Sanibel Scribbles (30 page)

Ruth took a white filter off the shelf and started measuring five tablespoons of coffee grinds.

“Add a few zeros, and you’ll have the accurate amount,” mumbled Vicki. She had heard more of their fight that night than she had fessed up to. “I wonder what he’s going to do with that kind of money?”

“I don’t think he was telling the truth, Vicki. It’s a nice fantasy, and I’m glad to see he’s got a good imagination. I couldn’t help but laugh when he told me, though. It was kind of amusing, and creative.”

“I hope he anchored here long enough to repair himself. I hope he spends it wisely.”

“What?”

“Nothing. I’d better get ready for work.”

Nothing ever changed on Tarpon Key—except its visitors. They were always coming and going, like ships—anchoring for a moment and gone the next. It seemed as if everyone should at one point or another make a journey in search of an island, to stop, to think, and to relearn who they were and what was important in relation to the ever-evolving world around
them. Ruth, Simon, and some of the island cooks made Tarpon Key more than a pilgrimage site. They made it their home, staying there many years as artists at their crafts, broiling halibut and baking key lime pie day after day, to the utmost perfection. They liked the kitchen, their domain. This didn’t excuse them from needing, at times, to discover yet a further, more remote island, one where they could simply put their work aside and notice the beauty surrounding them.

Every day, Old Mr. Two-face looked different, or maybe it was Vicki’s perspective that was changing. She no longer noticed his skin, wrinkled from age, and his eyes, which once looked small to her, had become incredible windows offering a glimpse of awesome opportunity. His dark side now looked more lonely than spooky, and she no longer wanted a room on the other side because it wasn’t better over there, facing the trees.

Having worked lunch, Vicki ran back to the staff house and changed into an evening dress. With time to spare before the dinner guests arrived, she plopped herself down on the mattress, wiping her eyes with the corner of the pillowcase. She missed Denver, the makeshift raft who had stopped long enough to gather twigs to fix his weak spots. He was the kind who would arrive at his next destination stronger than a tanker.

She prayed that Evelyn wasn’t victim to any more abuse. Someday she might realize she deserved a good life, and that she was as much of a person as anyone else. Hopefully she would leave her crazy and dangerous comfort zone, despite the discomfort that leaving caused. But first, she needed to get to know and trust God, not the unknown spirits speaking through a deck of cards. What had they offered her thus far? They wouldn’t even reveal who they were.

Howard remained the mystery of all mysteries. After his disappearance that morning with Connie, no one spoke of him again. Vicki couldn’t wait to look up his Spanish contact. Maybe he could offer clues concerning this caravel.

Connie sent a postcard stating that she would definitely discover an island closer to home but that the timing and location of her last voyage hadn’t felt right. She lived like a buoy, bobbing up and down for breath, barely hanging in there.

The world itself could lose value as people came and went suddenly. High school students in Colorado were shot down in class. John F. Kennedy, Jr., his wife and sister-in-law crashed into the waters off Martha’s Vineyard while on their way to a wedding. Office workers were shot down in Atlanta, Georgia. A train wreck in India took hundreds of lives. Mid-westerners died of summer heatstroke. Over twelve thousand people died in an earthquake that shook Turkey during the night. The quake itself lasted forty-five seconds. Mourning and grief for all these victims would last for years. And the most shocking of terrorist attacks came on U.S. soil—both towers of the World Trade Center and one wing of the Pentagon destroyed in explosions of fire as they collapsed in clouds of debris. Who would ever forget the hideous TV pictures, repeated over and over again? Planes hijacked and turned into diving bombs aimed at America’s universal symbols of freedom, fortresses of power and economic might. More than three thousand people disappeared with no trace – flight crews, passengers, innocent tenants, military personnel – mothers, fathers, children, brothers, sisters, sweethearts and friends. Death had come in a cruel manner, manifesting itself in many costumes. These people, many young in age, had come and gone so quickly, too quickly.

As the world collectively mourned such public losses, individuals everywhere mourned silently and alone for lost loved ones of their own. Many embarked on journeys in search of something comfortable and soothing to fill their voids. Some dared to venture far enough, to find that one special place, not necessarily a real island like Sanibel or Captiva, but something more remote, like a Tarpon Key, their own lost continent of Atlantis, a place of recovery. And many didn’t need to venture that far. What they were looking for to fill their void and comfort their loss was with them all along.

Also in this season, the artists in Saugatuck were looking to the leaves, masters of color, as they prepared for their annual autumn exhibit. The proud branches would soon model bold, vibrant, yet perennial oranges, purples and reds, but only for a season. Then they would shed everything without question, and the locals would decorate the naked winter branches with more than five hundred thousand Christmas lights. Couples,
wrapped in warm blankets and riding through the village in horse-drawn carriages, would marvel at the trees, not dead, just asleep, yet looking so awake.

Back in Holland, they were strategically planting tulip bulbs four to eight inches deep and six to ten inches apart in the cool soil, and students were buying their books and returning to campus where classes would be starting soon. Vicki tried imagining herself walking the campus – its perfect comforts of life and its pristine charm and the bright young faces. She instead felt thankful for her living, breathing lessons on the island. Although she couldn’t picture herself a part of university life now, her mind rushed her through its seasons, and she longed to rake the lawn and smell the burning piles of orange, crunchy leaves on the side of the road leading to her classes. She craved a mug of hot chocolate with marshmallows while warming her toes in front of the residence fireplace. She wanted to feel the first snowflakes of the season land on her eyelashes. Suddenly, everything went gray like a landslide burying her thoughts of both the future and the past.

She tried hard, but in no way could she imagine herself in Madrid. She couldn’t picture anything about Madrid, a place that seemed so far away; a place she had never seen. She blocked out all anticipation and allowed herself no expectations. She reminded herself to live only in the present and opened her letter to Grandma.

Dear Grandma
,

I’ve met a lot of interesting “ships” (short for friendships) this summer. It is good to anchor, every so often, in life. Eventually, anchorage spots become comfort zones, where we fill up on wisdom, stories and interesting relationships. We need to rest in one place before we can fuel ourselves to move onward again
.

Yes, we’re all like ships coming and going, and we’re all propelled through life by different things. Some make their way by oar and sails
,
and others by paddles and poles. Some have steam engines and boilers, and some internal-combustion engines or outboard motors. Some go through life in a purely recreational manner while others stay practical. If a vessel is determined enough to stay on course, it will be strong enough to resist the waves banging against it. Some of us take on water and sink from time to time, while others constantly work to stay afloat. I’ve met all of these vessels
.

It doesn’t matter where they come from, or where they are going. The waters of the lakes can be as unpredictable as the waters of the sea, and both have caused many shipwrecks
.

I haven’t begun to prepare for my journey to Spain. Why should I? I’d rather live the moment, and the moment is still anchored at Tarpon Key. I’ll think about Spain when the time comes to set sail
.

That night during dinner, Ruth called her into the office. “Vicki, I’m sorry. This letter came for you today, and I forgot to give it to you. Please forgive me. It’s been so busy around here.”

“Thank you.”

Vicki delivered a basket of warm lemon poppy seed muffins to a couple, then took a seat at a table in the empty front room. She tore open the letter and held it close to the flame of the lantern.

Dearest Vicki
,

I wanted this to arrive romantically, as a letter in a bottle, but the post office wouldn’t deliver it that way, and I can’t control the currents of nature. Who knows where the bottle would have ended up if I just tossed it in the water and wished it toward Tarpon Key? Anyway, right now, I’m sitting at the marina writing this to you. I know you’re a few miles out there, but without a boat, it feels further. This fact has
frustrated me many nights. Once I woke up in a sweat. In my dream I held on to a log and tried making my way out to see you, but the log broke, and I woke up choking for air
.

Anyway, I got a call from my father telling me my mother is not well, and it would be wise if I came home to see her. I think it might be serious, so I’m taking off right away. My flight leaves in two hours
.

This is not a letter of good-bye. I know I won’t see you again before your trip to Spain, but still, I am not writing to say good- bye. I can’t bring myself to do that. I love you and always will. You know where to find me if the currents in your future lead you back here
.

If ever I decide to travel again, I will certainly let you know. Perhaps, someday, we can cruise the seas together on a floating hut. They’re really cozy!

Love
,
Ben

P.S. I tried calling you, but I know that darn pay phone on the dock is the only phone you’re supposed to use for personal calls. I left a couple messages in the bar, but you never called. Maybe you never got my messages
.

She wiped her eyes with the letter, smearing the ink on a few words. She ran outside and stared up at the sky, spinning around for a moment, searching for the moon. Sure enough, the moon and its fullness stood above, controlling the night. She looked out across the water and tried imagining Ben sitting on the dock, miles away at the marina, but the night was black and she could only see the flickering white of a few sailboats anchored past the island. She glanced at her watch and knew he had
already landed in Mississippi. She looked back at the restaurant windows, warmly glowing in the light from lanterns inside, and remembered she had customers waiting for their dinners. She reminded herself his letter did not mean good-bye. They were merely moving on with their lives. She stepped into the ice-cream freezer in her mind. She had to. She had customers who were hungry and paying a lot of money for their once-in- a-lifetime dinner on a remote island in the middle of nowhere.

Her stomach felt funny again, as it did that day on Captiva when she thought about summer nearing its end. But this time, it was as if there were a caterpillar in her stomach and it was wandering around in search of a sheltered area where it could rest and cocoon. The letter from Ben made her want to do that now, to rest and cocoon. But she had to keep going.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

VICKI AWOKE EXTRA EARLY
to the sound of rain beating down on the staff house roof. It had never rained in the morning before, so she intended to enjoy this downpour. Ignoring the sudden rush of blood to her head, she bolted upright and bounded out of bed, only to feel dizzy and almost fall to the ground. All summer she had wanted to shower in the rain. Now was her chance. She forced herself up and squeezed into her bathing suit, then grabbed her bottles of shampoo and conditioner, and a bar of soap.

Outside, despite the cloudburst, a miraculous slice of sunshine streamed through the green fronds of the palm trees, producing a tiny rainbow. She knew exactly where she wanted to shower, but it was way off the beaten path. She had to close her eyes because the rain was coming down hard. After she made her way to the special, secret spot, she raised her arms in triumph and, laughing with joy, began doing an imitation of a rain dance in honor of the Native Americans who had once inhabited this land. No one could see her. She had made sure to look around. Besides, who woke up this early in the morning? This was an island of night people and late sleepers. She lathered her hair and rinsed it. The rain provided ample water. She looked down, and her imprints in the mound started to flood. She looked up, but the force of the rain pounding on her tender eyelids hurt. Rain in Michigan would have to pound for forty days and forty nights to equal one day of rainfall in this tropical area of Florida.