Sanibel Scribbles (23 page)

Next she heard voices cheering her on to join the gold rush headed west, then came a bell, the insistent kind that rang on a slot machine when someone became a jackpot winner. No, too much publicity, so it then turned into a silent sound, someone handing her an envelope donated from an anonymously generous admirer, urging her to accept the money, to use it at spas and on cruises—anything for herself. Yes, she’d have to yank the money right out of the blue jeans’ pockets before the wash cycle kicked in. No, she couldn’t do such a thing. The jeans and the money belonged to someone else.

She started to walk away from the crooked palm once more when suddenly she noticed a light coming from a lantern a few feet away. She stared, trying to focus on who was carrying the lantern but saw nothing and no one. She walked toward the light and wanted to say something to the man she could now see holding the lantern. She wanted to tell him that his shirt was see-through. He really needed an undershirt.

As she continued staring at him, his shirt mesmerized her. It had a photograph of a palm tree on it, and the more she stared at the palm tree, the more the picture on his shirt kept changing scenes every time he moved—first to one tree, then another. She was absolutely astonished that a shirt could do such a thing, but then it struck her, with as much of an electrifying impact as a woman ironing and reaching into the hot, sudsy water of the wash cycle at the same time, that this was no ordinary man. She looked at him again and saw right through him. Never in her life had
she seen through a man the way she was seeing through this man, right now. Maybe it wasn’t a man at all. Maybe it was simply someone’s shirt hanging on a line to dry, she told herself as she walked closer and waved her hand through it, not feeling anything. She pinched herself because she remembered how mentally tired she had felt tonight, so much so that she had made the decision to walk the path in total darkness, not bothering to carry a light, like a sleepwalker who could let her subconscious mind work for her and knew where to walk.

Now fully awake, she laughed at herself and at this crazy dream acting itself out in front of her, at this ghostlike figure, this man, fluttering before her and carrying a lantern. She stopped laughing and started shaking, like a sheet, still warm, taken out of the dryer and shaken fiercely to remove wrinkles. She wanted to be folded and put away in a quiet closet with the other sleeping linen.

Instead, she found herself tossed on the dirty ground, and, on her hands and knees, she did as the man signaled her to do. She began digging into the mound of dirt east of the crooked tree. He made her do it. He floated above her, lighting her way with his lantern. It wasn’t she who wanted to dig up the money. It was he, the ghost of John Bark, enslaving her as he allegedly had enslaved his wife.

Yes, this was the story she would give Denver or Howard, or anyone who might catch her on her hands and knees on the hill of the lighthouse, digging in the dirt at midnight with no light. No one would ever believe her, and at first, she didn’t believe it either. But now, just as she knew for sure that a rayon shirt must be dry-cleaned, she also knew that this man was indeed a ghost. Fear. That was why she continued to dig, despite utter exhaustion. She dug for as long as it would take to wash three loads of wash, then dry them, fold them, and put them away, and she felt just as tired as someone who actually did that work.

She wanted to take her own dress off before it got really filthy, but the man signaled her to keep digging. Suddenly her fingers felt something. She pulled an object out of the dirt and brushed it off. The man held the light closer now, close enough for her to identify the object as pottery. She pulled out more and soon had enough relics and items to open a small museum.

“And people said this was just a hill,” she said to the ghost. “It’s an ancient Indian mound, isn’t it?”

He nodded in agreement.

She instantly liked this man who agreed with her and who helped her find these priceless relics. She liked the man, who was wearing an incredibly sexy white linen shirt and who held the lantern for her and fluttered before her as if wanting to dance. He was too good to be true, but he was hers.

“Those aren’t yours,” he said.

“Oh? You’ve given me a gift and now you want it back?”

“Those aren’t mine. They belong here on the island. Bury them over there, so no one will find them.”

She immediately did as she was told and, after digging a hole, deeper and faster than she had ever dug a hole in her life, she took the precious Indian relics and hid them so no one else would ever find them. She hid them with the passion of a woman who had found a great item at the store and didn’t have the money to buy it, so she hid it so no one else could find it. By the time she had finished, she was confident no one would ever find what belonged on the island. Denver could shop around all he wanted and would leave with nothing but the money his brother had hidden for him to the east of the palm.

“Sure enough, you use me, then vanish,” she muttered, looking around for the man in sheets.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

VICKI’S BODY ACHED AFTER
work, and she blamed it on the heavy dinner trays she had carried all evening. Just as one usually hates the taste and experience of trying sushi for the first time, then goes back again and again until soon they crave it as they might their daily cup of morning coffee, so too did Vicki crave yoga now. She headed to the houseboat at around midnight. To her surprise, there were bodies already lying on the extra mats. Not wanting to disturb their moment of peace, Vicki quietly joined them on her own towel. She was pleasantly surprised to notice Evelyn relaxing next to her and Howard a few bodies down. He liked yoga and practiced it often on his own.

“Now that we’re all lying down,” said Ruth calmly, “rest your legs apart comfortably and place your arms about one foot from your sides, palms facing up. Relax your body parts.”

“Damn, these darn no-see-um bugs,” interrupted Evelyn loudly, scratching and squirming.

“Bring your attention inward,” responded Ruth. “Place one hand on your lower abdomen and the other on the lower part of your chest. Feel your chest and abdomen move as you breathe.”

“Eyes opened or closed?” asked Evelyn.

“Closed. Focus inward.” A moment of silence passed.

“I can’t. I can’t focus. What am I supposed to see inwardly?”

“Your third eye,” said Howard.

“What the hell are you talking about?” asked Evelyn.

“Shut up,” he said.

“Howard,” said Ruth. “We’re all at different levels. It’s okay. We will be doing poses that date back a couple of thousand years; however, we will be adapting them to meet your individual needs tonight.”

“So, how do I touch my toes while holding a cigarette at the same time?” laughed Evelyn, “Because that’s what I need right now.”

“Please, shut up,” declared Howard once more.

“Howard, block out the external interruptions if you can,” said Ruth. “And Evelyn, calm down. Yoga can help you discover a pleasant, peaceful place within yourself.”

“Ruth, no one’s gonna find a pleasant, peaceful place inside this here body. I guarantee you of that, and hey, inside me is the very last place I feel like being. I’m trying to escape me. Why would I wanna go further into me?” She fell out of her pose. “See everyone back at work tomorrow.”

The next night, after dinner, Vicki walked alone to the staff house.

Several islanders needed days off at the same time, leaving Vicki and Evelyn to carry the load for the next couple of days and nights. Tonight, those who weren’t on days off were either fishing near Boca Grande or island hopping.

Old Mr. Two-Face didn’t look lonely at all. Instead, he looked tired tonight, as if he had been standing on those tall, skinny legs a very long time. Rather than missing the noise and excitement from everyone, he looked at peace, as if he didn’t mind his empty nest.

As she kicked open Mr. Screened Front Door, a small furry body with a full, feathered tail ran out the door carrying a walnut in its mouth. A lizard with half a tail followed. Vicki jumped twice, then stepped into an atmosphere twenty degrees warmer than the eighty-degree night outside, and she knew now that Old. Mr. Two-Face suffered a severe fever!

She staggered down the hall, a human tossed into a snake cage. It didn’t take a heating-and-cooling expert to diagnose a broken air conditioner. She called out for Denver, despite the fact that he wouldn’t be back until morning. He liked to repair things and people, and perhaps fixing
things helped him fix himself.

Unlike the dry Midwest summer nights and Florida’s typical humid warmth, this heat was overbearing. Vicki began dripping sweat so profusely that she felt as if her head were hanging over a pot of boiling water on the stove. She headed for the door to go tell Ruth, but turned around again. It was too late for anyone to call a technician. Besides, he had to come by boat, and it would be morning before he could get here. “Hey, Kool-Aid Man,” she cried, “where are you when a gal needs refreshment?” But he only appeared to children.

The tiny round window in her room provided no air, and she felt as though she were locked in a sauna, unable to breathe. She glanced outside to make sure the Gulf of Mexico hadn’t picked up and left. She was concerned because she couldn’t hear the gentle lap of the sea stroking the shore in front of the staff house that she typically heard through her window. Her breathing became more labored. She had dumped her paper bag weeks ago, determined to combat the ridiculous problem without it. Now she needed it as a claustrophobic needs to break free from a seat belt as it tightens against her or him during a sudden stop in traffic. Frantic feelings tumbled about loudly inside her like tennis shoes in a dryer. She wanted a window, a refrigerator she could climb into, a frozen margarita, anything for relief. She tried to stay calm and slowly inhaled one breath at a time.

“Girl, pack a bag ‘cuz you and me are going to have a slumber party,” called Evelyn from down the hallway.

“I thought you went island hopping and dancing with everyone else,” Vicki hollered back. “Is this heat making you sick, too?”

“Sweetie, this heat’s going to dehydrate us like lizards and kill us in our sleep. But don’t fret, babe. We’re leaving this place.”

Evelyn tossed her cigarette butt into the toilet as soon as she entered Vicki’s room and reached into her back pocket for another.

“I don’t have a better solution myself, so I’m game. Should I get dressed?”

“No time for wardrobe and makeup. We need to get our bodies outside where the temperature will be only one hundred degrees, a breathable, survivable temperature. This environment is for the lizards, not humans.
I feel like I’m in a smarmy aquarium.”

The women set out, carrying pillows, blankets and a bag of melted candy bars. Holding Vicki’s hand firmly, Evelyn led the way, skipping and singing, “Lizards and spiders and snakes, oh, my! Lizards and spiders and snakes, oh, my!” She sang her rendition of
Wizard of Oz
lyrics for a good five minutes before Vicki caught on and joined in.

They skipped all the way, stopping on the wooden bridge as Evelyn looked down at the murky water below. “I remember when I was a little girl and I’d get to ride the pony next door. Those were the happiest days of my life. I’d trot around the yard on that thing, free from everything. I miss being that age. I miss everything about my life back then.”

“Evelyn, stop looking back. Come on. You’ve got to move forward,” said Vicki, pulling the woman off the bridge. “Back to the present.”

“I hate my present life.”

“Then why not change what you hate about it?” asked Vicki.

“I don’t want to. As bad as it is, I’m comfortable with it,” said Evelyn.

“Golly damn, I’m living in Hell, and I’m comfortable with it. Is that sick or what?”

They picked up speed and didn’t stop until they were right below a window to the restaurant. The glass was still broken from a time when Howard was picking key limes off a tree and tossed one several feet farther than where his bucket was sitting. Ruth hadn’t gotten around to fixing it yet. “Who is skinnier? You or me?” asked Evelyn.

“It doesn’t matter,” said Vicki. “We’re not supposed to be in the restaurant after closing. Don’t look at me like that. I’m not squeezing through there.”

“Then give me a hand, come on,” said Evelyn, stepping onto Vicki’s reluctant hand. “We have no choice. We need fluid in our bodies. I’ll be back with refreshments in a minute. It’s a matter of life or death.”

She made her way through the tiny window frame like a spider disappearing through a crack.

Vicki waited outside the darkened window until she suddenly heard a bloodcurdling scream followed by what sounded like someone practicing the drums, only there was nothing musical about it.

“Clear the way,” yelled Evelyn’s voice from inside. Just then, a small, dark figure came hurtling out the window and right over Vicki’s head. “A flying rat,” screamed Evelyn. “Take cover.”

Vicki screamed the way a woman might if a flying rat were just over head. In fact, that’s exactly what was happening, only she didn’t know if the thing was alive or dead, nor exactly where it had landed.