Destiny Lingers (12 page)

Chapter
Fifteen

C
hase and I are becoming fast friends as we tool around the fairgrounds, laughing and eating just about everything in sight. Oh, the savory taste of that North Carolina barbeque, the amazing freshness of the fried spots, and now, finally, our splurge on sweet caramel apples rolled in salty peanuts. Chase is so much fun. I enjoy being with him. He is a great escape—and a very attractive escape to top it off. Chase seems to know everybody, and everybody seems to know Chase. Even more, they seem to genuinely like him. He has an electric, country-boy charm about him, with a friendly one-liner for every soul he comes across—even when he’s not dressed up as a clown. It’s so refreshing to laugh.

“Now, this here young lady cooks the best chocolate pecan pie in the county. Isn’t that right, Mrs. Jordan?” Chase gently pats the shoulder of an elderly woman who just grins up at him and nods, yet another woman taken by Chase’s charms. “Mrs. Elynora Jordan’s been baking those pies since I was a little boy.” He leans over and kisses the beaming Mrs. Jordan on the cheek. “And I thank ya, ma’am.”

“Aw, Chase, you go on now,” the blushing old woman says with a chuckle and playful pat on his shoulder.

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Jordan,” I say.

“Pretty girl,” Mrs. Jordan teases Chase in a loud whisper. “You be a good boy now, ya hea’?”

Can she detect this undeniable energy between us?

“Oh, I will, Mrs. Jordan,” Chase responds. “Don’t you worry about me.”

Chase gently nudges me in a new direction, and we head toward a booth where two large black women in crisp white aprons are frying up batches and batches of golden brown spots in huge cauldrons of boiling grease. Hungry, wide-smiling onlookers gather, as they watch these proud women preparing their seasonal gifts from the sea.

“Ah, here we go. Time to make one clown-dunkin’, spot-lovin’ woman happy!” Chase leads me to a picnic table. “Dinner for two, this way!”

“C’mon, Chief,” yells out one of the cooks. “Get in the front of the line. You get ‘po-po privileges’ ’round hea’.” The two women laugh and wave Chase over.

“Be right back.” He squeezes my elbow, winks at me, and then darts off into the crowd. This cop is quite a pistol.

I look at all the folks milling around the fairgrounds. There are very few brown or black faces, leading me to wonder if things really have changed that much since the segregated summers I lived here as a kid. Back then, Chase and I would not have been as comfortable hanging out in public together like this, not even as good friends. It’s hard to believe that at one time it was against the law for us to be together.

“Hope you didn’t get up there to the big city and forget your southern sweet tea.” The chief has his hands full with two oversized Styrofoam cups full of what many call “Southern nectar.” A big slice of lemon floats among the ice cubes.

“Are you kidding?” I ask, grabbing one of the sweet teas. “Gimme that tea!”

Chase grins at me and asks, “Hey, how’d you learn to throw a curveball like that anyway?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I reply. “Just grew up a tomboy, I guess.”

“Yeah, I remember; you sure could fish too.” Chase chuckles. “Only girl I knew who wasn’t afraid to bait a hook with a bloodworm.”

One of the big lady cooks interrupts our conversation by calling out, “Two fried spot dinners for the chief!” We turn to find her holding two paper plates overloaded with mounds of golden-brown spots. I think I have died and gone to fish heaven.

“All right!” Chase claps his hands, rubs them together, and grins like a schoolboy. “Well, I thank ya, ma’am. Mighty nice of you, Miss Mary. You have made Miss Destiny here one happy lady. She’s visitin’ us from New Yawk City. Yankees don’t eat like this!”

Miss Mary radiates her broad smile. “Well, hello there, Miss Destiny. How you doing today?”

“Just fine.” I smile back.

Chase waves at someone in the crowd across the way. “ Excuse me, ladies, I’ve got to say hello and maybe even apologize to the mayor over there. I’ll be right back. Need anything?”

I laugh and answer, “No, I have plenty to deal with here.”

Chase hops up from the table and moves his way into the crowd.

Miss Mary stands there, bright as sunshine. “Well, it sure is nice to meet you, Miss Destiny. Need some Texas Pete hot sauce for your fish?”

I chuckle. “Naw, I’m sure they’re fine just like they are.”

Miss Mary leans over and squints at me. “Why, now, you not li’l Miss Destiny, from Dr. Maurice Newell’s family, are you?”

“Yes, that’s me,” I reply. “Dr. Newell was my grandfather.”

“Well, lawd ha’ mercy, chile! Let me look atcha. Lord, you done growed up to be a pretty li’l ol’ gal. Only li’l girl I ever knowed named Destiny. Idn’t that something.” She clucks her tongue and shakes her head. “Well, just look at you. I used to love yo’ granddaddy—and your grandmama, Miss Nellie, too. They was some good, kind people, and lawd, did yo’ granddaddy love him some spots! Ha! Just like you!” The large-framed woman lets out a hearty laugh that seems to come from the depths of her round belly. “I’d cook him and your grandmama up some spots in exchange for a little teeth fixin’ now and then, ya know. Well, antyway—I’m Mae Mae.” She wipes her hands on her apron and quickly extends one.

“Nice to meet you, Miss Mae Mae,” I reply. “Yes, my grandfather was a very kind man.” I remember how much my grandpa also loved to fish. “
Always have two fishing poles,”
he’d remind me, “
just in case you meet a fr
iend.”

“Nice to see you come back home, Miss Destiny.” Miss Mae Mae radiates her southern warmth. “Y’all young folks enjoy yo’selves, hear?”

“Hey, let’s eat these spots before they get cold,” Chase says as he hops back into his seat next to me on the picnic table bench.

“God bless this meal! Amen!” I say to the heavens as we lunge into my favorite fish feast.

“A-men!” Chase takes a big bite of the crunchy seafood. “Mm-mm-good!”

Chase makes me laugh. I love the way his eyes twinkle; I love that he’s curious and caring about everything; that he is so interested in so much outside of himself—including me.

“Hey, you like blue crabs?” Chase asks.

“Do I?” I reply. “I love them. I grew up catching them, using half-rotten chicken necks as bait, right back there in Stump’s Sound.” I point toward the intercoastal waterway on the backside of the island.

“Stump’s Sound?” Chase asks incredulously. “I grew up crabbing in Stump’s Sound too.”

“Really?”

“Yep, started crabbing around six years old. A crab wasn’t safe from us kids. Hey, how come I never saw you back there with us kids?”

And immediately, both Chase and I know the answer—it was only because of our differences in skin color. Black and white kids played separately growing up in these parts. My folks feared that with so much Ku Klux Klan activity in the eastern part of the state that it was downright dangerous for a black child to venture too far from home. In fact, my best friend, Macie, a nice Irish girl I grew up with, could never enjoy a summer vacation with me at our beach house, because my folks feared she might be called a “nigger lover”—or worse.

And it wasn’t just white folks with prejudices. Some black folks down here had them too. They wanted nothing to do with the neighboring “trailer-park people,” as they referred to the poor white families living in mobile homes behind this black, bourgeois community of doctors, lawyers, and morticians. Mother would stare out our kitchen window in disgust at the trailer park across the street. It interrupted her view of the sound. “All we need is one good hurricane to take away those dreadful trailers,” she’d say. Did she ever think about what might happen to those poor families living inside them? Could they even survive a strong gust of wind in their flimsy little trailers?

I feel a sting of guilt that my own mother could be so mean. Chase must have been among those poor barefooted children across the street that my mother warned me to stay away from, claiming they were teaming with ringworms, lice, and all sorts of other horrid maladies. “Plus, they smell like wet chickens,” she’d caution, much rather having me fear them than play with them. And their parents, reportedly describing us as “uppity porch monkeys,” would rather their kids avoid us like the plague as well.

The more I get to know Chase, the more I see what a horrible shame that was. We are so much more alike than different. And as we share story after story, we find that we have enjoyed so many of the same pleasures on the tiny island we both love. Why could we have not openly shared this friendship all of our lives? Why were we not allowed to share love?

Bellies full, Chase and I join the crowd that is eagerly heading toward the beach, now that the sun has set. Country folks, with their plastic lawn chairs and quilts and blankets underarm, make their way to their favorite spots on the sand for what Chase describes as “one of the greatest fireworks shows on earth—country style.”

“Every year, Farmer Jones floats out that big barge that he and his workers made, and they blow off fireworks that rival Gucci’s up there in New Yawk.”

“
Grucci
,” I automatically correct. “It’s actually Grucci fireworks, after the Grucci family.”

Chase shrugs, unconcerned. “Gucci, Grucci—whatever, Farmer Jones’s fireworks are spectacular—at least to us country folks. Just you wait and see.” Chase looks up at the orange and golden sky in great anticipation. He looks so much like that innocent little boy again, so full of wonder and surprise—raw, real, and, as always, extremely charming.

I feel that even though time has moved on, I have known Chase all my life. I feel as if we are meant to be together. We fit. Just like from the very beginning, it feels right.

“C’mon, let’s head this way.” He nods toward a clearing in the crowd. He grabs my hand as we dodge our way toward the shore and over a big sand dune. His hand feels bigger than I expected and stronger; his fingers are thick, his palms callused. “I want you to meet some friends,” Chase throws over his shoulder as he hastens his steps. I follow, admiring the back of the police chief’s perfectly sun-bleached hair and tanned neck.

Across the beach, a group of young people gather around a huge quilt. They seem to be close friends; laughing and teaming with excitement as they glance at the darkening sky in anticipation of the big fireworks show ahead. Everyone is charged as day gives way to night.

“Hey! There’s Chase!” a chubby girl in the group squeals. Everybody turns and bursts into a round of cheers. “Woooo-hoooo! Chase! Chase the clown! Chase the clown, and we watched him drown!” They whoop and holler and slap high-fives. They applaud and then chide a humble Chase, with pats on the back and congratulations for having the nerve to play that crazy, caged clown and getting dunked. Chase takes the friendly fire with humility.

One burly fellow turns to me. “Hey, aren’t you the gal who dunked him?” he asks, his grin widening over his sunburned face.

“Well, yeah, that was me,” I say, now feeling like the one on the hot bench.

“Hey, Chase,” he yells out. “Arrest this woman for cruelty to clowns!”

Chase and his pals howl with laughter. It’s so contagious that I cannot help but join in.

“Awl-right, everybody!” A fat man in a Lacoste shirt, plaid Bermuda shorts, Topsiders with no socks, and a straw plantation hat, holds a megaphone to his mouth. He is standing on a crude wooden platform, apparently built just for this special summer occasion. “It’s time for the big show, y’all,” he continues. “Farmer Jones is promising some mighty spectacular surprises this year, so sit back and relax and enjoy the fireworks! But first, I want to thank all of y’all for coming out with your families and friends—and hey, maybe you even got to meet some new friends.”

Chase and I exchange a warm glance. He is my new old friend, for sure.

“Y’all having fun yet?” The man behind the megaphone eggs on the crowd, and the people respond with more whoops and hollers and whistles, removing any doubt that these country beach folks are having a blast as the local bluegrass band strikes up again.

Chase nudges me. “You having fun yet, New York?”

“Yes, Chief,” I respond. “I’m having a ball. It’s so nice being home, connecting. Seeing you again after all this time is amazing. It’s nice seeing so much of where I grew up—the things I forgot I missed, being so busy with my career and all.”

I feel the blood rush to my face.

“Well, you have truly been missed, Miss Dee,” Chase says.

“Well, I thank ya, sir,” I jest, mimicking his distinct cadence.

Then suddenly, there’s a loud
boom
! And the night sky is filled with brightly colored ribbons of fire. Farmer Jones’s famous fireworks show has begun. Chase and I laugh and nudge each other, gawking like children at each brilliant blast.

When the show ends, Chase offers to walk me to my car.

“Chase, why did we call you Chip back in the day?” I ask. “And when did you become Chase?”

“Well, it was just a nickname. You know, like, ‘Chip off the old block’?” Chase explains. “That was till I grew up and wanted nothing more to do with my old man, who started using me and my mom as his punching bags. He was one mean, alcoholic son of a bitch.”