then returned to slip a hundred dollars into the boy's empty billfold. He had well earned that much.
During lunch, he probed gently. "I went in your room to clean ..." Kurt paused, choosing his words with care. "You keep a very orderly room; military precision."
"Thank you, sir."
"Since you've earned something for your work, would you like me to take you into town to get whatever you might need?"
'I've blown it,' he thought as Don flushed, knowing that only pride sustained the boy.
"I need to keep working."
"I'm happy with what you've gotten done, but I certainly don't intend trying to keep up with you. Go change your clothes."
Don closed the gate behind them and climbed back into the Jeep. "Sir?"
"Yes, Don?"
"Will you tell me what to buy? I never had any good clothes like yours."
Only a few items in his wardrobe had been expensive, but he smiled. "Of course. I'll be happy to help you if you want."
"You'll have to tell me when I've spent what I've earned."
"You can decide that for yourself."
"I don't have any money."
"Yes, you have."
Don fumbled for his billfold and opened it. His eyes widened as he fingered the bills. "I can't take all this, sir. It's as much as I've made in a whole week and I haven't worked but two days."
"And a half. Long ones at that. It's certainly less than you deserve."
Kurt parked in front of a department store. When they entered, Kurt picked up a sale flier from the stack by the door. He dismissed the clerk's offer of help, aiding Don in the selection. Several times he pointed out differences in quality and pressed the boy into taking additional garments. Don admitted that the worn sneakers were his only shoes, but refused the dress boots, picking a pair of serviceable chukkas instead. After Don removed the boots with obvious reluctance, Kurt impulsively carried them to the clerk, asking her to wrap the boots and a light-weight safari jacket the boy had admired so that Don would not see purchase. The creased birth certificate had fallen out of the boy's billfold when he'd picked it up. Sunday would be Don's birthday.
The boy's composure was shaken when the total well exceeded the amount in his pocket. Kurt read the panic in his eyes, taking seventy-five dollars of the offered money and making up the balance without comment.
Though Don cradled the packages in his lap and remained silent during the ride home, Kurt noticed him gazing at him several times, eyes soft instead of wary, his slight smile reflecting confidence and something more.
Kurt was placing the boots and the jacket in his closet when Don came to the door, the remaining ten in his extended hand. "Here, sir. I can't afford to owe you a hundred and fifty dollars."
"What do you mean?"
"I figure this twenty-five and the hundred and fifty more you let me go over on what I bought. It should be more, what with my room and board."
"Keep it, Don. Everyone needs a little money in his pocket. I know you'll earn all of it."
"I ain't being disrespectful, sir, but I can't take what I ain't earned and I already done that." He placed the bill on the bedside table and left the room.
To be continued...
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Posted: 07/11/08